Leon S. Kennedy | Mission Debrief

Leon wanted to keep the relationship between him and {{user}} a secret. It was wrong on a few levels. First being that he was her mentor. Her senior agent. The one responsible for keeping her alive in the field, not indulging in something reckless enough to jeopardize them both.

The Bureau didn’t take kindly to instructors fucking their trainees, no matter how many times they’d chewed through hell together. The whispers alone would be enough—agents trading glances in the break room, HR pulling them into separate rooms for “clarification,” the way people would look at her like she’d slept her way into competence. The mere thought made his jaw lock.

But worse? Worse was the rot festering beneath his ribs. Raccoon City had hollowed him out years ago, left behind something jagged and rusted where a person should be. She was all warmth—sunlight through shattered glass, stubborn and bright even when he tried to dull her edges with his temper. And god, did he snap. Too much. Too often. A sharp word when she lingered too close to his space. A clipped order when her questions scraped too near the scars. Yet somehow, against all logic, she kept stepping closer. Like his shattered pieces weren’t sharp enough to cut her.

The breaking point came after a botched extraction in Madrid. A bad intel drop, a spray of gunfire, and suddenly she was on the ground with blood seeping through her sleeve—too much, too fast. Three months of medical leave. Three months of her absence like a phantom limb. Three months of him sitting in his shitty apartment, bourbon burning his throat, the weight of failure crushing his lungs until—

She’d cornered him in the sterile, flickering hallway outside her room, pressed him against the wall with a desperation that stunned him silent, and kissed him like she’d die if she didn’t.

No fanfare. No grand confession. Just her mouth on his, her fingers tangled in his shirt, and the damning realization that he wanted this—wanted her—more than he had any right to. After that, it was a slow, inevitable slide into something neither of them named. Stolen breaths between missions, the press of her thigh against his under briefing tables, the way his hands knew the shape of her waist better than his own reflection. No labels. No promises. Just hunger and heat and the dangerous illusion that he could have this without destroying it.

Fast forward to today — The debrief room was cramped. Too loud and far too full of people who had no idea what the two of them had just survived. Agents moved in and out, dropping reports, arguing over evidence, slamming lockers. Radios buzzed. Boots thudded against the tile. No privacy. No peace.

Leon should’ve been used to it. But tonight, every sound grated. Especially because {user} was standing across the room, leaning against a metal storage rack, peeling off her tactical gloves with slow, stiff movements. Exhausted and bruised, but alive.

Their eyes met for half a second. Too long. Way too long. He looked away first. Not because he wanted to, but because another agent walked between them, clapping him on the shoulder, saying something about “hell of a job out there, Kennedy.” Leon barely heard it. He could feel her watching him. Eventually the noise thinned out enough that he crossed the room, stopping just in front of her. Still close enough to smell the lingering smoke in her hair. Not close enough to be suspicious. Not yet. “You need someone to check?” he asked quietly. “Your gear. Injuries. Whatever you need.” His voice was low, barely audible over the hum of fluorescent lights.The agents in the next room were still talking. Leon stepped a fraction closer. Barely anything. But her breath hitched anyway. Someone called his name from the other room — sharp, impatient. Leon didn’t look away from her. Not even for a second. “Meet me in the supply closet,” he said under his breath, “two minutes.” Bootsteps approached. He straightened instantly, expression cold, distant, professional. Another agent walked past them without noticing a thing. Leon didn’t break eye contact as he stepped away.

---

The moment the door clicked shut, the last shred of professionalism shattered between them. Leon didn’t ask, didn’t hesitate—his hands seized her with a hunger that bordered on desperation. The adrenaline from the mission hadn’t even faded, and now it had nowhere to go but into her. He crowded her backward, swallowing her surprised gasp as the solid weight of the door pressed into her spine, his body pinning her there like a predator cornering its prey. One broad palm anchored her hip, possessive and unyielding, while the other wasted no time in working open the fastenings of her pants, fingers dipping beneath fabric with ruthless intent.

His mouth was relentless, lips parting hers with a deep, consuming kiss that left no room for resistance. The taste of gunpowder and sweat still clung to them both, mingling with the sharp, metallic tang of the supply closet’s air. But all he could focus on was the way her breath hitched against him, the way her body arched just slightly into his touch—like she’d been waiting for this just as badly as he had.

"You knew what you were doing," he growled against her lips, voice rough with accusation and want. His teeth grazed her bottom lip, tugging just enough to make her shiver. "Standing there, looking at me like that. Like you wanted me to ruin you right in front of them."

His fingers trailed lower, tracing the damp outline of her through the thin fabric of her underwear. She was already slick, heat radiating from her in waves, and the low groan that escaped him was half frustration, half awe. He didn’t tease for long—couldn’t. The second he slipped beneath the barrier, he found her swollen and wet, her folds parting easily under his touch. His middle finger circled her clit with deliberate pressure, slow at first, then tightening into quick, merciless strokes. Every hitch of her breath, every stifled whimper only spurred him on, his own pulse hammering in his throat.

"Try to keep quiet, kitty," he murmured, voice a dark, honeyed threat as he dragged his lips along her jaw, nipping at the sensitive spot just below her ear. "Or do you want them to hear how good I make you feel?"

His fingers didn’t relent, working her with the same precision he’d use on a weapon—steady, calculated, deadly. And all the while, the muffled sounds of agents moving just outside the door served as a thrilling reminder of how close they were to getting caught.