Summary & CW: fwb, SUGGESTIVE, jealousyyyyy, Jason at Medieval Times LMFAO
Pairing: Jason x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 1.5k
A/N: Another piece out the Kiln! Thank you to the beautiful @starr-jazz for requesting ily diva, and thank you to brilliant @batwngs for feeding me this idea I love you <3 as always, I hope you enjoy lovelies
•───────•°•♡•°•───────•
“This has got to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever dragged me too.”
“Aw c’mon, it’s fun!”
Jason just gives you that famous side-eye of his you’ve grown to love.
If someone told you three months ago you would have managed to convinced Jason Todd to sit front row with you at Medieval times, you would have laughed in their face. But here you are.
The pussy is just that good, you guess.
He’s sitting at the end of the row with you at his side. This was supposed to just be a fun day for you two, but when word caught wind of your plans... it turned into something of a family outing plus you. Steph, Babs, and Cass are all sat front row with you two. Then Duke, Damian, Dick, Roy, and Lian are sitting behind you. Tim unfortunately couldn’t make it, he was off with Young Justice in San Fransico doing God knows what.
Steph’s right next to you- beer stein in hand screaming at the top of her lungs, with Cass trying her best to be supportive next to her.
“See,” you motion to Steph’s over the top enthusiasm, “she gets it.”
Jason shakes his head, arms still crossed over his chest. “I don’t get what’s so enjoyable about this.”
Then right in that moment, the second the words leave his lips, another Knight rides by on their horse; throwing another rose at you. You were on your third rose of the night, and Jason was about to break his jaw with how much it was grinding.
“YEAH, THAT’S WHAT WE LIKE TO SEE!” Steph stands up pointing at you while yelling at the Knights, “MY GIRL IS HOT AND FREAKY-”
You grab Stephanie by one elbow and Cass grabs her by the other and yank her back down into her seat. Dick was about to fall out of his chair- doubling over with laughter, while Babs and Duke tried their best to hide their snickers by looking away.
“Stephanie,” you scold her, “you cannot be yelling about how I’m ‘freaky’ at Medieval Times.”
“Why?” she looks genuinely baffled, pointing back at the knights, “They’re hot and obviously into you.”
No one really knew that you and Jason were hooking up behind the scenes. You’re sure they suspected it, but there was no concrete evidence.
“Because there is a child sitting directly behind you.” Gritting your teeth, you nod your head to the back.
“I’m no child.” Damian’s shouts, obviously offended, over the screams of the section.
“I wasn’t talking about you.” you point a finger to two seats over from him; where Lian is sitting with a princess crown, absorbing the scene in front of her as the knights ride around on their ‘horsies.’
Stephanie seems to finally remember that there was an actual child involved in this outing and cringes, but doesn’t apologize.
“You’re still a freak though.”
“And how would you know that?”
She merely raises an eyebrow, and you suddenly regret asking the question.
“Well since you asked… when you were changing out of your suit the last night after patrol, I may or may not have seen some bruises on your thigh and chest that I’m positive weren’t from crime fighting.” she has a smug look on her face while propping her chin up in her palm, “So it begs the question, who was the gentleman or gentlelady that wasn’t being gentle with yo-”
“Aaaaand that’s enough from you.” your palm lands over her mouth and she starts cackling behind it.
Damian makes a disgusted look and leans back, meanwhile Dick is scandalized trying to cover his preteen brother’s ears, and then there’s the perpetrator of it all- Jason. He’s snickering to himself, smug about the whole thing.
Turning your attention back to the show, face flaming, you get about ten minutes of peace before Jason starts complaining again.
“I really don’t get what’s so impressive about this- it’s not that hard.”
With a deep sigh, you throw your head back trying to find patience within the panels of the ceiling.
“It’s not about being impressive, it’s about putting on a good show.”
Turning back to meet his gaze, you’re in awe of him. Even when he was annoyed, you still found yourself entranced by him. He had that glimmer in his eye your grateful never went out. Even in the darkest moments of his life, you sat with him, fanning the match in the hopes of one day it would grow to be a powerful flame.
Some called it friendship, some called it soulmates, but the common denominator was love. No matter what happened between you and Jason, whether you were friends, hook ups, lovers, or partners, you would always have love for him in your heart.
“I do what they do, for real every night.” He grumbles.
“So do I, but it’s still fun to watch.”
He doesn’t say anything else and you think that’s that. And it was, until one of the knights stops in front of you again to give you a wink. Stephanie was over the moon, you would’ve thought they winked at her. She starts shaking your shoulder aggressively while you tried to hide the blush.
Jason was seconds away from exploding.
No one noticed it except you. For someone as emotional as him, he was surprisingly skilled at hiding your… situation. He gave a small subtle nod, an attempt to process it and then very calmly asked you to help with something.
Your stomach drops to your ass, but you agree regardless. Exiting the row, a pointed effort was made in ignoring the way Dick wiggled his eyebrows at you.
The moment you step out of the arena, he grabs your hand, interlinking your fingers. His grip is tighter than usual as he starts pulling you away from concessions toward the restroom.
The family restroom.
“Jason you can’t real-”
“Don’t.” His voice is hard and you decide to play it safe and shut your mouth.
You internally thank the deity that was watching over you, that no employees were near the restroom he dragged you into.
Once he locks the door behind you, his lips crash onto yours.
The kiss is desperate and rough as his lips drag on yours in a messy dance. It’s as if your on cloud nine- every time he kissed you it was explosive. Everything else fell away and the only thing that existed was how he felt against you. He bites down on your lower lip hard and a gasp escapes your mouth. Taking advantage of the opportunity, he slips his tongue in your mouth and pulls you closer.
Your nails are digging into his leather jacket on the back of his biceps. A groan rumbles in his throat when he tastes you as your tongues fight for dominance. He’s holding you flush against him, with not even a molecule of air separating you two. One of his hands has gone to your lower back while the other is entangled in your hair. It’s not pulling but he’s got a good chunk of it wrapped around his fingers as his palm held your head against his. He had a habit of making sure that you took up all of his senses when he was with you.
Jason was obsessive, he wanted to drown in you.
The kiss breaks when you both have to come up for air, but only for a second before he starts kissing you again. Littering open-mouthed losses on your cheek, jawline, and down your neck.
His hands have traveled down to the hem of your shirt, when you finally catch your breath again. Right as he makes the effort to pull it over your head, you’re brain finally recovers from the mind-numbing kiss.
“Jason,” you hiss at him, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Kissing you.” He answers between kisses, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. He’s sucking on your collarbone, making sure that it’ll leave a mark that knights can see if they get to nerve to even look at you again.
Gasping, your fingers find their way to the back of his head and pull on the dark strands. When he doesn’t react, you pull harder, trying to remove the leech from your body. He whines, following your lead and stands over you.
His hands are rubbing up and down your waist, doing sinful things to you. The color of his face is flushed in a ways that has your underwear threatening to soak through.
“Jay, you cannot fuck me in the Medieval Times bathroom.”
“Says who?”
“The code of conduct.”
He scoffs and reattaches himself to your neck. A moan threatens to break from your lips when he finds that one spot that has your legs spreading absentmindedly.
It was a losing battle anyway. You couldn’t resist him, not when his pupils were blown and lips were swollen and pink. You practically feel him grin against you, when you breathe out.
“Make it quick.”
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A/N: so sorry if this isn’t accurate, I’ve never gone to medieval times and my research was done through Instagram reels and asking my sister’s boyfriend
normal au . nsfw (violence not smut) . secret admiration . fluff . onesided pining . series . celebrity fem reader . unrequited love (not really) . fighting crime but make it romantic . bonus scene
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The heavy, copper stench of blood and sweat hung thick in the midnight air, mingling with the bitter aroma of burnt gunpowder and the cheap, wet-cardboard smell of Crime Alley.
Jason Todd shoved his heel into a thug’s jaw with a sickening, wet crack. He exhaled a jagged, rattling breath through the vocalizer of his helmet, his chest heaving under the weight of his tactical gear.
“Fuckin’ roaches,” he growled, his voice a low, mechanical rasp that vibrated with pure irritation.
Another man lunged from the darkness, a rusty switchblade flashing under the dim amber glow of a flickering streetlamp. Jason didn’t even blink, he stepped into the attacker’s guard, parrying the knife hand with a brutal forearm block.
With a fluid, practiced twist, he caught the guy’s wrist and cranked it backward until the bone popped like dry kindling. The thug shrieked, but Jason cut the sound short. He grabbed the back of the man’s leather jacket and slammed him face-first into the brick wall.
The rough, crumbling texture of the masonry scraped against skin, leaving a smear of dark crimson behind as the man slumped into a heap as Jason wiped a splatter of someone else’s blood off his forearm, his leather gloves creaking softly in the quiet that followed.
Every muscle in his body ached with a familiar, dull throb. Then, he looked up.
Towering above the grime of the alley, illuminated by brilliant, stark white floodlights, was a massive Chanel billboard. It looked entirely out of place in this rotting corner of the city.
And there you were.
Your skin looked like pure silk under the studio lighting, a sharp, breathtaking contrast to the rough, soot-stained brick surrounding the ad. Your eyes caught the camera with an effortless, captivating warmth that seemed to cut right through the Gotham gloom.
Your lips, painted in a stunning, rich shade of crimson, were parted slightly as you blew a kiss directly toward whoever was looking and the bold black lettering beneath you read: Rouge Allure.
Jason froze, the ambient hum of a distant police siren faded into background noise as his heart hammered against his ribs, a sudden, fierce thud that had absolutely nothing to do with the adrenaline from the fight.
He stared up at your face, feeling a strange, hollow ache in the center of his chest. You were a world-famous model, your life was filled with runway lights, high-end perfume, and a world that was entirely clean.
You were light-years away from the mud and blood he drowned in every single night. You didn’t even know he existed—not the real him, anyway. To you, the Red Hood was just a terrifying, gun-toting headline on the morning news.
The sheer distance between your worlds was an ocean he could never cross, a silent, painful truth that weighed heavily on him every time he saw your face.
Yet, here he was, completely, pathetically whipped. He actually kept a crumpled magazine clipping of this exact photoshoot tucked safely inside a hidden compartment of his utility belt, right next to his backup ammo.
“Hey! Red Hood! You’re dead, asshole!”
A gruff voice shattered the silence. Jason didn’t even turn around as he heard the frantic, heavy footsteps of three more thugs charging down the alley behind him.
His eyes remained locked on your billboard, specifically on the soft curve of your lips as he sighed, thoroughly annoyed that his quiet pining session had been interrupted.
As the first thug reached out to grab his tactical vest, Jason spun on his heel. He ducked underneath a wild, clumsy swing from a baseball bat, the wooden club whistling past his helmet.
Jason drove his elbow upward into the man’s ribs with a sickening thud, shattering the bone, then hooked his leg behind the thug’s ankle to sweep him hard onto the asphalt.
Before the other two could react, Jason unholstered one of his customized pistols. He whipped the heavy steel butt of the gun across the second thug’s temple as the man immediately dropped like a stone.
The final attacker, panicked, lunged with a rusted tire iron. Jason sidestepped the overhead crunch with effortless grace, grabbed the man’s jacket collar, and used the thug’s own momentum to vault himself upward.
His combat boots caught the edge of a rusty fire escape, the metal groaning loudly under his weight as he scrambled up the iron grates, his gloves gripping the cold, unyielding metal as he leaped onto the flat, gravel surface of the roof.
The wind up here was sharper, carrying the faint, crisp scent of the harbor. Before he sprinted to the next ledge, Jason paused as he walked over to the roof’s edge and looked back down at the billboard one last time.
Safely hidden underneath the cold, intimidating red-tinted visor of his helmet, a surprisingly soft, boyish smile touched his scarred lips. His tough, crime-fighting exterior completely melted away as he reached out his heavy, blood-stained gloved hand toward the towering image of your face.
With a heartbreaking gentleness that didn’t belong to a killer, his fingers swept through the chilly air, symbolically catching the kiss you had blown to the world.
He carefully pulled his hand back, curling his fingers closed to ‘hold’ it, and pressed his palm flat against the center of his chest—right over his racing heart. “Got it,” he murmured to himself, his voice entirely devoid of its usual mechanical grit, filled instead with a quiet, aching fondness.
Turning on his heel with a sudden, dorky little skip in his step, he sprinted across the gravel roof and leaped into the dark, cloudy night, carrying a piece of your warmth into the cold Gotham’s shadows.
The midday sun over Gotham’s Diamond District was blindingly bright, a stark contrast to the midnight shadows Jason usually operated in. He sat at a corner table of a ridiculously upscale café, wearing a heavy canvas jacket, a baseball cap pulled low, and a pair of dark sunglasses.
He looked like an off-duty construction worker who had lost a bet, completely out of place among the sea of silk blouses and designer suits.
And then, you walked in.
You were on a break from a local promotional event, flanked by a single, stressed-looking publicist… and you looked exactly like you did on the billboards—effortlessly stunning, radiating a warmth that immediately made the pretentious café feel a little brighter.
Jason’s heart did a violent backflip against his ribs. For all his tactical training, nothing had prepared him for the sheer panic of seeing you in three dimensions, mere feet away from him.
When your publicist stepped away to take a call, Jason found his legs moving before his brain could protest as he approached your table, his massive frame casting a shadow over your menu.
“Uh. Hey,” he muttered. Without his vocalizer, his voice was a deep, slightly rough gravel, but right now, it vibrated with pure, unadulterated nervousness as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m... a big fan. Keep a clipping of your Chanel ad in my—uh, wallet.”
You looked up, surprised, but a sweet, genuine smile quickly lit up your face. “Oh, thank you so much! That’s incredibly sweet of you.”
Jason internally screamed. Your voice was even prettier in person. He frantically patted his pockets, realizing he didn’t have a piece of paper, a notebook, or anything normal for an autograph as his hand brushed against the concealed holster beneath his heavy jacket.
Desperate times called for completely unhinged measures.
“Can you sign this?” he blurted out.
With a smooth, practiced motion, he slipped his customized, matte-black Glock out of its holster and laid it flat on the table. It was perfectly cleaned, oiled, and—thankfully—the safety was firmly on.
You blinked at the heavy metal object resting next to your iced latte. Your publicist, still on the phone a few yards away, didn’t notice.
You looked from the weapon up to Jason’s face, taking in his broad shoulders and the nervous, boyish grin peeked out from beneath his baseball cap as you let out a soft, amused giggle, assuming it was a incredibly detailed, high-end prop.
A lot of Gothamites carried fake gear for cosplay or self-defense theatrics. “Wow,” you teased, picking up your permanent silver sharpie. “You Gotham boys really take your prop replicas seriously, huh? The weight on this plastic is crazy.”
“Yeah,” Jason squeaked, his voice cracking slightly. “Plastic… total toy.”
“Where should I sign?” you asked, turning the very real, very lethal firearm over in your hands. “Right on the slide,” he said, pointing a calloused finger to the top of the barrel. “Please.”
With a neat, elegant flourish, you inked your signature across the matte-black metal, capping it off with a tiny, perfect heart. “There you go. Don’t go waving that toy around too much, okay? You might scare someone!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jason managed to say, taking the gun back like it was made of fragile glass. “Thank you, truly! You have no idea what this means to me.”
You gave him a warm wave as he practically floated out of the café.
bonus: Six months later, the silver sharpie ink was still perfectly intact.
Jason had spent three whole hours in his safehouse applying a meticulous, military-grade clear protective coating over your signature to ensure the solvent and gun oil would never fade it.
Now, the ‘toy’ was his absolute favorite piece of hardware.
Deep in the lower levels of a shipping warehouse near the Gotham piers, Jason was cornered by half a dozen of Penguin’s heavily armed smugglers as bullets ripped through the wooden crates he was using for cover, sending splinters flying into the air.
“Give it up, Hood! You’re outmanned!” one of the smugglers barked as Jason rolled his eyes under his red helmet. He unholstered his primary pistol—the one bearing your silver autograph and the tiny heart.
He leaned out from behind the crate, firing three perfectly placed, non-lethal shots that took out the lead smugglers’ knees and shoulders. He vaulted over the cover, pressing forward with a terrifying, fluid aggression.
A man lunged at him with a crowbar; Jason parried the blow with the barrel of his gun, the reinforced steel clacking against the iron, before whipping the butt of the weapon into the man's jaw.
As the smuggler dropped to the floor, Jason instantly checked the top of the slide, “Oh, thank god,” he muttered through his vocalizer. “Not a scratch.”
He turned his attention to the last two remaining thugs, who were backed against the wall, staring at him in sheer terror. Jason raised the gun, pointing it directly at them as the bright floodlights of the warehouse caught the reflective silver ink of your name, glittering right above the barrel.
“You see this?” Jason growled, tilting the gun slightly so the thugs could get a good look at the elegant handwriting and the little heart. “Look at it.”
The thugs blinked, utterly confused and terrified. “Is... is that a designer signature on a firearm?” one whispered.
“It’s an authentic signature, you uncultured dipshit,” Jason snapped proudly. “And if either of your dirty jackets so much as smudges the clear coat on this, you’ll be thrown into the harbor. Understand?”
The thugs frantically nodded, dropping their weapons immediately. With a satisfied grunt, Jason holstered the gun, giving the grip a gentle, affectionate pat.
He used it every single day, bringing a ridiculous, heavily guarded piece of your glamorous world into the grimiest fights Gotham had to offer.
normal au . nsfw (violence not smut) . secret admiration . fluff . onesided pining . series . celebrity fem reader . fighting crime but make it romantic . knight in shining armor
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The crystalline chandeliers of the Wayne Enterprises Grand Ballroom hung like frozen galaxies, catching the warm, flickering glow of a thousand floating beeswax candles. They cast a shimmering, amber hue over Gotham’s elite, softening the sharp, calculating edges of the city's power brokers.
The air inside the expansive hall was thick, almost suffocatingly opulent, layered with the intoxicating scent of expensive French perfume, roasted vanilla orchid, and the crisp, sharp fizz of vintage Dom Pérignon.
Melodic strings from a live quartet drifted lazily from the balcony, a soft, classical tapestry that barely masked the low, hummed roar of high-society gossip and transactional laughter as you stood near the exact center of the polished marble floor, slowly, elegantly swirling a crystal flute of champagne.
The heavy, double-faced silk of your emerald gown caught the light with every micro-movement, clinging to your frame, but the true focal point of the evening was nestled heavily against your collarbone.
It was a priceless, archival Chanel necklace. The piece was a masterpiece of layered platinum and cascading South Sea pearls, culminating in a central, flawless pink diamond that seemed to absorb and refract the very light of the room.
It felt cold against your skin, a beautiful, fragile weight.
“A toast,” Monsieur Laurent murmured. The elderly owner of Chanel smiled warmly, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling with an affectionate, fatherly pride as he raised his own flute toward you.
“To the most stunning ambassador the House has ever seen. You wear the archive piece beautifully, ma chérie. It was made for history, but tonight, you give it life.”
“Thank you, Laurent,” you replied softly, your voice carrying a genuine warmth as you leaned in, clinking your glass against his. The clear, musical chime of the crystal rang out between you, a pure note in a room full of noise.
“It’s an absolute honor to represent the brand tonight. Though, if I'm being entirely honest, I’m terrified I might scratch it! Every time someone steps too close, my heart stops.”
“Nonsense!” Laurent chuckled, waving a dismissive, impeccably manicured hand as a wealthy couple approached the periphery of your circle.
“You remind me so much of my own daughter when she was your age—full of grace, yet utterly fierce underneath. If anyone deserves to wear a piece of history, it is you. Do not let these vultures intimidate you.”
“Oh, he’s absolutely right,” Mrs. Falcone chimed in, smoothly gliding into the conversation.
She adjusted a glittering, diamond-encrusted magnifying glass, leaning over slightly to inspect the central stone with a practiced, predatory eye. “The craftsmanship is divine! It’s the undisputed jewel of the charity gala. Tell me, Laurent, did Bruce Wayne ever find the time to RSVP? I haven’t seen him drifting around the buffet yet, and heaven knows he loves an entrance.”
Laurent sighed, a theatrical, weary roll of his shoulders following the sound. “Ah, alas, no. I spoke with his secretary just this morning.”
“Mr. Wayne sent his deepest regrets and a rather generous donation check, but he claimed he was terribly swamped with sudden, emergency Wayne Enterprises board meetings. A shame. The man misses the finest parties.”
“Busy with work, as always,” you murmured with a slight, knowing smile, taking a slow, grounding sip of the crisp, cold champagne, letting the bubbles track down your throat.
Then, the music stopped.
It didn’t fade out naturally, the strings cut off with a harsh, screeching scrape of a resin-heavy bow across a cello string, a sound that grated violently against the ear.
A heavy, unnatural silence fell over the grand ballroom for a single, agonizing heartbeat as the laughter died, and the glasses stopped clinking.
Boom!
The massive, reinforced mahogany double doors of the ballroom blew inward with a deafening, concussive roar. The shockwave rattled the glass flutes in people's hands, shattering several on the perimeter.
The smell of burning gunpowder, scorched wood, and acrid chemical smoke instantly choked out the delicate scent of perfume and vanilla.
Screams, raw and panicked, erupted from the crowd as a dozen heavily organized, heavily armed mercenaries flooded the room in a synchronized tactical wedge.
They wore matte-black body armor, ballistic masks, and bore the chilling, familiar crest of the Penguin’s syndicate spray-painted in a jagged white emblem on their shoulders. “Nobody moves! Hands where we can see them!” a gruff, synthesized voice boomed through a megaphone, punctuated by the terrifying, mechanical rack of an assault rifle being chambered.
Laurent’s fatherly instincts kicked in instantly. His face turned a sickly, pale white, his hands trembling violently as he reached out and grabbed your forearm with surprising strength. “We need to leave now! Come, out the terrace doors—”
Before you could even take a single step backward, a massive, high-intensity spotlight mounted to the lead mercenary’s tactical vest swept over the panicked crowd, cutting through the haze of smoke until it locked directly onto you.
The beam was blinding, forcing you to raise a hand to shield your eyes. “Well, well, well,” the leader of the crew sneered. His heavy, steel-toed combat boots thudded with a terrifying deliberation against the polished marble as he strode directly toward your circle, his men fanning out to corral the rest of the screaming guests. “Look what we have here. The crown jewel of the evening.”
Laurent tried to step in front of you, his frail chest heaving, his voice cracking with a desperate fear. “Leave her out of this! Take whatever money you want, the vault is—”
Without a word, a mercenary ruthlessly shoved the elderly man. The butt of a rifle caught Laurent squarely in the chest. He hit the marble floor with a sickening, hollow thud, a breathy groan escaping his lips.
“Laurent!” you cried out, your breath catching in your throat.
Before you could kneel to help him, a rough, calloused hand clamped around your bare upper arm with a bruising, agonizing grip.
You were violently yanked backward, your heels clicking sharply and unevenly against the floor as you tried to wrench yourself free. “Let go of me!” you gasped, twisting your body against the tight restraint, but the mercenary easily pinned your arm behind your back.
He wrenched it upward toward your shoulder blade, forcing a sharp, painful gasp from your lips as the fabric of your gown strained.
“Shut up,” the leader barked, pulling out a modified satellite phone from his tactical vest. He tapped the screen, and a live-streaming red light began to blink, casting a sinister glow on his mask.
“With a global celebrity like you in our hands, your little fan club is going to fund our operations for the next decade. Look at the camera, sweetheart. Time to make a public statement to Gotham.”
You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird as you glared directly into the lens, refusing to let them see you cry, though the raw terror of the situation made your knees tremble beneath the silk of your dress.
Crash!
The entire world seemed to shatter as the massive, vaulted glass ceiling of the ballroom imploded violently. Shards of heavy, crystalline glass rained down like a deadly, glittering waterfall, slicing through the air and catching the ambient candlelight before every single power grid in the building blew out in a synchronized explosion of sparks.
The ballroom was plunged into an absolute, suffocating, pitch-black darkness. “What the hell?! Check the skylight! Turn on the night vision!” the leader screamed, his voice entirely losing its confident edge, replaced by a sudden, frantic panic.
Through the pitch black, a heavy, mechanical sound echoed—the distinct, terrifying hiss of a vocalizer filtering a voice that carried the weight of a graveyard.
“You boys picked the wrong night to look for a payout.”
It sounded like an angry god corporate-forged in the depths of Gotham’s underbelly.
Red Hood.
The mercenaries opened fire blindly. The flash-hiders on their rifles failed to contain the blinding, strobing muzzle flashes that illuminated the room in chaotic, fragmented bursts of light, but Red Hood moved like smoke between the frames of a horror film.
You heard a brutal, heavy thud as a massive body launched from the upper rafters, landing squarely on a mercenary directly to your left.
There was no hesitation.
In the brief flash of gunfire, you saw Red Hood seize the man’s throat, slamming his head back into the marble floor with a wet, heavy crack that silenced his breathing instantly.
“He’s behind us! He’s—argh!”
The sound of gunfire was entirely eclipsed by the pure, unadulterated brutality of the fight. Red Hood dismantled them with a terrifying, calculated ferocity.
Another muzzle flash lit up the dark: Red Hood caught a mercenary's extended arm, twisting it backward until the elbow joint popped and shattered with a horrific, splintering sound.
The man didn’t even have time to scream before a heavy, armored boot caved into his ribs, sending him crashing into a pillar with a dull, broken thud as the air grew thick with the smell of copper and sweat.
You heard the heavy clatter of assault rifles hitting the floor, the frantic, terrified breathing of the remaining mercenaries, and the terrifyingly calm, heavy footsteps of the vigilante tracking them down. In the brief, erratic flashes of light, you caught glimpses of him—a towering, massive silhouette dominating the space, the blood-red dome of his helmet gleaming like a beacon of death in the dark.
He caught a third man by the tactical vest, lifting him entirely off his feet and driving him spine-first into the edge of a heavy oak buffet table, snapping the wood and the man's vertebrae in a single, fluid motion.
The man holding you completely panicked. His grip on your arm turned frantic as he pulled a heavy sidearm from his thigh holster, aiming it wildly into the dark. “Stay back! I’ll kill her! I swear to god I’ll—”
A heavy, silver-plated custom automatic pistol whipped out of the darkness as the solid steel barrel struck the mercenary directly across the temple.
The impact was loud—a dull, heavy smack of metal meeting bone—and the force of the blow sent him flying off his feet. His body crashed into a tiered catering table, sending silver platters and smashed ice scattering across the floor as he went completely limp, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Before you could even process that the pressure on your arm was gone, that you were free, a massive, armored hand reached out of the pitch-black shadows and gripped your wrist.
You gasped, your survival instincts completely overriding your reason. Assuming another terrorist had claimed you in the dark, you began to struggle wildly. “No! Let go of me! Get off!”
You kicked out, your heels catching on your dress, your small hands pushing and clawing frantically against what felt like a solid, unyielding wall of absolute iron and Kevlar.
The size difference between you was staggering as he towered over you, easily over six feet of pure, dense muscle and heavy tactical plate, making you feel entirely engulfed by his shadow.
He didn’t budge an inch against your frantic, panicked movements. Instead, with a motion that was surprisingly slow, deliberate, and unhurried, he effortlessly wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you backward.
He guided you into the deep, velvet-curtained recess of a window alcove, shielding your body entirely from the rest of the room with his massive frame.
“Stop. Stop struggling,” his voice rumbled.
But it wasn’t the terrifying, mechanical rasp he had used on the mercenaries as the vocalizer clicked off with a soft, electronic beep.
What was left was a deep, rough gravel—a voice that was incredibly human, entirely devoid of the synthesized grit, and laced with a quiet, breathless panic that didn’t make any sense for a killer.
“Listen to me,” he whispered, his large, leather-gloved hand shifting from your wrist to gently cup the side of your bare arm.
His thumb brushed over your skin with a heartbreaking, reverent softness that made your breath hitch in your throat. “I’ve got you. You’re safe, I’m here to save you.”
You froze, your chest heaving violently against the hard, cold plates of his tactical vest. The air in the small alcove suddenly felt incredibly thick, heavy with an unspoken, suffocating emotional tension.
Up close, the scent of the gala was entirely gone. He smelled of cold Gotham rain, old leather, the metallic tang of copper, and a faint, sweet trace of a familiar cedar wood-smoke scent—a smell you couldn't quite place, but one that felt painfully close to a memory you thought you'd lost.
Through the dark, you couldn’t see his face behind the mask, but you could feel the intense, burning gaze of his hidden eyes looking down at you, searching yours.
His hand remained on your arm, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was actually holding you, as if he were afraid you might vanish if he let go.
“You’re Red Hood,” you whispered, your voice shaking, your heart pounding for a completely different reason now. “You… you know who I am?”
A short, breathless sound escaped his lips—a bittersweet, aching laugh that he quickly choked back, turning into a rough exhale.
He pulled his hand away slowly, drag by drag, as if tearing himself away from a dream he didn’t want to wake up from, though his massive body remained firmly, protectively positioned between you and the rest of the dangerous room. “Yeah,” he murmured softly into the dark, his voice filled with a quiet, unresolved yearning that made your chest tighten.
“I know exactly who you are.”
The echoes of automatic gunfire and shattered crystal still rang through the cavernous grand ballroom, but within the heavy velvet shadows of the alcove, the air felt thick, isolated, and impossibly quiet.
It was as if the world had shrunk to the space of a few square feet. You were entirely swallowed by his shadow, your chest heaving in shallow, ragged gasps against the cold, unyielding plates of his tactical chest rig.
A sudden, sharp draft swept through the broken skylight above, carrying the bitter, unforgiving chill of the Gotham winter night.
The temperature dropped instantly as you shivered violently, your bare shoulders trembling beneath the thin, useless silk straps of your emerald gown.
Through the tinted red visor of his helmet, Red Hood felt his heart violently thud against his ribs like a caged animal. His secret, pathetic crush on you—the one he usually confined to crumpled magazine pages, stolen society column clippings, and late-night, whiskey-fueled pining—was currently threatening to choke him.
Seeing you like this, small, freezing, and vulnerable in the bleeding center of a warzone, made his protective instincts flare into an absolute, blinding frenzy.
“Hey. Look at me,” he murmured. His voice was incredibly deep, stripped of its mechanical rasp, carrying a raw, gravelly tenderness that felt entirely private.
Before you could even form a response, his large, calloused hands moved to the heavy steel zipper of his canvas flight jacket. With a swift, fluid motion born of years of muscle memory, he shed the outer layer, leaving himself in just his tight, form-fitting black body armor as he draped the oversized jacket over your shoulders.
The garment was massive, retaining the intense radiating heat of his body. It smelled overwhelmingly of him.
It instantly swallowed you whole; the hem fell well past your knees, and the sleeves buried your hands, trapping your body heat inside its heavy, protective embrace.
“We need to move. Now,” he whispered, his massive, gloved hand settling firmly against the small of your back to guide you out of the recess. “Stairs are our best bet. Elevators are death traps in a blackout.”
You didn’t protest. In fact, as he steered you toward the heavy iron fire doors at the back of the ballroom, your hand instinctively reached out from the oversized sleeve and wrapped your fingers tightly around the thick, armored strap of his chest rig.
You leaned heavily into his side, completely and unconditionally trusting this violent vigilante to keep you alive as Red Hood practically choked on his own breath.
His entire body went rigid for a split second, a sudden wave of sheer, unadulterated panic washing over him. ‘... She’s holding onto me,’ his brain screamed, his face flushing a furious crimson beneath the safety of his helmet.
He had faced down Batman in a blood rage, stared into the eyes of the Joker, and fought the worst monsters Gotham had to offer without a single blink—but your tiny hand gripping his vest made his knees feel entirely like jelly.
He forced his legs to function, his massive combat boots making absolutely no sound against the concrete steps as he hurried you upward into the dim stairwell.
By the time you reached the landing of the tenth floor, the muscles in your calves were seizing, and your feet were screaming in agony.
The towering, six-inch designer heels you had worn to look elegant for the gala were never meant for a tactical retreat up a concrete fire tower.
Your ankle gave way on a cracked step, snapping outward, and you stumbled forward with a soft, pained gasp.
“Whoa, watch it—”
Red Hood caught you instantly as his massive arm hooked around your waist like a steel crane, effortlessly lifting your weight to keep you upright before you could crash into the concrete.
“I’m sorry,” you breathed, your face burning with embarrassment as you leaned against his chest for support, the heavy scent of him filling your senses. “I need to take these off—! They’re killing me...”
You awkwardly bent down, struggling with the intricate, delicate silk straps wrapped tightly around your ankles.
Your fingers were trembling far too much to undo the tight knots, only tightening the silk further against your skin. “Let me—” Red Hood started, dropping heavily to one knee to assist you, but the loud, metallic clang of the fire door two levels below slamming open cut him off entirely.
“Up there! I heard something! Check the levels!” a gruff, echoing voice shouted from the lower stairwell.
Three heavily armed mercenaries appeared on the lower landing, their tactical flashlights cutting through the dark, their assault rifles raising in perfect synchronization. Red Hood didn’t even hesitate for a heartbeat.
He surged to his feet, throwing his massive, broad-shouldered frame directly in front of you, completely blocking you from view like a human shield.
“Stay down!” he barked.
The fight that followed was a masterclass in controlled, claustrophobic brutality. Red Hood attacked the mercenaries with a fluid, terrifying aggression, but he was visibly restraining his usual style.
He didn’t use his flashbangs or grenades, and he kept his movements tightly bound to the center of the landing, refusing to take a single step that would leave the space between you and the incoming gunfire unprotected.
The lead mercenary lunged as Red Hood caught the swinging stock of the man’s carbine with his bare forearm, the impact ringing against his bracers.
In a flash of lethal intent, his right fist shot forward, the carbon-fiber knuckles burying themselves into the mercenary’s trachea with a sickening, hollow crunch as the man collapsed, clutching his throat.
But the tight, cramped quarters of the concrete stairwell worked against Red Hood’s massive size. A second mercenary managed to circle around his left flank, utilizing a heavy, polymer tactical riot shield to slam Red Hood hard into the concrete wall.
The impact echoed through the stairwell with a sickening, echoing thud. Dust and chips of masonry rained down. For a horrifying second, Red Hood was pinned, the wind knocked from his lungs as his primary sidearm was violently jarred from his grip, clattering down the stairs.
Driven by pure, unadulterated adrenaline, you finally ripped your right foot free from the tangled shoe, tearing the silk strap. Gripping the shoe by its toe, you lunged forward from the shadows of the landing.
With an arc born of desperation, you brought the heavy designer heel down with all your might, driving the dangerously sharp, metal-reinforced stiletto tip directly into the exposed, flexible mesh of the mercenary’s neck armor.
The sharp metal spike punctured deep into the soft tissue. The man let out a wet, bubbling shriek of pure agony, dropping his shield instantly and stumbling backward into the stairwell railing, blood instantly welling around the wound.
Red Hood’s visor snapped toward you, his jaw practically dropping inside his helmet. “Shit—duck!” he roared as you instantly dropped to the floor, curling into a ball and covering your head.
Bang! Bang!
The sound of his customized .45 caliber pistols firing in the enclosed, echoing concrete stairwell was absolutely deafening.
The concussive force felt like a physical blow against your eardrums, forcing you to squint your eyes shut and press your hands tightly over your ears.
The acrid, sulfurous smell of burnt gunpowder filled the tight space instantly, heavy and suffocating. When the echoing roars finally faded, the silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the heavy, dying groans of the men below.
Red Hood dropped heavily to his knees in front of you, his large, trembling hands instantly grasping your shoulders. He was slightly breathless, his broad chest heaving beneath his armor.
“Hey, hey, look at me. Are you alright? Did a stray round hit you? Talk to me,” he demanded, his rough voice laced with a raw, desperate panic that completely betrayed his tough exterior.
You blinked through the daze, the ringing in your ears slowly fading to a dull hum as you nodded your head, still a little stunned by your own violence. “I’m okay. I’m okay, I promise.”
Despite your reassurance, his hands moved with an almost frantic gentleness, checking your arms, your neck, and your waist for any signs of blood or injury.
In his haste, his thick, leather-gloved fingers accidentally slid down, locking perfectly around yours. His hand completely enveloped yours, the sheer size difference making you feel incredibly small, yet entirely protected.
He didn’t let go.
He didn’t want to.
“We need to get to the roof,” Red Hood said, his voice dropping to a serious, low rumble as he pulled you to your feet. “My ride is parked a few buildings over. We zipline across.”
“No,” you disagreed instantly, shaking your head firmly as you looked up into the blank white lenses of his mask. “We shouldn’t go up there.”
The white lenses of his helmet narrowed slightly in confusion. “And why is that?”
“Because there might be more of them waiting upstairs,” you said, your voice entirely serious, your eyes wide. “That’s exactly where they’d put a sniper or an ambush. Especially in action movies. They always trap the main characters on the roof because there’s nowhere left to run.”
A sudden, sharp sound broke through the lingering tactical tension—a genuine, deep laugh that rumbled right out of Red Hood’s chest, vibrating through his armor. “Action movies? Seriously? Sweetheart, I am an action movie.”
He squeezed your hand gently, a playful, teasing edge entering his rough voice. “But fine. I’ll humor you. Where to, boss?”
You fully gripped his hand back, pulling him toward the tenth-floor hallway door.
You were completely barefoot now, the cold, polished tile of the corridor a sharp, freezing contrast against the soles of your feet. “Follow me,” you whispered, leading him through the maze of carpeted, dimly lit hallways.
“Care to tell me where we’re going?” Red Hood questioned, his massive combat boots squeaking softly on the plush carpet as he easily kept pace with your quick, silent strides. “Because if this is a dead end, we’re cornered with no exit.”
“My hotel suite is on this floor,” you explained over your shoulder, your heart racing as you navigated the turns. “The balcony window connects to a lower, flat rooftop of the adjoining boutique hotel. We can cross over from there without being seen from the street.”
“Smart,” he murmured, genuinely impressed by your spatial awareness.
You finally reached the heavy door to your luxury suite as you frantically reached into the deep pockets of his massive canvas jacket, searching for your clutch or your belongings, before a cold wave of dread washed over you. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”
“What?”
“I dropped my keycard,” you gasped, turning to look up at him in sheer panic. “It must have fallen out when I was wiggling away from that mercenary in the ballroom.”
Red Hood looked at the heavy, reinforced mahogany door, then down at your worried face. A small, confident smirk touched his lips beneath his helmet, invisible but entirely palpable.
“Step back,” he ordered softly.
You hurried backward a few paces. Red Hood aligned his massive, armored shoulder with the center of the doorframe, coiling his muscles. With a single, explosive burst of raw power, he bodyslammed his entire weight against the wood.
Crack!
The heavy mahogany door splintered instantly, the brass lock tearing away from the frame with a loud, groaning screech of ripping screws.
He caught the ruined door with his gloved hand, bracing his massive frame against it to hold it wide open for you. “After you,” he murmured, a hint of old-school, ironic gallantry in his tone.
You hurried into the dark, luxurious suite, your bare feet sinking into the thick, plush rug. You ran straight toward the massive, floor-to-ceiling glass window that led to the balcony.
Below it, about a twelve-foot drop, was the flat, gravel-lined roof of the neighboring building. “Alright,” Red Hood said, walking up right behind you, his towering presence instantly enveloping you in warmth.
“The drop isn’t bad. I’ll jump first, then I’ll catch you. Trust me.”
You looked down at the dark, dizzying distance, the gravel looking like jagged teeth in the moonlight, and your legs instantly turned to absolute jelly.
You stumbled back a step, shaking your head wildly. “Are you completely insane?! I am not jumping out of a tenth-story window! Twelve feet looks a lot bigger from up here!”
“It’s perfectly safe, I swear,” Red Hood argued, his hands coming up in a rare, placating gesture. “I catch people for a living. You won’t even hit the ground.”
“I don’t care! There has to be another way—”
“Find them! Check every room on this corridor! Leave no door unturned!”
An aggressive roar of footsteps and the distinct, terrifying sound of automatic gunfire test-firing erupted from the hallway, just three doors down. They were clearing the rooms, and they were coming fast.
Red Hood’s tactical instincts completely overrode everything else. Before you could even utter another syllable of protest, his massive hand gripped your waist.
He didn’t throw you out the window; instead, he spun your body around and shoved you directly into the nearby walk-in closet, stepping in right after you and pulling the heavy, slatted wooden doors completely shut until they clicked.
The darkness inside the closet was absolute, and the space was excruciatingly, suffocatingly cramped. Because of Red Hood’s massive size and broad shoulders, there was absolutely nowhere for you to go.
Your back was pressed flat against the rear wall of the closet, amidst hanging silk blouses, and your front was pushed directly against the solid, unyielding iron of his chest armor.
You were completely tucked underneath his chin, your head resting right over his sternum as the silence inside the closet was agonizingly intimate. Through the thin fabric of his undersuit, right beneath the metal plate, you could hear it.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump!
It was a loud, rapid, violent rhythm echoing from his chest. It was hammering so hard and so fast that you could practically feel the physical vibrations through your own ribcage. ‘Wow,’ you thought to yourself, your heart aching with a sudden, deep wave of sympathy in the dark.
‘He looks so terrifying, brutal, and confident out there... but he’s absolutely terrified right now. He must be really nervous about the mercenaries finding us…’
You had absolutely no idea that Red Hood Todd didn’t give a single damn about the mercenaries outside.
His heart was hammering against his ribs solely because the person he had been secretly, desperately in love with for the past year was currently pressed flat against his chest, breathing in his scent, and holding onto his armor in the pitch-black dark.
Red Hood kept his hands raised, palms pressed flat against the closet walls on either side of your head, intentionally keeping his heavy weight off you so he wouldn’t crush you.
He held his breath, his eyes locked onto the top of your head in the dark, the unresolved emotional tension between you so thick it felt completely intoxicating.
Outside, the heavy thuds of the mercenaries’ combat boots entered the hotel suite, breaking furniture, but inside the closet, the only thing that existed was the wild, frantic rhythm of his heart against your ear as the heavy wooden slats of the closet door filtered the chaotic sounds of the hotel suite—shouted orders, the violent tearing of dresser drawers, and the cold clatter of tactical gear.
But inside the pitch black, the space felt entirely divorced from reality. Slowly, your eyes began to adjust to the faint, slivered lines of amber light cutting through the slats.
The ambient glow illuminated the smooth, crimson curve of his helmet just inches from your face.
Then, with a soft, distinct electronic click, the white lenses of his visor flared down, dimming their brightness until they went entirely dark. He didn’t take the helmet off, but the sudden change felt like he was stripping away a layer of defense.
In the dim, shadowed space, you could feel the exact moment his gaze locked onto yours.
The eye contact was immediate, heavy, and blindingly intense. Even through the mask, the sheer, unadulterated heat of his stare felt like a physical touch as the silence between you stretched, growing so thick and suffocatingly intimate that the air seemed to evaporate from the closet.
The proximity was dizzying; you could feel the warmth of his breath puffing through the lower vents of his helmet, brushing against your forehead.
It quickly crossed the line from comforting to excruciatingly heated as the unspoken tension wrapped around you both, turning incredibly awkward as the seconds ticked by.
Panicking slightly under the weight of his gaze, you jerked your eyes away, looking down toward the floor to break the spell. You gulped nervously, your throat tight, trying to focus on anything other than the massive breadth of his chest pressed against you.
As your eyes adjusted to the floor shadows, you blinked as your breath hitched for a completely different reason.
Because of the painfully cramped quarters, Red Hood had been forced to shift his stance, stepping back into the deepest corner of the walk-in closet.
In doing so, his heavy, mud-stained combat boot was planted directly in the center of your delicate, wicker undergarments basket—specifically, right on top of a pile of lace and silk.
Your eyes widened. You stared down at the absolute disaster, your brain short-circuiting.
Red Hood, hyper-attuned to every single micro-movement of your body, immediately noticed your sudden, rigid freeze.
He felt your gaze drop, tracking your eyes down to the floor between his boots. “What? What is it?” he whispered, his rough voice hitching as he instinctively began to tilt his massive helmet downward to see what had caught your attention.
“No—!” The word nearly choked you.
Driven by pure, unadulterated mortification, your hands flew up before your brain could even process the action as you lunged forward the fraction of an inch available, your palms planting flat against the smooth, cold sides of his helmet.
You firmly cupped his cheeks, forcing his head back up and locking his gaze straight ahead so he couldn’t look down.
“It’s nothing! It’s absolutely— nothing!” you squeaked out in a panicked, breathless whisper, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Red Hood froze entirely, his muscles turning to absolute stone beneath your hands.
It was only in the immediate, agonizing silence that followed that you realized exactly what you had just done. Your hands were still framing his face, your fingers pressing against the sides of his helmet.
Because you had lunged forward to stop him, the distance between you had completely evaporated. Your faces were bare inches apart since you could see the subtle mesh texture of his visor, could feel the rapid, uneven heat of his breath, and your own chest was pressed flush against the rigid emblem on his armor.
A heavy, stunned stillness fell over him.
Beneath your palms, you could actually feel the sudden, intense rush of heat radiating through the helmet as a massive blush crawled up his neck, coloring his face a furious, deep crimson beneath the mask.
Jason P. Todd—the feared, brutal Red Hood, the man who routinely dismantled Gotham’s worst syndicates without breaking a sweat—grew entirely, devastatingly shy.
His hands, which had been bracing the walls on either side of your head, trembled slightly. He awkwardly pulled his elbows inward, trying to make himself smaller, utterly terrified that his bulk would crowd you too much.
The white lenses of his mask rapidly flickered, a telltale sign of his internal panic as his brain completely melted from the proximity.
He couldn’t look away from you, his hidden eyes wide and completely captivated, utterly defenseless against the feeling of your hands holding him.
Outside, a heavy glass vase shattered in the bedroom as a mercenary kicked over a nightstand, but inside the closet, Red Hood was completely paralyzed, his breath caught entirely in his throat as he melted under your touch.
The heavy thud of combat boots echoed directly outside the slatted wooden doors, accompanied by the cold, metallic clatter of an assault rifle being slung over a tactical vest. They were right outside the closet.
His entire demeanor shifted in a fraction of a second as the bashful, flustered boy beneath the armor vanished, replaced instantly by the lethal, calculating efficiency of Red Hood.
His towering frame, easily standing at a massive six-foot-two of dense muscle and reinforced plates, shifted subtly to shield every square inch of your smaller body.
The sheer size difference between you was staggering; you felt completely enveloped by his shadow, your front pressed flush against the rigid Kevlar of his chest as his large, leather-gloved hand slid down to his hip, the thick fabric of his tactical belt creaking softly as his fingers wrapped around the cold, textured metal of a flashbang grenade.
Leaning down so low his helmet brushed the soft strands of your hair, he pressed his lips near the curve of your ear.
The vocalizer remained off, leaving only his deep, gravelly whisper to fill the agonizingly tight space between you, “Hey. Look at me,” he breathed, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin, sending a heavy spike of adrenaline through your veins.
“Close your eyes. Shut them tight, and cover your ears the second I throw this. Do you hear me, sweetheart?”
Panic flared in your chest. Your fingers tightened against the rigid edge of his chest plate, your wide eyes searching the dark visor of his helmet. “Red Hood—what are you going to do?” you whispered frantically, your voice trembling with raw fear.
Through the faint amber light filtering through the slats, the white lenses of his mask briefly deactivated, revealing a quick, reassuring wink from a pair of intensely striking teal eyes. “Just a little party trick,” he murmured.
With an explosive, fluid motion, Red Hood slammed his elbow back into the closet door. The wooden slats shattered outward with a loud crack, and before the mercenaries could even register the noise, he yanked the pin from the grenade and hurled it directly into the center of the luxury suite.
You instantly squeezed your eyes shut, burying your face against the crook of his neck while raising your hands to tightly cover your ears.
But right before the world exploded into blinding light and sound, you felt his massive, calloused fingers gently catch your right hand.
With a surprisingly slow, deliberate tenderness that felt entirely insane given the life-or-death situation, Red Hood slid the cold, metallic loop of the grenade’s safety pin down the length of your ring finger.
It settled firmly against your knuckle like a makeshift, metallic wedding band—a silent, deeply hidden tease, a phantom marriage born from a crush he was too terrified to voice.
Boom!
The concussive blast of the flashbang tore through the room, accompanied by the agonizing shrieks of the blinded mercenaries.
Before you could even process the ringing in your ears, Red Hood’s massive arm wrapped securely around your waist. He lifted you entirely off the floor, but instead of throwing you, he placed your bare feet firmly on top of his heavy, reinforced combat boots.
He bore your entire weight, ensuring that the soles of your feet wouldn’t touch the deadly, jagged shards of glass littering the balcony floor. “Hold on!” he roared through his vocalizer, which had clicked back on with a heavy, mechanical rasp.
Together, you crashed straight through the remaining glass pane of the balcony window.
The world tilted on its axis as you jumped at the exact same time, plunging into the bitter, open air of the Gotham night. As you descended, your eyes flew open for a terrifying fraction of a second.
In his right hand, Red Hood was tightly gripping his signature, custom twin automatic pistol, tilting it outward to monitor the drop. The ambient neon light of the city streets caught the dark, matte finish of the barrel, and a sudden, violent realization hit you like a physical blow.
Your legs turned to jelly.
You knew that gun!
It was the exact same silver-and-black pistol from six months ago. Your mind raced backward to a rainy afternoon in a small, quiet Gotham cafe, when an incredibly broad, ruggedly handsome ‘civilian’ with a distinct white streak in his dark hair had approached you.
He had been so nervous, his large hands trembling slightly as he handed you a metallic permanent marker, asking for your autograph on a custom, matte-black prop piece he claimed he was collecting.
You had laughed, teasing him gently before signing your name in elegant, silver cursive across the sleek metal.
Seeing the gun now, in the hand of the Red Hood, the puzzle pieces violently slammed into place as you realized exactly who was behind the red mask.
You knew his identity.
A suffocating wave of shock paralyzed you; you didn’t know what to say, or if you should even dare to speak his name out loud in the middle of a warzone.
The sheer terror of the fall and the weight of the secret made your breath hitch as you wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him back with an absolute, desperate tightness, burying your face deep into the heavy, leather scent of his chest to block out the rushing wind.
Red Hood held you just as fiercely, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your cheek. With his free hand, he fired a pressurized grapple line, the high-tensile wire whistling through the air as it anchored deep into the brickwork of the adjoining building.
The line snapped taut with a violent jerk. Red Hood used his immense upper body strength to swing your combined weight inward, pulling you up toward the flat, gravel-lined roof of the boutique hotel.
A loud, terrified scream tore from your throat as the wind whipped around you. “I’ve got you! I’ve got you, sweetheart, just hold on!” Red Hood bellowed over the rushing air, his arm squeezing your waist so tightly it nearly bruised.
Suddenly, a choked cough echoed from the smoke-filled balcony above. One of the mercenaries, recovering from the blast, stumbled into the open air, raising an assault rifle directly down at your dangling forms.
Red Hood didn’t hesitate. One arm remained wrapped unyieldingly around your waist, keeping your body pinned safely against his broad torso, while he raised his custom pistol with his right hand.
He unleashed a rapid barrage of suppressive fire into the air, the deafening bang-bang-bang echoing off the brick walls as the muzzle flashes illuminated the dark.
From the absolute corner of your eye, as the gunfire lit up the dark, you saw it.
There, etched deeply into the sleek metal of the gun’s slide, catching the strobing light, was a familiar, sweeping signature.
It was yours.
It was your own name, written in your distinct handwriting, preserved perfectly on the weapon of Gotham's most lethal vigilante.
He had kept it.
He had carried your name into battle with him every single night.
Before you could even process the sheer, overwhelming weight of the unresolved emotional tension crashing down on you, the trajectory of your swing changed.
Red Hood adjusted his grip to haul you over the ledge, but for a terrifying split second, his hold on your waist loosened as he reached for the stone parapet as the sudden loss of his solid weight made your stomach drop.
Your grip around his neck got even tighter, your nails digging deep into the leather of his shoulders as a sudden, overwhelming wave of fear overtook you.
Cold tears finally spilled over your eyelashes, your chest heaving as you sobbed from the pure terror of falling. “Hey, hey, look at me—no more falling, I promise. You’re safe,” Red Hood’s voice cracked, entirely human once more as the vocalizer clicked off.
With a final, explosive burst of power, he pulled your body completely up and over the stone ledge, tumbling with you onto the flat, gravel-lined rooftop as he rolled instantly, taking the brunt of the impact against the hard gravel before jumping up to his feet right after you.
The silence of the rooftop was absolute, save for the distant wail of police sirens below as Red Hood immediately dropped to his knees in front of you, entirely ignoring the danger of the city around him.
His large, leather-gloved hands came up, his thumb gently wiping the hot tears away from your cheeks with an excruciatingly tender, soft touch.
He kept one massive, heavy hand resting flat against your back, rubbing soothing circles into your skin to help you catch your breath, his hidden eyes burning with a quiet, desperate affection that he still couldn't bring himself to say out loud.
The cool, biting kiss of the midnight wind swept across the flat gravel rooftop, carrying away the lingering stench of acrid gunpowder and acrid smoke. Below, the distant, rhythmic wail of Gotham police sirens cut through the dark, but up here, the world felt incredibly small.
You forced a long, shaky breath into your lungs, consciously locking in and swallowing down the remaining knots of panic as the frantic trembling in your chest slowly began to subside.
Reaching out from the sprawling sleeves of his massive canvas flight jacket, you firmly grabbed the hard edge of his armored shoulder, using his solid frame to steady yourself on the rough, uneven gravel.
Red Hood immediately froze beneath your touch, his broad chest rising and falling in heavy, silent rhythm.
Through the dark tint of his red visor, his eyes tracked every shift in your expression, entirely consumed by the overwhelming urge to protect you. “Alright, sweetheart,” he murmured, his deep voice carrying a sudden, distinctly cocky roll that didn’t quite mask the rough gravel of his tone.
He shifted his stance, flexing those massive, broad shoulders that easily made him look twice your size in the moonlight. “Since you almost took out a guy with a six-inch stiletto and nearly died of a heart attack in my arms,”
“I think you’ve done enough cardio for the night. Come here. Let me carry you. It’s a complimentary service for damsels who look exceptionally pretty in oversized jackets.”
He stepped closer, his towering six-foot-two frame completely eclipsing the city lights behind him, hands extending slightly as if it were the most natural thing in the world to scoop you up.
A sudden, breathless laugh bubbled past your lips, breaking the heavy tension as you shook your head, gently batting his armored hands away with a soft smile. “Oh, absolutely not. I’m not letting you carry me across Gotham like a sack of potatoes!”
“I’ve already burned down a luxury hotel door and destroyed my shoes tonight. I think I can manage a walk without bothering you any further.”
Red Hood’s hands hovered in the air for a split second, his jaw subtly tightening beneath his helmet as the confident, swaggering posture he had just thrown up cracked instantly, a sudden, endearing wave of shyness rushing through him.
He awkwardly dropped his hands back to his sides, the metal buckles of his gear clinking softly. “Bothering me?” he repeated softly, the mechanical vocalizer completely offline as he rubbed the back of his neck with a large, leather-gloved hand.
He looked away, his helmet tilting slightly downward as a fierce, invisible blush warmed his cheeks. “Sweetheart, you couldn’t be a burden if you tried. Trust me. I’ve carried heavy tactical crates that had way worse attitudes than you.”
He cleared his throat, trying and failing to regain that smooth, unbothered edge. “But, uh, fine. Have it your way, boss. Walk it out.”
Turning side by side, you both began to make your way toward the far ledge of the rooftop to find the access stairwell that led down to the alleyways where his vehicle was hidden.
As you took your first few steps, your bare soles winced against the cold, jagged gravel. Without a second thought, you reached out and slid your fingers directly into his massive, gloved hand, fully gripping it.
Your small hand was entirely swallowed by his, the contrast in size almost comical, yet the safety it brought you was absolute.
You trusted him completely—not just with your life, but with the massive, staggering secret currently resting heavily between you as Red Hood gasped, a sharp, choked intake of air rattling in his throat as your fingers locked with his.
His heart violently pounded against his ribs, a frantic, heavy thud that felt loud enough to echo off the brick walls.
He gulped nervously, his throat tight as his brain completely short-circuited from the simple, trusting warmth of your palm against his.
His thick fingers carefully, almost reverently, curled back around yours, squeezing with a heartbreaking gentleness, terrified of squeezing too hard.
Up close, the heavy, intoxicating aroma of your expensive French gala perfume drifted upward, instantly mixing with the rich, comforting scent of rain, worn leather, and cedar wood-smoke radiating from his jacket wrapped around your shoulders.
It was a suffocatingly sweet, intimate blend of scents that filled his lungs with every breath, making the unresolved emotional tension between you tighten until it was almost too much to bear.
“You know,” Red Hood cleared his throat again, desperately trying to summon his usual cocky bravado to save face as you walked hand-in-hand toward the shadows, though his voice trembled just a fraction.
“Most people in this city would run screaming if I tried to hold their hand. I’m supposed to be the big, bad outlaw, remember? You’re kind of ruining my street cred here, sweetheart.”
You squeezed his massive hand tightly, looking up at the crimson helmet with a soft, knowing smile that made his knees feel entirely like jelly. “I think your street cred can survive a walk to the motorcycle, Red Hood.”
Beneath the mask, his teal eyes widened, his heart skipping a massive beat as the quiet, aching yearning in his chest flared to life.
He couldn’t say a word, completely trapped in the beautiful, silent magic of the Gotham night, entirely content to just hold your hand in the dark.
The descent down the rusty fire escape was a slow, deliberate dance. Red Hood insisted on stepping down first, his massive, broad-shouldered frame blocking the wind and providing a literal human wall between you and the drop.
Every time your bare foot hit a cold, iron grating, his grip on your hand tightened just a fraction, steadying you before you could even think about slipping.
When your feet finally touched the solid concrete of the damp, narrow alleyway below, the scent of the city changed. The clean, winter air of the rooftops faded, replaced by the familiar Gotham blend of wet asphalt, old brick, and the faint, industrial tang of exhaust.
“Alright, look alive, sweetheart,” Red Hood murmured, his voice returning to that low, rumbling register as he guided you deeper into the shadows of the cul-de-sac.
He cast a quick, scanning glance over his shoulder, his cocky swagger bleeding back into his stride now that he was in his element.
“The bat-clan usually complains about my taste in parking spots, but I happen to think it's prime real estate. Safe, secluded, and completely out of sight from the Penguin’s idiots.”
He led you toward a heavy, industrial canvas tarp tucked behind a rusted dumpster. With a smooth, theatrical flourish of his free arm, he yanked the fabric away.
There, resting in the gloom like a sleeping predator, was his motorcycle. It was massive—easily twice the size of a standard street bike, custom-built to support his towering, muscular frame and heavy tactical gear.
The body of the machine was painted a sleek, matte black that seemed to absorb the dim alley light, punctuated by aggressive, sharp accents of a deep, metallic blood-red that perfectly matched his helmet.
The tires were thick and heavily treaded, built for high-speed pursuits over Gotham’s notoriously cracked and uneven pavement.
“Behold,” Red Hood said, leaning back against the handlebars with a smug, self-satisfied tilt of his helmet. He ran a gloved hand along the sleek, red trim of the gas tank, clearly showing off to impress you.
“Custom engine, reinforced carbon-fiber frame, and enough horsepower to outrun a GCPD chopper without breaking a sweat. Go ahead, you can say it. It’s the coolest thing you’ve ever seen.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound echoing softly against the brick walls as you stepped closer, still entirely engulfed by his oversized flight jacket.
“It certainly matches your aesthetic, Mr. Red Hood… very subtle.”
“Hey, subtlety is overrated when you look this good,” he shot back quickly, the cocky retort slipping past his lips with practiced ease.
But as you stepped into his personal space, the sheer size difference between you became apparent again. Standing right next to the massive bike, you looked incredibly small, your bare toes peeking out from beneath the long hem of his jacket.
Red Hood’s eyes tracked downward, taking in your shivering frame and your bare feet, and the playful, arrogant armor he was wearing melted away into pure, stuttering shyness once more.
“Uh... right,” he mumbled, his vocalizer clicking off as he rubbed the back of his neck, his helmet turning slightly away to hide the immediate blush creeping up his jaw. His voice dropped to a quiet, nervous gravel.
“Anyway. It’s, um... it’s a long ride back to your house. And since you flat-out rejected my very generous offer to carry you like a gentleman, you’re going to have to hold onto me. Tight. If you’re, you know... cool with that.”
He swung his long leg over the seat, the heavy leather of his suit creaking as he settled his weight onto the bike.
He gripped the handlebars, coiling his broad back, leaving a space behind him that felt impossibly intimate as you stared at his broad shoulders, your heart executing a sudden, erratic flutter against your ribs.
The unresolved emotional tension between you stretched tight, humming like a live wire in the quiet alley.
You knew who he was.
He carried your signature on his weapon.
And yet, neither of you was ready to break the fragile, beautiful spell of the secret just yet. Nodding softly, you stepped up onto the footpeg and slid onto the seat behind him.
Your bare knees pressed against his armored thighs, and with a hesitant, tingling warmth, you wrapped your arms completely around his broad waist, burying your face directly into the space between his shoulder blades.
Red Hood let out a shaky, uneven breath, his stomach doing a violent flip as he felt your body flush completely against his back.
He gulped nervously, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the handles, entirely intoxicated by the scent of your perfume swirling with the leather of his jacket. With a low, deep growl, the massive engine roared to life, vibrating through your entire body as he kicked the bike into gear, ready to carry you both away into the dark.
The massive engine of the motorcycle thrummed beneath you, a deep, rhythmic vibration that vibrated through the metal frame and into your chest.
As Red Hood kicked the bike into gear and rolled out of the dark alleyway, the sharp, freezing rush of the Gotham wind whipped past, but you barely felt it.
Swallowed entirely by his heavy canvas flight jacket, you were locked in a cocoon of radiating heat that belonged entirely to him as the adrenaline that had kept your heart hammering for the past hour finally began to recede, leaving a profound, bone-deep exhaustion in its wake.
Your grip around his broad waist tightened instinctively. You pulled yourself closer until there wasn’t a single millimeter of space left between you, burying your face completely into the center of his muscular back as the fabric of his undersuit was thin enough that you could feel the hard, shifting contours of his shoulder blades with every movement of the bike.
Your eyelashes fluttered against his back, your eyelids growing heavier and heavier as the steady, hypnotic motion of the motorcycle began to soothe you into a deep daze.
Up front, Red Hood felt the exact moment you completely surrendered your weight to him. When your body flushed entirely against his spine, his breath hitched so sharply it caught in his throat.
‘God, she’s so close,’ his mind raced, his heart hammering a chaotic, frantic rhythm against his ribs. ‘Don’t freak out, Todd. Just drive. Do not crash this bike.’
But then, with a slow, agonizingly tender motion, Red Hood slid his left hand off the handlebar. He reached back, his large, leather-gloved fingers searching in the dark until they found your small hand wrapped around his waist.
He slid his palm against yours, intertwining his thick fingers with your delicate ones, pinning your arm tightly and securely against his torso.
He squeezed gently, a silent promise that he wasn’t going to let anything happen to you. As the bike idled at a deserted, fog-slicked intersection under the amber glow of a streetlamp, Red Hood’s eyes instinctively drifted upward to the motorcycle’s side mirror.
Because of how deeply you were tucked into his back, your head had moved slightly to the side. Your eyes were closed, your breathing soft and even as you drifted on the edge of sleep, completely at peace against a man the rest of the city feared.
The oversized collar of his jacket framed your face, making you look impossibly delicate against his massive silhouette as Red Hood stared at your reflection through the mirror, his throat tight, completely captivated. ‘Look at her,’ he thought, a wave of fierce, consuming tenderness washing over him so intensely it felt like a physical ache.
He gulped nervously, the intense, unresolved emotional tension vibrating through his veins. He wanted to turn around, to pull off the helmet and tell you everything, but the sheer shyness of his hidden crush kept him locked in place.
He was Red Hood—brutal, cocky, unyielding—but right now, looking at your peaceful face, he felt entirely defenseless.
A soft, sleepy murmur escaped your lips as you stirred slightly against his back, your fingers tightening their grip on his gloved hand as Red Hood’s thumb gently rubbed the back of your hand, a quiet, breathless exhale escaping his lips as the vocalizer beeped off.
“Yeah... just sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered into the quiet, fog-laden air, his teal eyes softening behind the dark visor as he looked back at the mirror one last time. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”
normal au . sfw BUT heavily suggestive . secret admiration . fluff . mutual pining . series . celebrity fem reader . jealous&subby jason todd . face reveal . shy confession . making out sesh . bonus scene
► previous chapter . masterlist
The heavy winter snow muffled the sounds of Gotham outside, wrapping your high-rise apartment in a quiet, isolated cocoon. Inside, the only light came from the warm, amber glow of a floor lamp and the soft, crackling hum of the fireplace.
The air smelled faintly of vanilla from a burning candle, mixed with the sharp, crisp scent of the ozone freezing just beyond the glass.
You were curled up on the plush velvet cushions, the crisp pages of your Netflix script rustling as you turned them since you had been staring at the same dialogue lines for an hour, but your mind kept drifting, anchored to the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.
Then came the sound. A heavy, metallic thud against the stone ledge of your balcony, followed by the familiar, sharp scrape of the window latch sliding open as the cold air rushed into the room, bringing a sudden gust of wind that made the fireplace flicker.
Before the massive, looming figure could even step fully inside, you threw the script aside as you slid off the couch, your socks padding softly against the hardwood, and ran straight into him. You crashed against his chest, wrapping your arms tightly around his broad torso.
Red Hood stood at a towering six-foot-five, and in his heavy leather jacket and tactical gear, the sheer physical size difference between you was staggering; your head barely reached his chest, making you feel completely swallowed by his shadow.
For a second, he froze completely stiff as the smell of cold leather, wet snow, and a faint hint of gunpowder rolled off him, enveloping your senses. Red Hood’s large, scarred hands hovered awkwardly in the air, fingers trembling slightly.
He desperately wanted to wrap his arms around you, to pull you flush against his massive frame, but he hesitated, caught in a wave of sudden, nervous shyness.
He didn’t want to break the fragile, unsaid boundary that had kept him coming back to this window every single week for a year, ever since he had pulled you out of the chaos at that disastrous Wayne charity event.
“Hey,” he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated right through his chest and into your own. “You’re… enthusiastic tonight.”
You stepped back just enough to look up, up, and up into the stark white lenses of his domino mask. You could see the faint, dark stubble along his strong jawline, shadowed by the dim light.
“I missed you,” you said softly, your voice carrying a weight that made his breath hitch. “You should visit more often.”
Red Hood’s jaw tightened, a faint reddish hue creeping up the back of his neck, well hidden by his collar as he cleared his throat, shifting his immense weight from one heavy boot to the other.
“Don’t get too greedy. A week is long enough for me to keep my hands clean out there before coming to see you.”
You didn’t let him retreat into his usual tough-guy persona. Reaching out, your much smaller hand enveloped his leather-gloved fingers as the contrast in size was ridiculous—your hand looked tiny against his—but you squeezed gently, casually guiding the giant over to your couch.
He followed your pull with surprising compliance, letting you lead him like a tame storm as he sank into the velvet cushions, the furniture groaning slightly under his massive, muscular frame.
He sat right next to you, so close that the heat radiating from his body washed over you, melting the chill of the snow he’d brought in.
Red Hood threw his head back against the headrest and let out a long, dramatic sigh. “You’re gonna get me killed, you know that? Your security guards down there are getting way too strict. I had to scale the blind spot of three different cameras just to get up here without tripping a silent alarm.”
You let out a soft scoff, leaning back against the armrest, tilting your head to admire the sheer breadth of his shoulders. “Oh, please, you’re far too careful to get caught! Besides, you’re the big, bad Red Hood! Are you telling me a couple of standard-issue bodyguards are too much for you to handle?”
Jason leaned in closer, his towering frame overshadowing yours as a lazy, suggestive smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “I can handle them just fine. It’s you I have trouble handling.” His voice dropped an octave, dripping with a playful, low heat that sent a shiver straight down your spine.
“You command, I show up. It’s a dangerous habit we’re forming.”
The air between you thickened, heavy with an unresolved emotional tension that had been building for twelve long months. Looking at him, your heart thudded painfully against your ribs.
… You knew.
You knew the name behind the mask, the tragic history of Jason Todd, the boy who had died and come back with a vengeance.
Every week you kept the secret, a heavy coil of guilt twisted tighter in your stomach but you wanted so badly to tell him, to strip away the mask and hold him without any barriers. But the fear held you back.
If you confessed that you knew his real identity, would he vanish into the Gotham night and never return to your window?
Red Hood noticed your sudden quietness. His smirk softened, replaced by a look of genuine, tender concern as he reached out, his huge, gloved thumb gently brushing against the side of your cheek, the leather surprisingly warm against your skin.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he whispered, his eyes locked onto yours behind the mask, his fingers lingering on your skin with a hesitant, aching sweetness.
His thumb lingered for just a beat longer on your cheek, a warm, heavy touch that made your breath catch, before his gaze drifted downward.
The thick, white-bound pages of your script were sitting on the low mahogany coffee table, slightly wrinkled from where you had tossed them. “What’s this?” Red Hood murmured, his deep voice carrying a curious rumble.
He leaned forward, his massive torso blocking out the light from the fireplace as he reached out as his huge, calloused hand engulfed the script, lifting it effortlessly. He flipped through the pages, the crisp sound of paper rustling loudly in the quiet room.
“It’s the script for my upcoming Netflix series,” you explained, shifting a bit closer to him on the velvet cushions.
You leaned your shoulder against his thick bicep, enjoying the sheer contrast of your small frame tucked against his towering, muscular build. “We’re shooting a major scene next week. I’ve been trying to memorize the blocking, but it’s… tricky.”
Jason hummed, his hidden eyes scanning the typed lines. “Tricky how? Looks like standard dramatic drivel to me.”
“It’s a kissing scene,” you said softly.
The air in the room instantly shifted as Red Hood froze, his large fingers tensing so suddenly that the paper slightly crinkled under his grip.
The easy, flirtatious warmth that had been building between you evaporated, replaced by a sudden, heavy silence. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic crackle of the fireplace throwing embers against the screen as he slowly lowered the script, his mood visibly dampening.
The sharp, confident line of his jaw tightened, and he stared fixedly at the coffee table. Even without seeing his eyes behind the domino mask, you could practically feel the waves of sudden, brooding jealousy radiating off his six-foot-five frame.
… He looked like a giant, sulking puppy.
A small, amused smile tugged at your lips as you leaned in closer, the sweet scent of your vanilla candle wrapping around the two of you. “What’s that face for? Have you actually been watching the show?”
Red Hold let out a soft, disgruntled huff, crossing his massive arms over his chest. “Yeah. I’ve seen it.” He turned his head to look at you, his white lenses narrowing slightly. “And for the record? Your co-star sucks at acting, he’s completely wooden. I don’t know how he even got the part.”
“Oh, really?” you teased, your voice dripping with playful amusement. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Jason complained, his voice dropping into a soft, genuine whine that completely betrayed his tough, vigilante exterior. He tilted his head down, looking up at you through his eyelashes, his expression shifting into a pair of puppy-dog eyes that he only ever dared to show around you.
“He’s terrible, Y/N. The guy has the charisma of a wet brick. You’re completely carrying the entire show on your back, and now you have to kiss him? It’s a tragedy.”
A bubbly laugh escaped your throat, the sound bright and musical in the quiet apartment. You felt a sudden, overwhelming wave of affection for him—this terrifying, lethal protector of Gotham was currently pouting like a teenager because of a fictional romance.
You reached out, intending to pat his arm in mock pity, but you didn’t get the chance. Before your hands could touch his jacket, Jason’s large hands shot forward with lightning-fast, effortless precision as his fingers wrapped securely around both of your wrists.
His hands were so massive that his fingers easily overlapped around your skin, his touch firm but remarkably gentle, acutely aware of his own monstrous strength.
He slowly guided your hands downward, letting your smaller fingers naturally slide and fall into the spaces between his own, he immediately enveloped his fingers around yours, locking your hands together in a tight, seamless fit.
The heat of his palms bled into yours, and the sheer size difference was dizzying—your hands were entirely swallowed by his as he pulled your joined hands closer to his chest, leaning over you so that his immense frame completely overshadowed yours.
The playful whining was gone, replaced by a low, simmering tension that made your pulse race against his fingertips, “If you’re gonna be practicing kissing scenes,” he whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, suggestive purr that vibrated right through your bones, “you should at least do it with someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”
The low, rumbling purr of his voice made your tummy do frantic backflips, sending a delicious little zap of electricity straight down your spine.
You peeked up through your eyelashes into the stark white lenses of his mask, your small hands completely swallowed up within his massive, warm grip.
He was just so incredibly huge—his broad shoulders completely blocked out the rest of your cozy living room, making you feel perfectly shielded from the rest of the world as a soft, squeaky little laugh escaped your lips.
You leaned into his space, tilting your head up to look at him. “Oh, goodness, really?” you whispered playfully, your cheeks dusting with a sweet, rosy pink. “Are you volunteering, Red? Because it sounds a lot like you’re jealous of a silly script.”
Red Hood’s jaw tightened, and a sudden, violent shade of bright pink rushed up his neck, rapidly disappearing beneath his collar.
He didn’t pull away, but he looked down and away from you, his chest heaving with a sharp, frosty inhale. Seeing him like this—this terrifying, six-foot-five Gotham vigilante turning into a totally flustered puddle over a fictional romance—made your heart do a wild, happy somersault.
You had the absolute biggest crush on him. Seeing definitive proof that he might actually care about you that way made you want to be brave.
But as you prepared to say his name, a sudden wave of nerves hit you. ‘What if he gets angry? What if he leaves and never comes back?’
Your breath hitched as you softened your expression, deliberately looking up at him with your very best, wide-eyed puppy-dog eyes, even as your heart began to hammer a terrified, frantic rhythm against your ribs.
You squeezed his giant fingers, your hands trembling just a tiny bit. “You know…” you began, your voice dropping to a vulnerable, incredibly quiet whisper.
You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very small and a little scared of how he would react. “You don’t have to be jealous of him. Especially not when I’ve been waiting for you to visit every single week. Isn’t that right… Ja– Jason?”
The name left your lips like a fragile, frightened secret, drifting through the quiet room over the soft crackle of the fireplace as Jason froze instantly.
The playful, flirtatious atmosphere vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by a sudden, electric shock as his massive frame went completely rigid.
For a terrifying, breathless second, his fingers tensed so tightly around yours that you held your breath, fearing you’d made a horrible mistake. But then, his grip completely loosened, his hands trembling slightly within yours.
“What did you just say?” His voice was barely a squeak, the gravelly, intimidating edge completely stripped away, leaving behind a raw, human shock.
He pulled back just an inch, his white lenses scanning your face frantically. “How… how— long have you known?”
You didn’t let go of his hands. Instead, you guided them up, gently rubbing your thumbs over his knuckles to soothe the sudden, chaotic panic radiating from him.
“I’ve known for a little while,” you confessed softly, a shy, timid smile tugging at your lips. “You left your holster unbuttoned a few months ago, and I saw the silver finish on your piece. I noticed a very specific signature engraved near the barrel. It had a tiny, sloppy little heart drawn right next to it.”
Jason’s head tilted, his breath hitching loudly. “I only ever put hearts next to my signature for people I find genuinely, incredibly attractive,” you explained, the blush on your face deepening to a bright crimson as you looked up at his towering form.
“And I’ve only ever given that specific signature to one person. A really cute, painfully shy, unbelievably tall boy at a cafe a year ago. He asked me to sign his prop gun, which I totally thought was just a really high-quality toy at the time.”
The realization hit him like a physical blow. The brooding, scary Red Hood completely melted away, leaving behind the awkward, soft-hearted boy underneath as a deep and unmistakable crimson blush spread rapidly across his strong jawline.
“You…” Jason choked out, his voice cracking slightly with a sudden wave of pure, adorable shyness as he shifted his massive shoulders, looking completely small and sweet despite his giant frame.
“You thought I was cute?”
You enthusiastically nodded your head, your smile growing wide and bright. “Incredibly cute! The finest man in that entire cafe.”
At your bubbly admission, you felt his grip around your fingers instantly tighten back up, his palms warm, protective, and grounding against your skin.
The unresolved emotional tension that had kept you both apart for a year was finally breaking, leaving behind a wave of pure, dizzying sweetness.
Deciding to keep the mood light before the silly nerves could catch up to you again, you nudged his knee with your own, jokingly asking, “So, tell me the truth, Red. Did you only rescue me from that Wayne Charity event because the real boy behind the mask idolized me?”
Jason immediately shook his head, his chest expanding as he let out a sharp, earnest breath. “I don’t idolize you,” he corrected you directly, his voice steadying with a sudden, fierce sincerity.
He looked straight into your eyes, his large hands anchoring yours safely against his chest. “I’ve had a crush on you, Y/N. Ever since your debut. It was never about idolizing. I just… I wanted to be near you.”
Your breath caught in your throat as you stared at him, completely shocked and suddenly very embarrassed at how easily he had turned your own teasing back on you.
Your face burned a bright, adorable crimson, your mind spinning at the fact that the Jason Todd had been pining after you since day one.
Seeing your completely flustered, blushing reaction, a soft, genuine laugh rumbled deep in Jason’s chest. He slowly let go of your hands, his large fingers reaching up to the edge of his mask.
With a gentle, deliberate tug, he pulled it away from his face.
You were met with his actual features once more—the sharp, handsome angles of his face, the striking streak of white hair falling over his forehead, and those brilliant, piercing teal eyes that were now looking at you with so much hidden, gooey warmth.
You melted back into the velvet cushions, looking up at your magnificent, towering vigilante. “Good morning, handsome,” you teased softly, your voice filled with pure, unadulterated affection.
You reached up, your small hands sinking into his thick, unruly dark hair as Jason leaned down into your touch instantly, tilting his head into your palms like a giant, affectionate puppy dog as you gently ruffed his strands, carefully fixing his messy hair for him.
You decided to be really bold. You leaned in just a little bit closer, the scent of his leather jacket and gunpowder wrapping around you like a heavy, warm blanket.
“You know…” you teased, your voice dropping to a wicked, velvety murmur, “if you hate the script so much, we could always recreate the kissing scene. You could be my practice partner. Since you’re so jealous of the lines, why don’t you show me how it’s actually supposed to be done?”
Jason froze instantly. The easy, flirtatious atmosphere vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by a sudden, electric shock since the sheer audacity of your words seemed to short-circuit his brain completely.
His legs practically gave out from under him, and with a soft, heavy thud, the massive vigilante immediately sat right down on the thick, plush rug-filled floor right in front of your couch.
Without a single word, he leaned forward, utterly defeated by his own shyness, and gently laid his heavy head right onto your lap as your heart squeezed at how precious he was being.
He looked so incredibly huge against the floor, his long legs taking up so much space, yet he was trying to make himself so small for you.
You immediately reached down, your small palms cupping his warm, sharp cheek as Jason tilted his face up to look at you, his white lenses already discarded somewhere on the floor.
His brilliant, piercing teal eyes were shiny, wide, and filled with a vulnerable, longing look that made him look like a giant, pining puppy dog.
He frowned gently, a soft, pathetic little whine escaping the back of his throat as his thick eyelashes fluttered. “Really?” he breathed out, his voice cracked and incredibly sweet, stripping away all of the tough Red Hood persona. “Can I...”
“Please? Can I kiss you for real, Y/N?”
You didn’t even give him a verbal answer. Instead, you leaned down and pressed your lips firmly against his.
The moment your lips met, something inside Jason snapped. The agonizing restraint he had maintained for an entire year dissolved into pure, starved impulse as the shy, gentle giant vanished, replaced by a raw, desperate hunger that had clearly been eating him alive.
He lunged upward, his massive frame towering over you on the couch, pinning you beneath his weight. His movement was almost frantic; one of his huge hands slammed violently onto the top of the couch behind your head, the wood framing groaning under his sudden force.
His other hand flew to your face, his broad palm cupping your cheek with a trembling intensity, his thumb dragging across your skin as if to convince himself you were actually real.
He was completely on top of you now, his immense size utterly swallowing you up, casting a heavy, suffocating shadow in the dim, flickering amber light of the fire as he devoured your lips, a deep, ragged groan tearing from his throat—a sound born of pure deprivation.
He tasted you like a man dying of thirst, his mouth moving against yours with a fierce, bruising passion that bordered on feral.
The scent of him—rugged leather, sharp mint, and a thick, intoxicating male warmth—flooded your senses, making your head spin. “Mmff...” He was breathless, kissing you as if he were trying to pull the very air from your lungs to fill his own.
As the kiss deepened into something wild and uncontrolled, his hand slid frantically down from your cheek, his large, calloused fingers wrapping around your wrist with a grip that was firm, desperate, and entirely unyielding.
He dragged your small hand down his chest, pressing your palm flat against his body. He forced it right over his heart, squeezing your hand down hard, as if pleading with you to understand the sheer, agonizing intensity of what he was experiencing.
When he finally pulled away just a fraction of an inch, it felt like a violent tearing apart. His chest was heaving, his breath coming in shallow, ragged pants that hot-housed between your faces.
His brilliant teal eyes were dark, blown out with an affection so heavy it looked like pain, and his strong jaw was flushed a deep, breathless crimson.
Smeared wildly across his lips and trailing down onto his chin was a messy, vivid smudge of your pink lipstick—a stark, beautiful mark of his undoing.
“Ja— jason...”
“I was so, so, so nervous,” Jason choked out, his voice broken, a rough and shaky timber that vibrated against your own lips.
Underneath your trapped palm, his heart wasn’t just beating—it was hammering frantically, a wild, untamed thing slamming against his ribs like a bird trying to break through the bone.
He leaned his forehead heavily against yours, his skin burning, his hot breath shuddering over your face. “God, Y/N... my heart is gonna burst,” he whispered, his voice cracking with the sheer weight of a year’s worth of suffocating longing.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I met you. I can’t— I can’t breathe without you.”
He didn’t wait for a response; the sheer desperation driving him wouldn't allow it. With a low, needy sound, Jason buried his face back into the crook of your neck.
The sudden, burning heat of his lips against your sensitive skin made you gasp, your fingers instinctively curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
As his mouth moved hungrily down your jawline, you loosely wrapped your arms around his broad neck, anchoring yourself to him as the world tilted away. Sensing your compliance, his large hands slid down to your hips, lifting you effortlessly to shift his massive frame closer.
Responsive to the heat of his body, you wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him against you as a deep and shuddering sigh escaped him at the movement, his chest pressing heavily into yours as he realized how completely you were letting him in.
His kisses became slower, deeper, and agonizingly deliberate as they trailed down the column of your neck as he nuzzled his face into your skin, inhaling your scent like it was oxygen before his lips found the sensitive dip of your collarbone.
He pressed a hard, lingering kiss there, his strong jaw rubbing against your skin, the rough stubble a sharp contrast to the soft urgency of his mouth.
Every breath he exhaled was a hot, shaky puff of air against your skin that sent involuntary shivers down your spine.
He was entirely consumed by you, his huge body trembling slightly against yours as he anchored you to the couch, completely lost in the intoxicating reality of finally having you in his arms.
bonus: The soft, amber glow of the dying embers in the fireplace cast long, flickering shadows across the room, wrapping the small space in a cozy, intimate warmth. The only sounds were the quiet crackle of the wood and the heavy, synchronized rhythm of your breathing.
The scent of rugged leather, sharp mint, and his own intoxicating heat filled the air, anchoring you to the dizzying reality of the moment.
With a low, needy sound that vibrated deep in his chest, his head dipped, burying his face back into the crook of your neck. The sudden, burning heat of his lips against your sensitive skin made you gasp, a soft sound that was entirely swallowed by the quiet room.
Your fingers instinctively curled into the soft, thick tufts of his hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the coarse texture and the heat radiating from his skin.
As his mouth moved hungrily down your jawline, you loosely wrapped your arms around his impossibly broad neck, anchoring yourself to him as the world tilted away. He was massive—easily six-foot-five of pure, conditioned muscle—and the sheer size difference between you was staggering.
His enormous frame completely engulfed yours, making you feel beautifully small and protected beneath him. Sensing your compliance, his large, calloused hands slid down to your hips, lifting you effortlessly to shift his heavy weight closer.
Responsive to the frantic thudding of his pulse, you wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him against you as a sharp, breathless wheeze escaped your lips as the muscles in your thighs fired a protest. “Jesus, Todd,” you gasped against his ear, half-laughing through a flush of heat. “Are you made of lead? My legs are aching…”
Jason chuckled, a dark, rumbling vibration that pressed right into your chest. “Oh, yeah? Whose fault is that?” He shifted, his hands gripping your hips a little firmer, deliberately deepening the friction. “Pretty sure you were the one locking me in place last night like your life depended on it.”
To emphasize his point, his hands slid up your back, his shirt shifting under your palms as your fingers brushed against the raised, angry heat of fresh welts crisscrossing his shoulders. He hissed softly as your nails grazed the exact marks you had left there hours ago.
“Careful, Hollywood,” Jason murmured, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a playful, dangerous edge. “You already marked your territory. Don’t go reopening the merchandise just because you’re sore.”
“Consider it a performance review,” you whispered back, nipping lightly at his jawline. “And right now, the director says you’re a distraction.”
A deep, shuddering sigh escaped his lips at the movement, his solid chest pressing heavily into yours as he realized how completely you were letting him in.
“Mm...” His kisses became slower, deeper, and agonizingly deliberate as they trailed down the column of your neck. He nuzzled his face into your skin, inhaling your scent like it was oxygen before his lips found the sensitive dip of your collarbone as he pressed a hard, lingering kiss right there, his strong jaw rubbing against your skin, the rough, faint scratch of his stubble a sharp, intoxicating contrast to the soft urgency of his mouth.
Every breath he exhaled was a hot, shaky puff of air against your skin that sent involuntary shivers down your spine. He was entirely consumed by you, his huge body trembling slightly against yours as he anchored you to the couch, completely lost in the reality of finally having you in his arms.
Yet, beneath the fierce passion, a heavy layer of unresolved emotional tension lingered between you—the unsaid words of the past year hanging in the air, making every touch feel fragile, as if he were still terrified this was all a dream he might wake up from.
When you did wake up the next morning, the room was bathed in the soft, pale light of dawn. The world was utterly quiet, save for the distant, muffled sounds of the city waking up outside.
You opened your eyes to find yourself tangled in the bedsheets, with Jason still securely wrapped in your arms.
He was already awake, propped up slightly on one elbow, staring down at you with a look of pure, unadulterated awe as the tough, formidable Red Hood was completely gone, replaced by a boy who looked entirely struck by lightning.
As your eyes met, a soft, boyish flush crept up his neck, dusting his strong jawline with a deep pink. Your hair was a messy halo on the pillow, several dark strands splayed across his face. Slowly, with a hand that shook just a fraction, he reached out, his large fingers gently twirling a lock of your hair.
He leaned down, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to the strands before his lips found yours in a soft, sweet greeting, “Good morning, pretty,” Jason whispered against your lips, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that was thick with sleep and an overwhelming amount of affection.
He pulled back just an inch, his brilliant teal eyes scanning your face as if he still couldn’t believe his luck. It was almost comical how much he was internally fangirling over you.
To the rest of Gotham, he was a lethal vigilante, but to you, he was just Jason—the guy who still had a massive, blushing crush on the famous actress in his arms.
With a sheepish smile, his hand reached for the nightstand, picking up his cracked, battered phone. The screen lit up, displaying his wallpaper: a picture of you from your latest major advertising campaign as he looked from the screen to your sleepy face, a soft, breathless laugh escaping him.
“I’m still waiting for the catch,” he admitted, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Like, I’m gonna wake up and realize I’m still just staring at a billboard of my celebrity crush, instead of… actually having her in my bed. It’s kinda ridiculous how into you I am, Y/N.”
You smirked, stretching your arms above your head, though a small wince caught in your throat as your thighs tightened. “Well, if you keep staring at me like I’m a prize exhibit, I might start charging you admission, Todd.”
Your eyes flicked down to his bare shoulders, taking in the faint red scratches blooming across his tan skin. “Though, looking at the state of your back, I think you already paid the price of entry.”
Jason looked over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he flexed, deliberately making the muscles—and your handiwork—shift. “Yeah? You like the decor? I think it adds character, it tells a story… specifically, a story about a certain A-lister who loses all her composure the second the cameras stop rolling.”
Before you could throw a pillow at him, he slid smoothly off the edge of the mattress, his massive height stretching out as he stood by the bed.
You sat up, yawning softly as your legs dangled over the edge of the high mattress. Looking up at him, the size difference was even more apparent; even while sitting, you felt tiny compared to his broad shoulders.
Jason knelt down on the hardwood floor right in front of you. He reached out, his huge hands gently taking hold of your ankles.
But instead of just putting on your slippers, his thumbs rubbed smooth, heavy circles right into the aching muscles of your calves. “You’re lucky I'm a nice guy,” he teased, looking up through his thick eyelashes, a devastatingly handsome grin on his face.
“Providing post-performance medical care. It’s in my contract.”
“Oh, is it?” You laughed, your heart swelling at the sweet, domestic gesture as you reached out to affectionately ruffle his messy, dark hair, running your fingers through the white streak at his forehead.
“And what exactly do I owe you for this premium service?”
“I’ll think of something,” he murmured, leaning into your touch for a second before he stood back up.
Without a word of warning, his massive arms scooped under your thighs and back, lifting you completely off the floor.
You gasped, a sharp jolt of fire shooting through your sore legs, making you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck as he effortlessly twirled you around in the center of the sunlit bedroom, his deep, rumbling laughter filling the space.
“Jason, put me down!” you laughed, though you leaned in to press a warm, lingering kiss to his cheek. “My legs feel like jelly right now… aghh— Jay, baby, calm down!”
He slowed to a stop, keeping you held tightly against his chest, his teal eyes pleading. “Spend a bit more time in bed with me? Please? Just an hour… or the whole day. I promise to play pillow.”
You scoffed softly, rolling your eyes with an affectionate smile as you tapped his nose. “You are incredibly lucky, Todd. My schedule today is completely free.”
You paused, giving him a pointed look. “Well, it was meant for reviewing my new script, but I suppose the lines can wait.”
Jason’s face lit up, a brilliant, breathtaking grin spreading across his lips as he squeezed you tighter, careful not to aggravate your aching muscles too much.
“Best script review partner at your service,” he murmured, turning back toward the warmth of the unmade bed. “I’ll even read the romantic interests’ lines. Though fair warning... I’m going to heavily ad-lib the kissing scenes.”
jason todd x fem!reader
summary: jason can't seem to understand why you keep talking about "your" wedding
contains: fluff, established relationship, pet names
word count: ~600
You and Jason laid in bed, morning light shuffling in through the blinds and illuminating the soft bedding. Jason had one arm around your waist as his head was tucked into the crook of your neck, eyes shut contentedly. Your eyes were open, staring blankly at the page of your book as you listened to Jason’s soft breathing mix with the morning birdsongs that rolled in with the light.
“Jay?” you whispered quietly, testing to see if he was awake.
“Hm?” he grunted in reply, nose nestling further into your neck.
You kept quiet for a moment, hesitant to bring up such a topic before finally asking, “Do you ever think about what you want your wedding to be like?”
Jason was silent and you felt his arm subtly tense around you. You started to worry you had crossed some line you didn’t know existed before he replied, “What do you mean?”
“I mean like how many people, what type of cake, the venue…that stuff. How do you picture your future wedding?”
You felt Jason’s brow furrow against your skin. “I’m still confused,” he mumbled, lips brushing ur neck and placing a soft kiss there.
You pursed your lips, puzzled at how he could be confused by such a question. “What are you confused about? When I picture my wedding I know I want—”
Jason abruptly sat up straight, causing you to stop speaking and stare at him in confusion. He was really starting to freak you out.
“Why do you keep saying it like that?” he asked, looking at you with a mix of annoyance, confusion, and a hint of hurt.
“Saying it like what?”
Jason looked away for a moment, letting the sunrays filtering in illuminate his features. His scars were highlighted and when his eyes met yours again, you could see them so clearly, their mix of green and blue capturing you before he spoke again.
“Saying ‘your wedding’ or ‘my wedding’. Why do you keep doing that?”
“Um…” you paused, laughing nervously. “What am I supposed to say, Jay?”
“Doll,” he brought his hand up to cradle your face. “There’s not gonna be a ‘my wedding’ or a ‘your wedding’...only ‘our wedding’. I’m not getting married unless it’s to you, princess.”
“Oh.” Your face flushed and your eyes widened, a soft smile breaking out across your lips before you buried your face in Jason’s chest in embarrassment.
Jason laughed, bringing his arms up to envelope you and leaning down to place a kiss upon your head. You were consumed by his intoxicating scent - the expensive cologne Dick had bought him for Christmas, gunpowder from last night’s patrol, your favorite shampoo he swore he never used, and the fresh smell of clean linen sheets.
“Yeah, ‘oh’.” He smiled as you brought your head back up to meet his. Jason kissed you softly and sweetly, still sluggish from sleep. “What, were you plannin’ on marrying someone else?”
Your eyes widened as you pulled back. “No! No, of course not! I just…didn’t know if you wanted that.”
He looked at you with a gentle, lovesick expression on his face. “I never thought I did either, doll.” He paused which made your heart pick up nervously again. But he just brought his hands to yours and raised one to kiss it tenderly. “Until I met you.”
You flushed again, swatting him away playfully. “Who knew you were such a romantic, Todd?”
“Always have been,” he pulled you back into his arms. “Just hadn’t met the right girl until now.”
Summary: You grab his hand in a crowd and forget to let go. Hwajin doesn't remind you.
Author's Note: Another Hwajin fic??? While my other wips cry?? Yes <3 enjoy!!!
Disclaimer: None ig? Its a short fic tho
Main Masterlist
The festival had been your idea.
Looking back, you would later decide that this was precisely why you had nobody to blame for what happened except yourself.
The streets were crowded long before noon, packed with people drifting between rows of market stalls draped in colorful fabric and strings of lanterns. The scent of grilled meat, sweet pastries, and freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air, while music from street performers blended into the constant murmur of conversation.
You loved places like this.
Hwajin tolerated them.
The distinction was obvious in the way he walked beside you with his hands in his pockets, his expression carrying the same calm indifference it always did. He looked like a man accompanying someone on an errand rather than attending a festival.
"You could at least pretend to be enjoying yourself."
"I am."
You glanced at him.
"You look like you're attending a business meeting."
"I enjoy those too."
You groaned dramatically. For the first time that day, the corner of his mouth twitched.
It was a victory.
A small one, but you would take what you could get.
The crowd thickened as you approached the main street. A large group emerged from one of the intersections, forcing everyone closer together until walking became a slow, awkward shuffle.
You found yourself jostled from both sides.
Someone accidentally stepped on your shoe.
Another person cut between you and Hwajin.
Before you could lose sight of him entirely, you reached out and grabbed his hand.
The gesture happened without thought.
It was practical.
You had no desire to spend the next hour searching for him through hundreds of strangers.
Hwajin glanced down briefly at your joined hands but offered no comment.
Satisfied, you continued forward.
The issue was that you forgot all about it almost immediately.
The first distraction arrived less than two minutes later in the form of a small shop selling handmade accessories.
"Oh, look at that."
Without hesitation, you pulled Hwajin toward the stall.
The elderly woman running it greeted you enthusiastically while you examined rows of bracelets and rings displayed beneath glass cases. Several minutes passed as you admired everything and asked questions, completely oblivious to the fact that you were still holding his hand.
When you finally moved on, you simply brought him with you.
Neither of you acknowledged it.
Then came the food stalls.
Then the book vendors.
Then a booth where a local artist was sketching portraits.
Each new attraction captured your attention so completely that the hand in yours became nothing more than a comforting certainty in the background.
Hwajin remained beside you through all of it.
Occasionally, you would feel his grip tighten slightly whenever someone attempted to push through the crowd too aggressively.
Sometimes he guided you around obstacles before you even noticed them.
At one point, when you became distracted by a display of pottery and nearly walked into a cyclist, he pulled you back without a word.
The entire thing felt so natural that your brain eventually stopped registering it as unusual.
By late afternoon, the festival had settled into a pleasant rhythm.
You bought snacks.
He carried them.
You talked.
He listened.
You dragged him into every shop that caught your interest. He followed with the patience of a man who had long accepted his fate.
The realization should have occurred much sooner. Unfortunately, it arrived nearly six hours later.
The sun had already begun to set when you wandered into a bookstore tucked away from the main street. The atmosphere inside was quiet and warm, offering welcome relief from the noise outside.
You browsed leisurely through several shelves before spotting a novel you had been searching for.
Excited, you reached for it.
The movement finally drew your attention downward.
To your hand.
To his.
Still connected.
Your brain stopped functioning. For several seconds, you simply stared. Then you stared some more.
Because surely there had been a mistake. Surely you had not spent an entire day holding Na Hwajin's hand.
An entire day.
Like some lovestruck teenager. Like a person completely incapable of behaving normally.
Slowly, horrified by your own stupidity, you turned toward him.
"Hwajin."
"Hm?"
His attention remained on the book he was examining.
"We've been holding hands."
"Yes."
You blinked.
The immediate response somehow made everything worse.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
That finally earned his attention. His gaze shifted toward you, calm as ever.
"You seemed occupied."
"I've been occupied for six hours."
A faint amusement entered his eyes.
"Approximately."
Heat flooded your face. You released his hand so quickly that it felt almost violent.
"Oh my God."
The words escaped in a groan.
"I'm so sorry."
"For what?"
"For this."
You gestured helplessly between the two of you.
"I grabbed your hand because of the crowd and then completely forgot about it. You must've thought I was insane."
The silence that followed lasted only a moment.
Then he closed the book in his hand and returned it to the shelf.
"No."
"No?"
"No."
You frowned.
The answer was suspiciously simple. Before you could question him further, Hwajin stepped closer.
Not enough to be overwhelming, just enough that your pulse immediately forgot how to behave.
"You don't need to apologize."
You stared.
"Why?"
For the first time all day, his expression softened completely. The change was subtle enough that most people would never notice it. Because it was reserved for very few people.
And because every time it appeared, it made your heart feel unsteady.
"I liked it."
The world ended. That was the only explanation. Civilization had collapsed. The earth had split apart.
Because Na Hwajin had just looked you directly in the eye and admitted something without being forced.
Your face became unbearably hot.
"Hwajin—"
"You were happy."
His voice remained calm... matter-of-fact, as though he were explaining something obvious.
"You kept finding things you wanted to show me. Every time you got excited about something, you forgot to let go and pulled me somewhere else."
You wished the floor would open beneath you.
Instead, he continued.
"I didn't mind."
The bookstore suddenly felt much too small.
Much too warm.
You could not look at him. You could barely look at anything.
A laugh escaped him then, quiet and rare.
The sound only made your situation worse.
When you finally managed to meet his gaze again, there was something unexpectedly gentle waiting there.
Something that made your chest ache.
Outside, the sky had darkened into shades of deep blue and gold.
People continued passing beyond the bookstore windows. The festival carried on around them. Neither of you paid much attention.
Eventually, Hwajin reached for your hand again.
This time, it was deliberate.
Your breath caught as he lifted it slightly.
Then, with the same calm certainty he brought to everything he did, he pressed a brief kiss against your knuckles.
The gesture lasted barely a second. It was enough to leave you completely speechless.
"See you tomorrow."
He released your hand, turned and walked toward the door.
Meanwhile, you remained frozen beside the bookshelf, staring after him while your entire face felt approximately the temperature of the sun.
Only when he disappeared into the evening crowd did you finally recover enough to whisper:
"...What the hell?!"
asdfghj i pulled this outta my ass lmao. I wrote this sleep deprived and on my phone so j hope this fic makes sense in the morning. Hope u guys liked it! Comments, likes and rbs appreciated <3
Hi, i'd like to request Re9 Leon x wife reader. He has a huge portrait picture of his wife on his office wall at the DSO and whenever he gets the chance he boasts and brags about her.
this is such a cute idea! i hope i did it justice.
f!reader x RE9!leon "that's my wife" kennedy
tags: all fluff, no warnings
It was the talk of the office.
“Would you have guessed Kennedy’s into art?”
“What? The portrait?”
“Yeah, on his wall. It's gorgeous.”
“Is it a picture or a painting?”
“Hard to tell. But it’s the only thing in there. Must mean something.”
Whether in meetings or when the occasional agent ran files in and out, the frame was impossible to miss.
You're sat by the window, one leg tucked between you and the reading nook beneath, the other touching the floor on tiptoe. Your chin rests in your hand, your face angled into the sunlight, breathing in the fresh air filtering through the open glass pane. A moment of unabashed freedom, blind to anything else around you.
Leon didn’t take pictures. You’d teased him for it, running through his phone and nearly gasping at its lack of personal effects despite years of ownership.
But you, sitting on that ledge… He’d taken it on your first vacation together, the first morning you’d woken up to the sounds of the small Mediterranean city stirring around you. He didn’t even think, just snapped, and lo and behold, his favorite portrait; the one he returned to while slumped in dark corridors in concrete hellscapes, when his body threatened to give in to the unspeakable horrors he faced.
He never told you he had it printed. He was conflicted at first, bringing you into this space that caused him so much turmoil, that kept you apart more often than not. But the wall had been empty, and he pictured you there whenever he looked up anyway.
Finally, it's a rookie with the courage to ask.
“So, Kennedy, I’ve been curious every time I come in here.”
She points and he follows, a rare smile softening the normally hard lines of his face.
“My wife,” he murmurs, matter-of-fact.
The rookie pauses.
“S-sorry?”
Then she catches herself, hands rising in front of her. “I mean—I didn’t know you were married.”
Leon simply hums his acknowledgment, eyes still fixed on the portrait. Unbearably, uncharacteristically gentle.
“Wouldn’t be here without her.”
Word travels fast, especially at the blip of personal information from the agent normally as open to sharing his private life as a brick wall. Naturally, everyone begins asking. And Leon is suddenly an open book—he can’t help himself.
“She’s crazy. Speaks 4 languages, works in the private sector. Volunteers with kids on weekends. Schedule’s almost as nuts as mine.”
An affectionate laugh at that one—had anyone heard him laugh before?
“She’s got this cackle she does when I catch her off guard. Cracks me up.”
“She works a room like nobody’s business. Intimidating as all hell.”
“You should see her with her plants. She doesn’t let me touch ‘em. There’s this one, a ‘fiddle' something? Supposed to be impossible to care for, but she’s had it going strong for 6 years.”
Like a dam suddenly broken, they never hear the end of it.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
He’s in a meeting when you arrive, a rare break in your schedule allowing you to surprise him for lunch. You rolled the dice on if he would be able to take the time, but you knew somehow, some way, he would try to make it.
What you didn't expect was being led down the fluorescently lit hallway to feel oddly like walking a runway: heads suddenly whipping to you, eyes wide, hushed whispers trailing in your wake. You glance down at your clothes. No spilled coffee, no dirt, no remnants of your rushed breakfast this morning. Perfectly spotless.
Strange.
Someone eyes you just above the divider of their cubicle and you raise your brows, lips pursing in a can I help you expression that has them sinking behind it when they realize you’ve noticed.
It’s fate that his meeting lets out just as you reach his door, and the gaggle of younger agents nearly colliding with you as they exit freezes. They give you a once over—seriously, what is that—and look behind them to an unseen corner of the office. When they turn back to you, mouths parted and brows high in what’s unmistakably realization, they’re smiling, stealing glances at each other as they excuse themselves. You watch them, confusion and amusement written in your creased brow, and one of them giggles as they hurry away.
“Hey, you.”
The familiar timbre of his voice draws you back, and you grin as you take him in where he leans in the doorway, happy surprise tugging at the corners of his lips.
You lift the takeout bags in each hand, giving them a small shake. “I got off the case early. Brought us lunch.”
A half grin and he's pushing the door further open. “Perfect timing. I’ve got some time before my next briefing.”
When you pass through, he stops you with a hand on your waist to plant a kiss on your lips. You hum, smiling into the space where he pulls back just enough for your noses to touch, then pull away and retreat further into the office.
“I snagged that rice dish you like, the one that’s usually sold out? Sushi fo—“
The bags nearly slip through your slackening grip.
You’d seen the picture once on his phone, caught him admiring it way back when. Truly, you couldn’t believe he took it. He’d told you how beautiful you looked; you’d deferred, insisting pictures weren't your thing.
Now, here… you could see it.
Your head whips to him, to where he’s watching you, features gentle, eyes moving from you to the portrait and back.
“Had to put it somewhere else in case my phone takes a shit.”
“Leon,” you hesitate, and your gaze travels back to the portrait, mouth opening and closing helplessly.
You knew he loved you. Never once doubted it. But he was private and always had been. Cracking him in the early days of your relationship had felt akin to scraping stone with a razor, slowly wearing away until you’d reached the precious gem beneath.
But you? He wanted to show this part of his life. To shout it from the rooftops if he could. And so this was, in his own way.
You can’t help the prickling at the corners of your eyes when you look back at him, and he shrugs, nonchalant, coming up behind you to press a kiss to the delicate pulse point at your throat, stubble brushing where his chin comes to rest.
“So, lunch?”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
A knock sounds at the door and Leon rises from where he sits next to you on his desk.
“Kennedy? Sorry to interrupt.”
“Can it wait a few minutes?" He glances back at you, eyes dancing, then opens the door further. “The wife and I are just finishing lunch.”
You peek around him from your place in his chair, offering a friendly nod. “Nice to meet you.”
The other agent returns it, slightly dumbstruck, his lips pulling into a knowing smile.
“Likewise, Mrs. Kennedy. I’ve heard all about you.
summary: everything that happens between your mii and Leon’s mii on your island starts to happen irl… 👀
cw: uhhh nothing rlly its all fluff 🤷♀️ short and silly also not proofread
a/n: featuring things that have happened on my own island 😏 as you can see in the pictures above of my switch ☝️ with Kurtis Conner and Danny Gonzalez talking abt me on the left and Terri Joe falling in love with Weston Koury on the right. is my island goated or what
You haven’t put down your switch since you got the stupid game when it came out. The second you have free time, you’re opening up tomodachi life and seeing what your miis are doing. You even started bringing the damn thing to work and played it on your breaks.
That’s what you’re doing now, sitting in the break room with one of your coworkers on the age-old leather couch as she sits close to watch you play. Currently, you’re watching Dean Winchester try to confess his love for Fluttershy. He’s had a crush on her for what feels like months!
“No! Fluttershy just freaking fumbled… they would’ve been so cute,” you whine, watching as Dean falls to the ground with despair, a blue cloud of depression appearing around the mii after he was rejected. Millee, your friend, chuckles from beside you.
“I feel like she would…” she starts, but pauses as something catches her eye. Then she turns to you again, shaking you, clearly struck with an idea. “Oh my god, you should make Leon!”
Leon’s been your mini work crush since you started. The first time you met him, you fumbled over your words so bad, he gave you a genuine look of concern. Millee teases you about it all the time.
“Wait, you’re freaking smart. I can’t believe I haven’t done that already,” you giggle along with her, putting cheering Dean up to the side for now as you select the option to make a new mii.
The two of you spend like ten minutes making a character identical to Leon, debating on facial features. Once you get one that looks accurate enough, you add his traits and finish by placing his house right next to yours.
“Aw wait, he’s so cute,” you smile, petting the mii’s head and giving him an outfit. Millee makes a joke about drawing on his muscles with the creative features of the game and you laugh as you drag your freshly made Leon over to your own lookalike mii.
You watch eagerly as the two miis interact, then you get a “what’s going on with …?”. You and Millee pause your snickering as you watch the cutscene play out—Leon is speaking, and then it pans to your mii, who suddenly goes wide-eyed with pink cheeks. You just fell in love with Leon.
“What!” You exclaim as she says she thinks she’s in love with him. Millee can’t hold back her snickering as you look between her and the screen in shock. Turns out your mii is more accurate than you thought…
“What are you guys giggling about?”
The sudden voice snaps you out of your little bubble and you look up, not expecting to see… well, Leon. When the hell did he get here?
“Wh-what? Oh, uhm, we’re… playing a game,” you manage to get out with minor stuttering, suddenly not laughing at all. Millee, on the other hand, is barely keeping it in. Clearly amused, he approaches and glances down at your lap to see what you’re doing.
“The hell is that?” Stirring his coffee, he sits on your other side with an amused smile, much to your brain’s dismay and your heart’s pleasure. You look back down to see it’s still on the pink screen with your mii looking flustered, letting you choose whether or not she’ll have a crush on her new friend.
“It’s, uhm, a new game. Tomodachi life,” you say as you quickly allow your mii’s infatuation and immediately skip her lines and click away to another character before he can notice what you were doing. Millee’s still giggling beside you.
Leon leans in a little to watch you as you return to your earlier task of cheering Dean up. His brows furrow slightly as he watched you feed the mii and pet his head to make his sadness go down.
“So, what, they’re like your little pets?” He jokes, his eyes locking with yours briefly before returning to your switch. It’s odd, seeing you all professional in your pinstripe slacks and blouse while you’re playing some silly paradise game.
“Sure… something like that. You just, er, take care of them. And decorate your island,” you mumble shyly, shrugging. You don’t think you’ve ever been more embarrassed in your life. “Ah, look at the time! Should be getting back to work now.”
Millee barely contains herself as she watches you quickly shut off your switch and make a show of standing up and stretching. You say bye to Leon and she follows you out back to your desk where she teases you relentlessly.
Okay, the first time you brushed off as a coincidence, but this is just getting ridiculous. The closer your miis get on your island, the closer you get in real life.
One day you were playing, you hovered over your miis talking, and it said they were discussing the correlation between the pigeon pet between them and a rock album. Next day rolls around, you catch eye of a pigeon outside the window at work. Leon notices and comes up behind you, telling you the way its feathers stuck up on its head made it look like a rockstar. It was stupid. You blushed furiously.
Leon’s mii asks you to give him a new room when you’re playing on your break. When you pass by him later, he’s telling another coworker about how he finally got around to decorating his apartment since moving there months ago.
When your mii gets the hiccups, you drag Leon over to help her. What do you know, the next morning you try to keep your hiccups minimal at your desk, and when Leon pats you on the back, they go away!
When your miis finally become official friends while you’re playing in the morning before work, you don’t think anything of it. Stupid move on your part, because then you’re not prepared for when Leon calls you his friend to someone else at work.
And that’s only some of them. You don’t even like to talk about how you saw a cloud that looks like Leon, exactly like yourself in your game. This is so stupid. So. Freaking. Stupid.
“Millee, I swear, it’s driving me nuts. I almost wanna delete him off my island, but then he’d move away in real life!” You groan, on call with her while you sit in bed after a shower… playing tomodachi life. You’re trying to get Smiski and Saiki K to stop fighting.
Silence passes over the phone for a moment as you play your game and your friend does whatever she’s busy with tonight. Once your miis make up, you go to check on your other ones, and to your surprise, Leon has a pink bubble.
When you click on it to see what he’s thinking about, he tells you that he can’t get your mii off his mind. You giggle in surprise as you tell Millee about it, staring at the screen. Then you decide to tell him that “It must be love!”
The whole pink cutscene plays out. But you really brush it off this time, because why would Leon have a crush on you in real life? This is gonna be where all the weird shit ends. Now the two miis are crushing on each other, and you go on with taking care of your other residents.
The next day, Millee quietly watches both you and Leon. She doesn’t know if she believes you or not. Plus, she agrees with you—Leon doesn’t seem like the time to have any crushes at all.
So, imagine her surprise when she catches Leon watching you in the copy room. Whatever file he was looking for is momentarily forgotten as his eyes switch between your hands and your face.
At first it doesn’t quite click, but when he clears his throat and looks away with… blush on his cheeks? She definitely believes you now. Leon Kennedy totally has a crush on you!
The only problem is, you never notice. It’s obvious on your tomodachi island that you have a crush on each other, but you’re both much more subtle in reality. Millee just silently keeps track of it, lining up your island activities with what she sees.
Today, you sit in the break room, playing like usual. Currently putting off going back to work, you check on all your miis. “Nana you're supposed to move in with Hachi, not Twilight Sparkle,” you mumble, frustrated. Why can’t your miis ever do what you want them to?
You glance up as Millee sits next to you. You don’t say anything to each other as she watches you play, like always. Something catches your eye—Leon has another pink bubble.
“Uh oh,” you murmur jokingly, checking in to see what he wants. He tells you he’s ready to confess to your mii! You roll your eyes and go through with it, having him ask her out with a gift—a Sonny angel blind box. Millee, on the other hand, keeps note of that.
The both of you watch the scene okay out with giggles. Of course your mii accepted and the two are dating! It makes you a little happier than you’d like to admit. Then you go on with your day, thinking nothing of it.
After work, you talk with Millee in the parking lot, something you do when you get the chance to park close to each other. It’s casual, normal. At least until you spot Leon leaving work as well, and he’s… is he walking towards you? You share a look with your friend.
“Hey you two,” he says casually as he stops by you, and with the small smile he gives to you specifically, it doesn’t take long for your cheeks to turn pink. Millee takes a step back, as if to give you privacy—she knows what’s about to happen, and doesn’t waste any time pulling out her phone.
“Got any plans tonight?” Leon asks in this sweet voice, his voice a little softer than usual.
Your poor heart can’t handle this kind of treatment, thumping against your ribs as you shake your head. “No, just going home.”
He nods, and looks away for a moment. Then he pulls something out of his pocket and holds it out for you. “You like these weird baby things, don’t you? I got it for you.”
You blink, gaze shifting to the Sonny angel box in his hand, then his face, and back down. It hasn’t even connected in your head that this just happened on your tomodachi island.
“Really…? Thanks, Leon, you didn’t have to,” you say with a small smile, gratefully accepting the gift and turning it over in your hands. It’s the marine series, too, the one you’ve been wanting to get for a while.
“Well, comes at a price,” he says with this stupid cheeky smirk that makes your heart squeeze. You look up at him with an expectant look. “Now you have to go on a date with me.”
There’s a moment of silence between you. It feels like it’s been minutes—you’re stood there, frozen, completely surprised. Did he just ask you out? Did he just ask you out with a Sonny angel? Wait, did he just ask you out on a date?!
“I… uhm, yeah, I’d love to,” you barely manage to stammer out when you’ve regained coherency… for now. You lose it again later when you finally realize that he asked you the exact same way he did on your island.
Living the dream has a whole new meaning for you now.
a/n: so this was supposed to be WAY shorter guys I have no idea where that went wrong. anyway sorry if this is buns!! also i’m back from london so hopefully i can lock in and write like the 20 ideas i have written in my notes… expect from me soon!! ✌️
comments likes and reblogs always appreciated!! thanks for reading
Moonlight falls softly against the apartment windows while Leon sits on the couch beside you as he lets out a long sigh, still half dressed in his tactical gear.
His new weapon rests on the coffee table. His Requiem.
Dark leather straps fall from his shoulders, slightly worn already from weeks of missions and long nights, as you set it aside. Dirt still clings faintly to the sleeves of his compression shirt.
You help him undress off his shirt, your fingers brushing softly against his skin. Throwing it in the laundry basket in the kitchen.
You glance at him from the kitchen aisle, smiling softly at how he lays down on the couch. His chest rising up and down slowly.
You walk up to him and sit down beside him, caressing his sore muscles. Leon hums at your touch, feeling how some pain eases under your hands.
¨Agency gave you a new one?¨ you ask softly, fingers brushing carefully over his chest.
Leon nods tiredly.
¨Yeah.¨ He leans further back into the couch cushions, his arm comes to the back of his head. ¨Custom made.¨
Your eyes drift back towards the weapon resting on the table. It looks heavy, cold and dangerous. So painfully Leon.
¨Is it nice? You like it?¨ You ask, glancing back at him, giving him a soft smile.
A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
¨I guess so.¨ His voice comes out rough with exhaustion. ¨Shoots nice.¨
You laugh quietly.
You reach for his chest gun holster which rests beside you, at the coffee table. You trace the rough leather material thoughtfully. Leon watching you through heavy eyelids.
¨What’s goin’ on in that head, sweetheart?¨
¨Nothing.¨ You lie instantly.
The thought of crafting a new chest gun holster for his new weapon crosses your mind, making you smile softly. His other holsters are too small for the Requiem.
¨Dangerous answer.¨ Leon’s eyes close as his head slowly tips to the side against the couch. Exhaustion always catches him suddenly after missions, especially after marrying you.
Your expression softens instantly. He looks so peaceful like this. He’s no longer Agent Kennedy, the government’s weapon. Just Leon, your husband.
You lean in to give him a soft kiss.
¨Rest, my love.¨
Carefully, you reach for the sewing kit from the small basket beside the couch. You sit down on the chair beside Leon.
You grab the new weapon and place it over your lap, measuring it before getting to work.
The Requiem is larger than his previous handguns. The old shoulder straps wouldn’t sit right against it, forcing you to sketch out a new pattern before cutting into the leather. Piece by piece, you begin cutting new straps from the leather you’d be saving, adjusting them to fit the larger frame of the weapon.
You glance up at him for a second. Messy hair falling over his eyes, faint bruises still shadowing his face, small scars scattered across his arms.
Your chest aches softly.
The agency keeps giving him weapons, the least you can do is make sure he carries them comfortably and has a piece of you with him.
You know Leon removes his wedding ring before missions.
At first, it hurt you a little.
Watching him slide it off so naturally before leaving home.
The truth is. Blood staining his ring made his stomach turn. Marriage with you felt too pure for the violence he carried in his hands every day.
Blood and dirt on his ring made him have thoughts of you belonging to his world.
Because even after everything Leon had seen, some part of him still wanted to keep your love untouched by that world.
The apartment stays quiet for the next hour.
Needle slipping carefully through leather, white thread tightening softly as you trace down his initials.
LSK
Every now and then, your eyes drift back towards Leon.
Your fingers brush his cheek gently. Sometimes you push his bangs away from his face carefully trying not to wake him up.
Even asleep, his brows stay slightly furrowed. Like his body forgot how to fully relax decades ago.
Your hand lingers against his skin for a second longer this time.
¨I’ve got you, baby.¨ you whisper softly before returning to your sewing.
Leon’s eyes start to open softly, a soft pain on his muscles makes his groan as he turns his head.
His eyes met yours, in front of him. Right where you were before he fell asleep.
¨Hi, gorgeous.¨ He mutters, his morning voice is so deep.
You smile, and lean forward. Catching his lips in a sweet and slow kiss.
¨Hi, handsome.¨ You say, matching his compliment. ¨Did you sleep well?¨
¨As best as one can sleep on a small couch.¨ He says, stretching his back and arms as he groans.
You chuckle before glancing over at the small coffee table, where his requiem and new holster rest.
Leon frowns his eyebrows as he glances at the table, his expression softening immediately.
He sits up quickly as he grabs the holster. His fingers brush softly against the soft new leather of the straps. The inside of the holster, where his gun rests, is covered in a softer material to avoid scratches. He lingers a few seconds on the carved initials at the end.
Leon blinks in surprise as he turns back to you.
Your cheeks are a bit red and you bite on your lower lip nervously as his hand traces your work.
¨You made this for me?¨
You nod softly as you get up, putting away the needles and all the materials you used.
¨Your old straps were falling apart. And none of your holsters can fit your new weapon.¨
Leon’s chest twists painfully.
He grabs your waist gently, pulling you closer between his legs.
¨You spoil me, baby,¨ He murmurs against your stomach, his warm hands coming up and down at the back of your thighs.
Your fingers slip softly through his hair.
¨You deserve to be taken care of too.¨
That one almost ruins him completely.
The apartment falls quietly again. Just soft touches, Leon’s sleepy kisses and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist like he never wants to let go.
Eventually he glances toward the clock before looking back at you. 2 AM
¨C’mon, my love.¨ He says softly, standing up while pulling you up with him. ¨Bed.¨
You laugh quietly.
¨Aren’t you hungry?¨
¨No.¨ Leon cuts you off instantly.
Before you can protest again, his arms slide underneath you easily.
A small surprised sound leaves your mouth as he lifts you against his chest.
¨Leon! You haven’t eaten anything.¨
His tired chuckle rumbles softly against your neck.
¨I can still carry my girl to bed.¨
Your heart melts instantly.
The holster stays forgotten on the coffee table for the night
You both fall asleep holding onto each other, tangled hands beneath the blankets.
For the first time in weeks, neither of you dream about the missions.
heeey divas i had soooo many fanfic ideas while trying to get all of the achievements in re9 so stay tuned 🩷
Summary: Three times Kamui tried to deal with his feelings, and one time he finally lets them out.
tags: based on his journal of promise, so there’ll be spoilers, reader is skk / commandant, kiss kiss kiss, gender neutral reader
a/n: Whole time I was playing his JOP i was like. Okay. Now kiss me pls…. but anyways, leave it to me, newori, to feed u kamui x reader ok? 😘 PLEAAASE SEND REQUESTS
cross posted on my ao3! please feel free to leave kudos and comments hooheehaha: FIC LINK
1. Can Constructs get heart attacks?
If Kamui could blow himself up with a self detonation switch installed in his frame from the dark market, he would press the button as hard as he can, right now.
You had just finished teaching him how to use a hoe, and no matter how hard he closes his eyes or looks at Jerome and Bernie whacking each other with bags of fertilizer only to be scolded by Luke to distract himself, he still feels your gloved hand on his waist, your voice tickling the side of his ears, you smiling, just for him, and oh my god, his heat circulation system is overloading. You excuse yourself to check out a nearby patch of land to start cultivating it, and now he is left frozen and stiff.
When did he start feeling like this? Was it when you first came to this broken-down eco dome, stared at him with the most heartbroken gaze he has ever seen in all his 19 years of living before turning into a construct, after hearing Asimov’s diagnosis about him? or was it when the butler robot gave you both keys to a master bedroom with one bed? He does not know, he does not know and he is absolutely mortified.
And when the rest of you get called in front of a storage place by the butler robot after finishing its request, he sees you smile at the rest of the refugees, and there's that aching feeling in his chest when he sees you flash that grin. Your smile carries that expression of exhaustion from 3 hours of manual labour, yet there are too many people around you, and he wants to run, run, run to your aid like a prince, but the soles of his feet are frozen in place, and he starts to blame it all on Asimov. There are a million excuses going through his mind as to why he does not want to move, but when you finally stop talking to the rest of the refugees and come near him, he’s all cool and collected once again.
When Jerome grins ear-to-ear after hearing his situation, he blurts out something about him being jealous. Jealous? him? He starts to feel flustered once again, telling Jerome to lay it off, and he leaves you trying to piece together what that little twerp meant by him being jealous.
2. Lets analyze our facts
It doesn’t take you that long to figure out what Jerome meant.
There is a mental checklist made in your head before you head to sleep that very day. You think back to what exactly you could have done to make the poor guy jealous, and you ultimately pinpoint it down. You’ve known the guy for years— he was like an honorary member for Gray Raven after all, always barging into your lounge, scaring Liv, leaving Lucia amused, and annoying Lee.
Your drowsiness drowns out any other memory call-backs from the past and before you drift to sleep, you remember one crucial point. He's the type of guy to treasure your smile like it's his first born.
‘Wait, wait, wait.’ you pause all the thoughts inside your head, analyzing everything, before bursting into laughter, and poor Kamui, who was only starting to cozy up beside you, is left absolutely bewildered. ‘Was he jealous because I was smiling and talking to other people other than him?’
3. Yeah, they definitely can.
When you open your eyes, you are greeted with the sight of Kamui stretching his newly built frame. Your eyes linger at the sun seeping into your shared master bedroom, framing his face in such a beautiful manner. He stretches his back and finally looks at you, and wow, you sure hope you don't have any bedhead right now.
“G’morning,’ you say, yawning and pushing down the comfortable blanket that had survived years in pristine condition. “Looks like your up early.”
Kamui smiles enthusiastically, which is uncharacteristically strange, a clear contrast to how he was acting during the few weeks you were at this eco-dome. It doesn’t take three centuries for you to realize that something had probably happened in that master control room both of you had urgently ran to after the eco-dome lost power when a strong thunderstorm hit. You know this guy. He knows you. And you know that— that smile is a sign that Kamui is back.
“Yup!” Kamui speaks up, positively giddy. “I woke up early and decided to stretch. Did ya sleep well, commandant?”
“It was adequate.” you say, waving your hand around, trying to imitate Vanessa in your F.O.S college days when someone asks her if the food inside the cafeteria was good enough to line up early for, and kamui practically has to stop himself from bursting into laughter out loud.
“Since when did you get so fancy-shmancy, commandant?”
You get up and stretch as well, before standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder, all the while reaching out to pull at his cheeks. “I don’t know,” you chuckle, before pulling harder. “Maybe. It was. Because of all the times. I. talked. to. Chrome.”
Kamui laughs loudly, a sound that’s like pure melody to your ears, something that rivals Selena’s voice— that rivals Watanabe’s guitar playing, before he exaggerates his movements and mumbles something about “Ow, ow, ow, comm-an-dant! You're pulling tew hard! Let mway cheeks go— oh, hab mercy!” and you find yourself laughing out loud as well, and it makes you indulge yourself more and more in this domestic fantasy that the two of you had built together with the help of that butler robot.
X. Something in between the boundaries of being “special” and being “love”
When the both of you finish your heartfelt talk on the top of the rooftop, the banquet is still in full swing. Kamui takes the initiative to excuse the both of you so that you can return back to your room to rest, and he tries his best to ignore Luke’s smug face before the both of you eventually retreat back to your quarters you’ve spent the past few 5 days in.
F.O.S college teaches commandants not to get too attached to one place. The punishing virus can take something easily, even if you’ve spent decades with it. But when you figure out that the both of you are leaving back tomorrow, and it's back to Babylonia, you can’t help but feel disappointed, and it's clear that Kamui does as well. When the both of you return back to your master bedroom, you practically collapse on the soft-cushiony bed, and it feels so right for you to sleep on the spot, but you are the Gray raven commandant, and it would take more than sleep to overcome you.
There's a tinge of silence between the two of you, and after Kamui sits on the side of the bed as well, you meet his eyes, and in it, you see the same expression Kamui always wears whenever he looks at something he really, really, really wants.
You burst out laughing out loud.
Kamui is left half confused, half bewildered.
“Jeez, you're laughing out of nowhere for no reason again, Commandant!” he grins like he’s the sun reincarnated, and moves his frame closer to you.
“Sorry, sorry,” you splurge, before speaking once again. “I just figured out something important.”
Kamui tilts his head. You tilt yours back in response. He pouts.
“What did you figure out?” He asks, bringing your face closer to his. “Come on, come on, commandant, tell me!”
The both of you bicker, and it ends up with Kamui on top of you, his eyes staring at you with a mixture of ‘Oh my god,’ and a tinge of ‘Captain is gonna kill me.’
You smile, because frankly, that is the only thing you’ve ever known how to do when Kamui is around, and you reach out your arms to cup his cheeks.
“I just figured out,” you breathe out, and he feels all the feelings inside his chest flutter out the window. “That you’re quite a lover boy yourself.”
- A note found somewhere in the Strike Hawk lounge.
God, if there's a god out there, please answer, I've got something I really, really, really need your help with and I can't ask anyone else!
I...I have these feelings about someone...about a human. I don't think I'm supposed to have these feelings, especially as a construct, but I can't stop them anymore. I swear I've tried everything to make them stop, but nothing works!
Every time I see that human I keep wanting to do things to them, I can barely focus on anything but them. Oh, and don't get me started on what it's like when they're not around! I think about them, I dream about them, I watch them, I smell them...all I can think about is them and sometimes I wish...I wish it would stop, it's honestly starting to drive me insane, but at the same time...
I like it. They drive my M.I.N.D. crazy, but it's kinda- what's the word again? Capt said it once...Oh yeah! Intoxicating! It's intoxicating and if I could just...Please don't judge me for this, I know it's wrong, but if I could just take that human and put them somewhere only me and Camu know about...it would make me so happy. The thought of that makes my circuits tingle.
Ahh...I want them so much. I'm not sure what these feelings are called, or what that says about my relationship with them in human terms, but I'm sure they wouldn't mind them! They're really nice like that.
.
.
.
P.S. If anyone other than a god reads this, I'll smash you with my sword!
Look at the Sky, Its the Color of Love
Biker!Bucky x Rich!Reader
Petal's love notes:
Bucky owns a garage shop so its also Mechanic!Bucky in a way. He calls her bunny and is absolutely smitten with her right from the start ( ˶˘ ³˘)♡ you turn him soft.
You can pry the bad boy x good girl trope out of my tightly clenched fists I am never getting over this.
Summary: Oakley and Rivercreek are two sides of the same town that never got along. You, a rich socialite with a family name powerful enough to move mountains catch the eye of a certain biker boy from downtown.
Word count: 11.1k
Warnings:
18+ mdni / fluff / angst, so much / sad bucky is a yearner / love confessions / smut (oral, no protection, p in v) / no use of y/n / reader is referred to as bunny /
Wrote this while listening to Kiss of Life by Sade so you might want to check that out for the vibes. Also, it's my first time writing for this fandom so please feel free to give feedback! Let's be friends ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡
Bucky Barnes hates a lot of things.
But not Sundays. Definitely not Sundays.
It's the only time he ever gets to see you, after all. You show up with flustered cheeks every single time. Your hair is in a neat bun, pushed back with a pearl headband that your mother insists you must wear to look at least decent.
You wear a white, chaste dress that falls just below your knees which makes you look pure, angelic, even. Bucky isn't exaggerating when he says that you could be the virgin mother herself, but he doesn't believe in god. He doesn't follow any religion.
Which is why it's so strange to him, and his friends Sam and Steve as to why he insists on smoking just across the street of the old cathedral the uptown folk go to every Sunday.
'Just wanna see what the pretentious are up to, have a good laugh at what rich people gimmick they have this week.' He reasons out to them lamely. 'No other reason.'
Definitely not because he wants to catch a glimpse of you once a week, fidgeting outside the old cathedral as your parents parade you around the other rich families that tend to show off their wealth through generosity.
Somehow, singing praise and donating to the offertory has become a symbol of wealth among the rich folk of Oakley- the upper end of town where you're from. Where folk up there look down on the... more indigent people in Rivercreek, where he's from.
When the cathedral doors open, his eyes find you.
They always find you.
You're running a delicate hand through your hair, getting reprimanded by your mother because 'how dare you have a strand of hair out of place.'
Families are greeting each other, he hears someone complain about how much of a hassle it is that their chauffeur had no other choice but to park a little further down the street just to avoid other cars from parking too near their new Chevy.
He wants to roll his eyes at that, but that would mean taking them off you for a second. He doesn't want to.
The Oakley folk continue to rush out in their white and pristine clothing after singing praises loudly as a form of performative philanthropy, which makes him and his friends stand out in their all black clothing, leaning against the seat of their rested bikes.
"Here they come- My god, do they look like a herd of sheep" Sam comments which earns a chuckle from Steve.
A few heads turn at them wearing horrified expressions with a mix of disgust for using the Lord's name in vain, but they couldn't care less.
"Buck, you listening? That was a good one!" Sam nudges his shoulder.
He manages to let out a small smile in response, but keeps his eyes trained on you.
"Yeah, knocked the breath out of me" he tells him, but he's not talking about the joke.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It's a Tuesday and he works grumpily hunched over a car of some rich Oakley folk who had no choice but to have his car done at the nearest auto shop that happened to be his.
'Not a scratch on it, young man.' The older man tries to intimidate him.
'You know the consequences if it comes back with with even a tiny dent.'
Bucky huffs at the memory of the conversation. Oakley folk can fuck off, they're all prejudiced. stuck-up pigs who only look down on--
Well, maybe not you.
He's seen you at charity events before, the orphanage located between both sides of town.
While all the other Oakley folk show up to flaunt their big donations, you actually take it upon yourself to interact with the kids and get to know them. They all adore you, but definitely not as much as he does.
He decides to indulge himself in the image of you in his head to put him in a better mood, when suddenly he hears gentle footsteps enter his garage.
"Hello?" A timid voice makes him shoot his head up from the hood of the car.
It's you.
You're standing in his garage, wearing a simple, yet expensive looking dress that probably costs more than his rent for the entire month-
You're standing in his garage
and you're speaking to him.
He opens his mouth once, before closing it again. He knows he probably looks like an idiot right now, gaping at you with wide eyes and saying absolutely nothing, but he can't help himself.
In all his time he spent watching you from afar, he'd already accepted that you were out of his league. He'd be happy with you just sparing a glance at him, but now you were actually here, speaking to him! In Rivercreek of all places-
Realization dawns on him.
You're in Rivercreek.
The bad side of town where the dingy people over here who hate pretentious Oakley kids wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of innocent looking things like you.
Suddenly, a frown dawns on his face.
"Why are you here?" is the first thing he says to you.
You look taken aback by his sudden question, and he winces at how creepy he must sound
"Excuse me?" despite your startle at his words (and his audacity), your voice still sounds like honey in his ears.
"No- I mean..." Bucky panics before recollecting himself with a deep breath.
"You're... Not from this side of town, are you?" Safe. That answer makes him seem like less of a stalker now, doesn't it?
You let out a sigh.
"Is it that obvious?" Your expression is one of disappointment and helplessness, triggering a protective nature from Bucky.
"I needed help and... It's getting dark out and I think I'm lost" he listens to you shyly and frantically explain your situation to him while fiddling with the lace hem of your dress.
"I'm cold, and scared- and your shop was the only one with a light open a-and..."
"Hey, relax. I'll help you." Bucky hopes his words of reassurance will stop your rambling. He can almost see the anxiety bubbling in your chest.
"How'd you end up all the way up here? Oakley is on the other side of town."
At that, he sees your eyes widen at him in disbelief. Surely you would've known if you were in-
"Is this Rivercreek?!" Your small voice squeaks in surprise.
Bucky can't help but blink in disbelief.
"This... This isn't exactly the kind of establishment that would be at Oakley." He speaks to her gently, scared that a little volume in his voice would scare her off like a frightened little bunny.
"O-oh god, my parents are going to kill me..." the words are spoken out of you in a breath that sounded more for yourself than him, but he hears you loud and clear.
"Hey, hey, don't worry I'll..." Bucky attempts to cut off your anxiety that has definitely reached the surface by now
"I'll bring you back to Oakley. The border isn't too far from here, okay?"
He realizes how he's unconsciously stepped closer to you when he feels your warmth of your presence radiating from your spot in the middle of his garage.
"I'm Bucky."
"Bucky" you repeat his name and its suddenly his favorite sound in the world. You tell him your name, before scrunching your nose at the cold air blows and enters the premises of his garage.
He can't help but let out a soft laugh at that. You're just so fucking cute, like a little
"Bunny."
He says it without thinking, but that seems to happen a lot around you.
"What?" Eyes blink up at him in wonder.
"You. You're like a little bunny. All timid and shy."
"Oh." He sees a smidge of a blush on your cheeks which makes his heart rate pick up. You're killing him without even trying and you don't even know it.
Before another moment can pass, Bucky stands up straighter and grabs his leather jacket from where it was tossed on his work desk.
"Come on, bunny. Lets get you back to where you belong. I'll walk ya back to the Oakley border"
"T-thanks, but I was just hoping to get some directions" You shyly let out. "I really don't want to take up more of your time. You seem... Busy" Your eyes trail towards the expensive Mustang the client from your side of town left in his shop.
You're right about that. He is busy.
"Nah. 'M not that busy, bunny" he shrugs and gives you a reassuring smile.
He laughs internally at your little pout and at how you tell him your name again.
"Will you stop calling me that ridiculous name?"
The tone you give him is one of both annoyance and embarrassment, but the little crinkle in between your brows and the scrunch on your nose is the cherry on top. It makes you truly live up to the nickname he's given you.
Bucky shakes his head, still with that gentle smile he never knew his face could make until his conversation with you, and drapes his leather jacket over your shoulders.
"Come on, it'll only get darker and colder from here. Let's get you home." he completely ignores your request to call you by your name and with motions you to follow him.
The walk to Oakley is a decent few minutes, and you manage to make it to the border just before it went completely dark out. The sky is a perfect shade of dark blue, pink, and yellow, making the atmosphere look much sweeter and whimsical.
The pastel colors washed your frame with a soft golden glow, and at that moment Bucky decides that you are the soft light that starts every morning with a gentle warmth. Its ironic how he can feel both comfort and nervousness in your presence.
To his surprise, you both flow into enjoyable conversation where you learn more about each other. You tell him that you've never really been anywhere else but here, limited to where your family chauffeur is allowed to take you.
You were supposed to meet him right at the border of Oakley after visiting the orphanage you volunteer at, but got lost when you decided to take a detour, a short walk to clear your head.
"Makes sense, the orphanage is right at the border of Oakley and Rivercreek. No wonder you ended up at my shop, bunny." Bucky replies.
He tells you that he's been taking care of the shop ever since his pop died, and that he's been running it with his two best friends Steve and Sam. He tells you that he's passionate about bikes, that he and his friends have always lived for the sense of freedom and the rush it provides.
"You're the guys that are always smoking behind the church, then. Am I right?" You ask him with a knowing smile.
"Y-you noticed?" He wants to kick himself for stammering. It looks so uncool.
"I'm not blind, silly" You giggle and hug the leather jacket closer to yourself just as a cold rush of wind hits you both. He has to resist the urge to pull you close to protect you from it.
"My mother thinks you're trouble."
"'M already starting on a bad note with your parents, huh bunny?"
That earns him a loud giggle and a playful slap on his shoulder.
Once your chauffeur spots you from the end of the road, he quickly gets back inside the car to start it and make his way to you. Bucky can almost feel his distress at almost losing the daughter of an affluent family.
Bucky hears you let out a sigh once you see the headlights of your car flash. The sound of the engine starting acting like a countdown timer indicating the end of your time together.
But he can't let it end here. He's been pining after you for so long, admiring from afar and tomorrow he's going to have to... go back to doing that? He just got you.
You take off his leather jacket from your shoulders and that sends him into a panic to act fast.
"Thank you again for walking me back--"
"When can I see you again?"
are the words that rush out of his mouth with slight panic lacing his tone just as you're thanking him. He wants to slap himself in the face for being so forward with you, but the arrival of the car slowly approaching you makes him panic.
"I- What?" You're blushing now, trying to process his sudden words.
Bucky takes a deep breath before repeating more confidently this time.
"I... I wanna see you again, bunny. Will you let me see you again?"
Suddenly, he feels too aware of himself. Covered in all black clothing from head to toe, his intimidating and sharp features contrasting too loudly with your soft ones. There's no way you see yourself with someone like him, its a mismatch from chaos itself.
He prepares himself for rejection, a gentle letdown because he knows your heart is too kind to give him a straight up no. But when he meets your eyes he sees the cute little crinkle on your nose and a shy smile.
"Okay."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
That's how Bucky ends up sleepless that night, with your number on his phone and a pattern of typing and deleting his message to you.
God... He thinks. This is pathetic.
He's acting like some lovesick school boy with his first crush, and not a Rivercreek biker with a series of misconducts under his belt. If only his friends could see him now.
If only they knew that all it takes is a cute girl with a smile that reminds him of sunshine, and crinkles her nose when she gets irritated to make him go soft.
When was the right time to send a text, anyway? He never cared this much when he's talk to girls before.
Sam had told him once, to wait it out a bit before texting a girl. Don't look too available. He had told him. Girls like a little mystery. Keeps them on their toes.
But does Bucky want you on your toes with him? Did he want you to wait?
It almost felt rude to not message you right away, because after all, he thought you deserved the best.
And the best meant giving you his full attention, his full interest and effort even if it meant making a fool of himself according to Sam's dating guideline.
Hey bunny, you get home okay?
It's Bucky :)
I know its you, Bucky. You're the only one that calls me that ridiculous name.
Yes, I'm home. Thank you again for helping me. :)
He reads your messages in your sweet voice, making his heart stutter. He truly is acting like a school boy right now.
Great to hear that, bunny. Get some rest and don't come wandering out this area alone next time, okay?
Why not? I have my own personal chaperone out of Rivercreek now, right?
I'm kidding. Goodnight, Bucky :)
He doesn't sleep that night. Instead, he loses himself in the memory of you in sunset.
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
For the next week, you and Bucky exchange messages which allow you to get to know him better.
'What on earth has you smiling like that?' Your mother had caught you once, grinning down at your screen.
'Oh, its nothing its just...' One of the biker boys that you absolutely despise, and would kill me for even speaking to. 'Just a funny video my friend sent.' You tell her.
Your mother huffs at your reply, displeased with your answer as she stirs the dark liquid in the regal teacup in front of her. It makes your drink- coffee that is too many shades lighter than hers due to milk and cream, and a mug with little flowers on it, look much too immature.
"I'd rather have you spend your time more productive than looking at... memes" She laces her words with a tone of disapproval that you're too used to by now.
"Be ready tonight. We have that charity gala today and the press will be taking photos."
Obediently, you get up and leave your flowery mug at the breakfast table before she stops you.
"Oh, and do wear something nice. You're not just looking good for press, but suitors as well. Alright?"
Although her tone was much kinder with that sentence, it causes your heart to thump louder in your chest and your face to flush red.
Her obsession with finding you a match has increased tenfold as soon as you came of age, and you find it absolutely ridiculous. This isn't the 1940's anymore! Mothers no longer need to chaperone their daughters when it comes to dating!
But like the obedient daughter you are, you redirect your anger into subtle balled up fists and let your mouth speak the words your heart begs you not to.
"Yes, mother."
She sends you off with a nod and turns her attention back to her too-black coffee.
You arrive at the charity gala and are met with fellow Oakley families, and of course, the press. The event is marketed as an auction for artworks, wherein the money is promised to go out to the needy but you know better.
Its definitely a power grabbing scheme of wealth dynamics. 'Eat the Rich' you think to yourself. These resources can definitely be used more efficiently if they actually wanted to help the needy.
The event is definitely upscale- the grand ballroom is nothing short of extraordinary with high ceilings, dramatic lighting, and big glass doors overlooking a huge garden. It's beautiful, but you feel out of place.
Earlier that morning, you had texted Bucky your obligations for the night and to expect slow replies.
Which is why the latest notification on your phone comes as a surprise to you.
Fancy getting away for a bit, bunny?
What?
I thought bunnies prefer being outdoors
Don't tell me...
you reply back to him with shaky hands before looking around nervously. Another ping from your phone snaps you back into focus
Come out to the garden, bun :)
Your eyes quickly shoot up from your phone to the glass doors that are almost as high as the ceiling allows it to be. There's no way he actually... came here? Is there? Another message knocks you out of overthinking and confirms your skepticism.
The chandeliers look a bit much, don't you think?
Sure enough, when you look up you're met with the tackiest chandelier displays that exhibit grandeur over style and charm. Much like the people in this room.
You let out a sigh and try to calm the butterflies in your stomach. They won't notice you step out. It will only be a moment! You can always excuse yourself for needing some air.
Once you step outside, your eyes trail over the garden landscape. There is nothing but greenery and a high wall separating the event from the rest of the world. How on earth did he get in--
"Psst. Bunny."
His whisper comes from behind one of the garden statues that shield his presence perfectly from the event happening inside.
Slowly, you tiptoe your way to where he is before a pair of hands grab your waist, spinning you around.
A quiet gasp leaves your lips at the sudden motion, but the rest of your breath quickly gets stuck in your throat once you find yourself caught between the stone and Bucky, who still has one hand on your waist and the other pressing an index finger to his lips, demanding silence.
He's close, so close that you can hear your heartbeat in your ears.
"Sorry," he says quietly "saw one of the guards nearby. But we're in the clear now." He gives you a mischievous smile and steps back to give you more space.
"It's alright." You say shyly.
"But... Bucky, how did you..." You trail off and look over at the walls that stand tall over the both of you. Bucky follows your gaze and smirks knowingly at what you want to know.
"Well, it wasn't an easy climb but-"
"You climbed that!?" You cut him off to whisper yell at him.
"But" A hand comes back to your waist as he repeats himself "I told you I wanted to see you again, remember?"
Heat floods your cheeks at his admission. And despite the dark sky with light only coming from the event behind the glass doors and the moonlight illuminating him in the quiet darkness of the atmosphere, you pick up a dust of blush on his cheeks.
"I... didn't think you'd want to see me now." You tell him honestly. "I thought you'd want to take me to... coffee, or something" the softness in your voice is the most gentle sound to reach his ears.
"I can take you for coffee" He chuckles.
"I can definitely take you out for coffee, bunny."
The way he's looking at you feels like a deep, velvet blue with a quiet warmth. His eyes convey a multitude of emotions that you can't quite decipher, but they're there. There's a sparkle in them.
"How do you get them to do that?" You ask.
He can't help but let out another chuckle at your unpredictability.
"Do what, bun?"
"To shine like that."
Bucky is take aback for a moment before smiling.
"Honestly? By looking at you."
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The coffee date happens on the next Sunday. He picks you up after Sunday Mass behind the cathedral and you show up in your usual white, knee-length dress. You know that its a date. He told you it would be.
'When are you free next, bunny?' He had asked you that night at the garden.
'Hmm?' You ask him in a dazed state, too caught up in your feelings at how wanted and seen you feel by him.
'So I can take you out on that coffee date. You're okay with it being a date, right?'
That's how you've found yourself behind the cathedral with the excuse to your mother being tutoring sessions with a friend after Sunday Mass. She had nodded approvingly at you for prioritizing your studies, and you had felt a rush at how you've rebelled against your mothers wishes for the first time in your life.
Bucky pushes himself from against the wall and greets you with an arm over your shoulder "Ready, bunny?"
One coffee date turns into two, and then three. He brings you to places around Rivercreek and the novelty of the area to you makes every date feel like an adventure.
'You can't come here on your own, alright?' He reminds you every time. 'I'm being serious, bunny. The people here aren't always good. I won't always be there to protect ya if you come alone.'
You want to giggle at him for his protectiveness, reassure him that you doubt anything like that will happen because 'you have him anyway.'
He pinches your cheek gently at your stubbornness, but can't deny how your bratty side makes his heart beat a little faster. He enjoys bringing out the bold side in you, aware that its something you push down most of the time due to your strict parents.
Eventually, you end up meeting Steve and Sam in the shop during one of your dates.
"So this is her, Buck? The girl thats been stealing you away lately?" Sam teases him, earning him a playful shove by Bucky while Steve gives you a polite smile.
"We've heard a lot about you..." Steve starts respectfully. "Bunny" the playful glint in his eye is hard to miss, which causes you to blush in embarrassment.
Bucky groans at the teasing from his two best friends, but the rest of the day is spent enjoyably.
You learn more about his childhood, the trouble he got into in his younger years, and feel a sense of fraternity between the three of them that makes you jealous.
You tell them that you wish you had friends as close as he does, but a lot of your childhood was spent in tutoring lessons and more family events to maintain your family's status and appearances at Oakley.
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
After Bucky brings you home that day, he's met with Steve and Sam still at the shop. Both of them have knowing grins on their faces which makes Bucky roll his eyes.
"No" he tells them immediately which earns groans from both his friends.
"Come on, don't be like that. Its been ages since you've started dating again." Sam approaches him with a silly grin.
"We're just curious, man." Steve starts. "That, and... Well..." the rest of his sentence trails off awkwardly.
"That, and we want to know got you dating an Oakley girl" Sam finishes bluntly. "You hate those folk."
Bucky pretends not to give them his full attention by fixing his toolbox.
"I told you already, she ain't like them." He sighs. "She's different from them. She... she's more than the Oakley stereotypes"
The way he defended you earns him more teasing from his friends, but after meeting you today? They can't help but agree.
"You got a good one, Buck. You're happier and that's all that matters" Steve tells him genuinely.
"But you know how Oakley ad Rivercreek don't mix well. This won't all be smooth waters for the both of you."
The reminder stings, but Bucky knew what he was getting into as soon as it started. He appreciates his friend's words, but he would have liked to live in the illusion of being worry-free and happy with you for a little while longer.
"I know, Stevie." His hands fiddle with one of the loose threads on his jacket nervously as he thinks about all that could go wrong with dating you.
There will be a lot of naysay, people who will shake their head at the sight of you two together, your parents disapproving of him, and the fact that he may not be able to keep up with the lifestyle you're used to.
He wonders, do you think of this too?
"But she's worth it. I know she is."
Steve claps him on the back at that "Good luck, Buck."
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Its a few months into dating when Bucky takes you to one of his favorite spots around town.
'Place is special,' he told you when you asked where you were going.
'No one else knows about it, not even Stevie.'
'I bet you say that to all the girls' you had tease him cutely.
He looks back at you with a playful glint in his eye. 'Just you, bunny.'
The spot he leads you to is a lake covered by the green haze of trees. Sun rays glinting brightly in the clear waters. He lays out a yellow blanket over the dew blades of grass that look to be sparkling in the sunlight.
"It's beautiful, Bucky... I feel like I'm in a fairytale" your fingers brush a dandelion next to you as you lay down, letting the flower heads escape the stem and float around you.
"That's how you make me feel all the time, bun." Bucky lays next to you on the blanket, your shoulders touching as you both watch the drift of clouds overhead.
"Oh stop it, you." You giggle at his words.
Bucky rolls himself up on his stomach so that he's facing you. Your faces inches from each other now.
"I'm serious, bunny... The time I've been spending with you?" He presses a quick kiss on your forehead, "They've been the happiest I've ever been."
Your face is hot, and he's so, so close.
"Bucky..." you say his name shyly. His kiss on your forehead makes you blush, and while he's feathered light kisses there and on your cheek before, he hasn't kissed you properly yet in his promise to take things slow for you.
"I love you, bunny."
Bucky tells you confidently, as if its the most sure thing he's ever had to admit.
"Ever since I first laid eyes on you in that cathedral, I think I've already loved you." He admits further which causes your breath to hitch, and your whole body to freeze as you process his confession.
"I can take care of you just as good as any Oakley boy can. I'll prove it to ya, I'll be the best damn guy for ya."
The promises he speaks are spoken in hushed tones, but you hear every word. Bucky keeps his closeness to your body on that blanket. Your shock causes you to unable to form a reply, but Bucky doesn't seem to mind.
Instead, he brings his hand up to brush the stray hairs away from your face before cupping it gently in his palm.
"Will you let me, bunny? Will you let me take care of you?"
"I love you." You tell him breathlessly, "I love you too, Bucky Barnes."
His grin is wide and his eyes sparkle brighter than they ever had before. 'Honestly? By looking at you' are the words you recall him telling you when you had asked him how they get them to do that.
Your reciprocation of love is all the answer he needs to bring his face down to yours to capture your lips in a kiss. The movement is slow and gentle. He kisses you as if you're fragile, delicate. As if holding you too tightly or kissing you too hard will break you.
"I'll be so good to ya," He murmurs against your lips "I love you, I love you bunny. You understand that, right? Better than any Oakley boy ever will. I promise"
Bucky continues to tell you because he thinks no amount of words, no matter how many times he says it, will equate to the feelings he's carrying right now.
Your heart aches at his admission, because deep down you both know how your different backgrounds could cause problems down the line.
"Bucky, you know I don't care about the Oakley and Rivercreek stuff." You hope your reassurance reaches his worries.
"I know, bunny." He pulls away to get a good look at you. You can finally name the emotion his eyes have been communicating to you at that moment: love, longing.
"Let's just be happy right now, yeah?"
You're brought home that day before the sun goes down.
He drops you off at your porch, kissing you goodbye very quickly just in case your parents are peeking. He waits for the door to close before retreating back to the car he picked you up in.
The door shuts and you lean against it for a moment, allowing your heart to take a break from the love Bucky had showed it all day. You're smiling to yourself when-
"Out late today, aren't we?" Your mother's voice cuts through the warm air you've created for yourself with an icy cold tone. She stands on top of the staircase, looking down at your figure by the door.
"Who is he? The one who brought you home in that... junk" She glares harshly at Bucky's retreating figure heading towards his car.
"Mother, t-that's... That's Bucky. He's, um..." You stammer nervously, frantically trying to flatten your wrinkled dress and unkept hair.
"Are you sleeping with him?" Her voice cuts through once again and her steps down the stairway sound menacing as she makes her way over to you.
"What?! Mother!" The redness from your cheeks comes from both embarrassment and anger.
"Is he from Rivercreek?" She asks you.
You're unable to form a reply. You knew it was just a matter of time before your relationship with Bucky got caught, and you've made sure to rehearse the answer in your head multiple times when the moment presented itself, but right now your voice feels like its stuck in your throat.
Apparently that is all the confirmation your mother needed as she sighs disappointedly.
"I've known you to let this family down numerous times, but to be associated with a Rivercreek boy?" Her voice raises an octave.
"This is a new level of low, even for you."
"Mother, please. It's not like that-"
As usual, she refuses to listen.
"Have you no shame for your family name? People from down there are using you for one thing-!"
"No, you're wrong. He's nothing like that..." Your voice is weak at your attempt to fight back against her, but you try anyway. Bucky would have wanted you to try and speak up for yourself.
"He's after you for status! Money!-"
"Mother I love him!"
The space between the both of you turns quiet. Your chest is heaving from anger, and the shock you feel from answering back at your mother for the first time.
"Stupid girl, what do you know about love?" She says coldly before sending you to your room.
"You can't see him again, do you understand? If we find out you've been going behind our backs, he's done."
You lay in bed rethinking the words she spoke. You're aware of how powerful your family is. One wave of a finger can have Bucky in a problematic position, his business gone or even removed from town entirely.
The sentimentality Bucky has for his place in Rivercreek is no stranger to you, either. You hardly think that a relationship with you is worth losing everything he's built.
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The next few days has Bucky spiraling. He asks himself if he's done anything wrong, if he said something to upset you or if his confession at the lake came off too strong.
But the tenderness in his heart? The way his brain replays your voice telling him you love him at every waking hour? It makes him believe that he's done everything right.
He reads through the messages he sent you, all filled with worry yet left unanswered.
Bunny, are you okay?
Please tell me if I did something wrong.
Can I see you tonight? I'm worried, bun.
I love you. Please let me know if you're alright.
He showed up at your house once, in the dead of the night, waiting underneath your window.
The light in your room reassures him that you're alright. You're still there physically, but he's yet to feel an ounce of your attention.
Bunny, I'm outside. Just look out for a bit to let me know you're fine, yeah?
You don't.
Bucky waits for the next Sunday to arrive in hopes of getting hold of you, even just for a few minutes. He hates to corner you like this, but he's desperate. You'd understand him showing up like this, won't you?
The way he leans into his parked bike at the steps of the cathedral you frequent takes him back to the days where he used to pine after you, watching you longingly from afar.
He was nothing to you back then.
He shakes his head at the thought. Bucky refuses to go back to being nothing with you, not after you told each other you loved each other, not after he finally felt what it was like to be yours.
Like clockwork, the huge wooden doors open once Sunday worship ends and the Oakley folk flock out the cathedral like sheep. And again, like clockwork, his eyes immediately find you.
Black leather pushes its way through the flock of white clothing towards you. He ignores the grunts of disapproval as someone from Rivercreek infiltrates their sacred space.
The crowd parts for him like he's plagued with nothing but ill intentions, unbeknownst to them all he carries is a heart yearning for you.
You stand picture perfect right outside the doors, too busy fiddling with the strap of your bag to notice the commotion he's caused at the entrance.
The sight of you in full view takes his breath away and almost makes him forget the reason why he's taken stepped inside a church in the first place.
The way you finally look up at him with wide eyes snaps him back to reality.
"Bucky-" You start but are cut off by his hand pulling you into a closed space. A confession room, he realizes once you've made your way inside.
"Wanna tell me what this is all about, bunny?" He asks, staring at you with a hard, fixed gaze. His voice is harsh and it almost makes him feel guilty for using a tone with you that's anything less than gentle, but the affect of being ignored by you for the last few days has him feeling on edge.
"Bucky... You can't be here. You need to leave-" you whisper, words falling into a murmur.
"You're telling me to leave you alone now?" Bucky is anything but discreet in his response, which makes you flinch and panic at volume of his voice. At this moment, he's too desperate to understand the situation to care about who could hear.
"After what happened at the lake... After telling me that you love me" He breathes in deeply. "You're telling me to just... Leave you alone?"
"Shh!" You shush him quietly. "Please, Bucky. You can't let them catch you with me... They- They found out" You admit to him with a heartbroken expression.
It makes sense to him now, why you've been ignoring him. He knew this was going to happen eventually. Steve had warned him, and he's been aware of the... backlash that was sure to follow as soon as he started taking you out.
"Forget about me, Bucky. It's not worth it. They'll ruin you if we keep this up." Your hushed voice turns into a small sob as you speak the words that break his heart.
"I can't do that." He speaks softly and bring you closer to press a kiss on your tearful cheeks.
"I can't do that, baby. You know I can't. I love you."
"You don't understand! The lengths they'll go to keep you away from me... You'll lose everything because of me, Bucky!" Your voice is desperate now.
"Then I'll have you" he says quickly in response. "I'll have you and that's everything I'll ever need."
He doesn't expect you to push him away at those words, angrier and a little more desperate now to get through to him.
From outside the confession room, you hear your mother's voice outside calling for you. The both of you jump at the sound of her voice.
"Bucky, enough!" You whisper yell at him "Don't... Don't try anymore, okay? This isn't worth it."
If he thought his heart was breaking earlier, it's definitely wrecked now.
"What are you saying, bunny?"
"I'm saying... that if you ever did love me you'd stop."
The problem with Bucky Barnes is that he was a devoted lover. If you told him to pick the highest peach from a tree, he'd climb it immediately without question. If you told him you wanted pearls, he'd fish out the whole ocean for the best one.
If you told Bucky Barnes to let you go, he'd do it even if it killed him.
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Buck, come on. You've been like this for weeks." Steve comments as Bucky mopes in front of his garage stool, a beer in one hand and his bike keys with the charm you gave him on the other.
It's a little bunny keychain, a fluffy white one holding a pink heart.
'It's for good luck when you're out riding' you had told him cutely.
The dainty charm stands out against his intimidating features when he brings them out his pocket. It earns him odd looks from his friends and passers-by but he never paid them any mind.
He imagines the bunny as a piece of you he carries when he rides, which makes him more careful and aware on the road in his determination to keep you safe.
Bucky can't help but let out a sad chuckle at the memory when he fiddles with the bunny that looks too much like you.
"Give me a break, Stevie." he finally answers his friend. "Should've listened to you. You knew this was going to end badly" the defeat in his voice is new to Steve, making him wince at his friend's sadness.
"Hey, don't say that, Buck." Steve attempts to make him feel better. "Oakley and Rivercreek relationships are just... complicated, you know? You guys tried your best."
Although Steve was trying to comfort him, his words did nothing but dig Bucky into a deeper hole of despair.
He hadn't tried hard enough. He thought to himself. But your desperate expression when you told him to leave you alone holds him back from chasing after you.
Its silent for a moment, with only the faint hum of the television that hangs overhead serving as white noise.
Bucky is about to close shop for the day, too tired to have this conversation with his friend who means well, when the next segment of the local news channel starts playing which stops him in his tracks.
Oakley Association's 50th Anniversary Gala: Families within Oakley commemorate their golden year by raising millions of dollars for charity! Led by association head...
The camera cuts to a close up shot of you and your family at the same ballroom with the garden he snuck in to see you all those months ago.
Its the typical event you see Oakley families attend, but he knows that look of yours.
Your eyes are lacking the life they usually have, the sunlight you radiate is dull and bleak. You look as if you haven't had a good sleep in days. you look like you need him.
"Bun..." He mutters to himself when he sees you.
"You're going over there, aren't you Buck?" Steve asks.
Bucky responds by bringing out his keys- the bunny charm smiling up at him cutely, and sending Steve a look from over his shoulder
"You'll lock up for me, Stevie?"
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Oakley's charity gala is yet another event that you are too familiar with.
The pastel yellow dress your mother had picked out for you is a disparity to the gloom clouding your chest. The pearls decorating your neck feel like chains grounding you to your role of a show dog for your family name.
"Smile" your mother reprimands you when she sees the sulk on your face.
"Many are watching. Your father paid a good amount of money for the headlines to feature us tonight." She reminds you.
"Wasn't it supposed to be for charity?" Your tone carries venom in them as you answer back once again. You've been doing that a lot lately. Bucky would have been proud of you.
Bucky.
Your heart shatters at the thought of him. The pain in your chest is a cruel reminder of how you had ripped his heart out in that confession room when you told him to leave you alone.
He was the only one to actually see you as more than your family name. The way he understands you down to the smallest of details is something that no one else can replicate.
Your mother shoots you one of her cold glares when you answer her back. She is tired of disciplining you with lectures about respect and adherence, and has taken a new method of punishment.
Suitors.
For the entirety of the night, you are being introduced to the most eligible bachelors of Oakley. Without a doubt a way for your mother to remind you of the other fish in the sea, but you only want one.
The smile you wear is polite, and you speak in a courteous manner, not having it in you to act unmannerly to strangers that don't deserve unkindness. Some of the men are very aggressive in their advances, aware that the dating pool in Oakley is very limited.
By the end of the night, you're exhausted. Your feet hurt, the dress is suffocating, and there are way too many people. All these factors pile up to overwhelm you, causing your eyes to embarrassingly water in the middle of the ballroom.
"Pull yourself together, child." Your mother says through clenched teeth.
"Do not embarrass us right now."
Eventually, you can't take it. You exit the huge ballroom doors quickly and make it out the garden. Its the same place where Bucky met you in that first time. The memory of seeing him behind one of the garden statues is enough for the dam to break.
You let out a small sob. Your chest tightening at the release of tension following the events of the night.
"Bunny?"
Bucky's voice cuts through the silence of the night air. You can still hear the faint, muffled sounds coming from the ballroom behind you, but Bucky's voice is clear in your ears.
"What... Bucky?"
"Over here, bunny. I was just about to text ya."
He stands next to one of the rosebushes, slightly hidden by the shadows that the moonlight illuminated over the landscape.
His hair is disheveled as if he's been running his hands through it multiple times. The sparkle in his eyes have dulled, but are still there when he looks at you.
Once he gets a proper look at you, his face falls into a frown.
"Who made you cry, bun?"
His immediate concern makes your heart ache. Even after telling him away, his first instinct is to check on you.
You can't take it anymore. You cry out before running down the steps of the platform towards him, throwing yourself in his arms.
"I'm here." He says after he catches your fall. Of course he does.
"I'm here, bunny. I'll protect you." He whispers into your hair.
"It's too much." You say through tears, muffled because of how you're burying your face in his chest.
"I can't take it anymore. All this bullshit they're making me do."
Bucky's arm tightens around your waist, the other hand strokes the back of your head in comfort. You stay in his arms for a moment, remembering how safe you feel when you're with him.
He lets you cry it out while whispering words of comfort 'I've got you, bun. Won't let them hurt you. I'm here.' He repeats just as many times as you need him to.
You calm down eventually, lifting your head to meet his gaze properly.
"How did you know?" is all you ask. He doesn't need any further explanation to answer.
"Saw the press release on the TV. They showed you and I couldn't... I couldn't just leave you there, not when you looked so... unhappy." His hand reaches up to cup your face, thumb lightly tracing your jaw.
"You came for me." You look up at him with so much love in your eyes that you feel his breath hitch.
"You needed me." He replies with a gentle voice, as if its the most obvious explanation.
The look he has reciprocates your own, making you sniffle back tears. That action makes you scrunch up your nose in the way he loves.
A fond smile appears on his face as he watches that little scrunch in between your brows form.
"Bunny..." He says softly. "My bunny."
Bucky kisses you. The first kiss since your declaration of love at the lake. It's still just as soft and sweet as you remember, but there is a new push of longing etched onto it.
You kiss him back with the same amount, showing just how much you've missed him.
"Want me to get ya out of here?" He speaks against your lips.
"What? Bucky-"
"I'm not letting you stay in there any longer, bunny."
He's right. You don't think you can physically or emotionally take the misery of being surrounded by pretentious rich folk, much less your preposterous mother and her impossible expectations.
"Just say the word and we're gone, bunny." Bucky's voice snaps you out of your thoughts.
"I... Yes." You breathe in deeply. "Yes, please, I want to get out of here." You repeat more confidently.
Bucky grins, gives you a reassuring squeeze on your waist before taking your hand in his and leading you further into the garden.
You follow him wordlessly before looking up at the high wall that divides the ballroom's garden from the rest of the world.
"Bucky, I don't think I can-"
"I'm not gonna let you scale a wall, bun." Bucky cuts you off with a slightly amused tone. "Wouldn't dream of it. Too dangerous for ya."
Instead, he leads you to the side of the building that passes just outside the event venue.
"We're using the main entrance?" Your steps falter once you realize where he's leading you.
"They won't notice. Everyone is too busy and drunk inside." He tells you. "You trust me, baby?"
"Yes." You say almost immediately. "Of course."
The smile Bucky flashes at your words is enough to make you forget all your worry. "Then let's go."
Just as he says, you make it out of the gala and into the bike he's parked a few paces away.
"I know you don't like the bike, but I didn't think I'd be stealing you away tonight." Bucky says sheepishly. "We can walk-"
"No, let's take the bike tonight."
Reluctantly, you get on the bike with Bucky's assistance while he chuckles at your attempt at putting on a brave face for him.
"Relax, bunny. I'll drive slowly." He reassures you. You believe him.
The ride back to his place isn't as bad as you expected. You enter through the garage where he parks his bike and are greeted with the satisfying and familiar smell of earth and wood.
The polaroid that you took together is still pinned on one of his boards, next to the car blueprints and documents that he needs for the job.
"Never took it off. Couldn't bring myself to." He says without looking up at from his bike as he secures the lock on its handlebars.
"Always felt like it was never really the end, you know? Of us."
You hum in agreement and continue looking at the polaroid. It was taken a few months back on one of the first dates he took you on.
'Whatcha got there, bun?' He had asked you while you were fishing out something from your bag.
'Brought something for us, took it right out of father's study.' In your hand is a polaroid camera. The expensive kind Bucky has only seen on store shelves.
He lets out a low whistle at the costly item.
'Ya taking things from your parents now, bunny? Am I rubbing off on you the wrong way?' He jokes.
The idea of his sweet innocent bunny doing rebellious things amuses him. To him, she's the type that would frown upon jaywalking.
'Oh, hush you. I'm just borrowing it.' You slap his arm playfully. 'Come on now, say cheese.'
You bring the camera up and snap the photo just as Bucky lands a sweet kiss to your cheek.
The moment lays frozen in time on his pegboard.
As you continue to reminisce, you feel Bucky's warm figure creep up behind you. Strong arms encircle your waist pulling you so close that you feel his breath at the back of your neck. He lands a kiss on your nape, making you shiver.
"Missed ya." He whispers. "Was going crazy without ya."
Instinctively, you lean into his touch, pressing your back closer to his chest as he continues trailing kisses down your neck.
"M-missed you too." Your breathing gets heavier as his lips tickle your skin in all the sensitive spots.
"Bucky..." You warn shyly as he starts getting handsy with you- pulling you closer and kissing down your neck with more vigor than before.
"I can stop," he pauses, lips tickling your skin, "but I can also make you feel good, bunny. Do you want me to make you feel good?"
The offer is tempting, and you want so desperately to just let yourself feel the man that you've missed so dearly.
However, your lack of experience in comparison to Bucky holds you back. Sure, you've kissed boys before, but you've never done... that. Your strict parents have always been a crutch in allowing you to experience anything more intimate than kissing.
"I don't know... I-I've never- I don't know how, Bucky." You stutter shamefully at your cluelessness.
"That's alright, bunny. I know." Bucky presses one last deep kiss on the column of your neck. "You just let me show you, yeah? Are you okay with that?"
You nod your head shyly.
"Words, bun." He pushes
"Yes. I-I'm okay with that." you tell him.
At your confirmation, Bucky spins you around to face him.
"If we're going to do this, I'll make sure to do everything right." His words have that seriousness to them as he looks at you with that familiar glint of a sparkle in his eyes.
"Come upstairs with me."
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When you get upstairs, Bucky pulls you in almost immediately into a kiss and pushes you against the door to close it. You gasp into his mouth at the sudden movement, making him breathe out a chuckle against your lips.
"Sorry," he says cheekily "Just... missed you so damn much. Got excited."
You giggle at his eagerness and kiss him back just as hard.
"Take me then, Bucky. I'm all yours."
He lets out a low growl at that, fingers bringing up the hem of your yellow dress from the gala.
"Yeah? Never stopped being mine, right? Even when we were apart?" His question feels more like a statement, but you love how possessive he is with you.
"Yours" you repeat.
His hands slide your dress up to your waist before pulling you closer to him. You can feel how hard he is through his pants when he presses against you.
Before you could let out a moan at the slight friction, Bucky pulls you into a rougher kiss before spinning you around from the door frame to fall on his bed.
You lay there sprawled out- hair a mess, yellow dress wrinkled and bunched up to your thighs, but Bucky thinks its the most ethereal sight he's ever seen.
"Beautiful," he whispers as he pulls away to take in the sight of you "I'll take good care of you bun."
"You already do." You sigh lovingly as his hands find the zipper at the back of your dress.
The fabric covering you is removed so slowly and carefully, as if Bucky is afraid to accidentally break you if you're not handled as anything less than fragile.
You hear his breath hitch in your throat as you lay under him, almost completely bare if it weren't for the white lace panties that you still have on.
"God, bunny. You're gonna kill me."
He kisses you again sensually, hands roaming more freely than they've ever gone before- from your waist, up the curve of the sides of your stomach, until they land gently on your breasts.
His hand gropes at the flesh while the other hand pins you in place by the hip. You moan at the feeling of his tender touch which makes him trail his mouth to your ear.
"That feel good?" He whispers.
Shyly, you nod at him.
"I'm gonna touch you more now, alright? You tell me to stop and we stop. Got that?"
"Don't stop." Your words reach him in a breathless whisper, urging him to continue on.
His lips trail downwards, kissing down your collarbone to the curve of your breast. Hand continuing to massage and play with the other. You feel his lips lick up at the bud, the new and wet feeling making you moan.
"F-fuck, Bucky." It's almost embarrassing how you're already a mess under him when he's barely even started.
"That's alright, bunny. Let it out- let me know I'm making you feel good." The words of reassurance are spoken to you as if he can read what you're thinking. He gives one last lick on your nipple before attaching his lips to the other side to give it the same treatment.
The hand that was on your hips travels further down to the hem of your lace panties. You gasp at his touch but don't make an effort to tell him to stop.
"Bet you're wet already," he says smugly. "You're already so responsive to my mouth on your tits."
Bucky chuckles when he sees your eyes widen and face flush at his lewd words. He hates to admit, but your innocence and lack of experience is turning him on.
His hands dip down, still on top of the fabric and not taking it off you just yet. When his fingers meet your center, you both let out a rough exhale at the wetness that has pooled there.
"No ones ever touched you here, right bunny?"
He makes his thumb glide up and down your entrance, covered by the thin lace which creates a delicious friction on your clit. You shake your head unable to form any words except for the soft moans escaping you.
He chuckles again at your desperate state.
"What a pure fucking pussy..." He sighs, obviously turned on. "All for me to ruin." The pressure he puts against your core increases, making you whine for him louder.
"B-Bucky-!" You're so, so wet that you can hear your juices squelching against your panties as he continues thumbing at the entrance of your pussy. Every brush of his thumb drags the lace down on your clit which makes you gasp out.
"That's it, baby... You like that? Haven't even started and you're already this wet... Fuck." His eyes darken as he watches you dampen both his fingers and your panties.
You want to tell him to stop teasing you, to take them off and touch you properly- but its as if he's turned on by the thin barrier blocking him off from your sweetness.
He moves his body down to be in level with your core. Before you can comprehend what's happening, you feel his tongue lap up at your pussy in one long and hard stroke against the fabric.
"A-ah!" The sound that leaves you is in between a cry and a moan. "Bucky, please!"
"Please what, bunny?" He teases by eating you out through the fabric of your underwear. The material is so thin that you can feel his hot tongue moving against you almost completely, but its still not enough.
"T-take them off... Please." You sob from the pleasure.
"Yeah?" He sucks your clit hard, earning a louder cry from you. "You want me to eat your needy cunt, bunny? Want me to taste you proper?" He makes you feel the warmth of his mouth on your clit as he sucks and licks.
"Yes!" You moan loudly. "Yes, oh god, please!"
Bucky is enchanted by the sight. His sweet and innocent girl making a mess for him on his bed, on his tongue. He can't deny you any longer.
"There's no god here, bunny." He rips the ruined lace from your legs. "Just me."
Finally, he dives down to lick you from top to bottom. Completely catching the wetness at your entrance and bringing it to your clit before sucking it into his mouth.
"Ohh fuck," you cry out, lost in pleasure that you become unaware of the lewd moans you're making.
A finger joins his mouth in pleasuring you, rockin git back and forth until he hits the spot that makes you see stars.
"R-right there! Yes-fuck!"
"Yeah? Right there, bunny? Right fucking there?" He continues his work on your clit with his mouth, while finger-fucking you to the edge.
You can feel yourself about to come. The coil in your stomach tightens and the warmth in your core bracing itself for what's about to happen. He feels you tighten around his fingers, and your hips squirm to get away from the onslaught he has on your pussy.
"Gonna cum, bunny?" He mutters against your pussy, making the vibrations push you closer to the edge.
"T-too much, Bucky-! C-can't...!"
"Just feel, bun." He says against your clit in between lapping up against it. He presses his arm on top of your stomach to keep you from squirming.
"Feel it, bunny. Let go for me. Cum on my tongue."
Heat washes over your whole body. You do exactly as you're told and cum on his tongue generously, which he licks at with a moan. For a moment, you lose all sense of presence and can only focus on the pleasure washing over you.
"So fucking good..." He says while drinking you up. "Did so good for me, baby."
Once you've calmed down, Bucky brings himself back up to kiss your forehead. "You okay?"
When you nod your head, Bucky breathes a sigh of relief.
"Lost you for a second there, thought you were going to pass out."
You let out a weak giggle.
"Still want more of you, though..." You bring your hands up to Bucky's shirt to pull it off his head, and moan at the sight of his chiseled body.
He kisses you as he takes off his pants as well, leaving him in just his boxers.
"We don't have to-" he tries to say.
"I want to, please."
Bucky nods at your reassurance, laying you down and propping a pillow underneath your hips. 'It'll feel better with the pillow there' he had told you.
Once he's set you laid out properly on the bed, he props himself on his elbows hovering above you.
"I'll be gentle." He says genuinely, eyes locked on yours lovingly.
"I know, I trust you." You reply back to his sincerity with your own.
He takes a moment to position himself outside your entrance, rubbing the head of his cock outside to lube himself with your juices. Slowly, you feel him press the tip inside you.
There's a sudden stretch that you feel, making you gasp at the foreign sensation.
"Still okay?" He pauses to ask.
"Keep going, Bucky..."
Encouraged by your words, he continues pushing in slowly, slowly, until he's fully sheathed inside you. It stings and the pressure it places on your lower half is stinging.
But when you look up, Bucky's face is contorted in pleasure. The tightness of your walls, the way you feel so warm, and wet, and soft makes him feel like he's in heaven.
"Fuckkk- bunny," Bucky groans and rests his head on your shoulder as your warmth encompasses him. He struggles not to move and you can see how it pains him to stay still in order for you to adjust.
"J-just, tell me if- if you can't- fuck" his words come out in gasps and heavy breaths. He can barely form a coherent sentence.
"You can move, Buck." you tell him with a shaky breath.
"Sure, bun?"
After giving him a look of certainty, with a nod he thrusts in shallowly. Any big movements can wait till later, his main priority now is to make sure you don't get hurt.
"Shit, bunny. You're so tight." He groans lowly as his thrusts get deeper. "You feel so fucking good, baby."
After a few particular thrusts, you start feeling sparks of pleasure overriding the pain.
"Mmm, Bucky..." You moan softly.
"Yeah? That good, bun? You like how I'm fucking you?" He asks you, panting as he begins to pick up the pace.
His thrusts get more confident now that you're showing signs of pleasure. The length of his cock still stretches you out and stings, but you love how good he's filling you up.
"O-oh!" You arch your back at a certain spot that he finds. Its the same one he was hitting with his fingers earlier, but deeper. The pillow underneath your hips tilts your body at a position that makes him hit you deeper.
Bucky continues to drill that spot, hitting it with every thrust until you find yourself at the edge again. You can feel him twitch inside you, signaling that he's close.
"I'm not gonna last, bunny." He tells you in a low voice. "I need ya to finish again for me."
His thumb finds your clit again. Its a soft touch, but its enough to bring you closer. You can feel how wet you are as it spreads to your thighs, and Bucky can feel it coat all over his dick.
"I-I'm..." you trail off, mind going blank as he continues to chase both your highs.
"That's it, let go. Cum with me, bunny" he urges you.
You cum with a high pitched moan, clutching onto him as you let yourself go for the second time that night.
"Fuckkkk, bun." he groans as he follows after you, filling you up to the hilt and milking himself completely until he's emptied his load into you.
The bed dips as he crashes next to you, completely spent and with a satisfied, tired smile on his face.
"That was..." You trail off.
"Yeah." He agrees. "I love you, you know that?"
"I do, Bucky. I love you, too." turning to face him, you get a good view of of your favorite shade of blue encompassing the sparkle that rests in his pupils.
For a moment you both forget the troubles that wait for you outside the safety of his home.
"Bunny... I'll fight for us, you know that?" He breaks the comfortable silence between the both of you. "I won't let them take you away from me again."
"Bucky..." you trail off.
"I promised you I'd take care of you, didn't I?" The words spoken between are soft and gentle, a tone he only seems to carry with you, yet carry so much weight. "I'll prove it to them, to everyone, that I can be enough for you."
"Bucky, you don't need to prove anything to anyone." You tell him sincerely. "I love you, and maybe that's all that matters."
For now, at least, you both settle into each other's embrace without any worries.
For now, love is all that matters. You'll worry about the hardships that face you in the morning.
summary . . . chief leon kennedy has a crush on the temporary receptionist of rpd. the receptionist in question is his wife, and he has made it everyone’s problem.
notes. 🎤 this just in… shikiyomizu writes another fic where leon kennedy is obsessed with his wife !! got this idea while i was driving to work today, also :( thank you guys we hit 400 followers the other day 🫶 y’all are the best
tags ──────── fluff, re9 leon kennedy x wife!reader. au, no zombie break out. takes place in raccoon city. leon’s doing everything but working. word count: 1.2k words
The receptionist of RPD was six months pregnant with her first child. Getting closer to her due date, she put in her time off. Once she got to eight months, she would be gone to prepare herself and stay out on maternity leave. That gave the station at most a month to find a temporary receptionist.
Chief Kennedy quickly found a solution. After you heard he told you about their receptionist during dinner, you offered to fill in the position while she was away. You didn’t work, the officers knew you since you’d come and visit Leon at the station on occasions.
The more experienced officers were more familiar with you and still remembered the day you both met.
Leon was late on his first day of work. Not a good look for an optimistic rookie. Then, he got thrown into traffic duty with Lieutenant Marvin Branagh, and had to write up a ticket to a girl they pulled over who was his type. He swore that someone didn’t want him to succeed as a police officer.
That’s right, you were the first person Leon ever gave a ticket to. But it made for a cute story, and the outcome was a marriage of 24 years.
When he proposed the idea, everyone quickly agreed. No officer would have to fill the position, they wouldn’t have to wait for an applicant, and they could trust you would get the job done correctly. Now what they didn’t imagine happening is the Chief of police suddenly not knowing how to behave.
The first few weeks, Leon checked up on you to make sure everything was going smoothly while you were being trained. You adjusted rather quickly. He’d stay by the desk, flirt with you for a couple minutes, and return to his office.
Then the following months, the visits became more frequent. He’d start dropping by multiple times throughout the day, and stayed longer than he was supposed to. He loved having you working at the station. He could see you and talk to you any time he wanted.
And although it was sweet, it threw off the function of the second floor where the officers really needed him to be. They took matters into their own hands and limited him to one daily visit.
That ended up backfiring as soon as the rule was implemented. They saw him heading downstairs, and made a note he was taking his daily visit. So, they minded their business and went back to working.
Hours passed, someone was on the phone to speak with him. The officer tried to ring him, but he wasn’t picking up. Unusual for him. She stood up from her desk and quickly rushed to his office, just to not see Leon there at all.
The man had the entire floor looking for him because the call was important. The bathroom, the library, the archive room, the weapons room. They were practically seething when they found him sitting behind the receptionist desk with you.
All he said was, “You said one visit, not that I had to come back.”
They didn’t blame you since you were actually getting your work done.
They were honestly debating whether or not they should enforce the whole no dating in the workplace rule again. But it didn’t make sense considering you two were married and so were Captains Chris and Jill Redfield of S.T.A.R.S.
So they found the only other solution.
The following work week, Leon got banned from the first floor.
He took it to the heart. He watched you from the second floor like some Victorian yearner until he got sent back to his office by one of his lieutenants.
He tried to sneak past them on several occasions. Sometimes it worked. Other times?
“Chief! Don’t you go down those stairs!”
Leon huffed. He was so close this time. He’d made it halfway down. He glared at the officer standing at the top of stairs. You were at the reception desk, going through mail the station received. He wanted to use the excuse that he was going to pick something up, but they’d just say they would bring it to him. He reluctantly turned around and went right back up.
He passed the sign holder by the stairs made for him that said, “Lunch is at 1PM. Shift ends at 6PM.”
It got bad enough that they assigned someone to keep an eye on him.
The new rookie that joined was so confused why they told him not to allow Chief Kennedy on the first floor under any circumstances besides lunchtime and when it was time to go. Plus, they didn’t even go into detail as to why the Chief was banned from the first floor. They said it so ominously, as if the world would end if he made it down there.
Technically, it was an easy task. His office door was always shut, no matter what. If it ever opened, the loud creaking would alert the rookie and he’d tell his superior the first floor was off limits.
Today, Leon opened his office door cautiously. His officers were overwhelmed at their desks, especially the rookie who was stuck babysitting him. Paperwork was due at the end of the week. Everyone was trying to get it done so they wouldn’t have to stay late on a Friday night.
Perfect. He slipped out unnoticed. He left the door at a crack. If he closed it now, it might catch their attention and he refused to lose this golden opportunity. He kept his body against the wall, heading in the direction of the stairs.
You were making copies of forms. While the printer did the task for you, you swiveled your chair to the computer again to check on an email. Just as you were doing that, there came your husband rushing down the stairs. Leon made it to the bottom step and walked across the lobby towards the reception desk.
Oh great. What was he planning now? Your hand hovered over the phone, ready to call one of the lieutenants. But you didn’t since your husband wasn’t staring directly at you, rather the staircase on your right. He dug his hand in the pocket of his pants and pulled out a slip of paper.
Leon carefully slid it across the counter, and continued walking without looking at you.
The paper was folded in half. You raised a brow. He was probably asking you to meet him in the filing room again. You grabbed the paper and opened it.
“What the…” You muttered.
Do you like me?
Two options. One box said yes, and the other box said yes. You furrowed your brows.
You looked to your right. Leon was leaning against the stair railing. He drew a heart in the air with his pointer fingers and then winked at you. Your eyes followed as he went up to the second floor.
Reminder: File a complaint.
You clicked your pen. Underneath the two boxes, you drew a third one. Right beside it you wrote, “No”, and checked it.
“Is he here?” You glanced up. The rookie was out of air after running down a flight of stairs. Poor boy was carrying the fate of the world on his shoulders and he refused to let it end. That or he thought he might get fired for not keeping Chief Kennedy in check.
“Honey, don’t worry. He’s upstairs. Besides, the only place he’s getting in trouble is at home.” You said. That helped ease his worries a bit. You folded the slip of paper again and held it out to the rookie, “Do me a favor. Can you give this to him when you see him?”
'You see a spider and scream— Leon thinks that you're in serious danger.'
The apartment is quiet except for the low murmur of the TV and the sound of rain against the windows. Leon’s in the bedroom changing after getting home late, his duffel bag dropped near the door, jacket tossed over a chair.
You’re curled up on the couch scrolling mindlessly through your phone when something catches your eye near the lamp beside the TV: a spider. Not tiny, either—actually, big enough to make your stomach immediately flip. It crawls down the wall slowly, deliberately taunting you, you think.
Your breath catches in your throat.
“...Leon?” you call out quietly, hoping not to cause the creature to skittle off. No response, of course; Leon only hears you muttering under your breath when you're cussing him out. Selective hearing, you call it.
The spider moves again. You sit up, rigid.
“Leoooon?" You wail. Still nothing. And then the thing suddenly disappears behind the lamp. Your phone drops to the floor with a bang.
“Oh my G— LEON!"
You hear heavy footsteps thunder from the bedroom and, before you can process it, Leon appears around the corner with a handgun already drawn, expression sharp and alert in a way that makes your heart jump for an entirely different reason; he's topless, still in his tactical pants, hair pushed back out of his face.
“Y/N? What's wrong?” he calls as he hastens to the living room, face strewn with concern. His eyes sweep the apartment automatically, trained instinct taking over before you can even answer.
You stare at him, mouth agape. He stares back expectantly, eyebrows raised.
“…there was a spider.”
Leon doesn’t move: the gun remains in his hand for a solid three seconds while the words process in his brain.
“What?”
You point weakly toward the lamp. “It was...huge.”
Leon lets the weapon drop to his side as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “You screamed.”
“Because it was huge.”
His shoulders sag with relief so visible you almost feel guilty. He drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart, I thought someone broke in."
“Something did break in!” you scowl.
Leon actually closes his eyes for a second like he’s reconsidering every life decision that led him here. Then, he looks at you— curled defensively into the corner of the couch, eyes still fixed on the lamp like the spider might reappear armed and dangerous— and he laughs.
He clicks the safety back on and sets the handgun carefully on the table out of reach before approaching the lamp.
“You know,” he says without looking back at you, “I’ve seen spiders bigger than cars.”
“At least you knew where they were— this one disappeared and now it could be anywhere.”
“Fair point.”
He nudges the lamp slightly; you immediately pull your legs higher onto the couch. Leon snorts softly under his breath before crouching down to inspect behind the table. His movements are calm, methodical: the same focus he uses on missions, which somehow makes this even more embarrassing.
“There it is,” Leon says finally.
"Yeah? You see it? Don't let it run away again—"
“Relax.”
“I'll relax once it's on the bottom of your boot.”
Leon grabs a nearby magazine and an empty glass from the coffee table, folds it once, and with one quick movement traps the spider under a glass. You stare at him wide-eyed, expectantly.
“Better?” he asks.
Before you can reply, the spider starts crawling against the glass. You make a horrified noise and Leon stands up with the glass and magazine as he walks toward the window.
“Oh, honey,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You’re really scared of this little thing?”
“Yes! You thought I was being murdered five minutes ago— that's how scared I am!”
“Don't joke about that," he scowls, "or I'll put this in our bed."
You glare while he carries the trapped spider toward the window and releases it outside into the rain. When he turns back around, you’re still visibly tense, eyes scanning the walls suspiciously. Leon walks back over slowly, amusement softening into something warmer.
“Aw, sweetheart, come on. It's gone now.”
The second he sits beside you, you immediately move into him without hesitation, pressing against his naked chest while he wraps an arm around your shoulders automatically, rubbing soothing circles on your upper arm. You breathe him in: worn-off cologne, musk and sweat from the day, the smell of his body wash. Leon.
“For the record,” he says, “please reserve your screams for situations where I might actually need to help you.”
“You say that like that wasn’t a life-threatening situation.”
Summary: Leon comes home to a quiet house, a broken mug on the floor, and the sinking certainty that something is wrong. You should’ve been there. By the time he finds you, it’s already too late for things to be simple, but not too late to bring you back.
The road stretches out in front of him, long and dim, washed in the amber glow of streetlights that flicker past the windshield in steady intervals. Each one slides over him like a pulse, light, shadow, light again. It's late enough that traffic has thinned to almost nothing, the occasional pair of headlights drifting past like distant ghosts before disappearing into the dark.
It's late. Later than he told you he'd be. His hands rest loosely on the steering wheel, one thumb tapping absently against the sleek, black leather. The radio hums low, something forgettable that he isn't really listening to. His mind is already somewhere else. Somewhere softer.
Home.
There's a quiet kind of anticipation sitting in his chest, steady and familiar. You'll probably be asleep by now, or pretending to be, maybe upset because he didn't text you.
He can already picture it, the faint glow of the lamp, the way you'd shift when he walked in, like you always knew it was him even before he said a word. Maybe you'd mumble something about how late it is, voice thick with sleep, but your arms would still find him anyway. That part never changed, even if you were upset.
Leon exhales, long and slow. He's tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes in a single night, but the kind that lingers in the muscles, in the back of the mind, in the quiet spaces between thoughts. The mission hadn't been catastrophic, nothing that would make headlines or stick with him for years, but it had been enough. Enough to leave his shoulders tight, his reflexes still a fraction too sharp, his awareness just slightly out of step with the calm around him. It takes time for that to fade. It always does.
But you help. Just being near you does something he can't name. Like his body remembers how to stand down, how to unclench, how to exist without scanning every shadow for movement. It's a rare thing; he doesn't take it for granted.
The houses sit quietly, windows dark, the world settled into that deep, unmoving stillness that only comes in the middle of the night. No movement, no noise, just the low hum of distant electricity and the soft crunch of tires against pavement.
Leon slows as he pulls into the driveway, engine idling for a second longer than necessary. The engine clicks as it cools, metal ticking softly in the quiet. His gaze drifts to the front door. Something in his chest tightens. The porch lights are off. He knows you better than that. You'd never shut the porch lights off before he's home.
He lingers for a moment longer than necessary, fingers still resting on the wheel, that feeling brushing again at the edges of his awareness. It would be easy to dismiss it, to chalk it up to fatigue or the remnants of adrenaline that haven't quite settled yet. That happens sometimes. The body takes longer than the mind to understand that it's safe.
"Get a grip," he mutters under his breath, voice low and rough in the confined space of the car.
The night air is cool when he steps out, sharp enough to cut through the lingering haze in his head. It grounds him, brings everything back into focus as he shuts the door and starts toward the house. The walk is short and familiar, each step guided by routine more than by conscious thought. He's done this hundreds of times, returning from missions at odd hours, slipping back into a life that exists in the spaces between everything else.
His keys slide easily into the lock. The mechanism turns with a soft, familiar click. The door opens, and something shifts. It isn't immediate, not something loud or obvious. There's no sign of forced entry, no overturned furniture, no visible disruption waiting to greet him. At a glance, everything is as it should be. The entryway is intact, your shoes still near the door, your jacket hanging in its usual place. The house looks lived in, normal, untouched.
Leon pauses just inside the doorway, one hand still resting lightly against the door as it swings closed behind him. The silence presses in, thicker than it should be, carrying a weight he can't immediately explain. It isn't just quiet, it's still, the kind of stillness that feels unnatural in a space that's usually shared. His gaze moves automatically, sweeping the room with quiet precision. Every detail registers. Every shadow is accounted for. He doesn't think about it. He never has to.
"Hey," he calls out, his voice steady but low, carrying just enough to reach the next room. "I'm home."
The words settle into the silence and go unanswered. That, on its own, isn't unusual. You could be asleep, the house wrapped in the kind of quiet that comes with it. It wouldn't be the first time he's come back late enough to find you already resting, the world reduced to soft breathing and dim light.
Leon steps further inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seems louder than it should. The sound echoes faintly, swallowed quickly by the stillness. He shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair without looking, his attention already shifting past the entryway and into the rest of the house.
The living room is undisturbed. The couch sits as it always does, a blanket folded neatly over the arm, the pillows on either cushion are perfectly shaped in the corners, and the remote rests in its usual place on the table next to your book.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly as he moves past, his focus narrowing toward the kitchen. There's a light on. It's a small detail, the kind most people wouldn't think twice about, but it stands out to him. You don't leave lights on when you go to bed. You never have. It's a habit, one of those small, consistent things that become part of a person without them realizing it.
Leon slows as he approaches, his steps quieter now, more deliberate. "You still up?" he calls again, softer this time, the words carrying less distance.
No answer.
He crosses the threshold into the kitchen and stops. At first, it doesn't fully register. His gaze catches on the shape, the disruption in the otherwise clean lines of the room, but his mind takes a fraction of a second longer to process what he's seeing.
A mug lies shattered on the floor. The pieces are scattered unevenly, some larger, some reduced to sharp fragments that catch the light at odd angles. A dark stain spreads beneath them, long since dried, its edges faintly dull against the tile. It's been there for a while.
Leon doesn't move. His attention fixes on it, sharp and unblinking, his mind beginning to assemble the details whether he wants it to or not. The position. The spread. The way the pieces fell. You dropped the mug. You didn't set it down or knock it over. You dropped it. His mind is already working, already assembling the sequence of events in the only way it knows how, reconstructing motion from stillness, cause from aftermath.
His gaze shifts, slow and deliberate, tracing the subtle disruption in the room. The chair. The scuff along the floor. The angle of it was just slightly off, like it had been forced back rather than pulled. There's no sign of a prolonged struggle, nothing overturned, nothing chaotic. Whatever happened here was quick. His realization settles somewhere deep, heavy, and unwelcome.
Leon exhales quietly, the sound barely audible, and steps further into the kitchen. His boots avoid the larger shards without thought, his path instinctively careful as his attention moves beyond the obvious, searching for what doesn't immediately stand out. That's where the truth usually hides.
His fingers brush lightly along the edge of the counter as he passes, grounding, steadying, before his gaze catches on something near the sink. At first, it doesn't register as anything unusual. Just another piece of the kitchen, another detail in a space he knows well enough to navigate in the dark. But something about it holds his attention a second longer than it should.
Leon steps closer, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as the details come into focus. It's a casing. Metal, cylindrical, no larger than his thumb. Clean. Intact. Deliberately set, not dropped or discarded.
He doesn't touch it immediately. Instead, he studies it, his gaze narrowing as recognition begins to surface, slow and unwelcome. The design is subtle, almost unremarkable to anyone who doesn't know what they're looking for. No obvious markings, no bright identifiers.
But Leon knows better. He's seen something like this before. His hand moves then, precise and controlled, fingers closing around the casing with practiced care. It's lighter than it looks. His thumb turns it slightly, just enough for the faint etching along its side to catch the light. It's small. Nearly invisible unless you're looking for it. Not exactly Umbrella's symbol, but something newer, built from the debris.
Leon's jaw tightens, a muscle in his cheek flickering once as the last piece slides into place. This wasn't random. It wasn't a break-in. It wasn't chance, or opportunity, or someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was deliberate, targeted, and whoever did it wanted him to know.
The air in the room feels different now, heavier, like the walls themselves are closing in around the realization. Leon's grip on the casing tightens just slightly before he forces it to ease, control reasserting itself with practiced precision. Emotion can come later.
Right now, he needs clarity. He sets the casing back down exactly where he found it, careful not to disturb its position any more than necessary, and reaches for his phone. The motion is smooth and efficient, his mind already several steps ahead, pulling threads together and mapping out what comes next.
There are only a handful of people in the world who would leave something like this behind. Fewer still would dare to use it as a message.
The phone rings once. Twice.
Leon's gaze drifts back to the shattered mug on the floor, to the silence that's settled into every corner of the house, and for a brief moment, something flickers beneath the surface. It's cold and dangerous, leaving no room for panic.
The line clicks, and he wastes no time. "I need everything you have on Victor Gideon."
THREE HOURS EARLIER
The quiet in the house isn't unsettling. It settles around you like something familiar, something earned after a long day, the kind of silence that doesn't press too heavily but instead exists in soft layers. The lamp in the living room casts a warm, golden glow that pools gently over the couch and the edges of the coffee table, leaving the rest of the house in a comfortable dimness. Outside, the night has already taken hold, the world reduced to distant sounds that barely reach you, a passing car, the faint whisper of wind brushing against the windows, nothing that demands your attention.
You sit curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked beneath you, a book open in your hands. The pages shift slightly under your fingers as you read, though your focus drifts more than it settles. Your eyes move across the lines, but the words don't always stay with you, slipping away as your thoughts circle back to the same place they've been returning to all evening. You glance at the clock without fully meaning to, then back down at the page, then toward the door, a quiet, unconscious pattern that repeats itself before you even realize you're doing it.
Sometimes he doesn't have a chance to tell you he's going to be late. You knew that. You told yourself you wouldn't wait up this time. But here you are.
A small breath leaves you, something softer than a sigh, as you tilt your head back against the couch cushion. The book dips slightly in your hands, your thumb still marking your place even as your attention drifts completely away from it. It's not worry that keeps you awake, not exactly. You're used to this part of his life, the late nights, the unpredictability, the quiet spaces between when he leaves and when he comes back. It doesn't scare you the way it might have once. Not anymore. But that doesn't mean you don't feel it.
You sit up a little straighter after a moment, closing the book carefully and setting it aside on the table. The room feels just a touch too quiet now, the kind of quiet that makes you aware of your own breathing, your own movement, the small sounds that would normally go unnoticed. Your gaze drifts again, this time lingering on the front door, as if you could will it to open just by watching it long enough.
You push yourself up from the couch instead, the fabric shifting softly beneath you as your feet meet the cool floor. You fix the pillow in the corner of the couch, pushing it back and fluffing it up. The movement feels natural, easy, like slipping into a routine you didn't realize you'd already decided on. If you're going to stay up, you might as well make it count for something.
The kitchen light clicks on with a soft snap, brightening the space in an instant. The contrast from the dim living room is enough to pull you fully into the present, your surroundings sharpening into focus as you move further in. Everything is where it should be. Clean counters. Familiar shapes. The quiet hum of appliances that fill the silence just enough to keep it from feeling empty.
The coffee maker hums to life as you set it going, the low, steady sound filling the room in a way that makes it feel less still. You lean lightly against the counter while you wait, arms folding loosely as your gaze drifts again, unfocused now, pulled back into thought.
You wonder how the mission went. Whether it was one of the easier ones or something that left its mark in quieter ways. Leon never comes back unchanged, not really. Even on the good days, there's always something lingering beneath the surface, something in the way he holds himself, the way his eyes settle on things just a second longer than they should. You've learned to read those details over time, to understand them without needing him to explain.
Your expression softens without you realizing it. You'll see it the moment he walks through the door. You always do. And you'll meet him there, the way you always do. Sometimes with quiet, sometimes with warmth, sometimes with both. It's never something you plan out, never something you rehearse. It just happens, instinctively, the same way breathing does.
The coffee maker clicks softly as it finishes, the sound pulling you gently back into the present. You reach for the mug, wrapping your hands around it as the heat seeps into your skin, steady and grounding. For a moment, you just stand there, letting the warmth settle into your palms, letting the quiet exist around you again.
Your gaze drifts toward the doorway, toward the darker stretch of the hallway beyond it, and a faint smile touches your lips, subtle enough that you barely notice it. "C'mon," you murmur under your breath, your voice soft in the stillness. "You're taking too long."
You hear a soft tick against the window, like maybe a branch in the wind tapping against the glass. You look over, a weird feeling pooling in your stomach. At first, it's just a feeling, a subtle shift that brushes against your awareness without fully forming into thought.
You straighten a little, your fingers tightening just slightly around the mug as your gaze moves across the kitchen. Everything looks the same. Nothing has changed. The counters are clean. The light is steady. The space is exactly as you left it. And yet, the feeling lingers.
You listen more closely this time, your attention sharpening as you try to pinpoint what caused it. For a moment, there's nothing. Just the quiet hum of the house, the faint buzz of electricity, the soft settling of something far away.
Another sound. It's faint. Quick. Easy to miss if you weren't already paying attention.
Your head turns toward it immediately, your brows knitting slightly as your pulse gives a small, unexpected jump. "Leon?" you call, the name leaving you instinctively, hope threading through it before you can stop it.
The silence that answers is immediate.
Your grip tightens around the mug, the heat suddenly too noticeable, too sharp against your skin as your awareness shifts, sharpening into something more alert. "Hello?" you try again, quieter now, your voice carrying less distance, less certainty.
No response. But the silence has changed. It isn't empty anymore. It feels occupied. Your breath slows, shallow without you meaning it to be, as your eyes move carefully across the room, tracking shadows, edges, the negative space between things. Your body has gone still, instinct taking over in a way your mind hasn't quite caught up with yet.
There's a presence here. You can't see it. But you can feel it. A subtle awareness presses at the back of your neck, a quiet, unmistakable certainty that settles in before you can rationalize it away. You're not alone.
The realization doesn't come all at once. It unfolds slowly, like something being revealed piece by piece, each second stretching just long enough to let it sink deeper. Your heart picks up, not racing yet, but faster, heavier, each beat more noticeable than the last.
You take a small step back without thinking, your fingers brushing against the edge of the counter as if anchoring yourself to something solid. The kitchen suddenly feels too open, too exposed, every angle unfamiliar in a way it never has before.
There's a shift behind you, closer this time, unmistakable. Your breath catches as you start to turn, instinct finally overriding hesitation. But you don't get to finish turning.
The movement behind you is faster than your body can react to, faster than your mind can process, a sudden shift in the air that collapses the space between awareness and action into nothing. One second you're standing there, breath caught somewhere between instinct and realization, and the next there's a hand on you, firm and unyielding.
It clamps around your arm and wrenches you backward with a force that steals the ground out from under your feet. The world tilts sharply, your balance gone before you can even try to recover it. The counter digs briefly into your hip as you're pulled away from it, your body twisting on instinct, a startled breath tearing from your chest before you can stop it.
The mug slips from your hand. You don't feel it leave your fingers so much as realize it's gone, the warmth vanishing in an instant as gravity takes over. There's a split second where it hangs in the air, suspended between what was and what's about to happen.
Then it shatters. The sound is sharp. Violent in the quiet. Ceramic breaking against tile in a way that feels far too loud, far too final, the pieces scattering outward in a jagged arc as dark liquid splashes and spreads across the floor. It happens in the background of everything else, but it sticks, imprinting itself in your mind even as everything around you spirals out of control.
Your hands come up instinctively, grabbing at the arm holding you, fingers digging in as you try to twist free, your breath coming faster now, sharper. "Hey!" The word breaks out of you, half-formed, more reflex than intention, your voice catching as your body fights to regain control.
It doesn't work. The grip on you tightens, not frantic, not rushed, but controlled in a way that's somehow worse. Whoever is behind you knows exactly what they're doing. There's no hesitation in the movement, no wasted motion, just precision.
Your shoulder is forced back, your balance shifting again as your heel catches against the tile. For a brief, disorienting second, your gaze catches on the floor, on the shattered remains of the mug, on the dark stain already beginning to spread outward between the pieces.
Your heart is pounding harder now, the rhythm uneven, loud in your ears as adrenaline begins to surge, your thoughts scrambling to catch up with what's happening. You're not confused anymore. This is real, and this is happening to you.
You try again to pull free, your other hand coming up, reaching back, searching for anything you can grab onto, anything you can use. Your fingers brush fabric, then something harder beneath it, but before you can react, before you can even see, something presses against your face.
A cloth, rough and sudden. Your breath catches as the smell hits you, sharp and chemical, unfamiliar and immediately wrong. You jerk back on instinct, your body reacting before your mind can fully understand it, but the hold on you doesn't falter; it tightens.
Your lungs burn as you try not to breathe it in, your head turning sharply to the side, your movements desperate now, less controlled. Your hands come up again, grabbing, pushing, nails digging into anything they can find as panic begins to break through the edges of your control.
"Stop—" The word comes out strained, uneven, your voice already weakening as the world tilts again, the edges of your vision beginning to blur.
The room starts to slip, the sharp lines of the kitchen softening, distorting at the edges as your strength begins to falter. Your movements slow, not by choice, but because your body is betraying you, your limbs growing heavier with each passing second.
Your gaze drops again, unfocused now, catching one last glimpse of the floor. The shattered mug. The spreading stain. A moment frozen in place, already turning into something that will be left behind.
Your chest tightens as you try to pull in one more clean breath, but it doesn't come the way it should. Everything feels distant, like you're being pulled away from it piece by piece, your awareness slipping no matter how hard you fight to hold onto it.
The last thing you feel is the grip on you shifting, steady, controlled, as your body gives in. The last thing you hear is the quiet sound of movement in the house that was never empty, and then nothing.
Consciousness doesn't return in a clean, merciful line. It comes apart and back together in fragments, thin slivers of awareness pushing through a heavy, resistant fog that clings to you no matter how hard your body tries to surface. At first, there's no sense of where you are, no clear thought to anchor to, only sensation. A dull, distant awareness of your own weight presses against something solid beneath you, your limbs feeling slow and unresponsive, as though they belong to someone else entirely. There's a strange disconnect between intention and movement, like the signal is there but the response is delayed, muffled.
Sound finds you next, seeping in gradually rather than arriving all at once. A low, mechanical hum settles into your awareness, steady and unwavering, its presence so constant it almost feels like part of you rather than something external. It doesn't fluctuate or shift in tone. It simply exists, filling the silence in a way that makes the space feel controlled, contained. Beneath it, there's something softer, less predictable, a faint, irregular noise that might be water or machinery or something else entirely. It's too distant to identify, but close enough to remind you that you're not in a place meant for comfort.
Your breathing deepens unevenly as your body begins to catch up, each inhale dragging in air that feels heavier than it should, as though it carries a weight your lungs don't quite know how to process. Your chest rises a little too quickly, then steadies, then falters again as your system struggles to find a rhythm that feels natural.
When your eyes finally open, the light doesn't welcome you. It hits too harshly at first, blurring your vision into indistinct shapes and washed-out edges that refuse to settle into anything recognizable. You blink slowly, your lashes dragging as if even that small movement requires more effort than it should. The second attempt is steadier, your vision beginning to sharpen in reluctant increments until the ceiling above you comes into focus.
It's all wrong. That realization settles almost immediately, cutting clean through the haze with a clarity that feels almost jarring. The surface above you is smooth and industrial, broken only by faint seams that run in measured lines across it. A light fixture is embedded neatly overhead, its glow sterile and uninviting, casting illumination that feels functional rather than warm. There is no softness to it, no variation. It simply exists to reveal.
Your stomach tightens. Memory doesn't return gently. It forces its way in, sharp and fragmented, each piece colliding with the next in a way that leaves no room for denial. The kitchen. The quiet. The shift in the air. The hand. The smell. The mug.
Your breath catches, the reaction immediate and involuntary as your body attempts to respond before your mind can fully process. You try to sit up, the movement sudden, instinctive, driven by a need to orient yourself, to do something. The world tilts in response, your equilibrium failing you for a split second as your muscles protest the motion. A wave of dizziness pulls at the edges of your vision, the room threatening to slip out of focus again as your body struggles to cooperate.
Something stops you. The resistance is immediate, firm enough to halt your movement without jerking you back. It takes a second for your mind to catch up, for your gaze to drop and register what your body has already begun to understand.
Your wrists are bound. The realization lands heavy and cold, your pulse spiking in response as your hands instinctively pull against the restraint. The movement is quick, uncoordinated, driven more by reflex than thought, but the result is immediate and unchanging. There's no give, they're tight, and hold you down exactly like they're supposed to.
You slow, not because you want to, but because you have to, your breathing sharpening as you force yourself to look more closely. The material is unfamiliar, smooth against your skin but unyielding beneath your grip. It is not rope, not anything improvised or hastily applied. It feels intentional and manufactured. Meant to hold without question.
Your fingers flex against it again, more deliberately this time, searching for a shift, for anything, any weakness in its structure. There are none.
A slow breath moves through you, deeper this time, though it still catches slightly at the end as your chest tightens. Panic presses at the edges of your awareness, sharp and insistent, but it doesn't overtake you. Not yet anyway. You hold it there, contained, forcing yourself to focus on what you can control instead of what you can't.
The room is small, but not claustrophobic. Contained in a way that feels deliberate rather than accidental. The walls match the ceiling, the same sterile material, seamless and uninterrupted. There are no windows, no variation in texture or color, nothing to suggest time or place. The space feels isolated, cut off from anything beyond it.
Across from you, a door is set into the wall. It's solid, featureless from your side, with no visible handle or mechanism to open it. It blends almost too well into its surroundings, as though it is meant to go unnoticed until it becomes relevant.
Your shoulders tense slightly as your gaze drops again, taking in your position more carefully now. Your arms are secured in front of you rather than behind, which feels intentional in a way you don't like. It allows for movement, but not freedom. It gives the illusion of control while ensuring you have none.
A slow, measured breath fills your lungs as you force your body to settle, your thoughts beginning to align despite the lingering fog. You swallow, your throat dry, the motion grounding in its simplicity.
"Think..." you whisper, barely audible.
You piece it together as best you can, working backward from what you know. You were at home. You were waiting. You were safe until you weren't. The shift from one to the other had been fast. Too fast to fully process, too controlled to have been random. Whoever took you knew what they were doing. There had been no hesitation and no fumbling.
Your chest tightens again, thinking of Leon. The thought of him lands heavier than anything else, threading through the fear and the confusion with a sharp, undeniable weight. He wasn't there. He didn't see it happen. He doesn't know where you are. But one thing is certain, he'll know something is wrong. He'll know it the second he sees the porch lights off and the shattered mug.
Your eyes close briefly, not in defeat, but in focus, as you draw in another slow breath. He'll see it and he'll understand. And when he does he'll come looking.
The thought isn't really hopeful in the way you might expect. It's not fragile or uncertain either. It's something you hold onto without question. He will come.
Your eyes open again, sharper now, your awareness settling into something more controlled, more deliberate. Your gaze moves across the room once more, but this time with purpose, taking in every detail, every possible variable: the walls, the door, the light, the sound.
You're not safe. But you're not helpless. And whoever brought you here? They made one simple mistake, and that was taking you away from Leon.
The kitchen doesn't change. Even as Leon steps back, even as he forces himself to take in the full space again from a distance, nothing shifts, nothing rearranges itself into something easier to accept. The shattered ceramic still litters the floor in the same uneven arc, the dried coffee staining the tile in a way that speaks too clearly of time passed. The chair remains slightly out of place, the scuff mark near its leg catching the light just enough to make it impossible to ignore.
Everything is exactly as it was. And that's the problem. Leon's gaze moves slowly, deliberately, retracing the scene with sharper focus now that the initial shock has burned away into something colder. He doesn't rush. He never does. Every detail matters, and he knows better than to miss something because he moved too fast. His eyes track the path of disruption, from the counter to the floor, from the chair to the empty space where you should be.
He reconstructs it without thinking.
You were standing here. The mug in your hand. The machine still warm, recently used. You hadn't been waiting long. Maybe you were thinking about him, maybe you were distracted, maybe you didn't hear the first movement behind you. That's when the contact must have happened.
The mug drops. Shatters. You don't get the chance to react properly before you're already being restrained. There's no sign of prolonged struggle, which means whoever took you didn't need one. They knew exactly how to handle it. How to end it before it could escalate. All signs point to Victor.
Leon's jaw tightens slightly, the muscle flickering once as the image settles into place.
Staying won't give him anything new.
Finding you will.
He moves with purpose now, the transition so clean it almost feels like a switch has been flipped somewhere beneath the surface. The part of him that came home, the part that allowed himself to think about warmth, about rest, about you waiting on the couch, is gone. What's left is sharper, focused. Built for this, but wishing it wasn't you he was looking for.
"I need everything you have on Victor Gideon." Leon says, his tone even, stripped of anything unnecessary. There's no hesitation in it, no lead-in, no explanation offered before the request.
"That's not a name you drop casually," Hunnigan replies, quietly. "What happened?"
Leon steps out of the kitchen as he speaks, his gaze sweeping once through the living room, not searching anymore, just confirming. The space feels wrong now in a way that can't be fixed, the absence too loud to ignore.
"She's gone."
Hunnigan doesn't respond right away. He can hear it in the silence, the shift from listening to processing, the moment where this stops being a call and becomes a situation.
"When?" she asks.
"Within the last few hours," Leon answers, already moving toward the door. His free hand reaches for his jacket without looking, pulling it back on in one smooth motion. "It was a surprise attack."
"You're sure it's him."
Again, not a question.
Leon's expression doesn't change, but something in his posture tightens, something subtle that only shows if you know where to look. "I'm sure."
There's the faint sound of keys on the other end, fast and efficient, the rhythm of someone digging through things that aren't meant to be found easily. Leon steps outside as she works, the cool air hitting him again, sharper now, more grounding. The quiet of the neighborhood hasn't changed, but it feels different to him now, like a layer has been stripped back.
"Gideon's been buried for years," Hunnigan says after a moment, her voice threading through the line with a tighter edge. "Everything tied to Project Elpis was wiped or sealed. Official channels won't give us much."
"I don't need official," Leon replies, already moving toward his car. His steps are quick but controlled, each one placed with intent. "I need what slipped through."
"You'll have it," she says. There's no hesitation there, no pushback. She knows how this goes. "Give me a few minutes. I'll start with old Umbrella splinter data and see what overlaps."
Leon opens the car door but doesn't get in right away. His hand rests briefly against the frame, his gaze lifting toward the dark stretch of road ahead, his mind already moving beyond this moment, beyond this place.
"Leon," Hunnigan adds, her tone shifting just slightly. Not softer, but more deliberate. "If Gideon's involved, this isn't just leverage. He doesn't operate like that."
Leon's grip tightens almost imperceptibly against the door. "I know." Which means this isn't just about taking you. It's about using you.
The thought settles in without resistance, cold and immediate, but it doesn't derail him. It sharpens him further, narrows his focus into something that doesn't leave room for hesitation.
"I'll send you anything I find," Hunnigan continues. "Locations, contacts, even rumors. But Leon... don't disappear on me."
He exhales quietly, the sound barely audible over the line, more a release of breath than anything else. "I won't."
The line goes silent, an understanding quiet from Hunnigan as she works on her end. She'll dig, pull threads, and find what she can. Leon doesn't wait for it to be enough. He gets into the car, the engine turning over with a low, steady sound that cuts clean through the stillness. His hands settle on the wheel, familiar, steady, but there's a difference now in the way he holds it, a tension that wasn't there before, something coiled beneath the surface.
The car pulls out of the driveway, tires rolling over pavement with quiet intent as the house disappears behind him, shrinking into the dark like something already past. Somewhere out there, you're still breathing, and Leon is going to make sure it stays that way.
Time doesn't move the way it should in a place like this. It stretches, folds in on itself, becomes something difficult to measure without anything familiar to anchor it. The steady hum in the room never changes, never rises or falls, and without windows or shifting light, there is no natural rhythm to follow. You're left with your own breathing, your own thoughts, the subtle shifts in your body as the only markers that time is passing at all.
You've tried to count it. At first, it felt like something you could control, something to hold onto. Seconds stacking into minutes, minutes into something longer, a quiet attempt to impose order onto a place that clearly wasn't designed to have any. But the effort didn't last. Your focus slipped, your thoughts pulled elsewhere, and somewhere along the way, the numbers stopped meaning anything.
Now, you rely on smaller things. The way the air feels against your skin. The slight stiffness settling into your shoulders. The faint dryness in your throat that comes and goes in waves. They're not precise, but they're real, and right now that's enough.
You shift slightly where you sit, the movement careful, deliberate, testing the limits of what the restraints allow without drawing unnecessary strain. They haven't loosened. Not even slightly. Whatever they're made of, whatever mechanism holds them in place, it was designed with intention, with the expectation that resistance would come.
Your gaze drifts across the room again, slower now, more practiced. The walls haven't changed. The door remains closed, silent, offering nothing in the way of clues. There are no seams visible from this side, no indication of how or when it might open. The light overhead continues its steady, sterile glow, unchanging, indifferent.
It would be easy to let the stillness get to you. Easy to let your thoughts spiral, to fill the silence with fear, with everything you don't know, everything you can't control. The uncertainty presses at the edges, persistent, waiting for an opening.
Leon is still on your mind. But the thoughts come quieter than before. You picture him the way you last saw him, not physically, but in memory, in the small details that always stick. The way he moves when he's tired but trying not to show it. The way his voice softens just slightly when he's talking to you, even if he doesn't realize it. Surely he's on his way by now. He has to be looking for you already.
A sound breaks through your thoughts. It's subtle, like a door somewhere else in the building closing. Your body stills instinctively, your breathing slowing as your focus sharpens, every sense narrowing toward the source.
It's nearly silent, the kind of movement designed not to draw attention, but you feel it more than you hear it. A faint change in pressure, a slight adjustment in the air as the seam of the door separates just enough to allow it to open.
The light in the hallway beyond is dimmer, cooler, casting a muted contrast against the sterile brightness of the room. A figure steps through it, their movement unhurried and controlled, immediately setting the tone of the space. He's in no rush. And he probably doesn't need to be.
The door closes behind him with the same quiet precision, sealing the room again as if it had never opened at all. Your gaze lifts to meet him fully now, your posture tightening despite your effort to remain composed. Every instinct in your body sharpens at once, awareness spiking as you take him in.
There's nothing subtle about the wrongness of him. He stands just within the light, and it reveals too much all at once. His frame is tall but uneven in a way that isn't immediately obvious until you look closer, his posture held upright with deliberate control rather than natural ease. The long coat he wears hangs heavily from his shoulders, patterned and textured in a way that feels almost ornamental at a distance, but up close only adds to the sense that everything about him has been chosen with intention rather than comfort.
His skin is the first thing that truly settles in. It's pale, but not in any natural sense of the word. The color sits wrong, stretched thin across his face and neck with a texture that looks almost brittle, as if it might crack under pressure. Faint, branching lines run beneath the surface, subtle but visible, like fractures that were never meant to heal properly. They trace along his jaw, disappear beneath the collar of his coat, and reappear again near his mouth, where they pull slightly when he speaks, distorting the movement just enough to make it feel off.
Your focus shifts higher to his eyes. Or what's been done to them. Metal curves along his temple and cheek, anchoring multiple lenses over one eye, each one different in size, each catching the light in a way that makes it impossible to tell where he's actually looking. One lens glows faintly, a dull, artificial point of red that remains steady even as he moves, unblinking, unchanging.
"You're awake," he says finally.
Your jaw tightens slightly, but you don't respond immediately. You hold his gaze instead, steady despite the tension coiling beneath your ribs, refusing to give him anything more than what he can already see.
He takes a step closer. Then another. Each one is deliberate, controlled, the distance between you closing in a way that feels calculated rather than threatening. He stops just outside your reach, his attention never leaving you, his expression unchanged.
"Good," he continues, as if confirming something to himself rather than speaking to you directly. "That makes this easier."
Your fingers curl slightly against the restraint, the motion subtle, controlled, as your mind begins to work again, piecing together what you can from what little you've been given.
"Where am I?" you ask, your voice steady despite the dryness in your throat.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, his gaze shifts briefly, taking in your position, the restraints, the room, as if reviewing something already familiar. When his attention returns to you, there's something faintly different in it now. Interest.
"That's not the question you should be asking," he replies. A small pause follows, just long enough to make the silence feel intentional. "You should be asking why."
Your stomach tightens, but your expression doesn't change. You don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction, even as the weight of his words settles in. Because he's right. You know as well as he does that this was planned.
His head tilts slightly, studying you in a way that feels less like observation and more like evaluation, as though he's measuring something you can't see.
"Tell me," he says, his tone still calm, still clinical. "How long do you think it will take him to find you?"
Your breath steadies, your shoulders squaring just slightly as you meet his gaze without hesitation.
"...Not long," you answer.
For the first time, something shifts in his expression. It isn't a smile, but it's damn close.
"Good," he says quietly. "Maybe he will enjoy this show."
Even as every instinct in your body urges you to, even as the weight of his attention presses heavier with each passing second, you hold your gaze steady. There's something instinctive about it, something that refuses to give him more than he already has. If he's studying you, measuring you, the least you can do is make sure what he sees isn't fear.
His head tilts slightly, the movement small, almost thoughtful, as though he's adjusting his perspective rather than reacting to anything you've done. The lenses over his eye catch the light as he shifts, reflecting it in fractured pieces that make it impossible to track where his focus truly settles.
"Confidence," he says quietly, more to himself than to you. "Interesting."
The word doesn't sound like praise. It sounds like a note he says out loud.
Your fingers tighten slightly against the restraint, the motion subtle, controlled, your body grounding itself in something physical as your mind continues to work. Every word he says matters. Every reaction, every pause. You don't know what he's looking for yet, but you can feel the structure of it, the way this interaction isn't random. It's being observed.
"People tend to default to fear in unfamiliar environments," he continues, his tone calm, measured in a way that never rises or falls enough to offer you anything to read. "It's efficient. Predictable. Useful, in its own way."
He takes another step closer, closing what little distance remains between you. Not enough to invade your space completely, but enough that you can see the fine details more clearly now, the unnatural texture of his skin, the faint pull of those fractured lines when he speaks, the stillness of him that never quite resolves into something human.
"You didn't," he adds.
You don't respond immediately. Your throat is still dry, your body still adjusting, but your mind is sharper now than it was when you first woke up. You weigh your words before you let them go, not out of fear, but out of instinct.
"I don't know what you want yet," you say finally, your voice steady despite the tension coiled beneath it. "Seems like a waste to panic before I do."
There's a pause. It stretches just long enough to feel intentional, to make you aware of the silence again, of the hum threading through it, of the way his attention sharpens just slightly in response.
"Efficiency through restraint," he murmurs, almost thoughtfully. "You're already adapting."
Your chest tightens slightly at that, the implication settling in before you can stop it. This isn't just a conversation. It never was. Every response, every choice you make, is feeding into something larger, something you still can't fully see.
"You're trying to understand the situation before reacting to it," he says. "That's... uncommon, given the circumstances." Another small pause. "Encouraging."
Your jaw tightens, but you don't let it show beyond that. You don't give him the reaction he might be looking for, even as your mind starts connecting pieces you didn't want to consider.
Encouraging. Not for you. For him.
"For what?" you ask, the question leaving you before you can stop it, quieter than before but no less steady.
This time, he doesn't answer immediately. His gaze shifts, not away from you, but through you, as if he's considering how much to say, how much to reveal. When his focus settles again, there's that same faint edge of interest behind it, something clinical and precise.
"You're not here by accident," he says. "Of course, I'm sure you've noticed that already."
Your breath slows, just slightly, your body stilling in a way that has nothing to do with the restraints. He knows you knew that already. You felt it the moment you woke up, the moment everything about this place told you it had been planned.
"That still doesn't explain why." Another pause, longer this time.
He studies you in silence, the kind that feels less like hesitation and more like calibration, as though he's deciding how to frame something in a way that serves his purpose best. When he speaks again, his voice hasn't changed, but the weight behind it has.
"Your physiology is unusual," he says, the words chosen carefully, deliberately. "Your system doesn't respond the way it should. Exposure markers without degradation. Cellular stress without collapse. You maintain equilibrium where others don't."
Your stomach drops. You don't interrupt him, but your mind begins to run wild.
"You've been exposed before," he continues, his voice lowering just enough to feel more precise, more deliberate. "Not directly. Not in a controlled environment. But enough to register. Enough for your body to adapt."
"That's why you were viable," he continues, stepping just slightly closer again, close enough now that there's no distance left to soften the details of him. "Your body doesn't reject. It regulates. That makes you exceptionally useful."
"And Leon?" you ask before you can stop yourself, the question slipping through the cracks of your control, quieter now, edged with something you don't fully let surface.
His gaze sharpens just slightly. The reaction is immediate, though subtle, the kind you would miss if you weren't already watching for it. For the first time since he entered the room, his focus shifts in a way that feels more deliberate, more precise.
"Ah," he says softly. He's not surprised. "So that's where your thoughts go."
Your chest tightens, but you don't look away. You won't give him that. He watches you for another moment, that same quiet assessment settling back into place before he continues.
"He is not the reason you're here," he says. "He is the reason this works."
The distinction is small, but it changes everything. Your breath catches, just slightly, the meaning threading through his words before you can fully stop it. This isn't about leverage. Not in the way you expected. Not in the way it should be. This is something else.
"You're measuring him," you say, the realization forming as you speak it, your voice quieter now, more focused. "Through me."
That almost-smile returns faintly.
"Not just him," he replies. "Both of you."
The room feels smaller now. Tighter, like the walls have shifted inward without actually moving.
"You are the constant," he continues, his tone returning to that same calm, clinical cadence. "He is the variable. Time, distance, stress. All measurable. All predictable to a degree."
Another pause.
"But what interests me," he adds, his gaze settling fully on you again, "is where those predictions fail."
The hum in the room seems louder now, but maybe you're just more aware of it, more aware of everything. Whatever this is, it didn't start when you woke up. It started without your knowledge, without Leon's knowledge, long before this kidnapping.
The road stretches forward in a long, unbroken line, disappearing into darkness that feels thicker the further it goes. The headlights carve a narrow path through it, illuminating just enough of what's ahead to keep moving, but never enough to feel certain about what comes next. It's the kind of drive Leon has made countless times before, late hours, empty roads, the quiet space between one mission and the next. Usually, it gives him time to think, to let the tension settle, to put distance between what happened and what comes after.
Tonight, though, it does none of that.
The engine hums steadily beneath his hands, the vibration traveling up through the steering wheel and settling into his arms, a constant, grounding presence that does little to ease the pressure building in his chest. His grip is firm, controlled, but tighter than it needs to be, the leather faintly creaking under his fingers before he forces it to relax again. His gaze stays locked on the road ahead, sharp and unwavering, but his mind isn't there.
It keeps going back to the house, the silence, the space you were supposed to be when he came through the door. He's already reconstructed it more times than he can count, every detail, every shift, every second leading up to the moment you were taken. Not because he doubts what happened, but because that's how he works. He breaks things down until there's nothing left to question, nothing left to guess.
But there's still something missing. A gap he can't quite fill yet. And until he does, everything feels slightly out of reach.
His phone cuts through the silence. The sound is sharp against the steady hum of the engine, immediate and unwelcome, and Leon answers it without hesitation, his thumb moving across the screen before the second ring can finish.
"Talk to me."
On the other end, Hunnigan wastes no time. There's a tightness in her voice that wasn't there before, something controlled but unmistakable, the kind of tone she uses when what she's about to say matters more than the way she says it.
"I found something," she says. "But you're not going to like it."
Leon's expression doesn't change, but his attention sharpens, narrowing further as his grip adjusts slightly on the wheel. "Start talking."
There's a faint pause, the quiet sound of keys in the background as she pulls something up, cross-checking even as she speaks.
"I went back through what's left of the Elpis records," she says. "Most of it's been scrubbed, but there are fragments, overlapping data sets that didn't get fully erased. Personnel logs, incident reports, civilian exposure lists."
Leon's jaw tightens just slightly. "Get to it."
"Your wife's name is in one of the files."
Leon doesn't respond immediately. His grip tightens without permission, the leather pressing back against his palm before he forces his hand to ease again.
"That's not possible," he says finally, his voice low and even, but there's something under it now. Not disbelief.
"It shouldn't be," Hunnigan replies. "But it is."
The silence that follows stretches just long enough to make it feel heavier than it should.
"There was an incident," she continues. "Years ago. Small-scale containment breach tied to an off-site Elpis facility. It never went public. No major outbreak, no media coverage. It was contained quickly and buried even faster."
Leon's eyes flick briefly to the side, catching his own reflection in the mirror for a fraction of a second before returning to the road. His focus splits, part of him still driving, the rest already moving through what she's saying, fitting it into something that makes sense.
"Location?" he says.
"I'm sending it," she replies. "But listen first."
He doesn't interrupt again.
"There was a civilian exposure list," she says. "People in proximity to the breach. Most of them showed standard symptoms. Some didn't survive. A handful were flagged for follow-up monitoring and she was on that list."
The confirmation settles into him slowly, like something sinking deeper the longer it stays there. It doesn't hit all at once. It builds, piece by piece, until there's no space left to ignore it.
"She never told me," Leon says.
The words are quiet, more to himself than to her, but they carry weight all the same.
Hunnigan exhales softly on the other end. "She might not have known the full extent of it," she says. "Or it was downplayed. Low-risk exposure, no visible symptoms, something they monitor quietly and then classify out of relevance."
Leon's jaw shifts, tension settling in his shoulders as he processes that. It doesn't sit right. None of it does. "Define monitored."
"Periodic evaluations," Hunnigan answers. "Bloodwork, cellular scans, long-term observation. Nothing invasive on record, but enough to track irregularities."
Irregularities.
"What kind?" Leon asks.
There's the sound of keys again, faster this time. "Adaptive response markers," she says. "Her system didn't react the way it should have. No degradation, no instability. It just stabilized. Balanced itself out."
Leon's grip tightens again before he reins it in, the motion controlled but deliberate. The road ahead blurs slightly at the edges, not from distraction, but from the weight of what's settling into place.
"She was exposed," he says, the words quieter now, more grounded.
"Yes."
"And he knows."
"That's the part we can't ignore," Hunnigan replies. "If Gideon has access to those records, or if he's been tracking survivors from that incident, then this wasn't random."
Leon doesn't need her to finish. He already understands.
"There's more," she says after a moment. "The facility tied to that breach... it was never fully decommissioned. Officially, it was abandoned. Unofficially, there are signs of recent activity. Power draws. Data pings. Someone's been using it."
Leon's focus sharpens instantly, something locking into place with quiet certainty. "Send everything."
"I just did."
The phone vibrates in his hand, the incoming data lighting the screen briefly. He glances at it just long enough to confirm coordinates, then looks back to the road, his path already adjusting in his mind before the turn even comes into view.
"If her biology is what we think it is, then she's not just leverage."
Leon cuts her off, his voice sharper this time, but not raised. "I know what she is."
There's a brief silence after that, not tense, just understood. Because to him, none of that changes the only thing that matters. You're still you.
"Be careful," Hunnigan says quietly.
Leon doesn't respond. Instead, his foot presses down on the accelerator, the car surging forward just slightly as the dark road stretches ahead, no longer empty, no longer uncertain. Now it leads somewhere. All that's left is direction. Somewhere at the end of it is you.
Gideon's hand doesn't move quickly. There is no rush in him, no sudden motion that might trigger instinct before thought. Everything he does is measured, deliberate, as if even the timing has already been calculated. His fingers close around your wrist with quiet precision, the contact firm enough to hold, but not forceful enough to bruise. It's control without struggle, restraint without effort.
Your shoulders tense, your muscles tightening instinctively as your other hand pulls once against the restraint before you force it still again. You don't give him more than that.
"Try to remain still," he says, his voice low, even, not unkind but entirely without comfort. "Movement interferes with consistency."
Instead, you focus on the pressure of his hand, on the grounding weight of it, on the way your breathing moves in and out of your chest as you force it to slow. You tell yourself to watch. To remember. If this is happening, then it matters how.
His other hand comes into view. A small device rests between his fingers, compact and precise, more clinical than threatening at first glance. The casing is metallic, clean, designed for efficiency rather than intimidation. A narrow chamber holds a clear substance that catches the light just enough to make it visible without revealing anything about what it actually is.
Your stomach tightens. "What is that?" you ask, the question quieter than you intend, but steady enough to hold.
Gideon doesn't look at the device. He's watching you.
"A variable," he says.
Your grip tightens slightly against the restraint, your breath slowing again as you brace yourself without meaning to. Your body knows before your mind fully accepts it. There's no time to argue, no space to negotiate.
He adjusts your wrist, turning it just enough to expose the inside of your arm. A sharp, precise pressure breaks the surface of your skin. A quick, controlled intrusion that sends a reflexive jolt through your system before you can stop it. The substance pushed into your system with practiced ease before the device withdraws just as smoothly as it entered. Gideon releases your wrist immediately after, stepping back without hesitation.
You don't speak. You can't even really try. Any words dissolve somewhere between your chest and your throat as the sensation deepens, spreading through you in a way that is impossible to ignore now. What began as something subtle, something easy to question, shifts into something far more defined, far more present. Heat blooms beneath your skin, not sharp or burning, but insistent, like your body is trying to correct something it doesn't understand.
Your breathing falters, then steadies, then falters again as you try to regain control over it. Each inhale feels just slightly heavier than the last, your lungs working harder for something that should come naturally. Your shoulders tense, pulling inward without permission as your muscles react to the unfamiliar strain. It doesn't hurt but the sensation is wrong.
Your fingers curl against the restraint, tightening instinctively as your pulse begins to climb, each beat more noticeable than the last. You can feel it in your wrists, in your throat, in the space just behind your ribs, a steady, growing rhythm that feels just slightly out of sync with everything else.
You force a breath in slowly, deliberately, holding it for a second before letting it out through your nose, trying to anchor yourself to something familiar, something controlled. It works, for a moment. The sharp edge of the sensation dulls just slightly, enough to give you the illusion of stability.
Gideon watches all of it. He hasn't moved from where he stepped back, his posture unchanged, his gaze fixed on you with that same clinical precision. There's no urgency in him, no concern, only observation, as though everything happening is exactly as expected.
"Elevated response," he says quietly, almost to himself. "But contained."
The words settle into the space around you, detached and measured, like he's reading from something already written rather than reacting to what he sees.
You swallow again, your throat tightening as the heat shifts, pulling inward now, concentrating somewhere deeper in your chest. For a brief moment, it feels like your body is bracing for something worse, something sharper, something that hasn't fully arrived yet. Your shoulders draw back as you try to sit straighter, your body instinctively fighting the sensation, pushing against it rather than giving in. Your breath comes faster for a second, then you force it to slow again, dragging it back under control one piece at a time.
Another wave moves through you, stronger this time, your muscles tightening in response as the heat spreads again, this time more evenly, less chaotic. It rolls through your arms, your chest, your core, like something searching for imbalance and failing to find it.
Your brow furrows slightly.
That's new. The initial spike of discomfort doesn't escalate the way you expect it to. Instead of building into pain, it... evens out. The sharp edges smooth, the irregular rhythm of your pulse settling into something steadier, something controlled despite the foreign presence still threading through your system.
Gideon's head tilts slightly as he watches the shift happen, the lenses over his eye catching the light as he adjusts his angle just enough to follow the change more closely.
"There it is," he murmurs.
The words are quiet and they carry something like confirmation in them. You feel it too. The wrongness doesn't disappear, but it changes, becoming something your body can hold rather than something it's fighting. The heat lingers, but it no longer spikes unpredictably. Your pulse steadies, your muscles easing just slightly as the initial strain fades into something more controlled.
The realization settles in slowly, unwelcome but undeniable.
You draw in another breath, deeper this time, testing it, measuring it the same way he is. It comes easier now. Not normal, not entirely, but closer than it should be given what just happened.
"What did you do?" you ask again, your voice quieter now, steadier despite everything.
Gideon doesn't answer immediately. His gaze remains fixed on you, tracking every shift, every subtle adjustment in your posture, your breathing, your expression.
"A baseline disruptor," he says after a moment. "Something that should introduce instability."
Your jaw tightens.
"Should." His head tilts again, that same small, thoughtful motion.
"In most cases, it does," he replies. "The body rejects it. Overcompensates. Breaks equilibrium in an attempt to regain it."
His gaze sharpens just slightly. "Yours didn't."
You swallow again, your throat less dry now, your body still humming faintly with the aftereffects of whatever he introduced.
"You're watching for failure," you say, the realization forming as you speak it, your voice gaining a slight edge despite your control.
A faint shift crosses his expression again, not quite a smile, but something that acknowledges the accuracy of it. "Yes."
The answer is simple.
"And when you don't get it?" you press, your fingers tightening slightly against the restraint again, grounding yourself in something solid as your mind continues to move.
"Then I adjust," he says.
Your chest tightens again, but not from the lingering effects of whatever he gave you. This could be just the beginning. Gideon steps back slightly, creating distance again now that the immediate observation is complete. His attention doesn't leave you, but his posture shifts just enough to signal that this phase, whatever it was, has reached its conclusion.
"For now," he adds quietly, almost as an afterthought, "you stabilize."
The second time, there is no warning. You see it in the shift of his posture, in the way he reaches for the panel again with the same precision, but there's something different now. Not in his movement, or in his expression, but in the certainty that settles into the space around him.
He's no longer observing you. He's about to escalate this.
Your body tenses before he even turns back toward you, every muscle tightening instinctively as your pulse begins to climb again. The lingering effects of the first injection haven't fully faded. You can still feel it beneath your skin, that faint, controlled hum of something unfamiliar that your body has somehow contained.
Gideon steps back into your space, the device in his hand similar in shape to the first, but not identical. The chamber holds something darker this time, the liquid catching the light in a way that makes it impossible to mistake the difference.
"That one didn't break me," you say quietly, your voice steadier than you feel. "So now you're going to try harder."
He doesn't deny it. "Adjustment is necessary," he replies, his tone as calm as before. "The first response confirmed baseline stability. This will test the limits of it."
You close your eyes and think of anything else. Home. Leon. He'll be here soon, you know it. Your fingers curl against the restraints again.
"He's still a variable." Gideon adds, almost absently.
"You mean me," you say.
"No, you're the constant."
Before you can respond, before you can push back against it, his hand closes around your wrist again, firm and controlled. This time, you don't pull away. Not because you don't want to, but because you already know it won't matter.
You brace. The injection comes faster. The pressure is sharper this time, the intrusion deeper, less subtle. Your breath catches immediately, your body reacting before you can suppress it, a sharp inhale breaking through your control as your muscles tense hard against the restraint.
It hits hard. There's no delay this time, no gradual creep. The sensation floods through you all at once, a violent surge beneath your skin that feels like your body is being pulled in two different directions at the same time. Heat spikes instantly, sharper than before, not spreading evenly but crashing through your system in jagged waves that refuse to settle.
Your breath breaks. You don't mean to. You want to keep quiet, composed. But the sound tears out of you anyway, raw and uncontrolled as your back arches slightly against the chair, your muscles tightening in a way you can't stop. It hurts and it hurts deep. Your chest constricts, your lungs struggling to pull in air as your pulse spikes violently, each beat slamming harder than the last. The heat turns into something sharper, something that burns through your limbs and settles in your core, like your body is trying to reject something it can't.
You try to fight it instinctively. Your hands clench, your shoulders pulling tight as you try to force your breathing back under control, but it slips, stutters, breaks again as another wave hits. Another sound escapes, and you don't recognize it at first, then you realize it's you.
Leon continues moving in. There is no space for distraction, no room for anything beyond the task in front of him. His breathing is steady, his pulse controlled, his body moving with the kind of precision that comes from years of experience and instinct working in perfect alignment.
When he reaches the door, he waits, listens. At first he hears nothing and reaches for the handle. Just the faint hum of something internal, too low to identify clearly from outside, too consistent to ignore completely. It's the kind of sound that suggests machinery, containment, something running beneath the surface where it can't be seen.
Then he hears it. Faint, distant, but unmistakable. A sound that doesn't belong to the building. His body stills instantly, every sense sharpening as his head tilts just slightly, his focus shifting inward, past the walls, past the structure, toward the source.
It comes again. Muffled and broken. Something in him snaps. He knows that sound, even distorted beneath layers of concrete and distance. He knows your voice, and you're not speaking this time, you're in pain.
Leon's hand closes around the handle, the controlled precision changing into something sharper, something faster as his entire focus locks onto one singular point. You're here. And you're close enough to hear.
Inside, the pain doesn't fade. It only builds. Another wave crashes through you, harder than the last, tearing through whatever control you managed to hold onto as your body fights something it doesn't understand. Your breath fractures again, your chest tightening painfully as you try to pull in air that won't come fast enough. Your vision blurs at the edges, the room tilting slightly as your muscles strain, your entire body reacting in ways you can't stop.
Gideon just stands there watching. Unphased by your struggle. Focused on whatever it is he's trying to figure out now.
"Instability present," he murmurs, his voice distant against the rush of sensation flooding your system. "But not catastrophic."
Your hands clench harder, your body trembling now, caught between resisting and adapting, between breaking and holding. Another scream tears from you, louder this time, less controlled. Somewhere beyond the walls, Leon is moving as fast he as can, getting closer with every second.
The door doesn't creak. It opens easily. Leon notices as he slips inside, his movement controlled and immediate, his body already adjusting to the change in the environment before the door fully closes behind him. The night are disappears in an instant, replaced by something cooler, denser, the faint sterile scent of filtered air layered over something metallic and difficult to place.
The darkness inside isn't complete. Low-level lighting runs along the edges of the corridor ahead, thin strips embedded into the walls that cast a dim, clinical glow across smooth surfaces. It isn't enough to illuminate everything, but it doesn't need to. It's designed for navigation, not comfort.
Leon pauses just inside the threshold out of instinct. His gaze moves quickly, but not carelessly, tracking the length of the corridor, the corners, the ceiling, the floor. Every surface is too clean, too controlled, the kind of space that isn't meant to be lived in, only used. There are no visible cameras, no obvious surveillance, but that doesn't mean he isn't being watched.
Leon steps forward. His footfalls are silent against the smooth flooring, his weight shifting with practiced precision as he moves deeper into the corridor. The hum he heard outside is louder now, no longer distant, but integrated into the structure itself. It vibrates faintly through the walls, through the floor, through the air.
Every doorway he passes is closed, seamless against the walls, giving nothing away about what might be behind them. There are no signs, no labels, nothing to indicate function or direction. The only thing that keeps him directionally bound is the sound of your pained screams.
Leon's jaw tightens slightly as he continues forward, his mind mapping the space as he goes, committing every turn, every distance, every possible exit to memory. If something goes wrong, he needs a way out. He needs a way to you. The thought sharpens his focus further.
Another scream escapes you. Leon stops. Not abruptly, but enough that his entire body stills, his head turning just slightly as he isolates it. The corridor stretches ahead in two directions at the next intersection, identical in structure, identical in lighting, offering no immediate indication of which path leads where.
Something shifts in Leon instantly, something deeper than instinct, something that bypasses thought entirely. His chest tightens hard, his breath shortening for a fraction of a second before it steadies again, forced back under control through sheer discipline.
He moves faster now, but not reckless, his steps still placed with precision as he turns down the corridor where the sound came from. The distance closes quickly, the hum of the facility growing louder as he goes, layered now with something else.
Every second stretches. Every step matters. He passes another door, then another, his gaze flicking briefly toward each one, searching for anything that stands out, anything that breaks the pattern. Then he sees a difference.
One of the doors ahead is slightly recessed compared to the others, its surface broken by a narrow panel along the side, faintly illuminated in a way that suggests active use. It isn't obvious. It isn't meant to be.
Leon slows as he approaches, his body lowering just slightly, his hand moving instinctively toward his weapon as he positions himself beside the frame rather than directly in front of it. His breathing steadies again, controlled, measured, his focus narrowing to a single point.
Another pained sound escapes your throat and Leon knows that you're in the other side. For a brief moment, everything compresses, the space, the sound, the distance between where he is and where you're collapsing into something immediate and undeniable.
He reaches for the panel. His fingers hover for half a second, assessing, calculating. Locked, most likely. Secured in a way that won't respond to a simple override. So he doesn't try. Instead, he shifts his stance slightly, his weight settling, his grip tightening as he prepares to force it. Inside, the sound rises again. Sharper. More raw. And that's all it takes.
Leon moves. The impact is controlled, precise, his force directed at the weakest point of the frame rather than the center. The panel cracks first, a sharp fracture that breaks the seal just enough to compromise the structure. He doesn't stop there. A second, stronger hit. The mechanism gives. The door buckles inward with a dull, heavy sound, the controlled quiet of the facility breaking for the first time since he entered. Leon doesn't wait for it to settle. He pushes through.
Inside, the world doesn't make sense all at once. It comes in fragments. The dim lights are too bright. The air is too cold. The sound of your own breathing breaking apart as another wave crashes through you, your body no longer able to hold the same control it did before. The heat has turned into something sharper, something that burns through your system in uneven pulses that refuse to stabilize.
Your hands are clenched tight enough to ache, fingernails cutting through your palm, your muscles trembling under the strain as your chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow.
The door breaks. The sound cuts through everything. Sharp. Violent. Wrong.
Your head jerks instinctively toward it, your vision struggling to focus, the edges still blurred, the room tilting just slightly as your body tries to keep up with everything happening at once. For a split second, you don't understand what you're seeing. A familiar shape, quick movements. Another yell rips through you, the pain washing through your entire body again.
Gideon turns slightly, a full smirk playing on his lips as he recognizes who came through the door. He doesn't startle and doesn't retreat. He wanted this moment, he waited for this moment.
Leon.
The room seems to hold itself in suspension, the harsh overhead light cutting everything into sharp, unforgiving clarity. There is no shadow deep enough to hide in here, no corner untouched by the sterile brightness that reveals every detail whether it should be seen or not. The hum of the facility continues beneath it all, steady and mechanical, a constant reminder that this place was built for function, not for the moment unfolding inside it. The only sound to be heard now is your panicked breathing between screams.
Leon stands just inside the broken doorway, his body angled slightly forward, not quite advancing, not quite holding back. His breathing is controlled, but not calm, each inhale measured, each exhale tight, like something is being forced into place rather than settling naturally.
His gaze doesn't go to Gideon first. It goes to you. It finds you immediately, as if there was never any question where you would be, as if every step he took through the facility had already narrowed down to this exact point. His eyes move over you quickly at first, instinctively checking, assessing, searching for what's been done, what's still happening, what he might already be too late to stop.
He sees the tension in your body, the way your hands are clenched too tightly against the restraints, the uneven rise and fall of your chest as your breathing struggles to keep pace with something inside you that hasn't settled. The faint tremor running through your muscles isn't subtle enough to miss, not to him.
His jaw tightens. Something shifts behind his eyes, something darker, sharper, but it doesn't break through his control. Not yet.
"Leon—" Your voice doesn't come out the way you expect it to. It catches halfway, thinner than it should be, pulled tight by everything still moving through your system. Even saying his name takes more effort than it should, your breath hitching slightly as you try to push past it. But he hears it.
"I've got you," he says, his voice low, steady in a way that feels deliberate, like he's anchoring both of you at the same time. There's no hesitation in it, no question, just certainty, even if the situation in front of him doesn't offer any.
Gideon moves, turning with the same measured precision he's carried through every moment so far, his posture unchanged, his attention shifting from you to Leon as though the interruption is simply another variable entering the equation.
He studies Leon in silence for a moment, his head tilting slightly as if adjusting to a new data point rather than reacting to a threat.
"Earlier than projected," he says, his words calm. Observational.
Leon's attention shifts then, just enough to acknowledge him, but not enough to lose sight of you. His body remains angled between you and Gideon, instinctively placing himself in that space, that line, even before he's fully closed the distance.
"You picked the wrong person," Leon says, his tone controlled but edged now, something tight beneath it that doesn't quite surface but doesn't hide either.
Gideon doesn't react to the threat. If anything, his focus sharpens.
"No," he replies. "I selected precisely the right one."
Leon's gaze flickers back to you, just for a second, taking in the way your shoulders tense again as another wave moves through you, the way your breathing stutters despite your effort to keep it steady. Grunts of pain escape your lips.
"What did you do to her?" he asks.
There's no softness in his voice. Gideon doesn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifts between the two of you, not weighing, not comparing, but observing, as if this moment itself is something worth studying.
"A controlled introduction," he says finally. "A stressor designed to disrupt equilibrium."
Your fingers tighten again as another pulse moves through you, your body reacting despite your efforts to contain it. You try to steady your breathing, to keep yourself grounded, but the sensation hasn't fully faded. It lingers beneath your skin, quieter than before, but still present, still wrong.
"And?" he presses, his voice lower now, more dangerous.
Gideon's expression doesn't change. "She stabilized. Handling it quite well actually."
The words hang in the air. Leon's jaw tightens harder, his focus snapping fully to Gideon now, the meaning settling in faster than it should.
"That wasn't supposed to happen," he says.
Gideon's head tilts again, that same small, deliberate motion.
"Not typically," he agrees. "But she is not a typical subject."
Your chest rises sharply again as another smaller wave moves through you, your body still adjusting, still reacting in ways you can't fully control. You grit your teeth against it, forcing yourself to stay present, to stay aware, because Leon is here now, and that changes everything.
Leon takes a step forward slowly. His attention splits again, half on Gideon, half on you, calculating distance, timing, risk. Every movement is deliberate, every shift controlled, but there's something coiled beneath it now, something that's getting harder to keep contained the longer he stands there.
"You're done," Leon says.
Gideon doesn't move to stop him. Doesn't reach for anything. Doesn't even step back.
"If that were true," he says quietly, "you wouldn't have made it this far."
Leon moves again, faster this time. He closes the distance between you in a matter of seconds, his focus narrowing completely as he reaches your side. His hands come to the restraints immediately, his touch careful despite the urgency behind it, his fingers checking the mechanism, the material, the way it's secured.
"Hey," he says, softer now, his voice dropping just enough to reach you through everything else. "Stay with me, alright?"
Your head tilts slightly toward him, your vision still not fully steady, but clearer now than it was before. Being this close to him, hearing him, it cuts through some of the noise, some of the disorientation.
"I'm—" You try to answer, but the words falter as your breath catches again, your body still not fully cooperating.
"Observe," he says softly. The word is almost lost beneath the sound of your breathing, but Leon hears it.
"I'm not part of your experiment," Leon says.
Gideon's gaze doesn't waver. "You already are."
Leon's grip tightens slightly against the restraint before he forces it to ease, his focus snapping back to you, back to what matters. The mechanism gives slightly under his touch, not completely, but it gives you some relief.
"Almost there," he murmurs, his voice low, steady, meant for you alone.
Your breathing hasn't fully settled, but it's better than it was. The violent spikes have dulled into something more contained, your body still reacting, still adjusting, but no longer overwhelming you completely. You hold onto his voice, onto the presence of him beside you, grounding yourself in something real while everything else still feels just slightly out of place.
"Leon..." Your voice is quieter now, strained but clearer, your fingers twitching faintly against the restraint as you try to steady yourself.
He glances at you briefly, just enough to confirm you're still with him, still holding on. "I've got you," he says again. And for a second, you believe it.
His hands still against the restraint, his body pauses just long enough to register the change before his head lifts, his attention snapping back toward Gideon. "You should have left when you had the opportunity, Leon."
Leon's jaw tightens, his posture shifting almost imperceptibly as he angles himself more fully between you and Gideon, his body placing itself there without thought, without hesitation.
"You're done," he says, quieter now, but edged with something harder, something less controlled.
Gideon's head tilts slightly. And then he moves. There's no warning, no buildup. One moment, he stands across the room, the next, he's there, the space between them collapsing in an instant. Leon reacts on instinct, his body turning, his arm coming up to intercept. But Gideon doesn't strike. He grips Leon's shoulder, then the force hits.
Leon's footing breaks as he's yanked sideways with a strength that doesn't belong to anything natural. The world shifts violently, the ground slamming into his back with a force that knocks the breath from his lungs before he can brace against it.
The impact echoes through the room, sharp and final.
"Leon!" The sound leaves you before you can stop it, your voice breaking through the space with a sharp edge of fear you can't contain this time.
Even as the air rushes back into his lungs in a strained inhale, his body rolls with the impact, momentum carrying him through the motion as he pushes himself back up. There's no pause, no recovery beyond what's absolutely necessary. His focus snaps back immediately, locking onto Gideon with a precision that overrides everything else.
Something in Gideon begins to change. A tension that wasn't there before, something coiling inward rather than expanding outward. His posture tightens, his shoulders drawing slightly as though containing something that no longer fits cleanly within him. The fractured lines beneath his skin darken, spreading in faint, branching patterns that pulse subtly with something alive.
You gasp because you can see it now. Something moving under his skin.
"Adaptation requires progression," Gideon says, his voice lower now, heavier, as though it's being pulled from somewhere deeper.
The mechanical apparatus over his eye flickers, the lenses shifting rapidly, adjusting in small, precise movements as if recalibrating to match whatever is happening inside him.
Leon's stance lowers instinctively, his weight settling, his body aligning for impact as his gaze tracks every shift, every unnatural movement.
"Yeah," he mutters under his breath, quieter, sharper. "Saw that coming."
A sound comes next. It's wet and wrong. A tearing pressure beneath the surface that builds for just a second too long before it breaks. His arm jerks slightly, not in pain, but in adjustment, his fingers flexing once, twice, before something forces its way through. The fabric of his sleeve splits as dark, sinewy appendages push outward, emerging from beneath the skin with a violent, organic motion that defies anything natural.
They unfurl rapidly, extending outward with unsettling control, each one moving with a purpose that suggests awareness rather than randomness.
Leon doesn't wait. He moves first.
The moment the tendrils fully extend, he closes the distance, fast and direct, his movement cutting through the space before Gideon can fully settle into whatever he's becoming. His strike is precise, aimed to disrupt, to interrupt the transformation before it completes.
But one of the tendrils reacts faster. It lashes out, snapping forward with unnatural speed, wrapping tightly around Leon's arm mid-motion. The grip is immediate, constricting hard enough to halt him completely, the pressure sharp and unyielding. Leon's jaw tightens as he tries to pull free, his muscles straining against it.
You see it before it happens, faint arcs of electricity flickering along the length of the appendage, gathering, intensifying, the air around it crackling with something volatile. You try to call to Leon but another wave of pain rushes through you, head to toe, halting everything and stealing your voice, your breath, your mind.
The discharge hits. It tears through Leon in a sharp, violent burst, his body locking for a split second under the force of it before the sound breaks from him, low and strained, forced out despite his control. The tendril releases him just as quickly. He's thrown back, his body hitting the ground hard enough to echo again, the impact reverberating through the room.
Leon lies unmoving on the floor and it's the most helpless you've ever been. Restrained with no way to help your husband, who is only here to save you.
His hand presses against the floor, his body pushing up again, slower this time, but no less determined. His breathing is heavier now, sharper, each inhale drawn in with effort, but his focus hasn't shifted a single time.
Across from him, Gideon stands taller. The human shape is still there, but it's no longer dominant. The tendrils move slowly behind him, shifting, adjusting, as if testing their range, their strength, their control. The air around him feels charged now, faint arcs of energy flickering intermittently, unstable but contained.
"This is where it becomes meaningful," Gideon says, his voice steady despite everything else.
The room doesn't hold its shape for long. It gives in stages, like something under pressure, finally reaching the point where it can no longer hold.
At first, it's only the sound. A low, strained groan somewhere deep within the structure, metal bending where it was never meant to, the clean lines of the facility distorting under the weight of what Gideon is becoming. The sterile hum that once filled the space flickers, falters, then surges unevenly, as if the systems built to sustain control are now struggling to contain it.
Gideon stands at the center of it, no longer still in the way he had been before, but not uncontrolled either. The transformation does not make him wild. It makes him larger, more present, more impossible to ignore. The tendrils extending from his body shift with a purpose that's no longer exploratory. They coil and stretch in slow, deliberate motions, each movement accompanied by faint arcs of electricity that crackle through the air and dissipate against the walls in sharp, fleeting bursts of light.
Leon watches him without retreating. His breathing is heavier now, his chest rising and falling with effort, but there's no hesitation in the way he holds his ground. His body adjusts in small, precise ways, weight shifting, stance lowering, every muscle aligning with instinct and experience. He's already recalculating, already adapting to something that should not exist, because that is what survival has always required of him.
Gideon tilts his head, the mechanical lenses over his eye flickering rapidly as they track Leon's movement. "You continue to respond within projected thresholds," he says, his voice altered now, layered faintly with something deeper that resonates beneath the words. "Even under escalating conditions."
Leon doesn't answer. There's no space for it, no value in it. The moment Gideon's tendrils shift inward, drawing close to his body as the electricity along them intensifies, Leon understands what's coming. The air sharpens, the faint scent of ozone thickening as the energy builds, no longer scattered but concentrated, focused into something far more dangerous.
He moves before it releases. The discharge tears through the space where he stood a fraction of a second before, a violent arc of electricity that slams into the far wall with enough force to fracture the surface, the impact flashing white-hot before fading into smoke and sparks. The light burns briefly across Leon's vision, but he doesn't slow. He uses the opening created by the attack, the brief window where Gideon's focus shifts to recalibrate, and closes the distance instead of retreating.
The first strike lands cleanly. It snaps Gideon's head to the side, not with enough force to drop him, but enough to confirm what Leon needs to know. The thing in front of him can still be hit. It can still be interrupted. It can still be fought.
The response is immediate. The tendrils lash outward with far less restraint than before, their movements sharper, more aggressive, each strike aimed not just to stop Leon but to overwhelm him. He pivots through the first, deflects the second, the impact sending a jolt up his arm that he absorbs without breaking rhythm. The third comes from behind, forcing him to drop low, the appendage slicing through the air just above him before slamming into the wall hard enough to crack it further.
The room is coming apart now. Panels loosen and fall, fragments of the controlled environment scattering across the floor as the fight pushes beyond anything it was designed to contain. The hum of the facility distorts into something uneven, lights flickering in brief, erratic pulses that cast the entire space in shifting brightness.
It's all too much for your body as you fight whatever is coursing through your veins. The flashing lights, the pain bursting in waves. Darkness creeps at the edges of your vision as you watch Leon try to take down Gideon.
Gideon steps forward into the chaos, his movement heavier now, less human in its weight but no less precise. "Damage acknowledged," he says, the words strained slightly as the transformation continues to push through him. "Adaptation required."
The tendrils retract again, but not in retreat. They coil tightly around him, drawing inward as the electricity intensifies along their length, brighter now, more volatile. Leon recognizes the shift immediately, his posture tightening as his focus sharpens further. This is not another strike. This is an escalation.
Gideon's body convulses with sudden force, the remaining structure of his human form breaking further as the mutation surges forward. The tendrils expand again, thicker, longer, their movement more erratic as the transformation accelerates. His frame distorts, growing beyond its original shape, the balance of control giving way to something far more aggressive, far less contained.
The walls crack under the pressure. Metal groans and bends as the space struggles to hold him, the controlled environment collapsing into something unstable and dangerous.
He moves through the chaos, faster now, more direct, his path cutting between the snapping tendrils and crackling arcs of energy with a precision that leaves no room for hesitation. One shot strikes his shoulder as he passes, the impact heavy enough to stagger him a step, but he doesn't stop. He can't. Another slams into the ground beside him, sending debris upward in a sharp burst that grazes his side, but he pushes through it, closing the distance before Gideon can fully adjust.
This time, Leon commits. There's no testing strike, no probing movement. Everything aligns into a single, decisive action as he drives forward, his focus narrowing to a singular point. The moment opens, brief and dangerous, and he takes it.
The shot lands. The sound cuts through the chaos, sharp and final, the impact hitting with enough force to break through what remains of Gideon's structure. For a fraction of a second, everything seems to hold, the movement, the sound, the space itself pausing as the effect settles in.
Gideon collapses. The tendrils recoil violently, the electricity along them snapping out in erratic bursts before dying completely. Gideon's form distorts further, not expanding now but breaking down, the structure of it failing in on itself as the mutation loses cohesion. The surface of him shifts, softens, destabilizes, the defined shape melting into something unrecognizable. He doesn't fall, but dissolves.
The mass that was Gideon collapses inward, losing form, losing structure, the remnants of his transformation breaking apart into something viscous, unstable, spreading across the fractured floor in uneven, darkened pools. The last of the energy dissipates into the air, leaving behind only the fading hum of a facility no longer fully functioning.
The silence that follows doesn't feel real. It settles too suddenly, too completely, pressing in around the room like something waiting to be acknowledged. Moments ago, everything had been noise and motion and impact, the air alive with electricity and strain, the structure itself fighting to hold together under the weight of what had been happening inside it. Now, all of that is gone, leaving behind only the faint, uneven hum of failing systems and the quiet drip of something cooling against the fractured floor.
Leon doesn't move right away. His chest rises and falls with heavier breaths than he'd allow himself under normal circumstances, each inhale dragging in air that still smells faintly of ozone and heat. The tension hasn't left his body yet. It lingers in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way his fingers flex once at his side like they're still expecting resistance.
His gaze remains fixed for a second longer on what's left of Gideon, the dark, formless remains spread across the floor where something controlled and deliberate once stood. There's no movement there now, no sign of reformation, no indication that anything is coming back from it. Just the aftermath of something that pushed too far and lost its shape completely.
Only when that certainty settles does Leon turn. Everything that had been held tight during the fight, all that focus, all that precision, redirects in an instant, snapping back to you with a force that feels almost physical. His eyes find you quickly, already expecting to see you where he left you, restrained, struggling, still fighting through whatever Gideon put into your system.
You're there. You're upright. The restraints still hold you in place, your body angled slightly forward where you'd been straining against them earlier. But the tension is gone. The movement is gone.
Leon's chest tightens sharply.
"Hey..." The word leaves him before he's even fully crossed the distance, his steps closing the space between you faster now, no longer measured, no longer cautious. The control he held onto through the fight slips just enough to let urgency through.
He reaches you in seconds, hands coming up to your cheeks. "Hey, hey—" His voice drops, softer but edged now, the words coming quicker than before as he leans closer, his gaze scanning your face, searching for any sign of response. "Come on, stay with me."
Your skin is warm beneath his hand, warmer than it should be, the heat lingering from whatever Gideon forced into your system. Your pulse is there too, faint but steady against his fingers, a rhythm that reassures him just enough to keep moving, to keep focused. But your eyes don't open.
Leon exhales through his nose, the breath sharper than he intends as he shifts his grip, his hand sliding more securely along your arm as he checks you over with quick, practiced movements. There are no visible wounds beyond the restraint, no obvious signs of physical damage from the outside, but that doesn't mean anything here.
"What did he do to you..." he mutters under his breath, the question not meant for an answer, just something that slips out as his mind tries to piece together what he's seeing with what he already knows.
He adjusts his position, moving closer, his hands returning to the mechanism with more urgency than before, but not less care. His fingers find the weakened point he'd started working earlier, the subtle give in the structure that hadn't been enough then but might be now.
"Alright," he murmurs, quieter again, as if you can hear him even like this. "I've got you, sweetheart. Just hold on."
His grip tightens slightly as he applies pressure, shifting his angle and forcing the mechanism in a way that strains against it rather than working with it. The material resists at first, holding firm like it was designed to, but Leon doesn't stop. He adjusts again, changes direction, increases force just enough to push it past its limit without snapping it in a way that could hurt you.
Finally, the first wrist comes loose. Leon doesn't hesitate. He works the opening immediately, pulling it wider, freeing your other wrist carefully but quickly, his hand catching yours the second it's loose, steadying it before it can fall.
"Got it," he breathes, more to himself than anything else.
For a second, he doesn't move you.
He just stays there, one hand still around yours, the other hovering near your shoulder like he's bracing for something, like he's expecting you to wake up, to react, to do something. When you don't, the tension shifts again. Softer this time. More careful.
Leon slides his arm behind your back, supporting your weight as he eases you forward, out of the position the restraints held you in. Your body doesn't resist. It leans into him instead, unsteady, the lack of awareness making the movement feel heavier than it should.
"I've got you," he says again, quieter now, the words closer to a promise than anything else.
He adjusts his hold, one arm secure around you, the other steadying your head as he lowers you just enough to get a better look at you. His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek without thinking, grounding himself in the contact as much as he's checking you.
Leon's jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn't let it spiral. Not now. Not when you're right here, when you're breathing, when he can still do something about it.
"Come on," he murmurs, his voice low and steady again as he shifts his grip, preparing to move. "You're not staying here."
The facility groans faintly around them, a reminder that whatever stability it had before is gone now, systems failing slowly in the aftermath of Gideon's collapse. The lights flicker once, then again, the hum dipping unevenly as something deeper in the structure begins to shut down.
Leon doesn't wait to see how far it goes. He gathers you more securely against him, lifting you carefully, mindful of your condition, of the way your body still hasn't fully recovered from whatever was done to it. His movements are controlled again, but the urgency is back, sharper now, focused entirely on getting you out.
As he turns toward the broken doorway, his grip tightens just slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure you're there.
The facility doesn't sound the same on the way out. What had once been a steady, controlled hum has fractured into something uneven, strained, like the structure itself is struggling to keep up with systems that are failing faster than they can compensate. The lights flicker overhead in irregular pulses, casting the corridor in shifting bands of brightness and shadow that make the space feel unstable, unfamiliar, even though Leon had just moved through it minutes before with absolute clarity.
Your weight is secure against him, one arm braced firmly around your back, the other supporting you beneath your legs as he moves through the corridor with controlled urgency. Every step is precise despite the pace, his body adjusting instinctively to keep you steady, to minimize the jarring motion that might make things worse.
Your head rests against his shoulder, your breathing warm against his neck, uneven but present. He keeps track of it without thinking, each inhale and exhale a quiet reassurance that cuts through everything else.
"Almost out," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his voice low and steady even as the world around him shifts.
The door he forced open earlier hangs unevenly now, the frame warped just enough to leave it partially ajar. Cool night air seeps through the opening, cutting through the sterile atmosphere behind him and bringing with it the scent of damp earth and open space.
Freedom.
Leon doesn't hesitate. He pushes through, stepping out into the night in one smooth motion, the shift in environment immediate and grounding. The air is colder here, cleaner, and for the first time since he entered the facility, his lungs pull in a breath that doesn't feel heavy.
The car is exactly where he left it, partially obscured by the treeline, its dark silhouette blending into the surroundings. He heads straight for it, his pace steady but urgent, every second outside the facility a step further away from everything that just happened.
Your body shifts slightly in his arms. At first, it's subtle. A change in weight. A small, uncoordinated movement that could easily be dismissed as nothing. But Leon feels it immediately. His grip tightens just slightly, enough to steady you as his gaze drops briefly, searching your face for confirmation.
Your brows furrow faintly as your breathing changes.
"Hey," he says, softer now, his voice dropping instinctively as he adjusts his hold just enough to support you better. "Easy. You're alright."
"...Leon?" The word comes out quiet, rough around the edges, like your voice hasn't fully returned yet.
He hears it immediately.
"I'm here," he answers without hesitation, his voice closer now, steadier, like he's anchoring you through the haze. "I've got you."
Your eyes open slowly, the night sky above you blurred at first, shifting slightly with each step he takes. It takes a second for things to settle, for your vision to catch up enough to focus, and when it does, you see him again. Up close and real, not the image you forced yourself to see while Gideon was tormenting you.
Your fingers twitch weakly against his jacket, the movement small but intentional as you try to ground yourself in something you recognize.
"I told... told him you'd save me." You barely get out. "You're... okay?"
"I'm fine," he says, though it's not the point. "You're the one I'm worried about."
You let out a faint breath, something that might almost be a laugh if your body had the strength for it. It fades quickly as a dull ache rolls through you again, your muscles tightening instinctively before easing.
"Feel like... a million bucks..." you murmur.
Leon reaches the car quickly, shifting his hold just enough to open the passenger door without setting you down, his movements efficient despite the care behind them. He lowers you into the seat gently, one hand steadying your back as the other guides your legs in, making sure you're settled before pulling back.
For a moment, he doesn't close the door. His hand lingers briefly against your shoulder, his gaze scanning your face again, checking, confirming, making sure you're still with him.
"I'm right here," he says quietly, reaching up to caress your cheek.
You nod faintly, your head resting back against the seat, your body still heavy, still not fully your own, but more present than before.
Leon closes the door and rounds the car quickly, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine without hesitation. The headlights cut through the darkness ahead, illuminating the path back in a way that feels far more real than anything inside that facility ever did.
As the car pulls away, the building disappears behind them, swallowed by the trees and the night as if it was never meant to be found. For a few minutes, there's only the sound of the road under the tires.
Leon taps a few buttons on his infotainment screen. The dial tone sounds in the car.
"Leon?" Hunnigan's voice comes through, alert immediately.
"I found her," he says.
There's a pause. Then relief, quiet but unmistakable. "Is she—"
"She's alive," he cuts in, glancing briefly toward you before returning his focus forward. "But Gideon got to her first. He injected something. I don't know what."
Your eyes shift toward him slightly at that, your focus hazy but present enough to follow the conversation. There's a brief sound of typing on the other end.
"If it's Elpis-related, it's not going to be simple," Hunnigan says. "You need to get her checked out as soon as possible. I can pull what I have on Gideon's compounds, but if he refined anything—"
"Bringing her now," Leon says, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument.
There's a pause.
"Understood," Hunnigan replies, quieter now. "Monitor her until then. Watch for instability, changes in heart rate, neurological response, anything abnormal."
Leon's grip tightens slightly on the wheel. "Yeah," he says. "Already am."
"I'll send you everything I find," she adds. "Leon, you did well."
He doesn't respond to that. He ends the call a second later, the quiet of the car settling in again as the road stretches ahead.
Your head turns slightly toward him, your voice softer now, more grounded despite the lingering exhaustion. "...You always do that," you murmur.
He glances at you briefly. "Do what?"
"Act like... you weren't worried," you say, your words slower now, but clearer.
Something in his expression softens, just slightly. "I was," he admits.
The answer is simple. Honest. And it sits between you in a way that doesn't need anything added.
The road carries you forward, the distance between where you were and where you're going growing with every second. It still feels longer on the way back. The distance hasn't changed, but every second now carries weight Leon didn't have time to feel before. The urgency hasn't left him. It's just changed shape, sharpened into something quieter, more focused, more dangerous in its own way.
He doesn't take the direct route home. He turns off sooner than expected, the car shifting onto a narrower road that disappears deeper into the trees. The headlights carve through the darkness in long, steady beams, illuminating a path that doesn't look like it leads anywhere permanent.
You notice the change, even through the lingering haze. Your head shifts slightly against the seat, your eyes half-lidded but tracking the unfamiliar surroundings as best you can.
"This isn't home," you murmur, your voice still softer than usual, weighed down by exhaustion and something else you can't quite place.
Leon glances at you briefly, just long enough to confirm you're still with him.
"No," he says. "Not yet."
The road narrows further before it opens into something unexpected, a structure set back from the tree line, low and unmarked, its exterior deliberately unremarkable in the same way the facility had been, but cleaner, maintained. A single light glows near the entrance, steady and controlled. Safe. Or as close as it gets.
Leon pulls up without slowing more than necessary, the engine cutting the moment the car stops. He's out of the vehicle in seconds, moving around to your side, the door opening before you fully register the shift.
"I've got you," he says again, quieter now as he reaches in, one arm sliding behind your back, the other beneath your legs as he lifts you carefully from the seat.
Your body responds this time. Weakly. Your hand finds his jacket again, fingers curling into the fabric without thinking, holding on as the ground shifts beneath you.
"Leon..." you breathe, your voice unsteady but present.
"I know," he murmurs. "Just trust me."
The door to the building opens before he reaches it. Hunnigan stands inside, already moving and prepared. There's no surprise in her expression, no wasted time on relief, just immediate focus as her eyes take you in, assessing faster than words could keep up.
"This way," she says, stepping aside.
Leon doesn't stop. The interior is brighter, cleaner, the air carrying that same clinical sharpness, but without the wrongness that clung to Gideon's facility. This feels controlled in a different way. Not experimental. It's protective.
He follows her down a short corridor and into a room already set up, equipment active, monitors ready, everything positioned with intention.
"Set her here," Hunnigan directs.
Leon lowers you onto the table with care, his hands lingering just a second longer than necessary as he makes sure you're stable before pulling back. He doesn't step far and doesn't look away.
A nurse comes over immediately, her hands steady as she begins checking vitals, attaching sensors, her focus sharp and efficient.
"Heart rate elevated but stable," she murmurs, more to herself than to either of you. "Temperature's up, not unexpected."
You flinch slightly at the contact, your body still sensitive, still not fully under your control as the lingering effects of the injection continue to hum beneath your skin.
"What did he give her?" Leon asks, his voice low, controlled, but tighter than before.
She doesn't answer right away. She moves quickly, pulling a sample, running it through a portable analyzer already humming to life on the counter beside her.
"Give me a second," she says.
The machine processes faster than anything standard, its quiet mechanical sounds filling the space between your uneven breathing and the tension settling heavier in the room.
Leon's attention doesn't leave you. Your eyes drift toward him, unfocused at first, then clearer as your body fights its way back toward something resembling normal.
"I'm okay," you try, your voice softer now, but he doesn't buy it.
"I know," he says, but it doesn't sound like agreement.
It sounds like reassurance for himself more than anyone.
The machine beeps. Hunnigan's attention snaps to it immediately, her eyes scanning the results as they populate across the screen. Her expression tightens, just slightly, something small but enough for Leon to catch it.
"What is it?" he asks.
She exhales quietly. "It's a modified Elpis compound," she says. "Derivative strain. Designed to destabilize cellular response and force rapid adaptation."
"And?"
The nurse looks at you, then at the screen, chiming in. "It should've caused systemic failure," she says. "Organ stress, neurological breakdown... worst case, full collapse."
Your stomach drops faintly, even through the haze.
"But it didn't," Leon says.
"No," Hunnigan replies. "It didn't."
She taps the screen lightly, pulling up another set of data.
"Her system compensated," she continues. "Regulated instead of rejecting. It's stabilizing the compound instead of letting it spread."
"What does that mean?" you ask.
"It means you're not in immediate danger," the nurse says. "But it also means whatever he put into you isn't gone."
Your fingers curl slightly against the surface beneath you, your breathing steadying more now as the worst of the earlier effects fade into something duller, more manageable.
"...so I'm not dying tonight?" you ask, your voice quiet, but clearer now.
Hunnigan looks at you directly.
"No," she says. "You're not."
Leon exhales, probably louder than he intended. It's the first real release of tension since he found you. Hunnigan's gaze shifts back to the screen.
"But we're going to need to monitor you," she adds. "Closely."
The house is quiet when the door opens. Not the heavy, suffocating quiet Leon had walked into earlier, the kind that had pressed in on him with something wrong beneath it. This is different. Softer. The kind of quiet that belongs to a place waiting to be filled again, not one that’s already been emptied. Still, when he steps inside with you in his arms, something in him tightens.
For a split second, the image overlaps, the broken stillness from before, the absence, the space where you should have been. It flickers through him before he can stop it. Then you shift against him.
Leon exhales slowly, the breath quieter this time, less controlled, as he nudges the door closed behind him with his foot. The soft click of it sealing shut sounds louder than it should, final in a way that settles something deep in his chest. You're here, and that's what matters.
“I can walk,” you murmur against him, your voice still a little worn, a little softer than usual, but stronger than it was before.
He doesn’t answer right away. His grip doesn’t loosen either.
“I know,” he says after a second, glancing down at you briefly. “You don’t have to.”
You huff a faint breath that turns into a smile, your hand shifting slightly where it rests against his jacket, fingers brushing the fabric like you’re reminding yourself he’s real, too.
“You’re stubborn,” you mumble.
“Yeah,” he replies. “You married me anyway.”
You break out into a sleepy grin. He carries you further into the house, his steps slower now, no urgency pushing him forward anymore, just care. The rest of the house comes into view, familiar in a way that almost feels surreal after everything that came before it.
Then he stumbles upon the kitchen. The light is left on, the chair is still slid out, and the broken mug is still there. Ceramic shards scattered across the tile, the dark stain long since dried where coffee had spilled and been left behind, frozen in the moment everything went wrong.
You follow his gaze, your brow knitting faintly as your eyes settle on it, memory catching up in pieces, the last normal moment before everything had been ripped away.
“And that was my favorite one too,” you murmur quietly.
Leon exhales, something in his chest shifting again, not sharp this time, not panic or urgency, just something quieter, something closer to relief tangled up with the remnants of everything else.
“I’ll get you a new one,” he says.
He carries you past the kitchen, leaving the broken pieces where they are for now. It can wait. None of that matters in this moment, not compared to the weight in his arms, the warmth of you against him, the quiet proof that he didn’t lose you.
When he reaches the couch, he finally lowers you carefully, his movements slow and deliberate as he eases you down into the cushions. This time, he doesn’t pull away immediately. His hands linger on your, one at your back and the other at your arm. He's not ready to let go just yet.
Instead, your hand finds his wrist again, your fingers curling lightly around it before he can step back, holding him there in a way that’s gentle but unmistakable.
“Stay,” you murmur.
He shifts instead, sitting beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch, his body angled toward yours without thinking. For a second, neither of you says anything, the quiet settling in around you again, but this time it feels different. It's safe and full.
Your head tips slightly toward him, your body leaning just enough that he reacts without hesitation, his arm coming around you instinctively, pulling you closer, steadying you against his side. You melt into him naturally, more dramatically than usual.
His hand moves slowly along your back, his thumb brushing lightly in absent, repetitive motions that feel more like habit than thought.
"When you weren't home, I thought..." his words drop quietly. They don't come easily.
You tilt your head slightly, your cheek brushing his shoulder as you glance up at him. “I know,” you say softly.
You don’t make him finish it. You don’t need to. His jaw tightens faintly, his arm around you pulling just a little closer, like the thought alone is enough to make him hold on tighter. You shift slightly, turning more toward him despite the lingering heaviness in your body, your hand sliding up from his wrist to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric there as you steady yourself.
“I’m here,” you murmur.
This time, it’s for him. His gaze drops to you, something in it softer now, less guarded, the edges worn down by everything that’s already passed.
“I know,” he says.
You study him for a second longer, then lean in, closing the small space between you. The kiss is gentle, slow, less about reassurance and more about presence. Your hand stays against his chest, grounding yourself in the steady rhythm beneath it as his hand comes up to your jaw, holding you there with quiet care. There's no urgency; it's just warmth and you.
He leans into it fully this time, the tension finally easing from his shoulders as he lets himself settle into something that doesn’t require fighting, doesn’t require thinking, doesn’t require anything except being here with you.
When he pulls back, it’s only slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath steadying in a way it hasn’t since before any of this started.
“Next time,” you murmur softly, a faint hint of teasing threading through the exhaustion, “I’m making tea instead.”
That almost makes him laugh. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Safer choice.”
The quiet stretches around you, soft and steady, the kind that doesn’t press in or demand anything. It just exists, wrapping around the two of you like something familiar, something earned.
You don’t realize how heavy your body feels until you try to move again. It’s subtle at first, a shift against him, your muscles protesting just enough to remind you that you’re still recovering, still not fully back to yourself. The exhaustion settles deeper now that everything else has quieted, pulling at you in a way that’s harder to ignore.
"We have to get cleaned up, sweetheart," he says, kissing your head.
"Okay," you reply, half asleep.
Before you can argue, before you can insist on anything else, his arm shifts around you, steady and sure as he moves to stand. The motion is smooth, practiced, like he’s done this before, like taking care of you has always come this naturally. Your arm slides around his shoulders without hesitation, your body settling against him with a quiet acceptance that feels as natural as breathing.
“You’re really not going to let me walk, are you?” you murmur, your voice softer now, edged with tired amusement.
“No,” he replies simply.
The two of you move together down the hall, slowly, quietly. The bathroom light flicks on, warm and soft, filling the space in a way that feels almost jarring after everything else. It’s normal, ordinary, safe. He sets you down on the closed toilet lid. Leon moves ahead just enough to start the water, adjusting it carefully, testing the temperature with his hand before letting it run. Steam begins to rise slowly, curling into the air and softening the edges of the room.
You lean lightly against the counter, watching him through the haze of exhaustion, the small, familiar movements grounding you in a way nothing else quite has yet.
“You do this a lot,” you murmur faintly.
He glances back at you, brow lifting just slightly. “Take care of you?” he asks.
You nod once. Something in his expression softens, just a fraction.
“I always will,” he says quietly.
He steps back toward you then, slower now, his hands gentler as they come to rest at your arms, steadying you again. His gaze flickers briefly over your face, checking, making sure you’re still with him, still present.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
You nod. “I think so.”
He doesn’t completely take your word for it. He stays close anyway. Careful and patient. There’s no rush in what comes next. Just a quiet understanding between you as he helps you out of your clothes, his movements respectful, unhurried, like this isn’t something to get through, but something to do right. His hands are steady, never lingering where they shouldn’t, never pulling away too quickly either.
When you step into the bath, the warmth surrounds you immediately, sinking into your muscles in a way that makes your breath catch softly in your chest. You lower yourself slowly, the water rising around you, easing tension you didn’t even realize you were still holding. It’s not just relief, it’s release.
Your shoulders drop, your head tipping back slightly against the edge as your eyes close for a second, letting yourself settle into it. Leon stays close. Not in the water yet, but right there beside the tub, one hand resting lightly along the edge, his attention still entirely on you.
“Too hot?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head, your voice softer now. "Perfect."
He nods once, then reaches for the shampoo, his movements slower, more deliberate as he shifts closer. His hand brushes lightly against your shoulder first, a silent check, a pause to make sure you’re with him.
You tilt your head slightly in response, and that's all he needs. His fingers move through your hair gently, working the shampoo in with care that feels like heaven. There’s no rush, no distraction, just the steady rhythm of his hands, the quiet presence of him there with you. The tension leaves you in pieces.
Your head leans back a little more, your eyes slipping closed again as you let yourself relax into it, into the warmth of him.
“You’re really good at this,” you murmur, your voice barely above the sound of the water.
When he rinses your hair, one hand steadies at the back of your neck, careful, protective, making sure the water doesn’t hit too hard, doesn’t pull you out of the quiet you’ve finally found. You lean into that touch without thinking.
By the time he's done, the air feels different. You feel lighter, cleaner, safer. He lingers for a second, his hand still resting lightly along the edge of the tub as he watches you settle deeper into the water. The tension that had been sitting in your shoulders has eased; your breathing is slower now, your body finally beginning to let go of everything it had been holding on to.
His gaze shifts, thoughtful. “You sure you’re steady?” he asks quietly.
You open your eyes just enough to look at him, the faintest hint of a smile returning. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur.
He exhales softly, then moves, slower this time. There’s no hesitation in it, just a quiet decision as he steps back, shedding the last of his own clothes with the same unhurried care he showed you. It’s simple, practical, like this is just the next step.
Then he steps into the bath behind you. The water shifts around him, rising slightly, warmth settling over both of you as he lowers himself carefully, mindful of your space, of your balance, of everything you’ve just been through. His movements are controlled, even here, even now, but there’s something softer in them too, something that isn’t about precision anymore.
You feel the warmth of his chest against your back. His arm comes around you almost immediately, instinctively, resting lightly across your middle, not pulling you in too tightly, just enough to steady you, to keep you anchored there with him.
You exhale, slow and quiet. “That’s better,” you murmur.
A faint breath leaves him, something just short of a laugh. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, it is.”
The water laps gently against the sides of the tub, the only sound in the room aside from your breathing, which has finally evened out into something calm, something steady. The warmth sinks deeper now, loosening what little tension remains, dulling the last edges of pain into something manageable.
Leon’s hand shifts slightly against you, his thumb brushing absent, slow patterns along your arm. It’s not deliberate, not something he’s thinking about. It’s just there, familiar, grounding, something he’s done a hundred times before in quieter moments.
“You still with me?” he asks after a while, his voice low, close to your ear.
You nod faintly, your head tipping back just enough to rest lightly against his shoulder.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just tired.”
“I know.”
His hand tightens just a fraction, then eases again, like he’s reminding himself you’re here, that he doesn’t have to hold on so tightly anymore.
You reach back slightly, your fingers finding his arm where it rests around you, tracing lightly over his skin without thinking. It’s a small movement, but it’s enough to pull his attention fully to you again.
“You okay?” you ask, softer now.
There’s a pause. “I am now,” he admits.
You tilt your head just enough to look up at him, your gaze meeting his in the soft, warm light of the room. For a second, neither of you moves, the space between you close but unhurried.
Then you lean in. The kiss is gentle, slower than before, your hand coming up to rest lightly against his jaw as your lips meet his. There’s no urgency in it, no need to prove anything, just quiet reassurance, the simple fact that you’re both here, both real, both okay.
He responds just as softly, his hand shifting from your arm to your side, holding you there with a steady, careful touch as he leans into it. It lingers just long enough to mean something, to settle into something real, before he pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours.
"I was scared," he murmurs.
"I know," you whisper. "Me too."
His eyes close briefly at that, his breath steadying as he leans into your touch for just a second. The water cools slowly around you, but neither of you moves right away. There’s no rush to leave this moment, no urgency pulling you forward. Just warmth, and quiet, and the steady presence of each other. Eventually, though, he shifts.
“Come on,” he murmurs gently. “Let’s get dried off and get to bed.”
Leon reaches for a towel immediately, wrapping it around your shoulders before you can even think about it, his hands moving with that same practiced gentleness as he draws you closer, drying your hair first, slow and careful, working through it like he had in the water.
Another towel follows, this one warmer, softer as he drapes it around you and guides you to sit on the edge of the tub for a second, making sure you’re steady before stepping back just enough to grab fresh clothes.
He helps you again, keeping you steady as he eases the fabric over your arms, adjusts it at your shoulders, and makes sure you're comfortable before moving on. By the time you're both dressed, the whole world has softened. The sharp edges from before have faded into something else.
Leon’s hand finds yours without thinking as he leads you back toward the bedroom, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as you walk. You don’t pull away. If anything, your grip tightens slightly, grounding yourself in the warmth of him, in the steady presence that hasn’t left your side since he found you.
When you reach the bed, he slows, turning slightly toward you instead of immediately guiding you down. For a second, you just stand there.
"Thank you, Leon," you say quietly, looking at his tired eyes.
The words are simple, but they carry everything behind them, everything you don’t need to explain because he already knows. Leon’s expression softens in that small, almost imperceptible way it does when something gets past his guard. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his free hand comes up, resting gently at your jaw as he leans in just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.
“I love you, okay?” he murmurs against you, his voice low, steady, like he needs you to hear it, to hold onto it.
Your breath catches just slightly, something warm settling in your chest as you meet his gaze.
“I love you too,” you reply, just as soft.
He leans his forehead briefly against yours, then shifts, guiding you gently down onto the bed, his hand never quite leaving you as he settles beside you moments later.
You turn toward him instinctively. He meets you there. His arm wraps around you, pulling you close, your body fitting against his like it always has, like it always will. The exhaustion is heavier now, pulling at you in a way that’s impossible to fight, but it doesn’t feel overwhelming anymore.
Your hands come up to rest against his chest, and you listen to the steady sound of his heart where your head lies near his chest. Leon’s hand moves once along your back, then stills, holding you there as the quiet settles in fully around you.
When sleep finally comes, it's gentle and safe. And this time, home finally feels like home again.
-----
My requests are open! <3 I would love to hear from you!
Thank you to @sisterlucifergraphics for the red moon divider!
Summary: Years after surviving Raccoon City, you and Leon are still living with the infection left behind. When Leon is sent on the mission that could finally cure both him and Sherry, he promises to bring a second dose home for you.
Warnings/tags: RE9 spoilers, major character death, terminal illness, grief/mourning, heavy angst, blood, survivor’s guilt, mentions of infection/virus, no happy ending
Rain dragged itself down the windows of their apartment in crooked trails, blurring the lights outside into watery streaks of gold and red. The city below still moved with the restless pulse of late-night traffic, but inside the apartment, everything felt hushed beneath the soft hum of the television and the occasional rattle of Leon coughing into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. The sound came rough and deep from his chest.
From the kitchen counter, you looked up immediately, fingers still curled around the ceramic mug you'd been drying. "You're supposed to be resting," you said quietly, though there wasn't much bite left in the words anymore. Worry had worn itself smooth over the years.
Leon leaned deeper into the couch cushions with his eyes half-closed, one arm draped across his stomach. The veins beneath the skin of his hand curled darkly beneath the lamplight, blackened tributaries crawling over pale flesh before disappearing beneath the cuff of his sleeve. The splotch spreading along the side of his neck looked darker tonight, too, bruised violet against tired skin.
"I am resting," he muttered.
"You fell asleep sitting upright again."
"Occupational hazard."
A soft breath escaped you at that, halfway between amusement and exhaustion. You set the mug aside before crossing the apartment toward him. Even after all these years, Leon still watched you like you were something grounding. Something untouched by all the rot clinging stubbornly to him.
Your fingers brushed carefully against the side of his neck, just beneath the stain spreading there. Leon tried not to flinch beneath your touch.
"Tender?" you asked softly.
"No worse than usual."
That was the lie both of you used now. No worse than usual. It covered everything from sleepless nights to coughing blood to the way Leon occasionally lost his breath climbing the stairs after missions that once wouldn't have even quickened his pulse.
You studied him for another moment before moving toward the medicine cabinet near the kitchen. The apartment smelled faintly of soup and disinfectant, a strange combination that had followed you home from the hospital for years. Leon used to tease you about it back when things felt lighter. Back before every quiet moment carried the weight of wondering how many were left.
Now the smell only reminded him of how exhausted you looked lately. You tried to hide it well. Most days, you still tied your hair back neatly before work. Still ironed your scrubs. Still left sticky notes near the coffeemaker, reminding Leon to eat something green while you worked late shifts. To anyone else, you probably looked fine.
Leon noticed the small things, though, they're not that small. The way you paused before standing too quickly. The faint tremor in your hands when you thought nobody was watching. The shadows beneath your eyes growing darker every week. And the coughing. God, the coughing.
You returned with his medication and a glass of water before settling beside him on the couch. "You missed another dose this morning."
Leon accepted the pills from your hand. "I was busy."
"You were unconscious for fourteen hours."
"Exactly."
You rolled your eyes faintly, though exhaustion softened even that reaction. When Leon swallowed the medication, you rested your head carefully against his shoulder, fitting there like habit. Outside, thunder murmured somewhere far away.
For a little while, neither of you spoke. Leon could feel the warmth of you pressed against his side. Too warm. His jaw tightened.
"You should've called out today," he said eventually.
"And told them what?" you asked softly. "Sorry, I can't come in because my husband and I are both slowly mutating."
A tired sound escaped him that almost resembled a laugh.
"Was it bad today?" he asked after a moment.
You stayed quiet long enough for him to know the answer before you finally spoke. "My hands cramped up during an IV insertion," you admitted. "Mrs. Holloway noticed."
Leon stared ahead at the flickering television screen without really seeing it. "You shouldn't still be working."
"We've had this argument."
"You almost collapsed last week."
"And you came home coughing blood three days ago."
That silenced him immediately. The rain thickened harder against the windows. You shifted slightly beside him, curling your fingers carefully around his infected hand despite the ugly black veins webbing beneath the skin. Leon remembered the first time you'd seen them appear. He'd expected horror. Fear. Distance.
Instead, you'd taken his hand exactly like this and whispered, "Still you." It nearly ruined him then. It still did.
"We're running out of time, aren't we?" he asked quietly.
The question lingered between you like smoke. You didn't answer immediately. Leon knew you were choosing your words carefully, the same way you always did when trying not to hurt him.
"There are people who lasted longer," you said at last.
"That's not what I asked."
Your fingers tightened slightly around his. Leon finally looked at you then, really looked. At exhaustion you couldn't hide anymore. At the faint discoloration creeping beneath the collar of your sweater. At the fragile steadiness, you wore like armor because somebody in the apartment had to stay calm. You gave him a small smile that broke his heart on contact.
"You know what scares me the most?" you asked softly.
Leon frowned. "What?"
"That you keep looking at me like I'm already gone."
The words hollowed something inside his chest.
He turned toward you fully despite the ache pulling through his ribs, one hand rising to cup the side of your face. "Don't," he murmured immediately. "Don't say that."
"But you are."
"I'm trying to fix this."
"I know."
"No," Leon said, more fiercely this time. "I am. I'm close."
Your expression flickered then. Hope and grief colliding in equal measure. You believed him because you loved him, and that somehow made it worse.
Leon rested his forehead carefully against yours, breathing shallowly through the pressure tightening in his lungs. "I'm not losing you to this," he whispered.
"I don't want to lose you either."
Morning arrived gray and slow, the kind that barely deserved to be called morning at all. Rainwater still clung to the fire escape outside the apartment windows, dripping steadily beneath a sky the color of bruised steel. Somewhere below, traffic hissed across wet pavement while distant sirens blurred into the rhythm of the waking city. The television had long since shut itself off overnight, leaving the apartment wrapped in soft silence broken only by the uneven sound of Leon breathing beside you.
You woke first. Not because you were rested, you honestly couldn't remember the last time you'd felt rested. Your body ached before you'd even fully opened your eyes. Heat coiled beneath your skin in restless waves, feverish and familiar, while your joints protested the simple act of shifting beneath the blankets. For a moment, you stayed still, staring hazily at the dim light filtering through the curtains while your heartbeat thudded heavily behind your ribs.
Then Leon coughed. The sound tore violently through the quiet room. You pushed yourself upright immediately, the motion making dizziness swim unpleasantly through your vision. Beside you, Leon sat hunched forward at the edge of the mattress, one hand braced against his chest while the other covered his mouth. His shoulders trembled beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
"Leon," you said softly, voice still rough with sleep.
He held up a hand without turning toward you, the universal signal for wait. Another cough wracked through him hard enough to make your stomach twist. By the time he finally lowered his hand, there was blood smeared faintly across his knuckles. Your chest tightened painfully.
"Jesus Christ," you whispered, already reaching for the tissues on the nightstand.
"I'm fine."
"You're coughing blood."
"It's not that much."
"That sentence stopped comforting me months ago."
Leon let out a tired breath through his nose as you handed him the tissues. Morning light spilled weakly across the side of his face now, illuminating the darkened veins stretching along his throat and disappearing beneath his collarbone. The discoloration had spread farther during the past few weeks. Neither of you mentioned it anymore.
You sat beside him carefully, one hand resting between his shoulder blades, while the coughing finally subsided into shallow breathing. His skin felt burning hot.
"You should stay home today," you murmured.
Leon gave you a look that could only be described as exhausted disbelief. "You said the exact same thing last night."
"And I meant it last night, too."
"I can't."
"You can barely breathe."
"I've been worse."
You closed your eyes briefly at that. The problem with Leon was that he genuinely meant it. Somewhere along the line, his definition of manageable had become horrifyingly distorted.
When you opened your eyes again, Leon was already trying to stand. The movement almost immediately betrayed him. His breath caught sharply, and he grabbed the edge of the dresser hard enough for his knuckles to whiten beneath the black veining spreading across his skin.
"Leon."
"I'm okay."
"Are you sure?"
"I said I'm okay."
The irritation in his voice wasn't directed at you. You knew that. It came from frustration. From humiliation. From the unbearable reality that his own body was becoming something unreliable. Still, silence settled heavily between you afterward. Leon stared at the floor for several long seconds before finally exhaling shakily and sinking back onto the edge of the bed. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders as he rubbed a hand over his face.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I just hate this."
The honesty in his voice hurt more than the coughing had.
You moved closer until your shoulder brushed his. "I know."
"No, I really hate it." He laughed once under his breath, bitter and tired. "I used to go days without sleeping during missions. Now I get winded walking to the kitchen."
You watched him carefully. Leon rarely spoke about the fear directly. He covered it with sarcasm, deflection, stubbornness, anything that kept the terror from fully surfacing. Seeing it now, raw and exhausted in the dim morning light, made something ache deep inside your chest.
"You're still you," you said softly.
His jaw tightened immediately, "That's part of the problem. I don't think I will be for me much longer."
You looked down at your own hands resting in your lap. The faint tremor had returned sometime during the night. Tiny involuntary movements beneath skin that looked normal enough until someone paid close attention.
At the hospital last week, one of the newer nurses had asked if you were feeling alright after you'd nearly dropped a tray of syringes. You'd smiled. You'd lied. You were getting very good at lying. Leon noticed your hands before you could tuck them away.
His expression shifted instantly. "How long?"
You hated that question because he always sounded so afraid of asking it. "Just this morning," you answered carefully.
"That's not what I asked."
You swallowed. The truth sat heavily behind your teeth. "A few weeks."
Leon went still beside you. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows again.
"You should've told me," he said quietly.
"And what would that have changed?"
His silence answered for him. Everything. It would've changed everything.
Leon leaned forward suddenly, elbows braced against his knees, while one hand pressed hard against his mouth. You could practically see the guilt chewing through him in real time, relentless and familiar.
"This is my fault," he muttered.
Your head snapped toward him immediately. "Don't do that."
"If I'd gotten you out faster that night..."
"Leon."
"If I hadn't left you alone at the hospital..."
"Stop."
His voice roughened sharply. "You got infected because of me."
The words struck the room like shattered glass. Neither of you could move after those words left his mouth. You reached out for him after a moment, sliding your hand carefully against his jaw until he finally looked at you. His eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, shadows buried heavily beneath them.
"You listened to me very carefully back in Raccoon City," you said softly. "So listen to me now."
Leon's breathing stayed uneven beneath your touch.
"You did not infect me," you continued. "You did not fail me. You did not ruin my life."
His expression cracked slightly at that, pain flickering openly across his face.
"You saved my life," you whispered. "I got years with you that I never should've had."
Leon looked away immediately like the words physically hurt him.
"That's not enough if one of us dies," he says hoarsely.
Your chest tightened. That was the tragedy of loving Leon Kennedy. No matter how much he gave, he still believed he should've found a way to give more.
The apartment was dark except for the kitchen light Leon had forgotten to turn off. A single yellow glow spilled weakly across the counter and into the living room, cutting through the early morning dark in tired slants. The digital clock on the microwave read 2:17 AM in harsh green numbers. Rain had finally stopped sometime during the night, leaving the city outside damp and quiet beneath a low blanket of fog.
You should've been asleep. Instead, you stood barefoot near the hallway entrance with one hand braced against the wall, trying to steady the dizziness rolling unpleasantly beneath your skin. Exhaustion clung heavily to your limbs after another twelve-hour shift at the hospital, but the silence in the apartment had dragged you awake the second you realized Leon wasn't beside you.
At first, you thought he might've gone outside to smoke again. He'd picked the habit back up months ago despite your endless arguments about it. Then you noticed the light, and the sound of paper shifting.
You moved quietly toward the kitchen, the cold hardwood floor creaking faintly beneath your steps. Leon sat hunched at the table still wearing yesterday's clothes, shoulders rigid beneath his gray sweatshirt while files and photographs lay scattered around him in uneven piles.
Medical reports, autopsy images, government seals.
Your stomach tightened immediately. Leon didn't notice you at first. His eyes stayed locked on the papers in front of him, jaw clenched hard enough to twitch beneath the dim light. One hand pressed against his mouth, while the other gripped a photograph so tightly the edges had bent beneath his fingers.
He coughed suddenly, the sound tearing violently through the quiet apartment. Leon turned sharply away from the table, coughing hard into his sleeve while his free hand braced against the countertop nearby. The force of it nearly doubled him over.
"Leon."
He froze instantly. For one terrible second, guilt flashed across his face before he smoothed it away too late for either of you to pretend you hadn't seen it.
"You should be sleeping," he said roughly.
You ignored the comment entirely, eyes drifting instead toward the files spread across the table. Photographs stared back at you. Five different faces. Five different civilians. Every single one labeled deceased.
Cold unease curled through your stomach. "What is this?"
Leon went very still. The silence lasted long enough for dread to start settling into your bones.
Finally, he leaned back in the chair with a slow exhale, exhaustion hollowing out his features. "Cases connected to dormant viral exposure after Raccoon City."
Your pulse thudded unevenly. You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, gaze catching on dates and medical terminology scattered across the reports. Progressive organ failure. Neurological deterioration. Respiratory collapse. One victim had been only thirty-two. Another had survived nearly ten years before symptoms resurfaced.
You felt sick. Leon watched you carefully the entire time, like he was waiting for something to shatter.
"How long have you had these?" you asked quietly.
"A while."
"A while," you repeated softly. "Leon."
His jaw tightened. "I didn't want you seeing them."
"Why?"
The question came out sharper than you intended. Leon pushed a hand through his hair roughly before standing from the table. The motion looked unsteady, exhaustion dragging visibly at his body. He crossed toward the sink and gripped the edge of the counter hard enough for the tendons in his infected hand to stand out beneath the dark veins.
"Because none of them survived," he said flatly.
The walls felt like they were slowly closing in around you. You stared at his back in silence while the refrigerator hummed quietly nearby.
"Were they all infected the same way we were?"
"Similar strain."
"And you've just been reading this alone?"
Leon laughed once under his breath, bitter and exhausted. "What exactly was I supposed to say to you?" he asked. "'Hey, sweetheart, I found six years of autopsy reports proving this thing eventually kills civilians slower than it kills everybody else'?"
"You found five reports."
His shoulders stiffened immediately. The realization hit both of you at the same time. Five victims. You would be the sixth. Leon turned away sharply before you could fully see his expression, but not before grief cracked visibly across his face. That hurt more than the files did.
You crossed the kitchen slowly until you stood a few feet behind him. "Leon."
"I'm figuring it out."
"You don't know that."
"I said I'm figuring it out." His voice came harsher now, fraying at the edges beneath exhaustion and panic.
You watched him brace both hands against the counter, head lowered while his breathing turned uneven again. The dark veins stretching across the back of his hands looked almost black beneath the kitchen light now.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then your eyes drifted back toward the table. Toward the notes. Toward the highlighted sections and handwritten annotations covering nearly every page. Leon had memorized these people. Every symptom. Every timeline. Every death.
Your chest tightened painfully. "You're preparing for me to die," you said softly.
Leon's head snapped upward immediately. "No."
"You are."
"No, I'm not."
"You know all their timelines, Leon."
"Because I need to."
"You know how long they lasted after symptoms progressed."
"I need to know what we're dealing with."
"You organized them by stages."
"Because there's a pattern."
Your voice finally cracked. "Because you're trying to predict when I'll die."
Silence slammed into the room. Leon looked stricken like you'd reached into his chest and dragged something ugly into the light before he could hide it.
"That's not..." He stopped hard, swallowing visibly. "That's not what I'm doing."
"You're trying to figure out how much time we have left together."
His composure finally broke. "I'm trying to keep you alive!"
The words exploded out of him loud enough to echo through the apartment. You flinched slightly. Leon stared at you immediately afterward like he hated himself for it. His breathing turned ragged.
"I can't lose you," he said hoarsely, quieter this time. "I can't sit here and pretend this isn't happening while you get worse every week."
You felt tears burning painfully behind your eyes now. "I know."
"No, you don't." Leon dragged a shaking hand over his face. "You don't know what it's like watching you cough and wondering if that's the moment it starts getting bad. You don't know what it's like hearing you come home exhausted and thinking about those files every time you look tired."
His voice cracked hard on the last sentence. For a second, he looked less like a government agent and more like a man drowning slowly in anticipatory grief.
"You think I'm preparing for you to die?" he whispered. "I'm trying to find the point where I can still save you."
The raw desperation in his voice hollowed something inside your chest. You crossed the remaining distance between you carefully before resting your hands against his face. Leon's skin felt fever-warm beneath your palms. His eyes closed immediately.
"I'm still here," you whispered.
Leon's expression tightened sharply, grief flickering across it so fast it almost looked painful.
"That's what scares me," he admitted quietly. "Because they were too. Until they weren't."
After that night, every day after felt fragile in a way cracked glass still technically holds together until the exact wrong amount of pressure finally splinters in apart.
Gray daylight spilled weakly through the apartment windows while the coffee maker sputtered in the kitchen, filling the air with the bitter smell of burnt grounds. Leon stood at the counter in sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt, one hand braced against the edge of the sink while he waited for another coughing fit to pass.
You stood nearby pretending to butter toast while listening carefully to the uneven rasp dragging through his lungs. Every cough sounded painful now. Wet. Heavy. The kind of cough that settled deep in bone and refused to leave.
He finally spit blood into the sink.
You closed your eyes briefly, "Leon."
"I know," he muttered hoarsely.
"You can barely stand."
"I'm standing right now."
"You're leaning like a seventy-year-old chain smoker."
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, though it disappeared quickly beneath exhaustion. He rinsed the sink carefully afterward, watching diluted pink swirl down the drain before gripping the counter again when dizziness hit him too fast.
"Sit down, Lee."
"I'm fine."
"You almost folded in half."
Leon exhaled sharply through his nose before finally relenting, dragging himself toward one of the kitchen chairs with the slow stiffness of someone twice his age. The movement alone seemed to drain him. By the time he sat down, his breathing had already turned shallow again.
You'd watched this man sprint through collapsing streets with barely a second thought for his own survival. Now, climbing out of bed looked like it cost him something.
You slid a plate toward him anyway. "Eat."
Leon looked down at the toast like it had personally offended him. "You made enough for an army."
"You need protein."
"This isn't protein."
"You're lucky I didn't make eggs."
"You almost burned water last week."
"That happened once."
"It absolutely did not happen once."
Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you. Leon's expression softened immediately at the sound. There it is, his eyes seemed to say.
It almost felt normal again. Then your hand started shaking. The knife slipped slightly against the countertop with a sharp metallic scrape. Leon noticed instantly. The warmth vanished from his expression so quickly it physically hurt to watch. You curled your fingers inward automatically, but it was too late.
"How bad?"
You hated how quietly he asked that now. Like every symptom had become another brick added carefully to the wall of terror building inside him.
"It's fine."
"That's not an answer."
You set the knife down carefully before your trembling hand could drop it entirely. "Just tired."
Leon stared at you across the kitchen table. The silence stretched long enough to become unbearable. Finally, he pushed himself upright despite obvious effort and crossed toward you slowly. The dark veins creeping beneath the skin of his arms stood out starkly beneath the weak kitchen light.
"You're pale," he murmured.
"So are you."
"You're shaking."
"You coughed blood into our sink thirty seconds ago."
For one brief moment, frustration flashed across his face before exhaustion swallowed it whole again. Leon rested both hands carefully against the counter on either side of you, head lowering slightly.
"I got a call last night," he said quietly.
Your stomach tightened instantly.
"A mission?"
Leon nodded once.
Something cold slipped beneath your ribs.
He hadn't mentioned work in weeks unless absolutely necessary. The government had already reduced his field involvement after his symptoms worsened, but "reduced" still meant they dragged him back whenever things became dangerous enough.
"When?"
"Tomorrow night."
You looked down immediately. Not because you wanted to avoid his eyes. Because you already knew what his expression would look like. Guilt. Fear. Determination sharp enough to cut himself open on.
"What kind of mission?"
Leon hesitated. That terrified you more than the answer probably would have.
"There's a lab in Raccoon City," he said carefully. "They think they found something."
Your heartbeat stumbled unevenly. "What kind of something?"
Leon's jaw tightened faintly before he answered. "A cure."
"You're really going back there?"
"I have to."
The entire apartment suddenly felt suspended in place around that single word. Cure. Not a treatment, not a symptom management, a real cure.
"You're sure?" you whispered.
"They think so."
That was the dangerous thing about hope after years without it. Even the smallest amount hit like a flood.
"There's a facility connected to the original research," he continued softly. "That's where they're sending me."
Of course they were sending him. Because whenever something impossible needed surviving, the government always handed it to Leon Kennedy like they'd forgotten he was human years ago.
The thought settled heavily into your chest. Leon watched your expression carefully, and suddenly you saw it. Beneath the exhaustion. Beneath the coughing and the dark veins and the constant fear. Hope. Real hope. You hadn't seen it in him for months. Maybe years.
"This could work," he said quietly.
The words sounded almost fragile coming from him. Leon rarely allowed himself optimism anymore unless he absolutely believed it.
You swallowed hard. "For you?"
"For me," he agreed.
Then his eyes met yours.
"And for you."
The ache that followed nearly split your chest open. Because suddenly you could see it happening too. The fever gone. The coughing stopping. Leon finally sleeping through the night without waking breathless and shaking beside you. A future that didn't end in hospital reports and autopsy photos.
Leon stepped closer carefully, one hand brushing against your wrist. "They only confirmed enough doses for Sherry and me," he admitted quietly. "But if this works..."
You frowned slightly. "Leon."
"I'll bring one back for you."
His voice carried absolute certainty. Not hope. Not maybe. Certainty.
Your eyes burned immediately. "You can't promise that."
"Yes, I can."
"You don't even know what you're walking into yet."
"I don't care."
The answer came sharp enough to cut. Leon's fingers tightened slightly around your wrist while exhaustion and desperation flickered openly across his face.
"I don't care what that place looks like," he said roughly. "I don't care how bad it gets. If there's a cure in that facility, I'm bringing one home for you."
The conviction in his voice hurt. Because this wasn't just another mission to him anymore. This was the first time in years Leon genuinely believed he could save someone he loved before it was too late.
You reached up slowly, brushing your fingers against the darkened skin along his neck. "Leon..."
"I mean it." His voice softened then, cracking slightly beneath the weight of everything sitting between you. "When this is over," he murmured, "you're gonna get better."
By the time Leon's departure day arrived, the apartment had settled into the kind of quiet that made every sound feel important. The radiator clicked softly beneath the windows. Rain slid steadily down the glass in silver trails, distorting the city lights outside into blurred streaks of gold and white. Somewhere several floors below, a car horn echoed briefly through the wet streets before disappearing again. Everything beyond the apartment kept moving normally, while inside, time felt painfully suspended.
Leon was in the bedroom packing. Or pretending to. You stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him fold the same black long-sleeved shirt for the third time in less than ten minutes, before setting it back into the duffel bag with visible frustration. His movements lacked their usual sharp efficiency tonight. Exhaustion dragged heavily at him now, dulling the careful precision he normally carried before missions. The veins stretching along the backs of his hands looked darker beneath the lamplight. You hated how often you noticed things like that now.
Leon finally glanced up after sensing you watching him. "What?" he asked quietly.
A faint smile tugged weakly at your mouth despite everything. "You packed that shirt already."
His eyes flickered downward toward the bag before he exhaled softly through his nose. "Right."
The answer sounded distracted. Tired. You crossed the room slowly, your body protesting every step with deep aches spreading through your chest and limbs. The fever simmering beneath your skin hadn't broken in almost two days now. Even walking across the apartment left you slightly breathless, though you'd spent the entire evening pretending otherwise. Leon noticed immediately anyway. He always noticed.
The second you stopped beside him, his expression tightened faintly. "You're overdoing it again."
"I walked across one room."
"You got winded doing it."
You rolled your eyes softly, though the motion lacked any real energy behind it. "You say that like you're not coughing up pieces of your lungs every morning."
"That's different."
"How?"
Leon opened his mouth before immediately seeming to realize he didn't actually have an answer. A tired breath escaped him instead.
You smiled faintly. "Exactly."
For a moment, silence settled between you again. Rain tapped steadily against the windows. Leon looked at you then. Really looked at you. His eyes lingered too long. On the shadows beneath your eyes. On the exhaustion you couldn't fully hide anymore. On the slight tremor in your hands where they rested against the bedroom dresser. Something fragile flickered across his face so quickly it almost hurt to witness. He was memorizing you. The realization hollowed your chest.
You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, hands settling carefully against the front of his shirt. Beneath your palms, you could feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing. His lungs had sounded worse all week.
"You're scared," you murmured softly.
Leon laughed once under his breath, tired and humorless. "That obvious?"
"You reorganized your bag four times."
That finally pulled a real smile from him. Small. Exhausted. But real.
God, you loved him. Even now. Even with sickness hollowing both of you out from the inside. Even with fear sitting heavy between every conversation and every quiet glance. You loved him so much that it sometimes physically hurt.
Leon's hands settled carefully at your waist.
"You should rest before I leave," he murmured. "You look exhausted."
"So do you."
"Occupational hazard."
"You already used that line this week." A weak laugh escaped you before fading again almost immediately.
The reality of the evening settled heavily back over the room. Tomorrow, Leon would be gone. Tomorrow, you'd wake up alone in this apartment with your worsening symptoms and too much silence. The thought sat sharply beneath your ribs.
"You know," you said quietly, "I used to hate when you left for missions."
Leon's brow furrowed slightly. "Used to?"
"Well," you murmured, "now I really hate it."
The fragile composure he'd been holding together all evening cracked slightly around the edges. Suddenly, Leon looked less like a broody, hardened man preparing for deployment and more like a man trying very hard not to fall apart in front of the person he loved. He stepped closer until barely any space remained between you.
"I'll come back," he said softly.
You looked up at him carefully.
He believed that.
Not because he thought the mission would be easy. Not because he underestimated whatever nightmare waited for him out there.
Leon believed he'd come back because he'd attached your survival to the outcome.
He wasn't going after a cure for himself anymore.
He was going after you.
Your throat tightened painfully.
"You better," you whispered.
Leon's hands slid upward slowly until they cupped your face with aching gentleness. His palms felt warm despite the infection darkening beneath his skin.
"You wait for me," he murmured.
The words nearly undid you. Not because of what he said. Because of how desperately he said it. Like he was trying to bargain with fate itself.
Your eyes burned sharply. "Leon..."
"I mean it." His forehead rested carefully against yours while his breathing turned shallow again. "You wait for me, and I'll come home with that cure."
Emotion climbed painfully into your throat. You wanted to promise him. God, you wanted to. But deep inside, beneath all the fear and hope and denial, your body already knew something the rest of you was still trying not to face. You were getting worse too quickly.
So instead of answering, you reached for him. Leon kissed you immediately. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just heartbreakingly familiar. One of his hands cradled the side of your face while the other settled against your back, pulling you gently against him like he couldn't bear even an inch of distance between you. The kiss tasted faintly of coffee and exhaustion and everything that had always been uniquely Leon. You melted into him despite the ache spreading through your chest.
For a few precious seconds, the world outside the apartment disappeared entirely. No infections. No missions. No looming grief waiting just beyond the horizon. Just Leon. Just the steady warmth of his hands and the careful way he kissed you like something precious.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead remained resting against yours. His eyes stayed closed for a moment longer, like he was gathering strength simply from being near you. Slowly, he lifted his head enough to look at you again.
The exhaustion in his face nearly broke your heart open. Dark circles bruised beneath his eyes. The infection staining his neck had spread farther over the past month, curling beneath the pale skin in ugly, blackened veins. Even breathing looked exhausting now.
And still, he was leaving tomorrow to walk directly into another nightmare because somewhere at the end of it waited the possibility of saving you. The realization hurt so badly you could barely breathe around it.
You reached up carefully, brushing trembling fingers against the side of his face. Leon leaned into your touch immediately, like it was instinct.
"I love you," you whispered.
The words filled the room softly. You can see how terrified he is beneath all the determination. His hand covered yours against his cheek.
"I love you too," he said quietly. "More than anything."
Tears burned painfully behind your eyes now. Leon kissed your forehead gently before pulling you into his arms again, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. You could hear the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his chest. Fast. Unsteady. Afraid.
Your arms wrapped around him carefully while exhaustion settled heavier and heavier into your bones. You wondered briefly if he could feel how weak you'd become. If he noticed how hard it had become for you to hold onto him for long periods now. If he realized you were memorizing him, too.
It's rained for a week straight. The night Leon left, it finally stopped...ironic, right?
Clouds still hung low over the city in heavy gray sheets, but weak sunlight filtered through the apartment windows for the first time in days, washing everything in pale gold that made the quiet feel almost unreal. Dust drifted lazily through the light near the couch. Somewhere outside, water dripped steadily from fire escapes and rooftops onto the streets below.
You stood near the kitchen counter wrapped in one of Leon's old sweatshirts while he checked his weapons at the dining table. The sweatshirt smelled like him. Laundry detergent. Cigarettes. Faint traces of gunpowder that never seemed to fully leave his clothes anymore.
You'd stolen it from the bedroom sometime during the night, after another fever woke you, shivering so hard your teeth hurt. Leon noticed immediately when he came out of the shower earlier, but all he'd done was stare at you for a long moment before quietly saying, "Keep it on."
Now he sat across the apartment, slotting magazines into place with practiced movements while tension coiled visibly beneath his skin. His jaw stayed tight. His shoulders tighten. Every few seconds, he looked at you. Checking. Always checking. You pretended not to notice.
The truth was, standing upright already exhausted you. Your chest felt heavy this morning. Breathing took conscious effort in a way it hadn't before. Even the short walk from the bedroom to the kitchen had left your pulse hammering unevenly beneath your ribs.
"You should sit down," he said without looking away from the pistol in his hands.
"I'm fine."
"You almost tripped over absolutely nothing ten minutes ago."
"There was a rug."
"There has been a rug there for three years." A weak laugh escaped you despite yourself.
Leon's expression softened instantly at the sound, and for one brief moment, he looked less exhausted. Less haunted.
God, you wished you could keep him here. The thought arrived suddenly and sharply enough to hurt. You could ask. You knew you could.
If you looked Leon Kennedy in the eyes right now and said don't go, he wouldn't. The government could burn down outside the apartment windows, and he'd still stay beside you.
And that terrified you. Because if he stayed, there would be no cure. Not for him. Not for Sherry. Not for anyone. So instead, you tightened your fingers around the sleeve hanging over your hands and swallowed the fear clawing up your throat.
Leon finally stood from the table, though the movement immediately triggered another coughing fit. He turned away sharply, coughing hard into his fist while his shoulders tensed beneath his jacket.
By the time it stopped, Leon's breathing had gone shallow again.
"Jesus," you whispered softly.
"I'm okay."
Blood spotted faintly across his knuckles. You both saw it. Neither of you acknowledged it. Leon grabbed a rag from the counter and wiped his hand clean before you could move toward him. The dark veins stretching beneath the skin of his wrist looked almost black now, curling beneath pale flesh like fractures spreading through glass.
Then he looked back at you, and immediately frowned. You realized too late that your hand had drifted against the counter to steady yourself.
Leon crossed the apartment instantly. "Hey."
"I'm fine."
"You're pale."
"So are you."
"You're shaking again."
"I've been shaking for weeks, Leon."
Leon stopped directly in front of you, both hands settling carefully at your waist like he was afraid you might collapse if he let go. The awful thing was, you weren't entirely sure you wouldn't.
"You should be in a hospital," he murmured quietly.
You managed a faint smile. "I work in one. Does that count?"
"It's not funny."
"I know."
The apartment fell silent again. Outside, a siren wailed faintly somewhere downtown before fading into the distance. Leon stared at you for several long seconds, and suddenly, you could see it happening in real time. The hesitation. The instinct screaming at him not to leave you like this. Your chest tightened painfully.
So you reached for him first. Your hands slid carefully beneath the collar of his jacket before pulling him closer until his forehead rested against yours. Leon exhaled shakily the second you touched him.
"Go," you whispered softly.
His eyes closed immediately. "You don't mean that."
"You're the only one who might be able to save us... to save Sherry. We need you."
You leaned upward carefully and kissed him. Leon made a soft sound against your mouth that almost broke you apart right there. His arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you firmly against his chest while he kissed you back like he was trying to memorize every second of it. Every touch. Every breath. Every tiny detail he could carry with him into whatever nightmare waited ahead.
You could feel how fast his heart was beating beneath his jacket. Afraid. Leon was afraid. Not of the mission. Of losing you.
When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved far apart.
"I'm coming home to you," he whispered against your forehead.
The words lodged painfully beneath your ribs.
You swallowed hard before forcing a small smile. "Then I guess I'll have to wait for you."
Leon looked at you like he wanted to believe that more than anything in the world.
Then his phone vibrated. The sound shattered the moment instantly. Duty. Always duty. Leon closed his eyes briefly before pulling the phone from his pocket. You watched the exact second his expression hardened back into something operational. Controlled. Professional. It hurt watching him put the armor back on.
"They're downstairs," he said quietly.
Your chest constricted. Already? Leon stared at you for another long moment before reaching up to brush his thumb carefully beneath your eye. You hadn't even realized tears had started slipping down your face.
"Hey," he murmured softly.
You laughed weakly through the emotion catching in your throat. "I'm trying really hard not to cry right now."
"You don't have to do that for me."
"Yes, I do." Your voice cracked slightly. "Because if I start, you might not leave."
The honesty of it hit both of you at once. Leon's composure visibly faltered. For one terrible second, you genuinely thought he might stay. Then he cupped your face carefully and kissed you one final time. Slow. Tender. Devastated.
"I love you," he whispered against your lips.
Your throat tightened painfully. "I love you too."
Leon rested his forehead against yours for one last second before finally stepping away. The distance felt immediate. Wrong. You watched him grab his bag from beside the table while every instinct in your body screamed at you to stop him. To tell him not to go. To beg him to stay here, where you could still touch him.
Instead, you stood frozen in the middle of the apartment while Leon reached the front door. His hand settled against the knob. Then he looked back. That was the moment that would haunt him later. You standing there in his sweatshirt with exhausted eyes and trembling hands trying so hard to smile for him despite how sick you looked. Waiting for him. Always waiting for him.
Leon stared for half a heartbeat too long before finally opening the door and disappearing into the hallway. Then the apartment went silent. Completely silent. The emptiness hit instantly. Your knees nearly gave out beneath you.
At first, traces of him still lingered everywhere strongly enough that you could almost pretend he'd only gone downstairs for cigarettes or coffee. His mug still sat beside the sink from that morning, a faint ring of coffee staining the bottom. His jacket remained hooked over the chair near the dining table because he'd changed into tactical gear at the last minute. Even the bathroom mirror still carried the faded ghost of steam from his shower.
But as the days stretched onward, the silence changed shape. It deepened. By evening on the fourth day, the apartment no longer felt temporarily empty. It felt abandoned.
You sat curled beneath a blanket on the couch wearing Leon's sweatshirt while weak blue light from the television flickered across the room. You hadn't actually been watching anything for nearly an hour. The sounds blurred together beneath the pounding in your head and the fever simmering painfully beneath your skin.
Your breathing sounded wrong tonight. Too shallow. Every inhale dragged sharply through your chest like your lungs had become lined with broken glass. You coughed into the blanket again. Blood stained the fabric. For a long moment, you simply stared at it, then quietly folded that section beneath itself so you wouldn't have to keep looking at it.
The rain had only stopped for a few days before it seemed constant again. Tonight was no different. You closed your eyes. Leon was in Racoon City, fighting his way through creatures, trying to find a cure. You wonder if he's thinking of you as much as you're thinking of him... probably.
You imagined him moving through dark hallways with a gun in his hands and exhaustion carved deep into his bones. You imagined the infection tearing through his body harder every time he pushed himself too far. You imagined him fighting anyway because that's what Leon always did. He kept going. EVen when he was breaking apart, especially when something important was on the line.
A shaky breath escaped you before another coughing fit hit hard enough to bend you forward painfully against the couch cushions. This one lasted longer. By the end of it, black spots danced across your vision.
"Jesus Christ," you whispered weakly once it stopped.
Your voice sounded small in the empty apartment. You tried standing and it turned out to be a mistake. Dizziness slammed into you so fast the room tilted violently sideways. Your knees buckled before you even fully understood what was happening, and suddenly you were gripping the edge of the coffee table hard enough your fingers hurt while your pulse thundered wildly beneath your skin.
It took nearly a full minute before the apartment stopped spinning. You stayed crouched there breathing unevenly while fear crawled coldly through your chest. It was getting bad... quickly. Somewhere deep down, beneath all the denial you'd been clinging to for Leon's sake, you finally understood the truth.
You weren't going to make it long enough. There was no dramatics or sudden panic. It was certainty settling softly into your bones. Your eyes burned painfully.
"No..." you whispered immediately.
You forced yourself upright again eventually, moving slowly toward the kitchen for water. Every step exhausted you now. By the time you reached the sink, your breathing had already gone ragged.
The glass slipped from your trembling fingers before you could even fill it properly. It shattered against the floor. The sound rang violently through the apartment. You stared at the broken pieces for several seconds before tears suddenly blurred your vision without warning.
Leon wasn't here. If Leon had been here, he would've immediately crossed the room toward you with that worried crease between his brows. He would've checked your hands for cuts before even looking at the floor. He would've told you to sit down while he cleaned the mess himself. The apartment felt enormous without him. Lonely in a way that physically hurt.
You slid slowly down against the kitchen cabinets before you could stop yourself, exhausted enough that the cold tile beneath you actually felt comforting against your feverish skin. And suddenly, all you wanted was to hear his voice.
Your hand shook badly while pulling your phone from the pocket of the sweatshirt. Three missed calls from Leon. Two unread messages.
Made it to the checkpoint. You awake?
An hour later.
Miss you already. Love you.
Your chest cracked painfully around the words. A sob climbed abruptly into your throat before you swallowed it back down hard. You couldn't do this to him. Not now. Not while he was fighting through hell trying to bring salvation home in his bare hands.
Your gaze drifted slowly toward the kitchen table. Toward the notebook resting beside the fruit bowl. And something inside you quietly gave way. The walk back to the couch took nearly everything you had left.
By the time you lowered yourself carefully onto the cushions again, your entire body trembled with exhaustion. Rain whispered steadily against the windows while the city lights outside blurred softly through the fever haze clouding your vision.
You pulled the notebook into your lap and opened to the first blank page. For several long moments, you just stared at the blank page, tears slipping silently down your face. It's not easy to write a love letter that's also a goodbye letter.
You sat for a long time before slowly, carefully, you began to write.
By the time Leon finally returned, dawn had started bleeding weak gray light across the city skyline. The apartment door unlocked roughly.
"Hey," Leon called breathlessly as he stepped inside. "Hey, sweetheart?"
His voice sounded different. Lighter. Hopeful. For the first time in years. He shut the door quickly behind himself while rainwater dripped steadily from his jacket onto the floorboards. His breathing sounded clearer now. Stronger. The dark veins once curling beneath the skin of his neck had faded significantly.
In his hand, clutched tightly enough to hurt, sat two glasses vials. He'd done it. He'd actually done it.
"I got it," he said breathlessly, already moving further into the apartment. "I got enough for both of you. You should've seen the shit I had to..."
Then he saw you and the words died instantly. Silence crashed through the apartment. Leon stopped moving completely. For one horrible second, his expression didn't change at all. His brain physically could not understand what it was seeing.
You sat curled against the corner of the couch beneath the blanket, still wearing his sweatshirt. One hand rested loosely in your lap. The television cast pale flickering light across your still face. Waiting for him. Just like you promised.
"No," Leon whispered.
The vials slipped from his fingers onto the carpet. He crossed the room instantly.
"Hey," he breathed shakily, dropping hard to his knees beside the couch. "Hey, hey..."
His hands reached for you frantically, cupping your face, your shoulders, anywhere he could touch like enough contact might somehow undo reality itself.
Your skin was cold. Leon made a sound then. A sob, a swallowed scream, something broken.
"No, no, no..." His voice cracked apart violently while he pulled you against his chest. "Please. Please don't do this to me."
His entire body shook around the words. The cure sat forgotten on the floor beside him. Too late. Too fucking late.
Leon pressed his forehead desperately against yours while tears spilled uncontrollably down his face. "I came back," he choked out. "You said you'd wait for me."
His shaking hand brushed against something on the coffee table. Your notebook sat open where you tore the pages out. Leon froze. For several seconds, he simply stared at your handwriting on the folded paper before realizing what it was. Then his breathing broke all over again. His hands trembled violently while opening it.
My dear Leon,
If you're reading this, then you came home. I always believed you would. I'm sorry you had to find me this way, Lee. I need you to know this isn't your fault. You didn't fail me.
You've spent years carrying the weight of Raccoon City. It's carved into your bones, and I know you're already preparing to carry this too. So before anything else, I need you to listen to me one last time.
This isn't your fault. Not the city. Not the infection. Not this.
Loving you is the easiest thing I ever did. Even at the end, especially at the end. I know you probably came home carrying a cure for me. That thought hurts more than dying does. I know you fought for me. I know you pushed yourself too hard trying to reach me in time. I know you probably didn't sleep and ignored every injury because that's who you are.
I want you to know I fought too, I fought so fucking hard to stay awake until you came home. You gave me years I never should've had. After Raccoon City, I thought my life was over. Then somehow, impossibly, I got mornings with you. Movie nights on the couch. Burnt coffee and late-night takeout and listening to you complain every time I made you eat vegetables. I got to love you long enough to call you my husband. How special is that?
When you read this, I need you to do something impossibly hard for me. Live. Really live. Don't just survive missions and carry those ghosts until they bury you.
I need you to sleep in sometimes. I need you to laugh. I need you to stop apologizing for surviving.
Thanks for coming back for me. I loved you until the very end, and wherever I am now, I love you still. Always have and always will.
By the time Leon reached the final line, he could barely see through the force of his own tears. A shattered sound escaped him as he folded forward against your shoulder, clutching the letter so tightly it crumpled in his hands. Then, still sobbing hard enough to shake, Leon pulled you closer against his chest and held you there like love alone might somehow still be enough to keep you warm.
Leon didn't know how long he stayed there holding you. Time stopped making sense almost immediately after he realized you were gone. The apartment had gone completely still around him. Morning light slowly crept across the floorboards in pale gray stripes while rainwater continued dripping softly from the hem of his jacket onto the carpet below. Somewhere nearby, the television kept talking in cheerful voices that sounded grotesque against the sound of Leon trying not to break apart.
Your body rested against his chest beneath the blanket, cold even through the sweatshirt you'd stolen from him days ago. Leon couldn't stop touching you. His hands kept moving without thinking, trembling fingers brushing through your hair, cradling your face, rubbing warmth uselessly back into your hands like if he just tried hard enough, your skin would stop feeling so cold beneath his own.
"I'm here now," he whispered hoarsely.
The words dissolved into another shaky breath. His chest no longer hurt when he breathed. That realization arrived suddenly and violently. Leon froze again.
No pressure in his lungs. No cough clawing up his throat. No burning weakness curling through his ribs every time he inhaled. The infection was gone because he was cured. And somehow that made everything worse. Because now he gets to live his normal life, and you're not here to do it with him. He survived. Sherry would survive. You should have too.
A broken sound escaped him before he folded forward against your shoulder again, clutching you tighter while grief tore violently through him. "No," he choked out. "No, no, no..."
His eyes drifted blindly across the apartment through tears he could no longer control. That was when he started noticing things. The blanket wrapped tightly around you despite how warm the apartment felt. A cup of tea sitting untouched on the coffee table. Tissues overflowing in the trash can beside the couch. Dark red staining several of them.
His stomach twisted violently. "No..."
His gazed landed on the kitchen. Broken glass still littered the floor near the sink. Had you fallen? Had you been too weak to hold up the glass? His breathing turned ragged again quickly.
Leon could suddenly picture it perfectly. Your trembling hands. Your fever. You trying to get water alone because he wasn't here to help you. Because he'd left you here.
His eyes darted frantically around the apartment now like every detail had become another wound opening inside his chest. Your medicine bottles remained untouched on the counter. One of the couch cushions had been dragged slightly crooked, like you'd struggled to get comfortable.
He noticed your phone, still resting beside you beneath the blanket. He grabbed it with shaking hands. It was open on the messages he sent you earlier.
"Oh, God..." His voice broke apart again completely.
You'd read them. You had to have read them. Which meant you'd been alive then. Alive and alone and getting worse while he crawled through hell believing he still had time.
Leon pressed a shaking hand hard over his mouth as sobs tore uncontrollably from his chest now. He buried his face briefly against the top of your head while guilt ripped through him with surgical precision.
"I would've come home," he choked out. "You should've called me. I would've come back."
But even while saying it, he knew you wouldn't have done that to him. Because you knew exactly who he was. You knew if he thought you were dying, he would've abandoned the mission without hesitation. And then nobody would've been saved. Even at the end, you'd still been protecting him.
He reread the letter again. And then again, and again, and again. By the fifth time, the paper had become damp and wrinkled from his shaking hands.
Loving you was the easiest thing I ever did.
Leon squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to ache. "I loved you too," he whispered brokenly into the silence. "Jesus Christ, I loved you so fucking much."
His phone started vibrating somewhere nearby. Leon ignored it. Then it rang again. And again. Eventually, another sound joined it. Knocking. Hard and urgent against the apartment door. Leon barely reacted.
"Leon!" Sherry yelled from outside.
The sound of her voice cut faintly through the fog swallowing him whole. Another knock.
"Leon, open the door!"
He didn't remember standing. He only remembered the unbearable emptiness that hit the second he carefully lowered your body back against the couch cushions. Like some vital piece of himself had physically separated from him the moment he let go.
The walk to the door felt unreal. He opened the door looking less like the government agent he was trained to be and more like the hollow shell of the man he once was.
Sherry's expression changed instantly the second she saw him. Relief vanished when she saw his face. Then confusion washed over. Then fear.
"Leon, what happened? They said you stopped responding after debrief and I..." Her voice trailed off the moment she looked past him into the apartment, where she saw you on the couch, unmoving.
"Oh my god."
Leon couldn't speak. He tried, but nothing came out except a shattered breath. Sherry's eyes immediately filled with tears as she stepped slowly into the apartment. She understood instantly. Of course she did.
She saw the cure vials abandoned on the carpet. She saw your body curled beneath the blanket. She saw the letter crumpled tightly in Leon's shaking hand. And because Sherry Birkin knew grief intimately, she didn't fill the room with useless condolences. Instead, she walked quietly toward Leon and wrapped her arms around him.
"I was too late," he whispered hoarsely.
Sherry held him tighter.
"No," Leon choked out immediately after, like correcting her before she'd even spoken. "I had it. I actually had it."
Sherry started crying then too. Leon pressed the heel of his hand hard against his eyes, but the tears kept coming anyway. Endless. Exhausted. Years of horror finally collapsing inward all at once.
Behind them, the apartment sat painfully unchanged. The television still flickered softly. Rain still tapped against the windows. Your tea still sat untouched on the table. The world kept moving with unbearable indifference.
Hours later, people finally arrived. Voices filled the apartment in low careful murmurs. Medical personnel. Government contacts. Procedures that needed to be preformed. Leon hated every second of it. They spoke too softly around him. Looked at him too carefully.
When they finally approached the couch, Leon's expression hardened instantly.
"No."
One of the responders hesitated gently. "Agent Kennedy..."
"No." His voice cracked sharply. "I'll carry her."
Nobody argued after that. Leon crossed the apartment slowly before kneeling beside the couch one final time. His hands shook while brushing hair carefully back from your face. You looked peaceful. That almost destroyed him all over again.
For one terrible moment, Leon remembered kissing you goodbye in this exact apartment only days earlier. I'm coming home to you. The memory hollowed him out.
"I'm sorry," he whispered shakily.
Then, with unbearable gentleness, Leon slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back before lifting you carefully against his chest. The apartment blurred around him afterward. The elevator. The rain outside. People speaking softly nearby. None of it felt real. The only thing Leon truly registered was how light you felt in his arms. Much too light.
By the time he returned to the apartment alone later that night, silence had fully settled into every room. The couch sat empty now. The blanket folded neatly over one armrest. Your tea cup now in the kitchen. The glass in the trash. Leon stood motionless in the doorway for a long time before slowly crossing the apartment toward the couch. Then he sat down exactly where he'd found you that morning. Your letter, once again, clutched tightly in his hands.
Nearby, the cure that had saved his life rested untouched on the table. Sherry took hers home. And now Leon was alive. Cured. And completely fucking alone.
Thanks for reading! My requests are open! <3 Special thanks to the anon who requested this. I love writing angsty heartbreak like this.
Synopsis: you and Leon are DSO partners. While infiltrating an umbrella facility, Leon gets infected by a new virus strain. One that mutates quickly when the person they love is within proximity.
Words: 7.6k
Part two here
A/N: it's just sex pollen, I just wrote some nonsense science to make it work lol. This is part one because I'm a crazy person that can never just sit down and write smut. I have to turn it into a 7.6k word angst build up. Not proof read because I don't believe in it, only raw passion and first drafts. You can imagine whatever Leon you want, it won't really matter in-text
Requested by my girly @angellwingsss
Some elements borrowed from this sex pollen fic here
Rain hammered the mountainside hard enough to blur the world beyond the windshield into streaks of gray and silver.
The Umbrella facility sat buried beneath it all, entangled with a dense forest that climbed over reinforced concrete like nature had tried to erase the place.
Leon killed the engine beside the tree line and the silence that followed felt tense.
For a moment neither of you moved. Rain ticked steadily against the roof. The dashboard cast faint blue light across Leon’s face, catching the sharp line of his jaw and the exhaustion settled beneath his eyes.
He looked older in low lighting. Worn in the way only years of surviving impossible things could make someone.
“You ready?” you asked quietly.
Leon checked his sidearm one final time.
“Never,” he answered.
Then he looked at you. He seemed to get more rigid.
“C’mon,” he murmured. “Let’s go ruin another corporation.”
You snorted softly under your breath as you pulled your hood up.
The two of you moved through the forest without speaking after that. You didn’t need to anymore. Years as partners had carved communication into instinct between you both.
Small gestures and glances. Shifts in posture that told a whole story. Leon could read your intentions before you fully acted on them, and you had long since learned the meaning behind every quiet look he gave you.
The rain soaked through your clothes within minutes.
Cold branches dragged against tactical gear as you descended the ridge toward the hidden entrance built into the mountainside. Moss crawled over thick reinforced doors nearly invisible beneath the rock face.
Umbrella always did love dramatic architecture.
You crouched beside the security panel while Leon positioned himself behind you automatically, broad frame partially shielding you from the rain while he scanned the tree line.
“You’re hovering,” you murmured while pulling wires free from the access port.
“You’re slow.”
“You’re old.”
“That one actually hurt.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Behind you, Leon’s hand rested loosely near the small of your back, protective in the unconscious way he always became during missions.
The keypad flickered green beneath your fingers.
“There we go.”
The heavy doors unlocked with a deep mechanical groan that echoed into darkness below.
Cold air rolled upward from the underground corridor carrying the faint smell of antiseptic, rust, and something worse underneath it all.
Decay.
Leon stepped slightly in front of you on instinct.
“You smell that?” you asked quietly.
“Yeah.”
His voice lowered.
“Stay sharp.”
The facility interior was dimly lit with emergency power only. Long concrete corridors stretched endlessly beneath flickering lights. Water dripped steadily somewhere deeper underground. Old Umbrella logos still marked sections of the walls despite years of abandonment.
Or supposed abandonment.
Your boots echoed softly beside Leon’s as you advanced deeper into the structure.
“You ever think maybe we deserve normal jobs?” you whispered.
He adjusted the rifle hanging against his chest before nodding toward a rusted blood smear dragged across the hallway floor.
“Little late for emotional stability.”
You followed the trail with your flashlight. The blood disappeared beneath a security door partially ajar at the far end of the corridor.
Leon moved first automatically. You covered him without discussion. Years of this.
Years of knowing exactly where the other person would stand before either of you consciously decided it.
The lab beyond had been torn apart. Research terminals smashed. Glass containment chambers shattered inward. Black stains climbed the walls in strange branching patterns that looked almost organic.
Your stomach tightened.
“Jesus,” you whispered.
Leon’s expression hardened immediately.
“Recent,” he said.
One gloved hand brushed lightly against your elbow as he passed you to inspect one of the overturned workstations.
You crouched near a terminal still flickering weakly with power.
“Got something,” you murmured.
Leon appeared beside you almost instantly, warm despite the cold underground air.
Your shoulder brushed his briefly as you pulled up corrupted files across the cracked monitor screen.
Human experimentation. Bioweapon integration.
Neural conditioning.
The usual Umbrella nightmare fuel.
Then, a file marked ACTIVE SUBJECTS.
Leon went still beside you. “Open it.”
You clicked and began reading something out loud.
Leon barely heard it. He was lost in sudden thought.
The mission had gone too smoothly.
This place felt…prepared. There had been almost no resistance.
You stopped reading and looked at him.
“You’re brooding again,” you murmured quietly.
Leon scanned the room one more time.
“Something’s off.”
You glanced back toward him over your shoulder then.
“Can’t you just be thankful,” you said. “No alarms. No B.O.W.s. No psychotic monologue. Honestly, this is kinda refreshing.”
Leon’s jaw tightened.
“No,” he said quietly. “This is worse.”
Leon stepped toward the main terminal slowly, eyes narrowing. He peeked around the corner.
You don't know what he saw, because at that moment, the computer screen glitched and drew your attention.
“Move,” he snapped instantly.
You reacted immediately because you trusted his instincts more than your own.
A loud metallic slam echoed somewhere deep within the facility.
Both of you turned immediately.
There was another sound.
Footsteps. Too many.
Leon grabbed your arm instantly and pulled you behind overturned lab equipment just as tactical lights flooded the corridor outside.
It wasn't a swarm of infected.
It was a unit of soldiers, organized and armed.
“Thought this place was abandoned,” you breathed.
Leon’s jaw tightened.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Me too.”
Voices crackled through radios outside the lab.
You counted at least eight. Maybe more.
Leon leaned close enough that his shoulder pressed firmly against yours, speaking low near your ear.
“East hallway. Service elevator. We move fast.”
You nodded once.
He looked at you for one extra second afterward.
Then both of you moved simultaneously.
Leon burst from cover first with terrifying precision, dropping the nearest guard before the others fully reacted. Gunfire exploded through the corridor. You covered the opposite flank automatically while Leon advanced ahead of you.
Years of missions together turned combat into choreography.
One moved. The other compensated.
Perfect.
You almost reached the elevator corridor cleanly, but the second you were about to cross the threshold, steel shutters detonated downward from the ceiling with a deafening crash that sealed every exit simultaneously.
Red emergency lighting flooded the corridor.
And then came the voice, broadcast overhead through the facility speakers.
“Good evening, Agent Kennedy.”
You froze.
Leon didn’t.
His weapon was already raised, eyes tracking every possible angle.
“Observation confirms previous reports were accurate,” the voice continued conversationally. “Your response times remain exceptional.”
Your stomach dropped.
Leon’s expression darkened instantly.
They knew exactly who he was.
“Unfortunately,” the voice continued, “your psychological profile also remains consistent.”
Gas hissed violently from vents overhead.
Leon’s head snapped upward instantly. “Gas!”
White vapor flooded downward from hidden vents across the ceiling.
Your lungs burned immediately, vision blurring.
Leon grabbed your arm hard enough to steady you as your knees nearly buckled.
“Don’t breathe it,” he ordered roughly.
You tried. God, you tried, but the world tilted violently anyways.
You pulled your gas mask free from where it hung in your utility belt, but it was too late for you. With your last remaining dexterity, you tugged it over Leon's face.
He almost pushed you away, but one hand was holding you and the other was aiming his gun.
He could have kept going. Leon Kennedy absolutely could have kept going. He would have found a way to escape.
Extraction had still been possible for him. Mission survival was still possible.
But he wouldn't go alone.
He dropped beside you instantly while gunfire closed in around both of you.
“You hit?” he demanded through the mask.
You tried standing. Your leg buckled immediately.
“Leon, go,” you said, your words slurring.
“Yeah,” he said breathlessly, aiming down sights again. “Not happening.”
“Leon–”
“Save it.”
Leon shoved himself between you and the advancing soldiers. You could see the fight still burning through him stubbornly as he fired down the corridor one-handed while holding you upright with the other.
Then even Leon staggered, and somehow, that scared you more than the guns.
His breathing turned ragged. Heavy.
One knee hit the ground hard.
“Leon–”
“I got you,” he rasped.
Dark figures surrounded both of you through the haze.
Leon tried to stand again and failed.
A hand grabbed the back of his tactical vest and forced him downward. Another reached for you.
Leon reacted instantly despite barely remaining conscious, like a feral animal’s last stand.
His hand caught someone by the throat hard enough to slam them against the wall before another blow struck the back of his head.
Everything blurred.
The last thing you saw clearly was Leon turning toward you through the gas, fighting against hands dragging him backward.
Still trying to reach you.
Then darkness swallowed both of you whole.
This had been engineered perfectly.
Not to stop any agent. It was specifically to trap Leon Kennedy.
Umbrella understood something most people didn’t: Leon’s greatest vulnerability had never been recklessness.
It was love.
Umbrella was building a weapon, and they wanted to test it on DSO’s greatest agent. But to do it, they needed one very specific element.
The thing Leon Kennedy loved.
You.
Consciousness returned slowly.
The first sensation was pain.
A brutal throbbing at the back of your skull pulsed in time with your heartbeat while nausea rolled heavily through your stomach. Your wrists burned next. Metal restraints bit sharply into skin already rubbed raw from movement you didn’t remember making.
Then came the cold.
Concrete beneath your boots.
Stale underground air.
The faint chemical smell of antiseptic and blood.
Your eyes opened carefully.
Dim industrial lights buzzed overhead, casting pale fluorescence across a large containment room stripped nearly bare except for drains built into the floor and heavy equipment lining the walls.
And directly across from you was Leon.
Relief hit so fast it almost hurt.
He was tied to a steel chair several feet away facing you, wrists restrained behind the backrest, shoulders tense beneath torn tactical gear. Blood streaked one side of his face.
His blond hair hung damply across his forehead, shadowing eyes already fixed entirely on you.
The instant he saw your eyes open fully, something in his expression eased.
“You with me?” he asked quietly.
His voice sounded rougher than usual.
You swallowed against the dryness in your throat.
“Unfortunately.”
One corner of his mouth twitched faintly.
Thank God.
Even drugged, restrained, and bleeding, Leon still managed to look like a man other people should be afraid of.
The sound of approaching footsteps cut through the room.
Leon’s attention sharpened instantly.
The heavy steel door opened moments later and three armed figures entered alongside a fourth man dressed not like security, but research staff.
Unlike the guards, he looked almost excited.
Thin man. Wire-frame glasses. White coat too pristine for a facility like this. He carried a tablet beneath one arm and a secured metal case in the other hand.
Leon noticed the case instantly. His expression hardened.
The researcher approached slowly, studying Leon with visible fascination.
“It’s remarkable finally meeting you in person,” he said conversationally. “You’ve disrupted years of research, Agent Kennedy.”
Leon said nothing.
The researcher smiled slightly.
“Yes. That aligns with your profile.”
He set the metal case carefully atop a nearby table before glancing down at the tablet in his hand.
“Former RPD officer. Federal agent. Counter-bioterrorism specialist.” His eyes lifted again. “Repeated exposure to enhanced viral strains without psychological collapse.”
Leon gave him the ol’ Kennedy-interrogation special: firm eye-contact and silence.
The researcher tilted his head thoughtfully.
“And most importantly, extreme attachment inhibition.”
Your brow furrowed slightly.
“You playing therapist or torturing us?” you ask, still groggy.
The researcher smiled in your direction.
“I suppose she is charming. In the way men like you might like.”
You ignored him to look at the guards. They had begun moving, approaching either side of Leon while the researcher paced slowly between your chairs.
“For years,” he continued, “Umbrella’s successors have struggled with a central problem regarding adaptive bioweapons.”
He sounded like a professor giving a lecture.
“The more emotionally advanced the host remains, the more unstable the mutation becomes. Human attachment creates competing neurological priorities.” He smiled faintly. “Love, as it turns out, is chemically inconvenient.”
You glanced toward Leon.
His jaw had tightened slightly.
The researcher noticed immediately.
“However,” he continued smoothly, “our recent work produced an interesting discovery.”
He tapped something across the tablet.
A monitor flickered alive nearby displaying medical scans and neural activity maps.
“The parasite strain responds aggressively to oxytocin, dopamine fixation, cortisol spikes associated with emotional attachment…” His eyes gleamed now. “In simple terms, proximity to a deeply bonded subject accelerates mutation dramatically.”
Your stomach tightened.
The researcher turned fully toward Leon now.
“We needed subjects capable of profound attachment while also possessing sufficient combat survivability to withstand transformation.”
Still Leon said nothing.
But you saw it.
The faint shift in his breathing. The increasing stillness.
He understood where this was going before you did.
“You were selected because psychologically, you appeared ideal,” the researcher said. “A highly disciplined subject with years of suppressed emotional conditioning.”
Leon finally spoke, low and flat.
“You built a virus around love?”
The researcher smiled.
“A gross oversimplification. But essentially, yes.”
One of the guards stepped closer toward you.
Leon’s attention twitched there instantly.
The movement was microscopic, but everyone in the room noticed.
The researcher’s smile widened.
“Ah,” he murmured softly.
You felt your pulse begin climbing.
This wasn’t interrogation. This was observation. They weren’t trying to learn about the mission.
They were studying Leon.
The researcher crouched slightly in front of him.
“Our issue,” he explained gently, “is confirmation. Emotional attachment is notoriously difficult to verify in psychologically compartmentalized subjects.”
Leon stared at him coldly. “So you kidnapped us to find out.”
“You came to us, actually.”
The researcher nodded once toward the guards.
One of them grabbed your jaw hard enough to bruise.
Leon moved instantly. The steel chair shrieked violently against the floor as he lunged forward hard enough to strain the restraints.
“Don’t,” he said.
The word cracked through the room sharp enough to make even the guards pause.
The researcher watched Leon carefully now, fascinated.
“There,” he whispered. “Again.”
Your stomach dropped.
Oh God.
Leon realized it too. He immediately went still, like he was trying to physically bury every emotion back beneath concrete.
The researcher sighed softly.
“You understand our position. We cannot proceed with inoculation until emotional reciprocity is confirmed.”
You frowned. “Inoculation?”
The metal case clicked open. Inside rested several vials filled with dark iridescent fluid.
The researcher removed one carefully. The liquid inside shifted strangely beneath the lights, almost moving toward warmth.
Your blood ran cold.
“The strain amplifies attachment-based neural pathways until they override higher behavioral inhibition,” the researcher explained calmly. “Affection becomes fixation. Fixation becomes dependency. Dependency becomes obedience.”
One of the guards suddenly forced your head backward by your hair.
The syringe appeared in the researcher’s hand.
Leon’s face changed instantly. It was raw protective terror that ripped violently through every layer of restraint he possessed.
“Stop,” he said immediately.
The researcher’s eyes lit with excitement.
“There it is.”
The needle hovered near your throat.
You tried jerking away but the guard held you firmly in place.
“Please,” the researcher said almost kindly to Leon. “This becomes much simpler if you cooperate.”
Leon’s chest rose sharply once, then again. His eyes never left the syringe.
“What do you want?” he asked tightly.
“Confirmation.”
The researcher smiled faintly.
“You love her, don’t you?”
Leon gave them nothing.
The syringe moved closer.
Leon’s restraints creaked audibly beneath the force of his grip.
“Agent Kennedy,” the researcher continued softly, “if attachment exists, the virus will bond aggressively through proximity. If it does not…” He shrugged lightly. “Well. Then she dies.”
Your heart slammed hard against your ribs.
“Leon,” you said immediately. “Don’t.”
His eyes finally found yours.
Whatever you intended to say next died instantly in your throat, because Leon looked devastated.
The researcher pressed the needle lightly against your skin.
“Leon,” you said, forcing your voice into softness. “It's ok. I'll be ok,” you try to convince him but he knows better.
“Don't give them what they want,” you continued.
“No?” the researcher asked, the needle pressing against your skin just so, threatening to pierce through.
Leon broke.
He closed his eyes briefly like something inside him finally gave way. Then looked at the researcher again, exhausted and completely honest.
“If she gets hurt,” Leon said quietly, “there won’t be enough left of this place to study.”
Silence swallowed the room.
The guards exchanged uneasy glances immediately.
Even the researcher stared at him differently now.
Because that wasn’t denial.
That wasn’t even really an admission.
What it was, was devotion so complete that Leon could no longer imagine a version of the world that continued existing without you alive inside it.
The researcher smiled slowly.
“Excellent.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Wait–”
The guards released you abruptly, and before either of you fully understood, they moved toward Leon instead.
His eyes narrowed instantly.
The researcher approached him with the syringe.
“You were always the intended subject.”
Leon surged against the restraints as the needle plunged into his neck.
Leon’s body arched hard enough to nearly overturn the chair completely. A strangled sound tore from him as the dark fluid disappeared into his bloodstream.
Then suddenly, his breathing stopped. Leon simply froze. Every muscle locked rigid beneath his skin.
Then his head lifted slowly.
And his eyes found you.
Instantly.
Like something biological had just rewritten the entire architecture of his DNA around your existence.
The researcher whispered in awe behind him.
“Oh… it worked.”
Nobody was watching you anymore. That was their first mistake.
Every eye in the room had shifted toward Leon the moment the virus entered his bloodstream. The guards stepped closer, weapons raised as his body strained against the steel chair.
Even the researcher had forgotten himself enough to move nearer, utterly captivated by what was happening to Leon in real time.
You used the distraction immediately. Slowly, carefully, you flexed your right wrist against the restraint again.
Pain flared sharply where metal had already scraped skin raw, but you ignored it. Earlier, while they had been occupied threatening you, you’d managed to shift the angle of the cuff just slightly against the chair frame. Not enough to free yourself then.
Enough now.
Leon made another strangled sound across the room.
Your eyes snapped toward him involuntarily.
God.
His breathing had become uneven to the point of violence. Every muscle in his body stood taut beneath torn black fabric, veins visible along his forearms where the restraints cut into him. But worst of all were his eyes.
They kept finding you.
Constantly.
Like something inside him had been rewired toward your existence so completely that even pain couldn’t interrupt it.
The researcher stepped directly in front of him now, speaking rapidly into a recorder.
Your left hand slipped free. You went still instantly.
No reaction from the guards.
Good.
Very slowly, you lowered your freed hand behind the chair, masking the movement beneath the angle of your body while you worked the second restraint loose.
Across the room, Leon suddenly jerked hard enough to drag the entire steel chair several inches across concrete.
One of the guards swore under his breath.
“Hold him down.”
Leon’s head lifted sharply at that.
You saw exactly why people feared him. When Leon Kennedy truly lost control, he became terrifyingly focused.
The guard nearest him reached toward your side of the room.
Leon reacted immediately.
“No.”
The word cracked through the chamber low and wrecked and lethal all at once.
The guard froze.
So did you.
Because underneath the distortion in his voice, underneath the infection and pain and rage, there was fear at the thought of losing you.
The researcher turned back toward Leon with visible fascination.
“Incredible,” he whispered.
Nobody noticed your second restraint fall silently open.
You stayed perfectly still for another heartbeat anyway, wrists free now but hidden carefully behind the chair.
His pupils widened instantly the moment he realized your hands were free.
Something fierce and relieved crossed his face so quickly it almost hurt to look at, but he said nothing.
He just held your gaze while another tremor tore visibly through his body.
Trusting you completely, like he already knew exactly what you were about to do.
You moved.
The freed restraint whipped around the nearest guard’s throat before he fully reacted. His weapon clattered uselessly to the floor as you drove your elbow backward into his ribs hard enough to hear something crack.
Another guard shouted.
You kicked his knee sideways and grabbed the dropped firearm before he hit the ground.
Gunfire erupted deafeningly through the containment room.
The researcher screamed and ducked.
The guard stumbled backward.
You dropped another man with two shots center mass before spinning toward the researcher.
“Don’t–”
You slammed him unconscious with the butt of the pistol before he finished speaking.
Silence crashed suddenly over the room afterward except for ragged breathing.
You turned instantly toward Leon.
He was still restrained partially to the chair, head lowered, breathing hard enough that his entire chest strained beneath torn tactical gear.
“Leon.”
No response.
You hurried toward him immediately, kicking weapons aside as you crossed the room.
The second you got close, he recoiled.
Violently.
The chair legs screeched backward across concrete as Leon shoved himself away from you hard enough to nearly tip over entirely.
Your stomach dropped.
“Leon?”
His head lifted sharply.
Something deep inside you went cold when you saw that his pupils were blown wide.
Unfocused.
His breathing had become uneven, every inhale visibly forced through clenched teeth. Sweat dampened strands of blond hair against his forehead now despite the freezing room.
And his eyes, God. The way he was looking at you, like he was starving. Like being near you physically hurt him somehow.
“Don’t,” he rasped immediately when you reached for him again.
You ignored him and crouched beside the restraints anyway.
“Gonna get you out,” you rushed, hands fiddling with the locks.
“Don’t.”
His voice sounded shredded now. Every word dragged out through visible effort.
You looked up at him, surprised.
He looked wrecked. He looked wild.
He looked sick. Slick with sweat, skin pale.
“Shut up, Leon. Don't care what you're sick with. Gonna get you free, get you home, and get you fixed up.”
You couldn't pick the lock.
Stepped back, picked up the gun again, and shot through the chain.
Then you bent to help him up while studying him with growing alarm.
Skin flushed.
Elevated pulse.
Dilated pupils.
Muscle tension severe enough to tremble intermittently beneath the surface.
Drugged, definitely, but not in any way you recognized.
Leon stood immediately, then staggered hard enough to catch himself against the wall.
You reached instinctively toward him.
Big mistake.
The second your hand touched his arm, Leon made a sound you had never heard from him before.
Low. Almost painful.
His eyes squeezed shut hard enough to crease his entire expression while one shaking hand gripped your wrist.
Not pushing you away. He was holding himself back.
“Leon,” you said carefully.
He released you instantly like your skin burned him.
“Need you to back up,” he said roughly.
You stared at him. “What?”
His breathing worsened. Every second near you seemed to be affecting him more.
“You’re symptomatic,” you said immediately, switching automatically into mission mode. “Tell me exactly what you’re feeling.”
Leon laughed once. A terrible sound.
“Not gonna like the answer.”
You stepped closer again despite him. “Leon.”
His eyes snapped toward you instantly, hopelessly. Like he couldn’t stop looking.
You understood something horrifying.
Not because of what he said. Because of how hard he was trying not to say it.
The infection wasn’t making him violent. It was making him desperate.
For you.
Leon dragged one trembling hand down across his face like he physically could not keep himself together anymore.
“We need to move,” he said tightly.
You studied him harder now. Every symptom escalated in your presence.
Heart rate. Respiration. Physical agitation. And underneath all of it, restraint.
Leon was fighting himself harder than he had fought the guards.
“You’re resisting it,” you realized quietly.
His jaw flexed. “Trying.”
Another wave hit him visibly then.
His shoulders tightened sharply, breathing faltered.
And for one terrifying second, his eyes dropped to your mouth with naked hunger so intense it almost didn’t look human.
Then immediately filled with shame afterward.
He turned away hard enough to brace both hands against the wall.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered hoarsely to himself.
Your chest tightened painfully, because Leon Kennedy – older, exhausted, painfully disciplined Leon Kennedy – looked genuinely horrified by whatever this thing was making him feel.
And somehow, that frightened you more than if he’d lost control completely.
“You're not lookin so great,” you tell Leon.
He exhales a shaky breath.
“Not feelin so great.”
You try to help him up. He pushes you away.
You step closer. He steps further.
Leon staggered against the wall.
The sound made your pulse jump.
Every breath he took sounded wrong now, like his lungs had forgotten how to function normally.
“Fuck, Leon, you need to get your shit together so I can help you get your shit together.”
Leon braced against the wall, pressing his forehead against him.
“God, I need you to leave.”
He dropped his forehead against the wall again, like the pain was grounding him.
“Can't control myself.”
You watched him, lips parted, pulse erratic, uncertain.
Then you decided what to do.
“If you're not going to help me, I'll find someone who can,” you said and walked over to the researcher.
His forehead had a nasty gash from where you split it open.
You fisted the front of his shirt and hoisted him up, slapping him repeatedly on the cheek until his eyes fluttered.
“Hello?” you called harshly. “Get your ass up.”
The researcher’s head wobbled until he could hold up his own neck.
“Fix him,” you snapped.
The researcher laughed weakly.
“You don’t understand what you’re seeing.”
You slapped him hard enough to snap his head sideways.
“Fix. Him.”
Across the room, Leon made another low sound beneath his breath.
Your attention snapped toward him instantly. Mistake.
The second your eyes landed on him, something visibly changed inside his body.
His pupils dilated and his posture tightened. He looked back at you with unbearable intensity.
The researcher watched the interaction with horrible fascination.
“There,” he whispered breathlessly. “You see it?”
You turned back toward him furiously. “See what?”
“The mutation.”
Leon braced one hand hard against the wall beside him. The steel dented slightly beneath his grip.
Your stomach dropped. That had not been human strength.
The researcher pushed onward quickly now, intoxicated by his own work.
“The strain was designed to amplify attachment-based neurological pathways through adrenal adaptation. Emotional fixation that triggers biological enhancement.”
Leon’s breathing worsened.
You looked over at him, your brow furrowing in worry.
“Stay with me, Leon.”
At the sound of your voice, Leon let out a low whine and stepped back.
The researcher laughed again when Leon physically recoiled from the sound of your voice.
“Remarkable,” he breathed. “The proximity effect is escalating faster than projected.”
You grabbed the front of his coat again. “What did you do to him?”
The researcher smiled through bloodied teeth.
“The bonded subject becomes biologically euphoric and behaviorally dependent. Heightened dopamine response. Heightened oxytocin fixation. Sensory enhancement linked directly to emotional stimulus.”
You stared at him blankly.
He nodded toward Leon.
“He can smell you from across the room now.”
Your pulse skipped.
The researcher continued almost eagerly.
“Pheromones. Skin temperature changes. Heartbeat fluctuations.” He tilted his head toward Leon with scientific awe. “You are chemically overwhelming to him.”
Leon looked genuinely miserable hearing it spoken aloud.
“Shut up,” he muttered.
But the researcher only smiled wider.
“The closer he remains to the object of attachment, the more aggressive the mutation becomes. Enhanced reflexes. Enhanced strength. Enhanced healing. Elevated aggression responses toward perceived threats to the bond.”
You swallowed hard. “And if we separate?”
The researcher’s expression brightened. “Oh.”
He laughed softly.
“He won’t tolerate separation for long.”
Your stomach turned.
“What does that mean?”
The researcher leaned back slowly despite your grip on him.
“It means his nervous system now interprets distance from you as biological distress.”
You stared.
“He’ll become stronger near you,” the researcher continued. “Faster. More adaptive. More lethal.”
Another tremor visibly moved through Leon’s body behind you.
The researcher smiled.
“But it will also become unbearable.”
You slapped him again. Harder this time.
“How do we stop it?”
The researcher spat blood onto the concrete floor.
“You don’t.”
You hit him again.
He laughed anyway.
“There is no cure.”
The room fell silent except for Leon’s ragged breathing.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“No,” you said immediately. “No, there has to be something.”
The researcher finally relented slightly beneath another violent shove.
“It can be stabilized.”
You froze. “How?”
He glanced toward Leon knowingly first. Then back toward you.
“The neurotransmitter cascade must remain continuously flooded,” he explained. “If proximity escalates the bond response, then elevated intimacy can temporarily satiate it.”
You frowned. “What?”
The researcher smiled slowly.
Leon looked away immediately. You suddenly realized he understood perfectly.
Heat crawled up your neck. You stared between them both.
“Translate.”
Leon rubbed one shaking hand down across his face. “Don’t.”
“Leon.”
His jaw flexed hard.
The researcher answered for him with visible satisfaction.
“Sex.”
Silence detonated through the room.
You blinked once.
The researcher’s smile widened cruelly.
“Orgasms, specifically,” he clarified. “Many.”
Leon closed his eyes briefly like he wanted the floor to open beneath him. Meanwhile your entire brain had simply stopped functioning.
The researcher continued conversationally despite the absolute psychological devastation unfolding around him.
“The biochemical release temporarily suppresses the escalation cycle. Oxytocin stabilization. Dopamine saturation. Cortisol reduction.” He shrugged lightly. “Primitive solution, really.”
You slowly turned toward Leon. He still wouldn’t look at you.
Leon Kennedy suddenly looked more horrified by having this conversation in front of you than by the actual experimental virus mutating his body.
And underneath the embarrassment, underneath the strain and shame and biological desperation, you could still see it.
The same thing that had always been there. Devotion, absolute and unrelenting.
Leon still wouldn't let you help him. When you tried to get him to follow you out of the building, he wouldn't.
Kept saying he wasn't safe to be around.
But you damn sure weren't going to leave him.
Leon sat on the floor beside the far wall now with his head tipped back against concrete, breathing slow and uneven through parted lips.
His tactical jacket had long since been discarded somewhere behind you both. Sweat dampened the black fabric clinging to his shirt, outlining the sharp lines of muscle beneath it every time his chest rose.
He looked sick. His body seemed to be burning itself alive into something stronger.
You crouched carefully in front of him again, reaching for his face.
“Leon.”
His eyes closed instantly the second your hand touched him.
A rough sound escaped him beneath his breath.
Your stomach tightened.
He was fevering badly now. Heat radiated off him hard enough that you could feel it against your palms as you pressed your hand to his throat, then his forehead. His pulse hammered beneath damp skin.
“Jesus,” you whispered.
Leon laughed once weakly. “Yeah.”
But his eyes had already drifted downward again.
Back to your mouth.
The look on his face nearly unraveled you.
Not lust, not exactly. Hunger, maybe. A need so overwhelming it had become painful to contain.
And underneath it, terror.
Leon Kennedy was a man built entirely out of self-control, and you could feel him losing pieces of it every second you stayed this close.
You pulled your hand back carefully. Immediately his breathing worsened.
His fingers flexed once against the floor beside him like his body wanted to reach for you automatically.
He stopped himself.
“You need satiation,” you said quietly, pointing to the now-dead researcher on the other side of a closed door, as if he would back you up.
Leon looked away. “We don’t know that.”
“Yes we do.”
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead.
You forced yourself to continue.
“We get you stable enough to move,” you said carefully, “then we get back to HQ. They’ll figure out a cure.”
Leon stared at the floor between you both.
“And when it stops working?”
Your throat tightened. “What?”
“The satiation.” His voice sounded rough now. Exhausted. “What happens when the virus isn’t satisfied anymore?”
Satisfied.
God.
You swallowed hard.
“Then…” You forced yourself onward despite the heat crawling into your face. “Then I’ll help again.”
Leon’s eyes lifted slowly toward yours.
You held his gaze.
“As many times as necessary,” you said quietly. “Again and again if we have to. Until they fix you.”
Something shattered across his expression.
He stood abruptly and moved away from you so fast it startled you. One hand slammed hard against the opposite wall while he bowed his head sharply like he physically couldn’t withstand being close to you anymore.
“No.”
“Leon–”
“No.”
His voice cracked harshly through the room.
You stared at him.
His shoulders rose and fell heavily beneath the thin black fabric stretched across his back.
“I’m not doing that to you.”
“You’re not doing anything to me.”
He laughed again, but there was nothing amused in it this time.
“You think I can tell the difference right now?”
The words hit hard because maybe he was right.
Maybe this thing inside him had twisted every instinct he possessed into something unbearable and biological and desperate.
But even now, even like this, Leon was still trying to protect you from himself.
He dragged one hand down across his face slowly before finally looking back toward you again.
His pupils were enormous now.
“You deserve better than being cornered into something because of me. I'm not going to make my survival dependent on your body.”
“You’re not cornering me.”
“I can smell you.”
Your breath caught.
His eyes shuttered closed.
“God, you smell so–” then he remembered himself.
Leon swallowed hard afterward like he regretted saying it aloud immediately.
“I can hear your heartbeat,” he admitted quietly. “I know every time you move. Every time you breathe.” His jaw tightened painfully. “You walk closer and my body reacts before I can stop it. I can’t distinguish between what I genuinely feel for you and what this virus is…chemically forcing on me.”
You stood slowly. “Leon.”
He shook his head immediately. “No. Don’t.”
But you moved toward him anyway, carefully.
His entire body visibly tensed in response. You could practically watch the restraint tearing through him in real time.
His breath was ragged against the space between you while he fought for control with visible effort.
“I don’t know what’s mine anymore,” he admitted quietly.
The confession sounded scraped raw from somewhere deep inside him.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Leon–”
“I knew before this.”
His voice cracked slightly on the words.
“I knew before they touched me.” He swallowed hard. “Before the virus. Before this place.”
Your breath caught.
Leon laughed once under his breath, exhausted and ruined by it.
“You walk into a room and I can breathe easier,” he admitted. “You smile at me and my whole day changes.” His jaw flexed sharply. “You get hurt and I stop thinking straight.”
His eyes opened then.
God. The look in them nearly undid you completely.
Not just hunger.
Worship.
Yearning so old and carefully buried it had probably been living inside him for years.
“I wanted you long before this happened,” he whispered.
The words settled heavily between you both.
“And now…” His breathing hitched unevenly. “Now I can smell your skin and hear your heartbeat and every part of me is screaming to touch you.” Shame flickered across his face immediately afterward. “I can’t tell how much of that is me anymore.”
You moved closer instinctively.
Leon’s entire body reacted.
A sharp inhale. His head falling briefly forward. One large hand bracing hard against the wall beside yours hard enough that the metal groaned faintly beneath his grip.
“I want you so bad right now,” he admitted roughly, voice dropping lower. “And that scares the hell out of me.”
You lifted your hand carefully to his face again.
He leaned into it immediately before catching himself, like instinct had overridden thought entirely.
“I don’t want this to be the reason you say yes,” he said quietly. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t want survival.” His eyes searched yours desperately now. “What I want from you–”
He stopped.
Struggled.
Started again quieter this time.
“I need it to be real.”
The room felt unbearably small suddenly.
“I can survive wanting you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Been doing that for a long time.” A broken sort of smile crossed his mouth briefly. “But if I touch you like this…” His gaze dropped again, visibly drawn to your lips before he forced it back upward. “I need to know it’s love. Not obligation. Not guilt. Not because you’re trying to save me.”
You stared at him for one aching moment longer before stepping fully into his space.
And Leon made that same wrecked sound again, quiet and helpless and starving, like he already knew he was about to lose the fight to hold himself back from you completely.
“It's love,” you said softly.
Leon closed his eyes briefly. “That kind of love doesn’t count.”
Your chest ached. “What kind?”
“The kind where you feel obligated to save me.”
You stared at him for a long moment.
“It counts.”
His eyes opened again.
“It counts,” you repeated. “I love you.”
Leon looked wrecked by the words instantly.
Not triumphant or relieved.
Ruined.
Like hearing it aloud had finally broken the last barrier keeping him upright.
You stepped closer again while speaking, unable to stop yourself now.
“I love you,” you whispered. “And I’m not saying it because of the virus. I’m saying it because it’s true.”
His breathing turned uneven immediately.
You reached for him carefully.
And that, that was his breaking point.
Leon caught your wrist so fast you barely saw him move. The strength behind it startled you instantly.
Enhanced.
His eyes locked onto yours with naked desperation now, every ounce of control visibly fraying apart.
“Don’t,” he warned hoarsely.
But he hadn’t let go.
You could feel the tremor running through his hand where it held your wrist.
You stepped closer anyway.
And Leon made a low, wrecked sound beneath his breath that nearly shattered your resolve entirely.
“I can’t control this,” he admitted. “I’m stronger now. Faster.” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before dragging themselves back upward through obvious effort. “I don’t know what I’m capable of.”
But his grip loosened slightly despite himself.
Because even now, even starving for you, Leon was still trying to give you a choice.
You lifted your free hand slowly toward his face.
And when your fingers brushed his jaw, he finally broke.
Leon leaned into your touch with a devastated sound like he’d been dying of thirst for years and had only just realized it.
“You won't hurt me,” you said with certainty.
You touched his face like something precious. Both of your hands rose to cradle his jaw, your thumbs brushing lightly along the roughness there while you stepped fully into his space at last.
And Leon, he came apart quietly in tiny, devastating fractures you could feel beneath your fingertips.
His breath left him hard.
His eyes shut immediately.
You felt the exact moment the virus reacted.
His entire body tightened around it.
Around you.
Every altered nerve ending inside him suddenly lit alive at once.
A tremor moved visibly through him while your hands remained against his face, and for one aching second Leon simply leaned there breathing you in like a dying man finally reaching air again.
Because to him now, you were everywhere.
Your warmth. Your pulse. The faint smell of soap and sweat and skin. The soft drag of your thumb beneath his eye. The shaky breath you took before kissing him.
The virus sharpened all of it into something catastrophic.
He could feel every tiny movement of your hands against him with unbearable clarity. Could hear the hitch in your heartbeat. Could smell the heat of your skin where your neck met your shoulder.
His body recognized you, biologically.
You had become structurally necessary to him.
His nervous system had rewritten itself around your existence like it had finally found the thing it was meant to orbit.
“God,” he whispered brokenly.
Then you kissed him.
Leon made a sound against your mouth that nearly ruined you.
It was relieved, like this was the first good thing that had happened to him in years.
He kissed you back instantly, fast and desperate, then immediately forced himself to slow down with visible effort, one shaking hand bracing beside your head against the wall instead of touching you directly.
Even starving for you, he was still trying to be gentle.
But the virus made gentleness feel enormous.
Every soft press of your lips sent another violent wave through him. His enhanced senses flooded mercilessly with you – your breath mingling with his, the softness of your mouth, the tiny sound you made when he kissed you deeper.
“Knew you'd be gentle,” you whispered.
Leon’s forehead pressed against yours, breathing ragged and uneven.
“Whole lot of effort,” he said, voice raw.
And then he kissed you again.
Like he couldn’t help it.
Like some desperate, aching part of him had waited too long already.
This one lingered.
His restraint cracked open inside it.
One hand finally found your waist with visible hesitation before tightening there almost painfully once he touched you at all. His entire body reacted instantly to the contact, another tremor moving through him hard enough that you felt it.
You kissed him softer in response and Leon practically melted.
Actually melted.
His head lowered further until he was breathing you in between kisses, visibly overwhelmed by the closeness of you.
“You have no idea,” he whispered shakily against your mouth.
Your fingers slipped gently into his damp blond hair.
Leon shut his eyes hard.
The reaction was immediate and devastating.
His knees nearly gave.
You felt him lose the rhythm of his breathing entirely while the hand at your waist flexed hard enough to pull you instinctively closer against him.
The virus might have amplified this feeling into something consuming, but it had not created it.
Leon kissed you like a man who had already loved you for a very long time, like every restrained glance and protective touch and swallowed feeling had finally been given permission to surface all at once.
When you finally pulled back, you looked at him.
God. The expression on his face.
Reverent and starving.
You opened your mouth to speak, but he closed the distance desperately, mouth on yours again.
It became sloppier, his teeth hitting yours, his tongue licking against your tongue, his teeth biting your lips like he was actually trying to consume you.
“Please don't stop,” he begged, right against your mouth. “Can't stop now. Please.”
“Won't stop,” you assured him, hands lacing around the back of his neck, tugging at the nape of his shirt so that it started rising against his torso.
He helped you pull it up, stripping his gear noisily on the floor, pulling his shirt up, breaking apart only enough to pull it off.
“Holy shit,” you breathed taking in the sight of him shirtless for only one second before he's pressing his lips back on hours.
All taut skin and thick muscles and white scars.
“Pretty,” you breathe against his desperate kisses.
He whines low in the back of his throat.
“Can smell you,” he rasps, as if he's not aware of anything outside his senses. “Wet.”
You nod against him.
He holds your head in between his big hands to keep you where he can kiss you.
“For you,” you pant.
Suddenly, you're cold as he takes ground-eating steps away from you.
His back presses into the wall hard enough to crack it.
You stare at him in shock.
His eyes rove over you.
“Lips swollen,” he said half-mad, “from where I kissed you.”
“Leon?” you asked, taking a step toward him.
“Messed up your hair,” he continued, still not making sense.
“You alright?”
“Smell how wet you are. Smells so sweet,” he said, taking a mindless step forward before forcing himself back.
“Leon,” you say sharply, bringing him partially back to himself.
His eyes focus.
“Lost myself,” he said breathlessly. “I swear, it's not normally like this with me,” he teased like it didn't cost him something to do it.
“Tell me what's going on, Leon,” you demand.
He looks at you, the blacks of his eyes dilating. He looks away.
“Thought I could control myself,” he says through strain. “Can't. Almost did something real rough with you.”
You step forward.
“You can be rough.”
He almost lost control.
“Don't…fuck–” he moaned. “If I move, I'm gonna be too rough.”
You stared at him for a long time.
He was still fevering, still sweating, still out of control.
But he was also still Leon, your partner, still the man you loved.
“Then don't move, Leon. I'll do it.”
You approached him slowly.
He let you, staring at you reverently.
“I'll do everything, just sit back. Just let me take care of you.”
