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PENANCE — leon s. kennedy x male reader

w.c: 5.1k

౨ৎ . . . warning: light bondage/restraints, fucking on a cross, argument, bottom reader, mixed praise/degradation, leons corny one-liners, impulsive reader, fingering, spit, finger sucking, oral sex, improper use of guns, “make-up” sex (kinda), standing mating press, dirty talk, sir kink, leon’s weak pull-out game, readers genitalia undisclosed, clothed sex, d/s understones, two (2) spanks, phone sex (kinda?)

The last lingering days of winter sit at the very edge of the night, the top of the inveterate day, like the ever-ticking clock resting upon the wall that inches deeper into the midnight sky with its turning. The taste of regret lingers in the air, bitter and sour and pungent, assaulting the senses of any passerby and residents.

So overpowering, in fact, it’s plagued the plagued, drew them straight to you as you ran through the dingy village. Your combat boots slipped through the mud, clingy and riddled with a thick, musty smell that clasped itself to your clothes. The air was thick with fog, an impenetrable layer of milky grays that made it almost impossible to see through, and the gun glued to your hand felt like a cold, heavy brick.

Your mission was simple enough— accompany your superior while he secured ‘Baby Eagle’, make yourself unknown.

Tread carefully.

Your knife— secured by a leather scabbard wrapped around the swell of your thigh— remained cold and sharp. You thought there’d be no use for it— no close encounters.

Tread carefully.

You’d managed to run through the heart of the village, conjuring up quite the mob, full of pitchforks and flames, full of ashes and debris that danced in the air. It burned your lungs more than the running, lit the charcoal fire in the pit of your stomach as you ran until you couldn’t anymore— and your partner was out of sight.

Tread carefully.

Leon told you to stick beside him. Follow closely behind and he’d cover you, as long as you covered him. But you just couldn’t help yourself— the blood rushing through your veins and your heart pumping in your ears— you panicked. You ran. Stupidly, selfishly, you ran. You’d broken the dam and left Leon to pick up the pieces.

The last thing you’d heard before slamming the mass of your body into a wooden door was the gruff scream of your name, Leon, who you knew was more than capable of making it out just fine. That wasn’t the issue, no— it was your recklessness, your brief disregard for his advisory or guiding hand— it was your impulsiveness to run straight into danger.

He’d specifically told you not to on the way there. Stick by his side and you’d be okay— not that you’re incapable—just inexperienced. No strays— none of the sort. No catching any, no following any, no becoming any.

So now you have to pay for your mistakes.

You’re sprawled on the cross like a two-page spread, skin sheen and wet with what you assume is sweat— and dirt sticks to the slickness of your forehead. The pitter patter of rain against the poorly ventilated windowsill lingers, and the dirty glass trembles with loneliness. You can certainly attest to that, with your arms bound above your head and tied up in rusty chains. There’s no one here but you and your thoughts, your increasingly darkening veins and swimming mind.

You don’t remember who chained you up— perhaps the crafty residents of the village with much more intelligence than you’d like to admit, especially considering their predicament. But you do remember the injection of something cold and foreign. Something that absolutely should not be in your body. It doesn’t hurt, though, it’s not uncomfortable. And the wetness of the air bothers your head much more than the injection, if it’s bothering you at all.

It’s more a minor inconvenience than anything, aesthetically.

Perhaps it’s immunity, or maybe just inattentiveness. You’d have to tell Leon about it later, if you ever get to see him again.

You can’t help but think of him, his opalescent skin that travels for miles, the small quirk to his pink lips when he’s reveling in pride, the bleached-blond bundles of hair that sit perfectly atop his head. Like a crown— like a halo. The piercing blue of his eyes, cold as the arctic as he stares right through you. The deep pool of his pupils that dilate and constrict when sunlight hits them just right. . . The swell of his biceps when he crosses his arms, bulging and spilling over his closed fists. His hands, rough and scarred. Gloved and airbrushed with leather gloves that stop just before his knuckles, hiding the veins and muscles of his hands that stream down his wrists like a steady river.

It’s almost like you can hear him, the assertiveness of his voice that reverberates in your ears. Like he’s next to you again, wrapping his large hand around your wrist and maneuvering it into the right position for combat— the thickness of his voice as he notes aloud, “Keep it like this or you’ll hurt yourself.”

This whole time he’s been your keeper, steering you through the village with one hand secured around the handle of his gun and the other cradling the nape of your neck.

(“I got it.” You’d muttered, shaking off the heat of his large palm. There was something calculating in his eyes, and his long, dark eyelashes batted against the prominent curve of his cheekbone.

Your pistol rested in your hand, barely a scratch across its metal surface. You were still a bit slow at reloading, but you got the job done.

“As long as I’m here, I’m sure you do.)

You want to laugh about it now, pitifully, because the chains around your wrists are nowhere near as warm. Just as domineering, maybe, but not comforting in the slightest. It’s embarrassing to admit how often you’d thought about it— his comfort, late hours in the night filled with his voice, his hands, his touch.

Heat pools in your abdomen, swimming down your navel and spreading between your thighs. Now isn’t the time— not that you could take care of anything if you wanted to— You’ve been stripped of everything— just not in the way you want.

There’s a quiet rustle of the leaves, barely audible with the echoing pews of the church, but you hear it. That walking pattern. . . stepstep… step… stepstep’ only belongs to one person, and you feel relief pushing down your shoulders.

“Jesus...”

“Leon,” Breathy like a prayer, your hands clench into fists as you strain against the rusty chains. His figure grows, stalking forward with swaying shoulders that look broader than ever, and his nude lips are pulled tight into a snarl. His eyebrows— full and straight, pinch together with what you assume is anger, and a familiar crease forms between them. “I can explain.”

His shoulders bounce, as if he’s let out a sour chuckle, and there’s a slight shake to his head as he carries himself up the steps to free you. Quite the hero, you can’t bring yourself to stare into his eyes for too long as he scours your body for injuries. Nothing major— nothing he can’t help with, and his blue eyes settle on your face for much longer than he’d like to admit. There’s a soft haze to his furious eyes, the fire behind them dampening as his mind slowly realizes you’re alright for now.

You’re alive.

“Oh, I'm sure you can,” He quips, circling around the contraption you’re chained to. It almost feels primal, his intense gaze taking you in from every angle as he walks forward to trace his fingertips along your wrists. He’s gentle, though, feathery light as he gives an experimental tug to the metal. “And you will. So you better start talking.”

A small breath of relief escapes your freshly parted lips as it’s pulled away, and Leon doesn’t miss the indents freshly engraved into your skin. His frown deepens, but the cool leather of his fingerless gloves feel much more soothing than the chains.

You don’t mind it as much as he does.

A dagger of shame shoots through your chest, beating and writhing against the confines of your rib cage. Your tongue is tied, excuses dying in your throat as you stare at Leon’s five-fingered grip on your wrist. It’s tightening, his nails digging into your wrist ever so slightly, though you already have no chance at escape. You figure it’s meant to ground you, not hurt you.

“It’d be a lot easier if I were free,” You’re stalling, not all that uncomfortable as Leon turns his head in the direction of your face, his head tilted downward and his breath lightly fanning your neck. Warm. “…Leon? Wanna help a guy out, or…”

A characteristic clench to his jaw has the words dying on your tongue, and for some reason unbeknownst to you, he’s seething.

“Pull something like this again and those things won’t be the only ones after your head.” The warmth of his large chest against yours leaves just as it arrives, and he’s tilting his neck to really get a good look at you. Trying to get his point across, you suppose, with steely, gunmetal blue eyes. You can’t help but waver, irises stinging as you turn your attention to your bound wrists. Part of you wants to roll your eyes.

That just won’t do.

Leon sucks his teeth, gripping your jaw with restrained strength so you’re actually looking at him now, and whatever excuse you’ve created dissipates immediately. The look in his eyes—territorial, maybe?—has you at a loss for words, and all you can do is watch his pink tongue dart over his bottom lip.

Whatever he’s thinking about, you don’t like it, because he’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other with his hands on his hips. His face is pensive, but you can still feel the heat of his anger radiating off his skin. Even from a distance. “Shoot the chains or something.”

“Sure, let me accidentally graze you with a shotgun shell while I’m at it.” More bite than he’d intended, Leon loosens the straps to his body armor and lets it hit the ground with a small thud. You blink, eyelashes beating against your cheeks as you blink away surprise.

“Leon—”

“Shh, I don’t give a damn. You could’ve died. Seriously, what were you thinking?” His hair sways, violent and angry and overprotective. “Don’t go running off like that again, you understand?”

“I’m not a kid. I’m a grown man—” Irritation bubbles in your throat— did he just shush you?

“Damn right you’re not. And I’m not your father. Didn’t I tell you not to do anything stupid?”

“I had it under control.” You both know you’re lying through your teeth, but Leon wants to really drive his point home. He nods, noncommittal, snaking his arm around your waist and down the small of your back to unzip the pocket attached to your utility belt. He pulls out your gun, which remains heavy and shiny with disuse.

“Yeah? Under control with no bullets?” He aims the gun at a large mosaic of a stained window, and pulls the trigger with no hesitation. There’s nothing but a click, then resounding silence as he slowly releases the trigger, one hand secured over his knuckles while the other grips the pistol's handle.

“Lee, c’mon, we have stuff to do,” You sound whiny and borderline pathetic. You almost expect him to tell you to ‘use the magic word’, but he’s too busy pressing the pad of his thumb against your lips. His finger tastes vaguely of salt and leather, and you fight the urge to open your mouth and suck on it. “…Please.”

You’re not entirely sure what you’re begging for. The ache in your wrists feels dull and distant, and you can’t help but press the tip of your tongue against the flat underside of his thumb. You watch his pupils blow wide, pink creeping up his neck and pooling around the shells of his ears.

“Okay.” He breathes, broad shoulders melting ever so slightly as he pushes his thumb further into your mouth, taking in every curve and contour of lips as you wrap them around his thumb. It fills your mouth with ease, caressing the flat surface of your tongue with slow, circular strokes. You want more. “Yeah— okay. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand, Sir.” You try to sound more snarky and annoyed than anything, but it’s hard when you’re deepthroating another man’s finger. You sputter around his thumb, can barely form a coherent sentence with it pressing into your mouth like this— but Leon seems to catch on anyway, chuckling humorlessly to himself. Stubborn boy.

There’s a warning pat to your cheek, and suddenly you’re back in that training facility. Dimly lit and nearly empty, save for some equipment and workout machines— save for you and Leon, who kept his hands relaxed as you punched him square in the palm.

It was Leon who was told to take you in, show you the ropes, and he’d done so with a sly remark and a curt nod. It flew over your head at first, whatever he was implying, but you were slowly starting to get it now.

(“Well, looks like you’re stuck with me. Time to break in the fresh meat, then.”)

Only a few months ago, you’d been recruited into special forces, and there was something special about you. Something untapped and not yet tainted— there was still a genuine curve to your lips when you smiled, a sparkle in your eyes as you spoke. Charm was written all over your face, boyish and giddy and eager. You’d reminded Leon a bit of himself back in 1998, full of potential but laced with undeniable naivety.

And, truthfully, he liked you. Likes you, even, because of it. You remind him of who he used to be— why he’s here— to serve and protect. And if he’s being honest, he wants to protect you.

Even if it means putting you back in your place.

Breaking you in.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I understand, Sir.” You’ve lost some bass in your voice, and it comes out shaky and cracked. You don’t have time to dwell on it now, how pathetic you sound, because Leon’s expression is nothing short of prideful. Your breath hitches in your throat, stuck in your larynx as you want the blond take in a sharp breath. He likes the title.

“Atta boy.” His eyelids are blanketed, heavy as he stares down at your lips with the remnants of a lazy smile. His— your — gun is still in his hand, but with him closing the distance between the two of you, it’s pressed against your collarbone.

You can’t help it; the opportunity is right there, and you find yourself leaning forward to press your tongue flat against the slide of the pistol.

“Playing a dangerous game, pretty.” Leon rasps, but taps the barrel of the gun against your tongue anyway. It’s slick with your spit, shiny and wet and he has to resist the urge to suck on it too. To taste you. “Yeeaah, just like that. There you go.”

It’s like you’ve learned nothing.

With a low grunt, Leon pushes the gun deeper into your mouth, using his left hand to hold onto the nape of your neck and keep you still. Asshole.

Ever the brat, you furrow your brows and thrash against your restraints.

“You can take it,” He hushes you, using that voice he has reserved for hostages or targets, all gentle and sweet. It’s hushed, barely a whisper, but it makes your brain foggy anyway. You can take it. “Give me your mouth. You can do that for me, can’t you? Say ‘yes sir’.”

You try, hard as you can, whining around the barrel of the gun with tears springing in your eyes. It’s hot and heavy now, like some sort of makeshift dildo, but you know the real thing would feel better. Warmer, stickier, curved and veiny. Thick on your tongue and pulsing, salty and sweet and long.

“Jesus-fucking-Christ. Holy shit,” He’s fucking your throat, sliding the metal into your mouth as far as it can go. It’d be much better if it were his cock instead, so big and so deep, leaving a bulge as he grinds it into your mouth. You’d take it like a champ too, eager and greedy. “Breathe.”

“Sir,” You gurgle, drool running down your chin and coating your skin until Leon pulls the pistol away and inspects it.

You watch him part his lips, previously pulled into a frown, to suck along the barrel of the gun and lap up your spit. There’s remnants of mint and saliva, fresh and sour when combined with the metal of the pistol. “Shit—Leo.”

“Tastes good. Did you take my gum?” He hums, witty as ever. It’s a passing comment, one you can’t help but laugh at, and the man seems to appreciate it. Even if he doesn’t exactly say that. He doesn’t give you much time to laugh, instead opts to connect his lips with yours. Finally, you moan into his mouth, much sweeter and pliant than before. You can’t stay mad at him.

“That’s all you needed, huh. Just a few sweet words, a couple kisses… If I’d known that I would’ve done that months ago.”

Only because you’re so needy, though. Your hips buck into the air, grinding against the space between your hips as your heart slams against your chest. You want more— need more, and the ache between your thighs is enough to prove it. You whimper, high in your throat and full of frustration.

“You really like hearing yourself talk.” You can’t take yourself seriously, not like this, but you say it anyway with nothing but the intent to get fucked stupid. You don’t doubt his capabilities, not with the way Leon’s staring at you. Predatory and ready, like he expected you to say that, his large hand gripping his cock through his tightening pants. You swallow hard, sensing some kind of mistake, and manage to gulp down your pride in the process. If you were someone else you’d be scared, running away from his anger with your tail between your legs. But you’re not.

“You just can’t wait, that it? Over here humping my leg like a damn dog, and now you have something to say? What, because your little hole gets frustrated when it’s been empty for too long?”

You’re squirming within seconds, struggling to wrap your legs around the dip of his waist. Even after dropping his armor he’s wearing too many clothes, too many layers that separate your skin from his. You can’t exactly take your shirt off, not without ripping it straight down the middle, but your lower half is free rein.

“Spoiled brat,” It’s something the blond registers too, because his big hands are hastily unbuttoning your pants and tugging them down your thighs, trailing behind with the gentle scrape of his fingernails. “Remind me the only way to keep you quiet is stuffing your holes.”

He’ll be able to see you much better like this, kneeling in front of your position on the cross to really see you. The clenching of your hole, empty and needy, the trail of lube gushing from it just as he hopes to, the shiny slickness covering your inner thighs. He wants to bury his face in it, fuck you on his tongue till you’re downright ruined, fucked-out and plaint. Maybe it’s in your nature to drift off, have your brain cut off from an orgasm (or two..or three) until you’re malleable enough to listen.

Your words are stuck in your throat, choked up and wobbly as his fingers relentlessly press into that special bundle of nerves. You feel like a slut, with Leon’s fingers twisting and pounding away, his newfound grip on your thighs so tight you’re gasping, crying out and squealing. He’s still careful, applying just the right amount of strength to keep you still.

“We don’t have much time,” His breath is hot against your entrance, and it can’t help but flutter with his mouth so close. Leon’s face contorts, softening as he licks a fat, wet stripe alongside it. “Wish I could keep you on my tongue. But you won’t mind something bigger, yeah?”

There’s nothing for you to hold onto as his fingers poke and prod at your hole, rubbing smooth, slow circles around the entrance. You want to wrap your arms around him, grip his shirt like iron and stifle your moans with it— but you’re chained. Leon pauses to stick his thumb in his mouth— the same one previously pressed against your own—and brings it down to you, pushing into your hole with ease. The thought of an indirect kiss has you spreading your thighs, lifting a leg just barely above Leon’s shoulder. Maybe you’re easy— maybe a kiss is all you need. Maybe it’s just because it’s Leon.

“Damn. Feel so fucking good on my fingers, baby,” He purrs, his voice melting in your ears. “Keep it up and I’ll see if I can promote you to Special Forces’ personal fuckhole.”

His fingers are wet and thick, you’re not sure how he’d managed to lubricate them so well, maybe he kept some in those extra storage pockets of his, but whatever it is…feels good. Slick and warm, almost feels like he’s fucking a fresh load of cum into you. The thought has you mewling, hands furled into tight fists as you struggle to stay upright.

With an unending stream of pitiful noises, your mouth pools with saliva that starts to dribble from the part of your pouty lips, and you instinctively spread your legs wide. It’s far from gross, the messiness of your drool catching on your chin and trailing down your clothed chest. It’s hot— you’ve gone braindead from his fingers alone, and he’s barely even started. You’re wailing, more wet and hiccupy sobs than moans, and tears stream down your handsome face in response. It’s just too much: too big, too deep, too warm, too wet.

You can’t do anything but take in the digits, slick and warming up by the minute until they curl, deep and thick. Your eyes roll back in your head as Leon keeps an iron hold between your thighs, rubbing and rubbing at your front and—and oh, you’re so close. You’re so close it hurts, the pit of your stomach filling with light and your toes curling deliciously. You have nothing to grab at, nowhere to hold, nothing to keep you stable as you lul your head to and fro. You sound delirious, and you must look just as bad.

“Ohh, m’gonna—”

“Brace yourself,” He mumbles, gloved hands running up the back of your thighs until he’s lifting your lower body off the cross and placing your knees on his shoulders. It’s intimate, personal and close as he lets out a breathy moan in response to the perfect fit of your hips against his own. “I’ll be gentle, sweetheart. For the most part.”

The blond is still clothed, and it’s hard to gauge his reaction of your naked lower-half grinding against his pulsating erection, with his hair partly shielding his pretty face. But you can imagine it, his pink licorice-twist lips divorced and blush high on his cheeks as his precum mixes with yours, sloppy and soaking the front of his inky combat pants.

You whine, wiggling your hips and kicking out your feet like some sort of brat, a completely wordless attempt at telling him to strip. You know there’s tears streaming down your face, just when you think you’ve taken a step forward you discover you’d taken two steps back.

“You’ll take what I give you,” Like molten lava, Leon’s voice grows deeper by the second. He’s pushing your legs further forward, bending you in half until your legs burn and he’s sandwiched indubitably close. You’re glad you stretched before this, because he’s got you bent like a pretzel— like some sort of cheap whore, and there’s no escape. “Your new mission is to take it and look pretty, don’t complain now. You hear me?”

“Yeah,” You feel yourself nodding from a distance, frantic and erratic despite the strong grip he’s got on your chin. You can feel him twitching beneath you, his cock jumping in his pants as he traps you with his weight alone and unbuckles his utility belt. It drops to the floor, loud and heavy, but it’s nothing compared to the obscene sound of his cock slapping against your skin. He’s unzipped his fly— still clothed, almost like he’s emphasizing his power over you. “Yeah, I— yes, Sir.”

“Open,” It’s not a suggestion, as he’s already rutting his hips against the warmth of your skin and snaking one arm around your waist. The other goes to your mouth, wet and ready, pries it further open so your pink tongue is on display. Leon gathers a glob of spit, but rather than your mouth it reaches your cheek, wet and sticky. Leon’s aim is better than anyone you’ve ever known— so it’s deliberate. “Good boy. Use your manners.”

You swallow anyway, desperate pants obstructed as you stick your tongue out further for more. “Thank you, Sir. For— for your spit.”

Leon sinks in with a loud whine as you clench around the fat head of his dick, whining and gasping, fighting your orgasm off with everything you’ve got. There’s a slight burn— the stretch of his fat, lubed up cock nestling into your hole— but it feels good, indescribable and finally plugging you full. It’s hard to hear anything he’s saying behind the loud squelching of his cock slipping inside, that and your own sounds, but you try anyway. He’s filling you till you’re ready to burst at the seams, pressing his weight against your body so you can clamp down and take him completely, no questions asked.

“F-huck, I can’t… Please, please, you’re so,” You’re on fire, his cock curving up just right as your pillowy walls flutter around his intrusion. Right there, electricity sparks inside you and your eyes roll back with the pinch of your eyebrows. “So deep.”

“Yeah?” The blond laughs, breathless and high off the feeling of your velvety walls constricting around him— clenching so perfectly, so hot and slick with rhythmic pulses along his veiny shaft. His hand travels to press on your navel, and he can feel himself sliding in and out, in and out. “Feel it right here?”

You do. And his hand pressing against it isn’t much help, you can’t focus on anything other than his cock. Your wrists are achy, almost as much as your hole, straining against the chains that you still have yet to break from. But it makes it better, you’re open and free for Leon’s use. Just a hole—to be filled, used, fucked. And, yeah, maybe you are. Maybe you want that, being used by Leon and his strong arms, manhandled into any position he wants.

“Yeah, in my— in my stomach.” You sound so cute, sniffling on his dick with every bounce and thrust forward, occasionally thrashing against your restraints. Leon coos, right in your ear and echoing in the pews. Much like the sound of your skin slapping against his, deep and fast thrusts like he’s pounding the brat out of you.

"God, should’ve had you like this all the time, drunk on cock,” You’re twitching, pulsing and convulsing around Leon’s cock, the fabric of his combat pants rubbing against your front. “Just like that, there you go, honey. Don’t run, let me watch my pretty hole swallow this cock.”

His— oh. Yeah, you suppose, it’s his hole to fuck, to kiss, to use. Since day one, really, when you’d spent your first night after meeting him knuckles deep. It’s incomparable to his own, longer and thicker, faster and better. So, yes, your hole is his, and his alone. You nod. babbling in his ears and wriggling in his arms. You’re his. The implication behind it has your heart stuttering, hammering in your chest as butterflies beat against your tummy.

Oh— You’re cumming.

“Shit, sweetheart. Knew you were a slut.”

“I don’ wanna— I can’t—” You let out an array of desperate, hysterical cries around Leon’s long, airbrushed pink cock, thighs and chest heaving and trembling, and arching off the wooden cross. It takes you a moment to form a complete sentence. “Don’t wanna.. st—op.”

“Yeah, yeah..” Leon nods against your neck, burying his face into the warm skin. His hair tickles your throat, soft and silky. “I won't. We won’t. I got you.”

His big palm cracks against the swell of your ass, loud and echoing in the church. Your core tightens, knees tightening on his shoulders as you cum. Hard and fast, you can barely register the squeals being ripped from your throat. Not over the slapping, the spanking, the—

The crackle of Leon’s radio, loud and blaring in his earpiece.

“Hold on.” Tears spill over your glassy eyes.

“Wh— No! Sir, you—“

“Hey. Don’t ‘no’ me. I’m right here, just sit pretty for me and take it,” He moans, emphasizing his words with a sharp snap to his hips. Your toes curl, searing white pleasure sparking in your stomach as Leon responds to the radio comms. You’re overstimulated, sparks of sensitivity striking through you with every quick thrust. “There you go, such a good boy. . .”

“Condor one to Roost,” He replies, sparing you a gentle glance while your legs lock behind his neck. The blond doesn’t let up once, honey locks bouncing as you cry on his dick. “What?”

“…Very funny. . .” Whatever Hunnigan said must’ve been spot on, because a low growl rumbles in his chest and his balls are tightening against your skin. Blotches of pink bloom in his neck, probably following down his wide shoulders— if only he weren’t clothed.

“Goddamn, you’re gonna make me cum, yeah, wish I could fuck it into you. Next time,” It’s deliciously obscene, the sounds of Leon’s cock reaming your hole like his life depends on it. His voice is barely above a whisper, so quiet but full in your ears. “Next time, we’ll make your pretty hole all messy with my cum. Yeah?”

Leon’s hips stutter, his deep thrusts growing shallow and messy as lube and precum froths between your warm skin. You can feel it all, the way his cock jumps and as he cums, missing a beat before pulling out to spurt the rest on your tummy. Thick and hot, it’s starting to cool on your shirt before he can move to wipe it away. Before he can end the call.

“He’s fine. We’ll have Baby Eagle home in time for dinner. Right, rookie?”