23-year-old Leon Kennedy, Umbrella's finest agent, is sent to Raccoon City in September 1998, during the night of the horrifying outbreak. He's told to secure a sample of the G-virus and to get rid of William Birkin, as well as to kill any of the re...
content warnings: explicit sexual content, bondage using handcuffs, leon being a slut (more than usual), oral (f+m receiving), like this stuff is dirty i blushed a little writing this, chapter isn't proofread so may include typos, teeny tiny torture scene !
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"I'm completely, inevitably fucked. You realize that, right?"
"Doll—"
"He will kill the people that I love. That includes you too, asshole—"
"I'm not afraid of a guy like Simmons."
"Leon, as long as you have something or someone to lose, you should never underestimate an enemy. And he doesn't work alone."
He's been trying to get you to calm down for God knows how long at this point. Obviously this is something neither of you anticipated. Discovering the fucker he thought was dead is alive wasn't exactly on his to-do list.
Of course he understands your concern. You were so happy being rid of the guy, feeling carefree and content until the unbelievable reality came by and shattered it all again.
And given your attempt of last week, he's afraid you might respond to this situation in a similar way. Your mental health is still at a dangerous low, and you'll need peace to be able to heal. But you won't be able to have that until Simmons is dead and gone. For good this time.
He notices the crossing of your arms over your chest, tapping your finger on your arm, a sign of your anxiety.
So he gently squeezes your upper arms. "Remember what I said about the breathing? Keep it steady. Focus on your own heartbeat."
Clenching your jaw, your brows scrunch together, and you bury your face in your hands before moving one through your hair. "If anyone I love dies, I'll never be able to forgive myself."
"I won't let that happen."
You huff at him, dropping your head against his chest. "I'm so sick of this shit."
His fingers twirl some strands of your hair. "I know, me too. I'm sorry. It's my fault he's still alive and kicking — I should've just shot the bastard in the head."
Those words have you looking up at him. "For all we know, he could've survived that too. Don't beat yourself up about it."
He closes his eyes for a moment, his forehead resting against yours. "I'll fix this. Somehow."
You let out a hum in agreement with his statement. It's the middle of the night, and after everything that's happened, you're both tired. "We should probably try to catch some sleep."
"Yeah." He sighs, eyes half-lidded when he gazes at you. Once he notices your concern for him, he gives a slightly forced but sweet smile to reassure you that he's fine.
Once you both lie down underneath the soft sheets, he throws his shirt off and moves to wrap his arms around you.
It's rare to watch him fall asleep. You're usually out first. He clearly feels guilty for not pulling off what should've been a simple assassination, but you truly don't blame him.
