⋮ ⌗ ┆ summary: its 1984 and you and michael are having some trouble in paradise a little after midnight. he’s being overworked and you just want some time with your beloved while also wanting him to stand up for himself.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ no serious warnings, but michael refers to reader as “mama” and “baby.”
⋮ ⌗ ┆ part two here!
The house was quiet in that particular way the Jackson family home always became after midnight. Not silent exactly, there were still distant footsteps somewhere downstairs, the low hum of a television left on too late, muffled laughter fading behind closed doors. Life never fully stopped inside this house. But.. up in Michael’s room, the tension sat so thick it seemed to swallow every other sound whole.
Michael stood near the dresser in gray sweatpants and a loose white shirt, curls still damp from his shower. The room smelled like cocoa butter and Ralph Lauren Polo. Gold records lined the walls beside framed photographs and half finished notebooks filled with lyrics only he could decipher. Usually the room felt warm. Safe. But tonight it felt too small for both of you.
You sat at the edge of his bed with your arms folded tightly across your chest while he leaned against the dresser watching you with that look on his delicate, pretty face.
“Mama,” Michael said softly, “you still upset with me?”
You let out a quiet incredulous laugh. “Michael.. are really asking me that right now?”
“I’m askin’ because you haven’t looked at me for twenty minutes!” He’s not yelling per se, but he does sound frustrated..
“Maybe because every time I look at you I get more annoyed.”
Michael sighed quietly through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck. “Baby, c’mon..”
“No.” Your voice stayed hushed, but sharp enough to cut anyway. “Don’t ‘baby’ me right now.”
Downstairs, somebody walked through the hallway laughing loudly before another voice shushed them. Both of you instinctively lowered your voices even further.
Michael pushed himself off the dresser and crossed the room slowly. “You know why I agreed to the tour.”
“You told me you weren’t doing it.”
“I know.”
“No, Michael.” You looked at him finally now, anger flashing behind your eyes. “You promised me you were finally gonna stand up to your father.”
His jaw tightened almost invisibly.
“That’s not fair.”
“It is fair.”
He looked away briefly, clearly fighting irritation already simmering beneath his calm exterior. “You think it was easy for me to say yes to this?”
“I think you folded the second he pushed you.”
Michael’s expression changed instantly. Not explosive anger but something quieter; hurt mixed with pride.
“You don’t know what that’s like.”
“I know you came home and told me you were done letting him control your life.” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself. “You said this album was yours. Your success. Your choices.”
“It is mine.”
“Then why’re you letting him drag you back into another tour you don’t even want?”
Michael exhaled slowly and turned away from you for a moment, pacing toward the window. The city lights outside painted silver along the side of his face.
“Because it ain’t just about me,” he said quietly. “It’s my brothers too.”
You shook your head immediately. “And there it is.. every single time..”
He turned back around sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means everybody gets a piece of you before I ever do.”
The room went still, and Michael stared at you, genuinely caught off guard by the sadness in your voice.
“You know what?” you continued quietly, trying not to cry because his family was right downstairs and humiliation felt unbearable enough already. “I’m tired of competing with everybody else in your life.”
“Mama..”
“No, listen to me.” You stood now too, lowering your voice further when it threatened to rise. “You’re either rehearsing, recording, traveling, hiding in studios for twelve hours straight, or dealing with your family. And every time I ask for more than scraps of your attention, suddenly I’m asking too much.”
Michael’s brows pulled together. “That’s not true.”
“You canceled on me eight times this month.”
“I was working.”
“You’re always working.”
His irritation flickered more visibly now. “You think I got a choice?”
“Yes,” you snapped softly. “I do.”
That silence afterward felt immediate and heavy.
Michael looked at you for a long moment, chest rising slowly beneath the thin white shirt. Usually he knew exactly what to say. Usually he could smooth tension over with charm so naturally it felt effortless.
Tonight he looked tired.
Really tired..
“You think this is easy for me?” he asked quietly. “You think I wanted this tour?”
“I think you say no to me easier than you say no to anybody else.”
His face shifted at that.
The irritation faded instantly into something more wounded.
“That ain’t true.”
“It feels true.”
Michael looked down at the floor briefly before laughing once under his breath, humorless and exhausted. “Every time I try to make everybody happy, I end up disappointing somebody anyway.”
Your anger cracked slightly hearing how defeated he sounded, but you were too hurt to stop now.
“You told me you were finally putting your foot down with your father.” Your eyes burned. “Do you know how proud I was of you for that?”
Michael swallowed hard.
“And then suddenly you’re doing the tour anyway.”
He ran a hand over his face tiredly before sitting down heavily at the edge of the bed. “He cornered me, alright?” he admitted quietly. “He kept pushin’ and pushin’ about the brothers, about the fans, about money…” He shook his head. “And I got tired.”
You stared at him silently.
Michael looked up at you then, eyes softer now. Vulnerable in a way he hated being.
“I spend my whole life fighting people, Mama.”
The nickname came gentler this time. Less teasing. More pleading.
“And sometimes…” He rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “Sometimes I just wanna stop fighting for one minute.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
But the hurt still lingered.
“You could at least fight for me a little harder.”
That nearly broke him.
Michael went completely still before looking down at his hands in his lap. For a second, he looked young. Not the biggest star in the world. Not the man everybody demanded pieces from constantly. Just a tired twenty-something trying desperately to hold too many people together at once.
“I am fighting for you,” he said quietly.
You crossed your arms tighter. “How, Michael?”
His eyes lifted back to yours immediately.
“Because no matter how crazy my life gets,” he said softly, “you’re still the place I wanna come home to.”
The sincerity in his voice made your anger wobble dangerously.
Michael stood again slowly and walked toward you until he was close enough for you to smell his soap and the faint lingering scent of studio sweat beneath it.
“I know I’ve been gone too much,” he admitted. “I know I keep making promises and then work steals me away again.” His gaze dropped briefly before finding yours again. “But don’t stand here thinkin’ that means I love you less.”
Your eyes burned harder instantly.
“You make it really difficult not to.”
He winced.
Then quieter now, with the faintest trace of irritation finally slipping through his composure, he muttered, “You act like I’m choosing this.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.” His voice stayed soft, but firmer now. “I’m trying to survive.” Michael stepped even closer then, close enough his hands hovered near your waist without touching yet.
“You know what scares me?” he asked quietly. “That one day you’re gonna get tired of all this before I figure out how to balance it.”
You looked away immediately because the thought had already crossed your mind more than once.
Michael noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His face fell slightly before he finally reached for you, fingertips brushing your arms carefully like he wasn’t sure he’d earned the right.
“(Name), look at me..” he whispered. “Don’t leave me alone in this.. please.”
— tags : grammys84!michael, established relationship, nsfw, dry humping, riding, smut (ofc), mike is hungryyyyy asf and kinda sub ?
— disclaimer : you know i never get tired of opening tumblr whilst listening to music, because i come up with masterpieces like this… thanks beyonce for feeding my delulu ahh ! i love this mj so bad he looked a lil too hot that night
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ even after winning every prize at the grammys awards, michael can’t help but focus on his real prize of the evening, especially when she’s looking a little too fine…
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the night is a blur of strobe lights and golden statuettes, a dizzying whirlwind of success that should have been the only thing on his mind. but as the 1984 grammy awards draw to a close, michael finds his focus narrowing until the rest of the room is nothing but a distant hum. his heart is thumping against his ribs, not from the adrenaline of the wins, but from the simple, agonizing sight of her standing across the velvet-draped suite.
she is breathtaking—a masterpiece of lace and skin that makes his throat feel tight. he moves through the sea of tuxedoed men and glittering gowns with practiced grace, shaking hands and offering soft-spoken thanks, yet his dark eyes are constantly drifting back to her. he watches the way the light catches the curve of her shoulder, the way her laughter vibrates through the air, and the way her dress clings to her every movement like a second skin.
he’s trying to keep it together, to play the role of the humble victor, but the mask is slipping. as they finally make their way toward the exit, the cool night air hitting them as they move past the final line of security, he can’t resist any longer.
under the dim, amber glow of the hallway, just before they reach the waiting limousine, he steps closer, his movements fluid and feline. he doesn't touch her yet, but the heat radiating from his body is enough to make her breath hitch. he leans down, his lips ghosting over the sensitive shell of her ear, his voice dropping to a low, velvet rasp that sends a shiver straight down her spine.
"i've been watching you all night," he breathes, the words barely a whisper, yet heavy with a hunger he’s been forced to hide for hours. "and i think it’s time we leave the crowd behind."
his hand finally finds her, his fingers splaying across the small of her back with a sudden, firm pressure that leaves no room for misunderstanding. he isn't the shy boy on the stage anymore; the weight of the night has shifted, and as he leads her toward the dark sanctuary of the car, the only thing he’s interested in winning is her.
the heavy door of the limousine clicks shut, sealing out the muffled screams of fans and the persistent flicker of flashbulbs. inside, the world is reduced to the scent of expensive leather, cool air conditioning, and her. the transition from the chaotic brilliance of the shrine auditorium to the dim, hushed intimacy of the car is instant.
michael sinks into the deep plush seat, but he doesn't stay on his side for long. he slides closer, his movements graceful and intentional, until his thigh is pressed firmly against hers. the golden trophies are forgotten on the floor of the car; he has no interest in them now.
"you have no idea," he starts, his voice barely above a whisper, rich with a soft, aching sincerity. he reaches out, his gloved fingers tracing the delicate line of her jaw with the lightness of a feather. "i couldn't breathe tonight. every time i looked over at you, i forgot my own name. you were the most beautiful thing in that entire building. no... in the world."
he leans in, his dark eyes searching hers, filled with a raw, shimmering adoration. "i’m so proud of everything we did tonight, but i was just counting the seconds until i could have you all to myself. you look so perfect, it almost hurts to look at you."
his gaze drops to her lips, and the atmosphere in the car shifts. the sweet, romantic praise begins to melt into something much thicker, much more concentrated. his hand moves from her face, sliding down the column of her throat to rest right where her pulse is leaping against her skin. his thumb strokes the hollow of her neck, rhythmic and slow.
"this dress," he mutters, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, grainy rasp. "i’ve been thinking about the way it feels under my hands since the moment you put it on. it’s been driving me out of my mind, sitting there, having to be polite when all i wanted to do was this..."
he leans forward, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. he doesn't just kiss her; he lingers, his lips pressing firm, warm circles into her skin, his breath hot and ragged against her ear. his other hand finds her waist, pulling her flush against him until there isn't a whisper of space left between them. the "innocent" superstar is gone, replaced by a man who is very aware of the privacy the tinted windows afford them.
"don't move," he groans softly against her skin, his grip tightening just a fraction, possessive and sure. "just let me feel you for a minute. we're not home yet, but i don't know if i can wait that long."
the air inside the limousine is already charged, a heavy static of unspoken desire building between them. she feels his gaze—dark, molten, and focused entirely on her—and she knows exactly what he’s waiting for.
with a slow, deliberate grace, she reaches forward and taps the intercom. she doesn't take her eyes off him as she speaks, her voice dropping into a tone that is smooth, authoritative, and laced with a quiet, honeyed heat.
"sir, close the partition, please. and take the long way home."
the mechanical whir of the glass divider sliding upward is the only sound in the car. as the translucent pane seals them into their own private universe, turning the driver into nothing more than a blurred shadow, michael’s breath catches in his throat.
he absolutely loves it.
a small, wicked smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, his eyes widening slightly with a mix of surprise and intense heat. he finds it incredibly intoxicating—the way she just took charge, the way she claimed this space for them without a hint of hesitation. it’s a side of her that sets his blood on fire.
"i like when you do that," he whispers, his voice trembling with a new, sharper edge of hunger.
he doesn't wait another second. he lunges forward, not with his usual shyness, but with a sudden, breathtaking hunger. his hands slide up her thighs, gathering the silk of her dress in his palms, his touch firm and demanding. he moves over her, his chest pressing against hers, pinning her back into the soft leather of the seat.
"you want to be alone with me that badly?" he murmurs against her lips, his breathing shallow and quick. "because now that it's just us... i don't plan on letting you go for a very long time."
he buries his hands in her hair, tilting her head back just enough to expose the long, elegant line of her throat. he begins to trail hot, lingering kisses downward, his teeth grazing her skin in a way that makes her toes curl. the velvet interior of the car feels smaller now, hotter, as he focuses entirely on the task of showing her exactly how much he appreciated her command.
the mechanical click of the partition locking into place acts like a starting gun. the silence that follows is heavy, thick with the scent of his cologne and the frantic beat of two hearts out of sync with the world outside.
michael lets out a low, shaky exhale, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. he’s hovering just inches away, his dark curls shadowing his face, but the heat radiating from him is overwhelming.
"the way you said that..." he rasps, his voice sounding like velvet dragged over gravel. "so bold. so certain."
his hands, still clad in those iconic sequins, begin to wander with a new, frantic purpose. he moves one hand to the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, while the other slides down to the hem of her dress. he’s not being gentle anymore; there’s a desperate, starved energy in the way he bunches the silk upward, his palms finding the smooth, warm skin of her thighs.
"you have no idea what you do to me," he mutters, his lips brushing against her jawline as he speaks, each word a warm puff of air that makes her skin tingle. "all night, standing on that stage... people screaming my name... and all i could think about was the way you’d look in the dark. the way you’d feel when no one was watching."
he shifts, moving his weight so he’s practically hovering over her, trapping her between his body and the soft leather of the seat. he begins to trail his lips down her neck, finding that one sensitive spot just below her ear and lingering there. he doesn't just kiss her; he breathes her in, his teeth grazing her skin in a sharp, playful nip that pulls a soft gasp from her throat.
"tell me again," he whispers, his voice dropping into that deep, melodic register that vibrates right through her chest. "tell me what you want me to do now that the world can't see us. don't be shy. not after that."
he pulls back just enough to look her in the eye, his gaze dark and dilated, shimmering with a mix of adoration and pure, unadulterated hunger. he reaches down, his fingers tracing the lace of her undergarments with a slow, torturous precision, his touch firm and knowing.
"i'm all yours," he breathes, a small, possessive smirk playing on his lips. "every bit of me. and i think it’s time i show you exactly what that means."
the interior of the car is sweltering now, the windows beginning to fog as the outside world disappears into a blur of city lights. michael's composure has completely disintegrated, replaced by a raw, focused intensity that is both startling and intoxicating.
he doesn't wait for her to answer with words. his hand slides further, his fingers slipping beneath the edge of the gathered silk, finding the heat he’s been dreaming of all evening. when he feels the slight tremor in her legs, he lets out a jagged, triumphant sound—half-laugh, half-groan—and leans his weight fully into her, pinning her hips against the seat.
"you’re so warm," he breathes, his voice cracking with a desperate sort of hunger. "god, you’re so ready for me, aren't you?"
he begins to move his hand with a slow, rhythmic pressure that is devastatingly precise. he knows exactly how to touch her, his fingers dancing over her skin with the same legendary grace he uses on stage, but here, it’s private, heavy, and drenched in intent. every time a soft sound escapes her lips, he catches it with his own, swallowing her moans and turning them into his own fuel.
his other hand remains locked in her hair, guiding her head back so he can feast on the sight of her. he watches her eyes flutter shut, her head tossing back against the leather, and the sight sends a fresh jolt of electricity through him. he’s never felt more powerful, or more powerless, than he does in this moment.
"look at me," he commands softly, his voice dropping into that commanding, velvet rasp. "open your eyes. i want to see you when i do this."
as she obeys, he quickens the pace, his touch becoming more demanding, more insistent. he’s exploring every curve, every sensitive inch, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles that make her entire body arch toward him. he’s humming now, a low, wordless vibration deep in his throat that echoes the rhythm of his hand.
"we’re almost there," he mutters against the pulse point of her neck, his breath coming in short, ragged hitches. "but i don't think i can make it to the front door. i want to feel you right here, in the dark, while the city drives by."
he shifts his position, his hand moving to the fastening of his own trousers, his gaze never leaving hers. the sweet, shy boy from the television screen is miles away; in the back of this limousine, he is a man possessed, consumed by a love that has turned into something fierce, beautiful, and utterly uncontrollable.
the leather creaks under the weight of his movements as he shifts, his breathing now a series of ragged, uneven hitches that fill the small, darkened space. he doesn't stop his hands for a second; they are everywhere, mapping out her body with a feverish desperation. he slides his palms up her ribs, his thumbs grazing the undersides of her breasts through the thin fabric, feeling the frantic skip of her heart against his skin.
"i've been imagining this since the first standing ovation," he gasps, his voice a strained, beautiful wreck of its former self. "every time they clapped, i just wanted it to be the sound of your skin against mine."
he reaches down, his grip firm and sure as he hooks his hands under her thighs. with a sudden, powerful surge of strength, he lifts her, guiding her until she’s straddling his lap. the sequins of his jacket scratch pleasantly against her skin, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his chest. she sinks down onto him, the friction of their bodies meeting through the layers of expensive clothing making him let out a long, broken moan that vibrates through her entire frame.
he buries his face in her chest, his hands sliding down to her hips to anchor her to him, his fingers digging into her skin with a possessive force. he’s looking up at her now, his eyes wide and dark, shimmering with an intensity that is almost overwhelming. he looks like he’s worshipping her, his head tilted back as she begins to move against him, the rhythmic swaying of the limousine adding to the dizzying sensation of the moment.
"yes, right there," he whispers, a low, guttural sound that seems to come from the very depths of him. "don't stop. just like that."
he reaches up, his gloved hand coming to rest on her cheek, his thumb dragging across her lower lip to pull it down slightly. he’s watching her reaction to him, his gaze fixed on the way her expression softens and breaks as she finds her rhythm on top of him. his other hand is busy, sliding back down to find that perfect, aching spot, his fingers working with a frantic, expert precision that makes her world tilt on its axis.
"you're mine," he breathes, the words a fierce, velvet promise against the quiet hum of the tires on the pavement. "completely mine. and i'm never letting you go back to how it was before tonight."
the limousine takes a sharp turn, but neither of them notices the sway of the vehicle. they are locked in their own private orbit, a feverish heat radiating between them that threatens to melt the very air.
now that she’s seated firmly on his lap, the friction is unbearable in the best way possible. michael’s hands are like iron on her hips, his fingers digging into the silk of her dress to hold her exactly where he wants her. he isn't just letting her move; he’s meeting her, arching his hips upward with a slow, grinding rhythm that makes his own breath hitch in a jagged, desperate sob.
"god, you feel so good," he groans, his eyes fluttering shut as he focuses entirely on the sensation of her weight pressing down against him.
through the layers of his tuxedo trousers and her delicate lingerie, the contact is electric. it’s a heavy, rhythmic pressure—a slow, agonizing grind that is perfectly in sync with the low hum of the engine. he begins to move with more urgency now, his lower body pulsing against hers in a steady, demanding pace. the dry friction of the fabric creates a heat so intense it feels like they’re both going to catch fire.
he throws his head back against the leather headrest, his throat exposed, his jaw tight with the effort of holding back a louder cry. his hands slide from her hips to her lower back, pulling her even tighter, leaving absolutely no space for the air to circulate between them.
"just like that... stay right there," he pants, his voice dropping into a desperate, grainy whisper.
every time she moves, every time she grinds her weight down against the hard line of him, he lets out a low, melodic vibration from deep in his chest—a sound that is half-song, half-surrender. his sequins are cold against her skin, but his body is a furnace. he begins to pick up the tempo, his movements becoming more fluid, more frantic, his hips snapping upward to meet her every descent with a raw, unyielding hunger.
"i can't... i can't take it," he mutters, his hands wandering up to her shoulders, his grip tightening as he pulls her down to meet his lips again. "you’re ruining me, you know that? right here in the back of this car... you’re absolutely ruining me."
he’s completely lost to the rhythm now, his eyes glazed with a mixture of love and pure, unfiltered need, his body acting on an instinct that no amount of fame or awards could ever satisfy. turn after turn, light after light, they remain lost in the friction, the heavy, rhythmic thud of their bodies the only music that matters.
michael is past the point of no return. the rhythmic, agonizing friction of her body against his has pushed him to the edge of his sanity. his breathing is no longer just shallow—it’s a series of desperate, broken gasps that hitch in his throat every time she moves. he’s burning up, his skin damp under the layers of his stage outfit, and the silk of her dress feels like a fever against his palms.
his hands slide from her back down to her thighs, his grip tightening until his knuckles are white, his fingers digging into her skin with a raw, primal urgency. he stops his own movement for a split second, his chest heaving as he looks up at her through his messy, sweat-dampened curls. his eyes are dark, dilated, and absolutely starving.
"i can't... i can't do this anymore," he rasps, his voice breaking, sounding completely undone. "the clothes, the fabric... it’s too much. i need to feel you. really feel you."
he doesn't wait for a response. with a sudden, fluid motion, he reaches for the hem of her dress, his hands trembling with a frantic energy. he’s desperate now, his movements devoid of his usual careful grace, driven by a hunger that has been building since the moment she stepped into the light at the auditorium. he bunches the expensive fabric up in his fists, his breath hot and ragged against the skin of her stomach.
"i’ve been a good boy all night," he whispers, a low, wicked growl vibrating in his chest as he presses his face against the soft curve of her belly, his teeth grazing her skin through the thin lace of her lingerie. "i smiled for the cameras, i shook the hands... but i'm done being patient."
he shifts beneath her, his hips bucking upward with a sudden, forceful pressure that makes a sharp, needy sound escape her lips. he hooks his fingers into the waistband of her silks, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. there’s a fire in his eyes that burns away the shy superstar, leaving only a man who is tired of boundaries and ready to take exactly what he’s been craving.
"now," he breathes, his voice a commanding, velvet command that leaves no room for argument. "i want everything. right now."
the air in the limousine is suffocatingly hot, thick with the scent of his skin and the electric tension that has finally snapped. michael’s hands are no longer just wandering; they are frantic, moving with a feverish desperation as he works to bridge the final gap between them. he’s done with the teasing, done with the fabric, done with the polite distance of the last few hours.
he reaches for the fastenings of his own clothes, his fingers moving with a surprising, practiced speed despite the slight tremble of his adrenaline-soaked muscles. he doesn't take his eyes off her for a second, his gaze burning into hers with a raw, dark hunger that seems to consume the very little light left in the car.
"i've wanted this since the moment i saw you tonight," he pants, his voice a low, melodic wreck. "i wanted to tear this suit off just to get to you."
he guides her hips back down, but this time there is nothing but the heat of skin meeting skin. the sensation is so intense, so immediate, that he lets out a sharp, choked-off cry, his head snapping back against the seat as his eyes roll behind his lids. it’s a pure, unadulterated release, the culmination of hours of repressed desire finally exploding in the dim sanctuary of the moving car.
he grips her waist with a strength that is startling, his fingers splaying across her skin as he begins to move with a deep, rhythmic intensity. every thrust is a silent prayer, a desperate attempt to get even closer, to lose himself entirely in the softness of her. he’s humming again, but it’s different now—a low, guttural vibration that matches the frantic pace of his heart.
"you’re so perfect," he gasps against her lips, his breath coming in short, jagged bursts. "so tight... so warm... i never want to leave this car."
he pulls her chest flush against his, his sequins forgotten, his only focus the way she feels wrapped around him. he’s pouring every ounce of the love he feels, every bit of the passion that fuels his soul, into every movement. the city lights continue to blur past the tinted windows, a world away from the beautiful, chaotic, and utterly private masterpiece they are creating together in the dark.
the rhythm of the limousine’s movement is now entirely eclipsed by the frantic, heavy pace they’ve set for themselves. michael is completely submerged in the sensation, his body moving with a fluid, rhythmic power that feels like a dance only they know. every time their eyes meet in the shadows, she sees a man who has traded his crown for something far more precious—this moment, this connection.
his hands are everywhere, never still for a second. he slides them up to her back, pulling her down so he can bury his face in the crook of her neck, his breath coming in hot, desperate hitches that vibrate against her skin. he’s not just moving with her; he’s trying to merge with her, his grip on her hips firm and possessive, guiding her every descent with a low, appreciative groan.
"don't stop," he whispers, his voice cracking, a beautiful, broken sound that makes her heart race even faster than the engine. "please... just like that. i’ve never felt anything like this. you're everything."
the friction is a slow burn that has turned into a wildfire. he arches his back, his muscles taut and glistening under the faint amber glow of the interior lights, his head falling back as a long, melodic sound escapes his throat—a high, silver note of pure surrender. he’s giving her everything he is, every ounce of the passion that the world usually only sees from a distance, now focused entirely on the woman in his arms.
as the car takes a slow turn toward the private gates of his estate, he realizes the world is about to intrude again soon, and it only makes him more urgent. he quickens the pace, his movements becoming more shallow and intense, his hands tangling in her hair to bring her lips back to his for a deep, searing kiss that tastes like salt and moonlight.
"i love you," he breathes into the kiss, the words heavy and sweet, a contrast to the raw, physical hunger of his body. "i love you so much it's driving me crazy."
he feels the familiar tension building, that final crest of the wave, and he holds onto her like she’s the only thing keeping him grounded. the windows are completely opaque now, a private cocoon of heat and velvet, as they finally reach the peak together, the silence of the night outside shattered by the quiet, beautiful chaos happening behind the partition.
the silence in the limousine is slowly filled with the sound of catching breath and the soft rustle of silk, until suddenly, a tiny, muffled sound breaks through—a shy, breathless giggle from michael.
he pulls back just enough to look at her, his iconic curls completely disheveled and his dark eyes sparkling with a mix of exhaustion and pure, radiant mischief. he looks down at his rumpled sequins, then at her dress—which is definitely not in the same condition it was when they left the red carpet—and he starts to laugh properly, that high-pitched, melodic sound that always feels so genuine.
"oh my god," he whispers, hiding his face in his hands for a second before looking back at her with a wide, toothy grin. "look at us. we are a complete mess. i’m supposed to be the man of the hour, and i look like i’ve been through a beautiful, beautiful whirlwind."
he pulls her back into his arms, but this time it’s all warmth and sweetness. he starts peppered her face with tiny, butterfly kisses—on her nose, her forehead, her chin—making her laugh even harder. he’s glowing, not from the stage lights, but from a deep, giddy happiness that only she can spark in him.
"i promise you," he chuckles, his voice soft and bubbly, "the driver is probably sitting up there wondering if we've forgotten how to get out of the car. he’s going to open that door and see me looking like this, and he’s going to know *exactly* why i’m smiling like an idiot."
he takes her hand, interlacing their fingers and squeezing tight, his gaze softening into something so tender it could melt. "i don't care about the trophies on the floor. i don't care about the speeches. this... being here with you, laughing like this... this is the real win. i’m so incredibly in love with you, it’s actually kind of crazy."
they stay there for a few more moments, tangled together and giggling like two teenagers who just got away with the biggest secret in the world. as the car finally comes to a complete stop at the front of the house, they share one last, silly look, the most famous man in the world and his favorite person, completely lost in their own perfect, messy, private universe.
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wallahi i was shaking while writing this omg 😭 can’t even imagine how this would feel in real life bruh ?????? ANYWAYS hope y’all liked it xoxo
this is just a friendly reminder that it’s okay if you’re not writing right now. it’s okay if you’re only able to pop on here to yell into the void about your muses for five minute and leave, or make edits or goof around with your friends and just chill, or even do none of that at all. this is a hobby. it’s okay if you’re not in the headspace to approach that one mutual yet, or answer those ims right away. the world is a stressful place for most of us right now, we’re all struggling with something one way or another, and we’re mainly here to have fun. taking care of yourself comes before any expectations anyone here has of you, so don’t ever let someone shame you for not being fully present here for however long that takes.
synopsis . Your boyfriend reaching the avatar state when he’s close. content . afab!reader, improper use of air bending, established relationship, dirty talk, missionary, pet names, he (nervously) talks you through it, praise, implied/slight breeding kink, etc.
author's note: i’d lick the sweat off his bald head if he let me.
You should’ve known something was up when the bedroom’s lanterns began to flicker.
But with the way Aang's hips snapped down against yours in such a relentlessly missionary rhythm—plump cock smothered deep within the juicily squelching walls of your pussy—it was hard to focus on anything else outside of the way he stretched you open.
HIs breaths came in searing pants against your neck, one gripping hand braced beside your head whilst his free one occupied itself with one of your thighs, tugging your leg impossibly higher around his waist just so that he could fuck you at that pinpointingly perfect angle.
"Ohhh, that's ittt, sweet girl. T-Taking me so well," Aang murmured as his eyes locked onto yours with shimmers of honest adoration visible all over them. "Keep squeezing me like that, mmgh. F-Feels good. So good." He thrusted even harder then, his breath flying out of him along with it as the wet slap of skin on skin emulated throughout the room.
His muscles tensed and his balls felt sorely heavy with each time they came plapping down against your sweat-slicked skin. The lanterns began to flicker again, brighter this time around as they cast shadows around the bedroom.
Then he leaned all the way down to smush his soft lips into yours, capturing your breath with in a messy kiss. His tongue came out to slide against yours as his firm body rocked into yours, the bed struggling to remain in place with his every move.
When his mouth left yours, he was dazed. This should've been the second signal for you. Especially as he let out a loud groan and went whispering, "Gonna breed this pretty cunt-," Instantly catching himself after and letting those soft grey eyes of his go all the more doe-like on you, "Shit... can I say that? I-Is that okay? Do you like it when I talk to you like tht?"
His hips picked up in pace, jaw going stiff as the balmy head of his cock smudged all sloppily against your cervix. Aang glanced down to see how he was disappearing into you, gasping at the obscene sight below him and then returning his eyes to yours.
"Tell me, baby. Please, talk to me. Tell me how you want me-, how you need me. I just wanna-, ohfuck—" Mid-sentence, his steady thrusts seem to derail and your cunt soaks around him to leave a sheeny layer of aroused slick all over his dick.
You're sucking him in deeper than he expected you to, and it catches him absolutely off guard. Which you notice rather quickly, batting your fucked-out eyes up at him, "Aang? Are you okay?"
"Yeah-, yes.. You just keep—" He hunches over against you—body going taut and lean muscles constricting against one another. "You keep squeezing me like that."
Begining to like seeing him struggle, "Squeezing like what?" you asked in sync with your walls clenching around the deft base of his cock.
Air puffs right out of him as if he'd been choked and his body shudders with something powerful coursing through him. You only catch it for a split second the first time it happens—a brief flash over both his markings and his eyes as his next array of groaning stammers out of him.
Following this is the flash of something wild in his eyes as they broaden, pupils dialating a fraction. Aang's head tips to the side and the plump crown of his cock slavers itself alllll around your insides, the puffy lips of your cunt left to quiver around him.
"You're so pretty-," Your loving boyfriend chuffs out, unknowingly thrusting into you harder via a burst of controlled air slapping against his backside. "H-Have I told you that? Hm?" He's asking as if he wasn't literally air bending himself into fucking you harder.
Your head just barely manages a nod, tears coating your lash line, "Nngh-, yes, Aang."
"Say it back to me then," Aang encourages. In between his breathy words, a brush of air is felt slithering against your cunt. It was almost as if his ability to seamlessly multitask was showcasing the best of his abilities via stimulating you everywhere. "Tell me how pretty my girl is, yeah?"
The sensation brings a stutter to your speech, "A-Aang, I can’t," you cry out, nails lightly scraping at his back.
He smiles halfway before his thrusting grows erratic and his jaw slacks some, "Oh. You're gushing-, shit."
You feel the way his tip pulsates inside you, his hips struggling to pull himself back for a moment long enough to give his cock a second to breathe—not that he much cared to do so anyway.
"So wet. Wanna see you cum-, wanna feel it." Aang husks, "Can you do that? Cum for me?"
"Mhmm," You nod weakly at first but within the next few seconds, as something begins to rumble distantly, you start to second guess your agreement. Mouth falling agape, “Wait, s’too much-,” you try to warn him.
He’s lost though—lost in the feel of your greedy insides begging his dick to spill enough seed into you to repopulate a nation or two at least. Aang’s unconscious manipulation of air only gets worse too, he goes from using his bending to fuck himself deeper to using it to sprawl your puffy pussy lips ‘n legs apart even wider.
You’re a stretched out mess in mere seconds, gasping his name and crying out in pleasure as your back begins arch. Then he’s chuckling all of a sudden and you swear for a moment he’s not even the same man you knew him to be.
Aang’s head cocks back some and his eyes roll back, “You can take it,” he grunts like he knows his words to be true and no argument could convince him otherwise. “You always do. Mmgh-,” He bites his lip for a second before looking down at you once more. “Can’t you feel that? The air helpin’ me fill you up? It’s-, hah.. It’s a little something I’ve been practicing.”
You pout at first, “Aang, I don’t know if-, mmgnh! Y-Your markings!”
The room illuminates with colors of spiritual blue before he notices what you’re talking about.
“What about them?” Aang asks cluelessly, his voice having changed due to the height of pleasure and energy surging through him.
Sweat drips down his body but it doesn’t even manage to touch you or the bed because he’s bending those droplets just as he was the air—completely losing himself in the feel of you and bending all sorts of shit because of it.
“They’re glowing,” You gasp.
Then his cock buries itself all the way in, every stiff inch clamped by your sappy insides, and his body comes to a sharp stop.
You knew there were… concerns when it came to having sex with your boyfriend who just so happens to be the avatar. But, no one told you he’d enter the avatar state just from cumming too hard!!
It’s while creamy gushes of cum are flooding into your poor cunt that his body is shuddering and he’s literally entering a new state of pleasure. He could hardly manage a word out or even move, the state had taken him over entirely.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little worried for him because of it, but honestly you were a tad bit distracted by how fucking hot it was.
You shouldn’t let this go to your head, really.
But who else can say their pussy sent their boyfriend into the avatar state?
That’s something to brag about!
(not proofread) banner from “Welcome to The Muscle Salon!” || tags:
hmmmm something something aang using your mouth so sweetly, one hand cradling the back of your head while he slowly rocks his hips forward, sliding his cock deeper between your lips.
he’s looking down at you with a warm, adoring smile, thumb gently brushing the tears that slip from the corners of your eyes as you stare up at him all glassy and desperate.
“you look so pretty,” he coos, voice soft and a little breathless, “so pretty with those big cute teary eyes. you’re taking me so well, baby… i love you, you know?”
he keeps murmuring sweet little praises every time you gag or whimper around him, never rough, just slow and deep and so lovingly overwhelming until your lashes are wet and your cheeks are flushed and all you can do is moan and let him use your throat like it’s his favorite place in the world <3
synopsis: Life is but a fickle thing for mortals such as you, a beautiful clan heiress whom Sukuna married. Centuries were a mere blink of an eye to Sukuna, but your life was the only thing that made him slow down and admire.
content warning. angst character death hurt/no comfort idk sadness this is pretty sad heian era mentions of cannibalism (it's sukuna hello) violence
a/n: this song popped up in my playlist and made me sad so now ya'll are gonna be sad. thank you so much for 147 followers!!! it really means a lot to me bc that's a pretty big number. that's like... 140 sukunas. anyway, i digress. hope you enjoy <3
Love was something foreign to a monster like Sukuna. A four-armed beast raging with cursed energy and sinister shackles was fated to live an outcast life, existing merely to terrorize jujutsu sorcerers and non-sorcerers alike. It was a contrast to his very being, the death he enacted instead of mourned.
Yet, a strange thing happened to his heart when he first saw you. A bright-eyed, naïve clan heiress of a long-extinct clan.
A sacrifice to him as a bribery to not slaughter their clan head. Eat their children and dismantle wives and cousins alike.
He wouldn't have agreed, would have merely cleaved you in front of your family— if not for that look you gave him. That gaze, as if you didn't fear his excessive limbs, the multiple eyes that could see the world for what it truly was, the mouth on his stomach that growled in gluttony.
You didn't see him as a misfit, nor a disgrace. Not a king amongst jujutsu sorcery.
You saw a man. Perhaps strange, yet you didn't fall to the floor as you bowed out of respect. Your knees didn't shake as you stood before him and he stepped closer, his body a fearsome shadow that threatened to overwhelm your stature.
He hummed curiously, a smirk of intrigue rousing upon his mouth. He leaned down slightly, just to meet your gaze better.
"Come with me," He commanded.
Marriage was an unfamiliar topic to the King of Curses. Never once had he considered creating a family, a clan of his own. He was too busy finding more to eat, more for Uraume to cook. The thought of a family reminded him of his mother, the first to fear his existence.
Having a partner was out of the question. He either killed or ate the people who dared to get close enough to him, enjoying the crackle of fear in their cursed energy as he toyed with them, watching the mortification solidify on their un-closing eyes.
Yet, you— ever the exception in his eyes— were not someone he wanted to fear him. It was a strange feeling, foreign to his glutton-soddened heart. He didn't wish for you to leave, and for the first time...
He considered you an equal.
It was terribly irrational, impulsive, spontaneous for all his calculated and measured evils.
Watching you tend your garden in the courtyard, however, your soft-spoken voice blooming just as those white chrysanthemums did as if they heard your encouraging words, changed something in him. The way your eyes seemed to brighten impossibly once you caught sight of him. The way you saw him. It tore his heart open uncomfortably.
He wanted more. More of you, more of your company, the feeling of your body heat against him because you felt safe around him. To feel seen and not feared. He wasn't fond of change, but he was willing to change for you.
The ceremony wasn't too grand or too minimal, but just as you were. Even. Certain. When he saw you in that wedding attire, he was awed.
Brought down to his knees for the his equal.
His wife.
The Ryomen Estate was no longer an empty husk of what it once was before Sukuna rose to immense power. It was filled of your soft laughter, your cherished novels filling the once vacant library, the soft tune of your shamisen that you played to pass time whenever he left in the day.
You shared nights of irrefutable passion, so filled of love that it scared Sukuna, because how could this woman love him so dearly? A burly, cursed man of too many limbs and far too many kills. The concept confused him and yet he indulged so recklessly because his heart swelled for you every time he roused awake with you in his arms. Every time you sang his turmoils to slumber, your hands running through his hair as he laid his head oh-so carefully onto your lap. Still afraid that you were fragile and made of glass, even though you softened every rough edge of him.
Sukuna found not just an equal, but family.
Sukuna knew mortality was inevitable. He knew, yet he still let his heart thaw, let it beat for a mortal. He thought it was worth it.
Stupid thoughts that love makes you think.
Perhaps love was truly the worst curse of all.
It was a fatal silent that befell the estate as Sukuna entered. He'd grown too comfortable with the song of your shamisen once he returned.
He called for you, his gruff voice dubious for the first time in many years.
The sting of residual cursed energy filled his veins with pure adrenaline.
The smell of blood made him stop in his tracks as he stormed through the halls.
He hoped. He prayed to whomever could hear his cursed mind above.
It was fruitless.
The metallic tang of your blood filled his senses as he stepped into your music room. Walls painted of gore red, wood splintered telling of a violent struggle. A porcelain vase of white chrysanthemums smashed onto the ground. Your shamisen, your song—
Broken. All that remained was the bachi in which you held close. In the hand that protected your stomach.
He knelt before your graying body, moving your bloodied hand gingerly, as if your dead weight was a marble sculpture. He felt for movement. A sense of the little thing growing in your womb.
Nothing. The family Sukuna that meant to grow was no more; the Ryomen Estate grown vacant except for the sounds of terror and the raging of cursed energy.
Sukuna laid with you one last time as if it was night again, and though your body heat had gone with the beat of your heart, he imagined it in his mind. The content sighs that left your lips as his arms wrapped around your body, the way your heart thrummed slower as you slipped into sleep.
He wished, gods, his heart ached— that he was able to comfort you in your last moments.
"Weak mortal," He murmured, but his voice was filled with sorrow.
Love was not meant for a monster like him. A cursed being with too many limbs, too much cursed energy, too many enemies. It would be ripped away in the same violence that he terrorized others with.
Love was the worst curse of all.
Sukuna still thought of you. Thought of the tune you always played on that shamisen.
He imagined the child, or children, that would've ran around the halls as you watched, leaning against his body. He imagined lying in your lap as you hummed and stroked his hair as his breath staggered, finally, after an arduous battle that brought him to his knees. As blood poured from his injuries.
Is this what his wife felt? Warm from the red liquid that wouldn't stop flowing, yet cold as life pulled from your body?
As his eyes closed, to be sealed for thousands of years to come, the last sight he witnessed was a single white chrysanthemum.
He managed a smile, just for you.
"Perhaps I will see you again, after all."
ੈ✩‧₊˚ like my username says, im very passionate so i’d love to know what you think in the comments. chill on me cuz this is my first angst, im practicing okay </3
all rights reserved @jiyuspassion. do not translate, copy, repost, or feed to ai.
even in the afterlife, satoru still has a hold on you
two years after satoru's death, you were still stuck. you were suspended somewhere in between moving forward and barely holding on. the letter he left for you when the day finally came still sat on your dresser, untouched. it felt heavier than it looked, like it was watching you, waiting. you refused to open it, painfully aware of what it would do to you. opening it would undo everything—the slow, careful work you put into rebuilding yourself from nothing.
people loved to talk about the five stages of grief like they were checkpoints, like you could just move through them if you tried hard enough. you’d gotten stuck on two: denial and depression, looping endlessly. acceptance felt impossible. it meant admitting, fully and finally, that he was gone. and you couldn’t do that. you didn’t want to. as stupid as you sounded, holding the small parts of him you still had left kept him alive in a way.
his sunglasses sat in your nightstand drawer. sometimes, on quieter days, you’d put them on and let yourself pretend. it always brought you back to the beach—to that one perfect afternoon. you could still take yourself back to it if you tried hard enough: the sand slipping between your toes, the warmth of the sun on your skin, the breeze tugging at your hair. and satoru laughing, bright and loud, crouching beside his absurdly large sandcastle.
a kid had come out of nowhere, eyes wide as saucers.
“did you make that?” he asked, pointing at the castle and the ridiculous moat satoru had just finished.
“you know it!” satoru grinned, ruffling his hair like they’d known each other forever.
the two ran off to make an even bigger one than before, declaring you as their official judge/photographer. the photo was tucked away in your wallet, edges a bit worn from clutching to your chest folding it carefully multiple times. both of their eyes sparkled, satoru's usually pale skin slightly tanned. you'd give up everything to relive that day again. just once.
his blindfold was tied loosely around your favorite stuffed animal, the fabric slightly frayed now. that day he had won it for you at the local fair was the day he stopped wearing it around you.
“i want to make eye contact with you,” he’d said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
all you could do was look away, flustered at his gesture.
“but doesn’t it overwhelm you?” you’d asked quietly. “and make you tired?”
he shrugged. "yeah, but it's worth it."
then he leaned in, close enough that you felt his breath before his words.
"you're worth it."
everything shifted after that.. he started turning off his infinity around you, too—just in case you wanted to pull him closer. just in case you needed him.
the bottle of his cologne still sat on his nightstand. you never moved it. when his pillow finally lost his scent, you started spraying it onto your pillow so your dreams could be filled with him. it just enough to trick yourself, just enough to blur the line between memory and dream. it was the sweetest kind of torture, sleeping as much as you could so you could be with him. in your dreams, he was still there. still laughing, still warm, still yours.
and then you'd wake up.
and it would hit you all over again: cold, sharp, unforgiving. the empty space beside you. the silence. the way everything felt just a little too big without him in it.
it was a cycle. a painful, deliberate one. but in some sick, twisted way, it worked. because in your dreams, he was still there. still laughing, still warm, still yours.
the space he left behind was too noticeable to bear when it stayed empty.
so instead, you filled it the only way you could,
by finding him again, night after night, in your dreams
a/n: some satoru angst to ease the pain?! thank u to @newpersonsameoldmistakez for this request!!! i missed writing angst
roommate ushijima looking for something in the bathroom but getting completely sidetracked because there's a pile of your clothes in the corner, dumped there before you hopped into the shower after a workout. the edge of your panties catches his eye and before he can even comprehend what he's doing, he's caressing them between the calloused pads of his fingers. he can smell musk and salt and a lingering sweetness, evidence that this tiny fucking scrap of fabric sat under your puffy, sweaty cunt, that it rubbed against your lips and captured your slick...
a part of him knows this is a line he shouldn't cross, that it's a gross violation of your privacy, but a larger part of him wants to taste you, no matter what, because he doesn't know the first thing about broaching you about a date and even less about getting you in his bed...
hesitantly, he tongues the gusset, lapping up your taste. his mind goes blank. you smell so good. you'd have to teach him how to kiss you there, he thinks, wrapping the fabric around his throbbing member, pre-cum spilling down his palm. teach him to use the broad flat of his tongue to stimulate your clit, one hand tight in his hair and guiding his mouth...
Synopsis: Rivals turned undercover partners, you and Leon Kennedy fake a relationship during an Umbrella operation. Only to realise the hardest mission isn’t survival, but choosing each other.
Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Fake Relationship, Forced Proximity, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Emotional Vulnerability, Miscommunication, Action/Combat, Protective Leon Kennedy, Rivals to Equals, Confession Scene.
Warnings: Gun Violence, Injury, Blood, Emotional Distress, Arguments, High-Stress Situations, Feelings
Words: ~17k
A/N: im just going to ignore the infection on leon's neck in the new trailer :') (pls capcom dont play with me rn)
The Division of Security Operations headquarters never slept, but it also never felt alive.
Steel-panelled walls reflected fluorescent light in a way that flattened everything, faces, voices, victories. Even the air felt regulated, filtered until it lacked personality. The kind of place that existed to remind you that emotions were liabilities and efficiency was king.
Which was ironic, considering how personal things always got.
The leaderboard hung at the far end of the operations floor, suspended like a silent judge.
Agents gathered as the system refreshed, boots echoing against polished floors, conversations tapering off mid-sentence. There was always a crowd when post-mission reports finalised. Half anticipation, half fear. Careers shifted on that screen. Egos bruised. Grudges sharpened.
You stood with your arms folded, posture casual in a way that took effort. Like you weren’t waiting. Like you didn’t already know exactly who you’d be fighting for space with.
The board flickered.
For a split second, everything went dark.
Then the names snapped into place.
#1 — YOU
#2 — LEON KENNEDY
The reaction was immediate.
A low whistle cut through the room. Someone muttered, “Jesus, again.” Another agent laughed softly, like they’d just lost a bet.
You didn’t smile.
Smiling would’ve felt like gloating, and gloating around Leon Kennedy always came back to bite. Instead, you exhaled through your nose, jaw tightening just enough to hurt. Relief tangled with triumph, knotted together in a way that never quite felt like a win.
Across the floor, Leon stood a few feet away. Too close. Close enough that you could feel him without looking, like static in the air, irritating and unavoidable. He didn’t react. No sigh. No curse. No flicker of irritation that would’ve been satisfying to see.
He just stared at the board, hands loose at his sides, shoulders squared like this was exactly where he expected to be. Second.
That was the thing about Leon. He never looked bothered. Which only ever made you want to bother him more. Finally, he turned his head. Not fully. Just enough to acknowledge your existence.
“Congrats.”
The word was clean. Controlled. Devoid of warmth. Not a compliment, an obligation. You turned on him immediately.
“Wow,” you said, voice light in a way that wasn’t. “That sounded painful. You okay?”
A few agents nearby froze, suddenly very interested in anything that wasn’t the two of you. Someone cleared their throat. Loudly.
Leon’s eyes slid to you then—really looked. Blue, steady, unreadable. Like he was cataloguing you, the way he always did, as if you were a problem he hadn’t solved yet.
“I’ll survive,” he said. “I usually do.”
There it was. The implication. The reminder. That he didn’t need the board. Didn’t need the validation.
You scoffed. “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”
Your heart was beating faster than it should have. You hated that. Hated that he still had that effect. You told yourself it was just rivalry. Professional friction. Two agents chasing the same metrics.
Except metrics didn’t make your blood boil. Metrics didn’t make you remember every mission where he’d overridden your call. Every briefing where he’d questioned your judgment with that infuriating calm. Every time he’d acted like you were a variable to manage instead of an equal.
Leon gave a short nod, not concession, not respect. Closure.
Then he turned away.
As if the conversation hadn’t mattered.
As if you hadn’t mattered.
Your fingers curled before you could stop them. You remembered the first time you’d tried to talk to him. Fresh out of training, adrenaline high, stupid enough to think camaraderie was a given. You’d said his name.
He’d walked straight past you. You’d decided then that he was an asshole. Every interaction since had only reinforced it.
The operations floor slowly returned to life as agents peeled away toward briefings, the tension dispersing but not disappearing. Not between you and Leon. It never did.
As you headed toward the briefing room, you caught his reflection in the glass wall ahead. Same expression. Same calm. Locked down so tight it felt deliberate. Like a wall he wanted you to slam into. And God help you, part of you wanted to break it. Just to prove that something under there could crack.
You squared your shoulders and kept walking. You didn’t care. You absolutely did.
The mission briefing chime cut through the operations floor with surgical precision.
“Conference Room A. Five minutes.”
The reaction was immediate and universal.
Groans rippled through agents who hadn’t moved fast enough to make themselves scarce. Chairs scraped back. Tablets were snapped shut. The loose, post-leaderboard tension evaporated, replaced by something sharper, more disciplined.
You moved with the crowd on instinct alone.
It wasn’t until you were halfway there that you realised exactly where it was taking you.
Conference Room A.
You grimaced internally.
The room was large by design, tiered seating, wide tables, enough space to accommodate egos as well as bodies, but it had a habit of shrinking whenever certain people occupied it.
You stepped inside and scanned for an open seat, already bracing yourself.
Of course.
Leon was already there.
Middle row. Dead centre. Prime vantage point of the screen and the handler’s podium. Perfect posture. Perfectly composed. Like he’d planned it that way.
There were empty chairs scattered throughout the room, but they might as well not have existed. Too far. Too obvious. Too cowardly. The only viable option, the one that didn’t scream avoidance, was the seat beside him.
Unavoidable. You took it. You dropped into the chair with more force than necessary, the legs giving a brief, sharp screech against the floor. Leon didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to.
The tension snapped into place the instant you sat down, tight and immediate, like a wire pulled too far. You felt it in your shoulders. In the way your spine straightened despite yourself.
Conversations around you faltered. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that you noticed the sudden lack of noise in your peripheral hearing. Someone a few rows back leaned in to whisper something to their partner. Another agent glanced at the two of you, eyebrows lifting before they very deliberately looked away.
No one wanted to be involved. The air felt thick. Pressurised. Like it might rupture if either of you pushed too hard.
Leon crossed his arms, posture relaxed but closed. Casual in the way that required discipline. Control. You leaned back, ankle resting on your knee, adopting your own version of indifference. Two opposing stances. Same message.
The handler entered, and the room snapped to attention.
Lights dimmed. Screens flared to life, flooding the space with satellite imagery, data streams, mission headers scrolling in clean, clinical fonts. The low hum of equipment filled the silence left behind by agents who suddenly remembered how to listen. For a few minutes, it was almost normal. Almost.
“Umbrella-affiliated assets have increased activity along the European biotech circuit,” the handler said, laser pointer gliding across the map. “High-profile events. Private funding galas. A lot of noise. Very little traceable movement.”
Leon leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table.
“Which means the actual exchange won’t happen on-site,” he said. Calm. Certain. “It’ll be routed through a secondary node. Off-grid. Clean.”
You didn’t look at him.
“Or,” you cut in, eyes still fixed on the screen, “they keep it local because no one expects them to risk exposure in a room full of donors and diplomats.”
The room stilled. You felt the shift before you saw it, attention pivoting, subtle but undeniable. Leon turned his head slowly. Deliberately.
“That would be sloppy,” he said. No heat. No edge. “Umbrella isn’t sloppy.”
You let out a soft, humourless breath. “Neither are shell corporations hiding in plain sight,” you replied. “Especially when they’re backed by people who think money makes them invisible.”
A pause. Leon’s mouth twitched. Not irritation. Amusement.
“That’s an assumption,” he said. “Arrogance isn’t a reliable variable.”
You turned then, meeting his gaze head-on. “It is when arrogance is the only reason they’ve survived this long.”
For a split second, his eyes held yours. Then he smirked. Not big. Not obvious. Just enough. And it pissed you off instantly.
A few agents shifted uncomfortably. Someone cleared their throat. The handler didn’t intervene, never did. Not when it was the two of you. They’d learned better. From somewhere across the room, barely under someone’s breath, came a muttered, “God help whoever has to work with them.”
It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t annoyed. It was resigned.
You saw Leon’s reaction out of the corner of your eye. The faint tightening at the corner of his mouth. Not anger. Something closer to agreement. Like the comment confirmed something he already knew. The rivalry wasn’t subtle. It never had been.
Leadership knew it. Field agents knew it. Even analysts who avoided combat zones like the plague knew better than to put the two of you on the same assignment without contingencies.
And yet. Here you were. Side by side. Again.
As the briefing continued, the friction didn’t ease, it deepened. You filled gaps Leon dismissed as irrelevant. He dismantled assumptions you made with surgical precision. Neither of you raised your voice. Neither of you yielded an inch.
It wasn’t about ego. It was about being right.
Leon shifted beside you, the movement small but unmistakable. Intentional. Close enough that you could feel his presence without looking. Close enough to feel like a provocation.
You refused to glance at him.
The handler cleared their throat sharply.
“Enough,” they said. Calm. Firm. “Both of you.”
You leaned back in your chair, jaw tight, eyes still forward.
Leon didn’t move at all.
Except for that damn smirk that hadn’t quite faded.
The briefing ended the way most did.
Not with resolution but with an abrupt cutoff and a roomful of people pretending they hadn’t been holding their breath.
The lights brightened. Screens went dark. Chairs shifted as agents remembered how to move again. Conversations started up too fast, too loud, like noise could erase what had just happened.
It couldn’t.
Agents filed out in a rush, boots striking the floor with sudden urgency. No one lingered. No one made eye contact longer than necessary. The tension was something physical now. Something that could snag you if you weren’t careful, wrap around your ankle and drag you down with it.
You were halfway to the door when the handler’s voice cut through the noise.
“You. Kennedy. Stay.”
Your spine stiffened.
Of course.
Leon stopped beside you without looking at you, like he’d been expecting it. Like this was just another outcome he’d already calculated. You hated that most of all, that nothing ever seemed to catch him off guard.
The rest of the room emptied fast.
Too fast.
Even the analysts who usually hovered with questions and clarifications suddenly remembered pressing deadlines and non-existent meetings. The last agent slipped out, the door sliding shut behind them with a soft, almost polite hiss.
Click.
The sound echoed.
Silence flooded in, heavy and deliberate.
The handler didn’t bother with theatrics. They never did. They stood at the head of the conference table, hands loosely clasped, posture easy in a way that only came from authority earned the hard way.
They looked unimpressed.
Calm. Experienced. Patient in the way of someone who had watched far worse people implode and lived to tell the story.
Their gaze flicked to you.
Then to Leon.
Like they were reviewing two familiar problem variables in a report they already knew by heart.
“You’re going to hate this assignment,” they said evenly. “So I’m going to give it to you quickly.”
Leon’s shoulders barely moved. No reaction. No protest.
You crossed your arms tighter, already bracing for impact.
The handler tapped the remote.
The screen behind them changed, maps and data streams replaced by a glossy event flyer dripping with gold accents and forced elegance.
THE KENSINGTON BIOTECH BENEFIT
A private gala supporting global medical innovation.
You scoffed quietly.
The kind of event that smelled like money, power, and immunity.
“Umbrella-adjacent shell companies have been laundering research funding through three different foundations,” the handler continued. “One of them is sponsoring this gala. Donors, executives, foreign ambassadors. Wealth. Influence. Enough plausible deniability to make a prosecutor cry.”
Another click.
A timeline appeared. Then a guest list, names blurred, titles redacted, power implied without explanation.
“Tonight,” the handler said, “their data broker makes a handoff. We believe it includes proprietary files and field logs. Evidence of illegal trials. Off-book transport routes. Personnel rosters.”
Your focus sharpened despite yourself.
“Where’s the handoff happening?” you asked.
Leon beat you by half a second.
“And how do we extract it without tipping the room?”
You felt irritation spark immediately. Predictable. Of course he’d jump straight to logistics, like this was just another clean operation and not a nest of vipers in tuxedos.
The handler’s eyes flicked between you again, cataloguing the tension like it was another asset to manage.
“The handoff is digital,” they said. “Encrypted drive. Stored temporarily on a secure device in the VIP lounge. The broker uploads it to an off-site server at 23:00. We need the device before then.”
Too clean.
You frowned. “So we infiltrate. Grab the device. Disappear.”
“Correct,” the handler said. “Which is why this is an on-site operation. No drones. No external breach. Umbrella’s countermeasures are tight.”
Leon’s jaw flexed once. Barely noticeable. You caught it anyway.
“Then we’ll need invitations,” he said.
“Already handled.”
The handler clicked again.
The screen changed.
Two names appeared. Two immaculate profiles. Wealthy. Connected. Polished to perfection.
A couple.
Your stomach dropped.
You read it once.
Then again.
And again.
Couple profile.
You looked up slowly. “No.”
The handler didn’t blink. “Yes.”
You let out a short laugh, sharp, humourless. “Absolutely not.”
Leon still hadn’t spoken.
His eyes were locked on the screen, but his posture had gone rigid in a way you recognised. The same way it did right before a firefight. Before something went wrong.
His jaw was tight. Mouth set into a flat line.
If a bullet had been aimed at his head, he would’ve looked exactly like this.
“The guest list is exclusive,” the handler continued. “Couples only. It’s not charity, it’s a filter. Singles draw scrutiny. Couples imply stability.”
You leaned forward, palms slamming onto the table. “Send literally anyone else.”
“There is no anyone else,” the handler replied calmly. “Not for this.”
Your temper flared hot and fast. “Why? Because we’re top-ranked?”
“Because your skill overlap is ideal,” they said. “One of you excels in social manipulation and close-quarters infiltration. The other excels in threat assessment and extraction under pressure.”
You opened your mouth.
“Don’t,” the handler said sharply. “You’re both excellent. Together, you’re efficient.”
Leon finally spoke.
“And if we refuse?”
Low. Controlled. Dangerous in its restraint.
The handler didn’t soften. “Then we miss the handoff. Umbrella keeps their data. People die later because we didn’t do our jobs now.”
Cold. Final.
You clenched your jaw. “So your plan is to shove us into a ballroom and hope we don’t kill each other.”
“My plan,” the handler said, “is to send two professionals into a controlled environment with a clear objective. Your personal feelings are irrelevant.”
“They’re not irrelevant if they compromise the mission,” you snapped.
Leon glanced at you then.
Brief. Sharp.
Unreadable.
He didn’t defend you. Didn’t agree. Didn’t disagree.
He just stood there, calm, contained, infuriatingly above it, like he always did.
You wanted to shake him. To crack that composure just once.
The handler watched you both like someone observing a storm they’d already charted.
“If you can’t play nice for one night,” they said evenly, “you don’t deserve that leaderboard.”
The words landed hard. Because they were true.
Because the leaderboard wasn’t just numbers. It was proof. Of every sacrifice. Every cut corner. Every fight you’d survived to get here. You felt the hook sink deep.
Leon didn’t react outwardly, but you saw it. The subtle lift of his chin. The tension in his throat as he swallowed. Pride caught him too. The handler shut off the screen.
“You’ll attend as Dr. and Dr.,” they said, sliding dossiers across the table. “Long-term couple. Convincing. You will touch. You will smile. You will sell it.”
You stared at the dossiers like they were weapons. Leon picked his up with careful precision. Of course he did.
“This is not optional,” the handler said. “Get the device. Get the data. Come back.”
They looked at you both.
“Try not to embarrass me.”
The door unlocked with a hiss.
You didn’t move.
Neither did Leon.
The truth settled ugly and heavy in your chest.
You weren’t being asked to work with Leon Kennedy. You were being forced to pretend you wanted him.
The training wing smelled like disinfectant and old sweat, cleaned often, never enough. The kind of smell that clung to the back of your throat no matter how many times they scrubbed the floors. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, cold and unforgiving, washing everything in a sickly white glow that did no one any favours.
The DSO didn’t do cozy. It did functional. It did survive.
A door slid open at the handler’s badge swipe, revealing a smaller room tucked off the main mat space. It was laid out like an interrogation room that had tried—and failed—to pass itself off as an office.
One table. Two chairs. A stack of folders.
And a tablet already lit up with a form that made your soul leave your body on sight.
You stared at it like it had just insulted your family.
“Sit,” the handler said.
Leon took the chair opposite you immediately. No hesitation. No comment. Of course he did. You waited half a second longer, purely out of spite, then sat, crossing your legs and folding your arms like the tablet might try something.
The handler slid two clipboards across the table.
“You’ll fill these out together,” they said. “Your cover is long-term. Married. High-value donors with private ties to the foundation. Security will look for inconsistencies: names, habits, timelines. If you don’t align, you’ll set off alarms before you hit the champagne.”
They pushed a third folder toward Leon. “Apartment layout. Memorise it. If someone asks where the bathroom is in your home, you answer without thinking.”
Leon scanned the paperwork with that infuriatingly calm focus he brought to bomb schematics and ambush routes. No sarcasm. No commentary. Just silent efficiency.
You hated him a little extra for it.
“I’ll be outside,” the handler added. “You have forty minutes. Try not to kill each other.”
The door shut.
Click.
You and Leon were left alone with the lie. For a moment, neither of you moved. Leon’s eyes stayed on the paperwork. Yours stayed on him.
You grabbed the top sheet and skimmed it.
How did you meet?
When did you move in together?
Anniversary date:
Pet names used in public:
Pet peeves:
Shared routines:
Preferred terms of endearment (optional):
Your jaw clenched.
“This is ridiculous.”
Leon finally lifted his gaze. “It’s standard.”
You scoffed. “Standard. Right. Because nothing says ‘authentic marriage’ like a fill-in-the-blank worksheet.”
He picked up his pen. “How did we meet?”
The bluntness threw you for a second. “Wow. No warm-up? No foreplay?”
Leon didn’t blink. “Focus.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Prague.”
His pen paused midair. “Vienna.”
You stared. “I’m sorry, did you just veto my city?”
“Vienna makes more sense,” he said evenly. “Diplomatic circuit. Donors. Embassy galas.”
“Prague is beautiful,” you shot back. “Historic. Romantic. Exactly the kind of place two rich idiots would pretend to fall in love over overpriced wine.”
Leon’s mouth flattened. “It’s cliché.”
“And Vienna isn’t?”
“It’s believable.”
“So is Prague.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was counting to ten. “We need a story that holds up under scrutiny.”
“And we need one that doesn’t sound like it was written by a man who alphabetises his spices.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes. “I don’t alphabetise my spices.”
“Wow. Growth.”
The argument escalated almost instantly. It was petty. You both knew it. It was also loud, because neither of you was willing to lose the first detail. Like it mattered. Like this wasn’t all fake anyway.
Leon tapped the page. “Vienna. We met at a benefit dinner. You spilled a drink on me.”
You barked a laugh. “Of course I did.”
“It’s memorable.”
“It makes me clumsy.”
“It explains why we talked.”
You bristled. “Or you bumped into me.”
Leon raised an eyebrow. “That makes you the victim.”
“And?”
“It makes me the asshole.”
You smiled sweetly. “Finally. Something accurate.”
For a second, his mouth twitched. Barely. Gone as fast as it appeared.
“Anniversary date,” you said quickly, flipping the page.
“November,” Leon said without hesitation.
“Why November?”
“Forgettable.”
“Wow. Romantic.”
He didn’t react. “The fifteenth.”
You paused. “That’s weirdly specific.”
His gaze flicked away. Just for a fraction of a second. “It’s fine.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You absolutely have something on the fifteenth.”
“No.”
“Uh-huh.”
You wrote it down anyway.
Pet peeves.
You read the line and looked up. “This is where you put ‘people who talk too much,’ isn’t it?”
Leon folded his arms. “It’s where we put things we can answer quickly.”
“Oh. Then write ‘emotion.’”
“What’s yours?” he countered.
“Men who think silence counts as depth.”
His pen stilled. “You hum when you’re thinking.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“That’s not a pet peeve.”
“It is when it’s constant.”
Heat crept up your neck. “You’re creepy.”
“Observant.”
Next line.
Pet names used in public.
You stared at it like it might explode.
“No.”
“We need something.”
“Something neutral.”
“Babe.”
You physically recoiled. “Absolutely not.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Try again.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Honey.”
Leon grimaced. “That’s worse.”
“It’s normal.”
“It sounds like a threat when you say it.”
You gasped. “Rude.”
“Pick one.”
You exhaled hard. “Love.”
He froze.
“What?” you snapped.
“It’s… British.”
“We’re in London half the year. Write it down.”
He did.
Your stomach did something annoying.
You shoved the clipboard away. “Done?”
Leon flipped to the apartment layout. “No.”
He started listing details like a man preparing for war. Door directions. Furniture placement. Appliance locations.
“You’re insane,” you muttered.
“It’s my job.”
The way he said it stopped your next insult cold. Before you could unpack that, the door hissed open.
“Time,” the handler said. “Training.”
The training room was louder. A raw, grinding decibel that felt less like sound and more like physical pressure against your eardrums. It was hotter, a dense, clinging heat that rose from the mats and bodies and pooled against the ceiling. This place was brutally, viciously honest in a way the slick corridors and polished debriefing rooms of headquarters never dared to be. Here, pretence was the first thing stripped away.
Every sound was amplified, thrown back by the barren walls: the scuff and slap of boots against padding, the meaty thud of bodies hitting the mat, the sharp, bitten-off bark of instructors.
This was where elegance went to die. Where you were reminded what you were underneath the tech and the tactics: flesh, bone, and flawed instinct.
Leon shrugged out of his jacket as if shedding a second skin. The movement was economical, unshowy, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting in a deliberate roll beneath his dark shirt as he pushed his sleeves to his elbows. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. His indifference was a practiced weapon, and he wielded it perfectly.
You hated that you tracked the motion anyway. Hated the way your eyes followed the line of his forearm, the shift of his weight. A silent catalogue of the enemy.
Mirroring him was a reflex, but you made it aggressive. You rolled your shoulders back until the joints gave a soft pop, tilted your neck until it burned. Your pulse was already climbing, a drumbeat of pure, undiluted adrenaline bleeding into your veins ahead of the impact. This wasn't nerves. It was a craving for collision.
“Close-quarters,” the handler’s voice cut through the din from the edge of the mat. “No distance. No weapons. You’re going to be in each other’s space until one of you breaks or the clock does.”
Lucky me.
Leon turned to face you fully, and the overhead lights carved him out of the gloom. The sharp, unyielding line of his jaw, the steady, metronomic rise and fall of his chest. His eyes swept over you once. Not dismissive. Not curious. Assessing. Coldly, clinically reassessing a variable he already had quantified.
“Try to keep up,” you said, the words grating out, already furious at the glacial calm on his face.
The corner of his mouth twitched. A phantom of a smirk, there and gone. “Show me.”
The first clash was less a fight and more a detonation.
You lunged without preamble, a silent, violent blur closing the distance before he could settle into a textbook stance. He reacted not with surprise, but with a speed that felt like an insult, catching your leading arm, redirecting your momentum with infuriating efficiency. Your shoulder slammed into the wall of his chest. Solid. Immovable. The impact reverberated up your neck, rattling your teeth.
You hooked his leg; he countered your hook. You twisted for leverage; his grip shifted, strong, calloused hands locking like manacles around your wrist and forearm. He stepped into you, using your own forward drive to uproot your balance.
The mat rushed up to meet you. You hit with a force that punched the air from your lungs in a sharp, humiliating wheeze.
He followed you down, a controlled avalanche. One knee braced near your hip, his weight a deliberate, undeniable pressure. One hand planted beside your head, caging you. The other pinning your arm with machined precision.
Too close.
His heat enveloped you, a living, breathing furnace. You could feel the coiled tension in the muscles of his arms and chest as he held himself back, a restraint that was somehow more arrogant than full force. His breath, still steady, washed over your cheek.
“Yield.” A single, quiet word, dropped into the scant space between your mouths.
You bared your teeth, a soundless snarl. “Dream on, Kennedy.”
You bucked, shifted your hips, used the micro-second his weight adjusted to hook your leg and roll. The world flipped, ceiling lights streaking, his form a blur of controlled motion, and suddenly you were on top, your forearm braced against the solid column of his throat, your knees digging into the mat on either side of his ribs.
Beneath you, his chest heaved once. A deep, aborted expansion. For a suspended heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Sweat slicked your skin where you pressed against him. The mat was warm and smelled of defeat. Leon’s hand came up, his grip closing around your wrist, not to throw you, not to hurt. To test. To measure the resistance. He was already adapting, his body learning yours even as yours screamed to reject his.
Your pulse was a roar in your ears, a chaotic counter-rhythm to his terrifying calm.
You shoved off him as if burned, scrambling to your feet before the strange, charged stillness could solidify.
“Not so perfect,” you spat, your breath coming in gusts you hated.
Leon sat up smoothly, as if rising from a lounge chair. As if your reversal had been a predicted, inconsequential sub-routine. “You’re fast.”
It wasn’t praise. It was data entry. And you hated that the distinction felt so vital, and that it landed somewhere in the uncharted, dangerous space between contempt and something else.
“Again,” the handler barked.
The next round was worse. Longer. More intimately brutal. It was a war of pressure and proximity. He caught a strike and used it to drive you back into the mat, his shoulder pinning you down, his forearm a bar of iron across your chest, not crushing, just absolutely controlling. You could feel every breath he took. You kicked out, twisted, your hands scraping against the corded steel of his arms as you broke free.
“You fight angry,” he muttered, the words a low vibration in the scant space between your bodies as you circled again, panting.
“You fight like a robot,” you shot back, your voice raw.
“You’re predictable.”
“Only to someone arrogant enough to think they’re smarter.”
“I think you’re reckless.” His eyes were chips of ice in the heat.
You lunged again, if only to wipe the assessment from his face.
He caught you, of course he did, but this time you were ready. You rolled with the momentum, dragging him down with you in a tangle of limbs. The mat shuddered. The grapple became a raw, grinding struggle for dominance, a silent conversation of strain and resistance. Your knee found his side; his elbow bracketed your ribs. Sweat-slick skin slid against damp fabric. Neither of you would yield an inch. The sheer, stubborn will of it was a third entity in the fight.
By the time the handler called the reset, your skin was sheened, your lungs burned, and your muscles trembled with fatigued fury. Across from you, Leon’s breathing had finally deepened, still controlled, but unmistakably heavier. His shirt was plastered to the planes of his back, darkened in a long, damp streak down his spine.
You refused to acknowledge it. You refused to even look.
“Live-fire simulation,” the handler called, gesturing to the adjacent door. “Now.”
The next room was a labyrinth of moveable walls, strobing lights, and disorienting sound cues. Training pistols, heavy with marking rounds, were thrust into your hands. No room for error. No room for anything but the drill. You and Leon moved through the doorway as a single, fractured unit. No words. No signals.
You took point on instinct. He covered the angles you couldn’t see, his presence a shadow at your six. It felt profoundly wrong, this seamless coordination, how your strides synced, how you pivoted around a corner and he was already there, clearing the blind spot. It felt like a betrayal of the mutual contempt that had been your only common ground.
A target snapped up from a left-side port.
You pivoted, weapon rising, finger finding the trigger -
Leon moved.
No shout. No warning. A pure, unthinking kinetic shift.
He stepped into your line of fire, his body turning, his shoulder angling to intercept the shot that wasn’t even real. A blunt, physical declaration.
Protective. Automatic.
The training round smacked into the hard plate of his vest with a dull, final thwack.
Your finger froze. The world narrowed to the spot of neon paint now blooming on his shoulder, to the broad back that had just placed itself between you and a theoretical threat.
“Reset!” the handler’s voice was distant, irrelevant.
Leon stepped away immediately, his posture snapping back into that flawless, impregnable control as if the last five seconds had been edited out. As if his body hadn’t just made a decision his mind would never consciously permit.
You stood rooted, your pulse a frantic bird in your throat, staring at the mark on his vest.
The venue rose out of the city like a monument to excess.
Marble columns framed the entrance, pale and flawless, each one tall enough to make a statement about permanence, about money that didn’t worry about time or consequence. Crystal chandeliers glittered beyond the glass doors, scattering light across polished floors in a way that felt deliberate, curated to impress and intimidate in equal measure.
Inside, an orchestra played something classical and unobtrusive, strings swelling just enough to fill the space without demanding attention. The music threaded through conversations held in low, confident voices, people who had never had to check over their shoulders when they spoke.
This place wasn’t just expensive. It was insulated.
You stepped inside and felt it immediately: the invisible barrier between the people here and the rest of the world. Consequences didn’t reach this far. They slid off champagne flutes and tailored suits, drowned under polite laughter and charitable donations.
Umbrella executives were everywhere. Not obvious. Not branded. Just… present. Men and women with immaculate posture and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. People who knew exactly how much power they held and exactly how well it was hidden.
You straightened instinctively, not because you needed to, but because the room demanded it. Tonight, you weren’t an agent.
The dress was a calculated piece of armour. It clung and moved in a way that looked effortless, the kind of confidence that came from knowing every movement would be watched and finding satisfaction in it. Hair styled, posture relaxed, expression composed. Lethal, but not visibly so. Danger tucked beneath refinement.
Leon stood beside you, and the contrast was almost obscenely perfect. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed. The tailored suit fit him like a second skin, draping over broad shoulders and a lean frame with an almost insulting elegance. It was dark, understated, and it made him look disarmingly respectable, the kind of man donors instinctively trusted. The earpiece was invisible, his edge concealed beneath a veneer of sophisticated calm. He looked… safe. Predictable. It was the most effective disguise he’d ever worn.
No weapons. No tactical gear. Just a man who cleaned up a little too well. Neither of you looked like agents. You looked like you belonged.
Leon’s eyes swept over you as you adjusted a strap on your shoulder, his gaze lingering a fraction longer than strictly operational. When he spoke, his voice was a low, private rumble. “They didn’t mention the dress.”
You kept your eyes forward, scanning the crowd. “It’s not in the briefing notes, Kennedy. It’s called a uniform.”
“It’s a distraction,” he said, and there was a trace of something in his tone, not warmth, but a clinical sort of acknowledgment.
Before you could retort, the second you crossed the threshold fully into the ballroom, his hand settled at the small of your back.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t awkward. It was proprietary.
His palm rested there with a pressure that was both grounding and possessive, his fingers splayed just above the curve of your hip. His thumb brushed once, a slow, deliberate stroke against the delicate fabric, and your entire spine went rigid in response. The heat of his hand burned through the silk, a brand you felt in every nerve ending.
He leaned in, his breath disturbing the hair near your temple. “Easy,” he murmured, his voice a velvety counterfeit of intimacy. “Smile.”
You did, a perfect, glazed curve of the lips. Under your breath, barely moving them, you hissed, “If you leave your hand there any longer, I’m billing the DSO for emotional damages and a dry-cleaning bill. Your palm is sweating.”
Leon didn’t look at you. His hand didn’t move. If anything, his fingers pressed more firmly, pulling you a millimetre closer into the orbit of his body. “Relax, sweetheart,” he said aloud, his tone soft, affectionate, convincingly doting. “You look breathtaking.” The endearment was a bullet wrapped in velvet.
A nearby couple glanced over, their smiles fond and approving.
Your jaw ached from clenching. “You sound disturbingly natural. I think I might throw up.”
His mouth curved, a private, dangerous flicker. “That’s because you’re holding your breath. They’ll notice the lack of oxygen before they notice the lie.”
“Maybe if you weren’t manhandling me.”
“My hand’s not moving,” he replied, his calm an infuriating counterpoint to your tension. “You’re just hyper-aware of it. Mission focus, remember?”
You hated that he was right. The awareness was a live wire running from the point of contact straight to your core. Publicly, you were seamless, an elegant couple drifting into the flow of the gala, bodies aligned, steps synchronised. Privately, it was a silent war of attrition.
Leon guided you toward the bar with infuriating ease, his hand a constant, navigating pressure. He nodded politely, offered brief, warm smiles. You felt every shift of his fingers, every minute adjustment of his grip.
An Umbrella executive, tall, with cold, appraising eyes, glanced your way.
Leon’s hand shifted. His fingers spread, pressing more fully against your spine as he angled you subtly, protectively, closer to him. His head dipped, his lips near your ear. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, your own gaze locked on the executive.
“Focus,” Leon murmured, his voice a low vibration you felt in your bones. “He’s not just looking. He’s calculating. Smile at him. Like you find him tedious.”
You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift over the man with the lazy, disinterested contempt of the truly privileged. You offered a faint, dismissive smile. The man’s gaze lingered, then moved on, satisfied you were no one of consequence.
Leon exhaled, a soft sound that feathered against your skin. “See? That’s the point.”
You glanced up at him, your cheek nearly brushing his jaw. “Don’t get smug.”
“I’m not smug,” he said, raising a hand to effortlessly snag two champagne flutes from a passing server. He handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours. “I’m effective.”
“You remembered the champagne,” you noted flatly, taking the glass.
“I remember things,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room over the rim of his flute. “Drink with your left hand. Your ring’s on the right. It flashes under the lights.”
You froze for a half-second, a tiny, betraying stumble in your composure. Then you switched hands smoothly, the crystal stem cool in your left fingers. “Stop paying attention to irrelevant details about me.”
“Can’t,” Leon said, his voice dropping back into that confidential murmur as he guided you away from the bar. “That’s the job tonight. Every detail is relevant.”
The orchestra swelled as the evening deepened. The air grew thick with perfume and false camaraderie. Leon’s hand remained on your back, a constant, maddening presence. You became a connoisseur of its pressure, firmer when navigating a crowd, lighter but no less present when stationary, his thumb tracing an absent, subconscious arc that made your breath catch.
As you moved, you saw the illusion take hold. The casual glances from guests, the approving nods from older patrons, the way security teams assessed you as a unit and then dismissed you. They bought the story. The elegant, connected, slightly bored couple.
The realisation was a cold trickle down your spine. Because it wasn’t just them. It was him, too.
He moved through the charade with a terrifying, fluid ease. His touches, his murmured words, the way his body curved around yours in a crowd, it all looked effortless. Like it cost him nothing. Like the simmering hostility that defined your every interaction had been switched off, replaced by this seamless, galling performance.
You were starting to resent how good he was at it.
A guest intercepted you near the edge of the ballroom, an older man with silver hair and a practiced smile, glass of champagne cradled loosely in one hand. His eyes flicked between you and Leon with open curiosity.
“Forgive me,” he said pleasantly, inclining his head. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Leon smiled before you could respond, warm and unhurried. “Of course. This is my wife.” The word still sent a strange jolt through you.
“And you are?” the man asked, turning his attention to you. “Involved in the foundation as well?”
You opened your mouth to speak. To think of something fast before you started spilling word vomit.
“She is,” Leon answered smoothly, his hand settling at your back again. “She led the data consolidation project for the Helios Initiative last year. Streamlined the entire reporting pipeline. Saved the board six figures and a lot of embarrassment.”
You stilled. Just for a fraction of a second. The man’s brows lifted, impressed.
“She has a talent for finding inefficiencies people prefer not to admit are there,” Leon continued, tone light, almost fond. “She’s very good at seeing patterns others miss.”
Your heart stumbled. The guest chuckled. “Dangerous skill.”
Leon’s thumb brushed your spine once, subtly. Familiar. “Only if you’re hiding something.”
The man laughed and excused himself moments later, drifting back into the crowd, already satisfied. You remained where you were, gaze fixed ahead, the music suddenly too loud in your ears.
“How did you know that?” you asked quietly, once you were certain no one was listening.
Leon didn’t look at you. “You did it during the Marseille op,” he said simply. “Flagged the discrepancy in the shipping logs. Everyone else missed it.”
“That was years ago,” you said. “I remember,” he replied.
There was no pride in his voice. No edge. Just fact.
You leaned back into his touch, your shoulder blades pressing against his chest as you pretended to point out a painting. Your voice was a razor in the velvet dark between you. “They’re eating this up. It’s almost pathetic.”
“Yes,” Leon replied, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder. His breath was warm on your neck. “They are.”
He gave you nothing else. Just the steady, burning pressure of his hand.
The orchestra shifted, the music melting into a slower, more intimate piece. The dance floor began to fill. Leon felt the shift in the room’s rhythm a moment before you did.
He turned to you, his expression softening into something convincingly expectant. He extended his hand, palm up. Not a question. A quiet command in the language of the evening.
You stared at his offered hand, at the faint scars across the knuckles you knew the origin of. Then you placed yours in it, your cool fingers sliding against his warm, calloused palm. “You step on my feet,” you whispered, “and I’ll make a scene they’ll talk about for years.”
A ghost of a real smile touched his lips. “Noted.”
He drew you into him, one hand returning to its familiar place on your back, the other closing around your hand. The world narrowed to the space between your bodies. You could feel the fine wool of his suit under your splayed fingers, the solid muscle beneath.
“You dance like you fight,” you accused as he led you into the first steps.
“Precisely?” he murmured, his eyes holding yours.
“Stiffly. Like you’re waiting for an attack.”
“You’re leading.”
“I am not.”
“You’re anticipating my lead and resisting it. It’s the same thing.” He adjusted his grip, his hand on your back firming, guiding your turn. “Stop fighting the rhythm. Let it happen.”
You bristled. “I don’t just let things happen.”
He leaned in, his lips a breath from your ear. His voice dropped, losing its polished edge, revealing the rougher truth beneath. “You do. You always have. You anticipate the strike. You brace for the impact. You’re doing it now.”
The direct hit silenced you. The banter evaporated, leaving only the truth of the movement. You were bracing. Against him. Against the music. Against the unnerving synchronicity.
Somewhere in the next turn, the resistance broke. Not with a surrender, but with a mutual, unspoken recalibration. Leon’s guidance became less a direction and more a suggestion. Your following became less a resistance and more a mirror. Your weight settled, your steps aligned. He shifted; you matched. It became effortless. Fluid. A silent, perfect dialogue of motion.
It felt exactly like the rare, terrifying moments in the field when everything went to hell and instinct took over, when you moved not as two separate entities, but as a single, coordinated organism.
Your breath hitched. You felt his do the same, a stutter in his otherwise controlled chest. Neither of you spoke.
The music carried you, and his hand on your back was no longer a point of conflict. It was an anchor. His other hand held yours, not with performance, but with a simple, undeniable connection. You were suddenly, acutely aware of every point of contact: his thigh brushing yours, the heat of his palm, the steady beat of his heart against your own racing one.
The song began to wind down. Security was tightening; you could see the increased scrutiny at the edges of the room.
Leon’s voice was a raw scrape against your ear, all pretence of gentleness gone. “They’re locking the perimeter. Broker’s in the east wing. We need to move.”
You nodded, your forehead almost touching his chin. The final note hung in the air. Applause scattered through the room. Couples began to separate. Leon didn’t let go.
His hand remained on your back. His fingers were still laced with yours. In the dim, chandelier-lit haze, for a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity, you just stood there, locked in the echo of the dance and the glaring, inconvenient truth it had revealed.
You were still holding on. And so was he.
Finally, he released your hand, the absence feeling like a sudden chill. His palm slid from your back, leaving the ghost of its heat imprinted on the silk. You took a half-step back, the ballroom noise rushing back in.
“Next time,” you said, your voice strangely thin, “warn me before you decide to be competent at something.”
He looked at you, his blue eyes stripped of their usual ice, something darker and more complicated swirling in their depths. “You didn’t need a warning. You kept up.”
He turned, offering his arm again, the picture of the attentive partner. After a stunned second, you slid your hand into the crook of his elbow, your fingers trembling slightly against the fine cotton.
Conversations continue, a tapestry of polished lies, but your senses have already pared them down to a meaningless drone. Your focus narrows, homing in on the anomaly. Across the room, an Umbrella scientist, a man with the pallid complexion and careful detachment of someone who spends more time with data than people, has stopped moving.
He isn't staring. That would be amateur. His attention is a series of precise, surgical observations: the way you stand with your weight slightly forward, not relaxed back; the subtle, the specific tension in your shoulders that speaks of readiness, not repose. His head tilts, a fraction of a degree.
Your pulse kicks, a single, hard thud against your ribs. "Leon," you breathe, the word a ghost against the rim of your champagne flute.
"I see him." His reply is immediate, a low current beneath the placid surface. His posture hasn't changed, but you feel the minute shift in the energy beside you, the coiling of a spring. "Don't look at him. Look at me."
But it's too late. The scientist’s eyes, cold, magnified behind thin glasses, flicker. Not with full recognition, but with the dawning, critical suspicion of it. I know you. From where? The unspoken question hangs in the charged space between you. The danger isn't here yet, but it's coming, a tide you have seconds to turn. Leon doesn't hesitate. He never does.
One moment you are two adjacent entities, sharing a cover story. The next, his arm bands around your waist, pulling you in with an irrevocable certainty. His other hand rises, fingers threading into the hair at your nape, his palm cradling the line of your jaw with a possession that steals the breath from your lungs.
And then his mouth is on yours.
It is not a kiss born of passion, but of pure, unadulterated necessity, a tactical strike executed with devastating precision. There is no cautious exploration, no soft inquiry. His lips meet yours with a firm, undeniable pressure, sealing the world out. It is immediate. Consuming. A forced intimacy that feels more like a claiming than a performance.
The shock of it is a lightning bolt to your system. Every thought, every alarm bell, is momentarily short-circuited by the sheer, overwhelming physicality of him. The warmth of his skin, the faint, clean scent of him cutting through the cloying perfume of the gala, the solid, unyielding wall of his chest against yours.
His mouth moves, and it is not the gentle persuasion of a lover. It is decisive. Convincing. He angles his head, deepening the contact just enough to be unquestionable, his thumb stroking a slow, deliberate arc along your jawline, a gesture of affection that feels, in its practiced perfection, like a weapon. He is building a shield with his body, blocking the scientist's view, rewriting the narrative in the space of a heartbeat: You are not a threat. You are distracted. You are mine.
And you respond. It is the true betrayal. Your body, trained for survival, obeys a different instinct. Your free hand, the one not clutching the forgotten champagne flute, comes to rest against his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself. A small, stifled sound catches in your throat. Your lips part beneath his, not in invitation, but in a gasp of pure, stunned reflex that he seamlessly incorporates into the act.
And then, as abruptly as it began, the pressure changes. Leon’s kiss softens, becomes a lingering press, a final punctuation mark. The immediate threat has passed; the scientist, presented with an indisputable picture of private passion, has turned away, dismissing his suspicion as irrelevant.
But Leon doesn't pull back. For three endless heartbeats, he remains there, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours in ragged sync. His eyes are closed, his expression a stark mask of concentration, as if he is listening for an echo of the danger, or perhaps for something else entirely. His thumb continues its slow sweep along your jaw, a soothing rhythm that feels anything but soothing.
You are the one who breaks. You wrench your head back, a shudder running through you. The cool air of the ballroom hits your damp lips, a shocking contrast. Your hand, still splayed on his chest, pushes, a weak, belated attempt to reinstate a boundary that has been utterly demolished.
"Don't," you manage, your voice a scraped-raw whisper. "Don't you dare read into that."
Leon's eyes open. They are dark, pupils blown wide, the usual icy blue swallowed by a storm you've never seen before. He looks at you and for a second, the professional facade is utterly absent. There is only a raw, unsettled intensity that mirrors the chaos in your own veins.
"Trust me," he says, his voice low and rough, stripped of its earlier polish. "I'm not." It is the most transparent lie either of you has told all night.
The silence that follows is louder than the music. He slowly, carefully, unwinds his arm from your waist, his fingers loosening from your hair as if disarming a live wire. The distance between you feels cavernous, charged with the aftershocks of what just happened. You can still feel the imprint of his body against yours, a phantom brand. Your lips are tender, buzzing with a sensation that has nothing to do with the champagne.
Leon clears his throat, the sound harsh in the quiet between you. His gaze darts away, reassembling his composure piece by piece. "He's moving toward the east corridor. The distraction worked."
"Right," you say, the word tasting like ash. You straighten your spine, a soldier coming to attention after a devastating blow. You smooth your dress, a futile gesture. The elegance feels like a costume now, hanging awkwardly on the raw, shaken thing you've become underneath.
He offers his arm again, a formality. You take it, your fingers trembling slightly as they settle on the fine wool of his sleeve. The contact is sterile, polite. A mockery of the intimacy that just fused you together.
You know now, with chilling clarity, that Leon's first instinct was not to create distance, not to signal a retreat, but to eliminate the threat to you by any means necessary. He didn't just sell a cover. He consumed it. He didn't hesitate. And in that breathless, stolen moment, neither did you.
The line has not just been crossed. It has been incinerated.
You keep your chin high, your smile in place, moving back into the glittering fray. But the gala has shifted. The colours are too bright, the music too shrill. Every nerve ending is alive, hyper-aware of the man beside you, of the memory of his mouth, his hands, the terrifying efficiency of his protection, and the even more terrifying echo of your own response.
The gala breathes around you, music swelling and receding, laughter rippling through the crowd, the illusion of safety pressed into every polished surface. But the clock is ticking louder now.
You feel it in the way security shifts positions too often. In the way conversations stall, restart. In the subtle tightening of the room’s rhythm as the night edges closer to whatever Umbrella has planned.
Leon’s hand rests lightly at your elbow as he steers you toward the edge of the ballroom, bodies angled just close enough to sell the cover. His touch is careful now, less possessive than before, more controlled. Like he’s consciously reining himself in. His voice reaches you through the comm, low and steady beneath the orchestra.
“Broker’s device is active. Signal spike just came online.”
Your gaze sweeps the room automatically, cataloguing exits, shadows, patterns. “VIP lounge,” you murmur.
“Yes,” Leon replies. “But there’s a secondary access corridor behind the east stairwell. Two choke points.” A pause. “If we go together, we bottleneck.”
You glance up at him, jaw tightening. “If we split, we lose eyes.”
“We gain speed.”
“And risk,” you counter quietly, lips barely moving as a couple passes too close. “Security’s tightening. They’re already clocking patterns.”
Leon slows just enough to turn toward you. Not fully. Not enough to draw attention. But enough that you feel the weight of his focus settle on you. The chandelier light catches his eyes, sharp, intent, stripped of the softness he’s been wearing for the room.
“Protocol says split,” he says. “Two access points. Redundancy.”
You scoff under your breath. “Protocol didn’t account for Umbrella improvising.”
“It accounts for us adapting.”
“It accounts for you adapting,” you snap back, the edge in your voice slipping through despite your control. “I’m the variable you’re pretending isn’t there.”
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps once, just beneath the skin.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” You lean in closer, the pretence of intimacy giving your words cover. Your pulse is loud now, insistent. “Because ever since that-” You stop yourself, breath hitching. “Since earlier, you’ve been playing it safe.” Leon’s breath stutters once. Barely perceptible. But you feel it.
“I’m playing it smart,” he says.
You shake your head. “Same thing. Different excuse.”
A server brushes past, tray wobbling dangerously close. Leon reacts instantly, his hand sliding to your waist, pulling you in as he murmurs something affectionate aloud. You force a smile, lean into him, sell it.
The server moves on. Leon’s hand doesn’t. His fingers remain splayed at your side, warm and grounding, the pressure unmistakable.
“Listen to me,” he says quietly now, close enough that his breath warms your ear. “The device will be gone in minutes. If we hesitate, we lose it.”
“And if something happens?” you whisper back. “If one of us gets boxed in-”
“We won’t,” he says too fast.
You pull back just enough to look at him. “You don’t know that.”
For a moment, the argument stalls. You don’t like being away from him. You hate that you know the cadence of his movements. That you can predict his choices before he makes them. That the thought of moving through hostile space without his presence at your back makes your chest feel tight and exposed. Leon looks away first. His hand slips from your waist, deliberately, like he’s forcing himself to let go.
“Two minutes,” he says, voice clipped. “If either of us hits resistance, we abort and regroup at point C.”
“And if comms drop?” you ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Then you trust me.”
The words land harder than they should. You swallow. “That’s a big ask.” Leon turns back to you, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes give him away. “You already do.”
You hate that he’s right. The realisation burns low and sharp in your chest.
“Fine,” you say, forcing steel into your voice. “East stairwell. I’ll take the service corridor.”
Leon nods once. No hesitation. No argument. Like this was always the plan.
You separate smoothly, drifting apart like any other couple momentarily distracted by different conversations. His presence fades from your side, and the absence of it is immediate, an ache you weren’t prepared for.
The service corridor is quieter, narrower. The music fades to a distant hum, replaced by the soft whir of ventilation and the echo of your own footsteps. The lighting here is dimmer, more utilitarian, less forgiving. You move with practiced ease, posture relaxed, pace unhurried. Just another donor who took a wrong turn.
A guard stands at the far end of the corridor, back partially turned. He glances up as you approach, eyes narrowing just a fraction too long.
You smile. “Sorry, restrooms?” He hesitates. Just long enough. “Down the hall,” he says eventually, gesturing.
You thank him and keep walking, heart thudding. You feel the weight of the distance now, the absence of Leon’s quiet presence through the comms, the way he usually covers angles you don’t have eyes on.
You reach the door marked AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY and slide the keycard from your clutch with steady fingers. The lock clicks open.
Inside, the air is cooler. Server racks hum softly, lights blinking in orderly patterns. The device should be here, hidden, discreet, temporary. You scan quickly. Nothing. Your pulse spikes.
“Leon,” you murmur into the comm. “Device isn’t here.”
A beat. “I’m seeing the same,” he replies. “They’ve moved it.”
“Where?”
“VIP lounge,” he says. “Security just doubled.”
Of course they did. You pivot toward the exit, and the door slams shut behind you. Your heart jumps. You spin, hand already moving toward the concealed weapon at your thigh. The lock engages with a sharp click.
“Leon,” you hiss.
“I hear it,” he says immediately. “Stay calm.”
“Working on it.”
Footsteps sound outside the door. Two sets. Guards murmuring. You scan the room, calculating. No windows. No alternate exit. The ventilation shaft is too small.
“You okay?” Leon asks, voice steady but tight.
“Yes,” you lie. “Just… boxed in.”
A pause. You can hear his breathing through the comm now, controlled but faster.
“I’m rerouting,” he says. “Hold.”
You close your eyes for half a second, forcing yourself to breathe. You trust him. The guards’ voices grow clearer. Keys jingle. Someone tests the door. Your hand tightens around your weapon.
“Leon,” you whisper. “If this goes loud-”
“It won’t,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
The certainty in his voice steadies you more than you want it to. Seconds stretch. Then, gunfire. Shouts. Chaos, distant but unmistakable. The lock disengages. The door bursts open and Leon is there. Breathing hard. Suit rumpled. Eyes sharp and furious and fixed entirely on you.
“Move,” he says.
You don’t argue. You slip past him, shoulder brushing his as you fall into step, moving together like you never separated at all. As you disappear down the corridor, adrenaline still singing in your veins, one thought cuts through the chaos, clear and undeniable.
You barely make it three turns before the building decides to turn hostile.
It starts as a low chime, soft, almost polite, like a warning meant for staff, not guests. Then the lights above you flicker, the bright warmth of the gala’s corridors stuttering into something colder.
Red emergency strips ignite along the ceiling.
A beat later, the sound hits, an alarm that rises in pitch until it becomes a physical pressure against your skull.
Leon’s head snaps up. “That’s not fire protocol,” he says into the comm, voice already shifting into command mode.
“It’s not us,” you reply, breathing hard as you jog. “We haven’t even touched the-”
“Doesn’t matter.” His tone turns razor-thin. “Umbrella emergency.”
As if the words themselves flip a switch, the corridor ahead explodes with movement. A door slams open. Men in black tactical uniforms pour out, armed, masked, efficient. Not event security. Not rent-a-cops.
These are Umbrella’s.
The sound of the orchestra fades behind the thick walls, replaced by the heavier music of boots and shouted commands. Guests scream in the ballroom somewhere distant, the party dissolving into panic on the other side of a carefully controlled barrier.
Leon grabs your wrist and yanks you down a side hall just as a round cracks past where your head had been. The bullet bites into marble, spitting stone dust into the air.
“Contact!” someone barks. “Target moving, east corridor!”
Your comms crackle with interference, the line spiking and dropping as systems overload. Leon’s grip tightens once, steadying you, not for comfort, you tell yourself, but for speed.
“You okay?” he asks, already moving.
“Fine,” you snap, then add, because honesty feels like weakness, “They’re faster than I expected.”
“They’ve been waiting,” Leon says. “We triggered something they wanted triggered.”
You hate that he’s right. Hate that it means this wasn’t just security tightening. It was a trap snapping shut.
A door ahead locks with a heavy clunk as magnetic seals engage. The hallway narrows into a dead-end stretch lined with service entrances. Red light pulses across steel panels, making everything look like it’s bleeding.
Leon slows just long enough to scan. “No exits.”
“Then we make one,” you say, already reaching for the weapon concealed beneath your dress.
Leon’s gaze flicks to your thigh holster, then to your face. No comment. No surprise. Just that quiet, grim acceptance that you’d both come prepared.
A burst of gunfire erupts behind you.
Leon pushes you forward. “Move.”
You sprint. He’s right beside you, close enough that you feel the air shift with him, matching your pace without effort. You round a corner and slam into a tight corridor that funnels you into a narrow kill zone.
Two Umbrella operatives are already there.
No time for thought.
You fire once, clean shot, shoulder. Leon fires in the same breath, headshot. The second operative tries to swing their weapon up. You’re already moving, stepping in, elbow driving into their throat. Leon catches their arm and twists, disarming with a practiced snap that looks almost casual.
The man drops.
Silence doesn’t follow. More footsteps. More coming.
Leon reloads without looking, hands moving fast and sure. You pivot, back hitting his for half a second as you take position.
Back-to-back.
It happens instinctively.
No discussion. No argument. No ego.
Just movement.
Leon’s voice is low, calm. “Three behind. Two ahead.”
You swallow the adrenaline and check your magazine. “Left side is mine.”
“Copy.”
You hear the click of his gun as he finishes his reload. You don’t need to see it. You know the sound now, the rhythm of him, how long it takes, when he needs cover, when he’s about to shift.
The first wave hits.
A door bursts open to your left. You pivot and fire, dropping one before his boots fully clear the threshold. Another lunges in right behind him, weapon raised. You duck, feeling the heat of a shot pass over you, then slam your shoulder into the wall and rebound forward, knife flashing out of your clutch like it’s always been there.
Leon’s gun cracks twice at your back, perfectly timed, covering you as you close distance.
The man goes down.
Another steps into the corridor ahead, weapon trained. Leon shifts his weight, shoulder pressing lightly to your back, a cue, not a shove. You understand instantly, stepping left as he steps right, breaking the enemy’s line of fire before it can settle.
You fire.
Leon fires.
Two bodies fall.
You’re breathing hard now, sweat slick against your skin beneath the elegance of the dress. The fabric pulls tighter across your ribs with every inhale, a reminder that you’re fighting in clothes meant for champagne and photo ops, not blood and bullets.
And Leon is still in his suit, jacket discarded somewhere behind you, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He looks like a man who stepped off a runway and straight into a warzone.
He moves like he belongs here.
So do you.
A sharp crack echoes, too close. Stone dust sprays across your cheek as a bullet hits the wall inches from your head. You flinch, just once, and Leon’s hand comes up immediately, palm to your shoulder, guiding you down behind a corner.
“Stay low,” he murmurs.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you hiss automatically.
Leon doesn’t take the bait. He leans out, fires twice, then pulls back, already reloading. “Cover me.”
You do, because you always do. Because your body already knows what to do when he says it.
You step out, firing controlled shots that force the operatives back. Leon’s reload finishes. He’s up and moving again, switching positions with you so smoothly it feels like choreography.
It hits you mid-fight, sudden and unwanted.
You fight the same way.
Not identical but the same mind. The same instincts. The same calculation running behind your eyes at the same speed. The same ruthless efficiency under pressure.
You both make decisions in fractions of a second.
You both adjust without needing to speak.
You both anticipate.
Mirrors.
The thought is so sharp it almost distracts you.
And suddenly the rivalry makes sense.
Because it was never really hate. It was recognition.
A loud mechanical whine cuts through the chaos, the sound of an internal security shutter descending. The corridor ahead begins to seal off, metal plates sliding down from the ceiling to block the route.
“We’re getting boxed,” you warn.
Leon’s eyes flick. “We go now.”
You don’t argue. You surge forward together, moving fast as the plates descend. A man steps into your path, too late to stop you. You slam into him like a force of nature, knee driving into his stomach. Leon’s elbow snaps into the side of his head, clean and brutal.
You clear him and keep moving.
The shutter slams down behind you with a heavy, final clang.
For half a heartbeat, there’s only your breathing and the distant muffled alarm.
Leon’s chest rises and falls hard. His hair is slightly out of place now, a thin sheen of sweat at his temple. His eyes are bright with adrenaline, sharp as a blade.
You’re too close, face to face in the tight corridor, bodies still buzzing from combat. You can feel the heat of him, the electricity of the movement that just happened between you without words.
He scans you quickly, your face, your arms, the exposed skin at your shoulder. “You hit?”
“No,” you say, then more softly, “You?”
He shakes his head once.
Your comms crackle again. A burst of static. Then the handler’s voice cuts in, strained: “Emergency protocol is fully active. Extraction compromised. Get that device and get out. Now.”
Leon’s gaze meets yours.
And for the first time all night, there’s no sarcasm in it. No rivalry. No distance.
Just certainty.
“We finish this,” he says.
You swallow, pulse still pounding.
“Yeah,” you reply. “We finish it.”
Then you move again together, like you’ve been doing this side by side for years.
Like you were always meant to.
You duck into the service room just as Leon slams the door shut behind you, shoving a metal cart into place with a sharp grunt. The barricade isn’t elegant, but it’s solid enough to buy you time. For now.
The alarms are muffled here, reduced to a distant, angry pulse. Red light seeps through the narrow window in the door, flashing in slow intervals that make the room feel like it’s breathing.
You lean forward, hands braced on your knees, dragging air into your lungs. Your heart is still racing, adrenaline buzzing so loud it drowns out everything else. Sweat clings to your skin, your dress ruined, hair pulled loose from its careful styling.
Leon turns toward you immediately.
“Stay still,” he says, already closing the distance.
“I am still,” you snap, even as you straighten reflexively.
His hands are on you before you can object—efficient, professional. He checks your arms first, fingers firm but careful as they skim for blood. Then your shoulder, where stone dust still clings to your skin. His touch lingers there a fraction longer than necessary, thumb brushing lightly as if confirming something he already knows.
You swat his hand away. “I said I’m fine.”
Leon’s jaw tightens. “Humour me.”
“I don’t recall that being part of the mission.”
His eyes flick up to meet yours, sharp, annoyed, but there’s something else there now too. “You flinched.”
“You were in my line of fire,” you fire back. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly, hands dropping. “I’m checking my partner.”
The word lands heavier than either of you expect.
You scoff, turning away to pace the small room. “Don’t get sentimental now.”
Leon exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re the one snapping.”
You whirl back on him. “Because you nearly got yourself shot pulling that move back there.”
“And you nearly took a round to the head rushing that corner,” he shoots back without missing a beat.
There it is, the familiar bite. The clash. But it doesn’t sting the way it used to.
You hold his gaze, chest still heaving. “You didn’t have to cover me.”
Leon’s voice is steady, but quieter now. “Yes, I did.”
The certainty in it disarms you more than any argument ever has.
Silence stretches between you, thick with everything neither of you is saying. The room hums softly around you, vents rattling overhead, the smell of oil and metal grounding you in the aftermath.
Your pulse finally begins to slow.
You look at him properly then, not as a rival, not as an obstacle, but as the man who just fought back-to-back with you without hesitation. Who knew when you needed cover before you did. Who moved when you moved, adapted when you adapted, like your thoughts were running parallel tracks.
It clicks.
He never underestimated you.
Not once.
All those arguments. The clipped remarks. The way he never rose to your jabs, never reacted the way you wanted him to. You’d always read it as arrogance. Distance. Superiority.
But standing here now, suit scuffed and tie gone, breathing hard just like you, the truth settles uncomfortably into place.
He wasn’t looking down on you.
He was matching you.
Meeting you at the same level and refusing to drop below it. Treating you like an equal long before you were ready to believe it. Long before you’d stopped mistaking restraint for dismissal.
Leon shifts his weight, eyes still on you. “You good?” he asks again, softer this time.
You nod once. “Yeah.”
A beat passes.
“You fight like me,” you add, almost against your will.
His brow furrows slightly. “No. You fight like you.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” he says.
Another silence, but this one is different. Less sharp. Less hostile. Charged, but steadier.
Leon glances toward the barricaded door, listening. “We’ve got maybe ninety seconds before they reroute.”
You straighten, rolling your shoulders despite the ache settling into them. “Then we’d better move.”
He nods, and for the first time, there’s no tension in the agreement. No need to assert control or prove anything.
Just two agents, side by side, breathing in sync.
The safe room isn’t safe in any comforting way.
It’s a concrete box tucked behind an unmarked service door three levels below street access, the kind of place that doesn’t show up on public blueprints. The air smells faintly of dust and old metal. A single strip light hums above, casting pale, uneven illumination across gray walls and a scarred steel table. No windows. No softness. No distractions.
Just four walls and the aftertaste of adrenaline.
You shut the door behind you and twist the lock twice out of habit, even though the handler swore this location was clean. Leon stands a few feet away, chest rising and falling hard. His suit is ruined, dark smudges at the knee where he’d hit the floor, the white of his shirt stained with sweat and dust. His tie is gone. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms streaked with grime, knuckles raw.
He looks like a man who belongs in a fight, not a ballroom.
You look… less polished too. Your dress is torn at the hem, a thin snag running along your thigh where you’d caught it on something sharp while vaulting a barrier. Your hair has slipped free of its careful pins. There’s stone dust at your collarbone. The only thing that stayed flawless is the shape of your posture, trained, controlled, refusing to collapse.
You cross the room and drop the data device on the steel table. It makes a solid, satisfying clack that echoes in the small space.
Done.
For now.
Leon reaches up and removes the earpiece, rolling it between his fingers before setting it down beside the device. You do the same, tugging yours out with a little too much force. Without comms, the room gets quieter. The silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels loaded.
Weapons come next, unclipped, unloaded, set aside. You place your handgun on the table, then the spare magazine. The movement is efficient, practiced. Leon mirrors you without a word, laying his gear down in clean, ordered lines like he can impose control on chaos by arranging it neatly.
A tremor runs through your fingers when you reach for a chair. You close your hand into a fist before anyone can see.
Leon’s gaze flicks to you anyway.
You hate that he notices everything. Hate that you’re suddenly grateful he does.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
The adrenaline is still in your bloodstream, buzzing like a live wire under your skin. Your thoughts keep trying to sprint, to latch onto the next move, the next threat, the next exit.
But there is nothing to chase.
No alarms. No targets.
Just the hum of the strip light and the slow return of sensation: the ache in your ribs, the sting across your knuckles, the bruise blooming at your hip where you’d hit the wall harder than you meant to.
Your body is remembering you’re human.
It’s the worst part, the calm. In the fight, everything had been simple: move, shoot, breathe, survive. Now, with nothing pressing in, the silence forces everything else forward.
The kiss. The way Leon moved in front of you. The way your hands had lingered on his wrist. The way he’d said I’ve got you like it was an unshakable fact.
You take a slow breath and realise your lungs are still working like they expect to be chased.
Leon finally breaks the stillness, voice low. “We got it.”
“Yeah,” you answer too quickly. “We got it.”
He nods once, but his eyes don’t move away from you. There’s something in his expression, still controlled, still restrained, but the edges have softened, as if the adrenaline has melted some of the steel away and left the person underneath exposed in small, dangerous ways.
You don’t know what to do with that.
You turn toward the wall instead, stare at the blank concrete like it can offer you an instruction manual.
Your hands shake again, just slightly. You flex your fingers, forcing them steady. You refuse to let your body betray you, not after everything. Not in front of him.
“Sit,” Leon says.
It isn’t an order. Not really. It’s… practical. Almost gentle.
“I’m fine,” you snap automatically.
Leon’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t argue, he simply steps closer and reaches for the small first aid kit mounted on the wall. You hadn’t noticed it. Of course he did.
He sets it on the table with a quiet thud and flips it open, movements clean and efficient. Like tending wounds is just another protocol.
You watch him for half a second too long.
The light catches the lines of exhaustion in his face. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. A smudge of dried blood at the edge of his knuckles that isn’t his, you think. The muscles in his shoulders shift as he rolls them once, like the weight of the night is settling in.
A tremor runs through his hand as he pulls out antiseptic wipes.
He pauses, almost imperceptibly, then continues like it never happened.
So he’s not untouched either.
That realisation lands strangely. You’ve spent so long imagining him as something unbreakable—smooth, composed, always in control. Seeing the cracks should satisfy you.
It doesn’t.
It makes your throat tighten.
“Give me your hand,” Leon says, still not looking directly at you.
You laugh once, short and sharp. “That’s rich.”
He finally looks up. “Don’t start.”
The tone is familiar, dry, controlled, but it lacks its usual bite. It’s not a challenge. It’s tired.
You should refuse out of principle.
Instead you step forward and extend your hand, palm up, because the alternative, fighting him on this, feels suddenly exhausting.
Leon takes your hand.
His fingers are warm, steady, calloused. His grip is firm but careful, like he’s handling something that matters more than he wants to admit. He inspects your knuckles, the small splits in the skin, the smear of grime.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s blood.”
You roll your eyes. “Congratulations, Kennedy. You can identify bodily fluids.”
A flicker, almost a smile, touches his mouth. It’s gone before you can be sure it was real.
He cleans your knuckles anyway. The antiseptic stings. You hiss and try to pull away. Leon holds your hand a fraction tighter, not letting you retreat.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
Your pulse jumps at the softness of it.
You hate that.
“You’re enjoying this,” you mutter, trying to salvage something sharp.
Leon doesn’t look up. “I’m not.”
The honesty in his voice knocks the air out of your sarcasm. He sounds… genuine. Like he’s too worn out to pretend.
He finishes cleaning your hand, wraps it quickly, efficiently. The tape catches briefly on your skin, and his thumb brushes your wrist as he smooths it down.
You feel it like a spark.
You hate that you feel it.
Leon lets go, but his hand lingers for a half second too long, fingers resting against your pulse as if confirming it’s still there.
Then he pulls back, clearing his throat, gaze shifting away like he’s caught himself doing something he didn’t mean to.
The silence returns.
He starts tending to his own wounds next, wiping blood from his knuckles, wrapping tape with the same clinical focus. But his hands still shake faintly, the aftermath of adrenaline refusing to fade completely.
You don’t comment. He doesn’t either.
The strip light hums.
Your breathing finally slows to something normal. With it comes the weight of everything you’ve been avoiding since you first saw his name on that leaderboard.
The first time you tried to speak to him.
The way he ignored you.
The silence that followed you for years like a ghost.
It’s there now, in this room, louder than the alarms ever were.
You don’t plan to say anything. You don’t want to hand him another weapon.
But the words break loose anyway, scraped raw by exhaustion and adrenaline and the fact that he just held your hand like it mattered.
“Why,” you ask, voice quiet enough it barely exists, “did you ignore me back then?”
Leon freezes. The strip light hums. Somewhere in the building, pipes creak. The sound feels unbearably loud. His gaze lifts slowly. For once, there’s no immediate retort, no controlled reply. Just stillness.
You swallow, suddenly aware that you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. “You walked right past me,” you continue, the old anger flaring in your chest like it never left. “I said your name. You didn’t even look at me. Like I wasn’t-” Your voice catches. You force it steady. “Like I wasn’t worth the effort.”
Leon’s throat works as he swallows. He looks down at his hands for a moment, fingers flexing, then back up to you. His eyes are hard, not with anger, but with something else. Something that looks a lot like regret.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quietly.
You laugh, brittle. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s choosing each word with care. Like he can’t afford to get this wrong.
“I didn’t know what to say,” Leon admits. The words hang in the air, plain and stark.
You blink. “What?”
“I didn’t know what to say,” he repeats, more firmly this time, like he’s pushing through something stuck in his throat. “You… came up to me. Confident. Like you belonged here already. Like you weren’t scared of anyone.”
Your chest tightens, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to understanding.
Leon’s jaw flexes. “And I…” He hesitates. It’s subtle, but it’s there, the first real hesitation you’ve seen from him that isn’t tactical. “I didn’t want to screw it up.”
You stare at him, thrown off balance. “Screw what up?” you demand, too sharply.
Leon’s eyes meet yours, steady but exposed. “Whatever it was,” he says quietly. “I-” He exhales, a sound that almost turns into a laugh but doesn’t. “You intimidated me.”
The confession hits like a punch. You’re speechless for a beat, mouth opening and closing like you’re trying to find words that aren’t there.
“Me?” you echo finally, incredulous.
Leon nods once, almost reluctantly. “Yeah. You.”
He shifts his weight, restless, uncomfortable, like he’d rather be facing down a dozen armed guards than this conversation. “I’d just transferred. I was… trying to keep my head down. Trying to be the guy who didn’t make mistakes.”
His gaze drops again briefly, then lifts. “And you looked at me like you expected something. Like you wanted to talk. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”
The room feels smaller. You remember that hallway. Remember the way you’d felt, nervous but determined, trying to be friendly, trying to prove you weren’t just another ambitious agent. You’d thought it would be simple. You’d thought he’d smile. Instead he’d walked away and left you standing there with your pride bleeding out on the floor.
“And you decided ignoring me was the best option,” you say, voice tight.
Leon’s mouth twists. “I thought if I said the wrong thing, it’d be worse.”
“So you said nothing.”
“I said nothing,” he agrees, and there’s no defence in it. Just ownership. “And then you looked at me like you hated me, and…” He pauses, eyes flicking to yours. “It was easier to let you.”
Your throat tightens. Because it’s suddenly all too clear: the rivalry didn’t start because he thought he was better than you.
It started because he was scared, and you were hurt, and neither of you had ever been brave enough to admit it.
The strip light hums above you, the only witness to the truth finally surfacing between bare concrete walls.
You let out a slow breath, hands still, heart quieter now but heavier.
“Leon,” you say, voice low.
He looks at you, waiting. The silence after his confession is different from the ones that came before it. It doesn’t feel sharp or loaded with expectation. It feels… open. Exposed. Like something has finally been set down between you instead of hurled back and forth.
Leon doesn’t move. He doesn’t fill the space with explanations or excuses. He just stands there, shoulders tense, waiting. For you.
You stare at the concrete floor for a long moment, jaw tight, pulse steadying as the truth rearranges itself in your chest. All the years of irritation. The constant edge. The way every victory against him had tasted hollow, every loss unbearable. It clicks into place with an almost humiliating clarity.
“You know what the worst part is?” you say finally, voice quiet but steady.
Leon’s eyes lift to yours. He doesn’t speak.
“You made me better.” The words scrape on the way out. You let out a short, humourless breath. “Every time I saw your name above mine, or just one slot below, it pissed me off. And I worked harder. Smarter. I pushed myself because I refused to be second to you.”
Leon’s brow furrows slightly, but he stays silent.
“And I told myself it was hate,” you continue, forcing the words out before you can second-guess them. “That you were arrogant. Cold. That you thought you were better than me.”
Your laugh this time is quieter. Rougher. “It was easier to be angry than to admit the truth.”
Leon’s jaw tightens. “Which is?”
The room doesn’t collapse. He just watches you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
“I hated you,” you say, softer now, “because it was safer than wondering why your opinion of me mattered so much.”
The admission leaves you raw. Exposed in a way gunfire never could. Leon exhales slowly, like he’s been holding that breath for years.
“I noticed,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Noticed what?”
“That you were always pushing.” His voice is calm, but there’s something unguarded in it now. “That every time I thought I’d finally pulled ahead, you closed the gap. That when I messed up, you didn’t gloat, you got sharper.”
He shakes his head once, a small, almost self-deprecating motion. “I told myself I didn’t care. That it was just competition.”
You snort. “Let me guess. Lie.”
“Yes.” He meets your gaze fully now. “I measured everything against you. Missions. Scores. Decisions. I never wanted to be less in your eyes.”
The words land heavier than you expect.
Leon shifts his weight, restless. “I mistook the tension for hostility because that was easier than admitting I was… invested.”
“In what?” you ask quietly.
“In you,” he answers, just as quietly.
The air between you changes.
Not explosively. Not dramatically.
It settles.
You look at him finally, as someone standing on the same ground, stripped of armour and pretence.
Equals.
“I thought you ignored me because you didn’t respect me,” you say.
Leon’s mouth tightens. “I respected you too much.”
That shouldn’t undo you.
It does.
Your shoulders sag slightly, tension bleeding out of muscles you didn’t realise were still locked. “We’re idiots,” you mutter.
Leon huffs a quiet laugh. “We’re agents.”
“Same thing.”
For the first time, the humour doesn’t feel like a weapon. It feels shared.
You step closer without fully realising you’ve moved. The space between you narrows until you’re acutely aware of his presence again. You can hear his breathing. Feel the warmth radiating off him.
Leon doesn’t retreat.
His hand lifts slightly, then hesitates, hovering near your wrist like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to cross that line. The restraint is somehow worse than if he’d just touched you.
Your fingers twitch, an instinctive response.
The moment teeters.
It’s there in the closeness, the shared breath, the fragile understanding humming between you. One step closer. One hand reaching. One choice away from something that feels inevitable.
Leon’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth.
Your heart stutters.
Then -
A sharp crackle tears through the stillness.
Your discarded earpiece comes to life on the table, static bursting from it in an ugly rush of sound. You both jerk back instinctively, training snapping into place.
“-repeat, safe room compromised-” the handler’s voice cuts in, distorted and urgent. “Umbrella units inbound. You need to move. Now.”
The spell shatters.
Leon’s hand drops instantly, professionalism snapping back into place like a reflex. Your pulse spikes, adrenaline surging back through veins that had only just begun to calm.
You exchange one look.
Not rivals. Not enemies.
Partners.
“Guess we don’t get a quiet ending,” you mutter.
Leon’s mouth curves faintly, not a smirk, not yet. Something steadier. “We’ll finish this first.”
You nod, already moving toward your weapon. But as you pass him, your fingers brush his wrist, deliberate this time.
Just enough to promise. This isn’t over.
Then the door rattles under the first distant impact, and whatever comes next barrels toward you both at full speed, truth laid bare, denial gone, and something fragile and dangerous waiting on the other side of the fight.
The first impact hits the door like a warning.
Metal groans. The cart you shoved against it shudders, wheels squealing against concrete. Dust shakes loose from the ceiling in a fine gray drift.
Leon’s eyes snap to the lock. Yours snap to your weapon.
“Move,” he says at the same time you do.
The strip light overhead flickers once, then dies.
Darkness swallows the room.
For half a heartbeat, there’s nothing but the faint red pulse bleeding through the narrow window in the door and the sound of your own breathing.
Then the world explodes.
Gunfire tears through the door in a blistering spray. Splinters of metal and concrete burst inward, sparks flashing like violent stars in the dark. You drop instinctively, hitting the floor hard, shoulder slamming into the table leg as rounds chew the space where you’d been standing a second ago.
“Down!” Leon barks, unnecessary, because you’re already there.
Your ears ring. The air smells like hot metal and smoke. The darkness makes everything closer, sharper. You can’t see Leon, but you can hear him, his breath, controlled but quick, the scrape of his boots as he shifts.
Another impact slams into the door. The cart grinds forward an inch.
“They tracked us,” you spit, teeth clenched.
Leon’s voice is tight. “They wanted us to bring the device somewhere quiet.”
Personal, then.
Not a show of force. Not a random contingency.
A message.
A punishment.
You raise your pistol, steadying your aim toward the door’s window slit. Red light strobes across your hands in pulses. You can’t see targets, but you can predict movement by sound, boots, the clink of gear, the clipped rhythm of someone stacking up for entry.
Leon moves to your side, a shadow in the dark. You feel the brush of his shoulder against yours, close, grounding, real.
“On my mark,” you murmur.
“Always,” he whispers back, and the word lands heavier than it ever has.
The door buckles.
A wedge of light knifes through as the barricade gives. Someone rams it again, and the door bursts inward with a metallic shriek. Figures flood the gap, black armour, masked faces, rifles up.
You fire first.
A clean shot, then another. The muzzle flash briefly illuminates the room in harsh white bursts, enough to catch glints of visor, the sharp edge of a weapon, Leon’s face set and fierce beside you.
Leon moves in the same instant, firing over your shoulder, his shots precise, economical. An operative drops in the doorway, collapsing into the pile of debris. Another stumbles back with a curse.
“Push!” Leon barks.
You surge forward together, slipping through the smoke and chaos. Close quarters now, too tight for long-range. Your shoulder slams into one attacker, throwing him off balance. Leon’s elbow drives into another’s jaw, cracking hard enough that you feel it in your teeth.
You don’t think.
You move.
Someone grabs your arm from behind. You pivot, wrenching free, gun coming up, only to have Leon’s hand catch your wrist, redirecting your barrel a fraction.
“Left,” he snaps.
A shot cracks where your aim would’ve been wrong. A man drops behind you, silent and sudden.
Your pulse spikes, raw gratitude laced with terror.
You’re alive because Leon didn’t hesitate. Again.
More operatives spill into the corridor outside, attempting to funnel you back into the room. You back up instinctively until your spine hits the wall.
Leon shifts behind you.
Back-to-back, without discussion.
The old rhythm returns, but it’s different now. It’s sharpened by something you can’t pretend is just training.
A rifle butt swings toward Leon’s head. You hear it more than see it. You react—knife flashing up, slashing across the attacker’s forearm. Leon ducks and counters, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him crashing into the corridor wall.
“Leon!” you call, not as a warning, but as an anchor. A check-in. Still there?
“I’m here,” he answers, voice tight.
Gunfire erupts again, closer. A round clips the wall by your ear. Another slams into Leon’s side.
For a second, you don’t register what happened.
Then Leon makes a sound, sharp, involuntary, like his body betrayed him.
He staggers.
Your stomach drops through the floor.
“Leon!” you gasp, turning-
He catches himself against the wall, one hand pressing hard to his ribs. When he lifts it, his palm is dark in the strobing red light.
Blood. Too much.
His face tightens, not with fear, with frustration. With the shock of losing control for even a second.
“I’m fine,” he grits out.
“No,” you snap, voice cracking with something you can’t hide. “No, you’re not.”
Another operative charges, and instinct takes over before panic can swallow you whole. You fire, dropping him mid-step. You move closer to Leon without thinking, body angling to shield him from the corridor.
“Don’t-” Leon starts, but his breath catches, pain stealing the rest of the sentence.
You rip some fabric from your dress, and shove it against his side. “Hold pressure.”
Leon’s eyes flare. “We need to move.”
“We are moving,” you hiss. “But you are not dying in front of me.”
He tries to straighten. He’s breathing harder now, sweat slick at his brow, his usual control slipping at the edges. Disorientation flickers in his eyes for half a second, like his body is threatening to go down whether he wants it to or not.
The sight guts you.
The fear hits fully then, hot and absolute, stripping you of everything sharp and snarky and protected.
“I am going to be so mad if you die on me,” you say, voice raw, unfiltered.
Leon’s eyes rolled before his gaze locks on yours. You could’ve sworn you saw a smirk on his face.
Then his jaw tightens. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and for once, it isn’t a challenge. It’s a promise.
The corridor fills with footsteps again.
You pivot, planting yourself between Leon and the oncoming threat. Every muscle in your body tightens with purpose. Protective. Focused.
You fire in controlled bursts, forcing the operatives back. Leon pushes off the wall, gritting his teeth, raising his weapon despite the tremor in his arm. You hear the strain in his breath, the way his body fights him now.
“Stay with me,” you mutter, not a command, an insistence. “Match me.”
Leon’s voice is ragged but steady. “Always.”
You move together again, but now every decision is laced with instinctive concern. You take the riskier angles, so he doesn’t have to. You cover him longer than necessary. You bark directions closer, faster, because the thought of losing him makes your vision narrow into something dangerous.
An enemy lunges from the side. You catch him with your shoulder and slam him into the wall. Leon steps in to finish it, but his knees buckle for a heartbeat. Your hand shoots out, gripping his forearm, hauling him upright.
You clear the last attacker with brutal efficiency, and the corridor finally opens, an escape route just beyond the carnage.
Leon sways, teeth clenched. You hook your arm around his back, taking more of his weight than you should be able to, and he lets you.
That, more than anything, tells you how deep this has gone.
You stagger forward together into the dim service stairwell, alarms still wailing, red light flashing, the world still trying to tear you apart.
The extraction is quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after everything loud has already burned itself out.
You barely register the transition from stairwell to armoured transport. Leon’s weight leans heavy against you until medics swarm, voices overlapping, hands pulling you apart with practiced urgency. Someone eases you back while someone else lowers him onto a stretcher. The world narrows to flashes: gauze pressed to his side, blood-stained shirt cut away, a monitor chirping insistently.
You stand there uselessly for half a second too long before someone tells you to sit.
You don’t remember sitting.
You remember your hands shaking when you notice they’re covered in his blood. You scrub them together reflexively, like you can erase the image if you try hard enough. A medic hands you a bottle of water. You take it without drinking.
Leon is alive.
The knowledge settles slowly, like something too fragile to trust all at once. His chest rises and falls, uneven but steady. His eyes flutter open briefly when they stitch him up, unfocused but aware enough to find you where you stand.
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
Later, how much later you’re not sure, you’re in another room. Cleaner. Brighter. Too sterile to feel real. Leon is propped up on a narrow cot, bandaged and pale but breathing without effort now. The monitors have gone quiet, content to hum along instead of scream.
Your injuries are minor. Someone fussed over them anyway. You let them, numb and obedient, because the alternative was thinking.
Now it’s just the two of you again.
Silence settles between you like a blanket instead of a weapon.
You stand by the wall at first, arms folded, posture rigid out of habit more than necessity. Leon watches you from the cot, expression unreadable but soft around the edges in a way you’ve never seen before.
“You should sit,” he says quietly.
You shake your head and answer as you always do. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue but rolls his eyes as he always does.
The adrenaline has fully drained now, leaving behind a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. Your hands are still trembling slightly, even as you clench them into fists and force them still. You feel wrung out, scraped raw, like something vital has been stripped away, and something else left behind in its place.
Leon shifts, wincing faintly, then settles. His gaze never leaves you.
“I scared you,” he says.
It’s not an accusation. It’s not fishing for reassurance.
It’s a statement.
You swallow. “Yeah.”
Another silence. Thicker. More honest.
“I didn’t mean to,” he adds.
“I know.” You push off the wall before you can stop yourself, closing the distance until you’re standing beside him. You don’t look at the bandages. You look at his face. “But you did.”
Leon nods once. “I won’t apologise for getting hit.”
“Good,” you say immediately. “Because I’d never forgive you for it.”
That earns the faintest huff of a laugh, more breath than sound. It fades quickly, leaving the room quiet again.
You don’t sit. Instead, you reach out without fully deciding to, your fingers brushing the edge of the bed. Leon’s hand shifts instinctively, stopping just short of yours.
The hesitation is mutual.
“You don’t have to-” he starts.
“I want to,” you say softly.
The words feel different now. Steadier. Chosen.
Leon’s fingers close around yours, careful, deliberate. His grip is warm, grounding, real in a way that has nothing to do with cover stories or mission parameters. He doesn’t pull you closer. He just holds on, like he’s confirming you’re still here.
You breathe out slowly, the tension easing from your shoulders in a way you hadn’t realized was still there.
This isn’t the gala. There’s no music. No audience. No danger pressing in from all sides. No reason at all, except want.
You step closer, close enough that your knees brush the side of the cot. Leon tilts his head up slightly to look at you, eyes searching, open.
When you finally lean in, it’s slow. Unrushed. Intentional.
Your lips meet his with a softness that surprises you both.
It’s nothing like the kiss before.
There’s no urgency driving it this time. No desperation, no need to convince anyone watching. No sharp angles or calculated pressure. Just the quiet, deliberate meeting of mouths, slow, careful, unguarded in a way that feels far more dangerous.
Leon kisses you like he’s letting himself feel it.
His lips are warm, firm but unhurried, moving against yours with a patience that makes your breath stutter despite yourself. It’s not demanding. It’s exploratory. As if he’s memorising the shape of you instead of claiming it.
His hand lifts to your wrist, fingers closing there gently, thumb brushing over your pulse. You feel it jump beneath his touch, too fast, too loud, and the knowledge that he can feel it too sends a low, unwanted heat curling through your stomach.
He doesn’t comment.
He just deepens the kiss slightly, a subtle shift that draws a quiet sound from the back of your throat before you can stop it. His other hand hovers at your side, not quite touching, the restraint almost worse than contact.
When he finally does settle his palm against your waist, it’s careful. Grounding. Like he’s reminding both of you exactly where you are, and exactly how close you’re choosing to be.
You kiss him back without thinking, lips parting just enough to meet his, the world narrowing to breath and warmth and the steady strength of him in front of you. The orchestra fades. The room dissolves. There is only this, this shared, wordless understanding humming between you.
When you pull back, it’s slow.
Reluctant.
Your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling, close enough that you can feel the faint tremor he hasn’t quite managed to suppress. His thumb still strokes your pulse, absent-minded now, like he’s forgotten he’s doing it.
Neither of you speaks.
You don’t need to.
There’s no declaration. No promise shaped into words. Just the shared understanding humming between you, solid and undeniable.
When you finally straighten, Leon’s eyes are still on you, softer now. Lighter.
“Guess,” he murmurs, “that wasn’t part of the cover.”
You smile, a real one, unguarded. “Guess not.”
The silence returns again after that.
But this time, it doesn’t ask anything of you.
It simply lets you be.
The debrief room looks exactly the way it always does.
Gray walls. Steel table. A screen mounted at the far end displaying mission timestamps and sanitized summaries. The kind of room designed to strip events of their chaos and compress them into bullet points.
You sit side by side. Your shoulder almost brushes Leon’s, close enough to feel without touching. He’s back in clean clothes now, bandages hidden beneath a fresh shirt, posture straight despite the stiffness he hasn’t quite shaken.
The handler stands across from you, expression neutral as ever.
There’s no need to look at each other to confirm anything. You already know what the other is thinking. Where they’ll speak. When they’ll stay quiet. It’s effortless now, like the friction burned itself out and left something smooth behind.
The handler’s gaze flicks between you briefly. Assessing. Noting the absence of hostility.
“Good work,” they add. “Both of you.”
High praise, coming from them.
They dismiss you with a clipped nod and turn back to the screen. The door slides open with a soft hiss, and you stand at the same time, movements synchronized without thought.
Outside, the operations floor hums with its usual low-level chaos. Agents pass, analysts cluster around consoles, voices overlap in familiar rhythms. Nothing looks different.
But it feels different.
You walk together toward the leaderboard without speaking, the silence companionable instead of sharp. The board flickers as you approach, updating, recalculating, doing what it always does after a major operation.
For a split second, the screen goes dark.
Then the names appear.
You stop.
So does Leon.
#1 — YOU
#1 — LEON KENNEDY
Perfectly even.
Tied.
You stare at it longer than you expect to, waiting for something, satisfaction, irritation, the old flare of competitiveness.
It doesn’t come.
Leon exhales softly beside you, something between a laugh and a breath of disbelief. He tilts his head, eyes moving from the board to you.
That familiar smirk appears, not sharp, not challenging. Lighter. Easier.
“Guess we’ll have to settle this another way,” he says.
HOUSE RULES⠀─── ⠀Your daughter's friend always heard from her that her parents are disgustingly in love. She doubts it after watching you and Sukuna interacting.
The girl had heard many stories about her friend’s parents.
“You don’t understand,” she had said more than a million times, “my parents are, like, disgustingly in love. It’s embarrassing.”
She had expected something cringey. Kisses in the kitchen. Maybe matching mugs. Some middle-aged couple nonsense. Something wholesome, like in one of those old movies.
She hadn’t expected… this.
She stood awkwardly near the front door, her hands gripping the straps of her backpack. She felt slightly suffocated, as if the walls had eyes and all of them were staring at her.
A deep voice echoed through the house and she swallowed hard, glancing toward the kitchen, where her friend was calmly chewing her toast as if it were just another normal day.
“Are you blind?” Ryomen cleared his throat, one hand on his hip and the other lifting a small yogurt bottle to his mouth, his eyes fixed on his wife. “That’s not how you cut them.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” For a moment, the girl thought you were actually apologizing, but judging by the way you stabbed the poor fruit with the knife, it was easy to predict what would come next. “Next time I’ll ask for permission from the master chef before touching a knife.”
He smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile. It was the kind that showed too many teeth. Almost mocking.
“You really should,” he replied, taking another sip of yogurt as if he were completely relaxed, as if his wife didn’t have her hand dangerously close to a knife. “Because clearly you lack the motor coordination.”
You slowly turned your body, leaning your hip against the counter and crossing your arms, your lips parting to retort. “It’s just a fruit.”
“Presentation matters.” He shrugged.
“Then cut it yourself.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Are you admitting your incompetence?”
“I’m offering you an opportunity, coward.”
“Right—“ Sukuna’s gaze shifted, his eyes landing on the visitor near the door. “Who’s that.” His expression was terrifying to the poor girl.
“My friend, dad.” The teenager took one last sip of coffee and stood up. “She’s walking to school with me.”
“You brought someone into my house without asking for my permission first?” Sukuna placed the yogurt bottle on the counter and crossed his arms.
“That ‘someone’ is her friend,” you interrupted. “And the house is ours. I allowed it. Stop making a scene.” Your voice lowered slightly, as if trying to spare the poor girl from feeling even more embarrassed and intimidated.
“But she didn’t ask permission—”
“I asked mom. She’s the one who decides, anyway,” your daughter said, placing her plate in the sink and grabbing her backpack from the chair.
He let out a low “hm” through his nose.
“Of course,” he murmured, uncrossing his arms only to rest his hands on the counter behind him, leaning his weight back with an almost irritating calmness. “You hide behind your mother’s authority.”
“Sure, sure,” the teenager rolled her eyes, already pulling her friend by the arm toward the door.
“Sweetheart,” you said, your voice softer than anything you had used in the past few minutes. “Aren’t you going to be late? Your father can give you two a ride.”
“I don’t—”
“We’re fine! Thank you so much!” the friend answered far too quickly, dragging your daughter outside.
Ryomen’s gaze returned to you. “Did you see her behavior? In my time, children who challenged their parents learned—”
“You’re too talkative today,” you replied. “And don’t complain, you’re the one who spoiled her.”
He scoffed, leaning over and hugging you from behind.
As the two girls walked side by side, the friend cleared her throat.
“Are they… okay?”
“They’re like that,” she replied. “Gross, right? Imagine listening to that flirting every single day.”
perv roommate!mattsun who finds out you write dirty fanfiction when you accidentally leave your laptop open in the living room one day.
who’s only trying to be a little bit nosey, until his eyes catch on words like desperately grinding and leaking tip and swollen tits. he has no idea who these characters even are, but he’s hard before he gets to the bottom of the first page.
mattsun, who feels his cock instantly twitch now when he sees you at your keyboard secretively typing away. who knows exactly what you’re doing, because he hastily wrote down your username before slamming your laptop shut.
and now he has to live with the knowledge that for as soft-spoken and innocent as you seem, you’re coming up with monologues about getting fucked in the ass, about being filled with cum. you’re waxing poetic about having your tits sucked and choking on a fat cock. you’re turning down his invite to watch a movie because you’d rather spend the next three hours writing about a girl masturbating and humping her pillow till she gets caught by her roommate.
the last one really fucks issei up. you dedicate three paragraphs alone to describing the way he just stares at the sight of her plump pussy rocking over the corner of the pillow before he finally starts fingering her.
as badly as he wants to confront you, his patience pays off when you lean into his room one night, biting your bottom lip.
“mattsun, i have a totally weird favor to ask, and you can’t ask any questions.”
the favor is him bending you into a complicated sexual position, fully clothed. you look at the placement of your limbs for several moments, inspecting them like you’re mentally taking notes, and issei pretends he’s not hard as fuck.
“it’s for a um, assignment. for one of my classes.”
mattsun smiles as if he’s not going to fuck his fist raw when you write about this. “i’m happy to help, if you need any more visual references.”
✩ summary : a quiet life was never supposed to be possible for leon. but somehow it happened anyway — a beautiful wife, a house in a wooded suburb outside the city, a son who thinks he has the coolest dad ever, and another baby on the way. for the first time in years, things are calm. normal. until one morning, leon receives a photo taken from within his home. in it, his family is asleep. someone has been watching.
✩ caution : age gap relationship! don’t shoot! reader in mid twenties to early thirties. pregnancy, motherhood, stalking, canon typical resident evil tension/violence/danger, mentions of medication implying mental illness or strain; yes, leon is on medication at his age. and! I named the reader and leon’s son, so.. just a heads up! (╥﹏╥)
✩ word count : 5,000.
the car feels small and intimate once the house disappears behind you.
leon keeps both hands on the wheel as he guides the car slowly down the quiet street, the headlights sweeping over familiar driveways and darkened windows. most of the houses are asleep at this hour. porch lights glow softly here and there, casting warm yellow circles onto neatly trimmed lawns.
everything looks exactly the same as it always has and probably always will for them. that’s the part that gets you—these families who get to live their normal day to day as life goes on: with the same sidewalks. the same green lawns and white fences. the same maple trees that drop leaves all over the road every fall.
it truly makes the tight feeling in your chest worse. you’re jealous, but of course you’d never admit that out loud. jealous of their mundane, boring lives. you love leon, you’re in love with him deeply. and you knew what you were signing up for when you read your vows and married him. but sometimes you do wonder.. wonder how life would be if he was still just a regular police officer like he was back then. you’ve heard the stories and seen photos—you love them. he looks so innocent and excited about life all babyfaced and bright-eyed. you think about other but similar career paths too.. like what it he was a firefighter? but even that feels too high risk. a doctor, perhaps. then maybe he’d take his own health a little more seriously.
the engine hums steadily beneath you as leon turns onto the next street, the tires rolling over the shallow dip where the pavement meets the intersection. the gentle bump rocks the car just enough for you to feel it through the seat. cool air spills from the vents and brushes across your legs. leon always keeps the air conditioning colder than it needs to be when he’s tense. you noticed that about him a long time ago—how the colder air seems to ground him, give him something small and physical to focus on while everything else sits quietly under the surface.
that’s when you glance over your shoulder toward the back seat, searching through the dim shape of the duffle bag wedged behind matteo’s car seat. you lean back just enough to pull it closer, unzipping it halfway and feeling around until your fingers brush the small orange bottles inside. you learned a while ago to keep his prescriptions close when you’re with him. because otherwise he doesn’t. sertraline is something his doctor put him on years ago to let up on the chronic stress his body never quite learned to turn off, not like it ever would. prazosin is meant to keep nightmares at bay—highly related to his ptsd. there’s trazodone, a low dose to improve and aid his sleep. and the smallest bottle tucked along the side—alprazolam— something he almost never uses unless things get bad.
you turn one of the bottles in your hand briefly before looking back at him. leon’s eyes stay on the road, one hand resting loosely at the top of the steering wheel, the other draped over the center console on your knee. the streetlights slide across his face in passing bands of pale light.
“did you take your medicine yesterday?”
“no.”
his answer comes easy. too easy— he knows if he even attempts to lie, it won’t end well. clearly, you run a strict program around here you study him for a second, the quiet filling the car again except for the steady rush of tires over asphalt.
“when was the last time you did..?” you ask, your voice is light. you don’t want him to think he’s in trouble or like you’re angry with him—you’re not, at least not yet.
leon doesn’t answer, because he knows you probably already know the answer. his jaw shifts slightly, the muscle there tightening as he exhales through his nose. “….”
you glance down at the bottle again before speaking, softer now but still firm. “at least two weeks, yeah?” you say. “because you left them in the cabinet before you left for work.”
another second passes before he nods faintly, “i know.” you wait for him to finish. “i told you i’d get better at it.”
“when?” the word slips out before you can soften it. leon finally glances at you, something tired flickering behind his eyes before he looks back at the road.
“soon,” he mutters. “i just—”
you reach over and rest your hand over his on the console, squeezing lightly before he can finish the thought he’s clearly trying not to say out loud. “we can talk about it later, okay?” you say gently.
he nods once and you give his hand another small squeeze. “but don’t think you’re off the hook.”
for a while, neither of you says anything.
the quiet stretches long enough that you can hear the faint rhythm of your son’s breathing from the backseat and you glance over your shoulder. he’s still asleep, curled into the padded sides of his car seat. his curls are messy from where they’ve been pressed against the fabric, one small hand wrapped loosely around a plushie leon ran back inside to grab for him.
he’s completely unaware.. an innocent little soul who doesn't deserve whatever is currently happening to him. you hope your little family makes it through the night without any issues..
when you turn back around, leon’s eyes are fixed on the road ahead and his posture is slightly forward the way it gets when he’s concentrating too hard.
your gaze drops to his hand on your knee and you reach over and slide your fingers gently into his. his hand tightens around yours almost immediately and he doesn’t look at you but his thumb shifts slightly against the back of your hand as you lean back into your seat, watching the dark street pass by outside the window.
“..i missed you, you know..” you say quietly.
leon exhales through his nose.. it’s soft, almost like a laugh that didn’t quite make it out. still finding a way to be sweet on him despite the current situation—ever his sweet girl. pretty but tired eyes flick toward you for a brief second before returning to the road.
“yeah?” he murmurs and you give a small nod.
“mhm..” the silence settles again, but this time it feels a little different. warmer.
“i missed you too, bug.” he says.
the car rolls slowly past the last few houses on the street, porch lights fading behind you one by one as leon turns onto the main road out of the neighborhood. his hand is still wrapped around yours; every now and then his thumb moves across the back of your hand without him really thinking about it. one of his little habits.
you shift a little in your seat, adjusting where the seatbelt sits across your stomach. at seven months there’s no ignoring the curve of it anymore, round and heavy against your lap. the baby moves faintly, a slow roll that makes you press your hand there for a second.
“matteo asked me something earlier,” you say.
leon hums quietly. “yeah?”
you glance over at him.“he asked if his little brother was a watermelon.”
leon’s eyes flick toward you, then back to the road. “..a watermelon.”
“yeah.” you rub your tummy. “he said my belly doesn’t look like a baby.”
for a second leon doesn’t say anything but then a quiet breath of a laugh slips out of him. “my kid’s trying to figure it out.”
“i tried explaining,” you say. “but he just kept staring at me.”
leon smiles a little. “think he’s a bigger skeptic than his old man.”
you look down at your stomach again. “he asked if we’re ’really sure’ it’s a baby.”
another small laugh escapes him. “’s a fair question— you do look like a..” he trying to figure it out, glancing back over at you. “like a— snoball. you know. the hostess cakes.”
you turn your head toward him. “you’re supposed to help me defend myself here!”
“i am,” he says chuckles a little. “but it’s true.”
you shake your head a little, smiling to yourself and for a moment the car settles back into quiet.. the road stretches darker ahead as the neighborhood falls behind. leon’s thumb drags slowly across the back of your hand again.
“..he’s excited though?” he asks.
you glance back toward the backseat then look forward again. “yeah,” you say softly. “he talks to my tummy all day.”
leon’s mouth lifts slightly. “yeah?”
“told the baby yesterday that he’s gonna teach him about dinosaurs and how daddy is the best.” you giggled and leon brings your hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on your skin.
you almost forget the situation at hand—but leon always makes things feel better.
. . . . . . . . . . <𝟑 .ᐟ
at some point during the drive, you drift off. leon notices it a few minutes after it happens and he’s a little relieved. your head tips slowly toward the window, breath evening out, fingers loosening where they’d been resting in leon’s on the center console. the streetlights that pass overhead every so often spill soft flashes of light across your face, but you don’t stir.
he lets you sleep. you need it.
the road out of the city stretches quiet and mostly empty at this hour, the steady rhythm of the tires on the pavement fill the car with a low, constant hum. matteo is still asleep in the backseat, the occasional small shift of fabric the only sign he’s there.
for a while, things are simple for leon; drive, check mirrors, watch the road, look over you and his son. he follows the route he knows automatically, guiding the car toward the highway entrance that should take them out of the county. but then.. then he slows. the ramp ahead is blocked and cones stretch across the entrance in a bright orange line, reflective strips catching in the headlights. a temporary metal barricade sits behind them with a folding sign propped up in front.
road closed.
leon’s brow tightens slightly. weird.
he eases past it, eyes briefly scanning the empty stretch of highway beyond the barrier. no cars, no construction equipment. nothing.
“…great,” he mutters under his breath.
he keeps driving. the next access point isn’t far. a smaller highway that reconnects with the interstate farther down the county line. and normally it wouldn’t matter which one he took. but when he turns toward that ramp—
it’s blocked too.
more cones.
another barricade.
the fuck?
this one has a paper detour sign taped to it, the arrow pointing down a side road leon rarely ever uses. he slows the car again, studying the sign for a second.. something about it doesn’t sit right. but still, the road behind him is empty and turning around would just waste time.
so against his better judgement, he turns the wheel and the tires crunch briefly over gravel as the car follows the detour onto the smaller road, the trees closing in quickly on both sides as the headlights sweep across the pavement.
the turn is sharper than the highway curve, that’s what seems to wake you.
your eyes blink open slowly as the car shifts direction again, the movement just enough to pull you out of sleep. you just stare ahead, disoriented.
“…lee?” your voice is soft, thick with sleep.
leon glances over briefly. “hey, sleeping beauty.” he smiles a bit.
you rub your eyes a little, sitting up straighter as the unfamiliar road stretches out in front of the car. “where are we?”
he looks back at the road. “detour.”
you blink toward the dark tree line sliding past the windows.
“did he wake up at all..?”
“no, he’s out.” another slow turn approaches ahead and leon eases the wheel again, the car following the narrow road deeper into the trees.
“main ramps were blocked,” he says after a second.
you’re fully awake now. “blocked?”
“yeah.” he keeps his tone casual, his eyes flick briefly to the rearview mirror again before settling back on the road. “had to take the scenic route.” that earns a little giggle from you, not picking up on his skepticism at all.
leon keeps the car moving slowly along the narrow detour road, the beam of the headlights cutting through long tunnels of trees that crowd closer to the asphalt the farther they drive. the road isn’t one he recognizes, and that bothers him more than he says out loud. but he knows this county. after everything that happened years ago in raccoon city, he made it a point to know the surrounding highways and service roads like the back of his hand. but this route bends in ways it shouldn’t, curling farther east than any detour from the interstate should logically take them. his hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel as another faded green road sign flashes past the passenger side window, half swallowed by weeds and leaning at a tired angle. the reflective paint catches the headlights just long enough for him to read it.
raccoon county line — 2 miles.
that isn’t right. no detour around here should be bringing them this close to.. no. his hands shift on the steering wheel as he slows a little, eyes scanning the road ahead and then flicking briefly to the dashboard map.. the route line has bent farther east than it should have. why?
“…damn,” he mutters quietly.
you glance over. “what’s wrong, honey?”
“nothing, just..” he trails off.
up ahead, the road bends again and this time the headlights spill across something large blocking part of the lane. leon’s foot eases onto the brake, the car slowing as the shape resolves into the wreckage of a transport truck that looks like it lost control at high speed. the cab is smashed violently into the treeline at an angle that shouldn’t be.. survivable, the front grille crumpled inward like paper and the windshield blown completely out. one of the truck’s rear container doors hangs open several feet, twisted enough that it scrapes the pavement every time it sways in the faint breeze,
and making a long metallic groan that echoes down the empty road. the vehicle itself is unmarked except for a set of faded hazard symbols stenciled along the container’s side—biohazard warnings that make leon’s stomach drop with cold familiarity. he brings the car to a slow stop roughly twenty yards away? just about. his headlights illuminatd the center of the road where something dark lies sprawled across the asphalt.
“oh my god—” you choke out.
at first it almost looks like a discarded coat or bundle of cloth, but as leon leans slightly forward in his seat the shape resolves into a human body lying facedown across the lane. the limbs are bent at angles that suggest the person was thrown there by the crash, one arm twisted beneath the torso while the other stretches limply toward the shoulder of the road. a wide smear of something black and wet trails away from the body toward the truck, thick enough that it reflects the headlights in dull, sticky streaks. leon doesn’t say anything right away. the silence inside the car feels unbearable now, the engine idling quietly while his eyes move across the scene in quick sweeps—truck, open container door, tree line, body, road blocks, racoon city a couple miles over. there are no other vehicles, no hazard flares, no emergency response lights in the distance. just the ruined truck, the open container and the body lying exactly where someone would have stumbled if they had managed to crawl away from the wreck before collapsing.
“..stay in the car,” he says quietly.
your gaze shifts toward him. “leon—”
“stay in the car.” it’s final.
he shifts the car into park and reaches for the glove compartment without taking his eyes off the road ahead. the latch clicks softly when he opens it and he reaches for the familiar weight of his handgun, settling it into his palm. the unease creeping through his chest isn’t something training ever fully gets rid of but he’s prepared. the truck’s loose container door scrapes against the pavement again with a long, dragging shriek of metal that fades slowly into the trees and when leon opens the car door, the night air that spills inside carries the sharp scent of gasoline and something sour and rotting that clings to the back of his throat. he steps out onto the road and closes the door quietly behind him, the pistol resting low but ready in his right hand as he begins walking toward the body illuminated in the headlights.
the forest around the road feels unnaturally still. no insects, no distant wind through the leaves, none of the small nighttime sounds that should exist out here this far from town. leon’s boots scrape softly against the pavement as he approaches the figure on the ground, his gaze flicks repeatedly back toward the open truck container looming behind it. from this angle he can see the interior better, a dark metal chamber lined with restraints and heavy chains bolted along the walls. several of the restraints hang empty and loose, swaying slightly whenever the container door shifts with the breeze. the smell coming from that direction is stronger now, thick and rancid in a way leon recognizes immediately even though part of him wishes he didn’t. it’s the smell of decay that shouldn’t exist in something still capable of moving.
he stops a few feet from the body lying in the road and lowers his voice instinctively, the old reflex of addressing survivors kicking in before his mind fully catches up with what his eyes are telling him.
“sir?” he calls cautiously. the figure doesn’t respond and for several seconds nothing happens at all. then, with a slow wet sound against the asphalt, the fingers of the outstretched hand curl inward. the movement is subtle enough that leon almost thinks he imagined it—until the arm jerks again, this time more violently and the body begins to drag itself across the pavement in stiff, uneven motions. the head lifts just enough for the headlights to illuminate the face as it turns toward him, revealing skin pulled gray and tight across the skull, lips split back to expose teeth slick with dark blood. one of the eyes is missing entirely, leaving behind a hollow socket that glistens black in the light. when the thing opens its mouth, the sound that comes out isn’t a human voice. it’s a low, hungry rasp that echoes across the empty road and carries with it the unmistakable confirmation of leon’s worst suspicion: whatever was inside that transport truck did not stay contained.
“fuck me..” leon says in disbelief.
the thing on the road moves again, this time with a sudden violence that snaps leon fully out of the frozen moment of processing. the body jerks upright on stiff limbs that don’t seem to work together properly, joints hitching and locking as if the muscles beneath the skin have forgotten how to move in the right order. its head tilts at an unnatural angle while it drags one leg behind it, the torn shoe scraping loudly against the pavement as it lurches toward him. for half a second leon catches the reflection of his own headlights in the creature’s remaining eye and what stares back isn’t pain or confusion or even awareness. it’s blood lust—empty, relentless hunger that pushes the body forward despite the damage it’s taken.
leon’s grip tightens around the pistol. his instincts scream at him to raise the weapon immediately, to put the threat down before it gets closer, but another thought cuts through just as fast. the car is still behind him. you’re sitting in the passenger seat. his son is asleep in the back. if he fires now, if the shot echoes down this road, you’ll see it and it may wake up matteo.
the zombie staggers another step forward and suddenly surges with alarming speed, arms shooting out as it lunges across the short distance between them. leon reacts without hesitation, pivoting sideways as the creature crashes into him. the impact sends both of them stumbling, the dead weight of the body slamming against his shoulder with a nauseating wet thud. the smell hits him harder up close— thick rot and coppery blood that clings to the air like humidity. the creature’s mouth snaps open inches from his face, broken teeth gnashing as strings of dark saliva drip from its jaw. disgusting.
leon shoves it back with his forearm, trying to force space between them. “i’m flattered, but at least take me out to dinner first,” he mutters under his breath but of course the quip means nothing to it. the zombie claws at him again, fingers tearing clumsily at the fabric of his jacket while that guttural rasp pours from its throat. its strength is insane, jerking and desperate, like the body is being yanked forward by something inside it that refuses to stop moving.
behind him the headlights spill across the scene, illuminating everything in stark white light.
inside the car, you see it all.
at first your brain refuses to understand what you’re looking at. leon stepping out had already made your stomach knot with unease, but now the shape in the road is moving in a way that makes your entire body go cold. the thing staggering toward your husband doesn’t look like a person anymore. its skin is gray and split open in places, something dark soaking the front of its shirt and when it lunges at leon you feel a sound rising in your throat before you even realize it.
your hand slams over your mouth and the scream never escapes.
you clamp your palm so tightly against your lips it hurts, your other hand gripping the edge of the seat while your body locks in place. your chest starts heaving immediately, short, panicked breaths trapped behind your hand as tears spring to your eyes. matteo is still asleep in the backseat. You can hear his soft breathing if you listen hard enough, but completely unaware of what’s unfolding only a few yards in front of the car.
so you stay silent.
even when leon shoves the thing back and it comes at him again. even when the creature’s head jerks toward him and you catch a glimpse of its ruined face in the headlights.
your fingers press harder against your mouth, muffling the ragged sound of your breathing as your vision blurs. tears spill down your cheeks and disappear into the heel of your hand while your shoulders shake violently with the effort of staying quiet. every instinct in your body is screaming at you to run, to get out of the car, to do something—but you can’t move.
outside, leon finally realizes he’s out of options.
the body lunges again, claws scraping across his sleeve as it tries to pull itself closer to his throat. there’s no reasoning with it, no pushing it away long enough to escape. leon’s eyes flick briefly toward the car behind him, just long enough to see your silhouette frozen in the passenger seat.
he really doesn’t want you to watch this.
with a sharp twist of his body, leon shoves the creature backward and pivots so his back is angled toward the headlights. the movement places his body between you and what he’s about to do. the zombie stumbles forward again, arms reaching blindly for him, its ruined jaw working in frantic bites.
leon raises the pistol and for a split second the world holds perfectly still.
the gunshot cracks through the night.
the gunshot echoes violently through the trees, the sound ricocheting down the empty road before dissolving into the thick silence of the forest. leon keeps the pistol raised, the barrel steady even as the body in front of him collapses with a heavy, lifeless thud against the pavement. the monster that had once been a man twitches once where it lies, a final reflex of dead muscle that sends one arm dragging weakly across the asphalt before going still. the headlights from the car stretched the corpse’s shadow long and warped across the road, illuminating the gray slackness of its face and the black, ruined wound at the center of its skull. leon exhales slowly through his nose, forcing his breathing back under control as the sharp scent of gunpowder mixes with the sickening rot still clinging to the night air. his eyes move past the body instead, drawn back toward the wrecked transport truck looming crookedly at the edge of the road.
from this closer angle the truck looks even worse than it had from the driver’s seat. the cab is crushed deep into the treeline, metal folded inward like something massive slammed into it at full speed. the container on the back sits half twisted across the shoulder of the road, one heavy door hanging open wide enough to expose the dark interior. leon approaches it cautiously, every instinct he has screaming that he already knows what he’s going to find inside. deep gouges mark the walls in long, violent streaks and one of the restraints has been torn completely out of the metal plating, leaving a jagged hole where the bolt once held. the smell inside is unbearable now, a humid wall of decay and old blood that makes leon’s stomach turn as he takes a half step back into the cooler night air. whatever this truck had been transporting, it wasn’t supposed to get out.
then he remembers the car.
he turns quickly, the beam of the headlights washing over him as he looks back toward the road where you’re still sitting in the passenger seat. when he walks closer the details sharpen enough for him to see your shoulders shaking. your hands are still clamped tightly over your mouth, fingers pressed so hard against your lips that the skin has gone sore beneath them. your chest rises and falls in quick, panicked breaths that you’re clearly trying to force silent, each inhale trembling as tears spill down your cheeks. even from outside the car leon can see the terror frozen across your face. you’re staring straight ahead at the road where the body lies in the headlights, eyes wide and glassy with shock while you struggle desperately to keep from making a sound.
leon moves quickly to the passenger side and pulls the door open. the interior light flickers on faintly, casting a warm glow across your face and revealing just how badly your hands are shaking. you don’t even seem to notice the door opening at first. your breathing is too fast, too shallow, frantic hyperventilation locks your body into pure panic. in the backseat matteo shifts slightly in his sleep, the quiet rustle of fabric enough to remind leon how careful he has to be to not wake him. he crouches beside you immediately, lowering his voice to a soft whisper as he reaches for your wrists.
“hey pretty,” he murmurs gently, prying your hands away from your mouth before they can clamp down again. “hey. look at me.”
your eyes struggle to focus on him, blinking rapidly through tears while your chest continues heaving with uneven breaths. leon cups the side of your face with one hand, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he tries to ground you. “it’s okay,” he whispers again, steady and calm despite the adrenaline still pounding in his veins. “you’re okay. just breathe.”
you try to answer him but the words collapse into another shaky inhale, your body still locked in the aftermath of the fear. leon keeps his voice low and even, guiding you through it the way he’s done for terrified civilians more times than he can count. “dlow,” he says quietly, his hand still resting against your cheek. “in through your nose. like this.” he takes a slow breath himself so you can mirror it, watching carefully until your lungs begin to follow the rhythm. it takes a few tries, but eventually the edge of panic begins to dull. your breathing steadies enough for you to speak, though your voice still trembles when the words finally come out. “leon… what was that?” the question hangs between you.
leon’s gaze flickers briefly toward the road behind him where the body lies in the headlights, then back to you. “nothing that should exist,” he says quietly. the explanation is simple, carefully stripped of anything that would make it worse. “it’s handled.” the lie sits heavy in his chest, but he doesn’t let it show. your eyes squeeze shut as another tear slips down your cheek.and you lean forward slightly until your forehead presses against his shoulder. leon wraps one arm carefully around you, mindful of your stomach as he holds you there, letting the warmth of the contact slow the last tremors running through your body. in the backseat matteo murmurs softly but doesn’t wake, his small figure still curled safely in sleep.
after a minute leon pulls back just enough to brush a quick kiss against your forehead. “stay here,” he whispers. “i’m gonna to check the car.” you nod faintly, wiping at your eyes as you turn to glance at matteo again, instinctively making sure he’s still sleeping. leon closes the passenger door softly and walks around the front of the vehicle, the crunch of gravel under his boots the only sound breaking the silence now that the forest has swallowed the echo of the gunshot. his eyes sweep the road automatically, scanning the trees and the wrecked truck one more time before dropping toward the car itself.
that’s when he hears it.
a faint, steady hiss cutting through the quiet.
leon crouches beside the front tire, his stomach sinking as the sound grows louder. a jagged piece of twisted metal lies half embedded in the rubber, likely thrown from the truck during the crash. air leaks steadily from the puncture with a long, deflating sigh, the tire already sagging visibly against the weight of the car. leon straightens, running a hand over the back of his neck as he looks down the empty road stretching into darkness ahead of them.
they aren’t going anywhere far without a spare.
and somewhere deep in the woods beyond the road, something moves.
☆ summary: a quiet life was never supposed to be possible for leon. but somehow it happened anyway — a beautiful wife, a house in a wooded suburb outside the city, a son who thinks he has the coolest dad ever, and another baby on the way. for the first time in years, things are calm. normal. until one morning, leon receives a photo taken from within his home. in it, his family is asleep. someone has been watching.
☆ caution: age gap relationship! don’t shoot! reader in mid twenties to early thirties. pregnancy, motherhood, stalking, canon typical resident evil tension/violence/danger (though, this instalment is pretty tame).
☆ word count: 3,000.
what is that noise..?
it’s subtle at first— drawers opening, something heavy set down on wood, the soft zip of a bag? your brain tries to ignore it for a few seconds, trying to cling to sleep because god knows you need it. but the sounds are continuous and you’re now registering them somewhere down the hall and it pulls you up the rest of the way.
the bedroom is still dark with the exception of the night light across the room and the digital clock at your side of the bed.
2:17 AM.
you sit up slowly, blinking blearily as the oversized t-shirt you slept in slides off one shoulder. there’s a heatless curl ribbon still tied in your hair from when you set before bed, stray ends that came undone in your sleep hang down in soft loops— you don’t even know where your bonnet went. but its almost always stuck somewhere between the mattress and the headboard or somewhere discarded on the floor.
your stomach rises in a precious round curve beneath the cotton when you shift. for a moment you just lie there, then something warm shifts beside you and a small heel presses into your side. you blink slowly and turn your head to see your three year old son sprawled across the bed sideways; half on your pillow, half on your arm, breathing softly with the deep and heavy sleep only toddlers seem capable of after a long day of terror (play). one of his hands is tangled in the hem of your shirt and you're certain he fell asleep holding onto you. his hair is messy, sticking up in soft tufts against the pillow— he looks just like his father. you almost want to take a picture.
your son stirs with a sleepy little noise. “..mama..”
“shh,” you murmur, brushing your fingers through his curls. “go back to sleep, baby.” he sighs softly and curls deeper into the blankets.
you’re six— almost seven months along in your pregnancy now and everything takes a second longer than it used to. your back is a little tight and your breasts feel sore and heavy, it takes you a few moments to gather yourself before your legs swing over the side of the bed and push yourself up with a small grunt, rubbing sleep out of your eyes as you waddle toward the hallway.
the light in the living room is on. that’s the first thing you notice.
the second is your husband, leon. how strange. was this a dream? he wasn’t supposed to be home for a couple days. and you know that for a fact because you were counting down the days with a little pochacco widget on the homescreen of your phone. you’re not upset by any means, you’re just very confused, disheveled and half asleep.
leon’s moving quickly through the living room, tossing things into a duffel bag on the couch with urgency that makes your chest tighten before you even understand why. jacket. flashlight. an ammo box. something metallic you don’t recognize and there’s a couple more bags by the door already packed too.
“leon?” your voice comes out soft with sleep and he freezes for just for a second before he turns toward you. oh. you know that look. that’s the look he gets before missions— really focused, distant, already five steps ahead of wherever he is.
“..is he awake?” he asks.
you shake your head. “no.”
leon nods once and relief flashes across his face for just a moment. “good.”
you shuffle further into the room, one hand instinctively resting over the curve of your stomach and the hardwood floor is cold under your bare feet.
“what are you doing..?” you ask. he doesn't answer right away, he zips the duffel bag closed instead then moves past you toward the front door where another bag is already sitting by the entry table.
you frown. “leon.”
he stops again and this time when he looks at you, his eyes soften just slightly. enough that it almost makes you more nervous. “we’re going for a drive, baby.” he says.
your eyebrows knit together. “..a drive?” you glance toward the windows. it’s still dark outside— early enough that the sky hasn’t even started turning gray yet. “leon, it’s like two in the morning.”
“yeah.” he reaches for his jacket off the chair and slips it on, you take another few slow steps toward him.
that’s when you see the axe and the gun holstered at his hip like it always is when he’s working, but seeing it here in the living room in the dead of night, makes your stomach dip unpleasantly. he already knows how you feel about live guns in the house, you don’t care about what he does for a living. he’s not to bring weapons in you guy’s home if its not an emergency.
“why do you have that on?”
leon doesn’t look at the gun when you ask; he looks at you. but really looks this time— taking in his shirt that swallows you almost, the sleepy confusion in your face, the ridiculous polka dot, satin ribbon wrapped in your hair, the way you’re standing there barefoot and pregnant. christ, you’re beautiful.
his jaw tightens. “go grab shoes,” he says instead.
you blink at him. “…what?”
“shoes, sweetheart. your shoes.” he repeats, already reaching for the car keys on the counter. “and maybe a sweater. it’s chilly outside.”
you don’t move. “leon, you’re being weird.”
he exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying very hard to keep his head on. “i know.”
“well that’s not really great to hear, weirdo..” you shift your weight, wincing a little when the movement pulls at your lower back. “did something happen?”
“nothing you need to worry about,” he says.
you give him a look. “i’m seven months pregnant, leon. everything is something i need to worry about— don’t piss me off.”
he runs a hand through his hair, clearly losing patience with the conversation. “just— go get your shoes and i’ll let you know what’s going on.”
“no.” the word comes out before you can stop it.
leon’s head snaps back toward you. “no?” he repeats, brow raised.
you cross your arms loosely under your chest, the fabric of the big shirt bunching over your stomach.
“no,” you say again, stubborn now. “not until you tell me why you’re packing like the house is on fire.”
you hardly have time to react before your husband is closing the gap between you both so quickly it nearly startles you. he reaches up and places both of his hands on both sides of your face. the contrast between his warm hands and the cooler wedding band feels so familiar— it's only then you realize you haven’t physically touched each other in almost two weeks since he left.
“listen to me.” his voice is low, tight with something that makes your heart drop. “i need you to cooperate right now.”
you blink at him and leon’s eyes search your face like he’s trying to make sure you actually understand what he’s saying.
he’s serious. you know it because he has a look in his eyes— something akin to desperation..
“okay..” you nod in his hands. “can i least know what’s going on.. please..?”
silence stretches between you then leon’s eyes flick briefly toward the kitchen counter and you follow the movement without thinking.
there’s a phone there, his personal phone actually. you close the gap and unlock the phone with the passcode— your birthday.
the photo is already pulled up on the screen, the brightness catches your eye before you even realize what you’re looking at, but your stomach drops so suddenly it feels like the floor shifted beneath you. your fingers loosen around the device and you immediately set it back down on the counter like it burned you, taking a small step backward before you can stop yourself.
when you look at leon again there’s fear in your expression before you can hide it.
it was a photo of you and your son. you recognize the room immediately. the angle of the shot, the dim amber glow of the nightlight, the familiar shape of the blankets pulled halfway up your body. your son is curled against your side in the image, one small arm thrown across your chest the way he does when he crawls into your bed during the night. his face is buried against your shirt, hair sticking up in every direction from sleep. you’re asleep too, one arm loosely wrapped around him. even in the low light, the shape of your pregnancy is obvious beneath the shirt.
the picture.. wasn’t taken from across the street. hell, it wasn’t even taken earlier in the evening while you were awake. whoever took it had been close enough that the details of the bedding, the edge of the nightstand, even the small toy car on the floor beside the bed were perfectly visible.
someone had been in your while you were sleeping.
close enough to see your son. close enough to take their time lining up the shot while both of you slept completely unaware.
“leon..” his name barely leaves your mouth and hen you look back at him, he’s already watching you. there’s no surprise in his expression, no confusion— “what—okay, um—what do you want me to do?”
“shoes, phone, documents,” he says quietly. “and grab my kid.” he pauses. “please.” he adds on, still wanting to have some manners about his orders.
the house suddenly feels different, like its no longer your little slice of life’s pie. you rest one hand against the underside of your stomach as you walk down the hallway again supporting the weight of it as the baby shifts, it draws a labored breath from you. its probably because you’re moving about a bunch at an hour you’re supposed to be replenishing your rest. the satin ribbon tied around your hair has slipped crooked from sleep, one end hanging loose against your shoulder as you walk.
the bedroom is still dim when you step inside and your son hasn’t moved much since you left. he’s still sprawled sideways across the mattress in a tangle of blankets, face buried halfway into the pillow. one leg sticks out from under the comforter, his small foot hanging off the edge of the bed. you move closer and sit carefully on the edge of the mattress, easing your weight down with a soft exhale and the bed dips slightly beneath you. your fingers slide gently through his messy hair.
“hey,” you murmur softly. “buddy.”
he reacts with a little whine, rolling his face deeper into the pillow and you rub slow circles on his back.
“i know, honey..” you whisper. “mommy’s sorry. but we have to get up for a little bit, okay?”
he squirms, one arm reaching out blindly until his fingers find your sleeve and he bunches the fabric in his fist and tugs weakly. “..mama.”
“i’m right here.” another sleepy noise escapes him as he drags himself halfway upright, eyes barely open. he leans heavily into you, resting his forehead against your chest and you smooth his hair down.
“we’re gonna go for a drive, okay?”
he blinks slowly. “..drive?”
“mhm, with papa.” you nod and ge considers this for a long moment in sleepy silence, then lifts his head just enough to mumble: “…papa?”
a small laugh escapes you despite the tight feeling in your chest. “yeah.. papa’s home, lovebug.” and that seems good enough for him. he lets you pull his sweater over his head with minimal protest, though he keeps leaning against you like he might fall asleep standing up.
by the time you make it back to the living room, your shoes are finally on, you have sweats on and a sweater pulled over the shirt. leon is already outside again, the front door standing half open and letting the cold gray light of early morning moon spill into the house. you can hear the dull thud of the trunk closing and reopening, the shuffle of bags being moved around as he rearranges things.
your son has gone almost completely limp against you in the few minutes it took to get dressed. the moment you lifted him from the bed he buried his face into your shoulder and never really woke back up. now his arms hang loosely around your neck, his cheek pressed warm against your collarbone as he breathes slowly into the fabric of your sweater.
you adjust him carefully, one hand supporting his weight under his legs as you walk toward the door. the cold air hits your face the second you step outside; leon’s car is parked in the driveway with the trunk wide open, the interior light casting a warm glow over the scattered bags already inside. leon stands at the back of it, moving quickly, lifting another duffel and shoving it farther in before slamming the trunk down with a solid thud.
he turns at the sound of the door behind you, then he’s already walking toward you.
“hey,” he murmurs quietly as he reaches you, his voice lowering automatically when he sees how deeply asleep his son is. you shift your weight slightly, adjusting the small body slumped against you. even half asleep, your son instinctively curls closer, his fingers tightening weakly in the fabric at the back of your sweater.
“didn’t wake up,” you whisper.
leon’s eyes soften when he looks at him. “figures.”
he reaches out without hesitation, one hand sliding carefully under the boy’s back while the other supports his legs. the transfer is gentle and your son barely stirs as leon lifts him away from you, just making a soft sleepy noise before his head drops against leon’s shoulder instead.
you exhale quietly when the weight leaves your arms, and leon notices immediately. “i got him, go sit.” he says softly as ge turns and walks to the back seat, opening the door and leaning in to settle the boy into the car seat already strapped in place. he works slowly, carefully buckling the harness without jostling him too much. your son squirms once, eyes fluttering halfway open before he sinks right back into sleep, his head tipping to the side.
leon adjusts the strap gently near his shoulder, making sure it sits right. only after he’s satisfied does he shut the door softly.
you’ve made your way around to the passenger side by then, lowering yourself carefully into the seat. the cushion dips under your weight and you lean back with a quiet breath, one hand resting on your stomach out of habit. leon walks around the car, stopping when he sees you watching him through the open passenger window.
“baby, can you do me one favor?” you ask.
leon pauses with his hand resting on the roof of the car. “what do you need?”
you glance back toward the house. “i left my bear on the bed.”
his eyebrows pull together slightly. “the one i won you?”
you nod a little, almost sheepish. “i know it’s stupid,” you say quietly. “but you know i can’t sleep anywhere without it.”
leon exhales softly through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “not stupid.”
he's leaning down so he’s level with you and up close you can see the exhaustion in his face,
“two minutes,” he says but before he straightens, you reach out slightly, your hand catching the sleeve of his jacket.
“hey.” you call out softly and he pauses.
you lean toward the open window just enough to press a quick kiss to his lips. it’s soft and brief, but warm— something sweet in the middle of everything that suddenly feels uncertain. you also didn’t get a chance to give him his welcome home kiss.
leon lingers for half a second when you pull back, his forehead almost brushing yours before he finally straightens again.
his hand briefly touches your cheek.
“love you too,” he murmurs. then he turns and jogs back toward the house. a minute later he steps out again with the plushie in his hand, walking straight over to the passenger side and passing it through the window to you. the fabric is worn soft from years of being held, but you recognize it instantly.
“almost left without your emotional support,” he mutters.
you take it from him and put it between your thighs.
“thank you, bub.” you smile a little, despite the anxiety.
leon taps the roof of the car lightly before finally moving around to the driver’s side, hopping in and starting the engine before backing out of the driveway. your thumb fidgets with your wedding ring; a pretty princess cut, four and a half carat diamond.
leon turns onto the empty road, heading toward the highway that cuts through the wooded suburbs outside of dc. at this hour the neighborhood is still dark, porch lights glowing faintly between the trees as the car slips past sleeping houses.
note: this is incredibly self indulging guys. don't you just love when things get a bit morally questionable? so exciting! (; also! implied potential affair! fem reader!
the first time you notice the ring, it’s because the light catches on it, fluorescent overheads bouncing off the soft metal as leon reaches past you to grab a file off the table. the movement itself is casual enough, nothing no one else would look twice at but the glint of white gold is impossible to miss; and you blink at it, because? it feels strange seeing something like that on his hand. leon is married? huh. how strange.
you should ignore that nasty feeling in the pit of your stomach. you know the one. the one that makes you want to scratch at your skin until it breaks. jealousy. oh, how you loathe it.
leon’s always looked like he belongs to blood, half empty bottles of dark liquor after missions, firearms, and government facilities.. not.. a wedding ceremony, vows, love; you try not to stare but he notices anyway, his hand stilling for half a second before his fingers curl around the folder and he pulls back like nothing happened and his voice steady as he keeps talking through the briefing.
what bothers you a bit is there’s no mention of it at all and no one asks either, which might be the weirdest part, because people notice things in this building. people gossip about everything, whispers in hallways and rumors traded over burnt coffee in the break room. it’s a bit ridiculous actually, so called adults fueling mindless rumors that serve no purpose but to chat.
but about the ring there’s nothing— no wife showing up, no photographs on his desk, no little “my wife made my favorite for dinner” dropped between go home day on missions; just the band and the silent understanding that whatever the story is, no one’s stupid enough to ask leon about it; and you tell yourself it doesn’t matter, you’re just his junior, it’s not like you ever get close enough to notice things like that anyway, except..
except you do.
this is your prequel to the other woman.
a monday, 10:47 PM – training facility
the training room is quiet at this hour, the kind of quiet that settles into the walls once everyone else has gone home. you wanted to stay, no— needed to stay actually, to get a bit of practice in because you felt a bit restless about your progress. leon insisted that he stayed behind with you despite you saying that you'd be okay for a couple hours but he said he wanted to. and that was the thing about leon kennedy; he was a nice man. a dreamy, selfless, kind and always giving kind of man. and it made you feel taken care of.
the lights hum overhead while you reload with dainty fingers, trying not to think about the fact that leon is standing right behind you. close enough that you can feel the heat of him and close enough that when you shift your weight your shoulder almost brushes his chest. you miss the target again and the sharp crack echoes down the empty range. fuck. you grimace before he can say anything.
“stop forcing it,” he says quietly, stepping in before you can reset. his hand closes over yours without hesitation, steadying the gun where it wavers in your grip. his touch is firm as he guides your wrist down just slightly. you try to focus on the target, on your breathing, on literally anything except the way his fingers wrap around yours and how his chest presses into your back— but then the metal band on his ring finger drags lightly across your knuckles and your concentration splinters completely.
“again,” leon says after a moment, and he studies your face before stepping back. the absence of him seems so immediate and noticeable, its like you weren't ready for it to be over yet. but you swallow the lump in your throat and reset your grip like you’ve been told, trying very hard not to think about the warmth of his.. everything that was there a second ago— or the ring that brushed against your skin.
you hit the target dead center and you're rewarded with a half smile and a knuckle to the jaw.
a friday, 7:35 PM – the office
you’re checking your reflection in the dark screen of your phone when leon stops beside your desk. you hadn’t noticed him walking up, which is embarrassing on its own, but what’s worse is the way his eyes immediately narrow a little as he looks you over— like he’s trying to figure something out.
“you going somewhere?” he asks. it’s casual enough, but there’s something tense underlying in the question that you don't pick up on until the end of the night doing your skincare.
“a date!” you beam sweetly, clearly a little excited but the word hangs there awkwardly for leon. he doesn’t say anything right away, he just leans a hand on the edge of your desk as he tilts his head slightly.
“a date,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. his gaze drifts back over you again— your cheeks are a little rosier than usual and your lips are coated in a glossy pink that makes them look fuller when you press them together. you smooth the shine once with the pad of your thumb absently as you give him another upwards look, that's when he notices your lashes. pretty.
“with who?” the question lands heavier than it should.
“his name is carlos,” you answer, still smiling. “we met last week.”
“and you said yes.” it doesn’t sound like a question, more like mild criticism.
you frown at him. “is that a problem?”
he straightens a little, his gaze lingering on your face a second longer than it probably should. then his mouth pulls into the faintest hint of a smile.
“well,” he says, pushing off the desk, “you look nice.” leon hesitates for half a beat before adding, almost like an afterthought, “text me when you get home.” his tone is fine but there’s something under it that makes it sound less like a suggestion.. and more like he’s already decided on what he wants you to do, like it's work.
he straightens and walks off down the hallway, leaving you sitting there with that warm feeling you were trying to get away from in the first place— right alongside the equally strange realization that leon probably shouldn’t care that much about how your date goes.
a saturday, 9:45 PM — downtown
the bar is loud but it fades after a while and the conversations register in your ears as a hum while glasses knock together somewhere down the counter. music bleeds softly through the speakers but none of it really reaches you. not when you’re sitting this close to him. god, he’s so handsome.. and manly and he smells so good too! you don't know why you're so attracted to him, he’s older than you by decades for christ’s sake! but unfortunately, you do have a crush on a married man.
leon is facing forward, elbow on the bar with a glass turning slowly between his fingers. his neck is angled toward you, just enough that you know he’s listening as that half chuckle rumbles out of him every now and then but he can’t quite help it. you're cute— he enjoys your company more than he should.
you’re leaning toward leon without thinking about it, body angled in his direction as your hand rests loosely on the firm curve of his bicep. your fingers shift and rub there every now and then when you laugh, glossy lips parting around a soft giggle that’s just a little too giddy from the drinks. the light catches the shimmer on your eyelids when you blink, lashes lidded as your cheeks flush in a way that could be the alcohol or the attention he’s giving you. you like the way he looks at you tonight.
your hand stays on his arm and he doesn’t move it despite his better judgement.
someone down the bar calls his name at one point, loud enough that it should pull his attention away then and there. he hears them but he waits until you're finished talking until his gaze drifts in that direction for a moment before settling back somewhere ahead of him again, the corner of his mouth still faintly lifted.
a wednesday, 2:45 AM — opsec mission 9, phase 1
the car smells faintly like his cologne and leather. it clings to the inside of your nose every time you breathe in, mixing with the sugary sweetness of your lip gloss and the waves of adrenaline that have yet to fully left your system. your hands sit folded in your lap, fingers worrying the edge of your sleeve while the city slides past the windows in streaks of gold and shadow.
leon hasn’t said anything since you both got into the car.
the engine hums low under your feet, wipers drag once across the windshield clearing a thin mist that had started collecting there. his hands stay steady on the wheel, but the tendons in his forearms stand out under the sleeve of his jacket, tight in a way you recognize from him being angry. though, the anger has never been caused by you until tonight.
streetlights pass over his face in quiet flashes and you try not to look at him but you fail, giving him just a bit of a peek from the corner of your eye. oh, he’s so still so stupidly handsome. you hate this.
you’d been so proud of yourself earlier and now your stomach feels hollow as the silence stretches long enough that it starts to press in on you from all sides. leon being quiet isn’t new—you’ve sat through plenty of those silences before—but this one is different. and the worst part is knowing it’s because of you.
“what were you thinking.” his voice cuts through the car without warning. he’s not yelling and that somehow makes it worse.
your throat tightens a little. “i thought i could—”
“yeah.” leon exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. his eyes stay on the road. “that’s the problem.”
the car slows at a red light, the glow spilling through the windshield and painting everything inside the car dim and red. you stare down at your hands because looking at him suddenly feels impossible and heat crawls up the back of your neck. you know you messed up. you know it. you’d felt it the second the shots started cracking past you, the second someone had grabbed your shoulder and yanked you back behind cover.
but hearing it from him—
you could just die.
“you stepped into a live line of fire,” leon says after a moment, voice rougher now. “that wasn’t brave. that was stupid, (name).” your fingers curl tighter into the fabric of your sleeve. you hate that he’s right. you hate that he sounds disappointed more than angry. you hate that the thought of him being mad at you makes your eyes sting like a kid getting scoldedm
“i was trying to help,” you mumble, softer this time. another pause. “i'm sorry, okay? i know i nearly ruined everything..”
then leon lets out a short breath that almost sounds like a laugh, except there’s nothing amused about it.
“you think i was worried about the mission?” he says quietly.
and that makes you look at him in the eye the first time that night.
And when the bugs start to eat Satoru Gojo’s heart, they’ll taste all the love and hurt that pooled inside of him, feelings not once he was given the chance express — the curse of the strongest
When they crawl on his scarred skin and take the nutrients from his flesh, if any were still present on his corpse, their heart would hurt as they start feel the affection he never got to receive
When they bite his iris and eat his pools of cerulean for sustenance, they too might see the way the strongest saw the world and weep at the way the world viewed him — a vessel to be used then discarded
When they reach his mind, they too might smile at the happy moments that were cut too short, never to be replayed or recreated as only one person in his memories stood above the ground
Finally, when they’re sated, they will move onto a new body, trying to sustain themselves while forgetting the man they feasted on — much like the rest of the world has
SYNOPSIS ── The blue spring of their youths—and everything after it ends. Your story told from the perspective of your closest friend since childhood, Shoko Ieiri.
PAIRING. ── gojo satoru x reader
TAGS. canon jjk timeline, (or at least as accurate as possible) coming of age, sorcerer!reader, angst, fluff, slice of life, mutual pining, friends to lovers, nostalgia, hidden inventory timeline, the tokyo five plus you, emotional vulnerability, dreams and nightmares, missing scenes, domestic fluff, megumi and tsumiki / dad!gojo dynamic, we love and adore shoko ieiri on this blog
WARNINGS. ! manga spoilers ! depictions of grief & loss, canon typical violence (described but not in detail), use of cigarettes and smoking, character deaths
WORD COUNT. 13.2k
mae's note. my debut work !! thank u for all the support on 'of love & lesson plans', the first chapter will be out by tomorrow hehee but i wanted to share a project i've been working on for over a year now <3 i also PINKY PROMISE my other fics won't be this sad jsjdjskd but i love u all and i'm so sorry in advanced ... but likes and reposts are much loved mwah mwah mwah
inspired by ♪ from the subway train, vansire 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ ── ao3 version. playlist. header art twt/@5booosa. dividers by @cafekitsune
The air in December tastes like endings, bitter like smoke and cold enough to hurt.
Shoko stands alone beneath the harsh fluorescent glow of a streetlamp, cigarette trembling faintly between gloved fingers, the embers burning quietly, steadily, a small star of comfort in between her fingertips. Snow falls in careless spirals, catching in her hair, dusting her eyelashes, melting against her skin.
She watches her breath leave her body, a faint cloud in the chill, and thinks about how strange it is—how terribly quiet the world becomes when there’s nothing left but memory.
She swears it wasn’t always this cold.
i. november, 1989
You were both born in early November, five days apart.
Shoko first—small, silent, blue around the lips. Her mother would later tell her she hadn’t cried, not even once. She just blinked up at the ceiling, like she’d already seen too much of the world. You had come days after—red-faced and furious, shrieking like you’d already been wronged.
Balance, their clanhead called it. One to make, one to unmake.
They grew up in a quiet prefecture, tucked between the mountains, where fog collected on windows in the morning and everything smelled like pine and old rain. Their family was not a traditional jujutsu clan—not in the way the Zenins or the Gojos were—but they still had blood that remembered power, blood that ran strangely cold.
Shoko discovered her technique early—reversed cursed energy, delicate and warm, the ability to stitch together what others could only destroy. It made her quiet, made her thoughtful, made her feel too responsible for things she didn’t understand. You, on the other hand, were all forward motion and fury, manifesting offensive cursed techniques with raw instinct and terrifying precision.
You burned. Shoko cooled. A soldier and a healer.
It wasn't rivalry. It wasn't even contrast, really. It was rhythm—two halves of a heart, orbiting each other, moving through childhood in tandem. You protected her from bullies, from curses, from the dark under the bed. Shoko bandaged your scraped knees, held your hair back with her small hands when you threw up after manifesting your cursed technique for the first time, whispered questions into your shoulder late at night about whether they’d ever be normal.
Neither of you wanted normal. Not really.
So when your mothers had suggested both of you for Jujutsu Tech—you didn’t hesitate. It is the slight chill that Spring of 2005 that Shoko remembers most. Fifteen years old, uniforms they’d taken customized to their liking just a month before—Shoko, with her wide turtleneck and midi skirt. You, in a well-tailored blazer, and much to your mother’s disapproval—a short skirt.
Even after the arguments and bickering, their mothers had cried. Their fathers had barely nodded at them. The train took them away to Tokyo with petals sticking to the window, and their only belongings in duffle bags at their feet. Shoko’s hands were cold where they held yours softly.
She was afraid. You weren’t.
You had always loved the idea of being chosen, and Shoko just didn’t want to be left behind.
And maybe that’s how it all began—not with power, or fate, or bloodlines.
Two girls stepping onto a train together, one chasing strength, the other running away from a world she’d one day have to hold together with her hands.
ii. april, 2005
Jujutsu Tech was nothing like Shoko expected.
She thought it would be colder, older, more like the hospitals she’d passed on the train—tall and sterile and gray. But it was… soft. Vines curling around wooden buildings, laundry strung between windows, the hum of cicadas already testing their voices in the trees. It smelled like dirt and chalk and something faintly sweet, like sakura or summer air caught in the stairwells.
She didn’t talk much those first couple of days. Neither did Suguru Geto.
They met on their first day of class, standing awkwardly apart. Shoko was pressed against the wall, you beside her like a shield, when she noticed him—black hair long just at his shoulder, eyes unreadable, hands folded neatly behind his back like he was waiting for something more important than small talk. He caught her looking, and they didn’t smile, but something passed between them anyway. A kind of shared silence.
Then came Gojo.
She had heard of him before, of course. The honored one, the destined boy of the Gojo Clan. He arrived like a storm—messy white hair, too-tall frame stuffed into the uniform like it didn’t quite belong to him. He talked too much, laughed too loud, tripped over his own shoes, and still managed to radiate something untouchable. He was awkward, undeniably gifted, and absolutely convinced he had nothing to learn from anyone.
Shoko didn’t really like him.
You despised him worse, found him amusing. You would say he was infuriating, sure—but interesting.
“He thinks he’s better than everyone,” you whispered one night, grimacing into your pillow. “But his ears turn red every time I catch him staring.”
Shoko rolled her eyes, gave you a half smile. “He’s insufferable.”
“You're just mad that he said you would look better if you grew out your hair.” you teased.
“That's not true. I like my hair.”
“I like it too.”
“Then why does it matter to me what he thinks?”
But slowly—so slowly it almost escaped her notice—he changed. He started making jokes with them. And regrettably, Shoko would sometimes laugh at something he said. He started sitting with them at lunch. Picked up Suguru’s habit of folding napkins into strange little birds. Borrowed Shoko’s pens and returned them. Awkwardly, with both hands and a muttered thanks.
He began learning them. Their rhythms. Their silences.
It was the end of summer when it started to feel like something real.
Missions were few and far between in those first months. They trained hard, sweat and bruises under the cherry blossoms, sparring on grass that still held morning dew. Shoko hated sparring. She wasn’t built for it—not the way you were, with your reckless cursed technique and even more reckless joy.
But she tried. Because she had to. Because she wouldn’t let herself be the weak link.
And Gojo—he always held back when they fought. Even then, before he understood how to be gentle, he understood that she needed to win sometimes. Needed to prove that she could. He let her land hits, not because she needed help, but because he saw the way she looked at herself compared to the rest of them. She knew that Gojo—the freak of nature he was with those blazing blue eyes—saw her beneath her dry sarcasm and grins and tired eyes.
Suguru, on the other hand, never let her win. But he gave her pointers after. Explained why she slipped, what her stance betrayed. His feedback was quiet, clinical, never cruel. Always gave her a nod and a smile. Shoko trusted him for it.
Those were their blue springs—their youth washed in cloudless skies and laughter and rain-soaked uniforms drying on sun-warmed rocks. Those were the days of early friendships, of discovering who they were becoming.
They took the train into Tokyo for missions, packed into cars half-asleep, heads knocking against windows. You would always take the window seat, with your far too expensive mp3 player and ratty wired earbuds. You’d hum under your breath, fingers tapping a beat on your thigh. Gojo sprawled across two seats, his head inevitably ending up in someone’s lap. Suguru read novels and pretended not to notice you and Gojo’s helpless bickering.
❀
The first storm of the summer comes sudden, like most things that mattered back then. Sheets of water turning the courtyard into a lake, petals plastered to the stones.
Gojo didn’t run for cover. Of course he didn't. He stood in the middle of it all like some idiot, arms outstretched, hair plastered white against his forehead, laughing so loud it made the rain sound shy.
“You'll catch a cold,” Suguru called from the walkway, voice dry as the towel slung around his shoulders.
“Colds are a myth,” Gojo shot back, spinning in a circle, water flying from his sleeves. It wasn't rare back then for Gojo to turn off his infinity, especially for rain storms he used to practically bathe in.
Shoko watched from the step, dry under an awning with a cigarette between her fingers. Smoking was a new habit she’d picked up, in spite of the protests from her friends, in spite of the distaste and the mini interventions and scoldings you’d given her. All these years later, she can’t really remember where it started from.
You had taken the cigarette from her fingers that day and threw it in the rain, leaving her a little frustrated. Then she watched as you tried not to smile, and bolted straight into the storm after Gojo, shoes kicking up water like wings.
The both of you were soaked in seconds—shrieking, colliding, uniforms clinging like second skin. Grinning too bright for the gray sky above them.
❀
They went on their first mission as a full team in late October.
A cursed spirit in a temple in the countryside—nothing particularly dangerous, but big enough to warrant the four of them. The four of you, as it turned out, had garnered somewhat of a reputation in the Jujutsu world by this point, even though it had only been a couple months into your first year. There was Gojo, being who he was, and then there were you and Geto, two special-grade hopefuls, and then Shoko, with her reverse cursed technique. It was hard not to hear the excitement, the chatter from your seniors and teachers and higher-ups and worse, the curses, as they marveled at what potential the four of you possessed.
On their first mission together they took the train, bundled in thin jackets, feet tangled under the seats. You sat next to Gojo this time, your knees knocking occasionally as the train curved through the mountains. You two didn’t talk much, just passed a packet of rice crackers back and forth, you opening them with your teeth and Gojo laughing, soft, like he couldn’t help it.
Suguru fell asleep with his head against the window. Shoko watched the landscape blur, temples and fields dissolving into dusk.
She remembers that October day clearly — because the first time they saw a body together was on a bridge, the river swollen black beneath it, the cold gnawing at their ankles. The mission shouldn’t have had civilian casualties. It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Yet their world didn’t care about supposed to.
Shoko stood back as Suguru exorcised the curse, her hands clenching, heart banging against her ribs like it wanted out. When it was over, the corpse of the victim lay sprawled against the guardrail, mouth full of frozen air. A little girl—her hair so matted in blood Shoko couldn’t tell what color it was anymore.
Gojo tried to crack a joke, to distill the buzzing in the air—something stupid about ghosts haunting bridges—but no one laughed, not even him. You touched Shoko's arm, light as breath, and for the first time Shoko wondered if maybe they weren’t weapons at all. Maybe they were just kids with blood under their nails and no way out.
It's that night she remembers all these years later, coming home from the mission. They stayed up talking until sunrise. They lay on futons in someone’s dorm room, the windows open, moths circling the lights.
“Do you ever think,” you had asked, staring at the ceiling. “That we’re not meant to survive this?”
There's a quiet that fills the room, uncomfortable, like understanding the inevitable.
“Don't say that depressing shit,” Gojo said sharply, but his voice still held a hint of something that could’ve been mistaken for vulnerability.
“I'm serious. We're weapons. Tools. They'll use us until we break.”
“Then we don’t break,” Suguru said quietly.
“Or we break together.” Shoko said, so softly no one answered.
That first year, they were just kids. Cursed kids, sure. But kids.
And even though Shoko knew better—even though she could already see the shape of blood and bodies and burials in the future—she let herself believe in nights like those. The four of them sprawled on the floor, laughing at someone’s expense, playing cards and cheap candy wrappers littered on the floor.
In the way Gojo looked at you when he thought no one else saw.
In the way Suguru never raised his voice, but always listened.
In the way you gave your heart like the world hadn’t hurt you yet.
In the way they all leaned on each other like scaffolding, like maybe if they held tight enough, they wouldn’t fall.
iii. june, 2006
Summer in Tokyo hit different when you were sixteen and almost certain you’d die before twenty.
They weren’t supposed to go out—they had curfews, missions stacked like bones at the start of their second year—curses growing restless, schools asking for protection, strange whispers threading through reports about ancient prisons and shifting power balances. Still, they trained. Still, they laughed. Still, they stole naps on rooftops and dared each other to eat expired convenience store pudding.
Still, they were kids.
Gojo whined until Suguru sighed and gave in, and you had tugged Shoko by the wrist before she could protest.
The festival was a crush of lantern light and smoke, sweet batter curling through the air, fireworks cracking open the dark. You darted ahead, yukata swaying, hair pinned up with something glittering like starlight. Gojo stuck by your side, wolfing down skewers two at a time, Suguru following at a distance with his hands tucked in his sleeves, gaze flicking toward the crowd like a man always counting exits, but still roaring in laughter as Gojo almost chokes on his third kebab.
“Try this,” Gojo said, shoving a stick of candied fruit under Shoko's nose.
“I don’t want your leftovers,” she muttered, unimpressed. But after a bit of nagging she took it anyway, quietly unwrapping it and biting through the sugar shell and pretending it wasn’t good—just to spite him.
Fireworks bloomed overhead—white, then red, then a scatter of gold that turned every face strange and beautiful. For a moment, Shoko saw them like strangers: Suguru haloed in crimson, Gojo’s grin carved bright in the dark, and you tilting your head back to watch the sky like it would never fall.
The boom of the next firework swallowed her thoughts, and she let it.
❀
Shoko always thought the end would come like a firework—loud, blinding, impossible to ignore.
But it hadn’t. It came instead like fog. Slow, creeping, impossible to trace where it started.
By the time they noticed it was already over, the fog of it had already filled the room.
She thinks she can trace every lamentable moment of her life back to that August of 2006.
Gojo, Geto, you and the star plasma vessel mission she hadn’t been a part of. When she thinks back on it, she can’t exactly understand what happened in that week to have changed the course of their entire lives. Was it before Gojo died in a bloody mess? Was it after he came back, blood-stained, eyes dark, buzzing with an energy that she acknowledged—with bated breath—had finally crossed to godhood?
Gojo was stronger. Far stronger. Six eyes sharp as knives, his cursed technique threading into infinity like it had always been waiting for him to catch up. The elders watched him now—not as a student, but as a threat. You noticed it too. Started staying closer to him, stepping between him and the higher-ups during briefings.
“They're grooming him,” you told Shoko once. “Not for leadership. For war.”
Shoko looked at you—at the calluses on your hands, the scar on your jaw you hadn’t let Shoko heal.
“They're grooming all of us.”
You didn’t deny it anymore.
❀
There are softer things that year, where Shoko can’t remember the exact moment things changed.
Only that something had slowed, gone hazy. Like the last layer of frost on a windowpane, melting so gently it almost went unnoticed.
It felt like fall had come early. The leaves on the tech’s old trees went gold and red like they’d been waiting to burn. There were still wounds to be tended to, and there were still things they couldn’t talk about from the end of that summer.
But Gojo had grown taller over the summer, like his body had finally remembered he came from giants. His hair had grown shaggier, uniform didn’t fit right anymore, and he refused to ask for a new one. Shoko watched him adjust his cuffs every morning like it was some kind of ritual, then pretend not to notice when you offered him your spare hair tie for his sleeves. He took it without meeting your eyes, and wore it like armor.
Shoko noticed the shift in the air. Maybe it was the way that you had started lingering after training, towel around your neck, laughter caught in your throat like a secret. Or the way Gojo stood straighter when you walked into a room, blinking too slow, like he hadn’t meant to look. Maybe it was how the two of you had stopped fighting in that way you used to—loud, fast, like lightning cracking open the sky—and started teasing instead. Light, easy, ridiculous. Like you didn’t know how else to be near each other.
Shoko noticed it in the quiet, in the pauses between conversations, and in the way you touched your own wrist absentmindedly whenever Gojo spoke, like grounding yourself. She noticed how Gojo—always so proud of his attention span—started forgetting what he was saying mid-sentence if you laughed too loud.
“You're obvious,” Shoko told you one evening, as you stood in front of her dorm mirror brushing your teeth. It was practically your dorm now, too.
You spat into the sink. “He’s worse.”
“You're both insufferable.”
“He’s insufferable. I'm charming.”
“He told Nanami you punched him in the throat during training.”
“I did, so what? He totally deserved it.”
“I just can’t believe he let you in the first place.” Shoko shook her head, and thought of the infinity around Gojo, the invisible barrier between him and humanity. The thing that put him closer to godliness. A smile curling at her lips despite herself, understanding the implications of Gojo turning it off around you. “And yet you still gave him your last Milkis at lunch.”
“It was strawberry-flavored.” a shrug. “I don't like strawberry.”
Shoko didn’t say anything else. Didn’t point out the way you lingered when Gojo wasn’t around, or how your voice got quieter when you talked about him. Didn’t say that she’d seen Gojo staring out windows when he thought no one was watching, fingers tapping the rhythm of your laugh on his thigh.
There was something sacred about their closeness. Something fragile and half-formed, still soft at the edges. Shoko didn’t want to break it by naming it too soon.
She just watched. Just remembered.
Suguru was the only one who never commented.
He saw it too—of course he did—but he never overtly teased, only gave a knowing smile quietly to Gojo who would glare back, but never really poked at the obvious tension between the two. Maybe because he understood it, or maybe because he was the kind of person who noticed things and let them be.
He grew quieter that fall, but not in a way that worried her yet. It was more like he was watching, gathering. She felt like something was shifting behind his eyes, too slow and too early to name yet. He still joked with Gojo, still helped Haibara with his footwork, still spent long evenings reading next to Shoko in the common room without saying a word.
But he didn’t smile as easily. And sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he would close his eyes like the world was too loud.
Shoko didn’t ask. She didn’t know how.
Maybe she should have.
❀
It's late November and the mission went fine.
They exorcised the spirit, cleansed the space, burned the remains. But it was what happened after that stuck.
They stayed overnight in a small inn at the base of the mountain, just two rooms—boys in one, girls in the other. The floors were tatami, and the air smelled like cedar and sulfur from the hot springs nearby. it should’ve been peaceful.
But Shoko couldn’t sleep.
You lay on your side, back to Shoko, eyes open in the dark. She listened to the wind outside, the drip of water from a leaky faucet, the quiet hum of something that felt like change.
And then, sometime past midnight, you slipped out of bed.
Shoko didn’t move, just watched the shadow cross the room, slide the door open, and vanish into the hallway.
It wasn't long before Gojo left too.
You weren’t subtle. Maybe you didn’t want to be.
Shoko waited a full minute before getting up. Her feet were cold on the floor. She didn’t know what she expected—to interrupt them, to tease them. She heard echoes in the hallway, but couldn’t make out a word. Just the shuffling of feet, and the wind blowing against the door.
But when she found the two of you — you weren’t touching.
You were standing in the snow-dusted garden outside the inn, facing each other, breathing visible in the cold. Your arms were folded tight across your chest. Gojo's hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets.
You weren’t saying anything, but she felt this air around you two. In your distance, in the heavy breathing and puffs of smoke between your lips, like you had run out of words to say.
Now, you were just looking.
And maybe that was worse. More intimate, somehow.
Shoko didn’t move. She stayed hidden by the shadows, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.
Then you reached forward.
Your hands touching Gojo’s cheek, just barely.
He flinched.
Not away. Not exactly. Just — startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to be real.
Shoko could see it then—how scared he was. Not of you, but of what it meant to want something in a world like theirs.
“You don’t have to say anything,” you said quietly.
Gojo looked at you. “I should.”
“You never say anything you don’t mean.”
“I don’t know how to mean this.”
A pause. Your breath hitched.
“Just don’t look away.”
He didn’t.
And she watched as you leaned in, closing your eyes for your first kiss. How his lashes had brushed against your cheek as he let you pull him in, his hand finding its way to gently hold your waist.
Shoko had left after that — witnessing a moment so intimate she felt shivers just watching it, intruding in it. Or maybe it was the cold that got her. But, she waited to sleep until you went back inside. Waited until you crawled into bed beside her again, colder than before, but smiling softly into the dark.
Neither of you said a word.
Shoko stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about how everything had already started to change.
❀
The next few weeks felt warmer, somehow. Like something had opened in their group that wasn’t there before. Not just between Gojo and you—but all of them.
They trained harder. Laughed more. She wanted to believe they were healing the cracks from that August, that the feeling of finality sinking into her wasn’t real.
Even Suguru seemed lighter again. He stopped frowning at the radio when the news came on. Started humming again while he read. He taught Haibara about a complicated binding technique in the training yard one afternoon and let out a laugh when their junior tried it himself. There was a moment—a brief, impossible moment—where Shoko almost believed in forever.
They sat on the school rooftop one evening, all four of them, sky streaked violet and pink and gold. Someone had brought a speaker, and someone else had brought a bottles of various soda. Music played low. She noticed that you had rested your head on Gojo's shoulder, and he didn’t move, just leaned into it like gravity.
Suguru was telling a story about a curse he saw shaped like a crab. Shoko laughed. The wind was cool and sweet. The world didn’t feel like it was ending yet.
“You ever think we’ll get out of this?” Suguru asked, voice low, cigarette between his lip.
“Out of what?” you asked.
“This. Jujutsu. Destruction and death and chaos—whatever it is.”
Gojo stared at the sky. “No.”
“Maybe,” Shoko took the cigarette from Geto’s lips, and took a puff. “but not whole.”
They sat in silence for a long time after that.
The sun set, and Shoko watched the light disappear behind Gojo’s glasses, behind your smile, behind the quiet curve of Suguru's mouth.
It felt like a beginning.
But all she could think about was how beautiful things always seemed, right before they broke.
iv. march, 2007
It’s cruel to her, how the missions only seemed to get worse after that.
Higher-ranked, more volatile, more death. More nights in strange towns with blood on their hands. They started seeing each other less and less. After last August, in the aftermath of Riko Amani’s death, Gojo had been assigned onto more missions alone—acknowledged for the first time in finality as the strongest. Started carrying all the mission files himself, memorizing them down to the street corners. Shoko started collecting more tools, more supplies, more sutures for the clinic at the tech, where she stayed more often than not now. She stopped wearing earrings because they got in the way of her face mask. You had learned how to kill without hesitation.
And she swore Suguru never complained about the missions he went on alone. But now he flinched when they passed playgrounds. Tensed when civilians asked for help. The curses he swallowed grew sharper, crueler. nastier, he had once told her late one night, the word leaving his tongue like he had coughed up bile.
“Don't let them suffer,” he said once, without blinking. “Fast is better.”
Shoko nodded.
She didn’t ask what he meant.
❀
The last mission they took together was in the early spring of 2007, before the start of their third year.
A cult in Hiraizumi—dark rituals, civilian disappearances, cursed users hiding behind holy symbols and incense. They traveled light, only the four of them. It felt like the early days again, for a moment—suitcases and jokes and Gojo making dumb puns as they checked into a cheap ryokan.
But the mission itself was ugly.
Children locked in closets. Blood on the temple floors. Curses formed from fear and starvation, clinging to walls like rot.
Suguru lost control halfway through.
Not of his technique. Not of his mind. But of his restraint.
He killed too quickly. Didn’t wait for surrender, and didn’t leave the last cursed user breathing long enough to answer questions.
Gojo grabbed him by the collar after.
“What the hell was that?”
“They were killing kids.”
“They were running away.”
“And they would’ve kept going.”
Gojo's hand tightened. his voice dropped. “We follow orders.”
“Do we?”
Suguru's eyes burned—hotter than Shoko had ever seen. “Whose orders, Satoru?”
Shoko watched you step between them. A hand on Gojo's chest. Your voice low. “Not here.”
Gojo dropped his hand, and Suguru had turned and walked away, scoffing.
The two of them didn’t speak again the rest of the trip.
❀
Haibara died not long after.
He had been bright—sun-bright, laughter-bright, too-young-to-fall-bright. He said “good morning” like it mattered. He addressed them all formally even when they told him to stop. He sparred with you like he was dancing, ate lunch with his mouth full, had dreams about being a sorcerer who saved people and meant it.
The mission was supposed to be simple.
Shoko remembers the call. A cursed womb, grade 3, nothing extraordinary. She remembers you saying, “they’re strong. Nanami'll be with him. they’ll be fine.”
They weren’t.
What came back wasn’t a body, not really. It was a mess of limbs and red and something too silent to be the Haibara she had known.
Nanami carried him. Wouldn’t let go, even as his uniform soaked a darker shade from the blood.
Shoko stitched Haibara's body together with shaking hands—not to save him. Just so his mother could recognize his face.
You threw up in the courtyard after the funeral. Gojo didn’t speak. Suguru didn’t cry.
Grief had finally split the group like glass under pressure—fracture lines running between them, invisible until the light hit just right.
Gojo got louder. More obnoxious, more ridiculous. He made jokes during meetings, fell asleep in class, tripped over his own feet just to make you laugh.
And you did laugh. Loud and real and reckless. But there was something sharp underneath it. A glint in your voice. A kind of defiance.
Suguru got even quieter.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet, the kind that meant calm or ease.
This was the kind that clung to him. That narrowed his eyes when he passed civilians on the street. That curled his lip when they reported to elders who hadn’t lifted a hand in battle in years. That made him look at Haibara’s photo like it was a question that would never be answered.
Shoko felt it most at night.
Suguru used to accidentally fall asleep reading in the common room, head tilted back, glasses slipping. Now, he sat up long after everyone else had gone to bed, staring at nothing, fingers curled like he was still gripping a weapon.
She said something once. Tried to, at least.
“Are you okay?” she asked quietly, as they stood in the hall one night. She can’t recall why, or where, but she remembers this moment because there has never been a part of her that hadn’t wished she had pushed back harder.
Suguru looked at her.
His smile was soft, fake. “Yeah.”
By then she knew he was gone.
❀
A couple weeks later, in the midst of an August heatwave — Suguru Geto disappears.
He left a note on the dorm kitchen table and a photo of the four of them.
Just one sentence: I can't do this anymore.
The rest was silence.
Shoko found it first. She read it twice, then sat down at the table and stared at the handwriting until you walked in and asked where everyone was.
Gojo didn’t say anything after meeting with Yaga. Didn’t come out of his room for the rest of the morning.
Though it’s the last time she sees Suguru, she understands this is it.
She had heard, just a little after reading his final note, what he’d done. A town massacred, burned to the ground and cursed residuals that couldn’t have been anyone’s but the man next to her — his own mother and father killed by their only son’s hands.
Yet here he was, lighting her cigarette for her and laughing. At least she could pretend for a moment that this didn’t have to be over.
She gives Gojo a call and waits with Suguru for his best friend to arrive and she wonders if Gojo could change the outcome of this. If Gojo Satoru could save Suguru Geto from himself. But another glance up at him, long hair disheveled, the purpled skin under his eyes deeper than she’s ever seen, and the emptiness behind his smile, that she realizes she doesn’t know the man next to her. Not anymore. Maybe not at all.
So he waves goodbye, and she nods and lets the smoke cloud her lungs.
And she never spoke to him again.
❀
That winter, the sky felt heavier. The air full of ghosts.
You stopped wearing bright colors. Started sleeping in your uniform, like you expected to be called into battle at any second. Gojo trained until his hands bled, and didn’t let Shoko bandage them.
“What if he’s right?” he asked her once. His voice barely audible. “What if we’re just killing things to delay the inevitable?”
Shoko didn’t answer, because she didn’t know. (Because something in her still wanted to believe.)
But by the end of that year she had found herself alone more often.
In the morgue. On the roof. In the silence between patrols. She smoked less, not because she wanted to live longer. Just because it didn’t feel worth the taste anymore.
You had stopped talking about the future.
Gojo stopped calling himself the strongest.
They were eighteen then. Too young to have seen so much. Too old to unsee any of it.
v. 2008
The years felt blurry after.
Like the sky after a firework show, after the beauty of it wears and you are left with the remains. Of the sky billowed in smoke, and the ground covered in ash. Shoko remembers the firework show during the summer festival in their second year, how she had watched the lights change your faces. How when she thinks of Suguru, she remembers him back then, hair in a half bun, wearing a yukata, his profile cast under the red glow of fireworks.
Mission after mission. Report after report. Half-empty dorm rooms. Birthdays that passed unnoticed. Names that became numbers. More curses. More blood. Fewer friends.
By then she had stopped smoking entirely, not because she wanted to live. But because you had always hated the smell.
And for a long time after Suguru left, Shoko couldn’t sleep without dreaming of the morgue.
The lights were always too bright. The steel trays too cold. Her gloves slick with blood that would never dry. In the dream, you always walked in first—whole, alive, laughing. And Shoko would reach for you. Call your name. But you would just smile, step onto the autopsy table, and lie down.
“You're early,” Shoko would whisper.
“I know.” you would say.
Then the door would swing open, and Suguru would walk in next. But his face would be hollowed out, eyes dark like tunnels. He'd sit beside your body, light a cigarette, and say nothing at all.
Shoko always woke up with her hands clenched tight around the sheets, fingers aching.
❀
Gojo never talked about Suguru.
Not once.
Not even on that day all those years ago when he came back from the confrontation in Shinjuku with blood in his nails and grief in his eyes.
He got stronger. Faster. Untouchable.
The elders stopped looking at him like a student and started looking at him like their greatest tool. He didn’t flinch, just started smiling bigger, make louder jokes, wore sunglasses indoors, and flirted and teased and deflected.
Shoko could see it, thought. In the slump of his shoulders, or the way his laugh caught wrong in his throat.
He was grieving like a dam breaking. Slowly and inevitably.
But never where anyone could see.
You stayed close to him after that. Stopped being fire and became gravity. Quiet and steady. The only thing that could bring him back when he started spinning too fast. You were the one who waited outside meetings. The one who kicked open his door and pulled him out of bed on the days he refused to get up, muttering, “If you don’t move, I'll set your curtains on fire.”
He always moved. Shoko thinks that it’s less because he believed in your vague threats, and more because he just believed in you.
Shoko watched it all from the edge.
The way you stopped waiting for him to say how he felt. The way you just stood there—open, unwavering—until he stopped running.
The two of you never made it official. Not with labels. Not with grand declarations or anything, But Gojo started showing up late to meetings because he walked you home.
Shoko didn’t know if it was healing, but for a while, it was peace.
vi. april, 2009
Around this time, the Fushiguro’s arrived.
Megumi. Six years old. Too serious. Too quiet. walked around everyone like he was ready to hit, or be hit. His older sister, Tsumiki. Not older by much, just eight years old, but she was sunshine, warm and motherly beyond her years. Shoko saw that you took to her instantly, buying her hair clips and braiding her hair — showing her how to throw a punch if she ever needed to.
Gojo brought them to the school with a box of takeout and a stubborn glint in his eye. "Don't say anything weird,” he told you and shook. “He already thinks I’m an idiot.”
“He's not wrong,” you smiled, and Gojo pouted at you.
Shoko bent down to meet the boy’s eyes, unsure of what to say. “Hmm. What’s something you like?”
He shrugged, and gave her an unimpressed look. “I like dogs.”
“Me too,” she said. “They’re honest.”
That night, they all sat in the common room eating cold noodles. Gojo told a story about a cursed tanuki that stole his left shoe. Megumi didn’t laugh, but he leaned into his sister when she did. Shoko watched as he leaned by Gojo's side as the lights went out.
You and Gojo had opened your arms and made space for the two of them.
Or maybe you had filled in the spaces left behind.
❀
Gojo cooked more, and wasn't great on his first try, surprisingly. Shoko had to supervise so he didn’t poison anyone, and you would’ve eaten anything Gojo cooked, regardless.
Shoko watched as the four of them fell into something like a rhythm. Not a family. Not quite.
But something softer than she had become used to.
The kids brought color back to the halls when they came to visit. Laughter that didn’t feel borrowed. It wasn't like before—but nothing ever was.
Gojo had bought an apartment for Megumi and Tsumiki, and the two of you stopped by almost everyday that year. You and Gojo made bento boxes. You went on grocery runs. You argued over what show to watch on Saturday nights. When Shoko would come over, Tsumiki would beg to paint Shoko’s nails, and once she had given in with her nails painted badly in rainbow and glitter, and you and Gojo had made fun of her for weeks when Shoko didn’t wipe it off.
You stopped wearing your uniform outside missions. Started wearing sweaters with loose sleeves, earrings again, mismatched socks.
You started reading books and magazines and things that weren’t just mission reports. Bought a plant for their windowsill. Put post-it notes on the fridge.
Shoko found one once that said, “Satoru, if you forget to buy me dorayaki again, I swear to God.”
He forgot anyway, but he came back late that night with flowers.
Shoko watched from the couch as you opened the door, just to see you blinking down at the bouquet like it had grown a second head.
“They didn’t have dorayaki,” he said, sheepish. “But they had these.”
You didn’t speak—just grabbed the collar of his coat and stepped into the apartment hallway with him, shutting the door without looking.
Shoko looked away, and gave them the evening. She hung out with the kids, because they were cooler, and let them sleep on the couch watching movies.
It’s after they had fallen asleep, and you and Gojo were nowhere to be seen, that she sat on the balcony and watched the city lights flicker, listening to the hum of traffic into the night.
For the first time in months, she felt… full.
Not happy. Not yet healed.
But full, like maybe all her pieces had stopped rattling.
Just for now.
❀
She still worked long hours, because the clinic never slept.
New students. New injuries. New names she tried not to memorize.
She stitched and cut and stabilized and cleaned. Practiced her technique until it no longer felt like a gift but a reflex.
She stopped praying, though she had never been good at it anyway.
But every time a body came in, not yet cold, not yet gone, she held her breath.
Please, not them.
❀
They didn’t talk about the past. At least not often.
But sometimes, when you had already fallen asleep and the wind whistled through the hallways, Gojo would sit next to her on the balcony and say things in a tone older than his twenty years.
“He liked soba more than ramen. I never knew that.”
And Shoko would nod.
“He read faster than anyone,” she’d add. “even me.”
“He believed in this more than we did.”
“Yeah.”
Then silence.
Then the night.
Then the world turning, regardless.
❀
Shoko isn’t sure what time it is now, but it feels like a bit past midnight. In here, it’s just the two of you on the couch with the weight of exhaustion like a second blanket. The balcony door is half-open, and the September chill is blowing in softly. There’s a glass of wine balanced precariously on the edge of the coffee table, that she keeps forgetting to drink, and you’ve got your legs tucked underneath you, hair damp from a shower, wearing one of those shirts that’s probably his — though neither of you ever acknowledges it out loud.
Shoko tips her head against the back of the couch, eyes tracing the ceiling like it’ll tell her the future, and mutters, “I feel so old.”
You laugh, soft, incredulous. “We’re twenty-one.”
“Exactly. And yet my back feels like I’m fifty.” You give her a side glance, smiling.
“My back feels perfectly fine, granny.”
“That’s because you have two little minions who give you back massages whenever you ask. And they can’t say no because you house and feed them.”
You nudge her knee with your own, half-amused, half-affectionate. “They’d starve if it wasn’t for us.”
“They’d at least learn how to cook instant ramen properly,” she fires back, though her tone is fond. She knows it as well as you do—how Megumi sometimes falls asleep at the kitchen table with his homework still out, how Tsumiki always insists on washing the dishes even when her fingers are pruned from her bath. How the apartment has begun to feel not just like a place to sleep, but like the kind of home you were never supposed to have.
It makes her chest ache.
She glances at you again, more carefully this time. “You’re happy, right?”
You blink at her, then tilt your head like you don’t quite understand the weight of the question. “Happy?”
“You know what I mean.” Shoko shrugs, too casual. “With all this — and with him.”
There it is. Not accusatory, just curious, like she’s been holding this thought in her mouth for months, letting it turn over until it smoothed into something she could say without breaking it.
You’re quiet for a moment, your gaze lowering to the glass of wine you still haven’t touched. “It’s not simple.”
“Nothing ever is with him.” She huffs a small laugh, but she doesn’t look away from you.
“Sometimes,” you admit, your voice softer, “it feels like we’re still kids, sneaking out after curfew, daring each other to jump rooftops. And then sometimes I look at him and I feel like—” You break off, shaking your head as though it’s too fragile to name.
“Like what?”
You exhale slowly. “Like he already belongs to the world, and I’m just borrowing him for a while.”
That hits Shoko harder than she expects. She shifts on the couch, watching the way your fingers worry at the hem of your sleeve. There’s something unguarded in the way you say it, something that makes her throat tighten.
Shoko leans her head against the couch cushion, her glass dangling loosely from her fingers. “You talk like he’s a library book or something. Checked out, due back in three weeks.”
You laugh, though it’s small and tired. “Maybe that’s all love really is. Borrowing someone for as long as they’ll let you keep them.”
“Morbid.”
“Honest.” You glance at her, and your smile is crooked, fond. “You know him. He’s… a hurricane in human form. Everyone wants a piece of him, and half the time I feel like I’m just holding on, hoping he doesn’t blow past me.”
Shoko hums, noncommittal, but her eyes are sharp. “And yet you’ve been holding on for who knows how long. Most people can’t even last five minutes with him in a room.”
“Don’t remind me,” you mutter, though your lips curve. “He still leaves his socks everywhere. Still eats candy for breakfast if I don’t stop him. And he—” You pause, and the softness of your voice betrays you. “He still looks at me the same way he did when we were sixteen. Like he can’t believe I’m real.”
Shoko conceals her smile, and masks it with a sip of wine. “He’d be an idiot not to.”
“I think about it sometimes,” you admit. “If we hadn’t met so young. If we hadn’t been thrown together in that pressure cooker of a school — would it have still been him? Would he have still found me?”
Shoko stretches her legs out, her gaze slipping toward the ceiling. “I think he was always going to be yours, you know. Some things just… fix themselves in place before you even notice.”
You fall quiet, staring at the wine in your glass, watching the way the light fractures against it. When you speak again, it’s hushed. “I’m scared, Shoko. I– I think I’m scared of losing him. Of the day the world asks for more than he can give, and I have to watch him walk toward it anyway.”
Shoko doesn’t answer right away. She looks at you — really looks — the girl who grew up at her side, who always chose kindness even when it cost you. You, who Gojo has loved since he was growing into his height, awkward and half-feral with grief and brilliance. You, who still look at him like he’s worth the trouble.
Finally, she says, “You know, when we were teenagers, I used to wonder if you’d grow tired of him. If one day you’d realize it was too much.”
You blink at her, startled. “And now?”
Shoko shrugs, her expression softening. “Now I think — if anyone was ever built to love him, it was you. Stubborn, patient, stupidly brave. He’s impossible, but you’ve always made the impossible look easy.”
Your laugh catches in your throat, trembling somewhere between joy and sorrow. “Don’t make me cry, Shoko.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She lifts her glass in a lazy toast. “To you and him. To sixteen and twenty-one, and however long you can keep borrowing each other.”
You tap your glass gently against hers, the sound ringing low and warm. “To growing older.”
Shoko watches the way your face lights up at the thought, and takes a long sip from her glass. She tries for levity, though it comes out a little rough. “Well, if he breaks your heart, I get to kill him. That’s the rule.”
You laugh—really laugh this time, the kind that crinkles your eyes and warms the air between you. “You’d have to fight him first.”
“Please,” she scoffs. “He’s all bark. I’d win.”
“You’re funny, Shoko.” You smile a little sleepily, and lean your head against her shoulder, the way you used to when you were girls hiding from the elders in the back hallways of the clan compound. She doesn’t move, just lets you settle there, the weight of you a reminder that some things never change.
There’s a long stretch of silence, broken only by the city hum outside. Then, almost shyly, Shoko says, “Well, I hope he loves growing old with you as much as I loved growing up with you.”
You still against her, then let out a breath that sounds dangerously close to a sob. She doesn’t look at you, doesn’t push. That’s never been your language. Instead, she reaches for her wine, takes another sip, and adds, almost casually, “And if he doesn’t, then screw him. You’ll still have me.”
You laugh again, watery this time, and lean closer. “Always.”
❀
In the mornings, she drank coffee alone.
In the evenings, she liked to come to your apartment to the sound of laughter, and nonsense on the TV. To the smell of your cooking, which had gotten better than Gojo’s after a couple months. To Tsumiki and her hands that grabbed Shoko’s wrists and led her to the dining table. To Megumi, who Gojo tried so hard to make smile at his awful jokes.
Sometimes, she let herself believe it could last.
Sometimes, she let herself want more.
That was enough.
vii. 1997
When they were seven, you and Shoko built a grave for a bird.
They’d found it after a storm — a small thing, all bones and feathers, collapsed in the mud beneath a persimmon tree in the compound’s garden. You crouched beside it, poked it with a stick. “Is it sleeping?”
“No,” shoko said. “It's dead.”
“How do you know?”
“Its chest isn’t moving.”
“How do you know?”
Shoko didn’t answer. Just knelt down, tiny hands damp with soil, and began to dig.
They buried it beneath a square stone, lined the edges with pebbles. You picked wildflowers and bundled it with twine from the kitchen. Shoko pressed her fingers to the earth and whispered something she didn’t really understand — a wish, maybe, or a prayer.
They sat there until the wind died down, until your mother called them in, until the sky turned the color of ash.
“We should’ve saved it,” you whispered, wiping your nose with your sleeve.
Shoko didn’t say it, but she knew it then: sometimes you’re too late.
❀
january, 2014
The call comes at 2:19 in the afternoon, a higher-up’s voice, clipped and formal.
“She’s been recovered. We’re bringing you the body now.”
The world doesn’t spin, it just stills. Though Shoko sits at her desk for a long time after, the phone silent in her lap, her hands empty.
Shoko doesn’t ask whose, because there’s only one person left.
She's already standing.
Her coat’s already on.
Her tea’s gone cold. The light in the infirmary has gone muddled and slanted, painting long shadows over everything like a warning.
Her hands move automatically. Clipboard.Pen. Gloves.
The air starts to feel static.
The mission was supposed to be easy. “A clean-up.” A second sweep.She repeats, and repeats. Yet how many other times has she thought this?
You weren’t supposed to go alone, but someone backed out last minute, and you were never one to wait around.
Grade one curse. Warehouse District.
Shoko remembers the briefing because she was in the room. Because you had smiled — tilted your head, chewing gum, loose-limbed and tired. “I’ll be home quick.”
❀
Shoko gets a morbid sense of déjà vu when she sees you laid out on the table, covered with a sheet pulled too high.
But when she sees the body, it doesn’t feel like you.
Not you. Born five days apart. The soldier to her healer. Balance, the clanheads had once called them. One to make and unmake.
Not the same girl who used to share her shampoo, or talk in her sleep. Not the girl who burned bright and reckless and kissed Gojo Satoru like it was the only truth left in the world.
The word balance keeps running through her head as she stares at your face. So still.
No, it wasn’t you. This body is cold, and broken in ways Shoko doesn’t have the words for.
Her gloves are on. Her cursed energy thrums at her fingertips.
But it’s all useless.
The wounds are clean. Carved into you like declarations. Chest collapsed, Ribs fractured inward. Shoko's already cataloging the report in her head. Trachea crushed. Internal hemorrhaging. Cursed lacerations across the sternum.
Then she moves.
Like a surgeon. like a healer with something to prove, even if there’s no one left to prove it to.
She doesn’t try to bring you back. Not really. She's seen too many bodies to believe in resurrection.
She stitches muscle back together like it’ll matter. Seals split skin. Brushes blood from your scalp. A ritual, maybe. or penance. And as she runs her fingers through the ends of your hair, she thinks of being five years old when you had taught her how to braid it.
When she feels her vision blur she whispers, “don’t be stupid,” just like you used to.
Her voice doesn’t tremble until the end.
Too late, she thinks, and she sees a dead bird cupped in your small hands. Wildflowers wrapped in twine.
Too late, too late, too late.
She writes the report with mechanical precision.
Her handwriting doesn’t shake.
She signs it, and place it on top of the clipboard.
Then folds your arms across your chest, straightens your uniform collar, uses a towel to wipe a smudge from your chin, and the drawer of the morgue clicks shut with a hollow finality.
And she finally lets herself cry.
Just once.
Quietly.
Like a confession.
❀
Shoko takes the train without really knowing why she’s chosen this route over the school car. After she explained what she was doing, Ijichi had told her he could drive her with a solemn look in his eyes, always so insistent. She had declined, so now she sits by the window, forehead pressed to the cold glass, the tunnel lights strobing against her reflection until her own face starts to look like a stranger’s.
She's still in her work clothes, still smells faintly of antiseptic and smoke, and the folder in her lap feels heavier than it should. She keeps one hand pressed flat to its cover like she’s holding a wound closed.
People filter in and out of the train at each stop, their chatter muted, just faint shapes moving through her periphery.
She doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. The only thing she lets herself look at is the glass, and the snow on the other side of it—each flake blurring against the motion of the city, small and perfect and already gone.
Yaga had told her, after, that Satoru wasn’t told yet, but she wonders if he already knows. If some part of him—whatever raw, uncanny instinct makes him the strongest—registered it the moment your heart stopped. Maybe he felt it like an earthquake deep in his bones, the sudden, wrong absence in the air. Maybe he was sitting on their couch, turning toward the door without knowing why.
Her mind drifts, unspooling memory:
Summer afternoons, the four of them sitting on the roof with drinks to cool the sweat on them. Your hair tangled from the wind. Gojo leaning back on his palms, his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head so she could clearly see the way his gaze snagged on you like he didn’t even notice he was staring. The quiet shift over months from banter to something slower, gentler, like they’d started speaking a language that Shoko didn’t know but could still recognize in the spaces between words.
A late night after a mission, all of them exhausted, half asleep in the common room. Shoko had woken to see them leaning together on the couch, your head on his shoulder, his hand resting loosely on yours. The kind of touch that wasn’t accidental.
There had been other moments—quieter, private ones she hadn’t meant to see—that told her this was the thing that had changed him. He'd always been brilliant, unbearable, untouchable. but with you, his edges softened. He laughed differently. He listened.
Now she wonders how much of that she’s about to take from him in a single sentence.
The train slows into her stop, brakes screeching. She rises, folder in hand. She doesn’t know why she carries the hardcopy—maybe it makes it feel more real, more final, more like evidence of something she already failed to prevent.
She had stopped by a gas station and bought a pack of cigarettes and a small black lighter for the first time in almost six years. There’s now a cigarette clamped between her teeth, though she hasn’t lit it.
Snow is falling.
It catches in her hair, her sleeves, her lashes.
When she reaches their apartment building, she stops at the bottom of the stairs and thinks about turning around. But she doesn’t. She climbs each step like she’s approaching a grave.
The light’s on under the door.
She raises her hand.
And knocks.
❀
The door opens almost immediately.
And for a second — just one, flickering, incandescent second — Shoko sees the look on his face.
Gojo Satoru opens the door like he expects you to be behind it. Not Shoko. Not grief incarnate. But you. The woman he loves. The only thing in the world that could quiet his mind and hold his entire future in her palms.
He opens the door like someone in love. Like someone relieved. Like someone who still dares to hope.
And then he sees Shoko.
And everything stops.
His face doesn’t fall.
It freezes.
She watches the hope die in his expression. It doesn’t vanish — it dies. Like something physically collapsing inside of him. A structure caving in, silently, under its own weight.
His shoulders lock, and she watches his jaw tense. He doesn’t move aside to let her in, doesn’t say a word.
Just stares.
He looks at her like he had known this would be how it ended all along, but still — still, deep down, some piece of him had been holding on. Had left the light on. Had made her side of the bed. Had waited.
Shoko clears her throat.
The words don’t want to come.
"I’m sorry—she’s gone.”
That's all it takes.
Gojo doesn’t flinch.
But she sees it in the way his hand clenches around the edge of the door. The way his breath leaves him — sharp, shallow, wrong. The way he looks past her, like he’s trying to reframe the hallway, the scene, the moment.
Like maybe he can rewind it.
Undo it.
See you behind her, scolding her for delivering bad news so bluntly.
But Shoko is alone, and the silence is loud.
He steps back, and turns.
Walks into the apartment like everything inside was knocked over.
Shoko follows and shuts the door behind her.
The apartment is dim. Bathed in soft warm light. The heater hums gently in the corner, and there are two mugs on the table, one empty and one half-drunk. Your sweater is still hanging over the back of the couch, sleeves inside out. Your boots are by the door. The windows are covered by sheer white curtains, but the shade of blue that appears just after sunset peeks through, framing the room the same color as melancholy.
Shoko wants to scream.
Instead, she places the folder on the table.
Neither of them look at it.
She taps the folder once, not to push him, but to make its presence undeniable.
“Are you going to read it?”
His back is still to her. She can see the angle of his spine through the thin cotton of his shirt, every muscle tight, like he’s bracing for impact.
With no hesitation, “No.”
Shoko expected that answer, but she still feels something drop in her chest.
“You sure? It’s not… it’s not just medical jargon. I kept it clean. No gore.”
He turns his head just enough for her to see one sharp eye over his shoulder.
“You want me to read the autopsy for the love of my life?”
She pauses, feeling herself hold her breath.
“I want you to know what happened,” she says, voice level. “Exactly what happened. Without the stories you’ll tell yourself later.”
He scoffs—a sound halfway between disbelief and exhaustion—and shakes his head.
“The story I want is that you’re lying.”
Silence.
He pushes away from the counter, crosses to the table. His height makes the space between them smaller without him even trying. He puts a hand on the folder like he might open it—thumb brushing the edge, fingers curling.
And then he just… freezes.
Shoko watches him, and for the first time she sees it—not the usual walls, the sarcasm, the easy dismissal. This is different. This is a man standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down, knowing there’s nothing but rocks and cold water below.
“I can't,” he says finally, and it’s not defiance. It's quiet. almost gentle.
“Why?”
he swallows, eyes still on the folder.
“Because the second I read it, it’s over. She's gone in ink. In numbers. In your handwriting.” he glances up at her, and there’s no shield in his expression now. “If I don't read it, she’s just… late coming home.”
Shoko's throat tightens.
For a moment, she wants to tell him she understands. That she’s done the same—taken certain pages out because the words make her feel sick. But she doesn’t. She just nods, takes the folder back, tucks it under her arm again.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
He’s not moving.
Not breathing, maybe.
His hand rests on the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him upright and she watches his shoulders shake.
Once.
Then still again.
His face is unreadable.
But his eyes — god, his eyes.
Shoko has known him for more than a decade, has seen him bloodied and laughing and blind with pain and victory. But she has never seen him like this.
Not even after Suguru.
Not even after Toji.
This isn’t rage.
This isn’t despair.
This is something else.
Something jagged. Something bottomless.
He looks at her like she’s the executioner. Like she didn’t just bring the news — but she made it true. But maybe, in some way, he’s right to feel that way.
“You’re sure that she’s—?” he asks, voice quiet. She could’ve mistaken his tone for desperation.
Shoko nods.
That's when it happens.
He laughs.
Short, ugly, and bitter.
An instinct, like flinching.
He runs a hand through his hair. Leans back against the counter.
The quiet settles like dust.
Shoko sits down on the couch. something crackles beneath her — one of your notebooks. She picks it up, flips it open without thinking.
The last page is filled with sketches. a little cartoon version of Gojo, grinning, speech bubble saying “have you seen my honey?”
Her throat tightens.
She doesn’t speak.
“I thought I had more time,” he says. Shoko doesn’t have it in her to speak.
“I wanted to take her to Okinawa again. Not for a mission this time. Just because.”
He closes his eyes.
“She never got to see it in winter. She would’ve liked the cold.”
And she stays the night on their couch. Like old times, except there is no wine and no laughter and your warmth isn’t beside her. Shoko never really registered that she’ll never see you again. Even now, it feels like you’ll call her at any moment and ask her if she wants a drink.
But that first night without you, she doesn’t think she could really fall asleep.
And he doesn’t really cry.
But in the morning, he makes coffee with hands that won’t stop shaking.
She drinks hers cold, and so does he. But she watches him press your mug to his lips and set it down again, like it burned him.
❀
august, 2014
Gojo is twenty four, and he’s older than he was meant to be. More tired than he lets on, and somehow still waiting for something that already ended.
Sometimes, when it’s late, and the city is loud, and the stars don’t show themselves—Shoko catches him leaning against the doorway of his apartment balcony, looking at the buildings and cars and passerbys like he’s trying to remember the shape of your face.
And that, she thinks, is love.
Not flowers.
Not vows.
Not even the waiting.
But the remembering.
The carrying.
The way his world stopped. The way he never quite leaves the doorway, just in case you might still come home to him.
viii. 2015
Grief, when it lingers long enough, becomes routine.
Shoko wakes the same way every morning: early, cold. the city a dull hum outside her window. The kettle clicks on. She measures out coffee. Drinks it black, because that’s how you liked it, and then cooks konnyaku because you hated it.
The irony keeps her company.
The mornings are always quiet now. The kind of quiet that settles into your bones and stays.
And Nanami leaves the Jujutsu world around that time.
Quietly. Respectfully. Without fuss.
He came to her clinic on a Tuesday, knocked once, sat down across from her, and said, "I'm leaving.”
She didn’t ask why, because she felt like she already knew.
He was twenty three and already looked like he’d seen the end of the world twice.
“You'll be good,” she said softly. “Too good for this place.”
Nanami looked away. “I just want to live like a person.”
She envied him for thinking it was still possible.
Before he left, he placed a small paper-wrapped gift on her desk.
Inside was a lighter, clean, silver, unused.
She held it in her palm for a long time that night.
But she didn’t smoke.
Not yet.
❀
She sees Gojo more often these days.
Not because they talk more, and not because they seek each other out. Just because there’s no one else left.
They don’t need to make plans anymore. They just end up in the same places. The clinic. The faculty room. The convenience store on that street with the broken traffic light.
Sometimes he brings her canned coffee. Never says anything when he hands it to her.
She drinks it anyway.
It’s the only thing he offers that she can still take.
And he laughs a little more now, but it’s not the same.
When he does, it’s wrong. Jagged. Like something trying to escape from under his skin. It reminds her that he’s still grieving, even when he tells her “he’s over it.”
The students adore him. Still think he’s invincible, and think the blindfolds and wit and charm are who he really is.
But Shoko knows better.
❀
december, 2017
Suguru's death didn’t come like she expected, though to her, Suguru Geto had died the August they were seventeen.
From the outside, he went out in flame and fury.
But then again, it feels like he went out quietly. Gently. By Gojo’s own hands.
Because, in the end, that was the only way it could’ve happened.
Not in hatred or vengeance, but in recognition of what they’d been. Of what they’d lost. Of the thin line between who you are and who you become when the world stops making sense.
“It was quick,” Gojo told her afterward, his voice steady, eyes blown wide with something far beyond pain.
Shoko believed him. Not because she trusted the words, but because she trusted the silence between them.
❀
She thinks of Suguru now more than she admits.
Remembers how he used to hum under his breath while taking notes. How he’d hand her highlighters during meetings without looking. How he used to let them braid his hair on missions just to make them smile.
Remembers the way he stood the last time she saw him, on the night of the cursed parade—back straight, curses curling around him like smoke, eyes tired in a way that made her want to scream.
He broke long before he died.
Shoko knows this.
She also knows he would’ve been a wonderful teacher.
If the world had been kinder, and if someone had stopped to tell him that softness wasn’t weakness. That wanting to save people didn’t make him naïve.
That watching them die wasn’t his fault.
❀
Gojo comes to dinner sometimes.
Not often or predictably. Sometimes he just knocks, steps inside, doesn’t take his shoes off properly, and drops onto her couch like he owns the place.
She used to yell at him for that, but now she just lets him.
He eats whatever she makes. Doesn’t complain, even when it’s instant ramen or cold rice or nothing at all.
They don’t talk much during those nights.
But sometimes, he falls asleep.
And sometimes, she covers him with the old blanket you used to use when you were over — just because. Just to remember what it felt like to care for someone who was still breathing.
There's one night that she remembers, after a long day of treating a couple injured sorcerers in the midst of a mission, that she finds him already waiting.
In the kitchen, cutting vegetables.
“What are you doing?” she asks, flatly.
“Trying to give you a break,” he says.
“By mutilating my carrots?”
“They fought back.”
She puffs a breath from her nose and smiles.
It’s the closest she’s come to laughing in days.
He makes curry. It's too spicy. The rice is slightly undercooked — but it’s not half bad.
She eats every bite, and doesn’t thank him for showing up.
They’re not close, not in the way people imagine. They don’t tell each other secrets. They don’t hug. They don’t reminisce out loud. Their bond lies in the memory of what it meant to be sixteen and still whole. Of how it felt watching the strongest boy in the room slowly learn how to be gentle. Of seeing him break and build and break again.
Of surviving the wreckage together.
He keeps her from vanishing. She keeps him from shattering.
They exist near each other.
Orbiting.
Keeping each other tethered.
❀
Shoko's the only one who doesn’t have a grave.
Not really.
Haibara's is now marked in a clean Kyoto cemetery. Suguru's ashes were never recovered, but there’s a stone for him outside his old temple. You have a simple plaque under the oak tree they used to study beneath.
Shoko visits them all, but she doesn’t linger.
Because it’s not the places that hold them.
It’s the way she still turns her head when someone says “Geto” in a briefing. It’s the way she keeps chopsticks in her drawer for four, not one. It's the way she wakes from a dream, disoriented and reaching for an image of herself, of when her hair was cut to her chin and she is surrounded by people who were once her home — before she remembers that no one’s coming.
Though, there's a new photo on her desk now.
Four teenagers. Uniforms on and grins wide.
Gojo has his eyes closed. Suguru is pretending to look annoyed. You’re flipping off the camera. Shoko is mid-laugh, mouth open, eyes crinkled.
She doesn’t remember who took it.
Doesn’t remember what they were laughing at.
But she leaves it there.
Next to the medical files and the pills and the list of new students.
It’s a reminder — not of who they were, but that they were. That at one point in time, the four of them had existed together. That at some point, that was all that mattered.
ix. december 24, 2018
The first snow falls unceremoniously. No warning and no wind to carry it.
Just flakes, slow and fat, drifting sideways over the rooftops of Shinjuku like ash from something that’s already burned.
Shoko watches it from the roof.
She doesn’t move.
Not yet.
It's the holidays, and she hates this time of year. There’s too much pretending, too many bright windows, too many mouths grinning like the world hasn’t ended five times already.
This year, the snow comes early.
And with it—him.
She thinks the city is strange under snow. Not soft. Not pretty. Just muffled, hollowed out. Sirens echo longer. Footsteps vanish quicker. The skyline dissolves behind a white veil, lights blurring like bruises.
She walks through it alone. Past vending machines glazed in frost and power lines sagging beneath the weight. There are paper lanterns swaying over shuttered storefronts, their glow smudged and dim.
Her boots crunch the snow like something brittle and alive. She isn’t wearing gloves. She likes the cold biting at her skin. It feels honest.
She finds him in the square.
Tall. Unmovable. Eyes like winter distilled into glass.
He's facing Sukuna, and there’s no backup. No panic. No speeches or horns sounding in the dark. Just two gods standing where no man should be.
She doesn’t call his name or break the silence. Only stands at the edge of it all, smoke slipping from her mouth, her eyes dry as bone.
He knows she’s there.
He doesn’t turn.
But he tilts his chin, barely, like a gesture carved out of stone.
And she understands, like she did all those years ago in August, when Suguru Geto had lit her cigarette. When he smiled and waved and she had turned away, for the last time.
That this is the end.
Not just of him. Not just of this fight.
But of everything that tethered them to a time when living felt possible.
Springtime in Jujutsu Tech. Sunlight tangled in white hair. You, singing too loudly, Suguru sighing like the world rested in his lungs. Sandos split in half. Train cars rattling at dusk. Leaves falling as soft as promises they never kept.
All of it.
Ending here.
Under a sky in a city stripped down to bone.
He burns too bright, even now. Bends space like a god, cuts air like a blade, shoulders the infinite and makes it look like art. And still—Sukuna is cruel. patient. inevitable.
Shoko watches as it begins: sharp, merciless, a brilliance that blinds and dies just as quickly.
She sees him hold and hold and hold—until he doesn’t.
He doesn’t scream.
He just folds.
Quietly.
Finally.
And the moment he hits the ground, the world doesn’t shatter.
But something in her does.
Everything slows.
The air thickens. Her breath fogs in front of her. Her hands are shaking, not from fear, but because she’s remembering. Nostalgia has always had its way of killing her, of creeping up on her and leaving her feeling sick. There is nothing left to reminisce now, as the last remaining part of her youth lies split in half in the show.
❀
The lab smells like steel and antiseptic, like every failure she’s ever catalogued. Fluorescent lights hum above her, sickly and bright, making her want to tear them out of the ceiling. She doesn’t. She just sets the instruments in place, lines up scalpels with the precision of someone who cannot afford to think.
Yuta lies unconscious on the table, his chest rising shallow, his pulse steady under her fingers. Now, she moves over to the drawer, where she placed Satoru’s body after stitching it back together. When she pulls back the sheets, she touches his hair once, brushes it off his forehead the way she remembers you used to when he was too stubborn to sleep.
Now she stands over him, and for the first time in years, her hands shake.
Not from inexperience. Not from fear of failure.
But from knowing that if she succeeds, it won’t really be him. And if she fails, she will have killed the last piece of her friend’s legacy with her own two hands.
Her cursed technique hums, steady, inexorable. Flesh unravels, rewrites. Neurons glimmer under her touch like constellations in a dark sky. She threads them carefully, patient as a weaver, until she feels something spark. Until she feels him.
Not Yuta, not exactly.
But not Satoru either.
Something between.
A gasp, sharp and wet, tears through the air. fingers twitch. The body arches against restraints she swore she wouldn’t use, but had to.
And then—eyes.
Too blue. Too familiar.
Her knees nearly buckle.
Because for an instant it feels like the dorms again and being a teenager. Then for an instant, she is twenty two again, and she watches Gojo lean down to talk to Tsumiki and Megumi, to give them reassurance, to protect their youth.
But then the boy blinks, coughs, chokes on his first words, staring at his hands. and Yuta is suddenly speaking to her, from Satoru Gojo’s lips.
And it’s not him.
It’s not him.
She forces her hands steady, swallows down the tremor in her throat. “Well, it worked.” She says, clinical, detached. Like she didn’t just carve open time and stitch it into something monstrous.
The snow keeps falling outside.
❀
Later, they ask her what happened. after transferring Yuta back to his own body, after dismantling Satoru, pieces lying on a table in her clinic — while Yuta walks, unscathed.
She gives them the facts. stripped bare, like bone. No softness. No poetry.
“Gojo fought. He fell. He's dead.”
Nothing more, because she refuses to let them dress it in glory, refuses to let them write a hymn where there was only silence.
He was tired.
He died.
And there’s nothing beautiful about that.
❀
She cremates him herself. In the same furnace that once took you. Her gloves are soaked by the end of it, dark and slick, but she doesn’t take them off. Doesn’t cry either. Not this time.
x. 青春
Tokyo feels different after. Like the city is holding its breath, waiting for something that will never come.
That evening, she stops beneath a streetlamp outside the school. Cigarette trembling faintly between gloved fingers. Snow catching in her hair, turning her into something ghostlike. Embers glow like memories in the dark.
For the first time in forever, she speaks. Not to anyone. Just to the cold, to the shadows that linger in her bones.
“You win.” she whispers.
The lamp above her flickers once, then dies.
And Shoko stands alone in the dark. Utterly. Finally. Completely.
Yet that night, she finds herself dreaming in color that she thought had left her vision over a decade ago now.
Dreams not of blood. Not of battle, or of bodies in a morgue, or the harsh December air.
But of summer. The old apartment bathed in sunlight. Then, you’re next to her, seated cross-legged, fingers deftly braiding Tsumiki’s hair. Gojo at the table, laughing, trying to pry the cap off a bottle of soda with his teeth while Suguru shakes his head, pretending not to smile at him. Somewhere on your balcony, Haibara’s voice rings out, bright with Nanami’s deeper murmur tucked inside it.
Shoko feels a weight in her hands, and forces herself to look down for just a moment just to see that she is holding a camera. She lifts it. Frames them in her viewfinder — her whole heart in one room. Click.
A still life. A stolen moment that no one else notices.
They’re too busy being alive.
(終わり) END.
When August comes, I don’t count the days
Transitory views from the subway train
How strange, when life unfolds this way
In the drift less zone, sky’s prone to stay off-gray
Clouds are omens too, fading at the rate
That most pleasant memories do
mae's note. first chapter of "of love & lesson plans" out tomorrow, and i pinky promise it won't be this sad </3 likes + reposts are appreciated, thank you soso much for reading
higuruma shushes you softly, trying to put an end to your restless squirming and your impatience as he holds you down on the bed. you wanted his dick in you well over ten minutes ago, but he insists on dragging this out and torturing you with long foreplay.
you're aware of his size, having spent long enough gaping at his cock as it rests against his belly, and with all the time he's spent pumping one, two, then three thick fingers inside you to prepare you to be split open around him, you're sure you'll have no trouble fitting him inside you. yet he continues to worry and fret about the possibility of you getting hurt. "mmh! baby, i promise i'm fine, would you please just-"
he interrupts you this time by pulling out the three fingers that were just buried in you to the knuckle, and slapping his palm firmly against your sopping hole. the bastard smiles at the high pitched, whiny noise you make when he spanks your pussy.
higuruma rubs the heel of his hand against your swollen folds while pushing his thumb against your clit, lips quirking at the loud, pitchy noises leaving you in response. "we had a talk abut patience, remember sweetheart?" he says softly, letting out a huff through his nose when you squeal and squirt a clear spray of liquid all over his hand and yourself. some hits his face, and he casually licks it off his chin without taking his eyes off you, continuing to spank that sensitive cunt of yours until you're done.
"but you just don't care, do you?" he tells you quietly, finally lining himself up to you. "you want cock, so you must get it now." you whine as he wastes more time rubbing the flared, swollen, and leaking head of his cock back and forth along your puffy folds. your eyes flit between the look of concentration on his face and the way he’s smearing rivulets of precum around your hole, then suck in a breath when he taps his tip heavily against your clit.
your chest heaves as little wanton pants leave you each time he teases you by aligning his cock perfectly with your opening just to shift away from it and go back to rubbing against you.
you never thought he could be such a tease.
tears of frustration are threatening to spill from your eyes, and you sit up slightly, about to grab his cock out of his hand and push it in you yourself, before he beats you to it, finally notching just the thick head past your sopping hole.
harmonious groans leave both of you simultaneously as your pussy stretches around him to accommodate the intrusion of his tip. though he’s barely inside you, it’s already a struggle. it’s like he’s gotten bigger or you’ve gotten tighter since your last fuck, which hadn’t been for a while now because he’s been so busy. and now, you can hardly get the first few inches of his hefty cock inside you.
you sit up on your forearms, chest rising and falling heavily as the two of you break eye contact to both look at where your pussy is wrapped around his cock, folds swallowing up his length and sucking him in deeper. he lets out a soft hiss through his teeth, not wanting to lose his head and cum prematurely from the sight, but it’s so captivating.
higuruma lets out little pants, his hands now gripping your hips firmly to abstain from slamming into you like an animal. he's controlling both you and himself as his vision glazes slightly each time he sees your pussy clenching around him. you're milking and sucking at the part of his cock that's already filled you up.
"look at that," he groans, one hand sliding around to your front to press against your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his cock from the inside. "you're taking me so well already. i told you preparation would help."
the words send a shiver through you, and you whimper, trying to shift your hips back to take more of him. but he's got you pinned, using his grip on your hips to control every movement.
higuruma pulls back just slightly, then pushes back in, repeating the motion in shallow thrusts that make you squeal with need. each movement drags his thick tip over your inner walls, the ridge catching and pressing against sensitive nerves. You can feel every vein, every pulse of his cock as it fucks into you.
"higuruma please-" you gasp, "i need more."
he shakes his head softly, mouthing along the curve of your neck and shoulders. he lays nearly on top of you, pressing hot kisses to your skin as his thrusts begin to pick up speed. "i'm getting there. just let me... fuck, just let me enjoy this."
the wet, obscene sounds of your bodies joining fill the room as higuruma finally begins to move in earnest. each thrust is deep and deliberate, intended to make you feel every thick inch of him as it slides in and out of your soaked pussy. your inner walls clench around his cock, trying to hold him inside as he pulls back, only to be stretched even further as he bottoms out.
you cry out, your back arching as he fills you to the hilt, his heavy balls pressing against your ass. he leans forward, his chest pressing against yours with his thrusts quickening more, and he starts pounding into you from above as loud groans and pants filled with your name leave his lips. you can feel the heat building in your core, that familiar pressure that signals your approaching climax.
"fuck, you feel incredible," higuruma moans, burying his face in your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "so perfect. 's like you're made just for me, isn't it?" you nod shakily, eyes watering with overwhelming pleasure when the head of his cock shoves against your cervix. you squeal and grab onto his bicep for support while his hands dig into your hips, using it as an anchor as he pounds into you with increasing fervor. the bed creaks beneath you, the headboard banging against the wall in a rhythmic thump that seems to punctuate each deep thrust.
you grab him by the tie around his neck, halting him from his slobbery kisses to your pulse point below your ear, and slot your mouth messily onto his instead. and the moment you do, higuruma obeys your silent command without question. hishands move to brace on either side of your head as you pull him down into a deep, hungry kiss.
his cock slows its frantic pace because the new angle allows you to take him even deeper as he fucks you missionary-style, his chest pressed against yours. his tongue rolls over yours and scopes your mouth as his cock pushes into you to the hilt, balls squished against the curve of your ass while his tip places another kiss to your cervix. he gets distracted and can't kiss you and fuck you at once, so he keeps that mind numbing pressure on your womb while moaning into your mouth and devouring you.
"you're so perfect," he says, barely moving inside you at this point, but he allows you some breathing room by occasionally dragging his cock back nice and slow, then pushing back inside. he's not pulling out properly anymore. he just keeps hitting that spot deep inside that makes your vision blur with pleasure.
"baby, i can't... i can't last much longer," he moans against your lips, his body tensing above you. but you won't let him pull away, tightening your grip on his tie. when he tries to warn you again, you cut him off with a whispered assurance. "do it, i want your cum, higuruma."
"oh, fuck." his entire body goes rigid above you, and you feel the first hot spurt of his release deep inside your womb. "i'm... c-cumming, i'm gonna-"
he shoves his tongue into your mouth again to silence the embarrassingly loud noises leaving his mouth, his cock throbbing as it dumps what feels like an endless stream of thick, hot cum inside you. his load fills you up and coats your inner walls, all the pressure from being so full and the warmth of his cum sending you over the edge right after.
