suggestive, making out, mc vaguely mentioned | crossposted to ao3
Caleb could break this man and he would dissolve with a grin on his face. This fiend would take the force of gravity in stride, and let matter collapse in on itself.
happy pride month! it's june here anyways. im going to be keeping a drabble/oneshot collection for li x li fics + i'm open to any suggestions and requests :ppp
“You spoiled her rotten before I even got the chance.” Sylus’ mouth plants itself onto his with nothing short of contending passion.
Caleb holds the zeal of something far larger than himself. But not the heart. Sylus sees right through him. Caleb Xia’s heart is shrewd, a twisted little thing. Sylus sees what calls this broken machine to action.
What sputters the little bleeds that pour out of that aching organ. His first love and the commander of his final death. A tragedy indeed.
Caleb gasps, “Just doing my duty.” He welcomes the onslaught. Embraces the flame of competition—soul and root battling for what they claim is theirs. It’s a rightful change of pace, Caleb thinks. No gutting worry in the back of his head to be careful—no pit in his stomach.
He could break this man and he would dissolve with a grin on his face. This fiend would take the force of gravity in stride, and let matter collapse in on itself.
“Is there a drill sergeant in there?” Sylus chuckles the question in his break for air, but the flick of a finger against his forehead holds another weight. “Your mind’s running a regiment.” The scrunch of Caleb’s nose pokes at the mirth in Sylus’ voice.
“And yours is invasive.” Caleb barely manages to get the words out before he decides the oxygen isn’t worth it and latches his teeth to Sylus’ bottom lip.
There’s no balance here, not a twirl of serenity or a dance on the line of equilibrium. Here they are lopsided and jagged, biting hard and kissing harder. Fang clicks against fang, shackled chains are pulled taut and desire is caught in a violent flurry.
Here, fate cannot touch Sylus’ heart.
Here, guilt’s ugly manacles cannot dig into Caleb’s ribs.
notes: the guys greet sylus a happy birthday! can be read platonically, romantically, or poly lads! sylus might appear like a grump here hehe, he's not he's just nonchalant (fake)
And he wants to give you all the space you want to deal with your emotions before you're ready to talk to him about it.
But as he sits across from you while you ignore him to watch some cliche soap opera that's been ongoing for 10 years with more than 600 episodes and refuse to eat, he can't help himself.
First, he has to rein the laughter in. He schools his features into one of grave seriousness like he's about to interrogate a criminal and in a solemn tone, finally attempts to address you again.
"Psspss, kitten"
It's almost comical how fast your head snaps up, almost identical to a real ball of fur, head snapping around before your gaze lands on Sylus who is trying his hardest not to laugh.
"Did you just-"
"Are you hungry?" Sylus shows no signs of having said something prior to this at all, looking serene but you're sure you heard him.
When you going back to ignoring him, not deeming him worthy of even a response, Sylus tries again.
"Psspss here kitty"
This time, you're sure of what you heard, indignation filling your veins at his audacity as you get up from where you'd been watching your show, aiming straight for your boyfriend, violence clear in your aura.
Sylus, for all his flaws, knows when self-preservation should take charge as he shoots up from his seat, dodging your attack and making a run for it with you hot on his heels.
"I can't believe you would psspss me like I'm some stray-!" You pick up a throw pillow in the midst of your chasing, tossing it straight at the Leader of Onychinus who ducks at the correct time and successfully dodges it.
"I tried to get you to eat with me before-" Sylus ducks again to dodge your attack- two throw pillows thrown in succession- standing up straight before he resumes running around the couch with you right behind "-and you wouldn't acknowledge me"
"Because I'm still mad at you!"
Sylus stops running at that, turning to face you as you attack him with balled up fists that land no damage at all "Be mad at me all you want" He says, long fingers encircling your wrists and holding them right over his heart "But don't skip your meals because of it"
You frown at him "Acting all sweet now won't work after you watched the season finale without me!"
Again, Sylus tries his hardest to hold his laughter in. But you catch the smile threatening to break on his features anyway.
"You're in timeout" You even point to the far wall and Sylus finally ends up grinning because he thinks you're really cute when you're joking.
His smile drops real fast when he realizes you're not.
Two minutes later, he's standing by the wall, fully grown adult, mob boss, one of the most feared beings on the planet, trying to appease his girlfriend but you know it won't be long before he can't help himself.
When you feel something collide with the side of your foot a while later, you peer down to see a bunched up ball of string at your heels.
With Sylus holding the loose end tauntingly.
The moment Sylus sees you bunch up the ball in your fist as you slowly stand to face him, he knows he's screwed.
But he doesn't need saving. He's right where he wants to be.
onychinus wasn’t really an official office, but there existed a home-base of operations.
with clean-cut interior, bulletproof glass conference rooms, desks scattered with both paperwork and technology alike under the ambient warm light surprisingly considerate of people who are sensitive to brightness, the building stands central north of the N109 zone.
this, as far as dwellers and factions know, is the home of the infamous ruler of onychinus. the dragon’s den. the keeper’s castle.
and this young, new assistant who is trying to make something of himself in the tower of bodies trying to climb upwards on the social ladder starts work today.
onychinus promises worth in exchange for loyalty. no questions asked.
he can do that.
he hasn’t even been sat an hour yet on his new desk before the phone started to ring.
briefed that all calls should be handled with promptness and professionalism, he takes it barely at the first ring. not expecting the voice that comes through.
“helloo?”
it takes him a moment to recall the script. “service?”
“can talk to papa?”
papa? he’s spent all week memorizing the names of the organizations affiliates. not one is called papa. had he missed something? so soon shall this be the end of his career?
he swallows. ponders—this can either be an enemy with technology to change their voice, or… no, how could a child know this number?
“hello? can talk to papa?”
“who is this?” he demands, harsh.
it is lost on the voice. he dictates his own learned script slowly. “my name… is… keewo.”
keewo… neither was that on the list. had he missed a page? was it the phonetic alphabet? code?
his palms begin to sweat. phone calls should never last more than a minute unless necessary. and the time ticks dangerously closer to forty seconds.
and his supervisor seems to he counting with him, because across the room, polishing a newly shipped in protocore weapon, his eyes meet ones behind a crow’s mask.
“you are not in our system.”
“what tissem?” the voice breathes, mouth too close to whatever receiver he was using. “can talk to papa pease?”
“are you a child?” forty seconds… the masked man rises from his seat.
“no. i boy.”
“how old are you?” forty-three. he’s placing the weapon down.
“i two. oh-most, twee.” the boy says happily. “can talk papa now, pease?”
forty-nine. his eye twitches. “who is papa?”
“my papa!”
fifty. shit. the supervisor is a few steps— “what’s his name?”
“uhh… uh…” fifty-three.
fifty-four.
fifty-five.
“papa name is… uh—“
“you dialed wrong.” fifty seven.
“no! i pwactice.” he harrumphs on the other end. fifty eight. “my papa name sy-woos!”
fifty-nine.
sylus.
his blood runs cold.
at sixty, like clockwork the phone is snatched from his hand. but the masked man who’d given him strict instructions that day has frozen in his own place a few paces away.
behind him stands a ghost never meant to be witnessed by mortal eyes. this shadow clad in darkness that only allow his red irises’ glow to pierce through. he lowers his head—respect, fear— he cannot say. but his heart beats like hooves in of a stampede.
“kyros.” says sylus. mister sylus— he would be instructed to call him were it not deemed unnecessary because he never comes in. “papa is working, angel.”
he barely hears the commotion on the other end. doesn’t even register the way the ominous entity of a man’s voice softens to an unbelievable timbre just above him.
“i know, i miss you too.” he says. footsteps fade along with the voice as he retreats with the wireless into the private office reserved for him alone.
he’s done for, surely. how could he have dismissed the boss’s son? how could he have known? no matter; he should have. and now—
“hey.” the masked supervisor squeezes his shoulder and he jumps like a cat.
the man— he isnt sure which twin this is but there were two of them earlier— snickers. “scared?”
he swallows.
“don’t worry about it.” he points to the dock missing its handheld, towards the light glowing orange. “forgot to mention, if it’s this color, always redirect to the main phone.”
he swallows. the boss doesn’t like to be bothered with trivial things, is what he knows. right?
but his supervisor adds. “he doesn’t like missing calls from very important people.”
he has no time to process before sylus returns and the handheld clicks in place in the dock before him.
crimson eyes examine him and he feels like his skin is peeled apart and soul exposed for a moment before sylus slowly turns away.
mizuki has very few weaknesses, but out of all of them, his biggest one is you. you’re his light, his yellow, his person. so what happens when a certain someone comes into the picture and demolishes his chances?
Words weave throughout a grapevine he isn’t intertwined with—was never meant to be. It seems as though he finds himself in this sort of position a lot, these days.
“It’s no good, ojisan,” Mizuki mumbles to himself one humid night, grueling aside the banks of a river in Kanezaka. “feelings, this yearning. I’m letting them get in the way of my purpose.”
When the ginger chime of a bell sounds out behind him, he doesn’t even so much as flinch.
“I can put you on.”
Kiriko, ever the mind reader.
“Tch. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He smirks underneath his mask, though the typical display of smugness doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Oh please, don’t play coy with me.”
“I play coy with everybody.”
She snorts.
“Fair.”
Silence commences, towing the line between comfort and discomfort. While uneager to fill it himself, he’s strangely relieved when she does the hard part for him.
“I know them, Mizuki. Truly,” She says, voice totally free of derision. Reality disarms him. “tell you what, I’ll put in a good word for you, ‘kay?”
So, both curious and inevitably at his heart’s wit’s end, he takes her upon her offer of being “put on”. Although time flies when you’re a double agent, and at the end of the day there’s none left for pursuing you or…eugh..the L-word.
A month and a half goes by before he sees you again, except this time, you’re sporting a new accessory. A boy.
Wuyang. Some raven-haired goofball with hazelnut brown eyes and a smile that could rival the sun’s rays. Not to mention he’s basically a superhero to Chengdu, and soon, the world if all things go according to plan.
If you’re in it with Overwatch, you’re in it for life, or whatever they say.
Okay, nobody says that.
Well Wuyang looks like he’s won the lottery by simply standing at your side, and as far as Mizuki’s concerned, he most certainly has. Shit, the only thing he quite literally has over him is his height, but he doubts you give a rat’s ass about that, positively beaming as you exchange introductions.
So much for Kiriko’s good word.
Mizuki finds himself back at the same banks of the same river in Kanezaka, swamped by the same humidity the air held before. No ginger bell sounds out this time and it ruins him a little further to know that his acquaintance won’t be showing up like how she had before, but maybe it’s for the best, saving his ears from scoffing down another empty assurance.
Despite it all, his heart still beats for you. Sure he knows now that his L-word will never come to fruition, no matter how much he wants it to, but the newfound sense of restrain somehow makes the sorrow feel funner than before.
“Please please please, Noroi,” he pleads, angrily attempting to skip a stone across the water’s surface. It sinks, much like his fantasies. “free me!”
He glares at the sunken stone as the word makes itself at home in his very being like it’s what’s at fault for every single mishap that’s ever caused him anguish.
In all honesty, he can’t even be mad. Not at you at least. Wuyang is perfect for you, the proof is in the pudding. The electrifying chemistry the two of you displayed before his eyes is undeniable.
As much as his lungs burn and his eyes sting he doesn’t shed a tear, opting to stew in stillness for the rest of the night.
Freedom will never find him, he settles. That’s the way it is, and that’s the way it’ll always be.
ship: virgin!telemachus x fem!virgin!brothel worker!reader
warnings: explicit ( oral f. receiving only / mutual virginity / heavy fanservice / soft dominance )
word count: 6.3k (strap up, babes, this is a long one~)
a/n: y'all i don't know why but i've been SO embarrassed about this lil fic just sitting in my docs 😭😭 like i fully forgot i'm grown (20) and can post what i want??? even then i guess it's just the lil-nerd in me who just giggles/squirms when faced with my own smut 💀💀 but yeah this is a oneshot that started as a silly thought (aka virgin!telemachus with virgin!reader and then turned into a whole thing and now i'm in love with telemachus and maybe crying a little?? anyway. pls enjoy this soft, heated, reverent mess of a fic. (also someone come get Peisistratus for being a menace) 💀🩷✨✨ idk might do part 2 if i can get over this block 😭😭
The tavern was too loud for a place still mourning.
Laughter clanged like armor. Mugs slammed against wood. Someone was playing a lyre too fast, too off-key, but the crowd didn't care—they were drunk on peace, drunk on wine, drunk on finally.
And maybe Telemachus should've been, too.
He sat at the far end of the long table, boots planted, tunic a little looser than usual. There was still a sword at his hip—habit, not threat—but he hadn't had to reach for it in weeks. The suitors were gone. His father had returned. His mother no longer cried into candlelight. Ithaca breathed again.
So why couldn't he?
"Drink," said Peisistratus, pushing a cup toward him. "If you're going to stare like that, at least look mysterious while doing it."
Telemachus blinked. "I wasn't—"
"Yes, you were," his friend grinned. "Whole brooding prince thing? Very effective. That barmaid's been eyeing you since we walked in."
Telemachus turned, just in time to see her saunter off after dropping another round of drinks. She had smiled at him, he thought. Maybe lingered. He hadn't noticed.
He glanced back at Peisistratus, sheepish. "She was just being polite."
"She was being polite with her chest, my guy."
Telemachus sputtered into his wine.
Peisistratus leaned back with the smugness only the youngest son of a king could afford. "Gods, you're hopeless. What do they do in Ithaca, anyway? Stitch tapestries? Pray? Practice self-restraint until you die untouched?"
"We defend our homes," Telemachus said, wiping his mouth. "We hold our families together. I didn't exactly have time to entertain women while men ate my mother's food and planned to take her bed."
Peisistratus groaned. "Still reciting war monologues, huh? Your house is intact, your mom's safe, your dad's alive, and you—you've still never—"
"Don't." Telemachus glanced around, lowering his voice. "You don't have to announce it."
"Then deny it."
He said nothing.
Peisistratus stared. "Telemachus."
Still silence.
The prince of Pylos let out the most exaggerated gasp Telemachus had ever heard. "You are—!"
"I never had time, okay?" Telemachus snapped, heat rushing to his cheeks. "And it's not like I—like anyone—I mean, I could have, maybe, once or twice, but—"
"Spare me." Peisistratus slammed the mug down. "You've been home for weeks. Women all over the castle smiling like doves in heat. And you've done nothing?"
Telemachus opened his mouth. Closed it.
"...You're impossible."
"I'm cautious," he rebuttled.
"You're cursed."
Telemachus rolled his eyes. "You said we were celebrating your last night in Ithaca, not my alleged virginity."
"And we are." Peisistratus stood up suddenly. "Which is why we're fixing that."
Telemachus tensed. "What are you doing?"
"Getting you out of your own head." The younger prince grabbed his wrist. "Come on."
"Wait—"
"I know a place."
"Peisistratus—"
"You trust me, don't you?"
"I—That's not the point—!"
"It is exactly the point." Peisistratus grinned, half-dragging him through the tavern door, past the lyre, past the wine, into the soft night where stars bloomed and scandal lurked.
Telemachus' stomach dropped. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the nerves, or the fact that for the first time in years... he didn't know what came next.
☆
☆
The wash water stung your hands. Not from heat, but from the way your fingers had cracked again—tiny splits in your skin from scrubbing too long, too often, with too little rest between. But you didn't stop. You couldn't stop. If you could just finish this last basin, you could dry your hands by the fire and maybe—
"Hey." You flinched.
One of the older girls leaned into the doorway, silk slipping off her shoulder, perfume following behind her like smoke. She was smiling—but not in that fake, flirty way they did for customers. This was different. Kind. Almost... pitying.
"You're up."
"...Up?" you echoed, straightening too fast.
"First client. Just got called in. He's a special one, too. Big spender."
Your mouth went dry. "I—I thought—"
"I know. You've been doing laundry for weeks. Earning your keep. But tonight's different."
She crossed the room, gently took the basin from your hands, and set it down. The water sloshed over the sides. You stared at it like it might pull you under.
"I'm not ready."
"No one ever is," she said softly. "Come on. We'll help you."
Moments later, you sat like a doll in a chair that wasn't yours, surrounded by girls whose hands moved too fast for you to follow.
One was curling your hair with a hot iron pin, another was dabbing rose oil on your wrists. Someone else adjusted the straps on a dress that dipped too low, hugged too tight. You barely recognized yourself in the mirror. Cheeks smooth in oil. Lips bitten raw. Cleavage you'd never seen before.
"You're shaking," said one girl, brushing powder across your collarbone.
"I-I'm fine," you lied.
"She's nervous," another grinned. "That's cute."
"She's lucky," said the girl with the perfume. "First time, and she gets him."
You finally gain the courage to speak. "...Who?"
The girls exchanged a look.
"I heard he's a prince," someone whispered. "Or close to it. Tall. Polite. Kind eyes. Might not even make you do anything."
You swallowed hard.
"Just remember," said the first girl, crouching in front of you, voice low. "Pretend you've done this before. That you're in charge. Even if you're not. Men like that."
Her hand touched yours. Warm. Grounding.
"You'll be okay."
.☆.
.✩.
.☆.
You followed the Madam up the stairs like you were walking to your own execution.
Each step felt louder than it should've. Your heartbeat was pounding in your throat. She stopped in front of a thick wooden door, glanced over her shoulder, and whispered, "He's already inside."
Then she was gone.
Just like that.
You stood there for a second, alone in the silence, hands slick with sweat, chest so tight it hurt. You almost turned and ran. Almost knocked on the Madam's office and begged to go back to your linens, to the hot sting of soapwater, to the safety of anonymity. Almost.
But you didn't.
You opened the door.
He stood near the window, back turned, silhouetted by moonlight.
His posture was perfect—hands clasped behind his back, chin slightly tilted, like he was measuring the stars. His cloak was folded neatly on the chair beside him. His boots, still dusty from the road. He didn't turn at the sound of the door closing.
Your fingers clenched at your sides. You tried to remember what the girls said.
Pretend I've done this before. That I'm in charge.
You took one step. Then another.
Your voice came out soft—too soft. "You can sit down... if you'd like."
He turned.
And you forgot how to breathe.
Not just because he was handsome—though gods, he was. Soft brown curls that caught the light. Broad shoulders. Eyes like calm earth after rain. But what stunned you wasn't his looks.
It was the way he looked at you.
Like you were real.
Like he hadn't expected someone nervous, someone trembling in silk like she was being sacrificed.
Like... he saw it.
He stepped forward, slower than you expected.
You reached up—mechanically—like you'd practiced. Fingers brushing his jaw. His skin was warm. Clean-shaven. You smiled, or tried to, coy and low-lidded like the others had shown you.
But when he raised a hand—slowly, carefully, like he was asking permission—and touched your cheek...
You flinched.
Your whole body jolted. Just slightly. But enough.
He froze. His palm still hovered, but he didn't push.
You dropped your gaze. "I'm sorry. Forgive me. I just—I've never—" The words got caught. Your throat burned.
He stepped back. Not in shame. Just to give you space.
"...Me neither," he said quietly.
There was a silence after he spoke. Not an awkward one. Not really. More like a stillness—a moment suspended in the air between two strangers who had no idea what to do now that the truth had been said aloud.
You weren't sure who sat down first. Maybe you did. Maybe he followed. But somehow you both ended up on the edge of the bed, not touching, facing slightly different directions like you were afraid of spooking each other.
You stared at your hands in your lap. "I didn't think... you'd be nervous."
He gave a soft huff, not quite a laugh. "Why not?"
"Because when I walked in here, you turned around like... like you weren't afraid of anything."
That made him pause.
He looked at you—just looked—eyes dark and unreadable, like he was weighing whether to say the truth or something easier.
Then, slowly, his mouth curved into a faint, crooked smile. "Looks can be deceiving." He held out his hand. "I'm Telemachus."
You blinked.
The name struck something deep in your chest. You're not sure why, but it sounded really familiar. Still, you reached out, slipping your fingers into his before the silence stretched too long. "I'm ____."
He held your hand a second longer than he had to.
" ____." he said softly, like he was tasting it. "That's... a beautiful name."
He repeated it again, slower this time. More careful. Like he was folding it into memory.
You looked away first. But only for a second. When you turned back, he was already watching you—shoulders drawn in a little, face unreadable.
He blinked, startled at being caught, and looked away quickly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. His ears were flushed.
"Sorry," he muttered. "I'm not... I didn't come here planning to do anything like this. My friend—he pushed. I didn't even mean to follow him in, but I—I don't know."
He sighed through a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, shoulders rising and falling under the weight of his own honesty.
"I've fought men twice my size. Led ships through storms. Stared down men who wanted to kill me in my own hall," he said. Then turned his head to you, eyes meeting yours. "None of that was as terrifying as opening that door."
You blinked at him. "...Why?"
He looked away again, and you could tell he was choosing his words.
"...Because if I went through with this," he said slowly, "I'd never be able to go back."
That confused you. "Back?"
"To the boy who never did," he murmured. "To the version of me who still hadn't. I spent so long carrying him around, pretending he didn't matter. But I think he does. And if I let him go—" he paused, "—I want it to be for something real."
You swallowed.
Telemachus glanced at you, half-smiling. "Sorry. That was a bit heavy."
"No, it wasn't," you said, surprising yourself. "I... understand."
He tilted his head. "Do you?"
You nodded. "I gave my first kiss to a coin."
He blinked.
You flushed. "I mean—! I didn't—I meant—" You exhaled, collecting yourself. "I gave it to the idea of a coin. A better life. A trade. I thought I could handle it. That if I said yes to this place, I could keep my soul out of it."
He was quiet.
You laughed, bitter. "But I think it got in anyway."
When you looked up, his expression had changed. Something had softened in him—not out of pity. Not out of guilt. But recognition. He knew that feeling. That ache behind your voice.
"I was scared," you whispered. "I still am."
Telemachus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady. "What are you scared of?"
"That it'll hurt," you said. "That it'll be awful. That I'll do something wrong."
"It's not something you can do wrong," he said quietly. "Not when you mean it."
"...Do you?"
His breath caught. You didn't mean to ask it like that. Like it was a challenge. But it hung there.
He nodded. "I... I think I do. Now."
Another long pause. But something shifted in it—something warmer.
You both smiled, small and unsure.
He turned slightly toward you. "Would it be alright if... if I... kissed you?"
You nodded.
The kiss wasn't perfect. It wasn't practiced or smooth or clever. It was a little too hesitant. A little too careful. His lips were warm but tentative, like he didn't want to overwhelm you. Your fingers curled in his tunic, clutching the fabric, not pulling—just holding. His hand touched your cheek again, and this time, you didn't flinch.
It deepened. Slowly. You tilted your head. He let out a breath.
When you finally parted, you were both smiling now, a little dazed.
"I don't want to do anything that scares you," he murmured.
"That's the thing," you said softly. "It still scares me. But... not as much."
He leaned back slightly, just enough to see your face. "Do you want to stop?"
You hesitated, and then, with the tiniest breath, you said, "No."
You moved first this time—your hand trembling slightly, brushing the inside of his knee and then higher, testing the waters. He inhaled sharply, but didn't stop you—his gaze locked on yours like he was waiting to see what you'd do next.
He didn't move.
Didn't push.
Didn't take.
He just watched you, like you were a storm rolling in, and he was the only man foolish enough to stand beneath the thunder. But then you moved again. Just a shift, just closer. And something in you said: Try it. So you did.
You leaned in and kissed him.
The moment your lips touched his, Telemachus melted into it—no hesitation, no second-guessing. His hand cupped the back of your neck like it was instinct, holding you steady, and then—
His mouth opened, his tongue slid against yours, and you gasped.
A startled, breathy sound that you couldn't bite back. It caught in your throat like a held-back whimper, made your lashes flutter. You weren't expecting that—how warm he was, how eager. He kissed like someone starved. Like someone who'd read about it, dreamed about it, but never had permission to try.
And gods, once he had it... he took it.
His arms wrapped around you without thought, strong and sure. In one smooth motion, he pulled you forward, shifting until you were straddling his lap, your knees against the bed, your body pressed flush to his. His hands didn't just rest at your back—they curled, palms dragging up your spine like he was learning the shape of you by feel alone.
Your mind raced.
He's strong. He's so strong. This is going so fast—but I don't want it to stop.
You barely remembered to breathe.
His hands spread wide against your ribs, holding you in place like he was afraid you'd vanish. His tongue moved against yours again, this time slower—more deliberate. Testing. Teasing. Tasting.
You whimpered, and his grip tightened.
Some small, silly part of your brain sparked to life, voice hushed but not gone:
If this is what all the customers are like... maybe working at the brothel won't be so bad.
But the thought barely had time to settle before memory returned, sharper now—the voices of the girls who'd painted your lips and whispered in your ear before the door opened.
"Touch his chest. Men love that."
"Use your hips—grind just a little, then stop."
"Fake moan. Even if you don't mean it. They eat that up."
The words came in flashes.
You tried to recall what you were supposed to do next. How you were supposed to arch your back or roll your hips or do that breathy little laugh one girl had demonstrated by the mirror.
But none of it came naturally.
Not when his hands felt so real. Not when his lips were shaking slightly against yours. Not when he kissed you like you were something he didn't think he'd ever get again.
You clutched his shoulders instead.
Not because someone told you to, but because you didn't know how else to keep yourself from falling apart.
Your lips finally broke from his, breath catching as you pulled back just enough to see him.
And gods—Telemachus looked wrecked.
His cheeks were flushed pink, almost feverish. A single curl clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, while the rest of his hair had fallen wildly out of place, soft spirals tousled from where your fingers had tugged them. His mouth hung open slightly, lips swollen and red, wet where he'd kissed you too long and too hard and too much—not that you'd wanted him to stop.
His eyes, though...they were the worst part.
Wide. Glassy. A little dazed.
And so hungry.
Not like a man ready to devour—but like a boy starved of softness, blinking up at you like you'd just fed him something he never knew he needed.
You sat on his lap still, panting softly, your chest rising against his.
Your hand moved before you could think. Fingers brushing his jaw, then up along his cheek. You cupped his face, thumb tracing just beneath his eye like you were trying to remember every line of him.
He's handsome, you thought, breathless.Too handsome to be here. Too gentle to want someone like me.
Telemachus leaned into your touch like it was instinct. Like it was safe.
You stared at him.
And then... you moved.
Slowly, you slid from his lap, your knees hitting the floor one after the other. Your hands rested on his thighs, steadying yourself. You leaned forward, eyes cast down, heartbeat loud in your ears.
This was what the other girls said men wanted.
This was what they told you would happen eventually.
Maybe if you did it well, he'd want to come back. Maybe he'd ask for you again. Maybe—
But your fingers had barely reached for the tie of his tunic before—
He stopped you.
Gently.
Firmly.
Telemachus' hands curled around your waist again—not desperate, not panicked, but certain. Like he'd been waiting to stop you from this.
You didn't even get to ask why before he was lifting you. Effortless.
He picked you up like it was nothing, like you weighed less than the breath in his lungs. Before you could protest, he'd turned and settled you back on the bed—this time seated lower, your legs tucked beside you. You stared up at him, startled, breath still ragged.
His hands didn't leave your hips. But they didn't move either. Just stayed there. Warm. Steady. Present.
You swallowed. "Why...?"
He crouched slightly, bringing himself to eye level, voice soft.
"I'm not here to take from you," he murmured. "I... I don't want that to be your first memory."
You blinked. Tried to read his face. His voice hadn't changed. There was no judgment in it. No shame. Just... truth.
He touched your knee—light, barely a brush.
"But... I want to give you something... If you'll let me."
It didn't take long for the truth of it to click into place.
Your breath caught in your throat, your heart lurching as it settled in.
He was telling you—right now, in this quiet moment with your hands still trembling in your lap—he wanted to give, and he wanted nothing in return.
The realization made your stomach twist in a way you didn't have a name for.
Before you could find your voice—before you could tell him, you don't have to, I didn't mean for this—
Telemachus moved.
He dropped to one knee—not with dramatics, not like some chivalrous knight, but like something in him had simply given way. Like his body understood before his mind did that this was where he belonged.
Not beneath you. But before you.
His shoulders bowed, his head dipping slightly as his gaze stayed locked on yours. His hands hovered over your thighs—not touching, just there. Waiting. Asking without words.
He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
"You don't have to do anything," he whispered. His voice was so low it felt like a secret passed between breaths. "Just let me take care of you."
Your lips parted, but you didn't speak.
He continued—voice steady, but laced with something softer. Something closer to awe.
"I've thought about this moment," he admitted. "Not like this, not here—but... about what it would feel like. To be trusted with someone. By someone."
His fingers finally moved—just enough to ghost over your knees. Then higher. Sliding along your thighs, slow and warm and so careful.
He didn't press them apart.
He didn't ask for more.
He just waited.
And the way he looked at you—gods, it was unbearable. His eyes didn't flick down to your chest. Didn't scan your body like a thing bought and paid for. They were locked on yours. Unblinking. Steady. Patient.
You didn't think you'd ever been looked at like that.
Like your nervousness was sacred. Like your silence was allowed. Like you were the sky and he'd found a place in it.
Your hands curled into the sheets.
And then—
You nodded.
And everything stilled.
Not the air. Not the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath the bed. But him. Telemachus didn't surge forward. Didn't pounce. He waited one heartbeat—two—just to be sure. Just to give you the chance to change your mind. And when you didn't, he moved.
The first press of his lips to your inner knee was enough to break you. You inhaled sharply, your thighs twitching from how careful he was being. As if he thought you might shatter. As if he'd fall apart too, if he touched you wrong.
His hands were warm against your calves, large and steady, sliding beneath your legs to part them—not forcing. Guiding. Creating space. Creating breath.
You couldn't look at him. Could only stare at the ceiling as the fabric of your dress shifted—bunched higher and higher as his hands pushed it past your knees, your thighs, up over your hips. Each inch of exposure made your skin burn. Not from embarrassment. From realization.
From how huge his hands felt.
The way his palms wrapped around you so easily. How his thumbs brushed along the softest parts of your inner thighs. How your skin tingled wherever he touched—like his fingertips were ink, and you were being written on.
His lips followed.
He kissed higher.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like each inch of skin was a vow.
He paused between each kiss like he needed permission from your skin to keep going. And when he reached the place right at the intersection of your thighs—he paused again, and the heat of his breath made you jerk.
Your voice came out soft. Fragile. "Telemachus..."
His head tilted up.
You expected hunger. Or urgency.
But his eyes..
Gods, his eyes.
They were soft. Dazed. Like he was seeing something divine.
You could feel his breath there—there—hot and reverent, like prayer pressed to skin. It burned in the most delicate way. A kiss without contact.
And then—
His mouth covered you.
You jerked.
A small, startled squeak caught in your throat as your hips lifted off the bed, back arching on instinct. The heat of his mouth was searing—not rough, not greedy, just everywhere. Warm and wet and real.
"T-Telemachus—!" you gasped, the sound breaking halfway through as his tongue moved. You clutched at his hair—those soft brown curls that caught your eye the moment you saw him—and whimpered as the pressure began to build.
It was clumsy at first. Careful. Testing. But gods, he was trying—tongue flicking and tasting and exploring in slow, cautious strokes that grew bolder every time you whimpered.
Every sound you made pulled something new from him.
You couldn't see his face, but you felt him—his hands gripping your thighs tighter, holding you open, his mouth pressing against you like he was trying to learn you by muscle memory. Like he didn't want to miss a single reaction.
You weren't trying to say his name, not really, but it kept falling from your lips like a prayer—"Telemachus, Telemachus, Telemachus—" and every time you said it, his grip on your thighs tightened, his tongue slowed, focused, like the sound fed him.
He moaned into you once—just once—and the vibration made you cry out, thighs twitching around his head. Your fingers tangled in the sheets. You couldn't stop moving, couldn't stop trembling. Every time you cried out—every little "ah," every breathless "oh gods"—he shook with need.
"Please," you whispered, not even knowing what you were asking for.
His hands slid further beneath you, thumbs hooking under your thighs as he lifted your legs—gently, reverently—and pulled them over his shoulders, like this was where he'd wanted to be all night.
He didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
His fingers pressed into your hips, holding you still when you started to squirm, when your legs tried to close. You didn't want to push him away—you just didn't know what to do with all of it.
The pressure. The heat. The way he was everywhere.
And when you came—
Gods, when it hit—
You didn't scream. You didn't cry.
You breathed—one long, shaking exhale as your whole body went tense, then soft. Your thighs locked around his head, your back bowed, and your fingers slipped from his hair to your own lips, muffling the sound that rose from deep inside your chest.
And he didn't stop.
Not right away.
Telemachus kissed you through it—tongue gentle again now, coaxing you down with slow, soft laps that made your thighs tremble and your lungs shudder. Like he couldn't bear to let you go yet. Like he wanted to catch every last wave of your pleasure and hold it in his mouth.
Only when your hips twitched from the overstimulation and you sagged against the pillows like a storm passing, then—and only then—did he lift his head.
He looked... wrecked.
His face was flushed. Lips wet. Hair mussed from where your fingers had accidentally tangled in it. He looked like a boy who'd just touched divinity and barely survived.
For a while, neither of you moved.
Your legs had gone loose. Your chest rose and fell like it had been emptied of every secret you'd ever tried to carry. And him—Telemachus just stayed there. Sitting on the floor beside the bed, head resting against the mattress, eyes closed like he was memorizing the sound of your breathing.
He hadn't touched you since. Not in that way. Not even to kiss you again. He just sat there, reverent and flushed and so very still, as if breaking the silence might ruin it.
Eventually, you found your voice.
"Should I... should I... help you?"
He let out a breathless laugh. "No. I'm... I'm alright."
You looked at him, eyes flicking downward.
He was obviously not alright.
But he only smiled—softer this time, a little crooked.
"That was enough," he said. "More than enough." Now it's his turn to question you. "Was it... Was that—?" he started, then cut himself off, unsure.
Your hand reached for him, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, catching the last trace of yourself there.
"That was..." you couldn't even finish. Your voice cracked, but you smiled. And that was enough.
His breath hitched, just for a second. Then, gently, he asked, "Can... Can I lie beside you?"
You nodded.
He stood and climbed onto the bed with a quiet grace that didn't match how tightly his body must've been wound. He slid in behind you—not too close. Not assuming. But when you shifted—just a little—and your back brushed his chest, he went still.
You felt his arm ghost toward your waist. Waiting. Always waiting.
You let him.
He exhaled as he wrapped around you, chest pressed against your spine, his breath steady against your hair.
And gods... it felt like safety.
Not heat. Not hunger. Just warmth.
You'd never been touched like that before.
Never felt like that before.
And the craziest part?
Neither had he.
You whispered, "...You're still hard."
You felt him laugh, muffled against the back of your neck. "I know."
"I can—"
"No," he said softly. "Not tonight."
You turned your head just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder. "Then... what do we do now?"
He smiled. Sleepy. Adoring. Infatuated in a way that made your heart ache.
"Now?" he murmured. "Now we stay."
And so you did.
With his arm draped over your waist, his nose tucked behind your ear, and your breath starting to slow to match his, you let yourself fall asleep.
Just this once, in someone else's arms.
Just this once, without fear.
☆
☆
You woke to the smell of lavender soap and old wood.
For a moment, your eyes stayed closed. You didn't want to risk opening them—afraid that the night before had been a dream spun from nerves and exhaustion. Afraid that if you looked beside you, he'd be gone. Or worse... that he'd still be there, and it wouldn't mean anything.
But you didn't need to open your eyes to know he was still behind you.
You could feel him.
Telemachus' chest was warm against your spine, one arm draped lazily over your waist. His fingers twitched in his sleep, like he was still holding on to something. His breath was slow. Even. Peaceful.
You tried not to move. Tried to hold still like maybe if you stayed quiet enough, time would pause. But it didn't. You felt the moment start to shift—the softness fraying at the edges, reality creeping in.
You turned your head slightly. Just enough to whisper, "Are you awake?"
His breath caught. And then, softly. "Yeah."
You rolled onto your back, eyes meeting his.
He looked ruined. Hair tousled. Eyes a little puffy. Lips still flushed from where you'd kissed him. But gods, if he didn't look at you like you were something he was scared to blink at.
"Hi," you whispered.
He smiled. "Hi."
Neither of you moved.
You weren't sure what to say. Should you say anything? Ask if he'd be back? If it meant something? If he'd still want you when the sun was high and the world was loud again?
But then he reached up, fingertips barely brushing your cheek, and said, "I've got to leave soon."
Your stomach dropped. You nodded, trying not to let it show.
"But," he added quickly, "that doesn't mean this... have to end."
You looked at him.
He smiled—soft, boyish, crooked. "I don't think I could forget you if I tried."
You didn't believe him. Not really. But part of you wanted to. And maybe that was enough for now.
You sat up, pulled the sheet around you. "I should get dressed before everyone wakes and the girls start talking."
"They'll talk anyway," he muttered.
You looked over your shoulder. "Oh?"
He smirked faintly. "They were whispering when I came in last night. Half the brothel knew where I was going."
That made your cheeks burn.
You stood, tried to tame your hair, tried to smooth the wrinkles out of the dress you'd been poured into. You felt his eyes on you the whole time. Not leering. Just... watching.
Like he still couldn't believe you were real.
"I'll send for you," he said suddenly.
You turned. "What?"
"I mean—" he sat up, voice softer now, more careful. "If... If you want your actual first time to be... different... I could find a way."
Your throat tightened. "You don't have to—"
"I want to."
You blinked.
He stood. Stepped close. Tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear and whispered, "If last night was your first... then I want the second to be mine, too."
And then he was gone.
.☆.
.✩.
.☆.
You were back in the laundry room before the others, sleeves rolled to your elbows, sleeves that still smelled faintly like him. You kept your head down, folding quietly, avoiding the curious glances and the not-so-subtle giggles from the other girls.
"Did he kiss you?"
"Did you touch him?"
"How big was his dick?"
You ignored them.
The Madam approached mid-morning. You braced yourself for orders—new clients, more linen, someone drunk puking on the rugs again. But she only said. "You're off the floor."
You blinked. "What?"
"No clients. No touch work. From today on, you stay with the laundry."
Your lips parted. "Why?"
She didn't answer at first, just tucked a folded piece of parchment into your palm. A receipt. A payment.
"He bought it. Your virginity." she said simply. "The prince. Paid enough to take you off rotation."
Your mouth dropped. "Prince??"
She snorted—an unladylike sound for a woman who wore perfume and lace—and kept walking, her heels clacking across the wooden floor as she called out something about clean towels to the other girls.
You scrambled after her, nearly tripping on the hem of your skirt. "Wait—wait! What do you mean a prince?! Why would a prince buy me? When would he—does he come back? Will he come back tonight?!"
The brothel was already alive with its usual morning rhythm—cleaning cloths flapping out windows, perfume bottles clinking onto vanities, girls slipping between one another to straighten bedding and fluff pillows. A few early clients sat in the lounge area downstairs, their voices low and lazy, nursing watered-down wine while waiting for their favorites to appear from behind silk curtains.
You chased the Madam past them all, dodging a tray of breakfast figs and a girl giggling down the hall with her corset still half-undone. You reached the hallway leading back toward the laundry room when she suddenly spun around to face you—and you stumbled to a stop with a squeak.
She didn't speak at first.
Just looked at you. Looked through you.
Then—tap.
Two fingers to the center of your forehead.
"Honestly," she sighed. "And here I thought you were one of the smart ones."
You blinked, wide-eyed. "I—I am!"
She gave you a flat look. "You keep the ledgers balanced. You talk back to the bookkeeper without blinking. You know which clients are late on payment before they sit down. Hell, you taught Clio how to read last week—and you fixed the squeaky back door with an oil rag and string."
Your face flushed. "Then why—"
"Because, darling," she said, tone sharp but not cruel, "you're acting like a little airhead this morning, and it's beneath you."
You shrank in on yourself slightly. "I just... I don't understand."
She sighed again and pinched the bridge of her nose. "The man you were with last night—"
"Telemachus," you said quickly, almost breathless. Just hearing his name made your chest pull tight.
The Madam's lips pursed.
Tap.
She poked your forehead again, this time more pointed.
"That's Prince Telemachus," she corrected. "Don't forget who you're talking about."
You blinked. "But I thought—he never told me—"
She raised a brow. "Of course he didn't. Nobles never do. Not when they want to see how you treat them before the title gets in the way. That's why you listen to the whispers that goes through here. I'm positive someone let it loose."
Your mouth opened, but no words came out.
She continued walking, and you had to trot after her again.
"Anywho, the prince of Pylos—Peisistratus, the youngest of King Nestor' sons—he came in just after dusk last night. Said he needed someone untouched. Said it was a gift, of sorts, for the prince of Ithaca. And the moment I thought of someone who might actually look him in the eye and not fall apart..." She gave you a sideways glance. "So I sent for you."
You gawked. "But I—I flinched. I almost cried!"
"Yes, precisely why I chose you," she said dryly, "and yet he bought your virginity the moment he left. Paid triple what we charge."
You stopped walking.
The hallway around you blurred—sunlight spilling through stained glass, footsteps echoing above, voices below, the brothel alive in every direction.
You stood frozen in the middle of it.
Prince Telemachus bought my virginity.
You touched your lips.
They still tingled.
Even then, all you could be stuck on was the fact that Telemachus was a prince.
And suddenly—everything clicked. Like someone had thrown a torch into the back of your mind and lit up the whole kingdom map.
You recalled the whispers in town. The parade of ships. The late-night feasts held at the palace people like you weren't invited to. The rising hum of change in every corner of Ithaca.
The return of King Odysseus.
And that boy—the one who kissed you like the world was ending—
"Prince Telemachus?!" you squawked again, way too loud this time.
But the Madam was already halfway down the hall, waving a rag at the kitchen girl and calling for someone to bring fresh honey-water to room six.
You stood frozen, still clutching the folded parchment like it might burn you.
You looked down at it again.
The ink hadn't changed. His name was still there. The number. The seal.
All real.
And your chest—your whole body—went still.
"...So I'm free?!?" you shouted down the hall after her.
The Madam didn't stop walking.
She just gave a half-smile, scoffing like you'd just asked if pigs could read.
"No one's free here, girl," she called over her shoulder. "But you're his now."
And with that, she disappeared into the steam of the bath corridor, barking something about soap and firewood.
You looked back down at the parchment.
Your fingers were shaking a little, but only because they felt lighter somehow. Like for the first time in weeks, you were holding something that might mean more than just survival.
Summary: A mission meant to be routine becomes a race against the clock when you’re bitten, and the only antivirals are destroyed. With the infection spreading and time running out, Leon Kennedy abandons everything except the one objective that matters: getting you back alive.
Warnings/tags: bite injury (reader), infection themes (fever, delirium), mentions of blood/wounds, mission-related violence, guns, angst, protective leon
The hallway smells like antiseptic and old rain, sharp enough to taste at the back of your throat. Emergency lights pulse a slow red, painting everything in the color of a heartbeat that refuses to settle. Somewhere deeper in the facility, something metallic groans, the sound carrying through the walls like the building itself is shifting in its sleep.
Leon moves ahead of you with that familiar economy, every step deliberate, shoulders slightly rounded forward as if he's braced against a wind no one else can feel. Years ago, you would have called it tension. Now you know it's simply how he stands when he's ready to protect something.
You.
He lifts one hand without looking back. Two fingers. Hold. You stop immediately, rifle angled down but ready, covering the rear out of habit. Your breathing slows to match his. In the quiet, you can hear it, the faint rasp of fabric as he adjusts his grip, the tiny click of leather at his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes catching red light, and the corner of his mouth tilts.
"Tell me you hear that too," he murmurs.
"Ventilation system struggling to keep up with poor life choices," you whisper back.
His mouth twitches a little more. "Comforting."
"Very."
He turns forward again, advancing with a careful sidestep around a fallen gurney. You follow close, boots landing where his did, stepping into the spaces he clears without thinking. Years of missions have worn this path between you into muscle memory. You could navigate a battlefield blind if he were moving ahead of you.
Sublevel three, quarantine wing. The official report had said that the outbreak was contained. Minimal hostiles. Data retrieval only. You and Leon had both read that and packed extra ammunition.
Something scrapes faintly above you. You both stop again. A wet sound follows, soft but unmistakable, like raw meat dragged across tile. Leon's shoulders go rigid. He tilts his head, listening, then slowly raises his pistol toward the ceiling vent ten feet ahead.
"Don't," you breathe.
Too late. The grate explodes outward in a shower of dust and rusted screws. A shape drops hard onto the floor between you, limbs hitting at angles that don't belong to anything living. The body spasms once, twice, then snaps upright with a sound like tearing cloth. Its eyes are wrong. Its mouth is wrong.
Leon fires twice. The creature barely stutters before lunging. You're already moving. Your rifle cracks, recoil thudding into your shoulder as you pivot left to avoid Leon's line of fire. The rounds chew through rotten muscle, splashing something dark across the wall. The thing keeps coming anyway, a puppet yanked forward by invisible strings.
"Persistent," you mutter.
"Understatement."
It reaches Leon first. He sidesteps, grabs a fistful of its ruined jacket, and uses the momentum to sling it into the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Before it can recover, he drives a knife up under its jaw with brutal precision. The body convulses, fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve, then goes slack.
For a moment, the only sound is your breathing and the slow drip of something unpleasant onto the tile. Leon exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. He wipes the blade on the creature's shirt before sheathing it, movements efficient, practiced, almost weary.
"You okay?" he asks without turning.
"Fine."
He turns anyway, eyes scanning you head to toe, checking for tears in fabric, blood that isn't yours, the small tells you can't hide from him even if you tried. His gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary.
"Your heart rate's up."
"So is yours."
"Occupational hazard."
You step closer, bump your shoulder lightly against his arm. "You jumped."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I adjusted my stance."
You snort. "Sure you did, hero."
His hand comes up automatically, settling at the small of your back as he guides you past the body. The touch is brief, grounding, gone almost before you register it. He does it all the time now, in doorways, on stairs, whenever the path narrows. Years ago he used to keep that kind of contact locked away behind professionalism. Marriage burned that barrier down to ash.
"Remind me why we didn't retire somewhere with a beach," you say quietly.
"You hate sand."
"I could learn."
"You said that last time. Then you threw a shoe at a seagull."
"It started it."
He huffs, a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "We're not buying a coastal property just so you can wage war on wildlife."
"Coward."
They're soft words, familiar words, the kind that live comfortably between you, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. If you stop talking, the silence fills up with too many ghosts.
Ahead, the corridor splits. One path descends into deeper shadow. The other ends at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL ISOLATION.
Leon studies it, jaw tightening slightly. "That's our best bet for antiviral storage."
"And our worst bet for everything else."
"Probably."
He reaches for the panel. It flickers, unresponsive.
You lean in, shoulder brushing his. "Stand back."
"I am standing back."
"Further."
He sighs but obeys, stepping aside as you pull a compact breaching charge from your pack and set it against the seam. Your hands move quickly, efficiently, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.
"Try not to blow yourself up," he says.
"Try not to worry so loudly."
"I don't worry."
You glance up. "Leon."
"...I worry a normal amount."
You smile despite yourself. "Uh huh."
You trigger the charge and pivot away, grabbing his vest to pull him with you behind the corner. The explosion is sharp, contained, dust puffing into the air like a violent exhale. When the ringing fades, the door hangs crooked on shattered hinges. Leon looks down at where your hand is still gripping his gear. His expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with combat.
"You can let go," he says gently.
You realize you're still holding on and release him, suddenly aware of how solid he feels under your fingers, how warm even through layers of tactical fabric.
"Right," you say, clearing your throat. "Professional."
"Very."
But he brushes your knuckles once before moving past you, so quick it could almost be an accident.
Inside, the medical wing is colder, air conditioning still struggling on backup power. Cabinets hang open, supplies scattered across the floor as if someone had tried to pack in a hurry and failed. A hospital bed sits abandoned in the center of the room, sheets twisted into ropes. You sweep left. Leon sweeps right. The familiar dance resumes. For a few seconds, nothing moves.
Then something thumps weakly from behind the bed. You both pivot, weapons raised. A figure drags itself into view, lab coat smeared dark, face gray with fever. Human. Barely.
"Help," he croaks.
Leon lowers his weapon first, but doesn't relax. "You're infected?"
The man nods frantically, clutching his side. "Bite... hours ago... there's... antivirals... storage fridge... code..."
His hand trembles as he points toward a small sealed unit in the corner. Hope flickers, fragile and dangerous. You step forward. Leon catches your arm immediately.
"Careful," he murmurs.
"I know."
His grip tightens just a fraction before he lets go, thumb brushing your sleeve as if memorizing the texture.
The man coughs wetly, body shaking. "Please... I don't want to... turn..."
Leon's jaw flexes. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the grim understanding of how this story usually ends. You move past him anyway, crouching by the fridge, fingers already working the manual override. The seal pops with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of vials gleam faintly in the emergency light, liquid clear and precious as water in a desert.
"Jackpot," you whisper.
Behind you, the man makes a sound that isn't quite human.
Leon's voice snaps sharply. "Back."
You turn just in time to see the change sweep across the man's face, muscles locking, eyes clouding over like frost creeping across glass. Too fast. Leon fires once. The body collapses before it can lunge.
Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute. Your hands are still wrapped around the cold vial when Leon steps in close, one hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. He leans his forehead briefly against your temple, a gesture so intimate it almost hurts.
"Hey," he murmurs. "Stay with me."
"I'm here."
"Good."
"Leon," you say, unable to keep the lift out of your voice. "We've got—"
The ceiling tile above the doorway caves in with a thunderous crack. Something drops through in a tangle of limbs and teeth. Leon fires before it even lands.
The room detonates into motion. Another body slams through the door behind it, then another, drawn by noise or scent or whatever twisted instinct drives them now. The first infected hits the floor crawling, jaw snapping, fingers scrabbling for purchase on slick tile.
"Back!" Leon snaps.
You're already moving, grabbing the case and pivoting away from the fridge as gunfire shatters the sterile quiet. Your rifle kicks against your shoulder, rounds punching into torsos that refuse to care. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite and something fouler underneath.
One lunges for your legs. Leon intercepts it, boot driving into its chest hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. He doesn't even look as he fires downward, ending it with clinical precision.
More are coming. The hallway beyond the ruined door is a writhing mass of shapes pushing over each other, hungry, relentless. The lab equipment rattles as something heavy slams against the wall.
"Too many," you shout.
"Move!"
You sidestep, firing, trying to carve space, trying not to hit Leon as he crosses your line. Your shoulder clips the edge of the bed. The case slips in your grip for half a second.
A larger infected barrels through the doorway, body swollen, movements jerky but powerful. It collides with a rolling cart, sending metal instruments clattering across the floor like thrown knives. Leon pivots to engage, emptying three rounds into its upper chest. The creature staggers backward. Straight into the open refrigerator. Glass explodes.
The sound is high and crystalline, almost delicate beneath the gunfire, like a chandelier being smashed in a ballroom no one will ever dance in again. Vials shatter against metal shelves, against tile, against each other. Clear liquid splashes across the floor, instantly indistinguishable from the spreading mess of everything else. You see it happen in horrible, slow clarity. Hope, reduced to glittering debris.
"Leon!"
He fires again, dropping the brute for good. The body collapses forward, crushing what remains of the storage rack beneath its weight. For one stunned heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then another infected claws over the fallen bulk, and survival yanks you back into motion. You fire. Leon fires. Bodies drop. The noise is deafening, claustrophobic, relentless until at last the hallway falls silent again, littered with unmoving shapes.
Your ears ring. Smoke hangs in the air like a dirty veil. Slowly, cautiously, Leon lowers his weapon. His gaze drifts past the carnage to the refrigerator, to the floor, to the glittering field of broken glass and spilled medication soaking uselessly into grout lines and fabric and things you don't want to identify. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. The man on the bed has gone very still. His eyes stare at the ceiling, clouded over, whatever fragile thread holding him to himself finally snapped in the chaos. A drop of liquid slides off the shelf edge and hits the tile with a soft, final tick.
Leon exhales, long and controlled, like he's forcing the air out through a space too small for it. "...We'll find more," he says quietly.
He steps closer to you, one hand settling on your shoulder, firm and grounding. His thumb moves once, a brief stroke through dust and sweat, as if confirming you're still solid beneath his palm.
"You hurt?" he asks.
You shake your head, throat tight. "No."
"Good."
His hand lingers a moment longer, then drops. He scans the room again, already shifting back into mission mode, but the tension in his jaw has sharpened, lines around his eyes etched deeper by the red emergency light.
"Storage areas are usually clustered," he says. "If there was one unit, there are probably others."
You nod because he needs you to nod. Because forward is the only direction that exists anymore.
Together, you step around the shattered glass and the ruined promise it once held, boots crunching softly with every movement, and head back into the corridor where the dark waits patiently for you to return.
The corridor beyond the lab is narrower, older, the walls traded from clean hospital white to poured concrete stained by decades of leaks and neglect. Emergency lights hum overhead, casting everything in a tired amber glow that feels less like an alarm and more like a dying sunset that forgot to go away. Your boots echo differently here. Hollow. The sound carries too far.
Leon slows without saying anything, adjusting his pace until you're shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. His arm brushes yours with each step, solid and reassuring in a way that feels deliberate without calling attention to itself. After a minute, you realize he's listening to your breathing.
"You know," you say quietly, "most couples go to dinner."
He huffs under his breath. "We tried that."
"You got a call."
"We both got a call."
"I didn't even get to eat my pasta."
"You ordered something with fourteen ingredients I couldn't pronounce."
"That's not a crime."
"It should be."
You bump his shoulder lightly. "You promised dessert."
"I'll buy you dessert."
"You said that last time."
"I meant it last time, too."
His hand comes up automatically, resting on your back as the corridor narrows, guiding you around a fallen chunk of concrete. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.
"When this is over," he adds quietly, "we'll go somewhere that doesn't have reception."
You glance at him. "You're serious."
"Dead serious."
A small smile pulls at your mouth. "You'd last two days."
"I'd last three."
"Two and a half."
He considers it like it's a tactical estimate. "Two and a half."
The next door is heavier than the others, industrial steel with a small wired-glass window clouded by years of grime. A faded placard reads BIO STORAGE B in letters that have peeled into something ghostlike and hard to trust.
Leon raises a hand automatically, stopping you just short of the threshold.
"Hold."
You halt with your boot inches from the seam, rifle angled down but ready. He steps past you, placing himself between you and the door without thinking about it. He always does that. As if the hinge of the world were located somewhere in his spine.
He wipes a sleeve across the glass and peers through, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the dim interior. "Don't see movement," he murmurs. "Shelving units. Containers. Could be clear."
"Could be."
He glances back at you, reading your face the way other people read weather. "You good?"
"Always."
One eyebrow lifts. Not convinced.
You roll your shoulder where your gear has started to dig in, trying to work out the stiffness before it becomes a problem. "Just cramped."
"Switch packs with me."
"I'm fine."
"That wasn't a suggestion."
"It wasn't an order either."
For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet argument unfolding in expressions instead of voices. Married diplomacy in a war zone.
Finally, he exhales through his nose, conceding the point without admitting defeat. His hand comes up instead, settling briefly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing the muscle there in a grounding stroke.
"Tension," he says softly.
"Observation skills of a seasoned agent."
"Comes with the badge."
"You don't even carry a badge."
"Metaphorical badge."
You lean into his touch for half a second before you can stop yourself. He notices. His thumb stills, then presses lightly once more before he lets his hand fall away.
"Stay behind me on entry," he says, voice shifting, professional edges sliding back into place.
"I take left. You take right," you counter automatically.
He gives you a look. You give him one right back.
"...Fine," he mutters at last. "But if I say fall back, you fall back."
"Yes, dear."
His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't 'yes, dear' me in a mission."
"Yes, sir," you salute.
Leon grunts and shakes his head, trying not to smile. You reach past him to test the handle. Locked.
"Stand clear," you say.
He moves aside this time without commentary, covering the door while you pull a compact bypass tool from your vest. The metal is cold against your fingers, humming faintly as it interfaces with the ancient locking mechanism.
For a few seconds, the only sounds are the tool's soft electronic chirp and your breathing. Then the mechanism clicks. You don't open it immediately. Instead, you glance sideways at him. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tiny scar along his jaw, the exhaustion he carries like a shadow that never quite detaches.
"After this," you say quietly, "we're getting that dessert."
He studies you for a long beat, something unspoken passing through his expression. A deep, stubborn refusal to imagine a future where that doesn't happen.
"Yeah," he says at last, voice low and certain. "We are."
Your hand brushes his wrist as you shift your grip on the handle. He turns his palm just enough to catch your fingers, squeezing once, firm and warm. A promise disguised as reflex. Then he releases you, raises his weapon, and nods.
"On you."
You pull the door open. Cold air spills out, stale and chemical, carrying the faint scent of something spoiled long before anyone stopped coming down here. The room beyond is a maze of tall storage racks and plastic containers, shadows pooling thick between them like standing water.
Leon moves through the doorway first, silent, precise, clearing angles with ruthless efficiency. You follow a half-step behind despite earlier negotiations, covering what he can't see, trusting him to do the same.
All you hear is the hum of failing lights. The soft creak of metal settling. The distant, almost inaudible drip of water somewhere in the dark.
Leon lifts two fingers, signaling pause. You freeze. He tilts his head, listening.
"...Thought I heard something," he whispers.
You hold your breath. The room holds its breath too. Then, very softly, something shifts deep between the shelves. A scrape. Leon's posture tightens, every line of him sharpening toward the sound.
"Stay close," he murmurs.
You move in beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him grounding against the cold air of the room.
"Always do," you whisper back.
The air grows colder the farther you go, heavy with the stale tang of chemicals and something faintly organic beneath it, like fruit left too long in a sealed container. Your flashlight beam skims across plastic bins, sealed crates, labels bleached into illegibility. Dust floats in slow spirals each time you move, disturbed ghosts reluctant to settle again.
Leon advances at a measured pace, weapon steady, shoulders tight enough to telegraph that he hasn't liked this room from the moment the door opened. You mirror him, covering the angles between shelving units, eyes darting through the narrow gaps where shadows knit together into something almost solid. Another scrape, closer this time.
A container shifts on a shelf to your left with a soft plastic thud, tipping just enough to rock in place. Your rifle swings toward it automatically.
"Probably just settling," you whisper.
Leon doesn't answer. He takes one careful step forward, angling to get a better view past the rack. The beam of his light cuts across the gap, illuminating stacked boxes, a collapsed cart, nothing that looks immediately threatening.
Your shoulders start to loosen. That's when the hands shoot out of the darkness. They clamp around your calf, iron strong, nails digging through fabric as something drags itself from beneath the lowest shelf with a wet, hungry sound. You don't even have time to shout before you're yanked off balance.
"Leon—!"
He pivots instantly, dropping his aim to avoid hitting you as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The infected is half-crushed, lower body mangled, but its arms work just fine. Its mouth snaps inches from your boot, teeth clacking together with a sound that vibrates up your bones.
You kick, connecting with its face, but it barely registers the impact. Its grip tightens, hauling you closer, closer, jaws opening wide enough to show the slick black of its throat.
Leon moves. He doesn't fire. Too risky. Instead, he lunges forward, grabbing the back of your vest and hauling you backward with brutal force. The infected comes with you, still latched on, dead weight and fury combined.
"Let go!" he snarls, driving his boot into its shoulder.
Bone cracks. The grip loosens just enough for him to wrench you free, dragging you behind him as he finally gets a clear shot. Two rounds. Point-blank.
The body jerks, collapses, and goes still. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the thunder of your pulse. Leon stays crouched in front of you, one arm braced across your chest like a barricade, gun still trained on the corpse in case it decides death is negotiable.
"Hey," he says, voice low, urgent. "Hey. Look at me."
You blink, vision swimming, lungs finally remembering how to work. "I'm... I'm good."
His eyes scan you anyway, fast and thorough, hands already moving, checking arms, shoulders, gear, the way he always does. Routine. Training. Care disguised as procedure. Then his hand stops at your leg.
The fabric of your pants is torn where the creature grabbed you. Dark spreads through the rip, wet and unmistakable even in the dim light. Leon goes very still. Slowly, carefully, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and tosses it aside. His bare hand is warm when it closes around your ankle, steady but not gentle as he angles your leg into the beam of his flashlight.
You follow his gaze. For a second, your brain refuses to interpret what you're seeing. Just shapes. Color. Shine. Then it resolves. Deep teeth marks on your ankle. Blood wells from the punctures, thick and bright, running down into your boot.
"Oh," you say softly.
Leon doesn't speak. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle jumps along his cheek. His thumb presses near the wound, not enough to hurt, just enough to assess depth, damage, and reality.
"How bad?" you ask, because someone has to.
He inhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying to pull the air all the way down to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore.
"...Through the muscle," he says at last, voice roughened at the edges. "No arterial spray."
You almost laugh. Of course, that's what he notices. Of course, he frames it in survivable terms.
"Good news," you murmur.
His eyes snap to yours, sharp, bright, furious at something that isn't you. "Don't."
The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Silence floods back in, thick as the dust hanging in the air. Carefully, he releases your leg only long enough to tear open a pouch on his vest. Gauze. Compression wrap. His hands move with practiced efficiency, but there's a tremor there now, small and stubborn, like a fault line threatening to split.
"This won't stop it," you say quietly.
"I know."
He presses the gauze down anyway, firm, unyielding, as if pressure alone could force time to behave.
"You didn't get grabbed anywhere else?" he asks without looking up.
"No."
"Scratch? Contact with fluid?"
"No, Leon."
He nods once, wrapping the bandage tight enough to hurt. You don't complain. Pain feels reassuringly human. When he finishes, he doesn't pull away. His hands remain braced on your leg, head bowed slightly, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. From this angle, you can see the faint silver threaded through his hair, the lines carved deeper by worry than age. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his jaw. He freezes.
"Hey," you say softly.
His eyes close for one heartbeat, leaning just slightly into your touch, like a man starving who just found water. Then he opens them again, focus snapping back into place with visible effort.
"We're moving," he says, voice low and absolute. "There will be another storage area. Another lab. Something."
You nod because you believe him. Because you have to. Because you don't want this to be the end. Because you don't want Leon to have to go through that. Because you want your dessert.
He rises first, then offers you his hand. When you take it, he pulls you up carefully, keeping his other hand hovering at your waist in case you falter. You put weight on the leg. It holds, though pain flares hot and sharp.
"Can you walk?" he asks.
"Yeah." A lie. A manageable one.
He doesn't call you on it. Instead, his arm slides around your back, anchoring you against his side as you take your first step. Protective. Supportive. Refusing to let distance exist.
"Stay with me," he murmurs.
Your head rests briefly against his shoulder, just for a second.
"Always," you whisper.
Adrenaline still burns hot in your veins, dulling the edges, convincing your body it can outrun consequences if it just keeps moving. Leon keeps his arm locked around you, pace adjusted to match yours without comment. Not slow enough to feel patronizing, not fast enough to make you stumble. Perfect. Infuriatingly perfect.
"You don't have to babysit," you murmur.
"Good," he says quietly. "Because I'm not."
His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading as if to support more of your weight without making a show of it. The corridor slopes downward. Each step sends a dull shock up your leg, deeper now, heavier, like the pain has roots instead of edges. You grit your teeth and keep going. After a dozen paces, something else creeps in. A warmth. Not the healthy kind. Not exertion. This feels wrong, thick and syrupy, pooling under your skin like fever deciding where to settle. You swallow. Your throat feels dry. Too dry.
"Leon," you start, then stop, because you're not sure what you were going to say.
He glances at you immediately. "What?"
"Nothing. Thought I heard something."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he shifts you a little closer, your hip brushing his with every step now, a steady rhythm of contact that keeps you oriented.
The lights flicker overhead. For a split second, the world tilts. You blink hard, waiting for it to right itself. It does, but not completely. The edges of your vision feel soft, as if someone smeared petroleum jelly across reality.
"Hey," Leon says quietly.
You realize you've slowed. "I'm fine."
He stops anyway.
"No," he says, voice calm and immovable as bedrock. "You're not."
Before you can argue, a shape lurches from a side passage ahead. Its movements are jerky and uneven, its head twitching like a broken marionette. Leon eases you behind him with one hand, weapon already up. He takes it out, waiting a few seconds to make sure it's down.
When he turns back to you, his focus narrows, shutting out the rest of the world. "Sit," he says.
You shake your head. "We don't have time."
"Sit."
There's no edge in it. No raised volume. Just absolute certainty that this is happening. Your legs decide for you. The moment you stop resisting, they wobble, knees threatening to fold. Leon catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your back, the other under your uninjured leg, guiding you down against the wall with careful control.
The concrete is cold through your gear. It feels strangely good. He crouches in front of you, close enough that your boots nearly touch his knees. Up close, you can see every tiny tension line in his face, every sleepless hour etched into skin that has forgotten what "rested" means.
His bare hand comes up again, settling against your neck, fingers sliding to your pulse point. You shiver.
His brows draw together. "You're burning up."
"Shock," you say weakly.
"You know that's not true."
His thumb presses lightly, counting. You can feel the rhythm under his skin, your heart hammering like it's trying to break out of your chest.
"Too fast," he murmurs, mostly to himself.
A tremor runs through your hands. Small at first, then stronger, fingers twitching against your thigh as if they belong to someone else and forgot to tell you. You curl them into fists, but it doesn't help. Leon notices. He reaches down slowly, deliberately, and wraps his hand around yours. Not restraining. Anchoring. His grip is warm, solid, impossibly steady compared to the jitter under your skin.
"Look at me," he says softly.
You do. Blue eyes. Tired. Fierce. Terrified in a way he would deny under oath.
"We're going to fix this," he says.
"You don't know that."
"Yes," he says, so simply it almost hurts. "I do."
Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, but the edges keep fuzzing out like a badly tuned signal.
"Everything's... weird," you admit. "Like I'm underwater."
His jaw tightens. "Any nausea?"
"No."
"Dizziness?"
"...Maybe."
"Confusion?"
You hesitate.
His expression darkens. "How long?"
"Ten minutes."
He leans forward suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is gentle, deliberate, his eyes closing for a brief moment like he's drawing strength from proximity alone.
"You stay with me," he murmurs. "You hear me? No drifting."
"I'm right here."
His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there. Making sure you don't slip away. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Somewhere far off, metal clatters. A distant echo of something collapsing. The facility settling into deeper ruin. You swallow. Your throat feels raw now, like you've been breathing dry air for hours.
"Leon."
"Yeah."
"If I start to..."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sharp. "Don't."
"You need to be ready."
"I am ready."
"That's not what I mean."
His hand tightens at the back of your neck, just enough to stop you from looking away.
"I'm not leaving you," he says quietly. "Save it."
Your chest aches, and not from the bite. You nod because you don't trust your voice. He studies you another moment, memorizing something only he can see, then exhales slowly and shifts back into motion.
"Okay," he says, tone sharpening into mission focus again. "We move in short intervals. Next sector should have auxiliary storage or research offices. More supplies. Maybe antivirals."
"Maybe," you echo.
He rises, then hesitates, looking down at you like he's recalculating physics.
Without warning, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees.
You blink. "Leon—"
"Save your strength."
"I can walk."
"I know."
And that's the end of the discussion. He lifts you with controlled ease, settling you against his chest. Your head ends up tucked under his chin, close enough to hear his heartbeat, steady and stubborn as a drum calling soldiers back to formation. You don't argue again. Your hand fumbles for his vest, gripping the fabric as another wave of heat rolls through you, deeper this time, almost nauseating in its intensity.
"Still with me?" he murmurs into your hair.
You nod weakly. "Yeah."
"Good."
He adjusts his hold, one hand splayed protectively across your back, and starts down the corridor again, footsteps measured, unhurried, as if he has decided that time itself can wait its turn. The world sways gently with each step. Your eyelids feel heavy.
Leon's voice cuts through the fog, low and insistent. "Stay awake."
"I'm trying."
"Talk to me."
"About what?"
"Anything."
You think for a long moment, chasing thoughts that scatter like startled birds.
"...Dessert," you mumble finally.
A soft breath leaves him, almost a laugh, almost something else entirely.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."
You clutch his vest a little tighter, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.
"Don't let me fall asleep," you whisper.
His arms tighten around you, careful but unyielding.
Leon adjusts his grip as you shift in his arms, not because you're heavy, never that, but because your body no longer anticipates his movement the way it usually does. You used to lean into turns before they happened, tighten your hold when he stepped over debris, and match his rhythm without thinking. Now you lag by half a second behind every motion, like your connection to gravity is buffering. He notices. He notices everything.
Your skin is too hot even through layers of fabric. Heat seeps through his sleeves, through his gloves, into his palms like you're burning from the inside out. Your breath ghosts unevenly against his throat, sometimes shallow, sometimes too deep, like your lungs can't agree on a pattern. Fever, he tells himself. Infection. Not the other thing. Not yet. Your fingers twitch where they clutch his vest, loosening, tightening, loosening again.
"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Still with me?"
A pause. "...Yeah."
The word is slurred at the edges, dragged through molasses. His jaw tightens. He keeps moving.
The corridor stretches ahead in dim amber light, empty except for the occasional smear on the wall or abandoned equipment pushed aside by people who ran out of time. His footsteps are steady, deliberate, conserving energy, minimizing jostling. He's carried wounded before. Teammates. Civilians. Strangers. None of them felt like this. None of them felt like carrying his own heartbeat outside his body.
Your head shifts, cheek pressing against his collarbone. For a moment you go very still, so still that something cold claws down his spine.
"Talk to me," he says, softer now. "You promised."
A long silence. Then, faintly, "Cold."
He stops. A clean halt, like someone pulled a lever inside him. Cold is wrong. You're burning up. He lowers you carefully to one knee without setting you fully down, keeping one arm wrapped around your back so you don't tip sideways. His other hand comes up to your face, bare fingers brushing your cheek. Your skin is blazing. But you're shivering. Small, violent tremors run through you, teeth chattering softly against each other, lashes fluttering as if your body can't decide whether to wake or sleep.
"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Open your eyes."
You do, slowly, unfocused at first. Your pupils look blown wide in the low light, swallowing what little color remains in your irises.
"It's... dark," you mumble.
His chest tightens. The lights are still on.
"I'm right here," he says. "Look at me."
Your gaze drifts, struggles, and finally locks onto his face. Recognition flickers there, fragile but present.
"...Leon."
Relief hits him so hard it almost feels like pain.
"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, it's me."
Your brow furrows faintly, confusion knitting your expression into something painfully vulnerable.
"You look... tired."
He almost laughs. "Occupational hazard," he says quietly.
Your hand lifts weakly, fingers brushing his jaw as if you're mapping terrain you've walked a thousand times but suddenly don't trust your memory of.
"You should sleep," you whisper.
The tenderness in it is what breaks him a little.
"Soon, sweetheart," he says.
Your hand slips, falling back against your chest. Silence stretches. Your breathing grows uneven again.
Then you say, very softly, "Did we make it home?"
The words land like a physical blow. For a second, he can't answer. His throat closes around something sharp and unmanageable.
Home. Not the facility. Not the mission. Not the outbreak. Home. He swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs.
"Not yet," he says, voice low and steady by sheer force of will. "Working on it."
Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, as if you're looking at something over his shoulder that isn't there.
"...Smells like coffee," you murmur. "Burned it again."
His vision blurs. He blinks hard, refocusing on the concrete wall behind you. You're not smelling coffee. There is no coffee. There hasn't been coffee in hours. Just dust and chemicals and rot. Hallucinations, a cold voice in his mind supplies. Neurological involvement. He hates that voice.
Your lips curve faintly, a sleepy little smile that belongs in a sunlit kitchen, not here. "You always do that," you mumble. "Say you're watching it, then forget..."
Your head tips sideways, resting against his arm. Your eyelids droop. Panic slices through him, clean and immediate.
"Hey," he says sharply, fingers tightening on your shoulder. "No. Stay with me."
You stir weakly. "...'m tired."
"I know."
"So tired."
His thumb presses against your pulse again. Still fast. Too fast.
"You can sleep when we're home," he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to something rough and urgent.
Your eyes open a sliver.
"...Promise?"
The question is so small it barely exists.
He bows his head until his forehead rests against yours, eyes closing for one heartbeat, he allows himself.
"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."
He doesn't know if he's promising sleep, survival, or something else entirely. It doesn't matter. Your breathing evens out a little, not better, just slower, drifting toward something that looks dangerously like unconsciousness. Not yet, he thinks fiercely.
He slides one arm under your knees again and lifts you back against his chest, more carefully this time, as if you might come apart if handled too roughly. Your head lolls against his shoulder, then settles in the hollow of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.
"Stay with me," he murmurs into your hair. "Just a little longer."
Your fingers twitch weakly against his vest, not gripping anymore, just resting there like they forgot their job.
"...Love you," you whisper, so faint he almost thinks he imagined it.
He stops breathing. The entire world narrows to the weight in his arms and the fragile thread of sound still hanging in the air. His hold tightens, protective, desperate, careful all at once.
"I know," he says quietly, voice breaking on the edges despite his best effort. "I know."
He presses his cheek briefly against your hair, eyes closing, grounding himself in the reality of you. The heat. The softness. The terrifying fragility. Then he straightens and starts moving again, steps faster now, less cautious, urgency bleeding through the discipline he's clung to since this began. Somewhere ahead, there has to be another lab. Another storage room. Another chance. There has to be. Because the alternative is unthinkable, and Leon Kennedy has built an entire life on refusing to accept those.
"Hang on," he murmurs. "I've got you."
The corridor opens into what used to be a patient ward, rows of metal-framed beds bolted to the floor, privacy curtains hanging in limp, dusty folds like flags after a lost battle. Most of the mattresses are stripped bare, plastic covers cracked with age, but the room is quiet. No movement. No shuffling breath. Just the low electrical hum that seems to haunt every corner of this place.
Leon slows, scanning automatically, mapping exits, sightlines, choke points. Good visibility. Single main entrance. Minimal clutter. Defensible. More importantly, close.
A reinforced door at the far end bears a faded hazard symbol and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled beneath it. The hinges are external. The frame is thicker than standard interior construction. Lab access. Or something close to it.
"Okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "This'll do."
He crosses to the nearest intact bed and lowers you with painstaking care, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other guiding your legs so the injured one doesn't twist. The mattress sighs softly under your weight, springs complaining but holding. For a second, he doesn't let go. Your head rolls slightly to one side, hair falling across your face. Your eyes are half-open, unfocused, lashes trembling like you're dreaming with your eyes still in the world.
"Hey," he says quietly, brushing the hair back with fingers that are gentler than anything else he's done today. "Stay with me."
Your gaze struggles to find him. "...Hi," you whisper.
"Hi," he echoes, voice rough.
Your hand lifts weakly, searching. He catches it immediately, folding his larger one around yours, grounding you with solid pressure.
"Where are we?" you murmur.
"Almost there," he says. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. "I need to check something."
Your fingers twitch in his grip, barely there. "...Don't go far."
His throat tightens.
"I won't," he says. "You'll be able to hear me the whole time." That seems to satisfy something in you. Your eyes drift closed, not fully unconscious, just sliding along the edge of it.
He gently lowers your hand to rest against your stomach, then hesitates. After a moment, he reaches up and unzips his jacket, shrugging it off despite the chill. He drapes it over you, tucking it around your shoulders, creating a cocoon of familiar warmth and scent. Leon rests his palm against your cheek one last time, thumb brushing your skin in a soft arc.
He forces himself to stand. Every instinct screams not to leave you. To pick you up and run until the world ends, the cure appears, or both. But the door at the end of the room waits, silent and stubborn, and something in his gut tells him that whatever hope exists is behind it.
He moves. Slow at first, reluctant steps that keep him within arm's reach, then a little farther, turning back every few seconds to make sure you're still breathing, still there, still you. Halfway across the ward, a shape shifts behind a curtain. Leon's weapon is up before the fabric finishes swaying.
A figure stumbles out, skeletal, skin pulled tight over bone, eyes reflecting dull amber in the emergency light. Its mouth opens in a soundless snarl as it lurches toward the nearest movement. Leon intercepts it before it gets anywhere. Two suppressed shots. One to the chest, one to the head. The body collapses in a boneless heap, momentum carrying it forward until it skids to a stop across the tile.
Another groan answers from somewhere deeper in the room. He pivots, firing again, dropping a second infected as it claws its way over a bedframe. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Three heartbeats of silence. He listens, counting breaths. Nothing else rises. Only then does he glance back. You haven't moved. Relief floods through him so sharply his knees almost unlock.
"Still here," he murmurs under his breath, as if confirming it makes it true.
He reaches the reinforced door and tests the handle. Locked. Of course it is.
Up close, the barricade becomes obvious. Heavy shelving units have been shoved against the interior side, metal edges visible through the narrow seam where the door meets the frame. Whoever sealed this room meant to keep something out. Or in.
Leon leans closer, ear to the cold steel. Nothing. No breathing. No scratching. No shifting weight. He steps back and scans the frame. Electronic panel. Dead. Manual override slot intact. Hope stirs, cautious and unwelcome.
He glances over his shoulder again. From here, he can still see you on the bed, small beneath his jacket, chest rising and falling in shallow motions that make his own lungs ache in sympathy.
"Almost there," he says quietly, whether to you or himself, he doesn't know.
From a pouch on his belt, he pulls a compact breaching tool, the metal catching the light as he slots it into the override housing. The device hums softly, vibration traveling up his wrist.
Behind him, the ward remains still.
Then your voice drifts across the room, thin and fragile. "...Leon?"
He spins instantly. Your head has turned toward him, eyes open again, unfocused but searching, panic flickering in the small movement of your hands against his jacket.
"I'm here," he calls, already crossing back toward you. "Right here."
You stare at him as if trying to memorize his face before it disappears. "...Too many," you whisper. "They're everywhere."
"There's nothing here," he says gently. "You're safe."
Your head sinks back into the thin pillow. Consciousness slips away from you like water through open fingers. Leon stays there a second longer than he should, watching your chest rise, fall, rise again. Then he stands and turns back to the barricaded door, something steely settling over him, heavier than anger, sharper than fear.
The tool in his hand whines as it bites into the locking mechanism, sparks spitting in brief, angry bursts. Metal protests. Screws shear. The smell of hot circuitry fills the air.
"Hold on," he murmurs, not looking back this time because he won't stop if he does. "I'm getting us in."
Behind him, the bed creaks softly as you shift in fevered sleep. Ahead, the door shudders as the final bolt gives way. Leon shoves the door inward, the weight of it grinding against the barricade until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through sideways. Inside, a toppled shelving unit leans against the opposite wall, confirming what he already suspected. Whoever sealed this room did it from within and didn't plan on leaving.
The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sterile in that artificial way that smells faintly of alcohol wipes and plastic, like illness reduced to a controlled environment.
Emergency lights glow a sickly green, illuminating rows of lab benches, overturned stools, racks of glassware frozen mid-experiment. Papers lie scattered across the floor, curling at the edges. A monitor flickers weakly on one station, casting a pulsing rectangle of pale light that feels almost alive in the otherwise stagnant room.
Leon clears the space in seconds, weapon sweeping corners, checking behind doors, under desks, anywhere something could hide. Nothing lunges. Nothing breathes. Just abandonment, sudden and absolute, like the people who worked here evaporated mid-sentence.
He lowers the gun a fraction, chest rising and falling a little too fast to be purely tactical.
"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough in the quiet. "Okay."
He moves to the nearest workstation, scanning labels, cabinets, drawers. Chemical reagents. Disposable supplies. Data drives. Everything except what he needs. Another bench. Same story. He opens a refrigerated unit. Empty trays. Frost buildup. Power too low to maintain temperature.
His pulse hammers harder.
Not here. Not here. Not here.
"Come on," he mutters, rifling through containers faster now, less methodical, more desperate. Glass clinks sharply as he shoves aside vials of things that don't matter, powders with long names, syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Nothing labeled antiviral. Nothing labeled serum. Nothing labeled hope. A cold weight settles in his stomach.
He moves to the flickering computer, fingers flying across the keys, waking it from whatever half-dead state it's been trapped in. The screen brightens sluggishly, revealing a login prompt already bypassed, system hanging on by a thread.
"Don't do this to me," he whispers.
Folders populate slowly. Research logs. Incident reports. Containment protocols. He scans titles with ruthless speed, opening anything that looks remotely relevant, eyes burning as line after line of technical jargon scrolls past.
A crash echoes faintly from the ward beyond the door. His head snaps toward the sound. Silence follows. He waits three seconds. Five. Ten. No approach. No impact against the door. No dragging footsteps. Still there, he tells himself. She's still there.
He turns back to the screen, forcing his focus to narrow again. A document catches his eye.
ANTIVIRAL DISPERSION PROTOCOL – EMERGENCY USE
He opens it. Paragraphs of dense instructions spill across the display. Stabilization procedures. Delivery methods. Storage warnings. STORAGE LOCATION: SECURE BIOCONTAINMENT VAULT B-2. His stomach drops. Not here.
Coordinates blink uselessly on the screen, pointing deeper into the facility, farther than he wants to think about, farther than you may be able to survive the trip.
Something inside him finally gives. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, shoulders bowing as if someone just added fifty pounds to his back.
"Damn it," he breathes.
The word fractures on the way out, barely more than air. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping toward his clenched fists, fighting the surge of helpless fury that threatens to tear through discipline, training, every wall he's built over years of surviving the unsurvivable. Not enough time. Not enough distance. Not enough anything.
Out in the ward, you lie alone on a metal bed, burning up, slipping further away with every second he spends standing here empty-handed. His chest tightens until breathing feels optional.
For one dangerous moment, he imagines walking back out there, picking you up, and never stopping. No cure. No mission. Just distance and denial. Just the selfish hope that if he runs fast enough, the virus won't catch you.
He exhales sharply, dragging himself back from the edge. Running never saved anyone.
"Think," he mutters hoarsely. "Think."
His gaze drifts across the lab again, slower this time, less frantic, searching for patterns instead of miracles. That's when he notices it. A sealed medical kit is mounted on the wall near the exit. Standard emergency issue. Bright white casing. Untouched, pristine compared to the chaos everywhere else. Too pristine. He crosses the room and pops it open. Bandages. Burn gel. Basic trauma supplies. Nothing else.
His shoulders slump. Then his eyes catch a thin seam along the back panel, almost invisible unless you're looking directly at it. Not part of the original design. Too clean. Too deliberate. He taps it with his knuckle. Hollow. Hope flares, sharp and painful.
He wedges a knife into the seam and pries. The panel resists for a second, then snaps free with a brittle crack, revealing a narrow cavity hidden behind the kit.
Inside rests a single reinforced container, matte gray and no bigger than a paperback book, sealed with a biometric latch long since disabled. Not government-issue, but research-grade. Whoever put this here didn't have the chance to get it.
Leon's hands shake as he pulls it free. The lid pops open. Nestled in foam are two glass syringes pre-loaded with clear liquid, labels printed in blocky lab script:
ANTIVIRAL SERUM — FINALIZED STRAIN
For a second, he just stares, brain refusing to trust what his eyes are telling it. Air leaves his lungs in a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to a sob strangled before it can exist.
He presses his forehead briefly against the cool plastic case, eyes squeezing shut, letting the relief hit him in one violent wave before he can stop it. Shoulders shake once, twice, a tremor he doesn't bother to control because no one is here to see it. No one except the person who needs him most. He straightens abruptly, wiping a hand across his face, composure snapping back into place like a mask he's worn too long to misplace.
"Hang on," he says, already moving for the door, clutching the case like it's made of glass and prayers. "I'm coming back."
Your skin is still hot. That's the first thing he registers when his palm cups your cheek. Heat floods into his hand, fever-bright, but there's a wrongness to it now, a brittle quality, like warmth without life behind it.
"Hey," he says softly. "I'm back."
No response. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, unmoving. Your mouth is slightly open, breath slipping in shallow threads that barely stir the hair at your temple. The shivering from before has stopped. Your body lies too still beneath his jacket, as if it finally decided movement was optional.
A cold spike of terror drives straight through his chest.
"Hey." Louder this time, but still gentle, still careful, as if volume alone might break you. "Come on. Open your eyes for me."
Nothing. He slides his hand to your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point. It's there. Fast. Thready. Irregular in a way that makes his own heartbeat stumble trying to match it.
"Okay," he breathes, more to himself than to you. "We're okay."
His other hand trembles as he fumbles the case open, snapping it back with a soft plastic crack. The syringes gleam under the emergency lights, their clear liquid looking impossibly calm compared to the storm in his chest. He sets the case on the bed beside you, movements deliberate, controlled, forcing precision where panic wants chaos.
"You're gonna hate this part," he murmurs, fingers working to clear space at your collar, tugging fabric aside so he can reach skin. "But you can yell at me later. I'm counting on it."
Your head lolls slightly with the movement. No protest. No reflexive tension. He swallows hard.
"Hey," he says again, softer now, thumb brushing your jaw in a slow arc. "Stay with me, okay? You don't get to check out early. We still owe each other dessert."
His voice catches on the last word. He pushes through it.
"Remember that place downtown? The one with the ridiculous chocolate cake you said was worth the calories?" A shaky breath. "I figure we'll go there."
He presses his forehead briefly against yours, eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second.
"You hear me? We've got plans."
Your breathing hitches faintly, a tiny irregular stutter that might be a coincidence or might be something else. He latches onto it anyway, desperate for anything that looks like a connection.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Right there. Stay with me."
He lifts the syringe, checks it automatically, habit stronger than fear. No air bubbles. Fluid clear. Needle steady despite the tremor in his hand.
"Okay," he whispers. "Here we go."
He slides his arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough to support you against his chest, cradling you there so the injection won't jostle too much. Your head falls against him, cheek resting over his heart, breath warm and frighteningly faint through the fabric of his shirt.
"You're doing great," he says softly, even though you're doing nothing at all. "Almost there."
The needle presses into your skin.
He hesitates.
Not because he doubts the serum. Because once this is done, there's nothing left to do but wait, and waiting is the one thing he has never learned to survive gracefully.
"Don't be mad," he murmurs. "I'm not giving you a choice."
He depresses the plunger slowly, watching the liquid disappear into you, as if he can track hope molecule by molecule. His other arm tightens around your back, holding you upright, holding you together.
"All right," he says, voice barely above a breath. "You did good. See? Easy."
He withdraws the needle and sets it aside with mechanical care, as if any sudden movement might undo what he's just done. Then he just holds you.
Seconds crawl past, each one stretching thin as wire. Nothing happens. Your breathing remains shallow. Your pulse, when he checks again, is still fast, still erratic. His chest starts to feel tight, air coming harder, like the room has quietly stolen oxygen while he wasn't looking.
"Okay," he says hoarsely. "Sometimes these things take a minute."
He shifts you slightly, thumb stroking your arm in absent circles, the same motion he uses when you're half asleep on long flights or bad nights. Comfort muscle memory kicks in even when the situation is far beyond comfort.
"You're not allowed to do this," he whispers. "You hear me? Not now. Not like this."
Your hand slips from where it rested against his vest, sliding down between you, fingers loose and unresponsive. He grabs it instantly, folding it back into his palm, pressing it against his chest.
"Come back," he says, the words fraying at the edges.
Another long stretch of nothing. Fear blooms, cold and suffocating, filling every hollow place in him. Too late, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Too slow. Too far gone.
He shakes his head sharply, jaw clenching.
"No," he mutters. "No, you don't get to do that."
He bows over you, pressing his forehead to your hair, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in like oxygen.
"You promised," he says roughly. "You don't break your promises."
Your pulse stutters under his fingers. He freezes.
There it is again. A strange hitch, a pause that stretches too long, then a sudden rush, as if your heart forgot the rhythm and is trying to find it again. His own heart stops in sympathetic terror.
"Come on," he whispers. "Come on..."
Your body jerks. A sharp, involuntary spasm that arches you slightly against him before you go slack again. Leon sucks in a breath, half panic, half hope colliding in his chest.
Your brow creases faintly, expression tightening as if pain is finally breaking through the fog. A weak sound escapes you, barely audible, more exhale than voice. His grip on you tightens, careful but fierce.
"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. You're okay."
Your breathing changes, deepening suddenly, as if you're pulling in air like someone surfacing from underwater. It catches, stutters, then comes again, stronger this time, dragging oxygen into lungs that finally seem interested in using it.
"There you go," he breathes, voice shaking openly now. "That's it. Stay with me."
Your fingers twitch weakly against his chest. He presses his cheek against your hair, eyes closing, holding you like you might still vanish if he loosens his grip.
"I've got you," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you."
He keeps you cradled against his chest, one arm locked around your back, the other braced across your shoulders, hand splayed as if shielding you from something that no longer exists. His cheek rests against your hair, breath uneven, dragging in through his nose, out through parted lips like he's relearning how to do it.
Your pulse is stronger now beneath his fingers. Still fast, still fragile, but steady enough to count. Steady enough to believe in. Only then does the tension start to bleed out of him. It comes all at once.
His shoulders shudder. Not violently, just a small, contained tremor that he tries to swallow down and can't. A sound escapes him, rough and broken, something halfway between a breath and a sob he never intended to make. He tightens his hold instinctively, pressing his face into your hair as if hiding there makes it less real.
"Okay," he whispers hoarsely. "Okay... you're okay."
Warmth hits your scalp. At first, your fogged mind can't place it. Wetness. A second drop follows, sliding along your temple before disappearing into your hair.
Leon doesn't notice. Or he does and can't stop. He bows over you, forehead pressed to the crown of your head, shoulders shaking in small, uneven pulses he's trying desperately to keep silent. Years of training, years of surviving, years of holding everything inside, finally cracking under the simple fact that you are still here.
"I've got you," he murmurs, voice wrecked, words stumbling over each other. "I've got you, I've got you..."
Your fingers twitch. This time, the movement is stronger, a weak curl against his shirt, fabric bunching slightly in your grasp. The sensation filters through layers of fog, heat, exhaustion, and the lingering echo of pain. Consciousness creeps back in like dawn through heavy curtains.
Your throat burns. Your body feels impossibly heavy, as if gravity doubled while you were away. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-level fatigue that sleep alone could never fix.
Sound reaches you first. A heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Close enough to be yours, except it isn't. Breath above you, hitching, uneven. Fabric shifting faintly with each inhale.
Someone is holding you. You force your eyes open.
The world swims into view in slow, watery shapes. A blurred patch of green light. A shadow that resolves into the curve of a shoulder. Blond strands of hair brushing your cheek.
Leon.
He doesn't notice you're awake yet. His face is buried against your head, one hand cupping the back of your skull with fierce gentleness, thumb moving in tiny, repetitive strokes like he's soothing a nightmare that hasn't ended for him yet.
Your voice comes out as a rasp. "Leon...?"
He freezes. Absolute stillness, like a statue suddenly unsure whether it's allowed to move. Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red. Not just glassy, not just tired, but openly, unmistakably wet. Tracks of tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, catching the light as he blinks hard, as if blinking might erase evidence before you can register it.
For a second, he just stares at you, something raw and disbelieving cracking across his face, like he expected this moment and still isn't sure it's real.
"You're..." His voice fails. He clears his throat roughly. "Hey."
You try to smile. It feels wobbly, incomplete. "Hi."
Relief hits him so visibly it's almost painful to watch. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him like someone cut the strings holding him upright.
"Hey," he repeats, softer this time, thumb coming up to brush your cheek in a careful sweep, as if confirming you're solid. "You're back."
"Was I... gone?"
His jaw tightens. "Not allowed."
You attempt a small laugh. It comes out as a weak breath. His hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers resting over your pulse again, counting, grounding, refusing to trust his eyes alone.
"You scared me," he says quietly.
Your gaze drops to his chest, to the wrinkled fabric where you must have been gripping him earlier. "Sorry."
His head snaps slightly. "Don't."
The word is sharp, then softens immediately.
"Don't apologize," he adds, voice rough. "Just... don't."
You nod faintly. Even that feels like work.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there in his arms, breathing the same air, sharing the same small pocket of reality after hours of separation that happened without distance. Then you notice how tightly he's still holding you.
"Leon," you murmur, "I can't breathe."
He releases you instantly, horror flashing across his face. "Sorry. Sorry."
He shifts his grip, supporting you more carefully, one arm still behind your shoulders but no longer crushing you to him. His other hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as if he can't quite stop touching you.
"You're okay?" he asks, scanning your face like he's looking for cracks. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Vision?"
"Everything hurts."
He exhales, something that might be relief ghosting through the pain in his expression. "I'll take it."
Your eyes drift past him, taking in the ward, the beds, the dim light. Memory trickles back in jagged pieces. Teeth. Heat. Falling. Darkness.
"...You found it," you whisper.
He nods once. "Yeah, told you we would.
Your mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You did."
You study him more closely now, the red around his eyes, the dampness he hasn't fully wiped away, the way he keeps blinking as if his vision is unreliable.
"You were crying," you say softly.
Immediate denial rises to his lips. You can see it form. Then he looks at you. And whatever excuse he was about to give dissolves.
"...Yeah," he admits, voice low. "Maybe a little."
A tear slips free anyway, tracking down before he can stop it. He doesn't bother hiding it this time. Doesn't look away. Just lets it exist.
"You weren't waking up," he says, as if that explains everything. It does.
Your chest aches in a different way now. You lift your hand slowly, muscles protesting, and touch his face. Your thumb brushes the damp track on his cheek, wiping it away with clumsy tenderness.
"I'm here," you whisper.
He leans into your hand without thinking, eyes closing briefly, relief and exhaustion and something deeper collapsing together inside him.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."
He covers your hand with his, pressing it lightly to his skin as if anchoring himself. After a moment, his gaze sharpens again, mission awareness bleeding back in.
"We need to move," he says gently. "Facility's not stable, and we don't know how long before more of them wander in."
You nod, though the idea of standing feels ambitious at best. He notices the hesitation immediately.
"Hey," he says softly. "I've got you."
He shifts, sliding one arm behind your back again, the other under your knees, lifting you with the same careful strength as before, only this time you help a little, arms coming up weakly around his neck. Your head settles against his shoulder.
"Still getting dessert?" you murmur against his collar.
A real smile breaks through at last, small but bright as sunrise after a storm.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."
He turns toward the exit, steps steady, protective hold unyielding but gentle now that he knows you're truly there.
Three days later, the world smells like coffee and clean laundry instead of antiseptic and decay.
Sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, laying soft gold across the rumpled bedspread and the tangle of blankets around your legs. The air is warm, carrying the faint hum of city life from outside, tires on pavement, a distant horn, someone laughing somewhere far below.
Leon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, watching with that quiet intensity he hasn't quite learned to turn off yet. He looks cleaner than before, shaved, hair damp as if he showered quickly and came right back, but the exhaustion still clings to him in the set of his shoulders.
"You're staring," you murmur.
"Monitoring," he corrects.
"You blink?"
"Sometimes."
You huff a small laugh, the motion tugging at sore muscles that remind you exactly how recently everything went wrong. His gaze sharpens instantly, concern flaring before you even realize you winced.
"I'm okay," you assure him.
He searches your face a moment longer, then nods, not convinced but willing to accept it for now.
"You hungry?" he asks.
"Always."
He disappears into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a plate of pancakes that look slightly uneven but deeply sincere. You eat, he watches, tension slowly unwinding from him with each bite you take.
When you finish, you lean back, warm and heavy with food, eyelids drooping in content exhaustion.
"So when is our dessert date?" you ask softly.
Leon goes still. Then he stands without a word and leaves the room again.
You hear the soft thud of the door opening, the faint clink of something ceramic, the careful movements of someone handling something fragile. When he returns, he's holding a small white bakery box tied with a thin ribbon, the bow slightly crooked as if it had to survive transport in a large, impatient hand. He sets it on the bedside table with surprising delicacy.
"I didn't make this," he says gruffly. "Figured we've both suffered enough."
Suspicion and curiosity spark together. You pull the ribbon loose, lifting the lid. Inside sits a slice of decadent chocolate cake, glossy frosting catching the sunlight, layers dark, dense, and unapologetically indulgent.
Your chest tightens.
"You remembered," you whisper.
He shrugs, looking suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. "You seemed pretty sure it was worth surviving for."
You lift the cake plate slightly and notice something tucked beneath the ribbon, partially hidden against the cardboard.
An envelope. Your fingers hesitate, then slide it free. Leon doesn't look at you. He's staring out the window now, jaw set, shoulders a little too rigid, like he's bracing for impact.
Inside the envelope are two plane tickets. Beach destination. Departure in two weeks. Round trip. Vacation time from work. A hotel confirmation tucked behind them.
For a long moment, you can't speak.
"You said somewhere boring," he mutters quietly, still not turning around. "Figured that would be perfect."
"Leon..."
He finally looks back, expression carefully neutral, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something that says this mattered more than he wants to admit.
"You don't have to go," he adds quickly. "If you're not up for travel yet, we can postpone, or cancel, or—"
You set the tickets down and reach for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing right at the edge of the bed, close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.
"Thank you," you say softly.
Not just for the vacation. Not just for the cake. He understands anyway. His face softens, tension draining into something warm and quiet and deeply relieved.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "Anytime."
You pick up the fork, take a small bite of cake, then hold it out to him. He leans in, accepting it, eyes never leaving yours. For a second, neither of you pulls back, the space between you charged with something gentler than urgency, heavier than simple affection.
"Worth it?" he asks.
You nod. "Absolutely."
You set the plate aside, your hand finding his again, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, protective, like he did in the hallway, only now there's no fear behind it. You both crave this closeness after it was almost ripped away just days before.
You tug lightly, coaxing him down to sit beside you on the bed. He goes without resistance, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically, careful of lingering soreness. Your other hand lifts, brushing his cheek where faint redness still lingers if you look closely enough.
"I love you," you whisper.
His eyes close briefly, leaning into your touch in a way he never would in public. Just here, just now, where it's safe to be human.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you too."
Leon leans in first. The kiss is slow, gentle, nothing desperate or urgent, just warm lips and shared breath and the simple reassurance of contact. He stills for half a heartbeat, like he's afraid you might break, then melts into it, one hand cupping the back of your head. When you pull back, his forehead follows yours, resting lightly against it, eyes still closed.
"Careful," he murmurs. "Doctor said no overexertion."
You smile. "Pretty sure that wasn't what they meant."
"Still."
His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder, fitting there like it always has. His chin settles lightly against your hair, breath warm, steady.
Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time slows to match the rhythm of two people who fought hard for the right to sit in a quiet room and eat cake.
"Two weeks," you murmur.
"Yeah."
"You think you can handle boring?"
He huffs softly. "I'll manage."
You laugh, the sound light and real and alive. His chest rises under your cheek, its vibration grounding you in the best possible way. For a long moment, neither of you says anything else. You just sit there, sunlight warming your skin, fingers loosely entwined, the promise of salt air and quiet days waiting ahead like a horizon you can finally see. Sharing cake, and kisses, and being alive, and together in your home.
Dividers by @uzmacchiato <3
Thanks for reading<3 Just a reminder, my requests are open! I would love to hear from you!
𝒲riter 𝐼ntervention ⸝⸝ first e*tm post! i hope you enjoy!
w.c . . . 1.8k
𝐼n 𝒲hich 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ Prince Telemachus includes his lover in everything he does, like...
a word to the wise . . . there are no warnings for this tale.
𝒯raining with Athena
It wasn’t unusual for Telemachus to invite you to watch him train.
At first, though, you were a bit confused whenever he had dragged you towards the woods instead of the training grounds the palace had. You had heard the shouts coming from other men training fade as you and Telemachus edged deeper into the forest, and when he finally released your hand from his grasp, you could remember how you opened your mouth to question what you both were doing all the way out here.
Though, your jaw had snapped shut as soon as someone — a woman? — came into view.
A pair of glowing eyes had met yours, and despite their lack of pupils and an iris, there was a certain sharpness to them that resulted in your silence. The broadness of her shoulders radiated a confidence one could only dream of having, and when your eyes had finally flickered away from hers, the sight of a spear made your prior thought morph.
That was no woman — no mere mortal — but instead a goddess.
A goddess had been standing in front of you, and all you had done was gape like some fool.
The memory of sputtered apologies and many bows was still fresh in your mind despite the encounter being many months ago, but luckily, the humiliating thought was accompanied by Telemachus assuring you that the goddess — Athena — didn’t mind.
While all the goddess had given you was a small nod and a quick greeting, you had grown to learn that Telemachus’s words were genuine. Athena truly didn’t mind your presence or the fact that you had stared at her for longer than one would consider normal.
But you had also learned that she does mind that Telemachus gets distracted from his training because of you, and today was clear evidence of that.
You were sitting on the grass with your hands on the plants below, fidgeting with the nearby flowers while the sound of Athena speaking echoed through the trees.
You picked up on a few things she was saying — something along the lines of fixing his form and to stop being sloppy with his attacks — but when you looked up, all you noticed was that Telemachus’s eyes were on you.
Every once in a while, he’d glance back at Athena and give her a firm nod as if he were listening to what she was saying, but then he went right back to staring at you.
When he noticed that you were looking back at him, a goofy grin widened on his lips, and you couldn’t help but reciprocate the smile he showed you. How could you not? The loving glint in his eyes and giddiness of his grin wasn’t only contagious, but the bashfulness that you felt added onto your smile.
Eventually, Athena seemed to catch on that he wasn’t paying attention, and she peered over her shoulder to see where he was looking despite already knowing where his focus was.
A low, huff of a sigh escaped her lips, and she raised a hand to flick his forehead. Telemachus immediately snapped out of his daze, and he looked at her in offense before she spoke. “How can you expect to become ‘legendary’ when your mind resides nowhere but with your love?”
Her words were blunt and scolding, and you held back a snicker at the sight of Telemachus frowning as he rubbed his forehead. “It’s not my fault…”
Once he said that, his gaze went back to you, and his sulking manner was replaced by a smitten smile as he saw your attempt to not laugh.
Athena gripped her temples at the scene, and she muttered under her breath. “I swear, this is Aphrodite’s doing just to provoke me…”
Despite her irritation, never once did she ask you to leave. She just looked away from Telemachus before telling him to get back in form.
ℳeeting with the Other Lands
In order to prepare his son to become king, Odysseus often sent Telemachus on diplomatic missions. Whether it be discussing conflicts or trades, Telemachus was sent to far lands in order to make sure he had an idea of what was to come when the throne became his.
Little did you know, him being sent off apparently meant you were to depart from Ithaca as well.
After many, many hours of Telemachus pleading to his father to let you come along — and with a little help from Penelope — the king eventually agreed that you could join his son, for he was convinced that you would benefit from the travels since you were going to eventually rule by Telemachus’s side.
Now, you technically weren’t allowed to be a part of these meetings due to the fact that you weren’t royalty yet. You and Telemachus weren’t married, so it wouldn’t have been surprising if you were left in the halls of unfamiliar palaces while your lover discussed with the royalty of whatever kingdom you were visiting.
What was shocking, though, was that Telemachus refused to let you be excluded from the meetings. You always had the choice of whether you wanted to join or not, and if you happened to want to be included, Telemachus wouldn’t budge until it was agreed that you could join.
Maybe it was because he was persuasive — or insanely stubborn — but always managed to be placed right by his side before the meetings started.
And once they did start, everything grew serious.
You fidgeted with your hands in your lap, for it was difficult to focus on whatever was being said since your attention laid solely on how tense the room felt. Every word spoken was seemingly toneless, and the lack of emotion around you made your body start to feel heavy.
Your gaze flickered from the table to Telemachus, and you let your eyes skim over the details you had grown to memorize about him. You noticed his formal posture and his stern stare — the subtle nod of his head whenever he was acknowledging what was being said.
The way he was acting right now wasn’t new, for you had been to plenty of meetings with him to witness how he acted, but you hadn't yet grew accustomed to this behavior. You were used to the playfulness he typically held, but that spirit seemingly vanished upon the gaze of people he would soon be equal to.
"On the topic of trade, Telemachus, son of Odysseus, I must say that Ithaca has much to offer..."
Whatever else was said droned on in your ears, and you placed your arms on the armrests of your chair. You finally pulled your eyes away from Telemachus, but upon doing so, you went right back to staring at him as soon as you felt his hand rest on top of yours.
He gave your hand a light squeeze, and you shifted so that you could interlace your fingers with his. The corners of his mouth tilted up in a smile — one that he attempted to shadow with a solemn expression so that the people in front of you didn't feel insulted.
Telemachus's thumb caressed the side of your hand as the people continued to go on about trade and what they could give in return for some things in Ithaca, and whenever they questioned his decision, they were met with silence as he turned his head toward you.
"What do you think?"
Your eyes widened at Telemachus's inquire, for he left the royalty in front of him without an answer. You glanced at the others before your attention went back onto Telemachus, but all he did was look at you expectantly.
"I — I believe it's fair."
"Then that's what we'll do." Telemachus stated, finally meeting the gaze of everyone else with a nod.
The room erupted into murmurs about finalizing the trading, but while that was going on, Telemachus raised the back of your hand to his lips. The kiss lingered on your skin before he pulled your hand back, and he gave you a bright smile.
"Thank you for being here, my love."
"Always."
And at your response, his smile somehow managed to widen.
ℋelping the People of Ithaca
Whenever word goes around Ithaca that Prince Telemachus would be visiting his people, your name always ends up paired with his.
It’s never just the prince who’s coming to town, for everyone knows that you’ll be by his side while he walks the paths of the kingdom. Whenever you're not with him — whether it be because you wanted to stay inside or simply didn't feel well — almost everyone in Ithaca would ask where you were if the prince was alone.
Luckily, he wouldn't have to deal with the constant question of where you were today, for you both were currently walking around Ithaca together.
Your arm was interlocked with his — your free hand resting on his arm while you looked around.
The sun was still recovering from its rest, for the orange hue of the morning sunrise became a gradient with the blue that was easing its way into the sky. The air was filled with greetings towards you and Telemachus, and you watched as he'd wave with a warm smile before looking back at you.
"Would you mind if we stopped by the docks? I want to make sure nobody needs help with their ships, and that the fishermen are alright as well."
"I don't mind at all," you responded before giving him a teasing look, "but I'm starting to become convinced that you stop by those places first-thing to show off your strength."
"Is that complaining I hear?"
The taunt in his tone made you smile widely, and you leaned more into him before shaking your head. "It's the opposite, actually."
"So you like it when I show off my strength?" Once you nodded at his question, you noticed that Telemachus seemed to pick up his pace, and one of his hands moved to hold yours before he spoke. "Then we better hurry to the docks!"
You couldn't help but laugh at his quickened steps, and the fact that he only seemed to grow more eager as the ocean came more into view.
People watched as you and Telemachus hastily made your way towards the ocean, and you could hear a few talking about "young love" and "being inseparable” as you passed by.
And when you both finally arrived at the docks — Telemachus’s hand still in yours while his eyes silently asked you if you wanted to join him — you let those spoken descriptions settle in your heart as you gave him a nod.
a/n. did this quick drabble for ekko while in the car (sorry if theres any mistakes) bare with me i don’t have real life experiences on this 😅
This wasn’t the polished clinics of Piltover; it was a midwife’s modest but welcoming space tucked away in the heart of the zaun. It was humble, cluttered with jars of herbs, and yet cozy with its patched quilts and faint scent of chamomile. The air carried a faint mix of antiseptic and lavender, a calming attempt amidst the chaos that was trying to deliver a baby into the world.
Ekko paced the small room, his usual calm confidence nowhere to be found. His brows were furrowed, his gloves tugged off and crumpled in his hands as he glanced between you and the midwife. You were on the bed, your body rigid with pain, sweat beading your forehead. Yet, you were calm. Way calmer than him, at least.
“I’m here. I’m right here,” he muttered, crouching by your side for the hundredth time, his voice unsteady but his hand steady on yours. “You’re doing amazing. Uh, does it feel better? Worse? Should I—” His words stumbled over each other before he caught himself, realizing he was no help like this.
“Ekko,” you rasped, your voice raw but firm enough to pull him back to focus. “Breathe.”
He let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his hair, now damp from the sweat of nerves. “Yeah, yeah, breathing. Got it.” He inhaled deeply, clearly for your benefit, before returning his wide, worried eyes to you. “Seriously though, does it always hurt this much? Should it—” He cut himself off at the withering look from the midwife, who was focused entirely on you.
“Let her focus,” the midwife snapped, her tone brisk but not unkind. “And stop pacing like a cornered rat.”
“I’m not—” He stopped mid-defense, huffing and rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe a little.” But despite his nervous energy, he never let go of your hand, even when your grip turned stronger with each contraction.
“You’ve done tougher things than this,” he murmured, trying to sound steady again. “Remember that time you—uh, climbed that blasted factory vent in the dead of night? With the guards chasing you?”
Your only response was a groan, followed by a sharp inhale as another wave of pain hit. He winced as if feeling it himself. “Okay, not the time for anecdotes. Got it.”
Hours blurred together, but Ekko never once left your side, even as his own nerves seemed to unravel by the second. When you squeezed your eyes shut in agony, he leaned closer, whispering whatever words of encouragement came to mind. When you snapped at him to stop talking, he did just that, only to fidget in silence until you scolded him for that too.
When the midwife finally announced the baby was crowning, Ekko froze for a moment, his eyes darting to yours, wide and disbelieving. “This is it?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly.
“Push,” the midwife instructed firmly, ignoring him entirely.
“You got this,” Ekko said, gripping your hand tighter. “You’re incredible, you’re so—oh, shit, that’s the head—” His words trailed off into a mixture of awe and panic as he got his first glimpse of the baby. He leaned closer, torn between wanting to see more and not wanting to distract you.
And then it happened. A cry filled the room, as the midwife held up a tiny, squirming baby. Ekko’s mouth dropped open, his hand still clutching yours as if grounding himself to reality.
“It’s a boy,” the midwife announced, quickly wrapping the baby in a soft, worn blanket before placing him in your arms.
For a moment, Ekko didn’t move, his eyes locked on the tiny bundle in your arms. The expression on his face was one you’d never seen before. It was half wonder, half disbelief, and entirely filled with love.
“He’s… perfect,” Ekko finally breathed, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper. He reached out hesitantly, his hand hovering above the baby’s head. “Can I…?”
You nodded, your exhaustion giving way to a small, tired smile as you handed the baby to him. Ekko took him as if he were the most fragile thing in the world, his hands surprisingly steady as he cradled his son for the first time.
“Hey, little guy,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m your dad. And you’re… so tiny.” He laughed softly, shaking his head.
He didn’t stop looking at the baby, his thumb brushing gently over the tiny hand that had somehow already grabbed onto his finger. His grin widened as the baby’s grip tightened slightly. “Strong grip. Yeah, you’re definitely gonna take after your mom.”
“Ekko,” you called softly, your voice still weak but laced with amusement. “You gonna let me hold him again?”
“In a minute,” he replied, not looking up. “Just… let me have this moment.” His grin turned sheepish, but he didn’t let go.
The midwife chuckled as she cleaned up, clearly amused by his reaction. “First time fathers,” she muttered under her breath.
Ekko stayed by your side, the baby still in his arms as if he couldn’t bear to part with him. Even as exhaustion crept into his features, his eyes never left his son. “We did this,” he said softly, finally glancing at you. “You did this. You’re… you’re amazing, y'know.”
“Don’t forget you had a part in it,” you teased, though your voice was barely above a whisper. Laying there in the bed all sweaty as you watched Ekko be absolutely amused with the baby.
He laughed, his face lighting up in a way that made your heart swell despite the exhaustion. “Yeah, well you’re the one who did the hard part.”
As the baby started to fall asleep in his arms, Ekko leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Welcome to the world, little guy.” The room fell quiet, the chatter from the halls outside was the only sound as the three of you settled into a new, fragile kind of peace.
ft. xavier, zayne, rafayel, and sylus w a gn!reader.
synopsis: you marry the love of your life.
notes: started off as silly thoughts for my friend and then turned into this so. take it. enjoy it.
warnings: not canon to the story of the game, self-indulgent, weddings, sickeningly sweet fluff, they all cry lol, it's short and it's sweet, reader does wear a dress so sorry if that's something that makes you uncomfortable, petnames used: starlight (x), sunshine (z), angel (r), princess (s).
XAVIER — certainly fantasized about getting married, but it was never something he actually expected to happen. Not until he met you. It wasn't love at first sight, but when you two entered a relationship, he could just see himself marrying you.
When he proposed, he had been so nervous that he barely slept the night before, which is saying something. But you accepted with a bright smile, and the man nearly smothered you to death with a hug. The mere thought of marrying you has him smiling, honestly.
He doesn't care how big or small the wedding is, though when it turns out to be a small wedding he finds he prefers it that way. There's an air of excitement at the wedding, most of the guests being your own friends and family since there wasn't anyone for him to invite.
Xavier knew he was going to cry. There's no denying it, he knew he'd cry at some point during the day because, I mean... he's marrying you. He's the luckiest man alive. He just thought he'd hold strong a little longer, but the tears were falling when you walked down the aisle in your breathtaking dress.
His gaze was drawn to you the entire time. Nothing else mattered but you. The way the fairy lights bathed you in this beautiful golden glow, the way you smiled at him with all the love in the world... it was like you contained galaxies in your eyes.
The vows were short and sweet, and when the officiant says you two can kiss, he was quick to gently cup your face in his hands. He could only hope the kiss he pressed against your lips conveyed the sheer and utter adoration he felt for you.
This was the beginning of a new chapter for the two of you, and while he's sure nothing will change, he can't help but being excited at the idea of being able to refer to you as his spouse.
ㅤ— “ I love you, my starlight. Until every last star dies, I love you. ”
ZAYNE — had always known that he would marry you one day. Ever since you two were kids, he had imagined it. You're the only person he's ever loved, so if he ever got married, it would be to you or no one at all. It was only a matter of time, really.
The actual proposal was nothing big. You two had dinner at his place and the box with the ring rested in the place he knew you'd be able to see it. He hadn't been nervous when he proposed, but he can't deny that his heart was racing when he popped the question.
He'll definitely want the wedding to be small, just a couple of friends and family on each side. His parents were overjoyed to learn about his engagement and made sure to clear their schedule for the day of the wedding, and he had invited a few friends from work as well.
Zayne hadn't really wanted to cry, especially not in front of so many people, but he couldn't stop the tears from blurring his gaze when he saw you walking down the aisle. How could he not cry, when he felt so overwhelmed by his love for you?
It was the first time he saw you in your wedding dress as well, since you had been so adamant at keeping to tradition. You weren't lying when you said you would match your dress to his suit.
The bouquet of flowers in your hands only added to the beauty of... everything about you. So he won't deny that he cried, his gaze never once breaking from you even when the officiant started to speak.
He was able to keep his tears in check for the rest of the ceremony, and once you two were home and no longer wearing your wedding clothes, he found it near impossible to stray from your side for you long. His hand was almost always interlocked with yours, his finger absently brushing against the wedding wing that bound the two of you together.
ㅤ— “ You've always been the love of my life, sunshine. You always will. ”
RAFAYEL — never thought about marriage. It's not something that ever entered his mind, and he avoided attending any weddings just to dodge the inevitable 'so when will we get an invite to your wedding' he'll no doubt be met with. It isn't until you entered his life that he started to give it some thought.
And when he did decide to propose to you, it had been spur of the moment. He bought the ring on a whim months ago, and he kept it in his pocket almost every time you two went out, waiting for the perfect moment. That perfect moment just so happens to be you spending the night at his place, laughing at his smears paint on your face. The question slipped out, and he seemed more shocked than you.
He was adamant on keeping the thing small, even though Thomas wanted to invite a bunch of people once the man found out about the engagement.
The only people Rafayel was willing to invite was Thomas and a couple of crabs he befriended. Sure, your family and friends questioned why they were being seated with crabs, but it's not their wedding, now is it?
Before the wedding starts, he had gone to the bathroom to give himself a lengthy pep talk about how he was not going to cry at all at any point during the wedding. And for a good portion of it, he didn't. When you walked down the aisle wearing a beautiful dress that reminded him of the ocean, he didn't cry. When you guys shared your vows, exchanged rings, and kissed, he didn't cry.
No, Rafayel only cried when the first dance started. When the lights dimmed and you took his hand and pulled him close, he could feel his heart stuttering. You looked at him as if he were the only person in the world, like you never wanted to look away. The feeling of your wedding ring was cool against his skin, and it was impossible to stop the tears at this point.
He spent the entirety of your first dance together with his head buried in your shoulder just so people couldn't see his tears. Only you got to see him like this, because there's no one else he'd rather be vulnerable with.
ㅤ— “ I'd marry you over and over again, angel, until you get sick of me. ”
SYLUS — certainly thought marriage was something he'd never experience, given his lifestyle. What person would be insane enough to marry the leader of Onychinus, let alone date the man? You, apparently, because you became a pivotal part of his life.
He won't propose until he's absolutely certain that marrying him is something you'd be willing to do. Marrying him means really accepting the darker parts that come with being in a relationship with him, and he didn't want to force you into such a commitment. And when he does propose, he can't help the relief he feels when you say yes.
While the wedding isn't necessarily big, a few of his most trusted associates are invited, alongside your family and friends should you invite them. It's a strange mix of people, and a few of your friends will probably pull you to the side after the ceremony to ask what exactly it is that your husband does for a living.
For the most part, Sylus won't cry during the ceremony. Though, once you two start to recite your vows to each other, he does choke up a bit. Any man would be a fool not to tear up at the sight of their spouse professing their love to them. And it doesn't help that you're looking at him with pure and utter devotion in your gaze.
You were okay with who he was. With what he does. You weren't scared off by the darker aspects of his life, and you were vowing to stick by his side through whatever the world threw at you two. Crying only seemed natural. Other than the vows, Sylus stayed composed. Softer, than usual, but overall he kept his usual demeanor.
Truly, he thinks he could die happy now that he's married to you. The ring on his finger was a comfortable weight, and he'd find himself looking at it way more than he'd care to admit.
He spoiled you rotten before you two were married, but trust it'll only get worse now that you're his spouse. Anything you want, he'll get it for you. You deserve the whole world for wanting to spend the rest of your life with him.
ㅤ— “ I'm staring? How can I not stare at the key to my heart, princess? ”
Ari, if you feel like it, I desperately need you to elaborate on Alpha!Nanami....
referencing this post
gender neutral reader, no curses au.
cw for dubcon bonding (bc of heat)
jaskdksdj im not like. a nanami girl but i think the idea of average salary worker nanami who is an alpha is super funny and very in line especially because i think he really goes out of his way to hide it.
like. he really doesn't enjoy anything about it contrary to popular belief. the ruts exhaust him and he doesn't like being treated different as a result of his secondary sex so at his job, i think he hides his status and lives as a beta for the most part.
in my head - he ends up meeting you at his work. you don't work like... for his department. you're in like IT or some similarly isolated position at his workplace and he just. KNOWS. right away. it's so bothersome for him KDSJF
not only does he not like the idea of having a fated pair (guy who believes love is a choice etc etc) but he also finds you being his co-worker sooooo awful. he just finds the whole thing troublesome.
for an omega, you have an extremely blase and frank personality. nanami brings his work computer to you and you're new to the department or something. and as you both come to the realization that you're each others fated pairs - you barely react. nanami is in distress and you're just like 'oh? you're my pair huh?' AND THEN GO BACK TO YOUR WORK WITHOUT A SINGLE COMMENT.
and like. nanami is so confused he ends up going back to his desk. but like. that's definitely something you should talk about right? he barely knows your name and number so he goes back determined to at least find out your name. once he gets over the shock of having a fated pair he like rlly takes a second to notice you
AND IT STRESSES HIM OUT!! he invites you to lunch and asks you to tell him about yourself since he's a super responsible guy and you talk a sloths pace and you're entirely too nonchalant about everything. you don't wear scent patches as an omega, you're not really on any medications either, your heat is irregular, you don't think of yourself as an omega at all, you skip meals. every detail stresses him out more and more.
a lot of people mistake nanami for being the kind of person who like. really willingly wants certain dynamics and i dont view that as true. for him, encountering you as the disaster you are is the first time in his life he feels like he is an alpha and he means that in the worst way possible KDJSFJKS. like you stress him out so much he's like FUCK. i need to get their shit together or IM gonna get stressed out.
so nanami ends up spending a lot of time with you mostly just trying to sort your life out for you but he finds that.... you're very? relaxing to be around? nanami at one point feels like he lives to work and doesn't work to live imo.
but you're not like that. nothing seems to really bother you. you're like... an adorable unconcerned sloth. and sure you could be a little more conscious but it really relaxes him to hear you talk because you view everything very simply and don't worry about whats not in your control if you don't have too. and you're weirdly, crazy endearing when you show expressions other than sleepiness or boredom.
you like. weirdly melt his stress away. he finds you so soothing to be with and it's his first time really feeling like he's acting on instinct because he gets rlly gradually possessive as he realizes how attractive you are an omega. there are probably a lot of other alphas who would kill to be with someone as comfortable by as you
he becomes soooo fond of you its genuinely very scary for him. like as you get closer in your relationship and the distance closes - you end up snuggling him on his couch and he's so content and he ends up scenting you like some kind of overexcited teenager because you are so STUPIDLY cute like that. you sometimes even tease him about it and that is sooo bad for his heart.
he kind of loses control around you dkjskj. when he bites your nape for the first time, its because you've gone into heat and he loses his mind because fuck you smell so good and you are so cute when you are begging for his fucking knot that he ends up fucking you with your arms pulled back and digging his teeth into your nape until you're all cozy again.
once your heat passes he literally prostrates himself in front of you after the fact. ITS SO FUNNY DFKJS. he drops his head down to the floor bc its sooo out of character for him. in very you fashion though, you sort of shrug and tell him "im glad you're my fated pair, nanami-san. you're a good alpha," and he just. implodes internally. he's thinking about how to get married like days after and he's so seriously in love with you even though he's still kinda stoic
to him you're like. the only good thing that comes out of him being an alpha LOL
I loved writing this and I could go on forever about him so if anyone wants more of these headcanons I still have loads in my brain! Thank you for requesting!! <3 I made it gender neutral as I didn’t know if you wanted it with a female reader or not hope that’s ok!
Not edited yet so please excuse any errors
Warnings: none
-He is the most respectable and affectionate boyfriend ever. Once you’re dating he always has his hands somewhere on you because he loves being close to you. His absolute favourite though is forehead touches. It allows him to look directly at you with no interruptions.
-Cannot take his eyes off of you. Even before you started dating he would just go into his own world while staring at you. Would spend forever looking at you if he could.
-Before you started dating he would always try to impress you but he’s a little nervous so it ends up being a bit of a clumsy mess but you found it cute and laughed at him so he saw it as a win. Would go from being clumsy to so smooth with flirting with you though.
He jogs up to you at your locker after class and leans on the lockers next to yours. He’s looking down into your eyes, not breaking contact while wearing his signature smirk and just comes out with shameless flirting that I don’t think he even realised he’s doing it. It’s such a shock to your system you just turn to mush and hide your face from him. Would be the type of man to lean down so that he could still see your face or grab your chin and bring your face back to him.
-Could take him back to your parents any day, maybe not if they’re villains though they would probably hate his goody too shoes kind of life.
-Would always stand up for you and defend your name.
-His love for you is so pure and unbreakable. He definitely falls first and deeper. Ben just holds so much love for you that you would never be able to comprehend it.
-Would treasure anything you ever gave him even if it was as simple as a daisy you picked when you were sitting on the grass together. He would watch you so closely if you ever made a daisy chain and would be more than happy to wear it. Would happily let you place flowers in his hair if it made you happy.
-Loves holding your hand and will always take the opportunity to hold it. Makes cheesy excuses to do it even if you’ve been dating for a while. Would be like “your hands are freezing, I definitely need to hold them to warm them up”.
-Cheesiest boyfriend ever. He does most of it on purpose just to see you smile.
-Hopeless romantic and can’t help but to spoil you. Ben is always organising the cutest and romantic dates you could imagine. Always gives you your favourite flowers.
-Would always be so interested in anything you have to say, staring so intently into your eyes so that you know he’s listening. He would remember the smallest details about you and when it resulted in him getting you a gift or saying something to do with it you would melt. He wouldn’t know how to react because he just saw it as a normal thing to do because why wouldn’t he remember everything about you and everything you say to him?
-Is a puppy. Will follow you everywhere he can and will be at your beck and call. Will also whine and moan whenever he’s not in your presence or you have to leave him.
-Would do anything for you and would do anything to see you happy, he can’t stand it when your sad.
-Would give you absolute princess treatment no matter your background. Always pulls your chair out for you, holds doors open and would lay his jacket over a puddle if needed. The type of boyfriend to swap shoes or clothes with you if yours were hurting you and would have no shame if he looked weird. Would also carry you round on his back if you preferred that option.
-Would dedicate any points or winning games to you. Would definitely try to teasingly embarrass you this way. It would mean the world to him if you came onto the pitch after a winning game and ran into his arms. Would pick you up and swing you round, giving you a massive kiss when he puts you down.
-Loves, loves, LOVES seeing you in his clothes. He would feel that deep feeling of love for you and his beast would slightly come out with any feelings of possessiveness it ignited in him. Imagine him seeing you wear his crown he would be on his knees for you.
-Loves when you run your fingers through his hair, especially when cuddling. If you ever refused, even in a joking way, he would beg you to do it with his best puppy eyes.
-Is the best hugger ever. His height combined with his big arms make for the comfiest and warmest hug ever.
-If the beast ever comes out he would be so protective over you it would be so funny. I feel like this side of him even when in his normal form would make him such a biter. Not even sexually, he just gets the urge to lovingly bite your shoulder and nibble.
-Always keeps you close by his side, especially at big events. Mainly so no harm comes to you but also because your a massive comfort to him and being in your presence immediately calms his nerves.
-Ben is a big cuddler and could be either big spoon or little spoon depending on the day. Definitely loves lying on top of you, his face on your chest listening to your heartbeat or squished into your neck.
-Always confides in you with any worries he has about becoming king and ruling Auradon. You immediately squish them and reassure him.
-He couldn’t wait to rule the kingdom beside you with you as his king/queen. Would lovingly call you “my queen/king”. In fact he would give you every pet name under the sun he just couldn’t help himself, his love for you poured out of him in buckets and he just had to let you know in every way he can.
-Would always show you off to everyone and be so proud to call you his partner. Ben would bring you up in conversation all the time and everyone just got used to it and let him because they secretly thought it was cute how in love he was with you.
-Acts like he’s under a love spell with how down bad he is for you
-Overall the love you share is so soft and pure it’s such a fairytale relationship and all you could ever wish for. Ben is the perfect boyfriend.
Thank you for reading! im so excited to write for all the descendants requests<3
domestic fluff. married couple nanami x fem!reader. ⚠︎ talks of aging, death and grief ⚠︎ suggestive humor and dialogue.
nanami kento is graying
You realize it as he lays his head on your lap and you thread your fingers through his soft, fluffy hair. His strands fade into a lighter shade near the roots, a gradient from gold to gray.
“Oh no,” you sigh. “You're turning into a sexy silver fox.”
“Pardon?” He replies.
“You're graying. Have you noticed?”
“Ah. I never really paid attention. I was more worried about balding.”
“I think I prefer that,” you say lightly, as you glide your fingers through his scalp. “At least I’d have less competition.”
“Competition,” he laughs. “Woman, you're my wife.”
“I know that!” you laugh as well. “But once you’ve gone full gray it's fisticuffs between me and all the GILF-chasers.”
“What is a G—you know what, don't answer that.”
You settle into comfortable silence, alone in the house you've built together. How long has it been since he swept you off your feet and carried you into this life? Time has compressed all of your moments into a montage of routine domestic bliss. In the decades you’ve been married to each other, you've woken up and slept next to him for thousands of nights and days. You've held his hand and kissed his lips, embraced him and made love to him countless times.
And it's ironic, actually, that because of how close and intimately aware you were of each other's bodies, you never noticed those tiny increments of change that come with age.
His eyes flutter shut and your fingers wander towards his face. What else about him has changed? You brush against the faint gray hairs on his brow, the wrinkles around his eyes—lines that converge to his outer corners and curve under the bags of his eyes. You love the way it deepens when he smiles. And maybe that's why you've never seen those wrinkles as a sign of aging. Seeing your husband’s wrinkles is a sign of his joy.
“We're growing old together…” he sighs.
“You said it like it's a bad thing.”
“It's not. It's just a matter of fact. I'm happy that we lasted this long.”
You know that tone in his voice.
“But?” you asked.
“I guess, sometimes, I can't help but question what it really means to grow old with someone,” he says. “Back then I was scared of dying on the job and leaving you alone all of a sudden. But now… what about if I grow ill? Or frail? What if you spend the last years of our marriage washing my ass until I die?”
“I love it when you talk dirty,” you tease. He's never outgrown his tendency to brood, but you've learned how to stop him from indulging in such sad thoughts—a skill you've honed over the years.
Nanami smiles at the way you lightened his mood.
“I just don't want to bother you with all that work then leave you grieving,” he says, holding your hand over his heart. “That's not what you deserve.”
You can't help but smile at his devotion. You raise his hand and nuzzle your cheek against his warm, rough palm. His skin is looser at the back of his hand now, with thick and soft veins running underneath. But the way he has held you stays the same. Gentle and warm. Like laying your head on the sand.
“Grief... Grief is just an echo of love, Kento. That's how we know it was real. And that it was powerful,” you say, reaching down to caress his cheek. “We're spending the rest of our lives together, darling. I wanna feel and experience everything with you. That's what I deserve.”
You lean down, until your soft breaths caress each other’s lips.
“And besides…" you whisper. "I like touching your ass."
Nanami rolls his eyes and shakes his head, though he couldn't help but smile. Then his eyes soften with warmth as he holds his gaze. Perhaps, for the first time, he is seeing the changes in you as well.
And everything about it is beautiful.
“You're the love of my life,” he murmurs.
“And you're mine,” you reply.
You press your lips together, as you did a thousand times. And everything about it feels familiar and right. As if your bodies have found home in each other once again.
He chuckles low against your lips and his joy is infectious. So you lean back and laugh as well.
“What?” You ask.
“It doesn't matter how old we get," he says. "I still feel young whenever we kiss."
You bite your lip and smile and you indulge him once again with your kisses. This time, he parts his lips and lets your tongue slip into his mouth with a deep groan. You pull back, warmed and softened by the taste of him.
“Are you still feeling young down there too?” You ask.
Nanami laughs softly, his eyes turning dark with want.
“What do you think?”
this is a birthday dedication to one of my dearest friends, who supported and guided me through my every hyperfixation. one day we will grieve each other. but not before we grow old and hot and rich 🥰 like catherine branski.
this is very rushed and i am sorry if the quality is not as good as when i take my time,,, i wanted to reach my friends birthday. please be gentle with me 🙇♀️
Yes Gojo is super hyper and agitated all the time, but I do believe he would be rather calm with you.
This man never faced peace in his entire life. Straight up 29 years of chaos and tears. And although he's a very "happy" person by nature, I feel like things would get too much for him at times. Overstimulation. Exhaustion. Even the strongest needs to calm down at times
That's when you get on scene. You bring out a side of him no one - not even himself - has ever seen: the quiet side. Not exactly quiet, but peaceful. The Gojo that doesn't need to talk a lot in order to fill the silence. The Gojo who doesn't always crack jokes or get on someone's nerves. The Gojo who's not constantly moving around. The Gojo who is able to shut down his thoughts.
This is a new side of him but a very welcomed one. You are the peace he always wanted in his life, the only peace he could ever get. Even with all the end of the world scenarios, you made time stop so he could breathe and close his eyes for a little while. No matter how bad the situation was, and it could get very bad very quick, you were what grounded him. You were his calmness and precisely what he could never have before, and all he wanted and needed now
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