would love some thoughts and feedback on something new I'm working on (very very new) but i'm feeling rusty when it comes to creating content that's not already on this blog.
it's just vibes rn but I always wanted to do another fic similar to simmer. not eddie this time, maybe steve (probably), maybe another character from another show, maybe even something original. but i'm thinking a little moodier, a slow burn, enemies to lovers kind of thing, maybe some angst. I think? anyway, here's what I have so far, if anyone would like to read.
HONEY, SHOW ME HOW TO DO IT
The streets are close to dead at such an hour.
The glow of the traffic light outside of your bedroom window makes your walls look scarlet and the summer air that’s leaking in through the open crack is too warm for five am.
It’s July and it’s early and there’s clothes scattered over your floor, a shoe by the door, your bra hanging over the back of your desk chair. Your sheets are twisted into a gingham green lump at the end of your bed, there’s a pillow slumped into your nightstand, nudging precariously against a half drunk glass of water.
The town outside is still sleeping, the AC unit is whirring, your head is aching and there’s a man in your bed.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
You try not to audibly groan as your feet find the floor. The body sleeping next to you is lying on his front, his face buried into one of your pillows, his arms wrapped around it like it tried to run away in the night. He’s tanned and dotted with freckles, a summer scene across the skin on his back, broad and taught with muscle. You frown as you look over your shoulder at him, trying to place a name, a face, any memory of the last few hours.
The only things that come to mind are bare skin and a lot of touching. Teeth and lips and hands and calloused fingers that dug into your hips as you rode him. You rub your face, clearing the sleep from your eyes, the tequila and the taste of sex from your lips.
You try really hard to walk quietly to your bathroom, padding softly across the wooden floors, avoiding the board that you knew squeaked like it held a deadly disease in its whorls and knots. The bathroom door shuts with a squeak and a click and you hold your breath, forehead braced against the cool wood but you hear nothing, no sheets rustling, no feet on the floorboards.
Your reflection stares back at you from above the sink with disdain and disappointment and you’re not in a position to disagree with her. Your hair is a mess and there’s leftover lipstick on your neck of all places, like you’d gifted it to someone who’d pressed it right back onto your skin. There’s the beginning of a hickey on your chest, purple and pink and blooming under the bright fluorescent light that’s humming above you.
The shower starts with a groan and a hiss, the pressure battering the floor of the tub and you shed what little clothes you had on before clambering into it, skin prickling at the chill before it rocketed to almost too hot. You hit the temperature dial with an annoyed indifference, hiding under the cool spray until your hair is stuck to your head and it doesn’t hurt as much as it did when you first opened your eyes.
You think back to the night before, eyes closed, your stomach starting to turn with tequila and vodka and cheap beer. You remembered the sticky floors of the new bar you’d been dragged to, nothing more than a basement room filled with sweaty bodies and with brick walls covered in band posters and beer mats from places around the world. There were more people than tables and an oversized disco ball turned slowly overhead, entirely out of place as some indie sleaze song leaked out from the speakers in every corner.
You’d danced with your friends, nothing more than your hips moving in the crush of bodies, skin on skin as you tried to take shots without it spilling over your fingers. You remember licking raspberry syrup from your thumb, your eyes on a guy who stood across the room from you, his brows raised when you grinned.
You remember a song passing, maybe two, before he came over. There hadn’t been any bravado, no cheesy lines, no faux nonchalance. He’d bent down to your ear, a large warm hand hovering over the small of your back as he leaned into you. Someone had bumped him, his lips brushing your ear and he’d told you that you were pretty.
You’d grinned, shyness disappearing under the taste of tequila and when he’d asked you to dance you’d handed your empty glass to your friend and took his hand. It got blurry then, his hips against your ass as he moved to the music, moved against you. His hands, warm and big, laying on your hips, fingers settling into the crease of your upper thigh until you were too warm and the only answer was to pull him outside for some air.
He’d tasted like beer when he kissed you, your back against the rough brick outside of the bar. But his hand had cupped the back of your head to save it from becoming sore and that alone had you arching into him, his free hand around the back of your thigh as you hitched your leg to his hip. There must’ve been a taxi ride to yours and there was a fuzzy memory of your couch, the man pressed into it as you shed your shirt and straddled him, his lips dancing across your throat, your sternum.
You stayed under the spray until the water turned too cold and your head felt less like someone had jumped on it. Your hair was clean and your face had been scrubbed, your toes minty fresh as you spat leftover toothpaste down the tub drain and when you got out, wrapped in a too small towel, your bed was empty.
content: ed, sickly sweet, lovey-dovey and horny leon, p in v sex
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧
desperate to please you. so disappointed in himself, in his body, for not being able to treat you the way he wants.
not that he was bad at it before, but he gets outrageously good at eating you out now that his dick is untrustworthy. knowing exactly where to lick and prod, how to curl his fingers and push into that spongy spot that makes your back arch.
his favourite past time is looking up from between your legs and seeing you moaning above him, head thrown back, hands making a mess of his hair. he can’t help but let out obscene noises each time you pull at his strands, each time he feels your cunt tighten around his fingers. his dick never gets fully hard, but he still feels arousal. a damp, distant warmth in his abdomen.
he’d be humping the bed. not vigorously, not like he did when he was a younger man, but slow and controlled. a slow grind, over and over, until you’d come too many times all over his face and couldn’t take it anymore. the arousal would linger for hours. never enough to get him hard, but he still felt it. it made him heady, cuddling up to you, pawing at your breasts and kissing up your neck. he wished he could fuck you like he did when you’d first met. missed the feeling of entering you, of cumming inside you.
after searching online, reading countless articles, he came up with a semi-solution. fastening a harness around his broad hips, dildo lodged in the front. at first he’d felt embarrassed. the contrast was shocking. his limp dick remained in his briefs, but when he’d look down at you, your cunt sucking in the toy and leaking all over it, it really made him feel like he was fucking you, again. and you enjoyed it which was all that mattered to him. but this was a good alternative, close enough to the real thing. his hips would still stutter when you came around the toy, as if you actually were tightening around his length.
“just like that, lee. keep going.” his dick twitched at your words, your hands in his hair, the raked lines your nails had carved down his back. god, he couldn’t even get hard but he felt on top of the world.
“want you to cum.” you’d whisper in his ear, breath tickling his neck and making the hairs on his skin raise. “wanna see you cum, honey.”
he groaned, digging his nose into the crook of your neck, thrusting harder. he felt it, now. not hardness, but warmth. wet. he was leaking into the fabric of his underwear, under the harness.
“so good for me, always so good.” you kept going, lips parted and panting.
“i’m-oh, fuck.” he whimpered into your skin, hips stuttering. his orgasm hit him like a truck, knocking the wind out of him. you took his face gently in your hands, guiding his lips to yours. he was still cumming, eyes screwed shut, mouth malleable and weak for your kiss.
once his thrusts had stopped completely, you wrapped your arms around him, manoeuvring your bodies to lay you both on your sides, hissing at the movement of the toy still in you. his eyes were glazed over, heart pounding and head throbbing.
“you okay?” you whispered, gentle and oh so caring. his heart squeezed. you caressed the side of his face with your palm, grazing the stubble that’d grown there.
“almost killed me.”
you snorted, flicking his forehead.
he chuckled, wrapping his large arms around you, and squeezing you into him. you nuzzled into his bare chest, pressing kisses into his warm skin. his breathing was beginning to slow down, but you could still hear his heart pounding.
the worst writing crime you can ever commit in my opinion is watering down the dirty talk because you’re self-conscious that it sounds like it’s from a bad porno…..i cannot stress this enough……leave it alone. the moment you tell yourself he would not fucking say that you’re doomed. people will say almost anything if their dick is hard enough
leon w a gf who is very shy and she is so cute to him that he gets cuteness aggression in the form of grabby hands. her hips her cheeks love bites all over yeah yeah. im gonna lose it
a frustrated gruff "fuck, you're cute" while hes backing you against a wall and attaching his mouth to your neck because your noises drive him crazy. so quiet normally but being able to draw uncontrolled loud sighs and moans gets him going so bad
Me reading another person's writing: Oh they missed a period there, no worries mistakes happen :) Three adjectives in a sentence? Adverbs for days? No worries I love descriptions and this story is fire.
Me seeing the same thing in my work: Wow am I illiterate? Am I actually ok? Who the actual fuck told me I can write so I can go and curse their entire family for the time it took for me to carefully craft this GARBAGE.
I love that four different people on my feed scheduled this joyous person to reblog by 8am on June 1. I look forward to seeing this a dozen more times today.
Summary: Your ex invites you to his wedding. Showing up alone would only prove him right all those years ago, but he deserves a kick in the brass cojones. Leon's nothing if not an enabler.
WC: 6k
CW: fake dating, established friendship as coworkers, nicknames, no use of y/n, no mention of ages, fluff, bad fish puns, mild angst/comfort, first kiss (real), happy ending
The mission is finally over. You know this because your desk is a fucking mess.
Printouts and clippings and folders lay thick enough to suffocate, and you’re still receiving tidbits and snippets that need to be sorted and distributed. You’ve lost your breakfast bar under the same newspaper, twice, in two different locations as you shuffle and juggle and group and discard.
The discard needs to be happening faster. Your waste bin is the cleanest thing in your cubicle.
Your finger traces under a line of text on page #3 of relevant dossier #7, transcribing it into your report one-handed, eyes intent on your computer screen. You’ve got earbuds in with box-fan white noise cranked to drown out the office phones and low-grade chatter from surrounding cubes. You’re already running your brain in ten different directions, working on your report while compiling documentation to share with the field agents for their reports, and they keep pinging your IM, hounding you for updates. You wish you could set your status to something more abrasive than “🔴 Do Not Disturb”.
On the one hand, you understand how the quick turnaround on mission reports means a direct tap into memory while it’s still fresh, but on the other – you’re all fucking exhausted, some of you are injured, and this feels a little bit like friendly fire. Especially when you’re the intelligence agent and your field operatives are all tugging on your metaphorical shirt hem, whining for your attention.
Something brushes your ear and you slap at it, whipping your head around. Of course you’d have a fly buzzing around your cubicle, now, too.
It’s not a fly. Leon Kennedy just took out one of your earbuds.
You clutch at your chest, the shock of finding an entire person standing behind you making your skin feel like it teleported 1cm to the left without you.
“You weren’t hearing me,” he says by way of an apology. You snatch the earbud back.
“That’s the POINT.”
“You said that info was on a thumb drive?”
“I said it will be,” you say, frazzled. “I’ve got like twenty balls in the air right now, Leon. Don’t break my concentration.”
“Can I help with anything?”
“Respect the status,” you snap, referring to the Do Not Disturb designation that he had bypassed by showing up in person.
Your tone echoes back in your ears and you shut your eyes, sighing and rubbing at a spot on your forehead. You can feel a monumental headache building, but that’s no reason to be nasty. Leon’s under the same tight deadlines.
“Sorry.”
“I get it,” he says, picking up the empty wrapper from your breakfast bar and transferring it to your trash can. There’s a deep scratch on his arm, gummy and raw, held shut with butterfly closures.
“I’ll have it ready by EOD,” you say, pronouncing the acronym like it’s a word. Ee-odd. It’s an olive branch poking up through the hellfire: an inside joke between the two of you. The corner of his mouth stretches into that half-smile.
“Roger, Earworm.”
The bastard thinks it’s a funny nickname: always the voice in my ear. And it is funny, because it was never mean-spirited. Some of the other field operatives get borderline malicious with their interpersonal nicknames.
You toss a balled-up paper at him; he twists and it bounces off his hip.
“So fuck off, Toothskin.”
When you’d first thrown that one back at him you’d won one of his genuine laughs, the kind you only got when you really surprised him. Always making it by the skin of your teeth.
A trainee had said once that your nicknames sounded mean, that they made you sound like unhygienic trolls or rotted goblins. They’d suggested something like Angel and Lucky instead, because it was sentimentally the same thing and positivity would strengthen your team dynamic.
Three guesses if they’d ever completed the program.
You’d never told Leon about that lunch room conversation. You didn’t need to watch him die laughing.
In your cubicle, his smile stretches a little wider, then he glances at his watch. Cursing under his breath, he leaves at an urgent clip. You’re already facing your computer again with your stolen earbud crammed back in.
The silent ticking of the clock remains deafening.
You love the sounds of coming home after a long day, but tonight it all sounds especially serene.
The thump of your shoes, kicked off carelessly in the foyer.
The shf of stiff fabric shed from your tired body, the blissful whisper of well-worn, downy-soft pajamas slipping over your skin.
The delicate clink of a wineglass; the full-throated cascade of a generous pour.
You take a heavy sip and lean against your kitchen island, closing your eyes and releasing a long breath. God. Trapped at your desk all day and then six hundred interceptions when you were finally allowed to leave? You felt like a fucking running back making a mad dash for the endzone. The night air had never tasted so sweet, once you'd finally made it through the doors.
Your oven makes a series of quiet clicks, coming back up to temperature. Even if dinner’s just thawed leftovers, again, you’d set yourself up for something fresh, too, because you fucking deserve it. You’re already starting to smell it. You take another sip of wine and smile.
And then you remember. It strikes you like a horrible bolt of lightning.
At the same time, your phone starts ringing on the countertop.
Incoming Call
Toothskin
“Fuck!”
You want to throw your wineglass. How the fuck did you forget?
> Answer
“Fuck, Leon, I’m so sorry, I completely fucked it–“
“Hey, whoa,” he says, but you’re still talking.
"It’s in my fucking bag, I was on my way to drop it off and I got–“
He says your name; you barely hear it.
“Fuck! I can’t believe I just fucking walked out– I’ll come drop it off, okay? I can– I’ll just … shit, the fucking oven–"
"HEY," he says, raising his voice. "I’m already in the car. What’s your location?"
When Leon knocks at your door, you swing it open and then hurry back into the house like a reverse doorbell-ditch. He blinks, hand still raised in a frozen knock.
“Just come in!” You shout over the beeping of the kitchen timer.
Leon steps inside and closes the door softly behind himself, looking around.
You hadn’t turned on any lights in the front hall; the kitchen sits as a literal light at the end of the tunnel. Leon clocks your tumbled shoes under your hanging coats, the splay of your keys on the side table where you’d tossed them. Ready to be fucking done with the day.
Despite the dark, the front hall is cozy. Your coats hold whispers of your perfume. There’s a hint of clean laundry and an undercurrent of something more complex, almost earthy; the house smells lived in. By you.
It also, overwhelmingly, smells like fresh bread.
You’re setting the steaming, crackling loaf on a cooling rack and slapping the oven gloves off of your hands when Leon wanders into the light of your kitchen.
"I didn’t know you baked,” he says, eyes on the dark golden crust, split open where you’d scored the dough.
"Not really mission-critical information," you say, and pull open your work bag that you’ve hauled onto the kitchen island. Digging around, you find the thumb drive, but it’s tumbled into the bottom next to another thumb drive that looks identical.
Neither are labeled.
"Of fucking course," you mutter, pulling out your laptop with jerky, frustrated motions. It clacks against the countertop; you stab the power button to boot it up. “What’s ten more hours, right?”
Leon doesn’t respond. He’s assessing: you, first and foremost, strung out and self-disparaging; the kitchen, dishes in the sink, scattered messes all over; the fridge door, covered in novelty magnets and a dry-erase calendar; the corkboard on the wall.
His attention snags.
Among photos and receipts and postcards (two are from him, brought back from some vibrantly unpleasant mission locations, as a joke), incongruously, there’s a large champagne-gold envelope with a broken wax seal, clearly torn open with some violence.
It’s stabbed into the corkboard with a paring knife.
You toss one of the thumb drives back into your bag and shove the correct one towards Leon across the kitchen island.
"Bingo," you say, then catch what he’s looking at. He gestures to it.
“Jury duty?”
You know he clocks your dark expression before you 180 into something that matches his jesting tone.
“Yeah the circuit court jumped on the discounted stationary when Party City closed.”
“You hate weddings that much?”
“It’s my fucking ex,” you say venomously, picking up your wine glass. “I almost have half a mind to show up just to congratulate him on the brass cojones. Maybe give him a swift kick in them.”
“Sounds like you should.”
“He’d get too much satisfaction from my missing plus-one,” you mutter. “Like aw, your job couldn’t make it tonight? Dickknuckle,” you add under your breath.
Leon’s watching you, a faint crease between his brows.
“What?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he starts, and your brow creases. “Do you want a plus-one?”
You chuff a laugh, but he doesn’t smile, so you drop yours.
“What, like you know a guy?”
“No. Like I am a guy.”
Your eyebrows lift.
“You want to attend my ex’s wedding.”
“If it means mission success in the swift-kick department, sure,” he says. You narrow your eyes.
“You don’t even know the guy.”
He glances at the stabbed envelope on the corkboard. The blade is lodged; you'd used some force.
“I trust your judgement.”
You cross your arms, searching for a teasing twinkle in his eye, a telltale twitch of his mouth, but he’s just gazing back at you levelly.
“You’re serious,” you realize.
“Always am.”
“Please,” you scoff, but you uncross your arms and reach for your bread knife, throwing him a sidelong glance. Considering. “I’ll think about it.”
He picks up the thumb drive, tosses it in the air and catches it.
“Do that,” he says. “I’ll let myself out.”
“Wait,” you call after him, and he backs up to lean through the kitchen doorway. Wordlessly, you hold out a thick, steaming slice of the fresh bread. “For the trouble.”
He takes it.
He’s halfway to the front door when you hear him groan loud, almost obscene.
“Fuck that’s good.”
The front door closes.
His voice echoes in your ears for a while. Your cheeks are only pink from the heat of the kitchen; you turn and shut the oven off.
Earworm The mission, should you choose to accept it:
A photo loads into the text thread and Leon taps it open.
It’s the wedding invite. There’s a narrow slit bisecting the date, the same width as a paring knife blade.
He skims the details.
Mid-July. Out of state. Outdoors, in a nature preserve. Strictly formal, but no black or white dress.
He eyes the font, the thick textured paper with raw, ripped edges, the embossed leaf detailing.
It’s a vegan menu, isn’t it, he texts back.
Earworm Pescetarian
He snorts. Another text drops in from you.
Earworm You can plant the invite. Grows forget-me-nots
Of course it does.
Earworm Thought about wearing white but they might have me shot
There’s strength in numbers.
Earworm Enabler
Is this not Operation Rock The Boat?
Earworm Can’t rock it if we’re kicked out. Game plan is malicious compliance
… you’re putting me in a dress, aren’t you.
Earworm Hmm. Tempting.
There’s a fucking chandelier in the fitting room.
Under the sparkling, crystalline light, surrounded by three floor-to-ceiling mirrors, you take in your chosen battle dress from every angle.
“Yeah, that’ll do it,” you say out loud.
“You’re done already?” Leon’s voice is muffled, closed in another cubicle across the wide, thin carpet.
“It’s a slip dress,” you call back. “Not many fastenings to tangle with.”
It’s an avocado green slip dress, silky and alluring, with thin shoulder straps and a scoopy cowl neck. It’s definitely your shade. It highlights your freckles and your eyes; it shows off your arms, your collarbones, your neck. What it doesn’t reveal, it hints at, like a prize behind a curtain.
You turn again to admire the back. It’s a lot of cake to be bringing to someone else’s wedding, but he invited it.
You step out into the main space. There are more chandeliers overhead and a mirrored sort of apse at the end of the carpeted runway.
You can hear clothing rustling behind the door of the fitting room directly across from you.
“Sure you can manage all those buttons?”
The door opens and Leon’s there, looking down to fix the lay of his lapels.
“Not quite my kryptonite, but thank–“
He looks up and forgets what he's saying. Forgets where he's going, too. He stands frozen outside his fitting room, just staring at you.
That’s okay; you’re staring at him, too.
The last time you’d seen him in a suit, you were behind a desk watching a grainy, quarter-screen, black-and-white camera feed. That had had very little impact.
This? This has impact. It’s punched your stomach into a somersault.
This suit is camel-brown, the dress shirt a pastel green. The cut of the suit accentuates his broad shoulders, his tight waist; the pants make his legs look longer. The shirt brings out the green in his grey eyes, makes his skin – his lips – look a little pinker.
You were already well aware of how handsome he is, in a rugged, untouchable, dangerous Special Agent sort of way. But he’s standing here in the suit that you picked to compliment your dress and you can’t remember anyone looking more fucking attractive ever in your entire life.
And the way he always carries himself with that self-assuredness, like nothing could ever bowl him over?
He’s staring at you, and he’s looking a little bowled over.
The moment is gone just as quickly as it arrived. He pushes his hand through his hair and the unflappable Leon is back.
“Don’t you clean up nice.”
You shut your mouth with a click.
“Speak for yourself,” you say, heading for the mirrors at the end of the runway. He follows you, standing just behind your shoulder.
The two of you are a fucking one-two knockout. You look so good together, you can’t face it for more than a few blinding seconds before your chest starts feeling tight.
You sit down heavily on one of the velvet chairs between fitting room doors and manage not to put your head in your hands. Leon looks down at himself, smoothing a hand over the buttons of his suit.
“You don’t like it.”
"No, it’s fucking perfect," you bite out.
"What’s wrong?"
"This whole thing is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous." You're short on breath. You can feel panic rising, tight bands around your lungs. You do put your head in your hands, clutching at your hair to stop the tremble in your fingers.
"Hey," he says, crouching down in front of you. "Where’s this coming from?"
"Why am I dragging you into this? I don’t care about him or what he thinks! I don’t care!"
"I volunteered," Leon reminds you.
"Why?"
He does the facial equivalent of a shrug.
"No bioweapons? Open bar? You tell me.”
You unclench your fists from your hair and sit back to look at him, your head against the wall. He meets your gaze, calm and even.
He’s so fucking beautiful. You can’t let on about the gymnastics routine your stomach’s doing.
“If his brother's there, don't rule out bioweapons,” you say.
“Mm. BO?”
You shake your head. “GI.”
“Noted. Book of matches for a quick escape.”
You close your eyes, huffing a little laugh through your nose.
“We’re not locked into anything,” he tells you quietly. “You’re calling the shots.”
“Mm,” you acknowledge, and take a deep breath. “Just another mission.”
“With free dinner.”
Something lands on your knee and you open your eyes; it’s Leon’s hand, palm-up. A question. An offering.
You give him a pained look.
“It’s pescetarian.”
“Could be a red herring.”
Your gaze goes wooden. He raises his eyebrows, innocent.
“Ugh, I hate you,” you say, but clap your hand into his waiting palm. He hauls you to your feet. And he’s not done.
"A bait-and-switch?"
"Stop," you groan, shoving him towards his fitting room.
"A shell game.”
"Ignoring you!" The door to your fitting room shuts and you start wriggling out of the dress.
You almost rip it when Leon yells FISH from across the way and you fall into helpless laughter.
Toothskin Have you checked the registry?
I’m liking the 200-year-old sourdough starter
Toothskin Old yeast… what milestone anniversary is that?
200th. Keep up
And then the day arrives.
Leon puts the Porsche in park and you both sit back, observing the battlefield.
The nature preserve vista stretches vast beyond the front bumper, all dappled sunlight and swaying greens with scatters of bright, energetic color. The sky is a vibrant blue and dotted with cotton-puff clouds, the birds are singing, and there’s enough of a breeze to prevent stagnant air without upsetting meticulous hairstyles. It’s a perfect day in a gorgeous setting.
You’re clutching the invite, unawares, and the heat and moisture from your hands has warped the textured paper. Leon glances down and gently tugs it from your grasp.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m just… trying to remember the last time I saw him.”
“On the Save the Date.”
“Heard him, then. I’m trying to remember what he said to me.”
“Do you think he remembers?”
“No.”
“Blank slate, then,” Leon says, glancing in the rearview. Guests are meandering towards the gap in the low, rustic wooden fence, trickling into the sanctuary. “What are your boundaries?”
“What?”
“As your date. We covered our story; what’s your stance on PDA?”
“Oh.” You wave it off. “I don’t expect you to do anything.”
He scoffs, incredulous. “We’re at a wedding, as a couple, and you look like that,” he says, indicating your whole look with a pointed raise of his eyebrows. “You want people to think you’re dating a eunuch?”
You stare at him like you’re going to fire something back, but there’s nothing in the chamber. He’s disarmed you. Maybe fried your circuitry a little.
“Here,” he prompts, and holds his hand out over the gear shift. “Do you like holding hands with a partner?”
You can’t be this flustered. He’s just gathering intel for the undercover operation. This is tactical.
You take his hand, feigning nothing but mild agreement while your traitorous pulse picks up.
“Sure, it’s fine.”
He adjusts, lacing your fingers together, watching your face.
“Still fine?”
“Still fine.” His palm is warm and rough, callouses at the base of every finger from intensive strength training. His thumb lightly strokes your hand.
“If I touch your back?”
You tamp down a shiver, keeping your voice neutral.
“Fine, from the waist up.”
“Your hair?”
“Why my hair?”
He gently frees his hand, brushes his fingers over your ear like he’s fixing a windblown lock.
“Okay, yeah, that’s fine.”
He traces his thumb from your temple down to your jaw, delineating the side of your face.
“Is this okay to kiss?”
Despite the car still running and the AC blowing, your skin is hot and buzzing and you’re feeling that tight panic start to threaten your lungs again. It’s too close and intimate in here. You swat his hand away.
“Look, I know you’re good at reading a room, okay? So I’ll trust you. Just don’t fucking grope me in front of the bride’s grandma and I think we’ll be fine.”
“Killjoy.”
You sharpen on him. He just blinks at you owlishly, unthreatened.
You poke him in the side, where you know he’s sensitive. He clamps his arm down and jerks away.
“Alright, roger! No show for grandma!”
It pokes you back, right in the funny bone. You collapse into laughter, forehead pressed into his shoulder, and the bands around your chest loosen.
When you recover, he’s still smiling quietly, smug. You give him a shove, then double check your makeup in the visor mirror.
“Alright, let’s go, before all the worst seats are taken.”
The ceremony is gorgeous.
The altar stands under the strong, reaching branches of an ancient oak, in a serene forest clearing bordered by flickering tea lights in pristine mason jars. The bride looks Barbie-perfect in her flawless bright white dress, and the groom – your ex – is practically glowing himself. She’s probably got him on a juice detox, yoga regimen and seventeen-step skincare routine. But it’s working.
They look beautiful together, and hopelessly in love.
Your hands have knotted in your lap and your jaw is clenched tight.
You’re not jealous.
Well. You’re not jealous of her for who she’s marrying. You might be jealous of… everything else.
Something touches your wrist. It’s Leon, and just the warmth of his fingers on your skin dissolves your acidity.
Your hands unknot as Leon slips his fingers in with yours, his palm a warm and comfortable weight. You hook your free hand loose at his elbow, hugging his arm, and he leans in to press a kiss to your temple, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lean into it.
At the end of the ceremony, the freshly-minted husband and wife make a bottleneck that guests have to pass through on their way to the reception tent. You’re in line, wondering when ‘congratulations’ will stop sounding like a real word.
There are only seven people in line ahead of you. You’re breathing even, because you’re not anxious. You’re fine.
“Should I tell him he’s got a seed in his hair?” Leon’s speaking low right next to your ear, his eyes on the man in front of you in line. You refocus; it’s the type of seed that travels on the wind with a bit of fluff, like a dandelion. The guy’s hair is dark enough that it’s not hard to spot.
You turn your head to speak in Leon’s ear.
“No. Ten he’ll never notice.”
He smirks.
“Fifteen his wife won’t, either.”
Five people ahead of you.
“Bad bet, she’s hardly looked at him since they stood up. Twenty it’s a random stranger that tells him.”
“Bad bet, you’re a random stranger,” he says, his breath tickling your ear.
Three people ahead of you. You’re biting back a smile.
“Damn.”
Leon’s hand hasn’t left your waist.
“You came!”
Your ex lights up when he sees you next in line, and you’re even more surprised when he goes in for the hug. Leon feels you move towards it on rote and lets you go; the hug is light and short-lived. Your ex’s frame seems smaller than you remember, but maybe that’s because you’ve had Leon glued to your hip. He’s taller than your ex, maybe all in the swoop of his bronze hair, but he’s definitely… bigger.
“God, you look incredible,” your ex is saying, but there’s no depth or heat to it. It sounds just like it would if you were two former friends that hadn’t seen each other in almost a decade, and that hits you… strangely. You were lovers, for fuck’s sake, you were together for more than three years! Why did he invite you here if it wasn’t to gloat? To rub all this in your face? You hadn’t separated on good terms, but there isn’t a shred of animosity you’re getting from him right now. He truly just seems happy to see you.
And, annoyingly, that comes as a relief even while it stumbles you. It’s like you were holding the end of a wire at tension only to find it wasn’t attached to anything. You can’t help but feel a little childish about it, but in your defense, the wedding invite completely out of the blue? That was a crazy thoughtless move. How many other exes had been invited today, and how many had shown? How many other invites were still stabbed into a corkboard somewhere?
So maybe you’ve stretched your legs for nothing. His cojones aren’t brass, he’s just kinda dumb. And you know what? Good for him.
You return to Leon’s bubble and his hand is right back at your waist, casually possessive. You wind your arm around his back while you enthuse – and it is genuine – how stunning and happy the bride and groom look together. Your ex pulls his new wife close and kisses the side of her face, then gestures to Leon.
“And who’s your lucky gentleman?”
Leon lets you introduce him – you're calling the shots – shaking hands before settling in against you again, and you can feel his attention’s on you. You can see them seeing something on his face and you look up at him.
Your tummy backflips.
His eyes are so soft and fond, looking between yours. There’s a shade of something that looks like pride, too, and you wonder if he can feel that the fight’s left your body.
He kisses your forehead, then offers the bride and groom another congrats and beautiful ceremony and we’ll see you inside, opening your exit. You walk out together from the shade of the forest, into the July sun, and the light breeze greets you smelling sweet and hot and floral.
When you’re out of earshot, he speaks.
“What’s our sitrep?”
You sigh, defeated.
“You wanna go, don’t you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You signed on for violence.”
“Maybe at first.” The two of you have to break to walk apart on an uneven stretch of path, so he takes your hand instead. “We leave now, what’re the optics?”
“A shellfish allergy.”
“Weak,” he heckles. He’s right. Leaving now would look suspicious.
You tug his hand, grimly indicating the reception tent when he meets your gaze.
“That’s the hot zone. Last chance to run.”
He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, tightens the lace of your fingers together.
“I don’t give up that easy.”
“How did you two meet?”
Of course, as soon as the seat beside Leon vacates one ass, this one drops into it. You remember her from Thanksgivings and Christmases with your ex’s family, and here she is again with that ominous glint in her eye, wine glass already in hand. You grip Leon’s thigh under the table in warning.
“Hi, Auntie.”
“Hello, dear. You’re looking so well," she says, scrunching her nose condescendingly. "So how’d you dupe this one?”
Leon straightens from his casual lean, facing her better while resting his arm over the back of your chair.
“Aren’t we charming.”
Wine Aunt sets her chin in her hand, one eyebrow cocked as she looks Leon up and down, indiscreet. He’d abandoned his suit jacket a while ago, sleeves rolled up his arms, tie stuffed into his pocket so he could unbutton his collar a little. He does look fucking delicious, but you want to scoop out her slimy eyes for ogling him like that.
“Mmm. Certainly,” she purrs at him. So she’s forfeited her tongue, now, too.
You see Leon give her a subtly disgusted up-down in return before he turns his full attention to you instead.
“Met you at work,” he says to you, and you’re obsessed with the way he’s effectively answering Wine Aunt while also cutting her out of the conversation. He glances up at your hair, brushes it back from your forehead. “It was just your voice at first, lots of phone calls. And then I got to meet you.”
Your tummy’s not just fluttering, it’s kicking you. He’s too good at sounding like this, warm and fond and genuine. It’s starting to pinch behind your ribs.
It’s just a show. You’re playing in it, too.
Wine Aunt’s bringing her glass to her lips, muttering something like isn’t that sweet, expression fully soured. You can see she’s turned away, scanning the tables for her next victim, and your quiet smile at Leon grows a sharpened edge of victory. Then she leaves without another word and you have to bite back a full grin.
“Did she really just try to come on to me?”
“She’s notorious.”
“Mm. I thought about saying we met at an AA meeting, but she wouldn't know anything about that.”
Your eyes sparkle with dark delight. “Leon Kennedy. You are here for violence.”
You both jump when the speakers give a sudden feedback screech, the DJ raising his arm in apology before checking the microphone again. He announces it’s time for the speeches, and Leon exchanges a harrowed glance with you before grabbing both your empty drinks glasses.
“Same again?”
“Stronger.”
You haven’t been to a single wedding where the speeches didn’t set your teeth on edge.
Tonight might be the worst yet. You’re glad, at least, that there’s a literal spotlight somewhere else in the tent, leaving your table in heavy shadow. Both you and Leon look like you're on trial awaiting a heavy verdict rather than listening to weepy, heartfelt sentiments and weak jokes that rarely land.
Your fingers draw aimless lines up and down your drink glass, smearing through the condensation. Your eyes are on Leon’s back; he’s hunched forward, elbows on the table.
You listen to different iterations of the same gist, hear the same buzzwords, over and over.
Proud. Deserve. Love. Peace. Safety. Long life. Happiness. Together.
They all land like darts, piercing you.
Halfway through the father of the bride’s speech, Leon gets up, unreadable. He sets his hand on your back and leans down, his voice low and even.
“I’ll be right back.”
It’s calm, casual. Normal.
The giveaway is when his whiskey goes with him, and the direction he heads.
Not for the bathroom. Not for the bar.
The exit.
The reception tent is set up next to a huge, beautifully manicured garden courtyard, all high shrubs and fragrant bushes and bursting clusters of flowers lining stone paths that stretch and curve and cross over each other, a loose labyrinth. In the middle of it all stands a large stone fountain, its cascade a gentle burble rather than a showy spray, its wide pool full of blooming lilypads and the white and orange flicker of koi fish. Above it is a massive circular pergola, a slat-wooded ring dripping with cafe lights and vining flowers like a great wild halo.
The loudspeakers in the tent become just a shapeless thrum once you’re past the first wall of shrubs, and the summer chorus of crickets and frogs work to drown it out entirely. The sun’s almost down; fireflies are flashing and flickering in the dense foliage as you navigate the paths, heading for the sound of water.
And that’s exactly where you find him.
Leon’s sitting on the edge of the stone pool, head down, whiskey glass hanging from loose fingers. For a moment you just stand quietly and watch him breathe.
“Hey.”
He looks up; straightens and clears his throat, casually sipping at his drink.
“Hey,” he echoes.
“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him, moving in closer. His eyes reflect the cafe lights like little stars as he looks up to meet your approach. There’s a subtle tightness to his expression, a shadow lurking, but if you didn’t know him like you do, you’d never recognize it. He’s too well trained.
“Do what?”
“Hide.”
He doesn’t deny it. He lowers his gaze and downs the last of his drink.
“You’re missing the speeches,” he says instead.
“Chad has the microphone."
He huffs a humorless laugh through his nose. A breeze meanders through the gardens, stirring through his hair. Not really thinking about it, you trace one finger lightly across his forehead, back over his ear, his hair falling softly back into place. He meets your eyes but your gaze is distant.
The both of you have sacrificed so much, willingly or otherwise, for your line of work. That’s why it’s not you at the sweetheart table tonight, and why it probably never will be. You’ve learned how to ignore the empty spaces, to close them off within yourselves so you can keep moving forward, because you can both see the bigger picture and your places within it.
What you do creates space for happy endings, fights to maintain that space. Tries, every day, to broaden it.
You know you’ve both long given up on the idea that the fight will ever be over. After two decades, it’s inescapable: there will always be something lurking in the shadows, growing in labs, lying in wait. The only way this will end for you is in death; as long as you’re alive, you have to keep going. That’s your lifelong commitment.
You can train yourself to endure the emptiness all you want. It’s still fucking lonely.
But if today has proven anything to you, it’s that you’re not alone. For once, you’re not by yourself behind a desk in some dark safehouse while Leon's out who-knows-where, running with Death on his heels. For the first time, he’s here, he’s right in front of you, you can touch him, comfort him the way you’ve always wished you could, hearing him breathe brokenly down the comms on particularly difficult missions.
And what missions weren’t difficult?
“Thank you for being here,” you tell him quietly, distantly. You card his hair back over his ear, still busy in your own head, just liking how it feels. His hair is soft, and his strands of silver look like threads of gold in the warm, soft lighting.
His hand, resting on his own thigh, brushes your leg through the silky fall of your skirt. You’re standing between his legs at the edge of a bubbling fountain, playing with his hair while fireflies dance in the fragrant summer air around you.
Your fingers hesitate, starting to curl like a dying vine near his temple as the awareness sets in. But before you can draw your hand away, he dips his head to brush your fingers against his hair again.
Don’t go.
His eyes close and his head sways back when you comb both of your hands into his hair, nails scratching lightly along his scalp. His hands are settled on your legs now, just leaning there, still rested on his own thighs. His shoulders are loose, tension drained, and his lips are parted.
It’s such a show of trust that it almost overwhelms you. Not only are you blocking sightlines but his head is in your hands, and despite the nooks and shadows of the courtyard all around you, he's got his eyes closed. This is more surrendered than you’ve ever seen him.
You know he’s lethal, body honed not just to handle weapons, but into a weapon itself. He can snap a spine with the heel of his palm. He can crush a skull with his foot, send a body absolutely sailing with the strength of his legs.
But he’s also been one of the kindest, gentlest people you know. He cracks stupid jokes when he knows you’re wound up, but only after checking in with you. He looks at you with such adoration. He touches you with respect and care.
Is all of it really just for the role?
His lashes are a thick, dark sweep over the tops of his cheeks. You run your thumb over his eyebrow, lightly down the bridge of his nose, and he opens his eyes. You can see the green in his irises as he studies you; the dark halo of blue that rings them.
“I like this better," he tells you.
"What?"
He touches his ear, miming an earpiece, then sets his hands on your hips, light. Easily moved or brushed away. You do neither.
Your heart thumps a little faster. This touch is not waist-up.
This isn’t the role.
You lean down, speaking directly against the shell of his ear.
“Don't get used to it, Kennedy.”
You’ve barely finished saying his name before he’s turned his head and caught your lips in a kiss.
You draw back a little, startled, your lips buzzing. His eyes are half-lidded looking up at you, unapologetic.
“No one’s watching,” you check.
“I know.” He looks down at your lips.
Your hands skim his jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin.
“This was never about aiding in my revenge, was it.”
He shakes his head. His thumbs are stroking your hipbones through the silk of your dress.
"I just wanted this," he admits.
Suspended within the summer song of crickets and frogs, under whispering leaves and beside softly burbling water, you lean down and kiss him. His hands slide up to your waist, mouth so tender on yours, kissing you back while the fireflies wink and dance around you.
You’re not alone.
On AO3
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turnnoffyourmind
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