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uncouth-the-fifth · 17 days

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i'd like to report a crime - Leon Kennedy/Reader

read it on Ao3.

Pairing: Agent!Leon/Detective!Wife!Reader Tags: anxious work stress + leon comfort!!, leon being a fucking goober Notes: when i'm at work I'm always picturing him swooping in to save me...... leon kennedy if you can hear me please protect me from 9-5 hell... and like I said before, I would LOVE requests or prompts for this fic, I have so many ideas but I can't commit to any of them lol.

Standing in the bullpen at work today, you had a thought. Maybe they called it “medieval torture” because that was a whole lot catchier than “a shitty day at the busiest police precinct in Washington DC.”

It certainly felt like medieval torture to you. Before you’d even stepped into your big girl pants this morning, you knew that today was going to suck. Plain and simple. Suck. Yet another presidential event was bringing the Secret Service’s jurisdiction into your already hectic station, meaning that big square dudes in suits were going to be breathing down your neck until quitting time. You had three huge active cases that needed your attention. One of those cases came pre-packaged with a deeply annoying lawyer, who, in your professional opinion, has his head shoved a foot up his ass. He will absolutely be showing up to bother you today.

And worst of all: in your haste to get to work (Leon had put some serious effort into making you late), you’d accidentally worn a pair of super uncomfortable shoes! So now every waking moment of your existence was bonafide torture.

Clamping your jaw, you glance up from the paperwork in front of you and check your watch. Three o’clock. Right, okay, you can work with that.

You slap your hands down on your desk as you push out of your seat, and it gets a satisfying yelp out of the man sitting cross-legged beside it. He bristles up like a porcupine and nasally complains, “Where are you going, Detective Kennedy? You said we could—”

“Coffee, Douglas,” you bite back to said lawyer.

The last thing you want right now is some of the lousy, watered-down coffee from the station’s breakroom, but taking mini-breaks at your desk is just not an option anymore. Douglas has been camped out there from the moment you clocked in, and since you both refuse to budge, he’s going to stay there. Breakroom it is. You wince the whole way there, cursing your shoes from hell.

Someone forgot to start another pot of joe, so you have the absolute pleasure of doing it yourself. A small blessing in disguise, really. You give the glass pot your best thousand-yard-stare the whole time it heats the water, and just when the outline of it is starting to burn behind your eyelids, you’re jolted out of your glazed reverie by a cheerful, “Detective Kennedy!”

The officer appears at your side like she was there the entire time, and you wouldn’t put it past her—Giana is the latest in a long line of rookies who have imprinted on you over the years. Good kid, but a little on the overeager side.

She gives you a sympathetic frown and launches into way too much bubbly talking for your aching head to handle. “Heyo! Man, it’s crazy today, huh? You look beat, detective. Hey, think of it this way—just a few more hours and we’ll be home free! Any fun plans tonight?”

The question triggers a movie-style flashback sequence in your mind, complete with black-and-white visuals and some tasteful dream fog. Leon, your husband, boredly poking around the aisles of a new Target by your place. Leon discovering the boys' toy section. Leon, your beautiful, amazing husband, going starry-eyed at the massive NERF Elite Titan CS-50 Toy Blaster, which you’re pretty sure you need a license to operate.

He’d tapped the Nerf box like a boy on Christmas morning. “150 foam bullets, baby.”

But it would take a lot of energy to relay all of that to Giana. So instead of explaining that you’re having an epic Nerf duel with Leon when you get home (no headshots, loser makes dinner), you cooly answer: “...Spending time with my husband.”

Giana hums. “It’s so weird to me that you’re married…” (Thanks.) “I can’t even picture you not grinding away at some case.”

The coffee machine burbles out its last sad spit of coffee. You pour a good amount into your mug, smiling, “Oh, Leon’s just as bad. We’re both married to our work. He’s just my favorite mistress, s’all.”

Giana opens her mouth to launch into another cheery tirade you can’t catch up with. You like the girl, but on top of being way too eager, she’s also painfully see-through. For example, you don’t even have to turn around to know that a gloriously hot guy has just walked into the bullpen behind you. It’s written all over Giana’s owlish look over your shoulder. Hell, you can even clock that he’s heading straight this way—not only does Giana cross herself to bid away impure thoughts of the stranger, but she evaporates into smoke out of pure shyness.

“Look out!” She stage-whispers.

Aw. Poor girl, you think as she waddles away. Considering who’s going to be unloading a clip of foam bullets into you later this evening, (what a strange double entendre), you’re basically immune to hot guys. You can handle this.

“Excuse me, detective, I’d like to report a crime?”

All sense of professionalism poofs off your face at that familiar voice. You whirl to face your husband, and in one swift slash, the ten ton weight of your stress is slapped clean off your back.

Leon’s resting stare has slowly been absorbed by his Serious Agent Face. But today, he’s smoldering less in the business way and more in the off-duty model way. In a white tee, jeans, and racing-striped leather jacket, he certainly looks the part, clean-shaven and dewy-skinned. Fuck him and his unblemished skin. What Umbrella moisturizer was he using back in the day, dammit?

You’re capable of joking again and fall flawlessly into the bit. “Of course. What kind of crime, beautiful?”

He isn’t really able to look flustered, but you think you get close to the impossible with the way his head tilts at that line. You notice that he’s hiding something behind his back.

“A theft,” he answers. The tiniest smirk twitches on his mouth. “My heart’s been stolen.”

…What a fucking cornball. The tragic part is that you find the joke pretty funny, and not completely in the ironic way. He waits for you to giggle and twirl your hair or what-the-fuck-ever, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction, ducking into his quick hug to grin into his shoulder.

You groan at his awful joke. “Jesus. You need a fork for all that corn, Leon?”

“I take mine off the cob,” he drawls in your ear. With that voice, he could make anything sound suggestive.

You’re about to pout at him for failing to return your hug, when you draw back and see that his hands are full. It’s then that Leon presents his bounty to you, bowing his head and holding his trophies aloft like a knight giving respect to his princess: in one hand, one of the stupid expensive coffees you like, and in the other… your comfiest work flats.

“How?” is the first thing your fish brain manages to say. Because, truly, how does he always know? The coffee, the shoes— “Did you put a tracker in me? One that tells you everything I’ve been complaining about all day?”

You go slumping down into the nearest seat, mystified by him. Leon sets the still-steaming coffee down in front of you and kneels, stooping to help you out of your shoes-from-hell. The strap around your ankle has rubbed the bone raw even through your tights. He gets the clasp loose on the first shoe with little fussing, then soothes the skin with tender brushes of his thumb.

“Mhm,” he hums. All you can see of him from this angle is the layers of color in his hair, deep browns and ash blondes blending into one another. The smug pride in his voice is obvious—he loves knowing he’s read you well. “Tells me when you’re hungry, too. Have lunch with me?”

Please god, your body begs. Just picturing it loosens some of the tension in your neck. Like last time, the two of you would play-fight over where to eat, and your cute little delivery boy would go pick up the winner. That way, you wouldn’t have to waste a single moment of your allotted thirty-minute lunch. Leon would pull up a seat at your desk (maybe scare Douglas off with a flash of his badge), and you’d get a blissful, uninterrupted dose of him. Enough to get you through the rest of your shift.

He’d be too deep in Professional Agent Mode to babble like he does at home, but Leon’s raspy chuckles and his hand on your knee would tide you over til’ five.

…But no, the universe is never that kind to you. You wince at Leon’s offer and drop an apologetic hand to his shoulder, still knelt at your feet and working on your other shoe. He’s too good to you. “M’ sorry, baby, but I think I’m gonna have to work through lunch if I wanna get home on time. Rain check?”

He doesn’t mind. He throws a squinty warning stare your way, not happy that you’re getting dangerously close to overworking yourself, but he understands.

A sly smile creeps onto Leon’s face as he helps you slip on a flat. “I could talk to your Captain. What if you were pulled away for a ‘federal emergency?’”

“Then I think me and my Captain would implode from stress,” you laugh. “He’d think I’d been drawn into some national crisis or something.”

Leon scoffs. “That’s only happened, like, once.”

The other flat welcomes your poor, aching foot like a jacuzzi hot tub, and you take a deep magical sip of the overpriced coffee he got special for you. It trumps the watery breakroom joe any day.

For a minute you’re so stupidly happy that you could easily punch a boulder clean off a cliff. Hell, you might even twirl your hair.

“One too many times!” You groan. Since he’s being all cute and kneeling at your feet, you can’t resist poking him a couple of times to be silly. In the chest. In the cheek. In the heart. Stage-whispering, you accuse, “I think you just like having excuses to work with me.”

Leon finishes helping you into your shoes, but he’s in no hurry to leave his spot. One of his rough hands finds yours in your lap and toys with your wedding band, twisting it, testing the groove where it’s been sitting for a few years now. Those big blue eyes fix on your face. You’re married to the guy, but something about being the subject of all his naked attention makes you feel like shrieking into a damn pillow. He’s the best. Judging by that mean little smile on his face, he knows it’s true.

He gives your hand a little squeeze and points out, “I was your partner before anyone else. We never got our buddy cop beat—so yes, I will shove myself into your world since I can’t pull you into mine.”

You’re grateful he still thinks that way. Getting him to talk about Raccoon is harder than pulling teeth, but this—your partnership, whether that be as cops in an imaginary second life, or as husband and wife—never fails to pry him right open.

You’d been asked before if it was frustrating, how your paths had split after the city had blown. The two of you had come from the same spot and endured the same things, but where Leon had soared up, you’d kept to what you knew. No part of you envied him for it. In his mind, the two of you were still the same unit you’d been then, endlessly loyal to one another. You watched Leon’s back and—clearly, he watched yours.

“You’re my favorite,” you tell him, sweetly petting his chin. “I’m gonna fucking destroy you at our Nerf duel when I get home.”

All the buttery tenderness wipes from his face, and in an instant he’s on his feet, clapping a scarred hand down onto your shoulder and bending to whisper fiercely in your ear. “I’d like to see you try.”

He smushes a kiss to your cheek, waves a friendly, “See ya,” and melts back into the current of the rowdy bullpen. You hate to see him leave, but by god, you love to watch him go.

A few seconds after Leon says his goodbye, Giana, your rookie, peers around the open door of the break room. Her patchy blush goes all the way down to her uniform collar. “...Nevermind. I can definitely picture you married, Detective Kennedy…”

Ask to be added to my Leon taglist!

#leon kennedy drabble #leon kennedy/reader #leon kennedy x reader #uncouthre #leon kennedy #resident evil #user uncouth

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uncouth-the-fifth · 1 month

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good morning, charlie - Leon Kennedy/Reader

read it on Ao3.

Pairing: Agent!Leon/Detective!Wife!Reader Tags: domestic fluff with the tiniest dustings of background angst, married life, hugging, kissing, and snuggling. Words: 3k (yes, I'm capable of keeping something this short) Notes: read this in a WWE announcer voice: THAT'S RIGHT! UNCOUTH HAS COME CRASHING BACK INTO THE RING AFTER YET ANOTHER MONTHS-LONG HIATUS. i'm magical, truly. here is the first Leon fic I promised last month! There's so much I want to say about this little drabble, but I'll save that for my curious ppl on Ao3. this is going to be a big 180 from my spn content, and I sincerely hope that's okay with the public 😭 for my RE people: enjoy domestic Leon bullshit!

At two in the morning, Washington D.C. is pouring everything it has into crafting the coziest atmosphere of all time. A pleasant window-tapping storm had rolled in right around when you resolved to stay up working. Some late-night radio host is making soft, fizzing chatter in the next room, and coupled with a stellar view of the city from fancy floor-to-ceiling windows, you have a prime opportunity to pass the fuck out.

Unfortunately, you have made some spectacular life choices that don’t mix well with a full night’s rest. Nope, no sleep for you. Despite all of fate’s attempts to stop you from being a cop, (including throwing a city-wide outbreak at you on your first day), you are still here, gripping your job with both hands. At two in the damn morning.

Since scrubbing your eyes hadn’t woken you up the first five times you tried it, you give it another shot as you pace the length of your living room rug—from the coffee table you’ve stacked with files, then back to the whiteboard pasted top-to-bottom with pictures of missing young women. The whiteboard had been Leon’s idea. After the fourth time you’d transformed a flattened cardboard box into a morbid case-board for work, he’d cajoled you into letting him buy one for the apartment.

But I won’t be able to stab the tacks into it, you’d pouted.

Oh, the agony, your husband had drawled. He was a master of delivering a good, dry look.

You’d propped your fists on your hips and tried your best to look serious. The red yarn connecting everything isn’t just a detective-movie thing, y’know! It’s actually really useful. And I need my tacks to stick the yarn in—

Leon had cut cleanly through your building sass with another look, this time one glimmering with humor. Then I’ll get you magnetic ones, detective. Don’t you use whiteboards at the precinct anyway?

You’d grumbled. Because, yes, you did use whiteboards at the station, and they did have the little tacks with the magnets on the bottom. But you’d refused to deal with Leon being all smug (he was unbearable pretty when he was right), and had teased back instead, Whatever, nerd. Why don’t you and the other two angels go call Charlie already?

The reference had gone clean over Leon’s head. Of course, he hated being left out of a joke, so he’d roped you over by your wrist and pinched an explanation out of you until you were squealing with giggles.

Summarizing Charlie’s Angels to Leon had been a lot like offering a paper rocketship to an aerospace engineer. But, hey, picturing him running around in skimpy outfits and escaping action movie explosions on a motorcycle is a whole lot more fun than… than the real deal.

You don’t want to think about what his missions are really like. Not that you’re even allowed to know in the first place. Being Leon’s wife permits you a government-issued phone with his handler’s number, and on antsy days you can push Ingrid for details if you want. But after so long you’ve learned it only hurts both of you—for her, in the inability to answer, and for you, in the excruciating pain of being unable to know. Where is he? That’s classified.

She can’t always tell you when he’s coming home, either. So much of your life is hinged on her check-ins, and even more is forced to live off a simple, He’s okay.

For the seventh time, you scrub at your tired eyes and suck in a deep breath. You’d gotten that fabled text from Hunnigan—he’s okay—earlier today, and like always you crawled through the rest of your shift roiling with anticipation, waiting for Leon to materialize back into your life.

You force your gaze back to the whiteboard, littered with notes and pictures hung up with magnetic tacks. The faces of five missing women bore back. The ten-ton weight of your caseload slams down in full, and again, you scold yourself for floating back into comforting memories of your husband. These girls have lost all comfort in the world since they were taken. Your Captain gave you the responsibility of finding them, and after all you’ve been through, after all the other cases you’ve closed, there can’t be any room for failure. Think.

Your legs ache from being on your feet all day, chasing leads, but dropping into Leon’s armchair for even an instant will just have you nodding off again. More pacing it is, then. This is your pattern for the next half-hour: pace, re-read witness statements, turn, sip your coffee, pace, cross-reference alibis. He’s okay. Two of the girls were taken from Queen’s Chapel, two from Takoma, one from Woodridge. He’s fine. The last victim breaks the profile. What’s different about her? Why take her? Think think think— You know what Leon would do. He was the kind of person you could put in front of a problem, and no matter what he would find a way to shoulder his way through. With physical force, sure, but mental force too. He would sit and just look at the puzzle, and sheer willpower would lead him to some kind of answer. But you’d been pushing and pushing for days now, pursuing every lead, pressing every witness, yet nothing will give. The whole thing feels like a punching bag you’re beating at over and over again, knuckles raw and bloody—

Keys rattle just outside the front door.

First the big deadbolt scrapes open, unlatching with a heavy thud, and that sound alone is enough to shock you awake. More than any coffee could. Then comes the doorknob. Leon hasn’t even turned his key before you’ve twisted the lock open, yanked the door out of your way, and sent it whipping into the jamb with his keyring still swinging from its slot. You give him one full blink to register that it’s you before you’re throwing yourself on him without a single lick of shame, legs and all.

Of course, Leon bears your weight with grace. He grunts out an oof! when you come in for landing, and the living, breathing sound drains into one gruff laugh. You’re scooped up under the thighs and teddy bear squeezed against him. He reeks of cheap motel soap and something faintly coppery—then mint, a whole world of plush, wet spearmint when he nudges your face up with his nose and lays a hello kiss on you. The taste of his gum and the scratch of his stubble on your chin make your skin feel like it’s fizzing, inside-burning-out, every inch of you stood on end by his static charge. Jesus, this guy. He feels like fucking magic, and you’re confident that the laws of physics don’t quite apply around him. Everything in the room, in the too-big apartment that’s painfully empty without him in it, tilts toward Leon.

You shove your face nose-first into his neck and clutch the back of his jacket in both fists. Swallowing hard, you manage, “Hey, angel.”

“Good morning, Charlie,” Leon says.

If you had any resolve for today left in you at all, the wash of his sizzling butter voice would squash the last of it. You’d been trying to be sweet, but your husband has to be funny about fucking everything, of course. Even after weeks spent apart. You love him so fucking much.

“Don’t tell me you found time to watch that stupid movie.” Your voice is muffled by his coat, and you’re grateful for an excuse to hide.

You’re moving. Leon carries you inside, his wedding band pressing into your leg and his other big, warm hand spooned around your back. “Boring plane ride. I wanted to get your jokes.”

Your front door is toed shut, and with all the efficient maneuvering of a proper agent, Leon gets the place locked up behind you. Somewhere in all the commotion he’d dropped his go-bag by the welcome mat, and you hear the dramatic thunk, thunk, of his fancy work loafers being kicked off beside it. Only then does he slip you onto your own feet again.

Your hands slide down his arms as you make contact with the floor. Somewhere in the back of your mind you’re aware that he’s damp from the rain, but that fact hangs in the little alternate universe he’s made in your front hall. Standing there and being able to look at him straight-on, Leon doesn’t feel real. It’s like your constant thoughts of him have manifested a ghost in his shape, mimicking the smiley rookie you remember.

He greets you with a quiet, beaten-down smile, and you understand immediately that the world has thrown its fair share of punches at him, too. You’ve both had a shit week. The Kennedy surname just brims with good luck, huh?

Your hands work on autopilot as you take him in, slipping under the fabric of his jacket and lingering over his thudding heart. His warm blue gaze swims over your face, and you can almost hear the clicking mechanisms in his head as he forces himself out of operative mode and into home mode by looking at you.

“It’s a really bad movie,” you say, choked up.

Leon’s jacket hits the floor with his shoes. There’s a swath of ugly, purpling bruises crawling up his bare arm, old enough to be greening at the edges, and your stomach churns when you see it.

He taps your chin up, pulling you away from the damage and back on him. His voice rolls over you like bourbon in a glass. “Absolutely. So-bad-it’s-good, even. We should watch it, make fun of it together. Like, why the hell does…”

Leon flawlessly falls into an analysis of the movie’s poorly-written espionage elements. The movie you made one offhand joke about several weeks ago, mind you. He’s pulling at straws, saying whatever the hell comes to mind to make you laugh, so exhausted he’s literally swaying on his feet. You can’t believe he’s trying to distract you with something so trivial, but this is your husband. One flash of that weary closed-mouth smile, one brush of those callused hands down your wrists, and your whole world resumes its orbit around him.

You laugh at the jokes he’s obviously crafted for your benefit, a weak chuckle your heart isn’t in. With his hands looped around your wrists, he guides your arms around his neck and welcomes you back into the toasty bubble of his touch. Leon’s even warmer from being tucked underneath his coat. Pure goodness and safety glows off him like a fucking nuclear reactor, and it dawns on you that you haven’t felt safe at all since he left. Anyone can be plucked off the streets here.

One more scratchy kiss and then he’s leading you deeper into your apartment. No one on Earth would believe that he’s a chatty guy, but he talks the whole way through. Too often he’s left to sit in his own mind on missions, and you’re treated to two week’s worth of his backlog in the next ten minutes. All the little things he wanted to say to you. The streams of smart-mouth commentary he was famous for at the academy are all inner monologue now, but you’re confident the Leon radio show still runs twenty four hours a day. He chatters so much in his head that it slips out of him like water sometimes—

“…that close to an explosion would disintegrate you, but fuck physics I guess—“ Leon interrupts his own flow of thought to squint at you. “Quit looking at me like that. It’s unfair how pretty you are when you’re tired. What was I—not like the laws of physics apply to that movie anyway, but…”

—and you’re stupidly charmed by it. He talks to comfort himself, and because the two of you are one unit, one person to him, he does the same for you.

With your hand tethered in his, he clicks off the radio in the kitchen. One of Leon’s side-stories replaces the random late-night station that’d been playing, floating over the din of the rain like bass over relaxing drums. He pours out the dregs of your coffee. He closes the files full of gruesome crime scene photos on your coffee table, and you watch, barely able to keep your head up, as he flips your whiteboard over to its blank side. You’ll get his second opinion on the case tomorrow.

Leon sweeps the place with you in tow, and once the security system’s armed and you’re almost sagging against him, the lights come off. Though you’ve had plenty of time to adjust to the Leon that returned home from training, you’ll never get used to the little alien ticks it’s given him. He navigates to your bedroom in complete blackness. He avoids the creaky floorboard just outside your door without seeing, deathly silent. The broad presence of him looms in the dark.

One wall of the bedroom is nothing but paneled glass, throwing a long square of dark blue moonlight over your rumpled comforter. While the view of the Potomac and Capital Hill is stellar from up here, you’ve always felt out of place among the things Leon’s generous salary has earned the two of you: a flat with a private elevator in the nice part of town, fresh-off-the-press sports cars, a getaway cabin up north. So much of it you end up enjoying by yourself. It only ever feels worth it when he’s here, smacking his elbow into the digital wall-panel that controls your A/C.

“—s’ supposed to be a touch screen,” he sidebars himself for the tenth time. Softer, Leon adds, “Brush your teeth. I’ll be right there.”

You rope your arms around his middle and press your face into the heart of his back, careful of the bruises he’s doing his best to hide. “Wanna wait for you.”

Leon doesn’t protest. There’s more little beeps as he screws with the temperature of your mattress or something, deciding, “We live in a damn spaceship. Are we too good for plain old-fashioned buttons now?”

Apparently you are, since old man Leon fails to figure out how to crank the heat up. You let him play with it for a little while longer (it’s not his fault he’s rarely home), and then intervene with a few quick taps when things get dire. The heater hums to life under the floor a beat later, and he turns in your grip to scoff, mystified by your vast and incredible knowledge.

“My smart girl,” he hums.

Just that is enough to chip off a piece of your strength. Had he said that to you over the phone, a million miles away in god-knows-where, your knees would buckle. He is the only one who talks to you like that—with so much simple, uncomplicated love. Too tired to put your thoughts into words, you flatten a hand over his heart and kiss the sun-freckled nape of his neck.

“Clingy,” Leon mutters. You’re pretty sure it’s supposed to sound dry and funny, another one of his jokes. But then he’s smoothing both of his palms down your arms in two long handsy swaths, and the gesture tells you everything about just how clingy he’s feeling, too.

His stories make getting ready for bed an even slower affair. You couldn’t mind if you wanted to. As you help him out of his starchy dress-shirt button by button, he surprises you with a rare explanation of where he’s been for the last weeks. The UK. Truly, your husband is the special secret agent to end all special secret agents: he talks around his job as if it was a bump he’d hit on the way home, entertaining you instead with his Leon-ified vision of London. Touristy as shit. Loud as shit. Smelled like shit.

“Just like DC,” he chuckles, and then a second time when your fluffy head pops through the collar of the sleep shirt he’s dressing you in.

It’s too much rough, cinnamon spice laughter for one woman to stand. You duck away to brush your teeth and groan into your palms like a schoolgirl over him, but sure enough, Leon trails you, fingers chasing the hem of your shirt (his shirt) in a sleepy daze. He always keeps you in view. Nervous, maybe, to have you out of his sight.

This tradition continues when the two of you crawl into bed. Your eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and so has your body, able to sense him on the stupidly expensive mattress beside you. He thinks you can’t tell, but his gaze roves over you again and again—down your back when you flop face-first into the plush bedding, over the slope of your shoulder when you wiggle under the covers. Leon draws you into the glorious halo of his body heat with a gentle hand on your belly. If you could bottle this feeling, the whole world would be sick and stupid for him in hours. Minutes even.

You feel so safe that the word doesn’t even come to mind. Just vague, peaceful shapes of things you know, home, sleep, cologne, cozy. His work-rough palm with his body-warm wedding band slips under your tee to sweep over your ribs. Then comes Leon’s face, just on the right side of stubbly as he shoves it between your shoulder blades without a single lick of shame. The breath he takes of you is so heavy that his whole frame shudders with it, top to bottom.

You remember how you’d burrowed into his jacket the second he got home and think, You are me and I am you. We’re always on the same page.

With that, the stage is set. DC’s faraway glittering cityscape lights up all the raindrops on your window, and you watch them run as the two of you melt into one another. Leon’s warm breaths slow across your neck. Time for you to deliver your line.

You wet your lips and murmur into your pillow, “Do you want to talk about your mission?”

Legally, he can’t say yes. Government secrets, bureaucracy, yadda yadda. Leon isn’t always emotionally ready to crack open a coffin he’s just finished sealing, either, but while it is his job to close your case files for the night, you’re his wife. You’re the only person who can knock on that door. With how little choice he has left in his life, you try to give him options whenever you can. Regardless, you know the man you married—strong-willed on a mythical fucking level, and just as self-sacrificing. He’ll always try to spare you.

Sure enough, Leon says, “Tomorrow. Do you want to talk about your case?”

You shake your head at him, exhausted to the point of dizziness. “Tomorrow.”

A tender kiss is pressed to the nape of your neck, and the whole world goes silent for the perfect, husky whisper you’ve ached to hear. You feel his wry smile against your skin. “We’re always on the same page, baby.”

#leon s kennedy #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy/reader #resident evil #resident evil four #re4 remake #leon kennedy drabble #uncouthre

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uncouth-the-fifth · 1 month

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last child - Leon Kennedy/Reader

read it on Ao3.

Pairing: Agent!Leon/Detective!Wife!Reader Tags: more domestic fluff with leon, a touch of angst over leon's scars, passing mentions of drinking, leon being a fucking cheeseball, leon's obscenely handsome back. Words: ~3k Notes: hiiiiii. thank you all so much for you kind comments on the first drabble in this lil collection, i have never felt so inspired!! thus, here's more romantic bullshit with the guy. i'm thinking these will all exist within the same vague universe with detective!reader and husband!leon, especially because you guys gave me some very interesting ideas for him. this drabble in particular was inspired by emrurow, who suggested: "leon def has a whole package of scars from his missions and just imagine this scene where the reader is like gently caressing them and kissing them and its just so fluffly and sweet and vulnerable at the same time.........aghhhh." AGREED. now combine that with my strange urge to hose this bitch down with sunscreen. i hope you like the direction i took for this! enjoy <3

“Vacation” is a funny word in the Kennedy world.

When your work-buddies at the precinct bring up their vacations, it’s always a trip with the kids that’s months in the making, or summer getaways with the missus they’ve requested time off for. Always in the States and always planned ahead. The big joke in the bullpen is that the officer with the most cases closed this year will win a dazzling trip to Greece—but Leon has been to Greece, and he claims it’s pretty boring.

You think you’d find Greece pretty boring, too, if you spent the whole time there crawling around in the mud and hiding under enemy tanks.

So, no Greece for you. Vacations in the Kennedy world look more like this: Leon is cleared to go home, he somehow gets hold of your ever-shifting work schedule, becomes possessed with the urge to throw himself at the closest idea of “relaxing,” and springs it on you as a very romantic surprise. No elaborate itineraries. No plan. Just whatever consensus the two of you come to in the car, partners-in-crime escaping into the wind.

“So… Vegas?” You joke, slipping your key into the ignition of Leon’s precious Lamborghini Miura. So precious to him, in fact, that he avoids driving it at every opportunity.

The second he sags down into the passenger’s seat, your husband spams the recline button until he’s near-horizontal. The hand not cradling an ice pack over his nasty black eye curls loose around your elbow.

He scoffs, winking open his good eye at you. “With my luck?”

“Ooh, right. Bad idea then.”

Yeah. His track record with cars alone was impressive—he’d busted open two in the first year you’d been married, and you’ve been chauffeuring him ever since. Somehow, you don’t think Leon and casinos would mix.

You can’t resist the urge to pet his poor knuckles. These, too, were banged up. After a beat of the two of you filing through all of your available escape plans, you break the pensive bubble in the car by sweetly kissing his bruise-mottled hand. “Mwah. Where do you want to be right now, baby? Let me take you there.”

Leon’s head had lolled to face yours, and for the millionth time since Racoon you’re struck by how bone-tired he always seems. He rasps with a tasteful touch of patheticness, “I want a cold beer and I wanna be outside. Wanna see you in a swimsuit, too.”

As straight-forward as a chainsaw, this guy. Hm. Your brows flick up at the picture he paints for you, and you lean right up to his face so Leon can see how unimpressed you are. “Do you want a sandwich, too, Mr. Kennedy? Maybe some—”

You go quiet even before Leon lays a kiss on you. It’s his hand that does it, long-fingered and twisted with damage, guiding you closer with enough painful tenderness to make a mote of sand feel special. Uhm. What had you been saying? You’d been talking, but… The touch wasn’t a little tap for you to tilt your head up, no—it’s just on the right side of needy, the heavy pads of his fingertips dimpling your jaw so he can pull you down to kiss him. Happiness tastes like spearmint gum.

You part with a soft wet sound. Leon licks his lip and smiles, “No. Just wanna be with you.”

Well, the best place to be with him that involved cold beer, the grand outdoors, and one of your swimsuits was the lakehouse he owned up in Philly. The fact that he agreed to go there was truly a testament to how desperate he was to relax. The lakehouse wasn’t like his Lamborghini, your Prada sandals, or the boat bobbing in the marina back in DC—it was a family heirloom. One last relic of the old Kennedy money he never talked about. The most Leon had ever said about his inheritance was that it was “dirty,” and you don’t think he meant in the messy way.

Your husband’s secretive past aside, the memories you’d made here together were sun-warm and golden. If you were looking to make some extra money on the side, you think you’d offer up the place to the film crew of some wholesome coming-of-age movie. It was stupidly gorgeous. On a sunny afternoon like this one, the water was one horizon-wide mirror, making the whole day twice as sky-blue and shimmering. A pine-y breeze cooled the drying water on your back and fluttered through the heavy, low-slung trees reaching for passing paddle-boats. Hanging over the whole thing was Leon’s personal slice of the Appalachian mountains. He never said much about the house itself, but his childhood hiking the trails was free game.

Leon has a knack for escaping. He’s not nearly as good at vacationing. Lucky for him, you wrote the goddamn manual.

Your husband lays his chin on his folded arms and peers at you over his shoulder. “Like this?”

From where you’re standing rooted to the weathered wood of your jetty, Leon is a fucking vision. He lays out in the sun on his belly, lazy tomcat limbs loose and pliant on the dock. All you can make out of his face is the white, knife-straight scar on his chin, hidden by a feathery curtain of angel blonde hair. Even the tacky palm tree beach towel he’s laying on suits him.

…It takes you a second to answer, cause, yeah. Yes. That’s… wow. Holy shit.

“...Dear?”

How can one word gush with so much smugness? Hoo, boy. He was a baby, honey, sweetheart guy. Not dear. For that, you slip off one of your foam flip-flops to smack him or something—but, of course, Leon swats it aside without looking.

The innocent little shoe almost goes spiraling into the water lapping at the dock, but bumps into your cooler instead. A fishing boat just a few leagues out has arena rock radio on full blast. One of Leon’s hands taps out the drums for Hot for Teacher.

“Shut up.” You puff a strand of hair out of your face. “Is that really how you’re gonna talk to the person single-handedly saving you from sun-damage?”

“Haven’t saved me yet,” he gives a pointed wiggle of his poor, sunscreen-less shoulders.

As rebellious as you’re feeling, you do as told. He’s impossible to resist like this. Well, he’s upsettingly dreamy in any situation, but he’s at his worst when he’s all lazy and languid for you after too long apart.

“Let’s fix that,” you say, and uncap your tube of SPF 50.

Leon’s face drops back into his folded arms. You pad around his body on the towel, careful not to step on him as you take your usual seat on the small of his back. It’s then that the gravity of your task hits you. Why the fuck are his elbows attractive?

Bigger question: how are you going to survive the next fifteen minutes? It had been you in the skincare aisle this morning. Hell, your hand had gone for the lotion sunscreen over the spray sunscreen for a reason. In that moment, you knew how your decision would butterfly into the future, and that no matter what you would always end up here, staring down the gorgeous swath of Leon’s bare back. Un-sunscreened. Needing you to touch him. Ugh.

“My eyes are up here,” Leon remarks at your silence.

Your other flip-flop dings off his shoulder with a satisfying bounce.

“...I let that happen.”

You don’t doubt that he did, but it feels good to tease him.

Burdened by the consequences of your actions, you slump forwards on top of him. He’s dinged up even back here, and there are strange, yellowing bruises patching around his shoulder-blades that you stoop to kiss. You understand why he only has the energy to lay flat on a towel like a fish. It looks painful, and not for the first time in your life you’re overwhelmed by the need to take care of him.

…He has single-handedly set feminism back at least thirty years.

Well. Dammit. You glare down at your husband’s stupid, beautiful back muscles. “I do this because I love you very much. Not because I feel obligated to as your wife, or cause’ of any societal expectations. Just because of you.”

Leon, still running on a dead battery, gives you a confident salute. You imagine eagles cawing overhead. “Yes, ma’am.”

Another loss for feminism: that gets a big, giddy laugh out of you. Maybe you just missed him, but his sleepy jokes are hitting the mark even more than usual. You’re still peeling with giggles as you drop a big dollop of sunscreen into your hand, and they don’t die down until you’ve spread it between your palms and begun to spread it out over his shoulders.

The tips of his ears have gone red. He warmly mutters, “Love that sound.”

Since it’s not every day that you get to indulge in your husband’s back, you take your time. He lets out a long breath when the cold cream meets his sun-warm skin, and in that one sound you hear weeks of pent-up tension already melting away. Leon has always seemed unstoppable to you. Even in his wiry rookie days, when you never would’ve called him wiry at all, he felt like he could plow through anything on a wave of willpower and spite. Now, that relentlessness has become physical. He’s plump with muscle all over. His back especially, so much of his weight as taut and ready-to-go as a bull on the charge.

Or, in less words: he’s built like a brick shithouse.

But he is still, at his core, the not-wiry-yet-wiry rookie you loved. When you accidentally press into a new bruise, he makes a soft wincing sound through his teeth.

“Sorry, baby,” you utter.

From then on, your touches go feather-light. You fan your palms down his slim waist and make sure his freckly shoulders get good coverage. For a while, the thoughts in your mind go somewhere far away and shapeless, focussed only on the task at hand. But the sunscreen makes his skin so shiny that all the little details catch more highlights than usual, and you realize, with a rising sense of discomfort, that all the things you aren’t allowed to know about him are laid out in front of you. There are loads of scars on your husband’s back that you don’t even recognise anymore.

The old ones are the ones you know. Most of them are nothing more than thin, pale discolorations now, just distinct enough to make out from memory. In a fucked up way, it’s fascinating: there is a sad old scar on the back of your hand from Raccoon, and when it passes over a similar jagged cut on Leon’s ribs, the two have aged together. But while you’ve gained only a few odd scrapes or dings being a detective in DC, Leon’s body is a whole new story.

They are not the neat, decorational scars an artist might accessorize a figure with. It’s all ugly, in inconvenient places that layer over one another, quick swipes, deep gouges, shallow bullet wounds, shredded lacerations, and more you don’t even have words for. Your heart plummets into your gut. You’ve seen these scars on him when they were still fresh bandages, but it only dawns on you now, stepping back to look at the full picture, just how many he has.

You swallow hard. “I’m so glad you’re home. Did I tell you that?”

Leon hums a yes, but it’s a dragged out, suspicious sound. He’s quick to sus you out. Nobody in the world can read you better.

You’re shooed off his back with a hand, and when he lumbers off his belly to sit up and face you, the sliver of black-eye you catch underneath his ice pack cuts you deep. He hasn’t opened his free arm for a whole second before you’re darting underneath it, his body tacky with sunscreen where it melds with yours. Your finger swirls around the oldest bullet-scar on his arm.

Leon takes a slow pull from his beer, squishing your face a little where it’s tucked against his shoulder. The bottle taps against the dock. Tink. Always, always, he has to joke with you first. “You’re making your worried face. Stop thinking.”

Your voice is muffled by his shoulder. “You can’t even see my worried face.”

“Then you’re making your worried silence.” Disappointed, he asks, “Where’d all your giggles go?”

The reply that your mind loads up for him is an unfiltered, pained, I hate that you’ve been in so much pain. But telling him that would only be stating the obvious, and in the grand scheme of his mission and his self-bound duty to protecting other people, (never himself, never ever himself), it feels like a stupid thing to say.

You’re not sure what to say. Instead, you drag your finger down a raised pink scar on the back of his arm, laid neatly with connective tissue like rows of embroidery. “...What’s this from?”

Leon has to check to know which one you’re talking about. Squinting at his arm, he plucks through his memory before guessing, “Pulled a girl out of a fire.”

That is exactly what you figured he’d say. Sure, he’ll chatter your ear off about Aerosmith and Italian cooking to no end, but the second you even blink in the direction of his work, the chatter dries up. All that’s missing is the smart-mouthed segue—

Leon pulls a smug face. “She’s a virologist now.”

“Ashley isn’t graduating until next year,” you roll your eyes.

That earns you a one-arm shrug. He’s still glimmering with pride. “She’ll be a virologist in a year, then.”

It’s never what gave him the scar that he remembers—it’s why he got it, what cause he took it for, that he never forgets.

The arm wrapped slung around your waist goes for his beer again, and this time Leon squishes you extra while he takes his sip. When that doesn’t succeed in sparking another laugh from you, he drops all pretense and resorts to tickling you, pinching your side and keeping you fished against him when you shriek and squirm away.

“Leon!”

“What!” He groans. “I’m trying to have a little R&R and you’re brooding. Enough.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” you scoff—and then scream in outrage, because Leon decides he’s had enough of you and attempts to push you off the dock.

The only reason you don’t go sploshing into the drink is because you get a good hold on him first, and if you go down, then so would he. Between all that playful wrestling and shouting, Leon tugs you into an insistent kiss. And because this is him, the center of all good things in your world, you come out of it warm-faced and giggling again, your cheeks aching with a bright grin. He never fails to make you laugh.

You slump back on the beach towel, still twitching with little laughs. Just to win some of your dignity back, you reach past him and steal a long sip from his beer, shaking your head at him the whole time. It washes down your throat bubbly and wonderfully cold. “So mean.”

“C’mere,” Leon pats the space next to him. And knowing precisely what he’s doing, he hits you with one of the closed-mouth smiles you never see and assuages all of your worries with one, “My sweet girl.”

Hook, line, and sinker. You join him on the end of the dock, (weary of any mischievous hands that might shove you in), feet dangling over the edge and dipping into the pleasant, swaying waters. The breeze on your wet skin is almost too chilly, so Leon’s sun-warm body spooning up behind yours is the ultimate balm. You bask in your personal space heater for as long as he’ll let you, and he presses lazy kisses to your shoulder as you squeeze him close.

There’s a long, scraggly white line snaking up his wrist. You outline it with a finger. This is one of the ones you were there for, back in Raccoon—Leon took a bad hit for you, pushing you ahead of him so you could get to safety first. You’re curious to see what he’ll say.

You tap the scar. “What about this one?”

Leon doesn’t have to look to know which one you’re talking about, this time. His nose nudges behind your ear, and your body thumbs head to toe with the rumble of his voice, a single harp’s chord plucked by an expert player. “Keeping my world safe.”

Oh my god.

A huge, impish grin blooms on your face. “...You are such a fucking cheeseball.”

Leon pushes you clean off his lap and straight into the lake.

#uncouthre #leon kennedy #leon kennedy drabble #leon #leon kennedy/reader #leon s kennedy

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