kitty

writing consistently is a myth here it seems

[indecisivekitty]

𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬.

=^·ω·^= ﹐ 19! ﹐ she/they ﹐ se asian-pacifika ﹐ enfp

hi, i’m kittyヽ(≧∀≦)ﾉ and if i’m not writing i’m probably doing one of the following: sleeping, reading, gaming

currently writing/outlining

n/a

𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊’𝒎 𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒐. . .

figuring out life once more

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

For the Valko requests, I would love to see some cute family fluff between MC, Valko, his cousins, grandma, and his sister (I think he had a sister in his lore, correct me if I am wrong), because I want to see how MC would get along with Valko's family. 🐺

𝐀 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄

synopsis: when valko brings you home for the first time, he warns you about everything: his grandmother’s food, his sister’s stare, his cousin’s stories, the family jokes that always cut too close. he forgets to warn you that love in his house is not gentle or quiet, but loud, practical, mercilessly observant, and served warm at the kitchen table. cw/tw: valko x reader. very soft domestic fluff. light family teasing. read here: ao3 ⋅ tumblr

Valko lost his nerve three steps from the door.

It was a small death, but you saw it happen; the brave lift of his chin, the twitch in his jaw, the small, tragic collapse of his entire face when a crash came from inside the house.

His hand tightened around yours.

“Dobro,” he said.

Another crash.

From inside, and older woman called, “If that's my good plate, I will put someone in the ground before supper.”

Valko closed his eyes. You turned toward him.

He opened one eyes. “She loves plates.”

“More than people?”

“Depends on the people.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and relief moved through him all at once, softening his shoulders, loosening the frightened line of his mouth. He'd been nervous all morning. Badly nervous. Valko, who could grin with blood on his teeth and make danger look like a door he'd simply forgotten to knock on, had spent the whole walk here giving you warnings no sane person could have prepared for.

Do not let Mika read your palm. He makes things up and then believes them.

Do not compliment Baba's curtains unless you want curtains.

Do not say you're full.

And, most importantly, if anyone mentions the soup incident, Valko had said, grave as a condemned man, they're lying.

You had asked what the soup incident was.

He had started to walk faster.

Now he stood before the old wooden door with your fingers caught in his, trying to look calm and producing, somehow, the exact expression of a wolf about to be bathed.

“Valko,” you said softly.

“Yes?”

“You're shaking.”

“I'm not shaking.”

“You are.”

“I’m containing myself.”

“From what?”

“Hereditary embarrassment.”

The door flew open.

A girl about his age stood on the other side, dark-eyed and grinning, with flour on her cheek and murder in her posture. She took one look at Valko’s hand around yours, then lifted her gaze to his face with the slow delight of someone finding a knife exactly where she had hoped one would be.

A slow smile cut across her face.

“Oh,” she smirked. “So this is why you changed your shirt twice.”

Valko made a sound. Small, wounded, entirely unlike a wolf.

“I changed once.”

“You changed twice. The first shirt was the blue one. The second was the one that made you look like you were going to court. This...This is the third.”

His ears went red.

The woman held out her hand to you. “Milena. His sister.”

“Unfortunately,” Valko added.

“Fortunately. Without me, you'd still think soap is optional in winter.”

“It isn't optional.”

“Because of me.”

You took Milena's hand. Her grip was warm, firm, and full of judgement she hadn't yet decided to use.

Behind her, the house breathed out heat. Bread, onions, some in old wood, something sweet cooling on a counter. There were voices everywhere, layered and crossing. One person laughing while another complained, a child humming under a table, chairs scraping, a kettle whistling like a bird losing patience.

Milena stepped aside. “Come in before Baba starts saying we were raised by wolves.”

Valko muttered, “We were.”

She looked at him. “And still, some of us learned manners.”

You crossed the threshold. The house was smaller than the noise made it seem, or maybe the noise had simply learned to fill every corner. Framed photographs climbed the walls in crooked rows. Herbs hung drying above the kitchen window. Nothing matched, and yet everything looked touched, mended, argued over... kept.

Valko leaned close as he helped you out of your coat.

“Last chance,” he whispered. “We can run.”

You looked past him to where an old woman stood near the stove, hands folded over her apron, watching you with bright, wolfish eyes.

“Too late,” you whispered back. “I think she heard you.”

“I hear everything,” the old woman said.

Valko went still.

Milena smiled into her shoulder.

The old woman crossed the kitchen with the slow authority of someone who had ruled this house before any of them had teeth. She was small, broad in the shoulders, silver-haired, with flour on her wrist and no softness wasted in her face. The softness, you realised, was elsewhere. In the bread covered by a towel, in the chair pulled out before you reached it, in the way Valko lowered his head without being asked when she came close.

“Baba,” he said, and for the first time that day, his voice lost its jokes.

She, of course, ignored him.

Instead, she took your face between both hands.

Her palms smelled of rosemary, yeast, and soap. Her thumbs rested beneath your cheekbones, and for one strange second the whole house seemed to lean closer. The cousins, the kettle, the old boards, even Valko, holding his breath beside you.

“So,” Baba Vesna said. “You are the reason he forgets to eat.”

“I eat,” Valko protested.

Teta Marika appeared by the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “You came here last week, opened the pantry, stared at a sack of potatoes for six minutes, then said, ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’”

“That was taken out of context.”

“What was the context?” you asked, because love had made you brave and terrible.

Valko looked betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

A boy leaning backwards on his chair nearly lost balance from laughing, another cousin caught the chair by its back without looking up from peeling an apple.

Baba Vesna patted your cheek once and released you. “Sit, dušo. Eat something before my family embarrass me properly.”

Valko gave a strangled laugh. “Before?”

No one listened to him.

You were placed at the long wooden table as if the decision had been made before you arrived. A bowl appeared, then bread, then butter, then a small plate of pickled vegetables. Teta Marika, Valko's aunt, kissed the air beside your cheeks and took the small gift you had brought. Mika announced that he already knew your favourite colour from Valko’s face. Luka told him that was the stupidest sentence ever spoken in the kitchen, which Mika accepted as praise. The little one beneath the table emerged, solemn and bread-dusted, and introduced himself as Niko.

“Are you going to marry him?” Niko asked.

Valko walked directly into the side of a chair.

The whole kitchen paused. You pressed your lips together.

Milena leaned against the doorway, radiant with cruelty. “Careful, Niko. Val only has two knees.”

“Niko,” Teta Marika turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “We ask guests if they want juice first.”

Niko nodded, absorbing this etiquette with grave importance. “Do you want juice before you marry him?”

Valko covered his face with both hands. You bit down on your smile so hard it almost hurt. This wasn't what you had expected.

Some foolish, frightened part of you had imagined a den in the old sense. Teeth, watchful eyes, a family arranged around blood and law, waiting to decide whether your bones could be allowed near theirs. Valko had never spoken of them casually. Whenever he said home, something tender and embarrassed moved through him, as though the word itself had fingers and knew exactly where to touch.

Now you sat beneath a crooked lamp while his grandmother tore bread with her hands and put the first piece on your plate.

“Eat,” Baba Vesna said.

You obeyed.

The bread was warm enough to steam between your fingers. The crust cracked softly, butter melted into it in golden lines. Across the table, Valko watched you take the first bite as if your mouth held judgment from heaven.

You chewed. Swallowed.

“It’s delicious.”

Baba Vesna clicked her tongue. “Of course it is wonderful. I made it.”

Mika leaned towards you. “He talked about you after the market yesterday.”

Valko’s hand hit the table. “No.”

“Yes, you did” Luka said sticking his tongue out.

“No.”

“You said, and I quote, 'she chooses fruit with such care'.”

The table went quiet for half a breath, your hand stilled around the bread. Valko looked at Luka as if betrayal had entered the room wearing his cousin’s face.

“That was private.”

“You said it in the kitchen.”

“That makes it private.”

Milena sat across from you and rested her chin in her hand. “He also said you have kind hands.”

Valko’s mouth opened, nothing came out. Your heart did something foolish inside your chest.

The teasing had worked him bright and flustered, but beneath it, something softer trembled. He was embarrassed, yes. Horribly, so. Beautifully, so. Yet the thing underneath was more dangerous than shame. This was exposure. A curtain pulled open in a room he had spent so long keeping dim.

He had spoken of you here.

At this table. In this warm, loud house. To these people who teased him because they knew what he looked like with no armour on. He had brought you home long before he ever brought your body through the door.

Baba Vesna filled your bowl with soup.

“He was always like this,” she said.

“Baba, please.”

“He was a strange child,” she said.

Valko groaned. “Please.”

“A sweet child,” Teta Marika corrected.

“A dramatic child,” Luka said.

“A biting child,” Milena added.

Valko pointed at her. “You bit first.”

“You looked biteable.”

“You see what I mean?” Valko turned to you with helpless outrage. “This is what I survived.”

There was love in it, the kind that had been cooked too long and reduced into something strong enough to stain. They spoke to him as if they had known every version of him and chosen, again and again, to keep putting food in front of whichever one came home.

You looked at him while he argued with Mika about whether a stolen spoon counted as a childhood trauma.

He caught you looking. For a moment, the noise thinned.

There he was.

Valko with his hair refusing every law of decency. Valko trying so hard to survive his own family and failing beautifully. His eyes met yours with a nervous brightness that made you want to reach across the table and be cruel to every fear that had ever found him.

Then Niko pointed his spoon at you.

“Are you keeping him?”

The kitchen stopped.

Valko made a tiny sound into his bowl.

Milena closed her eyes as if praying for patience and finding none. “Niko.”

“What? Mika said maybe she is keeping him.”

His gaze dropped to the table, to the bread by his hand, to the small old cuts in the wood. The blush still clung to him, but it had changed into something quieter now. Hope, perhaps. Or terror wearing hope’s coat.

You could have laughed. Everyone would have let you. It would have been easy to throw the question back into the room like a toy and watch them tear it apart.

Instead, beneath the table, you found Valko’s hand.

His fingers closed around yours at once.

“I’d like to,” you said.

The house held itself still for half a breath.

Then Baba Vesna nodded, once, as if some old contract had been signed in soup and honey.

“Good,” she said. “He is difficult, but warm.”

Valko bowed his head.

His shoulders shook.

At first you thought he was upset. Then you realised he was laughing, quietly, helplessly, with one hand over his mouth and the other holding yours under the table like he meant to keep it there until winter.

Mika groaned. “Ah, look at him. Finished. Completely finished.”

Milena reached for the pickles. “Good. He needed finishing.”

Teta Marika smiled into her tea. “Eat more, zlato. You will need strength.”

“For Valko?” you asked.

“For all of us.”

Dinner became less a meal than a storm with chairs.

Bowls moved, hands reached, stories climbed over one another and died unfinished because someone remembered a better accusation. Luka asked you practical questions in a calm voice: where you liked to walk, whether Valko had shown you the old river path, whether he still pretended not to like sweet things. Mika tried to read your palm and declared that you were fated to own a troublesome dog.

“That's just Valko,” Milena said.

“I am not a dog.”

“True,” Luka said. “Dogs listen.”

Valko began quietly placing the best pieces of food on your plate.

A soft carrot, the inside of the bread, a dumpling he pretended to move away from himself and somehow abandoned beside your spoon. He was not subtle. He had never been subtle. He was a wolf trying to hide a whole deer behind a napkin.

You noticed on the fourth offering.

His family noticed on the first.

Baba Vesna said nothing until Valko tried to give you the last honey cake. Then she leaned back in her chair and looked at him over her tea.

“Ah,” she said.

Valko froze.

It was one syllable. It landed like a bell.

“What?” he said.

“No, no.” She waved him off. “Continue. Starve for romance. Very noble.”

Mika threw his head back.

You picked up the honey cake before Valko could die at the table and broke it in two, placing half on his plate. “There,” you said. “No starving.”

He looked at the cake.

Then he looked at you.

His expression opened in a way that made the room, somehow, feel too small for your heart. It opened with that unguarded, bewildered softness he sometimes gave you when kindness arrived before he had prepared himself to receive it.

Milena saw it.

Her teasing quieted.

For a moment, she only watched him with something old and protective in her face.

Then she stood. “Come help me with plates.”

Valko blinked. “Me?”

“Her.” Milena pointed at you.

Valko frowned. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“That's not a reason.”

“It has worked on you for years.”

You rose before he could protest again. Milena took two plates from the table and handed you none of them, which told you at once that this had nothing to do with helping.

She led you down a narrow hallway lined with photographs.

Behind you, Valko’s voice rose. “Do not interrogate her.”

The hallway smelled faintly of beeswax and dried herbs. The noise of the kitchen softened behind you, still there, still golden, but now wrapped in walls. Milena stopped by a window overlooking the yard and leaned her hip against the sill.

For the first time all evening, she let the smile leave her face.

“He likes you,” she said.

You smiled gently. “I got that impression.”

“No.” Her eyes flicked towards the kitchen. “He likes people easily. He likes old men who tell bad stories, stray cats that scratch him, children who throw rocks at windows because they want attention. Valko is built stupid that way.”

A laugh escaped you.

Milena folded her arms.

“He brings things home,” she continued. “Broken things, angry things. Things he thinks no one else will be gentle with.” Her gaze moved towards the kitchen, where Valko’s voice lifted in protest. “He does not bring people home.”

Your throat tightened.

From the kitchen, Valko shouted, “It wasn't soup. It was stew.”

Mika shouted back, “Stew cannot make a grown man cry.”

“I was overwhelmed by flavour.”

Milena closed her eyes for one second. “Bože, give me strength.”

You laughed softly.

She looked at you again, sharper now.

“He was nervous all week,” she said. “Changed his shirt three times. Asked me if the house smelled too much like onions. Asked Luka if his laugh was strange. Asked Baba if she could please not tell the story about the goat.”

“The goat?”

“Later.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “Maybe never.”

You glanced back towards the kitchen.

He had asked if his laugh was strange.

Something in you ached with such tenderness that it almost felt like anger.

You looked down.

“He didn’t need to worry,”

“He is clumsy with precious things,” she said. “Because he thinks his hands are only good for breaking them, even when he is careful. Especially then.”

“So be kind,” she said. “Or be cruel quickly. He will survive either, but I prefer to know which one I’m dealing with.”

There it was.

The knife under the table. The love with its teeth intact. You didn't resent her for it, you thought, strangely, that you liked her more for it.

“I’m not here to hurt him,”

“Most people aren’t, at first.”

“Milena.”

Milena’s gaze narrowed.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with him,” you admitted.

“With any of this,” you continued. “He makes everything feel…” You searched for the word and hated every pretty one that came. Fated. Wild. Tender. All too polished for the mess he made of your heart. “He makes everything feel like I’ve been walking past a door my whole life, and he is the idiot who opened it with his shoulder.”

Milena stared at you.

Then she laughed once, sharp and startled.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re gone too.”

You looked down, caught.

She seemed satisfied. “Good.”

“Is that approval?”

“That is me deciding not to be difficult.”

“You were being difficult?”

“Dušo,” she said, and now her smile had teeth in it, “I was being polite.”

When you returned to the kitchen, Valko was waiting near the doorway as if he had tried to remain seated and failed.

His eyes moved from you to Milena. “What did you say to her?”

Milena walked past him. “That you were adopted.”

“I’m not.”

“Emotionally, you're a wet dog we found in the rain.”

He watched her go, wounded on principle, then turned to you with genuine concern. “What did she actually say?”

You reached up and brushed flour from his sleeve. “That you’re warm.”

“That was Baba.”

“Family consensus.”

His mouth twitched. “You are enjoying this.”

“I am.”

“You were supposed to be intimidated.”

“By Mika?”

“By the bloodline. The history. The general atmosphere of teeth.”

“Mika told me my palm says I’ll own a dog.”

Valko sighed.

You reached up and plucked the dish towel from his shoulder. “You have flour on your sleeve.”

He looked down, surprised, as if his own body had been making decisions without him. Then he looked back at you, and the kitchen noise faded once more, though this time it was only the two of you making the world small.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

The question was casual enough for anyone else to miss the tremor underneath. You heard it. The naked, waiting part. You thought of his hand shaking outside the door. Baba Vesna taking your face between her palms, of bread steaming in your fingers, of honey cake divided in two, of Milena saying he doesn't bring people home.

“I’m all right,” you said. “Are you?”

Valko smiled too quickly. “I’m alive.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

His smile softened.

For once, he did not joke immediately. It cost him something. You could see it in the way his fingers flexed at his side, reaching for mischief and finding courage instead.

“I wanted them to like you,” he said. “I wanted you to like them.”

“I do”

“I wanted…” He stopped, then laughed under his breath. “I don’t know. Something stupid.”

He looked towards the kitchen, where his family had resumed their noise without mercy. Mika was accusing Luka of stealing the larger piece of cake. Baba Vesna had taken down a tin from the highest shelf, probably containing either biscuits or secrets.

“Valko, stop hiding her. I have photographs.”

Horror returned to his face with magnificent speed.

“No.”

“Yes,”

“No photographs.”

“Naked baby photos,” Mika added.

Valko went pale. “You do not have those.”

Teta Marika’s voice drifted after him, serene and deadly. “We have everything.”

He grabbed your hand. “We’re leaving.”

You let him pull you three steps before Baba Vesna appeared in the doorway holding a small album to her chest.

“Sit,” she said.

Valko sat.

It was remarkable how quickly a wolf could become a grandson.

For the next hour, they showed you the evidence of his life.

Valko missing two front teeth and glaring at the camera as though betrayed by dentistry. Valko asleep under the table with one hand buried in a dog’s fur. Valko at thirteen, all elbows and outrage, holding a fish half his size while crying because he had to put it back.

There was Valko covered in mud, Valko wearing a paper crown, Valko with Milena’s arm hooked around his neck while he pretended to hate her and leaned into her anyway. Valko standing beside Baba Vesna in the garden, holding a basket of tomatoes like he had been entrusted with the fate of nations.

Each photograph was another small door.

You had known him in pieces: the grin, the hunger, the awkward tenderness, the jokes he threw like branches over deep water. Here was the rest of him. Here was the child who had survived becoming himself because these hands had fed him, scolded him, dragged him upright, and remembered his softness when he tried to outgrow it.

At some point, while everyone argued over whether the goat incident happened before or after the soup incident, Valko bent close to you.

“You don’t have to keep looking,” he murmured.

You turned a page.

A tiny Valko stared up from the album, holding a wooden spoon like a sword.

“Yes,” you said. “I do.”

He stared at you.

Then, very briefly, he rested his forehead against your shoulder.

It lasted only a second. A shy, exhausted surrender. No one commented on it, though you knew every person in the room saw. That seemed to be another house rule. They would mock the wound, yes, but they protected the pulse.

Later, when the cups were cleared and the album returned to its shelf of holy embarrassments, you stepped outside for air.

The yard was cold, dark and soft around the edges. Herbs grew beneath the window, yhe old trees leaned towards the house as if listening. Behind you, the kitchen glowed gold, laughter pressing against the glass.

Valko followed after a moment, closing the door carefully behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You looked at him. “For what?”'

“The interrogation. The photographs. Mika. The marriage question. The soup litigation.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Milena.”

“I like Milena.”

“That means she behaved.”

“She said she was being polite.”

He winced. “Then she liked you.”

You leaned back against the porch railing, and he stood in front of you with his hands in his pockets, rocking once on his heels like he wanted to come closer and had forgotten the law of his own body.

Through the window, you could see Baba Vesna pretending to wipe the table while watching you both with shameless interest. You lifted a hand and waved.

She waved back.

Valko turned, saw her, and groaned. “For the love of...Baba.”

“She loves you.”

“That's her usual excuse for crimes.”

“It’s a good one.”

He looked back at you, and the teasing left him slowly, piece by piece. Out here, with the house at his back, he seemed caught between the wild thing and the loved thing. The wolf and the boy in the paper crown. The man who had brought you to the threshold with shaking hands and still tried to joke like fear could be made harmless if he gave it a funny name.

“Did you mean it?” he asked.

“Which part?”

“When Niko asked if you were keeping me.”

The question came lightly, too lightly. A feather laid over a blade.

You reached for him.

This time, Valko did not hesitate. He came into your space at once, as if pulled by a string tied somewhere behind his ribs. His hands settled at your waist, careful at first, then warmer when you didn't move away.

“I meant it,”

His eyes searched yours.

“For tonight?”

“For longer than that.”

He didn't kiss you immediately. Somehow, that made it worse. He stood there and let the answer enter him, slowly, like someone opening the door to a room he had been told was empty and finding it lit.

Inside, Mika yelled, “Are they kissing?”

Valko dropped his forehead to your shoulder.

“Leave them. He is finally being normal.”

You laughed.

He looked at you then, and the last of his embarrassment broke open into something bright, something almost boyish

“Welcome home,” he said, very softly.

You touched his cheek.

Behind him, the old house breathed and creaked and held its golden noise. Inside, his family waited with tea, teeth, stories, and a place at the table already made yours.

“Welcome home, Valko.”

© 2026, xxsyluslittlecrowxx. dividers by @uzmacchiato

[soilents]

I may of sent this before but my wifi was messed up so I don't know if it went through, but!!! Can you draw 141 doing communal shower antics and maybe if you'll be soooo kind to bless me with some gaz stuff just doing anything on duty love him in your style, keep creating😘

doing anything but showering

“there’s no picture.” “never.”

Some gaz doodles!!

a very huge hello to my gaz fans 🧢

[souliloqui]

"Would you call yourself an alpha?" You ask Valko curiously, perched on the couch while he sits on the floor between your legs. The TV blares a superhero movie that neither of you have watched and aren't really paying any attention to.

Valko tilts his head back to look up at you, eyes gleaming behind his glasses. "Why do you ask?" He replies and you shrug, running a hand through his thick locks.

"Wolf dynamics." You shrug then smile. "Also fanfiction."

Valko smiles mischievously. "Is this your roundabout way of asking if I have a knot?"

You blink, surprised. "How did you get that from me mentioning fanfiction?"

"You fall asleep with your phone unlocked sometimes," Valko confesses, his trailing fingers leaving sparks across your right leg. "And while I don't snoop—"

"Liar."

"—I do have good eyesight and I happen to know what A/B/O dynamics mean."

Silence is the only response he gets for a moment and Valko looks far too smug at the warring emotions dancing across your face. You look both impressed and mortified.

"But to answer your question, I guess I could be seen as an alpha." Valko turns his sights back to the TV. "So roll around in that for a bit."

He isn't shocked when the TV suddenly turns off and you're standing up.

"Valko."

He's already grinning, wolfish.

"Hmm?"

"Get in the bedroom."

He's scrambling to his feet in a rush of excitement.

"Yes, ma'am."

[elliesmoth]

Rating: T / Teen +

Content warning: Intimate, slightly provocative, and affectionate tone

Summary: One evening, while you’re at home, Leon sends you an unexpected photo: just his arm, with his sleeves rolled up, and the light highlighting every contour. With just a few words, he manages to make it all feel much more personal and intimate, leaving you breathless and with your cheeks on fire.

ー ୨୧ ー

The phone vibrates on the nightstand, lighting up the dark room. When you see the name on the screen, your heart skips a beat: it’s Leon. You expect a quick message, maybe to tell you he’s on his way back from the mission. Instead, you open it and find a photo.

The background is dark, almost black. His dark blue shirt clings to his body, the sleeve rolled up firmly past his elbow, revealing his taut, defined bicep. The light hits him from the side, casting soft shadows that trace every contour, every vein that shows just beneath the skin. In the foreground is his profile: his gaze lowered, his expression serious, almost as if he’d snapped the photo without giving it much thought—but you know him well enough to realize it’s no accident.

Below the photo, a single line, written calmly and confidently:

“I thought you’d like to see this… it’s even better in person, but this will have to do for now.”

You immediately feel the heat rise to your cheeks, which turn as red as a tomato. You bring a hand to your mouth to stifle a small sigh, your eyes fixed on the image you can’t tear yourself away from. You knew he was strong, that he’d built that body through years of training and battles, but seeing him like this, deliberately showcased for you, makes your head spin a little.

You reply, your fingers trembling slightly:

“Leon… why do you do these things? Now I’m blushing all over—you know that.”

It takes just a minute for his reply to come, and this time his tone is lower, more provocative, as if he were whispering in your ear:

“Because I like knowing that I have this effect on you. And because every centimeter of this body is yours—remember? You can look at it, imagine it… and when I get back, you can do even more. Touch it, hold it close, keep it against you as long as you want.”

Your cheeks burn even more, and you feel your heartbeat quicken in your chest. You can almost hear his deep voice, the way he’d say those words, the intense look he’d have as he says them to you. You look at the photo again: that arm that has protected you a thousand times, that has held you close on difficult nights, that now throws you into a whirlwind of confusion with just one snapshot.

You write back to him, trying to sound more confident but not quite succeeding:

“You’re impossible… how am I supposed to focus on anything else now? I can’t wait for you to come back. I promise I’ll check very carefully to make sure you’re exactly like in the photo.”

The reply comes right away, with that slight smile you can picture even through the screen:

“Go ahead and check. And if you want, I can even show you other parts you like best. Just for you, of course.”

You put down the phone and hide your face in your hands, your heart pounding and an embarrassed but happy smile you don't want to hide. You know that when he gets home, you won't waste any time: and he, as always, will be right—it's a thousand times better in person.

[rinvvii]

are you done barking, baby?; leon Kennedy

summary: you come back from a mission with leon, furious at how reckless he was, and you spend the next hour following him around headquarters yelling at him. but leon isn’t really listening to the anger—he’s watching how you won’t let him out of your sight, and slowly realizes it was never just anger.

pairings: leon kennedy x reader

RIN'S NOTE: I first came across this idea on tiktok. Her account is @/oglexistar, and I love her sm. She is hilarious. She has a lot going on with her content, so you guys should follow her. While watching this video, all I can think about is Leon, even though her idea is supposed to be Gojo from JJK which is also making me giggle about it too hehe. I hope it was fun for all of you!

【 WC 1.66k 】

The mission had been over for almost an hour.

Unfortunately, your anger had not.

"You are unbelievable."

Leon didn't even look up.

The man had the audacity to be sitting at a workbench in the armory, calmly disassembling his handgun while you followed him around headquarters like an extremely angry shadow.

"You drove a motorcycle through a second-story window."

A click. A magazine dropped into his hand.

"It worked."

"It was insane."

"It was effective."

You stared at the side of his head. Leon Kennedy, apparently, had chosen today to be the most irritating man alive.

"You know what?" you continued. "I don't even know why I bother arguing with you."

"That's a good question."

Your eye twitched. Across the room, another agent wisely decided to leave. Coward.

Leon continued cleaning his weapon as if you weren't standing there mentally preparing several crimes.

The worst part?

He wasn't even trying to defend himself. That somehow made it worse.

"You almost got yourself killed."

"Didn't."

"That's not the point."

"Hm."

That stupid sound. That stupid, knowing sound. You pointed at him immediately.

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"That."

"Very specific."

"Oh my God."

Leon chuckled under his breath. You wanted to throw something at him. Instead, you followed him when he stood. Of course you did.

He moved from the armory to the hallway.

You followed.

“What you did on the mission is unbelievable!”

Then the break room.

You followed.

“How can you be so chill about this?!”

Then his office.

You followed.

“How can you be such a stupid bastard?!”

At this point, it had become less of an argument and more of a lifestyle.

"You know," Leon said as he walked, "most people celebrate after successful missions."

"We almost died."

"We didn't."

"That's not helping."

"It should."

"It doesn't."

Leon opened his office door and let's you in first as he step aside while you keep throwing curses at him.

You marched right past him. Still talking. Still irritated.

Still completely unaware that he was watching you more than he was listening.

You didn't even notice that he open the door for you first before he follows you inside. A gentleman, truly. The door clicked shut behind him.

"You jumped off a moving vehicle."

"You would've complained if I stayed on it."

"I would've preferred that over watching you launch yourself into traffic."

Leon dropped a folder onto his desk. Then your gun beside it. Cleaned. Maintained. Already put back together.

You hadn't even realized he'd taken it from you earlier.

"You're impossible."

"Probably."

"You never think."

"I do."

"No, you don't."

"I thought about jumping through the window."

"That is the problem!"

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You hated that grin. Mostly because it always made him look unfairly handsome.

You continued pacing. Around the desk. Past the bookshelf. Back toward the door.

Still talking. Still venting. Still going.

Leon watched for another minute before finally sighing. Long. Patient.

The kind of sigh a man released when he'd finally figured something out.

"Are you done barking, baby?"

The room went silent. You froze mid-step. Slowly. Very slowly. You turned toward him.

"...Excuse me?"

Leon leaned back against his desk. Completely unbothered.

"I was just asking."

"You were just asking?"

"Yeah.”

Your jaw dropped. "What the hell are you talking about?" His expression remained infuriatingly calm.

"I asked a question."

"You called me a dog."

"No."

"Leon."

"I asked if my woman was done barking."

Your brain briefly stopped functioning.

"Your—"

"Yep."

"That is not the issue right now."

"Sure."

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not."

"We almost failed the mission because of you!"

"And we also completed the mission because of me."

"You son of a—"

The insult died instantly.

Because suddenly Leon was standing right in front of you. One moment he'd been leaning against the desk. The next he'd crossed the room. Close enough that you forgot the rest of your sentence. Close enough that your heart immediately became uncooperative.

The bastard noticed. Of course he noticed.

He noticed everything.

"What's really the problem?"

His voice had changed. Less teasing. Less sarcasm. Still calm. Still steady.

But now there was something underneath it. Something that made it impossible to keep talking in circles.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that you've followed me around headquarters for the last hour."

You folded your arms. Defensive. Leon immediately clocked it.

"I was making a point."

"Hm."

"There you go again."

"Baby."

You groaned. "Don't baby me."

"Sweetheart."

"Worse." A faint smile appeared. Mission accomplished. Then it disappeared just as quickly.

"You checked on me in the armory."

You frowned.

"I was getting my equipment."

"You checked on me in the break room."

"You were making coffee."

"You checked on me in the hallway."

Your jaw tightened. Leon tilted his head slightly. The look in his eyes softened. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough for you to notice. And that somehow made everything worse.

Leon didn’t move away. That was the problem. He stayed right there.

Too close. Too calm. Too aware of everything happening inside your head like it was written on your face.

“You’re not angry,” he said again, quieter this time.

“I am.”

“No.”

You huffed. “I literally just spent an hour yelling at you.”

Leon’s eyes flickered briefly over your face. Like he was studying you. Not in a tactical way. Not like a mission.

In a way that made it impossible to keep your thoughts straight.

“That wasn’t anger,” he said.

You scoffed. “Oh? Then what was it?”

A pause. Then, casually—

“Panic.”

Your breath caught. You immediately hated that word. Hated how easily he said it. Hated that it was correct.

“I don’t panic,” you muttered.

Leon hummed. That low sound again. The one that always made your patience snap.

“You do when I disappear from your sight for more than ten seconds.”

“I was not—”

“You were counting.”

Silence. You froze. Leon tilted his head slightly.

“Armory. Hallway. Break room. Office.”

His voice stayed calm. Unbothered.

“Every time I turned around, you were still there.” Your jaw tightened. “That’s because I was still talking to you.”

“Mhm.”

He stepped half a pace closer. Not enough to trap you. Just enough that your brain stopped cooperating again.

“And every time I stopped talking,” he added, quieter, “you got closer.”

Your heart did something extremely inconvenient.

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

A beat. Then, softer.

“Baby.”

That did it. You exhaled sharply.

“Stop calling me that when I’m mad at you.” Leon’s mouth curved slightly.

“I’m not sure you are.”

Your glare should’ve been lethal. It wasn’t. Because he looked entirely too composed.

Too confident. Like he already knew how this ended. “You’re enjoying this,” you accused.

“Maybe.”

“Leon.”

He leaned slightly against the edge of his desk now. Completely relaxed. Completely unfair.

“I like when you talk to me,” he said. That alone made your brain short-circuit.

“…That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It is.”

“No, I’m— I’m yelling at you.”

“Same thing.”

Your eyes widened. “That is absolutely not the same thing.” Leon’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. So quick you almost thought you imagined it. Almost.

Then he looked back at your eyes. And your entire argument collapsed a little.

“…You’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“Mm.”

A pause. Then he added, casually.

“But you’re still standing here.”

Your breath hitched slightly. Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? You could’ve left.

You could’ve stormed out of his office. You didn’t. You stayed.

“You always do that,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”

“Follow me.”

You scoffed. “I do not follow you.”

Leon raised an eyebrow. The look said really?

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Because unfortunately. He was right. Again.

Leon pushed off the desk slightly.

Now he was closer. Properly close. His voice dropped just enough to make it harder to think.

“Say it then.” Your brows furrowed. “Say what?”

“That you’re just mad.”

A beat.

“And not something else.”

Your throat tightened. You hated him. You really did. Because he was looking at you like he already knew the answer.

Like he was just waiting for you to admit it out loud.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said instead. Leon smiled faintly. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Mm.”

Another step closer. Now there was barely any space left between you. Not enough to back away without it being obvious.

Not enough to breathe properly.

“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “if this is your way of getting my attention…”

“I don’t need your attention.”

That came out too fast. Too sharp. Leon’s smile widened slightly.

“Oh?”

Your silence betrayed you. He noticed immediately. Of course he did. His hand lifted again. Not to touch you fully.

Just enough to adjust your collar. Slow. Deliberate.

Like he had all the time in the world.

“You’ve had it all day, sweetheart.”

Your stomach flipped. Again. Annoyingly.

“And you still followed me around,” he added softly. You glared at him. Weakly.

“That’s not—”

Leon leaned in just slightly. Not enough to kiss you. Not enough to cross the line.

Just enough that his voice brushed against you when he spoke.

“You gonna keep pretending you’re just angry?”

Your breath caught again. Because now he was definitely enjoying this. Absolutely. There was no way he wasn’t.

“Leon…”

“Yeah?”

The way he said your name this time was worse than the pet names. Because it wasn’t teasing.

It was patient. Like he was waiting you out.

Like he knew you’d fold. And worst of all?

He was right. So damn right.

You looked up at him again. And for a second, you forgot what you were even supposed to be mad about.

Which, unfortunately, seemed to be the entire point.

“…I hate you,” you muttered.

Leon smiled. Soft. Slightly smug.

“No, you don’t.”

And this time, you didn’t even argue back.

Mission accomplished.

© 2026 rinvvii

[feralbuni666]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖆 𝖍𝖔𝖒𝖊 ✦ Leon Kennedy x Reader ✦ Rating: T+ ✦ 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞:Leon Kennedy's crush begins the moment he watches you calm a sobbing child in the precinct with nothing but kindness and a stuffed raccoon.

Warnings/Notes:Tooth rotting Fluff, Leon being Lovesick, Soft Leon, He wants a Family, Domestic Bliss, Loneliness, Finding a Family, Sweet meet-cute, Co-workers to Friends, Friends to Lovers, Soft Moments, girl dad Leon, boy dad Leon, did I mention Leon was a dad in this?!

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Leon was crouched next to a crying kid sitting at his desk in his chair, feeling like the world's most useless cop. The boy couldn't have been more than five or six, gangly limbs, sharp elbows, and a Pokemon t-shirt two sizes too big and he was wailing. A full-body, hiccupping sob that made his whole frame shake like a leaf in a storm. His face was red and blotchy, eyes swollen, and snot ran down to his upper lip in a glistening trail he kept trying to wipe away with the back of his hand, smearing it across his cheek instead.

Every attempt Leon made only seemed to make it worse. The sticker he'd peeled from the sheet on Sergeant Branagh's desk, a faded "Junior Officer" star that looked like it had seen better days, the edges curling and yellowed, had been met with a look of sadness, like Leon had kicked a puppy. The awkward "hey buddy" he'd tried in what he thought was a soothing voice had triggered a fresh round of tears so loud that Rita had actually stopped mid-phone call to stare, receiver still pressed to her ear, her expression full of pity and secondhand embarrassment for him.

The boy's wails echoed reverberating through the bullpen like the siren on a cruiser, and Leon could feel every eye in the precinct on him. The back of his neck burned, heat crawling up from his collar and spreading across his cheeks. His knees ached from crouching down next to the boy in his chair to seem less intimidating, the stiff fabric of his uniform pants digging into the backs of his thighs. He was only three weeks into this job, still getting used to the work and second-guessing every move he made. Not once in the academy did they teach him how to diffuse this type of bomb, and now he was being defeated by a kindergartner.

He was about to try again, maybe offer his keys to jingle like the kid was a toddler or something, a desperate and humiliating attempt that would have probably made everything worse, when he saw you.

You came through the precinct door with a stack of manila folders threatening to spill from your arms, your ID badge swinging on its lanyard against your chest. He'd seen you around before. You were a paralegal intern, always busy with somewhere to be. You wore your hair pulled back most days, dressed in business casual, you’d been here long enough to stop trying to impress anyone. There was a coffee stain on the cuff of your blouse today, faint but visible if you looked close enough, and Leon had looked, he often found himself looking toward you like his eyes was a compass and you were due North.

You stopped mid-stride, your eyes landing on the sobbing kid, and something shifted in your expression. Your brows drew together in concern, and your mouth pressed into a thin line. Without a word, you pivoted towards your desk that was pushed into a corner of the precinct near the many filing cabinets. The files hit your desk with a loud thump that made Leon flinch. He watched, confused and a little dazed, as you opened your bottom drawer and pulled out a stuffed raccoon, just a little something that they handed out at community events and elementary school visits. It had a little stitched badge on its chest, a slightly crooked smile, and a tail that looked like it had seen better days, the fur matted in places from too many hands.

Then you walked right over, and Leon stepped back instinctively as you dropped to the floor beside the boy. You didn't hesitate or pause to dust off the linoleum and adjust your skirt. You just knelt down, one knee hitting the ground and leaned in close.

"Hey," you said softly, holding the raccoon out in both hands. Your voice was warm and soft like a blanket fresh from the dryer, comforting. "You know what this is?"you said softly, in a kind of maternal tone.

The kid hiccupped, his crying stuttering to a jerky stop as he stared at the toy. His eyes were still wet, lashes clumped together in dark spikes, but he was looking at you now. His bottom lip trembled, but the wail had died down to a shaky, uneven breathing and he was completely focused on your gentle face and soft caring tone.

"This is Officer Bandit," you continued, wiggling the plushie a little so its stubby arms moved up and down, waving to the small child. "He's the bravest raccoon in the whole city. Solves crimes, catches bad guys, the whole deal. But you know what?" You leaned in, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made the boy's eyes go wide. "He gets scared sometimes too."

"...R-really?" the kid whispered back, his voice small hoarse from all the crying.

"Mm-hm." You nodded seriously, your expression solemn, like you were sharing the most important secret in the world. "Especially in big loud places like this, it's a lot, isn’t it? But you know what helps him feel better?"

The boy shook his head, sniffling hard, his nose still running. You gently took your blouse and wiped his face without even thinking about it. 

"When someone holds him tight. Just like this." You smiled softly, and pulled the plushie to your chest, wrapping your arms around it in an exaggerated hug. You even rocked a little, side to side, like you were comforting a real person. "See? Makes him feel safe. You think you can help him feel brave?"

The boy sniffled again, but his hand was already moving. Tentative at first, fingers reaching out to brush the raccoon's worn fur. Then he took it, his small fingers curling into the soft fabric, clutching it to his chest tightly. He squeezed, his knuckles going white, and buried his face in the plushie's fuzzy head.

"There you go. I bet bandit feels so much better, right?," you murmured, and the kid nodded, squeezing the raccoon tighter. He gave it a hug, burying his face in its fuzzy head, and his shoulders, which had been hitching with sobs just moments before, finally started to drop as he calmed down. His breathing evened out, the hitching sobs fading into soft, shaky exhales that shifted the fur on the raccoon.

Leon's heart thumped, hard. His heart tripped over itself and forgotten how to find its rhythm at the sight of you. And then his heart was racing so loud, he swore he could hear it thumping between his ears. He reached up unconsciously to grip at his shirt right In front of his heart willing it to calm down. 

You smiled and reached out, brushing a strand of sweaty hair off the boy's forehead. Your touch was gentle and careful, your fingers barely grazing his skin, and the kid leaned into it, starved for kindness. You didn't flinch or pull away from his searching touch. You sat there, one hand resting lightly on his back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades, your thumb tracing a soothing pattern over his spine.

Leon stood there, still as a statue, and he found he couldn't look away from you and the now calm child. Watching you murmur something else to the boy, your head tilted close to his, your lips moving in soft quiet and reassuring words.

"Hey, I like your shirt," you said, tapping the Pikachu printed across the front. "Is Pikachu your favorite?"

The kid nodded, clutching Officer Bandit a little less desperately now.

"Yeah? How come?" You asked gently and you sounded genuinely interested in what he had to say.

"Cause—'cause he's fast," the boy said, his voice still thick with mucus but he wasn’t crying anymore, which was a miracle in itself. "And he can do Thunderbolt and he's Ash's best friend and—and he's yellow, yellow is my favorite color."

"Oooh, yellow's a good color," you agreed, nodding like this was the most important conversation you'd had all day. "You know what? My favorite is also yellow! Do you know Psyduck."

The kid blinked, surprised and nodded quickly. "...Psyduck"

"Yup." You grinned. "You know why?"

He shook his head.

"'Cause he's silly." And then, without warning, you crossed your eyes and put both hands on your head like you were holding it in pain, doing a spot-on impression of the confused little duck.

The kid giggled a bright, hiccupping giggle that filled the room like a rainbow after a storm, and you laughed with him, your whole face lighting up, Leon's mouth went dry as he watched a smile curl on your lips, your eyes crinkled at the corners.

He swallowed hard, a pit the size of a peach stuck in his throat. His pulse was beating loudly in his ears, drowning out the precinct noise around him.

You glanced up then, catching his eye, and raised an eyebrow. "You good, Kennedy?"

Leon blinked, his brain scrambling to form words. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm—" He cleared his throat, feeling heat crawl up the back of his neck, flooding his face until he was sure he was bright red. "Good. I'm good."

You shrugged, a little smirk tugging at your lips, and turned your attention back to the boy. Leon just stood there like an idiot, rooted to the spot, watching the way your fingers carded through the kid's hair again, so naturally, like you'd done this before. Leon wondered if you had kids and felt a seed of disappointment and sadness grow in his stomach.

You tucked a strand behind his ear and the kids’ eyes fluttered closed for just a second, all the crying finally catching up to him as he suddenly grew tired.

He couldn't stop staring at you as you sat there on the dirty floor in your work clothes without a care and you spoke to the kid like he was just as important as the work on your desk that you abandoned, you made something hard look effortless.

After that day whenever he saw or thought of you his chest felt tight and warm all at once, he'd often find himself looking for you in the break room, hoping to catch a glimpse of you pouring coffee or sorting through files. Your smile stayed the longest, replaying in his head when he was trying to fall asleep every night. He'd spend the next week trying to think of excuses to talk to you, to hear your voice again, to see if you'd smile at him the way you'd smiled at that kid.

It started there, with a crying kid, a stuffed animal and you, looking up at him with eyes that would haunt him every waking moment.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ The precinct smelled like cheap pizza and sugar, a sickly-sweet combination that clung to the air and made Leon's head throb. Dozens of kids swarmed the lobby, their voices a cacophony of shrieks and laughter that bounced off every hard surface. Leon stood near the front desk, arms crossed, watching a group of eight-year-olds chase each other around a display table that held pamphlets about stranger danger and bicycle safety. A awkward and nervous smile on his face, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple despite the October chill that had blown in when the doors opened.

This was worse than any training scenario Raccoon City PD had thrown at him.

The lobby looked like a bomb had gone off, if that bomb was filled with glitter, juice boxes, and about forty screaming children from the local orphanage, community center, and the officers own children. Streamers hung from the ceiling in drooping arcs of blue and red, some already torn and dangling down. There were balloons tied to every available surface, and squeaking every time someone brushed past. Someone had set up a craft table near the far wall that was now covered in a layer of glue, construction paper scraps, and what looked like an entire bottle of glitter that had exploded across the surface like a disco ball.

Leon was trying to look authoritative while a kid in curly little space buns with cat ears tugged insistently on his belt and asked if he had a real gun.

"Uh, yeah, but—hey, don't touch that—" He tried to gently redirect her hand, his voice strained with the effort of trying to wrangle a small child, his fingers hovering uselessly near hers like he was afraid to actually touch her and make things worse.

The girl didn't listen. She was already trying to poke at his radio, her sticky fingers leaving smudges on the black plastic.

"Is it heavy? Can you shoot bad guys? Do you have handcuffs? Can I see them? Do you have a Taser? My dad has a Taser too—"

"Maybe later, okay? How about you go—" Leon gestured vaguely toward the craft table, but the girl just stared at him like he'd suggested she eat broccoli.

"But I wanna see your gun," she insisted, and Leon felt his face heat up as Officer Branagh glanced over from across the room, clearly trying not to laugh as his daughter pestered him.

Then you appeared, out of nowhere, sliding between the desk and the swarm of kids. You moved like water, smooth and unbothered, and the kids seemed to part for you instinctively. You were wearing jeans today, not your usual business slacks or pencil skirt, and a blue Raccoon City PD volunteer t-shirt that had seen better days, the logo faded and cracked across your chest. Your hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame your face, and there was a smudge of purple marker, on your forearm, trailing up toward your elbow like you'd been drawing with the kids earlier.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Junior officers!" you called out, clapping your hands together twice.

The kids froze. Even the ones who'd been mid-sprint screeched to a halt, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, their faces turning toward you with wide-eyed attention.

You crouched down, gathering the kids around you like a storyteller at a campfire, your hands moving as you spoke. "We've got a major situation on our hands," you said, your voice low and serious, like you were briefing a SWAT team before a raid. "There's been a report of a missing cat. Orange tabby. Answers to the name Mr. Whiskers." You paused for dramatic effect, letting the silence stretch, and the kids leaned in, eyes wide, mouths hanging open. "Last seen near the break room."

A collective gasp rippled through the group.

"But here's the thing," you continued, standing up and scanning their faces with a grave expression. "Only the best junior officers can help me find him." You pointed dramatically toward the hallway, your finger jabbing the air. "Think you're up for it?"

The kids erupted in agreement, bouncing on their toes, hands shooting into the air like they were trying to touch the ceiling.

"Me! Me! I can do it!"

"I'm really good at finding stuff!"

"I found my mom's keys once!"

You grinned, and Leon felt something in his chest shift. You stood there, surrounded by chaos, completely in your element, and you looked...you looked happy. Like this was exactly where you were meant to be.

Then your eyes landed on him and your grin widened before you walked over, weaving through the kids with a few pats on heads and "hang on, team, one second" reassurances. When you stopped in front of him, you reached into your pocket and pulled out a plastic junior officer badge, the cheap ones that they had abundance of that they gave out to all the kids earlier, with a safety pin on the back and a shiny gold finish. You pressed it into his palm, your fingers brushing his and Leon's brain short-circuited.

"Officer Kennedy," you said, loud enough for the kids to hear, your voice warm and teasing, and you winked. Actually winked at him, your eye closing in a slow wink that made his stomach flip. "I'm deputizing you. We need all hands on deck for this one."

Leon blinked down at the badge, then at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Wait, I—"

"No time!" You turned back to the kids, clapping your hands again. "Alright, team, Officer Kennedy is joining the search party. Let's move out!"

Before he could protest a gaggle of kids swarmed him, tiny hands grabbing at his uniform and arms, tugging him forward with the force of a small army.

"Come on, Officer Kennedy!"

"We gotta find Mr. Whiskers!"

"He's probably scared!"

And just like that, Leon found himself on his hands and knees, peering under chairs and desks while a gaggle of children shouted directions at him like he was defusing a bomb.

"No, not there! Over there!"

"Check under the desk!"

"I think I saw a tail!"

"Maybe he's in the trash can!"

One little girl with braids tugged on his sleeve, her face scrunched up in concentration, insisting she saw something orange under the desk. Leon crawled over, his knees protesting against the hard floor, the fabric of his pants pulling tight across his thighs. He reached under the desk, his fingers brushing something soft and fuzzy, and pulled out a stuffed tabby cat, clearly planted there ahead of time, its fur slightly dusty, one of its button eyes hanging by a thread.

The kids erupted.

"He found him!"

"Mr. Whiskers!"

"Officer Kennedy saved him!"

"Is he okay?!"

"Can I pet him?!"

They cheered like he'd just solved a murder case, like he was a hero, and Leon couldn't help it, he laughed. Bubbling up from his chest and spilling out, as he held up the stuffed cat, and the kids crowded around, petting it, asking if it was okay, if it was scared, if it needed water.

"I think he's alright," Leon said, grinning his cheeks aching from the stretch of smiling so wide. "Just a little dusty."

"Good job, Officer Kennedy!" a little boy shouted, pumping his fist in the air, and the others joined in, chanting his name like he'd won the Super Bowl. Leon's face flushed, heat crawling up his neck and spreading across his cheeks, but he was still smiling when he looked up at you.

You were across the room, a kid on your hip, another kid hanging off your arm, and you caught his eye. You smiled at him softly, your eyes crinkling at the corners, and Leon felt that thump again. Like his heart stopped and was restarted, Harder this time. He could feel the cup that held all his emotions inside him cracking and every desire he kept deep inside him spilling out faster than he could contain it, flooding his veins with warmth.

"Good work, Officer Kennedy," you called out, your voice carrying over to him through the noise, the tone full of warmth like a hearth place directly into the home if his heart. He suddenly felt like he had to do something with his hands but they felt clumsy, and he didn't know what to do with them.

He managed to give you a nod and a small nervous smile, his throat tight and face flushed.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

As the event was winding down he retreated to the break room, a poor soldier covered in sticky substances and glitter returning from the front lines, pouring himself a cup of coffee that had been sitting on the burner for at least three hours. It tasted like burnt rubber and was bitter and thick like sludge on his tongue, but he didn't care he really needed it after the past few hours. He leaned his back against the counter and closed his eyes, his head tilting back against the cabinet.

After a few mins Leon opened his eyes, and there you were. You had a kid on your hip, one of the orphanage kids, a little boy with a mop of dark curls and chocolate from the raccoon cake pops smeared across his cheek. You were murmuring something soft to him, your free hand brushing his curls back from his forehead as you grabbed a napkin from the counter, your movements gentle and practiced.

Leon watched, frozen, as you wet the napkin under the tap and gently wiped the boy's face. The kid squirmed, giggling, his little hands pushing at yours, his legs kicking against your side.

"Hold still, mister," you said, your voice playful but firm, that same tone you'd used with the other kids all day. "You've got half a chocolate cake pop all over your face."

"Nooo," the boy whined, squirming with the biggest smile on his face. His smile was so innocent and infectious that you couldn’t help but return it, smiling down at the mischievous little kid that refused to have a clean face.

"Yeeesss," you said in a sing song tone playing along with him, dabbing at his cheek with the napkin. "There we go. All clean."

You set the boy down, and he ran off toward the door where one of the chaperones was waiting, to whisk him away. He waved at you over his shoulder, his hand opening and closing in an exaggerated motion.

"Bye-bye!" he called.

"Bye, sweetheart," you said, waving back, your voice the same soft and warm tone you used on all of the children today.

You turned eyes drifting towards Leon and you caught him staring yet again.

"Is there something on my face too?" you asked, raising an eyebrow, your lips quirking into a smirk, your head tilting to the side.

"No! Nothing…." He took a sip of his coffee, trying to look casual like he hadn't just been imagining what it would be like to wake up next to you every morning.

But his brain was spinning and painting pictures he had no business imagining. You, in a kitchen that wasn't the break room, all warm and lived-in, with toys scattered across the floor and crayon drawings stuck to the fridge with magnets. Sunlight streaming through the windows, catching in your hair. A kid, his kid he thought, with his blue eyes and your smile, tugging on your hand, begging for one more story before bed, their voice sweet like cotton candy.

In his imagination you were there, glowing and laughing, the center of it all. The heart of a home. Of your shared home. A hand resting on a rounded belly, your face soft and content, his ring on your finger and his name on your lips.

Leon's grip tightened on his mug, his knuckles going white. He wanted his vision to be true, wanted to build a life with you, brick by brick. A messy and imperfect life, but a life shared with you. More than anything despite it being inappropriate to imagine you like this when you didn’t even know his feelings for you he wanted more than anything to watch you grow round with his child, wanted to feel them kick under his palm, to see you glow with the knowledge that you were growing a life inside you. He wanted to do anything and everything for you. To wake up in the middle of the night and get you whatever weird craving you had, pickles with peanut butter, mango with hot sauce, you name it he would get it. He would be happy to rub your feet when they ached, and hold your hair back if you got sick. He wanted to be there for every single second of it

He would be the happiest man on earth if only he could slide a ring onto your finger and stand in front of everyone they knew and say I do.

Everything hit him all at once like a freight train directly to his chest and he had to look away from you, before you could noticed the way his face had gone completely red, his hands trembling slightly around the mug.

"You okay, Kennedy?" you asked, your voice softer with concern, and he heard you take a step closer.

"Yeah," he said, his voice rough before he cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm good. Just... tired."

You nodded, accepting the answer, and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. "You did good today," you said, glancing at him over your shoulder, your ponytail swinging. "The kids loved you."

Leon's heart started racing as it always seemed to do around you, an uncontrollable reaction to your presence. "Thanks," he managed quietly. "You were... you were great with them."

You shrugged, but your cheeks flushed, just a little, a soft pink spreading across your skin. "I like kids," you said simply, twisting the cap off the water bottle. "They're honest...maybe a little too honest sometimes ."

Leon huffed a laugh. "Yeah. That's one way to put it."

You smiled, and for a moment, the break room felt smaller. He wanted to cross the room. Wanted to cup your face in his hands and kiss you until you were breathless, like he'd imagined a thousand times before in the dark hours of his room when he finally let his thoughts of you run wild. If only he could press you against the counter and bury his face in your neck just to breathe you in.

But he didn't and couldn’t, he just gripped his coffee mug tighter and watched you leave. Tossing the now empty water bottle in the recycling bin, before you gave him one last smile and walked out of the break room, your footsteps fading down the hall. Leon was alone again, staring into his coffee, his mind racing and heart pounding, his whole body aching.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

It was late and the station had emptied out hours ago, the building now quiet except for the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, casting everything in a yellow glow that made Leon's eyes sore.

It was just the two of you in the breakroom, surrounded by stacks of paperwork that never seemed to end. A pocket of calm, a bubble of warmth in the cold, empty precinct. It was mind-numbing work, that made your eyes glaze over and your hand cramp around your pen, but Leon didn't mind. Not when you were there.

You were across the table, pen in hand, scribbling notes on a case file. Your handwriting was neat, precise, each letter carefully formed, and Leon found himself watching the way your wrist moved, the way your fingers gripped the pen with each stroke. He'd given up pretending to work about twenty minutes ago. He was just watching you now, as you chewed on your bottom lip while you were concentrating. Your hair kept falling into your face, pushing it back with the heel of your hand, leaving a smudge of ink on your forehead that you didn't seem to notice.

You were wearing glasses tonight, thin-framed lenses that were perched on the bridge of your nose, and Leon had never realized how much he liked that look until now. You looked beautiful, and it made his fingers itch with the urge to reach across the table and brush that unruly strand of hair behind your ear.

"You ever think about the future?" he asked suddenly.

You looked up, surprised, your pen pausing mid-word. "Like... tomorrow? Or?"

"I…just in general. Like what you hope or dream about for yourself." He leaned back in his chair, the plastic creaking under his weight, and rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. "I don't know. I just... I grew up pretty lonely, you know?" He dropped his hand, staring at the table, at the coffee ring stains and the scratches in the laminate. "After my parents died, it was just me and my focus was on my career. I joined the force because I wanted... A place to belong where I could do good."

You set your pen down, giving him your full attention. Your eyes were soft and full of understanding, watching and listening as Leon was spilling out all the things he'd kept locked away.

"I never knew what I wanted beyond doing some good as a police officer. Never thought about marriage or kids." Leon paused, his eyes shifting toward you, in a quick glance before darting away again. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head as if to dislodge whatever nerves had sunk their claws into him.

"But lately I've been thinking about it," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "Imagining myself with a house. A couple of kids running around, causing trouble..." His lips quirked into a faint, uncertain smile. "Honestly? It doesn't sound too bad." He finally lifted his face, his bright blue eyes meeting yours.

"Is that stupid?" He laughed self-consciously, and rubbed the back of his neck, fingers digging into the tense muscle there. "I mean, I don't even know if I'd be a good dad."

You were quiet for a moment, and Leon's stomach dropped. He'd laid himself bare and now his heart was in your hands. You reached across the table, covering his hand with yours. The contact sent a jolt or electricity racing up his arm and he stared down at your hand on his.

"It's not stupid, Leon." you said softly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles in a slow, soothing motion that made his skin tingle. "You'd be a great dad. You're kind, you care so deeply about people, even strangers, and you work hard at everything you do no matter how difficult it might be. Your kids?" You squeezed his hand gently. "They'd be so lucky to have you."

The words were everything he needed to hear and more and he felt his chest fill with affection as he stared at you, the warmth in your eyes, the sincerity in your voice, the way you were looking at him. A piece Clicked into place like a puzzle he hadn't known was missing.

This wasn't just a crush, attraction, or just lust. No this feeling was a need to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep with you every night.

Leon cleared his throat. "Can I... can I ask you something?"

"Sure," you said, your hand still covering his, your thumb still tracing circles on his skin.

"Would you want to—" He stopped, his courage faltering, his throat tight. Then he forced himself to keep going, forced the words out before he could lose his nerve and talk himself out of it. "I really like you. Would you want to go out sometime? With me. Like, on a date."

Your eyes widened, and for a second, Leon thought he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life. You were going to pull your hand away, tell him you didn't see him that way, that he was a nice guy but—

You smiled brightly as you laughed. "I like you too, Leon." you said, your voice a little breathless, your cheeks flushed pink, the color spreading down your neck and disappearing beneath the collar of your shirt. "Yes, I'd love to go out."

Leon grinned, his whole body flooding with relief and joy, a happiness so bright and overwhelming. "Are- I mean really?"

"Yeah, Leon." You squeezed his hand, your smile widening, your eyes sparkling under the shitty fluorescent lights like they were stars. "I'd really like that."

Leon laughed and ran his free hand through his hair, his grin so wide. "Okay. Okay, good. Great. That's—" He shook his head, still grinning like a kid who'd just been told Christmas was coming early. "That's great."

You laughed too, and the sound wrapped around him like a blanket.

"So," you said, your thumb still tracing circles on his knuckles, sending sparks up his arm, making his skin feel too tight and his face to warm. "When were you thinking?"

"Uh—" Leon's brain scrambled, trying to form coherent thoughts through the haze of happiness and disbelief. "This weekend? Saturday? If you're free?"

"I'm free," you said, and you were looking at him like you'd been waiting for him to ask.

"Okay," he said, his voice rough. "Saturday."

"Saturday," you echoed, and your smile softened. You sat there for a moment, hands still touching across the table. The paperwork was forgotten, It was just the two of you, bathed in the sickly yellow light.

He wanted to lean across the table to pull you close and never let go. Instead he just held your hand, grinning like an idiot, and let himself bask in the warmth of your smile.

"I should probably let you get back to work," you said eventually, your voice soft and reluctant.

"Yeah," Leon said.

Your thumb brushed over his knuckles one more time, and then you slowly pulled your hand away, your fingers trailing across his palm, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Leon's hand felt cold without yours, to keep him warm and he had to fight the urge to reach out to pull you back across the table and keep you there.

You picked up your pen, your cheeks still flushed, a soft smile still at the corners of your lips. you went back to your files, but Leon saw the way your smile lingered and your eyes kept flicking up to meet his.

Leon picked up his own pen, pretending to read the report in front of him, but the words blurred together, meaningless. All he could think about was you. Saturday couldn't come fast enough.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

You'd noticed him on his first day, it was hard not to really. He'd walked into the precinct with his shoulders back and his chin up, trying so hard to appear more confident than he was, but you'd seen the way his eyes had shifted around the room quickly in a way that betrayed his nerves. He was a new rookie, fresh out of the academy, still carrying that fresh untested energy that was obvious in all of them in the beginning.

You'd been at the filing cabinets, sorting through a stack of case files that seemed to multiply every time you turned your back, that all needed to be cross-referenced and filed in the correct order, and you'd watched him shake hands with Sergeant Branagh. He nodded along to whatever speech the sergeant was giving about duty and honor and serving the community, his expression earnest and attentive. He'd tugged at his collar when he thought no one was looking, like the uniform was too tight or the room was suddenly too hot, a nervous tick if you ever saw one.

He was cute, you'd give him that. Tall, with broad shoulders, a young pretty face, with a constellation of moles that dotted along his neck and face, blonde hair that fell just a little too long over his forehead and blue eyes that were startlingly bright and earnest. He was the kind of guy that would've made your college roommate swoon and start planning a wedding after one conversation and you wouldn’t have blamed her.

You'd looked at him with no more than a curious glance before turning back to your files, pushing all of those thoughts away. you had a job to do and you didn't have time to get distracted by every good-looking rookie who walked through the door.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The first couple of weeks, you'd kept your distance. Not because you were cold, no, it wasn't that. You weren't a cold person normally or at least you didn't think you were, but you kept your head down because you were busy. The precinct was always busy, and the paralegal internship was demanding in ways you hadn't fully anticipated when you'd accepted it. So, you worked. Head down, focused, moving between the filing cabinets and the desks upstairs with the energy that discouraged small talk. You didn't linger in the break room or chat with the officers unless it was necessary. You were polite, professional, and you kept to yourself.

But you noticed him, sometimes, when you would stop and look up for a second, pausing to stretch your back or rest your eyes from the endless sea of paperwork, you'd catch glimpses of him. And you noticed that he tried, so hard at everything he did. No matter how small or difficult the task.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

You'd been coming back from upstairs, arms full of manila folders, something your supervisor Elle had thrust into your arms that morning with a bright smile on her face, which was deceptive because despite her cheerful demeanor and clothing, she meant business.

Your desk was pushed in the corner, closest to the door and the filing cabinets, which worked for you. You weren't at your desk too often, anyway, always running from Elle's office upstairs down to here where you would file and do most of your actual work. The setup wasn't too ideal for you but Elle did t have room for you in her office and keeping you here kept you out of the way of the officers who needed space to move.

You could hear the crying through the door, It had carried through the wood and glass like a siren. A high-pitched wail, crying that made something in your chest clench instinctively. You'd stopped in your tracks as you entered the bullpen, your arms still full of folders, eyes scanning the room until you'd found the source.

A little boy, no more than five or six, sitting in a chair by Leon's desk. His face was red and blotchy, tears streaming down his cheeks in fat, glistening tracks, snot running down to his upper lip. He was full-on sobbing, not the fake crocodile tears that your siblings would use on you to make you feel bad for not getting their way. These were real tears, the kind that kids shed when they were truly upset and overwhelmed. His whole body was shaking with it, his small shoulders hitching with each gasping breath, and Leon was crouched next to him, looking completely lost.

You were sure that no one had asked him to help. No one had told him to deal with the kid. The boy's mother had probably stepped away for a moment, and the other officers had conveniently found reasons to be busy elsewhere, but there Leon was, trying anyway like he always was.

You'd watched him pull a sticker from Sergeant Branagh's desk and offer it to the boy with a hesitant smile. Watched the kid look at it like Leon was offering him a live grenade, not a harmless sticker to deputize himself right there on his Pokémon shirt. You watched Leon's face fall, his shoulders slumping just a little, the hope draining from his expression before he tried again, his voice soft and uncertain.

"Hey buddy," he'd said, and the kid had just cried harder, and it felt like someone had reached in and squeezed your heart with a firm, unrelenting grip.

You knew that feeling. In fact, you had been in Leon's place many times before. You knew what it was like to try so hard and feel like you were failing, like nothing you did was enough, like you were floundering in deep water with no idea how to reach the surface. You'd felt it a thousand times growing up, trying to wrangle your siblings, trying to be the second parent your mom needed you to be when she was working two jobs and barely had time to breathe, let alone handle four kids under the age of twelve.

You'd felt it when your little brother had scraped his knee on the playground and you'd been the one to clean it up, to kiss it better, to tell him he was brave even though you were only ten years old yourself and had no idea what you were doing. When your baby sister had cried for hours and you'd been the one pacing the living room at two in the morning, bouncing her in your arms until your shoulders ached and your eyes burned, whispering nonsense words until she finally, finally fell asleep against your chest.

So, you'd set down the folders on your desk, with a soft thump, not caring that they were probably out of order now. You’d opened your drawer and pulled out Officer Bandit.

You hadn't planned to keep the plushie in your desk. It had just sort of... ended up there. Left over from some community event months ago, just something that you thought was cute, shoved into the drawer and forgotten until you'd needed it. You'd started using it to comfort yourself when things got rough or you had a particularly bad day, opening the drawer and reaching down to just brush the fur in one direction, feeling the soft texture under your fingertips, the rhythmic motion soothing you.

It was the same trick you'd used on your siblings when they were upset, a soft stuffed animal went a long way when you were trying to calm an overwhelmed child. And somehow, you'd adopted it yourself, a self-soothing measure that you were probably too old for but couldn't quite give up. But now you were glad you had officer bandit tucked away for a moment like this.

When you'd crouched down next to that little boy, watching as his sobs had stuttered to a stop as he'd stared at the raccoon with wide, wet eyes, when his small fingers curl into the soft fabric and squeeze. You'd felt something inside you melt, something warm and tender spreading through your chest. But It wasn't just about the kid finally looking at peace, his breathing evening out, his tears slowing to hiccups. It was about Leon too.

You'd brushed the kids hair off his forehead with gentle fingers, rubbing slow circles on his back between his shoulder blades, but you'd been acutely aware of Leon standing there, watching you. 

You'd glanced up at him, and he'd been staring at you like you'd just performed a miracle, like you'd walked on water or pulled a rabbit out of a hat. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open, and the soft, warm expression on his face made your stomach flip in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. You'd felt your cheeks flush subtly, heat crawling up your neck.

When you'd caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. "You good, Kennedy?" you'd seen the way his face had gone red, the color flooding his cheeks and spreading down his neck. How he'd stammered out a response, his voice rough and unsteady, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in that nervous gesture you were starting to recognize, and you'd had to bite back a smile.

Oh…he was cute. He was really, really cute. But you'd again forced yourself to focus on the task at hand, you didn't have time to get distracted by a rookie who was cute…with nice eyes and a smile that made your heart do stupid things.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Except It seems the universe was not on your side and you couldn't stop thinking about him. You'd started noticing him more after that day with the kid.

Leon often smiled when he thought no one was looking, a soft smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, made his whole face light up in a boyish way.

He always held the door open for people, even when his hands were full. He'd juggle files and coffee cups and evidence bags, contorting himself into awkward positions just to keep the door propped open with his shoulder or his foot, waiting until everyone had passed through before he'd follow. He never complained.

He’d often make extra coffee in the breakroom and leave it on the counter for whoever needed it, never asking for thanks. You'd come in some mornings to find a fresh pot brewing, still hot, and you'd know it was him. You'd seen him do it once, early, before the day shift had fully rolled in, setting it to brew before slipping out like he was afraid someone would catch him in the act of being kind.

One night when you'd walked into the breakroom, exhausted and frazzled from a long day of chasing down missing files and dealing with an attorney who'd been an absolute nightmare. Your hair had been falling out of its ponytail, your blouse wrinkled, your eyes burning from staring at documents for too many hours straight. You'd just wanted coffee and to sit and relax for five minutes, anything, to get you through the last hour of your shift. The break room usually had more chairs, but you suspected, as you looked at the single table that usually had at least two chairs, that people forgot to bring them back after a briefing.

Leon had been sitting there in the break room, head down just reading a report when he’d looked up from the table, his eyes widening slightly when he saw you, and without a word, he'd stood up and offered you, the only chair. 

Not in a showy way that was meant to be some grand gesture of chivalry, where he expected something in return. No, he'd just... stood up, gestured to the chair, and said, "Here. You look like you need it more than I do."

His voice had been soft, sincere, and when you'd tried to protest. "No, it's fine, I'm just grabbing coffee" he'd shaken his head and gently guided you toward the chair with a hand on your elbow.

"Sit please," he'd said kindly with a smile on his face. And you found you couldn’t say no to that face.

You'd sat, and he'd poured you a cup of coffee without asking how you took it. Two sugars, no cream. He'd remembered. And then he'd set the cup in front of you, his fingers had brushed yours, just for a second.

"Thanks," you'd murmured, wrapping your hands around the cup, and he'd smiled at you and said, "Anytime."

Then he'd gone back to his reports, standing at the counter, because you'd taken his chair, and he hadn't complained once.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

After that day in the break room It was like you couldn’t stop looking for him, It wasn't conscious at first. You'd just... find yourself glancing up from your files when you heard his voice, your eyes tracking him across the bullpen as he moved from desk to desk, helping other officers with their reports or asking questions about procedures. You'd linger in the breakroom a little longer when you saw him there, pretending to be engrossed in the bulletin board or the vending machine selections, just so you could be in the same space as him, hear his voice and see his smile.

You'd find excuses to walk past his desk. Dropping off files that could have been left. Asking questions, you already knew the answers to. Offering to help him with paperwork you had no business touching.

And he always looked up. His face would light up when he saw you, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his mouth curving into that smile that made your stomach flip. "Hey," he'd say, like he'd been waiting for you to walk by. And you'd smile back, your heart doing that stupid flutter that you were starting to associate exclusively with him, and you'd find some reason to stay a little longer. To lean against his desk and chat about nothing, about the weather, about the latest ridiculous call that had come in, about the new coffee shop that had opened down the street.

He'd look at you when he thought you weren't paying attention. His gaze lingering on your face before he'd catch himself and look away, his cheeks flushing. He'd often find excuses to touch you. Brushing past you in the narrow aisles of the filing room, his hand grazing your arm. Reaching across you to grab a file, his arm pressing against yours. Handing you a pen and letting his fingers linger on yours just a second too long.

It was subtle. So subtle you weren't sure if you were imagining it and reading too much into innocent gestures, if your own growing feelings were coloring your perception. 

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

It had been during the community event, the one with all the kids running wild through the precinct, their voices echoing off the walls, their laughter filling every corner of the building. You'd been helping wrangle them, handing out juice boxes and wiping sticky faces with damp napkins, tying shoelaces and settling disputes over who got to sit where. Leon was on his hands and knees searching for a stuffed cat while a gaggle of children shouted directions at him like he was navigating a minefield.

He'd been grinning and laughing, his hair was a mess, sticking up in six different directions from where at least three kids had tried to style it with their sticky hands. His uniform was wrinkled, the collar askew, and there was a suspicious sticky spot on his shoulder that you were pretty sure was juice box residue, and he'd looked happy. His eyes were bright, his face flushed, and when he'd finally pulled that stuffed cat out from under the desk and held it up, the kids had erupted in cheers, and Leon had laughed, a full, belly-deep laugh that made your chest tighten, and you felt that familiar ache settle deep in your ribs, spreading through your whole body like warmth from a fire.

You'd grown up in a big family. Four siblings, all younger than you, The house was always loud and chaotic, and someone was always demanding something of you. Your mom had worked two jobs to keep the lights on and food on the table, and you'd been the one to pick up the work. You'd been the one to make sure everyone got to school on time, to help with homework, to break up fights and kiss scraped knees and read bedtime stories.

You'd been a second parent before you'd even hit puberty, and you'd loved it and hated it equally. When it was bad, it was bad and you hated it, but when it was good, it was amazing and you'd loved it. You'd loved the noise, the chaos, the way your little brother would climb into your lap and fall asleep during movie night. Loved when our baby sister would reach for you when she was scared, and the way your other siblings would come to you with their problems, their secrets, their fears.

You'd loved being needed and loved by them, but then you'd left for college, and everything had gone quiet. Your dorm room had been silent, your apartment after graduation even more silent. Sometimes it ate at you, and you craved being home, where it wasn’t so quiet that you could hear your every thought like a drop in a still lake. I mean sure the precinct was loud at sometimes which helped, but it wasn't the same, It wasn't home. 

You'd buried that longing deep inside, told yourself you didn't need it, that you were fine on your own. You'd thrown yourself into your work and into building a career, you were strong, independent, and self-sufficient.

But then you'd met Leon, and that desire had come roaring back, clawing through your chest cavity to eat at your insides. You wanted him. You wanted to build a life with someone who would get down on the floor with kids, who would try so hard even when he didn't know what he was doing, who would look at you like you were the only person in the room. Who would laugh like that let himself be silly and messy.

You wanted the noise and chaos. The sticky fingers and the laughter and the bedtime stories and the scraped knees. You wanted the life you'd had growing up, the life you'd been missing for so long, the life you'd buried under career ambitions and independence and the lie that you didn't need anyone, and you wanted it with him. 

Later once the children had left and you were alone, he'd asked you about the future. You'd been working on paperwork together, the precinct quiet and empty around you, and he'd looked up from his files and said, "You ever think about the future?” This was the moment in which you knew that everything could change.

So, you'd set down your pen, and you'd looked at him, and you'd listened, and when he'd talked about wanting a house, kids, dogs, a family. When he'd looked at you with those blue eyes full of hope and vulnerability and asked, "Is that stupid?", you'd reached across the table and taken his hand.

"It's not stupid, Leon," you'd said. "You'd be a great dad.” And you'd meant it with every fiber of your being, because you'd seen someone kind, and patient, and selfless. Someone who tried so hard, who cared so much, who wanted to make the world a better place.

When he'd told you that he liked you and asked you out, his voice shaking, his face flushed, you'd said yes without hesitation. ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The house was a disaster.

Leon stood by the counter top, surveying the wreckage like a cop at a crime scene. Toys littered the floor, action figures, a headless Barbie doll that had seen better days, building blocks scattered like shrapnel from an explosion, a stuffed raccoon that looked suspiciously like the one from the precinct all those years ago, now missing an eye and most of its stuffing.

The breakfast table was a war zone. Cereal scattered across the surface like confetti. Milk dripped steadily onto the floor in a rhythmic plink that was starting to drive him insane. There was a suspicious sticky puddle near Oliver's placemat that might have been syrup or jelly.

The TV blared a cartoon theme song at full volume, singing about a talking dog and a mystery van, bright colors and loud voices that drilled into his skull. The dishwasher was rattling through its cycle, the plates inside clanking together and the refrigerator hummed and over it all, the voices of his three children, each one louder than the last, competing for dominance like they were auditioning for a reality show about who could drive their father crazy first.

Leon stood in the middle of it all, barefoot, his old RPD academy shirt wrinkled and riding up slightly from where Sophie had been using him as a climbing post five minutes ago, her sticky hands leaving prints on the fabric. His sweatpants had a suspicious stain on the thigh and his hair was sticking up in about six different directions because he hadn't had time to shower yet. 

He had Oliver wrapped around his leg like a koala, tugging insistently with sticky fingers on Leon's pant leg, his small face scrunched up in determination. While Leon tried to grab items from the fridge.

“Papa, Papa, I want pancakes!”

Leon looked down at him, four years old, blue eyes wide and demanding, his blonde hair, the color of honey in the sunlight sticking up in cowlicks that defied gravity and every attempt Leon had made to smooth them down. He was wearing his Batman pajamas, the ones with the cape that he refused to take off even though he'd been wearing them for three days straight and they were starting to smell like a combination of sweat and maple syrup.

“Ollie, buddy, we just had pancakes yesterday—“

"Papa! Look what I can do!" That was Emma, their oldest, standing on her chair at the table like it was a stage and she was the star of the show. Seven years old and already too smart for her own good, with a vocabulary that sometimes made Leon wonder if she was secretly a tiny adult in a kid's body.

She was waving a spoon like a sword, her blonde hair cascading past her shoulders in tangles that would take ten minutes and a bottle of detangler to fix, whipping around as she moved. She had food smeared across her cheek and her pink nightgown was twisted around her waist, the hem riding up to show her knobby knees.

"Em, get down before you—"

"Mine!" That was Sophie. Three years old, a tiny whirlwind of chaos who was currently on top of the kitchen counter. Leon's heart seized, his dad instincts kicking in as he watched her curls bouncing, chubby little hands yanking at a box of cereal she'd somehow managed to reach despite being three feet tall on a good day. She teetered dangerously close to the edge, her toes curling over the granite, her balance precarious, and Leon could already see the trajectory of the fall in his mind.

"Sophie, no—" he said reaching for her, but you were faster.

You swooped in from the hallway before Leon could even take a step, your reflexes honed by years of wrangling three tiny humans who seemed determined to injure themselves in increasingly creative ways. You scooped Sophie off the counter with practiced ease, one arm hooking around her waist.

"Nice try, Fi-bug," you said, your voice warm and patient despite the fact that it was seven in the morning and you'd probably been up for a while. Leon was up at five in the morning when Sophie crawled into your bed and kicked Leon in the ribs until he'd groaned and rolled over, giving up on sleep entirely as he got up to let you sleep some more.

You settled Sophie on your hip, and she pouted, her lower lip jutting out in a move that was pure manipulation and had worked on Leon more times than he cared to admit. Her blue eyes, Leon's eyes, not the only thing she'd inherited from him, went wide and glassy, threatening tears. But you were immune to her manipulation, and just kissed her forehead, your lips pressing against her curls, soft and gentle, and smiled.

"How about we sit at the table like a big girl, huh?" Sophie grumbled, an indignant little whine, like a tiny angry bear cub, but she didn't argue, never with mama. You set her down in her booster seat, the pink one with the unicorns on it that she'd picked out herself at the store, screaming "THAT ONE!" at the top of her lungs until Leon had caved and bought it. She immediately grabbed a fistful of Cheerios and shoved them into her mouth, her cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk.

Emma was still standing on her chair, spoon raised and you pointed at her without even looking, your mom-radar finely tuned after seven years of this.

"Emma Kennedy, sit. Now."

Emma sat. Just like that. No argument or negotiation. She plopped down into her chair, crossed her arms over her chest in a huff, and went back to eating her cereal.

Leon stood there, next to the microwave waiting for Ollie's pancakes, watching you move through the chaos like you were performing some kind of magic he didn't understand but was endlessly grateful for. You wiped Sophie's face with a damp cloth you'd pulled from seemingly nowhere your movements efficient and gentle, your touch soft. You poured Oliver a cup of juice without him even asking, because you already knew he was going to ask. You somehow managed to get Emma to eat an actual bite of cereal instead of flinging it at her brother, which was a minor miracle in itself, the kind of thing Leon would have needed at least thirty minutes to accomplish.

And then you looked at him, your hair was falling into your face, strands escaping the messy bun you'd thrown it into before bed last night, the elastic barely holding on. Your shirt the one with the faded RPD logo on the chest that he'd worn during his first week on the job, was stained with God-knows-what. There was a smudge of something on your cheek. You looked exhausted and frazzled. Your eyes had dark circles under them, your skin a little pale from lack of sleep.

You looked beautiful and you laughed as you looked at him, like you knew exactly what he was thinking. It was the same laugh, the one he'd heard in the precinct all those years ago, when he'd been a nervous rookie with no idea what he was doing, watching you calm a crying kid with nothing but a stuffed raccoon and a smile. The same one he'd heard on your first date, when he'd spilled red wine on the white tablecloth and you'd told him it was fine, that you liked messy, that perfection was overrated. The same one he'd heard in the delivery room, exhausted and radiant and covered in sweat, holding Emma for the first time while Leon cried like a baby himself, his hands shaking as he touched her tiny fingers.

It was the same laugh, and it still made his chest tighten, still made his heart do that stupid thump that he'd never quite gotten used to.

Leon looked at the kids, Emma, now actually eating her cereal her spoon moving from bowl to mouth in a rhythm that was almost civilized; Oliver, shoveling tiny pieces of leftover pancakes that Leon placed in front of him into his mouth by the fistful, syrup and chocolate dripping down his chin; Sophie, babbling to herself in a stream of nonsense words punctuated by the occasional "mine!" and "no!" and kicking her feet against the chair, and then back at you.

This was what he'd wanted all those years ago, this exact moment.

He crossed the kitchen, his bare feet sticking slightly to the floor where syrup had pooled, the tile cold and slick. He ignored all of that as he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you against him, and buried his face in the curve of your neck.

You smelled like coffee and baby shampoo. 

"Leon," you said, laughing, your hands coming up to rest on his forearms, your fingers warm and slightly damp from the washcloth. "What are you doing?"

He didn't answer. He just held you tighter, his chest pressed against your back, his arms wrapped around you like he could keep you there forever, keep this moment frozen in time. His chin hooked over your shoulder, and he closed his eyes, breathing you in.

"We did good," he whispered.

You went still and he felt you take a breath, felt the way your body softened against his, the tension draining out of your shoulders. And then you turned in his arms, your hands coming up to cup his face, your palms warm against his stubbled jaw, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.

When you looked at him, your eyes were soft and warm and full. "Yeah," you said quietly, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone, tracing the line of his face like you were memorizing it. "We really did."

Emma made a loud gagging noise from the table, her face scrunched up in exaggerated disgust. "Ew, gross."

Oliver giggled, a high-pitched sound that was pure mischief, his eyes sparkling. Sophie threw a piece of cereal at the wall. It stuck, clinging to the paint.

Leon didn't care. He leaned down and kissed you, his hands sliding up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. You smiled against his lips, and he felt the curve of your mouth, the warmth of your breath, you melted into him like you always had, like you always would.

When he pulled back, you were grinning, your eyes sparkling with that same warmth, that same light that had drawn him in all those years ago and never let go.

Leon thought about that rookie cop. The one who'd stood in the precinct with a crying kid and no idea what to do, who'd watched you drop to the floor without hesitation and felt his heart thump for the first time.

When you'd smiled at him across the break room table, late at night with paperwork scattered between you, and told him he'd be a great dad, your voice soft and sincere and full of a belief he hadn't known he needed.

"Love you," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours.

"Love you too, Kennedy." you said, soft and teasing and full of affection, full of a love that had only deepened over the years and made him want to kiss you all over again.

Sophie threw another piece of cereal. It hit Leon square in the head, bouncing off and landing somewhere near the dog's bowl, where their golden retriever, Super-Biscuit-princess, Biscuit for short, immediately gobbled it up.

You both started laughing, the sound filling the kitchen, drowning out all the noise and chaos. Leon pressed a quick and messy kiss to your lips, catching the corner of your mouth, and you swatted at his chest, still laughing.

"Go shower, Kennedy," you said, pushing him gently toward the hallway. "You smell like a gym sock and syrup."

Leon's grin widened, his chest filling with a warmth. He stole one more kiss, his lips lingering on yours for just a moment longer, and then he headed toward the bathroom stepping over toys.

Behind him, he heard Emma ask, "Mama, can we get a big lizard? Like, a really big one? like a dinosaur."

"Absolutely not," you said, but your voice was warm, patient, the same voice you used when you told Sophie she couldn't eat ice cream for breakfast or when you explained to Oliver why he couldn't bring all of his action figures everywhere he went.

Leon shook his head, still grinning as he stepped into the shower, the hot water hitting his shoulders and washing away all the exhaustion.

✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦ 𝖆 𝖓 𝖔 𝖙𝖊 ✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦

Here we goooo, finally!!! I was very excited about this concept, and really wanted to do something fluffy and cute so I got carried away!! This was actually a request I got in my messages weeeeeks ago from the lovely @king-thunderstorm, I'm so sorry this took so long and thank you so much for the request! I really needed this one, and I hope you liked it!

✦✧✦ 𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖋𝖎𝖑𝖊 ✦ see you in the next life ✦✧✦ This post was brought to you by BUNI ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦

[kira-writes-stuff]

Retired!Simon "Ghost" Riley x Mermaid!Reader

Summary: After hanging up the ghost mantle, Simon struggles integrating with civilization, leading to him buying a house near a beach and catching more than he bargained for.

Fish.

That's all he smelt standing on the rusty old excuse of a dock. Watching the waves as they slammed against dark rocks that lined the overgrown beach.

This is the last place he thought he'd end up at, he was sure his life would end in whatever third world country he was deployed to- but what was he supposed to do? Say no?

Disobey his captain when he passed over the documents? That damn piece of paper stating that his run is over, that he's unwillingly forced into retirement.

He didn't have a choice. Fate always had a cruel way of punishing him day by day after all.

"Tried to talk with Laswell but we both know your head isn't here Lieutenant."

"Sir-"

"After recent events... you haven't been the same." Price sighed, "I can't risk putting you or the team in danger."

"So I'm a liability now?"

He knew he was being a prick.

They all had been going through it. Including Price- who was trying oh so hard to keep everything togheter when he was rotting on the inside.

"Ghost-"

"I can still serve-"

"Simon."

The air was tense, every breath they took feeling like water was being filled in their lungs instead of oxygen. The harsh lights of Price's office making his already red eyes sting.

"It was an honor serving with you soldier. Take care of yourself."

So that's how he found himself back in his dingy run down flat in a rather unpleasant neighborhood in Manchester.

After years devoted to serving for his country, one wrong call and circumstance cost him his brother. Another person he thought of as home gone because he wasn't there to have his back.

It wasn't obscure to think that he would lose his mind- yes he was considered heartless and untouchable in the eyes of new recruits that would enlist- hell even his colleagues and higher ups thoughts the same. In reality, Ghost was only ever a facade to mask his hurt.

So how does one, who spent so long being a soldier, a machine built for war, go back to being a civilian?

He can't.

Simon Riley died a long time ago.

As much as he hated to admit it... Price was right.

He is a liability- became lost in his own rage and pain, blacking out and going on a rampage, killing multiple men like they were going to bring him back.

Months of him not sleeping, taking unnecessary risks, causing outbursts and overall punishing himself- ultimately leading to the death of Makarov. Killed by a bullet going perfectly straight through his skull.

Ghost made sure he put ten more for good measure and a few stab wounds before he was eventually pulled away.

He wasn't himself and he knew that.

Long gone was the calm and collected lieutenant.

Sounds of traffic, beeping horns, yelling, construction workers- drowned out by his own thoughts. Some random football game played in the background while he was on his... God knows what bottle of bourbon- he stopped counting after the tenth one.

Gaz and Price visited, took him out for a pint or two, went grocery shopping for him- but they still had work. Still had six months of deployment ahead of them. He doesn't blame them for losing track of time.

Just how he lost track of when he was supposed to pay his rent, the eviction letter pilled up next to the other useless junk mail.

So what was a man who was unable to integrate into society supposed to do? Pack his measly half empty suitcase and buy a house somewhere off the coast of course.

A two story beach house swallowed inside the overgrown forest that opened up to an unkept beach. Forgotten.

It was perfect.

So he got to work, started repairing the interior, plaster that had fallen off or old windows needing to be replaced by better insulated ones. Bringing in his minimal furniture from his flat after he finished repainting the whole house. He was slowly clearing out the outside as well, cutting down some smaller trees and tending to the grass.

It was sort of nice, he had something to do instead of live on his miserable couch, drinking and wallowing in self pity- I mean he still did that but that was time reserved for after he had finished working.

He even started a small garden for vegetables- mostly potatoes- considering the closest town was a relatively small one that was a 10 minute drive from where he was. He went once a week for basic supplies and food, even started selling fish on the market.

There was an old fishing boat that came with the property, he scraped off the algae and bought himself some new gear... Finding the whole experience quite relaxing.

Watching how the serene water shifted ever so slightly, the sunlight bouncing on the surface as he cast his fishing line once more.

It was familiar, yet...

No matter how much he enjoyed being out on his little boat, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

Call it paranoia.

But years in the military have taught him to be aware of his surroundings and he knew when there was a pair of eyes on him. He could tell when he was being hunted.

Yet he could never pin point exactly where it was coming from.

He finished up for the day, deciding to head back to his humble abode. Not before looking at the water and gazing at his reflection, his scarred and burnt face staring right back at him.

Yeah... Enough for today.

Soon, the weather got warmer- almost six months since...

The water was frantic that morning, small waves moving and splashing due to the slightly windy weather. He had been fixing up the deck, sure it worked fine but it was a question of when it wouldn't. The screws were all rusty and crooked, wooden planks moldy and rotting away- so he bought some new ones from town and began unloading his truck. No doubt there was going to be a storm coming in so he just piled the wood and covered them with a tarp.

Good thing he already fixed most of the leaks in the attic, he was going to redo the entire roof at some point but it worked for now- before he had placed a multitude of different pots and pans to catch each individual leak.

He enjoyed it here far more than the city. There wasn't any loud banging or yelling, no nosy people, only the soft melody of crickets, waves and occasionally rain letting him go numb.

Fishing helped as well, it was a quiet past time.

No ghosts are coming to haunt him here.

Well...

Almost no ghosts.

He narrowed his eyes toward the window overlooking the water, taking a long drag from his cigarette. No matter how hard he tried, he still couldn't help shake that feeling that someone was watching him.

It had started weeks ago, a little after he moved in. Little things at first. Tools moved when he swore he'd left them elsewhere, or the occasional glimpse of movement beyond the rocks offshore.

Every instinct he had screamed he wasn't alone out here and every time he grabbed a rifle to check, he found nothing.

"Bloody losing it," he muttered under his breath.

The storm worsened by evening.

Waves crashed violently against the shore while Simon pulled on his jacket and headed outside with a flashlight. One of his spare fishing nets had come loose near the waterline, dragged halfway towards the rocks littering the beach.

He could've left it for tomorrow morning, could've stayed in the warmth of his living room instead of stomping across wet sand, boots sinking deep.

Then the beam of his flashlight caught movement, his muscles tensing up and seemingly all of his senses being on high alert.

Something thrashed inside the tangled net.

Not something.

Someone.

For some time his brain was struggling to take into account what exactly he was seeing. Pale skin slick with seawater. Long strands of hair tangled with rope. Wide terrified eyes reflecting in the light.

And below the waist- a fish tail.

Massive. Powerful. Covered in dark iridescent scales that shimmered a sort of turquoise color beneath the rain.

You jerked violently as Simon approached, claws catching uselessly in the netting.

"Easy," he barked automatically like he was giving an order, that only made things worse.

You hissed at him, sharp teeth flashing as you desperately tried to drag yourself backward toward the sea. The net tightening around your tail, cutting into the scales hard enough to draw blood.

Simon stared for another second.

Any normal person would've probably panicked.

But he had fought beside highly trained men, wearing a skull mask while missiles fell from the sky. His scale for "impossible" was far from broken.

He crouched carefully, slowly approaching you while drawing a dagger from his belt. Your eyes widening at the metal.

"Oi," he said gruffly, holding one hand up slightly. "Not gonna hurt you."

The words sounded ridiculous considering they were coming from him, six foot something, pure muscle of a man with a knife in his hand.

Of course you didn't trust him.

The moment he moved closer, you snapped at him hard enough that he jerked back on instinct.

"...Right. Fair."

Rain dripped from the edge of his hood while he studied the mess of rope wrapped around you.

The fishing line had dug deep between the scales of your tail. Every movement tightened it further.

Simon clicked his tongue, patience running thin.

"Hold still unless you fancy losing the whole bloody fin." He grumbled, left to only assume that you don't understand the words, but maybe you had understood the tone.

Barely.

Your breathing remained sharp and panicked, but you had stopped fighting long enough for Simon to start cutting through the net. The knife worked carefully between ropes, severing one knot at a time.

Up close, he could see details that made his chest tighten strangely.

Scars.

Old ones.

Across your shoulders. Along parts of your tail, not natural and definitely not accidental. Something had hurt you before.

"There," he muttered after cutting another line loose. You flinched when his hand brushed against your tail accidentally. The scales were colder than he expected.

Human enough to look fragile.

Not human enough to feel real.

One final rope snapped and the net fell loose entirely.

For a second neither of you moved.

Then you surged backward fast enough to splash seawater across his boots, dragging yourself toward deeper water, strong fins treading through the rough waves.

Simon stood slowly, knife still hanging loosely in his grip as he watched you swim away- only to stop and turn around to gaze right into his eyes.

Rain poured between you in silver sheets while your eyes stayed fixed on him- cautious, frightened, curious. Like you'd been watching him for far longer than he realized.

With a flip of your tail you disappeared into the waves while Simon remained there alone on the shore, soaked to the bone.

After a long silence, he looked down at the shredded fishing net beside his feet.

"...The hell just happened?"

If Simon couldn't sleep before, he sure as hell couldn't now. Sitting on his worn out mattress with a cigarette on his lips, taking deep breaths of it as he stared with wide eyes through his window. His wet clothes thrown in the laundry hamper while he contemplated whether or not what happened was real or not.

A fucking mermaid.

He truly has lost his mind.

Surely it's the lack of sleep, maybe even a rusty old pipe burst and he's getting high off of gas because there is no way in hell that what he saw was real.

The storm had long since passed, wind clearing out the nasty clouds as sunlight found its way and crept through his windows.

He must be crazy.

So why the fuck is there a torn up fishing net where you had been? Why did he find shiny scales around it and deep groves in the sand where you had dragged your body when you jumped in?

And most importantly- why were there missing fish in his catch from the day before? You have bloody claws and teeth and yet you chose to take his? He spent a few solid hours using his heavy duty equipment to catch those. Not to mention his perfectly good net that he had to tear up in a million pieces since you got yourself tangled up in it.

The nerve of some people- or fish.

A part of him wished it stoped then and there. But of course it didn't and you were still around.

He could still feel your eyes on him, frankly he isn't sure if it's better now that he knows who is stalking him- might've been better to live in paranoia instead of delusion.

You weren't being slick either, he could see the slight ripples on the water when there was no wind, or the silhouette sitting by the rocks at dawn.

When he was fixing up the house though? Yeah, that was apparently peak entertainment for you. Curious eyes staring at him from the water while he worked on the deck, trying to finish it up before another storm rolled in.

He got used to the staring.

It meant he wasn't alone.

Your voice was soothing as well. You'd spent nights perched up on your rock, singing a soft melody that lulled him to sleep whenever he was restless- which was almost every night but your songs made him get at least two more hours of sleep to his measly none.

So what if he accidentally left a fish on his deck?

It's not like he purposefully placed the biggest one and stayed perched on his window waiting for your little webbed hands to find it- or how his chest filled with pride when he noticed that it was gone.

Meaningless.

Just like the pretty shells and smooth sea glass he would find after accidentally misplacing a fish every morning. He doesn't miss the little pleased click you'd do when he picked it up, glancing unamused at your general direction and watching you plop back into the water like a child getting caught stealing.

Sure it was embarrassing, but he was so fascinating to you- humans were always afraid of your kind, hunting and poaching you for god knows what sort of imaginary tale they spread about you. Forcing your kind to retreat into deep water just to be safe, turning into a myth or legend that was told to young children.

But he was different. He could've easily taken you, practically served on a silver plater for him since your already caught yourself... he didn't though.

Simon soon realized you had been watching for far longer than what he thought.

You've had your eyes on him since the very first day he'd set foot on the property. Seen him open the door to the house and watch in amusement when the handle was left in his hand. Seen him drunk on his porch at 3am. Seen him awake pacing on the beach after a gruesome nightmare. Seen him sitting on the ground of that same beach and talking to ghosts that weren't there.

You've seen him entirely and saw yourself.

Weeks spent at a distance, knowing of one another and yet scared to get close- because for both of you, getting close meant nothing good.

Though, you couldn't help but sit closer and closer to the shore.

Who could blame you? That man had the most treasures you've ever seen- simple work equipment had you in awe whenever he would use it. Surely he wouldn't mind if you tinkered with them, holding them and mimicking what he did. And yeah, it did annoy him to find his tools wet and not where had left them- but he drew the line when he saw that his pack of cigarettes were gone.

He heard you laugh for the first time that day. Your sweet voice giggling behind a rock while holding his things hostage.

Slowly that giggle turned into words.

He'd sit on the now sturdy and well built deck while you were perched up on your rock. Listening to him speak, about his day, the fish he'd catch or the nosy townsfolk that make up stories about him. In time he started to open up about his childhood, the rare but fonder memories- then some of his time serving.

You loved his voice, gruff and raspy but soft when he spoke to you... Nothing like the fishermen you'd listen in on whilst you got curious and swam up to the surface. Their voices were loud- but you did learn a few words here and there just by observing them.

Eventually you became more comfortable around Simon, swimming closer to him and trying to form your own sentences. You could understand most of what he was saying, having him explain new words to you as you tried your hardest to remember them.

You in turn, would teach him about tide patterns, giving him insight on the underwater life and how they react to them- along with how to identify and stay away from dangerous currents.

Now, whenever he'd go fishing you would be trailing close behind, telling him what time of day it was best to go out. His eyes just followed you while you were herding up some fish and leading them directly to his net, careful not to catch your own fins since you already cost him one.

He'd reward you by giving you the biggest fish to eat, and you'd give him the shiniest shells you could find.

For a while he was just referring to you as Fish. An annoying fish that would meddle with his stuff. He learnt your name of course, it was as beautiful as you- also having him hear you say his name for the first time was something to say the least.

Doesn't stop him from continuing to call you fish.

You were by far the first living thing that made this place feel less empty... First thing to make his lip dare to lift up in a poor attempt at a smile.

His drinking started to decrease as well, the nightmares still haven't left but your singing helped him keep them at bay.

One night in particular he woke up after drinking a whole bottle of bourbon. He wasn't proud of that but if the hangover wasn't a big enough punishment, having a nightmare of him screaming Johnny's name whilst he sees the life drain from his eyes and blood pool around his head. Having his hand firmly pressed to his chest, desperately searching for a heartbeat only for him to turn into ash and dogtags.

Clenching his fist against his own heart, he found himself standing in the water instead on his own bed, the cold salty water to his knees as he lets out a frustrated scream.

Your ears pick up that sound and before you knew it you were moving your tail frantically, looking for him and thinking he drowned but he was just sitting there... Letting the waves hit him as he held his knees to his chest, red eyes filled with tears... Desperately trying to keep them from falling.

"Si...?"

"Couldn't save him."

Oh...

You didn't say much after that.

Just carefully swam up next to him and gently laid your head on his knee.

You've seen how this played out before, he'd have that same nightmare and believe whatever awful things his subconscious thought up to torture him that night. Although you didn't know what atrocity had woken him up or the extent of what he had endured... Pain is something you sadly recognized easily.

The only thing you could do is offer your presence to him, wishing to take or at most share his hurt.

That was the first physical comfort he'd accepted in years.

You stayed like that for a while, the soft waves hitting the both of you as you sit in silence, not wanting to move an inch in fear of startling him. Simon, whose ragged breathing had slowed down a bit, just stared out into the open sea.

"Cold" you mutter, feeling how cold his skin was. Humans weren't built like mer, he was going to get sick if he didn't go.

As much as he hated the thought of leaving, once he looked into your worried eyes he slowly got up. Your hands dropping to the wet sand as you looked up at him.

He just gave you a nod. Making his way to his house where a warm shower would do him some good.

The morning after he sat by the dock and waited for you to pop up, not uttering a word before giving you the fish he would've otherwise left.

You couldn't help the happy clicking coming from the back of your throat when you snatched the fish up, biting into it as if you were given the best meal ever- because you were given more than just food.

Since then he's made an effort to always greet you when the sun rises with breakfast. Started bringing his own food because last time you'd insisted on sharing the raw bloody fish with him and he almost took your offer. Food poisoning be damned.

On the other hand you always show up early, a shiny treasure in your hands and waiting for him to make his way down when you pop up from the water. He gave you a pleased grunt whenever you'd present them to him. Not nearly as much excitement as you but when it came to him, that was enough.

Well, the first time you'd had the pleasure of hearing him laugh- more like a small chuckle but it still counted- was when you tried getting up on the dock with him.

It wasn't that high.

But it wasn't that low either.

You could've pulled yourself up, sure, it would've been easier- but you decided to jump instead. Landing face first into the planks and bruising your cheek. Shrieking and flapping your fins like a fish out of water.

It's safe to say that whatever pain you felt was momentarily forgotten once you heard him scoff and saw the tiniest hint of a grin. Stilling yourself as you gazed at him, the corners of your mouth pulling upwards.

He pushed you back in the water for staring too long. Much to your protests. He watched you for a good five minutes just flapping around glaring at him before hauling you up next to him.

You huffed, taking a big bite from your food.

From this close you could make out more of his features, every line, scar and mark. You'd trace them all, your interest peaking at the ink that lined his arm. Asking him about his tattoos and looking closely at them- you didn't ask him about his scars though. You had your own share of them to knew how painful it is to remember how you'd gotten them.

Eventually you'll open up to him, once where you noticed how he let his eyes wander before looking away as to not make you uncomfortable. Painfully respectful- yet he couldn't shake the feeling of dread whenever he'd see your wounds.

"My kind dislikes yours," you'd start quietly. "We were driven away by fear, forbidden from going near the surface."

Your fingers ran absentmindedly along your scales as you stared out at the dark water. "I was a curious kid. Always sneaking away, always asking questions. I wanted to see your world." A small, bitter smile tugged at your lips. "Paid the price for it."

Simon followed your gaze before his eyes settled on the scar stretching across your back. Unlike the others, it was clean and deliberate, the kind of wound that hadn't come from an accident. His expression hardened almost instantly.

"Did they..."

You nodded. "They made an example of me. Said i didn't belong among them."

The waves rolled under the wood bellow you, filling the silence that followed. You expected questions, maybe even pity, but Simon only stared at the scar for a moment longer before looking away.

"Wasn't right of em"

Your head turned toward him.

"They were our rules-"

"Don't mean shit."

For so long you've tried to justify what they did to you, to see reason within the truth... Swimming alone near the surface you once dreamt to see, running away from hooks and nets as the sharp blades pierced your skin.

Humans who would hunt you and whenever you'd tried to make a friend they would only care to have your tail on a line. You knew Simon was different. A human like them but he hadn't harmed you.

Hesitantly, you take his hand in your own and bring it up to your cheek, holding it there as you closed your eyes.

"Thank you."

For a moment, Simon only looked at you, the walls he kept around him were suddenly not so solid. He only grunted in response, yet he didn't pull his hand away.

Days started to blur togheter from that point on. He would wake up early to have breakfast with you, then do some work around the house as you watched him whilst you sunbathed on your rock. Once you gave him the clear on the weather, he'd set off on his fishing boat while you swam next to him.

You made sure to gather only the best fish for him, climbing on the boat once you were done to have some lunch. Giving him a playful splash from your tail before he heads back for town to sell his catch.

So what if he stopped by the small jewelers shop, the shiny necklace on display catching his attention. So what if he bought it for you? You seemed to like that sort of stuff anyway.

Judging by your reaction you more than loved it.

He helped you put it on as you held your hair up, only to look down and see how the light reflected off of it. The sun setting in the background as you laid down on the shore next to him.

It felt natural how he had somehow revolved his entire schedule around you.

He woke up thinking about you, worked around the property just listening you talk about everything and anything. Whenever he was in town he'd think of how you'd react to life on land, all of his mundane reactions would be tainted with thoughts of how excited you would be to see this. He'd spend the ends of his days watching the sun set peacefully with you by his side.

Which makes whatever emotions that built up hit harder when he shows up one day on the dock, carrying a sandwich for him and your favorite fish. Expecting to find you waiting there for him, either you'd be plopped on the deck already or hiding in the water trying to scare him- but you weren't there. Not when he scanned the entire area or called out your name. Maybe you just overslept. Didn't stop him from sitting there waiting for you. Telling himself you're fine.

But he wasn't fine.

Breakfast came and went without a glimpse of you. Simon told himself it didn't matter, carrying on with repairs around the house, an old plumbing leak he'd been putting off doing.

Yet every time he straightened up, his eyes drifted toward the water. By midday he'd checked the shoreline more times than he cared to admit, his tea long gone cold beside him. The afternoon passed no easier, each movement in the waves caught his attention only to turn out to be nothing.

By the time evening settled over the coast, Simon found himself standing on the porch with his arms crossed, staring out at the darkening sea. The realization that he'd spent the entire day waiting for you sat heavily in his chest, irritating him far more than your absence ever could.

To anyone else he would've seemed mental. Staring out into the open sea waiting for a damn mermaid to show up.

"Bloody fish." He muttered under his breath, feet already taking him away from the shore.

Then he heard it, a small splash in his direction and when he turned around- there you were. The second your head broke the surface of the water, Simon was already moving down the beach.

"Where the hell were you?" he barked, frustration getting the better of him. "Been gone all bloody day without a word-"

The rest died in his throat.

You'd stopped a few feet away, and only then did he notice the water around you wasn't just dark from the evening shadows.

It was red.

His eyes then dropped to your tail. A deep gash ran along one side of your fin, fresh blood slipping between the scales and disappearing into the sea.

The irritation vanished instantly, replaced with a feeling he knew all too well.

"What happened?"

His voice came out lower this time, sharper in a different way. He was already crouching at the water's edge, reaching for you before he even realized he'd moved.

"Current took me farther out..." you let him pick you up from the water, "Some fishermen managed to hit me-"

You hesitated before adding "I'm sorry."

Simon's expression darkened immediately as his eyes stayed focused on the blood staining your fin.

"Don't apologize."

The words came out sharper than intended. He crouched beside you, inspecting the wound before muttering a curse under his breath.

"Stay here."

Without another word, he turned and headed for the house, returning minutes later with a first aid kit, clean cloths, and a bucket of fresh water. By the time he knelt beside you again, the irritation from earlier had vanished completely, replaced by a focus you were beginning to recognize.

"Let me see it."

You pulled your hands away from your wound and hissed in pain when he started working on it. His hands were precise, cleaning and disinfecting, later wrapping you up in some waterproof gauze.

He finished tying off the bandage and sat back with a quiet grunt. The cut would heal, eventually. He told himself that was all that mattered.

Still, the image of blood in the water refused to leave his mind.

The silence stretched between you as the sun dipped below the horizon. Simon kept his gaze fixed on the waves, jaw tight. He told himself the anger twisting in his chest was directed at the fishermen, at the carelessness of it all. It had nothing to do with the way his stomach had dropped when you hadn't shown up that morning.

Not at all.

For the next two weeks, your visits became shorter while the wound healed. Simon insisted it was to keep pressure off the injury, though you suspected he was simply looking for an excuse to keep an eye on it. Even so, the beach felt strangely empty whenever you disappeared beneath the waves, leaving him alone with the sound of the sea and thoughts he stubbornly refused to examine.

Your fin had eventually healed enough that Simon no longer had an excuse to fuss over it, though that didn't stop him from glancing at it every now and then whenever he thought you weren't looking. The two of you had slipped back into an easy routine. You sat nearby, talking far more than he ever did, filling the quiet with questions about human life while he hammered boards into place or sanded down old wood. Most of the time, he answered with various grunts, but you'd learned how to translate those by now.

"What was your family like?" you asked, watching him work.

Simon paused briefly before continuing. "Complicated."

You accepted the answer for what it was. Some subjects were harder than others. Instead, you traced patterns into the sand with your fingers, thinking for a moment before looking back up at him.

"Do you ever get lonely?"

The question seemed innocent enough.

Yet the hammer stopped.

For a few seconds, Simon didn't move. His shoulders stiffened, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the half-finished porch as if he were looking at something only he could see. You waited, expecting one of his usual dismissive answers, but none came.

Eventually, he set the hammer down with more force than necessary.

"Don't."

The single word caught you off guard.

"What?"

"Don't ask questions like that."

Confusion flickered across your face. You weren't trying to upset him. It was just another thing you wanted to understand, another piece of him he rarely spoke about. Yet something about the question had struck deeper than you'd intended.

"I was only curious."

"Well stop."

The sharpness in his voice made the air between you suddenly feel colder. Simon scrubbed a hand down his face before looking out toward the ocean, avoiding your eyes entirely.

"It's best if you stay in the water."

The words landed heavily.

You stared at him. "What?"

"Your world's out there." His gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "The sea's where you belong."

The confusion in your chest slowly gave way to hurt. For months he'd welcomed your company, taught you about his world, sat beside you for hours without complaint. Now he was acting as though you'd crossed a line you couldn't even see.

For the first time since you'd met him, the silence between you felt uncomfortable. Simon knew it the moment it settled over the beach, knew he'd said the wrong thing, but the thought of taking it back terrified him even more. Because if he did, he'd have to admit why the question had bothered him in the first place.

For a moment, you simply stared at him. The hurt on your face was immediate, impossible to hide no matter how hard you tried. Simon felt it like a knife between his ribs, especially when your eyes began to shine with unshed tears.

"Oh."

The quiet response was somehow worse than shouting.

You lowered your gaze, fingers tightening in fists as sand dug into them. For a second, Simon thought you might argue, might tell him he was being an idiot. Instead, you only nodded.

"Okay."

The word barely rose above a whisper.

Without another look in his direction, you slipped back toward the water. Your movements were slower than usual, lacking the excitement that normally accompanied your visits. Simon watched you go, every instinct screaming at him to say something- to stop you, explain himself, take the words back- but he remained rooted where he stood.

When you disappeared beneath the waves, the beach felt unnaturally quiet.

The first day passed easily enough. Simon threw himself into repairs around the house and convinced himself the silence was for the best. By the third day, he found himself glancing toward the water whenever he stepped outside. By the fifth, he was standing on the porch long after sunset, staring at the empty shoreline. A full week passed without so much as a glimpse of you, and the realization settled heavily in his chest.

The beach hadn't changed.

The house hadn't changed.

Yet somehow everything felt emptier without you there.

Days passed by in silence. Like they were before he met you... It's the same sensations he had when he lost-

He missed you.

No matter how much he denies it, the heaviness in his chest is enough to drown him.

Almost two weeks had passed.

The weather had been clear that morning, the sea calm enough that he'd decided to take the boat farther out than usual. Anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to stop himself from looking toward the shoreline every five minutes expecting to see someone who wasn't coming.

The engine hummed steadily beneath him as he cast his line overboard. He told himself it was for the best. You belonged to the sea. He'd only said what needed to be said.

Then why did he feel so empty?

A gust of wind cut across the water as the horizon darkened.

What had been clear blue skies less than an hour ago were now swallowed by heavy clouds rolling in far too quickly. The waves began to swell beneath the boat, rocking it hard enough to make him grab the railing.

"Shit."

The storm hit fast. Faster than he could ever anticipate.

Rain lashed against him as the sea turned violent, tossing the boat like driftwood. Simon fought the wheel, trying to turn back towards shore, but another wave slammed into the side making the boat jerk violently.

Something cracked.

Then another wave hit.

The world seemingly flipped as if the ocean was punishing him.

All he could feel in that moment was the cold biting at his skin.

Simon barely had time to suck in a breath before the sea dragged him under. He kicked toward the surface, disoriented, only for another wave to crash over his head. Saltwater filled his lungs as he struggled against the current, his soaked clothes dragging him deeper.

For the first time in years, genuine fear gripped him.

Not of dying.

Of regret.

The last thing he'd said to you echoed in his head.

It's best if you stay in the water.

His chest burned.

Another mouthful of water.

Another failed attempt to reach the surface.

And as darkness crept into the edges of his vision, all Simon could think was that if these were his final moments, then the last thing he'd ever given you was a reason to leave.

Miles away, beneath the crashing waves, something made you stop. You'd been drifting through the empty sea, wishing to go back and see him but you knew better. He didn't want you and that broke your fragile heart in a million pieces.

Suddenly a foreign feeling crept its way to you.

A disturbance in the water.

Something familiar.

And suddenly, without knowing why, your heart dropped as your tail cut through the murky water- frantically swimming like your life depended on it because it wasn't your life on the line but his.

The moment you found him, he wasn't fighting anymore.

His body drifted beneath the surface, dragged by the current as the storm raged overhead. Panic seized your chest as you shot through the water, reaching him just before he disappeared into the darkness below. You had one arm hooked beneath his shoulders while the other struggled to keep his head above the waves whenever he broke the surface. More than once the sea tried to pull him from your grasp, but you held on, ignoring the ache in your muscles as you forced both of you towards the shore.

By the time you reached the beach, you were exhausted.

"Simon."

No response.

You dragged him onto the sand, hands shaking as you pressed against his chest the way he'd once shown you after you'd asked about it. Nothing.

"Simon."

Your voice cracked.

Then suddenly seawater spilled from his mouth. He coughed weakly before falling still once more. Relief flooded through you so hard your vision blurred.

He was alive. Barely holding on but alive nonetheless.

Your gaze snapped toward the distant house.

You couldn't carry him there.

Not like this.

The wind howled around you as you looked down at your tail. Every warning you'd ever been given echoed through your mind. Every story. Every lesson. Every consequence.

There would be no going back.

Not after this.

For a moment, fear rooted you in place. If you did this there would be no taking it back, you'd be forced to live a life unknown to you- but one look at Simon's nearly lifeless face had your doubts wash away.

The choice disappeared and pain exploded through your body.

Your vocal cords burned as you yelled out, your tail thrashing violently against the sand as your sparkly scales split apart beneath your skin. Bones cracked and shifted into unfamiliar shapes. Every nerve in your body felt as though it were being torn apart and rebuilt. All while you could only manage to claw against the wet sand, desperate for relief that never came.

The transformation seemed endless, but when it finally stopped, you collapsed beside him, gasping for breath.

It was over. The relief washed over your body as you forced yourself to look down... What once was a powerful tail had become legs.

Human. Fragile. Permanent.

Tears mixed with rainwater as you stared at them. The sea no longer called to you the way it once had.

You had given it up.

Given up the ocean.

Given up your home.

Given up the only life you'd ever known.

For him.

The realization hurt almost as much as the transformation itself.

Yet when you looked at Simon, unconscious and shivering beside you, you found you couldn't regret it.

Not even for a second.

With trembling limbs, you forced yourself upright. The first step nearly sent you crashing back to the ground, feeling as you were walking on shards of broken glass. The second wasn't much better. Your legs felt wrong, unsteady beneath your weight, but somehow you managed to hook Simon's arm around your shoulders.

The brute was fucking heavy, making the walk to the house slow and miserable.

By the time you reached the front door, every muscle in your body burned and your legs felt ready to give out beneath you.

Still, you kept moving.

Because Simon had freed you from the net once. Shown you the type of kindness that you've forgotten from a life full of loneliness.

Now it was your turn to bring him home.

You'd set him down on the soft couch, started removing his drenched clothes. Drying him off and wrapping him in a thick blanket. The red flickers of coal in the nearly dead fire caught your attention, making you grab some of the logs and arranging them in the same way Simon once did when he showed you how good cooked food could be.

The house is much warmer now. Lulling you into a peaceful slumber as your eyes fell heavy.

A while later, consciousness returned slowly to him.

Everything hurt.

His chest burned with every breath like it was bleeding from the inside, his muscles ached, and there was a pounding headache lodged somewhere behind his eyes. For a moment Simon simply stared at the ceiling, confused by the warmth surrounding him. The last thing he remembered was the storm.

The boat.

The water.

The regret.

Then nothing but darkness.

A crackle drew his attention towards the fireplace. Someone had built a fire. Fresh blankets had been piled over him.

Then he felt it.

A hand.

His gaze dropped.

Your fingers were loosely intertwined with his own, your head resting against the edge of the couch where you'd apparently fallen asleep. For a second, relief hit him so hard it was almost painful.

You were here. Like an angel sent from heaven- was he in heaven? Sure seemed like it if you were next to him.

Then his eyes traveled lower.

And froze.

Legs.

His breath caught as the realization struck with the same force of the wave that knocked him out.

How the storm took him, or the fact that there was absolutely no way you could have gotten him home otherwise. A thousand questions rushed through his mind.

Slowly, carefully, Simon pushed himself upright. The movement made you stir, your brow furrowing as you began to wake.

The second your eyes met his, relief flooded your face.

"Simon."

His grip tightened around your hand before he could stop himself.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then his gaze dropped briefly to your legs before returning to your face.

"What did you do?"

The question came out rough.

Not angry.

Not accusing.

Just afraid of the answer.

Your eyes welled up with tears and you brought his hand to your cheek, "Don't belong in the water anymore."

The weak smile you offered him did nothing to ease the sick feeling twisting in Simon's chest.

Instead it made it worse because only now was he beginning to understand what you'd done.

You'd given up everything for him.

"Jesus Christ..." he breathed.

Your smile faltered.

Before you could say anything else, Simon's hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you forward. The movement was sudden, almost desperate. One second you were sitting beside the couch, the next you were wrapped in his arms.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

You could feel the way his grip tightened around you, as though he were afraid you'd disappear if he let go.

"Dumb fish," he muttered hoarsely into your hair.

The insult lacked any real bite.

Slowly, your arms slipped around him in return.

"I thought you wanted me gone."

The words were barely above a whisper as Simon's chest tightened painfully.

"No."

The answer came immediately.

"No, sweetheart."

The endearment slipped out before he could stop it. You pulled back just enough to look at him and for the first time since waking, Simon met your gaze fully. There was no mask now. No distance. No convenient excuse he could hide behind.

Only relief.

Relief that you were here next to him, and that he'd been given another chance.

His hand rose to cup your face.

"I'm sorry."

Your eyes widened.

It was probably the first genuine apology you'd ever heard from him.

"You don't have to-"

"I do."

His thumb brushed away a tear before it could fall, and for a moment neither of you dared to move.

You were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, close enough to see every scar and line on his face. Simon's gaze dropped briefly to your lips before immediately returning to your eyes, as though he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You didn't.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned in and you felt the brush of his lips against yours.

It was tentative at first, almost uncertain. Simon's hand remained against your cheek while yours found his wrist, holding on as if grounding yourself. It wasn't dramatic or desperate, just soft and lingering, years of loneliness and unspoken feelings finally finding somewhere to go.

When he pulled back, it wasn't far.

His forehead resting against yours as he let out a shaky breath, eyes closing for a moment.

"You belong with me," he murmured quietly, squeezing your hand.

This time, when you smiled, it didn't hurt.

Nuzzling your face closer into his neck as his hands hold you impossibly tighter- making you feel safe. This is your home now. Simon is your home and you wouldn't have it any other way.

You also couldn't help the way your heart skipped a beat when your eyes drifted to the little basket under the window, every little treasure you've gifted him was neatly tucked into it and it was the only thing in the house that didn't have a layer of dust covering its surface.

Yeah.

You don't regret one bit of it.

Not when you finally feel wanted.

Not when he'd finally taken you to town, shown you the life you'd yearned for all this time. Or how he'd let you decorate the house in different hues of blues and plants reminiscent of the kelp you'd once swam through. A big aquarium was stationed in the corner along with an assortment of shells and shiny rocks you'd collected with him whilst you walked along the beach hand in hand.

It was safe to say that Simon was right about how you'd react to human life- except for watching tv. You were cursing so much it would make a sailor blush because of the sheer amount of incorrect statements being said about underwater life.

Months later he'd surprise you with a shiny ring, asking you to marry him. You were confused to say the least- you were under the assumption that you were already mated. C'mon, you've given him almost hundreds of shiny treasures and he'd shown himself as a capable mate when he'd presented you with the biggest fish he'd caught.

Were you not mates?

It took a while for Simon to explain human customs and marriage over your hysterical crying, by the end of it you somehow ended up tangled in bed together- he ended up with a multitude of bites and purple hickeys, not like he complained.

You also didn't get the whole wearing white to a wedding. What was the point of wearing such a dull color to a special day? Simon made you cry once again when he showed you a custom made mermaid gown that had the exact hues and shades that once adorned the scales on your tail.

The wedding was small. By small it was just you two accompanied by Price and Gaz to sign as witnesses. The grateful look on their faces didn't go unnoticed by you. You decided it was best not to tell them what you were.

The only person you told was Johnny.

You held Simon's hand tightly as he knelt on the ground where they had once spread his ashes. He still has that nightmare from time to time, but now he has you to help him. A part of him believes that he had sent you to him. A guardian angel to make him die a happy man.

Because he is happy.

Especially the night where you were cuddled up close to him, taking his hand in yours and instead of pressing it to your cheek you lowered it to your stomach... Wordlessly telling him that you were having a little fry of your own.

Now, Simon Riley stood not as a dead man, but as a lucky bastard that was given a second chance at life- a life with you in it. Call it a fairy tale if you will but he is beyond grateful to whatever being there was that gifted you to him.

a/n: Oookay this was a bit of a long one on my part, do I think it could use a bit more flushing out and if given to the right writer it could sound so poetic and beautifully written? Yeah, a lil bit- but it's my lil story and I love mermaids this time of year- hope you enjoyed reading it tho <3

The pretty dividers are by @uzmacchiato

[prettybird-ie]

dating the 141 means break-ins hardly phase you.

i imagine the live camera feed goes off one night while youre lying in bed. new sheets still hugging you warm after the dryer. the boys are off doing their personal night routines, heavy guard dogs lay at your feet.

with the chime of your phone, a notification alerts you of outside movement. you consider it to be a waving branch or passing car, yet check it nonetheless. something about inner intuition.

youre glad you did.

watching silently as someones shadow skirts along the darker parts of around your house. passing the kitchen windows with a ducked head, then round the back.

"fuck," you bite your lip. sighing quietly as you toss your phone. "johnathan!" four heads from the bathroom peek around the doorframe slow, eyes open with the use of a full name. johnny fights a grin, ready to watch his captain get chewed out by their lady.

"..ye' love?"

"theres some weird guy wandering 'round the house outside," you inform dryly. plucking your phone back up and leaving it there. you reach for your wine glass on the bedside table, sipping as their hearts fall to their ass.

sure, anxiety stirs low in your gut. nipping at your reason and concious. but you also are keen of what your boys have lived through, the dirtest negotiations and most horrific actions.

alway do they come back home into your arms.

you could blame it on pure lack of sleep, but its nicer to blame it on the assumption youre probably the safest person in town. perhaps city if you dare.

so you continue with scrolling through ao3.

paying a half mind as military tense rounds over their bodies. simon whistles for the dogs and grabs his pistol. grunting and rolling his bare shoulders in atonished anger at somones sheer audacity. i mean for fuck sakes the mans tired. 

johnnys sneaking grin falls, replaced by a flat face as hes quick to grab a flashlight and gun. moving out the door on simons heels. big dogs herding around them.

"stay 'ere yeah love? dont open the fuckin' door," johns voice is a low growl. grabbing a hunters knife ( anniversary gift from you, his names carved in the wood ) and moving to the window. room lights flipped off when johnny left. scanning the open grass with an annoyed brow twitch. "kyle, wi' me."

kyle nods, glancing back three times to make sure youre content. careful to lock the bedroom door and leave a weapon with you, which he drills in not to touch less you hear the burglar. with a final glance, hes gone with the rest of them.

your ears perk for movement outside. glass shatters and a door kicks open. youre pretty sure you hear the guy shriek — most definitely simons doing, weird fucker was waiting in the dark — a brisk struggle before the house falls silent, words they dont want you hearing are exchanged then hes thrown out onto the grass.

hes quick to jump up and scurry off, wet pants uncomfortable and now stinking.

you sigh with annoyance, replacing windows was the biggest bitch. but whatever, sukuna is realizing his love for Y/N.

[kanescrochet]

Rain tapped softly against the windows of your apartment as you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, wiping mascara from beneath your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

Again.

Another date that started with promise and ended with disappointment.

At this point it almost felt laughable. Your friends called it bad luck. Your mother called it poor taste in men. You called it exhausting.

You had spent years trying to make yourself easier to love.

Softer voice. Smaller opinions. Less emotional. More patient. More forgiving.

None of it worked.

One cheated on you with your coworker. One forgot your birthday three years in a row. One left halfway through dinner because his ex texted him.

After enough heartbreak, you stopped expecting good things from people.

Still, loneliness had a way of creeping in during quiet nights.

You tossed your ruined makeup wipe into the trash and shuffled toward the kitchen, flicking on the small lamp above the sink. The apartment glowed warm amber against the storm outside.

Then the lights flickered.

Once, twice, you frowned.

“Please do not die on me tonight.”

The bulbs steadied.

A knock sounded at your door.

You froze.

It was nearly midnight.

Another knock. Slower this time.

Your stomach twisted as you moved carefully toward the door, checking the peephole.

A tall man stood in the hallway.

Broad shoulders.

Dark hood.

Black gloves.

The overhead light buzzed strangely above him.

You hesitated before cracking the door open slightly.

“Yes?”

The stranger lifted his head.

And your breath caught.

He was handsome in a way that almost hurt to look at. Harsh features softened only slightly by tired eyes. A scar cut across his face, pale against tan skin. Blond lashes shadowed eyes so dark they looked nearly black in the dim hall.

“You dropped this downstairs.”

His voice was deep and rough like gravel dragged across velvet.

He held up your wallet.

Your eyes widened. “Oh my God.”

You snatched it from him, immediately checking inside. Everything was still there.

“You could've taken the cash.”

“Aye.” One corner of his mouth twitched. “Could've.”

You laughed quietly despite yourself.

“Thank you…?”

“Simon.”

The name settled strangely in your chest.

His gaze lingered on you for half a second too long. Not in a creepy way. More like he was trying to memorize you.

Then the hallway light above him burst with a sharp pop.

You jumped.

Simon did not even blink.

“Sorry,” you muttered nervously. “This building is falling apart.”

“Seems that way.”

Another silence settled between you, oddly comfortable despite the fact you had never met this man before.

You noticed rain soaking the shoulders of his black jacket.

“You can come in for a minute if you want,” you said before thinking too hard about it. “Until the storm calms down.”

His expression changed slightly.

Almost surprised.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

You stepped aside.

The second Simon crossed your doorway, the warmth in the apartment seemed to shift.

Not colder.

Heavier.

Like the air itself had thickened.

He removed his gloves carefully, revealing scarred hands and silver rings. Your gaze snagged briefly on one oddly shaped ring that looked ancient compared to the others.

“You live alone?” he asked quietly.

“Unfortunately.”

His eyes flicked around the apartment before settling back on you.

“You should get a better lock.”

You laughed nervously. “You sound like my dad.”

“Smart man.”

You made tea mostly to keep your hands busy. Simon stood near the kitchen counter, massive compared to your tiny apartment. Somehow he looked completely natural there, like he belonged in shadows and dim light.

“You always rescue strangers during storms?” he asked.

“No. Usually I make objectively terrible choices with men.”

That earned a low hum from him.

“Bad history?”

“Catastrophically bad.”

The words spilled easier than expected.

Maybe because Simon listened instead of waiting for his turn to talk.

You told him about the cheating, the lying, the way every relationship somehow left you feeling lonelier than before.

“You start wondering if maybe something's wrong with you after a while,” you admitted softly.

Simon went still.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

The certainty in his voice startled you.

“You don't even know me.”

“Don't need to.”

Your face warmed.

Rain thundered harder outside.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

Then Simon looked toward your window sharply.

Not casually.

Alert.

Like he heard something you couldn't.

“You expecting anyone tonight?”

“No?”

His jaw tightened slightly.

A cold shiver crawled across your skin.

Then came three knocks at the apartment door.

You frowned. “Who the hell…”

Simon was already moving.

Fast, too fast.

One second he stood beside the counter. The next he was near the door.

You barely processed it.

He glanced through the peephole and his expression darkened into something genuinely frightening.

“Stay back.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What is it?”

“Stay behind me.”

The deep tone in his voice left no room for argument.

The knocking came again.

Harder.

Your pulse hammered as Simon unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway, pulling it nearly shut behind him.

You heard muffled voices.

Low.

Aggressive.

Then silence.

A horrible silence.

You crept closer before the door opened again.

Simon stepped back inside calmly, shutting the door behind him.

Your eyes widened.

There was blood on his knuckles.

“Oh my God.”

“Not mine.”

“What happened?”

“Drunk bastard had the wrong apartment.”

Something about the explanation felt thin.

Still, Simon looked completely unbothered.

Not adrenaline high, bot angry, just cold controlled.

He noticed your expression and sighed softly.

“Scared of me now?”

Strangely, you weren't.

You should have been.

Every instinct said something about this man was dangerous beyond reason.

But beneath all of that danger was something else.

Something lonely, something aching.

“No,” you answered honestly.

Simon stared at you like the word physically hurt him.

“You should be careful saying things like that.”

“Why?”

His eyes met yours fully then.

Dark, endless, not human.

The lights flickered again violently.

For one impossible second you saw something behind him.

A shadow stretching too large across the wall.

Two massive horns curling upward.

Golden eyes glowing from darkness.

Then it vanished.

Your breath stopped.

Simon closed his eyes briefly like he knew exactly what you saw.

The apartment suddenly felt too small.

“What…” Your voice trembled. “What are you?”

Silence.

Rain hammered the windows.

Finally he spoke.

“A bad man.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“No.” His gaze lowered to the floor. “It's the safer one.”

You should have run.

Any sane person would have.

But instead you whispered, “You brought back my wallet.”

Simon looked almost amused by that.

“Your standards are low, sweetheart.”

“They've had to be.”

A quiet sound escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite sadness.

Then he stepped closer carefully, like approaching a frightened animal.

“You keep picking people who hurt you because part of you thinks that's all you deserve.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“How would you know that?”

“Because creatures like me can smell loneliness.”

The room went cold.

Creatures, plural.

Your heart raced but Simon remained perfectly still.

“I haven't lied to you,” he continued softly. “I just haven't told you everything.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

His expression immediately hardened with something fierce.

“No.”

The answer came so fast it felt instinctive.

“Never you.”

Your breath caught again.

Simon lifted one scarred hand slowly toward your face, giving you every chance to pull away.

When his fingers brushed your cheek, warmth spread through your skin despite the storm around you.

“You're the first good thing I've wanted in a very long time,” he murmured.

His thumb traced beneath your eye gently.

“And that's dangerous for someone like me.”

You should have pushed him away.

Instead you leaned into his touch.

Because for the first time in your entire life, someone looked at you like you were precious instead of temporary.

And somewhere deep beneath Simon Riley’s frightening smile and impossible shadows, something ancient and monstrous had already decided you belonged to him.

[ynstark]

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who’s got permanent damage in his right ear from years of explosions, gunfire, and close-quarters chaos—no one on base really comments on it anymore, but he’s used to tilting his head slightly when someone talks, or barking a gruff “Wot?” when the words blur together.

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who meets you and immediately notices how you don’t dial it down. You talk and talk—rambling about your day, laughing loud enough that it echoes off the walls, filling every quiet corner of his flat like you were made to chase away the silence he’s lived in for years. Past partners always told you to lower your voice, said you were “too much,” but Simon just watches you with those dark eyes and lets you keep going.

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who starts positioning himself on your left side without thinking, the good ear turned toward you so he doesn’t miss a single word. He never asks you to speak up or repeat yourself; instead he leans in closer, mask tugged down just enough that you can see the faint scar along his jaw, and mutters, “Keep talkin’, love. Like hearin’ you.”

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who finds your volume oddly comforting after missions. The flat used to feel like a tomb—too still, too quiet. Now it’s full of your voice: you singing off-key in the kitchen, yelling excitedly at the telly, chattering while you cook. He catches fragments sometimes, but the tone? The energy? That comes through crystal clear, and it settles something restless in his chest.

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who gets a little smug when you forget and raise your voice even more around him. You’ll be mid-rant about some coworker and suddenly boom a laugh, and he’ll just smirk under the mask, pulling you into his lap with one big hand on your hip. “Didn’t catch all that,” he rumbles, “but I liked the last bit. Say it again.”

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who never once makes you feel like your loudness is a flaw. If anything, he guards it. When Soap or Gaz tease you lightly about being the “loud one” in the relationship, Simon shuts it down with a flat stare and a low, “She talks how she talks. Fuck off.” You’re his noise. His life. The one sound he never wants muffled.

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley whose favorite thing is when you’re in bed and that volume of yours really comes out. He loves the way you can’t stay quiet—whining his name, gasping loud when he drags his cock slow and deep, moaning without shame as he pins your wrists above your head and fucks you harder just to hear you get even louder.

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who growls against your throat, “Louder, sweetheart. Want the whole fuckin’ block to know who’s makin’ you sound like that.” He angles his hips just right, thick length stretching you open, and when you cry out—sharp, unrestrained, voice cracking on a broken “Simon, fuck, right there”—he swears it hits him harder than any explosion ever did.

Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who buries his face in your neck as you come undone, your loud, messy moans vibrating against his skin while he spills inside you with a deep, guttural groan of his own. Afterward he stays buried deep, breathing you in, one calloused thumb brushing your cheek as he murmurs, “Never get tired of hearin’ you lose it for me. Loud as you want, love. Always.”

He pulls you close, your chest still heaving, voice hoarse from how freely you let go, and for once the world feels perfectly loud in all the right ways.

[pinkfairycake]

when leon drops his girlfriend home from a date that ran later than usual, he gets a bit clingy and a tad bit paranoid. [text msgs]

[adelineriley999]

simon accidently yelled at you

The apartment had gone unbearably quiet after he yelled.

Not the comfortable kind of silence either. Not the kind Simon liked after long missions where the world finally stopped demanding things from him.

This silence was wrong.

You stood by the stove with your back turned, shoulders tense, blinking rapidly like if you just tried hard enough the tears would disappear before he saw them.

Too late.

Simon stared at you like he’d just watched himself pull a trigger he couldn’t take back. His chest rose once. Heavy.

“...Fuck.”

The word came out under his breath, barely audible.

You wiped quickly at your face. “It’s okay.”, you whispered , hurt and embarrassment blooming in your chest.

It wasn’t okay.

And Simon knew it immediately because your voice did that tiny shaky thing it only did when you were trying very hard not to cry.

He felt sick.

The kind where the person you love looks hurt because of you.

Simon took one cautious step forward. Then another.

“Love.”

You shook your head without turning around.

That hurt more than the tears.

Usually when he came home, you gravitated toward him automatically. Hands on his chest, arms around his waist. Soft little smiles like he was something worth waiting for.

Now you were standing as far away from him as the kitchen allowed.

Because he yelled.

Because he came home carrying all his anger and dropped it right at your feet.

His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”, you mumbled, trying to smoothen your voice.

“Stand there acting like you deserve that.”

You finally turned a little at that, eyes glossy. “Simon-”

“No.” He scrubbed a hand down his face harshly. “No, don’t excuse it.”

You went silent. He looked wrecked now. More wrecked than when he first walked in.

Rainwater still clung to his jacket. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but guilt sat on him even heavier.

“I came home to you,” he said, voice rough. “Warm flat, food on the stove, you waiting for me.” He laughed once bitterly at himself. “And first thing I do is bark at you like some miserable prick.”

Your lips parted slightly.

Simon looked away, jaw flexing.

“Spent two bloody weeks thinking about getting back to you.” His voice got quieter. “Then I walk through that door and make you cry inside five minutes.”

The tears you were trying to stop spilled over again.

The second he saw them, he looked genuinely devastated.

Not angry. Not frustrated.

Devastated.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

He crossed the room immediately then stopped himself halfway, hesitating.

Simon Riley, who would walk through gunfire without blinking, suddenly looking uncertain about whether he was allowed to touch his own wife.

“You don’t have to comfort me,” you whispered.

That nearly broke him, his eyes shut briefly.

“Christ.”

He finally stepped closer carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. His hands settled lightly on your arms, almost tentative.

“I’m sorry love,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Ever.”

You looked down, vision blurring, “I know you’re tired.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I wasn’t trying to annoy you-”,you huffed ,choking slightly on the tears.

“I know.” His voice cracked slightly then steadied. “I know you weren’t.”

The guilt in his expression got worse somehow.

“You were taking care of me,” he murmured. “That’s all you were doing.”

You tried to look away again but Simon gently caught your chin before you could.

“Look at me.”

You did. Big mistake.

The second he saw how hard you’d been trying not to cry, his entire face softened into something painfully guilty.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”, he murmured ,gently cupping your face.

“You never yell at me.”, you sniffled.

That one hit directly to the ribs.

Simon actually flinched.

His thumb brushed carefully under your eye, wiping away a tear with absurd gentleness for a man built like a concrete wall with emotional constipation.

“I swear to you,” he said quietly, “the second it came outta my mouth, I wanted to take it back.”

You could hear how honest it was.

Simon wasn’t good at pretty apologies. He wasn’t poetic, wasn’t smooth. But guilt made him painfully sincere.

“I hate that you looked at me like that,” he admitted softly.

“Like what?”

“Like you were trying to figure out if I was angry with you.”

His voice nearly disappeared on the last part. Because that was the thing eating him alive now. The fact that for even one second, you’d looked at him uncertainly instead of safely.

Simon pulled you against him suddenly, firm and desperate, burying his face into your h.air.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated quietly against your temple. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You felt the way he held you tighter after every apology, like he was trying to physically make up for it.

“I missed you,” he admitted in a low murmur. “Missed you so bad it felt wrong sleeping without you there.” His arms tightened. “Then I come home and act like that.”

Your hands slowly curled into his shirt. Simon exhaled shakily at the feeling.

“There she is,” he whispered, relief and guilt tangled together. “Thought I fucked this up properly for a second.” he mumbled ,inhaling the scent of your hair.

“You didn’t.”

“Nearly did.”

And judging by the way he kept pressing little apologetic kisses into your hair like a man trying to repent for his crimes against domestic peace, he was going to spend the rest of the night making absolutely sure you knew he regretted it.

lol yeah i'm procrastinating my long fics TT

[ghostedink]

Packed with love.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

Simon Riley was a terrifying man to most people.

Six foot somethin’, broad as a doorframe, tattooed arms, permanent frown carved into his face like stone. The kind of man who could walk into a room and make conversations die mid-sentence.

Which was exactly why the bright pink lunchbox sitting on the briefing table looked so absurd.

Soap stared at it.

Then at Simon.

Then back at the lunchbox covered in tiny white hearts.

“…That yours, LT?”

Simon didn’t even glance up from cleaning his sidearm. “Obviously.”

Gaz coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. Price suddenly found the paperwork in his hands very interesting. Soap, unfortunately, feared nothing.

“Christ alive.” he muttered, lifting the lunchbox by two fingers. “It’s got a bow on it.”

Simon’s eyes lifted slowly.

Dangerously.

Soap set it back down immediately. The room went quiet for all of three seconds before Gaz spotted the sticky note attached to the handle.

Pink ink. Curly handwriting.

Don’t forget to actually eat today. I mean it!— ♡

There was even a lipstick kiss pressed onto the corner. Soap made a strangled noise. “SHE LEFT YE A WEE KISS MARK.”

Simon took the note off carefully before Soap could touch it with his grubby hands. He folded it once and tucked it into the pocket of his vest with complete seriousness, like it was something precious.

Because it was.

“You keep those?” Gaz asked before he could stop himself. Simon gave him a look that practically said watch your mouth.

“Aye.”

The boys exchanged glances.

Not because Simon had a partner. They all knew that. And not because Simon was soft with you. They knew that too. It was the fact he never acted embarrassed about it.

Ever.

Didn’t hide the matching pink phone charger you bought him because he “always stole yours anyway.” Didn’t complain when you painted tiny strawberries on his phone case. Didn’t care that his keys now had fluffy pink pompoms hanging off them because you’d smiled so proudly while showing him. The man simply accepted every little piece of you with both hands.

Like loving you loudly was the easiest thing in the world.

Later that afternoon, Simon finally opened the lunchbox during break. Inside was organized chaos. Pink Tupperware containers stacked perfectly. Heart-shaped strawberries. A sandwich cut neatly in half. Little notes tucked everywhere.

One on the drink—

Hydrate or I’ll become evil.

One on the fruit—

You’re handsome. That’s unrelated, I just thought you should know.

And one folded beneath the sandwich.

Simon opened it quietly.

Miss you already. Come home safe so I can kiss you properly instead of leaving lipstick on paper.

His eyes softened instantly.

Not dramatic.

Not obvious.

Just enough that Price noticed from across the room and looked away to give the man some privacy. Soap, however, leaned over his shoulder with zero survival instinct.

“Awwww—”

Simon shoved him back without heat.

“Piss off.”

But there was no bite to it.

Soap grinned. “Ye love that shite.”

Simon took another bite of his sandwich.

“Aye.” he answered simply.

No hesitation.

No shame.

Just certainty.

Because you loved pink things. Cute things. Soft things.

And Simon loved you.

Which meant he loved those things too.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

A/N: I love a man who isn’t embarrassed by the things you love.

[feralbuni666]

Hi! Would you be able to a blurb with Leon and his younger girlfriend reader who gets him to do the planking until failure trend for her? If not no worries, love you writing!!

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Leon's breath releases in controlled huffs as he steadily pumped out pushup after pushup. Sweat beaded along his temples, trickling down his jaw to pool and drip off his chin to the mat below him. His shoulders flexed with each descent, muscles rippling beneath the thin white tank top that clung to his torso. The fabric had gone translucent with perspiration, showing off every ridge and valley of his back. You watched from the doorway; bottom lip caught between your teeth. He'd been at this for a while now, and you were bored and wanted his attention now. "Leon," you whine softly, padding over to where he's positioned in perfect push-up form on the black home gym mat.

He doesn't even glance up at you as he goes down and up again and again. Four. Five. Six. Fine. If he wants to ignore you, you'll just have to make yourself impossible to ignore. You swing one leg over his back, settling your weight onto his lower back, your legs dangling on either side of his hips. His body dips slightly with the added weight, but he doesn't stop, not even breaking rhythm as he goes up and then down again.

"Really?" His voice is strained but amused, only slightly breathless from the combined strain of the push-ups and you sitting pretty on his back. "Can I help you?" "Mhm," you hum, gripping his strong sturdy shoulders for balance as he continues his pushups with you now perched on top. "You've been down here for an hour and I miss you." "Forty-five minutes," he says and you can see the smirk on his face. Seven. Eight. Nine. He continues his rhythm. God, he's infuriating and stupidly strong. You can feel every muscle in his back working beneath you, the shift and pull of his shoulder blades, his core rigid and engaged. It's unfairly hot, which only makes you determined to get his attention even more. When it becomes clear that your weight isn't going to deter him in the slightest, you slide off, landing with an exaggerated huff on the floor. you're not done, not even close.

You wiggle underneath him just as he's lowering down, timing it perfectly so you're suddenly face-to-face with him. His eyes widen slightly and his rhythm falters. "What are you—" "Don't stop on my account," you said sweetly, grinning up at him as you bat your lashes trying to appear as innocent as possible. His jaw clenches, blue eyes darkening as he stared down at you between his arms. Sweat dripped from his chin, landing on your collarbone, and you steal a kiss as he comes down, your lips catching his before he can finish the set. He groans pushing back up.

"You're being a brat," he mutters, but there's warmth in his words.

"You were ignoring me," you pout, waiting for him to descend again. This time when he lowers, you're ready and waiting to spring your trap. Another kiss, a little longer this time, and you feel his arms tremble just slightly. Victory tastes salty.

"Alright, Baby. That’s enou—" he tries, but you interrupt with another kiss on his next descent. And another. Each one a little deeper and more distracting than the last. His rhythm falters, his breathing gets rougher and faster. You can see the exact moment his resolve crumbles away, his jaw tightening, a slight shake in his shoulders.

Another kiss, this one deeper as you tilted your head, catching his bottom lip between your teeth. "Fuck," he breathed against your mouth before pushing up again.

You could see everything from this angle beneath him, his biceps bulged and trembled with exertion, the defined line of his hipbones visible where his gym shorts were low, the thick muscle of his thighs. His face was flushed and focused, jaw tight, a vein pulsing in his neck. He goes gown again and this time you kiss him harder, your hands reaching up to tangle in his damp hair to hold him there to you. Leon groans into your mouth, hips dropping lower, pressing against you. He starts to push up again, but you wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back.

"Stay," you whispered against his lips. And he groans before he settles into a plank above you, holding both your weight and his, as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and run your fresh manicure through his scalp, scratching slightly. His whole body shudders goose bumps raising along his arms, that shake with the effort of holding himself above you, refusing to give in and let his full weight come down and crush you. Sweat from his brow drips onto your chest, sliding down between your breasts. He watches the path his sweat takes down your chest, His breathing uneven harsh pants that he tries to control, blowing cool air across your face. You can smell the mint of his toothpaste on his breath. 

You let your eyes roam shamelessly over him. Over his biceps straining, veins prominent against flushed skin. You can see his abs clearly through the sweat slick tank top, are rigid, his whole body taut with effort of holding his weight above you. Sweat drips from his hairline, trailing down his jaw, and you watch it fall, mesmerized. This was much better than the shitty show you were trying to distract yourself with earlier before you came looking to bother him.

He's so fucking strong and it’s hot as hell. The fact that he's Strong enough to hold himself above you without wavering, makes you feel completely safe beneath him. You lean up, stretching to press your lips to his one last time, in a softer and slower kiss, a little reward for all his hard work. He groans into your mouth his eyes shutting in pleasure.

"Okay, okay. Fuck—" His arms give out and he collapses, catching himself at the last second so he doesn't completely crush you, but his weight still pins you to the mat. His chest heaves against yours, his whole body hot and slick with perspiration. 

"You fucking brat." The words are muffled against your lips as he kisses you deeply, with none of the restraint he'd been showing when he actually had a mind to finish his workout. 

One large hand slides into your hair to cup the nape of your neck, the other wrapping around your soft waist to pull you even closer, until you’re pressed to him, body to body, with not even an inch of space between you. You're trapped beneath him, and completely surrounded, by his strong arms, his heady scent, his rough moans and groans against your lips, and it's exactly where you want to be.

You laugh against his mouth, squirming slightly as he squeezes you tighter to him, playfully trying to suffocate you with his sheer mass.

"Got what you wanted, Hm?" he asks, pulling back just enough to look at you in the eyes. His usually sweet blue puppy eyes are dark, pupils so wide that the black almost swallows the blue irises that you love, and there's a small crooked smirk playing at his lips. "Mhm," you hum sweetly, grinning up at him victoriously, your lips swollen, glistening, and red from kisses. Your fingers trace the muscles of his shoulders and biceps, feeling them flex beneath your touch.  He scoffs, shaking his head with fond exasperation. "You're lucky you're cute." "I know," you hum, pulling him back down for another kiss. He groans in as he kisses you, getting lost in your embrace.

"Yeah. Yeah. You’re too distracting, I'm never gonna finish my workout. Next time I'll lock you out." He mumbles, and you laugh, because you both know that was a threat he would never follow through with. He roughly swallows the sound with his mouth, kissing you until you're both breathless and his workout is forgotten entirely.

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹ YES! I CAN! SWEATY LEON WORKING OUT! YES GOD! ....just one bite pls sir!

I hope this is kinda what you were looking for, Thank you for the request!! 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 ₊˚⊹♡

[graywrenhart]

Three guard dogs might’ve been overkill. 

Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller. 

He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—

Laughter stops him in his tracks. 

Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it. 

And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears. 

“Cute pups,” you say. 

Cute...what? 

You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile. 

“You military?” 

He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip. 

“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”

You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.

Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs. 

And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet. 

You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl. 

Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.

“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”

As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.

And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all. 

He might just have to become one himself. 

[monacofiles]

late night domestic leon

or...how leon prefers to spend his nights now.

re9!Leon Kennedy x reader cw intended younger reader but there's literally no way for you to know unless you read my mind so. not proofread

leon isn’t use to this. 

it’s 9pm, there’s a storm distantly raging through the confines of your home and leon is in bed. next to you.

in all his years that he's spent labouring over a country that wouldn't bat an eye if he lived or died, he's never been so sure it was worth it.

you’re sitting beside him, leaning on him slightly, engrossed in some cooking show you were watching. you had a throw blanket secure around your shoulders that, he supposes, is doing a better job at keeping out the biting than the shirt he has on.

20 minutes ago, he had been researching a vacation for the two of you, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. now, he was pretending not to be watching your show alongside you.

"Leon?" you say, leaning your head back so it can lean against his shoulder.

"yeah, baby?" he murmurs back. the pet name is sickly sweet as it rolls off his tongue.

"can you fill my water bottle, please? im so warm I don't want to get up," you ask with a shy smile.

"of course. want anything else?" he asks, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead as he sets his laptop aside. you hand him your water bottle, murmuring a soft 'no' as he moves out of the room.

when he comes back, he finds you still engrossed in your show now with the blanket higher on your shoulders. you eagerly accept the water bottle, making a gentle noise of content as Leon presses another kiss to your head as he settles back down.

your arm wiggles its way around his back, pulling your blanket over his own shoulders. he takes it from your hand, pulling it over himself the rest of the way as your hand falls to his waist.

"thank you, sweetheart. was starting to get a bit chilly," he grins down at you as you nestle closer to him.

"hmm I'll always be here to warm you," you say back as your eyes begin to droop, susceptible to the comfort that is Leon.