synopsis: You weren't ashamed of Bucky. No, that wasn't anywhere close to why you hid your relationship with him, but it was due to your brother, Steve's, potential reaction. He wouldn't be against it, but you knew the dynamics between you three would change (not to mention Steve pulling out the protective brother card alongside the shovel talk) so you decided to keep things on the down low. And it seemed to work, Steve was none the wiser, even if he did sometimes come close to walking in on you two.
Steve is a good man. The best, honestly. Which is exactly why you never told him about your relationship with Bucky.
It wasn't shame. God, it wasn't shame.
When Bucky looked at you with those grey eyes gone soft with want, his metal hand warm against your jaw, you felt it in your bones. This was right. This had always been right, even when Bucky was still finding himself, even when you were just the kid brother Steve had brought back from the dead (metaphorically) after the ice.
Steve would mean well.
Steve would pull Bucky aside for the shovel talk with that earnest Captain America expression. The one that made generals salute and villains rethink their life choices. He'd start analyzing your relationship like a tactical mission. He'd ask Bucky about intentions, timelines and whether Bucky was sleeping okay and eating enough because apparently being your brother gave him the right to monitor your boyfriend's protein intake.
And Bucky, the bastard, would take it seriously. Because he loved Steve too, in his own way, and he'd want to do right by him. And suddenly your fun, filthy, easy thing would have Steve's fingerprints all over it.
So you didn't tell him.
"You're evil," Tony said, not looking up from his tablet. You were both in the common room kitchen. You making coffee, him pretending to work while actually watching the security feed of the east hallway on a secondary screen. "You're both evil and I'm entertained."
"Don't know what you're talking about." you said, pouring creamer.
"Camera twelve, thirty seconds ago. Bucky just pulled you into the supply closet by your belt loops. You were in there for four minutes and came out with your shirt buttoned wrong."
You looked down. Damn. "We're organizing supplies."
"Uh-huh. And I'm organizing Pepper's schedule. Which I actually am, because I'm a functional adult who doesn't need to hide in closets—"
The door burst open. Steve strode in, fresh from the gym, towel around his neck, looking unfairly wholesome. "Hey! Have you guys seen Bucky? I wanted to go over some mission parameters, but he's not answering his comm."
Tony's eyes flicked to you. You took a long sip of coffee.
"Last I saw, he was heading toward the east wing." you said, which was technically true. Four minutes ago. Before the supply closet.
"Thanks, Y/N," Steve clapped your shoulder with that heavy, well meaning hand. "You're the best."
He left. Tony stared at you.
"East wing," Tony repeated. "You sent Captain America on a scavenger hunt while your boyfriend hides his...supplies."
"He'll find him eventually. Probably in the armory. Bucky's probably cleaning his guns."
"Is that what we're calling it now?"
You flipped him off.
The problem with living in a building full of super spies and geniuses was that privacy was theoretical. The problem with dating Bucky Barnes was that he had seventy years of repressed libido and absolutely no chill.
"Steve's in the gym," Bucky breathed against your neck, walking you backward into your bedroom. "Forty five minute routine. I timed it."
"You timed my brother's workout?"
"For us," Bucky said, like this was romantic. And honestly? It kind of was. His hands were already under your shirt, warm and calloused, the metal one trailing cool against your spine. "Forty minutes. I can make you come twice. Three times if you're loud."
"I'm never loud." you lied.
Bucky grinned, wicked and sharp. "Challenge accepted."
You were forty minutes into proving exactly how loud you could be—Bucky's mouth on your throat, your legs wrapped around his waist, the bed hitting the wall in a rhythm that was definitely going to leave marks—when the knock came.
"Hey! You in there?" Steve's voice, muffled but present.
You both froze. Bucky was still inside you, breathing hard, eyes wide.
"Shit." you mouthed.
"Didn't know he finished early." Bucky mouthed back.
The knock came again. "I wanted to see if you wanted to get dinner! Just us, like old times. I feel like I haven't seen you all week."
Because you'd been avoiding him. Because every time you sat down for a meal, Bucky would look at you across the table with that look, and you'd have to excuse yourself to jerk off in the bathroom like a teenager.
"Yeah!" you called out, your voice cracking only slightly. "Just—just a minute! I'm changing!"
"Okay! I'll wait!"
Bucky's forehead dropped to your shoulder. He was shaking, you realized, with laughter or desperation. You couldn't tell.
"We have to be quiet." you whispered.
"He's right outside the door."
"I know."
Bucky pulled back slightly, just enough to roll his hips. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood. "Don't." He did it again. The metal hand clamped over your mouth, stifling the moan you couldn't hold back.
"Everything okay in there?" Steve called.
"Fine!" you managed, voice muffled by Bucky's palm. "Just stubbed my toe!"
"Oh! You want me to get you some ice?"
"No!" you yelped as Bucky thrust again, watching your face with dark amusement. "I'm good! Just give me five minutes!"
"Okay! Take your time!"
You heard him settle against the door. Actually settle. Like he was going to stand guard.
Bucky raised an eyebrow. Still?
You nodded frantically. Still.
What followed was the most intense, silent sex of your life. Bucky's hand still covered your mouth, his eyes locked on yours. Every time you made a noise, he'd pause, shake his head minutely, and wait for Steve to shift his weight outside before moving again.
It was torture. It was exquisite.
When you came, it was with Bucky's name silent on your lips, your back arching off the bed, his hand keeping you quiet as your body shook. He followed a moment later, burying his face in your neck, his own release silent and shuddering.
You lay there, panting, listening to your brother hum the Star-Spangled Banner on the other side of the door.
"I hate you." you whispered to Bucky.
"I know," he whispered back, kissing your jaw. "Worth it?"
You couldn't even answer. You were too busy trying to remember how to walk.
Five minutes later, you opened the door. Steve beamed at you, then looked past you to where Bucky was sitting on your bed, fully clothed, cleaning his knife.
"Oh! Hey, Buck! Didn't know you were here."
"Just stopped by to borrow a book." Bucky said smoothly, not looking up.
"What book?"
Bucky paused. Looked at you. You looked at the ceiling.
"...The Great Gatsby." Bucky said.
"You hate The Great Gatsby," Steve said. "You said it was 'a book about a stalker with money.'"
"Trying to broaden my horizons."
Steve studied him for a long moment. You held your breath. Then he smiled, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. "That's great, pal. Self-improvement. I like it. You guys ready for dinner?"
"Starving." you said, and Bucky coughed into his fist.
The Avengers knew.
Of course they knew.
Natasha had figured it out in week one, because she was Natasha. She'd found you in the gym at 3 AM, Bucky's jacket around your shoulders, his hickey on your collarbone, and she'd just nodded once and said, "About time. He's less murder-y when he's getting laid."
She'd kept the secret without being asked. Natasha understood secrets. She understood that some things needed to stay small and safe before they were ready for the light.
Clint knew because he'd walked in on you in the vents. You'd been hiding from Steve, Bucky had been hiding with you, and things had gotten handsy. Clint had backed out slowly, given you a thumbs up, and later left a box of condoms on your pillow with a note:
For the greater good. Also, vents have cameras. You're welcome.
Tony knew because Tony knew everything, and he was enjoying the show too much to spoil it.
Thor knew because he was Thor, and while he didn't fully understand Midgardian courtship rituals, he understood that "secret love is the most passionate love" and had taken to giving you knowing winks that made you want to die.
Bruce knew because he had excellent hearing and the Hulk had apparently developed opinions about your relationship that he communicated through meaningful grunts.
And Steve—Steve knew that you and Bucky were close. Closer than close. Best friends, he'd say proudly, watching you two train together, watching Bucky teach you knife throws, watching you bring Bucky coffee exactly how he liked it (black, two sugars, in the red mug because the blue one had a chip).
"He's going to kill us when he finds out." Bucky said one day while holding you in your bed.
"He's not going to find out."
"He's Captain America, doll. He's going to walk in on us eventually, or Tony's going to get drunk and spill it, or—"
"Or," you said, looking up at him, "we keep being careful. We keep it ours. Just a little longer."
Bucky looked tired, but he was smiling. "You really want to keep sneaking around? The supply closets? The quickies in the armory? That time in the quinjet while he was flying it?"
"That was risky," you admitted. "But also hot."
"Everything with you is hot." Bucky said, and kissed you, slow and sweet.
warnings: im very opinionated on this man. no angst or anything, just stupid things i like to think about this freak doing. nsfw ones at the end !!
notes: i have not written in almost a year i need to lock tf in whats the matter with me. also!! dont take these too seriously, they're just stupid things id see him doing. but also keep in mind i know more than u and everything i say is correct and canon
☣ northeast/west coaster fs. always thought i heard a lil something in his accent and later found out his va is from boston so this is very canon to me !!
☣ can cook*** but only *actual* cooking, like dishes thag require more prep and skill. absolutely fumbles when it comes to anything normal and simple. forgets to put water in ramen, nukes absolutely everything in his microwave, has never not burnt his toast.
☣ somewhat frugal. He doesn't exactly live bare or minimalist, just pretty picky about whatbhe choses to have in his place-- not big on meaningless clutter. he puts off buying new shoes or coats because what he has works just find. When he does splurge on himself, he ends up losing it anyways </3
☣ BIIIIIIG galaga fan. he doesn't find himself in an arcade very often, but on the off chance he is he's hogging the machine the entire time. any spare cash he had in college went straight towards galaga. spent way more than he probably should've.
☣ reddit lurker.
☣ however, an avid facebook user.
☣ loves those shitty pro-military movies. he obviously recognizes it as poorly produced propaganda, but he just can't stop watching them. his favorite is the ghost sniper series because of just how egregious they are. guilt-watches stuff like all quiet and come and see afterwards to balance it out.
☣ big movie guy in general, but he mostly only watches old school comedies. owns every Leslie Nielsen movie ever. not big on tv, but finds himself watching a lot of court room drama shows.
☣ decided to try going vegan once back in college, lasted an entire 30 minutes
☣ ofc hes a big dad rock guy, but more than that i think he'd be big into grunge. alice and chains and soundgarden were his big two. might've gone to a few house shows in hia hometown, but i doubt he'd be too involved in any local scene.
☣ SO annoying about physical media. refuses to use any modern streaming service outside of like cable. huge collection of dvd's, cassettes, vhs tapes, the works. most are crazy old and damaged beyond holding any legitimate value, but he feels wrong just tossing them out.
☣ with that thought, very insistent on how 'xyz physical media' is better than 'loser beta cuck digital media'. unfortunately, he's usual right
☣ LOVES burger king. fuck mcdonalds, fuck wendy's, get this man a whopper. (on a somewhat more grounded note, i hc him as a first gen italian-american specifically, and a huge thing with u.s immigrants is that their first ever burger or taste of american food was burger king. so maybe it's something he got from his parents :3)
☣ deftones anti
☣ doesn't know what 4chan is. doesn't want to know
☣ grew up eating whales (like the off brand goldfish) and still maintains the idea that they're superior
☣ developed a shellfish allergy in his mid 20's. he used to love crawfish :(
☣ i dont think he and ashley would keep super heavy contact with eachother after re4, given how busy im sure both their schedules are. i see them still reaching out every few months, maybe ashley hits him up with a question she could've just googled just to have an excuse to check in. lots of holiday messages and random photos back and forth.
☣ texts like he's typing out an email. properly formatted and all.
☣ alternativly, "👍."
☣ most awkward neighbor ever. cant hold a standard conversation for the life of him, please don't make this man talk about his lawn
☣ STUBBORN. SO STUBBORN. incredibly stuck in his ways, there's a way he likes to do things and he will not change it. (ex. his hair.)
☣ speaking of, he cuts it himself. thats why its so fucked up all the time.
☣ learned how to do a backflip after MONTHS of trying when he was super little. given his current job field, he doesn't really have a practical use for it anymore, sk he'll whip it out whenever he gets the chance so he doesn't feel like he's wasting his back flip abilities.
☣ never liked smoking, but tried vaping ONCE. didnt expect it to be so cold, it hurt, and he got real light headed over it.
☣ huge gun nerd. swore he wouldn't be one of those people who have a whole room full of vintage guns and ammo, just one or two real neat looking ones. he now has a whole room full of vintage guns and amo.
relationship specific headcanons !!
☣ very annoying about getting his back scratched. you might think he finally drifted off and you can stop, but the moment you do, he's doing that sassy over the shoulder glare.
☣ depending on how yall met/started dating, i think he'd be very sweet and just sorta classic boyfriend in the first few months. after, he'd definitely get way more comfortable being just a bit of an asshole. (obviously not cruel, hes my biggest 'He Would Not Fucking Do That' guy, some of yall really love creating an entirely different character out of him).
☣ i see him being pretty quiet about his love life, although not intentionally. unless it was a matter of your safety, i doubt he'd ever want to hide you, he just doesn't take it upon himself to talk about his personal life at all. that, and youre just such a big, constant part of his life that it slips his mind that a relationship is something typically announced if that makes any sense. like, ofc he has you in the same way that ofc he has an apartment, or a car. will still wear wedding bands, matching jewelry, or anything like that. casually drops "my boyfriend/husband" and thinks nothing much of it.
☣ very boring headcanon, but i dont think he'd be big on pet names or terms of endearment. just not something that comes naturally to him. if there's something specific you'd like to be called he'd be more than willing to oblige, but i doubt anything like "babe" or "doll" are in his vocabulary. stuff like baby and sweetheart maybe, but only during more intimate moments between the two of you. the closest you regularly get is a teasing "prettt boy" or other midly flirty/teasing nickname.
☣ if you have long enough hair that you'd need it out of your way and you asked him for help, he'd be GOD AWFUL. he's heavy handed, just unfamiliar with the motions of it all, and it'd come out uneven and messy. never gets it right, but since you keep asking, he took it upon himself to try an learn. found he likes braiding, it's super therapeutic for him. keeps hair ties on him incase you need them.
☣ was always kinda scared of dogs, and especially after all the freak ass zombie dogs he's encountered. the two of you do end up adopting a police/sercive dog who flunked out of training for being too friendly. initially he wanted a cat, but cats do NOT fw him
☣ really devastating, because he loves animals. loves going on fishing trips with you, but hates hunting. he can understand the importance of population control and having a sustainable food source, he'd just rather not if he can help it. on said fishing trips, he's a catch and release kinda man. likes the monotony of it more than anything, sitting with you and just watching the ocean.
☣ sheilds you from the rain with his jacket if you're ever caught out in a storm, holds you real close, if not just to mutter shitty jokes under his breath the whole time. ("it's raining cats and dogs out here. i think i just stepped in a poodle." "water our plans for tonight?" "always looking for a good raincheck")
☣ violently bisexual, but never really saw fit to put a label on his sexuality. he likes what he likes, and he just so happens to like you. thought everyone was also attracted to everyone until he was like 10
☣ tries baking with you, figuring it can't be much different than cooking. he's terrible. he'll keep trying because he knows you like it. he's not a man who looks like he knows to fluff and scoop flour, what it means to pack brown sugar, or god forbid fold batter
☣ musky body hair lover. nair and razors are products sent from the devil. open up yo pits, boy
☣ cut. 6.5", girthy. good handful. straight pubes. trimmed, NEVER bald.
☣ i dont see him having any crazy kinks, but he's open to trying just about anything. not super dominant, not super submissive, but definitely finds himself in certain moods depending on the moment. all in all, pretty spontaneous.
☣ BUT i feel like this man is a FREAK for pain. bite him, slap him, scratch him, tug on his hair ALL OF IT!! the sting is grounding, and i think it'd mean a lot for him to have someone he trusts enough to touch him like that.
☣ in terms of giving though, i think he'd just be more rough than anything. tugging on your hair, hickeys, and some light spanking here and there is the most i see him doing. can be talked into some degradation, but even thats mixed in/followed up with praise. cant help pulling your hair when your between his knees, tries his hardest not to fuck into your throat ("fuck-! fuck, m'sorry..." when he does)
☣ LOVES giving head, loves pleasing you and worshipping you with his mouth in general. teeth scraping against your chest, licking up the line of your ribs, mouthing at the soft flesh of your tummy.
☣ very vocal, but not very loud. breathy groans, hitches in his throat, stifled whines and moans. dirty talk doesn't come too naturally to him, so it's a lot of almost frantic muttering, telling you how good you make him feel, begging you to keep doing whatever it is your doing.
☣ when he finishes hes SOOOO whiney about it. bites into your neck to keep himself quiet, holds you still so he can ride it out.
⋆˙⟡ author’s note: you may have seen the first part of this (“from eden”) posted on @/fiolowe (my back-up blog), but that was just a rough first draft. this is the finished fic. i hope you guys enjoy it!
SSU (Special Support Unit) office, May 8th, 2006.
The afternoon sun filters through the windows. The warm golden rays graze the clinical white walls of the office. They stand tall, caging the analysts to their own little desks covered in misplaced files and unfinished reports. You can hear someone cursing at the broken tea kettle since you started working for the unit.
Your attention isn’t stuck to the broken kettle for long. You peek from your cubicle, eyes trailing over your coworkers. All of them are in their own bubble. You receive a brief, confused side glance from a disgruntled colleague next to your own cubicle, and you decide maybe it’s time to stop the people watching. You dip your head, returning to your own desk.
Your own bubble consists of a series of finished field analysis reports of cases you’ve provided intelligence support on and a small envelope invitation you haven’t dared to open. Cut and clear. Crystal clear even. Always do what the higher-ups demand of you.
These specific cases weren’t supposed to be different from the others you’ve provided help on. A decade of work in intelligence has made you an experienced agent, but only behind a headset, repeating information over and over in some field agent’s ear, hoping they succeed and return safely.
But these cases weren’t cut-and-dried. Not because of you. Or maybe, yes. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop the corner of your lips from curling into a small smile. It will soon be two years since you’ve been assisting Leon Kennedy on cases. Unlike your coworkers, you’ve learned that behind the man who only speaks in short sentences with wit a little too sharp, there is someone who is actually tolerable to be around. Or talk over communications. But you haven’t complained yet, and neither has Leon, so you count that as another win under your belt.
Plus, he makes scheduled visits to your cubicle to gather report files from you. He doesn’t need to come to you just to collect it face-to-face. You’ve offered to send it digitally. But he mumbles some excuse about being precise and leaving nothing up to chance. You don’t question it much. Not to mention, he’s developing a habit of bringing you snacks as a thank you. Last time it was a pasty from your favorite café, you mentioned once in conversation with him. You’re surprised he remembered.
Unfortunately, your faint smile sours quickly as the baby blue of the envelope catches your eye again. The golden ink sparkles and curves into a beautiful font.
We cordially invite you to our wedding—…Saturday, the twenty-second of July…—At two o’clock in the afternoon—…The rooftop gardens at Meridian Lofts…—Please RSVP with plus one by July first.
Who doesn’t love weddings? Especially a childhood friend’s wedding? You can go back home, go through your wardrobe, and spend days perfecting your outfit before sharing a beautiful day with family and friends.
The problem is a plus one. You never got the importance of plus ones. Particularly when you never had anyone special to bring. And since this is a wedding full of your childhood friends with their own spouses and partners, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb. Not to mention the groom being celebrated might be an old fling. Fling is an understatement. You hope the files on your desk will somehow drown you before you have to look at that man again and admit you haven’t moved on with someone else.
“Oh, congratulations to your friend. A summer wedding is best, if you ask me.”
You almost jump at the sudden noise. You turn in your chair, almost falling in the process.
“Sorry if I scared you.” Your department head stands right next to your cubicle. She lays a hand on your desk, eyes jumping from the case files stacked upon each other to the envelope. “You know, you have enough break days to go. It’s not like I keep you all trapped in this stuffy office building. Speaking of that, redecorating is needed.”
“Of course, Marston.” You finally calm your beating heart. You spin back in your chair, facing the desk. “I know I have time. It’s just the planning and RSVP’ing. Not to mention the travel fees.”
“We save half of this country from being turned into some biological mess, and somehow we still don’t have as much free time as the field agents.” Marston clicks her tongue before pointing a finger at the case files. “Is that Kennedy giving you trouble?”
“You ask me that at least every month, Ma’am. It’s been almost two years. He’s alright to work with.”
“With how much you sing his praises in your reports, working with him is more than ‘alright’.”
“I’m just telling the truth.” You shake your head, trying to avoid her amused gaze. “Leon has never let me down.”
“That’s nice to hear and all. You two are probably the only pair I could name who actually get along as field and intelligence agents.”
You can’t help but feel a strange sense of pride at her praise—a bloom of heat in your chest that spreads through your whole body, sweetly warm. You smile as you look back at the case files on your desk.
“Don’t get too excited, you might make everyone here jealous.” Marston chuckles. “Alright, enough riffraff, back to what I came over here for. A few seniors are having some get-together in a bar along with a few agents, and before you ask, yes, alcohol is allowed, but it’s the fancy kind, as our dear coworkers put it.”
“Oh, finally!” You lean back in your chair, clasping your hands in excitement. “I was suggesting we all go out at least for once. Everyone’s so gloomy, and this will cheer a few people up.”
“Okay, busybody.” Marston hums and turns to leave. “I for one think an old bottle of Chardonnay back home alone with my wife will suit me just fine.”
“Don’t remind me of weddings.” You groan, the quiet incoming doom of humiliating social interactions hanging over you. “Plus ones are so stupid anyway.”
“Not if you chose the right one!” Marston yells over to you even through the hallway.
You drop your head on the case files. They make a soft pillow, not considering the rather macabre information stored in them. Your hands clench, finger nails digging small crescents into your palm. If you push any harder, you might draw blood.
Who even invites an ex to a wedding? Goddamn you, Adam.
You raise your head. You try to gather your thoughts as your brows furrow in faux confidence. You could go alone. A plus one isn’t demanded. It’s just implied. Rather obviously and on-the-nose with its demand.
Or you could try to find someone to drag there, hoping to make your pathetic problem interesting enough to them so they could help you out of it.
You tilt your head. Thoughts are rushing through your head at an alarming speed. Your hand finds the nearest pen, and you fidget with it, slowing the thoughts down.
The ceiling is too tall. The office lights are too bright. The buzz of your coworkers is too loud. The building seems like it’ll press in on you, caging you in.
You try to focus on one singular point to bring your thoughts away from being humiliated at some wedding for arriving alone and leaving alone. A small calming trick you learned from Leon when he stopped by once. Find an anchor, hand on, don’t let go, and breathe.
Your eyes lock onto a familiar mess of sandy blond hair, a few gray strands catching your attention. A mess on someone’s head, honestly. You’ve tried telling him to take care of himself more, but the disgruntled look he gives you after jumping through hell and back on missions makes you forgive his unkempt hair once in a while.
Leon stands out in your department’s office like a sore thumb. He’s stuck behind a few of your colleagues. They haven’t noticed him, or maybe they have, and they’re giving him trouble as they always do. Leon only needs to move a step to the right to get a whole view of the office. His icy blue eyes trail over cubicles before landing on yours. He has a small cup of coffee clutched in his hand. He moves it away from the crowd, basically covering it with his whole frame as if a single cup is worth the effort.
You guess you really rubbed off on him with your café habits.
The second you two lock is just the moment you notice you aren’t clenching your hands anymore.
You rise from your chair. You wave a hand at him to wait for you. You grab a few of your report files and head towards his way.
Leon stands locked in the spot you first noticed him in. An annoyed glance is thrown at your coworkers every time he thinks they won’t notice. You try to stifle a laugh at the sight.
“You look so rattled, Leon.” You can’t resist teasing him. “Are you lost and need my help again?”
“I can navigate this building fine. But everyone bumping into me isn’t helping.” He raises a brow at you, but you can tell the sarcasm in his tone is without its usual bite. “Glad to know you find my struggle amusing.”
“The path to my cubicle is one full of many dangers.” You say, hand on your chest, while you grab onto his sleeve to lead him out of the crowd. He follows with no complaints. “Nothing like the missions you’re used to, Leon.”
“I’ve realized.” He quips, and there’s the familiar tone of comfortable teasing you’re used to from him. “And the agent at the desk is even more terrifying than anyone I’ve ever fought. They give me a run for my money.”
You slow down in the middle of your step, looking at him with an impressed grin. A few of the people tucked away in their cubicles glance at the two of you walking past.
“Cheeky, Leon, very cheeky.” You comment, and tug him with a bit more force, and he pretends it knocks him off his balance just to humor you. “Be careful for the agent not to write you a bad report and get you fired.”
“Oh, no.” He rolls his eyes playfully. “I’d never. I need their mercy to validate my competency to the whole of the agency.”
You two finally reach your desk. You sit back down, pushing away from the desk so Leon can shuffle in, and he leans a hip on the desk. His eyes trail over the office one more time, specifically eyeing the big windows parallel to your cubicle.
Your eyes follow his own. You can figure out what he’s thinking right now—threat assessment in your own office. You know he means well, but sometimes you wish he’d take a second to stop and rest.
You raise your hand to graze to touch him, but you stop just above his own hand. He seems so hyper-focused on every possible weakness in this building. He stands over you, you’ve noticed, backing you to a corner where every direction is covered and safe for you. You’re afraid—as ridiculous as that sounds—you might push whatever fragile boundaries the two of you have built if you touch him right now. You think speaking might be the better choice.
“You know we’re completely safe here, right?” You start, completely unsure of what direction to take this conversation. Your hand finds the surface of your desk, and you start tapping in a mindless rhythm to calm yourself. “I work almost all day here, so they owe me, us, and everyone good security. You don’t have to stand on guard—”
“—I bought you coffee.”
“What?”
Well, there goes your plans for a motivational speech. Not that you were ever good at those, and he probably doesn’t even want to hear it. What do you know about what he feels after the mess that was Spain? Well, you do. You’ve written dozens of assessments about him as his superior, but that doesn’t exactly translate into closeness, even if he does bring you coffee when he visits.
“Cortado.” He says, straightening his spine and turning his back to the windows. “You mentioned last time you liked espressos, so the barista suggested adding steamed milk to it.” He offers you a warm cup.
“I thought that was for yourself.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Okay, you caught me.” You chuckle. “Thank you. Coffee is something I really need right now.”
You grab the warm coffee cup from his hands, and for a second, his fingers linger on yours. The cup isn’t as hot as you’d imagined. It’s perfectly warm, just like the temperature you told him you favored.
“Thank you.”
“You said that already.”
“Coffee warrants two thank yous.” You add and put down the cup on your desk, far away from the files. “Are you here for the reports?”
Leon doesn’t answer you as quickly as you expected him to. His gaze lingers on your desk, but now what he came for. His eyes lock onto a particular wedding invitation you wished to hide. You can almost imagine the questions and his own thought-up answers running through his head.
Leon turns his gaze to you. Suddenly, you feel bare under his gaze. You’re used to meetings and briefs where your own superiors push back at your layers, but this is somehow different. You’re not uncomfortable under his gaze. You almost squirm in your chair. It’s mostly from the fact that he can see how much this small piece of paper has soured your mood.
“Are you—”
“—invited to a wedding? Yes.” You start tapping on the desk. Again.
“I was going to ask if you were okay.” He says matter-of-factly, as if that one small question hasn’t completely turned the conversation on its head.
Leon tilts his head, his blonde strands falling over his forehead. The hair sticks to the skin. You wonder if he rushed to get here. To get to you. With your new favorite coffee order, which he just introduced you to. The thought brings you a momentary bliss before you force yourself back to earth from some ridiculous dreamland.
“I’m fine.” You click your tongue, hoping your tone doesn’t give your true feelings away. “Anyway, did you hear about the bar hangout the office is having?”
“…No.” Leon scratches at his neck, and you feel a tinge of guilt.
“Well, I’m telling you now. And I’m bringing you with me.”
“You don’t have to.” His eyes widened a bit. “I don’t know anyone well enough there.”
“Except for me.”
“Except for you.”
“Wear your best casual fit. It’s a bar, not an official meeting. I look forward to seeing you not in a suit or a button-up for once.”
Leon’s lips curl just slightly. It only lasts for a moment before it’s gone just as quickly as it came. You smile, satisfied that you, or your stupid comment about his clothes—not that you think about his clothes often—was the reason he smiled in the first place.
“Alright.” You move in your chair. “You came for the last case report, right? You know, I can just send you an electronic copy whenever you need it.”
“I know,” Leon answers, but he doesn’t give a reason for why he visits.
You don’t press it.
The Manila files are organized with a perfect system. You hand them over with a sense of pride in your chest. Leon takes them, and your fingers linger on each other again. It only takes a single second for the touch to disappear.
“You’ll be there, right?” You question, pulling one of the few threads of hope that Leon might enjoy a night out with you. “I’ll message the details to you.”
“If you don’t leave me alone with your colleagues, then maybe.”
“I’ll be glued to your side, protecting you from them. A prince needs a knight to protect them, after all.”
He rolls his eyes. But you know there’s no malice behind it.
“Then it’s a yes.”
“You just can’t say no to me.”
“Don’t push it.”
+++
Bar “rendezvous”, May 10th, 2006.
The bar is exactly as Leon had imagined it.
The dim lights crowding the walls are placed sporadically around the room. The faint yellow hue spreads around the booths, covering them in a warm glow. There are a few candles placed on the circular tables, creating an alluring presence that Leon knows all too well to look at with a tinge of skepticism.
He’s been wandering around the booths looking around. He calls it people watching, but you told him it’s slightly concerning for others to see an almost 6’0 feet man staring—no, glaring—at them. He thinks he’s been doing well; he’s only looked at both the entrance and exit a few times since he got here a few minutes later than he was supposed to.
Not to mention he’s dressed up to the perfect balance of casual and professional just because you told him to. A cream ribbed knit sweater and medium-washed gray jeans. He feels a strange and heavy weight on his heart, like an expectation on how you’ll react and what you’ll say.
Leon wonders how you look this evening as well.
The two of you have been working together for almost two years. You’ve been the primary intelligence agent guiding him since he started working for the agency, for most of that time. Communicating over comms hasn’t exactly given him an excuse to see you other than the office visits, but those are sparse at best and questionable and unnecessary from your coworkers’ view. As if you don’t welcome him every time you walk him from the department entrance to your cubicle.
He scans the bar just ahead. The counter is built of dark burgundy wood, the surface covered in glasses of all sizes. There are lamps placed on it, similar to the wall lights.
People are already seated, some at the bar, some in the booths—all of them nursing the drinks Leon hopes will be enough to get through this evening.
He’s been contemplating leaving early, knowing the people he’s supposed to spend time with won’t exactly want him there, but the thought of you made him reconsider. Leon couldn’t just leave with no warning, especially when you’re here. First, you invited him, and it would be rude to bail on you. Second, the evening might not all be for nothing if he makes sure not to leave your side.
Leon’s brought out of his thoughts as a familiar voice reaches him. It’s like an addictive cigarette—rough at the edges and wrapped in velvet. He can recognize your voice anywhere. He’s so used to you speaking in his ear—the proximity and intimacy of guiding him as if you were right next to him.
Sometimes he does wish for you to be there next to him, to not spend nights alone with mission reports. He doesn’t want your handwriting and words on those files to be the only thing he’ll get to touch that is yours.
Leon follows the sound of your voice and how the tone finds its way through the bar’s crowd. His steps—previously slow and deliberate—have turned quick and shaky now. His eyes darted around the building, looking for your figure. When his eyes land on you, his breath lodges in his throat, turning into something heavier and different. A feeling he cannot piece together.
You are seated between your colleagues. There’s one empty seat next to yours, probably reserved for one of your friends. Leon stands a few steps away from the booth, the buzzing crowd blocking his view of you. He can make out the colors of your clothes matching your complexion. Your hands articulate and move with a sense of freedom he’s never been able to replicate as you talk with the people around you. The lamps hung on the walls form a dim halo around your form, the light highlighting you from the rest of the crowd.
Leon finally breathes; the heaviness on his chest dissipates only for a second before it spreads throughout his body, weighing him down. He’s content with this—seeing you with people who cannot contain their laughs around you while you wrap your arms around them as if they’re long-time friends. Unlike him, who cannot even bring himself to even think about being touched by you without his jaw clenching and skin flushing with an uncomfortable heat.
He takes a step back, turning to leave. The moment only lasts for a second, but it feels like forever. The constant chatter of people in the booths, the clinking of cups, the crowd shuffling around the room—all of it—is drowned out.
Nothing can reach his ears. He really should have taken a drink from the bar first. A high-pitched ringing replaces the silence. The same deafness you feel after firing a shot—something that he hopes you never have to do. He’s fine with being the one with blood beneath his fingernails if you stay safe behind the comms, in your secured office. He’s fine with your voice being the last thing he—
“Leon!”
He stops, steps now full of hesitation. It only takes the familiar sound of your footsteps—which he could recognize anywhere—to make him turn your way. You’ve left the booth. Your coworkers are invested in a conversation with each other, only a few of them sparing you and Leon a glance.
“Where are you going?” You move closer to him, and Leon stiffens. “Sorry,” you raise your voice over the sound of the bar, “I tried getting your attention, but you didn’t hear me. Why didn’t you let me know you arrived?”
“You—” He tries gathering his words, but stills as his mind goes blank, “—seemed busy. I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You could have sent a text.” A small pout finds itself on your lips. Leon notes the glossy sheen over them; it catches the light as your mouth moves. “I worried you were bailing on me.”
“You don’t look worried.” Leon clenches his jaw; he can smell the faint aroma of a saccharine drink on you. “You don’t need to worry. It doesn’t matter.”
Speaking of looking, he only now takes in your appearance. Dark brown fitted long-sleeve crop hugs your torso, and the gray tailored trousers hang off your hips with a belt. The slightly exposed midriff catches his eye when it shouldn’t.
“You sure have a lot of ideas about how I should feel and worry, Leon.” Your voice snaps him out of his moment of—he doesn’t even know what to call it. “But look at you—” you take a step closer, closing in on him and backing him into the closest booth’s entrance. “—you sure as hell have a lot of ideas where to look. It’s amusing to see you scramble to pretend to be professional as if you weren’t watching me.”
Leon blinks. More than he usually does. You laugh at him, and the sound makes him feel the warmth spreading from underneath his collar to his ears. He hopes the dim lighting will hide how his face might flush in a few minutes.
“What?” He breaks eye contact first, rare for him—he knows. “You look fine.”
You raise a brow. The airy confidence in your figure slowly dissipates, and you cross your arms across your chest. His shoulders tense at the sight because he definitely didn’t mean fine, he meant—
“I saved a seat for you.” Your voice comes out quieter, and the sound of it makes Leon’s spine straighten. “It’s the one right next to mine.”
So, it was for him.
“You can take any seat you want. You’re not obligated to sit next to me.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“—Oh, no,” you cut him off, the words said through gritted teeth, “I’m going to get something stronger to drink myself. Have fun, Kennedy.”
You turn around away from Leon in an instant. He catches a slight glint in your eyes, and he hates the chance that it might be tears. His hand raises to catch your wrist, but he stops himself, his hand left outstretched as you move with anger in your steps. Angry at him. You called him Kennedy and not Leon. And he deserves it all. He drops his head, knowing how ridiculous he acted and looks right now.
When he raises his gaze, he cannot find you in the crowd. Your coworkers haven’t noticed that you haven’t returned either, too busy to pay attention to anything but themselves. Only one woman from your booth raises her head, obviously watching you and Leon. He remembers her from the analytics department. She squints her eyes at him, and he feels the shame deep in his voice.
Who’s he to judge? Leon bites his tongue. He’s the one who made you cry and literally run away from him. You’ve shown him nothing but kindness, and the one time he could show you his appreciation beyond his own thoughts, he screws it up. Severely.
Leon doesn’t know how long he has stood there, but he knows he has to move and find you. His steps are instinctive, as if an invincible string is pulling him the right way. His eyes darted from one corner to another, looking for your face in the crowd. The people blur into each other, nothing, or no one, standing out.
You had mentioned getting a drink. A strong one at that. The heavy feeling from before has taken its spot on his chest, and his breath comes out harder and harder. He tries to find you amongst the people sitting on the bar-stools.
A single figure sticks out—seated alone, nursing what looks like shot glasses placed on the counter. The familiar way you tap your hand on the wooden surface makes his shoulders drop.
Leon hates that he’s the reason you’re hunched over the bar, getting drunk, and trying to calm yourself down so you can return to your booth. He knows you’ll plaster on a tight smile and press crescents into your palm.
He finds his way to you; the last few steps are softer to not agitate you further. A small hiccup leaves you. Leon’s brows furrow. He tugs at his collar, unsure how to speak to you. Your gaze is glued to the drinks in front of you.
“Shot glasses aren’t the best anchors.” He starts and mentally scolds himself the second the words leave his mouth. “It’s supposed to be something that brings you a moment of clarity.”
“Alcohol is bringing me clarity, Kennedy.”
“I doubt that.”
“Well,” you click your tongue, “it’s bringing me enough clarity to throw the glass at you.”
“You’d be right to.”
You turn your gaze away from the glasses. Leon finally lets out a breath when you look at him. Your tense face finally softens, but only a bit. You gesture to the seat next to yours, and he wastes no time taking it.
The two of you are silent for the first few minutes. Leon’s too hesitant to say the wrong thing. You don’t seem to have the energy to talk back. He hasn’t thought of how to even begin apologizing.
The bartender shoots the two of you a look, but Leon waves him down. You don’t need any more drinks tonight, and he’d rather be sober by your side tonight.
“I’m sorry.”
He’d rather blurt it out.
“You don’t need to apologize.” You clench your fist again. He can imagine the crescents. “Listen, I shouldn’t have gotten in your personal space like that. I know you don’t especially enjoy it when people do that—”
“I don’t mind when you do it.” Leon raises his hand and grazes your arm. You straighten, and he coughs. His hand doesn’t leave. “You—” he hesitantly grabs your clenched fist and loosens it, “—you look more than fine.”
You stare back at your intertwined hands. Your fingers feel like a perfect puzzle piece in his own.
“Really?” You mumble, voice weak in a way that he wants to fix right this moment.
“You look beautiful.” He says with no hesitation. “I should have said that the moment I saw you.”
“The moment you were staring at my midriff?”
“And you say that I’m the cheeky one.”
You laugh again. He lets out a sigh of relief at the sound.
“I’m sorry I made you cry.” Leon’s voice sounds so quiet that he surprises even himself.
“No,” you start, and he thinks you’re about to deflect again, “I mean, yeah— you were an ass, but I was slightly drunk—”
“Slightly?”
“Don’t start.” You tut. “But I’ve had a rough week. And I’m just in for tougher future months. I’ve been more emotional because of that. The alcohol takes the edge off for only a few hours.”
“What’s been bothering you?”
You bite your lower lip, and Leon forces himself to look away.
“You don’t want to hear about it. It’s nothing.”
“You sure have a lot of ideas on what I want.” Leon’s lips curl. “Now, who have I heard saying that?”
“Touché, Leon. Touché.”
“Tell me.” He tries to show the sincerity in his voice clearly. “I want to hear about it. Maybe I can help.”
“Can you magically spawn a date for me?”
“What?” He coughs. You want a date? A partner? For what? For the foreseeable future? As in someone to be with? “…You— you should have no problem with that.”
“Points off, Leon. You’re drastically wrong about that. I can’t find someone as a plus-one date to my friend’s wedding.” You hide your face in your hands. “I’m basically doomed. If I don’t show up with someone on my arm, my bastard of an ex will be satisfied, and I can’t have that considering he’s the groom!”
Oh.
Oh.
You meant the wedding. Leon remembers the invitation on your desk, which he saw on his visit to your office a few days ago. He can feel a strange weight lifted off his chest, and a small snort even leaves him.
“You’re laughing at me.” You widen your eyes at him and deadpan. “Leon Kennedy, you are laughing at someone clearly drunk and in distress!”
“No—” he raises his hand in defense while trying to stifle his chuckle, “—I’m not.”
“Then why did you snort!?” You groan. “I should have finished those damn shot glasses. Throwing them at you seems like a perfect idea.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“And why not? I can aim very well. Maybe not as good as you, mister, but I can hit the bullseye that is your stupid handsome face even if I’m drunk.”
“You think I’m handsome?”
Leon watches as you bite your lip again. The corner of your ears flushes just slightly. You groan again and hide your face in the crook of your arm.
“I said something stupid. Plus, I’m drunk. You’re taking advantage of poor little old me right now.”
He moves his hand from yours, gently tracing the exposed skin of your cheek peeking from your arm. “C’mon. I might have a solution to your problem.”
Leon thinks he should have taken a few drinks himself. This would have been so much easier to say if he had alcohol in his system, but he wants you to believe that he’s completely sober while bringing this up.
“So you can spawn a date in?”
“Wouldn’t I be a better candidate than a,” he trails off, his voice unsteady, “spawned in option, who you don’t even know?”
You raise your head suddenly. Leon moves to give you space. For a moment, he thinks you might refuse or plain chew him out for what he has proposed—being your plus one to a friend’s wedding, whom he doesn’t even know. A friend who, apparently, is getting married to your bastard ex. He’d try anything he knows to make sure you’re not crying alone at a bar, but this is also something he’s doing for himself. A chance of selfishness—to be by your side because you would want him there.
“You’re serious?” You ask with a tone too fragile for his liking. “You’re not saying that to just cheer me up, right? Or are you drunk?”
“You’re the drunk one, sweetheart, not me.”
“Am I hallucinating?”
“No.” Leon laughs. “I’m being serious. It’s all up to you.” Please say yes. “I’m not forcing your hand, but if you do need someone—” let it be me. “—I wouldn’t mind coming with you.”
You stare at him for a few seconds that feel like a century to him before you open your mouth. Leon expects an outright rejection, but instead, your eyes tear up.
“Sweetheart, no.” He scrambles closer to your seat, searching for a napkin. “The last thing I wanted to do was make you cry again.”
He doesn’t find a napkin and decides to use the fabric of his jumper to wipe the tears. Leon gently grabs your chin, softly moving the fabric across your wet cheek.
“You’re close.” You mumble.
Suddenly, his face feels flush again under your gaze. “Don’t cry again.”
“You weren’t lying, right? You’d come with me?”
There’s this desperation in your voice. Maybe from the alcohol in your system, or the high emotions from tonight, but Leon knows it brings no comfort to you or him to hear it.
“I’ll never lie to you again.”
“You’ve lied to me before?”
“Tonight. When I told you that, you looked just fine.”
You snort, dropping your head on Leon’s shoulder. He doesn’t move away. A faint aroma almost escapes him. Clean woods—cedar and sandalwood with muted jasmine. Your shampoo. He’s the doomed one, not you. You’re laughing, head on his shoulder. Your scent is so close. His hand is still near your cheek. He’s not sure if all of this is because you’re drunk or not. He hopes not.
“You should tell me your answer when you’re sober.”
“I want to go home.” You admit. “I hate this bar. I suggested another, but they all demanded this one. But these two seats are fine. I like them.” You raise your head from his shoulder. The conviction in your voice is admirable, if not a little silly.
“Why do these two specific chairs survive your wrath?”
“Because we’re sitting here.” You say it like it’s an obvious fact. “Duh.”
“Duh.”
“Stop parroting me, Kennedy. It’s rude.” You raise a finger at him.
“Come, you wanted to go home. I’m not letting you go alone.” Leon stands up, offering you a hand to grab on to.
“How gentlemanly. If only I knew I’d have a knight in shining armor to sweep me off my feet.” You sit up in the chair, but almost trip over your own feet due to the alcohol.
Leon’s quick to catch you. He steadies you on your feet, making sure you regain your balance.
“Two left feet, it seems.” He quips. “Are you sure you’re ready to walk? How much did you even drink? I didn’t know you were a lightweight.”
“Write that down for the wedding as a note. I can’t say no to a pretty fruity drink.” You start trailing off, chattering to Leon about Cosmopolitans and Margaritas. “Oh, I also love it when they have those cute little straws. I saw a straw shaped like a heart once.”
Leon leads you to the coat racks. You gesture to the tailored overcoat on the far end. Leon leans you against the wall while he grabs your coat. His hand grazes your shoulders and back as he helps you put it on. You shiver under his touch, and he has to restrain himself from lingering.
“We should at least tell your colleagues you’re leaving.” He offers.
“I told them I was going with you.” You say as if your words didn’t flip the entire conversation on its head. “Didn’t know it would end like this, though. New rule of thumb: if your handsome coworker accidentally makes you cry, he gives you a pity date.”
“It’s not a pity date.” Leon grabs the collar of your coat gently, making sure the fabric is snug around you. “And I don’t want to make you cry ever again. And, I didn’t offer the date because of that. I offered it because I wanted to. I still do. Get back to me about it tomorrow when you’re not about to throw shot glasses at me.”
You’re looking up at him with a different glint in your eyes now. Leon thinks it almost looks like a sparkle. He deems that it suits you well.
“I’m making sure you get home safely.”
“Going to walk me home?”
“Yes. Knight in shining armor, remember?”
You two-step out of the bar. The icy air bites at Leon’s cheeks. He sees you flush because of the night breeze. He offers his arm. You raise your hand and loop it around his arm. You shuffle closer to him. He hopes that at least some of his warmth comforts you.
“I don’t remember telling you my address, Leon.” You giggle, but there’s a slight tone of challenge in your voice.
“It was in your employee file,” Leon answers while his free hand scratches at his neck. “Marston gave it to me.”
You two walk down the busy road in tandem. It feels as if the moving crowd is just background noise. Leon hears none of the buzzing people. For once, the outside world is not a threat. At least for now.
“Of course she did.” You grumble before laying your head on Leon’s shoulder again.
+++
Somewhere in Washington, D.C., May 19th, 2006
A red-brick stone flat building stands moderately tall. Ivy creeps up its facade; it consists of four stories, like it’s been claiming the building for decades. Maybe longer than Leon can imagine.
There’s a strange feeling of intimidation pressing down on his chest. The street outside is sparse of passers-by, considering the rain. Lucky for him, Leon is kept warm inside his car. He shifts in the leather seat. An expensive seat.
His eyes wander around the visible block. There’s a couple, one’s clutching a dog in their hands, collar forgotten. The other—from the apartment’s entrance—is beckoning their partner to rush in the door. There’s a melodic sense of normalcy to them. The feeling from before becomes heavier.
Leon shifts his gaze away from them. He grabs his phone, checking the time for the fifth time this minute.
9:47 AM. You said you’d be ready around the 45-minute mark, but he showed up at 9:30 just to be sure. He had forgotten how long those few minutes can stretch into forever. Twelve minutes, for him specifically, is too long to be spending without seeing you walk out of that door. He thinks maybe you’re planning on rescheduling this wedding outfit shopping day. Leon wouldn’t complain. It is raining.
He knows you hate the rain. Especially when it gets your clothes wet and shoes dirty. You told him that one time when he visited your office. You were hunched over in your chair, wet wipes in hand, as you complained about your ‘poor loafers.’
At least he’s got an excuse to take you wherever you want now. He double-checks the passenger seat again—the seat belt is secured, the glove box is empty if you want to put something in it, and the car has been cleaned just a few days ago.
Leon checks the time again. His phone screen lights up, flashing 9:50 in front of him. Only three minutes. He leans on the head restraint with a nervous sigh.
Movement catches his attention from the corner of his eye. He hears a string of curses from a figure in front of your apartment’s entrance before he realizes the person is you. You’re struggling with closing the door while balancing an umbrella and clutching a bag with its sling.
Leon exits from his car.
You turn at the sound. “Oh, Leon!” Your previous demeanor changes in an instant, and it makes him hesitant in his steps. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you wait. It’s been such a hectic morning.”
“No, I just arrived.” Leon offers to grab the umbrella from your hand. He opens it, tipping it mostly towards you. “Twenty minutes is nothing.”
“You’ve been here for almost half an hour already?!” You snap your gaze away from the closed door and stare at him with your mouth agape.
“Close your mouth, sweetheart.” He breaks eye contact with you first.
“You should have at least texted to let me know.” You snort. “I can’t believe I kept you waiting in the rain.”
You and Leon move towards his car, the umbrella still tipped towards you. A few rain droplets fall on his hair and coat, before hitting his face. He scrunches his nose, and you notice. You stop, grabbing his hand where it grips the umbrella with unnecessary strength. His knuckles whiten as you tilt the umbrella back to his side.
“I can’t have you getting sick.” You swallow the heavy feeling down, now aware of the proximity. “I need my plus one in perfect shape, not with a runny nose.”
“I don’t get sick,” Leon answers. “And I don’t plan on leaving you alone to fend for yourself at that wedding.”
He gestures to the passenger seat door. You offer to grab the umbrella, but he shakes his head. You raise a brow in amusement as he opens the door.
“How gentlemanly.”
“I’ve been receiving a lot of praise from you.” The corners of his lips curl in that effortlessly handsome way you’ve got used to seeing. “Is this favoritism? Thought that wasn’t allowed in your department, especially because you’re technically my superior.”
“It’s deserved, but don’t let it get to your head, Kennedy.” You look up at him from your eyelashes now, the view of him towering over you from the drizzle outside, while you’re seated inside, makes your body flush. “You’re not afraid of HR, are you?”
“No, but they’d probably come after me for kidnapping you or something from the bar last week.”
“You did usher me, drunk and distressed, away from them.” You raise a brow, the playful sarcasm seeping into your voice. “What will the people say? What a scandal. Enough for office gossip for the next few months.”
“I’d better get in the car, or I think you’re keeping me talking out here to actually get me sick.” Leon closes the door with a smile.
You settle into your seat, leaning towards the driver’s spot. Your eyes follow him as he strides in a few steps from the side of the car to his seat. He opens the door and gets in, handing you the umbrella to put in its sleeve.
“I’d imagine you being sick is probably the only time you’d let yourself have a break day.” You quip, turning to face him.
He looks behind the car, one hand on the passenger seat and the other on the steering wheel. “I get enough rest.”
“I worry.” The words leave your mouth before you can even rephrase them. “Sometimes, I mean.”
Leon stays quiet as he reverses the car. You try to figure out what thoughts are swirling behind his eyes. They are dim with a light you haven’t seen before. Not entirely a bad surprise. It only now dawns on you what kind of situation you’re in. How special and rare it is.
You’ve never seen Leon outside the office. Conversations between you two about the normal things, such as the weather and shopping, were sparse. And now here you are—talking about getting sick, as if you’ll see a red-nosed Leon nursing herbal tea.
Or something even more ridiculously tasting of normalcy—a luxury you both have been robbed of because of the job, you making that said tea.
“I know you do.” Leon finally speaks. “I’ve always come back in one piece, haven’t I?”
“Barely.”
“I’ve got you there to keep my head on a swivel. You never let me get cocky.” He says over the engine’s hum.
“You’re already too cocky.” Your voice came out soft, directed at the windshield instead of him.
You glance at the CD case in his center console. Alice in Chains. Dirt.
“Didn’t peg you for a grunge.”
Leon’s lips curl into something softer than a smirk. “Yeah?” He keeps his eyes on the road, but his hand leaves the wheel for just a second—long enough to brush his fingers against yours on the center console. “What did you peg me for?”
“Show tunes.”
He snorts. “You’re thinking of someone else.”
“I’m really not.”
He glances at you—quick, warm, something unguarded in his expression, a rare sight. “Lucky me, then.”
The rain patters against the windshield in a steady rhythm. He focuses on the road ahead, navigating the wet streets with the kind of precision he brings to everything. You watch the city blur past, the nervous energy from the morning slowly settling into something else.
Twenty minutes later, Leon pulls into the parking garage of a boutique in Georgetown. The transition is almost jarring—from the intimacy of the car to the fluorescent brightness of the structure.
This is real now.
The font above the boutique’s entrance loops beautifully in cursive as it reads Sage & Stone. Velvet cream curtains cover the large windows, lacy bows scrunching the fabric at the edges. Only a few mannequins can be seen from outside—all of them wearing something viscose and charmeuse.
“I didn’t even know there was a boutique here.” Leon’s the first one to break the silence.
You turn your gaze back to him. “It’s a gem, truly. Not a lot of people know about it. Good for us, though.” A smirk appears on your lips, and Leon’s shoulders fall at the sight. “We’ll be the most eye-catching pair there.”
You’re already out of the car while Leon is slowly catching up. He’s still thinking about the word pair. The reality of the situation finally sets in. You two are walking into a boutique he’s never seen, about to buy clothes for an event he didn’t think he’d get a chance to visit with you.
The large glass doors open at the push of his hand. He gestures for you to go in first, and you tilt your head slightly at him, a playful smile playing on your lips. He tries to picture that in his mind forever.
“You sound like you’ve already thought about what we’re going to wear.” Leon stays a step behind you, his eyes wandering around the building. “I do have tuxedos back at home.”
“Ah, yes.” You keep your attention on the few mannequins standing next to the hangers. There are silk dresses along with velvet suits with embroidery around the room. “Your boring black and white suits. The dress code is semi-formal, cocktail attire. Have a little fun, Leon.”
Leon raises a single brow at your words, but a smile plays at his lips anyway. He follows your gaze to the hangers, wondering what you have in mind.
“I’m starting to feel a bit intimidated.”
“You should.” You nod your head at him. “I will not let you out of this building until we find you a perfect suit.”
“And you, as well. Or this will be just unfair.”
“You’ll get to see me in silk, Leon.” You throw him a faint wink over your shoulder, and he feels his heartbeat quicken. “Don’t worry your little head over it.”
A sales associate approaches, sensing your purpose. You take charge immediately—pointing to the forest green patterned pieces, the silk charmeuse, the tailored jackets. Leon watches you move through the racks with such certainty, such confidence, that he realizes—you know exactly what you want. And you know what you want for him, too.
You pull a sage green blazer from a hanger, turning to Leon. “This. Try this.”
Leon takes it without argument. Your fingers brush as the fabric exchanges hands. His hand moves more slowly, trying to lengthen the moment. Your eyes find his, a silent question in them. The moment slowly dissipates as you gesture to the changing room.
“Go on.” You instruct, already three steps ahead. “You try on the suit while I find those cream trousers I saw from the window. It’ll bring out your complexion.”
“You’ve already planned all of this out, huh?” Leon stands in front of the changing room, one hand already parting the curtains and the other gently holding the blazer.
“What makes you say that?” You tilt your head at him, feigning confusion.
“I was thinking we’d start with your outfit first.”
“Oh, for god’s sake.” You murmur, fingers trailing his blazer’s fabric as you take one step closer to him. “For once, let someone else treat you. I’ll pick something out, and you tell me what you think. But first, I want to see your outfit.”
“Alright, alright.” Leon manages, watching you move away from him.
The sales associate returns, the cream trousers in their hands. You pick it up, hand grazing the intricate embroidery.
That’s probably expensive, he thinks.
“I hope you know I plan on treating you today, not the other way around,” Leon says, eyes on anything but you.
“I get paid more than you.” You call over your shoulder. “Being your superior and all. So indulge me, please.”
Oh, he’d indulge in you. But he wanted to start this morning off with you having time to dress up, have fun, and finally get the worry of the wedding off your shoulders.
“I’m still paying for your outfit.”
“Then I’ll pay for your blazer and trousers.” You turn, sticking out your tongue at him.
“Mature.” Leon laughs as he takes the trousers from you. He wonders how many times he can get away with his fingers brushing against yours.
He steps into the dressing room. You lose sight of him and fall into a state of impatience not even a second later. You could take a seat and wait for him to come out. Or you could try to find an outfit for yourself. Truth be told, you’d been imagining how he would look dressed up more than you have kept yourself in mind.
“You truly have a special style.” Leon’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts.
“Are you done already?” You get up from your seat, wondering how the time passes so quickly.
He steps out. The blazer is tailored, fitted through the shoulders, structured but elegant. The cream trousers are well-fitted, hitting at the ankle with a clean break. The sage green and cream complement his complexion in a way you haven’t seen in any other piece of his clothes. You swallow, trying to compose yourself.
Leon smooths down the blazer. He looks as if he feels out of place. It only lasts for a second before he pushes the foreign feeling down and settles into the outfit.
“Cat got your tongue?” He quips, his hands pulling at his collar.
“Don’t get too cocky again.” You take a step near him, hands moving to his collar to fix it. “Or as you said, I’ll have to humble you.”
You move the fabric a bit loose. You can feel the unsteady rise of his chest right below your hands. Not only that, but you wonder if he can feel the quickened beat of your heart, too.
“Thank you.” Leon’s voice comes out carefully. “Your choice is,” he tries to find the right words, “just right.”
“Not ‘just fine’?”
“Never ‘just fine’.”
You take a step back, only now realizing how close you two were. Leon coughs, hand grazing his chin before falling to grip the blazer again.
“What about you?” He questions, eyes trailing over the many hangers around the room. “You must have planned something for yourself.”
“I am ever so thorough.” You nod your head at him before gesturing to the closest clothes rack to your right.
A forest green patterned suit hangs from it. It stands out from the other pieces of clothing with its damask embroidery. The color matches his, but only your green is richer and deeper. It contracts his blazer more than it matches it. He can imagine how eye-catching you will be, and he’ll be right by your side.
“Try it on.” His hand finds your arm.
“I—” you look from the suit to him, “I already know what it’s like. It’s not a big deal. I know this is all over the top. You didn’t even need to tag along. I appreciate it, and I don’t want to bother you further by watching me try it on—well, not while trying it on. You’ll see me after I’ve finished putting it on—”
“You’re spiraling, sweetheart.” Leon’s hold on your arm becomes even firmer. It serves to ground you.
You let out a sigh.
“I can be picky about outfits, you know.”
“But you like this one.” He smiles at you, and you feel your body flush. “I want to see it, come on.”
“Alright.” You finally relent.
“I’ll hand off the blazer and trousers after changing. By that time you’ll be done, and I’m sure you’ll look—”
“‘Just fine’?”
“—Beautiful.”
Your eyes widen. His hand on your arm feels hotter through the fabric of your clothes. For a moment, it feels like you’ve forgotten how to breathe. You cough, and Leon moves to clear the way to the changing rooms.
The sales associate returns. They hand you the suit with a faint smile before they rush off to gather bags for the purchase.
This is going far better than you imagined. The usual tension you see in Leon’s shoulders seems to disappear and is replaced with something casual. Almost domestic. You don’t want to fool yourself into thinking that this is more than it is, but you can’t help but cling to the image of him in this state.
You disappear from Leon’s line of sight as you pull back the curtain. A few minutes pass. He’s been pacing back and forth—sometimes catching onto your voice carrying through the curtain, and other times talking to the sales associate about charging his card for your suit as well, along with his, which is already in a far too fancy bag with a bow. Sage & Stone is written in golden cursive font across the bag’s ivory color.
Leon hears the curtain move and snaps his head in your direction. You step out of the changing room hesitantly. There’s a different demeanor to you now, one of nervousness. As if you’re wondering a bit too much about how you look when he wishes he could tell you over and over again how you look otherworldly.
“So,” you start, voice a bit unsteady, “what do you think?”
You stand in front of the ivory curtain. The color of your suit is deep green with baroque-like details woven into the fabric. The trousers are long and elegant, hitting perfectly at the shoe. The pattern catches the light. The silhouette is confident.
“It looks perfect.” He takes a step closer to you, and your spine straightens by instinct. “You look perfect.”
You step closer, searching his face for honesty. Leon doesn’t flinch. He holds your gaze steady.
“You’re sure?” Your voice comes out small.
“I’ve never been surer of anything.”
The words land differently than he probably intended. You both feel it. The sales associate reappears with the ivory bags, golden cursive gleaming, and the moment breaks.
“We’ll take both,” Leon says before you can protest. His card is already out.
Twenty minutes later, you’re walking out of Sage & Stone with matching bags—sage and forest green coordinated without planning. Leon carries both, and you don’t argue this time. Outside, the rain has stopped, and Georgetown glitters.
You’re thinking about the wedding. About walking in together. About how Leon looked at you in that suit, like you were the only person in the world.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For today.”
Leon turns the key. The engine hums to life.
“Anytime, sweetheart.”
And he means the entirety of it.
+++
Rooftop gardens at Meridian Lofts, July 22nd.
Weddings, from your perspective, can truly be a step into something chaotic and otherworldly at the same time.
You and Leon arrived only two days ago. A hotel was already waiting for you two as the bride and groom were much too happy to know you were coming—and not alone at that. You can only imagine the look on their faces when hearing of your totally real and not fake plus one. You could almost make out a surprise scoff from one of the bridesmaids, quickly hushed by the bride, Bailey.
But that was days ago. Now you’re in the present—the wedding venue, situated on a grandiose rooftop garden just outside of DC, is new but just as extravagant, and you feel the atmosphere change. There’s something akin to electricity in the air.
You’ve pulled at the collar of your suit at least five times in the last minute—a habit you’ve mirrored from Leon, considering he’s been doing it since this morning. Your arm looped around his feels stiff. You aren’t sure if you should loosen your grip or tighten it instead.
“Hey,” you snap your head up at the sound of Leon’s voice. “You don’t need to be nervous.” His free hand lands on your looped arm. “I’ve got you. I made you a promise, didn’t I?”
Your arm, even through the fabric, feels hot underneath his touch. You try to swallow your hesitance down, giving Leon a timid smile.
“I know,” you let out a stiff sigh. “It’s just,” you tug at his sleeve, trying to anchor yourself, “real now. I didn’t expect the venue to feel so big, nor the attention that will be on both of us to be suffocating.”
Your eyes dart around the venue. There are a few caterers rushing around the property. You see guests already in deep conversation, laughing at whatever the other said with a natural confidence—as if this is a simple get-together. You could have sworn one of them looked your way, too. The fairy lights are intertwined with the ivy wrapping around the poles leading to the glass ceiling above. Which, in any case, would be a beautiful sight, but today they are unfortunately too bright for your liking. You shuffle closer to the man beside you.
“No one is looking at us right now. They’re too engrossed with themselves to even care about us.” Leon frees his arm from your hold, and for a moment, you miss the contact, but it’s only gone for a moment before he places his hand on the small of your back. “Even if they do stare, I’m sure it’s because we, mostly you, look damn good.”
“You sound so optimistic. And charming.”
“You think that’s rare for me?”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” you lick at your drying lips, “I’m glad at least one of us sees some sense in all of this. I don’t enjoy the eyes on me. Or us.”
Leon’s eyes don’t leave your frame—not that they have this entire evening. His hand on your back sets your nerves on fire. Unlike the surrounding atmosphere, the touch doesn’t push too much on your already overstimulated senses. You lean into it, and in response, his fingers trace mindless shapes onto your clothed skin.
“Out of all people I know, you are the one who can control any situation, no matter the variables.”
“Well, Leon,” you click your tongue, “that’s when you’re throwing yourself headfirst into danger, so I do have to take charge then. Right now, though,” you take one more look around the venue, “I feel as if I’m the field agent pushed into a sea of sharks. Very well-dressed sharks with judgmental glares. Just you wait, they haven’t spotted us yet, but when they do, we’ll be ripped to shreds just to satisfy their curiosity.”
“You’re free to use me as bait for the sharks then.”
“Ever the gentleman, Kennedy,” you quip. “Keep it up, and I might call on you as a fake date in the future too.”
“I’ve never denied you, have I?”
“Cheeky,” the corners of your lips curl, and the sight spurs him on. “Someone’s getting confident, and here I was thinking you’d spend all night pulling at your collar.”
“The tie is too tight.”
“Sure. Totally not because you’re just as nervous as me. Admit it, we’re both fish out of water here.” You turn to face him. “Want me to loosen the tie a bit? Not for it to lose its charm, don’t worry.”
“Thought we were with sharks. The metaphor is getting confusing.” Leon pulls at his collar again, and you huff at the sight. He lets out a small laugh before leaning towards you. “Just don’t choke me with it.”
“The evening hasn’t even ended, and you’re already talking about choking.” Your fingers loop through the tie, the stiff fabric loosening at your pull. You can feel Leon’s skin under your hands heat up, a faint flush of pink rising from his neck. “Flustered?”
“And you say I’m the cheeky one—”
“Oh, look at you two!”
A voice you’re unfortunately familiar with breaks the fragile peace around you and Leon. Your hands go stiff around his tie, unsure of what to do.
A sage green dress, silk hugging every corner of her body. Small heels, ivory in their color, with perfect skin, the off-white contrasts against.
“You must be one of the bridesmaids,” Leon begins the conversation first, much to your relief. His hands find yours, intertwining your fingers with his before slowly moving them down to his side. “Morgan, was it? We heard you on the phone while my—”
“—date was speaking with the bride? Yes, that was me in the background. It’s been so long”. Morgan now turns her gaze onto you; her voice has a sing-song tone to it, effortlessly light. “When was the last time we saw each other?”
“Graduation.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “I think.”
“It’s been years, and it took Adam to get married for you to finally show.” Morgan tilts her head your way, her eyes darting between you and Leon as if she’s been handed a puzzle she can’t solve. “You even show up with a date on your arm. One that’s easy on the eyes, too.” She sends Leon a subtle wink. “Didn’t expect that, you know, with how closed off you’ve been.”
You really need a drink right now to either get drunk or throw it at her; you’re not sure yet. She’s dissecting you underneath her gaze, you’re sure of it. Her eyes roam over your figure with a raised brow before landing on Leon, as if the two of you together is surprising to her. As if you don’t deserve to be by his side.
Her eyes don’t leave his frame. It causes a heavy feeling to push down onto your lungs. You aren’t surprised that someone would notice him. You’re both grown adults, for god’s sake—in your late twenties too. The sight of someone being interested in him shouldn’t make your heart tighten like this.
What pulls at your nerves the worst is the fact that she’s being obviously dismissive of you, but it’s not as if you could blame her for not taking her eye off of Leon. It’s not as if the two of you are actually together. He’s just doing you a favor. The idea of being just a favor in his eyes might be the worst thought to cross your mind.
“The only unexpected thing here is that I got lucky enough to be their plus one.” Leon cuts in before you can even figure out what to say. You turn your gaze to him, eyes widened with pleasant surprise. “I couldn’t let go of a perfect chance now, could I?”
Morgan purses her lips. “No, I suppose not.”
“I’m sure you’d like to continue this…” Leon tuts before he trails off, “conversation with my partner, but I’m afraid I’ll have to steal them away to enjoy the rest of the wedding.”
Leon leads you away, your intertwined hands guiding you towards him. You stare at his back as the two of you walk between the tables. A few caterers and guests pass, but Leon finds a private corner for you two to stop to take a breath. You settle by his side, your hand pulling at your sleeves. You’re sure he can see how nervous you are. A single conversation and you’re already waiting for the night to end.
“Need a drink?” Leon offers, already holding a glass half full of wine, which you’re sure costs a fortune.
“I don’t think there’s enough alcohol in this place to make me survive the entire night.” You take the glass in your hand, twirling it around. You hesitate to drink. “Listen, I’m sorry—”
“—Don’t.” Leon lays a hand on your shoulder. “Whatever you think you have to apologize for, you don’t have to. She was being rude, and I did what I wanted and should have done.”
“You mean sweet-talk her into giving it up? I’ve never seen someone actually beat Morgan at her own game.” Your lips form into a tense smile. “Thank you, though. I probably would have stood there without saying anything back.”
“I’m sure you have it in you to put people in their place. But tonight, you don’t have to worry about that. For once, let me take care of you.”
You wish to believe him. To put your hand in his so he can lead you away from all of this. You want to drown the chatter of guests and the buzzing of the fairy lights above you so you can only feel his pulse under your fingertips. You can see the couples take their plus ones, hand in hand, as they leave their tables, moving to the dance floor from the corner of your eye.
You do want him to take care of you, as ridiculous as it might sound. But you hate the thought of him always forcing himself into that role, that responsibility when he’s already done more than enough for you. You bite down on your lip. Leon’s eyes trail to your lips before they fall back to your eyes. Your heartbeat quickens.
“You probably should enjoy the venue. I’m fine here.” You bring the wineglass to your lips, though the taste does not reach you. “I can’t force you to be glued to my side all night. There are more drinks than anyone can count and even more overzealous socialites eyeing you, so you’ll find no trouble settling in.”
The words come out of your mouth as if they’re coated with bile. You mentally scold yourself for sounding so affected—someone could say you were jealous, too.
Ridiculous.
You try to think of something else.
“You think I’m here for somebody else other than you?” Leon’s hand on your shoulder rises, nearing the exposed skin of your neck.
Your body moves on its own in response to the touch—you tilt your head back slightly, giving him just enough space to graze your skin peeking out of your collar. His fingertips brush against your pulse point—just below your jawline.
“You know me better than that,” his voice is laced with genuine confusion—as if he’s actually hurt by the fact you tried pushing him away, “don’t you?”
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“You’re trying to get me riled up.”
You let go of the wineglass, placing it on the nearest table. Instead, your fingers grip the edge of the surface. You take a step back instinctively, your back hitting the stand.
Leon takes this chance to move closer. Just enough that his leg presses between yours—thigh against the inside of your knee, then higher. Just enough for the other guests not to even realize what’s happening.
You can feel the warmth of him through the fabric of his trousers. Through yours.
You don’t move away.
His breath is caught once. Like he didn’t expect you to stay.
“Am I?”
There’s a familiar sense of sincerity in Leon’s voice. The same one you’re used to hearing through your headpiece from the multiple times he’s apologized and promised to come back in one piece from the dangerous missions the organization keeps wrapping the two of you in. You’ve never doubted him; you’ve just been scared of the outside forces at play. As silly as it sounds in your head, viruses, guns, and two-faced friends are on the same level for you tonight.
You lay your hand on top of his—which still rests on your shoulder—giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“Remember the anchor trick I taught you?”
You tilt your head towards him. “I’m fine, Leon. Well, moderately fine. No thanks to you, by the way.”
“The way you have my hand in a death grip says otherwise. And you’re welcome, by the way.”
You think your lips. Your hold on his hand weakens until you let go completely. Leon frowns at the loss of contact. You try to remove that reaction from your mind.
“Just humor me.”
He grazes his pinky against your hand, as if he’s afraid of initiating the hold again, but still offering it anyway.
“What could I even focus on here?” You huff. “The music is too loud, the guests are chattering on and on, and I can’t even look towards the bride and groom.”
You cross your hands across your chest. Maybe you’re acting immature, your mind is running in circles, and you’re not sure how to calm it down.
“I remember you mentioning the groom was a bastard that night at the bar. Your ex, too.”
“I was drunk.” Your eyes trail over to the bride and groom. You haven’t seen Adam or Bailey in years, not since graduation. They look so happy, holding hands as they waltz around the venue. “And it wasn’t as bad as I made it sound. We broke it off because of well… my job.”
You take your eyes off the happy couple. “You know better than me how demanding this profession can be. Being emotionally distant is a requirement. Not ideal for relationships, though.”
“I don’t think you’re distant at all. Well, I can’t speak for what happened between you and him,” you note how his tone changes when he refers to Adam, “but you’re one of the kindest people I know.”
“High praise coming from you, Kennedy.” You shift on your feet, eyes now locked onto the ground.
“It’s the truth. I don’t mind reminding you of it. I have to keep you on your toes just like you do the same for me.” A playful smirk plays on his lips, and the sight of it even forms a small smile on yours as well. “Now, about that anchor trick…”
“You’re not going to give it up, are you?”
Leon grabs your hand. The sudden contact makes your heart skip a beat. Nevertheless, you follow his lead. He steps near the dance floor. A slow waltz is playing in the background. Some guests have paired up, dancing together.
“Oh, absolutely not!” You tug his hand back.
“Trust me.” Leon waits for you to take a step towards him—a yes for whatever he’s planning.
You let out a small sigh and let him take the lead again. “What are you trying to do?”
He slowly enters the dance floor. His hand hesitantly lands on your waist, while the other cradles yours with a softness you’re getting used to from him.
“Focus on me tonight,” he whispers near your ear, as if those words haven’t lit your skin aflame, “no one else. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes.”
You can feel his breath near the skin of your neck. His voice is like a siren’s call to your ears. You already cannot focus on anything else but him. The sounds from the venue—music, chatter, glasses clinking—are snuffed out as you can only recognize the feel of his heartbeat underneath your palm. Your other hand grips his; he returns the firm hold.
“Just like that.”
The music shifts. Suddenly, it’s beating in your ears in tandem with your heartbeat. Your hand above his chest pushes down on the surface. You can almost feel his skin underneath the smooth fabric of the blazer. Your fingertips graze over the complex embroidery to distract yourself from looking him in the eyes. You’re sure he’s enjoying the sight in front of him. You bite the inside of your cheek, the heat spreading to your face, becoming too much.
The other dancers dance close in proximity to you. That fact doesn’t bother you at all. You don’t even feel their steps or the movement of their dresses and suits. Leon leads you through the forming crowd with elegant finesse. He sways on his heel, and you follow his step, whirling on your own.
You’re in the middle of the dance floor now. The fairy lights above shine upon the two of you. The glow around Leon forms like a halo as the small bits of luminescence seep through his sandy hair, like sunlight between tree leaves.
Your eyes have been trying to focus on anything but his expression. You can imagine the grin playing on his lips at your flustered state. You can even make out how the corner of his lips curls in the corner of your eye.
The music speeds up by a beat. Every couple dancing translates the change into their movements. You move closer to Leon at the melodious tempo. Your chests are grazing at every step now. Looking up only for a moment, you spot the frenzied and equally tender feel in his stare. His pupils are dilated, and there’s an effortless smile on his face, which grows even more when he catches your gaze.
“You’re not shying away, are you?”
“No,” you push back, “obviously not.”
“Of course, I apologize for even suggesting it.”
“You should be.”
As the tempo of the music rises even more, you step back on your heel to lead him yourself. Leon’s eyes widen, surprised by the sudden pull. He doesn’t—more like cannot—take his eyes off of you, not caring about how intense his gaze must be. Your skin glistens underneath the lights. The hand above his chest tenses just a bit, and he moves even closer to chase the touch.
“At least you’re keeping your eyes on me now.” He tilts his head near your ear, and the sound of his voice comes out lower than he intended.
“Is that a sense of disappointment I hear?” You shift your gaze, the surface of your cheek grazing his own, “I had no choice, you’re rather demanding.”
The music starts slowing to a stop. The tempo beats quieter, and the couples around the dance floor shuffle back to their tables as laughs and the buzz of conversation fill the air. The atmosphere seems to bring back your senses; the shining lights above, the smell of champagne in the air, the steps of the guests, and the most important one of all—the beating of Leon’s heartbeat underneath your palm.
Neither of you moves. Someone laughs across the room. Ice clinks in a glass. Leon’s hand is still on your back.
“We should probably go back to our table.” You offer, taking the first step to remove your intertwined hands from his.
Leon instinctively leans after the fleeting touch, but after a paralyzing second, steps back. A cough leaves him. “Of course.”
The main course arrived before either of you could find something to say. Morgan was detailing her renovation nightmare to someone across the table. Someone else was refilling wineglasses. Normal wedding noise. The kind of noise that should have been comforting.
Leon’s hand wasn't on your back anymore. It rested on the table, close enough that your fingers could have touched it if either of you had moved. Neither of you did, and that made the knot in your stomach worsen.
In the middle of all of this, you begin to mirror each other’s movements—fork in hand, mindless picking at the dish in front of you because none of you has the appetite for it anymore.
You cut into your salmon with more precision than you’re used to. When you looked up, Leon was doing the same thing to his steak—almost surgical in his movements. Old habit, you note. You wonder if he knew he was doing it.
Leon reaches for his champagne glass. You watch his fingers wrap around it—the same fingers that had been on your back minutes ago. He didn’t look at you, but you couldn’t stop looking at him.
You haven’t mentioned a single word about the dance, nor has Leon. You can’t tell if the unfamiliar feeling in your stomach is relief or disappointment, but you are certain that it is unbearable.
Not only that, but you force yourself to gather every piece of courage in your body, remembering how Leon asked you to focus on him as your anchor. You move your free hand down to your left—to where he’s seated. You lay your hand on the edge of your seat, parallel to his own. If you move your hand just a bit to the left, your skin might graze his.
For a few minutes, you two sit in a silence akin to limbo. Your hands sit next to each other—close in proximity, but the dance has left you so uncertain that the distance feels like a chasm.
The table is loud. Someone's telling a story. Someone’s laughing. The couple next to you is debating the open bar. All of this still doesn’t distract you from the idea of brushing your pinky across Leon’s hand, just to at least check in with him.
A woman dressed in a dusty pink dress sits opposite you and Leon. Her hair is pinned up, framing the faint wrinkles that form on her face like rivers—you think she’s from Adam’s side of the family with how she keeps glancing at you and Leon.
“So, how do you two know each other?” The same woman across the table—you regret that you don’t remember her name—is looking between you and Leon with a curiosity you know means trouble. “If you don’t mind me asking, of course. I’m a relative of Adam’s. I heard about you from him, dear. He talks a lot about you.”
Leon’s jaw tightens, and for a second, as the woman gestures to you. He hasn’t even properly met this Adam—a man who’s barely a footnote in the framework of who you are, a man who left you just because he couldn’t handle the toll of the job on you. Everyone keeps mentioning him, especially around you.
“Work,” you said. “We work together. We’ve been colleagues for two years.”
“Just work?” The woman smiles, the curl of her lips innocent. “You two seem… a little too close for just work. Not everyone brings a coworker as a plus one. Well, I suppose a lot can happen in two years.”
She’s unaware of the fragile string pulling your composure together. You don’t glance at Leon to gauge his emotion, because you know you will not like the sight. Leon picks up his wineglass without drinking it, only moving it around between his fingers.
“Just work,” he says.
You grip your fork tighter. The woman looks between you two before deciding to point her rather too curious questions at someone else. A breath gets clogged down as you try to swallow down the heavy feeling in your heart.
The clinking of a fork against a champagne glass silences the room.
A man stands tall near the altar. He straightens his suit as his eyes nervously dart around the crowd, before landing on the bride. Leon can see the small tears forming in the man’s gaze. The bride—Bailey—beams at the man, her hand raising to wave and mouthing a small ‘hi dad,’ as a response.
“I’ve practiced this toast almost dozens of times, I think,” the crowd seeps into a small chorus of laughs.
The man smiles, and the tired wrinkles around his face form a peaceful and somber expression. “Though nothing could prepare me for this very moment. My daughter is getting married, and I’m very lucky to see the sight by her side. Peace and tranquility are a privilege, but my little girl has got the chance in the form of a loving partner and a beautiful ceremony full of family and friends.” The man looks back at the crowd, a few guests exclaim in delight, and a few even whistle with their hands waving. “I thank you all for being here, sharing this wonderful day with us.”
Leon was twenty-one again, a dead man’s voice telling him to run.
“This day, like the many to come in the future, is the most precious thing we have in our short lives.” The man tries to keep his voice steady, but the breaks between words make it harder to hide the one happy tear that falls down his cheek.
This tone, this talk of peace and tranquility alongside a family, makes Leon grip the champagne glass tighter in his hand. The scent of the liquid mixes with the smell of the crowd—sweat, perfume, and cologne sticking to the air.
“To true love, lasting commitment, a chance at peace.”
Leon’s breathing stills mid-sip.
“Are you feeling alright?” Your voice seeps into his mind, breaking him out of his thoughts only for a moment.
He doesn’t want you to see him like this. Not when he’s gripping the glass so hard he’s afraid it’ll break. Not when he promised to be your anchor at this event—not the other way around. Carrying his burdens is the last thing he wants to push on you. How will he ever keep his promises of helping those he cares for if he can’t even sit through a single toast without it making his throat close and making it difficult to breathe?
“I’m fine,” his voice comes out weak. “I just need air.”
“Do you need me to come with you?” You put down the fork gripped in your hands; instead, your nails now dig into your palm. “You don’t look good. You’re a bit pale.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Okay,” you stammer. “I didn’t mean anything by it…”
Somehow, the notion that it didn’t mean anything makes this situation feel even heavier than it should be.
Leon stands up. You snap your gaze back to him. There are beads of sweat running down Leon’s temples. His brows are furrowed, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. It only takes a single second for him to leave the table, stunning you, glued to your chair, and unable to muster up any words to call out to him.
He won’t look back. He can’t. Not when he’ll see the hurt expression etched upon your face because of his words. Another failure because of his cowardice. He cannot bear the sight of you seated alone, confused and lost.
Leon quickens his step.
He moves through the forming crowd as the guests clap and praise the man’s toast. Everyone looks so calm and satisfied, safe between the dome the garden loft forms around them; the flush flowers and fairy lights weave a false narrative of safety.
The hallway is too long, and the walls are too tall, as they cage in on Leon. The lights from above are too bright. Before, the buzzing atmosphere of the loft venue was a welcome sight, but now—it’s a noose around his neck.
The toast. The father’s voice. Peace—he’d never—his chest—fucking breathe.
Leon leans on the cold wall at the end of the hallway. The guests are far behind him. He hopes you didn’t follow him. He hears a few steps and the chatter of a few people leading down the hallway. The bathroom door is ajar just a few steps ahead. He straightens his spine, shuffling his unsteady gait near the entrance.
He opens the door, and the atmosphere of the wedding is already drowned out as he steps inside. The room is a cynical white color. The air feels cold, caged between the walls. The marble sinks align across the wall. He locks the door behind him.
He braces against one of them—the surface so cold it bites at his skin. Not only that, but he welcomes the cold, thinking it’ll ground him. The mirror in front of him stares him down like a threat. He doesn’t dare look up fully. Even from the corner of his eye, he can see his pale face reflected on the surface.
Leon doesn’t recognize the man staring back at him—the bags under his eyes heavier than ever, sweat clinging to his forehead; the few strands of hair framing his face have already turned gray.
He can’t bear the sight. His grip around the sink becomes firmer. The cold barely keeps his clouded mind grounded on the marble surface instead of the memories of blood underneath his fingernails.
The air becomes heavier. The cold is overwhelming now, seeping into his fingertips and making his fingers numb. It reminds him of rain mixing into the blood. Cold and metallic, stuck in the grooves of his hand.
Leon lets go of the sink, knocking off a soap dispenser on the counter. Instead, he starts clawing at his collar. The collar of his suit feels too tight, like it’s trying to strangle him. The blazer’s fabric is taut around his torso, making it even harder to breathe with every unsteady rise of his chest. He pulls at his collar. It’s not a delicate pull—the fabric snags at his sensitive skin—not like before. His breathing is too fast, too shallow—like he’s chasing after it. He paces around the bathroom, the room getting smaller and smaller with every single step.
“Don’t make my mistake…run…got it?”
“Understood.”
That’s all he’s ever done—run.
He never stays. Maybe that’s why he’ll always have to claw at every futile chance at that godforsaken chance at peace. A lie, he’s sure of it. Or he’d have it in his hold by now. He’d still be at that table, seated next to you. Leon wouldn’t take the glass in his hands. He wouldn’t imagine the blood caked into his skin when he looks at the champagne. Instead, he’d find the courage to slip his hand into yours, finally holding onto his own anchor.
“It's on you now. Just go…”
The buzzing in his ears drowned everything out. He runs his fingers through his hair. The fluorescent light of the bathroom is starkly different from the fairy lights outside. The locked door makes sure no one—especially you—will enter to see him like this. He can’t humiliate himself or you. He’s the one supposed to help, to carry whatever burden you’re met with—not the one who runs at the first sight of what scares him.
Leon stops pacing. He looks back at the mirror. A heavy frown is etched on his face. His chest rises with every unsteady breath. He doesn’t even want to imagine the same look forming on your face, left at that table all alone.
He steps away. His back hits the wall behind him. The brisk surface seeps its numbing touch through his dress shirt, into his spine. He presses harder, hoping the cold will ground him. Though it doesn’t.
His knees buckle. They give out before he can stop them. He slides down the wall, the fabric of his trousers catching against the tile, and lands on the floor with a hollow thud. The sound echoes off the marble. Too loud. Everything is too loud.
Leon presses his palms flat against the cool floor. The tile is smooth, veined with gray, and probably expensive. He thinks about that—about noticing the tile pattern while his chest is caving in—and a broken sound almost leaves his throat—not a laugh—something worse.
His hands are shaking. He watches them. These hands have held a gun steady under fire. They’ve saved lives and taken them. And now they can’t stop trembling because an old man made a toast about peace.
His head tilts back, hitting the wall. The impact is dull. He doesn’t feel it. He straightens his spine against the surface, trying to steady himself, trying to find something solid to hold onto, but there’s nothing. The room is spinning, and the lights are too bright. He closes his eyes.
Leon’s eyes open. The ceiling is white. Sterile. He’s not in Raccoon City. He’s in a wedding venue bathroom. He’s twenty-nine years old. Not only that, he’s supposed to be someone’s fake date.
He’s supposed to be fine. He won’t look in the mirror again, because he’s not fine.
A knock breaks him out of his caged mind. Three knocks precisely. The touch is soft against the bathroom door. They don’t try to push the door open, as if the person behind it knows what is happening in the room. As if they’re not demanding anything.
“Leon?” Your voice, muffled through the door.
Leon can’t answer. His throat won’t work. It’s like the words get stuck as he tries to spit them out. Mouth opens, lips part, but nothing. He hates the silence. And he hates the fact that you might think he’s ignoring you even more.
“It’s me.” Another knock. “Can I come in? Please?”
Of course, it’s you, who else would follow him through the hell of his own making?
His palms settle on the cold tile one more time as he supports himself to get up. His knees still feel weak from before. He still can’t say no to you, nor a yes. But he musters up enough strength in his legs to move closer to the door. The lock clicks. He opens the door. For a moment, he hesitates, looking at you—the shame too much in his heart. But he’s never been good at keeping his eyes off of you.
Your suit is a bit disheveled. The fabric has lost its smoothness, now crinkled as if you had been running. Your chest rises along with your breath, leaving your lips. The furrowed brows and clenched hands.
He expects you to panic, for you to ask what’s got into hum which he won’t answer because he cannot put how the rope wrung tightly around his neck feels into words.
Leon steps back, giving you space to enter. Your steps are slower and much calmer, the total opposite of his. The crease between your brows slowly starts softening. Your hands unclench. He can see the crescents forming from where your nails had been digging into. But the concern in your eyes does not dissipate. They linger.
You close the door behind you, the quick click of the lock catching Leon’s attention. He avoids eye contact, preferring to keep his eyes on his shoes—which you chose out for him—instead, hoping the smooth leather will somehow distract him. Your gaze feels so heavy on him. The simmering shame starts to feel ridiculous. He begins to feel impatient, desperate for you to say something to quell the ongoing storm of thoughts in his head.
You glance around the bathroom. The knocked-over soap dispenser catches your attention. Leon can see how your eyes zero in on the fallen bottle. His jaw tightens, teeth grating and making the tension feel even more unbearable.
“Listen, before you ask what happened,” he begins, spewing words in an effort to convince himself as much as he needs to convince you that everything is fine, and that you don’t need to bother yourself with whatever all of this even is, “I’m fine. Peachy even.”
You blink at him. There’s a strange look in your eyes he can’t pinpoint. It’s not pitying—thank god for that. But other than that, he feels oddly exposed. Which is worse? If it were pity, you’d be right to feel that way—he is pitiful. But now—the look in your eyes—it seems as if you aren’t mad. There’s a calmness in them, as if you’re just relieved to see him again.
“You didn’t bring a glass to throw at me, did you?” He remembers the night you two spent at the bar. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“No, I—” you scratch at your neck, “—didn’t bring anything to throw at you. Obviously.” You glance around the room one more time. “Comfy place you’ve found,” you turn your gaze back to him, “your breathing is shallow.”
The concern in your voice makes his chest tighten. Sweat forms on his palms. He tugs at his blazer, trying to take his mind off how his body is reacting to your observations. He’s not surprised you figured him out just by standing there for a few moments. You know his every tell—the strain in his voice, his clenched hands, stupid one-liners and all. Sometimes, he wonders what it would be like if he didn’t have someone who knew him like the back of their hand. Every time he imagines it, he’s surprisingly met with a dissatisfied knot in his chest.
“Are you going to take my pulse next?”
“Maybe,” you quip. “Come here for a second.” He raises a brow as you move back near the bathroom walls. You sigh, leaning down to untie the small heeled shoe you’ve been wearing all day. “These have been killing me.”
Your hands tangle in the laces. Leon moves instinctively. He leans down on one knee, fingers already trying to untie the laces himself. For a split second, your fingers brush his. Something akin to a bolt of lightning flies up from his fingertips to his spine.
“There you go,” he coughs.
“Thank you,” you sit on the cold bathroom floor and tap on the surface next to you, looking at Leon expectantly.
“You shouldn’t be touching the floor,” Leon’s lips curl as he leans closer to you, “who knows what’s been on it?”
You tut, rolling your eyes. He’s taken the spot next to you. The brisk tile has lost its bite now—not as cold as before. He lays his hand close to yours, almost touching. Just like before at the table. Though this time, he wonders if he’ll have the courage to move his hand closer.
“Your breathing is a bit calmer,” you note.
“It is?” There’s genuine surprise in Leon’s voice. He hadn’t noticed how the heavy weight in his heart had slowly dissipated, instead replaced with an airiness he’s come to associate with you. “I… hadn’t noticed.”
He’d been mirroring your own breathing. How your chest rose with every controlled inhale and exhale, as if you were creating a path just for him to follow.
“I did,” you raise your hand, bumping his arm. He chuckles at the touch. “That’s why you need me around. I keep you on your toes.”
“I don’t think I can be kept on my toes if you keep stepping on them while dancing.”
“I did not!”
“You did. I had to sweep you off your feet.”
The air in the room starts to change, settling into something lighter. The walls don’t feel suffocating anymore; the feeling of being stuck in a cage is gone along with them. The sounds from outside—guests mingling, the hurried steps of the caterers, the melodic tune spreading through the venue—it all returns. Slowly and gradually. It doesn’t grate on Leon’s ears. Surprisingly, all of it turns into subtle background noise.
“We should probably leave the bathroom,” you whisper, tilting your head towards him, “or someone might question what we are doing sitting on the floor.”
Leon snorts. “They can mind their own business.”
“It’s a bathroom, Leon. That’s what they’re trying to do.”
He gets up first, rather effortlessly, you note. Turning, he offers you his hand. You glance down at it, the thought of holding his hand against light fire upon your skin, even though you’ve held it many times before. You swallow and take his hand. He pulls you up, and you almost trip on your shoes, which were placed right next to your feet.
“Two left feet.”
“Shut it,” you groan, and he laughs in response.
“Need help with the shoes?”
“I can tie them on my own, thank you very much.” You send him a glare from underneath your eyelashes.
“It’s just you needed my help getting them off, so I just assumed…” he trails off, waving his hand as if he doesn’t have a smirk etched on his face.
“Be thankful I already put them on, or I would have thrown them at you.”
“You have a habit of threatening me with throwing things.”
“And I’ll deliver if we don’t get out of here soon!” Your hands find his back, pushing him near the door.
He unlocks it, stepping out of the bathroom. You follow right behind, eyes wandering around the venue to check if anyone saw you two exit together.
“And you thought I was paranoid,” Leon moves in front of you with a small smile on his lips.
“Do you want us to be stopped by some overzealous guest looking for gossip, asking us why we just came out of a bathroom together?” Leon’s eyes widen. You blink at him for a few seconds before his lips form into a small ‘oh’.
“Thought so.”
You grab his wrist without thinking. For a moment, you wonder if he’ll pull away. Your grip on him tightens instinctively. Leon’s arm freezes in your hold; you’d probably not even be able to clutch onto him like this if he didn’t want to allow it. He doesn’t pull back. Instead, he leans into the touch. You two share a small knowing look. For all the times you’ve led him through missions with your voice in his ear, this moment is no different.
Your hand slides down from his wrist to his hand. You intertwine your fingers with his. Tilting your head, you gesture to the arched gateway near the west wall. It leads away from the main floor of the venue. The wooden archway is painted an ivory white with even pale roses encircling it. The gate is ajar, waiting for someone to enter.
“Where are you taking me?” Leon asks as he steps in tandem with you.
“I can’t tell you yet.” You look over your shoulder, sending him a subtle wink. “It’s a surprise.”
You push open the gate. Leon looks past your figure, taking in the path in front of you. The floor has been sculpted to mimic cobblestone, steps take a myriad of shapes, and something Leon notes looks oddly like a heart. It is a wedding, after all.
The conservatory emerges from the darkness like something out of a dream—ornate wrought iron painted cream, geometric panels of glass catching the string lights strung through the framework. It's not fully enclosed; the sides are open to the night air, but the structure surrounds you anyway.
The willow trees frame it perfectly, their long branches creating curtains of green that sway gently. Through the glass, the reception below looks distant—the warm glow of the party bleeding upward through the panes, distorted and softened. The sound doesn’t reach you here. It's muffled, almost underwater.
Leon stops in the center of the conservatory. The metal framework casts geometric shadows across his face—sharp angles and soft curves all at once.
He’s still breaking. You can see it in the way his shoulders aren’t quite holding their usual tension, the way his breathing is still too shallow. You want to reach behind you, hold not only his hands but him wholly. Bring him down from whatever thoughts have him paralyzed.
The glass walls around you are old and elegant, catching the light in ways that make everything feel suspended in time.
You two stop in front of an old willow tree. The trunk is thick, gnarled, pale gray bark cracked with age. The branches droop so low they nearly touch the ground, creating a curtain of green so dense it’s almost a room of its own. The leaves are long and narrow, the color of new spring even in July—a soft, pale green that catches light like nothing else. They move in the slightest breeze, creating this constant, gentle rustling.
It’s hypnotic—the way the leaves almost touch the two of you, their shadow in the way of your gaze as you try to make out every line in Leon’s face as his own gaze is stuck on the willow tree. With every rise of his head, the curve of his lips, the lines slowly form into a maze you could get lost in.
What hurts is that you can see the pain etched into those lines. The dark circles now form a contrast against the ivory white of his suit and the deep green of his blazer. His chest rises unsteadily. The tie around his neck is loose, tilted to the side as if he had tried to get it off as he was in the bathroom, alone with torturous memories holding the fabric around his neck like a noose.
Your thumb softly grazes his palm. You draw mindless shapes into his skin. His intertwined fingers tighten their hold on you. You respond by taking a step closer to him. Leon snaps his gaze away from the willow back to you. There’s a different spark to them now—a small glimmer of something you want to pull back the layers of and figure out what he truly feels.
You lead him to a bench beneath the willow. The branches droop around you both like curtains. Leon sits. You sit beside him.
Leon’s walls are down. He’s too exhausted to hold them up. The panic has left him hollowed out and raw. You don’t push. You cannot. Not yet. You won’t allow yourself to do so. You just exist next to him. The cool air helps. He can breathe again—the unsteady beat of his heart starts to slow down.
“Talk to me,” you say softly.
And because you’re in this glasshouse, removed from the world, with only the willow branches and the string lights and each other—Leon finally does.
“I'm sorry,” he says finally, voice rough.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. It falls back across his forehead. “I want to.”
“You're brilliant.” He pauses. He’s not looking at you. Instead, he’s looking at his hands. “Braver than anyone I know.”
“That’s not—”
“Let me.” His voice cracks, just slightly. “Please.”
You close your mouth.
“I promised you that I’d be by your side this evening. At the bar, you were crying, and I couldn’t stand it. I had to do something.”
“You did do something, Leon. I would have been coming here alone if you hadn’t offered to come with me.”
“Yes, I did offer, and I broke that promise an hour into the ceremony. I left you alone at that table just because I couldn’t control my emotions. The least I could do is not bail on you.”
“You didn’t bail on me. I understand why you left, Leon. I just— it hurt to see you like that, but I’d never judge you for it.”
He tilts his head back, taking his eyes off his hands. Instead, he moves them to run his fingers through his hair. You notice the few gray hairs reflect the string lights’ gleam, and the small scars running down his skin like rivers.
You shuffle closer to him, half afraid he’ll move back away from you, but he stays. Your knee brushes against his thigh. Then presses.
Leon’s breath catches. His hand finds your knee. He doesn’t pull it closer, nor does he push you away. His hand just rests there—warm through the fabric of your trousers.
“You’re not—” he stops as he swallows down the breath that was caught in his throat, “you’re not leaving.”
It’s not a question. He words it as if he’s genuinely surprised you haven’t got up and left.
“No,” you say. “I’m not.”
“I’ve been a fool this entire night. And not only the night, but the last few months as well,” his hold on your knee tightens. “I thought you would call me after the bat, finally sober, and tell me that you wouldn’t want me as your date. Even if it was all for show and fake.”
“I woke up the next day with a horrible hangover,” you place your hand on top of his, “but I still remembered our conversation at the bar. You wiped my tears and then walked me home. Basically carried me—I’m a handful when drunk, I’ve realized.”
“I didn’t mind wiping your tears. I’m a fucking idiot for dancing around all of this. I didn’t even thank you for letting me come with you.”
“Leon, there is no one else who has wiped my drunk tears while offering a shoulder for me to cry on other than you. Who else would I have chosen?”
“I’m glad it was me.”
“It couldn’t have been anyone other than you.”
“No, you don’t get it,” he stammers, his brows now furrowed, “you’re kind. In ways I don’t know how to be. You notice things, and you care. You brighten up that horrible office and every mission we are in.”
You blink, unsure of what to say. Your heart feels as if it is in your throat. You want to remember every word that he says, to store it in your mind and never let it escape your thoughts.
Leon’s voice is hoarse—heavy in a way that makes it seem he’s trying to say every single thing that he’s been holding back for god knows how long.
“The peace you give me,” he continues, “it only works if I’m not thinking of anything else. You have that effect on people. I lose my mind when you talk—in a way I can’t describe. When it’s you talking in my ear through the comms, the gun doesn’t feel as heavy in my hand as it always does. When I’m with you, I don't feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. That's never happened before. Not once.”
He tilts his head back, eyes now locked onto the willow tree. It feels as if he’s looking for a way to explain his own feelings to himself. You wonder when the last time he had a chance like this to just talk was.
Leon’s jaw tightens, but not in pain. You can see how the softness forms around his furrowed brows, the lines of his face slowly easing back to their usual form.
“That’s the problem,” he says. “You’re here. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You don’t have to figure it out tonight.”
He lets out a breath. It shudders on the way out.
“Okay,” he says quietly.
You sit together under the willow. The string lights flicker above. The music from inside is muffled, distant. His hand is in yours. Neither of you moves to leave.
Suddenly, a bloom of light in the sky, past the glass of the conservatory catches your gaze, along with a striking sound. Fireworks. Leon snaps his eyes to the source of the sound, his shoulders tensing. You tighten your grip on his hand.
“It’s fireworks from the ceremony. Guess the wedding is nearing its end.”
After a long moment, he speaks again.
“We should probably go back.”
“Probably.”
Finally, you squeeze his hand and rise. He follows. When you walk back toward the reception, his hand finds yours without the unsteady shake of his hold, as if he now believes that you won’t disappear from his grasp if he lets go.
+++
10:14 PM, The Langdon Hotel.
The reception wound down around eleven. You said your goodbyes—brief, vague, nothing that would invite follow-up questions. Leon’s hand stayed on the small of your back the whole time.
The car ride to the hotel was quiet, the words from the conservatory still simmering in both of your minds. But it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It felt as if a layer of secrecy was finally removed. You could breathe freely, without worrying about whether Leon was getting tired of you. It all seems so silly now.
If only you could see yourself the way he sees you.
Even now, as the elevator slowly takes you two to your booked room, the soft silence persists. The metal doors open. Leon’s palm grazes your back—you’ve grown to expect his touch there, akin to second nature. He lets you step out first, though his eyes quickly scan the hallway before following you to the room.
Some habits never die.
The key card beeped as the door lock clicked open.
“They only booked one room,” you said as you stepped into the entrance. “Hope that’s okay. You know, with there being one bed and all.”
Leon let the door click shut behind him. In the low light of the room, you could see him almost smile.
“It’s fine.”
“More than fine?”
“More than fine.”
The words light up a flame in your body. You try to focus on something else in the room.
The room is exactly what you’d expect from a wedding block booking—tasteful, impersonal, expensive in a way that doesn’t try to show off. Cream walls, cream bedding, cream curtains drawn back to reveal a window full of city lights. The bed is large, maybe too large for two people who have been walking an impossible line and pretending all weekend. A single armchair sits in the corner, upholstered in something that looks like velvet but probably isn’t. The bedside lamps cast warm amber light across the pillows.
The city hums through the glass—distant traffic, a siren somewhere, the low thrum of D.C. at night. It's the only sound other than your heart beating uncontrollably in your chest.
Neither of you has moved toward the bed yet. Neither of you has even undressed yet, which is another problem you didn’t think through. Your cheeks feel hot at the touch when thinking about seeing Leon in anything other than a suit right now.
You look over your shoulder. You can see Leon’s eyes in the dim light. His deep green blazer is thrown over the armchair. Your eyes follow the exposed skin of his arms, where it meets the rolled-up sleeves of his button-up. There’s a small glint in his eyes as he tugs at his tie. His brows are furrowed; obviously, his entire attention is on that tie he can’t get off properly. You can’t help but snort at the sight.
“Laughing at me, aren’t you?” Leon doesn’t look up from his tie.
“Totally.” You step closer to him. His body straightens in response, hands now stopping their movement. “You can’t be left alone. Especially without me.”
“Who’d deal with my ties if not you?”
“Don’t get smart with me. I can choke you with it.”
“Thought we left the talk of choking at the venue.”
“That entity conversation was you, not me. Just… let me help.”
Your hands reach his tie. The velvet fabric is soft to the touch. The ivory color of it contrasts with the light hue of his button-up. His arms fall slowly. They graze your waist through your blazer, before landing on your hips. Your lips part slightly. You try to keep your eyes on the tie. Your fingers shake slightly as you untie the fabric. The velvet slides off his neck smoothly.
His hands are still on your hips. You swallow down the breath caught in your throat and manage to speak up.
“Are you going to return the favor, or not?” You finally catch his gaze, and the air is knocked out of your chest.
His stare doesn’t waver. His pupils are wide, dark, drinking you in like he's trying to memorize every detail at once. His lips part slightly—not to speak, just to breathe. You can see him getting lost in it. In you. Like he doesn’t know how to look away and doesn't want to learn.
You’re left speechless. You can’t muster up anything to say. Your knees feel weak, too, unable to control yourself under his gaze.
“I think you’re shying away.” He finally speaks. His voice is heavy and quiet at the same time, as if his words are only meant for your ears.
“Me?” You scoff, but the words are missing their usual bite. “Talk for yourself, Kennedy.”
His hands leave your hips, moving upwards. Your lips thin at the loss of touch. You hope your disappointment isn’t too obvious. Though, before you can regain your composure, his hands graze your collar, just where your exposed neck shows.
“You’re doing it again.” You point out, your eyes now locked onto his.
“Doing what?” Leon asks, but you can sense the slight amusement in his rather shaky voice.
“That thing. When you try to feel my pulse of all things.”
The corners of his lips curl into a subtle smirk. “I’m not only trying to feel your pulse.”
“Oh,” you stutter out, “well, you’re honest about that.”
His touch stops under your jawline. You can feel how his fingertips graze where your pulse point is. His touch feels warm on your skin. You could get lost in the sensation.
“I could stop,” he says, his fingertips leaving the skin of your jaw, “I only need your word.”
“I didn’t tell you to stop.”
You can see how Leon’s composure finally starts cracking fully. His eyes are still dark. Still on you. His breathing is unsteady, and so is yours, but he doesn’t look away. The touch returns to your jaw—his thumb grazing your skin, as if he’s making sure you’re real.
His fingers drag down from your neck to your collar. You notice yourself leaning towards his touch instinctively. He starts undoing your button-up. Your breath gets lodged in your throat. You can feel how light the air is, the weight under your legs slowly disappearing.
“You asked me to return the favor.” Leon’s fingers go lower and lower, grazing the exposed skin of your chest. “Your heart is beating fast.”
He says, as if your heart isn’t ready to jump out of your rib cage. He’s finished with the button-up. The fabric hangs off your figure loosely. Your chest is even more exposed now than ever. You look at Leon expectantly.
You can’t wait any longer. Acting like you two haven’t been walking an almost invisible line blurred between being colleagues and something more is getting you two deeper in denial. You can’t only satisfy yourself with stolen glances and touch on your neck. You’ll allow yourself to be greedy once, and he—selfish.
You gather every piece of strength in your body and raise your hands. They trail from the thin fabric of his button-up to the exposed skin of his neck. You feel his heartbeat under your palm. It’s beating just as fast as yours. The collar is unbuttoned, making it easier for you to cup the edge of his jawline in your hands. He tilts his head towards you, chasing your touch.
“Needy,” you quip.
“For you, maybe.”
“Only maybe?”
Your fingers linger; his cheeks are now in your palms. You can feel how warm they are to the touch.
Fuck. You’re doomed. You’ll never get this sight out of your mind.
“Can I kiss you?” You blurt out.
You’re surprised by your own words, closing your mouth just as fast as the sound escaped your lips. You fear Leon might pull away, but he stays.
“Yes,” his voice comes out desperate, needy in a way you’ve never heard it, as if he’s been waiting for this moment for a long time—just as you have, “please.”
You don’t waste a second. You pull him in, and he follows your lead. It’s soft at first, tentative. Like he’s asking permission, he already knows the answer to. His lips are warm, slightly chapped, and you feel the hesitation in him—the last wall crumbling.
Your stomach flips, the way your skin lights aflame under Leon’s touch. Your hands are still cupping his face. He, on the other hand, is letting his own touch trail freely across your body. Your blazer is almost off your figure, leaving your chest and arms exposed. His hand slides from your hip to your jaw. He cups your face like you’re something fragile. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you.
The kiss deepens. Hungry now, but not desperate. His tongue brushes your lower lip, and you open for him without thinking. Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. The strands are soft, a little damp from the night air, and he makes a sound — low and quiet—that you feel more than hear.
Your heart is pumping. Palpitating. You can feel it in your throat, your temples, your fingertips.
He pulls back just enough to breathe. His forehead rests against yours. His eyes are still closed.
“Is this okay?” he whispers.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Fuck. More than okay.”
He kisses you again, slower and more languid this time. Like you have all night. As if there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
Your hands slide from his neck to his shoulders. The fabric of his dress shirt is soft from wear, the top buttons already undone, and you can feel the heat of his skin bleeding through. His hand presses into your lower back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left.
His heartbeat is fast against your chest. Or maybe that’s yours. You can’t tell anymore.
When you finally break apart—really break apart, not just pause—you’re both breathing hard. His cheeks are flushed. His lips are red. He’s looking at you as if you’re the only being that matters to him right now, as if there’s nothing like you on this earth.
Like he’s never seen anything like you before.
Your stomach is still buzzing. Your knees feel weak. But he’s holding you up without even realizing it.
“I didn’t think I’d ever get this,” he admits.
You don’t answer with words. You just pull him back in. You wrap your arms around him. Your head rests on his chest, right above his heart. You can feel the unsteady beat of it. You’re not sure you can handle anything more tonight other than all of this.
“We should—” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence.
Leon pulls back just enough to look at you. His cheeks are still flushed. “Right. Bed.”
You snort, “You could have phrased that differently.”
He blinks at you. Then, despite everything—despite the bathroom floor and the garden and the weight of the last hour—he laughs. You wish to bottle up that sound to hear it forever.
“Noted,” he says. “Next time.”
The promise of a next time makes your stomach flip.
You nod. “Next time.”
He takes your hand. Not your fingers—your whole hand, palm to palm, like he’s anchoring himself to you. He leads you across the room. The city lights flicker through the window. The bed is large, cream-colored, and the sheets are cool when you sit on the edge.
He reaches over and turns off the lamp. The room settles into darkness—not total, not with the city lights illuminating the shape of his silhouette.
You lie down. He lies down beside you. His arm finds its way around your waist, and you shift until your head is on his chest. His heartbeat is steady under your ear—slower and calmer now.
“You’re crushing my arm.”
You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “I am not.”
You drop your head back down with deliberate weight. He grunts.
You don’t know what will happen tomorrow. What this means for work, for the partnership, for the careful walls you both built. But right now, in this room, with his heartbeat under your ear and his fingers loose around yours—
It’s enough.
⋆˙⟡ author’s note: i want to give a big thank you to my two mutuals—jo and ari. i couldn’t have gathered the motivation needed for this fic without them cheering me on. i appreciate you two so much. consider my first-ever long-fic dedicated to you guys!
⋆˙⟡ tag list: @coffeelovingreader @yuunarii-arii @kalimari-kal @princeintheshadow @cherryseascns (some mutuals are tagged, others are from the blogs who requested to be added while i posted the first part on @/fiolowe).
plss more jock!leon and nerd!reader, maybe they study together?? or whatever?? get high?? who knows
previously
not something you want,
but something you need
male!reader, University!au, nerd!reader, jock!leon, cheating/tw, reader and zeno are toxic, continuation of twink!reader, no smut but mentions of an erection lol
You’ve been avoiding Leon.
Well, not exactly avoiding him, but definitely going out of your way not to see him again.
You’ve started taking longer routes to lectures, bailing on hangouts whenever Zeno mentions the rest of the team showing up, even staying home during shared discussion hours just to avoid the possibility of running into him.
Maybe, to anyone else, it would seem dramatic.
But if they’d spent an unforgettable seven minutes in a closet with one of their boyfriend’s teammates, they’d probably panic too.
Of course, Zeno doesn’t suspect a thing — or maybe he’s just never paid enough attention to notice your turmoil.
To him, you’re still hopelessly in love with him. That night was nothing more than alcohol-fueled stupidity. At least, that’s what he wants you to believe instead of acknowledging how much he’s been around lately.
The guilt gnaws at you enough that you play dumb for your own sanity, pretending the whole thing never happened.
And somehow, that works.
For a week.
Despite how the memory lingers in your dreams in the best possible way, you make it through without issue.
No Leon.
No fights with Zeno.
No problems.
You’re in the clear. Mostly.
A stack of books tumbles from your cart after a freshman clips the corner without looking. The sharp clatter echoes through the library, just loud enough for the librarian to appear from seemingly nowhere and shush you like it was your fault.
You apologize anyway, crouching to gather the scattered books.
Working part-time at the campus library isn’t glamorous, but it passes the time and puts extra money in your pocket for relatively little effort.
Collect books. Reshelve them. Help students find things they could’ve searched online themselves.
Easy.
More importantly, it’s quiet — a welcome escape from the exhausting chaos that comes with dating Zeno.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket.
You pull it out and check the message.
Speak of the devil.
going out with the boys. don’t wait up tonight.
You stare at the screen for a moment longer than necessary.
Finals week is creeping closer, which means the library stays open later and fills with students desperately trying to absorb entire semesters overnight.
You’ve gotten good at noticing who comes and goes.
Mostly because you’re usually the one stuck fixing whatever mess they leave behind.
So naturally, your irritation deepens as you push your cart toward the study rooms and glance through the windows.
And immediately stop.
Zeno’s lying.
His boys are here.
Albert stands at the chalkboard, aggressively working through an equation while Ethan looks seconds away from throwing himself through the glass. Carlos laughs loudly at something Ethan says, and you glance back down at the text on your phone.
Something sour twists in your chest.
Maybe you stop being the one who puts up with everything.
You hate that thought. Leon’s words an echo of doubt ever since you heard them.
Your eyes flick back toward the room just as Albert notices you. He smiles faintly and gives a small wave. The others quickly follow.
You force yourself to smile back, lifting your fingers in greeting.
Ethan mouths help me dramatically before Carlos yanks him into a headlock.
A laugh slips out before you can stop it.
No wonder the librarian hates them.
Your gaze drifts across the room again before catching on the far corner.
And freezing.
Leon sits near the back with a clipboard balanced against his knee, half-covered in equations and messy doodles.
He’s already looking at you.
That same look from the party.
Surprised. Focused. Like he hadn’t expected to see you either.
The eye contact lasts too long.
You break first.
Quickly pushing your cart forward, you turn on your heel and disappear down the nearest aisle before the old wheels can squeak loud enough to betray you. Not running but something close.
A second later, you hear the study room door open.
Shit. Maybe a bit of running.
You abandon the cart entirely and weave through the shelves, ducking deeper into the archive section.
Left. Right. Another right.
You know this place better than anyone besides the librarian himself, and even he rarely ventures this far back.
Your footsteps stay light and quick, almost feline — not at all like a grown man sprinting through a college library.
It’s ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
But you can’t seem to stop running.
Eventually, you slow to a halt and listen.
This deep in the archives, all you can hear is the low hum of the overhead lights.
You sigh in relief.
Maybe you lost him.
You wait another minute crouched low between the shelves before finally standing again.
You turn —
And immediately collide with someone solid.
You nearly yelp, but a hand clamps over your mouth before the sound can escape.
Wide-eyed, you look up.
Leon.
His other hand rises, finger pressed to his lips.
You nod quickly.
Leon slowly removes his hand from your mouth. Neither of you speaks.
The silence stretches unbearably thin.
“Excuse me,” you whisper finally, trying to sidestep him.
Leon moves faster.
Before you can react, you’re lifted clean off the ground.
“Leon—!”
The protest barely escapes above a whisper before he’s already carrying you deeper into the archives.
He shoulders open the supply closet door, slips inside with you still in his arms, then kicks it shut behind him.
Your back on the floor as soon as you were off it. He turns away from you.
The lock clicks.
“Leon, you can’t be—”
The rest of your sentence disappears the moment he turns around.
He looks furious.
Not cold furious.
Wounded furious.
His brows are drawn tight, lips pulled into a sharp frown, blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.
“…serious,” you finish weakly.
The closet is cramped, not nearly as small as the last one, but still close enough that one step backward has your shoulders brushing cleaning supplies.
Leon closes the distance instantly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for anything to—”
He kisses you before you can finish.
Hard.
Desperate.
Your brain short-circuits for exactly one second before your body reacts on instinct.
Your hands grab his face immediately, and Leon lets out a rough sound against your mouth as he pulls you closer.
Cold fingers slide beneath your shirt, gripping bare skin.
You shiver.
Leon doesn’t let you pull away for even a second.
His teeth catch your lower lip before he finally breaks the kiss long enough to mutter:
“Jump.”
That’s all the warning you get.
He’s already lifting you again before you can process it, hands firmly under your thighs as your legs instinctively wrap around his waist.
Your back hits the wall.
You gasp softly as Leon kisses you again, even hungrier this time.
Your arms slide around his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer.
When he finally pulls away, it’s only to press heated kisses along your neck.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
His voice comes out lower than you’ve ever heard it before.
You shake your head automatically.
Leon pinches your side lightly in response.
A punishment for lying.
“I don’t like that,” he murmurs against your collarbone before sucking a mark into the skin there.
You should care.
You really should stop him.
Instead, your head tips back against the wall.
“I’m sorry, Leon,” you breathe.
The sound seems to affect him instantly because he groans against your throat before kissing you again.
Slower this time.
“Don’t apologize, baby,” he says softly against your lips. “Just make it better.”
And honestly?
You try.
By the time the tension finally settles, you’re both breathless and trying to straighten your clothes like two guilty teenagers.
Leon stands in front of the tiny mirror attempting to fix his hair while redoing the buttons on his jacket.
You smooth down your sweater, still catching your breath.
Leon breaks the silence first.
“Sorry,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just… been a while since I’ve seen you.”
For the first time since dragging you in here, he can’t look you in the eye.
You laugh quietly.
“It’s okay,” you say. “I’m sorry too.”
Leon finally glances your way.
The look lasts all of two seconds before he suddenly grabs your face and kisses you again.
This one is different.
Gentler.
Almost embarrassingly affectionate.
You laugh against his mouth and shove lightly at his chest.
“Okay, down boy,” you tease. “I’m still on the clock.”
Leon opens his mouth to respond before his eyes drift downward.
To the marks blooming beneath your collar.
His entire face immediately turns pink.
“Oh my God,” he groans, pressing his forehead against the wall.
You snort, covering the exposed area by linking another button.
“Sorry.” He mumbles into the wall.
“It’s kind of cute,” you admit.
“That’s not helping.”
You laugh again while fixing yourself enough to look vaguely presentable before moving toward the door.
Leon, meanwhile, remains firmly planted in what has now become his shame corner.
You unlock the door before pausing.
He isn’t following.
“Leon?”
He groans dramatically without turning around.
“What’s wrong,” you step closer and he immediately angles his lower half away from you. “Oh.”
Right.
That’s wrong.
You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.
Leon’s ears burn crimson.
“What?” he mutters defensively. “You look hot all disheveled. You can’t expect me not to get hard after all that.”
Your laugh escapes anyway.
“Just give me a minute to calm down,” he grumbles.
Shaking your head, you move closer and press a quick kiss to his cheek before slipping out the door.
Behind you, Leon makes a wounded noise.
“That didn’t help!”
You leave him there anyway.
It doesn’t take long to relocate your abandoned cart and slip back into your routine.
Eventually, the boys pass through the library on their way out.
Leon lingers just long enough to throw you a wink.
Your stomach flips all over again.
You don’t have to be the one getting walked over.
His words echo in your head the rest of the night.
Zeno may have started this mess first, but that doesn’t make what you’re doing any better.
You pull out your phone, teeth worrying your bottom lip as your fingers move across the screen.
Literally anything with Leon and a twink reader. Whatever you're feeling in the moment and want to write, im a simple man and starved for twink reader stuff.
In the hour you’ve been at this party, you’ve been ignored, shoved, and had a drink spilled down your jacket — so now your shoulder smells like passionfruit vodka.
This isn’t your scene, and you’re not going to pretend otherwise.
Normally, you’d be home, keeping yourself busy with anything that isn’t this. But you were dragged here against your will.
Your boyfriend, Zeno, pushes through the crowd and finally spots you.
“Hey — there you are! I’ve been looking all over!”
He hasn’t.
You know that because you’ve watched him walk right past you more than once without a second glance.
Still, you smile as he approaches.
Zeno pulls you into his side — warm, unsteady — and you dodge the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his cup.
“C’mon, we’re playing a game.”
He’s already dragging you toward another room — one closed off from the main party. So that’s where he’s been.
“I don’t know, Z… I’m getting kind of tired,” you try, hoping to slip away.
His grip tightens.
“What? No. One game won’t kill you.”
You silently hope it might.
You’re guided to a different area.
The room is quieter, sealed off behind sliding doors. A group sits in a loose circle.
A broken bottle rests in the center.
…Of course.
“The king has arrived!” someone calls out — Daniela, you think.
Cheers follow as Zeno drops into a beanbag and pulls you down beside him.
“Finally! Thought you ditched us,” another voice adds — Bela, maybe. “Where’s the new bottle?”
Zeno groans dramatically. “Shit, forgot to grab one. Got distracted.”
His fingers dig into your sides — you swat him away.
A man — Albert — adjusts his glasses with a sigh. “You’re useless.”
The doors slide open again.
You glance back—
—and meet a pair of steady blue eyes.
“Good thing Leon’s here.”
The voice fades into the background.
Because Leon S. Kennedy is looking directly at you.
Not casually.
Like he didn’t expect to see you here.
Like now that he has, he can’t quite look away.
He blinks, shifts, and lifts an empty bottle.
The group cheers and the game resumes.
It doesn’t take long to figure out the game.
Spin the bottle — with rules.
If you’ve hooked up before, you kiss.
If you haven’t… closet. Seven minutes.
You hate it.
Even more when Zeno participates like it’s nothing — kissing others like you’re not even there.
You lean closer to him.
“I should go. I’ve got an early morning.”
“What? No — you haven’t even gone yet. And how are you getting home? I drove.”
You clench your jaw.
Anything would be better than this.
You argue quietly — until someone cuts in.
“No side conversations. It’s your turn.”
The room shifts.
All eyes are on you.
“Sorry,” Zeno cuts in, grinning. “My boyfriend’s a buzzkill — he wants to leave.”
Boos erupt.
You try to brush it off — but it gets under your skin.
Zeno sees it.
Hooks you back in.
Before you can react, his drink is at your lips.
“This’ll help.”
You cough as the alcohol burns down your throat, spilling down your chin and onto your jacket.
“Zeno—”
“It’s just a jacket. Wear mine.”
You barely recover before—
“How about I spin for you?”
Too late.
The bottle spins.
Slows.
Stops.
You follow its direction.
Past Zeno.
To—
Leon.
He’s already looking at you.
Like he never stopped.
The room fades again.
For a moment, it feels like the only thing that exists is that steady, unwavering gaze.
“Well?” someone asks. “You two ever—?”
You don’t answer.
Leon does with action.
He pushes off the wall and walks to the closet without hesitation.
Confident.
Certain.
The room erupts.
You’re pushed to your feet and follow behind with half steps.
Behind you—
“Remember,” Zeno calls, “you’re mine.”
The room erupts in ‘oo’s.
You don’t turn back.
“Seven minutes boys.”
The door shuts.
Silence drops hard.
The music, the shouting — gone.
All that’s left is the small space, the faint smell of alcohol — and him.
Leon stands just a step too close.
One hand lifts near your head, catching a hanger before it can brush you. The movement is automatic — careful in a way you didn’t expect from him.
You swallow.
“Sorry,” you say quickly. “I didn’t really want to play. Zeno just insists… on everything.”
A dry laugh slips out. Leon doesn’t laugh.
He watches you.
You open your mouth to break the awkward tension again.
“Why do you stay with him?”
The words cut straight through you.
No hesitation. No softening.
You blink. “What?”
Leon doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts closer — just enough that you feel it.
“He treats you like shit,” he says, voice low, controlled. “So why stay?”
Your chest tightens. You don’t know why you answer but you do.
“I care about him,” you answer, quieter now. “He’s been there for me. I can’t just— walk away from that.”
Leon watches you like he’s weighing every word.
“Even after everything?”
A hesitation. You don’t answer.
Because you don’t have one.
A beat passes.
“Ever think about getting even?”
You frown. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Leon says, stepping closer, “maybe you stop being the one who puts up with everything.”
You can see his line of reason.
You frown. “I’m not cheating on him.”
“But he can do it to you?” Leon presses.
That hits deeper than you want it to.
Your jaw tightens.
Leon sees it.
Steps closer.
Now your back is brushing the wall.
“You don’t have to be like him,” he says, quieter now — but somehow heavier. “But you don’t have to be the one getting walked over either.”
You try to laugh it off — but it comes out weak.
“And who’s going to want to get involved with someone like—”
Leon moves.
Fast enough to steal the rest of your sentence.
His arm braces beside your head, closing you in. The other hand settles at your side — firm, grounding, impossible to ignore.
Your hands come up instinctively, pressing against his chest.
Solid.
Warm.
Too close.
“…me?” you finish, barely above a breath.
Leon’s eyes drop — just for a second.
To your mouth.
Then back up.
“I would.”
The words aren’t rushed.
Aren’t careless.
They land heavy.
Certain.
His grip loosens just slightly — not letting go, but giving you space to choose.
To stop this.
Or not.
You should.
You know you should.
But the part of you that’s been ignored all night — dismissed, embarrassed, overlooked—
Wins.
Your fingers tighten in his shirt.
You pull him in.
The kiss hits harder than you expect.
Immediate.
Heat rushing up your spine as Leon exhales against you, like something in him snaps loose the second you close the distance.
His hand at your side tightens — pulling you in until there’s no space left between you.
None.
Your back presses fully against the wall now.
His body follows.
Close enough that you can feel every shift in his breathing.
Every controlled movement that’s starting to slip.
Leon kisses like he’s fighting — focused, deliberate — but there’s an edge to it now. Something rougher breaking through the control.
Like he’s holding back and losing the fight.
Your grip on him tightens, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere left to go.
His other hand comes up, sliding behind your neck — steadying you, keeping you right where he wants you.
Your breath catches when his mouth shifts — slower for a second, then deeper, like he’s testing how far he can push this.
How far you’ll let him.
He gets low to your shoulder — knowing better than to leave evidence on the neck — and sucks.
A quiet sound escapes you before you can stop it.
That’s all it takes.
Leon’s restraint cracks just a little more.
His hand at your side presses firmer, fingers flexing like he’s grounding himself through you. His forehead raises briefly against yours — just a second—
like he’s catching his breath.
Or losing it.
“You have no idea…” he murmurs, voice rougher now, closer than it should be, “how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
The admission hangs there.
Heavy.
Real.
And then he’s back on you again — like he regrets giving you even that second of space.
Time blurs.
Everything narrows to heat, pressure, the way he reacts to you like this isn’t new — but something he’s been holding back for a while.
Something he finally gave in to.
You don’t have much time.
Leon pulls back suddenly — but not far.
Just enough.
His hand lingers a second longer than it should before dropping.
He looks over your confused expression before reminding you of the time.
You straighten quickly, trying to steady your breathing, your thoughts — anything.
“Best time of my life.” Leon smirks.
The door opens.
It’s abrupt.
Too fast.
The moment snaps.
Zeno stands there.
Watching. As if he was expecting something.
Leon steps past him like nothing happened.
Calm. Composed. Untouched.
You follow a second later.
Back in the room, Zeno pulls you into his side again.
Familiar. Easy.
Wrong.
“What’d you do? Talk?” he asks, smug.
Leon leans against the wall again, thumb brushing absently over his lower lip.
How fucking annoying is it when you feel so restless with creative energy but you can’t decide what to do with it and when you finally try to create something it comes out shit so you just give up and sit there being all creatively annoyed and jittery.
1 - Decision Making Fatigue is a thing.
--> Make a list of possibilities.
--> Use a random number generator to pick something off the list.
--> If you hate the idea cross it off and generate a new number.
--> Continue until you either find a project or cross off the whole list.
--> If you cross off the whole list pick a random short story prompt, write for five minutes, and call it a good work day.
2. Yeah, of course your rough draft sucks. It’s supposed to.
--> Let it suck.
--> You can fix it in edits.
3. When you’re stressed you aren’t unbiased about your work.
--> Don’t judge your work while your are actively working on it.
--> Remember to drink water, take your meds/vitamins, eat something, and get sleep.
--> Double-check to make sure the restless creative energy is not displaced emotional worries over something else. If it is, displace with intention and let the worries go into your work. You shouldn’t keep stress in your head, put it on a page, or canvas, or in a carving, or a meal, or something. Get it out and let it go.
4. No work is ever wasted.
--> All time spent planning and creating is useful in some way.
--> Failure means you tried, which is good.
--> Try again. Fail harder. Fail better.
--> Keep going until you like what you’re making.
5. Love yourself enough to allow yourself to not be perfect.
--> Seriously.
--> If this is a struggle I highly recommend seeing a doctor or therapist about depression.
--> Because you are dang lovable, my friend. You rock. You do great things. I’m proud of you.
Older Leon and older widowed reader that has a grown daughter.
Reader is a car guy.
I did name the daughter but if you don't like it you are welcome to imagine another name i guess lol.
NSFW! MDNI!!
Leon let out a grunt as someone ran right into him on his way down the hall to his apartment. They nearly dropped the box of things cradled in their arm, unable to see around the box to tell where they were going.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry."
The person peered around the box as they apologized. It was a young woman. She might have been in her early 20s or so.
"No worries." He could tell she was struggling. "Need help?"
"Yes please." She laughed and handed the box off to Leon. He held it with much more ease than she did. The woman sighed gratefully before leading the way to where the box belonged.
"Moving in?" Leon asked as they walked.
"Not me. My dad. I'm helping him out despite him swearing he could take care of it all himself. I'm trying to get him to stop working so much. Buy a house, settle down. He just won't listen."
"Ah. I see."
As they walked Leon realized they got closer and closer to his own apartment. They stopped just shy of his door.
"Looks like we're neighbors." Leon pointed to his door as the woman unlocked the one in front of them.
"Really?" She glanced at the other apartment door and pushed open hers. "Good to know he has nice neighbors this time. His last place was a nightmare. Just put that right inside on the floor."
With a nod, Leon stepped just past the apartment threshold and placed the box down. He walked back out to meet the woman again.
"Thanks." She smiled. "I'm Lucilia, by the way."
"Leon." He smiled back. His hands landed in the pockets of his leather jacket.
They talked for a bit as Leon helped with a few more boxes. He was off that day and didn't have much better things to do. She was a nice girl and from what she said her dad was a pretty good guy. He had a mental image of what he might have looked like. He tried to calculate Lucilia’s age with how old her dad could be. It was probably close to his own age but he could only guess.
"Lucilia?" Leon was pulled from his thoughts at the voice. He looked to see a man approaching, Leon still had a box in an arm.
"Oh, hey dad."
Dad? This guy? Seriously? He was gorgeous. Leon was pretty close to how old he might have been though. He looked about the same age, maybe a little older. He had a little bit of grey visible in his hair and wrinkles just around his eyes and mouth. None of that took away how incredible he looked for his age though.
Lucilia came up and hugged him.
"Dad, this is Leon. He's been helping me move some of your stuff in. He lives next door."
"Guess that useless boyfriend of yours couldn't show up and help out."
Lucilia elbowed him in the ribs. He let out a huff. The man looked back up to Leon.
"[Name] [Lastname]." [Name] held his hand out to Leon. "Thanks for helping Luci out. I'd invite you to dinner for compensation but I don't have much groceries at the moment."
Leon took his hand in his own free one, shaking it firmly.
"It's no problem at all. I'm happy to help where I can." Both of their hands broke apart, returning to one another's side.
"So, he's nice."
Lucilia’s voice cut through the sound of the TV. Her and [Name] had a movie night in his new apartment. They made sure to keep their tradition of movie nights no matter what. Even if Lucilia was grown now with her own place. [Name] kept his focus on the screen at her words.
"Who?" She rolled her eyes, shifting on the sofa to face her father.
"Leon." He turned his head finally, seeing her somewhat serious expression. His eyes went right back to the movie.
"Yeah, I guess so."
Silence. [Name] could still feel Lucilia’s glare though.
"Dad."
"Hm?" He was barely listening.
Lucilia sighed as she reached for the remote. She paused the movie, leaving [Name] no other choice but to pay attention to her. He gave her a confused look. As if asking what he did wrong this time.
"I think you could really benefit from making a few friends here and there."
[Name] scoffed with a small smile on his lips. He was amused that his own daughter treated him like he was the child.
"What are you, my therapist?"
"I'm serious dad." Her tone evened out. "You don't talk to anyone from your old friend group anymore. And ever since mom..." She paused a moment, thinking of her next words carefully.
"I just worry about you." She knew he was lonely.
"I'm fine, Lucilia."
Lucilia scooted over on the couch and hugged her dad. [Name] leaned his head on top of hers as he embraced her.
"Just talk to him. For me at least."
There wasn't anything that [Name] wouldn't do for his daughter. He sighed.
"Alright. I'll talk to him."
The movie continued on and they watched in comfortable silence. [Name] thought about Lucilia’s request. He thought about what she might have been thinking. He never wanted her to worry about him. That was supposed to be his job.
As time went on, Leon and [Name] did indeed talk. They occasionally met at each others doors by pure coincidence, each coming home at the same time or leaving early in the morning. Coincidence turned into routine. Soon enough [Name] invited Leon over for Christmas dinner one day when he heard Leon wasn't doing anything for it. Well, more like Lucilia forced him to, but he did want him to come. It was just him, Leon, Lucilia, and Lucilia’s boyfriend Aaron. It was nice, full of laughs. Leon hadn't expected to find himself with someone else's family for a Christmas dinner.
"What do you do for work, Mr Kennedy?" Aaron asked.
The fork in Leon's hand froze at the question. Most if not all of what he did was classified stuff.
"I work for the government." He kept it vague.
Lucilia raised her brows as she gave Leon a surprised look from across the table.
"Like a police officer or...?" Lucilia asked this time.
The title gave Leon that sinking feeling in his stomach again. You'd think he'd be over it by now.
"Something like that."
[Name] watched Leon. He could tell it was a bit of a sensitive topic for him.
"Well whatever it is, sure must pay good given that beautiful Porsche you got." [Name] spoke up.
That did it. Leon smiled. Leon was always so proud of that car. He also was aware that [Name] knew what he was talking about since he worked on cars. "Even if I prefer the older models."
"Don't get me wrong. I love my car but I like a 930."
It was [Name]'s turn to smile now.
"I had one of those before Lucilia was born. Loved that car to death."
"I'm sure it was beautiful."
"Oh it was. Ran good too. I hated having to let it go but they don't make very good family cars. Plus I needed the money at the time."
Leon hummed in acknowledgement and nodded his head. He thought about the fact that [Name] had lived a whole life. There was so much he didn't know. So much he wanted to know.
They hung out more and more. Leon enjoyed their time together. So did [Name]. Lucilia could tell it was making him happier. No matter how much he denied it.
Friendship quickly turned to something else. Something more meaningful. It was a feeling neither of them had been familiar with in a long time. They had plans to go to a local bar every Friday when [Name] got off work. Or Leon would go over to [Name]'s apartment, drink a few beers, watch NASCAR. He knew nothing about it but he liked hearing [Name] ramble about facts he knew about the cars. About how it all operated. He was easy to listen to.
Easy to look at too.
Months went by with this unspoken tension. Small unintentional touches and quick 'sorry's. Keeping eye contact for a little too long. All of it added up and yet neither of them admitted anything.
"I can't this week. I'll be out of town for work." Leon said, standing outside his apartment with [Name] a few feet away. "Or the week after that. I don't really know when I'll be back. I have to leave first thing in the morning, though."
"That's alright." [Name] unlocked his own door and put the keys back in his jacket pocket. "We'll catch up when you get back."
Leon hesitated. He wanted to say something else. The words wouldn't come out.
"Good night, Leon. Stay safe on your trip."
"Yeah. Night [Name]."
Then he was gone. [Name] vanished into his apartment. Leon stared that way for a moment, his mind contemplating his entire life decisions. He was actually really going to miss him.
Missions were never easy. This mission though was particularly tough. Leon couldn't stop thinking about him. The entire time he was just counting down the minutes to when he could see [Name] again. He was hopeless. He didn't know when he started feeling so dependent on seeing [Name]. All he wanted to do was get back to him. Did [Name] think about him like this too?
When he got home, it was about three weeks later. It was the middle of the night. Leon didn't waste a second to take a shower in his apartment. He was filthy and completely exhausted. Even if the first thing he wanted to do was see [Name]. He was probably asleep by now. Leon didn't want to bother him.
Leon laid on his bed, shirtless, and hair still damp from the shower. He should have been sound asleep by then. Having worked so hard and not gotten enough sleep for three weeks. His eyes traced over the blank ceiling. His mind wouldn't let him rest.
He felt like he was about to do something reckless.
Next door, [Name] couldn't sleep either. He was concerned something might have happened to Leon on his trip. Having no contact from him was more difficult than he imagined. He didn't know exactly what Leon did for work, but he could conclude that it was dangerous.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a soft knock at his door. He stumbled out of bed, making his way through the dark apartment. Maybe Lucilia forgot something. She would have waited until tomorrow though if she did. Or she would have at least left a message. [Name] unlocked the door and hesitantly cracked it open. [Name]'s breath was ripped from his lungs at the sight of Leon, his upper half bare. [Name] had to keep himself from looking down at him, a flush creeping up his neck.
"Leon? When did you get back?"
No warning. No verbal response.
Leon just lunged forward and kissed [Name] deeply. Teeth clashing. The way [Name] looked at him once he answered the door was his last straw. He'd waited too long. Wanted too desperately. [Name] went wide eyed but quickly melted into the kiss. Leon pushed the door closed behind him, shoving the other deeper into the apartment.
All the built up tension just spilled over. Leon's tongue licked along [Name]'s lips, asking for permission to enter. [Name] graciously accepted. Their heads tilted and moved in sync with their tongues. Noses bumping one another's, the scruff on their faces scratching. Leon's hands didn't waste any time to slide up [Name]'s shirt. They glided up his stomach and ribs until the shirt was pulled off over his head. Their mouths reconnecting again.
Everything happened so fast. Before [Name] knew it, they were in his bedroom. He pulled away, but they were so close still. He could feel the warmth of Leon's frantic breath on his lips.
"It's been a while since... I've done this." [Name] voice was almost a whisper as he spoke.
"I know. Me too." Leon responded. "But I haven't wanted anything so bad in my life."
After he spoke, Leon took a step back to rid himself of his pants. He sat on the bed in his boxers, his need obvious by the sight of his hard on. His fingers tugged [Name]'s waist band so he was closer. His message was clear, but he voiced it anyway.
"Please fuck me, [Name]."
Everything around [Name] came crashing down at Leon's request. He pulled down his sweatpants and boxers in one go. He watch as Leon's eyes raked over his form. Half erect before him.
"You're beautiful." Leon couldn't help but look in pure fascination and desire.
[Name] pushed Leon to lay back with his hand on his chest.
"I'm just thankful I can still get it up." [Name] responded as he started pulling at Leon's boxers. "Lift your hips. Let me see you."
Biting back a moan at [Name]'s words, Leon did as asked. His boxers landed somewhere on the floor. He was so hard. He was hard before he even came over from just thinking about visiting [Name] tonight.
"Even if you couldn't, I'd still do this with you." [Name] laughed at Leon's words.
"Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr Kennedy."
"As long as it gets me under that beautiful body of yours."
Drool pooled on the pillow that Leon was face down in. His body rocked back into [Name]'s relentless thrusts. [Name] held onto Leon's hips like a vice. Leon's loud moans and whines filled the bedroom.
"Yes. Right there. Don't stop. Never stop..."
Leon wanted to reach for [Name] but he couldn't. He settled with gripping the bed instead. This gave him better leverage to push back into [Name] harder. [Name]'s grunts and low groans egged him on.
"I'm close, Leon."
"Inside!" Leon didn't hesitate. "Do it inside. God, I'm gonna cum so fucking hard." He was a mess.
The bed creaked at the rhythm of their love making. Leon's movements became sporadic and less coordinated. Desperate. [Name] leaned over him, chest to Leon's back. The sweat on their skin made their bodies slightly slick. [Name] kissed the back of Leon's neck as he climaxed, emptying himself inside Leon. Leon came with a cry at the feeling of him filling him. His release spurting out onto the mattress below. They rode out their highs for a moment.
Hips finally stilled. Heart beats slowed. Breathing evened out. [Name] pulled out with a hiss and Leon turned over on his back. He leaned up and grabbed [Name] by the back of the neck. They kissed again. Leon kissed like he was starved. When their lips separated again, Leon's pale blue eyes never left [Name]'s face.
"Again?" Leon asked. [Name] gave him a confused look.
"What?"
"Let's go again."
"You're joking."
Leon shifted the two of them so [Name] was laying down on his back now. He left small kisses down the others chest.
"Far from it."
"Leon, I don't have another one in me." It's not like either of them were young and spry. Age gave restrictions.
"Sure you do."
[Name] then felt Leon's teeth scrape against his skin on his chest. He couldn't help the moan that escaped him. Leon wrapped his hand around his now soft cock, trying to work him up again.
"I'm not done with you yet."
"Dad?"
[Name]'s eyes shot open, woken up by Lucilia calling out to him from the kitchen. He looked at the time.
"Shit."
He was supposed to be up an hour ago. Lucilia had a car she wanted him to look at for Aaron. They also had lunch plans. [Name] looked over from the clock to warm body next to him on the bed. Leon was sound asleep with his back towards him. He could see the scars there now. They had been hidden by the dark the night before. [Name] desperately didn't want to wake Leon from his sleep.
As carefully and quickly as he could, [Name] slid out of bed in search of clothes he could throw on.
"Dad? You still asleep or what?"
Lucilia was at the door now. [Name] almost tripped over the pants he was putting on, trying to make it to the door in time. He pulled the door open just enough so that she wouldn't see Leon. He slipped through the opening, closing the door.
"Hey. Sorry honey. I over slept."
Lucilia raised a brow as [Name] tried to usher her away from the bedroom door.
"Why are you whispering? You okay?"
"Yeah. Just a little under the weather."
They made it to the kitchen and [Name] started some coffee. Lucilia talked, reminding him about Aaron's car and what was wrong with it. [Name] was hardly listening. His mind was just hoping Lucilia would leave soon. At least before Leon woke up.
When the coffee was done, [Name] made Lucilia a cup. They drank coffee together across from one another in the kitchen. [Name] was anxious, Lucilia could tell.
"He's in there isn't he?"
[Name] nearly choked on his coffee. He coughed.
"What?"
"Leon. He's in your room. Is he not?"
The room was quiet. [Name] didn't know how to respond.
"You know I don't care, right?"
"Luci..."
"I'm happy for you, dad. Really. Because he makes you happy."
She was so good. He felt like it was her looking after him these days. [Name] put down his mug.
"What have I done to deserve such an incredible daughter."
Lucilia smiled. It was more mischievous this time. Before she could respond with something witty, the bedroom door clicked. [Name] watched the hallway entrance. Leon walked in with just his sweatpants on. He looked up to see Lucilia and [Name] in the kitchen. He stopped dead in his tracks, afraid he was interrupting.
"Oh shit. I'm sorry." Leon took a step backwards into the hallway entrance.
"No it's alright. I'm heading out." Lucilia reassured. She walked up to [Name] and kissed him on the cheek. "Love you. Don't worry about the car today."
[Name] nodded.
"Love you too."
Grabbing her keys and purse, Lucilia headed for the door. She turned to them one last time.
"You kids don't have too much fun, now."
Then she was out the door. Both men laughed at the comment. Leon finally moved his legs again over to where [Name] leaned back on the counter. His arms caged him in, each hand on either side of [Name] on the counter. He left a short but sweet peck on his lips. One turned to two. Then three.
"Come back to bed for a bit."
[Name] felt like he was young again. He hadn't felt this lovesick in probably 20 years.
"As long as that thing I encountered last night isn't still in there." [Name] referred to the fact that Leon had made him cum three times in one night.
"Mmh, no promises."
With one last kiss, Leon gently grabbed [Name]'s hand to drag him back to the bedroom.
𖦏 /brief: x male reader. post breakup comfort. alcohol use. mentions of emotionally distant relationship. mutual pining. first kiss. emotionally constipated men. friends to something-more.
your thumb hovered over the send button longer than necessary, but the fizz in your head, the kind that came from lukewarm beer and heartbreak, pushed you over the edge. it wasn’t poetry, it wasn’t even that coherent, but it was honest.
you [7:51PM] sukuna i feel like i’m bleeding and there’s no wound
you [7:51PM] can u come.
you [7:52 PM] beach bench, the dumb one by the coconut stand.
you didn't expect a reply. sukuna wasn’t the type to indulge in emotional theatrics, and you were definitely being theatrical. but the text had barely gone through when you saw the three dots bounce on screen like an arrhythmic heartbeat. then:
sukuna [7:52PM] stay where you are. don’t do anything stupid.
you scoffed out loud, the sound swallowed by the rolling hush of the sea. the horizon was bruising purple now, the sun a low ember in the sky. all around, the world was winding down, gentle and domestic — mothers herding sandy children off the beach, tired vendors folding their carts shut, laughter trailing like ribbons in the air. and there you sat, alone, your heart cracked open like driftwood, drinking beer for dinner because food felt like a betrayal your stomach wasn’t ready for.
the buzz in your chest wasn’t just alcohol. it was grief, sharp and glassy, and the phantom press of your ex-girlfriend’s fingers still curled around your wrist. she had left too gently, like she thought it would hurt less that way. she was wrong.
you heard sukuna before you saw him — the crunch of his boots on dry sand, the irritated exhale he never bothered to hide. he appeared beside you, dressed in black like the mourning party you never threw yourself.
“you reek of beer,” he muttered, sitting down without looking at you.
“good,” you said, your voice a little too light, a little too gone. “that’s exactly what i was going for.”
sukuna didn’t respond. he just let the silence thicken, the way he always did when words would only dilute the pain instead of fixing it. you caught his profile in the amber glow of a streetlamp — sharp jaw, pierced brow, annoyance etched into his brow like it had signed a lease there.
“she said i was too much,” you said quietly, staring out at the ocean. “that i felt too hard. asked me why i couldn’t just… ‘enjoy the moment’ instead of obsessing over everything.”
“that’s rich,” he muttered. “you were dating a girl who reads co-star like it’s gospel.”
you huffed a laugh, the beer sloshing a little as you leaned back. “she said i drained her.”
“then good fucking riddance,” sukuna said, tone clipped. “let her go charge her crystals somewhere else.”
you turned to look at him, surprised by the venom. his face was neutral but his hands — always a tell — were clenched on his knees.
“you don’t mean that,” you said.
“no, i do,” he replied. “you’re allowed to feel like shit. you’re not allowed to think you deserved it.”
you blinked, throat suddenly tight. “i feel like an open wound,” you whispered. “like everyone can see it.”
sukuna finally looked at you. really looked. and for once, there was no eye-roll, no sarcasm, no biting remark. just him. unguarded, watching you like someone trying to read an unfamiliar language.
“then let me sit here until it scabs over,” he said.
and that — that was the thing with sukuna. he didn’t say the right things. he wasn’t going to tell you that you’d find someone better, or that everything happened for a reason. but he would sit beside you while your heart howled. he’d buy you water when you threw up your third beer. he’d wait until you remembered how to laugh without feeling like you were betraying your sadness.
and he was here. which meant everything.
by the time the beer fizzed through your bloodstream like static, you were half-lounging on the bench with your head tipped back, letting the sea breeze slap at your face like it owed you something. you were deep into that sweet spot of drunkenness where every sad thought started sounding profound — where every sentence felt like a monologue that deserved a slow clap.
“she wasn’t that bad, you know,” you mumbled, eyes squinting at the stars peeking through the purple-grey sky. “we just… we didn’t kiss much. but like — like, we held hands. and sometimes she’d put her head on my shoulder. that counts for something, right?”
sukuna was mid-sip, the cheap beer tilted to his lips, when he physically choked on it. full-body sputter, head jerked forward, beer foam catching on the edge of his mouth as he coughed like he’d inhaled carbonation and confusion at the same time.
“wait. waitwaitwait—” he slapped a palm on his chest. “you tellin’ me — how long were you even together?”
“almost a year,” you said proudly, like that statistic would cushion the blow.
he stared at you slack-jawed. possibly a little horrified. the beer can was halfway in his hand like he was trying to decide whether to keep drinking or just pour it over your head.
“a year,” he repeated slowly. “a whole year, and you didn’t even — what, make out? a kiss? a single shove-up-against-the-wall situation?”
you winced. “we kissed. just not… often.”
sukuna turned toward you so fast you could hear the fabric of his hoodie rustle. “bro,” he said, voice gone hoarse with disbelief. “not often? not often? what does that mean? you kissed once and high-fived after like it was a business transaction?”
you groaned, dragging your palms over your face. “jesus, sukuna—”
“nah, i’m genuinely trying to understand,” he said, leaning back now, one arm draped over the back of the bench, the other gesturing wildly with the can. “you dated this girl for a whole calendar year, and your lips were — what? in a holding pattern? circling the runway, never landing?”
you laughed despite yourself, shaking your head. “it wasn’t like that. we just weren’t… physical, i guess.”
“you weren’t physical,” sukuna corrected with a raised brow. “don’t drag her down into this virgin trench with you.”
you stared at him. “i’m not a virgin.”
“no, of course not,” he said, voice saturated in sarcasm. “you just skipped the kissing part. went straight from awkward side hugs to shared trauma and heartbreak.”
you reached out and smacked his arm, and he laughed — a low, rough sound, full of amusement but not mean. there was always a sharpness to sukuna, but when he liked you, he wielded it like a toy knife. he glanced sideways at you, and his voice lowered, just a touch. “look, i’m not saying kissing’s everything. but if you’re telling me the whole relationship was just, like, emotionally intense hand-holding and long-ass text messages… yeah, ’m gonna make fun of you.”
you snorted, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. “i liked her. i didn’t need to kiss her all the time. she made me feel… grounded. like when everything was shit, she was this calm little island.”
sukuna looked at you, his mouth twitching — not quite a frown, not quite a smile.
“and what are you now?” he asked. “adrift?”
you were quiet.
“you’re allowed to want more,” he added, softer now. “not just love that keeps you grounded, but the kind that lifts you the fuck up. makes you feel like you’re gonna float out of your damn shoes.”
you blinked, stunned at the sudden sincerity.
“...what kind of sapphic wattpad shit was that,” you muttered, throat tight.
he snorted. “shut up. i’ve been watching romance dramas with my family. don’t make it weird.”
but even as he said it, sukuna leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and passed the can back to you without a word. the glint in his eye hadn’t dulled, but there was a gentleness tucked underneath now, the kind he only showed in quiet, moonlit places like this.
“next time,” he said, staring out at the waves, “date someone who kisses the hell out of you just because they can. alright?”
you took the can from his hand, brushing fingers for a beat too long.
“alright,” you said. “you gonna screen them for me?”
he rolled his eyes. “nah, i’ll scare them off. easier that way.”
and he meant it.
you were finishing the last inch of the beer when sukuna asked it — the kind of question that sounded like it slipped out before he could decide if he meant to ask it or not.
“you ever wonder what it’s like?”
you looked up, confused. “what what’s like?”
he tapped the rim of the can with a blunt fingernail, avoiding your gaze. “kissing,” he said. “y’know. the thing your year-long relationship apparently skipped like a side quest.”
you squinted at him, smirking. “you really can’t get over that, huh?”
“i’m just saying,” sukuna muttered, side-eyeing you. “it’s basic relationship stuff. i didn’t think i’d have to explain this to a grown-ass man.”
“then explain it,” you challenged, eyes narrowing. “what’s it supposed to feel like, kiss expert?”
his face twisted — not in annoyance, but something closer to panic wearing a thin disguise. he ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting up to the sky as if the answer was hiding in the clouds.
“i dunno,” he said, voice higher than usual. “it just — happens. it’s like breathing, or… sneezing. but with lips. and feelings. and, uh, spit.”
you barked a laugh. “spit and feelings. wow. romantic.”
“shut up,” he groaned, turning his face away and rubbing the back of his neck. “i didn’t come here to give a TED talk on making out.”
“so what, you just know when it’s supposed to happen?” you asked, watching him carefully. “like the universe sends a kiss alert to your brain?”
“basically,” he said with a shrug, still not looking at you. “you’ll know. when it’s right. you just… know.”
you leaned in a little, squinting at him with mock seriousness. “okay, mr. mystic. so when is the right moment? or should i wait until the stars align and a shooting star spells out ‘smooch’ above my head?”
he turned to you, finally, mouth open like he had something clever to say. but then he really looked — really looked — at you, his lips didn’t move. not for a second. his arm was still behind you, elbow resting on the bench’s back like it was nothing. but now, his fingers were ghosting against your shoulder, spread wide and uncertain, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull away or pull you in.
you weren’t sure who leaned first. maybe both of you did. it wasn’t a crash or a blur — it was slow, like the air between you both had thickened into honey, and neither of you wanted to break it too fast.
his lips were warm. dry, a little hesitant. like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be doing this, but something in him had already made the decision before his brain could object. the kiss wasn’t deep, not at first. it was a press — soft, almost shy, like the two of you were younger versions of yourselves who didn’t know where to put your hands yet.
you didn’t rush it.
and that was the strange thing. you didn’t feel impatient. you didn’t feel clumsy. you just felt.
the warmth of his fingers tightening against your shoulder. the slight tremble in the breath he exhaled through his nose. the way the salt from the sea mixed with beer and something distinctly sukuna on your tongue. when you finally pulled apart, just a few inches, his eyes blinked open slow — lashes low, gaze unfocused. then he grinned.
boyishly.
you hadn’t seen that exact smile in a long time — not since the first time you met him in college orientation, when he mistook you for someone else and laughed about it for twenty minutes straight. it was wide and sheepish, all crooked teeth and unguarded charm, like he’d tripped over his own shoelaces and kissed you by accident.
“so,” he said, clearing his throat. “that was… okay?”
you stared, then let out a breathy laugh. “better than sneezing.”
he laughed too, rubbing the back of his neck again like he couldn’t figure out what to do with himself now. “yeah, well. there’s more where that came from. if the stars ever say so again.”
you leaned into him this time, shoulder against his chest. “i think they already did.”
he didn’t say anything. just tucked you a little closer, arm finally wrapping around your back like he’d been waiting the whole night to do it.
Summary: It's been a month since Leon rescued Ashley from the Los Iluminados cult, but he still can't escape the memories.
a/n: One-shot based on this request.
Things have felt off ever since Leon came back.
You clearly remember the day he opened the door after his mission to save the president's daughter.
His face was pale, and he had small cuts all over his body. Overall, it was nothing you weren't used to, but you were worried by the look in his eyes.
They were hollow, and there was no emotion visible on his face. Even when you went to check on him, the look remained the same, and he was quiet.
You could barely tell that he was back home.
Even after a whole month, nothing had changed. He would still talk, but only if he really needed to, otherwise, your boyfriend would isolate himself.
Sighing deeply, you rubbed a hand over your closed eyes. You had been up for hours already and finally decided to go to your shared bedroom, having stayed up to finish an episode of a series whose plot you couldn't even recall anymore.
The closer you got to the bedroom door, the more noises you could hear. The rustling of bedsheets and the sound of heavy breathing grew louder as you put your hand on the doorknob and slowly opened the door.
Even though it was dark, you could make out Leon's form in bed, tossing and turning, which was strange. He was usually the type of person not to move around too much, and the closer you got, the more you could hear his heavy breathing, despite his eyes being tightly shut.
Sweat was forming on his forehead, causing a few strands of hair to stick to it, and his hands were clenched into fists as he held the sheets tightly and let out a sound that almost sounded like a whimper.
Nightmares weren't unusual for him. There had been many times before, but this was the first time he seemed more distressed than usual.
"Leon," you whispered gently, sitting down on the edge of the bed and keeping your eyes on his face.
There was no reaction besides the heavy breathing, so you called out to him again, this time louder.
For a moment, you thought he was going to wake up, as he froze for a second. But then you noticed his knuckles tightening on the sheets as he groaned in pain.
You carefully placed a hand on his shoulder and opened your mouth to speak, but he suddenly moved up and flipped you over onto the bed in the exact same place he had just been lying.
His left hand pinned your wrists to the mattress. You let out a surprised noise, which made his eyes snap up to look at you. But this time was different.
The hollow look in his eyes had gone, and he was looking at you in an indescribable way. There was not a hint of softness as his right hand suddenly crept up and tightened around your neck.
Your heart beat rapidly against your ribcage and your breathing became shallow as you felt the grip on your neck slowly cutting off your air.
You couldn't move your arms since he was holding them down, so you lightly kicked his hip with your knee, making him loosen his grip.
This made you breathe in again, finally free of restriction, as you felt him let go of you. You should have felt relieved, but when you looked in his direction, you saw him back up, his hands trembling as he let out a heavy breath.
As you slowly got up, Leon moved closer to the wall and pressed himself against its cold surface. You abruptly halted your movements.
"Leon, it's okay," you said slowly and quietly, but Leon shook his head.
"I-It's not," he stuttered softly, his voice pained and almost unintelligible because of what he had just done.
You switched the bedside lamp on, the room was now bright enough to clearly see his face, which almost broke your heart into a million pieces.
The ends of his light brown, almost blonde hair were sticking to his face. He held his hands in front of him as if trying to create more distance between the two of you.
He was pale, his eyes wide with fear and his lips quivering slightly. "I-I hurt you," he said in a hoarse voice. The sound almost made you tear up, Leon himself was having a hard time not starting to cry.
"You didn't want to-"
"I still did!" He cut you off sharply, his voice a little louder than before. "Those were my hands that just left marks on your neck!"
You didn't care about the marks because you knew they weren't intentional. Even after telling him again that it was a nightmare that had made him do it, he still shook his head. The disgust was clear on his face as he still couldn't realise what he had just done.
"Leon, please just come back to bed," you said. All you got in response was a pained 'No', which made you slowly stand up and take a couple of steps towards him.
He started to shake his head and a tear ran down his face. "Please don't come closer," he whispered, letting out a harsh exhale. "I don't want to hurt you again."
You didn't let up, though. Now that you were standing in front of him, you slowly took his hands in yours. He flinched violently for a second. "It's okay. I promise you it's okay," you whispered softly, before gently pulling him into your arms. He stiffened up at first, but slowly relaxed into your embrace.
You drew soft imaginary circles onto his back with your right hand while holding onto him with your left.
No words were spoken, but you could hear him softly crying with his face buried in your hair. He could barely even bring himself to put his arms around you.
Leon wasn't the type to cry easily, so you could tell that everything was taking a big toll on him.
Kissing his shoulder, you whispered into his ear, "Let it all out. You've already been strong enough."
After a few more minutes, once he had calmed down, you gently took his hand and led him to the bed. His movements halted, but when you looked back and said, "I trust you, Leon," he let out a shaky sigh and nodded as you two started laying down. His head was now on your chest and you ran your fingers through his hair.
There were bound to be more nightmares in the future, and many more missions that would cause them, but you weren't going to back out.
Even if Leon was being hard on himself, you were ready to list all the good things he had done for you and others.
DSO wasn't treating him like a human being, but you would be there to remind him that he is a human every single day.
binged all the smau u did for f1 and i come with a request ahhh
Bruce Wayne x Model! M!reader x Clark Kent
I want. Them so bad and i love big nerdy himbos and big grumpy men. I
Hook, Line, Sinker ͙͘͡★
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Bruce Wayne x Male!Model!Reader x Clark Kent
Summary;; Bruce and you find interest in the journalist in metropolis, some strings were maybe pulled for things to happen. Chaos unleashes
C/w;; smau and written, ooc, established relationship (Bruce/Reader), body insecurity for reader, fluff with a tinge of angst but mostly fluff, you're pining, he's pining, everyone's pining!, everyone's very direct also because i am!
A/n;; felt this request in my BONES. THANK YOU FOR LIKING MY STUFF!!! i come to you with an offering, a sort of crack (?) fic for your soul, little glimpses of the lovers' relationship from what they show on social media (smau) and what it's actually like (written)
This is written non linear so i apologize if this is a little confusing, idc if it doesn't make sense, i had fun
Edit;; i had this half written in my drafts for a while, sorry 😭😭😭 i wanna write more but i am bussyyyyyy
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Present day
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Y/n posted!
Liked by brucewayneofficial, clarkkent, and others
Y/n Thank you @ maisonvalentino for this gorgeous piece, a dream to be working with y'all 🖤
Brucewayneofficial You look amazing 🖤
> Y/n that's all?
> brucewayneofficial What else do you want, sweetheart?
> Y/n you and clark's attention 😗
> brucewayneofficial You got it with that 3rd picture
> Y/n and a cat 😁
> brucewayneofficial You're pushing it
Clarkkent 😍😍🔥
> Y/n why are you commenting like you're a bot?
> clarkkent i'm just trying to be supportive
> Y/n do better 😒
> clarkkent fine i'll take it back then
> Y/n ooo heart eyes emoji, fire emoji like that means something to me, come to my room and look at me like i hung the stars like a REAL man
> clarkkent you uploaded this while i was at work, baby
> Y/n and you're a journalist, come up with something better than "heart eyes emoji" and "fire emoji"
> clarkkent i'm sorry
> Y/n apology taken
> user9 he folded like a damn chair
> user10 can't say i blame him
> user11 if i was some average joe journalist and i somehow managed to bag these two i'd also bend to their every will
User5 you look a little different 🤔
User8 this is whos dating bruce wayne?? He's going for any pretty boy nowadays 😒
> user1 you wish it was you huh?
---
There isn't much you can complain about the life you had, you'd be wikedly ungratefull. Because you had everything in life, a job that you loved, money you worked hard for, a luxurious life filled with events, glamour beyond the common man's belief, and especially, you'd be stupid to be unappreciative of your boyfriends.
The ones that brought you back to earth when you got too close to the sun. Your rocks weighing you down from your own thoughts and the negative judgement of others, the vile side effect of jealousy.
The modeling industry was harsh, you had to be near perfect. Everything was a competition, who's more beautiful, who's getting casted, who's getting the clothing item they wanted, who's getting the best times to walk out. There was always a better looking, luckier, richer, sturdier, taller, more unique model just down the hall.
It's hard to not get absorbed in it, your own selfishness sickens you sometimes, but that was survival in the world you signed up for.
That's why you had your boyfriends, when you thoughts drift too far that you couldn't recognize yourself, they take your hands. The pairs of stormy and icy blues binding you back to the present moment. Back to the both of them, to you.
"There you are, handsome." You tilt your head at that... identity that Clark speaks, it doesn't feel like you, not right now.
Bruce steps infront of the mirror, blocking your decieving gaze of yourself. For some reason you want to move him, keep noting every imperfection you had, like an annoying itch you couldn't wait to scratch. But you don't, you meet Bruce's gaze and you are met with ... so much love. It's corny but the intensity in his eyes alone spoke "if you could see yourself through my eyes, you'd never be insecure ever again."
You shrink under their gaze but Clark presses a kiss to your cheek and you feel that stubborness retreating.
Maybe, this time, you'll see yourself through their lense rather than a critical one.
Clark stands to your side, he fixes up your tie and smooths down your suit. Yours is far fancier than theirs, bedazzeled with jewels, only the finest fabrics, custom made just for you. A gift from a beloved designer brand. That alone was a love letter.
They love it, they love reminding the world that you are theirs, three flowers on a branch. Not outcompeting eachother, but nurturing, building eachother up, making sure they stood on a sturdy foundation before vanity— Sometimes,
Sometimes they just want to show you off.
To them you're the prettiest petal of you three. Neither ever fail to remind you that. It drives them up the wall when you can't see it, the evidence was all around you, not just your physical beauty, but your caring nature, the fact that you seem to have an endless amount of love not reserved for one- or two- specific persons, but to just about anyone you'd deem worthy of it, which was a lot of people by the looks of it.
You had a unique draw that not a lot of people they've encountered had. Maybe they're just too far in deep, but truly, people flocked to you and you handled them with such grace, even the man who spent his whole life practicing nonchalance, thank you speeches, and the ins and outs of being polite and propper would applaud.
---
Brucewayneofficial uploaded!
Liked by Y/n, selinakyle, and others
Clarkkent gosh, you look beautiful
> Y/n better, we're learning
> brucewayneofficial Thank you, sweetheart 😍😍🔥
> user4 HE DID NOTT HAHHAHAH
> Y/n 🔥 ?
> clarkkent 🤦♂️🤦♂️🤦♂️
> Y/n 🔥🔥🔥🔥
> brucewayneofficial 😍😍😍
Y/n boy why you look so mischevious
> brucewayneofficial ?
> clarkkent you look like you've got riddles and tricks up your sleeves
> brucewayneofficial I have not
> Y/n he's right B, give it up your act is done
> brucewayneofficial There isn't an act
> clarkkent oh, so you actually have secrets.. i see 📖🖋
> Y/n uh oh the daily planet has insider informationnn
> brucewayneofficial You two are not scaring me
> Y/n oooo we know your deepest darkest secretssss
> brucewayneofficial Like what?
> clarkkent like you wish you were home sleeping instead of this event but then you just spotted us near the open bar and your heart went a mile a minute
> brucewayneofficial You guys are impossible
> Y/n that's not a no, cmere
> brucewayneofficial i'm socializing
> Y/n then we're going home early, we've got work tommorow
> brucewayneofficial What? I can't go i'm hosting. Wait. Stay?
> Y/n not a chance big guy, we'll be waiting 😉
> usert5 "stay?" Oh he hates those people they're leaving him with, teaaaa 🤭
> usernq7 Wjbshduhshajja Y/n and clark i've never been more jealous of anyone
> userh2 imagine having being a dude bro podcast, gym bro, 200$ course guy and having bruce wayne as your role model and he comes out having two boyfriends and says cornball shit like "stay?"
> userb2 i can hear the puppy eyes
> Y/n he's more cat to be honest
> userb2 no no you're onto something
> Y/n where's that one cynthia meme
User74 their dynamic. I live. I laugh. I love.
> User81 this is the grumpy x sunshine(s) trope i live for 🧘♀️
---
You and Clark were the real everyday heros— scratch the fact that clark was superman— just you two's baseline made his thrum harder.
Bruce isn't an everyday man, far from it. He's smart, but he's never been in the shoes of the likes of You and Clark. You two are so hardworking he has the contant urge to drag you both into bed when you work late, both head first in your laptops. You stuck in emails, looking for castings, editing photos, networking, meetings with your manager. Clark with his headlines, articles, sometimes cases that really itch his superhuman mind.
Ofcourse, Bruce is a hypocrite. Sleepless nights and him have become acquainted, friends, even. You'd start getting suspicious of the status when he starts spending too much time with it. You call Clark over to carry Bruce when you find him passed out at his desk in the batcave on most nights.
You wonder what they dream about when they're tucked in the blankets, caging you in the bed fit for a king, somehow the three of you made it look small.
You stare at their moonlit faces, so calm, free of the weight of the world on their broad shoulders. fingers mapping new nicks— bruce's eyes flutter at the touch, but he subconsciously Leans in— or old moles that you adored so much— Clark makes a small noise in the back of his throat, it sounds like a startled dog, you chuckle quietly at it.
You think back at how this began, the formation of the three peas in a pod that people would call lovers, boyfriends.
Before relationship
---
Clarkkent posted!
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Clarkkent had an amazing chat with model Y/n L/n and CEO Bruce Wayne. Article out now on dailyplanet.com or catch it on front page of today's paper. (Yay)
Y/n take my breath awayyyyy
> clarkkent ah? Sure? Sorry, i'm not sure what you mean
Brucewayneofficial Nice to have a handsome face around, i look forward to our next encounters, Clark
> clarkkent so will i, Mr Wayne
> brucewayneofficial Just Bruce for you
> clarkkent sure, Bruce
User6 in what part of the interview does it specify that you get into a scenario where you can take a photo of Y/n on a bed?
> clarkkent they said they wanted to talk somewhere quieter
> user6 you interviewed them at the same time, right?
> clarkkent yes, if you'd read the paper. Front page if you'd please
> user6 i'm not reading no papers i'm just looking for yaoi implications
> clarkkent excuse me??? What is that word?
Loislanereports you're a lost cause dude
> clarkkent what do you mean?
> loislanereports they pulled YOU into an empty BEDROOM
> clarkkent yes, it was loud outside
> loislanereports and you still interviewed them.
> Y/n maybe we were too forward, Ms. Lane
> loislanereports maybe
> clarkkent what are you guys talking about???
> loislanereports clark, they were flirting with you
> clarkkent ...
> brucewayneofficial we look forward to seeing you again, clark
> clarkkent ...
> clarkkent i'm a fool
> clarkkent i should've read those how to flirt books jimmy gave me
> clarkkent you as well, Mr Wayne
> brucewayneofficial bruce*
> clarkkent right, thank you bruce
User72 don't screw this up clark we're rooting for you!
User36 i've only seen Bruce look at one other person like that and it's Y/n, he's WHIPPED
---
To Clark, you both were untouchable— at first. The two faces that plagued the daily mail's front pages, hosting and attending fancy galas, front cover of fashion and tech magazines, racking in significant donations to those in need. He's sorry that he gets a little... obssesed?
Some call it fate that he was assigned to report on one of Bruce Wayne's galas,
Some call it Bruce's doing with a sprinkle of your influence.
What?
you liked to look at who was spreading words about you, especially when the flattery on paper felt too real. You wanted a taste.
---
Brucewayneofficial posted!
Liked by Y/n, clarkkent, and others
Brucewayneofficial YSL with Y/n, written by clark kent
User74 brucey/n (clark kent's version)
User82 is this a magazine article or a love letter?
Usert2 i've never read something more intimate
> user81 fr i felt like i was interupting something 🤭
Clarkkent honor working with you guys
> Y/n hey let's arrange a next time, yeah?
> clarkkent i'll be there
Y/n if the article straight up just said "i want to kiss y/n l/n and Bruce Wayne" it would've been less romantic
> clarkkent i'm so sorry i usually deal with on ground, recalls of events that happen in metropolis not fashion magazines. I just described what i saw 😵💫😵💫
> brucewayneofficial And what you saw was basically poetry?
> clarkkent well, yes.
> Y/n you're adorable
> clarkkent these two are gonna make me go hyperdrive
> clarkkent i'm gonna combust
> clarkkent thank you? 😅
---
Maybe you personally called Clark if he could report on the magazine you were doing with Bruce, maybe you wanted his name plastered along with yours and Bruce. Nothing romantic about that right?
Ahem.
Who were you kidding?
The three of you were already infatuated by the third— in civilian mode— meeting, a propper date. And keeping that a secret was hard. With so much public eyes on you and Bruce, it was practically impossible. So, a hard launch ensues.
"Just get it out of the way." Bruce says as he stares at the articles and scandal hungry cash grabbers post about the date they'd had earlier. It's nothing new to Bruce and you, you've both been out and in a public relationship for a while.
But to Clark? Terrifying. having extra eyes on him who'd be prying on him wasn't all too safe for his alter ego. But if Bruce could hold it for this long, so could he right?
"Out of the way, right." Clark looks pale.
Bruce puts a hand over Clark's. "we're sure about us right?" He takes yours too.
You bit your lip, a nervous tick. Then nod.
Clark exhales, he was glad neither of you could hear how hard his heart was beating but he's certain you can see it. He isn't sure if he's burning red or the color's drained out of his face.
He gathers himself. The date had turned into one of the best days of his life, a jam packed day where you three lost track of time and your awareness, which was rare for Clark and Bruce. Which is why you got into this whole scandal anyway.
He recalls the simmering charm, the easy flirting that came from all directions, his flushed face and gloved hands entertwined helping with the biting cold of metropolis winters.
When you slipped on a mound of ice and brought the two of them down with you, the laughter bubbled out of your bellies so naturally you'd think you've known them life long.
When you three reached the park and joined in on a snowball fight some kids were having, them against you guys. As adults, you let the kids win, plus the tactical advantage of certain side hustles would ensure near perfect accuracy. Bruce bought the kids some hot cocoa and told them to keep warm before going to the next activity.
And the next.
Time flew and suddenly it was night time, the sun bid goodnight and the skyline awoke. Up on that rooftop over at alcoholic drink of your choice— clark preferring a pop since he couldn't get drunk— hushed voices and a talk he's needed for a good while. One that scratches your brain and makes you think, he admires the insight the two of you have, two who came from vastly different background and no judgement came of it, instead; understanding, curiosity.
He was in true awe, it felt right, things that he'd kept in a lockbox he thought was secure came stumbling out before he could regret them.
The understanding in your faces makes Clark fall just that much deeper. It's so easy with you and Bruce, he doesn't have to be perfect or have to act like he was the Clark Kent persona he put up.
He simply existed and it felt nice.
That night after he'd taken you both back to his apartment to rest off the alchohol, he'd texted his groupchat with lois and jimmy and told them everything that happened.— Secretly hoping for their approval,
And then subsequently getting threatened to not mess this up,
He realizes he wouldn't want a future without you both after that day.
Frick, is that normal for third dates?
"But are either of you three normal?" is the justification that finally gets his mind to agree.
"yeah, i'm sure." He faced it, determined.
---
Y/n posted!
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Y/n dear lord when i get to heaven, please let me bring my men
(I'm about to be so annoying)
Way/nluvr do i have to change my user again 😀
> Y/n yes, right away, up you go
User91 oh, this is all i'm gonna be talking about prepare to be sick of me 😈
Brucewayneofficial Proud to be yours 🖤
> Y/n boy if you don't put a ring on it
> Y/n 18k white gold with my birth stone, yours, and clark's and our initials on the band
> Y/n now
> clarkkent i just got here 🧍♂️
> Y/n i know what i want
> brucewayneofficial Noted
> clarkkent WHAThsyabdjxn
> clarkkent i won't be able to say no if you ask me to marry you two
> clarkkent i'm running to the group chat
---
And gosh he regrets giving you the power to post your realtionship freely because he didn't realize how much power he'd just given to you two.
Especially you.
who knew his brand would be tarnished more by his boyfriends than his enemies. traitors.
---
Y/nism posted!
Liked by loislane, jimmyolsen, and others
Y/nism type yes to affirm
Clarkkent ???
Clarkkent maybe that talk of marriage can be withdrawn
> Y/nism NOOO CLARK BABY IM SORRYY YOU JUST LOOKED SO CUTEE
> clarkkent i'm leaving you for bruce
> Y/nism HA!! it's a trap! We come in a package you fool!
Brucewayneofficial Cute, he makes the :]
> clarkkent really? You too?
> brucewayneofficial I'm relieved someone else beside me has come victim to this
> Y/nism he loves me 🥰
User43 yes!
User48 yes
User10 YES
Way/nkentluvr yessss
> y/nism i like your new user
---
Bruce isn't free from your wrath, no, no. Your second account was a goldmine for embarassing photos of the businessman and the reporter.
You were having too much fun.
---
Y/nism posted!
Liked by jimmyolsen, loislane, and others
Y/nism awwwwwwww i have the prettiest, handsomest, funniest, smartest, strongest, loveliest boyfriends ever no one ever take them away from me 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰
Selinakyle are you drunk?
> brucewayneofficial This is his baseline
> clarkkent pretty much
Brucewayneofficial I don't even know how you manage to get these photos without us noticing
> Y/nism i'm light with my feet and quick with my fingers, you'll never see me coming
> clarkkent alright, lets get you home riddler
> Y/nism YOU HAVE UNFAIR ADVANTAGES! 😵💫
> clarkkent yeah, i do. Also, you guys have a cow?
> brucewayneofficial Wanna meet her?
> clarkkent um absolutely?! I love farm animals
> Y/nism you have to meet Ace, he'll love you, animals love you for some reason
User43 thank you for second account posts Y/n, i needed this
> Y/nism i gotchu
> user43 love you goat
Use52 i'm gonna tell my kids you guys were the three musketeers
> y/nism more like alvin and the chipmunks
> clarkkent halloween costume idea
> y/nism WAITT YOU'RE RIGHT
> brucewayneofficial I do not want to participate in this humiliation ritual
> y/nism did you ever have a choice :)
> brucewayneofficial sigh
---
But they secretly adored being adored so publically. Turns out it helped their public image too, especially Bruce's. Bringing some humanity to him with some out of context selfies were far more affective than any marketing campagne as it turns out.
He dreaded galas and parties a lot less since people treated him oddly nicer, and you were by his side most of the time as his plus one— a man never wastes an opportunity to dress up.
The three of you were the hot gossip, the headliners, three young beautiful men just being your silly selves, however it comes out. People's thoughts weren't yours to twist, so putting out what you wanted and not worrying about how people might percieve it was... freeing.
You learnt that from Bruce. He's always so headstrong. You always wonder what makes him break. Turns out just two guys who were sweet on him. Melts him right down.
All this media attention got him in a place where he was offered plus twos, special invites printed just for him. Bruce was amused to say the least.
And again, one musn't waste chances to dress up, as you would say. He would say, i want you both on my arm and make these assholes whos smiles are coated with powdered sugar and plated with gold what they're missing out on.
Maybe that's harsh. . .
Anyway!
Present day
---
This is where it leaves us. At one of Bruce's apartments in the city— usually used as a safe house during his night time escapades.
Bruce tugs at your sleeve, the matching cufflinks he had made for you three were sparkling in the dim light. A soft smile falls on his lips.
"You look perfect." Clark assures. It's hard not to believe a face and voice like that.
"He's right, you've got nothing to worry about." And like that.
Damn it, one thing about being in a polyamorous relationship is that its always one against more. It's a losing case for you, and by now you brain already deemed your worry as unreasonable and stupid.
"You're one to talk, your heart's going a million miles a minute." You look up at clark, a slight pout.
"Maybe because... you look so beautiful!" He smiles. Handsome, it fits him, that identity.
You and Bruce laugh, you swat Clark's arm. "Bullshit. it's not your breeding ground, i know." You link your arm with his. "Just follow what we told you."
See how easy it is for you to be back to your normal self when these two are involved?
Bruce opens the door for you and the taller man, you extravagantly bow. "thank you good sir."
That gets another laugh from Bruce. it's so easy to do that around you two.
"you know the gems on your suit are poking me." Clark harps, poking at your shoulder.
"They're just gems stuck on by some glue and you're superman, not like we're cuddling at the gala, Clark."
Bruce locks the door and joins the line, you in the middle. "i'd rather we were cuddling."
You teasingly pushed Bruce. "uh huh who's fault was it that you stayed up all night knowing we had this event?"
"Gotham's" He yawns.
You and Clark share a glance, then laugh. "he got you there, y/n."
"touche, B, touche."
Clark moves around you to throw his arm around Bruce's shoulder, you mourn the loss of heat but it quickly retreats when you witness Clark's teasing smile accompanied by Bruce's tolerating, slightly bemused one. "try not to fall asleeep on us, hey?"
You laugh once more at Clark's words, walking backwards now. "We will— correction, Clark will have to lift sleeping beauty back to his chambers again."
"And you'll only wake up by a true loves kisses." You both claim a side of Bruce's cheeks.
"Gods..." Bruce is red, not even the concealer he used to cover his dark circles could hide. His brain is going haywire.
You grab clark's hand and race to the door. Bruce watches in fondness, sprinting after you two. He feels like a teen again.
Laughter echoes in the gala halls and this time it's not faked, not heavy, or rehearsed to gain the good impressions of noble people.
To old faces, it's refreshing.
To new, it's inspiring.
And if there's any negativity coming from anyone you best bet it's none of the three's business.
---
Brucewayneofficial posted!
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Brucewayneofficial 5th annual winter charity gala went spectacular, thank you to everyone who showed up and made contributions towards the cause 🙏
Y/n i've never seen you actually post on here without your social media manager 😭😭😭
> brucewayneofficial Is it that easy to tell?
> Y/n well first of all she would've put more photos about the gala and not just of us?
> brucewayneofficial it is my page
> Y/n and not a fanpage of your boyfriends, calm yourself Mr Wayne
> brucewayneofficial noted Mr Wayne-kent
> clarkkent Kent-Wayne*
> Y/n my last name is perfectly fine
> clarkkent you're not thinking of changing it when we get married?
> Y/n i don't think so
> brucewayneofficial can we take yours then?
> Y/n propose to me first?
---
Tag;; @leosxrealm i'm not sure if you wanted tag for the series or all my fics but lmk 😭
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