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mandalhoerian · 9 months

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ghost to its haunt, II | leon kennedy x reader

GHOST TO ITS HAUNT, I. pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader summary: You really shouldn't take advice about your love life from gorgeous women in red dresses, who knew being cold to Leon once would lead to him snapping? word count: 19K warnings: vomiting, edging, orgasm denial, overstimulation, rough sex to gentle sex, safe word usage, it gets a bit angsty, hurt/comfort, teeny tiny l-bomb, fluff... as a treat notes: We're here y'all. I went way overboard again. I hope it was worth it. This is so horribly unedited, please enjoy. header template can be found here.

🌀 read on ao3!

i. The White House ballroom shimmers with golden lights, and the air buzzes with the sound of laughter and polite conversation with the soft hum of elegant music relaxing the nerves in the background, setting the perfect backdrop for the prestigious event where the whole First Family would be making appearance, most probably to present Ashley Graham, whom the rumors were circulating about of a kidnapping — it was obvious they wanted to be seen and be put in the front page of the newspapers, and everybody with and their mother with a press pass was searching for an opportunity.

As other fellow journalists mingle with politicians and distinguished guests, you move gracefully through the crowd, camera hanging around your neck, as you interview influential guests and fish for possible slips of the tongue that could be important.

After you’re satisfied with that, standing near the refreshment table, you busy yourself with discreetly capturing candid shots of dignitaries and officials while gliding over the crowd to look for a decent looking photo, when out of nowhere, the viewfinder lands on a familiar someone, making you do a double take and going back to him through the camera, your heart going a mile an hour and doing a backflip where it stood, sending a jolt through your body from the surprised spike, breath catching as your time together flooded back in a stuttering film reel from monochrome to color as you registered it was really him.

In the soft glow of the yellow light emanating from the elegant chandelier above, Leon is almost shining — the center figure of a conversation, all attention on him while he dons a weary expression and the slightest of a polite smile, his blond hair catching the illumination and setting it ablaze with a golden radiance, like a halo, cascading in gentle strands and framing his face with an ethereal glow. He is dressed impeccably, wearing a tailored suit that fits him flawlessly and emphasizes his strong figure in the most flattering way as he talked to other men who shared similar clothing, but it’s unfamiliar to you, having never seen him wearing something like that before — it’s strange to you, but you guess feeling unfamiliar and a stranger is supposed to be normal, and a needlepoint of an ache stings your chest.

You keep watching through the viewfinder for what seems like an eternity when only a few seconds of absolute shock has passed, feeling like it’d be similar to looking directly at the sun with a naked eye if you lowered your camera to stare better.

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say you didn’t know if you would ever see him again. He and you don’t have anything in common, didn’t meet in a place where you’d be crossing paths often, he lives in a world different than yours, seems like there are oceans between you despite standing in the same room. The joy of meeting him again is melancholic, and the sadness is bittersweet, a weight you can’t lift makes a home on your chest, crushing your lungs underneath it.

What ties you and him anymore? What could there be besides pleasantries? Two years spent by each other’s side without being anything at all together — and the rest, rust and stardust, just like that?

Your fingers betray you and take a photo of him, a flattering shot with the focus on him, and you come back down from la-la land with the muted shutter sound. Stumbling on him when you were expecting it the least has you dumb enough to not realize if Leon were to turn his head, he would literally see you standing there, across the room, pointing a camera directly at him, and the realization has you flustered, dropping your hands and looking for a corner to slip into the shadow of, all the while he is still at the corner of your vision, angry at the intrusive thought in your head:

Look at me. Look at me. Look at me.

It’s almost as if he’s heard you, or sensed your presence somehow, because he abruptly turns, eyebrows pinched, and your eyes lock across the crowded room.

For a moment, there isn’t anyone else in the room but you and him.

You see the genuine, unguarded surprise light up his face, people around him keep talking, but he zeroes in on you, not blinking once, not even breathing, perhaps, because that’s how you are, frozen in time almost. It takes everything in you to not flee like some heroine in a rom-com, your hands snatching a champagne glass from a nearby waiter’s tray when he conveniently walks by the minute Leon breaks the magic of the moment first by shaking his head as if disoriented and saying something to his companions before starting to make his way toward you, steps picking up the speed as he gets closer.

Why is he coming this way? What does he even want to say? What do we even talk about?

Leon is strangely out of breath as he finally stops in front of you, hand coming up to open the button of his jacket, a tentative, fond smile tugs at the corner of his lips, an incredible contrast to how he was like with the group of men he was with. He calls your name like witnessing an answer to a prayer, nodding in greeting, and it’s awkward, so against the nature of how your greetings used to be, always accompanied by some sort of loving touch to translate the feelings.

“Leon,” you reply, voice and the hand around the delicate stem slightly shaky, and you tighten your fingers to get rid of it.

Neither of you talk for a beat, eyes avoidant of each other as you try to take the other in without being noticed. You didn’t want to acknowledge how nervous he is, how it was because of you, how he would barely let you see any of it before, none of this could mean anything anymore.

"You look amazing," Leon finally says, breaking the silence, the rasp in his low voice raising goosebumps all throughout your back, how he looks at you is a loaded gun at your temple.

"Thank you," you reply, fiddling with your hair nervously once and freezing once you catch yourself doing so, it has to be about self-consciousness, you can’t be giddy and nervous, you can’t be flattered. “You, too.”

The corner of his mouth hitches up in a twitch and leaves a faint, crooked grin in its wake afterwards, his eyebrows raise and fall, head tilting and straightening again. “You think so? Pulled this out from the back of the closet. It’s a couple years old. Feels like it’s gonna rip if I don’t stand like a robot at all times.”

It’s tight fitting in the best way possible, you fight to not look at how his shirt is straining as it hugs his chest and how well-defined his thighs are, but the way he puts it in the added context manages to make you laugh a bit. “It sounds like the job of a Queen’s Guard.”

(Your first instinct was to say, What a memorable show that’d be for the boring old people here, but it’s way too intimate and suggestive, you don’t feel like you should say it, and more surprised how naturally and comfortably it comes to you that it’s frightening.)

You don’t notice him get closer and stand right beside you, the moment you do however, suddenly watching the boring old people seem more interesting. “Would have loved that. At least people wouldn’t expect me to speak, then.”

You take a sip from the flute glass. “Suffering from popularity, are you?”

“I have you to thank for getting me out of my misery,” he says, nearly whispering like he wants nobody to hear him.

It’s so easy to fall into a back-and-forth with him like nothing of dire consequence happened, he makes it too comfortable when he’s the silent type in the first place — the one to be talked to, and you ponder, mind conjuring an image of him dutifully standing beside the President’s daughter, her getting to find out how gooey he is inside when the exterior is of a rock, and the irritability seeps into your speech, replacing the lighthearted undertone of the conversation. “You shouldn’t have come at all in the first place, then.”

He reaches for his tie, tugging on it, you see that he wants to loosen it, take it off entirely, but can’t do anything about it, not really, not when he’s surrounded by all the glamor and politics, and somehow it’s a good metaphor to be tied to the White House the way he is. “It was a last second invite, I wasn’t going to attend, but… I’m glad I did.”

Leon knowingly says it in a voice that conveys what he wants to say without having to say it, and here it was again, the hooded, longing stare that darkens the blue of his eyes. There’s another spike in your heartbeat, palms getting sweaty, all of a sudden it’s too hot to handle and the spacey ballroom is stifling.

You’re looking down, and feel the feather of a touch at your pinky that you wouldn’t even have noticed was there if you didn’t catch his own extending toward yours, and you’re mesmerized by the sight, by the tenderness of the gesture. He can’t possibly hold your hand because of all the people around, you think, but he only reaches, doesn’t touch, just lets the heat be there, and you realize that it’s you that he’s waiting for — he won’t initiate anything uncomfortable.

“Leon!”

You snatch your hand away so forcefully that you nearly bump into the refreshment table, the actual President’s daughter Ashley Graham parting the crowd and walking up to you — to Leon gets you in a frenzy you can’t explain and want to avoid, and so, face flushed from almost causing a scene by spilling champagne everywhere, you quickly mumble your pathetic excuse, “I should go,” and leave like your tail is on fire.

Leon calls, “No, hey, wait!” after you, but you’re maneuvering around the crowd with the agility shame has presented you. The disappointed, “Ashley…” of his comes from afar, and you momentarily look back over your shoulder to get a glimpse of her reaching out to touch his tie and the cute giggling that follows.

It hurts how close they are. It hurts how you still get hurt by the notion he has hidden sides he shares with others but won’t let you see.

You’re so unsettled that it’s only after stumbling on a few coworkers that reason shows back up and says you were an idiot to walk out like that when Ashley herself had shown up, you could have asked her a few questions, no journalist stumbled on a chance like that and you’d blown it.

All this because you were too disturbed seeing her with him — the familiarity in the exchanged “Leon” and “Ashley”s knocking the breath right out of you.

Jealousy. Really?

No, it went beyond jealousy.

This was envy. Of her shared experience with Leon.

You couldn’t possibly be this childish, could you? Two people of opposite genders can be friends, it doesn’t make sense to be making a mountain out of a molehill. How is he drawing out the vulnerable, young and neglected self of you in the past, wallowing in loneliness and the ill-fated ache of being left behind and not chosen over anybody?

You never want to feel like that ever again. This was the biggest reason you really should let Leon go, not because he broke up with you first.

Why did you let him get close like that in the first place just now? It’s stupid and child-like to crave being chased like that when you know nothing good will come out of it.

Leon suddenly wanting to commit has all the toxicity and accumulated grudge in you bubbling to the surface, angry and boiling and condensed, sticking to your insides like tar, you don’t want any of this, don’t want to be like this, you can’t bend to what he wants anymore. Not only does Leon wear around an armor at all times unlike you, he’s also covered in spikes — it hurts trying to get close to him, who knows what him getting close will do to you?

Who knows how you’re going to ruin it the moment things start getting better because you resent him for the past?

As the event at the White House draws to a close, guests are guided towards the designated exit area by attentive staff members. The grand ballroom, really the East Room, was where the gathering had taken place, located on the State Floor, which is the main floor of the White House reserved for official events and receptions, and you find yourself amidst a sea of elegantly dressed guests, each one chatting animatedly about the evening's affairs. You navigate the ornate hallways adorned with historic artwork and furnishings, taking in the grandeur of the place while being mindful of the strict protocols in place. It takes your mind off of things even if only for a while, but everything you look at begins to remind you of Ashley, and what once was breathtaking is now tinted with green, making you sick of yourself.

Along with the guests, you are directed towards a designated security checkpoint. Secret Service agents, dressed in formal attire but discreetly vigilant, ensure the safety of everyone leaving the event. Guests are required to present their official invitations or credentials before being allowed to depart, you hand your invitation to a stern but courteous Secret Service agent, who checks your name against the guest list and returns a friendly nod as he allows you to pass.

You’re finely attuned to Leon, consciousness of him making you notice he isn’t in the crowd at all.

He’s not being let out like the other guests are.

So the newspaper issue coming out tomorrow is right, he isn’t like the other guests.

An acidic feeling rises.

“It was a last minute invitation.”

“Leon!”

“Ashley…”

You feel like you’re being watched.

You also feel like you’re going to puke, though, so it could be out of being ill at ease over preferably not wanting to do that in front of the most dignified of the U.S.

Outside, you feel a rush of cool night air as you make your way towards the awaiting vehicles where the guests departed, assisted by courteous White House staff in locating their assigned transportation.

In your moment of privacy, you take out your camera, and scroll to the picture you’ve taken of him, zooming enough until his face is the only thing in frame. You don’t have anything else left from him. Your bottom lip bears the pressure of your teeth as you hesitate, questioning whether you should delete the picture or hold onto it as a memento of what once was.

Just as you're on the brink of a decision, you're startled by the sound of running footsteps approaching from behind. You turn around to see Leon, disheveled and looking flustered, his tie missing and a few buttons of his shirt undone. The lights of the White House cast a halo around him, making him appear almost ethereal, like a figure from a distant memory.

And you’re a deer caught in the headlights.

He clears his throat, the silence between speaking volumes, crackling and popping with the charged electricity of the heavy words left floating unsaid. .

"Hey," he says softly, eyes searching yours for any sign of what you might be feeling.

"Hi," you reply, trying to maintain composure despite the butterflies in your stomach, putting your camera away, flustered a bit that he could have seen that.

He takes a deep breath, as if trying to gather the courage to say something. "I wanted to talk to you," he combs his hair back, but it falls back anyway, his voice is clogged from nervousness and sincerity. "About everything. Properly."

You swallow, trying to dispel the lump in your throat. "There isn't a point in that anymore," you say, trying to protect yourself from potential heartache.

"There is," he insists, his determination shining through. "There is, for—"

"For closure?" you interrupt, a bitter smile forming.

"No," he responds firmly, his expression showing cracks of something sad and agitated. "Not closure. I want to start again, do this properly."

Your heart stirs at his words, torn between skepticism and a treacherous glimmer of hope, and the ugly feeling in response to him wanting to string you along with what he wants again. "I'm not some guinea pig, Leon.”

He begins to approach you like you’re a frightened animal that’d take off with the slightest of abrupt movements. “I know,” he says, mouth falling open and closing again as if he’s exasperated by the words, head shaking. "None of it was fair to you and I can't change the past, but I've thought about you a lot during these past weeks. I miss you, I miss what we had."

That catches you off guard. On paper, it sounds sweet, but it really is not. What you had was something of a double edged sword that got in between when you tried to get close to him, it was a wall and it was ammunition at the same time, comfortable in some ways, yes, but for him. You always burned for something more and waited for him to acknowledge the fire, but he acted like the smoke didn’t bother him, he could easily breathe through it.

So you laugh, and watch as his eyes close shut in gloom. “I bet you do. It was convenient for you after all.”

“I can’t deny that. But believe it or not, I wasn’t happy. I wanted more. I wanted to be more.” He took a deep breath, searching for the right words, one hand at his wrist, playing with the watch there. "I know I messed up before, and I'm sorry for hurting you for so long. I can't promise that things will be easy going forward but—”

You’ve had enough of this. “What do you want, Leon?”

Having noticed you were getting more agitated and detached from the conversation as he kept going on, he reaches out and catches your hand in a loose hold, thumb feathering over your knuckles. “I want to be yours.”

Blinking rapidly is all you could come up with as a reaction through the blankness that takes over your thoughts.

“You don’t have to be mine.” Leon presses on with more restrained desperation when he sees no response from you, the heat of his palms shocking you as he cups your face with both hands, looking you dead in the eye, searching for what was once out in the open for him. “But I wanna be yours, I am yours. I always was. I’m… If you’ll have me…I want to be more to you—I could be so much more—”

You step away from him, looking him up and down as if he’s burnt you, and his Adam’s apple bobs with the harshness of the rejection, eyebrows pulled in to hide sadness, hands hanging in the air for a bit before falling back to his sides, fingers flexing like he’s dealing with the sensation of your skin still lingering.

“You want to be more to me.” Your arm wildly gestures and claps back to your side as you turn around to face to the side, hands on your hips like there’s someone you can confirm with if they’re also seeing this or not. “You always have to say things in a roundabout way. Or maybe that’s not the case at all and you are afraid of change and that’s what this is about—and yeah, okay, let’s say I accept that and say yes, will you let me be more?”

“Of course, I—”

“Do you know what that means?” You fight a shiver from the chilly air, crossing your arms against your chest as if it could shield you. “It means none of what we had will work anymore. It means the moment I’m treated like that again, I’m gone.”

He releases a big exhale, like he’s been released from ancient chains he’s had to drag around with him for his whole life, he sees this as some sort of green light from you — because you wouldn’t have brought this up if it wasn’t a possibility. You’re still here, hearing him out, and it’s your hamartia. “I’m not incapable of understanding that, I just…”

"Know how it ends?" you ask, echoing his words from the past, and he falls silent, the environmental sounds of cars going about and conversations of the people seep into the quiet between.

His confession would have made you the happiest person in the world once.

There’s still something in you for him, but it’s exhausted, it’s not excited, only anxious, it doesn’t know if it should be happy or not, terribly numb yet wanting to cry at the same time.

You've been through the patterns before, the moments of closeness followed by distance, and the history will repeat itself if you let it. Your heart yearns for love, nothing short of it or close to it, you want to be loved openly, unashamed, unafraid, and you can’t trust him with it, don’t think he’s ready, and you have to think of yourself now. It was two years of putting him first.

But Leon insists on haunting you. “Will you at least have dinner with me sometime? No expectations, just... talking.”

“I don’t know, Leon.”

“Is that a no, then?”

“I don’t know.”

That means chase me, and you’re astounded at yourself for not drawing the line — not even wanting to.

“That’s fine.” He drapes his suit jacket over your shoulders, his scent enveloping you and the cold melting away into warmth within seconds, your hands clutch onto it, stunned. “I’ll call you, then. That okay?”

Avoidant of his stare, your pride doesn’t let you say, Sure. Instead shrugging, “Do as you like.”

ii. A lady in a gorgeous red dress and the most beautiful silky, shiny, short black hair is keeping you company as you’re drinking your woes away that night.

The bar is a pleasantly lit space, with inviting, warm lights casting a cozy ambiance. The walls are adorned with vintage photographs and framed artwork, giving the place a touch of nostalgia and character, air filled with a blend of laughter, murmured conversations, and the faint notes of the jazz music playing in the background, creating a charming hum of activity. A polished mahogany bar counter stretches along one side of the room, lined with bar stools, and attended to by a skilled bartender who effortlessly crafts cocktails for the patrons, you’ve come back to him over and over again for more mango margaritas, and behind him, bottles of various spirits and liqueurs are neatly displayed on shelves, reflecting the soft glow of the lights. The place is furnished with a mix of plush leather booths and high-top tables, offering a comfortable and inviting seating arrangement, the deep red upholstery of the booths complements the warm wooden tones, adding a touch of sophistication to the space, everything about this place is safe, and that’s why you chose to get drunk in this place tonight.

The lady in red and you are seated in a cozy corner booth, giving you both a degree of privacy amidst the social hubbub. The table is adorned with a flickering candle, casting dancing shadows on your faces, enhancing the intimate atmosphere of your conversation.

You’ve long forgotten how and when she decided to sit by you, but she’s a great listener and a natural man-repeller — one would think she would do the opposite instead, but something about her keeps them at bay, makes them hesitate to make a move, and you suppose she is unapproachable. That sort of beauty would intimidate anyone of rejection. And you’re talking about man troubles with this kind of woman when it’s obvious it’s beneath her, thinking someone like her would never share your idiocy in matters of the heart, she looks too experienced and dignified for it, looks like she’s mastered any game of love.

It’s not in her intent to embarrass you when she playfully, pointedly asks, “And you thought you could change him?” chin resting against the back of her hand, manicured fingers curled inwards, dark eyes inquisitive and twinkling in the faint lighting of the bar — but you feel like a teenager talking about her first boyfriend anyway.

The lady in red tilts her head slightly, her black hair shimmering as she listens intently. A small smile plays on her lips, and you can sense amusement in her expression. Her fingers trace the rim of her cocktail glass, the redness of her nail polish matching the elegance of her dress.

"Do I look that dumb?" you ask, feeling a touch defensive, a self-conscious smile on your face. "No, he doesn't need changing, I just... I thought maybe I could change the outcome, you know?"

She leans back, the dim light casting an alluring glow on her face, teasing yet genuine. "You just said you accepted that it would end. I'm getting mixed signals,"

"Yeah, I know... But I guess I am that dumb," you admit, feeling a bit embarrassed discussing your romantic struggles with such a sophisticated woman when she puts it like that and exposes your bullshit for what it is — it’s like getting called out by an authority figure you’re looking up to as a child.

"Men like him are predictable, so yes, I would say that you are. For wasting your emotions," she says bluntly, but her eyes show a hint of empathy.

So, you try to make her see it from your perspective, seeking solace from that point of view in the conversation, but the knot continuously folding within your chest isn’t letting you get any relief. “It was worth it. He was worth it. I mean, I’ve never felt like I was wasting anything. You know — you know that famous quote? ‘Don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened’?”

Her lips curve into a sympathetic smile, but her eyes remain sharp as she retorts. “You’re not smiling now, are you, hun?”

You have to break eye contact at that, “Well, I’m sad about some other things right now as well, so…” you trail off, not wanting to delve into the other troubles plaguing your mind.

“Oh? Do tell.”

“I technically can’t talk about it. It’s work related.”

“Hmm,” she hums, taking a sip of her red wine cherry sangria, her eyes never leaving yours, tips of her fingers trailing the bumps on her cocktail glass.

“What?” you ask, her silence penetrating your thoughts.

She doesn’t get into a back and forth with you, saying it straight away. “I have eyes. All night long, you’ve been drowning in alcohol for someone, not something. You’re lucky I don’t take the change of heart personally.”

You sense that she’s majorly unbothered at all times to take anything personally, yet, your first instinct is to protect yourself from the allegations. “I’m not lying. It is work related.” The confession comes out childishly guilty. “He’s just unexpectedly involved.”

“Now things are getting interesting.”

Your brow wrinkles at the sight of her feigning interest. She doesn’t look surprised.

“They weren’t before?”

"You don't want me to answer that," she says enigmatically, leaving you to wonder what she truly thinks of your life and choices, and you can't help but feel drawn to her mystery and wisdom, even if her observations are uncomfortable to confront.

“Okay, wow,” you widen your eyes at her bluntness, pitch comically rising, but come down from the moment after that, tipping your glass to her. “But yeah, things got… complicated thanks to that and I’m not sure what to do or what to feel. Let’s just say he hasn’t been honest with me and I know why now. Still doesn’t make it any better.”

“Dump him.”

The tipsiness reflects in the way you use grammar comically for emphasis. “We’re already dump. We’ve dumped.”

“He’ll come back. When he does, dump him.”

Scratch begging, you can’t even imagine Leon wanting you to take him back. “Yeah, sure he’ll be back. To pack his shit and leave.”

“Will he really?”

You give her a look, and she gives a subtle, amused one back, so mysterious for no reason.

“But we’re done for good this time. This isn’t him being away for like a month without saying a word, we’ve talked it out, he returned my key. It’s over.”

“Over isn’t the word I’d use.”

“How?”

“I have a feeling.” She looks like she’s scheming behind that subtly knowing smile about something she knows but you don’t, index finger tracing along the rim of her glass. “So… When he comes back, give him a taste of his own medicine. Ghost him.”

You’re terribly interested, imagination going against you, her confidence and subtle smile make you curious about the possibilities.. “Ghost him as in..?”

“Stop caring. Show him he’s become just another passerby on the street. Treat him like how you’d another stranger. Kind. Polite. Bland. Withdraw emotionally.”

That’s not how your personality is, you’re self-aware of being too desperate for your own good. That sort of strength in knowing one’s worth, not lowering standards for any kind of men and forcing them to step up are what chic women like her are good at. Besides, Leon isn’t the sort of man she’s talking about, anyway. “I don’t want to hurt him, though. He hasn’t been that bad to me.”

Her eyebrow slowly starts rising up, accompanied by a flat look that puts you in your place.

“So… Be cold?” you ask, feeling like you’ve disappointed your mother or something.

“Yes.”

“I don’t even know why we’re talking about this when it’s the farthest from what’ll happen—”

Your phone starts ringing, you take it out to see who it is, and see Leon’s contact name flashing on the screen.

“Is that him?”

The urge to answer is strong. "Yeah,"

“Her authority surprises you. "Don't answer.”

"But... He'll worry. I know I would," you protest, torn between following her advice and your natural instincts.

The mischievous glint in her eyes is the glare of light reflecting from a knife’s edge. "That's exactly the point. He's the cat, you're the mouse. Let him chase you around, play with him.”

“I’m not sure what that’ll be good for at this point…”

“Depends. Think about it carefully. How do you want this to end?”

iii. D.C.’s darkness embraces you, mirroring the turmoil within as your stumbled silhouette emerges from the shadows, teetering and swaying with the weight of intoxication. It’s a moonless night, heavy with the weight of regret and shattered dreams, and stumbling through the dimly lit streets, you clutch the remnants of your sanity, drowned in the bitter solace of liquid courage to feel the emotions you’d been avoiding.

But as you fumble for your keys, a flicker of dread ignites in your chest, for there, lurking in the shadows, stands your past, patiently waiting — an ex-lover, hauntingly familiar yet irreversibly estranged.

He is all but highlighted by the contours of the darkness illuminated by the fluorescent light overhead, standing tall, his broad shoulders squared and his stance rigid, holding onto a phone, the strength of his grip on his own biceps something else, the veins on his forearms standing out, and you are unsure if you’re hallucinating things you wanted to see. “You’re late.”

But that didn’t sound as gentle and inspired by the more vulnerable moments you treasured and preserved like a rare insect in amber as you often imagined in your head, the reality being too pent up and harsh and angry — how he’d managed to convey that with two simple words and nothing more, you had no idea.

“And you’re back.” A ghost back to haunt you. A physical ache in your chest manifests, grinding and grounding your lungs, you don’t know what kind of face you’re making as you exhale the pressure out. “Welcome, Leon.”

“Where the hell have you been until this hour? Why didn’t you pick up? You can’t do this, you can’t just not answer when you’re out and I’m going insane over what could have happened—”

“Okay, dad,” you snort. Your head is down as you maneuver around him like some jester while he is talking his head off. Fumbling with your bag for your keys, you squint up at him through the blurriness that doesn’t clear from your vision no matter how much you try to blink it away. “Like you pick up my calls properly.”

(Leon looks like hell from what you can focus on — a wave of dark circles under his eyes, unkempt hair that still looked frustratingly pretty, a special kind of distant, sharp look, small bruises on his neck dipping downwards and disappearing into the skin covered by the t-shirt underneath the jacket and tiny cuts on his face, smell of the hospital, a unique blend of antiseptic and cleanliness with a faint medicinal undertone. But, oh well. Doesn’t he always, when he comes back from his trips? It’s not your problem anymore. It isn’t. He’d figure it out. He figured it out by himself, always.)

The set of his lips is firm, creating an almost imperceptible grimace. “Jesus — ugh. Have you been drinking?”

“Wow, Captain Obvious.”

Leon drops the ridiculous interrogation — for now — about what you’ve been up to in your private time private to you when the activity in question is clear as day, and puts a hand on your upper back when you wobble after finally getting your keys out. “Is everything alright?”

A stuttering laugh slurs from you at the perpetrator feeling concerned after ransacking everything in the scene of the crime that was your life. “I don’t think that’s a conversation I want to have with you…” You keep missing the keyhole. Just go in. “In front of my house… At three in the morning…”

His hands hover over yours, unsure, not wanting to cross a boundary and eliciting battery acid to sour your stomach, but also making you notice one of them was bandaged as if there was a huge gash in the middle of it. “Here, let me help…”

You swat him away. “No, I have it.”

“Don’t be stubborn, give it here.”

“I can do it on my own, thank you very much.”

“Listen—”

Click.

“A-ha.” You turn your head to where he was but find out he has moved, and then you actually find him at the other side of you, (embarrassing, you weren’t that drunk) and you don’t let the awkwardness of that deter you from flashing a triumphant smile, acting way more sober than you were. “What, you think I can’t function without you or something?”

The shadows over his face move in gloom almost, you’re imagining things. “That’s not what I—”

You push forward without any consideration for what he has to say, entering your house, staggering as you kick your shoes off, fatigue draped over you like a weighted blanket all of a sudden. “Doooon’t care.”

“Hey!” He shouts after you while the only mission objective you have in mind is getting to your bed, stalking through the hall like some zombie and getting farther away. “You’re just gonna leave the door wide open?—”

“Just close it before leaving!” The wave of your hand is slow and heavy in the air, your eyes half-closed already, it’s all instinct guiding you to the bedroom. “Too tired. Just gonna tap out.”

“You have to lock—” But you’re not listening, nor responding anymore, and he curses. “Shit.” There is a brief silence in which you find your bedroom door and tumble in, and he chooses that moment of happiness to ask a question when any input has faded from your perception. “Hey, I’m coming in, okay?”

Meanwhile you have soared through the air and landed on the dreamily soft mattress of your bed, limbs spread out like a starfish, enjoying the silky coolness of the covers against your face.

And he's still yelling, still back at the entrance, his voice is like a fly buzzing in the distance. “Are you listening? I said I’m coming in.”

“Yeah, whatever,” you murmur sleepily, to no one in particular. The room becomes a hazy blur as exhaustion and intoxication intertwine, pulling you deeper into the comforting embrace of slumber. The words of concern and exasperation from Leon are distant, as if filtered through a thick fog that blankets your senses.

There’s a window of opportunity of silence in which you’re a bird not burdened by the weight of existence and floating upward into the hands of a pleasant state of blankness, and then there his voice is again, closer this time, in the room, and you haven’t even heard him sneak in.

"You're really gonna regret not taking your makeup off in the morning when you see the stain it leaves," Leon softly chides, and despite talking to you, he sounds like he doesn’t want to wake you up, a vocal fry in his low and soft tone, and you could sleep listening to it honestly, if he just wasn’t this persistent..

With a drowsy sigh, you mumble, "Be quiet, I'm... sleep," your words slurring together.

You physically feel Leon's eyes linger on your face, his gaze gentle but heavy, the same weight when he wants to say something so badly but is holding back. He reaches out, his fingers grazing your cheek lightly, a silent gesture of care and it makes you jump at the unexpectedness of it, looking up at him with one cheek squished against the bed and see that he’s perched up on the edge of your bed, no idea how he can sit lile that well-balanced. "You really should be cleaning up first," he persists, worry evident.

There’s something else there — but your brain is slow to keep up, it’s like trying to open an image on Internet Explorer and it’s loading streak by streak, pixel by pixel. But even in that state, your emotions know that touch shouldn’t be given to an ex of all people, you can’t even hate how it instantly has you cozy and comfortable and safe, your response coming out as a hum, consciousness drifting further into the depths.

"That'll be one hell of a hangover," Leon tries once more, the way he speaks is so pleasantly smooth and dulcet.

Your mood instantly shifts when he disturbs you yet again. “You have to get up.”

Growing slightly irritated, you murmur, "Can you not nag me first thing after coming back, please? I'm going to sleep. You can pack up your belongings all by your lonesome and get outta here."

Leon's shoulders slump ever so slightly, understanding and resigned. He knows better than to press the matter further, realizing the futility of trying to reason with a half-asleep mind.

"Right..." he concedes, his voice softening with acceptance.

"Right," you affirm, your voice trailing off as sleep claims you once more.

You think you sleep successfully.

For a while.

It could have been half an hour or just a few minutes before he startles you awake once more. He stands over you, slightly long blond hair falling over his forehead and those striking ice blue eyes narrowing slightly with concern, he’s so pretty in the gray darkness. He brushes his hair away with a distracted gesture. “At least get up and change. You’ll feel much better.”

“I'll feel much better if you just let me sleep, oh my god,” you reply with a hint of drowsy annoyance, your voice muffled by the pillow you've pulled over your head.

He sounds like he’s arched up an eyebrow. "You're not getting any tonight. In less than an hour, you'll be spending the rest of the night in front of the toilet, throwing up," he says, huffing.

You peek out from under the pillow, meeting his gaze with a mock glare. "Yeah, yeah. Leave me alone." You pull the pillow back over your head in a half-hearted attempt to block him out. It’s your shield against him

With a small smile playing on his lips, he reaches down and gently tugs at one corner of it. "Don't say I didn't warn you.”

You resist for a moment, and there’s an unexpected tug of war, but the warmth of his hand and the concern in his eyes are too inviting to ignore. Slowly, you relent and slide the pillow off, allowing him to see your face. "Then don't say I told you so. I'm just tryna catch some Z's, goddamn.”

"Okay," he concedes, a bit sad. With a soft sigh, shifting to move from the edge of the bed to sit closer and more comfortably, his hand resting on your shoulder in a comforting gesture.

Head having found its way back under the pillow again, you wave him off. "Okay. Now, shoo.”

You seize the silence for a moment, enjoying the tranquility even if it's interrupted by Leon's presence beside you.

His concern only adds fuel to the fire.

"Are you sure everything's alright? You're not a drinker," he questions, with the familiarity of someone who once knew you intimately.

"Oh m—” You shoot up to sit cross-legged on the bed, irritated beyond belief. “Alright, you've successfully acquired my undivided attention." Your arms cross defensively over your chest, drawing out our swords. "So, spill the beans, what do you want? And before I can drift into the blissful realm of sleep, what exactly must I accomplish for your satisfaction?" you add, dripping with sarcasm.

His spine straightens, you don’t know if he did that to look bigger than you, but he’s tentative, usually composed demeanor faltering slightly. "I'm just worried."

Play cold, was it? You didn’t even need to try. It came naturally. "Okay. So?"

"So?” His eyebrows can’t go any lower. “What's going on with you?"

Your anger simmers just below the surface, and you can feel your frustration boiling over. "What's going on with me? What is this, a ketchup?"

"Ketchup?" he echoes, blinking, clearly puzzled by your choice of words.

"Catch-up. You know what I mean. Why are you trying to catch-up with me?"

The question that follows is icy. "Am I not allowed to ask you about your well-being?"

"Oh, you care about that now?" Your words are little unexpected presents for him, wrapped with venom. The anger inside you starts to spill out, and you can feel yourself losing control.

There's a pause, and you almost regret the harshness in your response. As you glance over at him, you notice a flicker of hurt in his eyes, a vulnerability that he rarely displays. The sight only serves to stoke the fire of your anger as he gets worked up too.

Leon's cold exterior is a shield, protecting both you and himself from the intense anger that simmers just beneath the surface. You can see it in the way his jaw flexes.

"That's... the most ridiculous thing to ever come out of your mouth—” He raises his arm and then wrenches himself off the bed, back to you, running a hand down his face. “No, you know what. You're drunk, I shouldn't... I'm not picking this fight with you," he says, his voice firm and controlled, there’s strain behind his words.

"Yeah, you're picking girls instead.” The bitterness in your voice makes it difficult for you to hold back the torrent of the real emotion behind it all. “From private airports,"

His head turns your way, hand hanging in the air in front of his face. "What? What are you talking about?" His profile is to you, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion.

You take a shaky breath, threatening to spill over, like porcelain all tumbled over inside the cabinet and the only thing holding the disaster off is one single door. "Nothing apparently. Everything's nothing to you. Like nothing. President's daughter. Nothing. Biggest spoof of this year yet. Nothing."

His eyes widen with realization, fully turning around, and you can see the gears trying to turn with the wrench you’ve just jammed between cogs. He struggles to find the right response, caught off guard. "Wait. Ashley?—"

You scoff. "It's Ashley to you now, is it?"

Leon's stoicism remains unyielding, and it infuriates you even more. It's as if he's completely missing the point, focusing on technicalities and trivialities instead of acknowledging the elephant in the room. He starts to inquire, his voice professional and overly serious that he might as well be talking to a stranger. Where did you get this information? Can't be paparazzi. Nobody knows—"

You slide off the bed, swaying as you start walking up to him, first sentence coming out as if you’re singing. "Eeeeveryone will know tomorrow. President's daughter with her bodyguard. The new Rachel and Frank. Didn't know you were Secret Service by the way. Can't believe I learned it from my workplace instead of the man, the myth, the legend himself—"

He steadies you by your shoulders as you reach him. "That's enough," he interjects sharply, the coldness returning to his tone, clashing with his hold.

"Bold words from a boytoy—" you continue, not willing to back down in the face of his attempt to silence you.

"Stop talking," he commands, teeth gritted, patience wearing thin.

With a deep breath, he steps away, whipping out his phone and walks hurriedly towards the door. His demeanor shifts from cold and collected to urgent and focused as he makes a call. "Hunnigan, this is Kennedy. Sorry for calling in the middle of the night. We have a problem."

The overwhelming surge of emotions, combined with the numerous drinks you've consumed, takes a toll on your body, and you can no longer ignore the urge to be sick. Half-encouraged by the way Leon brushed you off, you stumble to your feet, feeling unsteady and disoriented. Your vision blurs as you make your way to the nearest bathroom, desperately trying to reach it in time. The cold tiles of the floor feel unforgiving beneath your feet, and you're grateful for the support of the walls as you try to steady yourself.

Finally, you make it to the toilet just in time, and without warning, you bend over and empty the contents of your stomach into the bowl. Each heave feels like a release of all the pain, anger, and disappointment that have been building up inside you. The room spins around you, and you close your eyes, trying to find some semblance of stability.

Leon's conversation in the hall becomes background noise to you as you struggle to regain your composure in the bathroom. The noises you've made reach him, and he finally realizes that you're not in your room anymore.

His footsteps are approaching fast. "Gotta go. Update me on it tomorrow. Yeah, got it. I owe you one.”

He enters the bathroom, and you're immediately filled with frustration and embarrassment at his intrusion. "Hey," he says, all that squabbling only for him to show concern.

You snap, your anger fueled by the discomfort of being caught in such a vulnerable state. "Get out, I'm vomiting my guts out for fuck's sake, why did you come in!?"

Leon ignores your protests. "Sshh, I got you," He moves closer and starts rubbing your back, trying to provide some comfort.

Despite your best efforts, another wave of nausea hits you, and you vomit once again. The embarrassment only intensifies, and you feel the heat of humiliation rising to your cheeks.

"Let it out. It's gonna be okay," Leon says reassuringly, his hand continuing to draw shapes on your back in a soothing gesture.

Your voice gurgles at the back of your throat, making it difficult to speak clearly. "No."

"I know, I know," he murmurs, his voice filled with understanding. He was just angry with you.

"Why did I drink that much?" you whine, feeling regretful and sick, wiping the tears away from your face.

He tries to lighten the mood despite the seriousness of the situation. "Don't I know?"

Not caring anymore, you rest your cheek on the toilet seat. "I swear I'm not drinking again.”

Leon stays with you, his presence a comforting anchor as you finally finish vomiting. He puts his hands in your armpits, trying to help you stand up.

"Alright. Up you go," he encourages gently, trying to get you on your feet.

But you comically lower yourself back down onto the cold bathroom floor, finding solace in the cool tiles beneath you. "Noooo, I'll just lie down, let me just..."

He begins to outright nag. "No, you can't sleep here,"

Your body is protesting any further movement. "I'm so tired."

"Let's get you to bed."

"This is my bed.”

"You'll get even more sick if you do that.”

This time, he doesn't bother getting your cooperation. With ease, he lifts you up, effortlessly carrying you to your actual bed. Despite your protests, you can't resist his strength, and you're grateful for the relief of being off the floor.

You find yourself lying on your bed, surrounded by the familiar comfort of your sheets and blankets. The world around you still feels a little hazy, but Leon's presence is a grounding force, providing a sense of safety amidst the chaos.

He tucks you in, ensuring you're warm and comfortable, and you can't help but feel a small twinge of gratitude despite the lingering anger and hurt.

"Rest now," he says softly, his hand gently brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

You nod, too tired and overwhelmed to say anything more. As your eyes start to drift shut, you feel Leon beside you, and for a moment, you allow yourself to be comforted by his touch.

iv. You step inside your cozy little flat with a heavy heart and a head full of the hangover from last night's events and the busy day you left behind in the dust. But all thoughts catch in your throat when you see that familiar silhouette slouched into your armchair, your favorite novel resting open across his lap. A flood of mixed emotions hits you – annoyance at finding him still there uninvited, happiness that he's still here, and anger at the conflicting emotions he stirs within you.

"Welcome back," he says, his voice unnervingly calm. You notice the way he fidgets with the corner of the book. "How are you feeling?" he asks, his eyes scanning your face, searching for any sign of distress or discomfort.

You remember how you practically teleported to your workplace this morning, wanting to avoid confrontation and the shame of having been witnessed going green from jealousy and in such a vulnerable state, believing he’d be gone when you came back, along with every trace of him. "Why are you still here?"

He sighs, placing the book on the coffee table and rising from his seat. He comes over to take your bag from you, his fingers brushing against yours for a brief moment. "Hop in the shower for now. I couldn't prepare a bath because I didn't know when you'd be home."

"Leon, why are you—" you start to question, but he cuts you off sharply.

"Later," He impatiently runs a hand through his slightly tousled hair, face showing his annoyance. "Go get refreshed. Have you had anything to eat?" he asks, trying to shift the focus away from the uncomfortable conversation.

"Not really..."

"I figured. Made you some food. It's just sandwiches, but they're decent," he says, his voice softening slightly as he tries to be helpful despite your reluctance.

He sets your bag aside to its designated place with gentle care, as if afraid to disturb you further.

"I appreciate the effort, but—".

"I said later. Now, go.”

With a heavy sigh, you decide not to push the issue for now, not when he’s being snippy with you. There's a part of you that wants to scream at him to leave, to get out of your life and stop playing with your emotions. But there's another part that appreciates his presence, his care, and his support in this moment of vulnerability.

This is getting so complicated.

In the end, you find yourself complying with his request and heading to the shower, trying to wash away the physical and emotional weight of the night.

You come back after a while to find him sprawled on the couch, his body tense, and his glare fixated on the ceiling. As you enter the room, he notices you lingering and propels himself up, sitting upright with a stiff posture.

"Come sit," he says, his voice low and controlled, motioning towards the empty space beside him.

You gingerly take a seat, facing him, his fingers drumming slightly on his thigh.

You try gauging his mood. "You're being weird. What is this about?"

"I said we'd talk, didn't I? We're talking," he replies, his tone guarded, his fingers now interlocking tightly, as if trying to contain his emotions.

You feel a bit uneasy under his scrutinizing gaze. "Okay. What about?"

"That was quite the stunt, you know? Don't ever do that to me again,"

Confusion clouds your features as you try to decipher his cryptic words. "What? Do what?" you ask, genuinely puzzled.

He sucks in a sharp breath. "Stop playing dumb," He leans forward slightly, his body language becoming more intense. "Don't ever not pick up my calls in a situation like that, in the middle of the night when I can't reach you or find you. I was about to go searching for you myself—fucking hell."

You try to process what he means by searching for you himself. "How would that even work?"

His lips press into a thin line, and he lets out a deep exhale, the tension in his jaw becoming more pronounced. "You'd be surprised how good I am at finding people." He alludes at something you have no idea about, his voice edged with frustration, shifting his weight, manspreading, hands coming on his thighs. Assertive. "Now, again, pick up my calls. Especially at night if you're out on your own.”

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, your own defensiveness mirror in your body language. "I'm not obligated to do that." You were safe, you knew how to keep yourself safe, what is he going on about?

Leon's eyes narrow, and he leans forward, one hand gripping the edge of the couch as if trying to anchor himself in the conversation, the other waving sharply between you and him. "Is this a joke to you? I was fucking worried sick," he spits, his voice tinged with restrained emotion, eyes burning, swallowing hard, trying to compose himself, his fingers tapping nervously against the upholstery. "This concerns your safety," His voice catches slightly. "Do you have any idea what kind of danger you were in? What if something had happened to you, I—-!" He pauses, his voice cracking with emotion, closing his eyes and taking a second to slow down. "A drunk woman walking all by herself after midnight without any protection—-" he continues after, eyes darting around the room, searching for the right words to convey his feelings.

Your shoulders are squared, chin lifted defiantly, a gesture of strength despite the turmoil inside. "I can take care of myself." You sniffle and look away in agitation, not wanting him to see you as weak or incapable.

"Oh, bullshit," he fires back, voice rising. "Don't take this personally, but you don't stand a chance against a man while piss drunk."

You raised an eyebrow, not willing to back down. "And now you're exaggerating. It was a safe bar just around the block—-"

Leon’s smiling but there’s nothing humorous in it. He points a finger at you, then. "Don't be a brat to me right now. I am serious," he says, tone shooting down. "I need you to acknowledge how stupid this was of you and never do it again. For yourself. Go out and drink however you like, whenever you like, with whoever you like, but be safe. Understand?"

“No.” You barely stutter it.

He’s right.

You can’t take that he’s right.

This topic has to be dropped.

“What do you mean no?”

“Just leave it.”

A muscle in his jaw jumps. You shrink from the barely held back glare he shoots your way. “Not until you agree to do as I say.”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere, stop being so obstinate and drop it, please."

“Oh, you don’t understand, do you? No idea whatsoever how angry I am with you.” His voice is dangerously low, sending shivers down your spine. “I’ll make you understand.”

With practiced ease, he wraps an iron grip around your waist, pulling you near. Your heart leaps against the wall of his chest as his arm encloses you in his hold, cradling you safely within its grasp. A swift intake of air catches in your throat and your whole fips upside down, an arm secured around the swell of your ass as you’re dangling upside down from his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. And just like that, you find yourself being taken away, carried effortlessly and unceremoniously towards the bedroom, taking in breath the freshness of Leon’s cologne and just how wide and strong his back is. Before you could utter or comprehend another word, he was already setting you down upon the plush surface of your bed – his commanding presence towering above you on all fours. His formidable frame pressed against yours, pinning you to the bed while a fervent expression of lust and veiled anger stared unabashed into your very soul.

Leon reaches down to undo the buttons of your bottom, deftly popping each one apart until they slide to the floor at the foot of the bed. His warm fingers caress your legs as he drags your pants away from your body and tosses them aside, exposing your bare feet and ankles which begin to curl under the duvet at the base of the bed. Your knees are parted further by the pressure of his palm cupping your inner thighs and guiding them wider apart, allowing him room enough to climb astride you where his weight presses heavily into the bed beneath you both.

“Only stupid thoughts behind those pretty eyes, huh? I’ll just have to fuck you dumb to the point where you just get it.” Beneath your panties, his large, roughened hands cup your sex — hot, slick flesh twitching and yearning toward fulfillment without shame or embarrassment. It only heightens the pleasure when he rolls his thumb against that little knot of heat, dipping down to rub slow circles around it — prodding with lazy delight. Even when his attention falls elsewhere to trace the curve of your belly and navel, your ardor rises despite such restrained attentions. You are lost to longing; helpless as a feather caught in a cyclone of wanton desire.

Leon's hand glides down, descending with lethal intention. With a silent growl born of frustrated passion, he breathes out, "So goddamn wet for me." He burrows into your jugular vein with a probing kiss, seizing your heartbeats hostage, but you have no complaints about how much the simple action arouses your heated body.

There’s no oral, so he has to use lube for this, coating his fingers, and he doesn’t look like he’s about to have sex, it’s like he’s off to a battle.

His anger is something you didn’t know would spur you on this hotly, each hard look shooting directly into your crotch.

Two digits delve into the depths of your awaiting cunt, sliding in seamlessly, filling you completely. Yes!

Your thoughts become hazy, the edges of your mind as raw as exposed nerves, consumed by a surge of heat that flows thick and slow like molten lava.

Delicately, the heel of his hand weighs upon your throbbing and hardened clit, providing a tantalizing pressure, while his fingers work you up and up, knowing just how to hurl you toward the edge.

You could come like this. If he just keeps going the way that he is now, you are so close.

However, this time, he opts to prolong the experience, deliberately massaging his fingers deep within you, unhurried yet uncontrollably thorough. It's as if he intends to extract every last drop of pleasure from your willing form.

You find yourself gasping for precious breath, your arousal flooding you with an intensity you've never felt under the coldness behind his piercing blue gaze. “Please,” you say, body instinctively curving towards his touch, and he eases on the pressure, making you softly whine. “No, more.”

“More? Alright. Like this?”

That sounds dangerous. You should read the moderated vexation, but you don’t.

And then he ups the intensity.

The immense pleasure overwhelms you, rendering you powerless in its wake. Your legs involuntarily jerk, your toes curling as they make contact with the sheets, there’s a frenzied urgency in the way grind against his palm, desperately craving that elusive climax hovering magnetically close but just beyond your grasp.

You teeter precariously on the edge of release, the climb to the impending orgasm has you trembling with anticipation, it’s just a final push away, and Leon is delivering it with flawless precision...

Until he isn’t.

His hand retreats, the fullness of his fingers slipping out of you, leaving behind an agonizing emptiness that your core clenches pathetically around. You're left yearning, aching for more, and you’ve been mercilessly dunked in ice water by a torturer, extinguishing the flames of ecstasy that had been building within you.

Your dumbfounded gaze remains fixed upon him, your breath perpetually caught in your chest, causing a painful tightness. His pink tongue comes out to lick his fingers, drenched in your ever-present slickness and the flavored lube, and the digits disappear behind his sensuous, kiss-reddened pink lips. A tremor courses through your chest, leaving you to pathetically inquire, "Why?"

“You know why.”

You adjust on the sheets, shifty, restless, trying your best to come back down and ignore the biting pleasure sinking like a ship. So he was really doing this.

And you were going along with it despite everything, craving everything he could give you.

“Now, look at me. Look at me,” he demands, gently turning your face towards him, his fingers still moist with your essence. “You know how this ends. Other than that, no means yes. Stop means keep going. Don’t means do it. Wait means continue. Struggling just tells me you like it.”

He generously allows you time to push him away, to draw the line and declare your unwillingness to continue this path.

"Leon—"

"What is your safe word?" he cuts you off, tone both commanding and measured. His eyebrows are low on his forehead, staring you down so hostile one would think you’re his enemy, chest broad, like he’s seconds from attacking.

"Rookie."

He kisses your temple. So loving against his cruelty just now. "Very well.”

It’s gone back to tumbling in bed together again, all two of you are capable of is avoiding whatever it is that you want to say and conveying the frustration through touch instead.

And he’s punishing you.

With all intents and purposes, Leon normally isn’t like this.

You didn’t know he’d snap just like that when all you did was a little push.

Leon's intensity and intimidating demeanor may seem at odds with his surprisingly indulgent and caring nature towards you. While his usual serious and frosty exterior can be off-putting to others, there is a different side of him — one that shows deep affection and thoughtfulness, albeit elusively. He runs on giving you whatever you want at the end of the day.

The first you noticed this was late one evening two years ago when you’d managed to snuggle up to him without him getting all stiff, as you sat together in the dark living room and watched a movie together, Leon's intense gaze softening as he observed you. You'd grown accustomed to his serious expression, but that night, you could see the faintest hint of concern in his eyes. You had yawned, feeling the exhaustion from a long day, and rested your head on his shoulder.

"You should get some rest," Leon said quietly, his voice hoarse and rough, yet gentle. "I can handle the rest of this."

"I'm okay, really," you replied, trying to suppress another yawn.

Leon's semi-frown had deepened as he reached for the quilt draped across the couch. Without a word, he had wrapped it around your shoulders, tucking it in snugly up to your neck. "Better," he said with a hint of satisfaction.

The small gesture had warmed your heart, knowing that despite his gruff demeanor, and tendency to not say anything, he genuinely cared for your well-being. As you had drifted off to sleep, he had remained by your side, watching over you in his silent but protective way.

In the following days, little surprises had started appearing around the house the more he came around. A new book you mentioned wanting to read, a set of cozy slippers, or a favorite snack tucked into the pantry. You had wondered where these gifts were coming from, but whenever you brought it up, Leon brushed it off as if it's nothing.

Yet, the repairs and chores he undertook in secret had been perhaps the most endearing. You had noticed the creaky door was now silent, the loose cabinet handle was firmly fixed, and the kitchen faucet no longer dripped. He would never mention these tasks, as if they were just a natural part of his day and you would think to yourself, It’s great to have a man around actually, wow. And it had nothing to do with the sex.

Another evening for example, after you had finished a hearty dinner, you had gotten up to clean up, but Leon had waved you off. "Relax," he’d said gruffly, "I've got it."

You’d decided to watch him from the threshold, curious about how he went about his chores, feeling weirded out by this busy man maneuvering around your kitchen like a housewife. He’d washed the dishes with care, meticulously drying each one before placing them back in the cupboard, cleaned the counters and even swept the floor with a focus when there was no need to.

He wouldn’t accept one praise or thanks for it, and you’d understood a bit late that this was his way of showing the affection he couldn’t with words.

It seems that the only context in which Leon feels comfortable enough expressing it is within sexual encounters; perhaps because the boundaries surrounding such actions are already defined. In these moments, his attention remains focused solely upon generating and maintaining your pleasure. His own satisfaction comes secondary to ensuring yours. And he finds control in it, pushing deep inside and striking rapid fire peak after another until you lay quaking beneath him, other times his ministrations fall closer to tenderness than intensity until even their quietest whispers roil across every part of you leaves you squirming through his attentions regardless of approach.

The thought alone puts you in the most compromising position possible: surrendering your body over to someone who just might leave you in ruins afterwards but whose mercy still tempts you nonetheless. There are times when his touch is harder than others and at other times, it's nothing short of achingly loving.

It’s hard to think straight whenever Leon is taking care of you. How could one possibly find it difficult to let go when you’re being spoiled by the best? Him and this whole arrangement had been giving you a lot of second thoughts while it lasted but you can never deny that every single time you collided together, it always ended in some form of relaxation and satisfaction with the help of the man who has proven that he knows what makes you feel good.

Even though he's not capable of saying his feelings out loud.

But that's never stopped him from making sure that you get all the spoils that he'd never allow anyone else to have in their lives. Maybe he liked to spoil you more than anything because he couldn’t give you much more. Maybe he felt a need to give back to you for staying silent and not wanting anything out of him.

He's a gentle man. Kind. Looks like a jawbreaker but is mushy inside.

You've made a mistake and he’s not going to let you off even if you say sorry.

Enthralled by this all, you don’t want him to.

As the anticipation crackles in the air, Leon's hands remove your ruined underwear, sliding them down your legs, leaving them discarded around your ankles. His hands travel up from your ankles to your calves, sensual in his caressing, and the way he touches the back of your knees has your core twitching, beginning the curling again.

Leaning down against you, his lips press languid, teasing kisses against the tender flesh of your breasts, interchanging between suckling, licking, and half-bites that you want would be stronger as one hand comes up to pay attention to the neglected one, giving you whiplash with the power behind his occasional squeezes and the punishing tugs and flicks on your nipple.

You don’t know how many minutes pass as he overpowers you and stops you from squirming and closing your thighs for any god-sent friction as they become the only things he pays attention to. It starts stinging at one point, aching sweetly that you want him to both keep moving and keep going.

“Stop, come on, please…”

“Why should I? I’m having a good time.” You can practically see the nipple that pops out of his mouth sizzle with soreness. “There you go again, saying stupid things.”

Oh, he’s mean.

He, somehow in a way that adds to the gratification, wrings a nipple that draws a yelp out of you. “My stupid girl. Acting like you’re not getting off on this when you know how to stop me.” With deliberate intent, his mouth embarks on a seductive exploration, trailing butterfly kisses along the path of your stomach. “Don’t use that mouth of yours other than making pretty noises for me, yeah?”

Each flick of his tongue against your hips sends a jolt of desire coursing through your body. Your legs instinctively respond, parting wider, asking for his touch.

There, just before the pinnacle of your thighs, he pauses, holding himself above you, his closeness tangible. He bites down on them, leaving temporary teeth marks this time, and you jolt upward against his mouth, but can’t properly move to satisfy yourself, your tiny moan eliciting a dark laugh from Leon. “That’s it, keep those sounds coming.”

The tip of his nose nudges against the delicate apex of your sex, provoking a surge of anticipation that consumes you. The whine for him to do something comes close to fly out of your throat but you know he’d do the opposite, so you lay there, hands coming down on his taut, strong shoulders and —

He’s still dressed. You didn’t even have a break to notice.

You’re zapped out of your head by the soft, warm breath rolling along your hypersensitive clit to your slit. It's a provocative, nowhere near enough of a drag, a delightful torment that he dangles in front of you. And then, he finally succumbs to his desire — your desire, his mouth descending upon your throbbing pussy and you can’t stop the drawn-out whine of satisfaction. “Oh my god! Yes, keep doing that, just like that, please!”

The sensation is overwhelming, a convergence of his roughened jaw tensing as he skillfully works you open. His tongue, slow and obedient, is a slick slide through your wet folds. He hums into you, the vibrations resonating deeply within your being and your legs attempt to clamp around his head, only to be stopped by the metal band that are his arms holding them down, and he bathes you in soft, slow, torturous caresses, parting you further, making his tongue delve in.

He doesn’t give you what you want. Not this time.

The pace of his relentless pussy-eating remains excruciatingly slow, as if he savors every moment, every lap of his tongue against your delicateness like he’s sipping up a beverage. The fusion of pleasure and pain are crackles that don’t explode into completion, pushing you to the very limits of your endurance.

In your desperate quest for release, your fingers instinctively scramble to clutch and tug at his soft hair, knowing that Leon relishes in the sensation, praying that he will reward you for doing that somehow.

The anticipation throwing a tantrum within you reaches a fever pitch, your entire being a symphony of quivering muscles and trembling limbs. Your body tenses like a drawn bow, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable crescendo. It wraps around you, about to release the arrow, while your gasps and squeaks fill the air.

You’re there, you’re finally there, finally.

Your thighs quiver uncontrollably as his grip is a vice around them, your stomach folding over itself inside in an uncontrollable frenzy, you’re being hurled toward the finish line with such speed intensity that it borders on pain.

Amidst the whirlwind of sensation you forget yourself. Your words dissolve into an incoherent babbling, your fragmented pleas begging for him to continue, to drive you to the brink of rapture and beyond. “Please, please, pleaseplease, almost—"

Each deliberate movement of his mouth, each calculated stroke of his tongue, sends waves of wax-hot ecstasy surging through your body.

Your senses are consumed by frustration and desire, the need to unravel in orgasmic bliss peaking to an almost unbearable level. It feels cruel, unjust, to be held in this suspended state of euphoria, teetering on the precipice of ecstasy without being allowed to take the leap.

And then, he takes all of it away.

What.

The maddening unfairness of it all engulfs you, rendering you speechless, frustrated beyond measure. It's a torment that cuts deep, leaving you trembling with unfulfilled desire. The ache within you intensifies, a cruel reminder of the pleasure withheld, and you find yourself helplessly grappling with the sheer agony of being denied what feels rightfully yours.

“No, nooooo,” you can’t help the pathetic sob. Want to slap his hand away when it comfortingly nestles against the apple of your cheek. “Fuck, this is so unfair!”

As you tremble like a leaf on the edge of frustration and craving, pulled back as the void you wanted to jump in getting smaller and smaller, caught between the pining for release and the ache of denial, Leon's voice reaches your ears like a calming balm. His soothing coos and the gentle stroke of his hands at both sides of your hips is a momentary respite from the overwhelming intensity. “You're doing so well. I’ve got you, sweet girl, you're okay, it'll pass.”

It’s his fault that it has to pass.

It angers you. He's only sweet to melt you like butter and take advantage of that again to fly you up only to make you fall, and catch you halfway so you won’t shatter into pieces.

He kisses up your stomach and peppers your collarbone and shoulders, but when he wants to capture your lips, you turn your face away, trying not to cry, attempts to push him off, futile. “Asshole, no, get away from me.”

He licks a stripe through the outside of your ear instead, and you buck your head toward the touch, ticklish. “Have to be one.”

The ache within you thrums, pricks of a thousand needles not hurting quite in the way you need, each one a reminder of the pleasure you crave. And he denied. You try to turn away, crawl out of the bed. So this is what you get for slipping up and wanting some dick. “Fuck you, let go of me...”

You only manage to flip on your belly when he presses down on you again, still clothed. He knows just how to soothe and alleviate the sting that prickles all over, kissing your nape. “Can’t. Sorry.”

Shivers go down your spine as he plants more kisses on your back, hooking an arm in front of your waist, palm pushing down on your navel and dizzying you again as he pulls you back to him. “You are not sorry—!”

His soft lips, like a healing touch, press against the corner of your shoulder, providing temporary relief as the ache subsides as his hands glide like soothing, cool velvet against your flushed, neglect-irritated skin.

He keeps doing that for a while, until your chest isn’t heaving anymore, and you’re face down, ass up on the mattress, comfortably floating in a state of bliss.

But just when you think you might it’s over, his thumbs peel open the lips of your pussy, and he blows on it to ignite stomped embers, compelling you to arch into his mouth, the dull ache blossoming from flavorless into ready for the ripe sweet. .

Leon shames you. “What’s that? You want more again?” You feel his fingers tracing alongside the outside of your entrance, not diving inside, teasing. “You know what to say.”

It’s all you’ve been saying this far, and you can’t think. “Please. Please!”

“Wrong answer.”

From then on, lost in a haze of pleasure and desire, the notion of time dissolves into insignificance, unable to tether you to the constructs of the world outside of his torture.

With each frustrating high you want to stop building, there comes a devastating low that starts to leave tears burning behind your eyelids until your vision blacks out. Leon skillfully takes you by the hand, a villain in a knight’s shining armor, rolling that boulder up the hill, only to let it come tumbling down to the bottom before it can reach the peak, watching blankly as you crumble.

It happens three more times before you lose all bodily control, knees unable to hold you up anymore, and he rolls you on your back again, sweat leaving the sheets so wet they could be transparent, and at the same time, you can’t focus on anything other than what’s going on between your legs, details blurring in your sensory overload, the world around you fading into a peripheral existence, the thick smell of arousal in the air suffocating.

In this state of surrender and exquisite agony, the pleasure ebbs and flows, slowing down, maintaining the heat that just isn’t burning enough. Any resistance that once flickered within you has now faded, leaving you utterly surrendered to Leon’s will as he moves you around like a ragdoll to his liking, a leg thrown over his shoulder and the other spread wide by an iron grip seizing the back of your knee.

You’re about to break. You don’t know how many times it’s been. “Fuck, Leon, please, please just let me go, let me come, please, I can’t anymore, I can’t, I need to come, I’m gonna go insane—please, please!”

"You're gonna go insane? You don't know what insane is," he states with a low rasp in his voice, his words laced with a sadistic edge. "Should've been there yesterday to see me."

Whining in response, you manage to release a series of broken pleas. "No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, fuck, please stop, please!"

He doesn’t care. It’s like he’s made of stone.

The raw intensity in his gaze, the thin ring of blue around the black pool of his pupils threaten to swallow you whole as he props himself up above you, the muscles in his arms bulging and tight, veins prominent. “What are you sorry for?”

An apology is what he wanted from the start, and you no longer care about the reasons behind it. You’re well past dignity and shame, the desire to come overrides all rational thought that you think you would start jumping on his cock the moment he asked you to. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I apologize, okay, just, ugh…"

"You know, I don't think you need to come that badly," Leon snarls, his lips curving upwards in a cruel and cold smile. He raises himself onto his knees, distancing himself from your desperate reach.

"No!" you cry out, a high-pitched noise of denial. Your hand stretches out towards him, desperately grasping at empty air. "Wait! Wait! I do need to come, you can't do this to me, I can't—!"

But he ignores your calls, the smile having fallen into something blank again. "Just so you know, you asked for this." He swiftly undoes his belt, causing his trousers to fall around his narrow hips and then pool around his legs. "Don't be a baby and take it."

He turns away momentarily, allowing you to feast your eyes upon the carved muscles of his arms and back as he removes his shirt. Naked before you, his skin adorned by bruises and lighter-toned scars of old and new alike.

All of them, so attractive.

“Told you I was gonna make you understand.”

You don’t hear him. Not really. Your focus narrows solely on the figure of Leon looming just ahead like an incubus haunting your dreams. The sight of his glistening, pre-dripping cock the object of your attention, instilling a hunger within you that eclipses any concerns or inhibitions that might have lingered within your mind.

"And you don't even seem close to it yet.”

However, your desperate desire overpowers any semblance of understanding at this point. The unadulterated need for him, for his stretch in you, consumes your thoughts, leaving little room for comprehension.

Suddenly, Leon's strong fingers encircle your ankles, and with an unforgiving yank, he pulls you closer, drawing you beneath him. He nibbles on your calves, smoothing your ankles, staring you down, so fucking hot and sexy, before the weight of his body covers yours, and you can feel the heat radiating from his skin, intensifying the expectation that drums inside.

The swollen tip of his cock hovers at the entrance of your slick folds, teasing the threshold of pleasure. You brace yourself, preparing for the inevitable penetration and the sweet stretch that will follow. Yet, it eludes you, leaving you uncomfortably longing for his deep, satisfying intrusion.

Driven by desperation, you roll your hips upward, searching for the angle that will guide him inside you. Confusion dances at the edges of your consciousness as you struggle to comprehend the delay, unable to understand why he hasn't already plunged into you, fulfilling the ache that pulsates within your body.

It seems like you’ve forgotten again what game he was playing with you.

“Want something, sweet girl?” Leon gazes down at you with the shadow of a smirk, reveling in your writhing form beneath him. It's evident that he takes pleasure in this power dynamic, flourishes in the control he holds over your desires. Fucking asshole. How long is this going to continue? “I'm listening.”

Panting and needy, you respond with an indistinct whimper. “Please.”

But Leon refuses to let you off the hook easily. His demand is clear. “Yeah?”

Fuck this guy. Oh god.

“Leon, please,” you can’t stop the tremor in your voice, both from desperation and the building fury.

“I hear you. Tell me what you need.”

So he could deny you it again?

The widened smirk on his face matches the wickedness in his voice, it's as if he celebrates the torment of restating your hunger all the way back up, taunting you. “I won't know if you don't tell me.”

As the words “You. You. I need you, Leon, I want you. Inside me, please.” emerge, your voice a delicate, unplanned balance of pleading and exasperation, Leon's eyes light up, gleaming with a potent blend of pride and an urgent hunger that surpasses mere desire.

The look that graces his face is captivating, drawing you deeper into the vortex of intimacy that swirls between you as Leon offers a husky, excited affirmation, “There’s my girl.”

Without hesitation, he surges forward, impaling you with his throbbing cock, and you’re gone, not even in your body anymore.

The initial glide of his length penetrating your depths transports you to a realm of unparalleled ecstasy. Waves of sweet, electrifying ache surge through your being, igniting pleasure that radiates along every nerve ending. Your thighs quiver and strain as they envelop his hips, nearly overcome by the torrent of blazing heat that overflows from your core. The stretch burns and stings so fucking good.

“Fuck,” you hiss, nails scraping red lines down his back. “Just like that, please, yes, so good. Move. Please move!”

Unable to contain the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your veins, your body instinctively presses up against Leon's, breasts crushed against his chest, shockwaves from your nipples shooting straight to the pool filling up in your stomach, responding to his presence without conscious effort.

Displaying his infuriating control, Leon allows you a brief moment to squirm around his cock, savoring the desperate feeling of connection, and stills.

Your hands instinctively find purchase on his shoulders, yearning to keep him close, to maintain the blissful fusion. A chaste kiss to the corner of your jaw follows.

And then, with a force that leaves you gasping, he withdraws almost entirely, threatening to sever the connection you crave and perhaps walk away again and you’re fucking terrified. Panic stirs within, and your hands tighten their grip on his shoulders, desperately clinging to the pleasure he provides, his warmth, his presence. You don’t even realize your breathing has gotten frantic.

His gentleness peeks through the blinds, a twinkle in the night. “It’s okay, it’s okay, calm down, you’re okay. I’m not going anywhere. Shit,” he curses, coming down to capture your lips in a consoling, soft tangle for the first time that day, and it almost erases all the shit he pulled on you today.

Almost.

Without warning, Leon thrusts himself back in with an intensity that makes your mind spin. The brain-melting, reason-flaying pleasure that ravishes you in that moment is so riveting, so overwhelmingly good, that your vision darkens, the world falling away. It's as if the very cosmos bear witness to the electrifying union, as you swear you see novas, their brilliance shimmering in your obscured sight.

With unyielding determination, Leon continues his relentless assault, driving himself into you with harsh, deep thrusts that leave you breathless. The pace is unforgiving, hard and fast, each movement becoming a seismic wave of pleasure that crashes through your entire being. The intense sensations cascade, spreading from deep within, coiling tightly around your being like a snake, tightening the knot of bliss that constricts with every stroke.

You can feel the peak of your orgasm building, a crescendo of pleasure on the precipice of eruption. In a desperate quest for completion, you arch your body, meeting each of his thrusts with an eagerness that borders on desperation.

He notices. Of course he does.

Leon's hips press deep into you, holding there in a maddening stillness. It's almost enough, a flick of your clit away, so close that you can taste it, imagine it.

He denies you.

Again.

It slips away like sand through your fingers, surfacing in an anguished sob that escapes your lips.

As tears stream down your face, they merge into fat blobs and flow in heavy currents, distorting your vision. The profound sense of loss tightens its grip on your body, overwhelming you to the point that you fear losing consciousness.

The intensity of everything building within you becomes a terrifying force, leaving you petrified of surrendering to it fully, as though it may make you disappear entirely. The trembling that envelopes you is no longer connected to pleasure; it is a tremor borne of fear and vulnerability.

Your body stiffens involuntarily, breaths coming in shallow and rapid puffs. The room spins around you, blurring into a chaotic mess. Your voice, shaky and filled with desperation, falters as you utter your safe word, the syllables escaping your lips like uncontrollable vomit. "Rookie...shit...rookie, I'm gonna pass out. No more. No more."

He’s out of you immediately, everything coming to a halt.

With genuine concern etched upon his face, Leon's voice pierces through the chaos, calling for you through the momentary ear ringing, but you can see his eyes now filled with compassion.

He’s back.

His strong arms wrap around you, providing a secure embrace as he takes in the depth of your distress. He holds your cheeks and checks on you,shaking you a bit he doesn’t get a response, and relaxes only when you nod, he leans in, peppering your tear-streaked face with soothing kisses, his tender gestures offering comfort and solace.

But your alarms rise that he might start again reflexively, and try to push him off, and he takes that hand in his, kissing your palm, your wrist, your fingers, slow and one by one, murmuring softly, tone tranquilizing. “No more, alright? No more. It’s over. You’re safe.”

Amidst the emotional turbulence, Leon's reassurance remains steadfast. "I got you. I got you, you're okay," he whispers softly, his voice a warm blanket enveloping you. His unyielding support gives you strength to navigate the overwhelming sensations that had consumed you moments ago. The affection, warmth against the ice you went through with him is so comforting. "You did so good, sweetheart. You were amazing. I’m so proud of you."

His praise resonates deep within, calming you down significantly, that his anger isn’t out to get you.

With a gentle touch, Leon encourages you to sit. He instinctively reaches for a glass of water on the side table, offering it to you with care. "Here, take a sip. It'll help," he murmurs, his tone filled with tenderness, communicating his desire to provide you with the necessary aftercare, allowing you to physically and emotionally recenter yourself.

Sitting behind you and taking you between his legs, Leon hugs you from behind, thick arms engulfing you in the safest of embraces, ensuring that you feel his presence as a steady support. His hands encircle your trembling shoulders, offering a reassuring hold. "Hold onto me. I'm right here," he murmurs, his voice a soothing melody amidst the residual chaos of your emotions.

He gets you to lean back against his chest, making you aware of how it puffs up and falls down. "Breathe with me, okay? C’mon, feel me breathe." His words act as a gentle guide, coaxing you toward a calmer state of being, unconsciously synchronizing your breaths with his. “There you go. Doing so well.”

The moment he feels you’re not digging your fingers into his forearm around your middle anymore, he whispers, “More water?”

Your throat is so dry. “Yes please.”

He doesn’t let you take the glass, bringing it to your lips himself insead. “Drink slow,” is a gentle order as your own hands wrap around the cup over his. “Anything you need? Bath? Shower?”

“I want to continue.”

“Are you sure?”

“I need to fucking come Leon, I can’t sleep today if you let me go like this.”

“Alright, okay. I did say anything you need. How do you want it?”

“Comfortable.”

“Wanna flip over? Here, hug these.” You’re handed a couple pillows to keep holding to prop your upper up a little, and he slips one underneath your hips, angling them in a comfortable position. “There. No need to lift your hips.”

You can just rest your head on the pillows like this, it’s designed to make you stay still. “You’ll lie on top of me?”

“I won’t crush you, don’t worry. Leave it to me. You can snooze a bit if you like.”

“Funny.”

Your eyes flutter closed as Leon lowers himself onto you, his weight pressing down on your lower half. He's careful not to push too hard or hurt you in any way. Instead, he holds himself above you, giving you space to breathe and relax. You feel his warmth emanating from him, the moisture of his breath fanning your nape, as he slowly settles over your body, making himself as close to you as possible. It's an intimate act that makes you flush with embarrassment, but you find yourself enjoying how secure and safe it makes you feel, the whole body pressing down on you is delectable, like some weighted blanket. You mewl into the pillows as he slips his cock in, not punishingly languid and calculated this time, but slow, gentle, and sweet.

“Comfortable?”

“Hmm,” you exhale.

As Leon begins to move inside you, you take a deep breath and hold tightly to the pillow beneath your cheek. His movements are deliberate and measured, not harsh not to toss you up the bed, each stroke sending waves through your entire body. You can feel your muscles being kneaded with desire as he works his magic between your legs.

"This feels so good," you hum, craning your neck as best as you can to try maintaining eye contact with him, to see how he’s doing.

Leon is holding back.

You hear a deep rumble coming from him, almost like a purring sound as he rolls his hips into you like gentle sea waves hitting the shore, you can feel him getting harder and swell inside, pulsing. His fingers gently caress your skin, tracing lines across your arms and shoulders before coming to sneak underneath your torso and loosely cup your throat. Slowly, he begins kissing and nibbling on the sensitive area behind your earlobe, sending shivers through your entire body. In response, you arch your back slightly, pushing against him in search of something you barely understand yet desperately crave, feeling the way the plane of his stomach spasms in rhythm with his thrusts.

Leon grasps your waist firmly, pulling you impossibly closer to him, rubbing himself along your curves until your whole body sings with sensation. This is it. This is nice, warm, rolling like ribbons of thick caramel. All at once, you feel like you are drowning in a syrup of desire and sweetness that seems impossible to escape. And yet, somehow, you never want out. For now, right here and nowhere else, all that matters is the soft touch of Leon's hand over yours, fingers lacing with your own, guiding you deeper into a world where only he exists.

“Feel like sleeping yet?”

“As if you ever let me sleep…” Can anyone be fucked into sleep when every single cell is alerted to this degree?

The hand around your throat travels up a little to tip your head back so the crown of your head can rest on his shoulder and he has better access to mark up your neck “Still wanna come, sweet girl?” He nips at the path along your jaw. “Be nicer to me.”

There’s no space left between you and the bed from his weight for him to stimulate your clit, so Leon goes for a position change, making you sigh in disappointment as he slips out of you for the moment.

Your heart leaps at how he combs his damp hair. He looks like a completely different person when his hair is slicked back, and it stays that way because of how wet the strands are from sweat.

Taking charge, Leon gets you to lie on your back, positioning your body in a way that maximizes comfort and intimacy. He gently guides one of your legs to extend straight while bending the other at the knee, lifting it up for ease of access. With careful precision, he positions himself alongside you, lying on his side.

Drawing you closer, he slips his hand under your head, creating a makeshift pillow of support. His arm bends at the elbow, allowing his hand to rest on your breast, his touch gentle and attentive. The warmth of his body pressed against yours generates a sense of security and closeness, and you can reach to cling to his nape and kiss him like this.

His other hand finds its place on the thigh of your bent leg, providing stability and further fostering a sense of connection. His left leg aligns itself along the length of your extended leg, while his right leg is carefully positioned, pushed in between your lifted leg, cock nestled against your pussy, his hips restless, grinding against you.

“Ready?”

He actually lets you grind back, and you can cry from relief. “Yeah.”

“I’ll go slow.”

“Just make me come, please.”

As he releases his hold on your breast, his hand rises to gently tip your chin, guiding your focus back to him. His warm lips meet yours in a languid, passionate kiss, expressing the depth of his desire. Slowly and deliberately, he eases himself into you, letting you feel every inch of his girth and length. The sensations overwhelm you, and your moan mingles with his as pleasure blossoms between you.

His little whiny grunt does something to the ache in your stomach. “Doesn’t feel great to be left hanging, does it?”

“No, no, fuck," You're refusing, but a roll of his hips manage to hit a good spot inside you, and the thought is an aborted prompt in your head. "Yeah, right there…” You open your eyes to find him drinking your bliss in, and remember what you were going to say. “I’m sorry, ah, god, I’m so sorry.” You manage between gasps and moans, your vulnerability and remorse mingling with the intense pleasure. “I was just drunk and I didn’t want to talk—”

In the heat of the moment, Leon's hand skillfully navigates your body, moving downward to the sensitive area where you're connected. His touch expertly pulls up the hood of your clit, allowing his middle finger to press against it with unwavering pressure, all the while continuing his thrusts into your wetness. His question suggests he'll only move if he gets the answer he wants from you. "Will you do that to me again?"

Your hands fly to his forearm, an instinctive response to keep him exactly where he is, lost in the throes of pleasure. "No. No, never, never again," you assert, begging.

With a hint of satisfaction, Leon acknowledges your response, affirming your words with admiration. "Yeah? What will you do, then?" he groans, low and needy. The electricity between you lingers in the air, everything reeks of sex, humid and hot, charged with a sense of possessiveness and mutual longing.

Leaning into the pleasure coursing through your body, you find it difficult to form coherent words, but manage to respond. "Gonna answer all your calls," Your gasp cracks with a particularly strong thrust. "Stay saf-e!"

With his fingers still expertly circling your sensitive, hardened nub, fulfilling your desires, spoiling you with what you need, Leon finally gives in to his own need. He devours your lips in desperate, sloppy kisses, immersing you in the chaos of passion. Breathless and lost in a haze of pleasure, he shares fragmented sentences in between the urgent connection of your mouths. The mingling of your sighs and gasps intertwines. "Just need you to be safe," he murmurs, his voice filled with a mix of desperation and longing. "Need to know you're okay. Don't leave me out like that — don't — fuck, fuck, fuck!" He bites back a grunt that threatens to become a high-pitched moan. You feel him shudder. "You take it so well, so fucking perfect for me," he downright growls. “Shit, I’m close.”

“Almost there, almost, don’t fucking stop, please!”

His voice, accompanied by rapid panting, is raw and husky. “I’m right here sweet girl. Come for me. You need it, don’t you? You’ve been dying for it all night. Break. Come all over my cock. Give it to me—ah god!”

The overwhelming intensity of the moment makes it impossible for you to form coherent words in response. Instead, hold onto him for an anchor in this hurricane as every fiber of your being vibrates, coming close to something, rising, close, close—.

When release finally washes over you, it's a torrential wave that transcends your wildest expectations. The pleasure explodes, the light shining first and the sound spilling forth afterwards, blasting your senses in a cacophony of rippling ecstasy. The experience is chaotic and overwhelming, all the more devastating from having been built up for so long.

As the waves of pleasure ebb and flow through your body, you wait for a moment of respite, hoping that the intensity will gradually subside. However, to your surprise, Leon's rocking maintains the pace, pushing deep into you without slowing down. Your attempts to get away from the overstimulation is vain, as the intensity only escalates. Pleasure intertwines with a sense of urgency and biting, sensitive ache, leaving you unable to catch your breath, unable to control the uninhibited and primal sounds escaping from your lips.

The fullness takes on a new dimension. The line blurs between whether this is a second orgasm or if your initial release has never truly ceased. The pleasure is heightened, potent, whetted, cutting, and you’re lost in the abyss of ecstasy that keeps dragging you down, you’re convulsing around his length uncontrollably.

In this overwhelming state of sensory overload, you cry out Leon's name, mingling with whimpers and moans, meanwhile, undeterred by your sensitivity, Leon relentlessly continues with his powerful strokes, chasing his own peak, ending up making you slide toward the edge of the bed with one final, powerful ram, then he bursts into you, his shout strangled, and it feels as if the moment stretches out indefinitely, his body winded like taut wire and heaving beside you, release seemingly endless, shuddering gasps rattling his ribcage.

After what feels like an eternity, Leon finally stills, his body collapsing. And he pulls you into a hug with post-orgasmic trembling hands, and breathes into your hair as you bask in the afterglow.

Leon's affectionate gesture leaves a path of mellowness in its wake, and you find yourself leaning into the softness of the moment. His lips part from yours, but instead of pulling away abruptly, he lingers for a moment, his breath mingling with yours. “I’ll be right back.” And this time, when he pulls away, it’s not anxiety-inducing that he’ll leave you hanging, and you can relax.

As you lie there, wrapped in the comforting cocoon of warmth and post-coital heaven, the world around you blurs and fades at the edges, you can’t keep your eyes open to wait for Leon, but keep fighting the pull of sleep as it gently tugs at your consciousness. Every fiber of your being craves the soothing embrace of slumber, and you end up surrendering to the honeyed drowsiness.

A gentle blink and Leon is there again, his caring eyes fixed upon you, looking so, so young. In his hands, he holds a warm, damp towel, and you watch with a mix of admiration and affection as he moves with fluid grace to gently wipe you down. His hands look like they’ve been made to handle stranger violences, but they are tamed for you. With every tender stroke, he murmurs quiet praise and affection, his voice a soft caress that wraps around you like a warm blanket, and you drift off listening to the velvet smoothness.

You begin to stir, not knowing how much time has passed, slowly awakening from your deep sleep, when you become aware of gentle movements and moving about nearby. As you open your eyes and rub the lethargy away, you find the door of the bathroom that adjoins your bedroom open, the aroma of fragrant bath oils filling the air. The soft glow of candles casts flickering shadows that are visible from where you are, creating a serene ambiance that envelops you.

Leon comes into view, standing by the bathtub, somehow able to tell right away you woke up, a caring smile playing on his lips. He has taken the time to prepare a luxurious bath for you, filling the tub with warm water and adding petals that float delicately on the surface. The room is filled with a sense of tranquility as he pours some scented bath oils and swirls them into the water, their fragrance enveloping the space.

“You’re up. Morning, night owl. Rest well?” As Leon strides toward you with a towel hanging from his hips, the steam from the bath clings to his glistening, bare upper body. Your eyes instinctively drink in the sight of him, as if they can never grow accustomed to the sheer beauty in front of you. His presence is a work of art, his form seemingly sculpted from the smoothest marble, exuding an aura of strength and grace.

You sit up, the soreness pulling at your muscles, vagina basically weeping with ache. A good kind. “I slept like a log. I wish I never woke up, though. Ouch.”

There’s nothing apologetic in his hoarse laugh.

Your gaze roams his physique, appreciating every chiseled detail, never tiring of the sight. The way his biceps bulge in the sleeves of his clothing, or the way the fabric stretches over the expanse of his chest, captivates your attention endlessly.

“Prepared you a bath.” Gently, he extends his hand, inviting you to join him in the soothing embrace of the tub. “Hopefully that’ll help. Need a ride?”

You allow him to princess carry you, blushing like a schoolgirl, feeling the warm water caress your skin as he lowers you into its embrace. The groan that comes out of you is sinful.

Leon unravels the towel around his hips and slips right behind you, legs bracketing yours, careful your lower half doesn’t touch his but you can lean back to his chest, presence exuding a sense of serenity and comfort. Leaning against the smooth tub's edge, he reaches out with tenderness, slowly taking a washcloth and soaping it up. With delicate motions, he begins to wash your body above the water, his touch almost lulling you to sleep once more..

He breaks the silence, planting a kiss at the crown of your head. "This feels nice, doesn't it?" he murmurs, his words carrying a warmth that matches the water surrounding you.

You nod, relishing in the intimate connection forged by this simple act of tenderness. "Yes, it does," you reply softly, gratitude filling your voice. “Thank you, Leon.”

He hums in response. You can feel the soft smile on his lips when he presses a delicate kiss against the nape of your neck, leaving a lingering warmth that resonates through your entire being.

You don’t know what the hell this is.

But you want all of it.

“Ashley isn’t like you to me.”

God, you could evaporate from shame and make the water boil over. He remembers you going off on him because of that. Oh no.

His chin rests atop your head, drawing you closer. “I was tasked to save her when she was kidnapped—”

“Hold. Hold.” You twist around to look at him, the water around you rippling, petals swimming. “What do you mean you were tasked to?”

He answers like it’s a road trip for a festival to the next state. “I was sent to Spain for that. On a mission.”

“Mission.” You’re searching for any sign of being fucked with. Leon looks weary all of a sudden, jaded, zoning off, it’s like the circles under his eyes deepen to show you. “Like. An agent?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re an agent? Like a federal agent or a secret agent?”

“A special one.”

“Oh, fuck.” The pieces fall into place. His skilfulness in fighting, his built body, the scars and bruises renewed between absences, the inability to relax and just be in crowds. The White House. PTSD. Nightmares. You had an inkling. Just thought he was a bodyguard with an obvious military background, though. Never would have thought it went as deep as this. You sink a bit into the water. “So that was it.”

He gets you to lean on him again, wrapping his arms around you, perhaps, seeking comfort.

He’s spilling all the beans, there’s no reason not to probe further, albeit with care for what would be a sensitive topic for him. “So she was kidnapped?”

One arm draped under your arm, coming up to hold onto your shoulder, Leon’s fingers begin tracing shapes into your skin, his other elbow is propped up against the side of the tub, wrist resting on his bent knee. “Yeah.”

“They sent you? What, like some one man army superhero?” His chest lowly rumbles with a laugh. “Oh my god, you’re serious? That’s what you do?”

“You knew before you came to me.”

“I had theories, but… Spy stuff? For real?”

He hesitates before answering, forehead nestling on your shoulder and nuzzling. “Not spy stuff. I work with bioterrorism.”

Your mind is rapidly trying to generate information and remember global events. “Bioterrorism… Like. Like, in Terragrigia? Monsters? Zombies?”

“And those who make them,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, damn… That sounds tough… I’m sorry.” You have no idea whatsoever how to respond to that. It’s so heavy that it hangs heavier than the steam in the bathroom, and he sounds thoroughly spent just by talking about it —

“Don’t be. I’m trained for it.”

But he still gets hurt. You see him hurt all the damn time. Miserable and sleepless and depressed.

“Stop getting sad, please?” Leon kisses your neck, adoring, damp hair making you ticklish. “I promise, it’s all fine.”

You can’t stop thinking about it. And you just heard of this now. You’ll never be able to sleep sound the way you did oblivious to the world ever again. “It’s not fine.”

“I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”

“You fight monsters. How can you say that? I know it’s wearing you down—”

You can’t see his face, but know he’s smiling to reassure you despite the fact. Tired. Tired. “That’s just how it is. Every field comes with its baggage. I’m okay. I have you.”

Oh, that’s… That’s big, actually. Your face heats up. Saying that is nothing to him, but hearing it is enough to make you jittery.

You allow your logic to carry you to the blatant conclusion to get away from the feeling, playing with one particular petal in your grasp. “All of that is confidential, I assume.”

Water sloshes around as he bends his other knee up as well. “Very. That’s why they got rid of that one guy who came after Operation Javier.”

Your movements still. He’s talking about the senior you’ve looked up to and came across the legacy of after his suicide.

A shiver shakes you. Leon hugs you tighter. It was suicide.

Suicide.

Got rid of?

They killed him? The government?

“Does… does that mean, if I—”

He’s short in his answer, like he doesn’t want to talk about this out of all things he’s revealed. “Yes.”

Your first encounter with Leon replays in your head. It was in a playful and straightforward meaning you’d taken the, ‘You know how this ends’ icebreaker, he was fucking talking about being offed? “So, you saved me?”

His answer is more unsettling. “I helped reroute you.”

All this time, his subtle meddling and intervening to guide your attention to other fields were to keep you from getting killed and not out of flirtily invested interest?

Oh, god.

“You saved me. I could have died.”

He’s not particularly grateful to receive your thanks. “You’re welcome.”

You’re still imagining things. All the ways they could have set up a self-inflicted death on you. You push out a whooping sigh. “Holy shit—”

“Hey. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” His hold is grounding and safe, and he means what he says, talking like some goddamned hero and you actually feel somewhat okay. “Nobody knows you were looking into it.”

“No found hanging at home headlines for me… Yay…”

He tilts your head to stare you in the eye, the intense, determined look eliciting butterflies in your tummy. “Don’t be scared. Seriously, I’m here. You have nothing to worry about. I’ll protect you.”

You blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “Like Ashley?”

Leon kisses the tip of your nose. “I don’t think of her in the way you think I do. We’re not like that.”

You’re positive you can’t hide the way you perk up at that. “Would have been crappy of you to ask me for dinner if you were.”

He’s supposed to laugh at you, but it doesn’t come. “Yeah. Dinner…” There’s a brief silence. “So, when do we go?”

He has some absurd, untimely, irrelevant responses to things sometimes.

“We’re talking about dinner, really? I just confirmed you were a monster-fighting super agent and two whole years suddenly make sense and you’re talking to me about dinner?”

“...Do you want to go or not?”

“I want Indian food.”

v. With coffee cups in hand, the warmth of the beverages provides a welcome contrast to the cool morning air, and you and Leon stroll along the sidewalks, enjoying the chorus of chirping birds. The city is still relatively quiet, with only a few passersby hurrying along, and you cling to the serenity of the moment shared with him. You don’t expect Leon to surprise you with a steaming cup of coffee after leaving you alone for a few minutes, the aroma of roasted beans wafting up to your senses. "Here, your favorite," he says, handing you the cup.

"Thanks," you say, taking a sip of your coffee, which is sweetened and creamed to your liking.

Leon, however, raises an eyebrow playfully. "Sweet as dessert, huh?" he teases.

You grin, knowing that he prefers his coffee black and strong. "Well, I like a little sweetness in my mornings."

“Poor choice in companion today, then.”

“Oh, shut up,” you grimace while smiling, hitting him lightly on the side.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the crisp scent of the city, creating a comforting ambiance, and as you sip on your morning coffee, you relish the warmth of the cup in your hands and Leon's presence next to you. He is still wrinkling his nose at your choice of drink but silently enjoying the simple pleasure of walking together in the early morning light. The quiet intimacy between you two feels cozy, and you are almost tempted to reach for his hand, but something holds you back. The moment feels delicate, and you don't want to disturb the magic that surrounds you, wary of him still.

As you reach the metro station, the automated announcement chimes, indicating that the next train is about to arrive. You quickly finish your coffee, savoring the last sweet sips, while Leon looks on with amusement-hid fondness.

"Just in time," he says, glancing at the approaching train, deeply contemplating something, the wind coming from the train making his blond hair dance in the air.

The station is still relatively empty, with only a few early risers waiting for the train. You hug Leon tightly, not wanting the morning to end just yet, well aware you’re giving him mixed signals.

But this time, it’s different. This time, you know he wants this.

"I had a great time," you whisper, looking into his eyes.

His e cups your cheek, thumb gliding over your cheekbone. "Me too."

He is thinking again, staring at you in that kind of way, and his gaze shifts to your mouth, Adam’s apple bobbing. You step inside the train, and share awkward waves with him despite being an arm’s reach from each other.

About ten seconds before the doors begin to close, Leon leans in, capturing your lips in a tender, lingering kiss, licking outside your lips. Your heart misses a beat, the surroundings fading into the background as the moment feels suspended in time. “Too sweet. As expected.”

So he just wanted to taste your coffee—?

Then, with a soft yet confident voice, he says, "I love you. Have a nice day," barely audible over the train's announcements.

You freeze.

Huh?

But before you can respond, the doors close shut, leaving you dumbly staring at him smiling beautifully through the glass, and the metro lurches forward, leaving you shell-shocked, heart pounding, and narrowly able to keep your balance. You clutch a pole nearby for support, your mind reeling with the revelation that has just unfolded, the bombshell he’s just dropped on you.

As the metro picks up speed, you press your hand to your lips, still tingling from the unexpected kiss — from the confession.

His frame is getting smaller, his face giving way to something vulnerable as he watches you quickly drift away with the train, as if he has just set free a piece of himself he had kept guarded for so long.

Too sweet. As expected.

He was! He was—!

You remember the words of the lady in red just then. Think about it carefully. How do you want this to end?

Fuck.

Happy.

You want it to be happy.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s. kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy smut

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