bonnibuckets - Tumblr blog

bonnibuckets · 5 days

Text

BRJEH ugh. YET AGAIN another amazing work cherry

puppy reader going after ada’s ass

PAWFECT !

ft. og4!leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. hybrids, they’re treated like dogs so power dynamics, spaying, creampie, p in v, smut, daddy kink, fluff, pussy inspection

note. SHUT UP. all nyxs fault all her doing. og4 leon btw it wouldn’t work otherwise!! ignore typos n just bad fic over all I was tweaking .. omg forgive me . honestly just snippets of leon n his puppy girl!! super short

“Baby,” Leon says, it’s the closest to cooing he’ll ever get, “smile for me, baby, c’mon.”

You blank him, rolling over to stare at a small hole in the wall. The refusal to do what he says is a stab in the heart.

“What happened to my good girl?” He hooks his fingers in your mouth, forcing your lips into a grin as he bares your half-formed canines. “There it is, look at that.”

For the first time in your docile existence, you bite Leon. You bite your daddy and he yelps like a little girl—This has one of your ears twitching, the urge to run to his aid is likely strong but you stay put like the stubborn little bitch you are.

The vet said your grudge would last a day or so. That puppies can be temperamental creatures, but they’re soft at heart. A nice way to say that dogs are dumber than a box of rocks - you included. You’re the stupidest of them all and that’s what Leon likes about you.

Your grudge lasts two days, then three, then four, then five—A week long extension. And it’s not just the cold shoulder. It’s the food bowl that sits on the ground covered in a film of dust, out of use. It’s the side of his bed that remains empty as you burrow into your pink doggy bed that you outgrew long ago—There was never any use for the thing, you started to sleep in Leon’s bed the night you came home with him. Man, he used to hate when you whined at the bathroom door while he took a shit, but now Leon would do anything to have that back.

Worst of all, it’s the lack of sex. Leon did this for your good—You like playtime, it’s your favourite part of the day, even better than breakfast or lunch or dinner. You also love being bred, like the warmth, makes you sleepy. No more heat cycles, no more condoms. It’s a win-win. Call him cruel all you want, the shit makes you go insane—He got through, like, twenty rubbers in a day. Think about all those costs, then think about a single procedure, weigh ‘em up and you’ll see what led him to tie your tubes.

Leon makes a call to Rebecca, she comes with a stethoscope and Claire in tow. He’s in for an earful. Hybrid rights activist his ass, you’re his pup and Leon can do what he wants with you. An endless supply of creampies is what his girl dreams about, and he only does what’s best for you—He knows you, when you get over this slump you’ll appreciate all he’s done for you.

“And where does it hurt?” Rebecca’s eyes soften as you place a hand over your heart, blinking up at her with big eyes for added effect.

Oh, baby—Oh, honey— Both of them kneel by your side, scratching behind an ear each, showering you in enough affection to last a century.

“She’s acting,” Leon informs them, only to be met with outrage, “I regret it, swear on my life,” says Leon, who does not.

“You should, look at this sweet girl, what if she wanted to be a mommy.” Claire rubs your tummy, pads of her fingers digging into the pudge, your foot thumps against the floor as your body goes lax. When you look for affection from Leon, he rubs your clit instead of your belly.

“She doesn’t go outside, not gonna be a mommy either way.”

“That’s not the point, Leon, it’s cruel,” she argues, “she’s not a sex doll, are you baby? No, no, you’re not a sex doll, you’re a good girl, yes you are.” He fucking hates the baby voice. If you wanna get knocked up so badly, you should be spoken to like a big girl, but you can’t even make it to the potty on time so how is Leon meant to trust you with a litter?

“It makes it easier to deal with her cycles, I mean, she won’t get them at all now—“ Rebecca’s actual scientific evidence is shut down by a single glare from Claire.

“Get rid of your balls, how would you like that?”

“She likes my balls, can’t do that to her—Anyway, there’s no space for kids,” Leon says shortly, “I’d have to sell ‘em and she’d get all depressed.”

“She should have the choice, Leon, an option at least.” Claire doesn’t know that you can’t pick between dry food and wet food, that you break down when you’re given a choice, even if presented gently.

“Yeah, well, it’s too late.” And hooray to that.

“You’re mean,” she tells him, and he knows, he’s so mean—So selfish. Doing what’s best for his pup is so mean of him. Big Bad Leon crushing your puppy dreams in the palm of his hand like a page out of a diary.

“Mhm, okay, bye now, Claire, you should get going—Thanks for coming, Becca.” Leon escorts them to the door, he gives Claire a gentle push over the threshold and slams it in her face. “So fuckin’ annoying, tellin’ me what to do, and you just let her say that to me baby.”

Your face is indifferent, devoid of the usual warmth you carry in your expression. Dopey bitch. Don’t even know left from right and you think you know what’s best for you?

“So you’re gonna be like that?” Leon asks, and you blink at him, gaze steely. Fine. Two can play that game. He gets his dick out and twiddles it like his thumbs, your mouth waters the moment it comes into your eye line. “Baby, you could’ve held out a little longer.” He laughs quietly when you come to nose at his cock with shining eyes. “Yeah, you’re my greedy little bitch, aren’t you, baby? Yeah, you are.”

“I didn’t mean to make you upset.” He strokes your head tenderly as you mouth at his cock, slicking him up in thick drool from tip to base, icing him like a goddamn cake. “Baby, you know I didn’t mean it—Are you listening?” A whine slips from the base of your throat when he redirects your attention to his face.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, baby, you wanna play ball, don’t you?” That gets your tail wagging. “Yes you do, I know you do, c’mere—“ Now he’s doing the fucking baby voice as he deposits a ball at a time into your wet mouth, your teeth scraping the sensitive skin of his sac, tracing your tongue along the seam.

This is forgiveness he supposes - you choking on his balls like you’re trying to swallow them whole. Peace is restored wholly when he fucks you that night. “Daddy can do this now,” Leon tells you as he fills you with enough seed to stock up a sperm bank.

You don’t like Ada because Leon likes her, and you don’t like Ashley because she likes Leon. Girls bring out something feral within you, a strain of rabies that has been dormant in your system, waiting for anger to thaw your veins—You ruled out Claire, Rebecca and Jill as threats the moment you gave them a sniff.

Ada left his apartment with a ladder in her stockings and the indentations of puppy teeth in her ass cheek. She was on top - it was a no brainer to go right for her ass. Leon gets it, he wants to sink his teeth into her the same way. She squealed like he’s never heard before and he thought for a minute he fucked her real good. He didn’t even get to cum, she hopped off and made a beeline for the door and you scampered after her, one of her red heels chewed into a sopping leather mess in your mouth.

(Ada doesn’t like dogs, but she likes Leon.)

Ashley waltzes in. “I’m so good with dogs, Leon! I love them, I used to have this great big Labrador, he was so good, Leon! Like he even sat and rolled over when I asked him too—He reminds me of you, actually.” Then she bends over to pet you on the head, but the close proximity between her and him is not to your liking so you bite the hand that saved his life a couple times, a hand that is worth more than his D.C apartment - furniture included.

“Told you she’s tricky.” Leon lifts you up, tosses you over his shoulder so you’re no harm then he finds himself missing your sweet face so you’re swung back over to be cradled in his arms like the big baby you are.

“Ouch, Leon, she’s really mean.” Ashley soothes the pain by flapping her hand in the air, a fruitless endeavour, the cold air from a nearby open window causes it to sting.

“Nah, she don’t bite that hard, do you, baby?” He pushes a finger into your mouth and you nibble on it with a significantly decreased bite-force. “See? Just teething.”

There’s Sherry, you love Sherry more than she does Leon, you run around her in circles and situate yourself on her tiny lap and lick at every inch of her tiny face. You let Leon give you a good scrub before Sherry comes over, put on a fresh set of clothes that aren’t his old t-shirts with ragged collars from all the teething you do. Heck, he even manages to put you in some cute undies.

They come and go, but you stay. And each time a woman leaves his place, you sit your pussy on his face and scoot around— He asks you: “What the fuck you are doing, baby?” Muffled into the fat of your pussy of course, but you never respond. He brushes it off as you scenting him—Whatever pups do when they’re feeling territorial.

And who is he to complain? Your pussy makes him happy. Leon sucks your clit into his mouth, reaches around to pinch the base of your wagging tail between his index and forefinger, stroking up and down to have your thighs tightening around his head.

You circle your hips into him, drool pooling in your mouth and dribbling down your chin as you chew on your favourite stuffed toy, whimpering into the spit-soaked fabric while Leon works your drippy hole open with his tongue. The tip of his nose grinds into your swollen clit, and you only budge once you’ve waterboarded him with your squirt.

Then you very generously provide him with a clean-up service, lapping at the sticky wetness coating his cheeks and suckling on his nose. That always makes him laugh. More often than not it’s a gradual transition into a play fight, you nip at his fingers and your ears twitch, a playful smile brightening your face.

The two of you roll around and Leon, being the bully he is, pins you to the ground, holding your wriggling body down as he slides his sweats down and slots his cock right into your twitching pussy. He grabs your tail to pull you back on his dick, and you might be one stupid bitch, but you’re cock-smart—You know what he wants and push your ass back against his thighs, wet skin smacking as you pick up the pace, faltering only when Leon takes ahold of your ears and uses them as fucking handlebars.

He can’t help himself, they looked too cute, flopping about all over the place. Looked like fuckin’ Dumbo. It doesn’t hurt you—No, it’s the opposite, you cum so hard you pass out in a heap the minute he lets go.

“Thank you, baby.” Leon pats your head as you shove two pussy-wet fingers into his mouth. “That’s so sweet, baby, can daddy take a look at what you’re doing?”

You smile at him shyly, like you didn’t just force-feed him slick, he catches the shape of your tail wagging low between your thighs, then you roll over onto your belly—Leon gives the fold of your tummy a sweet kiss first, then you turn over, taking your hand out of your panties to let him take care of the rest.

The seat of your panties is basically pasted to your pussy, strings of slick breaking as Leon peels them off. “What’s got you worked up, baby?” He spreads your ass, dipping his nose into your tighter hole as his tongue runs along your slit.

Leon raises his head, he parts your fat lips with his fingers and your cunt clicks when he digs a finger into your tight hole, it pulses around him, begs for more, for something thicker. The hood of your clit is pulled back by his thumb and prodded with his tongue, and your labia is parted by his nose, dragging up and down your soaked pussy. When he’s done messing around, Leon lays his tongue flat on your pussy, licking fat stripes up and down the centre of your cunt, dusting kisses on your throbbing clit until you gush down your thighs.

Man, you don’t even need a heat to get you wet. See, it all worked out in the long run, he’s pretty sure you don’t even remember what went down merely a week earlier.

“Come sit on it, princess,” he hums when you lick into his mouth, sucking on his tongue sloppily, a steady stream of drool slicking up the bottom half of his face. You’ve got a lot of love to give and he’ll take it.

You’re well-trained when it comes to cock and not much else, easing down on Leon’s dick while you brace your hands on his shoulders, pussy tightening when he scratches behind your ears. He plants his feet on the ground, lifting off his heels to fuck up into your plush cunt, squelching every time he bottoms out, cute tits bouncing as you sit pretty on his cock like a pencil topper.

The absence of a knot is always a bother to you. When he cums, you wait expectantly for his cock to swell and stretch you out beautifully, tear your pussy in half—It never comes so you paw at his face to express your disappointment, like you’re telling him to do better.

Maybe there's surgery for it. There’s one for everything these days. From cropping to defanging - a manufactured knot shouldn’t be out of the question. He’d do it for you, he would, even if it was a dodgy procedure in the same alley as coat hanger abortions and junkie meet-ups.

Not really. Leon wouldn’t really. He quite likes his dick how it is, and once you get over the initial anticlimactic flop of his knotless cock, staring out the window like a disillusioned star - you’re back on it less than a minute later.

A lack of understanding for his refractory period causes Leon discomfort as you force yourself down on his soft dick, he sits through it to make up for all the places he falls short. You rut your hips into him, trembling with excitement as he hardens inside of you, cock shaping your insides into something pretty. Then you show him that you love him via a spit shower, which Leon is not too fond of, your pussy on a platter would be ideal, but he doesn’t stop you.

Sometimes you suck his cock till your tongue feels like sandpaper. Sometimes you sob so hard when he leaves for work you throw up and he spends half an hour scrubbing mushy kibble out of the carpet. Sometimes you eat things you aren’t supposed to, and sometimes you are one nasty piece of work, but Leon loves you anyway. ‘Cause you’re his piece of work.

#bonnibuckreblog #im screaming #ugh this. (in a good way)#im chewing on drywall #im clawing at the walls #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy smut #leon s kennedy x you #leon kennedy imagine

390 notes · View notes

bonnibuckets · 5 days

Text

very much me. i love all of u guys i just don’t know how to speak sorry💗

#🪻thoughts #moots <3 #love you all

130K notes · View notes

bonnibuckets · 5 days

Text

yet again another beautiful work star <3

now playing: <pieces of a whole> 00:00/55:00

starring: older!Leon x hooker!reader

MDNI + tw: rough sexual depictions, pain, bad thoughts, angst, comfort, smut, reference to erectile dysfunction from prev, oral (f receiving)

play again: <the scars we bear> 00:00/43:00

☆ star's note: all the crazy stuff is only for the intro (super short) and is not done by Leon. hope you enjoy hehe 🫶

☆ starlets: @cherubify @mrswint3rs @ghostsghoul @elihii @iixtsmee @admirxation @ressespearlz @shiawaseorii @rigorwhoring @sqiim @localkiss @d10nyx @valslullaby @porcelainseashore

"unh...so good, baby. s-shit...-"

your fake moans were cut off by a sharp slap on the face. it stung and your eyes watered.

"you know i don't like dirty mouthed sluts."

the man above you hissed, his cock scraping the inside of your pussy and pounding against your cervix painfully. you clawed at his back a little, vision spotting and blurring. it hurt. it hurt so much. the safe word was teetering at the tip of your tongue.

"so tight, fuck-"

the man grunted like a beast above you, rutting his hips painfully flush against yours. your breath came in short gasps and finally, mercy came upon you as he ejaculated, the rubber of the condom swelling against your bruised cervix. you managed to fake a moan and manually clench your walls. a professional through and through.

"so good baby, love when you fu- love me so roughly..."

you said, smiling breathlessly. the man smirked proudly, as he pulled out his flaccid dick. he took his cum filled condom and poured all of his filthy seed over your face. it burned your eyes and left your lips tasting of bitter-y salt. he taps your face and whips out his phone.

"b-baby, you can't take pictures-"

slap

your face burned and the sting in your eyes seemed to worsen.

"i paid for this, slut. now take the money and shut your fucking mouth."

the man says, slapping the wad of cash against the sticky filth on your face before zipping up his pants and leaving. finally, it was over.

you staggered to the toilet, body covered in discoloured blooms where he slapped and pinched all for his own pleasure. you washed out your eyes and face, scrubbing it as if to reveal a whole new layer of skin. tears fell from your eyes and you couldn't pinpoint what it was from. the semen, the soreness of your body, or the void that seemed to be swallowing you whole from the inside out.

customer satisfaction was the determining factor between having saltine crackers for all three meals for a while or having something more warm and filling. so you ran your eyes under cold water, scrubbed yourself clean and made sure to reduce the damage on your skin as much as you could. and the whole time, you willed thoughts of him and his warmth as far away from your stream of conscience. well, as far away as you could.

your knees buckled and you slumped onto the cold toilet floor. the freezing cold felt nice against your stinging ass and exposed skin. it numbed the rawness and helped to ground your head. you couldn't have the next client seeing you in this state. you had to be a high quality cheap fuck or Dennis your pimp (also known as the counter for the sleazy motel you lived in) would deduct your pay. also because it might be him but, you didn’t really want to dwell on that thought.

damage was only acceptable when it's inside. whether it be mental or an actual bleeding in your organs. those were one of the first few things Dennis told you when you started. and also the fact that you were only to be sent for medical check ups in the case of STDs or near death. he didn't want you to damage the reputation of his crumbling neon lighted brick and mortar cesspool haven. so you splashed freezing cold water onto your face as you stood before the mildewed sink. at least the water was clean.

you looked up at the water stained mirror and your reflection stared back at you. they were a little red-ish and maybe a slightly different colour as well but there was no mistaking it. it was his eyes. Leon's eyes. you dabbed your face dry with a paper towel, took a deep breath before putting rouge onto your cheekbones and your lips. you drew on your trademark eyeliner and placed rouge on the corner of your eyes too. you felt like a mortician dressing the dead. covering rot with powder and skill.

you put on your skimpy work clothes and sat on the bed. 3 hours. you had 3 more hours before he comes over for his session. you had to look nice and tidy because he deserved at least that. you frowned a little at the thought. for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out when this little soft spot for a certain client of yours began to bloom. men were gross lustful creatures who take and take and leave nothing behind. but when you laid in his warm arms from that day almost a whole year ago with no expectations aside from just existing and holding the shards of him together, it feels different.

the click ticked by and all you could do was watch the paint peel, hoping that it would be him at that door and nobody else. as if on cue, three soft raps against your door could be heard. you found yourself floating towards it immediately, hand on cold metal as you opened it to greet him.

"hi there, hun. thought you weren't gonna show."

you say, smile a little weak but genuine for him. he smiles back, in the usual small little tug of his lips. but it was genuine and your heart warmed.

"missed you more, doll."

he replied which made you laugh a little. he stepped into the room and pulled you into an embrace as soon as the door closed and locked behind him. his head laid in the crook of your neck and his long hair tickled your skin as he inhaled the scent of your cheap perfume and powder. you could see the weight of his worries and unspoken burdens begin to lift off of him.

"tough day, hun?"

you ask him.

"all better now that i'm here, doll."

he says, voice muffled against your shoulder. after a while, he peppered kisses against your neck lazily and as always you ended up laying with him in bed doing nothing but holding and kissing each other. his weight felt so nice atop of you. like when a cat sits on your chest and purrs or even a weighted blanket. it's been awhile since you've managed to enjoy life's simple pleasures. or even any pleasure at all if you're being honest. below average and mediocre sex with pent up men from all walks of life was tiring. you were tired of sex and how it was never fulfilling in any way. you felt used and objectified. but for now, you felt…whole.

sometimes you wonder if your parents hadn't owed such a debt to Dennis, you would be in an office job right now. plush computer chairs that roll, feet secured in snug little pumps that don't give you sores like the kind you get when you wore those cheap plastic-y heels that bit into your skin, and the quiet air filled with the clacking of keys and soft greetings. your cheeks felt warm and wet, and your chest tightened in an almost foreign way. you blinked out of your daze only to face Leon who looked at you with a gaze so soft, it would bring a flutter to your dead shrivelled heart.

"doll, you're...crying."

his tone was stiff but his intent was clear as day as it swirled around in his beautiful blue eyes. his words sounded so muddled and strange.

"what?"

you asked him. your vision was blurring again. you reached the pads of your fingers to your eyes and gently touched it. you pulled them away only to find them soaked with tears.

"oh- oh no. i'm...so sorry, Leon i-"

you began to stumble with your words, hurriedly wiping away the tears on the back of your hands. but no matter what you did, they kept falling. you began to grow frantic, hands trembling as your sniffling grew. his eyes watched you with an unreadable gaze. your heart began to thud in the base of your ears and your breathing quickened. he was going to tell on you, you're gonna-

"hey hey breathe for me, doll."

he says, rough and larger hands wrapping around your fingers. he wiped away your tears and pulled you tighter against him, pressing kisses into your hairline. a sob ripped from your chest and you shook in his hold. his bare skin was warm against your own, his heartbeat pressed against your own. he rubbed your back soothingly, running his fingers over your hair.

"it's okay, doll. just keep breathing for me okay? let it all out."

his voice washes over you like warm water after a long day with just the perfect roughness around the edges. an almost drawl. you sank deeper into his arms and he pressed his soft lips against the crown of your head. he smelled like a heady mix of skin and cologne and...no whiskey? again? that was...something...

"you didn't drink again today..."

you noted in a voice muffled against his warm skin. you felt him still against you, seemingly mulling that over in his pretty head.

"it seems so, doll."

he finally says. you looked up and traced his lips gently, sending goosebumps down his spine. you were gorgeous and he knew that. the sweetest little thing he had seen in a while. and he had seen...a few.

"i'm sorry. you paid for today and i just-"

you begin to say but he pressed his lips against yours. your eyes widened but you let him. he paid for this anyway and besides it wasn't bad because it was him. so you kissed him back, fingers looping behind his neck. it was hot and heavy, yet sweet, the way his tongue curled around yours. you whined softly against his kiss and lo and behold, something stiff pressed up against your stomach.

"let me treat you right, fix what they broke..."

he whispers, gently brushing your hair. and despite everything, his words made you pliant. he made you feel things like trust and care. things that you haven't felt in a long long time.

and that was how you ended up straddling him, tip of his leaky semi hard cock brushing your folds. he gently lowers you, hands rough and strong against the soft of your skin. your fingers curled in his shoulders and your legs shook. the soreness from before burned at your muscles but you took it like a champ. you always did. it *is* your profession.

he moaned at the feeling of your warmth all around the rubber on his cock, the way you slid it in so easy but held onto him so tight. he licked his fingers and began rubbing tight circles on your clit to make it easier for you. you gasped and gritted your teeth as you sunk lower.

"doing so good for me, doll. feels amazing."

he grunted out almost breathlessly, eyes half lidded. his semi hard cock began to stiffen inside you and the tip was just shy of brushing your probably bruised cervix. you winced a little and your eyes stung with tears. he kissed your tears away and began thrusting slowly and so gently. his eyes were fixed on every little shift from the crease of your brows to the corners of your lips.. the foreign feeling made your heart flutter. it all felt so intimate.

as he thrusted into your surprisingly sopping hole, he began to suck on your pert nipples, moaning as his face buried in your chest.you were sore but the way he was fucking into you so carefully felt so good. your eyes shut and your head leaned back as he thrusted and sucked at your chest.

"oh...oh god...Leon...shit i-"

you were so so close, the lewd squelches and pistoning motion lulling you closer and closer. then you felt him buck beneath you followed by the rubber swelling inside you snugly. he came already and he came. alot. must have been pent up the poor guy. so you did what you had practised perfectly and clenched around him, letting out a gasp like moan as you leaned into his neck. you panted and pulled away to look at him through half lidded eyes.

"that was-"

your words fell short when you saw his face. his skin was flushed and his eyes were half lidded like yours but the look he gave you was piercing.

"why are you lying to me, doll?"

your heart sunk to the lowest pits of your chest as you stared at him a little dumbfoundedly. he looked…hurt. shit. it was a blow to his ego, you were sure of it, he was gonna be mad-

“was it because it because i finished too fast?”

he asked softly, eyes fixed on yours. he sounded almost nervous. they were filled with a sincerity you had never encountered. such a pure and genuine expression which made your guilt worse.

“no, hon it wasn’t you. i promise. you did so good i was just…a little too sore.”

you answered him honestly. his face fell and he seemed even more worried now.

“why didn’t you tell me? we could have stopped or…or-”

he began going off, chiding you as worry began to take over. his blue gaze scanned over you for injuries, hands gently touching at your bare skin. you almost laughed at the way he was fawning over you. a hooker who was complaining about bad treatment. it was funny really. also not so unpleasant.

“i’m sorry i should have-”

he mutters, eyes beginning to water in worry at the thought of having made your pains worse. the look of guilt began to weave itself onto his handsome features. he looked like he had worn it often. your heart ached.

“no please, Leon it’s really nothing. it’s my job after all. you made it hurt less if anything.”

you tell him, running your thumbs over his prickly stubble gently before pressing a kiss to the mole on his cheek, barely concealed by stubble. you saw the worries melt away and his eyes softened so much that you almost glanced over your shoulder to make sure that it was directed at you and not like his long-lost love or something that randomly appeared behind you. a hallucination, maybe? but the kiss he pressed onto your lips jolted you out of your thoughts.

“let me eat you out, doll. it’ll be so good, i promise…let me make it up to you.”

he whispered against your lips, almost begging for a chance to right his wrongs. so you let him push you down and kiss down your stomach to the gap between your legs. his tongue licked a broad stripe up your cunt and his stubble prickled on the soft of your inner thighs. his lips latched onto your puffy clit and his tongue swirled over it expertly. you mewled softly hands gripping the sheets as he lapped and tongued at your slit. you were practically a leaking mess which he made sure to let you hear as he slurped loudly, eyes never leaving yours.

“ahnn Leon- you’re so good- too good i- uhn”

you were a blabbering mess, cunt practically moving itself against the lower half of his face.

“can’t help myself, doll. not when you’re this sweet and all f’me.”

from the way you were angled, you could see how his dick was beginning to tent as he rutted against the sheets.

“need it inside, hun, please…”

you moaned, eyes rolling back as his fingers curled deliciously against that sweet spot within you. he went still.

“but you’re hurting, doll. don’t wanna hurt you…”

he mumbles in between licks, the vibration of his words teetering you to the edge. you gave him a pleading look as your back began to arch. with the way his dick was beginning to chafe against the cheap bedsheets, who was he to deny you? especially when you look so sweet and pretty, squirming all for him.

“you’re sure, doll? you can take it?”

he asks, eyes searching yours. you nodded way too quick, desperate to feel something. anything in the twitching hole of your cunt. and then he was all over you, everywhere all at once. his lips on yours, his hands hot against every inch of skin he could get and his legs kneeled between yours as he pushes your legs back towards your chest. he ripped the top off of a new condom packet with his perfect teeth, wrapper glinting in the dim lighting. he rolled it onto his dick that was surprisingly hardening again.

"this time, i want you to cum, doll. don't lie to me again."

he chides, eyes filled with a seriousness you've never seen before. so you gulped softly with wide eyes and nodded. he spat onto his fingers, making a show as to how slimy his spit was before it dripped onto your sopping wet cunt. he began rubbing tight relentless circles as he thrusted into you at this new angle. the sensations combined with how he was almost pressed atop you made you see stars.

"L-leon i'm gonna-!"

you whined as he continued to thrust into you, hair clinging to his forehead and teeth gritted to withstand the growing pain in his back. he's not letting the miracle of getting hard twice go to waste. he was going to make you cum and he meant it. every word. and then his tip knocked against your cervix a little too hard which brought tears to your eyes. the man from before really did a number on you after all. your small yelp halted his movements immediately and his eyes widened.

"doll, you okay? shit i'm sorry i-"

you bit the bottom of your lips as the pain dulled. his cock was warm against your walls. you had not felt this type of pleasure in a long time. so you took a sharp inhale and looked at him through teary eyes.

"you did so well, hun just...not too deep, alright? think my cervix might be a little bruised or something."

he went a little pale at your words.

"we can stop seriously i-"

you pulled him by the back of his neck into a kiss.

"please, it feels good..."

you whispered earnestly, eyes watery and filled with a soft pleading when you met his pretty blue gaze. he mulled it over and nodded, thrusting into you as he rubbed your clit in tandem. your mewls grew louder and with an inaudible gasp, you buck against him as the coil in your lower belly snapped. at the feeling of you clenching around him, Leon let out a guttural groan as his sensitive (and probably chafed) dick twitched inside you, rubber swelling with his load. he slumped onto you, panting in your ear. his eyes were dazed and his heart raced. he groaned softly at the pain in his back and knees which made you laugh a little, coughing as your own aches returned.

"guess we're both a little beat up, huh?"

you remarked through laboured breaths. he smiles softly with that same tenderness from before and kissed your hairline.

"guess we are, doll."

as you laid in his arm and feel your eyes flitter shut, you could almost imagine that it was just the two of you basking in each other's peace and love. like he was yours to hold and you were his. kind of like...a couple. you had a small smile at the thought. if only you were deserving of that.

"what's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

he asks softly, eyes closed and nose pressed against the side of your face as his breathing slowed.

"about how all of this feels...almost intimate."

you admitted, leaving your eyes shut to avoid his gaze. you felt him stiffen in your embrace.

"what's stopping us, doll?"

he asks after a while in his roughened voice and you felt your heart clench. the question sounded so innocent and almost hopeful but you gently shook your head.

"oh please, Leon. we both know why. and besides, you'd be better off with a nice woman who can give you the picket fence life of dreams. a kid, or two."

you rattled off, trying to push away the dreaminess in your tone. you had to be realistic. you....you had to-

"why not you? you can give me that too."

he says, rough hands gently guiding you to face him. your eyes opened and you saw love. the type of love that was unlike anything that you have seen. it felt like a hug that pierced past your vessel to cup and hold at the shards of your fragmented soul. you felt your eyes water.

"Leon, please...don't give me hope. i have long buried it for a reason..."

you pleaded but he shook his head.

"you walk out with me tomorrow morning, free. you can continue your college major that you dropped out of ages ago, get a job you actually like, and...maybe...if you want to, and only, if you want to, we can...get dinner?'

you froze. he did…what? his words felt like static. you've known this man for barely a year! why was he being so nice to you? freedom, what did he mean by that? there's so much to unpack and why was he blushing when he asked if you wanted to get dinner? you needed to thank him, grovel at his feet, do something. anything at all. your head spun and he seemed to pick up on it. so he brushed your hair behind your ears and rubbed circles so softly onto the skin of your cheeks as your brain raced at a million miles per minute.

"i don't want you to feel indebted to uhm...have dinner with me...i just thought...that we could...ya know-"

he said awkwardly, that light pink still dusting his handsome features. it was incredulous, really. this man had just casually announced that he had settled your debt and was worried about a dinner? a dinner who in five other universes you would have jumped at yourself if he hadn’t asked? he wanted to have dinner with a mere little entertainment of the night like yourself?

so you did the first thing you could think of. you laughed. a real genuine laugh that you have not even heard from yourself in a long long time. you hugged him tighter as fat tears of every emotion rolled down your face. he laughed, a relieved sort of chuckle that vibrated in the cavity of his chest.

"so...?"

he asked, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world. looking at you like a whole person. not a hooker, not shards of something, just you. so you smiled, and nodded. guess it did come true after all, that little dream of yours. as tears filled your eyes and hope began to pump your shrivelled heart back to life, you pressed a chaste kiss on the corner of his lips and let out an exhale.

"i'd love that, Leon.”

#bonnibuckreblog #im crying #im chewing on drywall #so good #leon s kennedy smut #leon s kennedy fluff #older leon kennedy #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy fanfiction #leon kennedy angst #leon x reader #leon kennedy

216 notes · View notes

bonnibuckets · 5 days

Text

5 ppl unfollowed me LMAO so im at like 997 but its fine bc i still hit 1k💪💪

#🪻thoughts #lmao

0 notes

bonnibuckets · 6 days

Text

GRRRRRRR ugh. leon grabbing reader by their jean loops or pockets and pulling them closer UGH UGH i need slutty emo leon PLEASE

i don't remember who started it, but emo leon is rotting my mind now and it's your fault. very slight smut

emo leon who writes on your wrists and shares his hairties either for you to use them or for you to have around. he isn't willing to die his hair back, but he let's you do his eye liner and eyeshadow.

emo leon takes slutty pictures and puts them on his myspace. if you squint, you can see yourself sleeping and figure out this is an afterglow picture. leon was leaning a bit to show off his lean yet muscular body.

he wants to recreate the "three cheers for revenge" album cover with you. you two mix match socks, like red and black socks. he draws those cliché emo drawings on your shoes.

in your college dorm, leon paints your nails and you do small stick and pokes on his skin. leon likes you helping him to clean his piercings.

he is even more whiny and possessive when he is emo. he is always cling around your body, he hold on to your belt loops.

he buys you small plushies and bracelets. he dedicates songs you.

he loves eating your out with his tongue piercings. his fingers played around your folds and sucks on them gently. he rubs the tip of nose against your clit and it's just teasing and shit. he wears top coat to avoid his nail polishing chipping.

he likes ripping fishnets and keeping himself between your legs. he wants you to feel his cold piercings and his hot breath combined together

edit: shit i know emo leon will buy for his partner

[♡]

#bonnibuckreblog #resident evil #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #fanfic #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader #emo!leon kennedy #emo leon

142 notes · View notes

bonnibuckets · 6 days

Text

#potato #bonnireblog #please please please

931K notes · View notes

bonnibuckets · 9 days

Text

lordy I use to follow them (kennedyswhore) wtf is this. like not 1 line it’s 20k+ words— 2 works that are known. actually why????? so sorry to OP i hope this doesn’t discourage you— YOUR writing is beautiful 💗

haha hey so apparently someone stole my whole fic... copy and pasted except for tiny things changed... here is the link to their """fic""" (sorry random person I had to steal the reblog from). they've since deleted the fic off their blog + deleted their ao3 + gone on a hiatus so..... that's cool and whatever....... but they have written a lot of other shit so... don't be a dick but maybe check that for funny business too...

#bonnibuckreblog #???????? help ?#awkward!#anyways.#plagiarism #do not steal #stealing is not cool stop it weirdos #the fact OP didn’t get as much recognition for their own ORIGINAL WORK and the stolen work got more notes…

265 notes · View notes

bonnibuckets · 9 days

Text

HOLY SHIT THIS WAS UNBELIEVABLY GOOD the atmosphere, CHARACTERIZATION???!!! the feel was beautifully captured 10/10 writing ugh this was so good i can’t even describe it with words i need this injected into my veins dude

(DON'T) FIGHT THE FLESH

chris redfield x gn!reader x leon kennedy // 9.4k words

summary: It starts off as a workplace affair borne from physical necessity. You love the distraction and Chris loves to help people—no emotional strings attached. Until Leon Kennedy shows up, a guard dog with sharp teeth and sad eyes, and things (feelings) get very complicated.

warnings: 18+ ONLY (penetrative sex, blowjobs, deepthroating); heavy themes of alcohol abuse; everyone is traumatized; brief mentions of blood/gore

notes: this is the first part of an eventual poly fic and everyone is dysfunctional right now but it gets better. im so sorry about the word count. set after vendetta

>> read on ao3

There’s blood on your face and the target is dead and the world keeps moving. Soldiers, medics, agents all mill about, preparing body bags, grouping up for post-mission discussions, weaning off the adrenaline. The fight is over. You should be happy.

But it never ends. Next week, another rat will skitter from its hole and you’ll be sent off to another part of the world to face a new set of inevitables. Strife is inevitable. Evil cannot exist without good, but fuck—when was the last time you felt something good?

Back on base, the teams join to break out a fifth of whiskey in equal parts celebration and mourning. Paraphernalia in any other circumstance, but you survived. Spike gave his sacrifice. Everyone deserves it.

A single wall separates the common room from where you reside post-shower, scrubbing fruitlessly at the blood beneath short-clipped nails. Though muffled, you catch whirlwind anecdotes of good times passed, shared with an enthusiasm only drunkenness can perpetuate.

Fifteen minutes into staring at a well of pink sink water, after scrubbing your cuticles raw sans progress, you relent. The blood will stay with you until it doesn’t. Maybe it’s meant to be. A reminder, a lesson, a manifestation of consequence.

Once upon a time, someone told you that the worst thing a person could do is grieve alone. Humanity thrives on connection—a sentiment written in the literal stars overhead, in a time where aliens align more with longing than conspiracy. What a pitiful plight of humanity, always searching for companionship, truth, breakthroughs. Finding love in the strangest places.

Funny then, that you struggle with that final step over the threshold. You lean against the door frame and count your team and come up short, and a surge of nausea leaves you gritting your teeth. In part, you’re to blame for your own spiral. Death happens. It happens as often as sunrise, as flowers wilt, as conception itself. Your leadership isn’t good enough to cheat the inevitable, however badly you wish it to be true, and shouldering that kind of pressure was bound to break you the moment death knocked on your front door.

Outside, you join the other smokers sat in a wonky circle made up of folding chairs and opened beers and cigarettes, and everyone looks smaller without all the gear. Five in total, only two faces you recognize—one being Chris Redfield himself. Icon, legend, hero, but tonight you can’t bring yourself to care. The blood is there. He’s just another man.

Everyone is exhausted, that much is clear. Reads in sunken eyes and slumped shoulders and Lieutenant Reeves even nods off in his seat in the corner. It’s always like this. The aftermath. The weight of leadership.

You take the unoccupied seat beside Chris (servicemen thrive off of routine, and habits form after twenty-one days—you’ve surpassed stone-set by an extra one hundred and eighty-three) and he’s kind enough to offer you a lighter. Not that you need one, but you appreciate his small attempt at support. He gets it. The first time, the first death, is always hard.

He says nothing at first, and neither do you. Not much for small talk, too weighed down by the shackles of grief. It’s a relief. You nibble upon leftovers of another conversation and smoke your cigarette until the filter begins to dissolve with a cloying, bitter smell. Kinda reminds you of burnt hair. A little.

Maybe you’re just imagining things.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says, leaned in close enough that you taste metallic rot at the back of your throat. He showered a short while ago, cropped hair still damp, but the stench still coats his skin like an oily film.

Gore probably leaks from your own pores.

When you reply with a simple nod, he sighs through his nose, opaque smoke billowing into the space between you. It dries out your eyes but covers up the smell so you lean into it and, by proxy, him.

“Listen, I get it. I do. But your team needs a leader now more than ever. You can't afford to dwell on it.”

You know. You know. You've seen death at its most peaceful and its most gruesome. Most days you blink and the blackout darkness bleeds red. You've patted Death on the back and brushed shoulders with ghosts and shaken hands with skeletons. You've experienced the end a thousand different ways. But this is different.

You shake your head, not to disagree, but to filter away the thoughts that aren't helping your spiral. “I could've—”

“Stop.” His voice mumbles quiet. More quiet than you've ever heard him. He smells of gunpowder and body wash and tobacco and resignation, and your eyelids flutter. “You know that's bullshit. Can't stop the inevitable.”

He's right. You know he is. And you meet his eye and the air between you shifts like a thunderclap back toward reality.

One minute you’re on the front patio smoking, and the next you’re being fucked (hard, angry, just the way you need it) into the mattress with Chris’s mouth on your neck and your pants caught on your boots. He's a heavy weight against your back, a choking fullness inside you. A travel-sized bottle of lube sits just out of reach and every thrust is slick and noisy, the mattress creaking with each snap of his hips, and you can't help but revel in his selfish hands.

On the field, his touches are simplified down to necessity, a professional on all accounts, a convolution of sharp edges ripe enough to cut. On more than one occasion he's dragged you back to safety by the scruff like a disobedient puppy, and you've seen him manhandle soldiers unconcerned with their own self-preservation.

Here, alone, he takes and he savors and the rasp of his callouses liken to baptism against your waist and back and chest. His teeth seek permanent indentation along the curve of your shoulder, a kind of dying-star desperation that in thirty years his place in your life will forever be fossilized by your reflection in the mirror. The pain is exactly what you need, and he knows that, and such intuition scares you.

But here’s the thing about Chris: he doesn’t do one night stands. This situation—whatever you can call it—is more of a symbiotic relationship months past conception. A situation coincidental to when you became smoking buddies. You need the skinship and he loves to save people. The first week post-mission is hell to spend alone. Sex helps you feel something good. You both get your orgasm then say goodbye then fly off to opposite ends of the world for an indeterminate amount of time. Until the next time you meet again.

And there is a next time, as always. Deadly circumstances, per usual. But there’s a wrench thrown in the routine: a new player. A DSO agent with a name you know well.

Leon S. Kennedy. He keeps that middle initial close to his chest, cups the mystery like a baby bird who lost its nest. A mother that flew too close to the sun. He’s an asshole when you first meet him at the debrief, your judgements proven right (the pre-deployment gossip keeps you occupied and you can’t help but internalize a few common threads), but Chris swears up and down that this isn’t him.

He knows him via his sister who escaped Raccoon City—Ground Zero—by the skin of her teeth, which is where S.T.A.R.S. and Wesker and Jill Valentine and Chris himself come into the picture. A whole clusterfuck of horrible luck and wrong-place-wrong-time coincidences and intersecting relationships, and look. Chris has a history. Leon does, too. Trouble sniffs them out and chases them up trees like it’s the universe’s full-time hound dog job. But you’ve expended too much energy and time and blood into The Cause, and you’re stubborn to a concerning degree, so you refuse to back out now and let everybody else take all the credit.

The bird touches down ten miles from the FOB, a humvee awaiting the transport of your crew. You recognize Nav, a communications expert best known for tracking the shipment of a B.O.W. across three different European countries. Your new stand-in for Spike.

His crooked smile stings. “Glad to be here, boss.”

The FOB is little more than five large tents and a sea of desert. Egg-frying heat. Before you even step onto the sand, sweat pools beneath your gear and stings at your eyes.

Your team is here on surveillance, employed once again by the BSAA. Redfield’s doing, no doubt. He keeps his circle close.

Chris meets you at the gate, a flimsy thing held together by scrap metal and prayer, and the driver waves you off once bags have been collected and taken to the bunkhouse.

“Really giving us the royal treatment out here,” you say, fetching the crushed pack of cigarettes from one of the pockets in your fatigues.

“Being the best means you get the least resources.”

“It's more like your people hate me.”

“Or they know you love low profiles.”

Your team spends the next two days settling in, making friends, playing cards on some rickety fold-out table much too small for the five-to-seven people that crowd around it at any given time.

You stay close to Chris on instinct. A connection borne from an all-work-some-play arrangement and the knowledge of his doggish loyalty aided by how fucking good he is at his job. You trust him with your life—a sentiment held by everyone who's met the man. His reputation precedes him.

Things start out well, and things quickly devolve. You're stuck in the desert with two dozen people who don't know how to sit the fuck down, who would rather die than wrestle a moment of silence with their thoughts. And then, a week in, Leon Kennedy steps out of the humvee looking fresh off the front page of a magazine. Fresh gear, shiny guns, a head of hair not flattened down by grease.

His hiring was an expensive one, and the American government never fails to show off.

Your team looks on in poorly-guised, bitter disbelief. He's groomed, probably had a nice meal, maybe watched a show during his flight, experienced the luxury of air conditioning. You're a little pissed about it, too. Standing and sweating beneath the sun because there are too few fold-outs to seat everybody and Redfield's team stole half of them to play musical chairs (there isn't even any music).

At least you have a stockpile of cigarettes. The one luxury the BSAA left you with, all thanks to Redfield's influence.

Chris moves in close to greet him, and you miss Spike. He would've shaken you by the shoulders, made some silly comment just to see you smile. Always good at that, you suppose: timing. Now, your memory of him is tainted by the sight of a broken, emptied-out skull. You never knew blood could be so red.

You blink and Leon stands before you, Chris at his shoulder. There's a sharp order of be nice written in the squint of his eyes.

From the ground behind you, Taylor snorts. You choose to ignore her.

“Well,” you say. “You are a sight for sore eyes, Agent.”

He leans to the side, just enough to look past you. Blue eyes more stark than you remember, a pinprick sea amongst miles of sand. “I can see why. I wouldn't even let my dog stay here.”

You perk up at that—finally, some common ground. “You have a dog?”

His brows dip and your heart shatters a little. “Figure of speech.”

Suddenly you're back in bootcamp. The days are impossibly long, every muscle in your body retains a perpetual state of exhaustion, your peers fail in their efforts to befriend you. The drill sergeants are harsh, punishing (when it rains, your fingers always itch for a mop after that endless week of thunderstorms and sidewalk punishment).

You've always hated being told what to do, hated the politics that came with military life, and they all but beat the spark out of you within the first six months.

Everybody always asks you why you joined in the first place, and you answer the same exact way: I had some things to escape from. A half-truth. Really, you just wanted somewhere you could belong. A family. You believed the stories about brothers-in-arms and that's the fault of some younger, more idealistic version of you.

But you're tired.

You nod your head as Taylor snorts out a laugh and Chris shifts on his feet. It's humiliating. You're eighteen again and the drill sergeant told you to wipe the stupid fucking smile off your face. You were trying not to cry.

“Right.”

You were never meant to belong.

Chris sits on the balcony of your apartment in a shitty chair almost too small for his bulk, his third cigarette of the hour lit at the end in sunstorm orange, indentations of his teeth scarred into the filter. It's the first time your intimate relationship has ever breached the walls of a military base. An ultimate display of defiance, a rage against the military industrial complex that leaves the teenage version of you cheering somewhere beneath all the dog-teeth brain matter.

He looks different like this, less a legend and more a regular man indulging in post-coital habits. Dressed in nothing but a pair of plaid boxers and the dog tags he forgot to leave at base yesterday (there's something hot about that, though—the lip stain of forbidden fruit). The sweat has yet to dry on his neck, the bridge of his nose, dark curls of chest hair matted to his skin.

He looks up at the flick of your lighter, a gunshot cutting through the silence.

“You're chainsmoking,” you say, shuffling over to the unoccupied chair beside him. You move the plastic ashtray closer to you.

If he notices the way you favor a hip when you sit down, he doesn't comment on it. “I already have a mom. Don’t need another.”

He shuts down like this sometimes. As if the ghosts that plague him, dormant most days, return to torment his psyche. His thoughts make him angry, and he needs somewhere to store all the baggage. You tilt your head and the bites along the curve of your neck sting and you almost purr at the sensation. If your body is his graveyard, you'll swallow the dirt and the bones with pride.

You can't remember a time when you prioritized faith, but the crinkle of his pretty eyes when he grins at you makes you want to believe in some form of God. He sits before you rough-worn and weary, and the smoke from his cigarette curls and bleeds into starshine sky, but his cheeks puff up when his smile deepens and you know. You know.

You're fucked.

After the sweep of an underground facility and the acquisition of fresh new intel, HQ sends you a continent over to delve into salty seas and wade through lush rainforests. There's more waiting ahead, but at least you found a cure for the humidity.

The beach you stumbled upon is small, more pebbled than sandy, but it's quiet enough to hear leaves rustle and birdcall and the voice of your thoughts, and the streak-skied sunset steals your breath as you sink down into the water. A chill that settles deep, spikes your heart rate, tethers you to consciousness—

(what a cruel thing existence can be).

Redfield slips between the trees, boots loud enough against the grass to alert you to his presence. He appears less daunting in casual clothes, yet every bit a Captain—military perfect posture, a severe twist to his brow stamped to permanence years ago. Your spine straightens at the biting call of your name, his voice thick with exhaustion. Habit, second nature, an imperceptible reaction to the dominance of your betters.

Blend in with the locals. Keep a low profile. Find out who Simmons is.

Some parallel-universe, optimistic version of you would consider this a vacation, so if Chris wishes to break your solitude, he'll have to get wet. You swam far enough out that your toes brush plant life, submerged up to the neck.

Be honest: you just want to see him squirm.

“Care for a swim?” you call upon his approach, unphased by the cross of his arms or the glare on his face that warns of a verbal reaming.

Nobody leaves the safehouse past dusk. You're breaking rules by roughly an hour and a half, but the call of water proved too urgent to ignore.

You also like to cause a bit of trouble.

He offers up a shrug, mouth twisting into an echo of a smile (you think he's forgotten how to do it after years of cutting teeth and breaking fingers). “No can do. Forgot my speedo.”

“Would you believe me if I said I was naked under all this water?”

“Not for a second.”

“You are the antithesis of fun.”

“I get that a lot.”

His eyes are black as midnight, and each passing minute bathes more of his silhouette in sharp-edged shadows. A branch overhead bisects his face into two halves, perfectly centered on the bridge of his nose.

“I could write you up for this,” he says, a hint of danger to his tone. Warning. Your stomach burns hot.

“But you won't.”

He steps just out of reach of the incoming tide, marked clear by a sharp line in the sand between wet and dry.

You try again, a hairsbreadth away from desperation. Urgency. “Swim with me.”

As a child, you played games that none of your peers wished to join. You used to beg them—c'mon, please? just for five minutes, it'll be quick—to the point of tears, until resignation finally set in. Nobody wanted to be around you. You played alone and you ate alone and you read books alone.

This isn't like that—at least, it shouldn't be. You're a troublemaker and he's just doing his job. But still, that childish desperation rears its ugly, disfigured head, and you grin at the sound of his caving sigh. Corrupting the straight-laced Captain… like something out of a trashy paperback erotica.

He takes off his boots first and your heart surges into your throat. Sagging realization almost drowns you beneath an incoming wave of water (he would break rules for you), and you swim closer to shore to meet him.

At the tree line, a silhouette appears, human in shape. Chris follows the line of your wide-eyed stare, every muscle in your body tensed up at the first whiff of danger. Until the shape steps forward into the kiss of moonlight, and you aren't sure whether relief of irritation floods your system.

It's Leon Kennedy. Definitely both.

There's a sadness settled deep inside his bones that the rumors never prepared you for. He walks closer, kicking up sand with each step, and the lighting pales him to a ghostly mirage. Back at the FOB he kept to himself. Spoke when spoken to. Occupied the same chair like he paid for it, all crossed arms and scowling at anybody who dared breach the invisible line of his personal bubble. Everyone except for Chris.

There's a history here you fail to pick up on, a thickness that cloys in the air. Words left unsaid, a silent grudge years in the making. But beneath all the rot, therein lies an unshakeable foundation built on trust.

“I thought we had a curfew,” Leon says, looking more hollow than human from where you stand half-submerged.

Still, the blue of the water could never compare to his eyes. You remember their vividness even as they are now, bathed in shadow by his brow.

You wonder for just a moment (Spike’s voice echoes inside your head: you spend too much time in the clouds, Lieutenant) what he looks like when he smiles. How long it's been since the muscles worked.

“I'm a bad influence,” you say, and for a moment, when their eyes meet, you think you've disappeared into the ether. A buoy treading water.

They share in silent conversation before Chris nods toward the direction of the safe house. “Let's head back.”

The glare he gives you holds no room for argument.

You wade back onto the beach and the sand sinks between your toes. If you stood here long enough the beach might just swallow you up, and the thought shouldn't be as comforting as it is.

Nearby, your clothes sit in a pile, half-buried in sand by the wet-hot wind that pools sweat at the base of your neck. The weather is a stifling scorch, made even worse on the walk back by trees that trap in humidity.

Leon falls back to walk beside you, bathing the forest in an uncomfortable silence. You have nothing in common, and he possesses the social prowess of a rabid dog, but maybe that's the thing that draws you in. You have a penchant for picking up strays. Hell, your entire team is a patchwork quilt of sewn-together outcasts too talented to be thrown aside and forgotten. Old dogs can, in fact, learn new tricks. Teaching them how is your specialty.

You get it.

He rubs a palm over the stubble at his jaw, gaze trained on the canopy above. The creatures here are active at night. Noisy. A fluttering insect catches your attention before landing on a nearby branch. Moonlight casts deep shadows upon the terrain, bathes the ground in sharp cuts of jagged shadow. You pass beneath a large leaf and Leon disappears entirely for half a second.

“So,” he says, tone flat as a board, as if he'd rather bloody his fingers clawing on tree bark than speak, “you're the friend I've heard so much about.”

You can't see his features well in the low lighting, but the cut of his gaze sears you. Dark circles—shades of deep blue and faded purple, the color of bruises—a mile deep, rings of blue framed by midnight black and vessels of red. Like he hasn't slept in weeks, like he just came back from an extended bender. It's—

“I guess so,” you say, because you can't ask about the scabs on his knuckles, or the long-healed scar on his cheek, or why his eyes seem so sad.

There are a thousand Leon Kennedys in your line of work. The same story told a thousand different ways. You recognize the signs of epidemic, the symptoms of deadly viruses, and the man before you belongs to a sub-category pockmarked by trauma.

You look at him and see the choke chain pulled tight around his neck, scarring where the skin's grown around each metal prong. Yours probably looks the same.

But it's none of your business, you suppose. You lock your bullshit up tight and tuck it neatly in the back of your brain that grows cobwebs, and then you let it rot. Not your fault if the miasma sometimes leaks through.

Leon exhales a scoffing laugh. “To be honest, I didn't think Chris had friends.”

A grin twitches the corners of your lips, and you glance ahead to spot the broad width of Chris's back before he ducks under a low-hanging branch. A warmth stokes to flame, curls a tender smoke around each of your ribs. “We knew each other before the BSAA. To be honest, he's the only reason I joined. Gave this big speech about saving the world and shit, I couldn't say no.”

He nods and looks at you with softened eyes. “Yeah. He has that affect on people.”

It's the first thing you and Leon Kennedy have in common.

Chris promised Leon a drink.

You find yourself sat at some bar in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, him on one side and Leon on the other. It's packed, and the music is a touch too loud, and the crowd is rowdy.

Nobody says a word. Not when things ended the way this last mission did.

Failure.

The bartender, some grumpy man with a long, greying beard and a permanent scowl on his face, sets a whiskey down before you. The glass sticks to the tabletop when you pick it up, and you can't remember how many drinks you've had but you know that the trip back to the safehouse will be a hazardous one.

A thousand people dead. Too late to stop the bombing of the small village Umbrella pinged as their testing ground. A travesty, a massacre.

The alcohol burns inside your mouth, burns all the way down to your empty belly and leaves behind a wave of nausea. You wonder how packed the bathroom in this place is.

There was a little boy.

You deserve the burn. Deserve for it to consume you, to eat away at your viscera until acid bleeds from you pores.

You killed a little boy.

Someone grabs you rough by the curve of the neck, pulls you back, curls an arm around your shoulders.

“Hey, we're heading back.” Taylor, voice loud to beat out the music, slurring in your ear. “You gonna be alright?”

You've seen dead children before. Dozens of them of all ages, all manner of decomposed. Victims of Umbrella. Collaterals of evil. But you've never been the cause of it. Never been the perpetrator.

It cuts deep. Cuts deeper when you think of Spike. All the people you've failed.

Our lives revolve around death, he had told you one night, sat swaying on a barstool a lot like this one, and one day we're gonna be consumed by it. Can't have your cake and eat it, too, as they say. Gotta exist in one plane or the other.

She shakes your shoulder, grip rough without all your gear, with more alcohol than blood in her veins. “You good?”

You blink in shades of red. “Yeah. Just be careful on the way back.”

When she goes to leave, Chris catches her by the elbow. Says something you can't hear over the music, but she glances at you and nods her head. You don't care enough to find out.

To your right, Leon sweeps a hand through his hair. Leans over to stare at you beneath hooded lids. “You get used to it.”

There it is. The chain around your neck pulls taut, and you choke back the bitter tang of whiskey in your mouth. Might as well choke on your words while you're at it.

He handles his alcohol too well. A worrying observation in any other circumstance, but you'd be a hypocrite to accost him and an asshole to deny him his coping mechanism, however harmful it is.

What good is living a healthy life when you've one foot already in the grave?

Your fingers itch for a cigarette. The pit of your belly craves a dirty mattress and a bottle of lube and the man at your left who keeps nudging his elbow into your arm each time he sets down his drink.

A hypocrite, you'll never be.

So you settle for the cigarette and say nothing when Leon waves the bartender over.

“Been doing this for almost a decade, and I'm still waiting,” you say, head balanced on a sweaty, sticky palm. “Don't think I could ever get used to killing kids.”

Beside you, Leon takes a long few gulps from his drink. “Yeah, that's… different.”

You grow bold from the whiskey sloshing around in your stomach and lean in close, well past the boundary of his personal space. Behind the long-dried sweat and the brandy on his breath, you smell the death that lurks beneath his epidermis. Like a dog that's rolled in a rotting corpse, bits of viscera still trapped in its fur.

“Have you ever killed a kid?”

He glares at you from the corner of his eye, throat bobbing as he swallows. “Too many.” Choking down the memories.

He's pretty and perfect, ruddy at the tip, thick all the way to the base. The perfect size to deepthroat (long enough to choke off your breath without the stretching pain). You tried it once with Chris and the last inch or so made you tap out, and you remember vividly the pinched grimace on his face, almost pitying to the way your eyes leaked with tears as you coughed away the searing burn.

I warned you, he had said, leaned up against the wall of some unused supply closet. The start of your workplace affair.

And now, you find yourself on your knees in some dirty back alley, Leon's cock swallowed all the way to the base. A small, insignificant victory, but the taste of him—salt-musk and skin–washes away the blood that sticks to the roof of your mouth.

You pull away and work him over with a spit-slicked hand, hissing a breath through your teeth. You look up to find his chin dipped toward his chest, pretty eyes glossy and lidded, a deep blush spread thick over his cheeks and nose. Cute. It's cute. He's cute.

Maybe that's the whiskey talking.

(Not like you have a history of fucking your coworkers or anything.)

The thought sobers you a bit, and your hand slows. Your gaze sharpens.

“Good?” you whisper, just loud enough to hear over the rhythmic schlick of your fist.

Your conscience flares in a sharp thump against the part of your brain still functioning, and you wonder what Chris would think if he saw you like this. You can envision him now, all disappointed and frowning, maybe a little hurt in the squint of his eyes. He'd bitch at you for being so irresponsible, because fucking around with him has nothing to do with feelings, but shit. What you wouldn’t give to see him jealous.

Then Leon huffs out a breath, says, “Please,” in such a pitiful voice that—

Well.

You can unpack all this later.

Your focus shift backs to the man before you, smile devilish and wide as his head thumps against the brick. “Please what?”

“Fuck. Don't do this right now.”

You shift on the hard pavement, knees screaming in pain. But you can tolerate it. His mouth falls open, exhales a choked off moan when you circle your tongue over the sensitive nerves of his frenulum, and nothing else matters.

The sight of him flayed open, vulnerable, needy is intoxicating. A sharp contrast to when you first met, how he soured at the sight of you and licked his teeth like he craved to grab hold of your arm and shake.

You take him into your mouth again, hollowing your cheeks around each inch in a slow savor of the weight against your tongue, and you think you might go a little crazy when he cants his hips and curls a hand around the back of your neck.

“Gonna—I need—”

You moan around him, the best invitation you can manage, and he's quick to take it. The pace he sets sends fire licking up your spine, hurried and quick, long pumps that tease at the sheath of your throat but never breach. You steady yourself with a hand on each of his thighs, thumbing at the downy-blond hair covering the skin.

He's nice about face-fucking you, the alcohol half-worn off. Cradles your head like he either loves you or the way you swallow his cock, shoulders pressed flat against the brick wall to steady himself. Generous with his sounds (Chris communicates in heavy breaths and grunts, but Leon gets into it, and you aren't sure which you like best).

There's something wrong in the way you compare the men, as if they aren't the antithesis of each other down to each individual atom, but maybe that's the appeal. The best of both worlds.

He pulls out of your mouth after a heaving sigh, foamy spit spread from root to tip, connecting in a thin string to your bottom lip.

“Sorry. Can never finish when I drink,” he says, breathless, frustration bleeding through each sluggish syllable.

“Don't worry. I can't either.” It's an anticlimactic end to the night when he pulls up his pants and stuffs his still-hard cock back into his underwear. Says, “It'll go away in a minute,” when he catches you staring at the obvious bulge stretching the fabric.

You move to stand, knees almost buckling from being bent for so long. A clear sign of your age, a body composed of weary bones and ground-down joints and nerve damage. The inevitable effects of a dangerous, active career.

When you stumble, he steadies you with a firm grip around your bicep. Quick to pull away when you right yourself.

A pang starts directly behind your eyes. You need a glass of water.

“Do you want me to…” he trails off, nodding to the space between your thighs. No doubt you've leaked through your pants, your own need mostly forgotten to prioritize his.

But that's okay. Your brain shut up as soon as you got your mouth on him and that's all you care about. Mission accomplished. You can just rub one out when you get a private moment (who knows when that'll be).

“Don't worry about it.”

“Oh.”

“Not that I'm not interested, but the others are probably wondering where we are.” And by others, you mean Redfield, still left hunched over at the bar.

There had been a silent agreement with Leon after your conversation. A shared understanding that, yes, this was a very bad idea, but adrenaline and alcohol and drowning memories always ends in poor decisions anyway. The weight of inevitables.

You can't remember who followed who out the door.

The silence that follows is unbelievably awkward. Leon can't go back into the bar just yet, and you don't wish to leave him alone. But you have no idea where to go from here. With Chris, the transition progressed naturally: smoking buddies to confidants to friends to fucking each other after an adrenaline-fueled disaster of a deployment (huh, a common theme). The reasoning makes sense: you both need a good orgasm to stave off the stress every once in a while. The tenderness you harbor for him is an inconvenient side effect.

Regarding Leon, there's no history here. You share in trauma, yank against leashes attached to the same hand, hold a similiar respect for Chris. Nothing but overarching ideals posing as interpersonal commonality.

But you have a soft spot for strays. Especially the feral ones with sharp teeth and a mean streak.

Leon adjusts the crotch of his pants, kicks out a leg, and you exhale a laugh. He's frustratingly, awkwardly endearing.

(it's just the alcohol it's just the alcohol it's just the alcohol)

You clear your throat, a bashful heat creeping up the nape of your neck. “Thanks. For the—ya know, the distraction. I needed it.”

He nods, turns on his heel, and leaves the alley.

When you walk back inside, Chris is already gone.

And then the world floods. A solid week of heavy rain that, as you lean against the railing of your balcony, seeks to swallow the cars down below on the street, already halfway up the wheels. A rogue bike floats down the street. The water is deceptive in its surface-level calmness, but you know what lurks beneath. Step in the way of nature and be swept off your feet. They'd find your body half a mile away, lungs filled with muddy run-off.

You've never been religious, and faith has eluded you since you were young—don't think you've ever believed in anything besides the sanctity of life—but the street flooding below reminds you of the popular Christian tale. Two of each animal, a great ark, the end of times (the first of many).

You turn to Chris, stood just inside the sliding glass door that leads onto the balcony. “Do you believe in God? Any of ‘em?”

The wrinkles on his forehead deepen, and you remember a time when his eyes held life. They still spark, but sometimes you fear his anger setting him ablaze. Much to be angry about these days: injustice, evil, fighting for a dead-end cause.

The dead can still burn. You know that well.

There still exists moments where his face smooths out, like the few hours of rest he steals at night, but the damage is already done. Fine lines permanent, a testament to the long-flooded chasm of his worries.

“Never thought about it, really.”

Water pours off the edge of the balcony above, a light spray misting your face as the wind switches course and blows the rain sideways. Your feet shift inside a shallow puddle, just deep enough to splash. A chill forms beneath your skin, raises gooseflesh along your arms and legs, the weather a mere accomplice to the problem (many at this point, some identifiable and others still stuck in the stage of repression) that took root inside your bones.

“Not much to believe in anymore, is there?”

Behind you, he sniffs. “It's been that way for a long time.”

Then he steps out onto the concrete, shuts the glass door with a dull thump. A lighter flickers, barely intelligible over the noise of the storm. A moment later, the cloying smell of tobacco hits your nose, and a hand comes into view out of the corner of your eye.

An offering. The cigarette pinched between thumb and forefinger a sacred gift from a man like him.

“You sound like you need it,” he says, bare chest fitting nice and warm against your back, and you relax into his bulk on instinct.

Always instinct with him.

He's kept his distance since that night with Leon in the alleyway. You know he knows. Tries his best to pretend, to regain the dynamic that changed as soon as you dropped to your knees and unzipped Leon's pants, but there's no going back. And you don't know if you want to. With a life hand-woven by fuck-ups and guilt, you rarely experience the absence of regret, so when you woke up that morning and continued on with your day and Leon crept closer than normal, engaged in muted conversation over the flight back home, you decided you wouldn't change a thing.

Maybe you're too selfish. Too self-serving. Too desperate for a way out of this, but—

Chris's beard rasps over your jaw, lips hot when they press to the skin. A hand slides beneath your shirt to rest flat against your stomach, the muscles there tensing.

—shit, you think you deserve indulgence every once in a while.

But he never escalates past the fluttering kisses along your pulse, a languid savor to the way your heart beats for him. The same way you savor your cigarette. An unusual intimacy that you aren't sure how to cope with. What it all means.

So you ruin it, just as you ruin everything good in your life.

(People like you don't deserve goodness, no matter how hard you grasp for it.)

Fat droplets of pouring rain dissect the thick fog of smoke you exhale. “You saw us, didn't you?”

The fingers on your belly curl inward, almost possessive. Like he wants to burrow elbow-deep inside the cavern of viscera and curl your intestines around his hand—the perfect makeshift leash. You wouldn't mind if it was him.

It's always been this way, hasn't it?

“Of course I did.” A sharp nip to the curve of your shoulder, and your hips twitch forward, a hiss choking off at the back of your throat. “Thought you hated him.”

“Almost dying has a funny way of bringing people together.”

“We know all about that, don't we?”

You hum in agreement as his hand climbs higher, squeezes soft at the curve of your ribcage, fingers protecting each brittle bone. Re-learning your body, testing its limits, searching for… something.

“You said it yourself, Chris. People like us don't get the luxury of romance. Dating, marriage, kids. They're pipe dreams. Gotta stave off the loneliness as best we can, but,” you stamp out your cigarette on the wet metal railing, and it cries out with a hiss as water seeps into the filter, “even the sex is a lie. We know it is.”

A lie you gorge on until your heart swells, bloated and tender to the touch.

His mouth is on you as soon as you sit on the couch, already stripped bare below the waist by two sets of desperate hands. Didn't even have a chance to close the door to the balcony with him shoving you back inside.

The sight of him (an inspiration, a legend, a hero) on his knees never fails to stroke your ego, and he meets your eyes with a grin. Slicks his hand between your legs with a chest-purring hum.

Chris, for all his skill, possesses a one-track mind. He hones in on outcome, completing the mission, point A to point B. As such, he doesn't care for distractions. Takes control—prefers giving to recieving any day of the week. And although the sight of him kissing up your thigh conjures heat at the base of your spine, you have another idea.

“Wait,” you say, already a bit breathless, and he sits back to listen. A good, obedient dog. “Move to the couch. I'll be right back.”

You yank your shirt over your head as if it catalyzed every single problem in your current life and leave for the bedroom. Need lube—a must where his size is concerned.

You return to him lounging on the couch, his bulk sagging its very foundation. An impossibly large, commanding presence, and you're unsure how the very idea of him doesn't collapse your room into a gravity-swallowing blackhole.

He is man. You've seen him bleed, seen him laugh, seen him on the brink of death. And yet the tangibility of his existence awes you even now, after all these years.

The stretch conjures between your legs an impenetrable pressure, made slick by all the lube. And he gazes up at you, seated naked in his lap, with all the reverence of a creation bowed before the altar of its god.

To be perceived is a terrifying ordeal. One you try not to think much about. But here, there's no hiding place brave enough to shelter you from the doggish fealty in his eyes. It's terrifying and wonderful and humiliating, and if you aren't careful, you'll begin to crave the feeling of being wanted.

A dangerous thing, loyalty.

You kiss him—a wet, hurried mess of a thing; tender flesh caught between canine teeth; calloused hands guiding the intensity with a palm against your jaw and the other gripping your waist, fingers sticky with lube. He's as big as you dream about, your insides stretched snug and velvety and slick around him.

He breaks off the kiss with a grunt caged behind grit teeth as you begin to ride him in a slow, grinding rhythm.

“Like this?” you ask, solely for your own amusement (love the way his cheeks get all pink), because you've fucked him well enough to know what he likes.

Still, though. To hear him say it is to be well-fed.

He hums, eyes downcast to the place where your bodies join, both hands a steadfast grip on your hips. Guiding, coaxing, savoring.

The sight of his bottom lip tugged between his teeth almost undoes you. And then he looks up at you with the prettiest, puppy-dog brown eyes, and the world stops. The sun burns and burns and burns until flesh melts from bone.

In the aftermath, cuddled naked and sticky together on the couch, a new star is born, nurtured by the warmth of your bodies. You kiss him, and gravity collapses in on itself.

The rain stops.

A conversation transpires at some hole-in-the-wall bar in Birmingham, Alabama. Why Leon chose this place you'll never know, and why Chris chose you to tag along on this two-person manhunt eludes you even more. Something about needing support, back-up, a friend he could trust. And you said yes. Of course you did.

But he seems to handle the situation just fine.

You lounge in a booth within sight of the bar where the two men sit. Leon slumps over the bartop and Chris rests an arm across his shoulders, both of them leaned in close to keep the conversation private. You feel like you have no right to watch, like the moment was not meant for your eyes. They speak like they've conquered lifetimes together, an intimacy you don't think you could ever fully understand.

You take a sip of your beer and trace your eyes over the sticky woodgrain of the table.

After a few minutes—somewhere between five and thirty, when you've already begun to nod off in your seat—a shadow passes over you, then another.

A large hand claps you on the shoulder. “Let's go.”

You sip on the rest of your beer as you follow behind the men, Leon stumbling over cracks in the pavement, cresting the tumultuous wave of drunkenness. Chris holds him steady by a hand fisted in the back of his leather jacket, and you feel much like a wraith. Intangible, inconsequential, tethered to the earthly realm by the beer bottle that sweats a chill against your palm.

It would be sad if sadness wasn't such a permanent facet of your life.

The motel Leon leads you to is a run-down thing. A few cars scatter around the parking lot, cigarette butts litter the concrete walk that leads to each room, and the lampost nearby blinks in a coincidental mimicry of morse code. As Leon attempts to unlock the door, you stare through the swarm of moths to where the dark-light rhythm spells out

H-E-L-P H-E-L-P H-E-L-P.

You didn't sleep too well on the flight over.

His room fares no better, caught in the sharp-toothed maw of a week-long bender. A red flag, a mental health hazard that leaves Chris sighing as he helps Leon over to the stained, naked mattress he calls a bed. He leaves one leg half-dangling off the side, some trick you learned during the early days of training when every weekend ended in borderline alcohol poisoning and the room wouldn't stop spinning.

A few feet over, you spot a thin sheet and a blanket on the floor, crumpled into a mound of itchy fabric. You choose the blanket to drape over him, wrinkled all to hell, but he doesn't seem to mind. Holds it close to his chest in a loose fist while his other hand grabs your shoulder.

“’m sorry Redfield dragged you into this mess,” he says, eyes bloodshot and unfocused, a certain sway to his words that sends a pang to the deepest part of your chest.

You've been here before, many a time. Can't count the days you wasted sleeping in bushes or heaving over a toilet or so drunk you couldn't even stand, because the alcohol felt good until it didn't, and even now you find something meaningful in the hammering of a morning-after migraine—pain means you're alive, Chris likes to say.

You slip up sometimes (a lot), forget your sober vows when the hardships need a good drowning. The ethanol kills them for a little while, but they always come back. You fool yourself every time into believing the next drink will be different.

It makes sense now. Why Chris chose you to tag along. You stare down at Leon and some parallel-universe mirror image stares back. The beer in your stomach settles like a molten rock.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” A sentence you wish to tell some younger, dumber version of yourself, before you stopped believing in redemption. “Just sleep it off, okay? We'll be here when you wake up.”

You and Chris share the threadbare couch in silence, curled up on either cushion. He twirls one of your shoelaces around a finger, then unravels it, then twirls it again, over and over as the sound of Leon's rhythmic snoring fills the room.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, cheek pressed to the back of the couch as he looks toward a hanging cobweb on the cieling. “It's hard to talk him down when he gets like this.”

“I think you handled it well.”

He exhales a tired laugh through his nose, the shadows under his eyes deeper beneath the pale of moonlight. “Only because I knew I had a backup plan.”

“And what would that have been?”

His lips twitch into a grin. “We drag his ass out of there kicking and screaming.”

“Damn. I'm almost sad the talking angle worked.”

“You would be.”

The comfortable silence stays steadfast for all of twenty seconds before you look over the back of the couch to where Leon lay.

“I hate to see him like this,” you say, wrinkles forming between your brow. “You know those kinds of people, where you can take one look at them and know they've been through hell?”

Chris hums.

“He's definitely one of ‘em.”

He shakes his head after a long moment, brows raised. “You have no idea.”

No. You don't. But it puts his behavior into perspective. Straddles the hair-fine line between excuse and explanation. Hard to develop meaningful, lasting relationships when everyone around you routinely drops like flies.

The night drones on, and on, and on. You should be able to sleep anytime and anywhere at this point, but the two sets of snoring seeks to do your head in. That, and Chris effectively shoved you off the rickety couch in his sleep and stretched out upon the cushions. But that's okay. He needs it.

Night turns to day somewhere between your anxious pacing around the room and your decision to take the floor, and you wake sweaty, a bit addled amidst unrecognizable surroundings.

Until you recognize the voices sounding from the opposite side of the room. Your hip screams when you rise to your feet, and you're dying for a drink of water and the cool breeze from a fan.

“Morning, sunshine,” Leon says, looking no worse for wear after the previous night. Hair a bit tousled, clothes wrinkled, but bright-eyed and aware. It's both infuriating and relieving.

“Definitely not a good one,” you grumble, because it's far too early to be awake and why are you even here in the first place? Chris could've handled it himself.

(God, you need to chug a glass of cold water. Swallow down a few ibuprofen while you're at it because pain makes you a certifiable asshole.)

Even in your youth, you hated mornings. Hated missing out on sleep, stumbling around for the better part of thirty minutes because nothing could get you awake. Hated the anxious, seven a.m. rush of the world.

A shit career you found for yourself, given that fact. Can't remember the last time you slept a full eight hours (your extracurriculars with Chris notwithstanding).

“I’m not a fan of mornings, either,” Leon says. Passes you a half-empty bottle of water from the nightstand, and you would hate to know how long it’s been there.

Long enough to taste earth-bitter and flat, but it hydrates the inside of your mouth to a blissful degree. You down the rest in three big gulps then squish up the plastic in a fist. The lukewarm water shaves down the edges of your teeth that crave something to chew on; a certain kind of clarity that rears its head only when your needs are met.

“Thank you,” you say, capping the bottle and tossing it beside him on the bed.

He nods. “Don't mention it.”

Chris leaves to smoke a cigarette outside as Leon begins packing what few things he brought with him. You plop down on the edge of the bed, unsure of how to breach the topic of his mental stability. But you feel like you should say something.

“So. How are things?” A rough start given the stare he cuts you with. “I just mean… well, you don't have to suffer alone like this. Chris cares about you, and I do, too. We wouldn't be here otherwise.”

Almost dying has a way of bringing people closer together.

He shoves a rolled-up shirt into his bag with a weary sigh. “I can handle it.”

“I know you can. But I know that shit gets heavy to carry around, so—”

“Yeah. I got it.”

You sit in a silence for a moment, the fabric of his jacket rustling as he scoops it off the floor then shakes the dirt off. Maybe you should clean a bit, take some stress off the workers. But Leon pins you with a look when you ask him for a broom. Says, “This is a motel. Nobody gives a shit.”

You sit back down.

Filth has never disturbed you. You've slept in places that weren't fit for human life, drank water swarming with viruses (in your defense, the order hadn't come through yet, and you suffered through half a dozen antidotal injections as punishment), but it's about the overarching intent of Leon being here. Whether a perfect reflection of his ground-through psyche or his self-taught deservedness for suffering, you aren't sure. It makes you sad regardless.

He sets his bag by the door and settles into the shitty couch, and you trail behind him. “Ya know, it took me a really long time before I ever felt like I could open to anybody. But once I did, it just… it felt nice. Can’t tell you how many times Chris saved me from myself.”

He scoffs. “Sounds like him.”

“He’s just trying to help. But you have to want it.”

“I don’t. Obviously.”

You nod. You've spent enough time around broken people to know when to shut up, to stop digging, and there's a blaring red stop sign over his head. “I know. But when you do, we'll be here.”

Chris Redfield is man, and he bleeds, and he flinches away from pain. He hates needles something fierce yet regularly requires them due to the job. One such example of the comedic irony that lives within him.

So you hold his hand while the stern-faced nurse begins an IV. He's pale in the face, grip weak, sweaty on the palms. Lucky to be alive. A mark of his mortality the deep, serrated gash slicing through the front of his thigh. A gnarly thing, makes your stomach drop when you think about it.

The nurse discards the needle and extra gauze then steps out in a rush, closing the door behind her. Beside you, tucked beneath two hospital blankets, comically large in the bed, Chris breathes a sigh of relief.

“So. How do I look?”

“Like shit.”

He winces, shifting his uninjured leg beneath the sheets. “Gonna be here a while, aren't I?”

“Probably not. Longest part'll be the PT.”

He shoots you a stern glare that tells you to shut the fuck up—a very rare showcase of off-the-field command. “It's not that bad.”

“It is that bad. You're lucky you still have a fucking leg.”

The air of the hospital room thickens. You know the unspoken, chain-of-command line you tread, the luxuries afforded to you because of the softness in his heart where you placed your claim. One such example: you can yell at him without reprimand. Best used when he's being a tunnel-vision dumbass.

You blink and the world bleeds red and there you are, back on the field with a roll of gauze in one hand and a tourniquet in the other. Nobody can find the goddamn medic and he'll be bled out by the time they get here. You bark orders to your team as the writhing mass of limbs and teeth begins to drag itself across the bridge, and you think of Spike.

Chris yowls at the last few turns of the rod.

Not again.

The missions grow more dangerous with each deployment. He denies this over and over and over, says the worst spike of bioterrorism was after Raccoon City, when Umbrella threw caution to the wind and stopped caring about cover-ups. When the government did it for them, when technology wasn’t like it is now.

But frequency and impact are two very different things, and you know an inevitable, a fork in the road, is soon to come.

That's always how these things end.

#bonnibuckreblog #i love this so so so much #beautifully written #leon kennedy x reader #chris redfield x reader #resident evil fanfic #chreadereon #series: don't fight the flesh #leon kennedy

170 notes · View notes

bonnibuckets · 9 days

Note

meow

meow :3

#inbox 💌#moots <3 #meow

1 note · View note

bonnibuckets · 11 days

Note

CONGRATS ON 1K YOU BEAUTIFUL FUCKIN PERSON LIKE!? DESERVEDDDDD

Will be drawing Leon in your honor, so I'll come back soon... 😅

WAIT FOR MEEEEE!! 😭

EHEHEHE THANK YOU!! i’ll wait forever for you

#inbox 💌#moots <3 #you so sweet <33

1 note · View note

bonnibuckets · 11 days

Text

i just reached 1k followers!! thank you sm!💗 so here’s a poll for 1k special (suggestions are welcomed!!) most likely will be about leon unless a lot of y’all want someone different!

also just so i can gush. tysm for all the support you’ve given. i started this tumblr about a year ago and i never thought i’d find such love from you guys. you are all very sweet and funny💗 i love all my followers and moots UGH I LOVE YALL THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING MY CHICKEN SCRATCH

tags bc i love you (very sorry if i forgot to tag you!! even if yr not tagged i still love you muah) @i9fairy @valslullaby @abadtzmaru @xoxostarlet @leonfucker3000 @mooflwr @tipsyleaf @squazmine @lysa1201 @thevirgincherry @localkiss @argreion @mrswinters @mairablue @leonstoenailunderhisbed @rigorwhoring @leonw4nter @angelofwoe @redvleanli @leonkennedygvrl @porcelainseashore @mychoombatheroomba @iheartuwu @cherubify @admirxation

#poll time #moots rise up #1k followers #1k celebration #tysm for the support #very grateful #i love you #omg thank you

48 notes · View notes

bonnibuckets · 13 days

Text

*cue careless whisper* 😏

Wrong Age For A Babysitter

It's winter break. You went to visit your parents after a long time of seeing them. To your surprise, a guy who is your age says he needs to babysit you.

content: fluff and smut

notes: afab fem!reader, mentions of drinking alcohol, reader drinks it with leon. leon and reader are in their twenties. cute sex. second point of view to not have y/n, before the events of raccoon city, no mentions of holiday just winter. non canon lore of leon; this was suppose to be published in december, but I forgot about this.

taglist: @argreion

It was the winter holiday after a long time studying for finals, you went home to your parents home to visit them. At least for a while, but unexpectedly, your parents weren't home. You took off your shoes before entering, the house was dark with very little light. "No even a voice mail." You muttered bitterly. Your eyes looked around to see what you'll respectful steal from your parents. Cookies. Hell yeah. You grabbed from the selection and took a bite. The silent house only heard were the munches of your teeth eating the cookie.

That's when you saw a note from your parents on the fridge.

Hi, we went to dinner with a couple of friends. Sorry we couldn't be with you.

Your eyes narrowed, "But couldn't call." You didn't mean to sound so damn bitter, but how much it hurt to call in. You grabbed a beer and cracked the can open. You steal more cookies from the tray, and your eyes found the thermostat and made it comfortable heat. You grabbed your beer and sat on the couch of the living room.

You attempted to find the remote, but nope. This was getting more and more annoying. You put the beer on the coffee table and put the cookies on top of the fizzy beer. Your hands patted down the couch over and over, your fingers were shoved inside the edges of the couch. You found pocket change and put in your pocket without thinking twice.

But the small lived silence stopped when you heard a knock. Your head snapped to turn to see who it could be. Was it those Christmas singers? No. There's was silence, and those people were loud. You carefully grabbed a cookie and ate a bit of it before walking towards the door.

You checked the peep hole and found a sandy blond guy in the other side. His cheeks were flushed from the cold. "Hi?" He began, "Um, I'm Leon. The babysitter." He knocked again.

Maybe it was a dumb action but you opened the door immediately. "Sorry, wrong house. I'm twenty." It wouldn't make sense why your parents would send a babysitter.

Leon shook his head, "Impossible." He took off his glove and pulled out a piece of paper that read your address. You ate another piece of your cookie before looking at the paper, "You got the wrong house." You knew so. You stepped a bit out of the comfort of your home, "Over there." Leon turned to see, "My neighbors have a daughter. You are probably her babysitter."

Leon shook his head, "I don't mess up my addresses." He exhaled deeply. His eyes almost intimidated you, he looked so damn determined, and with that you felt a bit of second hand embarrassment. You took another bite of your cookie, "Can I see some ID?" You asked him with small levels of impatience. Leon automatically gave you his ID.

What a handsome guy. "Leon Scott Kennedy." You read out his information, "Happy early birthday." You smiled politely at him as you continued to look at it.

You knew your parents were careful around you, but not to give you a babysitter at your age. "Listen," You began, "You seem a nice guy, but I don't need a babysitter. I just got out of college to enjoy the winter break."

Leon sighed softly, the exhale was that looked like that fog, "Listen, I don't break my promises," His blue eyes were focused, "If your parents put me as a twenty year olds babysitter. I'll do it."

"Fuck it. Fine." You pulled away to let him enter. You were being stupid and ignore all the possible red flags of this situation. Once Leon entered, he took off his snow boots and his coat. He turned to see the living room, hoping at least there was children to actually take care of, but it was only you and him.

"Wanna a beer?" You asked him with a tiny awkward smile.

Leon didn't drink beer in his babysitting job. But what is he gonna protect you from? "Yeah, that would be nice." He sat down on the couch and looked around. It was nice and toasty. You looked at him for a second before going to the kitchen and grabbing a beer. "Here ya go." She walked back and handed it to him.

He gladly accepted it. "Appreciate it."

You sat on the other side of the couch. You needed to see why this guy was going to be your babysitter. It was dumb. You are still convinced Leon got the wrong address, but for now, you will just stayed quiet and took a drink.

Your babysitter took a drink of his own beer.

Your head leaned on the couch to see Leon properly. It was unacceptable that this guy was hot. He looked cute and lovely, and unfortunately, it wasn't enough to flirt with him. Leon turned around to see you. He had a small smile, "I'm sorry. I know I seem like a red flag." He whispered.

Without a second, you nodded your head, "Yeah, it hard to think you are... y'know... normal?"

Leon chuckled softly, "I'm going to be a cop." You snorted a laugh, "That doesn't prove anything." A gentle tease.

Leon laughed a bit louder, "I guess you are right." He took a small drink of his beer. "But I wanted to become a cop to protect people. I grew up poor with my grandma after my parents died so..." Leon brushed his hair behind his ear. "I want to be good."

"It's a noble wish." You whispered softly.

"Yeah, well, I'm trying to be chosen to work for Raccoon City." Leon leaned on the couch as he looked at your eyes. He swallowed, "It's... it's a nice place to start." You nodded your head as you listened to him speak; he had a lovely voice.

You two took a drink. You leaned closer to him, "It's nice." You confirmed.

Leon sighed softly, his cheeks redden from the warm place, "Listen," Leon rubbed gently his wrist, "Maybe I was... too stubborn." He couldn't even look at your eyes from the simple idea of him being wrong. Thinking his stuff more clearly, Leon sighed again, "I was wrong. Maybe you are right."

A small laugh appeared from your lips, "No way? Really?" You finished your beer and placed it between your thighs. Leon scowled, "I, I know." But he didn't seem offended by it. Immediately, he laughed softly, "I'm sorry." A small pause between you two, Leon looked down your thighs.

"Sorry." He whispered again.

Yeah, your own thoughts were infected at the idea so quickly. It was amusing that you first thought this dork wasn't worth it until his eyes traveled down at your thighs.

"It's, um," You cleared your throat, "Fine." Your hands grabbed the can of beer and put it on the coffee table. Leon's cheeks were redder before leaning completely forward. His lips were still a bit cold, but your warm lips didn't mind it. Gently, Leon got on top of you. His knees were side to side of your thighs, his lips tasted awful with the beer and the coldness. Yet it didn't stop you. Your lips moved with his, your lips gently sucked on his, and slowly, your tongue was inside of his mouth.

Leon's hands grabbed your hips against his, pulling them ever so gently. Leon's hips gently began to hump against you. You dropped the kiss, "L-leon..." You mumbled weakly, your arms wrapped around his shoulders as he continued to hump you.

His humps were desperately slowly in attempts to get his erection, and certainly, you began to feel the bulge. Leon looked at you shyly.

God, who is this guy looking shy after grinding against you? "Are you wet?" He asked you.

Your cheeks burned up, "Um, a bit," You admitted softly, "But, I'm..." Your eyes were finally full-on focused into Leon. His cheeks were red, his bulge continued to grind against you. What kind of one night stand is this?

"Need more?" Leon whispered softly.

You nodded. Leon nodded his head and slowly got between your legs. "May I?" Leon asked. You nodded your head, "Yeah." Leon pressed his nose against your crotch, gently licking you. You gasped very weakly. His hands grabbed your hips so gently, holding you tightly. Even though you had pants on, you could feel how his hot breath felt.

"I'm ready." You whispered softly. Leon looked up at you, "You sure?" You knew it was too fast, but it was definitely worth it already. Another nod.

Leon sat up and undid your jean's button and slid them down. His eyes were focused on your thighs and your face, darting them up and down, "I, okay." He took off his own jeans. Your cheeks burned even more when you saw his dick. Your hands covered your face, "Um, I-" You laughed nervously.

"Don't laugh at it." Leon faked a pout.

His hand gently rubbed his dick and pumped it gently, "It has feelings." Slowly, the tip brushed your clit, you chewed on your lip as it slowly went inside. "Oh, fuck..." You muttered so ever weakly. Leon groaned weakly, his hips gently pushed more and more until he was completely in. His blue eyes met yours for a second and laughed, "I, I-" His dick twitched happily, he leaned close and began to kiss you. So gently and kindly. You followed behind him. Small pecks of kisses that slowly, little by little grew.

You held him tightly, his hands caressed your cheeks, "Mm, I, I could ask you on a date..." Leon mumbled against your lips. His hips slowly began to move, small little thrusts, "I don't, I don't usually do this..." Leon groaned weakly, "In the first date-" Leon rested his head on your neck and his hips went faster.

His tongue licked your neck and bite on your skin. Trying to be quiet. You gasped weakly as you felt him enter you in and out. His hands gently grabbed your breasts through your shirt, squeezing them gently.

Another weak whine, "L-Leon..." Leon lifted your shirt and shoved his face between your breasts as he thrusted deeper and deeper. He kissed your breasts gently and sucked your nipples.

Was this really all the attempts to keep quiet? To make you feel that you'll be loud. He gently nibbled on them, he growled weakly as he thrusts went faster and faster. "I, I need to..." Leon mumbled softly.

He groaned weakly, trying to hold in his release. You pulled him away from your breasts, his lips were covered with drool- his eyes were empty. He looked so pretty. You leaned weakly towards him and kissed him. He whined weakly, "Fu-Fuck, fuck..." Leon's hands travel down your lines, holding your thighs.

You were making this harder and harder for Leon.

Leon kissed your jaw as he continued to groan. His thrusts went into a bit harsher pounding, "C'mon, c'mon..."

He needed your release more than ever.

You felt how his cock just twitched over and over. His length moved in and out, the desperation in the two of you grew. His fingers found your clit and rubbed it. He whined. He finally whined with those grunts, it was just a mix of him rubbing it over and over.

You cried weakly, "Leon!"

His thrusts turned a bit sloppier, Leon groaned louder as he focused only, only in your pleasure. Soon enough, his cum exploded inside of you. Leon cursed softly as he felt your cunt hold him, your warmth was so nice. Inviting. Leon held your face. Giving you more and more kisses around your cheeks and lips. You gasped softly, trying to catch your breath, "Leon..." You mumbled weakly.

Leon pulled out of you and his cum slide down. His heart fluttered. He should have worn a condom, but all he could do is look at your face.

Leon laughed softly again and kissed you over and over, "I'm- I'm sorry." He was even more lovable. You laughed weakly, "Stop, stop it." Leon's eyes were so bright, and it made your heart melt even more.

Your hand gently held his, sharing a small moment until you heard your parents open the door. You two attempted to fix each other up, it was fast, but the smell of sex ruined the lovely winter joy. You fixed Leon's hair, his cheeks were still red, and he was met with another kiss. "I owe you the date." Leon whispered softly. He caressed your cheek before kissing you again.

"Oh, hi," It was your dad, "Um, who is the guy?" You gently pulled away, "He's.. he's my boyfriend." Leon blushed heavily. Babysitting isn't as tough, but Leon did have to remember he accidentally forgot his job. "Um, well," Leon forced a smile, "Hi."

#bonnibuckreblog #im so normal about him i swear #im chewing on drywall #oh i love him #resident evil #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #re2 leon #fanfic #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x you

367 notes · View notes