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No one had ever accused Leon S. Kennedy of developing healthy addictions. He’d heard the grumblings among his circle of friends and colleagues. They worried for him, for the way he climbed into a bottle every time he lost a particularly large number of people, for the way he liked to throw himself into danger without backup. But he wasn’t an alcoholic, not really--the day he started hiding bottles of booze around his house the way Chris did was the day he’d haul himself to AA.
They say the first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem. Alright, he did have one problem. A problem that could be personified in the form of the tall, angry man in the black suit currently bearing down on him with murder in his eyes.
“Have I not warned you before,” Wesker growled, low and full of menace, the twisted remains of the busted data chip still clutched in one hand, “about destroying my work? Things do not turn out well for those who dare to disrupt my plans.”
There were at least three different things he could say to de-escalate the situation. It would be easy. Wesker was a calm, stoic man by default. It took effort to provoke him. And faced with all those options, Leon chose the metaphorical big shiny red ‘danger’ button, and slammed it hard.
“I don’t know about that. Why don’t we ask Chris how it goes?”
Wesker blurred forward, movement too fast for the human eye to track, so fast his movement trails looked like smoke. That gloved hand seized around Leon’s throat and slammed him backward, into the wall. Wesker’s eyes were flaring red dots, so bright they shone through his sunglasses.
There we go.
“Have a care, Leon,” Wesker growled, sunglasses slipping down so the red eyes could peek over the rims. “Or I will happily do to you what I will one day to him.”
Leon dug his blunt fingernails into Wesker’s wrists.
“Always talking, talking, talking, you people,” Leon grinned fiercely, defiant. “Ever think that if you ran your mouth a little less, you’d get more done?”
Wesker squeezed just enough to close up his windpipe, the enraged snarl on his face cooling off into a simmering glower, jaw tense and twitching. With visible effort he reigned his temper in, his eyes dimming like dying coals. Wesker was a man of impeccable self control, after all. The evidence was right here, in the fact that Leon’s spine wasn’t broken into tiny shards, and not even the smallest of fractures had split through his shoulder blades on contact with the wall.
“The only thing that has ever saved Chris from my wrath is luck,” Wesker said, and he almost sounded calm. “How lucky do you feel right now, Leon?”
Luckiest man in the world.
The timed charges he’d set up earlier went off about then, with pure dramatic timing, allowing him to escape. In the safety of his own thoughts, he didn’t consider the timing lucky at all.
Later, when the mission was done and he had crawled into his shower, bruised but triumphant, Leon would lean his back against the cool tile and press his fingers to his neck. He would gently prod the fingerprint bruises stained into his skin and remember the feeling of that strong hand there, remember the solid grip around him, the soft texture of the leather, the dizziness from lack of air. His eyes would drift shut as he relived the moment when his life had been held very literally in the palm of Wesker’s hand. Leon’s own hand would slip downward to fondle himself. He would come on that memory, Wesker’s name a strangled whimper imprisoned behind his teeth.
Yeah. He had a problem.
Leon was no stranger to kink. He knew this kind of thing really ought to be talked through, negotiated, played with very careful limits. But he didn’t dare, ironically, due to a lack of trust.
Leon just couldn’t bring himself to submit to Wesker. Not in the bedroom. They’d crafted this delicate illusion, the pair of them, one that said Leon was in charge, both willing and able to grind Wesker’s back under his boot heel. Coming to his sometimes lover and asking if he could be choked until he saw spots, please, felt too much like undermining himself. Like shoving the curtains aside and revealing the man behind the wizard.
So whenever he needed that particular itch scratched, he would have to get creative.
He was careful about it, of course. He never disturbed the sanctity of those soft, off duty moments when the two of them acted something like friends. Nor--ironically--when they were having their fun in the bedroom. He would only antagonize Wesker on missions, in the heat of a fight or a chase, when Wesker got that particular look in his eye like the monster in him was dying for something to crush. Leon was happy to offer himself up to be crushed--temporarily. It was an art almost, knowing when to push, when to hide, how to position himself so he would escape before things got lethal.
Wesker liked to go for the throat. Almost like instinct. In hand to hand combat--they never used guns on each other--the moment he got riled enough he’d grab for it. His strike was snake-like, not just for its lightning speed, but the graceful and serpentine way Wesker moved. He would seize the neck with one hand and use his whole body to wrestle Leon to the floor, or against a wall, or over the nearest furniture, like he wanted to curl around him.
Leon had become addicted to the rush of that initial impact, the feeling of his back slamming against something hard while his windpipe was squeezed shut, those red eyes blazing above him. Lucky for him that that grip also throttled any noises he made, obscuring the telltale moans that struggled to escape his lips. His heart would slam into his ribs so hard they might burst and it would take every ounce of willpower not to buck up against Wesker’s thigh.
In the beginning, Wesker would often try to knock Leon unconscious. He’d comment in the blandest possible tone something like “Unfortunately for you, I can’t play right now. Good night, Leon.” while Leon choked and squirmed under him.
One time he did hold on until Leon passed out, and Leon woke up tied to a chair later. He might have been in a lot of trouble if Ada hadn’t swung by.
But as their...arrangement matured, and they saw more and more of each other outside of work, the rhythm of their battles changed. Wesker grabbed for his wrists instead of his neck, would pin him to a surface with his own fever-warm body weight and loom over him, menacingly purring some gentle threat. Which was also exciting, in its way, but it wasn’t what he craved.
Which lead back to Leon, getting creative. If Wesker would only strangle him while half-blind with rage, then by god Leon would find a way to provoke him.
“You’re too late this time, Leon.”
Wesker’s voice is that smug purr he gets whenever he feels secure in the upper hand, which is often. His gun is in his hand, pointed harmlessly at the sky.
“My men have already taken the specimen.”
“Trying to start the party without me? That’s rude, you know,” Leon tells him. “Especially since I’m the one with the fireworks.”
He holds up the little remote in his hand. Wesker freezes, and then he lances forward. Leon jams the button down half a second before the Tyrant is on him. He’s giddy over two victories: the distant bang of the specimen capsule’s personal destruct device activating, and the thrill of his air cutting off, throttled by Wesker’s expert hand.
“You are going to regret that,” Wesker hisses.
He doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t.
His free hand dips behind his back and toys over the handle of the knife which can free him from this bind at any moment. He does not pull it, not yet. He lets the moment stretch out, struggling for show, until that sweet dizziness threatens to overtake him.
Later, when he is home safe in his apartment, he will match his fingerprints to Wesker’s and jerk himself off into his mattress, muffling his groans into the pillow.
“The sample, Leon.”
“You really think I’m just going to give it to you?”
Wesker’s hand darts out, fists in his collar. He regrets wearing the button up shirt instead of the compression gear today.
“It’s amusing that you think you have a choice.”
He’s reeled in closer by the fabric around his neck, the cloth pulling close around him, threatening to choke but failing to deliver.
“This sounds familiar to me. Does it sound familiar to you? I think we both know how it always goes.”
The vial is hidden safely on his person. Beating Wesker to this prize had taken all of Leon’s grit and cunning, but he’d taken this escape route, the unsafe route, knowing who he might run into. Hoping for this moment.
“Why don’t we skip the usual theatrics and get straight to the part where I humiliate you and escape?”
Tighter, please, tighter--
The grip on his collar suddenly hauls him forward, and before he can gasp his lips are crushed against Wesker’s.
The hand has also released his shirt.
Dammit.
The kiss is a decent consolation prize, he supposes. Wesker’s mouth is hot and firm as always, his hands--warm even through the leather--blaze a trail down Leon’s sides before wrapping around his waist and pulling him in tight. He melts into the touches, thankful he at least has an excuse now for being half-hard.
When Wesker pulls away, he’s dazed and breathless for a different reason than he expected.
“Aren’t--aren’t we on the clock?” he says.
“I thought I’d take a page out of your book,” Wesker smirks, holding up the blue vial he’s just snatched out of Leon’s belt. The sample. Goddammit.
“You son of a bitch.”
Wesker chuckles and dashes off, leaving Leon alone and frustrated against the cold wall.
There is a piece of cake in the fridge with a note reading ‘A. Wesker’ in blocky sharpie. Leon eyes it with a critical eye. He has only stopped by the break room of this illegal facility because he was hoping to steal a snack from one of the researchers. After what he’s seen in the basement, he figures these people deserve to have their lunch stolen at the very least.
The unexpected sight of that name sends a thrill of excitement and dread through him. He hasn’t heard anything about Wesker being here. It seems unlikely for there to be more than one A. Wesker in the bioterrorism business, though stranger things have happened. It’s not all that uncommon a surname, he supposes.
The other offerings in the fridge are a sack full of sad bologna sandwiches, a Tupperware container of some mashed up casserole, and a glass jar full of bloated mystery fruit suspended in water. It’s no contest, really. He wants the cake to belong to the Wesker he thinks it does. He wants Wesker to somehow divine that it was Leon who did the stealing, and come punish him before he escapes.
He fantasizes a little about the scenario as he eats the cake with his bare hands. (It’s a cheesecake, chocolate marble with a few raspberries on top, and absolutely delicious). Just a few brief imaginings, considering the different ways Wesker could nail him to the wall, not enough to get himself too excited. He still has a mission to complete after all. He licks the last bits of cake from his thumb and sets the plate on the table.
“Lost, are we?”
Leon freezes. The purr of that voice brushes over the shell of his ear, so close he can feel the stir of breath. He hadn’t even heard anyone enter the room.
“Wesker. You work here?”
“Temporarily. I’m consulting.”
Wesker wraps arms around him, pressing Leon back into his chest, holding him and preventing any escape. One hand glides tantalizingly up his neck to reach his chin, to grasp it and turn it.
“This is the break room. I would expect you to be doing your mischief in one of the laboratories.”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” Leon says. “I’m just an unconcerned civilian who got a little turned around.”
Wesker hums, obviously unconvinced.
The plate has gone unnoticed. Wesker’s eyes are fixed on him, riveted even, and Leon could get away scott free as long as Wesker doesn’t kiss him and notice the taste on his tongue.
But Leon can’t help himself.
“If you’re here, I guess that explains the name on that cake.” Leon gestures to the damning evidence of his theft: the empty plate on which the ‘A. Wesker’ note sits sad and alone amidst a scattering of crumbs.
The hand jumps back from his chin to his neck. Wesker’s face is robot-cold, no feelings on it whatsoever other than the intensity in his eyes. His grip is tight enough to threaten, but not to cut off air.
“You ate my cake.”
“I haven’t eaten in 36 hours,” Leon protests, voice a little strangled. “And it was cheesecake.”
Wesker glowers for a long moment.
“I will forgive this if you also do something awful to Murphy’s lunch before you go.”
“Gkk--can do.”
Leon does not jerk himself off that night. Wesker shows up at his place with a box of Chinese takeout around dinner time and does it for him.
There is one time when Leon pushes very close to breaking his self-imposed rules. To be fair, they are technically on the clock, and Wesker did start it. Leon was supposed to be doing a bit of undercover reconnaissance, but before he could even start his mission, he ran into the one viral market player he hadn’t been expecting. Wesker was all too happy to take him prisoner and locked the agent in his room.
“I have a rather delicate arrangement unfolding at the moment. I’d rather keep you from meddling,” Wesker told him.
“If you start a goddamn outbreak here--”
“We’re not, unless my business partners do something exceptionally stupid. You have nothing to worry about, Leon. Just relax for a while. Think of it as a mandatory vacation.”
That room quickly becomes a liminal space, set somewhere between ‘work’ and ‘play’. Even though Leon spends every free moment testing the area and planning his escape, when Wesker is with him they too easily fall into their usual hotel room routine. Complex conversation, lazing around on the bed together, 4:00 AM blowjobs, the works.
“This is working out so well, I’m tempted to take you home with me,” Wesker says after one such blowjob has left him melted into a long and satisfied puddle on the bed. Leon rubs his hands up and down Wesker’s naked hips and doesn’t say how tempted he is to do the same.
“I’d hate you for it,” he says instead.
“And you’d be overly distracting.” Wesker half sat up so he could cup Leon’s chin in hand. “It is fortunate that my current work requires a lot of waiting, or your attentions would put me behind schedule.”
“A business deal wouldn’t take two days,” Leon observes, carefully neutral. Part of him wonders if Wesker actually has any business, or if it’s all an excuse to keep Leon to himself for a few days.
“Now now, none of that.” Wesker’s hand shifts, the pad of his thumb gently pressing against Leon’s lips. “Why don’t you lie down and let me return the favor?”
Afterward, Leon falls asleep, an act that mortifies him when he wakes a few hours later. Because they aren’t in a hotel room, and he shouldn’t let his guard down like that here. He’s ready to mentally beat himself up for it for the next few hours, until he gets up and realizes Wesker is also asleep. He knows because, for the first time since they started falling in bed together, Wesker does not immediately open his eyes when Leon sits up. He knows because Wesker is jerking and twitching, a pained expression on his face, like he’s having a nightmare.
Leon has to throttle his instinct to wake Wesker up and soothe him. He makes himself get up from the bed quietly. He knows he’s not going to get a better chance to escape. He knows, too, that this might damage the fragile trust that is growing between them, but...
They’re at work. Wesker should know better.
On a strike of inspiration, Leon takes Wesker’s clothes, hoping they’ll let him better blend in among any men Wesker might have stationed outside. He dresses quickly, and then a wicked little idea strikes him. He finds his pack where Wesker stashed it away and pulls out the clothing he was going to wear for his undercover mission: black leather pants, a thin belt buckled with golden circles, and a black mesh shirt that’s absolutely see-through except for the spots embroidered over with orange flowers.
His lips can’t stop twitching as he sets these out on the bed and takes all other clothing from the room with him. He’s probably going to die for this stunt. In his borrowed uniform, no one glances twice at him, and he offers a cheeky wave to those who glance once.
He’s on the first floor, yards away from escape, when the enraged roar of his name echoes through the building. Yeah, he is definitely going to die for this stunt. Yet he couldn't keep the grin off his face. Leon subtly increased his pace to a brisk power walk, eyes on the door at the end of the hall.
A soft whoosh of displaced air precedes a hand wrapping around his throat. The floor leaves his feet and the wall meets his back. To say that Wesker looks livid is the understatement of the century. His eyes are glowing so brightly that Leon can see every detail of them through the dark lenses of his sunglasses. Between the (too small) outfit he is wearing and with his hair mussed from the bed, Wesker is practically unrecognizable.
He feels Wesker’s other hand braced under his rib cage, helping to hold him up so not all of his body weight is pulling on his neck. The knowledge that Wesker wants to hurt him, but not too much, shudders through the core of him. More than anything he wants to be dragged right back to that bedroom and choked a little more before Wesker has his way with him.
Unfortunately, Wesker is not psychic and does not pick up on this silent wish.
"Where are my clothes, Leon?" Wesker snarls in his face.
"gk...y....you're wrinkling them," Leon gasped.
Wesker's glowing eyes dip from Leon's face to the shirt collar crushed in his grip. A very strange expression crosses his face as he takes in Leon wearing his clothes, like he can't decide if he likes it or not.
At the end of the hall, that door Leon was heading for creaks open. A woman emerges, dressed in the most ridiculous outfit he’s ever seen--and that’s including the getup he’s forced Wesker to wear. It looks like the high fashion version of a sexy nurse Halloween costume, with inexplicable fur trim on the collar and much-too-short skirt.
She stops short at the sight of them, her face showing genuine bemusement for a second before she shifts to melodramatic surprise.
"I didn't know that this was that kind of club," she says, placing one hand on her hip.
The glow in Wesker’s eyes shuts out like someone flicked a switch in his head. He looks absolutely mortified. A voice he recognized, perhaps? Maybe this was the business contact he'd been waiting for?
The heady pressure on Leon’s throat lifts, and he is sent crashing back down to Earth in every sense of the phrase. Wesker shifts aside to face the newcomer, lining himself up so he and Leon stand shoulder to shoulder.
“Oh don’t let little old me interrupt your fun,” the woman says, winking. Her gaze shifts to Leon, and she points at him. "Hey, I know that uniform. Aren't you supposed to be working right now?"
"Please don't tell my boss," Leon says, picking up the cue immediately.
Ooooh, irony.
"I'm looking for Mr. Doyle Gray."
"He's not here yet," Wesker says. Leon nearly does a double take. Like a magic trick, the nasal, oddly non-specific British accent has vanished, replaced by a husky and equally non-specific American accent. He wonders which one is Wesker's real voice. If either of them were.
“What a shame. I guess I’ll just have to check out the dance floor while I’m waiting.”
“I can show you the way.” Leon all but jumps to her side, eager to stay within the protective bubble of her presence. Wesker can’t act against him with her here, not without giving his current predicament away. Not that a part of him--a large part of him--doesn’t want to be dragged back to that locked room. Sometimes, his conscience wins out.
He feels Wesker’s eyes burning through his back as they walk away from him. Wesker does not follow, and Leon only gets a little bit lost before finding the woman’s desired destination.
“Here you are,” he tells her.
"You're cute. But I prefer a little more muscle in my men," the woman tells him, pinching his shoulder. He feels oddly slighted as she saunters away. He hadn't even been trying to put the moves on her! "That club worker, though. He's pretty fine, isn't he?" she turns and winks at him.
Leon's lips twitch. "Yeah. Yeah, he is."
The next time they meet, Leon spends five minutes justifying his actions, and with everything except his words begs Wesker not to be hurt by the breach of trust. Wesker waves his concerns away.
“I underestimated you. Or perhaps I overestimated myself...” the second part is muttered so quietly he barely hears it.
“Why’d you fall asleep?” Leon asks him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you really sleep before.”
“Do I sense concern?” Wesker smirks. “You had me asleep, and you did not try to repay me in kind, nor did you injure me. All you did was force me to wear a silly shirt. If anything, I’d say you reinforced my current assessment of you.”
“And what is that?”
“A man the world does not deserve. It’s a shame I never got to see you in that ridiculous outfit.”
“You’ve seen me shirtless.”
“It’s not quite the same.”
Putting on the outfit and then letting Wesker rip it back off him is an all too easy price to pay, to mollify his tyrant.
“Why do you know how to dance?”
The ballroom glitters around them, beautifully dressed people spinning in circles together, light refracting off jewels and silk and satin. More than a few heads are turned their way, staring. They are the only male/male pairing on the dance floor.
“My foster parent was very insistent all of us children be well-rounded. Instrument lessons, dance classes, literature, all of that.”
“So he taught you to tango?”
“He introduced me to ballroom dance. I learned tango later, on my own, because I liked it.”
Wesker pulls him off his feet with one arm anchored around his hips and spins him in a circle, smirking the whole while, the motion effortless and smooth. Leon manages not to stumble when he’s returned to the ground.
“...I can guess why.”
“And how is it you know this dance?”
“Had a crash course 2 weeks ago when I found out I was going on this mission.”
“You are a fast learner.”
He lets Wesker lead them and concentrates on his footwork, sparing a glance for the many curious eyes surreptitiously watching them.
“We’re definitely jeopardizing our cover, aren’t we,” Leon says.
“Speak for yourself. This is hardly my normal behavior.”
“I guess not. You don’t usually...let your hair down.”
Wesker snorts. His hair is, literally, down. He has also dyed it a forgettable brown color. These and the required fancy dress are his only concessions to a disguise. He even still has his sunglasses on, and Leon can tell through the tinted glass that he hasn’t bothered to wear contacts.
Leon doesn’t know what Wesker’s mission is, but he has a bad feeling it might involve some harm to the target Leon is supposed to be protecting. So really, he’s still doing his duty by drawing Wesker into dancing with him. It’s just a very unconventional way of stopping an assassin.
They finish out the song, and in the brief moment of rest when other dancers are chatting, finding new partners, or leaving the floor, Leon grins broadly at Wesker and swipes his sunglasses off.
Wesker locks up like a statue, his eyes carefully shut. People were already looking at them. If he opens his eyes, they’re going to notice there’s something off. The strange color and shape of his irises might be explained away by contacts, but the glow sure as hell can’t be.
Leon leaves him to that predicament, slipping off through the crowd and out of the ballroom. He knows this won’t hold Wesker forever, and he’s equally sure he’s going to be chased. The anticipation makes his palms sweat.
Wesker catches up to him in a dark and empty parlor room. He’s combed his hair over his eyes, but in the dark the glow of them still shines bright between the strands.
“Leon,” he growls, palming his hair back out of his face, “Give me back my sunglasses.”
“What, these?” Leon holds the pair of aviators up by the nose bridge. “You don’t need ‘em, it’s night time.”
“I would rather not have to leave this party out the window, if you don’t m--”
The crunch of plastic breaking fills the room. Leon holds Wesker’s gaze as he smirks, letting the broken pieces of the shades tumble to the floor.
The reaction is just as he expected, just as he wanted. A black blur towards him, a hand around his throat, the force of impact knocking him backwards over the arm of the paisley couch. They both bounce on the cushions, Wesker over top him, his neck warmly wrapped and constricted.
“Why an intelligent man like you insists on pushing me is beyond my comprehension,” Wesker growls. The confusion in his voice--dare he say hurt?--plucks at a string of guilt in Leon’s heart. “Sometimes I think you really do have a death wish.”
He has not eased his grip at all while he talks, and Leon is having difficulty concentrating on any further words, his focus shattered under the double assault of strangling and a very hot man kneeling on top of him.
Wesker tilts his head, narrow eyes thoughtful. He shifts his grip ever so slightly, the crook between thumb and forefinger jutting up into the soft flesh under Leon’s chin, the fingers finding strategic points lining the neck and pressing down. All at once the sensation changes, that dangerous pressure easing up off his trachea without allowing him to breathe. His head is swimming, that lovely floaty dizzy feeling carrying him up and away, and why isn’t Wesker saying anything? All he’s doing is sitting there and observing, like this is one of his science experiments. He doesn’t even look angry anymore.
Leon can’t yell ‘what the fuck’, like he wants to, he doesn’t have any air for it. All he can do is make little choked noises and bang ineffectually on Wesker’s wrist with his fists. This is it. This is how he dies. He’s pushed too far and Wesker has finally gotten fed up with his shit. To think, after everything he’s lived through, he’s going to die over a pair of broken sunglasses--
Wesker’s second hand moves down his body to cup his crotch. He can’t stop himself bucking up into that touch. He is already hard as a rock.
Wesker’s eyebrow steadily climbs up, his eyes knowing. Oh, shit.
Fuck fuck fuck.
He’s been found out.
Eyes intent on Leon’s face, a sinister smile widens slowly on Wesker’s lips.
Right when Leon is on the verge of passing out, Wesker releases him. He coughs in between desperate gasps for air.
“You could have just asked,” Wesker tells him.
If Leon’s cheeks weren’t already bright red from all the blood being trapped in his head, he would have flushed.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” he gasps, hoarse.
The second hand still hasn’t moved from between his legs, and an idle thumb drags slow circles over his trapped cock.
“Very well, if that’s how you want to play.”
Before Leon can pretend to protest, the hand is back on his neck, back in that careful pinching position that cuts his air without pressing on the trachea. Leon gurgles, thrashing. Wesker does not hold down as long this time, allowing Leon another breath just as the black spots start to show in his vision.
“I knew--you’d get--way too into this,” Leon gasped.
For a reply, Wesker opens Leon’s fly and slips his hand down under the band of Leon’s boxers to grasp his cock directly. The harsh glide of leather gloves over his sensitive skin is just this side of too much friction. Leon squirms, an undignified whimpering mess, dizzy, dizzy, dizzy.
Wesker works him over without rhythm, choking one end of him too tightly and the other too softy. He allows Leon to breathe now and then, always varying the length so Leon will never know how much air he’ll get. One break may allow him to fill his lungs for several seconds, the next might only give him a gasp and a half. His throat will be held to the point his skin is hot and tight and probably turning blue.
On his next breath he gets barely a tease of oxygen before that hand closes his airway again and he spasms, desperate. He balances on the edge of unconsciousness, everything graying out, and the delicious soft friction teasing along the underside of his cock. A broken noise claws out of his throat, a formless waste of precious air. Wesker’s grin is wide and satisfied, watching him fade with rapture.
Both hands leave him suddenly, and the weight departs from the couch. Dazed, wanting, Leon grasps at air.
“G--” he coughs, “get back here--!”
“Patience,” Wesker commands.
Rustling, and then Wesker is back atop him, his pants open and shoved down out of the way of his erect cock. Leon mumbles ‘god, yes,’ as well as his sore throat can manage, and eagerly parts his thighs for Wesker to sink between them. Wesker probes between his legs, two fingers sinking into him and stretching him open, quick and rough, much more urgent than usual. Leon does not help by doing his best to impale himself on those fingers.
Then Wesker is sinking into him, and Leon lets out a long, low moan at the intrusion. They rearrange themselves on the couch so there’s room for both of them lying chest to chest, with Wesker propping himself up on one elbow. His other hand regains its place around Leon’s throat. Leon closes his eyes in bliss.
That night, he is fucked and choked to the hardest orgasm of his life.
“I’m annoyed with you,” Wesker informs him, later, when they have both caught their breath. “Had it never occurred to you that I might also have a choking kink, and never brought it up because I thought you wouldn’t go for it?”
“No one who’s watched you fight could possibly think you don’t get off on choking people,” Leon replies.
“Then why the silence? Why not tell me?”
Leon looks away and swallows, unwilling to hold that burning gaze. There is no good way to articulate his complicated trust issues. Not with the simple glaring hole in his logic, the one even he sees, that suggests he trusts Wesker more when he’s in a rage then he does in the bedroom.
“Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed.”
A gloved finger trails down the side of his face from temple to cheekbone and lingers there.
“Maybe. A little bit. Letting myself be that vulnerable to you, of all people, I...I make a lot of bad choices but I didn’t want to make that one.”
“You’re always vulnerable around me, Leon.” Wesker brushes the hair out of his eyes, prompting Leon to look at him. “After all, you’re only human.”
“You just keep telling yourself that,” Leon says.
"So is this something you've always had, or did you make an embarrassing personal discovery courtesy of my tyrants?"
“I don’t get off when just anyone chokes me,” Leon protests hotly. He sees the little smug smile creeping over Wesker’s face and huffs, caught.
“Just me?”
“Handsome, dangerous men, yeah.”
Wesker hums.
“I can’t believe we just fucked on a couch in the governor’s mansion,” Leon says.
“I’m sure he can afford the cleaning bill.” Wesker sits up, taking in their surroundings. “I suppose we’ll both be leaving out the window, then, after all.”
Epilogue
“T-the project’s had a few setbacks, it’s true, but I’m confident we can fix the project’s arrhythmia if we just have a little more time.”
It’s been a long day, and Wesker’s not in the mood to hear more excuses from more nervous, dithering underlings. The group of scientists before him--all allegedly brilliant men at the top of their fields--look like a pack of schoolboys trembling before the wrath of their headmaster. Wesker watches them placidly, no emotion on his stony face, eyes hidden behind a new pair of shades. He is debating mercy for the sake of possible long term results versus the short term satisfaction of ending these nuisances when a soft chime steals his attention.
He pulls his phone out and glances at it, rudely ignoring his audience. His blank expression does not change, not even the slightest bit, but he stares at the screen. And keeps staring. And stares a while longer. Finally he puts the phone back in his pocket without comment.
“We can resume this discussion later. I have business to take care of, if you’ll excuse me.”
The scientists teeter between relief and affront as he stalks away from them without a backwards glance.
Once safely alone in a nearby room, Wesker plants one elbow on the wall and rests his temple against his hand. He pulls his phone out and reads the latest text message again.
Leon 10:33 am: choke me daddy
Wesker sighs.
“We need to teach him better come-ons.”