pairing: ushijima x fem!reader
synopsis: Problem: ushijima keeps getting confessions.
Problem: apparently, he has someone in mind already.
Problem: you’re hopelessly in love with him.
Solution: ?
tags: slowburn but it’s cause reader’s oblivious, “unrequited” love, childhood friends, angst (I guess. Reader crashes out a little lol), fluff
word count: 4.8k
/ᐠ ◜𖥦 ◝ マ banner art by @/hk_smith_man on twitter! author's notes at the end.
SHIRATORIZAWA IS A prestigious school—everyone knows that.
Besides the outrageous fees (seriously, a million yen already for the tuition alone—not even counting entrance fees, uniforms, dorms… hah! Shouldn’t this be considered daylight robbery?), they’re picky about who they take. Most kids you know got in through sports scholarships or recommendations. And if it wasn’t connections that got them their place, it was tremendous academic achievements.
You’ve seen it yourself—the anxious buzz that surrounds campus whenever entrance exam season rolls around, the way the local hotels get all that more busy every January. The truth of the matter is that students from all over Miyagi flock to Shiratorizawa just for the chance to attend.
Shiratorizawa is a prestigious school. It only takes the best of the best.
All that to say, with the high school being so picky about who gets to wear its colors, you’d like to argue that everyone could be considered a bit of a local celebrity in their own right. After all, you’re always brushing shoulders with rich kids and geniuses and athletes who’ll probably go pro. Even the most boring kid at Shiratorizawa is excellent in some way.
So, you think, seething silently, it would be really awesome if people could switch it up and stop confessing to the same guy!
“You’re killing your mochi,” Tendou observes, peering over your shoulder.
You blink and look down at your hand where you’ve crushed the snack—sticky, sweet red bean paste stuck between your fingers. “It was always like that.”
Tendou just digs around in his bag and hands you a wet wipe. “Like the milk bread from last week? Or the onigiri from the week before?”
You shove the remains of the rice cake in your mouth and viciously scrub your hands clean, eyes flicking back up to glare at the two students standing at the other end of the hall. “The cafeteria had it on discount.”
Tendou follows your gaze to where the last member of your little trio stands, patiently waiting for a blushing girl to hand over the chocolates she’s got behind her back and say her piece. You know her; she’s that cute soccer captain from Class 3-B. You’ve seen her around at tournaments, cheering loudly whenever Ushijima scores, and you rip the wet wipe apart in your hands because you also know exactly what she’s about to say.
“I like you, Waka-kun! Please go out with me!”
Tendou exaggerates a wince at that and sneaks a glance back at you. Your eye twitches slightly at the nickname but you stay your hand. Your mochi will be the only casualty this afternoon.
(A pity. He’d been hoping for something more drastic. He’s still got that bet going with Semi and Tendou’s been looking forward to cashing in that win for weeks now.)
It’s a bit difficult to hear exactly what Ushijima says—between the three of you, he’s always been the quiet one—but that doesn’t stop you from craning your head to listen anyway. If you concentrate, you can just make out that familiar rumble of his voice as he bows his head politely to the poor girl.
“I am sorry, but I cannot reciprocate your feelings.”
It’s not like his response is anything new—it’s all part of the same script that he follows each time another confession comes up (“I appreciate your efforts… thank you for your support…” and so on and so forth), but that doesn’t stop the small sigh of relief that escapes you anyway.
At least the worst part of this whole song and dance is over. All that’s left is for him to excuse himself from the heartbroken captain and make his way back to where the two of you are waiting. Then the three of you will walk back to your dorms together and yeah, it’ll be awkward for a second but Tendou will go and say something stupid and it’ll be shocking enough to distract you from the lingering jealousy that curls in your chest.
What’s important is that the moment will pass and you’ll be able to put this all behind you. That’s how it’s always been, and so long as Ushijima keeps turning down confessions, how it will always be. In fact, you’re already turning back to Tendou, ready to change the subject in anticipation when he shakes his head and jabs his finger back where Ushijima is still standing at the end of the hall.
“He’s still talking.”
You whirl around and watch in horror as for the first time ever, Ushijima deviates from that perfectly practiced script and says something new.
“I cannot reciprocate your feelings because I have someone in mind already.”
For all intents and purposes, Ushijima might as well have just set off a bomb. Faintly, a part of you registers that he and the soccer captain are still talking, but they might as well be speaking a different language for all you care. You’re not listening anymore. All you can hear is the ringing in your ears as you turn those three words over and over again in your head.
‘Someone in mind.’
Ushijima has feelings for someone. He’s been turning down confessions, not just because he doesn’t reciprocate, but because his heart’s already taken. By someone else. Someone who isn’t you.
You’re going to be sick. You might actually throw up.
“Tendou,” you say slowly. “Does Ushijima have a girlfriend?”
Tendou stares at you for a long time, his sharp sweeping gaze studying you with such focus, you can’t help but suddenly remember that he’s known for his otherworldly intuition, the one that lets him predict a move before you make it. The one that makes him such a monstrous opponent on the court.
It’s unnerving, seeing it turned on you all of a sudden. You’ve got half the mind to backtrack when he blinks and something clicks, some kind of understanding that dawns on him and leaves a strange sort of giddiness in his eyes when he realizes you’re serious. “Hmm. Dunnoooo. It would explain a lot, though, wouldn’t it? Some kinda secret girlfriend.”
“...I see.”
“...You’re making a really scary face right now,” Tendou says, poking at your side. “See, this is why Semi assigned us jail bail days.”
You shoot him a look, wriggling away from his relentless attack. “What? What the hell does that even mean?”
“Goshiki thinks you’re going to go to jail. He wouldn’t stop crying till Semi set up a schedule to make sure someone’s always gonna bail you out.” Tendou pauses and squints at you. “You weren’t supposed to know that part. Don’t tell him I said that.”
You wrinkle your nose, briefly distracted by the admittedly hilarious vision of Goshiki wailing at poor Semi during practice, before you shake it off. “I’m not going to jail!”
“Never hurts to be prepared,” he chirps.
You don’t bother dignifying that with a response, simply huffing when he laughs at you. Whatever. Your efforts are best spent elsewhere anyway, like in turning your attention down the hall to dig for whatever scraps of information you can get.
You see, the thing that always shocks people the most about your unorthodox friendship is when you tell them that, between the two of you, Ushijima has always been the one to wear his heart on his sleeve.
Of course, no one ever believes you. They’ll pause and their eyes will flick between the two of you standing side by side—the loud, eccentric manager and the taciturn statue beside her. But it makes perfect sense to you. Ushijima is blunt and never minces his words—it’s why you’ve had to come to his defense more than once on the playground back in primary school. Ushijima believes in saying what you mean and doing what you say. He sees no reason to pretend otherwise. Is it really that unbelievable that he would be this honest about his feelings too?
Perhaps your insight is because of your proximity to him: having grown up side by side, you know him in the same way you know that the sun will rise and set, and that hayashi rice is delicious. You can see it even now, that imperceptible shift as the tension leaves him, the way his shoulders relax and drop ever so slightly when he looks up and sees that you’re still waiting.
You’ve known Ushijima Wakatoshi since childhood. You can read him better than anyone else. This very skill that you take such pride in is how you know that, despite your wishful thinking, Ushijima has never suddenly fallen head over heels in love with you the way you have with him. You would’ve noticed the change otherwise.
So how could you have missed this? This apparent secret girlfriend of his, these feelings that he’s kept to himself all this time. He’s always with you or Tendou—so when did he find the time to fall in love without you?
Perhaps you just don’t know him as well as you thought.
Tendou blows a raspberry at the sight of your sulking. “Eh? What’s wrong with you? Not like you to give up so easily.” He pokes at your side again, exaggerating a sigh. “I thought you liked to win?”
You tense at that. While you might not have known Tendou since childhood like you have with Ushijima, the two of you have been friends long enough for you to realize when he’s up to something. It doesn’t take a genius to see through him, especially when he’s sporting that cheshire grin of his.
He’s teasing you. Goading you.
The worst part is that it’s working. Tendou’s right—you know it, and he knows you know it. You do like to win. It’s what makes you such a good manager, and it’s why Coach Washijo keeps you on the team even when your competitive nature has been a subject of debate between the two of you.
(“When I said look for weaknesses in our opponents, I meant physical ones—volleyball related ones—not that their libero was bullied in middle school!”)
Hah…fine. You can admit that Tendou has a point, even if he’s making it up for his own hidden agenda. You can’t give up this easily, not when you have something worth fighting for, right? So maybe Ushijima has feelings for someone, some kind of secret girlfriend—that’s fine! Everything’s fine! You’ve got a plan.
Clearly, there’s only one reasonable thing left to do. You can’t spend the rest of your life burying your infatuation, hoping you won’t accidentally let it slip out some day. You need to be brave and rip off the bandaid, find out the truth so you can move on. You need to confront your feelings. You’ll do it— you’ll really make a move this time.
As it turns out, it’s much easier to break into Ushijima’s room than it is to confess that you’ve been in love with him for the past year.
The door unlocks easily with a satisfying click! and you dart in, slamming the door behind you. The hallway was clear the last time you checked, but you don’t want to push your luck. For some reason, you have a feeling that the disciplinary committee won’t take “it’s not breaking-and-entering if I had a key” as a valid defense.
You slip the spare key back in your blazer, tucking it safely in your pocket as you wander around, peering curiously at every nook and cranny.
Ushijima’s room is just as neat as you remember it: textbooks organized alphabetically on his bookshelf, a few pictures on his desk, his volleyball tucked in the corner of his bed where it meets the wall. If you’re being honest, it’s always been a little too empty for your tastes: a little too minimalist, a little too boring. Though you suppose that this technically could be considered an improvement from when you were both children. At least there are pictures now.
You still remember visiting his home for the first time, wide-eyed and eager to finally see what the inside of such a grand estate would look like: something like over a dozen places to hide in hide-and-seek, a bedroom the size of your living room back home, even a swimming pool. With how large the place was, surely there must’ve been a room dedicated to volleyball—no, an entire court in there somewhere!
You also remember being disappointed when you walked in and there was decidedly no secret indoor volleyball court that he’d been hiding. You’d been right about the size of his bedroom, but it just reminded you of one of those sample rooms in those fancy magazines your mom read from time to time. A little too pretty. A little too lonely.
You’d never said anything about it, chalking the whole thing up as one of his quirks, something from his more traditional upbringing, but you did start bringing stuff over from your room to leave at his. Nothing huge—just some plushies you’d won in crane games, a few toys from gachapons, a couple drawings you’d doodled in class—but you’d sneak them in in a bulging bag and scatter them around his room when he wasn’t looking.
In hindsight, you probably weren’t very inconspicuous, being clumsy and loud and eight, but if Ushijima ever had a problem with you decorating his room, he never said anything. Every time you came back, all your baubles were still there, exactly where you left them.
Some of them are here in his dorm room now. Your heart does a funny flip at the sight of those cheap gachapon figures sitting on his bookshelf. It’s been years since you first bought them, and yet none of them show any signs of standard wear and tear. It’s like they’ve been handled gently all their lives.
You jump as your phone chimes loudly with your reminder that training’s about to start.
Right. No more reminiscing. You need to focus on what you’re here for: the secret girlfriend.
Realistically, you’ve only got an hour before someone’s bound to walk in. You’ve timed it perfectly—you know Ushijima’s just finished class and he’s got training next. As the manager, you don’t technically need to be there for that, so your absence shouldn’t be that suspicious. And since Tendou needs to be at training too, there’s no chance you’ll be interrupted by him either. It’s the perfect plan.
You waste no time digging through the bookshelf, rifling through textbook after textbook, drawer after drawer. Embarrassingly enough, you’re a little uncertain what to look for since you’ve never really had any admirers yourself. For whatever reason, no one’s ever really confessed to you.
It used to sting when you were younger but you’ve since learned to shrug it off. It’s not like you were an outcast during things like Valentine’s Day. Thoughtful as he is, Ushijima always bought you something. Plus, you’ve read plenty of shoujo manga before. Surely that’s pretty much the same thing.
To no one's surprise, Ushijima isn’t hiding any love letters in his math textbook. You kick at the ground when your search through his drawers comes up empty too. There’s not that many places left to look. Even though Ushijima lucked out this year and got his own private room, the dorm rooms still aren’t anything luxurious. There’s really only the closet left (which ended up just being a collection of his uniforms—boring) and whatever he keeps in the storage units.
You eye the tiny space under his desk and sigh. Well, you’re already here. No sense in doing half the job.
You shrug off your white blazer, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on Ushijima’s bed, and wriggle into that cramped spot underneath the desk. It’s tight and distinctly uncomfortable—you swear you can feel something digging into your shoulder and your leg—and you’re briefly granted a moment of clarity as you contemplate if any part of this, this whole adventure, is genuinely insane.
You’re this close to giving up, to swallowing your pride and pretending like you didn’t just spend half an hour searching for something that apparently—doesn’t exist—until you catch sight of something in your periphery.
There! Right there, under his desk, there’s an old box neatly tucked away in one of the dorm shelving units. At first glance, it doesn’t look like anything special, just one of those cheap plastic containers from Daiso. You and Tendou have one too—you know Tendou’s using his to keep all his Jump magazines in one place, while yours is home to a collection of your favorite guilty pleasure: romantasy manga. So unfortunately, it’s not the groundbreaking find you were looking for. You’re ready to move on, already squirming to move out of the uncomfortable position you’ve squashed yourself in except—
Except that worthless plastic container—it has Ushijima’s name on it. He’s written it down himself. You’d recognize that handwriting anywhere—you’ve seen it before, scattered around his home. His old volleyball. His first sketchbook. His father’s novels. You know better than anyone that he only does that with the things he treasures most. And if that's the case… what could possibly be in the box?
It has to be the evidence you were looking for. Something incriminating, like trinkets that belong to his secret girlfriend. There can be no other explanation for why he would need an entire container to store something so special to him.
You did it. You found what you were looking for.
So why aren’t you satisfied?
You heave a great sigh and reluctantly pull your gaze away from the familiar scrawl of Ushijima’s handwriting, crawling back out from under the desk. Should you really even be doing this? Using the spare key that Ushijima trusted you with to rummage through his stuff—is this really the right way to go about things? What would Tendou say?
He’d say to listen for anyone outside the door before you open the box, your brain supplies helpfully.
You shake your head, absentmindedly swatting at the air as if batting the temptation away. If Tendou of all people would be encouraging you, that should be all the reason you need not to do it then.
Besides, you know it's not right. You know it’s none of your business who Ushijima dates or who he has feelings for. You’re just his childhood best friend— no more, no less. In fact, what you should really do is just clean up the mess you’ve made before someone notices and pretend like you never even saw the box.
You swallow and move to stand, to gather the papers you’d scattered all over his table in your frenzy, when your eyes catch the framed photo sitting by his lamp. It’s an old photo; one your mother snapped back from a time when the two of you were still the same height.
You’d been coming home from your first summer festival together, dressed in your matching yukatas. The two of you had spent the night hand in hand as you eagerly dragged him from stall to stall, chattering away. By the time the festival came to a close, you were dead on your feet, sluggishly letting Ushijima guide you back home.
You’d felt bad about it at the time, the kind of worry that comes with thinking you’re being a nuisance, the kind of nonsensical, childish guilt that you’d failed him as his (self-proclaimed) senior. You’d wanted to impress him, to show him something as cool as volleyball, but here you were hours later, so tired that you could barely muster another word, let alone figure out how to get home.
Kids that age are fickle. You know without a doubt that he must’ve been exhausted too, running after you all night. It would’ve been all too easy for him to excuse himself and go home early. You would’ve understood if he did. There was certainly no expectation for him to walk you all the way back home, especially since his house was much closer to the festival than yours.
But because he’s Ushijima—kind, gentle, dependable Ushijima—the thought of leaving you behind had never even crossed his mind. He’d just taken your hand and matched your snail’s pace, slowly maneuvering you through those crowded, winding streets. And then when you’d nearly tripped over your own two feet, he’d simply stopped and offered you his back. Your mother had opened the door to find him standing there with you wrapped around him, dozing off with your face tucked in the crook of his neck, and snapped the photo without hesitation.
You pick up the picture and softly trace the borders of the frame. It’s an old photo and yet—it’s in perfect condition. There’s not even a smudge on the glass.
You don’t want to lose him.
The thought comes to you unbidden, that ache in your chest growing heavier as you gingerly set the picture back down where it used to be. That’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? You’re just his childhood friend—no more, no less, but god—you don't want to be.
You don’t want to lose him, not to someone else— never to someone else—but the truth is half the jealousy you feel every week is just envy. Envy, because even though you might seethe quietly at the audacity some of these admirers have, using affectionate nicknames and professing their love when they don’t even know him, at least they can confess. Unlike you, they’ve got nothing to lose. Unlike you, they’re not bound by this invisible boundary that they can’t cross.
The truth is you wouldn’t be able to bear it, even though you knew it was only a matter of time before your luck ran out. The only thing worse than someone else having his heart would be you taking the gamble and losing it all.
You glance back at the photo, at the way Ushijima held you so easily even then, as if it was second nature to have you by his side. He wasn’t looking at the camera either, you realize. He was always looking at you.
Your fingers twitch at your sides and then you’re looking back only once to check the door before you throw yourself back under the table, reaching in, twisting your arm in an awkward angle to snatch up the box and drag it back out to the center of the room.
The white plastic stares at you accusingly as you trail your hand across the lid and huff out a laugh. There’s not even a layer of dust. Typical. You really shouldn’t be surprised—Ushijima has always been diligent about taking care of the things he loves.
The things he loves. You curl your fingers around the corner, digging them into the space where the lid meets the container. It’s a bad idea. All of this. Even if you were successful in your impromptu investigation, what would be the point? It’s not like you could confront him about it—you can’t without explaining how you found out to begin with.
You should put it away. Once you open it, there really will be no more going back.
But you would finally know the truth.
Your eyes flick back to that picture of the two of you and you pause only a moment before you give in and finally rip that damn lid off.
…
Oh.
It’s you.
It’s all you.
You’d been bracing yourself for the worst—love letters, pictures, gifts too precious to keep out on display—but all that’s staring back at you in that stupid, worthless plastic tub is a lifetime of memories you’d almost forgotten about.
There are the notes that you used to pass to him during lectures, back when the two of you were still lucky enough to be in the same class, safely tucked away in a plastic sheet and organized by year. Your little doodles are still there, ink smudged slightly on the paper but in otherwise pristine condition. Behind them are the messy, half finished polaroids you snapped of the two of you, with handwritten dates for each one. Bottles, wrappers from the late night konbini runs.
And there, in the center of it all, is the flower you gave him at recess, the Japanese camellia you shoved into his hands when you made him promise to play with you forever.
He kept it. He kept all of it, this collection of trinkets, and pieced it together into this haphazard mosaic of the story most precious to him: the story of the two of you.
You carefully reach in and cup the camellia in your hand, tenderly running your thumb over the dried petals. It’s smaller than you remember. When you first snatched it from your neighbor’s garden, clambering over that fence while she hollered at you, you’d been giddy with your stolen prize. You didn’t have the words for it back then, didn’t understand the dizzying, overwhelming affection you felt for your best friend. But instinctively, some part of you recognized that with those pretty, pink petals that seemed to spill past your fingertips, your gift could do all the talking for you.
You know better now. Perhaps even back then, that too, was love.
You smile wistfully. You needed two hands to hold it back then. Where did the time go?
“Nice flower. What’re you doing in Wakatoshi’s room?” Tendou chirps as he leans over you.
You yelp and shove the flower back in the box, slamming the lid back on top. “Tendou! God— nothing! I’m just waiting for him to be done with class!”
Tendou squints his eyes, staring at you and the plastic box that you’re currently trying to discreetly kick back under Ushijima’s desk.
“Eh? It’s already 5. Class was over an hour ago. You missed practice—you never miss practice. Washijo thought something happened to you. Goshiki wanted to search the nearest holding cell.”
The box makes an unhappy thud when you shove it again and it ends up wedged between the desk and the shelf. There’s a brief lull in conversation when you and Tendou pause to stare. You cough loudly and stand up, dusting yourself off. “You know how it is. I just lost track of time.”
“...This is about today’s confession, isn’t it,” he says slowly, inching closer.
“No!” you blurt, throwing your hands in his face. “I mean— why would it be? Hah! Wakatoshi gets confessions all the time! It’s no big deal—”
Tendou easily dodges your attempt to blind him and just gives you a satisfied, impish grin. “So you’re not trashing his room to find his secret girlfriend’s stuff?”
“I don’t have to answer that,” you sniff. Tendou just waggles his eyebrows and you narrow your eyes, annoyed. “Hang on. Don’t change the subject. What are you doing here? Don’t you guys still have training?”
Tendou yawns and throws his hands behind his head. “I left early cause I had a feeling you were gonna do something stupid.”
“And you wanted to help me?”
“And I wanted to be there to see it,” Tendou corrects.
You take a deep breath and bravely resist the urge to just grab him and stretch him like taffy. “Thanks.”
“Ehhh, don’t look so mad! You should be glad I’m here~”
“And why’s that?” You force out.
Tendou gleefully waves his phone in front of your face. “How else would you know that Ushijima just sent me a text. He says he’s coming over to find us.”
Your head shoots up so fast you nearly smack Tendou in the face. “How much time do I have?”
Tendou checks his empty wrist. “Probably like ten minutes.”
You let out a particularly creative string of curses as you frantically sort through the mess, shoving books back on shelves and papers back in drawers.
(Tendou plops himself down, gangly limbs draped over Ushijima’s chair, and rests his head in his hand as he watches you fuss over the pile of clothing you’d made when you tore through Ushijima’s wardrobe.
He wonders if you can see it—you, in a room that only you have the spare key to; a room with the trinkets that you bought for Ushijima as a child; a room he decorated with your favorite colors. If you’ve noticed the way that Ushijima always brings his jacket to the gym, even when he’s going to be playing, because you get cold easily. If you’ve ever caught how, instinctively, whenever someone confesses to him, the first place he always looks is toward you.
Though, given that you’re here in his room frantically trying to cover up the minor crime you’ve just committed, probably not.
Ah well, he thinks, idly scrolling through all the other messages Ushijima’s sent about you. She’ll figure it out eventually. It’s only a matter of time.)
author's notes: so. this was in fact supposed to be a short 2k piece that would give me a break from working on Without Apology. as you can see it did not end up being 2k. anyways. I had a lot of fun working on this piece and even though it was supposed to be mostly comedy, I think I slipped and accidentally wrote something really earnest. I’m sure you will make fun of me for this later Liya.
I think ushijima really shines in these “dense x guy who’s been in love since he was six” tropes because he’s very much an “acts of service” kinda guy. In that sense, reader’s right—if he was in love, it would be really obvious because there would be special treatment. She just doesn’t realize she’s getting special treatment because it’s just how Ushijima has been for as long as she can remember.
I also think it’s really funny that this is supposed to be an ushijima fic and then I basically only had him appear in the beginning and say like 10 words. And then none of those words were directed at reader lol. It’s just like real Haikyuu.
Anyways. My beautiful wonderful beta readers. Thank you to @sun-snatcher for reading like 5k words about a guy you don’t even know and hyping me up anyway. And of course, a big thank you @yuechihua for being so thorough with your edits.I know you absolutely despise ushijima so it means a lot that you would sit down and read 4.9k words of fic dedicated to my beast. I love you hehe!
NOTE. contains a bit of alcohol content—though nothing too explicit or anything concerning <33
It always started the same way—kind of like an inside joke that grew wings, feathers, a tab, and Ushijima’s name on the reservation list.
Ushijima never initiated going out drinking with his Schweiden Adlers teammates. In fact, he rarely said anything about it at all. It was always someone else who mentioned it after a game. Always someone else who slung an arm over his shoulder and declared, “C’mon, Ushiwaka, we have to celebrate,” even though Ushijima had never once expressed interest in alcohol, bar food, or drunken conversations.
Still, he always went.
Because it’d be rude if he didn’t at least stay for a few minutes, he thinks.
Sometimes he showed up in his team windbreaker, sometimes in a long, dark gray coat that made him look like a trench-wearing monument of silence. And he never said no, even when the clamor of celebration was already grating at the edges of his patience.
Tonight was one of those nights.
They’d won by the skin of their teeth—an overtime set against a grueling opponent, the kind of match that made even the benchwarmers feel like champions by the end. So of course Heiwajima had started the round-up in the locker room. Hoshiumi had shouted over everyone about their lucky bar down the street, and within twenty minutes, the entire team had found themselves in their regular private suite.
Ushijima sat at the end of the table, his back straight, a glass in front of him filled with alcohol he didn’t particularly like. His teammates were loud and loose and chaotic—laughing at Sokolov trying to arm-wrestle the bar’s bouncer, clapping every time someone dropped a fork, and yelling across the table in at least three different languages.
“A thousand yen says he’ll ask about his wife in twenty minutes,” Hoshiumi said quietly, leaning toward their captain, Hirugami Fukurou.
“You’re giving him way too much credit,” Romero replied, fondly grinning. “He gets wistful around minute twelve.”
“He gets wistful the moment he sits down.”
Ushijima was unmoved. He stared at his drink, took a single sip, and let it rest in his hand. He didn’t participate in the yelling, the toasts, or the story someone was animatedly telling about a missed serve from three seasons ago. He just existed—quietly, stoically—as a satellite to the chaos.
Except, of course, they all knew he was waiting.
He always was.
There was a pattern to the transformation. First, he’d sit there like stone. Then he’d blink a little more slowly. His brows would draw together—not in anger, but in vague confusion, like he was lost in a thought he couldn’t solve. His fingers would move against his glass, not to drink but to fidget, just a little.
And then…
“Has anyone seen my phone?” Ushijima asked, barely louder than the buzz of conversation.
Hoshiumi slid it across the table immediately. “Right here, Ushiwaka. Sorry! We took a few pictures here and there.”
“Thank you.”
He looked down at the screen. It was still lit with the last message from you from earlier that day: Good luck, baby. Don’t forget to stretch your left shoulder. He’d never replied—he never did, not when he was already in headspace—but now, he stared at it like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.
“You want to text her?” Hoshiumi asks, lightly teasing, which Ushijima didn’t catch onto.
Ushijima didn’t answer. He opened the thread and typed a few letters. Deleted them. Typed something else. Backspaced. Then just stared.
And then finally: “She hasn’t replied.”
His teammates laughed.
“There it is!”
“It’s only been seventeen minutes! I win!”
“No, you cheated. I said ten, and he didn’t even check his phone until minute twelve!”
“Shh, shh, look at him—he’s pouting.”
“Wait, is this the pout phase? I thought that came after the silent brooding phase.”
“Technically we’re entering pout-brood overlap. It’s a dangerous time.”
Ushijima didn’t argue. He simply set the phone down again and folded his hands in front of him. Kageyama leaned over.
“You want me to call her for you, Ushijima-san?”
Ah, yes. Kageyama was too nice for his own good. Trying to enhance his socialization and trying to lessen his awkwardness with his teammates when the conversation didn’t revolve around volleyball.
Ushijima nodded. Just once. Immediately. “Yes.”
...
“Amazing! He’s not even trying to hide it.”
“Can you imagine being that in love?”
“He just wants his wife. Look at him. He’s a whole sad poem in one sitting.”
“She’s gonna get here, and he’s gonna light up like a lantern.”
“May this love run me over.”
Kageyama stood and walked a few paces away from the table, already dialing your number. Meanwhile, the others watched Ushijima sip his drink again—not because he wanted it, but because it gave his hands something to do. His eyes were glued to the screen even though no new notifications had appeared.
Romero leaned in conspiratorially to Hirugami. “Do you think she talks to him in, like, soft tones? Calls him ‘baby’ and stuff?”
“I think so,” he shrugs. “I think they’re sweet like that.”
“Aw, young love.”
The teasing continued, but it softened. Because underneath the jokes and the laughs was a sort of awe.
Their teammate—so serious, so focused, so unreadable on court—was completely and utterly soft when it came to his wife. Not in a loud way. Not in any way that could be easily teased, really. It was quiet. Heavy. Real.
When Kageyama returned, he had a pleased expression. “She’s on her way. Said she just got off work and is driving over.”
Ushijima gave another slow blink.
“Thank you.”
Kageyama nods. Somehow they manage to have conversations even if they just continue nodding to each other.
As soon as Kageyama said it, his phone buzzed with a new message. He didn’t even need to open it. He could tell by the way his entire body relaxed by a single, barely noticeable degree.
Sorry, hun. Just got off work. Are you okay?
He replied.
I’m okay. I miss you.
And then he set the phone down and folded his hands again, this time with more calm. More certainty. You were coming. That was all he needed to know.
The others noticed the shift immediately.
“He smiled.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He did! Don’t argue with me; I saw it. It was micro. But it counted.”
“He’s already halfway out the door with his heart.”
“Watch, the second she walks through that door, he’ll go full puppy mode.”
Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, the door opened. A gust of cold air followed you inside, along with the soft jingle of the bar’s entrance bell. You spotted them easily—your eyes landing on Ushijima before anything else. And his entire body seemed to change shape.
He stood up—not quickly, but instantly, with a kind of gravity no one else in the room had.
You smiled as you approached, slipping out of your coat and brushing off the cold that nipped your nose softly. “Hi, love,” you greeted softly. “You ready to go?”
“Yes,” Ushijima said, already reaching for his jacket.
As he shrugged it on, you turned to the table. “Hope he wasn’t too much trouble?”
Hoshiumi leaned on the table with a grin. “[Name], your husband is the definition of ‘not trouble.’ We’re just grateful you came to collect him before he sighed himself into the carpet.”
“Tell them what he said!” someone shouted.
“He asked if anyone had seen his phone like it was a national emergency.”
“And he didn’t pout—he brooded. Like a man out of a romantic novel.”
“I think I did,” Ushijima just nodded at their comments about him.
He then stood by quietly, waiting for you to finish your goodbyes. When you looped your arm through his, he leaned ever so slightly toward you.
As they left, Romero raised his glass.
“To [Name]’s husband,” he declared. The table cheered.
Outside, as you two walked toward the car, you glanced up at him, fingers tightening around his arm.
“You really okay?” you asked.
He hummed. Then, in that low, steady voice only you ever got to hear, it softened—
“I missed you,” he said again. “They were loud. I wanted to see you very much.”
You smiled and gave his arm a firm, loving squeeze. “Well. I’m here now.”
Your dog hybrid boyfriend is absolutely crazy for you, to an almost pathetic extent.
Your scent, your voice, your eyes— it all drives him insane in the best way possible. Sure, he can sometimes come across as overly clingy or excessively protective of you, but he swears up and down that it’s all for good reason. After all, he wouldn’t want anyone else stealing his perfect partner away from him. That’s why you sometimes let him get away with the not-so-discreet scent marking he often does, stealing your clothes and other belongings out of protectiveness and the need to show others that you’re off-limits to anyone besides himself. You’ve caught him more than once stashing away your shirts and underwear for “scenting” later, as he has told you himself on numerous occasions.
He must surely regard you as foolish, however, if he expects you to believe such a blatantly obvious untruth. You have caught him on more than one occasion huffing your used panties while furiously stroking his cock, trying to drown himself in your lingering scent as the angry-red tip of his manhood leaks milky, white droplets of precum onto your sheets. You regard him with disdain each time he cries, This’ll be the last time . . . or, I promise I won’t do this again . . . You know now to not believe him, to ignore his whimpers when you snatch your belongings away, to scold him fervently even when you acknowledge your own arousal at his lewd display that he undoubtedly also takes note of.
Honestly, he seems more like a puppy than anything when he gets like this.
With his sharp, striking features and tousled, unkempt hair, he catches the eyes of both passersby hybrids and humans alike. Undoubtedly, however, he is a mutt, a mongrel. Despite his tall, lean frame, he has always been the runt of his litter, as he has shared with you before, so being with you is ultimately the only time he can get his way with relatively few consequences. Perhaps that is why you let him do as he pleases. You recognize that he has been deprived of an outlet for his own desires for the large majority of his pup through adult life, so you let him off with a gentle scolding or particularly icy glare each time he does something that would otherwise incite a harsh admonishment.
Had you been blessed with patience tenfold that of a saint, you may have simply let him off with a firm warning or flick on the forehead upon the recurrence of these salacious incidents. However, given your position, your patience can only go so far. Just like anyone else, you also have a breaking point.
Once again today, you came home like usual, only to catch him wearing nothing but pulled-aside boxer shorts in the act of using your soiled laundry to pleasure himself. You had gotten so far used to pathetic displays such as this during the time he had officially decided to court you that, despite your annoyance, you were almost unfazed to find him partaking in such a provocative act. You practically hissed at him as you quickly snatched your used, now cum-stained underwear from him, remarking that he deserved to be ignored or pinched for his indecency. He whined as he received yet another almost-daily scolding from you, biting his bottom lip with his ears pinned back and his tail almost inquisitively thumping against the bed as you told him off for the umpteenth time this week. Even as you reprimanded him and falsely threatened to start locking your belongings away while you were gone, his swollen-red cock was still gripped in his fist, almost as if he half-expected you to put your reproach to a halt and offer to assist in his erotic endeavors.
He wanted you almost desperately, yet the ever growing anticipation he felt was just as pleasurable as the prospect of you agreeing to help him out. You were no idiot, you could tell what he was thinking, see it in the way he locked eyes with you rather than look away in shame. Part of you wanted to ignore him, make him beg for your touch, watch him squirm under your stern gaze; yet another part of you wanted to wrack his body with pleasure until he was an overstimulated, ruined mess. Perhaps that would teach him to not touch your things without asking, let alone use them while fucking his own fist.
Tentative fingers reached out to surround his cock, feeling the hot flesh in your grasp. You had barely even touched him, hadn’t even started stroking him when he let his head fall back to let out a low whine from the sensation, hips already threatening to jerk up as more of his essence oozed from the tip.
Yes, this is why you always let him get away with so much, you realize. Who wouldn’t want to ruin a cute, puppy-like dog hybrid that practically drools over you?
Author’s note: I will always be a sucker for the pathetic, borderline-perverted, panty-sniffing hybrid trope, no matter how overused or cliché. Thanks for reading my first posted work on this blog! I may write a part two for this, depending on feedback. 🦇
warnings: some suggestiveness/references to sex, but thats it
a/n: thank you so much for all the love on my stuff lately <3 i appreciate it so damn much so heres a little fluff gift for you all
A gentle storm rumbles outside, rain pattering the windows in a pleasant, low beat. You’re curled up on the couch, sucked into a book, with a hot cup of tea on the coffee table that you had been slowly nursing. It’s peaceful. The only thing missing is your husband, but you expect he’ll be home soon enough.
Like clockwork, you hear boots outside the door, a key in the lock. You look up to see your husband push through, dripping water like he’d just been swimming fully clothed. You just watch as he begins unlacing his shoes, grumbling under his breath.
“Is it raining?” Leon pauses at your voice, looking up at you slowly. You sip your mug, looking at him over the edge like the most nonchalant thing in the world. He drops his remaining boot and shakes his hair like a dog.
“You’re gonna regret that, smart ass.” He threatens, not a hint of aggression in his voice. You just watch him, expecting to enjoy the show of Leon undressing, but he shrugs off only his jacket before he’s coming towards you at a speed you can’t avoid. He lands on top of you with a dramatic oof.
“You’re gonna get the couch all wet,” you whine, and immediately regret it because you can predict his response before it leaves his mouth.
“You didn’t complain the last time you got the couch all wet.”
“Shut up.”
“So mean,” he scoffs and adjusts, getting comfortable on top of you. You’d like to say that even a waterlogged Leon is cozy to snuggle with, but it’s just not true. Instead of the warm radiator usually on top of you, his skin is cold. The raindrops still clinging to him dampen your pajamas.
“Leon.” He doesn’t respond to you, now all settled on top of you. His head is pillowed on your chest, and you can feel his breath deepening as he relaxes. His arms loop underneath you, hugging your waist with a pleasant, protective pressure. You comb his damp hair back from his forehead with your fingers.
“You’re lucky I like you.”
“Aren’t I?” He opens one eye to peek up at you. You tuck his shaggy hair behind his ears. He’s overdue for a trim, sporting something that was toeing dangerously close to a mullet. It’s really unfair that despite it, he’s handsome as ever, smiling at you with sugary sweet eyes.
At that point, you just let him rest on top of you and decompress from his work day. It’s not the most ideal cuddling session, but you always enjoy seeing him become a little more at peace with you in his grasp, in the home the two of you had made together.
After a while, his voice buzzes against your chest.
“Need to shower.” It’s a complaint, something like a whine in the back of the words.
“Yeah, you should,” you agree. You rub into his upper back, just where his neck meets his shoulders. He lets out a low, deep groan, when your knuckles press harder. “Feel good?”
“So good,” he sighs. Squeezes you a little tighter. You continue for a few minutes, before reminding him.
“You should shower, babe.”
“Yeah,” he says, almost as an afterthought. “In a minute.”
A minute passes. He doesn’t move.
“Leon.”
He sighs, and he finally begins to move. You’re thinking about what dry clothes you should change into when you feel yourself begin to move, too, and his arms still haven’t left you.
“Taking you with me,” he says, matter-of-fact. Before you know it, you’re sitting on the bathroom counter. He flips the water on and throws a steamer on the floor. The room floods with a pleasant, fresh eucalyptus scent. He comes back to you while the water warms, pulling you by the legs so your butt is on the very edge of the counter, and he can stand between your parted knees. He hooks a finger under the collar of your wet shirt. “Oh no, I got you wet. I guess… you have to take this off.”
“Oh no.” You reply just as flatly. You toss your shirt to the side unceremoniously and Leon drinks in your topless form greedily. He presses his hips against the counter, and his hands cradle your face. You hook your leg around his and urge him, somehow, even closer. “Hi.”
“Hi, sweetheart,” his eyes are flickering around your features, taking you in as much as he can. He presses a gentle, sweet kiss to the apple of your cheek. His stubble scratches against your skin in a way that you love. You take the opportunity to rub your palm over it, humming.
“Handsome.” You murmur. Leon chuckles. Your irises are practically heart-shaped.
“You’re a real charmer,” he presses a kiss to your mouth this time. It’s warm. Slow. You can’t help but sigh against him. His hand spreads across your bare shoulders, rough fingertips with gentle movements. “Mmh,” he groans the slightest bit. “Water’s gonna get cold if you keep distracting me, baby.”
“You like it.”
“Like you. Very much,” he kisses you again, this time pulling down your panties as he does so. In turn, you tug at the hem of his shirt and he obeys in a smooth motion, revealing his wide expanse of bare chest. His biceps flex a little as he does so, and you’re openly ogling him. Privileges of marriage. He comes back for more, on your jaw, your cheek. "In fact," he draws out the pause with a long, deep kiss that makes your stomach flip. "I'd say I love you."
"Hmm, that's interesting," you muse. Your teeth are at his neck and he sighs. His grip digs a little harder into your hips. You hum and look back up at him, now unbuckling his belt. His lids grow heavy, sinking til they're nearly closed with desire. You slide it from its loops, and it lands on the floor with a soft clink. “Take off your pants, Kennedy.”
˗ˏˋ winging it 𐭩 ────── or in which during another covert operation, leon somehow comes out of it alive and with a new, strange companion.
extra notes! haven't been too active on this blog as i'd hope due to school... but have this quick fic i've been mulling over for a while now! can be imagined with any version of leon, but i personally imagined it with post-re4!leon. listen to talk and from eden by hozier for extra vibes too! not proofread so expect grammatical errors!
it was supposed to be a quick mission: get in, scope the place, kill anything that wanted to kill him, get some intel, and then leave without a trace. that's usually how his recent missions have been, and honestly, he wants to keep it that way. it was less hassle, fewer life-threatening zombies that want to chomp his neck out.
but from the moment he arrived here, quiet in the worst way possible and blood staining the walls, leon knew that he was in for a long night. so with a heavy sigh, he pushed himself off the grimy wall and pointed his flashlight in the dark hallway that would definitely not eat him whole.
for a while, every room was the same — dark, quiet, and had loot. ammo, some stray files, and strangely enough, feathers. the kind you'd see around the pavement when you scare off a flock of pigeons. it felt… misplaced. leon was ready to turn around, leave the room as he normally would to venture into a new one, when a sudden metal clamor resounded above him.
he made a quick dash for the door right as the ceiling gave out. "well, damn," he cursed out, catching his breath as he took a few moments to gather his bearings. dust obscured his view, but he pointed the flashlight in the room that now had no ceiling. when everything settled, he took a tentative step forward, gun readied and aimed at anything that wanted to rip his face off with bloodied teeth. but nothing happened.
instead, the site of a cage greeted him. not just any cage, but a bird cage that could, well, hold an entire human adult.
"what the fuck…?" leon doesn't get a chance to investigate further when loud thumping echoes on the floor above him. he squinted his eyes, his flashlight working over time with how many dark spaces it has attempted to illuminate. in his mind, leon debated on using the fallen human-sized bird cage to climb up the hole it had torn through the ceiling, but after seeing the bent metal, he decided against it.
he'd rather not be a sitting rotisserie chicken for zombies tonight, thank you.
like any sensible man in this situation, leon decided to follow the heavy thumping. he took the stairs this time and pressed himself against a wall before rounding a corner. he took a quick deep breath, slightly regretting his choice of letting his curiosity get the best of him. for all he knew, that damn human bird cage could house a b.o.w that had wings, and he had just inadvertently walked right into it.
the more leon thought about what awaited him when he rounds the corner, the more he wished he had gone home, maybe indulged in a few bottles of scotch or whiskey, instead of potentially fighting for his life with an abomination that could snipe him from meters up in the sky.
when he steeled his nerves enough that he didn't want to swallow a gunshot, leon carefully pressed forward. gun raised automatically, finger ready to pull the trigger when rustling could be heard. "okay. not a good sign," he told himself as he continued. the movement persisted as he drew closer and closer, followed by a strained, pained noise when he stepped on something hard.
leon quickly looked down, forcing his flashlight to illuminate what he had just walked into, only to be met with… a mass of feathers.
"what the fuck?"
like an idiot — he cursed in his mind — he kneeled and watched as his vision blurred when the appendage with feathers smacked him dead on the nose. a grunt of pain left him, losing his grip on his gun as he pointed the flashlight forward. and he thinks the hit must've joggled his brain too much when he sees you.
back turned to him, eyes wide with fear and confusion, your arms hugging yourself. but that's not what leon is paying attention to (but at the same time, he is. he's assessing the strange cuts on your legs, your arms wrapped in bandages, and how you looked too frail for someone around his age). instead, his eyes furrowed at the sight of the things sticking out of your back.
broad, long muscles bent at the wrist. if you unfurled it to its full size, you'd probably push him out the window he's leaning on. there's a slight shimmer to the layered feathers on the muscle when it caught the moonlight, too. but above all, the right one is snapped in a dislocated angle that he can only imagine as painful.
your breathing grew heavier the more leon stared at your wings. in a panicked state, you attempted to spread them out, crying out in pain when the right wing failed to follow your command. leon's eyes widened at your effort, quickly getting back up on his feet, rounding to your side, and avoiding stepping on your already injured wing.
you backed away when he tried to offer his hand, your left wing covering half your body and ready to knock him out unconscious this time around. your eyes couldn't stay in place for too long, cataloguing any and every escape route you could take.
"hey, it's okay." his voice came out gentle, almost cooing at you like a man who had just encountered an injured animal on the roadside. which isn't that far off. but you were no animal—or maybe you were. he frowned as you retreated further into yourself when he left his hand outstretched to you, bitterly thinking that, of course, you'd act this way when this building was famously owned by an umbrella branch.
with a sigh, he retracted his hand and stood at his full height. when he found his abandoned gun, he moved to pick it up, checking if it was damaged. he could feel your gaze on the back of his head, feathers rustling in anticipation, and when he turned to look at you again, he knelt.
there's a beat of hesitation. the words culminate at the tip of his tongue. but when he looked at you again, afraid and cornered, he made his decision. "stay here, m'kay? i'm gonna try and find something to help with your… injury."
for a while, the two of you just stared. the moment lasting a little too long, leon began wondering if you could even understand human speech — if you were human to begin with. as he began to stand up, though, he heard it. a voice so quiet, it could put a mouse to shame.
cracked at the seams, parched, but entirely alive.
"okay."
as leon rounded another corner, shooting any undead that came too close for comfort, he began to rethink his choices. he haphazardly opened every drawer, cabinet, and case behind glass to hoard bandages and antiseptics.
"i can't believe i'm doing this," baffled at the heavy weight of medical supplies in his arms, leon began his trek back to where he found you. and unlike what he had imagined — you, going against his word and stubbornly getting up on your two wobbly feet, and making a run for it — you had stayed. when your eyes met, they weren't as scared the first time around, but they were no less wary.
"mind if i move closer?" he doesn't get a verbal reply. instead, the wing that had curled into you like a protective armor shielding you from harm, had spread out enough for him to reach and kneel right in front of you. "nasty wound." he immediately wanted to kick himself — of course it was nasty. with furrowed brows, leon realized just how bad the injury was.
it wasn't bent as he had first imagined; it was more like flattened, as if a heavy weight you couldn't carry was dropped right on it, forcing the bones to shatter and stay that way. he quickly retracted the hand that mindlessly caressed where the ulna bone would be when he heard you cry out. "shit, i'm sorry…"
leon doesn't feel time pass through you two as he tries to find a way to bandage the limbs. with furrowed brows and a deep-set frown, he gave up on just kneeling and instead sat down fully on the dirty floors. as gently as he could, he lifted the injured wing into his lap, muttering a flurry of apologies at every little wince and whimper that left you. his eyes would also snap up to your face, watching as it contorted into pain and discomfort.
"just a little more, i promise." he doesn't know if his words were meant to comfort you or him. but regardless, you nodded. wordlessly letting him scout the room for something he could use as a cast. he opted to just breaking a piece of wood from a nearby cabinet when he deemed it long enough to support the broken bone.
a quiet huff escaped him as he rolled out the last of the bandages he had found. he had ended up using his spare supply because of how much the wing had bled. "not a dull day when umbrella is involved, huh?"
there's rustling above him, and when leon looked up, he saw you already looking at him. a hint of a smile on your lips as your hand reaches out to wipe the blood on his face with the back of your hand — he didn't even realize he hadn't wiped off the nosebleed he had earlier, or that he even bled in the first place.
your skin was jagged and cold, but no less featherlight. as if you held him any tighter, he'd shatter. your left wing bumped into his side, feathers tickling his cheek. your own strange way of apologizing for nearly knocking his teeth out.
another huff escaped him, the sound teetering to that of a laugh.
"my resume sure is expanding. do you reckon i can add "angel rescuer" to the mix?"
and for the first time that night, you laughed. and leon felt it reverberate into every fibre of his being.
when you finally leave the premises, a helicopter was waiting outside for him. a fellow soldier rushed to greet him and assist him, but he stopped mid-step with his mouth agape when it fell on you—one arm slung over his shoulder while his hand kept you steady by the waist. and your wings dragging behind you.
"got room for two?"
yeah, leon had a long report to write when he returned to headquarters.
all works are property of @kairennedy do not plagiarize, repost, translate, or feed into ai!
Request by: @1stltkolchek "PLEASE PLEASE DO ONE OF RE9 LEON WHEN HE COMES HOME TO HIS WIFE/HUSBAND AFTER GETTING CURED 😭🙏
Summary: Leon disappears without warning, leaving behind only a note and a promise to come back. For seven nights, you wait. Leon returns, having been through hell to make it home to you.
Tags/Warnings: Fem reader, angst, suicide mention.
Note: Aaaaa my first request! I hope you enjoy this drabble <3 It was a lot of fun to write!
Leon was gone. You had awoken one morning, eyes still filled with sleep, and your body stiff. Your hand subconsciously reached out, searching his side of the bed for the familiar warmth of your husband, only to be met with cold cotton sheets. In an instant, you were awake, all but falling out of bed as you fumbled for your robe. Perhaps he had just been called into work early? This wouldn’t have been the first time you had awoken alone.
“Leon–?” You had called out as you tied the fabric around your waist. You made your way to the kitchen. The coffee pot was empty. No dishes in the sink. His briefcase was still slumped on a dining chair. Your heart stopped beating when you saw a note pinned to the fridge. You were unable to stop the tremor that started in your hands.
I have to find a cure for Sherry, and for you. I’m sorry. I love you
You read the note again. And again. And once more – in case the words changed. They didn’t. The dread grew like lead in the pit of your stomach, nausea curling in your gut as it dawned on you that Leon was worse for wear than he had led you to believe. You remember the first time you noticed those strange black bruises on his body. The two of you had been getting ready for bed one random weeknight not too long ago. He’d been hunched over the bathroom sink, brushing his teeth, and as he had leaned forward to spit, his greying, dirty blond hair parting, you saw it, like rot on his skin.
“Jesus, is that a rash?” You had asked, reaching up to touch the strange markings. Leon looked up, a smudge of toothpaste on the corner of his mouth as he curiously examined his neck.
“Must be–” he mused, catching your hand and bringing it towards his lips as he placed a gentle peck to your knuckles. “I’ll get it checked out after work tomorrow,” he promised.
“I don’t know, honey, it looks pretty bad. Maybe you can call out?”
He shook his head, “Can’t, not tomorrow at least. There is a strange death out near Green Oak, the team and I gotta check it out.”
He must have been able to tell by your pursed lips and furrowed brow that that wasn’t an acceptable answer, as he immediately tugged at the waistband of your pajama pants, pulling you flush against him.
“Hey, don’t worry, love, it’s just rash. They’ll give me some funky-smelling ointment, and in a few weeks it’ll clear right up,” he says, cupping your face, and he presses a minty kiss to your forehead.
“Fine, right after work, promise me?”
“I promise.”
Leon had kept his promise, or so you thought. He had returned home late that evening, a little white pharmaceutical bag in his hand as proof. He’d complained about the feeling of the greasy medicine as he had applied it to his rash.
“Damn stuff is thicker than cement–” he huffed, massaging it into his skin.
“Let me,” you had offered, only for Leon to immediately take a step back.
“Fine, but next time you come home from a mission, you better not go asking for a neck rub,” you huffed, feigning annoyance. Leon chuckled, the laugh quickly turning into a cough.
That had been the night before you had awoken to an empty house.
He’d been gone for a week.
For seven days and seven nights, you had been in a constant state of anxiety. You had called his work, even gotten hold of Sherry, but no one could tell you where your husband was.
“I’m sorry, I really am–” Sherry had sympathized over the phone. “I think this was something Leon wanted to go at alone.”
“His note had your damn name on it, something about a cure – Sherry, please, I need to find my husband! If he’s sick…” You trailed off, feeling yourself get worked up again.
“Hey, it’s okay. I mean, this is Leon we’re talking about! He’ll come home, I promise.”
You couldn’t tell if she was lying to you or not, but you couldn’t be mad at her. After a mumbled thank you, you hung up, and the silence of the house rang in your ears once more.
It had become a nightly routine of yours to come home from your job, flip the porch light on – as the October evenings meant it got dark out early– uncork a bottle of wine, and sit on the couch and wait for your love to come home. And every morning as you awoke, mildly hungover, you felt a piece of your heart shatter as you turned the porch light off.
Leon was exhausted. It was the kind of tired he could feel in his bones that made him feel older than he was. Leon had been exhausted his whole life; it was something he could deal with. What he couldn’t deal with, however, was another night spent away from you. Hope pumped through his veins as he turned left onto his neighborhood street, the silver ring on his finger glinting from the passing street lights. He brought the ring to his lips, kissing it as he turned the Porsche into the driveway. You’d been so mad when he had returned home from the dealership, parking the expensive car and flashing you a cheesy grin.
“You’re insane, you know that, right?”
He had shrugged, “I woke up today and thought a midlife crisis could be fun, plus the steering wheel is heated.”
“Unbelievable–”
“Hey, if I’m paying two grand a month, the damn thing better have heated everything,” he had exclaimed. The look on your face had him momentarily concerned your head was going to explode; however, after letting you take it for a spin, you’d come to like it too.
Leon puts the car in park, idly fiddling with the ring as he glances out the window, breath stuck in his throat. The porch light is on, and he wonders, despite the late time, if you're still awake. The walk to the front door feels longer than the past week of his life, and the doorknob feels heavier than Requiem as he pushes it open. The air smells the same, the lived-in clutter of your shared life together, and even though it’s only been seven days, it feels like a lifetime.
You're curled up on the couch, a half-drunk glass of Cabernet on the coffee table. Your brow is all furrowed, and Leon can see your eyes twitching under your eyelid. He swallowed hard, watching your sleeping form as he slowly sat down next to you, afraid to take his eyes off you, lest you disappear.
He takes a deep breath, feeling his heart race as the past few days wash over him like a fucked-up slide show. The bodies, the death, the monsters, the villains, the same old tired song and dance he had long ago perfected. The sickness, the rot that had taken root in him and been the only detractor, and Leon thanks God that he had met Grace, wouldn’t have been able to make it back home to you without her. It wasn’t until Leon wiped away a stray tear that he realized he was crying. As the adrenaline he’d been running on finally depleted, Leon tries to accept the fact that he almost died.
Death wasn’t something that scared Leon; hell, he’s raised a gun to his temple and placed a finger on the trigger before. He’d been tempted to end a life that he’d felt hadn’t belonged to him; the feeling he wasn’t worthy of surviving had eaten away at him for so long. At first, it had been for Sherry; the thought of her finding out about his suicide was what had made him lower the gun at first. As she grew up and he had found himself swallowed up by his failures, he had aimed the gun at himself once more.
Then, he had met you. Leon chokes back a sob as he can’t imagine his life without you; hell, he’d already be dead without you. As the virus mutated into the final stage, the terminal stage, he hacked away at enemies while coughing up blood. It had been your voice guiding him home. It had all been for you, and Leon would walk through hell again if it meant returning to your loving arms once more. With a shuddering breath, he hesitantly reached out, the formally infected hand now free of the rotting bruise, as he brushed a stray lock of hair out of your face.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, not wanting to wake you up. He’s still covered in blood and filth, probably reeks like sewage. You stir ever so slightly in your sleep, a low whine leaving your mouth as you readjust. Leon smiles, taking in your beauty as he rises to his feet with a groan, wiping at his eyes one last time as he scoops you up bridal style in his arms, carrying you off to bed. He gently tucks you in, pressing a kiss to your forehead before making his way to the shower.
You awake to the sound of birds chirping outside your bedroom window. You blink slowly, not remembering crawling into bed. You feel the presence of another, and with a hesitant hand, you search for that familiar warmth – and you find it. Leon’s eyes flutter open at the feeling of your hand on his chest.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he grumbles, voice rough from sleep.
“You came home.”
“I did,” he confirms. You stare at him, eyes drifting to his neck, free from those strange bruises. Leon catches your gaze, shushing you gently as his arms wrap you in a tender embrace. "It's okay now, sweetheart, I’m okay now."
'You left me, ' you whisper, tears in your eyes. "You left me without saying goodbye. I was so scared something had happened to you." Leon's heart clenches at the tremor in your voice, and he peppers your face with kisses.
"I did, and I'm so sorry, but it's over now. And I’m not going anywhere, ever again,” he promises. His lips meet yours in a kiss, his lips soft and gentle, and you find yourself melting against the man you love.
“You have to tell me what happened,” you declare as he pulls away. Leon huffs a laugh.
“Yes, ma’am – after coffee.” You roll your eyes at him, but smile nonetheless as you slide out of bed, slipping on your robe as the two of you make your way downstairs to catch up over coffee. As you pass by the front door, you almost forget. You flip the porch light off, not needing it anymore.
Note: I am wrapping this up at 1:30 in the morning, so if there are any grammatical issues, I apologize T-T
Summary: Leon comes home to a quiet house, a broken mug on the floor, and the sinking certainty that something is wrong. You should’ve been there. By the time he finds you, it’s already too late for things to be simple, but not too late to bring you back.
The road stretches out in front of him, long and dim, washed in the amber glow of streetlights that flicker past the windshield in steady intervals. Each one slides over him like a pulse, light, shadow, light again. It's late enough that traffic has thinned to almost nothing, the occasional pair of headlights drifting past like distant ghosts before disappearing into the dark.
It's late. Later than he told you he'd be. His hands rest loosely on the steering wheel, one thumb tapping absently against the sleek, black leather. The radio hums low, something forgettable that he isn't really listening to. His mind is already somewhere else. Somewhere softer.
Home.
There's a quiet kind of anticipation sitting in his chest, steady and familiar. You'll probably be asleep by now, or pretending to be, maybe upset because he didn't text you.
He can already picture it, the faint glow of the lamp, the way you'd shift when he walked in, like you always knew it was him even before he said a word. Maybe you'd mumble something about how late it is, voice thick with sleep, but your arms would still find him anyway. That part never changed, even if you were upset.
Leon exhales, long and slow. He's tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes in a single night, but the kind that lingers in the muscles, in the back of the mind, in the quiet spaces between thoughts. The mission hadn't been catastrophic, nothing that would make headlines or stick with him for years, but it had been enough. Enough to leave his shoulders tight, his reflexes still a fraction too sharp, his awareness just slightly out of step with the calm around him. It takes time for that to fade. It always does.
But you help. Just being near you does something he can't name. Like his body remembers how to stand down, how to unclench, how to exist without scanning every shadow for movement. It's a rare thing; he doesn't take it for granted.
The houses sit quietly, windows dark, the world settled into that deep, unmoving stillness that only comes in the middle of the night. No movement, no noise, just the low hum of distant electricity and the soft crunch of tires against pavement.
Leon slows as he pulls into the driveway, engine idling for a second longer than necessary. The engine clicks as it cools, metal ticking softly in the quiet. His gaze drifts to the front door. Something in his chest tightens. The porch lights are off. He knows you better than that. You'd never shut the porch lights off before he's home.
He lingers for a moment longer than necessary, fingers still resting on the wheel, that feeling brushing again at the edges of his awareness. It would be easy to dismiss it, to chalk it up to fatigue or the remnants of adrenaline that haven't quite settled yet. That happens sometimes. The body takes longer than the mind to understand that it's safe.
"Get a grip," he mutters under his breath, voice low and rough in the confined space of the car.
The night air is cool when he steps out, sharp enough to cut through the lingering haze in his head. It grounds him, brings everything back into focus as he shuts the door and starts toward the house. The walk is short and familiar, each step guided by routine more than by conscious thought. He's done this hundreds of times, returning from missions at odd hours, slipping back into a life that exists in the spaces between everything else.
His keys slide easily into the lock. The mechanism turns with a soft, familiar click. The door opens, and something shifts. It isn't immediate, not something loud or obvious. There's no sign of forced entry, no overturned furniture, no visible disruption waiting to greet him. At a glance, everything is as it should be. The entryway is intact, your shoes still near the door, your jacket hanging in its usual place. The house looks lived in, normal, untouched.
Leon pauses just inside the doorway, one hand still resting lightly against the door as it swings closed behind him. The silence presses in, thicker than it should be, carrying a weight he can't immediately explain. It isn't just quiet, it's still, the kind of stillness that feels unnatural in a space that's usually shared. His gaze moves automatically, sweeping the room with quiet precision. Every detail registers. Every shadow is accounted for. He doesn't think about it. He never has to.
"Hey," he calls out, his voice steady but low, carrying just enough to reach the next room. "I'm home."
The words settle into the silence and go unanswered. That, on its own, isn't unusual. You could be asleep, the house wrapped in the kind of quiet that comes with it. It wouldn't be the first time he's come back late enough to find you already resting, the world reduced to soft breathing and dim light.
Leon steps further inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seems louder than it should. The sound echoes faintly, swallowed quickly by the stillness. He shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair without looking, his attention already shifting past the entryway and into the rest of the house.
The living room is undisturbed. The couch sits as it always does, a blanket folded neatly over the arm, the pillows on either cushion are perfectly shaped in the corners, and the remote rests in its usual place on the table next to your book.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly as he moves past, his focus narrowing toward the kitchen. There's a light on. It's a small detail, the kind most people wouldn't think twice about, but it stands out to him. You don't leave lights on when you go to bed. You never have. It's a habit, one of those small, consistent things that become part of a person without them realizing it.
Leon slows as he approaches, his steps quieter now, more deliberate. "You still up?" he calls again, softer this time, the words carrying less distance.
No answer.
He crosses the threshold into the kitchen and stops. At first, it doesn't fully register. His gaze catches on the shape, the disruption in the otherwise clean lines of the room, but his mind takes a fraction of a second longer to process what he's seeing.
A mug lies shattered on the floor. The pieces are scattered unevenly, some larger, some reduced to sharp fragments that catch the light at odd angles. A dark stain spreads beneath them, long since dried, its edges faintly dull against the tile. It's been there for a while.
Leon doesn't move. His attention fixes on it, sharp and unblinking, his mind beginning to assemble the details whether he wants it to or not. The position. The spread. The way the pieces fell. You dropped the mug. You didn't set it down or knock it over. You dropped it. His mind is already working, already assembling the sequence of events in the only way it knows how, reconstructing motion from stillness, cause from aftermath.
His gaze shifts, slow and deliberate, tracing the subtle disruption in the room. The chair. The scuff along the floor. The angle of it was just slightly off, like it had been forced back rather than pulled. There's no sign of a prolonged struggle, nothing overturned, nothing chaotic. Whatever happened here was quick. His realization settles somewhere deep, heavy, and unwelcome.
Leon exhales quietly, the sound barely audible, and steps further into the kitchen. His boots avoid the larger shards without thought, his path instinctively careful as his attention moves beyond the obvious, searching for what doesn't immediately stand out. That's where the truth usually hides.
His fingers brush lightly along the edge of the counter as he passes, grounding, steadying, before his gaze catches on something near the sink. At first, it doesn't register as anything unusual. Just another piece of the kitchen, another detail in a space he knows well enough to navigate in the dark. But something about it holds his attention a second longer than it should.
Leon steps closer, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as the details come into focus. It's a casing. Metal, cylindrical, no larger than his thumb. Clean. Intact. Deliberately set, not dropped or discarded.
He doesn't touch it immediately. Instead, he studies it, his gaze narrowing as recognition begins to surface, slow and unwelcome. The design is subtle, almost unremarkable to anyone who doesn't know what they're looking for. No obvious markings, no bright identifiers.
But Leon knows better. He's seen something like this before. His hand moves then, precise and controlled, fingers closing around the casing with practiced care. It's lighter than it looks. His thumb turns it slightly, just enough for the faint etching along its side to catch the light. It's small. Nearly invisible unless you're looking for it. Not exactly Umbrella's symbol, but something newer, built from the debris.
Leon's jaw tightens, a muscle in his cheek flickering once as the last piece slides into place. This wasn't random. It wasn't a break-in. It wasn't chance, or opportunity, or someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was deliberate, targeted, and whoever did it wanted him to know.
The air in the room feels different now, heavier, like the walls themselves are closing in around the realization. Leon's grip on the casing tightens just slightly before he forces it to ease, control reasserting itself with practiced precision. Emotion can come later.
Right now, he needs clarity. He sets the casing back down exactly where he found it, careful not to disturb its position any more than necessary, and reaches for his phone. The motion is smooth and efficient, his mind already several steps ahead, pulling threads together and mapping out what comes next.
There are only a handful of people in the world who would leave something like this behind. Fewer still would dare to use it as a message.
The phone rings once. Twice.
Leon's gaze drifts back to the shattered mug on the floor, to the silence that's settled into every corner of the house, and for a brief moment, something flickers beneath the surface. It's cold and dangerous, leaving no room for panic.
The line clicks, and he wastes no time. "I need everything you have on Victor Gideon."
THREE HOURS EARLIER
The quiet in the house isn't unsettling. It settles around you like something familiar, something earned after a long day, the kind of silence that doesn't press too heavily but instead exists in soft layers. The lamp in the living room casts a warm, golden glow that pools gently over the couch and the edges of the coffee table, leaving the rest of the house in a comfortable dimness. Outside, the night has already taken hold, the world reduced to distant sounds that barely reach you, a passing car, the faint whisper of wind brushing against the windows, nothing that demands your attention.
You sit curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked beneath you, a book open in your hands. The pages shift slightly under your fingers as you read, though your focus drifts more than it settles. Your eyes move across the lines, but the words don't always stay with you, slipping away as your thoughts circle back to the same place they've been returning to all evening. You glance at the clock without fully meaning to, then back down at the page, then toward the door, a quiet, unconscious pattern that repeats itself before you even realize you're doing it.
Sometimes he doesn't have a chance to tell you he's going to be late. You knew that. You told yourself you wouldn't wait up this time. But here you are.
A small breath leaves you, something softer than a sigh, as you tilt your head back against the couch cushion. The book dips slightly in your hands, your thumb still marking your place even as your attention drifts completely away from it. It's not worry that keeps you awake, not exactly. You're used to this part of his life, the late nights, the unpredictability, the quiet spaces between when he leaves and when he comes back. It doesn't scare you the way it might have once. Not anymore. But that doesn't mean you don't feel it.
You sit up a little straighter after a moment, closing the book carefully and setting it aside on the table. The room feels just a touch too quiet now, the kind of quiet that makes you aware of your own breathing, your own movement, the small sounds that would normally go unnoticed. Your gaze drifts again, this time lingering on the front door, as if you could will it to open just by watching it long enough.
You push yourself up from the couch instead, the fabric shifting softly beneath you as your feet meet the cool floor. You fix the pillow in the corner of the couch, pushing it back and fluffing it up. The movement feels natural, easy, like slipping into a routine you didn't realize you'd already decided on. If you're going to stay up, you might as well make it count for something.
The kitchen light clicks on with a soft snap, brightening the space in an instant. The contrast from the dim living room is enough to pull you fully into the present, your surroundings sharpening into focus as you move further in. Everything is where it should be. Clean counters. Familiar shapes. The quiet hum of appliances that fill the silence just enough to keep it from feeling empty.
The coffee maker hums to life as you set it going, the low, steady sound filling the room in a way that makes it feel less still. You lean lightly against the counter while you wait, arms folding loosely as your gaze drifts again, unfocused now, pulled back into thought.
You wonder how the mission went. Whether it was one of the easier ones or something that left its mark in quieter ways. Leon never comes back unchanged, not really. Even on the good days, there's always something lingering beneath the surface, something in the way he holds himself, the way his eyes settle on things just a second longer than they should. You've learned to read those details over time, to understand them without needing him to explain.
Your expression softens without you realizing it. You'll see it the moment he walks through the door. You always do. And you'll meet him there, the way you always do. Sometimes with quiet, sometimes with warmth, sometimes with both. It's never something you plan out, never something you rehearse. It just happens, instinctively, the same way breathing does.
The coffee maker clicks softly as it finishes, the sound pulling you gently back into the present. You reach for the mug, wrapping your hands around it as the heat seeps into your skin, steady and grounding. For a moment, you just stand there, letting the warmth settle into your palms, letting the quiet exist around you again.
Your gaze drifts toward the doorway, toward the darker stretch of the hallway beyond it, and a faint smile touches your lips, subtle enough that you barely notice it. "C'mon," you murmur under your breath, your voice soft in the stillness. "You're taking too long."
You hear a soft tick against the window, like maybe a branch in the wind tapping against the glass. You look over, a weird feeling pooling in your stomach. At first, it's just a feeling, a subtle shift that brushes against your awareness without fully forming into thought.
You straighten a little, your fingers tightening just slightly around the mug as your gaze moves across the kitchen. Everything looks the same. Nothing has changed. The counters are clean. The light is steady. The space is exactly as you left it. And yet, the feeling lingers.
You listen more closely this time, your attention sharpening as you try to pinpoint what caused it. For a moment, there's nothing. Just the quiet hum of the house, the faint buzz of electricity, the soft settling of something far away.
Another sound. It's faint. Quick. Easy to miss if you weren't already paying attention.
Your head turns toward it immediately, your brows knitting slightly as your pulse gives a small, unexpected jump. "Leon?" you call, the name leaving you instinctively, hope threading through it before you can stop it.
The silence that answers is immediate.
Your grip tightens around the mug, the heat suddenly too noticeable, too sharp against your skin as your awareness shifts, sharpening into something more alert. "Hello?" you try again, quieter now, your voice carrying less distance, less certainty.
No response. But the silence has changed. It isn't empty anymore. It feels occupied. Your breath slows, shallow without you meaning it to be, as your eyes move carefully across the room, tracking shadows, edges, the negative space between things. Your body has gone still, instinct taking over in a way your mind hasn't quite caught up with yet.
There's a presence here. You can't see it. But you can feel it. A subtle awareness presses at the back of your neck, a quiet, unmistakable certainty that settles in before you can rationalize it away. You're not alone.
The realization doesn't come all at once. It unfolds slowly, like something being revealed piece by piece, each second stretching just long enough to let it sink deeper. Your heart picks up, not racing yet, but faster, heavier, each beat more noticeable than the last.
You take a small step back without thinking, your fingers brushing against the edge of the counter as if anchoring yourself to something solid. The kitchen suddenly feels too open, too exposed, every angle unfamiliar in a way it never has before.
There's a shift behind you, closer this time, unmistakable. Your breath catches as you start to turn, instinct finally overriding hesitation. But you don't get to finish turning.
The movement behind you is faster than your body can react to, faster than your mind can process, a sudden shift in the air that collapses the space between awareness and action into nothing. One second you're standing there, breath caught somewhere between instinct and realization, and the next there's a hand on you, firm and unyielding.
It clamps around your arm and wrenches you backward with a force that steals the ground out from under your feet. The world tilts sharply, your balance gone before you can even try to recover it. The counter digs briefly into your hip as you're pulled away from it, your body twisting on instinct, a startled breath tearing from your chest before you can stop it.
The mug slips from your hand. You don't feel it leave your fingers so much as realize it's gone, the warmth vanishing in an instant as gravity takes over. There's a split second where it hangs in the air, suspended between what was and what's about to happen.
Then it shatters. The sound is sharp. Violent in the quiet. Ceramic breaking against tile in a way that feels far too loud, far too final, the pieces scattering outward in a jagged arc as dark liquid splashes and spreads across the floor. It happens in the background of everything else, but it sticks, imprinting itself in your mind even as everything around you spirals out of control.
Your hands come up instinctively, grabbing at the arm holding you, fingers digging in as you try to twist free, your breath coming faster now, sharper. "Hey!" The word breaks out of you, half-formed, more reflex than intention, your voice catching as your body fights to regain control.
It doesn't work. The grip on you tightens, not frantic, not rushed, but controlled in a way that's somehow worse. Whoever is behind you knows exactly what they're doing. There's no hesitation in the movement, no wasted motion, just precision.
Your shoulder is forced back, your balance shifting again as your heel catches against the tile. For a brief, disorienting second, your gaze catches on the floor, on the shattered remains of the mug, on the dark stain already beginning to spread outward between the pieces.
Your heart is pounding harder now, the rhythm uneven, loud in your ears as adrenaline begins to surge, your thoughts scrambling to catch up with what's happening. You're not confused anymore. This is real, and this is happening to you.
You try again to pull free, your other hand coming up, reaching back, searching for anything you can grab onto, anything you can use. Your fingers brush fabric, then something harder beneath it, but before you can react, before you can even see, something presses against your face.
A cloth, rough and sudden. Your breath catches as the smell hits you, sharp and chemical, unfamiliar and immediately wrong. You jerk back on instinct, your body reacting before your mind can fully understand it, but the hold on you doesn't falter; it tightens.
Your lungs burn as you try not to breathe it in, your head turning sharply to the side, your movements desperate now, less controlled. Your hands come up again, grabbing, pushing, nails digging into anything they can find as panic begins to break through the edges of your control.
"Stop—" The word comes out strained, uneven, your voice already weakening as the world tilts again, the edges of your vision beginning to blur.
The room starts to slip, the sharp lines of the kitchen softening, distorting at the edges as your strength begins to falter. Your movements slow, not by choice, but because your body is betraying you, your limbs growing heavier with each passing second.
Your gaze drops again, unfocused now, catching one last glimpse of the floor. The shattered mug. The spreading stain. A moment frozen in place, already turning into something that will be left behind.
Your chest tightens as you try to pull in one more clean breath, but it doesn't come the way it should. Everything feels distant, like you're being pulled away from it piece by piece, your awareness slipping no matter how hard you fight to hold onto it.
The last thing you feel is the grip on you shifting, steady, controlled, as your body gives in. The last thing you hear is the quiet sound of movement in the house that was never empty, and then nothing.
Consciousness doesn't return in a clean, merciful line. It comes apart and back together in fragments, thin slivers of awareness pushing through a heavy, resistant fog that clings to you no matter how hard your body tries to surface. At first, there's no sense of where you are, no clear thought to anchor to, only sensation. A dull, distant awareness of your own weight presses against something solid beneath you, your limbs feeling slow and unresponsive, as though they belong to someone else entirely. There's a strange disconnect between intention and movement, like the signal is there but the response is delayed, muffled.
Sound finds you next, seeping in gradually rather than arriving all at once. A low, mechanical hum settles into your awareness, steady and unwavering, its presence so constant it almost feels like part of you rather than something external. It doesn't fluctuate or shift in tone. It simply exists, filling the silence in a way that makes the space feel controlled, contained. Beneath it, there's something softer, less predictable, a faint, irregular noise that might be water or machinery or something else entirely. It's too distant to identify, but close enough to remind you that you're not in a place meant for comfort.
Your breathing deepens unevenly as your body begins to catch up, each inhale dragging in air that feels heavier than it should, as though it carries a weight your lungs don't quite know how to process. Your chest rises a little too quickly, then steadies, then falters again as your system struggles to find a rhythm that feels natural.
When your eyes finally open, the light doesn't welcome you. It hits too harshly at first, blurring your vision into indistinct shapes and washed-out edges that refuse to settle into anything recognizable. You blink slowly, your lashes dragging as if even that small movement requires more effort than it should. The second attempt is steadier, your vision beginning to sharpen in reluctant increments until the ceiling above you comes into focus.
It's all wrong. That realization settles almost immediately, cutting clean through the haze with a clarity that feels almost jarring. The surface above you is smooth and industrial, broken only by faint seams that run in measured lines across it. A light fixture is embedded neatly overhead, its glow sterile and uninviting, casting illumination that feels functional rather than warm. There is no softness to it, no variation. It simply exists to reveal.
Your stomach tightens. Memory doesn't return gently. It forces its way in, sharp and fragmented, each piece colliding with the next in a way that leaves no room for denial. The kitchen. The quiet. The shift in the air. The hand. The smell. The mug.
Your breath catches, the reaction immediate and involuntary as your body attempts to respond before your mind can fully process. You try to sit up, the movement sudden, instinctive, driven by a need to orient yourself, to do something. The world tilts in response, your equilibrium failing you for a split second as your muscles protest the motion. A wave of dizziness pulls at the edges of your vision, the room threatening to slip out of focus again as your body struggles to cooperate.
Something stops you. The resistance is immediate, firm enough to halt your movement without jerking you back. It takes a second for your mind to catch up, for your gaze to drop and register what your body has already begun to understand.
Your wrists are bound. The realization lands heavy and cold, your pulse spiking in response as your hands instinctively pull against the restraint. The movement is quick, uncoordinated, driven more by reflex than thought, but the result is immediate and unchanging. There's no give, they're tight, and hold you down exactly like they're supposed to.
You slow, not because you want to, but because you have to, your breathing sharpening as you force yourself to look more closely. The material is unfamiliar, smooth against your skin but unyielding beneath your grip. It is not rope, not anything improvised or hastily applied. It feels intentional and manufactured. Meant to hold without question.
Your fingers flex against it again, more deliberately this time, searching for a shift, for anything, any weakness in its structure. There are none.
A slow breath moves through you, deeper this time, though it still catches slightly at the end as your chest tightens. Panic presses at the edges of your awareness, sharp and insistent, but it doesn't overtake you. Not yet anyway. You hold it there, contained, forcing yourself to focus on what you can control instead of what you can't.
The room is small, but not claustrophobic. Contained in a way that feels deliberate rather than accidental. The walls match the ceiling, the same sterile material, seamless and uninterrupted. There are no windows, no variation in texture or color, nothing to suggest time or place. The space feels isolated, cut off from anything beyond it.
Across from you, a door is set into the wall. It's solid, featureless from your side, with no visible handle or mechanism to open it. It blends almost too well into its surroundings, as though it is meant to go unnoticed until it becomes relevant.
Your shoulders tense slightly as your gaze drops again, taking in your position more carefully now. Your arms are secured in front of you rather than behind, which feels intentional in a way you don't like. It allows for movement, but not freedom. It gives the illusion of control while ensuring you have none.
A slow, measured breath fills your lungs as you force your body to settle, your thoughts beginning to align despite the lingering fog. You swallow, your throat dry, the motion grounding in its simplicity.
"Think..." you whisper, barely audible.
You piece it together as best you can, working backward from what you know. You were at home. You were waiting. You were safe until you weren't. The shift from one to the other had been fast. Too fast to fully process, too controlled to have been random. Whoever took you knew what they were doing. There had been no hesitation and no fumbling.
Your chest tightens again, thinking of Leon. The thought of him lands heavier than anything else, threading through the fear and the confusion with a sharp, undeniable weight. He wasn't there. He didn't see it happen. He doesn't know where you are. But one thing is certain, he'll know something is wrong. He'll know it the second he sees the porch lights off and the shattered mug.
Your eyes close briefly, not in defeat, but in focus, as you draw in another slow breath. He'll see it and he'll understand. And when he does he'll come looking.
The thought isn't really hopeful in the way you might expect. It's not fragile or uncertain either. It's something you hold onto without question. He will come.
Your eyes open again, sharper now, your awareness settling into something more controlled, more deliberate. Your gaze moves across the room once more, but this time with purpose, taking in every detail, every possible variable: the walls, the door, the light, the sound.
You're not safe. But you're not helpless. And whoever brought you here? They made one simple mistake, and that was taking you away from Leon.
The kitchen doesn't change. Even as Leon steps back, even as he forces himself to take in the full space again from a distance, nothing shifts, nothing rearranges itself into something easier to accept. The shattered ceramic still litters the floor in the same uneven arc, the dried coffee staining the tile in a way that speaks too clearly of time passed. The chair remains slightly out of place, the scuff mark near its leg catching the light just enough to make it impossible to ignore.
Everything is exactly as it was. And that's the problem. Leon's gaze moves slowly, deliberately, retracing the scene with sharper focus now that the initial shock has burned away into something colder. He doesn't rush. He never does. Every detail matters, and he knows better than to miss something because he moved too fast. His eyes track the path of disruption, from the counter to the floor, from the chair to the empty space where you should be.
He reconstructs it without thinking.
You were standing here. The mug in your hand. The machine still warm, recently used. You hadn't been waiting long. Maybe you were thinking about him, maybe you were distracted, maybe you didn't hear the first movement behind you. That's when the contact must have happened.
The mug drops. Shatters. You don't get the chance to react properly before you're already being restrained. There's no sign of prolonged struggle, which means whoever took you didn't need one. They knew exactly how to handle it. How to end it before it could escalate. All signs point to Victor.
Leon's jaw tightens slightly, the muscle flickering once as the image settles into place.
Staying won't give him anything new.
Finding you will.
He moves with purpose now, the transition so clean it almost feels like a switch has been flipped somewhere beneath the surface. The part of him that came home, the part that allowed himself to think about warmth, about rest, about you waiting on the couch, is gone. What's left is sharper, focused. Built for this, but wishing it wasn't you he was looking for.
"I need everything you have on Victor Gideon." Leon says, his tone even, stripped of anything unnecessary. There's no hesitation in it, no lead-in, no explanation offered before the request.
"That's not a name you drop casually," Hunnigan replies, quietly. "What happened?"
Leon steps out of the kitchen as he speaks, his gaze sweeping once through the living room, not searching anymore, just confirming. The space feels wrong now in a way that can't be fixed, the absence too loud to ignore.
"She's gone."
Hunnigan doesn't respond right away. He can hear it in the silence, the shift from listening to processing, the moment where this stops being a call and becomes a situation.
"When?" she asks.
"Within the last few hours," Leon answers, already moving toward the door. His free hand reaches for his jacket without looking, pulling it back on in one smooth motion. "It was a surprise attack."
"You're sure it's him."
Again, not a question.
Leon's expression doesn't change, but something in his posture tightens, something subtle that only shows if you know where to look. "I'm sure."
There's the faint sound of keys on the other end, fast and efficient, the rhythm of someone digging through things that aren't meant to be found easily. Leon steps outside as she works, the cool air hitting him again, sharper now, more grounding. The quiet of the neighborhood hasn't changed, but it feels different to him now, like a layer has been stripped back.
"Gideon's been buried for years," Hunnigan says after a moment, her voice threading through the line with a tighter edge. "Everything tied to Project Elpis was wiped or sealed. Official channels won't give us much."
"I don't need official," Leon replies, already moving toward his car. His steps are quick but controlled, each one placed with intent. "I need what slipped through."
"You'll have it," she says. There's no hesitation there, no pushback. She knows how this goes. "Give me a few minutes. I'll start with old Umbrella splinter data and see what overlaps."
Leon opens the car door but doesn't get in right away. His hand rests briefly against the frame, his gaze lifting toward the dark stretch of road ahead, his mind already moving beyond this moment, beyond this place.
"Leon," Hunnigan adds, her tone shifting just slightly. Not softer, but more deliberate. "If Gideon's involved, this isn't just leverage. He doesn't operate like that."
Leon's grip tightens almost imperceptibly against the door. "I know." Which means this isn't just about taking you. It's about using you.
The thought settles in without resistance, cold and immediate, but it doesn't derail him. It sharpens him further, narrows his focus into something that doesn't leave room for hesitation.
"I'll send you anything I find," Hunnigan continues. "Locations, contacts, even rumors. But Leon... don't disappear on me."
He exhales quietly, the sound barely audible over the line, more a release of breath than anything else. "I won't."
The line goes silent, an understanding quiet from Hunnigan as she works on her end. She'll dig, pull threads, and find what she can. Leon doesn't wait for it to be enough. He gets into the car, the engine turning over with a low, steady sound that cuts clean through the stillness. His hands settle on the wheel, familiar, steady, but there's a difference now in the way he holds it, a tension that wasn't there before, something coiled beneath the surface.
The car pulls out of the driveway, tires rolling over pavement with quiet intent as the house disappears behind him, shrinking into the dark like something already past. Somewhere out there, you're still breathing, and Leon is going to make sure it stays that way.
Time doesn't move the way it should in a place like this. It stretches, folds in on itself, becomes something difficult to measure without anything familiar to anchor it. The steady hum in the room never changes, never rises or falls, and without windows or shifting light, there is no natural rhythm to follow. You're left with your own breathing, your own thoughts, the subtle shifts in your body as the only markers that time is passing at all.
You've tried to count it. At first, it felt like something you could control, something to hold onto. Seconds stacking into minutes, minutes into something longer, a quiet attempt to impose order onto a place that clearly wasn't designed to have any. But the effort didn't last. Your focus slipped, your thoughts pulled elsewhere, and somewhere along the way, the numbers stopped meaning anything.
Now, you rely on smaller things. The way the air feels against your skin. The slight stiffness settling into your shoulders. The faint dryness in your throat that comes and goes in waves. They're not precise, but they're real, and right now that's enough.
You shift slightly where you sit, the movement careful, deliberate, testing the limits of what the restraints allow without drawing unnecessary strain. They haven't loosened. Not even slightly. Whatever they're made of, whatever mechanism holds them in place, it was designed with intention, with the expectation that resistance would come.
Your gaze drifts across the room again, slower now, more practiced. The walls haven't changed. The door remains closed, silent, offering nothing in the way of clues. There are no seams visible from this side, no indication of how or when it might open. The light overhead continues its steady, sterile glow, unchanging, indifferent.
It would be easy to let the stillness get to you. Easy to let your thoughts spiral, to fill the silence with fear, with everything you don't know, everything you can't control. The uncertainty presses at the edges, persistent, waiting for an opening.
Leon is still on your mind. But the thoughts come quieter than before. You picture him the way you last saw him, not physically, but in memory, in the small details that always stick. The way he moves when he's tired but trying not to show it. The way his voice softens just slightly when he's talking to you, even if he doesn't realize it. Surely he's on his way by now. He has to be looking for you already.
A sound breaks through your thoughts. It's subtle, like a door somewhere else in the building closing. Your body stills instinctively, your breathing slowing as your focus sharpens, every sense narrowing toward the source.
It's nearly silent, the kind of movement designed not to draw attention, but you feel it more than you hear it. A faint change in pressure, a slight adjustment in the air as the seam of the door separates just enough to allow it to open.
The light in the hallway beyond is dimmer, cooler, casting a muted contrast against the sterile brightness of the room. A figure steps through it, their movement unhurried and controlled, immediately setting the tone of the space. He's in no rush. And he probably doesn't need to be.
The door closes behind him with the same quiet precision, sealing the room again as if it had never opened at all. Your gaze lifts to meet him fully now, your posture tightening despite your effort to remain composed. Every instinct in your body sharpens at once, awareness spiking as you take him in.
There's nothing subtle about the wrongness of him. He stands just within the light, and it reveals too much all at once. His frame is tall but uneven in a way that isn't immediately obvious until you look closer, his posture held upright with deliberate control rather than natural ease. The long coat he wears hangs heavily from his shoulders, patterned and textured in a way that feels almost ornamental at a distance, but up close only adds to the sense that everything about him has been chosen with intention rather than comfort.
His skin is the first thing that truly settles in. It's pale, but not in any natural sense of the word. The color sits wrong, stretched thin across his face and neck with a texture that looks almost brittle, as if it might crack under pressure. Faint, branching lines run beneath the surface, subtle but visible, like fractures that were never meant to heal properly. They trace along his jaw, disappear beneath the collar of his coat, and reappear again near his mouth, where they pull slightly when he speaks, distorting the movement just enough to make it feel off.
Your focus shifts higher to his eyes. Or what's been done to them. Metal curves along his temple and cheek, anchoring multiple lenses over one eye, each one different in size, each catching the light in a way that makes it impossible to tell where he's actually looking. One lens glows faintly, a dull, artificial point of red that remains steady even as he moves, unblinking, unchanging.
"You're awake," he says finally.
Your jaw tightens slightly, but you don't respond immediately. You hold his gaze instead, steady despite the tension coiling beneath your ribs, refusing to give him anything more than what he can already see.
He takes a step closer. Then another. Each one is deliberate, controlled, the distance between you closing in a way that feels calculated rather than threatening. He stops just outside your reach, his attention never leaving you, his expression unchanged.
"Good," he continues, as if confirming something to himself rather than speaking to you directly. "That makes this easier."
Your fingers curl slightly against the restraint, the motion subtle, controlled, as your mind begins to work again, piecing together what you can from what little you've been given.
"Where am I?" you ask, your voice steady despite the dryness in your throat.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, his gaze shifts briefly, taking in your position, the restraints, the room, as if reviewing something already familiar. When his attention returns to you, there's something faintly different in it now. Interest.
"That's not the question you should be asking," he replies. A small pause follows, just long enough to make the silence feel intentional. "You should be asking why."
Your stomach tightens, but your expression doesn't change. You don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction, even as the weight of his words settles in. Because he's right. You know as well as he does that this was planned.
His head tilts slightly, studying you in a way that feels less like observation and more like evaluation, as though he's measuring something you can't see.
"Tell me," he says, his tone still calm, still clinical. "How long do you think it will take him to find you?"
Your breath steadies, your shoulders squaring just slightly as you meet his gaze without hesitation.
"...Not long," you answer.
For the first time, something shifts in his expression. It isn't a smile, but it's damn close.
"Good," he says quietly. "Maybe he will enjoy this show."
Even as every instinct in your body urges you to, even as the weight of his attention presses heavier with each passing second, you hold your gaze steady. There's something instinctive about it, something that refuses to give him more than he already has. If he's studying you, measuring you, the least you can do is make sure what he sees isn't fear.
His head tilts slightly, the movement small, almost thoughtful, as though he's adjusting his perspective rather than reacting to anything you've done. The lenses over his eye catch the light as he shifts, reflecting it in fractured pieces that make it impossible to track where his focus truly settles.
"Confidence," he says quietly, more to himself than to you. "Interesting."
The word doesn't sound like praise. It sounds like a note he says out loud.
Your fingers tighten slightly against the restraint, the motion subtle, controlled, your body grounding itself in something physical as your mind continues to work. Every word he says matters. Every reaction, every pause. You don't know what he's looking for yet, but you can feel the structure of it, the way this interaction isn't random. It's being observed.
"People tend to default to fear in unfamiliar environments," he continues, his tone calm, measured in a way that never rises or falls enough to offer you anything to read. "It's efficient. Predictable. Useful, in its own way."
He takes another step closer, closing what little distance remains between you. Not enough to invade your space completely, but enough that you can see the fine details more clearly now, the unnatural texture of his skin, the faint pull of those fractured lines when he speaks, the stillness of him that never quite resolves into something human.
"You didn't," he adds.
You don't respond immediately. Your throat is still dry, your body still adjusting, but your mind is sharper now than it was when you first woke up. You weigh your words before you let them go, not out of fear, but out of instinct.
"I don't know what you want yet," you say finally, your voice steady despite the tension coiled beneath it. "Seems like a waste to panic before I do."
There's a pause. It stretches just long enough to feel intentional, to make you aware of the silence again, of the hum threading through it, of the way his attention sharpens just slightly in response.
"Efficiency through restraint," he murmurs, almost thoughtfully. "You're already adapting."
Your chest tightens slightly at that, the implication settling in before you can stop it. This isn't just a conversation. It never was. Every response, every choice you make, is feeding into something larger, something you still can't fully see.
"You're trying to understand the situation before reacting to it," he says. "That's... uncommon, given the circumstances." Another small pause. "Encouraging."
Your jaw tightens, but you don't let it show beyond that. You don't give him the reaction he might be looking for, even as your mind starts connecting pieces you didn't want to consider.
Encouraging. Not for you. For him.
"For what?" you ask, the question leaving you before you can stop it, quieter than before but no less steady.
This time, he doesn't answer immediately. His gaze shifts, not away from you, but through you, as if he's considering how much to say, how much to reveal. When his focus settles again, there's that same faint edge of interest behind it, something clinical and precise.
"You're not here by accident," he says. "Of course, I'm sure you've noticed that already."
Your breath slows, just slightly, your body stilling in a way that has nothing to do with the restraints. He knows you knew that already. You felt it the moment you woke up, the moment everything about this place told you it had been planned.
"That still doesn't explain why." Another pause, longer this time.
He studies you in silence, the kind that feels less like hesitation and more like calibration, as though he's deciding how to frame something in a way that serves his purpose best. When he speaks again, his voice hasn't changed, but the weight behind it has.
"Your physiology is unusual," he says, the words chosen carefully, deliberately. "Your system doesn't respond the way it should. Exposure markers without degradation. Cellular stress without collapse. You maintain equilibrium where others don't."
Your stomach drops. You don't interrupt him, but your mind begins to run wild.
"You've been exposed before," he continues, his voice lowering just enough to feel more precise, more deliberate. "Not directly. Not in a controlled environment. But enough to register. Enough for your body to adapt."
"That's why you were viable," he continues, stepping just slightly closer again, close enough now that there's no distance left to soften the details of him. "Your body doesn't reject. It regulates. That makes you exceptionally useful."
"And Leon?" you ask before you can stop yourself, the question slipping through the cracks of your control, quieter now, edged with something you don't fully let surface.
His gaze sharpens just slightly. The reaction is immediate, though subtle, the kind you would miss if you weren't already watching for it. For the first time since he entered the room, his focus shifts in a way that feels more deliberate, more precise.
"Ah," he says softly. He's not surprised. "So that's where your thoughts go."
Your chest tightens, but you don't look away. You won't give him that. He watches you for another moment, that same quiet assessment settling back into place before he continues.
"He is not the reason you're here," he says. "He is the reason this works."
The distinction is small, but it changes everything. Your breath catches, just slightly, the meaning threading through his words before you can fully stop it. This isn't about leverage. Not in the way you expected. Not in the way it should be. This is something else.
"You're measuring him," you say, the realization forming as you speak it, your voice quieter now, more focused. "Through me."
That almost-smile returns faintly.
"Not just him," he replies. "Both of you."
The room feels smaller now. Tighter, like the walls have shifted inward without actually moving.
"You are the constant," he continues, his tone returning to that same calm, clinical cadence. "He is the variable. Time, distance, stress. All measurable. All predictable to a degree."
Another pause.
"But what interests me," he adds, his gaze settling fully on you again, "is where those predictions fail."
The hum in the room seems louder now, but maybe you're just more aware of it, more aware of everything. Whatever this is, it didn't start when you woke up. It started without your knowledge, without Leon's knowledge, long before this kidnapping.
The road stretches forward in a long, unbroken line, disappearing into darkness that feels thicker the further it goes. The headlights carve a narrow path through it, illuminating just enough of what's ahead to keep moving, but never enough to feel certain about what comes next. It's the kind of drive Leon has made countless times before, late hours, empty roads, the quiet space between one mission and the next. Usually, it gives him time to think, to let the tension settle, to put distance between what happened and what comes after.
Tonight, though, it does none of that.
The engine hums steadily beneath his hands, the vibration traveling up through the steering wheel and settling into his arms, a constant, grounding presence that does little to ease the pressure building in his chest. His grip is firm, controlled, but tighter than it needs to be, the leather faintly creaking under his fingers before he forces it to relax again. His gaze stays locked on the road ahead, sharp and unwavering, but his mind isn't there.
It keeps going back to the house, the silence, the space you were supposed to be when he came through the door. He's already reconstructed it more times than he can count, every detail, every shift, every second leading up to the moment you were taken. Not because he doubts what happened, but because that's how he works. He breaks things down until there's nothing left to question, nothing left to guess.
But there's still something missing. A gap he can't quite fill yet. And until he does, everything feels slightly out of reach.
His phone cuts through the silence. The sound is sharp against the steady hum of the engine, immediate and unwelcome, and Leon answers it without hesitation, his thumb moving across the screen before the second ring can finish.
"Talk to me."
On the other end, Hunnigan wastes no time. There's a tightness in her voice that wasn't there before, something controlled but unmistakable, the kind of tone she uses when what she's about to say matters more than the way she says it.
"I found something," she says. "But you're not going to like it."
Leon's expression doesn't change, but his attention sharpens, narrowing further as his grip adjusts slightly on the wheel. "Start talking."
There's a faint pause, the quiet sound of keys in the background as she pulls something up, cross-checking even as she speaks.
"I went back through what's left of the Elpis records," she says. "Most of it's been scrubbed, but there are fragments, overlapping data sets that didn't get fully erased. Personnel logs, incident reports, civilian exposure lists."
Leon's jaw tightens just slightly. "Get to it."
"Your wife's name is in one of the files."
Leon doesn't respond immediately. His grip tightens without permission, the leather pressing back against his palm before he forces his hand to ease again.
"That's not possible," he says finally, his voice low and even, but there's something under it now. Not disbelief.
"It shouldn't be," Hunnigan replies. "But it is."
The silence that follows stretches just long enough to make it feel heavier than it should.
"There was an incident," she continues. "Years ago. Small-scale containment breach tied to an off-site Elpis facility. It never went public. No major outbreak, no media coverage. It was contained quickly and buried even faster."
Leon's eyes flick briefly to the side, catching his own reflection in the mirror for a fraction of a second before returning to the road. His focus splits, part of him still driving, the rest already moving through what she's saying, fitting it into something that makes sense.
"Location?" he says.
"I'm sending it," she replies. "But listen first."
He doesn't interrupt again.
"There was a civilian exposure list," she says. "People in proximity to the breach. Most of them showed standard symptoms. Some didn't survive. A handful were flagged for follow-up monitoring and she was on that list."
The confirmation settles into him slowly, like something sinking deeper the longer it stays there. It doesn't hit all at once. It builds, piece by piece, until there's no space left to ignore it.
"She never told me," Leon says.
The words are quiet, more to himself than to her, but they carry weight all the same.
Hunnigan exhales softly on the other end. "She might not have known the full extent of it," she says. "Or it was downplayed. Low-risk exposure, no visible symptoms, something they monitor quietly and then classify out of relevance."
Leon's jaw shifts, tension settling in his shoulders as he processes that. It doesn't sit right. None of it does. "Define monitored."
"Periodic evaluations," Hunnigan answers. "Bloodwork, cellular scans, long-term observation. Nothing invasive on record, but enough to track irregularities."
Irregularities.
"What kind?" Leon asks.
There's the sound of keys again, faster this time. "Adaptive response markers," she says. "Her system didn't react the way it should have. No degradation, no instability. It just stabilized. Balanced itself out."
Leon's grip tightens again before he reins it in, the motion controlled but deliberate. The road ahead blurs slightly at the edges, not from distraction, but from the weight of what's settling into place.
"She was exposed," he says, the words quieter now, more grounded.
"Yes."
"And he knows."
"That's the part we can't ignore," Hunnigan replies. "If Gideon has access to those records, or if he's been tracking survivors from that incident, then this wasn't random."
Leon doesn't need her to finish. He already understands.
"There's more," she says after a moment. "The facility tied to that breach... it was never fully decommissioned. Officially, it was abandoned. Unofficially, there are signs of recent activity. Power draws. Data pings. Someone's been using it."
Leon's focus sharpens instantly, something locking into place with quiet certainty. "Send everything."
"I just did."
The phone vibrates in his hand, the incoming data lighting the screen briefly. He glances at it just long enough to confirm coordinates, then looks back to the road, his path already adjusting in his mind before the turn even comes into view.
"If her biology is what we think it is, then she's not just leverage."
Leon cuts her off, his voice sharper this time, but not raised. "I know what she is."
There's a brief silence after that, not tense, just understood. Because to him, none of that changes the only thing that matters. You're still you.
"Be careful," Hunnigan says quietly.
Leon doesn't respond. Instead, his foot presses down on the accelerator, the car surging forward just slightly as the dark road stretches ahead, no longer empty, no longer uncertain. Now it leads somewhere. All that's left is direction. Somewhere at the end of it is you.
Gideon's hand doesn't move quickly. There is no rush in him, no sudden motion that might trigger instinct before thought. Everything he does is measured, deliberate, as if even the timing has already been calculated. His fingers close around your wrist with quiet precision, the contact firm enough to hold, but not forceful enough to bruise. It's control without struggle, restraint without effort.
Your shoulders tense, your muscles tightening instinctively as your other hand pulls once against the restraint before you force it still again. You don't give him more than that.
"Try to remain still," he says, his voice low, even, not unkind but entirely without comfort. "Movement interferes with consistency."
Instead, you focus on the pressure of his hand, on the grounding weight of it, on the way your breathing moves in and out of your chest as you force it to slow. You tell yourself to watch. To remember. If this is happening, then it matters how.
His other hand comes into view. A small device rests between his fingers, compact and precise, more clinical than threatening at first glance. The casing is metallic, clean, designed for efficiency rather than intimidation. A narrow chamber holds a clear substance that catches the light just enough to make it visible without revealing anything about what it actually is.
Your stomach tightens. "What is that?" you ask, the question quieter than you intend, but steady enough to hold.
Gideon doesn't look at the device. He's watching you.
"A variable," he says.
Your grip tightens slightly against the restraint, your breath slowing again as you brace yourself without meaning to. Your body knows before your mind fully accepts it. There's no time to argue, no space to negotiate.
He adjusts your wrist, turning it just enough to expose the inside of your arm. A sharp, precise pressure breaks the surface of your skin. A quick, controlled intrusion that sends a reflexive jolt through your system before you can stop it. The substance pushed into your system with practiced ease before the device withdraws just as smoothly as it entered. Gideon releases your wrist immediately after, stepping back without hesitation.
You don't speak. You can't even really try. Any words dissolve somewhere between your chest and your throat as the sensation deepens, spreading through you in a way that is impossible to ignore now. What began as something subtle, something easy to question, shifts into something far more defined, far more present. Heat blooms beneath your skin, not sharp or burning, but insistent, like your body is trying to correct something it doesn't understand.
Your breathing falters, then steadies, then falters again as you try to regain control over it. Each inhale feels just slightly heavier than the last, your lungs working harder for something that should come naturally. Your shoulders tense, pulling inward without permission as your muscles react to the unfamiliar strain. It doesn't hurt but the sensation is wrong.
Your fingers curl against the restraint, tightening instinctively as your pulse begins to climb, each beat more noticeable than the last. You can feel it in your wrists, in your throat, in the space just behind your ribs, a steady, growing rhythm that feels just slightly out of sync with everything else.
You force a breath in slowly, deliberately, holding it for a second before letting it out through your nose, trying to anchor yourself to something familiar, something controlled. It works, for a moment. The sharp edge of the sensation dulls just slightly, enough to give you the illusion of stability.
Gideon watches all of it. He hasn't moved from where he stepped back, his posture unchanged, his gaze fixed on you with that same clinical precision. There's no urgency in him, no concern, only observation, as though everything happening is exactly as expected.
"Elevated response," he says quietly, almost to himself. "But contained."
The words settle into the space around you, detached and measured, like he's reading from something already written rather than reacting to what he sees.
You swallow again, your throat tightening as the heat shifts, pulling inward now, concentrating somewhere deeper in your chest. For a brief moment, it feels like your body is bracing for something worse, something sharper, something that hasn't fully arrived yet. Your shoulders draw back as you try to sit straighter, your body instinctively fighting the sensation, pushing against it rather than giving in. Your breath comes faster for a second, then you force it to slow again, dragging it back under control one piece at a time.
Another wave moves through you, stronger this time, your muscles tightening in response as the heat spreads again, this time more evenly, less chaotic. It rolls through your arms, your chest, your core, like something searching for imbalance and failing to find it.
Your brow furrows slightly.
That's new. The initial spike of discomfort doesn't escalate the way you expect it to. Instead of building into pain, it... evens out. The sharp edges smooth, the irregular rhythm of your pulse settling into something steadier, something controlled despite the foreign presence still threading through your system.
Gideon's head tilts slightly as he watches the shift happen, the lenses over his eye catching the light as he adjusts his angle just enough to follow the change more closely.
"There it is," he murmurs.
The words are quiet and they carry something like confirmation in them. You feel it too. The wrongness doesn't disappear, but it changes, becoming something your body can hold rather than something it's fighting. The heat lingers, but it no longer spikes unpredictably. Your pulse steadies, your muscles easing just slightly as the initial strain fades into something more controlled.
The realization settles in slowly, unwelcome but undeniable.
You draw in another breath, deeper this time, testing it, measuring it the same way he is. It comes easier now. Not normal, not entirely, but closer than it should be given what just happened.
"What did you do?" you ask again, your voice quieter now, steadier despite everything.
Gideon doesn't answer immediately. His gaze remains fixed on you, tracking every shift, every subtle adjustment in your posture, your breathing, your expression.
"A baseline disruptor," he says after a moment. "Something that should introduce instability."
Your jaw tightens.
"Should." His head tilts again, that same small, thoughtful motion.
"In most cases, it does," he replies. "The body rejects it. Overcompensates. Breaks equilibrium in an attempt to regain it."
His gaze sharpens just slightly. "Yours didn't."
You swallow again, your throat less dry now, your body still humming faintly with the aftereffects of whatever he introduced.
"You're watching for failure," you say, the realization forming as you speak it, your voice gaining a slight edge despite your control.
A faint shift crosses his expression again, not quite a smile, but something that acknowledges the accuracy of it. "Yes."
The answer is simple.
"And when you don't get it?" you press, your fingers tightening slightly against the restraint again, grounding yourself in something solid as your mind continues to move.
"Then I adjust," he says.
Your chest tightens again, but not from the lingering effects of whatever he gave you. This could be just the beginning. Gideon steps back slightly, creating distance again now that the immediate observation is complete. His attention doesn't leave you, but his posture shifts just enough to signal that this phase, whatever it was, has reached its conclusion.
"For now," he adds quietly, almost as an afterthought, "you stabilize."
The second time, there is no warning. You see it in the shift of his posture, in the way he reaches for the panel again with the same precision, but there's something different now. Not in his movement, or in his expression, but in the certainty that settles into the space around him.
He's no longer observing you. He's about to escalate this.
Your body tenses before he even turns back toward you, every muscle tightening instinctively as your pulse begins to climb again. The lingering effects of the first injection haven't fully faded. You can still feel it beneath your skin, that faint, controlled hum of something unfamiliar that your body has somehow contained.
Gideon steps back into your space, the device in his hand similar in shape to the first, but not identical. The chamber holds something darker this time, the liquid catching the light in a way that makes it impossible to mistake the difference.
"That one didn't break me," you say quietly, your voice steadier than you feel. "So now you're going to try harder."
He doesn't deny it. "Adjustment is necessary," he replies, his tone as calm as before. "The first response confirmed baseline stability. This will test the limits of it."
You close your eyes and think of anything else. Home. Leon. He'll be here soon, you know it. Your fingers curl against the restraints again.
"He's still a variable." Gideon adds, almost absently.
"You mean me," you say.
"No, you're the constant."
Before you can respond, before you can push back against it, his hand closes around your wrist again, firm and controlled. This time, you don't pull away. Not because you don't want to, but because you already know it won't matter.
You brace. The injection comes faster. The pressure is sharper this time, the intrusion deeper, less subtle. Your breath catches immediately, your body reacting before you can suppress it, a sharp inhale breaking through your control as your muscles tense hard against the restraint.
It hits hard. There's no delay this time, no gradual creep. The sensation floods through you all at once, a violent surge beneath your skin that feels like your body is being pulled in two different directions at the same time. Heat spikes instantly, sharper than before, not spreading evenly but crashing through your system in jagged waves that refuse to settle.
Your breath breaks. You don't mean to. You want to keep quiet, composed. But the sound tears out of you anyway, raw and uncontrolled as your back arches slightly against the chair, your muscles tightening in a way you can't stop. It hurts and it hurts deep. Your chest constricts, your lungs struggling to pull in air as your pulse spikes violently, each beat slamming harder than the last. The heat turns into something sharper, something that burns through your limbs and settles in your core, like your body is trying to reject something it can't.
You try to fight it instinctively. Your hands clench, your shoulders pulling tight as you try to force your breathing back under control, but it slips, stutters, breaks again as another wave hits. Another sound escapes, and you don't recognize it at first, then you realize it's you.
Leon continues moving in. There is no space for distraction, no room for anything beyond the task in front of him. His breathing is steady, his pulse controlled, his body moving with the kind of precision that comes from years of experience and instinct working in perfect alignment.
When he reaches the door, he waits, listens. At first he hears nothing and reaches for the handle. Just the faint hum of something internal, too low to identify clearly from outside, too consistent to ignore completely. It's the kind of sound that suggests machinery, containment, something running beneath the surface where it can't be seen.
Then he hears it. Faint, distant, but unmistakable. A sound that doesn't belong to the building. His body stills instantly, every sense sharpening as his head tilts just slightly, his focus shifting inward, past the walls, past the structure, toward the source.
It comes again. Muffled and broken. Something in him snaps. He knows that sound, even distorted beneath layers of concrete and distance. He knows your voice, and you're not speaking this time, you're in pain.
Leon's hand closes around the handle, the controlled precision changing into something sharper, something faster as his entire focus locks onto one singular point. You're here. And you're close enough to hear.
Inside, the pain doesn't fade. It only builds. Another wave crashes through you, harder than the last, tearing through whatever control you managed to hold onto as your body fights something it doesn't understand. Your breath fractures again, your chest tightening painfully as you try to pull in air that won't come fast enough. Your vision blurs at the edges, the room tilting slightly as your muscles strain, your entire body reacting in ways you can't stop.
Gideon just stands there watching. Unphased by your struggle. Focused on whatever it is he's trying to figure out now.
"Instability present," he murmurs, his voice distant against the rush of sensation flooding your system. "But not catastrophic."
Your hands clench harder, your body trembling now, caught between resisting and adapting, between breaking and holding. Another scream tears from you, louder this time, less controlled. Somewhere beyond the walls, Leon is moving as fast he as can, getting closer with every second.
The door doesn't creak. It opens easily. Leon notices as he slips inside, his movement controlled and immediate, his body already adjusting to the change in the environment before the door fully closes behind him. The night are disappears in an instant, replaced by something cooler, denser, the faint sterile scent of filtered air layered over something metallic and difficult to place.
The darkness inside isn't complete. Low-level lighting runs along the edges of the corridor ahead, thin strips embedded into the walls that cast a dim, clinical glow across smooth surfaces. It isn't enough to illuminate everything, but it doesn't need to. It's designed for navigation, not comfort.
Leon pauses just inside the threshold out of instinct. His gaze moves quickly, but not carelessly, tracking the length of the corridor, the corners, the ceiling, the floor. Every surface is too clean, too controlled, the kind of space that isn't meant to be lived in, only used. There are no visible cameras, no obvious surveillance, but that doesn't mean he isn't being watched.
Leon steps forward. His footfalls are silent against the smooth flooring, his weight shifting with practiced precision as he moves deeper into the corridor. The hum he heard outside is louder now, no longer distant, but integrated into the structure itself. It vibrates faintly through the walls, through the floor, through the air.
Every doorway he passes is closed, seamless against the walls, giving nothing away about what might be behind them. There are no signs, no labels, nothing to indicate function or direction. The only thing that keeps him directionally bound is the sound of your pained screams.
Leon's jaw tightens slightly as he continues forward, his mind mapping the space as he goes, committing every turn, every distance, every possible exit to memory. If something goes wrong, he needs a way out. He needs a way to you. The thought sharpens his focus further.
Another scream escapes you. Leon stops. Not abruptly, but enough that his entire body stills, his head turning just slightly as he isolates it. The corridor stretches ahead in two directions at the next intersection, identical in structure, identical in lighting, offering no immediate indication of which path leads where.
Something shifts in Leon instantly, something deeper than instinct, something that bypasses thought entirely. His chest tightens hard, his breath shortening for a fraction of a second before it steadies again, forced back under control through sheer discipline.
He moves faster now, but not reckless, his steps still placed with precision as he turns down the corridor where the sound came from. The distance closes quickly, the hum of the facility growing louder as he goes, layered now with something else.
Every second stretches. Every step matters. He passes another door, then another, his gaze flicking briefly toward each one, searching for anything that stands out, anything that breaks the pattern. Then he sees a difference.
One of the doors ahead is slightly recessed compared to the others, its surface broken by a narrow panel along the side, faintly illuminated in a way that suggests active use. It isn't obvious. It isn't meant to be.
Leon slows as he approaches, his body lowering just slightly, his hand moving instinctively toward his weapon as he positions himself beside the frame rather than directly in front of it. His breathing steadies again, controlled, measured, his focus narrowing to a single point.
Another pained sound escapes your throat and Leon knows that you're in the other side. For a brief moment, everything compresses, the space, the sound, the distance between where he is and where you're collapsing into something immediate and undeniable.
He reaches for the panel. His fingers hover for half a second, assessing, calculating. Locked, most likely. Secured in a way that won't respond to a simple override. So he doesn't try. Instead, he shifts his stance slightly, his weight settling, his grip tightening as he prepares to force it. Inside, the sound rises again. Sharper. More raw. And that's all it takes.
Leon moves. The impact is controlled, precise, his force directed at the weakest point of the frame rather than the center. The panel cracks first, a sharp fracture that breaks the seal just enough to compromise the structure. He doesn't stop there. A second, stronger hit. The mechanism gives. The door buckles inward with a dull, heavy sound, the controlled quiet of the facility breaking for the first time since he entered. Leon doesn't wait for it to settle. He pushes through.
Inside, the world doesn't make sense all at once. It comes in fragments. The dim lights are too bright. The air is too cold. The sound of your own breathing breaking apart as another wave crashes through you, your body no longer able to hold the same control it did before. The heat has turned into something sharper, something that burns through your system in uneven pulses that refuse to stabilize.
Your hands are clenched tight enough to ache, fingernails cutting through your palm, your muscles trembling under the strain as your chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow.
The door breaks. The sound cuts through everything. Sharp. Violent. Wrong.
Your head jerks instinctively toward it, your vision struggling to focus, the edges still blurred, the room tilting just slightly as your body tries to keep up with everything happening at once. For a split second, you don't understand what you're seeing. A familiar shape, quick movements. Another yell rips through you, the pain washing through your entire body again.
Gideon turns slightly, a full smirk playing on his lips as he recognizes who came through the door. He doesn't startle and doesn't retreat. He wanted this moment, he waited for this moment.
Leon.
The room seems to hold itself in suspension, the harsh overhead light cutting everything into sharp, unforgiving clarity. There is no shadow deep enough to hide in here, no corner untouched by the sterile brightness that reveals every detail whether it should be seen or not. The hum of the facility continues beneath it all, steady and mechanical, a constant reminder that this place was built for function, not for the moment unfolding inside it. The only sound to be heard now is your panicked breathing between screams.
Leon stands just inside the broken doorway, his body angled slightly forward, not quite advancing, not quite holding back. His breathing is controlled, but not calm, each inhale measured, each exhale tight, like something is being forced into place rather than settling naturally.
His gaze doesn't go to Gideon first. It goes to you. It finds you immediately, as if there was never any question where you would be, as if every step he took through the facility had already narrowed down to this exact point. His eyes move over you quickly at first, instinctively checking, assessing, searching for what's been done, what's still happening, what he might already be too late to stop.
He sees the tension in your body, the way your hands are clenched too tightly against the restraints, the uneven rise and fall of your chest as your breathing struggles to keep pace with something inside you that hasn't settled. The faint tremor running through your muscles isn't subtle enough to miss, not to him.
His jaw tightens. Something shifts behind his eyes, something darker, sharper, but it doesn't break through his control. Not yet.
"Leon—" Your voice doesn't come out the way you expect it to. It catches halfway, thinner than it should be, pulled tight by everything still moving through your system. Even saying his name takes more effort than it should, your breath hitching slightly as you try to push past it. But he hears it.
"I've got you," he says, his voice low, steady in a way that feels deliberate, like he's anchoring both of you at the same time. There's no hesitation in it, no question, just certainty, even if the situation in front of him doesn't offer any.
Gideon moves, turning with the same measured precision he's carried through every moment so far, his posture unchanged, his attention shifting from you to Leon as though the interruption is simply another variable entering the equation.
He studies Leon in silence for a moment, his head tilting slightly as if adjusting to a new data point rather than reacting to a threat.
"Earlier than projected," he says, his words calm. Observational.
Leon's attention shifts then, just enough to acknowledge him, but not enough to lose sight of you. His body remains angled between you and Gideon, instinctively placing himself in that space, that line, even before he's fully closed the distance.
"You picked the wrong person," Leon says, his tone controlled but edged now, something tight beneath it that doesn't quite surface but doesn't hide either.
Gideon doesn't react to the threat. If anything, his focus sharpens.
"No," he replies. "I selected precisely the right one."
Leon's gaze flickers back to you, just for a second, taking in the way your shoulders tense again as another wave moves through you, the way your breathing stutters despite your effort to keep it steady. Grunts of pain escape your lips.
"What did you do to her?" he asks.
There's no softness in his voice. Gideon doesn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifts between the two of you, not weighing, not comparing, but observing, as if this moment itself is something worth studying.
"A controlled introduction," he says finally. "A stressor designed to disrupt equilibrium."
Your fingers tighten again as another pulse moves through you, your body reacting despite your efforts to contain it. You try to steady your breathing, to keep yourself grounded, but the sensation hasn't fully faded. It lingers beneath your skin, quieter than before, but still present, still wrong.
"And?" he presses, his voice lower now, more dangerous.
Gideon's expression doesn't change. "She stabilized. Handling it quite well actually."
The words hang in the air. Leon's jaw tightens harder, his focus snapping fully to Gideon now, the meaning settling in faster than it should.
"That wasn't supposed to happen," he says.
Gideon's head tilts again, that same small, deliberate motion.
"Not typically," he agrees. "But she is not a typical subject."
Your chest rises sharply again as another smaller wave moves through you, your body still adjusting, still reacting in ways you can't fully control. You grit your teeth against it, forcing yourself to stay present, to stay aware, because Leon is here now, and that changes everything.
Leon takes a step forward slowly. His attention splits again, half on Gideon, half on you, calculating distance, timing, risk. Every movement is deliberate, every shift controlled, but there's something coiled beneath it now, something that's getting harder to keep contained the longer he stands there.
"You're done," Leon says.
Gideon doesn't move to stop him. Doesn't reach for anything. Doesn't even step back.
"If that were true," he says quietly, "you wouldn't have made it this far."
Leon moves again, faster this time. He closes the distance between you in a matter of seconds, his focus narrowing completely as he reaches your side. His hands come to the restraints immediately, his touch careful despite the urgency behind it, his fingers checking the mechanism, the material, the way it's secured.
"Hey," he says, softer now, his voice dropping just enough to reach you through everything else. "Stay with me, alright?"
Your head tilts slightly toward him, your vision still not fully steady, but clearer now than it was before. Being this close to him, hearing him, it cuts through some of the noise, some of the disorientation.
"I'm—" You try to answer, but the words falter as your breath catches again, your body still not fully cooperating.
"Observe," he says softly. The word is almost lost beneath the sound of your breathing, but Leon hears it.
"I'm not part of your experiment," Leon says.
Gideon's gaze doesn't waver. "You already are."
Leon's grip tightens slightly against the restraint before he forces it to ease, his focus snapping back to you, back to what matters. The mechanism gives slightly under his touch, not completely, but it gives you some relief.
"Almost there," he murmurs, his voice low, steady, meant for you alone.
Your breathing hasn't fully settled, but it's better than it was. The violent spikes have dulled into something more contained, your body still reacting, still adjusting, but no longer overwhelming you completely. You hold onto his voice, onto the presence of him beside you, grounding yourself in something real while everything else still feels just slightly out of place.
"Leon..." Your voice is quieter now, strained but clearer, your fingers twitching faintly against the restraint as you try to steady yourself.
He glances at you briefly, just enough to confirm you're still with him, still holding on. "I've got you," he says again. And for a second, you believe it.
His hands still against the restraint, his body pauses just long enough to register the change before his head lifts, his attention snapping back toward Gideon. "You should have left when you had the opportunity, Leon."
Leon's jaw tightens, his posture shifting almost imperceptibly as he angles himself more fully between you and Gideon, his body placing itself there without thought, without hesitation.
"You're done," he says, quieter now, but edged with something harder, something less controlled.
Gideon's head tilts slightly. And then he moves. There's no warning, no buildup. One moment, he stands across the room, the next, he's there, the space between them collapsing in an instant. Leon reacts on instinct, his body turning, his arm coming up to intercept. But Gideon doesn't strike. He grips Leon's shoulder, then the force hits.
Leon's footing breaks as he's yanked sideways with a strength that doesn't belong to anything natural. The world shifts violently, the ground slamming into his back with a force that knocks the breath from his lungs before he can brace against it.
The impact echoes through the room, sharp and final.
"Leon!" The sound leaves you before you can stop it, your voice breaking through the space with a sharp edge of fear you can't contain this time.
Even as the air rushes back into his lungs in a strained inhale, his body rolls with the impact, momentum carrying him through the motion as he pushes himself back up. There's no pause, no recovery beyond what's absolutely necessary. His focus snaps back immediately, locking onto Gideon with a precision that overrides everything else.
Something in Gideon begins to change. A tension that wasn't there before, something coiling inward rather than expanding outward. His posture tightens, his shoulders drawing slightly as though containing something that no longer fits cleanly within him. The fractured lines beneath his skin darken, spreading in faint, branching patterns that pulse subtly with something alive.
You gasp because you can see it now. Something moving under his skin.
"Adaptation requires progression," Gideon says, his voice lower now, heavier, as though it's being pulled from somewhere deeper.
The mechanical apparatus over his eye flickers, the lenses shifting rapidly, adjusting in small, precise movements as if recalibrating to match whatever is happening inside him.
Leon's stance lowers instinctively, his weight settling, his body aligning for impact as his gaze tracks every shift, every unnatural movement.
"Yeah," he mutters under his breath, quieter, sharper. "Saw that coming."
A sound comes next. It's wet and wrong. A tearing pressure beneath the surface that builds for just a second too long before it breaks. His arm jerks slightly, not in pain, but in adjustment, his fingers flexing once, twice, before something forces its way through. The fabric of his sleeve splits as dark, sinewy appendages push outward, emerging from beneath the skin with a violent, organic motion that defies anything natural.
They unfurl rapidly, extending outward with unsettling control, each one moving with a purpose that suggests awareness rather than randomness.
Leon doesn't wait. He moves first.
The moment the tendrils fully extend, he closes the distance, fast and direct, his movement cutting through the space before Gideon can fully settle into whatever he's becoming. His strike is precise, aimed to disrupt, to interrupt the transformation before it completes.
But one of the tendrils reacts faster. It lashes out, snapping forward with unnatural speed, wrapping tightly around Leon's arm mid-motion. The grip is immediate, constricting hard enough to halt him completely, the pressure sharp and unyielding. Leon's jaw tightens as he tries to pull free, his muscles straining against it.
You see it before it happens, faint arcs of electricity flickering along the length of the appendage, gathering, intensifying, the air around it crackling with something volatile. You try to call to Leon but another wave of pain rushes through you, head to toe, halting everything and stealing your voice, your breath, your mind.
The discharge hits. It tears through Leon in a sharp, violent burst, his body locking for a split second under the force of it before the sound breaks from him, low and strained, forced out despite his control. The tendril releases him just as quickly. He's thrown back, his body hitting the ground hard enough to echo again, the impact reverberating through the room.
Leon lies unmoving on the floor and it's the most helpless you've ever been. Restrained with no way to help your husband, who is only here to save you.
His hand presses against the floor, his body pushing up again, slower this time, but no less determined. His breathing is heavier now, sharper, each inhale drawn in with effort, but his focus hasn't shifted a single time.
Across from him, Gideon stands taller. The human shape is still there, but it's no longer dominant. The tendrils move slowly behind him, shifting, adjusting, as if testing their range, their strength, their control. The air around him feels charged now, faint arcs of energy flickering intermittently, unstable but contained.
"This is where it becomes meaningful," Gideon says, his voice steady despite everything else.
The room doesn't hold its shape for long. It gives in stages, like something under pressure, finally reaching the point where it can no longer hold.
At first, it's only the sound. A low, strained groan somewhere deep within the structure, metal bending where it was never meant to, the clean lines of the facility distorting under the weight of what Gideon is becoming. The sterile hum that once filled the space flickers, falters, then surges unevenly, as if the systems built to sustain control are now struggling to contain it.
Gideon stands at the center of it, no longer still in the way he had been before, but not uncontrolled either. The transformation does not make him wild. It makes him larger, more present, more impossible to ignore. The tendrils extending from his body shift with a purpose that's no longer exploratory. They coil and stretch in slow, deliberate motions, each movement accompanied by faint arcs of electricity that crackle through the air and dissipate against the walls in sharp, fleeting bursts of light.
Leon watches him without retreating. His breathing is heavier now, his chest rising and falling with effort, but there's no hesitation in the way he holds his ground. His body adjusts in small, precise ways, weight shifting, stance lowering, every muscle aligning with instinct and experience. He's already recalculating, already adapting to something that should not exist, because that is what survival has always required of him.
Gideon tilts his head, the mechanical lenses over his eye flickering rapidly as they track Leon's movement. "You continue to respond within projected thresholds," he says, his voice altered now, layered faintly with something deeper that resonates beneath the words. "Even under escalating conditions."
Leon doesn't answer. There's no space for it, no value in it. The moment Gideon's tendrils shift inward, drawing close to his body as the electricity along them intensifies, Leon understands what's coming. The air sharpens, the faint scent of ozone thickening as the energy builds, no longer scattered but concentrated, focused into something far more dangerous.
He moves before it releases. The discharge tears through the space where he stood a fraction of a second before, a violent arc of electricity that slams into the far wall with enough force to fracture the surface, the impact flashing white-hot before fading into smoke and sparks. The light burns briefly across Leon's vision, but he doesn't slow. He uses the opening created by the attack, the brief window where Gideon's focus shifts to recalibrate, and closes the distance instead of retreating.
The first strike lands cleanly. It snaps Gideon's head to the side, not with enough force to drop him, but enough to confirm what Leon needs to know. The thing in front of him can still be hit. It can still be interrupted. It can still be fought.
The response is immediate. The tendrils lash outward with far less restraint than before, their movements sharper, more aggressive, each strike aimed not just to stop Leon but to overwhelm him. He pivots through the first, deflects the second, the impact sending a jolt up his arm that he absorbs without breaking rhythm. The third comes from behind, forcing him to drop low, the appendage slicing through the air just above him before slamming into the wall hard enough to crack it further.
The room is coming apart now. Panels loosen and fall, fragments of the controlled environment scattering across the floor as the fight pushes beyond anything it was designed to contain. The hum of the facility distorts into something uneven, lights flickering in brief, erratic pulses that cast the entire space in shifting brightness.
It's all too much for your body as you fight whatever is coursing through your veins. The flashing lights, the pain bursting in waves. Darkness creeps at the edges of your vision as you watch Leon try to take down Gideon.
Gideon steps forward into the chaos, his movement heavier now, less human in its weight but no less precise. "Damage acknowledged," he says, the words strained slightly as the transformation continues to push through him. "Adaptation required."
The tendrils retract again, but not in retreat. They coil tightly around him, drawing inward as the electricity intensifies along their length, brighter now, more volatile. Leon recognizes the shift immediately, his posture tightening as his focus sharpens further. This is not another strike. This is an escalation.
Gideon's body convulses with sudden force, the remaining structure of his human form breaking further as the mutation surges forward. The tendrils expand again, thicker, longer, their movement more erratic as the transformation accelerates. His frame distorts, growing beyond its original shape, the balance of control giving way to something far more aggressive, far less contained.
The walls crack under the pressure. Metal groans and bends as the space struggles to hold him, the controlled environment collapsing into something unstable and dangerous.
He moves through the chaos, faster now, more direct, his path cutting between the snapping tendrils and crackling arcs of energy with a precision that leaves no room for hesitation. One shot strikes his shoulder as he passes, the impact heavy enough to stagger him a step, but he doesn't stop. He can't. Another slams into the ground beside him, sending debris upward in a sharp burst that grazes his side, but he pushes through it, closing the distance before Gideon can fully adjust.
This time, Leon commits. There's no testing strike, no probing movement. Everything aligns into a single, decisive action as he drives forward, his focus narrowing to a singular point. The moment opens, brief and dangerous, and he takes it.
The shot lands. The sound cuts through the chaos, sharp and final, the impact hitting with enough force to break through what remains of Gideon's structure. For a fraction of a second, everything seems to hold, the movement, the sound, the space itself pausing as the effect settles in.
Gideon collapses. The tendrils recoil violently, the electricity along them snapping out in erratic bursts before dying completely. Gideon's form distorts further, not expanding now but breaking down, the structure of it failing in on itself as the mutation loses cohesion. The surface of him shifts, softens, destabilizes, the defined shape melting into something unrecognizable. He doesn't fall, but dissolves.
The mass that was Gideon collapses inward, losing form, losing structure, the remnants of his transformation breaking apart into something viscous, unstable, spreading across the fractured floor in uneven, darkened pools. The last of the energy dissipates into the air, leaving behind only the fading hum of a facility no longer fully functioning.
The silence that follows doesn't feel real. It settles too suddenly, too completely, pressing in around the room like something waiting to be acknowledged. Moments ago, everything had been noise and motion and impact, the air alive with electricity and strain, the structure itself fighting to hold together under the weight of what had been happening inside it. Now, all of that is gone, leaving behind only the faint, uneven hum of failing systems and the quiet drip of something cooling against the fractured floor.
Leon doesn't move right away. His chest rises and falls with heavier breaths than he'd allow himself under normal circumstances, each inhale dragging in air that still smells faintly of ozone and heat. The tension hasn't left his body yet. It lingers in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way his fingers flex once at his side like they're still expecting resistance.
His gaze remains fixed for a second longer on what's left of Gideon, the dark, formless remains spread across the floor where something controlled and deliberate once stood. There's no movement there now, no sign of reformation, no indication that anything is coming back from it. Just the aftermath of something that pushed too far and lost its shape completely.
Only when that certainty settles does Leon turn. Everything that had been held tight during the fight, all that focus, all that precision, redirects in an instant, snapping back to you with a force that feels almost physical. His eyes find you quickly, already expecting to see you where he left you, restrained, struggling, still fighting through whatever Gideon put into your system.
You're there. You're upright. The restraints still hold you in place, your body angled slightly forward where you'd been straining against them earlier. But the tension is gone. The movement is gone.
Leon's chest tightens sharply.
"Hey..." The word leaves him before he's even fully crossed the distance, his steps closing the space between you faster now, no longer measured, no longer cautious. The control he held onto through the fight slips just enough to let urgency through.
He reaches you in seconds, hands coming up to your cheeks. "Hey, hey—" His voice drops, softer but edged now, the words coming quicker than before as he leans closer, his gaze scanning your face, searching for any sign of response. "Come on, stay with me."
Your skin is warm beneath his hand, warmer than it should be, the heat lingering from whatever Gideon forced into your system. Your pulse is there too, faint but steady against his fingers, a rhythm that reassures him just enough to keep moving, to keep focused. But your eyes don't open.
Leon exhales through his nose, the breath sharper than he intends as he shifts his grip, his hand sliding more securely along your arm as he checks you over with quick, practiced movements. There are no visible wounds beyond the restraint, no obvious signs of physical damage from the outside, but that doesn't mean anything here.
"What did he do to you..." he mutters under his breath, the question not meant for an answer, just something that slips out as his mind tries to piece together what he's seeing with what he already knows.
He adjusts his position, moving closer, his hands returning to the mechanism with more urgency than before, but not less care. His fingers find the weakened point he'd started working earlier, the subtle give in the structure that hadn't been enough then but might be now.
"Alright," he murmurs, quieter again, as if you can hear him even like this. "I've got you, sweetheart. Just hold on."
His grip tightens slightly as he applies pressure, shifting his angle and forcing the mechanism in a way that strains against it rather than working with it. The material resists at first, holding firm like it was designed to, but Leon doesn't stop. He adjusts again, changes direction, increases force just enough to push it past its limit without snapping it in a way that could hurt you.
Finally, the first wrist comes loose. Leon doesn't hesitate. He works the opening immediately, pulling it wider, freeing your other wrist carefully but quickly, his hand catching yours the second it's loose, steadying it before it can fall.
"Got it," he breathes, more to himself than anything else.
For a second, he doesn't move you.
He just stays there, one hand still around yours, the other hovering near your shoulder like he's bracing for something, like he's expecting you to wake up, to react, to do something. When you don't, the tension shifts again. Softer this time. More careful.
Leon slides his arm behind your back, supporting your weight as he eases you forward, out of the position the restraints held you in. Your body doesn't resist. It leans into him instead, unsteady, the lack of awareness making the movement feel heavier than it should.
"I've got you," he says again, quieter now, the words closer to a promise than anything else.
He adjusts his hold, one arm secure around you, the other steadying your head as he lowers you just enough to get a better look at you. His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek without thinking, grounding himself in the contact as much as he's checking you.
Leon's jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn't let it spiral. Not now. Not when you're right here, when you're breathing, when he can still do something about it.
"Come on," he murmurs, his voice low and steady again as he shifts his grip, preparing to move. "You're not staying here."
The facility groans faintly around them, a reminder that whatever stability it had before is gone now, systems failing slowly in the aftermath of Gideon's collapse. The lights flicker once, then again, the hum dipping unevenly as something deeper in the structure begins to shut down.
Leon doesn't wait to see how far it goes. He gathers you more securely against him, lifting you carefully, mindful of your condition, of the way your body still hasn't fully recovered from whatever was done to it. His movements are controlled again, but the urgency is back, sharper now, focused entirely on getting you out.
As he turns toward the broken doorway, his grip tightens just slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure you're there.
The facility doesn't sound the same on the way out. What had once been a steady, controlled hum has fractured into something uneven, strained, like the structure itself is struggling to keep up with systems that are failing faster than they can compensate. The lights flicker overhead in irregular pulses, casting the corridor in shifting bands of brightness and shadow that make the space feel unstable, unfamiliar, even though Leon had just moved through it minutes before with absolute clarity.
Your weight is secure against him, one arm braced firmly around your back, the other supporting you beneath your legs as he moves through the corridor with controlled urgency. Every step is precise despite the pace, his body adjusting instinctively to keep you steady, to minimize the jarring motion that might make things worse.
Your head rests against his shoulder, your breathing warm against his neck, uneven but present. He keeps track of it without thinking, each inhale and exhale a quiet reassurance that cuts through everything else.
"Almost out," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his voice low and steady even as the world around him shifts.
The door he forced open earlier hangs unevenly now, the frame warped just enough to leave it partially ajar. Cool night air seeps through the opening, cutting through the sterile atmosphere behind him and bringing with it the scent of damp earth and open space.
Freedom.
Leon doesn't hesitate. He pushes through, stepping out into the night in one smooth motion, the shift in environment immediate and grounding. The air is colder here, cleaner, and for the first time since he entered the facility, his lungs pull in a breath that doesn't feel heavy.
The car is exactly where he left it, partially obscured by the treeline, its dark silhouette blending into the surroundings. He heads straight for it, his pace steady but urgent, every second outside the facility a step further away from everything that just happened.
Your body shifts slightly in his arms. At first, it's subtle. A change in weight. A small, uncoordinated movement that could easily be dismissed as nothing. But Leon feels it immediately. His grip tightens just slightly, enough to steady you as his gaze drops briefly, searching your face for confirmation.
Your brows furrow faintly as your breathing changes.
"Hey," he says, softer now, his voice dropping instinctively as he adjusts his hold just enough to support you better. "Easy. You're alright."
"...Leon?" The word comes out quiet, rough around the edges, like your voice hasn't fully returned yet.
He hears it immediately.
"I'm here," he answers without hesitation, his voice closer now, steadier, like he's anchoring you through the haze. "I've got you."
Your eyes open slowly, the night sky above you blurred at first, shifting slightly with each step he takes. It takes a second for things to settle, for your vision to catch up enough to focus, and when it does, you see him again. Up close and real, not the image you forced yourself to see while Gideon was tormenting you.
Your fingers twitch weakly against his jacket, the movement small but intentional as you try to ground yourself in something you recognize.
"I told... told him you'd save me." You barely get out. "You're... okay?"
"I'm fine," he says, though it's not the point. "You're the one I'm worried about."
You let out a faint breath, something that might almost be a laugh if your body had the strength for it. It fades quickly as a dull ache rolls through you again, your muscles tightening instinctively before easing.
"Feel like... a million bucks..." you murmur.
Leon reaches the car quickly, shifting his hold just enough to open the passenger door without setting you down, his movements efficient despite the care behind them. He lowers you into the seat gently, one hand steadying your back as the other guides your legs in, making sure you're settled before pulling back.
For a moment, he doesn't close the door. His hand lingers briefly against your shoulder, his gaze scanning your face again, checking, confirming, making sure you're still with him.
"I'm right here," he says quietly, reaching up to caress your cheek.
You nod faintly, your head resting back against the seat, your body still heavy, still not fully your own, but more present than before.
Leon closes the door and rounds the car quickly, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine without hesitation. The headlights cut through the darkness ahead, illuminating the path back in a way that feels far more real than anything inside that facility ever did.
As the car pulls away, the building disappears behind them, swallowed by the trees and the night as if it was never meant to be found. For a few minutes, there's only the sound of the road under the tires.
Leon taps a few buttons on his infotainment screen. The dial tone sounds in the car.
"Leon?" Hunnigan's voice comes through, alert immediately.
"I found her," he says.
There's a pause. Then relief, quiet but unmistakable. "Is she—"
"She's alive," he cuts in, glancing briefly toward you before returning his focus forward. "But Gideon got to her first. He injected something. I don't know what."
Your eyes shift toward him slightly at that, your focus hazy but present enough to follow the conversation. There's a brief sound of typing on the other end.
"If it's Elpis-related, it's not going to be simple," Hunnigan says. "You need to get her checked out as soon as possible. I can pull what I have on Gideon's compounds, but if he refined anything—"
"Bringing her now," Leon says, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument.
There's a pause.
"Understood," Hunnigan replies, quieter now. "Monitor her until then. Watch for instability, changes in heart rate, neurological response, anything abnormal."
Leon's grip tightens slightly on the wheel. "Yeah," he says. "Already am."
"I'll send you everything I find," she adds. "Leon, you did well."
He doesn't respond to that. He ends the call a second later, the quiet of the car settling in again as the road stretches ahead.
Your head turns slightly toward him, your voice softer now, more grounded despite the lingering exhaustion. "...You always do that," you murmur.
He glances at you briefly. "Do what?"
"Act like... you weren't worried," you say, your words slower now, but clearer.
Something in his expression softens, just slightly. "I was," he admits.
The answer is simple. Honest. And it sits between you in a way that doesn't need anything added.
The road carries you forward, the distance between where you were and where you're going growing with every second. It still feels longer on the way back. The distance hasn't changed, but every second now carries weight Leon didn't have time to feel before. The urgency hasn't left him. It's just changed shape, sharpened into something quieter, more focused, more dangerous in its own way.
He doesn't take the direct route home. He turns off sooner than expected, the car shifting onto a narrower road that disappears deeper into the trees. The headlights carve through the darkness in long, steady beams, illuminating a path that doesn't look like it leads anywhere permanent.
You notice the change, even through the lingering haze. Your head shifts slightly against the seat, your eyes half-lidded but tracking the unfamiliar surroundings as best you can.
"This isn't home," you murmur, your voice still softer than usual, weighed down by exhaustion and something else you can't quite place.
Leon glances at you briefly, just long enough to confirm you're still with him.
"No," he says. "Not yet."
The road narrows further before it opens into something unexpected, a structure set back from the tree line, low and unmarked, its exterior deliberately unremarkable in the same way the facility had been, but cleaner, maintained. A single light glows near the entrance, steady and controlled. Safe. Or as close as it gets.
Leon pulls up without slowing more than necessary, the engine cutting the moment the car stops. He's out of the vehicle in seconds, moving around to your side, the door opening before you fully register the shift.
"I've got you," he says again, quieter now as he reaches in, one arm sliding behind your back, the other beneath your legs as he lifts you carefully from the seat.
Your body responds this time. Weakly. Your hand finds his jacket again, fingers curling into the fabric without thinking, holding on as the ground shifts beneath you.
"Leon..." you breathe, your voice unsteady but present.
"I know," he murmurs. "Just trust me."
The door to the building opens before he reaches it. Hunnigan stands inside, already moving and prepared. There's no surprise in her expression, no wasted time on relief, just immediate focus as her eyes take you in, assessing faster than words could keep up.
"This way," she says, stepping aside.
Leon doesn't stop. The interior is brighter, cleaner, the air carrying that same clinical sharpness, but without the wrongness that clung to Gideon's facility. This feels controlled in a different way. Not experimental. It's protective.
He follows her down a short corridor and into a room already set up, equipment active, monitors ready, everything positioned with intention.
"Set her here," Hunnigan directs.
Leon lowers you onto the table with care, his hands lingering just a second longer than necessary as he makes sure you're stable before pulling back. He doesn't step far and doesn't look away.
A nurse comes over immediately, her hands steady as she begins checking vitals, attaching sensors, her focus sharp and efficient.
"Heart rate elevated but stable," she murmurs, more to herself than to either of you. "Temperature's up, not unexpected."
You flinch slightly at the contact, your body still sensitive, still not fully under your control as the lingering effects of the injection continue to hum beneath your skin.
"What did he give her?" Leon asks, his voice low, controlled, but tighter than before.
She doesn't answer right away. She moves quickly, pulling a sample, running it through a portable analyzer already humming to life on the counter beside her.
"Give me a second," she says.
The machine processes faster than anything standard, its quiet mechanical sounds filling the space between your uneven breathing and the tension settling heavier in the room.
Leon's attention doesn't leave you. Your eyes drift toward him, unfocused at first, then clearer as your body fights its way back toward something resembling normal.
"I'm okay," you try, your voice softer now, but he doesn't buy it.
"I know," he says, but it doesn't sound like agreement.
It sounds like reassurance for himself more than anyone.
The machine beeps. Hunnigan's attention snaps to it immediately, her eyes scanning the results as they populate across the screen. Her expression tightens, just slightly, something small but enough for Leon to catch it.
"What is it?" he asks.
She exhales quietly. "It's a modified Elpis compound," she says. "Derivative strain. Designed to destabilize cellular response and force rapid adaptation."
"And?"
The nurse looks at you, then at the screen, chiming in. "It should've caused systemic failure," she says. "Organ stress, neurological breakdown... worst case, full collapse."
Your stomach drops faintly, even through the haze.
"But it didn't," Leon says.
"No," Hunnigan replies. "It didn't."
She taps the screen lightly, pulling up another set of data.
"Her system compensated," she continues. "Regulated instead of rejecting. It's stabilizing the compound instead of letting it spread."
"What does that mean?" you ask.
"It means you're not in immediate danger," the nurse says. "But it also means whatever he put into you isn't gone."
Your fingers curl slightly against the surface beneath you, your breathing steadying more now as the worst of the earlier effects fade into something duller, more manageable.
"...so I'm not dying tonight?" you ask, your voice quiet, but clearer now.
Hunnigan looks at you directly.
"No," she says. "You're not."
Leon exhales, probably louder than he intended. It's the first real release of tension since he found you. Hunnigan's gaze shifts back to the screen.
"But we're going to need to monitor you," she adds. "Closely."
The house is quiet when the door opens. Not the heavy, suffocating quiet Leon had walked into earlier, the kind that had pressed in on him with something wrong beneath it. This is different. Softer. The kind of quiet that belongs to a place waiting to be filled again, not one that’s already been emptied. Still, when he steps inside with you in his arms, something in him tightens.
For a split second, the image overlaps, the broken stillness from before, the absence, the space where you should have been. It flickers through him before he can stop it. Then you shift against him.
Leon exhales slowly, the breath quieter this time, less controlled, as he nudges the door closed behind him with his foot. The soft click of it sealing shut sounds louder than it should, final in a way that settles something deep in his chest. You're here, and that's what matters.
“I can walk,” you murmur against him, your voice still a little worn, a little softer than usual, but stronger than it was before.
He doesn’t answer right away. His grip doesn’t loosen either.
“I know,” he says after a second, glancing down at you briefly. “You don’t have to.”
You huff a faint breath that turns into a smile, your hand shifting slightly where it rests against his jacket, fingers brushing the fabric like you’re reminding yourself he’s real, too.
“You’re stubborn,” you mumble.
“Yeah,” he replies. “You married me anyway.”
You break out into a sleepy grin. He carries you further into the house, his steps slower now, no urgency pushing him forward anymore, just care. The rest of the house comes into view, familiar in a way that almost feels surreal after everything that came before it.
Then he stumbles upon the kitchen. The light is left on, the chair is still slid out, and the broken mug is still there. Ceramic shards scattered across the tile, the dark stain long since dried where coffee had spilled and been left behind, frozen in the moment everything went wrong.
You follow his gaze, your brow knitting faintly as your eyes settle on it, memory catching up in pieces, the last normal moment before everything had been ripped away.
“And that was my favorite one too,” you murmur quietly.
Leon exhales, something in his chest shifting again, not sharp this time, not panic or urgency, just something quieter, something closer to relief tangled up with the remnants of everything else.
“I’ll get you a new one,” he says.
He carries you past the kitchen, leaving the broken pieces where they are for now. It can wait. None of that matters in this moment, not compared to the weight in his arms, the warmth of you against him, the quiet proof that he didn’t lose you.
When he reaches the couch, he finally lowers you carefully, his movements slow and deliberate as he eases you down into the cushions. This time, he doesn’t pull away immediately. His hands linger on your, one at your back and the other at your arm. He's not ready to let go just yet.
Instead, your hand finds his wrist again, your fingers curling lightly around it before he can step back, holding him there in a way that’s gentle but unmistakable.
“Stay,” you murmur.
He shifts instead, sitting beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch, his body angled toward yours without thinking. For a second, neither of you says anything, the quiet settling in around you again, but this time it feels different. It's safe and full.
Your head tips slightly toward him, your body leaning just enough that he reacts without hesitation, his arm coming around you instinctively, pulling you closer, steadying you against his side. You melt into him naturally, more dramatically than usual.
His hand moves slowly along your back, his thumb brushing lightly in absent, repetitive motions that feel more like habit than thought.
"When you weren't home, I thought..." his words drop quietly. They don't come easily.
You tilt your head slightly, your cheek brushing his shoulder as you glance up at him. “I know,” you say softly.
You don’t make him finish it. You don’t need to. His jaw tightens faintly, his arm around you pulling just a little closer, like the thought alone is enough to make him hold on tighter. You shift slightly, turning more toward him despite the lingering heaviness in your body, your hand sliding up from his wrist to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric there as you steady yourself.
“I’m here,” you murmur.
This time, it’s for him. His gaze drops to you, something in it softer now, less guarded, the edges worn down by everything that’s already passed.
“I know,” he says.
You study him for a second longer, then lean in, closing the small space between you. The kiss is gentle, slow, less about reassurance and more about presence. Your hand stays against his chest, grounding yourself in the steady rhythm beneath it as his hand comes up to your jaw, holding you there with quiet care. There's no urgency; it's just warmth and you.
He leans into it fully this time, the tension finally easing from his shoulders as he lets himself settle into something that doesn’t require fighting, doesn’t require thinking, doesn’t require anything except being here with you.
When he pulls back, it’s only slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath steadying in a way it hasn’t since before any of this started.
“Next time,” you murmur softly, a faint hint of teasing threading through the exhaustion, “I’m making tea instead.”
That almost makes him laugh. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Safer choice.”
The quiet stretches around you, soft and steady, the kind that doesn’t press in or demand anything. It just exists, wrapping around the two of you like something familiar, something earned.
You don’t realize how heavy your body feels until you try to move again. It’s subtle at first, a shift against him, your muscles protesting just enough to remind you that you’re still recovering, still not fully back to yourself. The exhaustion settles deeper now that everything else has quieted, pulling at you in a way that’s harder to ignore.
"We have to get cleaned up, sweetheart," he says, kissing your head.
"Okay," you reply, half asleep.
Before you can argue, before you can insist on anything else, his arm shifts around you, steady and sure as he moves to stand. The motion is smooth, practiced, like he’s done this before, like taking care of you has always come this naturally. Your arm slides around his shoulders without hesitation, your body settling against him with a quiet acceptance that feels as natural as breathing.
“You’re really not going to let me walk, are you?” you murmur, your voice softer now, edged with tired amusement.
“No,” he replies simply.
The two of you move together down the hall, slowly, quietly. The bathroom light flicks on, warm and soft, filling the space in a way that feels almost jarring after everything else. It’s normal, ordinary, safe. He sets you down on the closed toilet lid. Leon moves ahead just enough to start the water, adjusting it carefully, testing the temperature with his hand before letting it run. Steam begins to rise slowly, curling into the air and softening the edges of the room.
You lean lightly against the counter, watching him through the haze of exhaustion, the small, familiar movements grounding you in a way nothing else quite has yet.
“You do this a lot,” you murmur faintly.
He glances back at you, brow lifting just slightly. “Take care of you?” he asks.
You nod once. Something in his expression softens, just a fraction.
“I always will,” he says quietly.
He steps back toward you then, slower now, his hands gentler as they come to rest at your arms, steadying you again. His gaze flickers briefly over your face, checking, making sure you’re still with him, still present.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
You nod. “I think so.”
He doesn’t completely take your word for it. He stays close anyway. Careful and patient. There’s no rush in what comes next. Just a quiet understanding between you as he helps you out of your clothes, his movements respectful, unhurried, like this isn’t something to get through, but something to do right. His hands are steady, never lingering where they shouldn’t, never pulling away too quickly either.
When you step into the bath, the warmth surrounds you immediately, sinking into your muscles in a way that makes your breath catch softly in your chest. You lower yourself slowly, the water rising around you, easing tension you didn’t even realize you were still holding. It’s not just relief, it’s release.
Your shoulders drop, your head tipping back slightly against the edge as your eyes close for a second, letting yourself settle into it. Leon stays close. Not in the water yet, but right there beside the tub, one hand resting lightly along the edge, his attention still entirely on you.
“Too hot?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head, your voice softer now. "Perfect."
He nods once, then reaches for the shampoo, his movements slower, more deliberate as he shifts closer. His hand brushes lightly against your shoulder first, a silent check, a pause to make sure you’re with him.
You tilt your head slightly in response, and that's all he needs. His fingers move through your hair gently, working the shampoo in with care that feels like heaven. There’s no rush, no distraction, just the steady rhythm of his hands, the quiet presence of him there with you. The tension leaves you in pieces.
Your head leans back a little more, your eyes slipping closed again as you let yourself relax into it, into the warmth of him.
“You’re really good at this,” you murmur, your voice barely above the sound of the water.
When he rinses your hair, one hand steadies at the back of your neck, careful, protective, making sure the water doesn’t hit too hard, doesn’t pull you out of the quiet you’ve finally found. You lean into that touch without thinking.
By the time he's done, the air feels different. You feel lighter, cleaner, safer. He lingers for a second, his hand still resting lightly along the edge of the tub as he watches you settle deeper into the water. The tension that had been sitting in your shoulders has eased; your breathing is slower now, your body finally beginning to let go of everything it had been holding on to.
His gaze shifts, thoughtful. “You sure you’re steady?” he asks quietly.
You open your eyes just enough to look at him, the faintest hint of a smile returning. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur.
He exhales softly, then moves, slower this time. There’s no hesitation in it, just a quiet decision as he steps back, shedding the last of his own clothes with the same unhurried care he showed you. It’s simple, practical, like this is just the next step.
Then he steps into the bath behind you. The water shifts around him, rising slightly, warmth settling over both of you as he lowers himself carefully, mindful of your space, of your balance, of everything you’ve just been through. His movements are controlled, even here, even now, but there’s something softer in them too, something that isn’t about precision anymore.
You feel the warmth of his chest against your back. His arm comes around you almost immediately, instinctively, resting lightly across your middle, not pulling you in too tightly, just enough to steady you, to keep you anchored there with him.
You exhale, slow and quiet. “That’s better,” you murmur.
A faint breath leaves him, something just short of a laugh. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, it is.”
The water laps gently against the sides of the tub, the only sound in the room aside from your breathing, which has finally evened out into something calm, something steady. The warmth sinks deeper now, loosening what little tension remains, dulling the last edges of pain into something manageable.
Leon’s hand shifts slightly against you, his thumb brushing absent, slow patterns along your arm. It’s not deliberate, not something he’s thinking about. It’s just there, familiar, grounding, something he’s done a hundred times before in quieter moments.
“You still with me?” he asks after a while, his voice low, close to your ear.
You nod faintly, your head tipping back just enough to rest lightly against his shoulder.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just tired.”
“I know.”
His hand tightens just a fraction, then eases again, like he’s reminding himself you’re here, that he doesn’t have to hold on so tightly anymore.
You reach back slightly, your fingers finding his arm where it rests around you, tracing lightly over his skin without thinking. It’s a small movement, but it’s enough to pull his attention fully to you again.
“You okay?” you ask, softer now.
There’s a pause. “I am now,” he admits.
You tilt your head just enough to look up at him, your gaze meeting his in the soft, warm light of the room. For a second, neither of you moves, the space between you close but unhurried.
Then you lean in. The kiss is gentle, slower than before, your hand coming up to rest lightly against his jaw as your lips meet his. There’s no urgency in it, no need to prove anything, just quiet reassurance, the simple fact that you’re both here, both real, both okay.
He responds just as softly, his hand shifting from your arm to your side, holding you there with a steady, careful touch as he leans into it. It lingers just long enough to mean something, to settle into something real, before he pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours.
"I was scared," he murmurs.
"I know," you whisper. "Me too."
His eyes close briefly at that, his breath steadying as he leans into your touch for just a second. The water cools slowly around you, but neither of you moves right away. There’s no rush to leave this moment, no urgency pulling you forward. Just warmth, and quiet, and the steady presence of each other. Eventually, though, he shifts.
“Come on,” he murmurs gently. “Let’s get dried off and get to bed.”
Leon reaches for a towel immediately, wrapping it around your shoulders before you can even think about it, his hands moving with that same practiced gentleness as he draws you closer, drying your hair first, slow and careful, working through it like he had in the water.
Another towel follows, this one warmer, softer as he drapes it around you and guides you to sit on the edge of the tub for a second, making sure you’re steady before stepping back just enough to grab fresh clothes.
He helps you again, keeping you steady as he eases the fabric over your arms, adjusts it at your shoulders, and makes sure you're comfortable before moving on. By the time you're both dressed, the whole world has softened. The sharp edges from before have faded into something else.
Leon’s hand finds yours without thinking as he leads you back toward the bedroom, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as you walk. You don’t pull away. If anything, your grip tightens slightly, grounding yourself in the warmth of him, in the steady presence that hasn’t left your side since he found you.
When you reach the bed, he slows, turning slightly toward you instead of immediately guiding you down. For a second, you just stand there.
"Thank you, Leon," you say quietly, looking at his tired eyes.
The words are simple, but they carry everything behind them, everything you don’t need to explain because he already knows. Leon’s expression softens in that small, almost imperceptible way it does when something gets past his guard. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his free hand comes up, resting gently at your jaw as he leans in just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.
“I love you, okay?” he murmurs against you, his voice low, steady, like he needs you to hear it, to hold onto it.
Your breath catches just slightly, something warm settling in your chest as you meet his gaze.
“I love you too,” you reply, just as soft.
He leans his forehead briefly against yours, then shifts, guiding you gently down onto the bed, his hand never quite leaving you as he settles beside you moments later.
You turn toward him instinctively. He meets you there. His arm wraps around you, pulling you close, your body fitting against his like it always has, like it always will. The exhaustion is heavier now, pulling at you in a way that’s impossible to fight, but it doesn’t feel overwhelming anymore.
Your hands come up to rest against his chest, and you listen to the steady sound of his heart where your head lies near his chest. Leon’s hand moves once along your back, then stills, holding you there as the quiet settles in fully around you.
When sleep finally comes, it's gentle and safe. And this time, home finally feels like home again.
-----
My requests are open! <3 I would love to hear from you!
Thank you to @sisterlucifergraphics for the red moon divider!
it took carlos less than a second to know that something was wrong, his feet carried him swiftly to approach you. “everything alright, princesa? você tá bem?” he asked softly, getting a hold of both of your fist you didn’t realize were clenched tight. his finger brushed over your knuckles softly, the familiar gesture relaxed you immediately, tension melting away under his touch.
his thumbs didn’t stop themselves from rubbing the back of your hand, a quiet sign to take your time, take a breath. he will stay there for as long as you need.
“can you just hold me for now?” you asked, voice barely above whisper. “thought you’d never ask,” he replied easily, bringing you into his warm embrace. one hand wrapped tight around your waist, the other behind your head as he guided it to rest on his shoulder. he stroked your hair, murmuring sweet nothings with that soothing voice of his.
”i’m here, minha vida. i got you,” he whispered against your ear as you felt the exhaustion within your bones slipped away slowly, being in the arms of someone who’s so safe, so secure. a hold that felt like a blanket after a cold day of rain, like a shade beneath a tree under the sunny weather.
“thank you for being here.”
“what? you think you’re getting rid of me that easy? whatever you need, and whenever, i’ll be there baby. always.”
leon kennedy
”what’s wrong?” he asked, a little frantic. he cupped your frowning face, tilting it softly left and right, up and down to check for any visible injuries. when he didn’t find any he let out a quiet sigh in relief, before focusing all of his senses on you, trying his hard to get a read from your expression, although he was not the best at it.
”i’m fine, just the world, i guess,” you mumbled, burying your face into his chest, in which leon welcomed happily as he wrapped both of his arms around your back.
“want me to fight it for you?” he asked with a serious tone, you couldn’t help but smile at his antics. a hand rubbed your shoulder, you pulled away your head just to see him already staring at you with eyes still full of concern.
”no, you’ll lose,” you said with a small smile, and leon mirrored that expression. “you think so? i think i could do it. made it out with just a few scratches, as long as i got to see this smile on your face,” he spoke tenderly, as though he’d really truly do it if the chance arose.
he planted a soft kiss on your forehead.
“do you want to talk about it? you always told me it’s bad to bottle things up,” he said lightly as you narrowed your eyes. at the action of him throwing your words back at you, the things you had said when leon had been stingy in telling you about his feelings. you couldn’t help but grimace at the irony, especially when he’s right.
”no rush. i have all the time in the world. and every single of that second is yours.”
chris redfield
chris was grabbing himself a cup of water when you run up to him, your stuff was on the floor behind you, abandoning them all without care as you only had one thing on your mind. to be in the comfort of your boyfriend’s big arms.
the man did not even flinch from the sudden approach, easily swooping you up with a hand under your thighs while the other was still holding a mug. you wrapped your legs around him, arms meeting at the back of his neck. “you okay?” he asked, putting the ceramic thing on the dining table as he led you to the living room.
he sat down so now you’re straddling his lap, melting like a puddle atop of him. you shook your head gently, the only response you could offer him at that moment.
“talk to me, sweetheart. what happened?” his voice was rough with worry, hands rubbing your sides like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded, the only thing that’s holding him back from finding it out himself.
“just a long day. i’m tired,” you mumbled into his neck, his hold felt like a warm bath to your sore muscles. a place where you felt the most protected, where you knew everything was going to be okay after all.
”i’ll believe it for now,” he relented, choosing to focus on easing the tense that’s radiating off you right now, his hand getting to work with the gentle rubs and massages, his touch was gentle despite his frustration towards his own helplessness. “but whatever it is, let me help.”
”you are helping me,” you emphasized. chris held you tighter, disbelieving. he could do more, he knew that. and he’ll try his very damn best to figure out how.
caleb and nonMC!reader in an loveless arranged marriage, where he's secretly in hopeless love with her
warnings. angst fest, eventual fluff, failing marriages, misunderstandings, suggestive content, jealousy, stalking/following, caleb getting rejected, reader in denial, feelings are hard
preview. "Why wouldn't I be romantic? I'm your husband." He's been doing that lately--dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they're nothing. Somehow always when you're least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he's either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he's doing. You're willing to bet on the latter.
wc. 7.4k
Your husband does not love you. He doesn’t love anyone except for one, and it is not you.
You used to like romance. You’d fantasize about who your beloved forever would be in your room, kicking your feet childishly at the thought of someone loving you so purely. So innocently. You wondered what kind of person they’d be, what kinds of foods they’d like, what their family is like. You wondered which holiday would be their favorite, whether they’d want children, whether they’d have a time-consuming job. But really, none of it mattered, because you only wanted someone by your side.
So when you were told you’d be put into an arranged marriage, you tried to be hopeful. An embarrassing, pathetic hope that maybe this man could love you the way men love in books and movies if you tried hard enough.
Caleb Xia is not a loving person. You realized this the moment he stepped into the room with cold, lifeless eyes that seemed to stare straight through you as if the wall was worth more than your presence. He’d smiled, but it felt stiff. Awkward. But you’re sure yours was the same.
Still, his eyes were beautiful. Your hope flickered like a small stubborn flame in your chest that you wanted to guard against the blizzard. The marriage was simple. You showed up to the courthouse in a knee-length white dress, constantly adjusting at the pearls around your neck anxiously while he signed the papers. Once he was done, he’d simply slid it over to you, evidently avoiding your eyes.
“Are you sure?” you’d asked meekly, as if speaking any louder than a whisper would shatter your heart. You weren’t sure if you were asking him or yourself. Not that it mattered, much.
He spared you a soft smile. Pity, maybe, with how his eyes remained empty, but you took it anyway.
A starved man does not beg for more. The flame remained.
The only reason he married you was because MC had gotten married to another childhood friend of theirs. When he mentioned it, you thought nothing of it at first. But when the only photo he’d put up throughout your entire house was one of him and her as children, while your awkwardly situated courthouse picture sat beside it, you knew. He didn’t stop to stare at your photo, ever. Not any of the photos. Only hers.
The final blow to the puny flame remaining in your heart was when you’d finally initiated physical contact. To perform the marital duty, he’d hovered above you in just his pants while you stared up at him in your thin pajamas that did little to hide what was beneath it. There was no setting the mood. The air was cold, the room dull because only your half had any semblance of effort that had gone into decorating it. When he kissed you, it felt more like his lips were simply touching yours gently. Almost tapping it.
It felt like nothing.
This was not romantic at all.
“Are you okay? Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back with a furrow in his brows—probably because you were lying lifelessly while holding your breath. You wondered how he could ask something so softly when his eyes remained so muted. Maybe not softly. Maybe just quiet.
“It’s okay.” You wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but he was the only semblance of warmth in the freezing room.
But when his hand slid up your shirt, resting atop of your stomach, you stopped breathing again. He stopped as well. Your gazes met silently, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. A dull, slow stop. And then suddenly, he was off you, clambering to pull his shirt back on as you sat up in confusion, eyes wide.
“I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”
The flame went out.
Were you really so distasteful? So disgusting that he didn’t want to lay his hands on his own wife? Or was it that you were just too different from her? Should you be offended? Are you even offended? Relieved? Hurt?
Does it even matter?
Once you were sure he’s gone, you cried yourself to sleep.
The next few years are a blur that you wish had somehow gone even faster. The days are a bore. He’s away for weeks—maybe even months—at a time. In those periods of time, the house feels like a maze not meant for only one person. At the same time, maybe it’s better he’s away.
Caleb Xia is not a mean person. On paper, he’s a decent husband. He cleans, cooks, and never complains if you ask him to do something. He smiles, nods, and goes on his way. Yet, it feels more like a vaguely close roommate than a husband. The two of you eat in silence, watch TV in silence, and even go to bed in different rooms. You suppose you can’t complain—it’s not like you put in much effort to get to know him well anyway.
The only thing he does that even comes close to romance is bringing you flowers. You’d told him once that you wished the house had space for a garden to plant them, and he’d brought you a bouquet later that week. Since then, he brings them every few weeks routinely. They appear in the vase beside the couch as if they’ve just magically appeared.
They’re pretty, you think.
Resentment builds, slowly but surely, probably on both ends as in most marriages. This kind of life is killing you inside. This lonely, aimless life in a house that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, in a bed that feels too large.
“I want to work,” you say one day, picking at your food blankly. “I have an interview tomorrow, so I won’t be here for most of the day from now on if I get it.”
A fork clatters from across the table. “What? Why?”
You don’t necessarily have to work given Caleb’s plentiful paycheck, but you want to anyway because you can’t stand being in that gigantic house all by yourself. But of course, how could you tell this to the man in front of you? The man you don’t even know the favorite color of?
“It’s a regular office job.”
“I didn’t ask what it was,” he blurts, eyes narrowing in concern. “I’m asking why? Do I not give you enough money? You know you have access to everything on the card, right?”
You shrug. “It’s not about the money…I just think I need something to do throughout the day.”
“What about picking up another hobby?”
“I’ve exhausted most of them.”
“Then traveling?”
“By myself?” you frown. “It’s not like you’re ever here.”
You’re not sure why the words slip through your teeth, but they do, and the disdain is apparent. He seems surprised at first, blinking, before his shoulder slump again and the corners of his lips twitch downward. For some reason, it makes you feel—good? Alive, more so. So you keep talking. “You’re always working. You even missed my friend’s wedding after I told her we’d be there.”
He shoots back immediately, brows tight. “That was a special case—it was an emergency.”
“That’s fine,” you chew slowly on your food. “But I don’t want to wait around all day for you to get back.”
“You shouldn’t work if you don’t have to. I make more than enough.”
“Again, not the point.”
His lips tighten, pursing. “What will your family think if they hear that I’m making you work after I told them that I’d take care of you?”
You snort. “Is this what you call ‘taking care of’?”
Immediately, you can tell that you’ve struck a nerve. And for some reason, it feels good again. Like you’re alive, again. Maybe you just like pissing him off. His expression shifts momentarily to something you can’t recognize before it settles disapprovingly and silence befalls the both of you. You like when he doesn’t have that stupid smile he always has. The fake, lifeless smile he’d given you when you first met. You’d rather he just be upset, just like this. He looks like he wants to say something, but then shuts his mouth, swallowing the lump in his throat.
His phone rings, slicing the tension in the air like a knife. Caleb glances at the caller ID for a split second before he’s already on his feet, pacing to the sink to put his plates away in a hurry. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. Let me know how the interview goes..”
You stare at your plate, listening to his feet pad around in a hurry. “Is it MC?”
He whips his head around. “What?”
You stand from your seat to dump your food into the sink, ignoring the slight clench in your chest. He’s always been this way. Jumping at any opportunity to be useful to her, while he leaves everyone else in the dust. “Nevermind. Go.”
Once you hear the front door shut, you slump into the couch face first, hoping it swallows you whole before he comes back. This has to be some sort of humiliation ritual. Perhaps you committed a grave sin in your past life, because you’re not sure what you could’ve possibly done to warrant such a feeling. The sunset seeps through the window planes and hits half of your face, bathing you in a warmth that had been missing from the rest of the house. The heat makes you sleepy, and you soon find your eyelids drooping shut, gazing lazily at a photo of the two of you on the coffee table. You don’t remember when it was taken, but in it, you genuinely look like you’re almost enjoying yourself. You can’t tell with him, though. You can never really tell.
“Stupid Xia,” you mutter as you fall deep into slumber.
When you awake again, the sun has fully set. There’s a blanket draped over you and when you blink away the blots in your vision, you’re met face to face with a fresh vase of flowers on the coffee table. They smell nice.
Damn it.
Sometimes, you wish he was just an asshole.
You learn about him through the photo albums he has stashed away in the attic. It’s not like you were looking for them. You’d only been cleaning when they managed to topple right into your hands, and since he always says whatever’s his is yours, you figure you might as well satisfy your curiosity. There’s less than you expected, unfortunately. Most photos are taken by him, but there’s a few in between where he’s the subject. Him at his birthday party, his graduation ceremony, him packing for college, and the day he left for the DAA.
It’s odd. You forget he was a normal teenager at one point, and not a high ranking colonel.
The pictures are through his eyes. Before you can stop, you find yourself becoming engrossed in lacing the photos together into some semblance of a story in your head. You see his childhood home and the model planes he enjoys building. His outings with MC and his grandmother. His last minute halloween costumes. Him and his friends carrying out a prank on someone. His studies. His likes. His dislikes.
Caleb Xia is a charming person. If you hadn’t met the way you did, you think you might’ve liked him a little more.
When you ask him a question regarding one of the photos at dinner, he nearly chokes on his food. You quirk a brow in response. “Was I not supposed to see them?”
“No, it’s fine if you look…” he mumbles, taking a sip of water to gather himself. You squint—are his ears pink? You didn’t know he was capable of doing something kinda adorable. “It’s just a little embarrassing.”
“Like the picture of your airplane swim trunks from when you were a kid–”
He coughs again, and you snicker.
You think he’s tolerable—just a bit.
Weeks pass. Life gets a little easier with your job and more to do—it might even be a bit fun. With your new friends at your workplace and a new sense of accomplishment, the less you stress about your loveless marriage and the more you appreciate what you have. Your interactions with Caleb become less forced. Not because you’ve somehow managed to miraculously understand how his brain functions, but because you put less weight on what you say. It’s hard to see someone as intimidating when you’ve seen a photo of them in a stupid halloween costume. He seems to notice the change too.
[Caleb Xia]: I got us fried chicken for dinner. Don’t be too late so it doesn’t get cold :)
Your mouth waters. It’s nice, almost. Emphasis on the almost.
Outside, the evening chill hits your cheeks, sharp enough to wake you up and wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. The street is busy but not crowded, as the sun has just set. A couple laughs too loudly across the road. Somewhere, a bus exhales.
You start down your usual route.
At first, it’s nothing. Just footsteps. Not out of place. People exist. People walk. People go home.
But something’s off. Your gut insists on it, and it’s hard to ignore.
You slow slightly, just enough to be subtle. The footsteps slow too.
Your fingers tighten around your bag.
Coincidence, surely.
You don’t turn around, yet. Turning means you have to see something and acknowledge that it’s real. Instead, you adjust your pace again. Faster this time.
The footsteps quicken, dropping your heart to your stomach.
Your eyes dart around you anxiously. It’s dark. Streetlamps are guiding your path home, and though the neighborhood is nice, it’s empty. Well, except for you and the footsteps that seemingly sound like they’re getting ever so closer every few seconds. You throat feels dry.
Phone. You need to tell someone. Even if you’re wrong—even if it’s just a hunch.
[You]: Still there?
[Caleb Xia]: Yea. why?
[You]: I think there’s someone following me
Your message sends, and for a moment air doesn’t enter your lungs.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
[Caleb Xia]: I’m coming.
You don’t know how he’s going to find you, but you don’t bother questioning it at the moment. You swallow, and your throat is dry enough that it hurts. The streetlamps cast long shadows across the pavement, and it’s hard to discern whether something is just a shadow or something else in the dark.
You don’t turn around.
Your legs carry you as fast as you can go without breaking into a sprint, and your grip tightens around your phone until your fingers ache. Hurry, you think. Hurry up, Caleb.
A car passes.
He’s closer now, whoever it is.
Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your legs feel like they’ve forgotten how.
Suddenly, a car turns the corner too fast, tires kissing the curb before readjusting and you nearly jump out of your own skin. The tint on the car makes it too difficult to see inside, not that you’d be able to see much regardless due to the dark. It slows to a stop as it sees you, and you think if this isn’t who you’re expecting, it might actually be the end for you.
The passenger door swings open.
“Get in.”
Relief floods your body when you hear his voice and you stumble to clamber in.
Relief?
This is Caleb Xia you’re talking about. Now that you think about it, you’re unsure why he was the first you contacted instead of the police. Your fingers had tapped on his profile faster than you could think. Was it just because he was at the top of your contacts? Was it because he was near? It must be, right? It had been instinctual. Your body had reacted—and it had somehow worked out.
Regardless, you can’t possibly deny how relieved you feel right now.
You wonder if this is how MC always feels. It must be nice to know that someone so reliable is always at her beck and call, right? To come running at just a few words—maybe she wouldn’t have had to walk home in the first place. Maybe he would’ve driven her. You feel sick. This isn’t what you should be thinking about right now. Right now, you need to report it to the police and take a much needed nap.
A part of you is envious of her.
“You should’ve called me earlier.”
The chicken doesn’t look as appetizing anymore even despite it sitting before you in all its crispy fried glory. The growling in your stomach from earlier is replaced by a slight pain, and it’s difficult to tell if you’ve only lost your appetite or if it’s a different kind of anxiousness. He watches you from across the table with a perplexed frown while you pick at the chicken aimlessly, nodding blankly.
“I’ll report it first thing in the morning,” Caleb sighs. “I should pick you up from work from now own. Or I’ll call you a taxi if I can’t.”
You nod again.
“Are you okay?”
Ah, he’s asking that again. You hate when he does.
You tilt your head. “I’m just sort of in shock, I think.”
“I know, but you should eat at least a bit. Here.” He holds a piece of chicken on a fork to your face and you scrunch your nose. He smirks. “Here comes the airplane?”
“I might vomit all over you.” A half lie.
He replies instantly. “Then I’ll clean it. Eat.”
For a reason that you just attribute to exhaustion, you don’t bother arguing. Instead, you pop it into your mouth, cheeks dusting pink at the intimacy of the act. He hums in approval and you try your best not to choke. Why was he feeding you—a grown woman? And why were you letting him?
How bizarre. This whole day is bizarre.
At least you’re home—thanks to him.
“Thank you,” you mumble softly. “For getting there so fast.”
He looks almost offended, shaking his head. “Don’t thank me, it was a given. I’m just happy you thought to call me. I was worried you wouldn’t.”
Why did you call him? Well, you suppose he is your husband at the end of the day. One who has eyes for another, but your husband nonetheless. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He stops for a moment, as if in thought, and then smiles sheepishly. Not the annoying fake smile he puts on for show, but one that’s riddled with guilt. Shame. You want to know why. “Just assumed you wouldn’t.”
Strangely, the words make your chest tight.
Your eyes meet his usual striking violets, shoulders slumping as you look away once the eye contact feels too intense. “I’m glad I did.”
You barely catch the tips of his ears turning pink.
Caleb keeps his word for the months following the event. You never have reason to pass by that street again on foot, and although you continue to insist it’s not necessary, having him as your private driver of sorts does feel kind of nice. You think eventually, you’ve come to call him more than a stranger. He’s easier to talk to. Funnier than you thought, actually, when he’s not being annoying to tease you.
You’d never tell him that though, of course.
You blink warily, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand when a ray of sunlight escapes through the shades of your bedroom and hit your face. However, it’s not what awakes you. Rather, it’s the insistent buzzing of your phone on your bedside table, which you barely manage to snatch without falling off the edge of the bed.
[Caleb (husband)]: morning sleepinghead, you awake?
[Caleb (husband)]: Come eat breakfast :> made apple juice too
[Caleb (husband)]: I better hear you shuffling around in your room in the next few minutes or i’ll have to come drag you out.. :)
Caleb Xia, you find, nags a lot.
“Sleep well?” he chuckles when you finally emerge, still half-awake despite being fully dressed. You scratch the back of your neck, yawning as you perch yourself on one of the chairs at the counter where he’s standing with an apron tied neatly behind him. If you were just a tad bit more awake, you’d have a field day making a snide comment about it.
“Mm.”
He laughs again, gently. Did he always sound so soft?
“You can always quit your job, y’know,” he shrugs, placing a plate of breakfast foods in front of you. It smells immaculate, as usual. “Offer’s always on the table.”
You shove a forkful of eggs into your mouth, squinting at him. “Why do you wanth me shoo be unemployed sho bad? My parentsh don’t care.”
“It’s not about your family…It just doesn’t seem necessary.”
“I like working. Just not waking up so early.”
“I only want you to avoid overextending yourself if you don’t have to,” he pops a tomato into his own mouth. “I make enough for you to get whatever you want, don’t I?”
“But I want my own money, too.”
“My money is your money. This is the least I can do.”
“Careful,” you snort. “You sound dangerously close to being romantic.”
He tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I be romantic? I’m your husband.”
This time, you really choke on your food, coughing as he quickly hands you the apple juice. He’s been doing that lately—dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they’re nothing. Somehow always when you’re least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he’s either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he’s doing.
You’re willing to bet on the latter.
Caleb Xia, as you figure out in the time you spend with him in his car on the way to work, has terrible taste in films.
“That movie is awful. There’s no way that’s your favorite.”
He gasps dramatically and you don’t bother suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. “Hey, don’t judge before you try it.”
“I’d like it if I never had to try it, actually.”
The smile adorning your lips falls in an instant the car slows to a stop. You find yourself growing disappointed when you arrive at your workplace, because it means you’ll have to leave him. You want to scold yourself for thinking such preposterous thoughts. What are you? A teenager who’s hanging out with a boy for the first time?
You’re married, for god’s sake.
Then again, so what if his company isn’t so bad? What if you think he’s a bit more to you than tolerable? Isn’t that allowed? He’s your husband, after all. If it doesn’t feel so bad, maybe you could let yourself reprise and enjoy it while it lasts.
“Ah, right, I should tell you—I’ll be leaving this weekend for work.”
Ah, nevermind. Reality has a way of slapping you across the face when you least expect it.
“How long?”
“A few weeks at best,” he pauses, voice quieter. “Months, if I’m unlucky.”
You really despise the subtle aching in your chest.
You hate how easily it slips in. How, for a second, it makes the flame that’s gone out years ago flicker, as if these moments could mean more than they do. They don’t. You know they don’t. They aren’t yours to keep. None of it is.
The warmth, the ease, the way he looks at you like this—like you’re something he actually cares about—it’s all fake. Stolen. You’re just standing in the space where someone else is supposed to be.
You press your lips together, forcing the feeling down before it can spread any further. Get a grip.
His palm pats the top of your head, making your cheeks heat against your will. With a grin, he nods. But it’s stiff. The slight crinkle between his brows. Upset. Upset? “I’ll see you tonight.”
It’s like he knows what you’re thinking before you know yourself.
“Who said I want to?”
“You wound me.”
As soon as you enter the building, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.
[Caleb (husband)]: I know you’re at work, but…
[Caleb (husband)]: Movie night tn ?? i can make us popcorn :D
[Caleb (husband)]: And yes we’re watching my fav so you can stop calling it bad :>
[Caleb (husband)]: Last hurrah before i leave
This is dangerous, you think. Really, really dangerous.
You seriously hope you don’t fall for him, if it isn’t too late already.
A few hours later, the living room is dimly lit with soft lights, the low hum of something playing in the background as Caleb sets everything up. The bowl of popcorn ends up a little too full, a few pieces spilling onto the counter as he carries it over, muttering something under his breath as he munches on the ones that are about to spill over. You sink into the couch, watching him move around the room—adjusting the volume and flipping through options he’s already decided on.
It’s strange, how easy it feels. How normal.
You don’t realize you’re staring until he glances over.
So you look away quickly, fixing your gaze on the screen. But a few seconds pass, and you can feel his attention still lingering.
You pretend not to notice.
What are you doing? What are either of you doing?
You don’t say anything, swallowing the question down into the pit in your stomach.
The movie stars a side character with a passionate devotion to his family, who reminds you of Caleb. Oddly enough, the resemblance is almost uncanny. You kind of want to root for him but also want him to lose terribly. You huff quietly. “He’s so intense.”
Caleb glances over, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “What? You wouldn’t want someone like that?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I mean… he’s a bit much.”
A pause.
“…but it comes from a good place. I like him.”
He stills.
You pick at a piece of popcorn, rolling it between your fingers. “He reminds me of you a little.”
“Yeah?”
You shrug, still not quite looking at him. “Yeah.” A small breath escapes you before you can stop it. “MC is really lucky to have you.”
He goes quiet. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you.
“…Lucky,” he repeats, almost to himself.
You hesitate, then ruin it by saying more. "I mean, you're always there for her, you know? If she calls, you come running. Everyone wants someone like that."
It was supposed to come off lightheartedly, but it only digs the hole deeper.
Something in his expression shifts. His smile fades, his face losing its usual ease as it drops to something you’ve never seen on him before. It contorts in phases. Surprise, and then confusion, and finally into one you prefer the least.
Panic. Something is wrong.
You wish you’d just shut up. The long pause makes you wish you were just a fly on the wall right now.
“Is this why?” he blinks, and his eyes glisten with something you haven’t seen from him. Void of the usual emptiness but replaced with something fuller. Heavier. “Is this why you hate me so much? Because of MC?”
Huh?
“Fuck,” one hand pulls at the roots of his hair, his top teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he attempts to hide his face from you. “I’m a moron. I should’ve known.”
What? Despite your hands growing clammy, you feel cold. Like the blood is draining from your face.
“You must hate me so much.”
When did you ever hate him? You’ve loathed him, certainly, when he’d disappear for weeks on end leaving you all alone in this cold, lifeless house. You’ve wanted to punch your balled up fists into his chest, knowing that it wouldn’t phase him in the slightest simply to alleviate some of your own anger. You’ve wanted to run away a multitude of times. But hate? Have you ever hated Caleb? Can you hate Caleb?
“Caleb.”
“This is my fault. I should’ve been more aware. It’s so obvious now, I feel like an idiot.”
“Caleb.”
“I thought you just hated me because this isn’t a marriage you wanted,” his voice cracks, and he’s burying his face into his palms. “I thought staying away from you was what you wanted. Shit, I’m so stupid.”
“Caleb,” you say, more firmly this time, and he finally looks at you. There’s a watery film over his usually lifeless eyes, glistening against the light of the TV screen, and it makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. You don’t like seeing him like this. You thought you would, but you don’t.
His voice is a mere whisper now. He looks like he wants to vomit out a million words at once, but there’s three specific ones that linger on his tongue. Is this what they call a woman's intuition? You’re not sure how, but in the moment, it feels like you’re in his head. For the first time in the 4 years you’ve been wed to Caleb Xia, you feel like you can understand him.
A victory that doesn’t feel like one at all.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your hands in his, holding them in front of his chest. “I don’t love her—not as a woman. I haven’t in a long time. She and Zayne are like my family, and I’d be a terrible person not to be happy for them. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear to you. I’m so sorry.”
Your heart doesn’t seem to be beating anymore.
The air is too thick. Like liquid entering your lungs.
Caleb opens his mouth and then shuts it again, his words stuck in the back of his throat. You’re not sure if you want to hear what he wants to say. The words hold too much value, too many years of hurt, and you don’t know how you’ll react. You don’t want to acknowledge any of this as real, because if it is, what was all of this for? What were the years you spent holed up in your room meant to achieve? Were you just being a fool? And in that case, would you even want to know?
No. You don’t.
So instead, you kiss him.
A wordless, messy kiss. Though he’s taken aback at first, he’s quick to slot his mouth against yours eagerly, hands flying to your waist to pull you closer as if a man starved. It’s desperate. Different from the kiss you shared with him at the courthouse, or for transactional purposes. His mouth feels hot against yours, and when his tongue swipes against your lip, you let him in.
You climb onto his lap, straddling him as he presses you flush against him. The movie is long forgotten. His hair weeds through the crevices between your fingers and he deepens the kiss as if he’s trying to physically become one with you. His heart hammers against your own like a timer, warning you of what this could mean, but you don’t care.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he mumbles against you, and then you’re suddenly being lifted up to your room with his hands supporting your thighs around his waist. But even those few seconds aren’t worth staying apart for, because he’s kissing your neck, mouthing at spots that have you pursing your lips to avoid making any embarrassing sounds. He lets you down gently onto the middle of your bed and follows suit, pushing you onto your back.
You’re here again.
He’s looming over you, face flushed in a deep red this time. He’ll ask if you’re okay. If this is okay. And then he’ll take off his shirt and his hand will slide up yours. It’ll be better this time, because it’s not out of some twisted sense of duty. Desire pulses at your core, but you can’t help but shake off this curdling feeling in your chest, as if you want to hurl. You wait for what you expect, eyes never leaving his.
Instead, he breathes sharply. “I love you.”
The world stops.
“You don’t have to say anything back that I don’t deserve. I just want you to know,” he whispers.
Can anyone love someone like you—much less, your husband? You start breathing again because you have to, staring up at him as if he’s gone insane. In fact, you think you’ve gone insane. Kissing him, lying beneath him, enjoying his presence, looking forward to his breakfasts, letting him drop you off at work, feeling disappointed that he’s leaving—you’ve most definitely died and come back as another person, because this is not you.
This is Caleb Xia. He is an unloving person. He cannot love. But what happens if he does? With tears stinging at his eyes, watching you with a mix of pure adoration and sorrow, he’s telling you he loves you. Love is a strong word, isn’t it? But he means it. He loves you. Caleb loves you. You want to call him a liar, but he’s not.
You want to cry into his chest and run away at the same time.
The flame flickers, and you panic. Not because you despise him, or because his confession is one you don’t want to accept, but because this flame is not one you welcome with open arms anymore. It’s too easy to hurt. Too easy to shrink, yet somehow impossible to destroy.
“I can’t,” you croak. “Not right now.”
Even Caleb can’t mask the hurt that deepens his frown, as if you’ve torn his heart straight from his chest. For a man with so much power, he’s never looked more powerless than he does now.
It feels too vulnerable. Open. As if you’re naked and he’s fully clothed, when it’s infact the exact opposite. You don’t want to open up to him again. You don’t want him to snuff out that small flame you have that never seems to go out no matter how much you douse it in water. Or maybe you do?
He forces a crooked smile, strained against his very will and nods before leaving the room. As the door slips shut, he doesn’t turn to look at you. “Sleep tight.”
You don’t get much sleep that night at all.
Morning comes anyway.
And then another.
And another.
His absence returns, but this time because you’re the one avoiding him. You leave earlier than usual, linger longer at work, find excuses in the smallest things—emails, errands, anything that keeps you just a little out of sync with him. When you do cross paths, it’s brief. Polite. A short good morning or a quick goodnight. It’s easier that way.
You tell yourself this is what you wanted—to put distance back where it belongs. Whatever that night was, whatever flame flickered between you, it will fade. It must fade.
He isn’t yours. Even if he says he is, there’s too much pain--too many years of resentment built up that you don’t know what to do with.
You catch yourself thinking about it at mundane times—standing in line, walking home, staring at your coworkers chatting amongst themselves. The apartment feels different already, like it’s preparing to be emptier. As cold as it was a few months ago, when he was still Caleb Xia, and not just Caleb.
You take the time away from him to reset. To think, but not too much. You find yourself flipping through his photo albums again, smiling when you flip to a particularly embarrassing one. You hear him shuffling outside your room, probably packing for his business trip. You’re aware of what he risks everytime he disappears for weeks at a time—not only his life, but the lives of his men—and you don’t know how he bears to leave home everytime he does.
But he always comes back. He has to.
You suppose it’s for the best for now. And when he returns, things will return to normal. The house won’t be as awkward as it is. The two of you will slip into your usual routine of a loveless marriage, and you’ll find other avenues in life to derive joy from. So will he.
The front door shuts faster than you anticipated.
He’s gone.
This is fine.
This is what you wanted.
The house is empty again. You pace to the living room, and surprisingly, a fresh bouquet of flowers is propped inside their usual vase. You lift the vase into your hands, letting the scent of the flowers waft into your nose. They smell good. New. Sort of like the detergent he uses when doing the laundry.
You set the vase back down, nails pressing faint crescents into your skin.
His face when you last saw him keeps flickering in your mind. So much hurt. Raw with fear.
“I love you.”
You want to tell him he doesn’t. You want to remind yourself that this is your husband. Your heartless, cunning husband who kills people for a living—who doesn’t care about anyone but his family.
But you’re his family, aren’t you?
You can still smell his cologne in the air.
You must’ve missed it from the glint of the sunlight in the glass coffee table—there’s a small shimmer of something sitting beside the vase. With a quirked brow, you pick it up. He usually never leaves trash lying around.
You nearly drop it.
His wedding band.
Your breath stutters, sharp and uneven, like your lungs have forgotten how to work. Your heart pounds as you realize that you're shaking, eyes wide as saucers as you stare at the object in your hands.
No.
He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave it.
The ring sits in your palm like a brick that weighs your entire body down. This isn’t something you can pretend will reset when he comes back.
This means no more quiet dinners. No more stupid arguments over movies he insists are good. No more messages waiting for you when you’re at work. No more him, standing at the counter every morning with a pan in his hand. No more him.
And worst of all, no more chance to fix it. To tell him your side of the story.
Your body moves before your mind catches up.
You wrench the front door open, not bothering to lock it behind you as your feet hit the pavement with just your socks. The air burns your throat as you run, lungs screaming, heart still pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage.
He can’t leave.
The stinging beneath your feet go unregistered as you clutch the ring so tightly that it feels like it might dig into your flesh.
Just forward, you hiss to yourself. Faster. You turn corner after corner, your body begging you to stop overexerting yourself, but you can’t bother to care. You don’t even register where you’re going, but you need to go somewhere. It feels like ages and seconds at the same time, as you beg nobody in particular for one more chance.
A chance for what, you're not sure.
Reconciliation? Love? Understanding?
Is any of that possible? And if not, why are you running like your very life depends on it?
The ring digs further into your skin, and you realize it doesn't matter as long as you find who it belongs to. Him. Caleb. The reason and bane of your existence, and apparently what has you running across the entire town in hopes of bringing him back.
Finally, you slam into something solid.
The impact knocks the breath out of you, your grip loosening as the ring nearly slips from your fingers. A hand catches your arms before you can stumble back too far, steadying you with a familiar scent that somehow lets you breathe again.
“Hey—watch it—oh.”
You freeze in place, breath hitching as you look up. Standing right in front of you, he appears slightly disheveled, one hand still gripping your arm while the other awkwardly balances a paper bag of groceries. Caleb blinks, his eyes immediately scanning over your frame before landing on your feet. “Why are you here? Are you okay? And where are your shoes, it’s dangerou—”
“Don’t go, Caleb,” you sniffle, tears already stinging at your eyes as your body finally has a chance to rest, though it doesn’t feel much better. “Please don’t go.”
He stares at you as if you've grown a third eye, nearly dropping his bag of groceries at your pleas. Even the tips of his ears turn red, flustered. "What are you--"
“Why did you leave the ring? Did you lie?” About loving me?
His expression falls, attention honing in on the ring gripped in your fist. Something seems to click in his head, and immediately, he shakes his head. “No, of course not, I was going to leave a note. I just went out to get groceries before I left—”
“So you were going to leave the ring?”
“Well, yes, but can we–”
“Do you not like me anymore?” you blurt, finger bunching at the fabric of his sleeve. “Is it because I ignored you for a week?”
He almost looks offended. “Of course I still like you.”
“Then why?”
His voice softens, as if speaking too loud will scare you away. Hesitantly, he sheepishly releases your arms. Instead, he slowly takes your hand in his, lips pursing as he sighs. His palm feels rough with calluses from the work he does, but light as feathers against your skin. His touch is gentle, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I figured there was no reason for me to tie you to me anymore. I won’t force you to be with someone you can’t even stand to be around. Someone you hate. It’d be selfish.”
Your words tumble out before you can process them. “I don’t hate you.”
Finally, with your hand in his, the world feels okay again. This feeling tells you you’re screwed, but you don’t care.
“I’ve been mad at you, and I don’t know what to do with your feelings because they make no sense, but I don’t hate you,” you mutter. “You’re just too confusing.”
“...Confusing?”
“I just—I don’t know what to do, Caleb,” you wipe vigorously at your eyes with your free hand, head falling to avoid looking him at him. “I don’t know what to think about you. How to feel about you.”
His eyes ease, and you feel him squeeze your fingers. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
“Do you love me?”
“I don’t know.”
Caleb has always been better at reading you than yourself. A flash of hurt ripples across his face, but his eyes maintain its soft glimmer—because he knows. Even if you say you don’t know, he knows. He also knows that you’re afraid of those words, and he doesn’t blame you for it.
So instead, he asks something else. “What am I to you?”
You want to call him a million things. The man who left you by yourself, the man who refused to touch you for so many years, the man who’d chosen to sleep in the guest bedroom just to avoid taking up space in yours. He’s felt awful, inconsiderate, and cold. But he’s also the man who’s gotten you flowers, the man who’d break four speeding laws to make you feel safe, the man who makes sure you’re never hungry, the man who folds your laundry neatly and organizes it color-coded in your closet. The man who you wish you could slap across the face and hold close to you at the same time. The man who’s made you feel alone yet so cared for all at once.
You like him, you think. In some strange way that’s never been covered in the romantic films you used to clutch onto like a life line, you like him. The ‘L’ word teeters on the tip of your tongue like a marble rolling around to decide what these emotions settling in your heart really are, but it doesn’t really matter. All you know is that you need him. You want him. You want him to hold your face and kiss you tenderly, like he did that night. You want him to do it again and again until you can’t breathe, and all you can feel is him. You want to eat dinner with him every night and wake up in the morning to his stupid apron. You want to go grocery shopping with him. You want to fall asleep watching a movie in his arms.
“What am I to you?”
Tears fall down your cheeks in fat globs and you try your hardest not to let your voice crack. “My husband.”
His eyes widen for a moment, and then his lips split into a wide grin that resembles the lovesick expression of a teenage boy who’s holding hands for the first time. Caleb drops his grocery bag to his feet and reaches either hands to the sides of your face, cradling you gingerly as he guides you closer. Before you’re even registering it, he brushes a strand of hair out of your forehead and presses a soft but firm kiss to your temple, where you can feel him smile against your skin.
“Who am I to say no my wife?”
Your marriage is a messy, complicated jumble of emotions. The confusion. The fear. The warmth. It’s not perfect. It never will be. And despite it all, you don’t want it any other way, because Caleb Xia is a loving person.
taglist. @inzanekillian @someonestopsoren @sweetieelilii @3rdslide2heaven @gabburabbu @moltensceptergambit @cherrysherryblossom @younbeanz @txtworlddom @glitterykingdomheart @applebrat9 @ephemeraleb @cherrybomb5000 @chartreuxxlikesboba @corvusmemoriae @toorulee @ilovecoffe8 @cordidy @younghideoutberserker @yesbiaswrecked @madnesslusy @bypanana @noosummert @littleappleorchard @anyeeyna @xie-hua (I apologize if I didn't add you! I always struggle with tagging on tumblr lol!)
— Chris redfield takes advantage of how tall he is . . . 𓂃 ♡
Chris heard you clicking your tongue from where he was sitting near the counter kitchen "What's the matter?"
"...can't reach that stupid mug." You say not even bothering to look at him, too busy glaring at the top shelf.
"I will get it for you." he gets up from his seat and walked up to the shelves, easily snagging the cup you've been struggling to get. "There you go." He holds the mug out to with a grin, but instead of taking it, you just stared at it, looking deep in thoughts. Your gaze shifts from his extended hand holding the cup to his face, and then the cup and then him again...
Seeing your odd reaction he arches an eyebrow at you. "what?"
You cross your arms against your chest, before speaking up. "Do you put things high up on purpose so I can ask for your help?"
Chris blinks. Your question took him by surprise, he paused for a solid fifteen seconds before averting his gaze. "...no idea what you're talking about."
"that's my mug, Chris. I can't reach that high even on a chair!"
A smirk spreads across his face. "Is that right? Guess I will have to dispose of the chairs too."
"Chris!" You halfheartedly punch him in the shoulder which only made him bark with laughter at your weak attempt.
And to be fair, it wasn't intentional.
at first.
He would just place stuff that he just happens to reach without thinking too much. Slowly, he started to notice how frequently you ask for his help.
So he decided to tease you a little.
Whether by holding stuff out of your reach or picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder when you get too persistent.
"had enough, princess?" He mocks while slinging you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"Chris, put me down, right now!" Unluckily, your enraged protests fell on deaf ears, if anything it encourages him even more.
This hulk of a man will never pass up the opportunity to tease you with his abnormal build.
ᢉ𐭩 fem!reader, nerdjo clings onto you during aftercare
satoru’s body is damp with sweat, though having already been cleaned up from your previous acts. his chest heaves as he tries to take in slow, deep breaths. his hands find purchase on your hips until you usher him to lie down, and when he does, you take off his glasses that were already slipping far down his nose.
his mouth is slightly open, soft pants still coming from it as his eyes are half-lidded, mind somewhere else as he lies on your bare chest. his arm rests on your stomach, hand rubbing up and down your side.
“toru, are you okay?” you mumble, hand comfortingly running through his hair.
he lets out a soft “mm,” a little acknowledgment of your question, and when your hand runs through his messy, snowy hair, he can’t help himself. he quietly groans, pushing his head further into your palm, cheeks turning pinker once he hears you giggle.
“y’did so good,” you murmur into his hair, gently scratching his undercut, “so good, baby.”
a soft whine escapes his lips in embarrassment, and his large, shaky hand squeezes your hip nervously.
you place kisses on satoru’s forehead, trying to lull him to sleep, but after a few, he tiredly looks up at you.
his pupils are blown wide, lips swollen and flushed like his cheeks. he slowly reaches up to you before closing the gap between your lips.
it’s the most intimate kiss you’ve ever had, one full of love and passion, though still so soft. his lips timelessly move against yours before he lowers his head into the crook of your neck, nose tickling your collarbone.
quietly, he murmurs, “love you,” before he falls into a deep sleep
and even though drool is already pooling on your neck, you manage to mumble back with a kiss to his head, “love you too, toru.”
reposted from my other acc so this may look familiar
𓂃⋆.˚ ( jjk ) affectionate nanami with his wife !
tw suggestive
based on this request
masterlists
affectionate!nanami who is so smitten with his wife. not in the 'puppy eyes,' constantly drooling over you way, but in all the other ways that count. you never have to repeat your food or drinks order because he's already made note of it. as much as he encourages open communication in your relationship, most of time, he already knows how you're feeling and how he can keep you that way or make you feel better.
affectionate!nanami will always pick something up for you when he's out. he'll leave work and pop by the bakery for his usual loaf, making sure to pick up your favourite too. he'll spend a few hours hanging out and catching up with friends, but will always end the night with a quick stop to pick up a bag of your favourite snacks or simply run a few errands you didn't have time for. sometimes, he'll even make reservations at your favourite restaurant, or will book an event for the two of you to attend.
affectionate!nanami will never act like he's doing you a favour by making and keeping you happy. his colleagues will sometimes roll up next to him in their office chairs and start rambling on about their partners, how no matter how much they do for them, they're always "prissy" or moody. nanami's response is always the same: "you can't invest the bare minimum and expect high yield outcomes in return. not that you should be treating your partner like an isa account." not a single colleague has taken his advice to heart and not a single one is succeeding in their relationships.
affectionate!nanami comes home at the same time every day - with the exception of some unscheduled but necessary overtime, which he always makes sure to text you about as soon as his boss informs him of the change in plans. he's not one to leave you in the dark about anything, whether that be his feelings, his job, his future plans. whatever you ask, he will answer it truthfully.
affectionate!nanami is a huge acts of service guy, but he's also very much into physical touch. yes, he'll help around the house and do all that you ask of him, but he'll also admire you as you drift off to sleep beside him, snoring lightly from your exhausting and brain-melting day at work. he'll smile fondly, like a man who knows he's made it in life, and brush your hair out of your face, before leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your temple.
affectionate!nanami is... scratch that, he's into everything. love languages are cute and all, but this man does not limit himself when it comes to you. if at some moment, on some day, he cannot articulate his feelings or whisper his confessions of love, his hand will always find yours and his heart will always race to match the beat of your own.
affectionate!nanami is not territorial or openly possessive, but he's protective and alert in his own way. in public, he's not the type to keep his hand latched at your waist and keep you glued to his side. you'll always lace your arm through his and circle it back to rest your hand on his bicep, and that's more than enough for him.
affectionate!nanami is aware that his wife is gorgeous, and he never faults you for the more-than-average amount of male attention you receive, but he'll completely forget about what he's doing and keep his eyes on you, his glasses aiding him so that it's not obvious. not because you can't handle yourself - he's seen you drop kick a guy for not understanding the word 'no' - but because he'd be no better than those distasteful men if he expected his wife to deal with crap like that alone.
affectionate!nanami is 6'0 and 77kg, so while he's not evidently packing muscle and pulsing veins, his shirts always strain against his body, even when he's not purposely flexing for your insatiable viewing desires. it's enough so that when he stands, his back muscles ripple and stretch to fill his shirt, and his thighs become defined in his slacks when he sits down. all that strength is used to protect you and make you feel good, not that the two are mutually exclusive. you inhale the scent of his cologne and aftershave when he embraces you, and try not to pant like a dog in heat when he lifts you without so much as a grunt of exertion.
affectionate!nanami is chivalry embodied. "why does everything work against me when i'm rushing?" you groan, trying to slip your heels on whilst hopping on one leg and trying to make your way around the house to find your purse. nanami calms you down for a moment, brushing his hand along the curve of your back. "relax, sweetheart. let me help you." he'll kneel then, kissing his way down your inner and outer thighs, before carefully helping your feet into the heels. once you're comfortable in them, he kisses your thigh again before rising to his feet. "there you go," he murmurs. "my gorgeous wife."
affectionate!nanami is not immune to heated desire. what you think is a gentle, loving kiss to your cheek gradually escalates. he kisses your jawline first, nipping at your skin to get a reaction out of you - which he does, 100% of the time - before brushing his lips along the curve of your neck and shifting from tender kisses to meaningful bites and suckles that have you shifting in his arms and biting down on your lip hard enough to render it numb.
affectionate!nanami will say stuff like, "you will never understand what you do to me," in that low baritone of his that comes out when he's pent up, and revel in the feeling of your skin warming under his touch. he'll lose control of his own strength for a moment and back you up against the nearest flat surface, taking his glasses off and pocketing them in the process before diving back into the crook of your neck to draw those sweet moans out again.
affectionate!nanami will approach you from behind and slide a hand under your shirt, lifting it to expose the curve of your waist and your back. "kento," you whine, unsure of whether to encourage him or focus on what you're doing. but, your back arches instinctively as he rests a hand on your navel to support you and peppers kisses on the skin just above the hem of your panties. "i'm sorry," he growls in a voice that sounds all but apologetic. "i adore you, my love."
੭꣒ ˖ ❛ bf!suguru who loves to babytalk you while sex.
c.ws :: mdni , smut , daddy kink , babytalk , a lot of praise , spooning sex , size kink , overstimulation , creampies , body worship , dacryphilia.
“aww, my little princess… look at you, all needy and squirmy for me, huh?”
suguru’s voice is a warm, teasing murmur right against your ear as he spoons you from behind, his strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. his other hand gropes your soft breast gently at first, then firmer, kneading the flesh like dough while his thumb circles your nipple, making it pebble under his touch. you’re already so sensitive, every little pinch sending jolts straight to your core, where his thick cock is nestled snugly between your thighs, teasing your slick folds.
“s-sugu… please…” you whine, arching back into him, your hips wiggling desperately for more.
“shh, shh, babygirl,” he coos, nuzzling into your neck, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. “daddy’s got you, okay? gonna make my sweet little thing feel so good. you’re so sensitive today, aren’t you? my sweet girl…”
he shifts slightly, guiding the fat head of his cock to your entrance, pushing in slow and steady, inch by inch, until he’s buried deep inside your fluttering walls. you gasp, trembling as he fills you completely, stretching you just right, his girth making your tummy clench with that delicious fullness.
“there we go… oh, look at that, princess. takin’ me so well… feels good, doesn’t it? yeah? tell daddy how good it feels.”
“m-move—! ngh!” your voice came out as a mewl, turning quickly into a content sight as soon as he starts to move, his hips rolling in lazy, deep thrusts that have him grinding against that sweet spot inside you. his hand slides down from your breast to grip your hip, digging his fingers in possessively while he spoons you tighter.
“fuck— you’re all creamy and wet already. listen to that—hear how squishy you are? that’s your pretty cunt talkin’, huh? beggin’ for more.”
he picked up the pace, thrusting harder now, the wet smack of his hips against your ass echoing in the room in an obscene squelch, but his touches remained oh-so-fucking-gentle—his lips brushing your ear, whispering sweet nothings, his free hand roaming to caress your thighs, your belly, anywhere he can spoil you with affection.
your body feels on fire, every drag of his cock making stars burst behind your eyes, your walls clenching around him so hard he almost hisses under his breath. it’s too much, too fucking intense. tears start to prick your lashes as the pleasure builds, your needy cries turning into sobs.
“you’re shakin’, baby… too much? no? want more? okay, okay, daddy’ll give you everything. gonna fuck my sweet princess nice and deep, fill you up with all my love.”
“mmph! suguru—! i’m… i’m so close, please!” your hips meet his in desperate attempts to get more of him, chasing a high that promises to leave you so deliciously fucked out.
“yeah, just like that… let go, angel. cum for daddy… that’s it, let go. cream all over me, show me how much you love it.” his voice is a loving croon, even as he pounds into you relentlessly, kneading your breast again, pinching just enough to push you over.
you shatter with a wail, your pussy creaming around his shaft, milking him as waves of ecstasy crash over you. suguru follows with a low groan, thrusting deep one last time before spilling inside, thick ropes of seed breeding your walls, leaking out around where you’re joined as he holds you still, spoiling you with kisses along your neck.
“there’s my good girl… so perfect, all filled up and happy. i love you so much, baby.” he stays wrapped around you, lazily grinding through the aftershocks, until you’re boneless and giggling in his arms, utterly loved.
suguru has a weird problem, one that can’t be stopped and that’s making you wear your panties with his fresh cum in them.
it’s more territorial than anything but he likes knowing he’s with you all day.
“suguru please, i’m late for work.”
he huffs a laugh, one hand on your hip to keep you steady in place and the other stroking himself while you hold your panties down.
“i know baby im working as fast as i can.”
a strand of his hair falling from his bun, a bead of sweat slowly dropping down onto the floor.
he’ll hold your whole schedule up for this, it was almost flattering in a way.
it all became worth it when he actually finished, streams of cum leaking onto the fabric, a low groan rumbling in his throat.
“oh fuck baby, you gonna keep it there all day for me?”
you softly gasp watching it.
your eyes are fixated on his dick, how pretty it looks, how each vein becomes more prominent when he’s finishing and the flush on his tip that looks sensitive.
“mhm.”
suguru smiled a little at your small response, the last stream of his cum leaking on the middle of your panties.
he swipes the tip of his dick and tuck himself back in then pulling your panties up which makes you squirm a little.
“wear them all day, don’t even go to the bathroom.”
then it starts.
it starts warm, the wetness coating your soft folds then it quickly turns cold.
whenever you sit you can feel some it slip between your folds some, then you get used to the sensation.
if he’s feeling nasty he’ll lay you down and jerk off over your pretty pussy, softly rubbing your clit while he does it, making sure you’re wet to the furthest extent.
“you like that hm? keep those thighs spread mhm there we go.”
letting you get wetter and finishing all over your pussy, taking in the sight then helping you put your panties back on.
he wants his cum coated all over you as long as you can hold, he doesn’t care if it eventually crusted or left a stain that’s hard to get out after the fact, he just wants his place known.
even going as far as to finish inside of you, just letting it leak out inside of your panties instead, letting it soak down into the fabric, having you feel his cum coat your wet walls and slowly leak down throughout the day.
it all depended on he wanted to go about it that day, sometimes he did both.
had you soaking in him, being reminded every time you sat down, walked, moved a certain way that he was right there warm against you.
when you come home he’ll check them, softly pull them down your thighs and see his cum still coated over you but crusted and your panties stained.
you’ve gone through so many pairs of panties that are now permanently stained with them that he had to buy more that he eventually stained too.
suguru just can’t help it, he gets off on it. having you hold down your little panties and wait for him to spill into them.
"Ah- you'll hurt your eyes, baby, let me handle it"
You're just about to start dicing your onion when Suguru comes up from behind you –fully enveloping you in his warmth– and gently rests his palm on the back of your clenched hand before prying the knife away.
"And this" He runs one long finger along the edge of the blade, from heel to tip "is too sharp for you"
..That damn tone.
Suguru only speaks to you this way when he's about to succumb to the voices, the ones that tell him to scoop you up to hold you in his palm forever, to lock you inside his rib cage and keep you warm, to hold you in his arms and never loosen his grip. You know your faith is set when he begins to rub his cheek against yours, a mother lioness and her little cub.
Smothering.
You have reason to believe that Suguru seriously considers baby proofing the house in its entirety.
"Suguru..." Your disappointed expression only gives him more fuel and now he's audibly cooing at you. How precious, the tiny baby kitten in his palm, pouting so sweetly, how do you have the nerve to go around being so adorable and still act all inconvenienced and fed up when he finally gets his hands on you?
Suguru doesn't think it adds up, so he takes things into his own hands.
"I'll handle the rest, you should take a rest, baby"
He'll handle the rest? Seriously??
"Suguru, I haven't even started anything yet" you whine, and he runs a hand through your hair before pulling you against his chest.
Bastard, he knows what he's doing.
Your world shifted the day Suguru learned that his chest can also double as a tranquilizer.
Like a moth to a flame, ice in a fernace, you melt into him, every single time without fail.
Your tense figure immediately relaxes, the rumbling laughter that runs through his chest feels like a declaration of victory. You know that you have once again lost.
"There you go.." comes an almost taunting coo "isn't this so much better? I like you best this way" And it really, really is, it feels amazing, it feels wonderful being fussed over this much, cared for like this, coddled like a fragile little thing.
"I got here just in time. What if you got hurt, hm? I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if my baby was harmed when I could have been there to stop it" the whispering voice of a siren, how you managed to stand your ground this long is a mystery to you, Suguru is a force to be reckoned with.
So you put up with it, and let him have his fun, let him play the role of the sweet doting overprotective husband, because like this, everyone wins and everyone is happy, he gets to care for you, you get to be cared for, perfect.
੭꣒ ˖ ❛ bf!suguru who loves to babytalk you while sex.
c.ws :: mdni , smut , daddy kink , babytalk , a lot of praise , spooning sex , size kink , overstimulation , creampies , body worship , dacryphilia.
“aww, my little princess… look at you, all needy and squirmy for me, huh?”
suguru’s voice is a warm, teasing murmur right against your ear as he spoons you from behind, his strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. his other hand gropes your soft breast gently at first, then firmer, kneading the flesh like dough while his thumb circles your nipple, making it pebble under his touch. you’re already so sensitive, every little pinch sending jolts straight to your core, where his thick cock is nestled snugly between your thighs, teasing your slick folds.
“s-sugu… please…” you whine, arching back into him, your hips wiggling desperately for more.
“shh, shh, babygirl,” he coos, nuzzling into your neck, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. “daddy’s got you, okay? gonna make my sweet little thing feel so good. you’re so sensitive today, aren’t you? my sweet girl…”
he shifts slightly, guiding the fat head of his cock to your entrance, pushing in slow and steady, inch by inch, until he’s buried deep inside your fluttering walls. you gasp, trembling as he fills you completely, stretching you just right, his girth making your tummy clench with that delicious fullness.
“there we go… oh, look at that, princess. takin’ me so well… feels good, doesn’t it? yeah? tell daddy how good it feels.”
“m-move—! ngh!” your voice came out as a mewl, turning quickly into a content sight as soon as he starts to move, his hips rolling in lazy, deep thrusts that have him grinding against that sweet spot inside you. his hand slides down from your breast to grip your hip, digging his fingers in possessively while he spoons you tighter.
“fuck— you’re all creamy and wet already. listen to that—hear how squishy you are? that’s your pretty cunt talkin’, huh? beggin’ for more.”
he picked up the pace, thrusting harder now, the wet smack of his hips against your ass echoing in the room in an obscene squelch, but his touches remained oh-so-fucking-gentle—his lips brushing your ear, whispering sweet nothings, his free hand roaming to caress your thighs, your belly, anywhere he can spoil you with affection.
your body feels on fire, every drag of his cock making stars burst behind your eyes, your walls clenching around him so hard he almost hisses under his breath. it’s too much, too fucking intense. tears start to prick your lashes as the pleasure builds, your needy cries turning into sobs.
“you’re shakin’, baby… too much? no? want more? okay, okay, daddy’ll give you everything. gonna fuck my sweet princess nice and deep, fill you up with all my love.”
“mmph! suguru—! i’m… i’m so close, please!” your hips meet his in desperate attempts to get more of him, chasing a high that promises to leave you so deliciously fucked out.
“yeah, just like that… let go, angel. cum for daddy… that’s it, let go. cream all over me, show me how much you love it.” his voice is a loving croon, even as he pounds into you relentlessly, kneading your breast again, pinching just enough to push you over.
you shatter with a wail, your pussy creaming around his shaft, milking him as waves of ecstasy crash over you. suguru follows with a low groan, thrusting deep one last time before spilling inside, thick ropes of seed breeding your walls, leaking out around where you’re joined as he holds you still, spoiling you with kisses along your neck.
“there’s my good girl… so perfect, all filled up and happy. i love you so much, baby.” he stays wrapped around you, lazily grinding through the aftershocks, until you’re boneless and giggling in his arms, utterly loved.
