-> lucky you, you get to bounce on it. what would leon kennedy be like in bed?
notes: smut/nsfw, 18+ - interact at your own discretion
- Leon would be very vocal, but not very loud. You can easily coax a lot of grunts, cusses, and soft moans from him. When he’s close, he usually lets out a barely audible whimper too.
- Leon also talks dirty a fair bit, but it’s usually in short sentences, like “fuck, you look so pretty like this.” He’d definitely talk you through it too, with those little sentences that drive you insane, like “good girl, ride it out for me.”
- Favourite positions of his would be mating press, pro bone, and you riding him while he’s sat. Anything where your bodies are physically as close as possible will always be his favourite.
- Leon would be a switch. In a more dominant role, he’d still have tenderness and care, so he’d be a service dom. He’d want his partner to feel immense pleasure at all times, to the point where he’d push you with some overstimulation and praise. You’d hear something along the lines of “Keep going… You can cum for me one more time right?? …Yeah, that’s my girl.”
- In a more submissive role, Leon would be incredibly obedient and serve you in whatever way possible with total devotion. Again, he wouldn’t be incredibly loud, but you can easily earn a lot of stifled whimpers and rasped out pleas from him. He’d also be the type to blush furiously when he’s in a more submissive role in the bedroom. Post RE2 Leon wouldn’t be so easily flustered, so you can expect more of a shy demeanour with a beet-red face when he’s in a submissive role. You’d likely hear a lot of pleading, such as “please, oh, fuck, fuck, please don’t stop, please” in a breathy whimper.
- Leon is a selfless person, and it translates in the bedroom too. He prioritises your pleasure over his - he’ll slow down to pace himself if your orgasm is still far away.
- Leon Kennedy is a munch. This is said so much by so many fanfic authors that we could say it’s practically canon.
- Leon has a praise kink. He loves to hear it from your mouth - whether it’s telling him he’s doing a good job, how good he’s making you feel, and calling him a good boy… He wants all of it. He can’t get enough of it, in fact, he’d probably get drunk on it if he could.
- He also loves to give praise just as much as he loves to receive it. It usually comes in the form of a “fuck, you feel so good,” or “you’re taking me so well, baby.”
- As much as he’d love to sext you, especially when he’s away on a mission, there’s a big risk that his phone could be tapped or stolen. He has no choice but to remain pent up until a mission is over. Upon his return, the both of you fuck like rabbits for a good 2 days. You’ve probably had sex on every surface imaginable in his place by now.
- He’ll fuck you hard, but never rough - unless you ask. Even then, he’s not the biggest fan of inflicting marks (aside from a lovebite or two if he’s feeling possessive) or leaving you sore the next day. He’s very aware of his strength and he’s terrified of harming you.
- Leon prefers taking his time with you over a quickie; while he’s definitely not opposed to those, he prefers to appreciate you, and doesn’t like to rush.
- Leon’s job requires him to stay in peak physical condition, so you’d probably tag along with him to learn a thing or two. After a workout, Leon usually gets such a big burst of energy that he almost always ends up horny after working out. You’ve also asked him to teach you self defense manoeuvres, but it pretty much always starts with sparring and ends with him fucking you into the mat of his home gym.
- Every time without fail, he whispers an ‘I love you’ during or right after. :p
post elpis older boyfriend .ᐟ leon kennedy is a different man. he might as well be a sex robot now— his sex is one of a rabid animal’s in heat and he fucks a lot. insanely so. something changed in his libido; it went out straight up the roof. he can’t get enough of you and at times, he gets a pulsing hard boner that lasts him enough for a couple of hours. he makes you come sweet on his tongue fresh in the morning, hiding under the blanket. during your breakfast, he can barely contain himself. he spreads your legs wide open on the kitchen table and fucks your cunt with no wrapper or birth control. he might as well put a few babies in you if he’s so healthy all of a sudden.
it’s always been an insecurity of his that a guy your age could keep it up for longer and take care of your needs. not anymore.
and that’s not even the best part. leon makes your thighs tremble shut with his cock inside you, spilling ropes of salty, warm cum inside your swollen pussy. it then, he leaves you dizzy and breathless on the bed to grab you a towel. when he returns, his initial plans of cleaning your thighs and running you a warm bath are completely replaced. he traps you under his rough, strong body, sweaty muscles and burning red cheeks from doing all the work. “one more round, doll?” and you won’t even stop there. god knows if you’ll ever stop.
you even told leon he can use your pussy freely while you’re asleep if he needs it so badly— so, he grabs the sole bottle of lube from the nightstand drawer and mixed with spit, he stretches your cunt with two of his fingers, right before opening your tight pussy up with the tip of his cock. every night you fuck like dirty rabbits because he can’t stop thinking about how sexy you’d look bent over the balcony, fucking yourself messy into his thick cock.
⤷ 𝓼𝓯𝔀. leon is a stray dog of a man. first kisses. 𝟸.𝟿𝓀
leon is overly tired and very grumpy. it’s no surprise really when he rolled home in the early hours of the morning, bruised and so battered from his recent assignment—spain, if you remember it correctly—but since then, he clearly hasn’t slept and his mood is suffering for it. so, you take it upon yourself to fix it for him
“hey, leon?” you call out softly from your spot on the couch and then wince when you hear a cupboard door slamming shut in the kitchen. he’s been banging around in there for a while and truthfully, you have no idea what he’s trying to accomplish and you find it best not to ask, “c’mere for a second, please,”
it takes a moment but eventually, he leans around the kitchen doorframe with a frown pulling at his brows. he looks exhausted, his eyes are sunken in and the dark circles that are discoloring the tops of his cheeks can’t even hide behind the blonde hairs that hang in front of his face, “what’s up?” he asks, grumbling
his voice is rough, scratchy and faintly worn out, causing it to sound far deeper than it usually does. butterflies swarm low in your stomach over it—like they always do—but you try to ignore it this time whilst you smile and stretch your arms out towards him, “come and lay with me for a while, please,” you plead
the frown that’s painted across leon’s face deepens, his eyes get distant on the surface but you can see behind it—you can see right through him. something soft and melting hides behind the ice of his eyes, something that he doesn’t allow himself to feel often, much less indulge in it when you’re offering, “why?”
answering that with honesty is complicated. telling leon that you’re trying to lure him in, make him relax, force him to be pliant so that he can be tempted with sleep won’t ever work, you learnt that early on and because of it, you’ve had to get creative with telling little white lies that’ll benefit him in the long run
“because, i want you to,” you answer simply, keeping your tone light and airy, treating him as if he’s a shelter animal that’s at risk of backing into the corner, that’s furthest away from wherever you are, with his teeth bared. it’s not really a lie either, you would like him to lay with you but your motives behind it don’t need to be discussed
“but, why?” he asks again, this time sounding desperate and slightly pathetic. he knows that you’re lying in one way or another and he’s letting you. he’d never admit it but you’re the only person that can get away with it. if it were anyone else, he would’ve turned tail and left without even entertaining it
your head tips to the side, eyes raking over his face—the scars, the bruises, the cuts—whilst you make the decision to be somewhat candid with him, if only for his sake, “i just don’t like it when you shut yourself in your room after an assignment, that’s all,” you explain, carefully, still watching him
leon nods, his tongue darting between his lips, “do roommates lay together often?” he snarks, though there’s not a whole lot of heat behind it. he’s trying to deflect your offer, make himself out to be someone that you wouldn’t want near you at all but much to his dismay, it won’t work. it never does and it never will
“i don’t think roommates is the right word anymore, leon,” you point out with a knowing look—one that reminds him of the times you’ve patched him up, scrubbed dried blood from his body and washed gunpowder and god only knows what else from his hair, all without a complaint. “stop being difficult and come over here,”
the change in his eyes is the first thing that you notice, the first sign of submission. the distant look gets overpowered by the softness in an instant when he realises that he’s too exhausted to argue and what good would it do, he’ll only give into you in the end anyway, “yeah—yeah, okay,” he murmurs
finally, he steps out from where he was hiding against the kitchen doorframe. whatever he was doing—or rather, trying to do—in there seemingly becomes irrelevant as he shuffles towards you slowly with the telltale evidence of an ache that spreads throughout every single one of his limbs without his say so
still though, your eyes wander selfishly. his t-shirt is a size too small and clings to his biceps in all of the right places, his grey sweatpants hang low on his hips and one of the legs is caught up around his shin, exposing a ring of tanned skin between his clothing and his socks. he looks comfortable, for once
when he gets close enough, his teeth graze over his bottom lip and his gaze flickers between you and the couch and then over to the television that has been muted ever since you spotted him slinking out of his bedroom. he’s stalling but it only takes a soft flutter of your lashes to get him to cave and fall into you
it’s rather unceremonious and kind of clumsy. his limbs knock against your own and the couch creaks rudely with his added weight but eventually, he just gives up and sort of flops down on top of you, leaving his cheek smushing into your stomach and your legs spreading to accommodate his body
leon sighs. it rattles out of him while his arms snake around your waist, holding you pretty close for a guy who made out like he didn’t want this. it makes you smile, not that he can see it and for the first time ever, you hope that he can’t detect that butterflies that are still whirlwind-ing in your stomach, right under his head
instinctively, your fingers start to card through his hair. it feels like silk against your skin and it’s hard for you to imagine that not all that long ago it was thick with dirt and someone else’s blood—you try not to think about it as leon gives a small grunt of contentment, barely there and muffled but, it’s something
minutes pass by languidly, like time doesn’t really exist when leon is cosplaying as the most handsome weighted blanket. he stays quiet, enjoying the drag of your nails against his scalp and slowly, his breathing starts to even out as sleep starts to entice him but then he goes all at once and he jerks—hard
muscles pull taut all over his body while he goes from being on the edge of slumber to almost wide awake in the blink of an eye, “shouldn’t be—be doing this, i have work to do, reports and stuff” he rambles under his breath, trying to push himself up and away from you and this time you sigh deeply
guilt holds him in its grasp. survivors guilt—maybe. the constant feeling that he’s not allowed to relax, he’s not allowed to indulge in the simplest of things. the feeling that he has to keep going, an act of penance that’ll never be satisfied, no matter the amount of people saved or the heavy toll that it’s taking on his body
“leon—no, lay down,” you urge, though you sound more sympathetic than you’d like to. leon doesn’t like sympathy, he doesn’t like pity either but as your fingers slide underneath the neckline of his shirt and splay across tense muscles, he pauses, forces out a shuddered breath and then reluctantly relaxes again
“why do you even care about this?”
you flinch when leon can’t even ask why you care about him. he swaps the word with ease, leaves it unsaid but implied—even if he doesn’t mean to, “because i just do and if i didn’t, then who would?” you ask. it’s rhetorical, open ended if he wants to respond but there’s no pressure for him to try
strong arms loop around your waist again and large hands flatten against your spine, touching and committing the most ordinary parts of your body to memory, like it was made just for him, “you shouldn’t,” he whispers and the worst part is, he truly means it. he really doesn’t believe that anyone would care about him
“mhmm—sounded like a rough one this time so i’m trying to extra care of…this,” you breathe, repeating the same phrase that he used whilst shifting the subject ever so slightly. leon grunts in agreement—it was a rough job—and it gives you the chance to ask your favorite question, “do you want to talk about it?”
“no,”
just as you expected, the normal response. you have to ask him though and you won’t press the issue further, you won’t try to force him to open up about what he went through. instead, you leave it be and let an easy silence fill the space between you and him. you’re there if he changes his mind and that’s enough
in the meantime though, you drift your fingertips up and down the back of leon’s neck, tickling and just barely scratching your nails up through his hair and right back down to the top of his spine whilst leon seems to lose himself in a deep thought, one that allows you to see the proverbial cogs turning in his mind
a moment later, something shifts. you can’t pinpoint it and it’s odd because you feel it before anything really happens, almost like something prepares you for the shaky lungful of air that leon sucks into his body but then it leaves you high and dry, caught wholly off guard, for the gentle press of lips against your hipbone
it’s not a kiss—it can’t be. leon must’ve done it accidentally. too engrossed in his thoughts to realise that he did it but it felt like a kiss. fizzling beneath your skin, blossoming throughout your veins, a thing that you’ve wanted for too long. fleeting and sweet, causing you to overthink it, spoiling yourself with it. and then,
“i nearly died this time,”
your heart sinks. swooping low, stealing the air from your lungs. it hurts to hear, especially from a guy who has the most awful habit of consistently downplaying every single thing that happens to him, “w-what—oh my god—wait, come up here, please,” you gasp, screwing your hands into his shirt to haul him upwards
leon moves promptly, clambering and collapsing into the sliver of space between your body and the back of the couch. he slots in with ease and rolls you to face him, pressing his broad chest into yours as he settles his head against the armrest. he’s so close, more so than he’s ever been before but it's not enough
before you can think better of it, you’re draping your thigh up and over leon’s hip and tentatively resting your hand on his ribs but it doesn’t quite have the desired effect when leon flinches. a bruise from his assignment makes his body jerk and immediately, you feel awful and try to snatch your hand back
“no—don’t,” leon mumbles, vulnerable and out of his depth, while he catches your wrist and pulls your hand back to put it in it’s place. his own hand hovers over yours, displaying a size difference that makes you feel a little bit dizzy before his hand flits to your thigh and smooths tenderly up the outside of your leg
seconds bleed into minutes as you take the time to just exist with leon being so close. his breath fans over your cheek with every exhale and his hand squeezes lightly at your thigh but ultimately, you build up the courage to ask, “how did you—how did you almost…” you trail off, unable to say the words out loud
“that part doesn’t—it doesn’t matter,” leon answers you, too fast and frowning. his walls go back up—albeit, they’re only half the size that they normally are and ready to crumble at moments notice—while he attempts to draw your attention away from his confession. though, all it does is leave you feeling confused
an incredulous laugh bubbles in your throat, “leon—that’s insane, it does matter—you matter,” you rant frantically, hung up on the fact that you really almost lost him this time. sure—it’s a constant risk with his job but hearing him admit it makes it all too much for you to handle, “i mean—how can you even say that it—”
“i thought about you,”
oh. your previously sunken heart swells when leon cuts you off. your eyes widen as your breath hitches in your throat but your mind muddles with every single plausible implication of his words. maybe it’s wishful thinking on your part but it all leads back to one singular thing. still though, you blurt, “why?”
“i don’t know—i just—” leon stops himself and then presses his lips into a thin line. his eyes harden, only slightly, and his walls build themselves up to their full height. he’s struggling and you don’t blame him but you need to know and your fingers screwing into his shirt urges him on, “all i could think about was you and—”
you can’t take it anymore. you crowd into the small amount of personal space that he has left and press your lips into his and his walls collapse. he doesn’t hesitate, he doesn’t waste another second before he’s kissing you back. soft, slow, sweet, all of the things that you weren’t entirely sure that he was capable of
his hand finds your waist, squeezing and tugging you closer until your bodies are flush against each other. your hand slides over his jaw and he doesn’t wince when you brush against the bruise that’s blooming underneath your palm. if it hurts him, he doesn’t show it because he’s too busy. he’s right where he wants to be
it’s all consuming, swallowing both of you whole where you lay on the couch until the air in your lungs begins to thin, causing you and leon to part your lips in an effort to breathe. he’s smiling though, you can feel it against your mouth whilst your chest rises and falls with every gasping breath
“shit—if i’d known—would’a told you ages ago,” leon mumbles in between kisses that have turned needy. it’s like he’s been teased with the taste of you and he’s worried that if he pulls away now, he’ll never get it again. somehow, the thought of that is far more harrowing than anything he’s ever encountered on a job
“what do you mean—ages ago?” you whisper, also refusing to interrupt the lazy flow of kisses that are being shared between you and him, as your fingers ghost up his jaw and into his hair once more. not pulling or tugging, just playing deftly in a way that makes him grunt low in his chest and grip your waist harder
he hesitates now. stuck somewhere between wanting to wear his heart on his sleeve and wanting to keep all of his secrets under lock and key. there’s a lull in his kisses, a moment where he’s too stuck to remember that he’s supposed to be kissing you back but when you threaten to pull away, he makes his decision quickly
“i think about you every time—all the time,” leon concedes with his bloodshot eyes wildly searching yours. he sounds sure of himself, no mumbling or muttering under his breath, he’s admitting it and you can practically see the weight of it lifting off of his shoulders, “it’s always just—you,” he breathes
inside of your chest, your heart is preparing to burst. it aches with happiness and an overwhelming sense of fulfilment and you can’t stop yourself from surging forwards to kiss him again. leon gasps as his bottom lip slots between yours—a sound that you haven’t ever heard from him—and then when you pull back, he grunts
“think about you too,” you giggle, sharing his sentiment, before you wriggle in close and tuck yourself against leon’s body. you fit together like puzzle pieces, your head slotting under his chin while his muscular arms wrap you up. you’ve found your place and you never plan on leaving, “miss you when you’re gone,”
“yeah?” leon chuckles, deep and throaty, muffled by his lips pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head as you yawn and nod in response, “thought you were trying to trick me into sleeping,” he teases, revealing that he knew what you were trying to do this entire time—you’re not mad about it though
still though, you playfully huff, “yeah—well—i am,” you mumble and press your ear against his chest to listen to the thrum of his heart beating. it’s an even thump, not panicked or rushed, just satisfied, “you’re gonna nap with me,” you garble around another yawn as leon’s exhaustion becomes infectious
“am i?” leon asks, though he’s already rearranging himself to get comfortable and tightening his arms around you, holding you close and trapping you against him. you nod again, not giving him a choice, but he doesn’t seem to care when he’s kissing your temple and whispering a peaceful, “yeah—i am,”
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Summary: You, a young DSO agent filling in for an injured superior, find yourself trapped in the snow-banked wilderness of boreal Canada...with is partner, Leon Kennedy.
A safe house in the ice-capped woods and the primal need for warmth leads you and Agent Kennedy to make use of all the cabin's amenities.
Tags: hurt/comfort, massage, v fingering, p in v sex, mating press, wax play, open ending (lmk if I'm missing anything important), name from a Webkinz game put me out of my misery
WC: 4.5 yikes
Masterlist
“Welcome home.”
Leon’s voice is plump with sarcasm as he pushes open the door. It slings wide with a shrill creak, the stiff hinges croaking from disuse. You barely have a moment to forget to laugh when he cracks another one of his jokes.
“Don’t happen to have any WD40 on ‘ya?” He snarks. It makes you wonder if it’s a coping mechanism–the way the quips roll off his tongue, one after another–a shield to protect the gummy meat beneath the big, strong shell.
He did lead you to safety after all, and though you consider it reparations for saving his life, it wouldn’t hurt to humor him a little. He looks so pathetic, standing there, waiting for a reaction.
A forced smile–one that doesn’t meet your eyes. “Oh shoot, I knew there was something I forgot.”
He exhales a strained sigh, his shoulders dipping an inch, like he’s relieved you finally gave in, because if you hadn’t, that would mean he really did do something wrong, and that would hurt more than the sting of you not finding him funny.
“Well, here it is.”
You blink hard, pupils flaring to adjust to the dismal darkness enshrouding the cabin. Plaid curtains undrawn, lights–if there are any at all–shut off, the only illumination breaking into the space being the white sheets of snow blanketing the ground outside.
Now that shelter has been found, the freezing fluff plummeting from the sky doesn’t look all that daunting. In fact, if your legs weren’t still numb from sludging through it for three miles, you’d be tempted to run out and play in it, make a snow angel or two, throw a few balls compacted so tight they’d fly like bullets…right at the man who got you into this situation in the first place.
If he had just gone with you when you told him to, both of you would be on a jet back to D.C. by now, and you’d be spending the night in your own bed, in your pajamas, under a cozy blanket of your choosing.
An abandoned Umbrella facility–abandoned on the surface, that is. Inside the rotting corpse of steel buttresses and termite-gnawed wood, the building was still being used to house servers and data depicting their next moves to destroy the planet, one virus at a time.
Kennedy and his partner, Agent Reed were supposed to go in, extract the codes, load them onto a USB, and get the hell out of dodge. Except, Agent Reed was served a minor head injury on their last assignment together, and was out of commission. You volunteered to take his place. It would make you look better after all, less like a newbie who didn’t know her left from her right, and more like a real agent, ready to be put to good use.
The only set back was supposed to be the weather, not the fact that the facility was armored with mangled beats ready to attack once the wrong sequence of numbers was entered into the security system too many times. Apparently, three was the magic number.
“Home sweet home.”
You cut your eyes at him in clear warning. If he makes one more joke, you’re going to stop being polite and tell him how you really feel.
“I’m kidding,” he says, throwing his hands up in defense. “Kidding. Just until the snow stops.” His eyes find your face and he winces at your unamused expression. “Or at least until the roads clear and someone can come and extract us.” A shorter time-frame–one that’s small enough for you to swallow.
“Come inside,” he ushers with the wave of his hand. “You’re letting all the cold in.”
Too little too late, you think. The cabin is an ice box. A Siberian chill nips at your feet as you make quick work of unlacing your boots and kicking them off by the closed door behind you. Socks soaked, the wet wool encases your feet in a tomb that promises hypothermia if you don’t yank them off soon and place your frozen toes by a fire…maybe in the fire. Waterproof, they said.
The long-disconnected comms device in his ear comes out. His wool cap is tossed down, a hand coming up to fluff his flattened hair.
“Take your clothes off–just the top layers,” Leon commands softly, already yanking the sopping leather jacket off his back, throwing it onto the raw oak table beside him, along with the long-sleeved compression shirt beneath it. There’s nothing playful in his voice now, all business. The seriousness of his tone gets you to move, mirroring the man in front of you as he works the metal buckle of his belt, the button and zipper of his tactical pants. He strips down, standing in nothing other than a pair of DSO-issued thermals, the waffle fabric, slightly damp, sticking to his form, covering his body from ankle to wrist.
He notices that your long-sleeve is soaked through, the wet fabric transparent against your abdomen, highlighting every line and bump of muscle. “That has to go too, sorry.”
“What?”
“No time to be modest. You’re asking to freeze to death if you keep it on.”
By some merciful being in the stars, your pants are dry, lest you have to drop those too. You’re left standing in your knit thermal pants and a sports bra, that also, thankfully, is somewhat dry. Leon doesn’t seem to mind or care, quickly turning around to search the cabin for supplies.
“Fuck,” you bite between sivers that roll through your body. Chillbumps rise beneath the waves of ice that travel through your veins like river Cocytus, lighting your limbs on fire–a white-hot fire, blue-tipped and deceitful. “It’s freezing in here.”
Leon glances over his shoulder. He’s crouched by the fireplace, loading cylinders of chopped wood onto the grate, fishing a box of matches from a metal lockbox by the brick surround. “Sorry. I’m going as fast as I can here.”
“It’s alright,” you say, biting your bottom lip in an effort to quell the uncontrollable tremble of your chin. “Take your time.”
And just like that, the wood ignites beneath the flicker of the match. The heat radiating from the hearth is slow to warm the room, quick to illuminate it. Finally, you’re able to get a better look at the cabin, all the fixtures, less utilitarian and Spartan in their design than you imagined the furnishings of a safe house to be. You pictured steel benches and scratchy blankets woven with threads of plastic fishing line.
There’s a bed beside the fireplace, a mattress cradled by an old mahogany headboard and footboard, engraved with swirling flourishes. It’s made up with flannel linens and two stuffed pillows encased in plaid cotton, a pattern akin to the one on the curtains.
“Come sit down,” he says in a cautious command. He’s sitting by the fireplace, patting an open spot next to him.
You settle yourself onto a pelt that once belonged to whichever animal has the warmest fur. Fox or bear or wolf. You’re not completely sure, just grateful.
The hearth glows orange, casting the room in a glow reminiscent of juice-bearing tangerines in the summer, of burning sunsets that melt into the horizon of the sea, of sticky peaches.
“Here you go.”
So caught up in the hypnotic fire, its flames dancing in front of you, you nearly squeal, and definitely jump, when Leon approaches from behind, handing you two packs of charcoal and iron, shaken to activation. They warm your palms.
You didn’t even realize he had left your side.
“You’re so tense,” he states. “Relax.”
Gulping hard, you remind yourself to breathe as he reclaims his seat beside you, bringing his knees into his chest. “Sorry, I guess I’m still a little shaken up. I’m not used to those…things…the way you are.”
“No worries. Can’t say it gets any easier, though.” He smiles and it makes you melt in a way the heat from the fire can’t. You take the time to really study his features, not sure you ever have before, not that you’ve had the time or the proximity. When he’s not swept away on assignments, he’s rarely roaming the halls of headquarters, rarely lingering in conference rooms, never to be seen serving himself a cup of burnt coffee in the break area.
“Good to know.”
His white-blonde hair takes on the color of the blaze. Blue eyes sharpen as they gaze back at you, trying to decipher the intensity with which you stare. He cocks his head, the dimple of his chin smoothing as he pulls in his bottom lip.
“Everything okay?”
“Oh, sure,” you reply with a shrug. Bad idea. A band of muscle in your shoulder catches and you wince. “Just my shoulder. I think I tweaked it today…not like it was doing well before that, though.”
He hums in agreement, or observation, or understanding.
You lean forward into the fireplace, hoping the flames will singe the nerves that keep you jolting at every breeze and change in the air. Its flickering tongues warm your wind-burnt cheeks, the frozen button of your nose, your chapped lips.
Leon grows unusually quiet, and before you can respond to your observation, a pair of hands lightly graze your shoulders. You jump again beneath a set of fingers, sturdy and sprawled across your trapezius muscles.
“Let me.” It’s more like a question, begging for permission. You nod in silent allowance, and Leon’s hands begin to knead the decade-old knots in your shoulders. Your nose wrinkles, your lips purse, face contorting into a grimace until the initial pain blurs into relief.
An embarrassingly lewd sound escapes you, and you whole-heartedly expect him to laugh and give you a hard time for it, but he doesn’t. He just lets you feel the release in whichever way you need. Cupping a hand over your mouth, you prevent any other shameful gasps or groans from fleeing from the safe space behind your teeth.
“You really missed your calling, Leon,” you spit out through labored breaths, finally trusting yourself to speak.
No response, just an unbroken channel of concentration from his palms to your shoulders. He works the muscles on either side of your spine with his thumbs, the tight knot at the nap of your neck. Then, he retreats, and the absence of his hands on your body makes you physically ache.
“Wha–”
“Give me your feet?”
“W–what? No.”
He finds a spot beside you once more, leaning back on the heels of his palms, too smug of a smirk on his face. “Fine then.”
After a moment, and once you realize he’s not joking this time, you relent. “Fine,” you sigh with a roll of your eyes, shifting on your seat, kicking your legs out at him. He catches one foot in his hand with the swift reflex of a man that can aim, shoot, and kill with his eyes closed.
The pads of his fingers dig into your heel, the ball of flesh beneath your blistered toes. They knead and massage, pressing deep circles into the center of your foot, tenderizing calloused flesh.
You close your eyes, staticky constellations flickering behind your lids like the lights of a city’s skyline. Maybe you groan again, you wouldn’t know. The pleasure is all too loud in your ears, thumping like a heartbeat on a monitor.
“Do you like that?” He asks in a low gruff. The timbre of his voice sets your soul ablaze.
You’d be amiss to ignore the sexual undertones of this situation, the honeyed words he speaks, his hands hot on your skin. So, so eager to please. Your cheeks flush sanguine at the realization, beads of sweat pooling at your hairline, your brow. Maybe you’re sitting too close to the fire after all.
Before you can take another second to read further into Leon’s touch, he pulls you by the ankles until your seat is all the way at his knees and you’re on your back, staring up at the plastered ceiling, broken up by wooden beams. There’s no time to resist, not that you’d want to anyway. No, no. You want this. You want him. A moan escapes you, a sound belonging to someone far too willing and not at all hesitant for what’s about to happen next.
“Too tense,” he coos, clicking his tongue in disapproval. You rise up on your elbows to see Leon tugging at his shirt as though he’s about to dive into a pool. Gawking at the sight, you’re unaware that your jaw has fallen slack until Leon looks up at you and laughs breathily. “Like what you see?” He says with raised brows.
“Mhm,” you hum, taking in the curves of his biceps, the corded muscle that lies beneath pale skin, glistening white under the sheen moonlight that seeps through the windows. The veins in his forearms throb as he flexes, holding himself up as he hovers over you, planting peckish kisses up and down your abdomen, a love bite at the curve of your waist.
He murmurs sweet nothings against your flesh. Praising your beauty, your scent, your skin, and you melt under each one, a puddle of putty on the rug. Your fingers find his shoulder, balled and strong, and you dig, leaving half-moon indentations in the sinewy muscle. He shirks beneath the touch, chuckling.
“Ouch,” he says with mirthy sweetness, feigning pain, as if someone whose entire body has the muscle mass of one of his thighs could do any real damage to him.
“Sorry,” you squeak, reclining all the way down onto the floor so he can come up further, his hands cradling your head as he licks the line of your lips, from corner to corner, to cupid’s bow and back down again.
Allowing him entrance, you open your mouth slightly, giving an inch as he takes a mile, thickening his whole tongue past your teeth, inviting yours into a waltz. He tastes like mint and ash.
The two of you kiss for what feels like hours, but was realistically only a few minutes. His hands skim your body, fingertips traipsing up and down your arms, your sides, one groping your breast through the fabric of your bra. His brows furrow when he realizes there’s a stretch of fabric in his way, and he grips the elastic band above your rips, peeling it away from your skin. You shirk beneath the lack of a barrier between you, just skin on skin leaving you far too exposed.
Once he whimpers at the sight of you bare before him, all embarrassment and shame leave your body in one cleansing breath. The tip of his tongue makes pardon from your mouth and licks its way down your neck, your décolletage, to your nipples, lapping the hardened bud. You could deny the effect he has on your bodily functions, blaming it on the cold air sweeping through the cabin, but you’d be lying. The windows are fogged with condensation from the juxtaposed temperatures of the cabin and the blizzard outside it, and your brow is soaked with sweat. You’re burning up beneath him, yet you’re shivering under every touch.
“Should we take this to the bedroom?” He rasps, voice tight and strained. His breath is hot at your ear. It tickles.
In an effort to keep up with his quips, you chirp, “You mean the mattress that’s two feet away?” You feel him nod against your cheek, his lips still warm and gentle at your jaw. He nips at the tendon beneath your lobe, a sensitive spot that leaves you breathless. “O–oh okay,” you agree weakly, all inhibitions thrown out the door the moment he reaches a hand down to cup your throbbing cunt teasingly before he removes it.
Leon sweeps you up into his arms as he stands up from kneeling, his bare feet slapping the hardwood beneath them. You stay lying across his crooked forearms while he makes the trek to the mattress, plopping you onto it. The springs bounce beneath your weight.
“Hips up.”
He needn't tell you twice. You buck your pelvis upward, allowing him room to grab the band of your thermal bottoms, yanking them down your thighs in a swift swoop, tossing them somewhere on the floor. The only fabric left on your body is a thin pair of plain panties, soaked, but not from the storm. Leon licks his lips at the sight of the damp patch on the cotton gusset, so obscene a gesture you think he might be kidding. That’s before he drops to his knees, pushing yours apart.
You yelp at the sudden suction of his mouth on your clit, already a squirming mess beneath his mouth, hips bucking, thighs squeezing against his head. He presses your knees apart again until the sides of your thighs meet the crisp fabric of the patchwork quilt. A silent command to keep yourself open for him.
His tongue widens, lapping at your bud like a kitten at a bowl of milk. The sounds are disgusting, wet and sloppy, as they reverberate against the cabin walls, announcing your climb to pleasure.
Moaning his name, he takes it as an order to not stop what he’s doing for anything. In fact, he takes it as an order to do more. He pulls back for just a moment, long enough to make you whine for his return, slicking ring and middle with spit. He teases the tip of his fingers at your entrance, already primed with slick arousal, just circling and flicking until your head comes up and your face just looks so pretty and pathetic, he can’t resist.
He dives back in, this time working your pussy with his fingers, crooking them at the knuckle, waiting to hear your moans quicken so he knows he’s hit the spot. It doesn’t take you long to cry out for him, confirming his suspicions that he’s found your sweet spot, the button behind your pelvis that makes your abdomen tense and contract, your walls clench around him.
“That’s a good girl,” he groans against your clit, the vibrations exiling your soul from your body. “You’re so close, huh? I can feel it.”
Your hand finds his hair, fingers weaving through icy blonde strands, pressing him closer to you. He growls in pleasure beneath the pinch.
“Let go for me.”
And you do.
His tongue–those lithe fingers–works you through your climax, continuing to lap and suck like there’s still work to do. He doesn’t stop until your desperate cries begin to wane, replaced by labored breathing and mumbles of gratitude. He smiles against your clit before giving it a kiss, so tender and soft like the wings of a butterfly flapping against your hand, or the light flicker of eyelashes on your cheek.
Crawling onto the bed to meet you, Leon wears a proud grin. You take a moment to study the features of his face, now under a different light–one of affection and attraction, a n
“Are you alright?” He asks. The glossy look in his baby blue eyes is nothing short of sincere as he draws tight circles on your leg, holding them tight to his side.
You giggle. “More than alright. You really know how to use your hands, Leon.”
The corners of his mouth rise into a grin as he props himself up on his elbow, eyes still glued to your shape, drinking you in–every inch, every curve, every freckle. His chest rises and falls with each breath he takes. You study the metronomic rhythm.
“So are we going to…” your voice trails off into timid nothingness. You can’t even bear to look at him for fear of turning red, but you force yourself to. “Have sex?
He laughs, the sing-songy sound jubilant amid the dour, wood-paneled walls. “Yeah, yeah, we will,” he assures. “Just let me catch my breath, ‘kay? I put in a lot of work down there.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” A wink. “That was just as much for me as it was for you.”
Before you can respond, though you’re not sure what you’d have even said in response to such a raw admission, Leon’s mouth finds yours, once again sucking and nibbling at your bottom lip, tongue swiping across your teeth. The two of you kiss for a while, exchanging moans back and forth, hands finding the curves and dips of each other’s bodies. His skin is smooth, though striped with scars, some transparent and long-healed, others pink and freshly won.
“Please, Leon,” you plead against his lips.
“What do you want, baby?” His hands stay tangled in your hair as you tip him onto his back, climbing atop his lap, thighs encasing his hips beneath you.
“I want you. Now. Inside me.”
He chuckles mirthily into your mouth. “I can do that.” Hands moving to the band of his pants, he tugs them down along with his briefs, freeing the erection that has pained him since you stripped down to your bra. He tried to quash the mean dog of lust nipping at his heels. Your shirt was soaked. You would have faced countless degrees of hypothermia if you had stayed clothed. He was a man, after all, and whether or not you had to strip out of necessity, you were a beautiful, half-clothed woman standing in front of him, and his body did the rest.
“Inside,” you repeat in a half-moan, half-gasp, fingernails clawing at the sinewy muscles of his biceps, too perfectly sculpted to belong to any human.
“Yes ma’am.”
Suddenly you’re on your back, Leon hovering above you, his eyes focused on the cock he’s pumping with his hand. It’s long and thin, like the neck of a swan. You have half a mind to tell him how beautiful he is. Such a pretty man. He fists himself until fully stiff, and you can’t help but watch as he lines himself up with your slit and slides the first of many inches inside.
Leon groans, throwing his head back. It’s been a while.
“Fuck, baby,” he hisses, retreating for fears he might actually finish on the spot. “Just give me a moment.”
After two seconds too long, he enters you once again, the walls of your pussy stretching to accommodate his girth. “Please, Leon,” you whine. “All of it.”
“Okay, okay,” he obliges, thrusting all the way into you, eliciting several cries of desperation and ecstasy, sounds too pornographic to be shared between two co-workers.
A few swears are huffed under his breath as he presses down on the backs of your thighs, bringing your knees into your chests, using the leverage to angle himself deeper inside. Every time he draws back an inch, the throbbing vein on the underside of his cock slides against a spot you didn’t even know could sense so clearly. It’s your turn to swear, a string of curses leaving your lips. He catches them with his mouth, coming back down to you.
“Harder, Leon. Please. F-fuck me.”
“Any harder and this isn’t going to last long, baby, and I wanna take my time with you,” he says, every couple words punctuated with heavy breaths. Pulling back, he looks down at you with crooked brows. “Will you let me do that?”
All you’re able to do is nod, giving him a tight smile in an attempt to hide your disappointment.
“Thank you,” he replies with such sweet sincerity it makes your stomach jump.
A couple more thrusts and you can feel the coil tightening behind your abdomen, a tell-tale sign of guaranteed wreckage. Those muscles tense and release, over and over, the sensation growing stronger by the second. You shiver beneath the pulsations, electric shocks vibrating beneath your skin.
“You’re still so cold, baby.”
You laugh through another wave of shivers, your teeth chattering, deciding not to correct the misinterpretation. “Then you should warm me up.”
He pulls his lower lip in between his front teeth, sucking, nodding. “You’re right.” He thrusts himself back into you, all the way, to reach beside your head for one of the lit candles on the bedside table.
“W–what are you doing?”
A wicked grin appears on his face. “Warming you up.” He tips the candle over your chest–sticky beeswax rolled into a pillar–lining up the mouth so the molten wax can pour down onto your sternum, dripping down the valley between your breasts toward your collarbone. It burns so good, eliciting staccato gasps and whines from your lips as you shiver beneath the paradoxical chill, so hot it’s cold.
He moves the candle to pour more down the line of your stomach, all the way down to your navel. It dries like splatters of milky acrylic on a canvas.
Your back arches off the mattress, your skin aflame beneath the sensation of something so oddly intimate. His hand comes down to massage the wax deeper into your skin like it’s an anointing oil. Then, with the same hand, he presses down on your stomach as he dives back into your gushing cunt, heavy palm making sure both walls feel each and every thrust.
“Come with me, Leon,” you beg, pulling him down to you, chests glued together with spit and sweat, and the molten wax splashed up and down your torso. He groans into your ear, burrowing his head into the crook of your neck. “I’m so close.” A promise. A warning.
“Keep clenching me like that,” he commands in a deep growl. Who would you be to deny him? “Goog girl, that’s it, baby.” His hand comes up to your jaw, fingers splayed across your cheek. “Open up.”
You part your lips slightly, just enough for him to spit a glob of saliva down your throat. You willingly swallow, desiring to have every part of him inside you. His lips meet yours again before he detaches to send an ursine growl into the air, tossing his head back in euphoric pleasure.
He fucks you through your second orgasm like a man determined, pistoning into you until the very last moment, when your climax grips him so tight, he can’t help but spill into you, giving you every last drop.
When he finally rolls over, only because you begrudgingly admitted you couldn't breathe, Leon looks over at you, capturing your gaze. His eyes are bright beneath the glow of the fire, of the candles, the snow falling relentlessly outside the window. Oceanic blues sprinkled with flickers of gold. You’re utterly entranced.
For a few minutes, the two of you just stare at each other, committing the other’s features to memory, neither one wanting to forget a single single freckle or dimple. And finally, for a rare moment, neither of you are cursing the storm that trapped you here.
(special thanks to @finneganstravels for the divider)
Summary: On a mission in the Arklay Mountains, Leon comes across a bioweapon that spews a different kind of virus. Time is of the essence when it comes to administering the antidote.
Tags/Warnings: Fem! reader, explicit smut, sex pollen so dub-con just in case.
Note: I have a few requests left that I am working on, but I needed a break. Haven't written smut in a long time, and I am a sucker for sex pollen, so let's go commit elder abuse ig.
Leon Kennedy fucking hated his job sometimes. To some extent, he always has. It’s unforgiving, thankless work he does, and he feels like he’s on the precipice of officially being too old for this shit.
He was especially irked over his current predicament. He and a newer agent had been deployed to the Arklay Mountains, the very region that had drawn him to Raccoon City nearly thirty years ago. The DSO had caught wind of suspicious activity, strange energy readings, and surveillance footage pointing to someone poking their head into Umbrellas' past. Naturally, they had sent the resident Raccoon City expert to investigate.
He had found evidence of an underground lab—one Umbrella had long ago left abandoned. He’s searching for something, anything, that will provide insight into what could warrant someone rummaging through abandoned research that was decades old.
The old linoleum flooring squeaks under the rubber of his sole as Leon rummages through yellowing papers.
“Find anything?” Your voice calls out from the next room. Leon glances your way, a small smile tugging at his lips. You’re a pretty young thing, and competent enough at your job that Leon, for once, hadn't minded much when they’d assigned you as his partner. Through the years, he’s grown hesitant about having to work with others; he always has a habit of getting too attached, only to lose them in the end. Leon can’t stomach the thought of losing you. The mere thought is enough to make him queasy.
“Not yet,” he calls back. The lights flicker ominously, and Leon hovers a hand over his pistol, dropping the papers as he cautiously examines the room. There’s a sour sweetness in the air, his nose crinkling at the smell as he moves deeper into the lab. The walls are cracked and crumbling as he examines the space. Vines have begun to sprawl over the rubble, thick and covered in thorns. Leon pauses, examining the plants. It shouldn’t be too out of the ordinary, after all, this place was long ago abandoned and far away enough from the missile strike that perhaps whatever radiation or destruction took the city didn’t fully reach this far in the mountain. Still, Leon thinks he’s seen these vines before. His flashlight follows the thickest vine; perhaps it’s just a trick of the light, but it almost looks like it’s pulsating, breathing even. The beam of his light slowly ascends upwards, the vines twisting and vibrating with life.
In the corner of the room, there is a flower. It’s fleshy and pink and dripping. Leon cringes at the sight, tilting his head as he examines it. His gut is screaming at him to run, and he’s learned before that plants in Umbrella labs tend to be bad news. He takes a cautious step backwards, his boot squeaking against the floor. The flower growls, shuddering as the petals bunch up, pulsating.
“That can’t be good,” Leon huffs. He raises his pistol to fire when the flower lets out a wheeze, gas slowly pouring out into the room. Leon can’t escape it, can’t hold his breath. It’s hot and heavy against him and seeps into every orifice.
As the perfumey gas lingers in the air, Leon coughs, the sickly sweet scent invading his nose and burning his nasal cavity. It smelled like musk and rose and chemicals, and the second he registered the smell, he could feel something in him heat up. It starts as a spark in the pit of his stomach, one that causes him to hunch over with a groan. The spark then sinks lower and lower, and it feels like his center of gravity is off as the heat takes hold of his groin. A bead of sweat forms on his brow as the spark grows hotter. He stumbles back into the light, coughing and wheezing.
Leon sees you through the glass window, and you finally notice him, hunched over and sputtering. You're quick to sprint over, banging on the glass as your muffled voice calls to him. You try the door, which is conveniently jammed. He raises a gloved hand, a placating gesture as he tries to stand up straight. A hiss leaves his mouth as the movement plucks a string within him, his insides coiling in tightness as he makes his way to the door. Leon isn’t stupid; he has an educated guess on whatever the gas he just inhaled was, lord only knows that was probably the least fucked up of all the Umbrella experiments he’s learned of through the years.
Leoon has to slam his shoulder into the wood to get it to budge. He stumbles out with a cough, and you're there to catch him. His massive body slumps against yours as he tries to steady himself, the blood from his head rushing south as he grunts at the feeling.
“Oh my god, Leon, are you okay?” you ask, concern in your tone. Leon knows he must look like shit, but he can’t help but give a thumbs up.
“Feel like a million bucks,” he rasped, using your shoulder as he wearily stands straight. His eyes meet yours, and he feels his face flush and his mind grow heady as he looks at you. For a brief moment, he allows himself the selfish desire of admiring your beauty, a desire he’s had since you joined the D.S.O.
He tries to squash down that thought. He’s grown good at ignoring his wants over the years.
“Jesus, you’re burning up,” you gasp, leading him away from the lab. “Let’s find a place where you can sit down and rest for a second.”
Leon lets you take the lead as he limps alongside you. His core feels like it’s on fire, and every movement he makes only stokes the flames inside him. He has to bite his tongue to avoid whimpering, feeling lightheaded. You lead him down to an old break room, securing the old metal door behind you as you help lower Leon onto a ripped plush chair.
“What the hell happened?” You demand.
“Some plant had taken over the lab, released some gas,” Leon groaned. He watches as the color slowly drains from your face.
“A plant–what did it look like?”
“I don’t know, lots of thick vines with thorns, a gross pink flower at the top,” he shrugs, face scrunching up with a hiss as the movement sets off a wave of overwhelming sensation over him.
“Oh God,” you mutter, pulling out the files you had discovered, rummaging through them frantically.
“What? What did you find?” Leon asks, looking up at you. He can smell you from here; he’s never noticed how sweet you smell.
“Well…” your voice trails off.
“Just rip the band-aid off and tell me the bad news, kid,” Leon huffed, feeling the heat wash over him in a nauseating manner. It was like his entire insides were on fire, twisting and turning within him. He was losing the ability to think clearly, and it took more and more energy not just to salivate at the thought of ripping your clothes off.
“Um, well–” you hesitated, shuffling the papers in your hand as you gulped and nervously glanced up at him. His eyes narrow at you as you try to steady your nervous breathing.
“It’s not just a bioweapon,” you start. “It looks like they were researching and testing behavioral override responses—removing inhibition, forcing biological drive into—” Your voice stutters at the last sentence, as if you were embarrassed. Cute.
Leon lets out a long breath, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Yeah–” he cuts in. “I get the gist.” He rubs a hand over his face, wiping away the sweat. “Great, does it mention if it's temporary?” Leon sighs.
“It can be,” you all but whisper.
“You’re killing me here, kid,” Leon groans. The heat is becoming unbearable, and he can feel the perspiration on the back of his neck, rolling down his back.
“It says if the subject follows through with the act of intercourse, the aphrodisiac will wear off and the subject will return to normal once achieving climax…” You trail off again, and Leon thinks you’ll be the death of him.
“If the act is not followed through with, the subject will soon suffer cardiac arrest due to lack of release, according to nine out of ten test trials.”
Perfect, well, isn’t that just great? Damn near thirty years of his life dedicated to fighting bioterrorism, and he’s going to die from not getting his rocks off. Pathetic.
“Of all the traps they could’ve left behind…Just put a bullet in my head, why don’t ya?” he groans, his head falling back as he pants softly. His mouth feels dry, and his clothing feels tighter than normal. Silence falls over the room, and Leon closes his eyes as he tries to think of how to fix this, how to calm down. It’s not the first time he’s been infected with something, but regardless, you should get out before he snaps.
“I could help,” he hears you say.
Well, that was unexpected. Leon raises his head, long strands of hair sticking to his damp forehead.
“What?” is all he manages to say.
“I’m not going to let you die, not when the remedy is so easy.” Easy, right? It wasn’t like this was his perverted dream come true. He’d rather have taken you the way you deserved to be taken. It had always been his hypothetical plan to wine and dine you all the way to his house, where he’d throw you on his silken sheets and have you gripping his comforter and screaming his name while he showed you how a real man treats a lady.
You take a step towards him, cautious at first, a hand outstretched as you reach for his shoulder. His hand caught your wrist, holding it gently as he let out an uneasy exhale.
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice thick as he tries to swallow his excitement.
“I’m sure,” you whisper softly.
His heart skips a beat at your softly spoken confirmation. “Sit on my lap,” he orders. He tries to make his voice steady and strong, but it comes out as more of a whimper. Nonetheless, you obey, shedding your jacket as you slowly slide onto his lap. He hums in the back of his throat, hips bucking up at the sensation of weight against him. The mere pressure of your body alone is already making his head spin.
His mouth is on yours in an instant, his large hand cups the side of your face as he all but melts against your warm lips. He thinks you taste like sugar as his other hand slides up the curves of your body, starting from your waist to the underside of your breasts. You lean into the kiss, relaxing as his fingers slowly slide back down as they worm their way under your shirt. Your skin is soft and warm, and touching your flesh sends tiny electric shocks through his fingertips. Leon lets himself be greedy as his hands tug your shirt upwards, grunting as you pull away from the kiss to work the shirt over your head.
“Loose this too,” he mutters, tugging at the band of your bra. You just smile at his quiet neediness and toss it over your head as well, leaving your torso bare for him. Leon exhales in pleasure as he tries to savor the sight of you.
“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his hand roaming from the softness of your stomach up to the swell of your breast, pinching at your nipple as you squirm on his lap. The slight friction feels delicious, and Leon can’t help but grin like a wolf. He leans forward and takes a bud in his mouth, tongue swirling around it as he places a hand on the small of your back, keeping you pressed against him as he toys with your breasts. You moan and writhe slightly, the friction picking up as you grind against him.
“Leon,” you sigh, your fingers entangled in his hair as you tug on his strands, nails scraping against his scalp. Leon hums in satisfaction and pulls away with a wet pop from your breast, the stubble on his chin scraping at your clavicle as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to your neck.
“I’ve wanted this for a while,” he admits into your skin, undoing the buckle of your tactical belt, discarding it on the floor. He pops the top button of your pants open and taps your thighs.
“Take them off,” he grunts, working off his own belt and unzipping his pants. He tugs down his boxers just enough to free his cock, immediately fisting the enlarged length, precum dribbling from the tip as he watches you longingly as you strip the remainder of your clothes off. He pumps himself, feeling the heat scorch his insides as he pants softly, hips bucking upwards to meet his hand.
“Come on and ride me, gorgeous,” he groans. Par the drug-induced haze and life-threatening time crunch he’s under, Leon thinks he’s died and gone to heaven as you straddle him and slowly sink your tight, warm pussy down on his cock, impaling yourself with a moan as you slowly take him all.
“Fuck–” Leon chokes out, feeling himself lose all sense of sanity as you begin to bounce. Your hips rock against his as you drag yourself up and down on him. It’s warm and wet, and he wishes he could savor the feeling of your slick folds gripping him tight, sucking him deeper into your cavern. But Leon is a selfish man, and he needs more. A few more teasing bucks from you, and Leon has had enough. He grips your waist and looks up at you with blurry vision as his hips buck upwards, a cry leaving your lips as he fills you up. Again, his cock slides out only to buck back into you with vigor, setting a punishing pace as he feels himself get lost in you.
“Such a good girl for me,” he rasps, watching with a blissed-out expression as you moan and writhe on his cock. It’s the most beautiful sight, watching you unfold, and Leon hopes in the back of his mind you’ll let him do this again. Your trembling, he can feel your pussy spasm around him as short little gasps leave your mouth.
“Please,” you whine, and Leon has to give you what you need as well. His thumb presses against your lip in a silent demand, and you obey without hesitation, parting your lips and sucking on the thick digit eagerly. Leon grunts in approval, pulling it from your mouth and pressing the slick finger against your swollen clit, rubbing it with fervor as he watches you come undone against him. He can feel the slickness coat his dick as you arch your back, eyes rolled into the back of your head. He’s proud of you, really. He just isn’t finished with you yet.
A quick smack to the ass has you yelping as his pace slows down.
“Up,” he orders, his voice coming out strangled. “I want you on all fours.” He sucks in a breath as you slide off of him, mouth salivating as he catches sight of your pussy all covered in slick. He’ll have to discover what you taste like later.
He eyes you hungrily as you kneel on a dusty couch, lowering yourself as he commanded you to. His body feels like it will burst into flames as he pushes himself from the chair, his cock throbbing as he kneels behind you. He can practically hear your heart racing as he presses you down, shifting your weight onto your elbows as you prop your ass in the air for him.
He licks his lips, his hand trailing up your spine as he notches the tip of his cock at your abused entrance. The feeling of this alone has you squirming in desire. “So needy for me,” he slurs, filling you up with a single thrust. You cry out, and Leon can’t help but shudder at the sound of your sinful-sounding moans. The way you're thrusting against his cock has him wondering if you got a whiff of the aphrodisiac, or maybe you're just drunk off his cock. Either way, he’s more than glad to give you what you want and more than happy to take what he needs. His muscular body dwarves you as he leans over you, rutting into your wet heat. His bicep wraps around your throat, two fingers worm their way into the inside of your mouth, hooking onto your cheek as you all but drool around him.
“This pussy’s fucking mine,” he rasps, his breath hot against your ear, hips thrusting faster as the heat spurred him on. He can feel his groin grow tighter, and the fire is ablaze inside him. “Can’t believe I waited – ah fuck – this long to try it.”
You're all but a babbling mess underneath him. Whining and twitching against his thick cock. Leon thinks it’s cute, the way you come undone so easily around him. Your pussy clenches around him just right, and he can finally feel the knot of heat inside him snap. His hips stutter, his arms tightening around you as he fills you up. A low guttural groan leaves his lips as he finally stills inside you. His cock twitches, the final remnants of his seed leaking from him as he slowly pulls out from you. His cock, finally softening, and the heat that raged as an inferno inside him has subsided.
Leon was fine. Well, he was actually much better than fine; he felt better than he had in a long time. He slowly moves off of you, gritting his teeth as he slides down next to you on the couch. You sink against the cushions, too tired to care about the filth. You weakly turn your head to the side, eyes heavy from exhaustion, as you smile at him.
“Think it’s out of your system?” you ask. Leon exhales a chuckle, his lips forming a smirk.
“If that didn’t get it out of my system, I don’t know what else would. If you’re concerned for my well-being, we could always go again,” he suggests. Now it’s your turn to chuckle.
“Ask me again tomorrow, any more right now, and I might break,” she says.
“Tomorrow? My, aren’t you presumptuous?” he teased. He leans over and kisses the side of your temple.
“Maybe someplace more romantic than a haunted lab?” He suggests. “Unless you're into that.”
You roll your eyes at him and smile. “Oh, Agent Kennedy, are you going to take me on a date?”
“And so much more,” he promises.
After he helps you back into your clothes, the two of you make your way to the surface, where the sun has started to set, casting rays of orange and violet across the desolate Arklay Mountains. Leon glances over at you as you bark your coordinates into the radio, ordering the extraction team to hurry up. Even after everything that had happened, you still sounded composed and in control.
For a long time, Leon had convinced himself that wanting things was dangerous. Every time he'd let himself care, the universe had found a way to rip it away from him. It was easier not to hope. Easier not to ask for more.
You finish your transmission and look over at him.
"What?" you ask, catching him staring.
Leon just smiles, “You’re cute when you're bossy.”
You snort a laugh, shoving his shoulder slightly. “And you’re a pervert.”
Leon laughs along, trailing beside you as the evening sun sets. Maybe wanting things wasn't such a bad idea after all.
“she told you she celibate, she told me i can nail her shit.”
leon s. kennedy x fem!reader
cw: mdni ! smut, loud sex, kind of rough sex, riding, lowkey fwb, mating press, uhh jealousy if that counts, kissing, lots of pet names (girly, princess, i think i out sweetheart in there), NOT PROOFREAD!!
a/n: based off that one sound on tiktok bc i keep seeing edits 🥹 also high key reminds of heated rivalry “scott hunter is right next door…” LMFAO hope u enjoy!!
Leon hates these stupid work parties. Banquets that could’ve been an email, award ceremonies with medals and badges he would’ve preferred to see in the mail. It’s not like he’s antisocial, he likes to hang out with the people he works with, but a night in a stuffy suit and endless conversations is almost worse than a mission.
Don’t get him started on the plus one bullshit. He simply doesn't have time or patience for a partner, much less at these godforsaken events. He usually goes alone and regretfully suffers the teasing comments—“Oh, alone again Kennedy? No girlfriend this time?”
His only saving grace is you, another agent who he works with on his rare duo missions. You’re just about the only other single person in the entirety of the DSO—that’s what it feels like. Sometimes, you two will sit at events and roll your eyes at people showing off their partners. Then an awkward silence after of a silent agreement ‘cause you both know you’re just envious.
“Do you think we can call in sick?” Leon sighs as you both sit in your hotel room before you have to leave for an event. This ceremony thingy-bullshit is a bigger, more nationwide one that your boss sent you both to. One room, but two beds, at least. Cheapskates knew you didn’t have significant others and didn’t bother with privacy.
“I mean, prolly… but we lowkey might get flamed,” you reply. He leans against the doorway of the bathroom as he watches you do your makeup. The pretty, long dress you have on is a far cry from the tactical gear he usually pairs you with. Both looks are hot as hell, he definitely can’t deny that. He’ll just tuck that secret in his pocket for now.
“Well, hurry up. Maybe we can show up and leave as quick as possible,” he says as he checks his watch and pretends as if he didn’t just try to check you out. Not that it would be the first time.
Extremely unfortunately, you make it to the event, dreading every click of your heels against the marbled floors as you step inside. This one’s clearly expensive and fancy—that’s worse. The bar quickly becomes Leon’s victim. He lets you know he’ll get you a drink while you find them a spot at a table with an easy escape.
Well, he didn’t really expect to come back and find some guy hitting on you. He’s more curious than annoyed, but it’s there. This guy has the audacity to hit on a girl like you?
“Really? They flew you all the way out here, huh? So you’re pretty special,” this idiot smirks, thinking his blinding white teeth are gonna win you over. Leon can tell you’re irritated.
“Sure, you could say that,” you reply with pursed lips and your best disinterested voice. Your gaze shifts briefly to Leon standing behind him who looks amused. You’re only taking note of your drink that he’s holding.
“Well, special lady, would you maybe like to go to dinner with me somewhere more… private?” He lowers his tone leaning in a little, thinking he’s smooth as hell.
“Uh… no, y’know my schedule’s kinda full…” you shake your head, using that very obvious rejection tone. If he hasn’t taken the hint already, he has to take it now, right?
“Okay, no date. Maybe just uh… a night together?”
Nope. You were stupid to think a man would ever take a hint.
His tone makes it obvious what he’s asking, he wants his head under your dress. He says it like he knows you’ll say yes.
“Oh, I’m celibate, actually,” you smile tersely. He gives you a look as if he doesn’t believe you.
“Really? A pretty girl like you isn’t interested in sex?” He raises an eyebrow, taking a step closer as if that’s gonna fix your supposed virginity. “I find that hard to believe, sweetheart.”
“Ah, too bad. Really sucks when not every living female wants to fuck you, huh?” You can’t help but mock, returning the raised brow. “Afraid it’s just gonna be you and your fist tonight.”
He scoffs, trying not to look as offended as he clearly feels. He finally seems to take the hint. “God, some special lady you are,” he grumbles, pushing off the chair he was leaning on and giving you a look before disappearing.
“Celibate? Really?” Leon chuckles when he finally gets to talk to you again, holding out a glass of wine for you. He knows first hand that you're just about the opposite of celibate. You’ve been out drinking together multiple times… one thing leads to another.
“Just a white lie, cant hurt,” you shrug with equal amusement. You finally sit down at your carefully scouted table right next to the exit for a quick, uninterrupted escape.
The rest of the night is as boring as you expected, but a couple more glasses of wine gets you through it. The millisecond you receive your awards—some bullshit that you don’t even think needs to be awarded—you and Leon are out of there. You’ve never been more happy to see your hotel room.
Taking your time undressing and relaxing for a while, eventually you turn in for sleep. You’re even wearing your cute silky set, all curled up under the sheets. And clutching them tightly. It’s literally freezing.
“Mmh, Leon…” you mumble, trying desperately to warm yourself up. You look over your shoulder at his bare back turned to you on the other side of the room. When did he take his shirt off? “Are you awake?”
After hearing a quiet grunt, you continue. “Are you cold? I’m freezing.”
“No. ‘S hot as hell,” he grumbles. He waits for you to say something else, and just as he’s about to offer you all his sheets, he hears shuffling from your bed. A moment later, he feels the mattress dip behind him and turns over to see you kneeling on the bed and inviting yourself in.
“Y’don’t mind if we cuddle?” You murmur, slipping under the covers. He swallows as he sees your cute pajamas with the lace and he can already tell this isn’t gonna end with just cuddling. He wordlessly opens his arms up for you, wrapping them around you when you make yourself the little spoon.
He makes sure the sheets are pulled up over your shoulders, rubbing your arms and thighs underneath to try to warm you up. “Still cold?”
Well, not really. You're very hot now, actually, but you nod your head, mumbling yes.
“Want me to warm you up another way?” Leon offers, his voice quiet and rough in that way that sends a shiver down your spine. He rubs his nose against your neck, fingers brushing up under your shirt. How are you supposed to resist?
“Yeah,” you nod against the pillow, squirming slightly as he rubs your side—ticklish little thing. You help shift your legs as he pushes your shorts and panties down.
“There you go. I got you,” he murmurs, sliding his hand back up the inside of your thigh. He kisses the side of your neck as his fingers part your soft curls to get to your pussy. You can feel him smirk against your skin when he feels how wet you are.
“Doesn’t feel very cold to me,” his warm digits spread your slick around, finding your clit with ease and gently circling it with his middle finger. You whine quietly, hands grabbing his forearm that’s around your waist.
You’re snug but not tight around his fingers, easily dipping them in your wet cunt and spreading you open. He shifts, almost draping himself over you to “keep you warm” as he fingers your needy little pussy and gets you nice and ready for him.
“Oh, Leon, right there,” you whisper into the pillow as he makes sure the heel of his hand is rubbing against your clit as he adds a third finger. Your hips lightly rock against his palm, your brows pulled into that soft crease that makes you look fucking adorable.
“Look at you, going around telling people you’re abstinent and yet you’re crawling into my arms,” Leon teases gently, curling his fingers in a slow, languid way that makes your spine straighten and your breath catch.
Just as you’re mumbling about getting close and about to cum, he takes his hand away with a kiss to your shoulder beside the strap of your top. You whine, but he turns you around in his arms with one of those dumb smirks.
“C’mon, girly, you’re on top tonight. Show me how celibate you claim you are, hm?” He taunts, bringing you with him as he rolls into his back, big hands on your soft hips.
“Ugh, how did I let you talk me into this? Didn’t we say we’d stop after last time?” You complain as you settle your hands on his bare chest, your naked hips lazily grinding against the tent in his pajama pants.
“We both know we can’t stop. ‘Sides, I barely talked to you, just tried to warm you up,” he grunts as you start dry humping him, rough hands sliding down your scarred thighs. Rubs his thumbs over the small, raised lines before giving you a light slap on the ass.
“Get going, princess. You’re slow,” he says with fake impatience, staring up at you with that cheesy smirk. You roll your eyes but start to pull down his sweats and boxers anyway.
Your hips shift restlessly with need as you grip his hard cock, giving it a couple light strokes before positioning yourself above him. With your eyes on your movements, you hold him still as you slowly sink down on him with a low, gravelly moan.
“Mmh—fuck, there you go. Hug me so nice,” he sighs with a grunt of your name as he watches you. You sit there on his cock, looking up at him expectantly. This is usually the part where he takes over again and holds you hips while he thrusts up into you.
He simply returns the look. Asshole. What happened to chivalry?
You sigh dramatically, your knees on either side of his waist as you find leverage with your hands behind you on his hard, strong thighs. You don’t usually do this part.
You suck in a breath, lifting yourself up a bit, and then back down with a soft moan. Up and down, up and down, grinding softly against him and keeping eye contact.
But it’s just not the same! Even as you keep up a nice rhythm, your soft moans getting louder and your grip getting tighter, he’s not deep enough. Not hitting the spots he usually gets.
“Leon, c’mon… it’s better when you do it,” you sigh as your hands come back to the front, tracing his abs as you do your damn best riding his cock. He simply stares, amused as his hands rub up and down your thighs.
“…Leon,” you say more firmly this time, hoping you can chastise him into fucking you. It doesn’t work, and you’re getting impatient. You groan dramatically, circling your hips as you lock your eyes on his. “Leon, just fuck me already! Fuck me hard!”
He can’t help but laugh. It gets him going to see you all frustrated, as much as he hates it when you’re anything but happy. Anyway, who’s he to deny you? His hands slides up to your hips, pausing to grope your ass before firmly planting themselves above your thighs.
“Careful what you wish for,” he murmurs before lifting you up and then pulling you back down to meet his thrust. A moan slips from both of you this time as your fingers dig into his bare chest.
“Mmh, fuck yeah Leon,” you groan, leaning back so you can see his face a bit better. Not for long, ‘cause then he pounds into you hard enough to pull out a high-pitched whine and make you throw your head back with pleasure,
“God, fuckin’ love that, don’t you? You can’t even ride me properly. Always need my help,” he grunts as his hips jump to meet yours every single time. He always scolds you in that sickly sweet voice that has your pussy dripping.
“Oh—mph! Right there—yeah, nail my shit, just like that,” you say breathlessly, your head dropping to his chest as one of your hands snakes beneath you to find your clit. A half moan-half growl slips from your lips as your back arches deliciously, teetering right on the edge.
“Jesus, cumming already? Needed it bad, did you?” He murmurs as he trails gentle, contradicting kisses compared to his rough thrusts against your shoulder. “Come on, sweetheart. Cum on my cock.”
It’s hard to hear his words over the squeaking of the bed and your own moans. Almost forgot you were in a hotel—no, you definitely did forget. That’s not what’s crossing your mind right now, though. You’re too busy crossing the finish line. Moaning his name, your fingers still on your clit as i grinds up into you to help you ride it out.
“That’s it, girly. Good girl,” Leon mumbles in your ears, rolling your hips against his pelvis. Once he’s decided you've had enough rest, he gently manhandles you onto your back, quickly pushing your legs up and squishing your knees against your tits as he gets right back to work.
His hands grip the backs of your thighs, his fingertips denting into the plush skin as he pounds into your pussy. His voice leaves him in harsh grunts and satisfied groans, his gaze fixed on his cock coming in and out of your soft cunt.
“Y-Y’know… how much it pissed me off… when that guy was flirting with you?” Leon grunts through gritted teeth, almost like he was trying to keep it back.
“Fuck… yeah?” You question through your sex haze. You guys don’t really talk about other people, or your feelings. Especially not towards each other. So to have him essentially admit that he’s jealous.
“Yeah, princess. Couldn’t believe he thought he had a chance with… you,” his words come out a little slurred—he always talks too much when he gets close. You whine softly, the jealousy woven in his voice making your insides quiver.
His hands grip tighter on your thighs, not enough to bruise but definitely no less than firm. He leans over you a bit, putting a little more of his weight on top of you as he fucks you harder. He barely manages to remember he didn’t use a condom, whining pathetically as he uses all the forces of his self restraint to pull out.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…” he whispers under his breath, one big hand pushing your thighs together as he strokes himself with the other. You make sure you’ve got a front row seat to see his brows furrowed and your name falling helplessly from his lips.
Leon moans your name, his head falling back as he finally pours his hot, sticky cum all over the backs of your thighs. Rope after rope lands on the soft flesh, making him moan a little more as he squeezes as much as he can out of the tip. You look so pretty like that, he’d take a picture if he knew you wouldn’t kill him.
“Oh god… so perfect, sweetie. Did so well,” he mumbles lazily stroking himself a little longer before letting go. He smears a bit of jizz across your skin before bringing his thumb up to your mouth, letting you lick it off.
It takes a moment to recover with his thighs feeling like they’re on fire, but eventually he pats your hip and gets up. He finds a small towel in the bathroom and runs it under warm water to come clean you up. Once you have everything you need, he puts your panties back on and double checks that you're nice and cozy as his little spoon after a very abstinent night.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The light wakes you up in the morning, streaming in through the thin curtains. You grumble, waking up and shaking Leon’s shoulder awake soon after. He kisses you and says thanks for last night, before the two of you return to your “normal friendly mission partners” routine.
Just as Leon closes the door behind you, about to head out to go home, you glance over at the sound of the persom in the next room over leaving as well.
The last thing you expected was to lock eyes with the man who tried to hit on you at the event, looking tired as hell, as if he didn’t get any sleep.
“…you didn’t sound very celibate to me.”
a/n: hi hope u enjoyed!! any notes always super duper appreciated 🙌
☁︎⋅ (18+) rookie!leon eating you out and creaming his pants
“l-leon, I don’t know if I can go again,” you cried out, your voice catching in your throat as your hips twitched helplessly above him.
you weren’t sure many times you’d come. it was hard to keep track after the third orgasm. but leon wasn’t ready to let go, he kept going, his broad hands gripping your thighs tight to keep you anchored in place. he thrusted into the air, desperate for some sort of friction.
“you just taste so good,” leon groaned against your skin. his face buried itself back between your lips, his tongue dragging in thick, heavy strokes through your folds. he sucked down on your clit, letting your arousal drench his lips and coat his chin. “one more, please, just one more…”
you looked down, your hands trembling as you braced yourself against the headboard. your gaze met his soft blue eyes. they were wide, glassy, and so sweet they looked like they might spill over with tears at any second. his cheeks were flushed a crimson red and his damp hair stuck messily to his forehead. he was completely at your mercy.
“you’re so pretty like this,” you breathed out, your heart hammering against your ribs. you reached down to brush the damp hair out of his face.
leon let out a soft whine at the gentle touch, the vibration of it causing you to jolt. “my pretty boy,” you whispered.
“oh fuck-”
leon sucked down hard on your clit, his tongue swirling in a frantic, demanding rhythm. you gripped the headboard for dear life as the sudden sensation sent you crashing into another violent orgasm. your sweet release coated his lips and his tongue moved eagerly to catch every single drop.
as your body settled, you noticed that leon was panting incredibly hard. you shifted, looking behind you, only to see a very prominent dark wet spot across his gray sweats.
a soft gasp left your lips. “did you just…?” you giggled.
leon groaned, a pitiful sound escaping his lips as his ears turned bright pink. he pulled away from your lips to nudge his nose against your inner thigh.
“you taste really good,” he mumbled defensively, his voice muffled as he tried to hide his blushing face from view.
Summary: You take down a monster but it has one last surprise for you – a polar plunge. Leon's forced to go in after you. Once you're free of the ice, you've got to go get warm, fast.
WC: 4.5k
CW: NSFW, minors DNI, you and Leon are partnered DSO agents, monster fight, no use of y/n, no mention of ages, reader put in peril, reader is injured, shared body heat, sex in the back of the Porsche, first time (together), unprotected p in v, creampie, synchronized orgasms, sort of aftercare (Leon is sweet and attentive), I'm so incredibly not kidding half of this is porn
Notes: MINORS DNI
The root of the problem is there are too many fucking limbs to keep track of.
The monster’s knotted, slimy arms – if you could call them such – are clawed into the ground, keeping it pulled onto the shore, and it has plenty more to swing and slam and bludgeon with, swatting at you and Leon running around like you’re nothing more than pestering flies. After an initial trial of overwhelm, you’re learning: shoot for the bends to shatter joints, hit the ground when it swings then immediately roll to avoid the follow-up slam meant to unite you with the dirt. Permanently.
There’s an additional complication.
“It’s a fucking hydra!” Leon shouts.
It’s a fucking hydra. You’re dealing with more limbs now than when it had burst out of the frozen lake and charged you, with a screech so piercing it still rings in your ears. This changes things, if you don’t want to end up popped like a sauce packet on the patchy grass bank.
“Fuck.”
You have to keep moving, but you’re not shooting at it now. You’re reassessing, heart pounding, breath loud in your ears and visible in the cold, grey air. Leon grunts as he dives clear of a slamming limb, rolling to his feet and dodging the bullwhip crack of another arm.
Your gaze locks on the grenade hanging from his belt. A plan fills in behind your singular focus.
He sees you half a second before you slam into him at full tilt, no time to slow down, but his stance is wide enough that it doesn’t knock him over.
“What–!”
You meet his eyes. You can see the next threat in your periphery; your one, his six, another slimy limb coming in hot. He’s realizing where your hand is. It all happens in the space of a heartbeat.
“Spicy meatball,” you explain, then drop him by kicking your heel into the back of his knee, folding it. Your grip on the grenade yanks it free of his belt and you hold it up over your head as the hydra’s arm, great ugly claw-hand open, misses Leon on the ground and grabs you, ripping you into the air. Leon shouts your name but it’s lost under an ear-splitting, triumphant screech.
The monster’s clutching you too tight, you're gasping for air. Your dominant arm is free, grenade in hand, even if your other arm is squashed in against your side. The fucker’s whipping you around like a litigiously unregulated county fair ride; black edges your vision and your head pounds horribly. You manage to arm the grenade with your teeth and grip it, breathless, waiting.
You need the hydra to screech again. You need the great stinking mouth open, throwing saliva and mucus past rows of needle teeth, the perfect basket in which to throw your one and only egg.
Leon’s already caught on.
A single splattering gunshot splits the air and the monster jerks, limbs flying skyward as it screams in fury; you’re helplessly along for the ride, heaved almost directly above it – and here’s your window.
You drop the grenade. It goes right down the gullet.
The explosion ruptures the monster’s body cavity in a great geyser of green and black gore. Its limbs thrash and flail, whipping high, slamming into the ground. You brace as the arm gripping you speeds for the ground, but then it swings you around and back up, your stomach lurching violently, and –
It throws you.
Your heart and lungs hitch, suspended; time runs slow as you arc high, tumbling, too high, way too high – and start falling. You see where you’re going to land and curl yourself into a ball, protecting your head and neck.
Your body blows a hole right through the lake ice, plunging into the freezing water below.
Leon’s already running.
The hydra is nothing but a tangled, limp, caved-in pile of slop, disregarded the second Leon saw you go airborne. He’s running, stripping off his jacket, ripping open the buckles on his chest rig, tearing off his tac belt, leaving a trail of weapons and ammunition and nylon webbing strewn in his wake. He reaches the bank in his street clothes, shoes skidding to a stop just before the water, breath loud in his ears and visible in the air.
The jagged crater you left in the ice is still sloshing dark, slushy water.
You haven’t come up for air.
“Fuck.”
He looks down at the scuffed grey ice pack, gauges the distance to you, and sprints.
The ice groans and cracks under his feet; he keeps moving. He closes the gap, every pounding footfall turbulence that fractures the lake ice in great echoing snaps, the whole thick sheet weakened by the violence of your intrusion. Finally, with a leap that calves the ice beneath him, Leon dives into the freezing water after you.
The shock of the cold pulls on Leon’s lungs, he has to fight against the primal instinct to gasp. His limbs are immediately leaden, but he doesn't stop moving. The flat grey daylight barely filters through the murky ice above and the water is dark with disturbed silt. He kicks towards the lakebed in search of you, his pounding heartbeat a timer counting down.
Something that looks like a branch solidifies into your arm, limp hand floating in a slack reach skyward. Leon grabs your wrist, hauling your dead weight towards himself, hooking his arms underneath your shoulders and swimming up for the gap in the ice.
He heaves in air when your heads breach the surface.
You do not.
“Don’t you dare,” he growls through gritted teeth, and manages to slide you up onto the ice pack, pushing you clear as he kicks his legs up behind himself and drags flat onto the ice beside you. He moves you onto a thick, uncracked stretch of ice and pushes you onto your back, plugging your nose and forcing air into your mouth.
You choke, spurting dirty lake water, rolling onto your side and spitting up more, coughing and heaving. You try to prop yourself up on your elbow, your throat raw and tight, nose stinging and burning. Your eyes are blurry when you open them, your ears are waterlogged. You squeeze your eyes shut and blink them clear enough to see what keeps pulling at you.
It’s Leon, wet and pale, saying something to you, his eyes intense. You squint at his mouth, trying to read his lips because your ears might as well have been left underwater for all the good they’re doing you.
Get up
We need to move
Can you “hear me? We have to go, now!”
As if to punctuate his statement, the ice below you jerks, a crack scything underneath your body like a bolt of lightning. You recoil onto your hip and Leon pulls at your arm, pulls you up, the ice creaking and popping under your shoes.
“Run!”
It’s a bit much to ask.
You do your best, stumbling after Leon, short on breath and coughing. You’d impacted the ice with your left shoulder, the force ramming your curled arm into your ribs, hard. That side is tight and painful, and you know you’re too frozen to feel the full extent of it yet. It’s really not gonna be pretty.
Your foot catches on a rising gap in the ice and trips you; you slide and weakly scramble back to your feet. Ahead of you, Leon’s almost to the shore.
You’re almost there.
You hit the bank on your hands and knees, gasping. Your fingers, clawing into the crumbling dirt, are pale, the nail beds blue. You can barely feel the dry grit of the cold earth under your hands.
Leon grabs the collar of your jacket and yanks you to standing.
“Keep moving. Keep moving, come on.” He grabs your hand, already running, pulling you after him.
You half-register the scattered bullet clips, weaponry, and leather jacket on the bank as you run in Leon’s wake. You pass the fuckass hydra; it’s nothing but a gelatinous stinking puddle that you quickly leave behind.
The thin, brittle air razors through your lungs, freezing and metallic. The bitter wind axes at you. You can’t feel your extremities; you keep stumbling and it’s slowing you down. Leon looks back just in time to watch you actually fall, tripping in a rut, knees slamming into the ground. He runs back to you and helps you up. You’re both breathing shallow, wracked with tremors, teeth chattering and skin close to blue.
“Almost there. Come on.”
Leon’s car is half-hidden behind a broken fence and an overgrown shrub, parked haphazard on the dry, patchy grass. He hits the driver’s side door with more momentum than he meant to, pressing his thumb to the door handle; it unlocks and he yanks it open. You hear the whole car unlock, the lights flashing, and he slaps the driver’s door shut in favor of the backseat.
“Get in. Get in!”
You slip in the back passenger’s door just as he slides in on the other side, the both of you slamming the doors on the freezing wind. Leon immediately grabs the hem of his soaked shirt, peeling it over his head and dumping it over the headrests into the trunk. It lands with a wet plap.
“Wet stuff in the back,” he says, twisting over the seats to grab something out of the trunk. It’s a duffel; he grunts in frustration when his numb fingers fail at first to catch the handle but then he drags it into the backseat while you’re struggling out of your soaked jacket and shoving it over the backrests. It lands with an even wetter plorp.
You’re still wearing your chest rig; your numb, stiff fingers can’t get the fucking plastic buckles to open.
“Fuck!”
There’s a sharp snk noise; Leon shoves your hands clear and slips a folding knife under the nylon webbing of your rig. The straps pull taut and dig into your injured side, but then he’s cut clean through the belts and he’s helping untangle it from your arms. The buckles clatter against the back windshield as you throw it in the trunk. Leon uses the knife to make quick work of his shoelaces, kicking his soaked and muddy shoes into the footwell, then he leans across and holds your ankles steady, cutting your bootlaces while you peel your shirt up over your head. Your side screams at the stretch and you rasp out a cry of pain.
Your left side is already violently bruised, livid and dark against the pale blanch of your goosepimpled skin. You’re caught for a moment by the horrible picture it makes, trying to remember to breathe.
“Jesus,” Leon says in agreement. In your periphery, he’s struggling with his waterlogged skinny jeans and there’s suddenly a lot more skin above the line of his waistband; the denim sucked his boxer briefs halfway down his hips before he managed to shove the jeans to his knees and off. He throws the jeans in the back, pulls the waistband of his underwear up, and again he’s in your space undoing your useless fucking tac belt that your frozen fingers can’t open. His hands are just as cold and numb as your own, why the fuck do they work better than yours?
Wind gusts against the outside of the car, scratching the scraggly branches of the nearby shrub against the doors. You feel a draft even through the sealed door. Your teeth are clacking uncontrollably.
“Can we get the fucking heat running?” You shove your pants and boots into the trunk, smearing mud on the leather seat. Leon’s rooting through the duffel again.
“No.”
“No?”
“The keys are in my coat.”
“The fuck kind of agent are you? Hotwire the car.”
“Smart, when I can’t feel my hands,” he says, and shoves the duffel into the footwell, tearing open a passport-sized plastic package with his teeth and turning towards you on the seat. “Come here.”
He shakes out the mylar safety blanket and you realize exactly what’s going to have to happen, here. It’s a thought you’ve had triaged as a last-resort solution while stripping semi-nude in the backseat of his car; now it turns out it’s your only solution. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat and you’re going to have to get on top of him. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat in nothing but wet cotton boxer briefs and you’re going to have to get on top of him in nothing but a wet bra and panties, and then he’s going to close you both in under the mylar blanket to trap heat like you’re a fucking turkey in a roasting pan.
Fuck.
You clench your jaw against your chattering teeth and don’t let yourself hesitate. There’s no can or can’t here – you’re both freezing, this is life or death. So you climb up over him in the limited space available, helping to pull the mylar blanket around you and tuck it in under your shins, under his head and shoulders, sealing you together into a lumpy, creased foil bubble.
It’s not pitch black like you'd hoped. The mylar filters the grey daylight into a dim, intimate dusk. You can still see Leon’s face clearly, on your hands and knees above him; you could count his eyelashes if you could bear to look him in the eyes. You keep your head down and focus on the uncontrollable chatter of your teeth, the way your whole body is shivering unpleasantly, and not the way his knees are framing your hips. He’s too tall for the backseat.
Your disloyal stomach flutters when you feel his hand brush your darkened side.
“How are your ribs?” He presses his thumb carefully against the darkest patch, low on your ribcage, where your elbow impacted. You hiss and jerk away.
“Tenderized, Leon. Ow."
“How bad?”
“I don’t… think anything’s broken.”
“Deep breath in.”
You oblige, slow and careful, your ribs expanding over your lungs. It stings horribly, your skin feels too tight, but nothing stabs you. His hand rides the motion of your ribs, feeling for telltale hitches or jerks. It’s nothing but clinical.
“Alright,” he says, quiet. He eases his touch but doesn’t drop it away. You’re staring at your hand in the crumpled landscape of the mylar blanket over Leon’s shoulder, because everything else is his naked skin.
His hand moves from your side to your arm, fingers close to the bend in your elbow like he means to fold it.
“You gotta get down on me."
You want to laugh but your side only lets you make a pained huff through your chattering teeth.
"Nice one, icebrain. Lemme loop HR in real quick."
“The air pocket only works if one of us is warm,” he says, steamrolling the comment. And he’s right.
Fuck.
"I don't know where you think my knees are going."
You have to play some strange and painful backseat Twister, the foil blanket complicating shit by clinging to your damp skin and hair, but then you’ve puzzled yourselves together so you can drop onto him with a put-upon huff.
He hisses and pushes you back up by the shoulders.
“Fuck, how much water is in that thing?”
You both look down at your high-impact bra. Squeezed between the two of you, it's now weeping drops of frigid water down your stomach. It's also left an imprint across Leon's chest, wet enough to bead up and roll towards his armpits.
“You can’t be wearing that.”
“Leon–“
"No, this isn't an argument. That's over your heart."
Yes, but. It's also over your breasts. Preventing them from being all over Leon. All over Leon's naked skin.
"Do you trust me?"
You don't even hesitate, because that's the easy question.
"Yes."
It's a zip-front bra. His fingers touch the zipper.
"Okay?" His gaze is holding yours, strong, a promise to keep his eyes up.
It’s taking all your energy to appear calm and unaffected right now.
“Yeah. Fine."
It’s a relief, actually, the compression easing as he pulls the zipper down, releasing entirely when the sides come apart. It’s easier to breathe. He pushes the straps from your shoulders, brushes them down your arms until you can drop the soaked bra into the footwell, tucking the foil blanket back in place. His chest, still cold, feels warm against your freezing breasts.
He rubs the damp, freezing skin of your back, paying special attention to the deep impressions left by the bra seams like he can smooth them out, putty under his fingers.
“Do you know you're doing that.”
He stops. You shift, shoulderblades rolling under his hands.
“I didn't tell you to stop,” you say.
“Yes ma'am.”
Your head is turned away from his, because otherwise your nose would be right against his cheek. You have to maintain at least one boundary in the smoking ruin of all the others. He keeps stroking your back; the gentle flats of his palms, the firm pads of his fingers. You’re starting to feel like putty.
Your eyelids are heavy.
“Is it bad to fall asleep?”
He pinches you hard and you jolt away from it, knocking against the seatback. Your injured side flares with pain.
“Fuck! You ass,” you gasp, poking him hard between the ribs. He jerks under you, cursing, and you brace for retaliation, but he’s gone still.
And you register why.
His face is right under yours, noses almost touching. You’re sharing breath.
And something else is different.
“…Where are your hands?”
You know where they are. He moves them from your hips up to your back again.
“Good boy.”
You don’t know what fucking possessed you. It sounded like a joke in your head, but released into the narrow space between your faces it’s far more charged than that, because of course it is. You’re hearing it now, where it’s too late to take it back. You still have a brain like a frozen chicken cutlet, fucking cold and smooth, he has to understand–
He’s breathing out hot against your mouth, pushing his hands down to the small of your back, pressing your body tighter against his, and it ignites something sharp and fervid in your belly.
“Shit,” you whisper, and kiss him.
He meets it. He kisses you back like he’s just been waiting, gathering the damp hair at your nape with one hand, blunt nails scraping the skin of your neck. His other hand goes lower, the heel of his palm digging in, fingers gripping your ass. You gasp and roll your hips, body lighting up.
“Fuck,” he says into your mouth. “Careful with your side.”
“You be careful with my side.”
“Damn.”
“Shut up.” You fist his hair and pull his head back, kissing the taut line of his neck under his ear, scraping your teeth against the skin. He’s got both hands on your ass now, sliding his fingers under the sides of your panties to gather the fabric into a thong, palming the cool skin of your bared cheeks. You hum, rolling your hips again.
“You’ve got a fixation.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, unashamed. He smooths his hands down your thighs where they’re framing his sides, his fingertips digging in. You’re sitting on his pelvis, grinding on nothing but the flat of his low abdomen, his thighs closed behind your ass, his knees pressed to the car door. You kiss his mouth, open and loose, and speak against it.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you that cold?”
“Don’t be rude.”
You stop moving, pushing up to stare down at him. “Are you serious?”
“No.” He opens his legs, shifting his hips, and you gasp when you feel him against your ass. You shift back, rubbing yourself against the hardening length of his dick, the lake-wet fabric of your underwear dragging together, no longer cold and clammy where you’re touching. His breath tumbles hot from his open mouth, hips rolling to meet you.
“Fuck, Leon.” If this is him with shrinkage, how the hell has he been packing all that into skinny jeans all these years?
He’s watching you, his eyes half-lidded, hands on your naked waist. You sit up more, tipping your head back, running your hands along his forearms as you drag your wet pussy along the firm heat of his cock.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he tells you, molten. You groan, arching.
“Jesus. Keep talking like that.”
“Yeah?” He tugs you by the arms to bring you lower, kissing your neck with an open mouth, his scruff lightly scratching your skin and making you shiver. His hands find your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, and your breath hitches. “Fuck, I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”
You laugh, just a teasing exhale against his lips. “What, cold and injured?”
He’s pulling the fabric of your panties to one side, holding it there, out of the way. You moan when he rubs his fingers through your drenched folds, slow.
“Naked and wet,” he growls, teeth grazing your shoulder. You whimper and thread your fingers into his hair, gripping, gasping when he circles your clit. Your hips jerk erratically; he’s mouthing kisses up the side of your neck, nipping lightly, then speaking against your skin, his voice subterranean.
“What do you want?”
Holy shit. You don’t remember what it feels like to be cold, anymore. Your body’s on fire. You’ve maybe never been this turned on in your life, and all this after a fucking ice bath.
“Take yourself out," you tell him. "I wanna feel you.”
The first drag of your wet cunt along the satin heat of his naked cock has him groaning, his hips rocking helplessly. You glide on him like that, wetting his dick, feeling it jump and throb between your pussy lips. You prop yourself up on his shoulders, pressing him down into the seat, grinding your clit firm against the head of his cock with little gyrations of your hips. He’s gripping your waist, mouth open, just watching you.
“I’ve never seen you so speechless,” you tell him.
“I’ve – shit – never seen you riding me.”
“Mm. Lucky day.”
“I know.”
“Any last words?”
“What?”
You cant your hips back, reaching down to guide the glistening head of Leon’s cock to your entrance. His fingers tighten on your sides, breathing in sharp.
“Be careful,” he says.
“You’re sweet,” you tell him, bearing down with little adjustments, caging his dick in place with your fingers. The tip of him presses into your tight wet heat and Leon gasps, head thumping back against the seat. You stare at the display of his body below you; the taut stretch of his neck, the flush of his chest, the tight muscles of his stomach as he works to keep his hips still, letting you control this. You take him into you in increments, the burning stretch of him blurring into white-hot pleasure, the length of him making your thighs shake before you’re finally fully seated, the throbbing heat of him bottomed out inside of you, filling you deep. You drop forward, hands on his shoulders, panting.
“Are you okay?”
You manage a nod. “God, Leon.”
He moves his hips, just a small adjustment, experimental. You gasp, lifting to half-mast him, sliding back down. He’s so thick.
Your thighs are shaking too much and you don’t exactly have the room to adjust. You lean down, desperate.
“Fuck me.”
He doesn’t need telling twice. He grips your ass, pushing you down into every thrust of his hips, long and slow at first so you can feel every inch, grinding tight against you when he bottoms out. He uses your breath by his ear as a barometer, picking up the pace, the wet glide turning into a wet slap, and turns his head to catch your moans in his mouth.
“Think you can come like this?”
“Limited menu of options, garçon,” you pant. There’s no fucking space back here.
“Tip your hips down,” he says.
You do; he slams in deep, grinding, putting delicious pressure on your clit. You cry out.
“Fuck, like that Leon!”
He pulls your earlobe into his mouth, sucking lightly, resuming the faster slap of his hips.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, filthy, and jesus christ, he is going to get an orgasm out of you. Almost just did.
“Shit,” you gasp. “Are you close?”
“Do you want me to be?”
You clench around him and he groans, hips stuttering.
“Fuck. I am if you do that,” he gasps. You do it again and he buries deep to grind on you, like he’s warring you, fighting to set you off first.
“Fuck, I’m close, I’m close,” you whimper, bouncing on him, stalling for time. He’s got you right on the edge and you don’t wanna go over yet. “With me. Come with me.”
He curses, fucking into you hard and fast, thrusts starting to go erratic. You keep a litany of babble going in his ear, obscene, feeling him catching up, drawing tight; and then he’s bottoming out hard against you, groaning brokenly as he pulses deep inside of you, your walls convulsing as the final slap of his hips sends you tumbling over the edge with him.
When you come back down to earth, the foil blanket is askew, his leg sticking out in the passenger’s side footwell, your forearm dangling in the driver’s side footwell. You’re lying bonelessly on top of Leon, riding the heaving of his chest as you both catch your breath. He pulls the mylar down to the middle of your back and the cold air raises new goosebumps on your flushed skin.
"I think that did the trick,” he says.
You hum, your eyes closed, face pressed to the side of Leon’s neck. He runs his thumb lightly along the dewy column of your spine.
“How’s your side?”
“Stings.”
He’s still inside you, starting to slip free as he softens. He gently pulls out and your forehead creases, a grumpy noise escaping you.
“Hey,” he says, soft. You don’t lift your head, it feels like too much effort. He shifts under you and you grumble your displeasure, but he’s just resettling you so you’re not leaning your bruised side so heavily against the seatback. He cards his fingers through your hair, pulling it back from your sweaty temple.
“I’m going to sleep,” you murmur. “Try to pinch me again and see what happens.”
He laughs, just a short rumble low in his chest.
“Worked out fine the first time.”
You smile, eyes closed, and tuck your arm in under his body.
“Beginner’s luck.”
There’s a lot of shit to do. There’s kit to grab from the beach, samples to take from the hydra, clothes to dry, reports to fill out, bruises to heal, complex developments to talk through with your partner.
But right now, there’s just Leon’s heartbeat and steady breathing beneath you, his fingers combing lazily through your hair, and you’re pretty sure it’s all gonna work out okay.
On AO3
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summary: ever since your first year at Hogwarts you've spent every Christmas break at the castle, and also reluctanctly throwing quaffles at Oliver Wood so he can practice. You don't even like Quidditch, and you don't like each other much either, but it somehow feels like you can't stay away from each other even after spring comes
content: slow burn, reluctant friends to lovers; fake dating ?) kinda; dumber & dumber
wc: 12k
[part 1] [part 2]
“Want to go throw for a bit?”
You felt Oliver sink into the couch, accompanied by the familiar sound of the Quaffle being passed from one hand to the other. You were sitting on the soft carpet, back against the couch and Potions book open on your lap. You had been on page 82 for a while, the silence and warmth had distracted you enough to let yourself close your eyes, drifting to dangerous sleep in the early afternoon. When Oliver had awakened you, dust-like snow was falling in the premature darkness outside.
“Are you mad? It’s freezing out there”
Oliver’s short nails that he always kept trimmed to perfection dug slightly into the leather of the quaffle.
“You were walking with Fred around the patio this morning, though”
He waited for any sort of reaction to that comment, but he got none.
“I was walking through the patio. He was following me” Fred had been very insistent on pestering you about the whole kiss thing since the moment winter break had started. He kept asking you if you were doing okay, his teasing eventually turning into actual concern. The more sincere he sounded, the more embarrassed you felt about it “Where are they, anyway?”
Unlike the previous years, with the Weasleys staying for Christmas, it had felt more lively and the castle not as desolate. Because of that, their absence brought a deafening silence with it.
“Not at practise, that much I can tell you. We can throw in here”
“And break something?”
“You can try to aim properly”
“Then I’ll break your nose again”
Oliver’s brows slowly sunk down over his eyes. The banter was familiar, and yet there was something in the way the words were spoken that made a strange feeling settle on his chest. It had been faint at first, but after that first week of Christmas holiday, it had grown into an almost suffocating pressure he couldn’t ignore any longer.
“What’s wrong?”
Your chest rose up and down with a deep breath, wondering if you could even have the conversation you wanted to start. Well, you didn’t want to start it, but if you wanted to pretend that everything was okay, you’d have to, eventually.
“You should ask me for help sometimes. Especially with things you have no experience in”
For a moment Oliver was distracted by your voice, and then after he had processed your words, his head tilted to the side with a frown.
“What?”
You set the Potions book aside and turned to look at him. He was casually sitting on the other side, open legs sprawled so long his jeans were struggling to cover his mismatched socks. He was wearing that worn striped sweater he seemed to have been wearing since the second grade, which desperately clung onto his arm resting along the headrest of the couch. The sight knocked you on the chest, words jammed on your throat as your mouth remained open for a brief second. Eventually you managed to put yourself and your best mock-upset act together.
“Were you not going to tell me about the kiss with Alicia Spinnet?”
There had been many sleepless nights and lots of time spent daydreaming about how Oliver would react if you were to bring up the topic. In some instances he was bashful and nervous, and he stormed off with a candid blush on his cheeks. In others, embarrassed and avoidant, in which he simply told you is none of your business. Sometimes he called you out on your own feelings, but you had told yourself that was the most unlikely of scenarios, even if that fear still remained impossible to ignore. Now with the real Oliver in front of you, you imagined yourself to be prepared for any possible reaction. Or so you thought.
“Oh, that?” he had said after a brief pause, eyes lighting up as if he had completely forgotten “Yeah, that was weird”
There was a short silence in which you simply looked at each other.
“That’s all you have to say?” you finally asked.
Oliver’s frown sank deeper “What else?”
Your mouth opened but no words came out, fingers trembling as they fisted onto the carpet. Of course, you hadn’t even accounted for the possibility that he might not have cared. Because not even he could be that obtuse, could he? Your head fell back with a loud groan that made Oliver flinch.
“Boys, seriously” you exasperatedly moaned into your hands.
“What? She just kissed me!” he defended, smart enough to understand he was in some sort of trouble, even if he wasn’t sure of what it was.
“Yeah! That was your first kiss too!”
“You don’t know that!” he stared at you, lips pursed “Okay, it was”
“Yeah, I know that!” for a second there you hadn’t, and you let out a sigh of relief that he was too busy to notice. You stood up from the floor, hoping the height difference would give you some advantage and strength to deal with the conversation at hand “That’s something that you remember forever, you know?” you pointed your finger at him, and he snapped it away “And you are just-- just, like, ‘whatever’!”
He looked up at you, now standing over him with a glare that he was familiar with, the feeling they conveyed recognizable to him ever since he was eleven.
“Are you upset?”
You felt embarrassment creep up your chest and through your neck, if your face hadn’t been so red already it would have given you away. How dared he call you out like that? Why was he always so dense except when it came to make a fool of you? You picked up a cushion, initially to hide your face behind it, but you hit him a few times with it.
“I’m mad that you didn’t tell me!” you half-lied.
Oliver shielded his face with his arms, the quaffle dropped on the ground.
“Because I don’t really care!”
“And you don’t even care! Do you remember the first time you got on a broom?”
“Absolutely” he answered immediately, completely serious.
“Well, this is the same thing!”
“No, it isn’t!” Oliver held onto the cushion, which let you know he could have done that all this time instead of letting you hit him with it. It reminded you of your grandma’s Labrador, which would oftentimes allow her small kitten bite at his tail until it got bored of entertaining it. He held your wrist with one hand, the other taking the cushion away and holding it out of your reach “Wait, how do you know this?”
You clenched your jaw in a way that made your heart hurt when the question immediately made you remember the sight of Alicia Spinnet kissing him. Your chest rose up and down, heart slamming so loudly against your ribcage you became terribly embarrassed of the idea that Oliver could hear it in the dead silence of the room. He could have, maybe, if not distracted by the feeling of your hair tickling at his face, your jaded breath fanning over his features and the collar of your sweater sinking deeper than usual. If he concentrated enough he could feel your pulse where he was holding your wrist. Your eyelashes batted against your skin as your eyes shied away from his intrusive gaze. Oliver felt himself swallow, his throat suddenly dry.
“I saw it” you finally answered. You felt his grip on your wrist tighten for just a second.
“You did?” he asked. You nodded, and for the first time he seemed embarrassed enough to blush.
Your eyes, taking advantage of the fact that his refused to look at you, betrayed your utmost trust and descended to his lips. It drove you mad that Alicia Spinnet knew what they felt like, while you only had some wild imaginations to go by.
“What did you guys talk about?”
“I thought you saw” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t stick around”
Oliver inhaled deeply, and you felt his thumb falter from where it had been pressing against your hand that was still captive in his grip. It almost felt like a caress. It made you think that you were too close, and maybe you should move.
“She said I was a great captain and that she looked up to me. Then she ki--” you both dared to look at the other at the same time only to look away again. He cleared his throat “She ran away and said she’d see me after the break”
You raised an eyebrow “And?”
“What?”
“What did you say back?” you urged him.
“Nothing, just ‘okay, see ya’”
You were flabbergasted. You stood up, Oliver having to let go of your wrist. Once you were away from him, he straightened up on his seat, passed his hands through his hair multiple times and held the cushion tightly against his chest.
“Are you aware you are currently dating Alicia? Right now, in this very moment”
Oliver stared at you like you were crazy.
“What? No I’m not”
“Did you reject her? Because it doesn’t sound like it”
“Well, I didn’t kiss her either! She kissed me!”
“The whole school had probably heard about it ten minutes into the ride back”
Oliver seemed to think about it “Well, that’s not fair” he protested like a child that had been denied candy “What do I do?”
“I mean... do you like her?”
Oliver remained quiet for a second that felt like an eternity. You held your breath until he said:
“She’s a good player”
You rolled your eyes “As a girl, you moron! Didn’t you feel anything? Butterflies, tingling toes...”
“Tingling toes?”
“Nothing?” he shrugged “So you don’t like her at all?”
“No, I would have told you” that shut you up. He had said it so sincerely, too.
“You have to reject her then”
“Will that upset her?”
“Obviously”
You were surprised Oliver seemed to be having that into consideration. Maybe the pep talk you had given him the year before had worked.
“Do you think that’ll mess with the dynamic of the team? It was just starting to work out after Harry joined”
Maybe not.
You sat next to him on the couch. Oliver, suddenly very aware of your presence, scooted a bit away from you, if only for how confused he felt about how much he wanted to do the opposite.
“So you are just going to pretend to date her for the next two and a half years?”
“...I guess not”
“Yeah, she’d break up with you, and it’d be worse”
You expected him to counter with some nasty words of his own, but he didn’t.
“Can you help me out?” he asked.
“How?”
“I don’t know... you are a girl. Is there a way that won’t make her mad at me?”
“Beats me” you said without any energy left to fight “Aren’t you sad though?”
“About what?”
“Wouldn’t you want your first kiss to be with someone you like?”
He thought about it, eyes fixed on the ceiling “I guess. But I can just always kiss someone I like later”
You turned your gaze back to the ceiling as well.
“You are so optimistic and full of hope”
“You are just too bitter”
“Maybe”
You had worried for nothing, both about the kiss and your own feelings. Oliver Wood was officially too dense to give any mind to things as trivial as other people’s romantic feelings concerning him. The new revelation both relieved and pained you at the same time. Oliver tried to sit there and think about it, but he couldn’t really take it. He stood up from the couch, throwing the cushion carelessly on the ground.
“I’m going to train”
“Sure, have fun”
He hesitated a bit as he picked the quaffle from the ground, having wholeheartedly expected you to stop him. It relieved him and pained him at the same time that you didn’t. He wondered if maybe you were actually upset, but after he had left the room he stood with his back against the stone wall, hand fisting at the fabric of his sweater over his heart. He swore before being reprimanded by one of the paintings.
“Why are we opening presents here?”
You had to brace yourself from the cold, merciless early morning winter breeze. The wooden seats of the Quidditch pit were so cold they felt almost wet through the fabric of your corduroy pants.
“The Weasleys are in the Common Room”
“...so?”
“I don’t want to hang out with them so early”
In fact, Oliver hadn’t wanted you to hang out with Fred, even if he still wasn’t completely aware of it. It had bothered him how he had just made a habit of sitting next to you during meals and interrupted your conversations with some witty line that always made you laugh and him, a fool.
You ignored it if only because you had been excited and jittery about giving Oliver his gift, looking forward to the kind of face he’d make when you showed it to him. He handed you a poorly wrapped present: a pair of gloves.
“Gloves, again!” you exclaimed “How unexpected”
“It’s not my fault, every time I think about what you need, it’s all that comes to mind”
“Maybe I need a new friend” you joked “You know what’d make my hands less cold, though? Not being here right now”
“They’d be cold even if you were on fire. Why are your hands always cold anyway?”
“It’s almost below zero, Oliver”
“So? My hands are still warm”
You almost called him out on his bullshit, they couldn’t possibly be warm. But what if he thought it was a dare? What if he gave you his hand? What if he thought that’s what you wanted for him to do?
“I got your present here” you announced cheerfully in an attempt to get rid of the thick halo of awkwardness around you.
You fished a thin envelope from the inside of your coat and handed it to him. When he grabbed it you felt his fingers brush against yours, and you had to stop your mind from thinking that it could have ever been on purpose. You hoped he thought the same about you, that was, if he had even noticed. They did feel warm. Oliver opened it with as much impatience as you could open an envelope with, and held the two pieces of paper in his hand as he read its contents. His eyebrows shot up, eyes wide going from you to the tickets multiple times.
“How?! It’s not until July!” he beamed.
“I asked my mum a while ago if she could get them ahead of time”
“You--!” Oliver grabbed your face and shook it a bit “Genius!”
“You like it?”
“Of course I like it!”
He let go of you, your face now feeling hot, holding onto the ghost of his touch for as long as you could. His hands really were so warm. You cleared your throat.
“There’s two of them, so you can take someone with you”
“Uh? Are you not coming with me?” he asked, eyes never leaving the tickets.
“Oh, sure”
“Come on, let’s go” Oliver pulled at your arm, urging you to stand up from your seat “We gotta show this to the twins”
You had continued bringing up the Alicia issue all the way through break, and by the last week of vacation it had started to get to Oliver. At some point during one of the multiple discussions you had had about ways to soften the blow for her, he had held onto the dumbest joke you had made.
“No” you said, still stunned at the fact he would even consider the idea “Even though I guess it would make sense...”
“Why would it make sense?”
“I don’t know!” you protested, flustered “Why did you ask then!”
“Because you are my only female friend”
“I’m your only friend”
“Right back at you” pretend dating; that had been the joke. If he told Alicia he had been secretly dating someone she’d just feel too guilty to be mad, and out of all outcomes it could be his best bet. It had been a joke, but you knew Oliver didn’t really have a sense of humor “Why are you getting so defensive anyway?”
“I’m not!” you were “Can’t you make up a secret girlfriend?”
“Who would believe me? And they’d all assume it’s you anyway” Oliver brought his hands to his hair, messing it up as he scratched at his head with an annoyed groan “This could mess up the team” he lamented as he let himself drop on the couch, hands still rubbing at his face.
You did pity him. A situation as socially delicate as this had fallen on the lap of the worst person possible.
“I’ll do it” Oliver’s head snapped back to you, a gleam of hope in his brown eyes “But we are doing it my way. I’m putting my reputation on the line”
“What reputation?”
“The reputation that I don’t date idiots”
“You don’t date, period”
You bumped him on the shoulder “Neither do you!”
“Well, I’ve got my first kiss” he teased, then his smile faltered “You haven’t had yours, right?”
“That’s none of your business”
“I know you haven’t”
“Then why do you ask!” You pushed him to the side, and he let himself be shaken by you a bit “Okay, so, you confessed to me”
You were ready to answer “because I say so” at the “why?” question you assumed was coming. Instead, he just said:
“Okay”
He didn’t miss the way your head titled to the side. You continued:
“We started dating at the beginning of the year, and you like me more than I like you” you said, almost seeing if that’d warn you any sort of protest “Do you think you can remember all that?”
“Yes ma’am”
Oliver had given up on trying to get anyone to practice with him, and instead had made a habit of following you to the library when you needed some quiet time. He had realized spending time in the cozy stillness of the empty room was something that strangely didn’t make him miss the pitch. He’d just sit in front of you, his Quidditch notes spread across the room while you studied, answering the occasional question you’d ask him for help with.
“This is nice” he blurted out one evening.
“Yeah” you agreed without much thought “Wait, what is?”
He shrugged as he leaned away from his notes. The back of the chair creaked loudly under his weight, the sound breaking the silence.
“Hanging out”
“We’ve been together all Christmas”
“I meant more like, during the year. Since you are not on the team anymore”
“You got Harry now. Would you rather I took his place?”
“Merlin, no” you could have sworn you saw him shudder “You shook like pudding whenever a match was coming”
“I liked practice more than the games, that much is true”
“Because of Charlie”
Your head fell backwards with an exhausted expression. Oliver stifled a laugh.
“Why do you always say that? Okay, I had a crush on Charlie, sue me! But I played because you asked me”
You felt embarrassment mixed with frustration burning up inside of you, suddenly feeling the tips of your ears hot.
“I’m sorry”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I was just saying that--”
Oliver’s head leaned to the side, attempting to catch sight of your eyes that had turned so evasive.
“What?”
Your shoulders rose up and down with a casual shrug as you went back to your notes. You hadn’t really written anything coherent for the last two minutes.
“You only looked happy when we were playing”
Oliver fingers that had been tapping on the table came to a slow halt.
“I’m happy other times”
You scoffed “When?”
Oliver stared at you for a while. It occurred to him then that sometimes he could see eleven year old you if he tried really hard, still there.
“Sometimes” he said, almost absent-mindedly. You did not react, his answer barely processing as you finished copying a paragraph out of your textbook “You?”
To that, your gaze rose up to him. His soft eyes that would usually harden if he was ever caught staring at you with such an expression remained the same, the bareness of it making you feel something you could only describe as dizzy.
“Sometimes, too”
The first day after everyone had come back to Hogwarts was stressful, but not much happened until after dinner, which you had had far away from where the Quidditch team used to sit. Oliver had been waiting by the entrance of the Great Hall afterwards, pacing up and down until he saw your figure approaching him.
“Where were you?” he hushed, leaning forward as if to make sure you could see how stressed he was “That was weird”
“How did it go?”
Oliver sighed deeply, his hands in his pockets as he walked next to you.
“She was... sad. Apologised about kissing me after knowing about us-- you. And me. All of that”
“Told you”
To your dismay, the Quidditch team was currently at the Common Room when you both walked in, interrupting your guilty-looking-chat. Not the awkward staring nor a tear-stained Alicia bothered you as much as the way Fred Weasley was looking at you, though. The way he was eyeing you both screamed the word “liar”.
“So, you two are dating” he spoke, way too loudly.
You didn’t expect him to be the first one to speak. You didn’t have time to prepare a counterattack. To your surprise, Oliver stepped in.
“Yeah”
“Since when?”
“This year”
“When?”
“October”
Fred’s snide smile elongated, probably aware of how rehearsed Oliver’s answers were. Little did he know, that October fact he had come up with on the spot! Not like you could tell him that. However the sinking realization of what Fred was doing fell upon you with a hard, dry gulp. It hadn’t occurred to you as you devised your plan that Oliver wasn’t one for polite confrontation, and Fred knew it. He knew that had any of this been true, Oliver would had threatened to bash his head in instead of answering any of his questions. Fred’s chessboard was full on his side, in the other, you and Oliver, king and queen absolutely exposed.
“Prove it”
Checkmate.
Oliver and you stiffened like statues.
“What?”
Fred shrugged while Lee Jordan slapped his shoulder with a chuckle “Snog a little”
You could feel heat prickling at the tip of your ears, only made worse by the prolonged silence that had settled in the room. With all eyes on you, you were expecting Oliver to make a scene and tell them all to piss off; at least that’d be credible. Instead you felt his hands grab at your shoulders. His face got closer to yours, uncertainty gleaming in his eyes as he looked into yours, then at your lips. You clearly saw the way his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down with a hard swallow, and then when your eyes were closing, he pushed away from you.
“I can’t do it. We are not dating, okay? I just didn’t want to hurt Alicia’s feelings”
“I knew it!” celebrated Fred, offering George a high five
Oliver turned to you as if to get your approval for remembering what you had said to him. You weren’t looking at him though, strangely stiff and eyes a bit lost on a random spot on the floor. He’d have to get back to that later.
“I was worried you’d quit the team but this is stupid!”
“You could have just said that” spat Angelina before turning to Alicia “See? I told you he sucks”
A few girls that had approached to watch the scene nodded in agreement. Even Oliver’s iron-forged ego took at hit at that.
“Oi”
“You do mate” said Fred, his eyes passing though him and falling onto you for a brief second.
Not even caring about saving face and pretending that whole scene hadn’t made you pray the earth would split open and swallow you, you walked towards the staircase and disappeared without a trace.
The next day you had skipped breakfast. Your stomach was empty except for a complete sense of numbness and shame. You had stayed in the dorm thinking of maybe spending your time before Transfiguration at the library and yet you just stayed there, sitting on the bed with your eyes fixed on a small crack on your bedroom wall.
When you got to your lesson Oliver was already sitting on your seat, his whole body straightening when he saw you walk through the door as if electrocuted. His arm rose in the air almost in a jerking motion, waving at you. You stood there for a moment, the hesitation not lost on him as you dragged your feet towards him and sat next to him without a word. You expected him to start chewing your ear off, but he stayed strangely quiet. You could feel him staring at you, fidgeting with his fingers and lips parting to ask you questions that never made it past them. The lesson had started without a word being exchanged, and you could feel his body uncharacteristically stiff by your side.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked in a careful whisper.
Your quill stilled for a second in the middle of the sentence you had been transcribing without much thought, McGonagall’s speech leaving you behind as she continued her explanation. You swallowed drily, taking a short breath before admitting:
“Yes”
Oliver felt a minute sense of relief when he didn’t hear any animosity in your voice, before it turned into the worst feeling he had ever experienced. It felt sticky and heavy on his chest and it made sweat form at his hairline.
“Is it because of... you know, when I didn’t...” He found himself brave enough to watch you as your head bobbed up and down almost imperceptibly “I figured I-- I’m not sure I understand, but I’m sorry” he stammered, guilt tugging at his voice.
“It’s okay”
That didn’t make him feel better. That suffocating feeling that had kept him awake all night was still there. The same one that had worsened after he had waited for you to come down for breakfast only for you to never do.
“I didn’t want to do it because you said first kisses should be with someone you like. Didn’t want to mess that one up for you”
You had finally looked up at him, if only out of pure shock. His pleading brown eyes were attempting to read you, and you both could tell after staring at each other that neither of you had slept at all the night prior.
“It would have been okay” you said, and Oliver’s whole body shivered as he took your words in.
His eyes travelled downwards, staring at your lips as if begging you to speak them again.
Instead, McGonagall called out the both of you, and no matter how much you wished she’d give both of you detention, she simply gave you a warning before resuming her lesson.
It would be towards the end of the school year that word of Harry Potter being admitted to the Hospital Wing would run through the school. Oliver had been concerned for the little time it had taken him to find out Harry was actually alright and would just take a few days to wake up again. He had marched then towards the castle, head twisting at every corner and scanning every face in his field of vision. When he had found you, he had simply bent over, hands on his knees as he caught his breath and said: “play for me.”
Despite the imperative nature of the request, the look he gave you was almost pleading.
“Here”
“I can put them on myself”
“I don’t remember it that way” Oliver took the Quidditch gloves he had gifted you in your third year and helped you put them on. His hands felt heavy as they held yours “Thank you for doing this”
“Anytime”
The glove went in, and his hands made it a bit past your wrist and inside your sleeve as he made sure there were no creases. It made the hair on your body rise with a shiver. He cleared his throat and stepped away from you, his touch leaving you in one swift motion. That game you would lose, not like many others that had been played in the past, but this had been the first time Oliver had been so close to reach the dream that kept vanishing at his fingertips. He had changed without a word, and neither you or anyone else had had the guts nor the words to try to ease his frustration. Even the twins were quiet. Oliver had gone up to his room right after getting out of the changing room and skipped dinner altogether, and no one had seen him until he came down a few hours later and sat next to you on the couch.
“What are you doing?”
You turned towards him, dumbfounded and relieved. He looked tired, shades of pink adorning the rims of his eyes that watched the fire with a strange calmness.
“I was waiting to see if you’d come down” you said, and to your surprise you saw his expression break into a soft smile.
“I was hoping you’d be here, too”
He stirred on his seat, his body leaning slightly against yours. Your arms and legs pressed together, the feeling overwhelming but intoxicating enough to let yourself melt into his touch. If this is all you could have, you were tired of keeping denying yourself of it.
That summer, July 3rd couldn’t come fast enough: the day of the Bats vs Canons game. After arranging the flu network through correspondence, Oliver was scheduled to arrive at your house shortly after breakfast, and you kept trying to hide your excitement from your parents, who were putting off going to work just to meet him. When he showed up you thought you’d fail miserably at keeping your feelings hidden from them, though. He had shown up sporting a graphic t-shirt from a band you didn’t recognize, jeans and a light leather jacket. He looked so good and casual. Meanwhile you had put so much effort into looking casual and yet you knew you didn’t look half as good as he did. There was something weird about his hair, you thought as he introduced himself to your parents, which was more akin to a job interview than a casual conversation.
“See you tonight” You waved at your parents before being transported to the meeting point designated for the game: a small pub near the stadium “I was meaning to ask you, what’s with the hair?”
Oliver recoiled at your teasing tone, obviously embarrassed.
“What about it”
“It’s weird” you reached for it, but he shoved it away.
“It isn’t” he protested before threading his fingers through it. He couldn’t tell you he had tried to comb it in a way he had realized was ridiculous barely ten minutes before he was supposed to show up at your house. In a panic he had rubbed at it furiously to go back to normal, which caused it to end up in a strange mix of hair and gel “This’s just how I wear it in the summer”
Despite that small hiccup, Oliver had been the most excited you had seen him in a while. He kept tugging at your wrist and dragging you from merch stand to merch stand and then all the way up to the stairs until you had found your seats. The game you had not enjoyed much, on account of not being interested in either of the teams. You hadn’t even assumed you’d have been the one watching the game with Oliver who, unlike the players, was getting all of your attention. He had the binoculars pressed against his eyes so hard you had been sure red circles would have been drawn around his eyes by the time the game was over. He cheered for all the good plays and booed the bad ones, the expression lines on his face letting you read his expression even with his eyes covered.
“This really is the pros” he said in awe and you let yourself smile at it, since he couldn’t see you.
“You’ve gotta amp up your training if you to want catch up with them soon”
“Yeah, I don’t know about that” he said, halfway between bitter and unbothered.
Your brows knitted together as you stared at him, his expression now blank as he followed the movements of the Canon’s chaser. It hadn’t been until after the game when you had been back at your house that you had asked about it, his animated chatter come to a halt.
“I’ve been thinking ‘bout it and I might not become a pro” he said with an aloof sigh of resignation.
“What? No. What would you even do?”
“I don’t know, but going pro might be a long shot, so...” he shrugged, his lips pressed into a thin line “ I can’t even win a school game”
“But that’s--” you attempted to find the words “Like-- I don’t know, mad”
“I still want to win the Quidditch Cup, okay? More than anything. But maybe I should start thinking about something else”
He watched your bottom lip as you bit into it, eyes in deep thought and boring into his.
“Come with me” You dragged him across your house and up the stairs to your room. It was warm inside, and Oliver could appreciate the faint scent of you he was so familiar with. For a brief second it was a bit intoxicating, and then he became painfully aware of the way your cold hand held onto him and placed him in front of your desk “What am I supposed to do with this, then?”
On the top of the desk, enclosed in a delicately ornate frame, was the autograph Oliver had gifted you on your first year. Oliver held it in his hands and stared at it for a long time.
“You still have this?” he asked, voice quiet “Why?”
“Because I thought you were serious”
Oliver’s grip on the frame tightened a bit, fighting a smile that threatened to bring something else with it.
“I really was” he looked back fondly, his eyes turning into crescents and wrinkling at the corners.
“And you should still be” you scolded softly, nudging at his shoulder “You used to scare me back then”
His head leaned to the side “Me?”
“People who know what they want so well scare me. I don’t even know what I’m going to do with myself” you confessed “And yet you were so determined and annoying about it. So you have to hold onto it, okay? You have two more years, so just suck it up and do what you do best”
A fond smile spread across Oliver’s face.
“Make you mad at me?” he asked in a soft voice.
“No” you let yourself smile as you looked away, feeling a blush spread across your cheeks under the weight of his gaze “Even though you are really good at it”
“I don’t want to upset you anymore, though” he declared honestly, his voice raspy and low, almost afraid of his own admission.
“And waste all that practise?”
You pretended not to notice when he set the autograph down, fingers sliding through the surface of the desk towards you.
“I could become good at being nice to you”
“What about me though?” you spoke “Should I stop being mean to you too?”
“No need. I sort of like it” you swallowed, lungs struggling to hold onto a quiet gasp as Oliver got closer, his chest brushing against yours “You’ve always been so good to me anyways”
Oliver’s lips settled on yours with a timid yet demanding touch. He could feel your body stiffen all at once, and for a moment he panicked, but not enough to let go of you. He understood then, what you had meant about the tingling toes. It almost made him chuckle against your lips. There was nothing that could have made him step away from you in that moment, though. You felt a fluttering feeling spread from your stomach to the tips of your fingertips, as intense as it felt sickening, and you let yourself soften under his touch. You felt the edge of your desk pressing against your lower back, and that’s how it registered in your mind that Oliver was backing you into it, lips parting from you only to kiss you again after he took a small breath in between. He didn’t touch you, and neither did you, your hands stiff and glued anywhere else but each other even when you were itching to hold each other.
The sound of the front door opening and closing reached from downstairs. Oliver and you separated immediately, arranging your clothes and passing hands through your hair while attempting to not look at each other. You both went downstairs, hearts thudding loudly against your ribcages when your mother ran into you in the hallway.
“Was showing him the autograph” you said to her, hoping she wouldn’t say anything embarrassing.
If she noticed how red Oliver’s face was, she didn’t say.
“Will you stay for supper, Oliver?”
Merlin, how you had wished he had declined as much as you had wished he had said yes. You were sure you wouldn’t have been able to stay around him, your whole body humming simply by standing next to him.
“That’s a lovely offer, but I promised my parents I’d be home soon after the game”
He had politely said his goodbyes, getting into the chimney in such a hurry he had almost forgotten to duck his head, coming close to hitting it against the brick frame. You gave him a wave, his eyes stuck to you in an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. Truth be told, you thought he looked scared. You were, too.
The train ride going into your fifth year was one filled with dread. You had gotten used to the confusing feeling of wanting to see Oliver while simultaneously dreading having him in front of you, but this was too much. With your heart throbbing at your throat you opted for sitting on an empty compartment, nails digging at the leather of the cushions as you kept thinking over and over again about what’d happen when you both eventually ran into each other. Soon later, as it had become commonplace without any of you really noticing, he found you once again. You both stared at each other through the window for a long second before he opened the door.
“Hey”
“Hey” there was something that felt standoffish, yet not completely cold. You knew you wouldn’t be able to deal with it at all year. You picked at the leather of your seat until it tore “We don’t have to talk about it. And you don’t have to sit with me if you don’t want. It’s okay”
Oliver didn’t say anything but his eyes went a bit wide.
“I want to sit with you. I was looking for you, actually”
He stepped inside the coach and closed the door behind him. You had expected rather excitedly that he’d say something about the kiss or about how he felt about it. Maybe he’d sit next to you and hold your hand. Instead he sat opposite of you, with his eyes nervously moving from the window to you from time to time, not really saying anything.
“Had a good summer?” he asked out of nowhere. You could tell he didn’t care for an answer.
“I guess” you replied, caring a bit too much about how he didn’t.
“I didn’t write because I was with my parents in Greece. I told you, right?”
He had, and you had forgotten.
“Yeah, I remember” That didn’t excuse the no-communication policy that seemed to have been settled the moment he left your house “Did you like it?”
Oliver stirred on his seat, suddenly nervous.
“Like? What, like?”
“Greece” you wondered if he had gone insane.
“Oh, that. Yes. Incredible, very blue and old”
Oliver simply stared at you like a deer caught in headlights, for so long it started to worry you. The idea of running onto the hallway and calling for help was crossing your mind when the door of your compartment opened swiftly and with no tact at all.
“Long time no see!”
Fred, George and Lee Jordan slid the coach door all at once, not even caring to ask for permission. Usually it would have bothered you, but in that moment you were thanking the heavens for their presence. They casually sat down, Lee and George sitting by Oliver and Fred sitting next to you. Oliver’s gaze fixated on how Fred’s body leaned towards you, body relaxed as if he was used to it. His nostrils flared as he looked out of the window to the impossibly boring countryside until Fred spoke.
“How was the summer?” Fred asked you, big smile on his face “Do anything fun?”
“It was fine”
“Any... letters?”
You coyly let your eyes wander across the small space, trying not to look at Oliver and ignoring the boys’ snickering. Your eyes met and both looked away as if horrified at the eye-contact.
“Yeah”
Oliver’s confused expression turned sour, upset he was being left out of whatever joke all you seemed to be in on.
“What letter?” asked Lee.
“Oh, you didn’t hear?” said Fred, looking at Lee but question obviously directed at Oliver, who arms crossed pretended not to care “Our big brother came home from Bulgaria for a few weeks, and when we told him she wasn’t in the team anymore he wrote to her all worried”
“I would have paid to see your face” George chipped in “You probably pinched yourself, didn’t you?”
“Oh, shut up” you protested all hoity-toity, which only made them laugh at you even louder.
When you finally picked up the courage to raise your head to throw him a poisonous look you were distracted by Oliver, whose narrow eyes were digging a hole in your face. He looked out of the window and didn’t say much through the rest of the ride, the other three boys filling the room with noise by themselves. Fred’s leg continued to press against yours the rest of the ride, which didn’t bother you but turned Oliver into an almost rabid animal by the time the trip was over.
That same night on your way to the common room Oliver had fallen into step next to you, looking forward with a cold distance that while not uncharacteristic, felt harsher given the circumstances. He hadn’t sat next to you during dinner, which somehow felt like your fault.
“What did the letter say?” he had asked, your eyes only being able to meet the side of his face as you looked up to him.
“He wanted to know why I quit. Talked about a bit of everything”
He frowned “So you kept talking?”
“For a bit, yeah”
A couple of girls passed by you in a fit of giggles, turning to look at Oliver for a split second before they looked forward again, squealing.
“Did he say anything about me?” Oliver didn’t seem to pay them any mind or even notice, as usual. It had to be you the one to be so painfully aware of how good-looking he had become this last year. Humph, whatever. They’d never see him in his washed-out jeans and leather jacket and stupid gel-disaster hair “Hello? Did he?”
“Yeah, of course” you sounded upset now.
“What’d you say?”
What’d you said. Shouldn’t the natural flow of the conversation continue about what Charlie had said?
“That you are going strong and to not worry about you”
“About what?”
His step fell only a bit behind you before he got a hold of himself and continued walking by your side.
“What?”
“Not worry about me, about what?”
You finally caught him looking at you out of the corner of his eye, brown irises immediately shooting back straight ahead. He was a bit tanned. Greece looked good on him. The tips of his ears were a bit red.
“Quidditch” you answered as if it was obvious. He said nothing and simply nodded “Anyways, he is raising dragons. Isn’t that cool?”
“I guess” he admitted bitterly “Not as cool as winning a Quidditch Cup”
“First of all, that’s... debatable. But at least someone’s feeling confident”
“I need to get my head straight if I’m gonna go pro”
Your step came to a halt at the casual revelation, and he seemed very pleased with your reaction, even if he wouldn’t show it. It hadn’t occurred to you that Oliver would bring up any memories related to the incident. To admit to them meant to push the events of that day forward, breathing life into them from where they had been buried deep in your chest as he spoke them. Was it shameless or deliberate? He didn’t turn to look at you nor wait for you to go up the stairs. He ran into Angelina Johnson, who he started an animated conversation with. It was okay, though, Angelina was way too smart to get her eyes on Oliver. In his dreams, you thought.
What’d that make you, though? You thought next, depressing yourself before you had even reached the Common Room.
To say you both had gone back to normal would be a lie. The air around you seemed to thicken whenever Oliver was in your vicinity, pushing through your lungs like molasses, heavy and stuffy. He seemed unaffected however, casually circling around you and sitting next to you with ease. At the same time there was something that kept you at a distance, whether it was his words or the way his smile would never reach his eyes. Or maybe the fact that he had started to smile, actually smile to other people. Other girls. When had he learned to do that so casually? Was it Greece? Did Greece do that to him?
For years you had to work your way to making Oliver smile maybe once a week, and now he was letting people bask in the sight of his wrinkly eye-smile without them having to do anything for it? God, you were going insane. Did they know you had kissed him? No, they didn’t! And that felt like you had the upper-hand somehow. They didn’t know because he hadn’t told anyone, and neither had you. Because you were pretending it didn’t happen. Uhm.
Oliver’s eyes looked beyond the girl that’d be talking to him, his smile charming as he looked at you on the other side of the pub. You were sat with a group of friends around a long table at the Three Broomsticks. You were not sure how it had ended up like that. You had started your trip with Oliver getting in the same carriage with you, and by the time you were halfway through your usual Quidditch team stroll through Hogsmeade you had been ambushed by another group of students. Now Oliver was far from you, cozying up to a Hufflepuff upper-classmate that was going head-to-head with Oliver and his Quidditch talk.
“Quidditch people” you mumbled against the rim of your butter-beer.
You took a sip, your face twisting into one of disgust immediately. You hated the stuff, but you hadn’t wanted to bother the waiter and joined everyone else when they had asked for one. Someone chuckled next to you. You turned to the source of the noise coming from the table next to yours, where Marcus Flint was still laughing at your face.
“You look like you are drinking piss”
The comment made you scrunch your nose in displeasure, but it wasn’t the worst you’d heard from him.
“Tastes like it”
He chuckled once again. You were surprised to find he was sitting at a table with a few Ravenclaws. You guessed that that friendship with Roger Davis might have been working some magic on him. Maybe he had hexed him. Maybe you should hex Oliver.
“Why are you drinking it, then?”
“I don’t know” you simply said, tone dry. You noticed the empty glass in his hand and twisting your body awkwardly over your chair offered him your full glass of butter-beer “Here, all yours” He eyed it suspiciously “I’ve only taken a sip. Don’t worry, you won’t catch any nargles from me”
“Shame” he gave you a sly once-over that made you feel hot all over. You had been used to Flint’s quips and glares since second year, when his and Oliver’s animosity towards each other had bloomed. You thought of him as a nasty brute. You also thougt of Oliver on the other side of the table rubbing knees with some Hufflepuff Quidditch know-it-all. She probably could take a look at Oliver’s notes and understand them. He’d probably care about her opinion if he’d take her to buy a new broom “What do you want?”
“What?”
Flint lifted the glass of butter-beer he had accepted from you before he cocked his head towards the bar.
“What do you actually want?”
You stammered a bit to give him your answer, obviously aghast to where the conversation was going. Still. Pleasantly surprised at Flint’s social skills. He rose form his seat, his frame that was already so huge exacerbated by your sitting position next to him. When he came back he set the glass on the table, leaning slightly over you as his other hand rested on the back of your chair.
“Thanks” you turned a bit red as the people sitting closest to you on the table stared at the scene.
“Why don’t you sit with us?” he asked, his voice gravely.
“Oh, uhm” your eyes shot up to Oliver who was staring at the two of you with the sort of face you’d only see him make at the pitch. That Hufflepuff’s girls hands were both resting on the table, dangerously close to Oliver’s “I’m fine here, thanks”
Flint’s eyes rose to Oliver’s, who looked away immediately and set on the girl who was eagerly waiting for an answer to the question he hadn’t bothered to listen to. Flint scoffed, making a strand of hair blow towards your face.
“If you are waiting for Wood to man up, I’m sorry to tell you but that’s not gonna happen” he sat back on his chair, calling from behind you “At least not with you”
A cry bubbled up in the pit of your stomach, and you didn’t dare to look up at Oliver again. You probably wouldn’t be able to look at him ever again. All these smiles you had earned yourself for a while now being gifted to about anyone who passed by him. That proximity and fingertips-almost-touching-rush one that had been reserved only for you, and yet didn’t seem to have been treated with the same flirtatious playfullness he enjoyed from other girls now. Since when was he like this? Did this confidence come from that July evening in your room? Had you been some threshold to cross, some practice test to pass before he could walk around with such absurd confidence?
Yeah, practice had been right.
You had been looking for that word, actually. Maybe Flint was smart, or evil enough, to see through Oliver’s actions. Brute enough to tell you about it. You started crying without much to do about it, luckily everyone at the table busy enough with their own chatter to notice your glassy eyes and tears running down your face. You were about to get up and leave when Flint sighed tiredly from his seat. Then he pressed a thin napkin against your face.
“Seriously, for Wood?” he groaned “Maybe you are stupid”
There was a loud sound and soon after Oliver was towering over the both of you, seething at Flint’s hand touching your face.
“Take your hand off her” he urged him, way more politely than you’d have expected him to.
“Easy Wood, just showing some chivalry”
“Big words coming from that mouth. Get them all out before you swallow them with all your teeth”
“But I just had them fixed” Flint sneered at him.
Oliver snapped his hand away from your face , and that’s when Flint’s two ounces of good nature ran out. He stood up by Oliver , so close his breath fanned Oliver’s bangs. They were a bit messy that day. You had thought he looked pretty. Also like a jerk.
“Will you stop it” you complained with a pathetic break on your voice that under any other circumstances would have been mortifying. You had pushed Oliver’s chest, or attempted to, sturdy as it was hadn’t moved an inch. You’d have time to think about that later “Thanks for the drink”
You picked up your cardigan and clumsily put it around yours shoulders as you struggled to get out of the packed pub. You hesitated at the entrance when the door swung open and you saw that the light rain that had welcomed you into town had progressed into a full storm. You couldn’t possibly stay inside now, not with the whole scene you had made. You rather die. You stepped outside, and the rain who fell upon you was merciless and impossibly cold. You had taken all but two brave steps into the storm when you felt a hand grab onto your biceps, turning you around effortlessly. For a second you felt dizzy, Oliver’s image coming onto you like a mirage. His perfectly messy hair had caved under the weight of the rain and stuck funny against his face. The frown so deep over his eyes you thought his eyebrows would meet. You really loved him, and it sucked.
“What do you think you are doing?” You shook your arm and he let go “Marcus Flint?”
“He was talking to me”
“Looked more than talking to me” ‘Right back at you!’ you had thought of saying “He bought you a drink”
“We were having a polite conversation, surprisingly”
“Bullshit”
“More polite than any conversation I’ve had with you so far!”
He made a face as if appalled at the suggestion Marcus Flint could be anything but a dull troglodyte, much less be better than him at anything.
“He’s using you to get back to me! Can’t you see that?”
Your heart felt as if it had shrunk, as if his words had hurt it so badly it had hid behind a pair of invisible hands. Then, anger seethed out of you.
“Oh, it can’t be because he has any sort of interest in me? It had to be about you, isn’t it? Just like everything”
“Wha-- no, that’s not what I’m saying. We are talking about Marcus Flint here!” Oliver passed a hand though his hair, you could tell it was hard now that it was all soaked and heavy “Do you want him to use you after he’s had his fun? Sure, fine!”
He rose his hands in the air as if he had just won the argument. It was a shortly lived celebration.
“Like you did?” you asked, voice somehow cutting through the loud sound of the rain “Playing footsie with some other girl after you kissed me?”
Oliver’s stared at you through a long pause.
“That’s not what’s happening. You said you didn’t wanna talk about it”
“I never said that”
“In the train”
“I said we didn’t have to if you didn’t want to. And you didn’t want to”
“I was until--!” Oliver stopped himself, biting his bottom lip “And why do I have to be the one to say anything, though? You haven’t said anything either!”
“Fine, I’ll say something, since you are a loser!” you said with a determination you didn’t really have. For a moment you thought you’d laugh at Oliver’s surprised expression “I like you! I bloody hated Quidditch, I did it only because I wanted to be around you all the time! I still do! I expected you to ask me out when summer ended after you kissed me! I hate that you are chatting up every girl in the bloody castle and I bloody fucking hate you!”
Despite the street being empty on account of the pouring rain, you felt like everybody must have heard about your love confession / war declaration. You started walking away, half embarrassed half scared, not entirely sure where to, feet loudly stomping on the ground and making water splash everywhere.
“Oi! You think you can run after this?” you heard Oliver say behind you, and after you turned and saw him following you, you had made the absurd decision to run away. Actually run. Oliver choked a genuine laugh before remembering how upset he actually was and soon took off after you “You always bloody do this! Sulking in a corner until I come and get you. Fine, I’ll come get you every bloody time! I sort of like it” he muttered as he caught you coming to a small street that gave to a dead end.
“What do you want?” you screamed as he grabbed onto your shoulder and turned you towards him.
Oliver kissed you in a way that let you know he was mad and upset and definitely wanted you to shut up. For a moment you went weak in the knees at the feeling of his strong hands holding onto your face as he held your face impossible close to his, almost like he wanted to melt into you. A sudden burst of anger and need to maintain some self-respect came over you and you peeled yourself away from him. The sight of his red lips being washed by the pouring rain made you feel dizzy and hot before you composed yourself again.
“Is that supposed to mean anything to me? How many girls have you kissed since we came back? You got any good practice with me?”
Once again Oliver stood in front of you with only a long silence to offer. You noticed a small bruise on his lip. It looked rather new.
“Is that what Flint said?”
“No, that’s what I feel! What’s got onto you? Walking around like a damn Lockhart-clone. It’s embarrassing!” and it’s charming and it looks good on you but I hate it, you thought to add.
Oliver went all red in the face.
“Well, you are exchanging letters with Charlie Weasley!”
“Why does that even matter?”
“Do you still like him?” he asked in a way that seemed as if he was about to make you sit at Dumbledore’s office and tell you off himself. It almost made you want to confess to a crime.
It was your turn to stare at him like he had lost his mind. He had, in fact. He was trying to explain it to you.
“Are you dumb?” you finally asked.
“Maybe” it’s all he had to say.
He looked like some sort of wet, abandoned dog, looking down at you as if begging you to bring him home with you. You took one step forward and before you could get on your toes he was already grabbing you at the waist and coming down so you could kiss him properly. The rain made your lips brush against each other so much smoothly and exhilarating, and you became worried about how much you never wanted to stop. You could taste it hen, the faint taste of blood drowned in that of butter-beer.
“I told you I liked you” you said as you parted from him.
He seemed to panic for a moment when you stood away from him, because his fingers dug onto your sides as if ready to stop you from running away again.
“So what? My mum said you never forget your first love, or something”
The idea of Oliver listening to his mother talking about love when you knew all she talked about was mostly Quidditch made you stifle a giggle.
“Well, Charlie wasn’t my first love, so you don’t have to worry”
“Who was it?” he looked confused before the scowl eased from his features, eyes slightly wide “Me?” he asked tentatively.
“Merlin, you are stupid”
He pursed his lips into a sour expression, but you could tell he was embarrassed about how relieved he was.
“Me too, I’ve always, like. I don’t know, uh. You’ve always made me sick”
“Pardon?”
Feeling like he had said something too offensive, he held onto you one more time, even if you hadn’t moved an inch and you didn’t plan to. His body was too warm, too welcoming to step away. He took in a deep breath, a million thoughts racing through his head as if he was be running out of time. But he needed a second, and deep down he knew that you’d give it to him. You’d always been patient with him like that.
“Is like all that I want to tell you is stuck in here” he brought a hand to his throat before he put it back on your waist again, almost like he would lose the spot to someone else “And it feels like I’m going to throw up whenever you are around, you know?”
You did know. You’d felt like that for a long time. You never thought Oliver would be the one to one day make sense of your own confusing feelings. Maybe you were both stupid.
“You make me sick too” you confessed, bringing your hand down from deep in his hair to caress his cheek.
Oliver gave you a soft, almost there smile that could only be seen if you got this close. None of those flashy grins he had been parading around for a while. One of his hands held onto the one that rested over his face. He brought it to his lips, cold fingertips as pleasant as they were chilling.
“You must be so cold”
He had thought about it so many times, ever since the first time his hand had graced yours that first day at the pitch. Just how cold did you feel as you followed him there, even if you didn’t have to? Wasn’t it his responsibility then to keep you warm?
“I don’t feel cold at all” you confessed, the gentle gesture enough to set your body aflame with the simple gracing of his lips.
You locked eyes for a second before Oliver was eagerly backing you against the wooden wall of the building behind you. You grabbed onto his shoulder as you felt him lift you slightly from the ground, arm around your waist pressing you against him in a manner you knew would look scandalous to anyone passing by. He still held onto your hand, fingers intertwined and squeezing yours when he felt you kissing him back with as much eagerness as he was trying to hold back. His lips moved to your cheek, his breath making you shiver.
“Why’d you let Marcus Flint touch you” he asked in such a manner that made you feel like he was going to tell you off again.
“He was nice”
“Don’t piss me off”
“I’m a pretty girl” you teased.
“I’m aware” he groaned, lips dragging across your temple to your hairline while his fingers toyed with the hem of your blouse “It’s bloody annoying”
You didn’t let yourself get distracted by sweet words or his leg sneaking in between yours. Mmh, maybe that last one. No,
“You, don’t piss me off!” you pressed a hand against his chest and forced him to remove himself from you a bit. He looked almost pained “Who is that Hufflepuff you were talking to?”
“I don’t know really” he admitted so pitifully you almost felt bad “Someone who’d make you mad and yell at me.? That’s all I wanted, really. Been bloody trying to get you to yell at me since I came back but all you do is look at me all snotty and go away...”
His head fell down, defeated. His eyes set on your cotton blouse, all soaked and almost transparent. He swallowed and grabbed at the sides of your cardigan, closing it above your chest with slightly trembling hands. His head rested against yours, eyes closed as he waited for his heartbeat to ease. When he opened them again and looked at you, he came to the realization it never would, not as long as you were looking up at him like that.
“Let’s go to the castle and rest by the fire, okay? You are making me sick”
You laughed at the way he said it with such an annoyed expression. The same one he used to make when he’s scold you for sucking at playing Quidditch that first Christmas break.
“I love you too” you said, and you found you weren’t scared of saying it.
Oliver choked and stared down at your unashamed smile. He was waiting for you to look away or retract your words but you just looked up at him, all wet and absurd looking caught in the rain with mud stains in your jeans. He could see her again, first-year-you staring at him through you like a ghost. He could see her in your smile, in the way your eyebrows frowned a bit and the way you tilted your head to stare at him. He thought then he couldn’t wait to see the present you reflected in your eyes a few years down the line. It felt like his heart was about to burst.
“I really love you” he said, and you felt yourself almost tear up.
“Even if I suck at Quidditch?”
Oliver kissed you once more.
“You’ll get better. We have all the time in the world to play catch”
summary: ever since your first year at Hogwarts you've spent every Christmas break at the castle, and also reluctanctly throwing quaffles at Oliver Wood so he can practice. You don't even like Quidditch, and you don't like each other much either, but it somehow feels like you can't stay away from each other even after spring comes
content: slow burn, reluctant friends to lovers; fake dating ?) kinda; dumber & dumber
an: so the original fic was too long at 27k so I'll have to split it in both parts! the second part will be released next week!
wc: 16k
[part 1] [part 2]
“Are you free?”
The question had been asked in an almost demanding way. You had looked up from your book, slightly annoyed that even in a practically empty dorm during Christmas break you were still being interrupted. To be fair, it's not like you were reading it; you had been thirty minutes on the same page. The boy was standing behind the couch you were sitting on, a quaffle under his arm and eyes fixed on you as he waited for an answer. You sized him up and down, hoping to remember his name by the time you got back to his face.
“Why?”
He threw the quaffle in the air, almost failed to catch it properly, and did his best to play it cool.
“I need someone to throw at me so I can practise”
You pushed yourself onto your elbows and cranked your neck to look out of the tall window behind you. Contrasted to the inside of the cosy Common Room warmly lit and covered in Christmas decorations, the bleak sunlight that barely managed to push its way through the curtains was anything but inviting.
“It’s freezing outside.”
The boy stayed quiet, his eyes drifting to the window for a single second, then back to you.
“So?”
“Do you even know me?”
He fell silent once more, staring at you like he was trying really hard to remember if he did.
“You are the one who almost tripped during the Sorting Hat thing”
That you had done, and after months you had almost started to stop mortifying yourself over it. You laid back down, propping the book back in front of your face so he couldn't see how badly your face was burning.
"I'll pass, I get cold easily"
"Don't you want to invest in the future of the team?"
"You are not even on the team, you are a first year"
"I'll be one in the future"
“There’ll be no future for you if you go outside now. You’ll freeze to death”
All you heard after that was an indignant sigh, the sound of footsteps over the carpet, and the familiar drag of stone over stone of the Common Room door opening and closing. You let your book drop open over your chest once again, eyes on the ceiling and taking in the silence that had settled back on the room after the brief encounter. Far from going back to the comfort you had been submerged in, you felt yourself become restless. You never really understood why, or maybe you did and didn't want to think much about it, but eventually you walked up to your room, left the book over your bed, and grabbed your things.
When you got to the pitch you had believed it to be empty at first. Thinking back on it you could still recall the scent of grass and pure cold, sharp and almost painful as you breathed it in. A dense fog had settled in the early morning and hadn't dissipated yet, and it made your skin feel unpleasantly damp as you walked through it. It wasn’t until you had looked up that you had seen him flying in circles around the arena, his body cutting through the mist and leaving a faint trail behind him. He stopped when he saw you and dived directly in front of you. Despite miscalculating a bit and almost tripping over his own feet, you couldn't deny you were impressed by his flying. You thought he seemed kind of cool.
“Took you long enough” that comment changed your mind, almost making you turn around “We can do drills now, come on”
“Are we allowed to do this?”
“Don’t worry about it”
He got on his broom and lifted himself from the ground with more ease than you’d have thought, given his rough landing. You got on your own, the cold biting at your fingertips that were already numb as they wrapped around the front of your broomstick. Your mind became busy trying to remember the flying lessons you had taken that past semester, these lessons the very few you had gotten a really good grade on so far.
“I don’t know how to play, though” you said as you managed to fly by his side.
“No worries” he handed you the quaffle, which felt lighter than you had expected in your hands “Just throw this to the rings, past me” He flew a few feet ahead of you and stood in front of one of the big hoops that you had never expected to be that big up-close. Holding the quaffle with only one hand threw you a bit off balance, which you were able to recover from after a brief second of panic “You okay?”
“I’m fine” you lied, wondering if he had heard the pathetic cry you had let out a moment ago. If he had he didn’t comment on it, but judging by how he was flying backwards to where had been hovering a moment ago, you could guess he had.
You threw the quaffle forward, the ball barely making it halfway to Oliver before falling down without much speed nor force. You both watched it plunge onto the ground in complete silence.
“You’re really bad at this” he stated matter-of-factly.
You gripped the shaft of the broom tightly, embarrassed.
“I told you! And shut up, I saw you trip over when you landed!”
“That’s--!” Oliver's nostrils flared with a sharp inhale before exhaling deeply and diving down. He brought the quaffle back to you, his fingertips gracing yours for a split second. The wrinkles drawing the scowl on his face softened for a moment, then he cleared his voice “Let’s just go down”
He started going down and you followed suit, thinking that he had given up all together, but he just set his broom on the ground and waited for you.
“Are we done?” you asked, suddenly self-conscious.
Oliver shook his head “First I need you to be able to throw a proper quaffle, otherwise you are useless”
“That’s what I said!” and it still annoyed you when he said it.
“So you understand” Oliver measured his steps to stand at a good distance away from you “Try to make it get past me”
You gripped the quaffle with both hands before throwing it again, it barely made it to him, his hands once again catching it with ease.
“Can you throw a little harder?” He passed it to you. You had to admit you refused to throw properly as a form of quiet protest at first, but after being unable to make a good throw even when trying, it started to bother you. It seemed to be getting on his nerves too “Are you taking the piss?” he complained as he gave you back the ball “Come on!”
And at that, with as much strength and frustration as you had, you threw the Quaffle towards him. That one time he caught it with his face. The scowl on your face disappeared the moment you saw him fall backwards with a pained groan. You had run to him, knees digging in the dirt as you knelt by his side as he held his face.
“I’m so sorry!” you cried, hands hovering above his body “Are you alright?”
Oliver let out another prolonged groan, followed for what you thought was a chuckle as he rolled to his side.
“That was a good one” the sight of blood dripping from his nose to his smile made you wince “Throw like that again”
It should have made you feel relieved, just how amused he had sounded at the time, but instead it had scared you greatly. You were sure he had gone insane, and as you dragged him to the Hospital Wing you convinced yourself that it was your fault. Your quaffle had definitely somehow hurt his brain. Eventually you’d come to find out you hadn’t in fact hurt his brain; that’s just how Oliver Wood was, and sadly for you he had just found out that you had a good arm for a chaser.
The next morning you had almost expected him to be waiting for you in the Common Room again, but he wasn’t there. He was however sitting at the table when you entered the Great Hall for breakfast, lazily waving at you, his nose in perfect condition. There was no reason to not sit with him, you thought, given the fact you were the only two people there at the table. It would have been way too rude to not sit with him, and so you took the seat opposite of him.
“When did you get here?”
“An hour ago” he answered “I’m an early riser”
“We are on vacation, you know”
“You might be. I’m busy”
Your eyebrow rose sceptically, but he wasn’t really looking at you. His eyes were set on the open sports section of The Prophet that lay on the table, a wet circle forming where he had accidentally rested his pumpkin juice cup a few minutes ago.
“Good for you”
You looked for the plate of toast, finding it near Oliver. When he saw you reaching for it, he handed it in your direction.
“Will you throw at me today?”
“Why would I?”
Oliver moved the plate out of your reach, the scowl you directed his way matching his.
“Oi, be nice”
“You be nice. I already helped you yesterday”
“You broke my nose”
“It wasn’t broken...” you muttered, still ashamed of the whole situation.
“You owe me. And also, do you have anything better to do?” you didn’t, and it bothered you that he seemed to know that “Come on, we are the only ones here” he pleaded, finally handing you the plate, a few pieces of toast falling onto the table as he did.
“What does it matter if I suck at it? You are not going to get any good practice out of me”
“At least it’ll be some practice. Please, it’ll only be until the end of the break”
You had agreed if only so you could have a quiet breakfast and ease the guilt that had been settling within your chest since the day prior. You hadn’t had it, actually, as he had hurried you to finish so you both could go to the pit and start your first practice of the day.
That first Christmas there had been a few gifts left at the bottom of your bed from your parents, and one of them was given to you by Oliver himself. It was a piece of parchment with a big scribble in the middle of it.
“Thanks” you took a long look at it, rotating it in your hands a few times “What is it?”
Oliver’s pleased smile had faltered a bit.
“My autograph. For when I’m famous”
“A famous what? Idiot?”
“Quidditch player, you-- give it to me!” he demanded but didn’t really attempt to take it from you. Instead, you handed it to him, which seemed to irritate him even further “Don’t give it back!”
“You just told me to!”
“You are going to keep it!” he protested as he ran up the stairs towards his room, face flushed with indignation.
With only a scarce couple of days before classes started again and students came back to the castle, you had finally gone back to using brooms during practice. It had been going alright, with you even starting to enjoy yourself, even if you’d never let him know that, when Oliver had suddenly stilled. Barely a second later he had plunged against you and dragged you to the ground, underneath the bleachers. He put his hand over your mouth, predicting a complaint.
“Come on” he whispered.
He had grabbed your wrist and quietly got you out of the pit with careful steps. Once you had reached the exit, he had urged you to run towards the castle as quickly as you could. In the open field, however, you were easy to spot, and it soon became obvious what you were running away from: Filch.
“Why is he following us?” you asked, slightly panicked.
“Probably because we are not supposed to fly on our own” answered Oliver, a bit out of breath a few steps ahead of you.
“What?” you hurried just so you could hit his shoulder “You said it was allowed!”
“No, I said not to worry.”
A few insults left your mouth, but you were so out of breath he probably couldn’t make out any of them. As you turned a corner, you were both stopped in your tracks by the familiar sight of McGonagall’s feather hat, making you turn around, but not before she had seen you. You both ran and ran through multiple hallways before Oliver tugged you inside the boys' bathroom. You both entered one of the multiple stalls, and he hushed you again, raising his finger to his lips. You slapped it away.
“I know” you whispered angrily “Why did I do this?” you lamented, your head falling down in distress.
The idea of getting in trouble made your stomach twist and turn. You had made sure to be a good student, not a smart one or a talented one, just proper. There wasn’t much you could excel at, after all. Your heads perked up at the sound of the bathroom door opening, followed by the tip-tap of her shoes against marble floor echoing through the room. You closed your eyes and then heard the door of the stall open, but to your surprise it wasn’t by McGonagall’s hand. Oliver had opened the door and gone outside, closing it behind him and leaving you there. You heard a deep sigh and then the stern tone of reproach of your teacher.
“Mr. Wood. I should have known.” She didn’t sound surprised at all.
“I’m sorry, Professor; I just wanted to practise” he apologized “I don’t have anyone to play with, so I decided to fly on my own.”
McGonagall said nothing for a few seconds, and you unconsciously backed down inside the stall. You were sure she must have heard you. With your heart in your throat, you held your breath until you heard her speak again.
“I’ll be taking twenty points from Gryffindor and five supplementary days of detention once classes resume, Mr. Wood”
Your grip on the broomstick tightened, your eyes shutting tightly as you debated. Then you opened the stall door and they both turned to you. A surprised Oliver shook his head slightly at you, and McGonagall didn’t seem surprised to see you.
“It was also my fault, Professor” you said, your voice quiet and obviously scared. Still, you pushed through it “If I hadn’t played with him, he wouldn’t have been outside. We wouldn’t have been”
“That’s not true! I made her come with me”
“Enough” spoke McGonagall, and you both fell silent under her beady stare “That’ll be ten points then. Three days of detention. And no flying lessons for the first week of the semester”
“What?” protested Oliver, and you tugged at his sleeve to shut him up.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Wood? You already practised enough during the break to make up for it”
When classes resumed, you both had to sit quietly in one corner of the inner patio as everyone else practiced their flying. Madame Hooch didn’t look pleased when she found out she would have to sit her best flyer for the first week of the semester and kept stealing glances at you both when she’d give tips, as if saying it louder would make it easier for Oliver to understand. As if she could teach him something he hadn’t already taught himself. You, in the meantime, were quietly picking at the grass.
“I’m sorry you are missing class because of me” he said “Even if it is your fault” You turned to give him an annoyed look “What? I tried to save you.”
That was true, and every passing day made you feel worse that you had yet to thank him for it. You hoped that your stepping in had made it clear to him.
“It’s okay. I don’t even like this class that much.”
Oliver scoffed.
“You are mad. This is the best class.”
“The best class is no class”
Oliver’s eyebrows rose in agreement.
“Touché”
The rest of that school year you had still helped Oliver practice, even if you hadn’t been able to fly around. A few times he had tried to get you to sneak out in the middle of the night to go down to the pit, and of course you had shoved him away and told him to get lost.
“Do you want to get detention again?”
“Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”
“Maybe for you! Also, you said you’d only make me help you until classes started again.”
Oliver looked away, brows furrowed.
“Fine, whatever.”
The next day rumor went around that he had gotten caught and given two weeks' detention and cost Gryffindor fifty points. Some people were really mad at him, and others found it particularly amusing. You couldn’t help the smile that spread on your face when you said:
“Told you so”
Your second year had started with hopes of a better time. Peace had lasted about five hours, until Oliver had caught up to you in the Common Room. You had entered the room full of students. The plan was to walk up to your room and go to bed, that was until someone grabbed your hand. It was Oliver, who had reached out for you over the couch he was sitting at.
“Oi. What about a “hello”?
You stared at him, then at his two friends who were watching the scene. It made your cheeks turn red. You hadn’t been sure if he’d have wanted to talk to you after you had served your purpose, and you couldn’t decide whether or not you were happy he was.
“Hello”
You wouldn’t tell him that despite your cold response you had looked forward to run into him at the train, which had not happened. You had spotted him at the table, your head turning away when you had seen him look in your direction.
“Try-outs are next week” he said excitedly, his hand squeezing your wrist for a brief second “You coming?”
“For what?”
He looked confused.
“For chaser, duh”
“I have no interest in playing Quidditch, I told you”
“I thought I had changed your mind”
His friends exchanged a confused glance and broke out into poorly concealed chuckles. An unpleasant tingling feeling started to creep up your neck.
“Not at all” you got out of Oliver’s grip “Good luck, though”
He watched you walk away, brows furrowed and lips slanted.
“Yeah, whatever”
Despite the lack of communication between the two of you on your day-to-day life, you had actually dragged yourself to the Gryffindor try-outs. You weren’t sure if you wanted to wish him luck or if you didn’t want him to see you at all. You didn’t have to decide, though, as he saw you on his way to the rings as he flew past the bleachers. He did a double take, and you gave him an awkward smile and a thumbs up, immediately regretting both actions. When the try-outs had finished, he had flown directly to you, ignoring the instructions to go back to the ground and leave the equipment.
“I thought you didn’t care about Quidditch”
You stood up from your seat.
“I don’t”
“Is that so? Then why are you here?” he teased, a knowing smile plastered on his sweaty face.
You gave him a once over “I just wanted to see how stupid you look in that ridiculous outfit”
Oliver’s cocky smile faded away.
“It’s protective gear! Don’t be rude just because you are worried you’ll suck!”
“Unlike you, I know I suck!”
“I didn’t suck!” He took a moment, then he sounded worried “Wait, did I suck? You don’t think I’ll make the team?” You didn’t say anything as you walked away, even when you heard him call out your name, with multiple people looking at the both of you now “Do I suck?!”
“Welcome back”
That was the first thing Oliver had heard when he woke up in the Hospital Wing, recognizing your voice before his vision had even adjusted. His mouth was dry, but he pushed through so he could ask:
“Did we win?”
“Oliver, you’ve been unconscious for a week.”
“So did we win?”
You wanted to stay serious given the circumstances, but you were relieved he seemed to be back to normal.
“You lost,” you said, as softly as you could.
Oliver’s hands moved to bury his face in them, shaking slightly as they hadn’t moved in days.
“It’s all my fault” he mumbled.
“Sort of... without a keeper, the defence was a bit... lacking” that was a very nice way to hide the two hundred points Ravenclaw had scored from them after he had fallen “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you’d have helped much”
You were hoping he’d get mad and throw you one of his familiar sharp looks, but instead he let out a long groan.
“I should have kept a better eye on my blind spots. I’m weak on my left, I know that”
He really was getting worked up right after waking up from a coma. You couldn’t help but crack a smile with a light chuckle. Oliver peeked at you through his fingers, his brows furrowing upon seeing your amused expression.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing, I’m just glad you are fine” You could see Oliver’s face slowly turning red, his eyes darting around the room as if embarrassed. His silence made you nervous, quickly changing your tone “I’m going to miss your silence, though”
“Whatever, what day is it?”
“Tuesday”
Oliver looked out of the window at his side, sunlight cast through the stone floor, reflecting a hundred dust particles that shone under it like distant stars.
“It must be around twelve in the morning”
“It’s four, Oliver” he looked at you out of the corner of his eye “How could I be here if it was twelve on a Tuesd--”
“I got it already!” he protested, and you held back a laugh “That means I got practice today”
He lifted the bedsheets off him, still weak, but with way more strength than you had thought he’d had.
“What are you doing?” You stood up from the chair you’d sat in for the last week, hands in the air as if you were about to tackle him.
”I’ve got practise”
“You need to rest!”
“I’ve already rested for a week, you said!”
“No, you’ve been unconscious for a week! Now you need to rest!”
Madame Pomfrey came to you when she heard the ruckus. She didn’t look very pleased with Oliver.
“He can go” she said with a gesture of the hand.
“What?”
“Thank you”
You stared at Oliver and back at her in shock.
“But-- He just woke up!”
“Oh, he’ll be fine, child” she said without even a look your way as she peeled the bedsheets off the bed Oliver had been resting at with a swift of her wand “I need all the beds after that incident in potions class too”
When you had turned around, you had noticed Oliver was already going through the door of the Hospital Wing. You hurried to follow and catch up to him and continued to follow him down the hallway and towards your Common Room.
“Are you going to keep following me?” he asked, attempting to go faster.
“Maybe I just want to see how you faint again”
He stopped in his tracks, making you trip over your own feet as you did too. He turned slightly towards you, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.
“Was it really, like... embarrassing?”
You caught your breath as you wondered what the best course of action was. It was the first time you had seen him make an expression like that.
“No” you lied “No one was looking at you, so no one noticed” Oliver rolled his eyes and started walking with haste again “I was joking! Everyone saw, okay?”
“That’s worse!” he protested, his voice calling the attention of various students that were passing by in the hallway.
“What do you want me to say?!”
“Nothing! Leave me alone!”
“Fine! I don’t have to look after you now that you are awake anyway!” You stopped, and with one last look at the back of his head, you started walking away in the opposite direction. “I liked you more when you were unconscious!”
Oliver turned around with some unsavoury words to say back, but then noticed you weren’t there.
You had sat on the grass for a while before you had started to become restless. Maybe you had been rude, but it is not like he had been very nice either. You had spent all week checking on him, and this is how he treated you after waking up? And yet your foot kept bouncing as you kept wondering where he was. Well, you knew where he was, but the question was what state he was in. What if he fell from a broom again? What if he got hit by a ball again? With a frustrated groan, you stood up from where you sat and started marching towards the pit where the Gryffindor team was practicing. As you scanned the air, you didn’t find him up there, instead you could see him pouting on the bleachers from all the way down on the ground. When you made your way to him, you noticed his broom lying on the bench, he was wearing full gear except for his headset that rested on his lap. He looked up at you with no sign of hostility before looking down again.
“I’ll take it they didn’t let you play” you said as you sat down next to him.
“They said it is for my own good” he answered in an almost mocking way.
“They are right”
He shook his head disapprovingly “Unbelievable”
You took in a deep breath “I fear the day they make you captain” you sighed.
Oliver’s head snapped towards you, and he blinked a few times as he stared at you.
“You think I’ll make captain?” he asked somewhat coyly.
The sudden shift in tone surprised you, and you looked away before he could notice you were happy he wasn’t mad at you anymore.
“I assumed you’d kill them all if they didn’t”
Oliver’s face broke into a smile, the first one you had seen since he had waved at you before his first Quidditch game.
“I’d let myself play”
“That’s what worries me”
A figure made its way to the both of you, heavy boots making the frail wooden floor shake as they stepped into it.
“Still sulking?” the boy had asked Oliver with an easygoing smile.
“No, sir”
“He is”
You were surprised by how well-mannered Oliver had turned almost immediately, but you couldn’t say you blamed him. For a while you had only seen Charlie Weasley from afar, all you had known about him was what Oliver had said to you after he had made the team. Even if you hadn’t heard about how cool he was a thousand times already, the older boy had a strong presence that was hard to ignore up close.
“You know I can’t let you practise today. Next time, okay?”
“But we don’t have practice until Friday!”
“Is that so?” he taunted. He reached behind his head and let his long red hair cascade down his shoulders before tying it again in a messy ponytail. He called you by your name, which made Oliver frown in confusion “Can you do me a favor? Keep an eye on him a bit longer”
“So you are grounding the both of us?”
Charlie roared with laughter and you chuckled timidly, proud that you had gotten it out of him.
“Just for today, okay?”
Charlie got back on his broom and after he had left, Oliver nudged you on the side, maybe a bit too hard.
“How does he know your name?”
You shrugged, recoiling into yourself after a particular gust of wind kissed every bit of exposed skin “He asked for it”
“When?”
“When I was wait--” you bit your tongue “When I visited you while you were out like a light”
“Oh, okay” he looked forward, eyes following the shapes of is teammates as they crossed the sky in a blur “How often did you visit me?”
Out of the corner of his eye, his gaze discreetly fell to the way you were twisting your hands in search for warmth and maybe something else.
“Just a few”
He had remained strangely quiet until the time you had stood up and gone to study to the library. He refused when you asked him to come along and proceeded to be in a mood the rest of the day, barely touching his food and going to bed without saying much to you or anyone else. You had sat next to him during Transfiguration, hoping that maybe he’d be in a better mood that day, or at least more talkative. Even if he was annoying.
“Do you want to practise later?” you whispered, a bit scared McGonagall would hear.
Oliver didn’t react much, but you noticed the way his eyebrows rose slightly, barely hiding behind his overgrown bangs.
“Why?”
You bit the inside of your cheek. You weren’t sure either.
“Because you couldn’t practice yesterday”
Oliver cracked the faintest of smiles before he looked down at his table again, the smile disappearing.
“Charlie said I shouldn’t force myself until Friday”
“I won’t tell him if you don’t”
You saw the way his eyes turned into crescents, a poorly repressed smile lighting up his face with the same warmth as morning sun. It had been a while since you had gotten on a broom and helped Oliver, even if he sometimes bugged you to do so when no one else entertained him. To be fair, it had been a while since you had got on a broom at all. You were displeased to find out that you had actually missed it and that the activity actually had started to be fun. Charlie Weasley had showed up and called out to you both from the ground, Oliver so shocked he had dropped the Quaffle from up in the air. Charlie caught it effortlessly, his easygoing smile making the tip of your ears feel scalding hot.
“Do you both know how much trouble you could get in for this? ” he asked loud enough for you both to hear him. Despite Oliver disobeying him and Charlie being a prefect, he didn’t seem all that angry.
“Ten points from Gryffindor” you answered.
“And five days detention” added Oliver.
“Come down here” Charlie ordered with a light chuckle. When you both had landed on the ground, he gave you a once-over that made you dizzy and then asked “Do you play?”
“No” said both of you in unison, “she sucks, to be honest” added Oliver.
“We need a seeker on the team. We are at a severe disadvantage just by not having one” explained Charlie, arms crossed across his chest and eyes fixed on you.
“She’s more of a chaser” interjected Oliver “She’s good. Sort of”
“I’m just good at throwing quaffles at you”
Charlie ignored your banter “What about trying it? This Friday”
Oliver answered before you had time to panic at the idea “Yeah!”
“Hold on, I--” you stammered, the idea of having to fly in front of a bunch of people you didn’t know and watching you fail making your stomach turn.
“Just once, please” pleaded Charlie, and you felt heat creep up all the way from your chest up your cheeks at the gentleness of his stare “If you don’t like it, I won’t force you. Promise”
“Yeah, come on!” nudged Oliver “Your broom’s not too bad”
“We have the same broom”
“Yeah, but mine’s better”
Charlie eyed you both with a smile.
“The team chemistry already looks great. So what do you say? See you there?”
You forced yourself to face him again, not being able to hide yourself behind your banter with Oliver any longer. You nodded timidly.
“Yeah, okay”
“Great!” Charlie celebrated, and he gave you a handshake. His hands were warm and calloused, and the blush rose to the tips of your ears “See you guys there. Make sure to give her a hand with the equipment, okay?”
“Yessir!”
The days leading to practice, Oliver had been around you more than usual and even more enthusiastic, if that was even possible. He had cheerfully followed you to the library and pushed Quidditch books under your nose as you tried to finish your Charms paper. By the time Friday rolled around, you both had gotten called out during class at least five times daily, detention looming over your heads if you bickered in class one more time.
“This is going to be great” he had repeated for the twenty-fifth time that day.
“I’m going to suck” you kept repeating yourself, your forehead resting against the wooden table you sat at your Herbology lesson.
“Can you stop saying that?” Oliver groaned, displeased by how down you had been acting since you had agreed to join “I mean yes, you will, but you can train. I’ll train you!”
“That sounds like a threat”
“You might be really good, but you won’t know until you try”
You didn’t think it was possible for Oliver to understand what self-doubt was. He was so overconfident it was almost admirable, if it wasn’t because it was first and foremost incredibly annoying.
“What if I’m not?”
“Then keep trying”
“What if I don’t like it?”
“Impossible!”
Walking into the changing room felt like stepping into a minefield. Everybody was already inside, moving around and chatting with a familiarity that was foreign to you. You didn’t know where your gear was, where you were supposed to sit, or where you were supposed to place your broom. Charlie had come behind you and stopped all actions in the room to introduce you to the team, strange eyes settling on you and making your blood turn cold. All the way through it you were trying to make out if his hand resting on your shoulder was comforting or making your nervousness worse. He had given you a strong pat on the back and told you to get into the provisional uniform, which you thought was ugly and unflattering and smelled like dirty laundry. Charlie didn’t look bad in it, you thought as you stared at him as you put on your gloves. Oliver stood in front of you, blocking the view and taking one of the gloves from your hand.
“Give them to me”
You gave him a look “I know how to put on gloves”
Oliver looked up at you “Yeah? Because you are doing it wrong” Looking down, you noticed you were in fact trying to put your right glove on your left hand “Just relax, okay?” he said, halfway through annoyed and nervous himself.
You swallowed, your mouth dry “Worried that I’ll embarrass you?”
“I’m more embarrassed about the gloves” he joked, finally managing to help you put the gloves on “Seriously, I don’t understand why you have to be so pessimistic. It’s just practice. Just do it”
“Everything alright?” Charlie had approached you both “I’m going to release the snitch after we start practice and time how long it takes you to catch it. Okay? You have all the time in the world, just go after it when you see it”
He made it sound so easy, and you couldn’t help but smile “Yeah, cool”
Oliver’s arms rose in protest.
“That’s what I’ve been saying!”
Practice was a bit more chaotic than you’d have expected it to be. Everybody flew around, at times so close to you it made you lose a bit of balance. In the background you could hear Charlie yelling orders and the occasional whistle of a bludger passing by you at a speed you weren’t sure was even possible. When you had caught sight of the snitch and attempted to catch it, you had in fact got in the way of one, sending your broom and yourself towards the ground with an embarrassing cry. You didn’t have time to be embarrassed however, the world swallowed into a whirlwind of shapes and colors until your body hit the ground with a blunt pain that spread out through your chest and made it hard to breathe. The entire team had nosedived towards you, and you didn’t notice the pain until someone had asked you:
“Are you okay?”
You coughed a few times, the words scratching at your throat and the shock of the impact flooding your lungs.
“My leg” you spoke in a shallow breath.
Oliver had landed on the ground and discarded his broom unceremoniously before he pushed through his teammates to get to you.
“I’ll take her to Pomfrey” he said as he grabbed your hand and slithered his arm behind your back with the other, liftting you from the ground.
“She can’t walk” Charlie said after seeing how your body recoiled at any attempt of setting your right foot on the ground.
Charlie silently took your from oliver’s grip, his fingers reflexively holding onto the loose fabric of your uniform for a second longer before he let Charlie take you into his arms. Oliver trailed behind you two all the way to the Hospital Wing, guilt sewn on his face.
“You two again!” Madame Pomfrey’s small glassy eyes darted between you and Oliver, veiny time-nicked hands placed at her hips.
Charlie had placed you on the bed, your hands grabbing at the coarse cloth of his uniform with the very little ounces of dignity you had left. He walked away with Madame Pomfrey as she scolded him for bringing yet another injured second-year to her quarters, leaving you and Oliver by yourself.
“This seems familiar” you said with a casual smile that took way too much effort.
“It is not funny” said Oliver, surprisingly serious.
He was standing by you, restless fingers toying with the fabric of his cape and not looking at you. For a moment you thought he was mad at you for falling, that maybe he was embarrassed that you hadn’t lasted barely ten minutes on your broom.
“It wasn’t funny when you were here either” you muttered defensively, throat hot with shame. You missed the way his expression softened “At least I’m awake. I saw you drool, that was funny”
The sentence caught Oliver so off guard he actually laughed out loud. Maybe he wasn’t that mad at you.
“I assume you won’t be our seeker” he eventually said, words slipping through his lips in a downcast whisper.
“Do you want me to be? I just embarrassed myself out there. And everybody saw. I mean it’s fun when it’s the two of us” you muttered before looking away “Kind of. At least no one can see how much I suck then”
“I can see how much you suck”
“I am aware of that!”
Charlie clapped his hands as he approached, interrupting your quarrelling. He sported a small sloped smile, the guilt weighting at the corners of his eyes making your heart sink.
“Okay, so Madame Pomfrey is ready to fix your femur, but talking from experience... it is not going to be pleasant” Fear was apparent on your face, and you could see the guilt tugging at Charlie’s features and dragging them into a frown “Do you want to hold my hand?”
A blush crept up your tear-stained face, and no matter how much you liked the idea, you didn’t really want for Charlie to see you in the state you’d be once Pomfrey got her hands on you.
“I think I should hold Oliver’s, I don’t mind hurting his hand”
You forced a laugh, which Charlie reciprocated with a bit of relief. You expected to see Oliver scowling at you when you turned to stare at him, a witty comeback ready at his lips. Instead he had his palm resignedly hanging in the air, ready for you to hold onto it and eyes lost somewhere in the other corner of the room.
“Are you gonna take it or not?” he complained after you’d been gazing at him for a few seconds “I look stupid like this”
You had spent the rest of the day in the Hospital Wing, getting discharged right in time for dinner. Oliver had stayed by your side, and you had been sure Pomfrey had let you go earlier because she couldn’t deal with your bickering any longer. The next day Oliver had been considerate enough to not ask you to practice with him and had even suggested that you both could do something you wanted to do. After pondering for a second, you had told him you wanted to study, which he had a very understandable reaction to.
“It is not like I want to” you complained too “But my grades are not doing great and for some reason you are smart”
“Studying is not that hard, just read the chapters and that’s it”
“I hate people like you”
“What does that mean?”
You had spent that afternoon sitting in the Common Room studying, taking advantage of the fact that most students above your year were on their trip to Hogsmeade. To your surprise Oliver hadn’t complained much during the study session, and you’d come to find out he was pretty much okay with all subjects. Shortly after the clock had struck four, a group of older students had come through the Fat Lady, their animated chatter breaking the comforting silence and irking you almost immediately. Then you saw Charlie, who, after spotting you both, approached with quick step.
“Here” he handed you a colorful bag full of different candy and shiny wrapping paper “I’m sorry about yesterday. Are you feeling alright?”
“Yeah, it doesn’t hurt at all.”
You took the bag in your hands, and Oliver didn’t waste any time in taking one of them for himself.
“Oliver tells me you probably won’t be playing with us” He saw your eyes fall down to the ground and immediately tried to ease your guilt “That’s okay, really. You weren’t flying so badly, though, you have good eyes”
Oliver interjected as he unwrapped the candy in his hands. You had forgotten he was sitting right next to you “She got some good reflexes or something”
“I wouldn’t mind trying to play again”
Both Oliver and Charlie had been surprised by your statement, but if they had any opposition to it they hadn’t say. Oliver was ecstatic about the prospects of having a full team, and the idea of seeing Charlie twice a week was enough to make the year pass by in the blink of an eye. That Christmas you didn’t need to stay at Hogwarts, but Oliver said he would be staying over again in a few passing comments. Now that he had made the team, he was allowed to be on the pitch, and he wanted to take advantage of that as much as he could. He hadn’t asked you to stay, not directly at least. He would just repeat how he’d be playing by himself for the upcoming weeks in a loud voice to anyone who wouldn’t ask him if you happened to be around. Little did he know that you had already made up your mind to stay and make him company, even if you wouldn’t admit it to him or even to yourself. There was another reason whoever; the idea that you’d be playing your first official game once Christmas break was over haunted you.
It had been on a slow winter day that you had accompanied Oliver once again on his flying drills. You rested on the grass of the pitch, nightfall falling upon you in shades of violet early in the evening in a sight too beautiful for Oliver and you to not sit and take in. Your gaze fell down at the bleachers, slowly turning around and taking in the sheer enormity of the place.
“This is going to be full of people...”
You felt the familiar pressure on your chest, and you took in a deep, slow breath before your heart started racing all the way up to your throat.
“No one’s going to be looking at you” Oliver interjected, anticipating the mood you were about to get in. Then he fell quiet for a moment “Do you know how many stars there are in the sky?”
“I’m not taking astronomy next year”
“Do you know how many or not?”
Confused at his sudden outburst you turned to him, but he looked away. You shrugged “I don’t know”
“Exactly”
“Are you alright?”
“There are like, a thousand stars in the sky, but you don’t know that because you are never paying attention to them”
Your expression twisted in confusion before you briefly looked up at the sky, now darker and impossibly cold.
“I’m pretty sure there are more than a thousand--”
“What I’m trying to say is” he interrupted with a tad of frustration in his voice. You could tell this was taking a lot of effort from him “Just don’t pay attention to the people. Once you are in the game, you’ll block them out and--”
With a gasp Oliver cut himself out, looking at you for a short moment before looking away again, fingers digging slightly onto the grass.
“...and?”
Oliver bit his bottom teeth, eyes narrowing as if he was debating whether or not he should say whatever it was that was eating at him and making his face turn red.
“Just, look at me and I’ll give you a thumbs up or something if you get nervous. I don’t know”
A soft chilling breeze caressed both of your faces, dragging the smell of winter and freshly cut grass with it. It filled your chest with something familiar, something comforting. Neither of you said anything as you stared at each other for a moment, Oliver’s features so familiar by now you could distinguish them even engulfed in shadows. And after that moment had passed, he stood up with a small grunt and you cleared your throat, strangely overwhelmed.
“You should take astronomy next year” you joked, and you saw Oliver’s jaw ease as his lip stretched into a relieved smile.
Your first game was a loss, not entirely your fault. That was the last game of the season, and the rest of the year passed without much noise.
Things had changed a bit on your third year. The Quidditch team had grown a bit: Charlie had brought in Alicia Spinnet as a reserve as well as his twin younger brothers. The last two had been an addition that while welcome had been chaotic, their energy and the tension they brought were hard to match by anyone else. Luckily for all of you, Charlie had enough experience to keep them in check. You had been watching him scold George after practice as you took off your Quidditch boots. His hair had gotten a bit longer during the summer, and you were sure a few more freckles had blossomed over his sun-kissed skin as well.
The first game of the season had been Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff, and that had been the first win you had experienced. It had been a whirlwind of cheers and hands grabbing at your shoulders and arms being passed around them in celebration. Amidst all of it you had seen Oliver’s smile, wide and happier than you had ever seen it like a beacon through the blur of red and gold. Your eyes had met, and for a single moment it felt like time had stilled and the yellow sun become blinding as Oliver’s smile widened. As you walked back to the locker room, still carried by adrenaline and euphoria, Charlie had approached you and passed his arm around your shoulders, shaking you playfully.
“Well played kid”
He looked down at you with a smile as bright as his hair gleaming under the bright sunlight, and you thanked God that your face was already as flushed as it could be.
“I didn’t catch the snitch”
“Eh, who cares. The other guy caught it at the wrong time, so, it still counts”
Charlie gave you another shake and took off, walking faster to high-five Bailey who was pouring some water over his head. Fred and George Weasley passed by you, turning to you with grins that stretched across their freckled faces.
“You must be so happy” Fred teased, mockery stretching that “so” impossibly thin. They were obviously delighted by the sight of your flustered expression.
You had been looking for a witty comeback when Oliver had spawned next to you, steps heavy and his characteristic scowl drawn on his face.
“Leave her alone!” Oliver said, and you felt yourself wanting to crawl onto the ground.
“You are making it worse!” you hushed him, embarrassed.
His eyes fell to you, now the target of his piercing glare. When had he gotten so tall? “How am I making it worse?”
“I don’t know, it just feels worse” He stared at you for a moment, and then you realized that despite his eyes being set on your face, he wasn’t really looking at you. His lips were pressed in a thin line, gaze scanning your face as if looking for something beyond the surface. Getting nervous under the pressing attention and confused at his serious look, you elbowed him playfully “You do know we won, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Was just thinking about something”
It wasn’t until the animated chatter had died down in the changing room that you had gotten a glimpse of what had been causing Oliver so much turmoil even amidst the celebrations of his first win ever. He had approached Charlie with a stance that while not unusual, had made alarm bells go off in your head.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, shoot”
Charlie had taken off the top part of his uniform, sweater rilling up his torso. The sight distracted you for a few seconds before, to your dismay, Oliver had stood in front of him with a firm stance.
“Why is Alicia on reserve?”
Charlie’s eyebrows sank for a moment before they shoot up again with a casual smile.
“We already have three chasers in the starting roster” he answered plainly.
“But she’s better than Bailey. You should switch them”
While not really loud, it seemed like everybody had been able to tune in into the conversation. The loud chatter had died down slowly, everybody distracted by the conversation taking place at the front of the room. Charlie took a look around the room and breathed in calmly, big arms crossed over his chest.
“Alicia is still learning, and Bailey has been on the team with me since the beginning”
“Then that’s just embarrassing. Four years, and this is as good as he can get?” He protested, “You can’t let sentimentalism get in the way of the Quidditch Cup”
Charlie’s eyes fell on the chaser, whose knuckles cracked in the dead silence of the room. Emeric Bailey was a big guy, bigger than any boy in his year. Or any year for that matter. But Oliver wasn’t one to get scared by that sort of thing. You didn’t know if he was just that brave or if he simply didn’t have any survival instincts.
“You’ve got a problem, Wood?” Bailey stood up, walking menacingly until his tall figure loomed over Oliver who didn’t even flinch. You were by Oliver in only a few steps, not sure of what you were even going to do if the situation were to escalate.
“Yeah” he said to Bailey with a short glance before he turned back to Charlie, his dismissiveness aggravating him “And so should you”
“Emeric” Charlie raised a hand to Bialey, who had gotten dangerously close to Oliver “I understand your concerns, Oliver, but I am the captain” he said with subdued demand.
“Then act like one!”
“Oliver!” You reached for his hand, attempting to make him back up “We just won, can’t you--?”
“Am I wrong?” he turned to the team, his hand escaping your grasp. No one said anything, exchanging awkward glances or staring at the ground under the weight of Oliver’s gaze upon them. He turned to you then, eyes wide and brows furrowed “Am I?”
You took in a sharp breath. Oliver got a bit overwhelming when he got that intense. His eyes searched yours then just as they had done a few minutes before on your way to the changing room, still looking for something you were ignorant to. Oliver turned around with an exasperated groan, bumping Bailey’s shoulder with his on his way out of the room.
Later that night, during dinner, Oliver had sat all the way on the other side of the table, far away from anyone on the Quidditch team. Not like any of them were really looking for him, by then everybody aware of how dangerous it was to get in Oliver’s way when he got in one of his moods. Regardless, you sat next to him.
“I don’t want to talk” he had announced before you had had time sit down on your seat.
“I didn’t say anything yet”
“Yeah, you are good at that”
You sighed deeply, hands dragging across your face.
“What did you want me to say?”
“That I’m right” he said matter-of-factly “You know I am”
“Whether you are or not—”
“I am”
“--you can’t just say something like that in front of everyone! You should have spoken with Charlie in private” Oliver scoffed when you mentioned the name, earning an inquisitive glance from you “What?”
“Of course you are siding with him” he said, voice muffled by his cup of pumpkin juice.
“I’m not siding with him!” you protested, indignant and also confused. It wasn’t like Oliver to doubt Charlie.
“Well, you didn’t side with me either. You just didn’t want Charlie to be mad at you”
“What’s that even supposed to mean?”
“You know he’s too old for you, right? He’s in sixth grade”
Your mouth hung open a few seconds, completely at a loss for words. You nervously looked around, a few students nearby that had their eyes on you turning away immediately. Your first reaction was one of shock, followed by indignation. You made your best effort to feign ignorance and hoped he couldn’t see the scorching-like blush spreading through your cheeks.
“What are you talking about?” you muttered.
“Charlie” You swallowed, so drily it hurt. Oliver hadn’t noticed your feelings for an entire year, and now he was suddenly calling you out on them “Fred said you fancy him”
“Wh--” you stammered “What does that brain for rocks know?”
“Rocks for brains”
“That’s what I’m saying”
“He said you look at him with a dumb look on your face” Oliver explained drily, that ever-present sternness in his voice rumbling underneath it “I told him you are just dumb”
“I-- whatever. That has nothing to do with the Bailey thing” you tried to steer the conversation back to the original conversation, fighting the urge to simply run away.
“Is that why you joined the team? Because you fancy him?”
Your face snapped towards him, so fast that for a split second he worried it might have hurt you.
“Why are you being such a jerk?”
“Uhm, excuse me, guys.” You were both too absorbed in your argument to notice Alicia Spinnet right away, only turning to her when she had poked Oliver’s shoulder “Sorry to... interrupt? But I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to say thank you for saying I’m good before”
Oliver’s anger seemed to dissipate, if only a bit, enough to not bark at Alicia. You handn’t really taken a good look at her on the three times you had seen her during practice, Quidditch gear famously as unflattering as wearing a paper bag over your head. She still wore her light brown hair in a ponytail whose perfect shape you were sure had to be charmed, and you sort of wished you could ask her for it. She had a longish face with soft, refined features and a few freckles peppered through it, a lovely choice of earrings dangling from her ears with a pleasant chime you remember faintly hearing during practice.
“No bother, you are just really good” Alicia smiled “Is this your first year trying?”
“Yes, I had never tried for the team. Charlie recruited me after a mock game in the yard with some friends”
“He seems to do that a lot” Oliver looked your way “At least this time it worked out”
You had had enough. You stood up from your seat so quickly it made some of the cutlery clatter loudly as your body hit the table.
“You suck”
“No, you suck! That’s why we never win!”
“Piss off!”
The day after, Oliver was already sitting on your shared desk during Charms when you walked in. You gave him a short glance and sat next to him without a word, dragging the chair as far away from him as the desk allowed. He had tried to speak to you right when the professor had walked through the door with a cheerful greeting. Oliver’s impatience had allowed him to last for about ten minutes before he leaned towards you.
“You have no right to be mad at me. Because I’m mad at you”
Your hand stilled in the middle of a sentence.
“Why the hell are you mad at me? Are you dumb?”
“You are dumb!” he looked around warily “You lied to me”
“About what?”
“Charlie?”
“That? Thought you were mad about Bailey" Oliver's knee bounced under the table "Also, I never lied to you because you never asked”
He observed your quill drag across your parchment, a few spots of dry ink spotting your fingertips.
“Why are you even mad at me?”
“Why?” You finally turned to him, the hand holding your quill resting on the table with a moderately loud thud that made Oliver retract a bit. You looked around and then lowered your voice “You accused me of siding with Charlie just because-- Because I fancy him”
Oliver’s eyes darted nervously around your features, his jaw twitching in a sign of obvious annoyance. He could tell you were upset, maybe more than you ever had. He couldn’t remember if you had ever stared at him with such a expression, and for split second it worried and upset him. Still, he was too stubborn.
“You did”
“No, I didn’t!”
Professor Filtchwick interrupted the class to give you a stern warning and you apologized, way too upset to feel any sort of mortification. When your classmates’ heads had turned back towards the front of the class Oliver scooted closer, decided to continue the argument: to win it.
“You were supposed to side with me. I am your friend”
“So why don’t you act like it?” you spat, and you could see the words rippling through him “The point isn’t whether Bailey sucks or not. I don’t like how you just said all that in front of everyone. You need to start thinking about other people before you do stuff like that. How do you think Bailey felt?”
“Like a loser, I s’ppose” he tried to defend his stance, but it was obvious by the way his eyes were fixed on the desk and his hands intertwined that your words were getting to him.
“You are impossible” you simply said after a pause that felt particularly long “I guess I’ll just quit the team too”
Oliver’s head snapped up, eyes scanning your face quickly for any sign of truth. You had already brought your attention back to your book.
“What are you talking about?”
“Since I am also a loser who can’t play”
“I never said that”
“Isn’t that what you meant? When you said Charlie recruiting people didn’t work out” Oliver’s mouth opened and closed a few times.
“That’s-- that’s not what I--”
“Oh, so now you feel bad for me? Well, you can keep it” There was no way for Oliver to miss the anger in your mockery, but it didn’t bother him as much as when your voice became smaller and softer when you said “I already know what you think of me”
“Is there anything you two would like to share with the class?” Professor Filtchwick’s voice called from the front of the class, everybody else now silently staring at you.
When he had asked you to change seats you slammed your textbook close and picked up your things, too angry to feel any type of shame.
“With pleasure”
For the next few weeks you had been anything but cold to Oliver. He seemed relieved enough that you were still coming to practice, making multiple attempts to start small conversations with you as if testing the waters.
“You are going fast today”
It wasn’t just you, though. The whole team felt a bit on edge since that confrontation in the changing room, and Charlie’s easygoing charisma was stalling. Bailey became a bit more aggressive during practice, throwing directly at Oliver, who on more than one occasion had lost his temper.
“Oi, watch it!”
“My bad, mate. I’m just really bad at this”
“Guys, come on”
Charlie looked stressed out of his mind. You wished you could say something to him, but there was nothing you could say that would cheer him up. To your surprise, he had been the one to approach you a few days later during your first Hogsmeade trip. At first you had opted not to go, but the day before the trip, as McGonagall had reminded you of the time and place to meet, Oliver had looked over his shoulder at you. He had been doing that a lot since you had changed seats in every class, not like you hadn’t yourself. You had never noticed how you both had naturally come to sit together during every subject, and now that you weren’t the room seemed colder somehow.
“Can I talk to you?” Charlie had asked as he matched your pace down the pebbled road. He had jogged towards you amidst the sea of students, hands buried deeply in the pockets of his jacket and Gryffindor scarf tightly tied around his neck. Your heart almost leapt out of your chest when he had spawned next to you. He had taken your stunned silence as an affirmative, when in reality you were captivated by the way the snowflakes rested on his hair, catching the light and making them sparkle like diamonds “I was wondering if you could talk to Oliver”
The mention of his name immediately grounded you to reality, the change in your expression not going unnoticed by him.
“I’m not currently talking to him”
“I’m aware. Didn’t want to pry”
“It’s whatever” you shrugged, knowing you couldn’t speak to him about it anyway. Deep down the fact he cared enough to ask was enough for you “What do you want to talk about?”
“About the team. I need him to start focusing on teamwork. We both know he’s not the most... people-sensitive”
“I’m aware. The worst thing is that he doesn’t say these things with malice, he’s just dumb” Charlie had wanted to laugh at that, but he had judged that you were too upset for that to be appropriate “What do you want me to do about it?”
To this he simply shrugged “He listens to you. And you are good with people”
“I’m really not”
“Well, you are better than him. I need someone to keep him in check next year” You had thought about telling him you were planning on quitting, but maybe it wasn’t the best time. Also, you didn’t want to make him sad “Can’t have a captain that doesn’t get along with his team.”
Your heels dig into the ground, stopping you in place like someone had hexed you. A group of fifth years had to walk around you, and Charlie turned around with a knowing smile.
“You are making Oliver captain?”
“Yeah. Should I not?”
You remained silent for a few seconds, for the first time in your life able to hold eye contact with Charlie without feeling your whole body burn up.
“Why?” you finally asked.
“Who else?” He noticed the small smile that you were trying to fight, even if you hated yourself for it. He started walking again “Do me a favour, don’t tell him about it. Just keep an eye on him” he stopped, then turned to you “When he apologises for whatever it is he did to you, that is”
He had then gone inside The Three Broomsticks to meet with his friends, and you had waved him goodbye as you made your way to Honeydukes. The number of students you could see through the window was a tad overwhelming, but you still went inside, not wanting to miss the opportunity to get a few sweets for yourself. At least you knew you wouldn’t run into Oliver there, since he disliked them so vehemently. The door opened with a chime, and after barely taking three steps inside, the sound resonated through the store again.
“What were you talking about with Charlie out there?”
You turned around with a fright, Oliver’s voice so close it had almost felt like he had spoken inside of your mind. He was just way too close. His cheeks and nose were red and bitten by the cold, and he was wearing the trapper hat you had told him multiple times was too big on him. ‘It’ll grow’ he had said, refusing to use a charm to make it fit out of sheer stubbornness. He watched your eyes scan him with familiarity, and he knew you were biting down at least three insults to throw at him.
“Nothing”
You attempted to continue browsing through the store, but he followed behind you. Your silence made him nervous.
“Were you talking about me?”
“Maybe”
You squeezed yourself through a group of older students that didn’t make any effort to let you pass. Oliver pushed through them, earning a few groans.
“Am-- am I getting kicked out, or?”
It was then when the Weasley twins had run into you.
“Look at this” said Fred before he swallowed a candy that made fireworks come out of his ears “Cool, isn’t it?”
“You have to pay for that” you scolded him.
“Come on, loosen up!” he said, still smiling, pushing you playfully.
“Watch it, Weasley,” Oliver warned, standing by your side.
The twins walked away snickering after giving you both a quick glance.
Wait.
You pushed through the crowd, leaving a confused Oliver behind and unable to follow you. When you had reached the twins, they were about to disappear behind a more empty corner of the store. You grabbed onto one of their sleeves, making him turn towards you.
“What are you two doing here?”
“Oh, you noticed?”
They didn’t seem alarmed. If anything, they looked proud.
“You can’t be here! You’ll get in trouble”
“So...” they exchanged a confused look “Don’t tell on us?”
“I don’t need to! You are in the open”
“No one noticed” said Fred.
“Or they won’t tell” added George.
“How did you even get here?”
“That’s a secret we can’t tell”
“What about Oliver?” you asked.
“What about him?”
“He also saw you”
“Yeah... let’s just say we are not concerned about his deduction skills. So don’t tell him either!”
“Whatever, I don’t care”
“Come on, at least care a little! It’s boring otherwise” protested George “Don’t tell Charlie though”
Fred dramatically put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“We mustn’t, remember?”
“Oh” exclaimed George, matching the level of ridiculousness Fred had set up “True, I’m sorry”
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing. We are not allowed to mention Charlie to you. Wood’s orders”
You bit your tongue, and not standing their mocking smiles any longer, you simply walked away. Oliver found you again among the sea of students and made his way to you, helped by the width his shoulders had acquired during the previous summer. His hand grabbed onto your arm immediately, as if worried you’d just disappear again.
“Where did you go?”
“Never mind”
He let go of your arm when you had yanked it maybe a bit harder than you had wanted. It hadn’t hurt him necessarily, at least not anywhere visible. You started to push through students again and towards the door with Oliver never losing sight of you until you pushed the wooden door that opened with the familiar chime. The contrast of the warmth indoors and the coldness of the outside made you shudder and you uselessly braced yourself against it.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on? I see you talking to Charlie and now the twins?”
You closed your eyes tightly. After all he had said and done, this was what worried him?
“You are not getting kicked out of the team, stupid” you said, and despite how annoyed he was by the insult, you could see relief wash over his face “He’s going to make you captain”
The ever-present scowl on his face vanished and gave place to a blank expression. His lashes fluttered a few times as he walked towards you in some sort of trance.
“What?”
“But he can’t do it unless you stop acting like a total dickhead”
The insult knocked some sense into him “Did he call me a dickhead?”
“No, I am calling you a dickhead. Everyone else thinks you are one too, though”
“Do they? Why?”
“Because you act like one! How can you not know?”
“Well-- Can’t I be honest?”
“You can, but you can also be nicer about it. If you continue to be like this next year, people are going to quit the team because of you!”
Oliver’s lips pursed into a thin line and his brow creased a bit.
“Like you?”
The way he had asked you had managed to disarm you a bit. It hadn’t been a tone of reproach but an honest question that seemed heavy on his lips. His eyes stole a glance at you before going back to the ground where snow piled at your feet. He knew your feet and hands were going to be frozen by the time the trip was over.
“I’m not quitting yet” you muttered.
A small flash of relief gleamed through Oliver’s eyes before his brows pressed on them again.
“Because of Charlie”
You gritted your teeth, sighing deeply.
“Actually? Yeah. Because he’s a good captain, and I don’t want to let him down”
“Because you fancy him” he said through his teeth, so low you weren’t sure you were meant to hear it. He didn’t even seem to want to say it, the words leaving his mouth like they were straining him.
“You know what? Why don’t you think about why I want to quit first? The only reason why I want to quit is because of you!” You walked forward and pushed his shoulder; he barely moved, yet he winced “You always have something mean to say about my flying even though you were the one who made me play!”
Oliver brought his hand where you had pushed him, even though it didn’t hurt him much. His eyes said otherwise.
“I didn’t know it bothered you that much” he said. Far from trying to defend himself, he seemed actually puzzled “What I said”
“Of course it does! And now you accuse me of-- of what? Playing because of Charlie? Because I like him? Okay, I do! You are still the reason why I play so what does that even matter?”
Oliver stayed in stunned silence, his slightly wide eyes boring into yours as he saw you catch your breath. Your hair, shaken by the wind, rested unceremoniously over your flushed face. Your lips, dry and your scarf resting undone almost halfway to the snowed ground. The snow. Just how cold--
“I’m sorry”
Now that you weren’t expecting. Your breathing that had accelerated significantly started heaving on your chest, and your frostbitten fingers that had balled into fists had started to hurt. It wasn’t usual for Oliver to apologize; you were sure you had never heard him do it before. It was obvious to you he actually meant it too, the way his gaze searched into yours for any sign of forgiveness, making the anger quickly dissipate.
“People are staring. Let’s go”
You tugged at his sleeve and started pulling him down the street. For a while you just held onto him, hoping that it’d be enough to let him know it was okay now. Oliver and you were really good at fighting with each other, but you had never had to properly make amends. Eventually you let go, the both of you walking around the street without a destination, arms bumping into each other.
“How am I supposed to know what to say?” he finally asked “To people and stuff”
“I don’t know, Oliver...” You fell silent for a while “Remember when you taught me to throw during first year? You were nice. Sort of”
“Even though you sucked”
“Even though I sucked, yes, exactly” you tried not to smile, but he caught onto it, his shoulders lowering a bit “So what about next time you feel like being brutally honest you think you are talking to first-year-me?”
He took a quick glance at you.
“That might work”
Your last game of the year had been against Slytherin and took place during mid-May. To say that you had been floored would be putting it kindly. Charlie had to say his goodbyes to the team in the changing room and also announced that Oliver would be the captain next year. Oliver had walked up to the front of the room, and despite his imposing presence and perfect stance, you could tell he was nervous, if even just a bit.
“I’ll do my best. I hope some of you can help me be a better captain. I can’t wait to play with you next year. All of you”
Despite how hard you had tried to keep it together, you had found yourself quietly tearing up. You hadn’t wanted to attach yourself much to the team, and in a way you definitely didn’t care as much as other members did, but you had never slacked off. It still made you feel terrible, the loss, and the fact that those people would be having such a hard time now. Did not being as hurt make you a bad person? You certainly seemed to think so, and after one tear fell down, you couldn’t contain the rest. Oliver sat next to you, his weight making the old bench creak loudly.
“I’m sorry” you found yourself saying, voice cracked.
Oliver’s hands halted as he untied his boot, and out of the corner of your eye you saw him looking at you.
“It's not your fault”
You nodded, your throat closing so as to not let a loud cry come out. You inhaled deeply, feeling yourself suffocate.
“I tried hard” you whimpered, and brought your hand up to rub at the bottom of your nose.
Besides you, Oliver felt himself smile.
“I never thought you’d get to care so much about Quidditch” you hid your face behind your hands and finally let out a sob “It’s creepy how happy it makes me to see you cry”
Oliver scooted closer to you and passed his arm over your shoulders, shaking you playfully.
“It was fun” you said behind your hands, your breathing still uneven.
“Yeah, it was...” You felt Oliver’s thumb drawing small circles over your shoulder, and under the circumstances you found it surprisingly soothing “What about you stay a bit longer? Until we find someone”
Fourth year rolled around, and it started with a bang. Oliver had made it very clear that he wanted Alicia Spinnet to be part of the team right away, and alongside her had come Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell. Of course, the main star had been none other than Harry Potter, who you’d been more than okay with giving your position to. The team seemed to finally make a bit more sense, and you hated to admit that maybe Oliver’s scouting senses were better than Charlie’s had been. The air around Oliver had shifted somehow, even if he was still the same blunt, big-headed idiot.
He would still orbitate during meals, however there were at least three other people between you two at any given time. The free time you both had spent practicing and letting Oliver chew your ear off about quidditch was now exchanged for watching Gryffindor’s practice from the bleachers. Now as an outsider looking in, it was evident Oliver had changed, the same way a painting can only truly be appreciated when you take a few steps back to observe in its entirety. His stance was taller and if you hadn’t known him so well, ‘imposing’ would have been another way to describe the way he soared through the pitch. His boyish features had hardened, long locks of dark hair framing the sharp edges that now matched the harshness behind his eyes.
You had returned to the common room after a solo study session at the library, the contrast of the silence you’d grown accustomed to against the lively air within the Gryffindor quarters a bit jarring at first. You glanced around the room on your way to your dorm, catching sight of Oliver and Alicia sitting on the couch, a few open notebooks open in the small space between their bodies. You recognized them as Oliver’s game plans; it had been a while since he had asked you for your take on them. Granted, you never really had anything to say, your knowledge on quidditch years behind anything that would be useful to Oliver. You had slowed your walk to the stone staircase, wishing in the back of your mind that he’d catch a glimpse of you and lift his head to call out to you, but he didn’t.
On Wednesday after class Oliver had asked you if you wanted to go with him to Spinwitches during the Hogsmeade trip, and you had had to suppress the genuine surprise it had caused you. Once you were there, though, you realized the whole Quidditch team was coming with. You were walking a few steps behind, watching the way Alicia kept bumping into Oliver’s side as they talked animatedly about something you had no interest in. Your eyes fixated on the way your shoes dug into the soft snow, your skirt swayed by the wind that caressed your legs and chilled them to the bone. You had started to regret wearing it, but that didn’t have much to do with the cold. You heard Alicia laugh and watched her as she bumped her fist against Oliver’s shoulder, the hit surely softened by his padded jacket. The sight made anger seethe in your stomach, not really sure what about it annoyed you so much. Or maybe you did.
Maybe you had started to suspect it.
The store was the same as when you had visited last time. It had become a habit that every Hogsmeade visit Oliver would drag you inside by the scarf. You had complained and whined every single time, but now as he didn’t spare a single look your way to make sure you were coming with, you found yourself missing it.
“Why are you in such a mood?”
You snapped out of it when Oliver had asked you that. You had been browsing the store for ten minutes on your own, much like everyone else, before he had come at you with an attitude.
“What? I’m not”
You had in fact been in a sour mood, but you had done a good job of hiding it. Or so you had thought at the time.
“You’ve been quiet all day... just tagging along and stuff”
“When haven’t I been doing that?” you asked, a bit more defensive than you had wanted “It’s not like you need my opinion for the broom thing. You’ve already decided on it”
Your finger pointed at the broom in his hand, but your eyes betrayed you for a short second as they flickered past him to where Alicia and Angelina were snickering in a corner.
“I could still get your input”
You stared at the broom, then shrugged.
“Yeah, I like it”
“And you wonder why I don’t care about your input”
You felt your jaw tense, a strange feeling coming over you: it was guilt, embarrassment and remorse all mixed into a sour taste in your mouth.
“Maybe I’m in a mood, you are right” you admitted “I’ll cool off. See you later”
You had to stop yourself from wishing he had followed you when you had pushed the heavy wooden door and walked into the busy street. Why did you have to ruin a nice day with your sulking? Why did you have to find fault with your friend enjoying others’ company? Was this the kind of person you wanted to become, or were you just unable to keep your own selfish feelings in check?
For a while you walked around, finally settling on a stone bench on the side of a particularly busy road. The lullaby of animated chatter and the pleasant sound of footsteps burying in the snow comforting enough to calm your accelerated heartbeat, your eyes closing as you basked in the pale winter sun. You took in a deep breath and exhaled, the sharp scent of pure cold filling your lungs. You could stay there for a while, you though. By yourself but not completely alone, that seemed pleasant enough. Your head would turn from time to time, as if you were expecting to see someone. Someone that might have been looking for you. No one like that showed up, though, and you tried not to feel too bad about that. Things might have started to change, and you’d have to be okay with that. Oliver would be busy from then on. Despite his hard-to-deal-with temperament, the truth was he had always been easy to like; after all, you wouldn’t have stuck by his side had it been any other way. You had had your time, but it was time to let him go--
“What do you think you are doing?”
Your eyes fluttered open, your reverie interrupted. A confused Oliver was looming over you, brows furrowed and staring at you like you had lost your mind. He was still holding his broom in his hand, now wrapped in a protective case.
“...Thinking?”
“Hope it's about funeral arrangements because you are going to freeze your arse to death” after a short beat, you snorted out a laugh. His gaze lowered to your exposed legs and the way your skirt rilled up slightly as you sat on the bench, his cheeks burning up despite the crisp wind whistling past you “Don’t laugh! Get up!”
“What?”
“All this cooling off nonsense. Whatever” He grabbed your arm and made you stand up. He stared at you like you had spawned horns “You’ve been acting weird all day”
“Yeah, I guess”
“What’s wrong?”
It’s not like you could tell him you missed him. Even as he stood in front of you, cheeks and nosetip bitten by the cold, tousled hair and chapped lips. Even if you could reach your hand and brush your numb fingertips against his skin, pleading for warmth. Still, you missed him.
“I like being your friend”
The words escaped your lips, the sound of your own voice startling you as they rang through the both of you. Immediately after they had been spoken you had felt nausea and embarrassment clog at the back of your throat. You weren’t unfamiliar with this sort of feeling, the overwhelming brief instances of fondness and need to tell him such things something you were used to. However you had always been able to keep them buried down. Oliver’s expression didn’t change much, but for a small fraction of a second there was something there you hadn’t quite seen before.
“Me too” then it was gone again “What’s going on?”
You shrugged, his sympathetic stare making the regret easier to swallow.
“I’m not sure” you admitted, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips “I don’t want to mess up the outing, though. You should go back to the group, I’m going to go have a walk”
“If you want a walk, we can have a walk. I’m not leaving you alone here”
He wouldn’t tell you, and he probably wouldn’t know himself; but he would never leave you by yourself when it was so cold, and you were so alone and looking so pretty on your short skirt and your lumpy mascara.
You both had spent only an hour longer around Hogsmeade, Oliver growing tired of dragging his broom around, when you had both taken one of the first carriages back. By the time you were back, the mood in the Common Room was strangely subdued. There were a few first years doing their homework on the big table, a small group by the windowsill and some sparce students reading in the couch. Oliver and you had opted for sitting on the carpet near the fire. Well, he had insisted in you sitting by the fire while he would keep you company admiring his new broom. For a while you both sat in silence amidst the animated chatter of the room, exchanging a few looks from time to time. It felt strangely calming, warmth coming back to you by the time the Common Room opened followed by the ruckus of the third years and up coming back. Oliver and you exchanged a knowing look, as if you both had been thinking the same thing. It wasn't long until a few people joined you, whatever spell had fallen upon you two broken.
The morning students were appointed to leave the Castle for Christmas break, something had soured the taste of pumpkin pie in your mouth before you could even swallow it.
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
You didn’t even know how you had managed to pick on it. Her voice hadn’t been loud, if anything, she had been so quiet you were surprised even Oliver had heard her. He had been sitting a bit away from you on the other side of the table, and yet you somehow had hear her clear as day.
“Sure”
You had subtly looked up, enough to see Alicia nervously brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Could we go somewhere else?”
You felt your stomach drop, the pumpkin pie you had stopped chewing seemed almost suffocating to swallow. You made the mistake of locking eyes with Fred Weasley, who for some reason you wanted to pretend you couldn’t understand, was already staring at you. Oliver stood up from his seat and followed Alicia until they were out of the room. You saw Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell exchanging knowing smiles, and you let your fork hit the table. Fred Weasley sat next to you, his back against the table, taking way more space than he needed.
“Are you goign to stay here?” he asked quietly, the familiar irking hint of mockery still noticeable in his voice.
“Your sweater is touching my food”
“I’d go, personally” he awaited for an answer, but when you said nothing he added “Do you want me to go?” Your face twisted a bit, and Fred’s face lit up as if that was the answer he had been waiting “I’ll go then”
He stood up, and when you protested that just made him start running. Embarrassed but desperate enough, you ran after him, only being able to keep up with him as you caught glimpses of bright red hair before he turned the tall corners of the castle. You finally caught up to him, pressed against a wall as he caught his breath. He brought a finger to his lips as you approached him, and then you started getting nervous again. Fred peeked his head around the corner, and with a bit of fear you stood by his side.
That’s when you became able to hear the small murmur of voices conversing nearby, even if you couldn’t understand what they were saying. You tried to take a look too, but sensing that you might get caught, Fred placed his arm in front of you. He stood away from the corner, bringing you close to him and towards the edge of the corner so you could look without being seen, his head poking above yours with ease. When you got a clear view, all you saw was Alicia’s heels hitting the ground again, her lips parting from Oliver’s. The sight made you take a step back, your back hitting Fred’s chest and making him backtrack as well. Fred’s hands held onto your shoulders and dragged you a few steps back as he rested against the wall. A few seconds later Alicia ran down the hall and past you, a big smile on her face and unaware of your presence. Oliver would pass a bit later, seemingly unfazed and missing both of you on his way back as well.
hii queen can you make a fic of theo finding a cat and it only lets theo pet it and spend time with it. and one day theo sees the cat walking to reader only to find out it’s her cat. and everyone thinks it’s his cat cuz it spends most time in the slytherin common room with him than in hufflepuffs common room
sorry if this is complicated 😭😭😭
𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐒𝐥𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐭
SUMMARY: A black cat starts spending every evening in the Slytherin common room. The entire school assumes she's Theodore's. Theodore assumes she's his. The cat disagrees.
The Slytherin common room was unusually peaceful one evening when the portrait hole swung open and a sleek black cat with bright green eyes slipped inside.
Mattheo noticed first.
"Oi, whose cat is that?"
Pansy immediately cooed and reached down.
"Come here, pretty baby—"
The cat dodged her hand gracefully and continued walking like it owned the place.
Enzo tried next, crouching with a friendly smile.
"Here, kitty—"
It ignored him completely.
Draco smirked.
"Clearly has good taste."
He extended a hand.
The cat walked straight past him without a glance.
Blaise raised an eyebrow but didn't even bother trying.
Then the cat spotted Theodore Nott.
Theo was lounging on the couch near the fireplace, reading, when the cat jumped gracefully onto the cushion beside him. Without hesitation, it climbed into his lap, circled once, and curled up with a contented purr.
Theo froze for half a second, then a rare, soft smile broke across his face. He gently stroked the cat's head, and it pushed into his hand happily.
"Well," Theo murmured, amused, "hello to you too."
Mattheo stared in disbelief.
"What the fuck? It rejected all of us and chose you?"
Pansy gasped dramatically.
"Theo's officially a cat whisperer."
From that night on, it became a regular occurrence.
Every evening, the black cat would appear in the Slytherin common room and make a beeline for Theo. It ignored everyone else, even when Daphne tried offering it treats. It only wanted Theo.
And Theo—who had always loved cats but never had one of his own—didn't mind at all.
He started keeping a small blanket on his favorite couch for the cat. He didn't even complain when black fur started sticking to all his hoodies. In fact, he seemed quietly pleased every time the cat showed up.
The rest of the group nicknamed the cat "Theo's Shadow."
One morning, with no classes scheduled, Theo was sitting in the courtyard enjoying the rare winter sunlight when he felt a familiar weight jump onto the bench beside him.
He looked down, surprised.
"You're early today."
The cat meowed and immediately climbed into his lap, purring loudly as Theo scratched behind its ears.
A few Slytherins walking by stopped and stared.
One fifth-year whispered,
"That's Nott's cat, isn't it? It's never out during the day."
Theo just smirked softly and continued petting the cat.
Then a gentle voice called out across the courtyard.
"Bella!"
The cat's ears perked up.
It hopped gracefully from Theo's lap, landed perfectly on all four paws, and trotted happily toward you—a Hufflepuff girl with a warm smile and a scarf in your house colors.
Theo watched, stunned, as Bella rubbed against your legs, purring even louder than she did with him.
You crouched down to pick her up, cradling her against your chest.
That's when you noticed Theo watching.
"Oh," you said, eyes widening in surprise. "She's been bothering you, hasn't she?"
Theo stood up slowly and walked over.
"She's yours?"
You nodded, a little embarrassed.
"Yes. Bella's been disappearing in the evenings lately. I thought she was just exploring the castle. I tutor a fifth-year after dinner, so I let her wander a bit... I didn't realize she was coming to the Slytherin common room."
A few students nearby who had seen Bella constantly with Theo were openly gawking.
One of them blurted out,
"Wait—that's your cat? We all thought it was Nott's. She hates everyone else but him."
You laughed softly, cheeks turning pink.
"She's usually really picky. I'm surprised she chose you."
Theo's gaze softened as he looked at Bella, then at you.
"She has good taste."
You smiled shyly.
"Thank you for being kind to her. Most people get annoyed when she shows up where she shouldn't."
"I don't mind," Theo said quietly. "She's good company."
There was a small, comfortable pause.
You told him your name, shifting Bella in your arms.
"Theodore Nott," he replied, even though you already knew his name. "You can call me Theo."
Your smile grew.
"Well, Theo... it seems my cat has excellent judgment."
Bella meowed in agreement, making both of you laugh softly.
Theo reached out and gently stroked Bella's head one last time. The cat purred happily between you.
"Maybe I'll see you both around more often then," he said, voice low but warm.
You met his eyes, a spark of something new passing between you.
"I'd like that."
As you walked away toward the Hufflepuff common room, Theo stood there for a moment longer, watching you go with a small, private smile on his face.
Bella had chosen him.
And maybe, just maybe, he'd found another reason to look forward to evenings.
summary: In a world where Draco & the Golden Trio are best friends, but you despise Draco and vice versa.
pairing: draco malfoy x potter!reader
includes: fluff, angst, cursing, ron being an ass, the trio silently hoping you get together, lily & james are very much alive, your james’ favorite child, pureblood propaganda, lucius is a terrible father
a/n: fun fact, the good place is my favorite tv-show
If you could describe your brother in one word, you would choose unpredictable. He was never one to stick to a plan or a certain pathway—so when he said that there was a change of summer plans with Ron and Hermione, you weren’t at all surprised.
Harry said that instead of staying at the house all summer, him, you, Ron, and Hermione were invited to stay in a manor by the English Coast. What he didn’t specify until the day of your departure was who exactly invited the four of you.
It was none other than Draco Malfoy himself.
For once, you didn’t want to go on vacation—even if it was free.
According to Harry, Draco convinced his mother and father to have the coastal house for the summer for a small get-together with him and the sacred Golden Trio. Of course, the simple invitation for Harry meant you were also invited to the manor—not that you or Draco wanted it that way.
If you did have it your way, you would already be knee deep in studying for your last year at Hogwarts. Instead, you were stuck going on vacation with Draco Malfoy while your books wasted away in your bedroom.
“You can’t make me go.” You speak through your teeth as you attempt to stand your ground by the bottom of the staircase, stumbling over yourself as Harry shoved you into the living room.
“It’s only one month.” Harry retorted and waved bye to his parents, grabbing both your trunk and his. He stepped into the fireplace, a lopsided grin on his face. “Besides, you need to be friendly with Draco—“
“Over my dead body.” You cut him off with a scoff and look over at your parents with your hands clasped together in one final attempt. If anyone could get you out of this mess, it was your father. “Don’t make me go, dad. Malfoy will make my life a living hell.”
Lily stared at you in amusement. You really despised the poor boy with all your heart. If anything, you reminded her of herself before she got with James—
Oh.
She looked at James with wide eyes, trying to shake her head but ultimately needing to cut him off completely.
Lily instantly knew what would become of you and Draco. She was the living proof of it. Although you claim to dislike him now, Lily believed that somewhere down the line, you were going to fall for him—hard. And Draco was going to fall for you much harder.
James hesitated before sighing, running his fingers through his curls in an attempt to ease the rising tension. “I mean, if you really don’t want to go—“
“James!” Lily grabbed his arm and smiled prettily at him, hoping he would understand. He made an ‘o’ shape with his mouth and nodded, letting her reason with you instead. “Hermione and Ron are also going, you won’t be stuck with your brother and Draco all day.”
You groan and stare at your brother with a murderous gaze, rolling your eyes when he winked and used the floo powder to get to the coastal house. Harry was on your very last nerve.
“Mum, please.” You pleaded one last time before she shoved the powder into your hands, sending you a pointed look. One that said 'behave or get grounded.' Huffing, you grudgingly enter the fireplace. “I’m just letting you know, you’re sending your favorite child to death.”
James creased his brows, “Now hang on—“
“Malfoy Coastal Manor!”
It had been two weeks since you arrived at the manor—two weeks of you and Draco fighting non-stop like children who didn't get their way. Everyday felt like a never-ending argument, each day riddled with arguments about the smallest things.
One moment, it could be the way you breathed and the next, it would be the way he looked at you.
Truly, it was exasperating for everyone else to see the two of you argue every second. Harry and Hermione tried to get the two of you to be civil, but it didn’t help the problem. Not when Ron kept egging the both of you during peaceful moments.
The only time you weren’t throwing insults to each other was when Draco took you all down to the private beach.
If you were going to stay at the Malfoy’s Coastal Manor for a month and endure the platinum blonde himself, you told Harry you specifically needed to go to the beach twice a week. Luckily, it didn’t take much convincing when you held him at wand point.
And Godric did you love those days. It just so happened that today was one of them.
You sat on an emerald, green towel with the Malfoy stamp, leaning back on your arms to catch the sun’s rays. And from the corner of your eyes, you caught Ron and Hermione splash one another in the water while Harry was wandering the edges of the ocean, supposedly collecting shells for Ginny when they met up later this summer.
You sighed quietly—you were surrounded by actions of love.
And Draco? Well, you really had no clue what he was up to at all.
He had been quiet all day, laying on the towel beside you with a book perched in front of him. He hadn't flipped the page in ages and curiosity was getting to you. Especially when his face was twisted in one of thought, his grey eyes staring at the book like it held the secrets of the universe.
Against your better judgement, curiosity took over. Besides, Harry did say you had to be friendly with Draco.
“What—“ You hesitate for a second before sighing, scrubbing your face in vexation. “What’s wrong?”
Draco looked up at you in surprise, blinking at the sound of your voice. “I’m sorry?”
You purse your lips and reel back any snarky comments, adjusting your sunglasses to hide an incoming eyeroll. “What’s wrong, Malfoy? You’ve been in the same spot of your book for the past—" You check your none existent watch out of habit, "—ten minutes.”
He creased his brows in confusion before shaking his head, thinking you were just coming after him again. “It’s nothing, Potter. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
“I’m sorry for asking.” You mutter and sit up properly, looking off in the distance.
After a painstaking silence, you huff and stand from your towel, dusting off the sand sticking to your skin and walking away from your spot on the beach. You couldn't endure the awkward tension any longer—it was like a knife could cut right through the air and serve it right to your face.
You took a couple of steps before a figure joined you on your right. At first, you thought it was Hermione, but as you tilted your head to meet her eyes, you caught the platinum blonde hair shining in the sun instead.
“What?” You ask coldly, hands tightening around one another behind your back in mild frustration. Sure, you could've been a little nicer to Draco when you asked what was wrong, but it was a first for you.
Being sweet to someone you didn't necessarily like was odd anyway.
Draco sighed and looked at the sand beneath his feet as he walked, avoiding your hard gaze. “Look, I’m sorry. I just didn’t think you would really care.”
You blink at his apology, noticing the sincerity embedded in it. You nodded slowly, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly at his words. “If anything, blame my brother.” You say in little amusement and more so annoyance. "Harry told me I should be friendly with you."
“Well, don’t be.” Draco said and glanced over at you, tilting his head in your direction. “It freaked me out.”
“Noted.” You dip your chin down to hide the smallest smile that made it's way onto your face.
The two of you walked in a more comfortable silence, only the sounds of seagulls and crashing waves filling the air. It was weird being around him without arguing or your brother pushing the two of you to be friends.
For once, it was just the two of you co-existing.
But you couldn’t get rid of the nagging question in your head about why Draco was staring out into space. Despite not liking him at all—and him being weirded out by you being nice—you had to ask what was wrong again.
You didn’t really know why—it was a small instinct you had.
“So... why weren’t you reading your book?” You ask quietly and walk around a couple of ghost crabs, subconsciously inching closer to Draco as the waves crashed closer.
He inhaled sharply, the feeling in his chest tightening. “Just— Family things.” He didn't think he'd have to explain further, but you raised your brows expectantly at him. He knew you wanted a better answer, yet he still questioned it. “What?”
“I’m a nosy woman. I want to know things.” You shrug and look back at the trio you left behind before looking back at him. “I won’t tell.”
Draco followed suite, staring at his friends. Sure he was supposedly considered one of their best friends, but he wasn't in control of how often he could see them. After all, he was still a Slytherin in the dungeons while they were Gryffindors, up in the castle's towers.
He shook his head and continued to walk, his voice small and almost numb compared to his usual cocky behavior. “My father wants me to find a suitor.”
Your brows shoot up in surprise at the reveal, biting your bottom lip at the sudden weight you felt from his father's ask. Ethically, it was a terrible thing to ask you son to do when he was seventeen—turning eighteen this upcoming school year.
“Like, a girlfriend?” You ask, still dumbfounded by the revelation.
“Yes, Potter. Like a girlfriend.” Draco muttered. “He expects one or he’ll set me up with someone I don’t know.”
“That’s…” Your steps falter as the words die on your tongue, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “That’s terrible, I didn’t know he would do that.”
“Most people don’t know how strict he truly is.” He shrugged and shifted his gaze toward the ocean, hands picking at one another. “He tends to hide all the negative things—thinks that no one can see that he’ll never change from his pureblooded ways.”
You stare off at the distance as well, the sand rising from wind prickling at your skin. You hated to admit it, but Draco was right. Most of the pureblooded families these days still upheld old traditions that seemed ridiculous now.
“I get it.” You say quietly after a beat, earning an unimpressed look from the blonde. “I do. My dad…" You shake your head, "He forgets that my mum is muggleborn sometimes and gets a little too angry when she doesn’t get what he means.” You mess with the ends of your hair, clearing your suddenly dry throat. “They resolve the issue pretty quickly, but it doesn’t change the fact that under all the change, he’s still a pureblooded wizard.”
Draco looked over at you with soft eyes you've never seen before—it kind of freaked you out. You shake a smile off your face, understanding why he was so freaked out over you being nice to him. If you really tried, you could see flecks of blue in his grey eyes.
“Maybe you and I aren’t so different then, Potter.” He said so delicately that you swore the wind carried it your way.
You tilt your head at him, eyes locked with his. “Maybe not.”
His eyes roamed your face, as if he was memorizing the smallest details in a calculated pattern—which he was. You knew the bastard was using the triangle method to fluster you.
And it worked.
“Oi! What are you two doing all the way out there?” Ron shouted from where he stood with Harry and Hermione by the bunch of towels and woven basket, waving a wrapped sandwich in the air. “We’re gonna start lunch without you lot!”
The trio looked at one another in amusement when they saw how close the two of you stood without yelling at each other. They were definitely going to tease the two of you later—more so Ron being an ass and asking a billion questions.
Both of you snapped out of your daze and looked back at the three Gryffindors, the two of you stepping away from each other at the realization of how close you truly were.
You shook your head and gestured toward Ron in efforts to slow your heart that was beating a little too loud and fast for your liking. “He’s always eating.” You murmur and earn a snort from the blonde beside you. “Don’t laugh, you eat a bunch too.”
He gave you a pointed look, almost daring you to look. “I do not.”
“Mhm.” You begin to walk away from him and back toward the small setup, although Draco caught your up-and-down glance from the corner of your eyes. “I think a summer with you won’t be too bad.”
“Maybe not.” Draco murmured under his breath and fought the smile on his face, catching up with you and finding his spot next to you on your right.
i’m okay with fluff, angst, comfort, hurt/comfort, suggestive content and smut, whether it’s soft, romantic, messy, jealous or more intense.
i don’t write incest, non-con, extreme/brutal kinks or heavy violence. i may not write every request, but you’re always welcome to send ideas, prompts or little thoughts. please be respectful and patient ♡
𝐋𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐘
˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 ˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
♡ Mrs. Kennedy
★ leon kennedy x reader
★ re9!leon x fem!reader, 18+, nsfw, established relationship, age gap, anxiety, emotional vulnerability, breeding kink, fluff, no use of y/n.
♡Never have I ever
★ leon kennedy x reader
★re4!leon x fem!reader, 18+, explicit smut, friends to lovers, mutual pining, past situationship, alcohol use, group teasing, emotional tension.
♡I knew you'd come
★ leon kennedy x reader
★ re9!leon x female agent!reader, 18+, explicit smut, canon-typical violence, infected/virus themes, body horror, injury, blood, near-death situations, rescue mission dynamics, past relationship angst, aftercare.
♡He kept bringing me coffee
★ leon kennedy x reader
★ re2r!leon x fem!reader, 18+, fluff, soft smut, first time, established relationship, consent checks, reassurance, gentle leon, aftercare, wholesome intimacy, no use of y/n.
♡Hold me where it hurts
★ leon kennedy x reader
★ re4!leon x reader, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, PTSD/nightmares, trauma response, accidental violence during sleep, choking/strangulation, panic, guilt, emotional breakdown, comfort, no use of y/n.
♡A place that's already yours
★ leon kennedy x reader
★ re9!leon x reader, younger wife!reader, age gap, marriage, established relationship, Ada Wong mention, jealousy, insecurity, emotional hurt/comfort, soft angst, fluff, implied intimacy, no use of y/n.
♡ After hours training
★ leon kennedy x reader
★ re9!leon x fem!reader, 18+, coworkers to lovers, friends with benefits to feelings, age gap, explicit smut, inexperienced reader, oral sex, unprotected sex, riding/cowgirl, dirty talk, praise, mild possessiveness, jealousy, soft aftercare, no use of y/n.
˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 ˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
♡Ours, despite everything
★ part 1 / part 2 / part 3
★re9!leon x fem!reader, unexpected pregnancy, unplanned parenthood, pregnancy angst, emotional tension, fear and uncertainty, childbirth, new parents, family life, domestic fluff, soft leon, no use of y/n.
˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
♡rookie!Leon Kennedy who finally lets himself be loved
SUMMARY: Agent Kennedy is a smartass, so he reopens his stitches.
PAIRING: Leon S. Kennedy/ fem!Reader
TAGS: Reader is the doctor, Any era leon works, Fluff and a little crack if you squint, Hunnigan gave him the balls, we love lonely men, a little beta read.
𖦹 Word Count: 2,009 𖦹 Ao3
"Agent Kennedy, you need to stop moving." Your voice cut through, quite displeased by his constant fidgeting. You had patched him up merely two days ago; he had seventeen stitches across his abdomen, fresh bandaging and a lecture he could probably recite word for word by now.
Avoid strain. No sudden movement. Rest for at least forty-eight hours.
Simple instructions.
Instructions Leon Kennedy had apparently treated as optional.
Leon was not foreign to the concept of stitches and so you were sure there would be no complications this time as well. Lo and behold, 'I was bored so I went to the camp' which led to your current predicament.
“Says the lady currently driving a needle through my skin,” he muttered with a strained groan, finally leaning back against the operating chair.
"You were the one who denied local anaesthesia. If you want I could still-" You were cut off by him almost immediately. "I don't need local ana-thing for 5 stitches" He said as if you had offended him by even suggesting it.
Men.
"Then don't move again. I mean it." Sternly, this time.
"You got it doc."
Keeping his word, he stopped moving, the only sign that he was not under an anaesthetic being the faces he was making every time the needle went through. The stitching, being superficial, was done relatively fast. You moved away and discarded your gloves.
"I'm writing you up on a strict recovery leave for the next two weeks" , you said flatly as you reached for the clipboard resting on the counter nearby.
Leon’s head snapped up so fast you almost feared he had torn another stitch. "Oh, come on, doc, don't do this to me. Hell, I'm pretty sure you're not even allowed to do that."
“Doctor’s authority overrides field assignment if an operative is deemed medically unfit for active duty,” you recited. “Would you like me to continue, or have you memorised this lecture too?”
Leon stared at you for a long second before letting out a quiet sigh through his nose.
“That’s low.”
“What’s low is reopening your stitches because you got bored.” Moving to your desk and sitting down, you picked up his file.
“In my defence, it wasn’t entirely my fault.”
You finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “You voluntarily went to a training camp two days after abdominal sutures.”
“They needed me there!” He replied quick on his feet.
"You told me you went because you were bored." Another flat look.
A beat of silence "Well, I was bored and they needed help with the rookies."
"Leon, we are not arguing about this. You need rest. As your doctor its my responsibility to make sure you stay in good health and shape" You set the clipboard down on the desk with a sharp tap, turning back to face him.
He slumped back onto the operating chair with a groan. "Fine. You're the boss. I'll sit at home and do nothing. Rot basically. Cause that's what u want me to do. Rot."
"Leon."
"No no. Do as you please. Don't let my misery bother you."
"Agent Kennedy."
That finally got his attention.
Barely.
He dragged a hand down his face before peering at you through brown-blond strands falling over tired blue eyes. “You know, people usually buy me dinner before threatening my entire lifestyle.”
You crossed your arms. “People usually don't reopen stitches out of boredom.”
A soft smile took home on his face all the while looking like he was seconds away from falling asleep. Cute. Adorable even. The small voice in your head even urged you to run ur fingers through his hair. How unprofessional, you scolded yourself mentally.
“You’re exhausted,” you said, gentler this time.
“I’m functioning.”
“You were limping when you came in.”
“Hey now you're just being dramatic.”
How stubborn can someone possibly be, level Leon Scott Kennedy. You exhaled slowly through your nose, fighting the urge to smile. Fighting and losing, apparently, because his eyes narrowed the second he caught it.
“There it is,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“That thing.”
You frowned. “Very descriptive.”
“The smile.” He gestured vaguely toward your face. “You try not to do it around me.”
Your heartbeat performed an unhelpful little backflip.
“That is objectively untrue.” Quick to defend yourself and only receiving a "mmhmm" from his end.
"FYI, I'm very professional, I do not laugh and giggle with any of the government agents I'm assigned to. Ever." You said trying to gain some of the ground back for it to all be yeeted out the window when leon dramatically clutches his chest.
"Agents. There are multiple? You're telling me I'm not the only one?"
You roll your eyes and get up to wash the tools you used. Distracting. Or at least trying your best to distract yourself. That was until Leon spoke up again.
"I think you tolerate me quite professionally.” His voice dipped lower, softer around the edges. “I think the smiling part’s separate.” And thank god you were'nt facing him cause he would have totally caught onto how warm that sentence just made you.
"You're avoiding the real topic." You said trying to go back to medical leaves.
"You're deflecting." God did he ever stop, or was he on a mission to break his poor doctor's composure today?
Nope. Not today.
"You need sleep." You said placing the washed stuff back where it belongs
"Cruel" Came a quick reply
"And at least two weeks off duty."
"Crueler."
With that, you turned back only to see him staring at the ceiling as if he had been sentenced to death. You cleared your throat and sat back down at your desk, flipping through his file in an attempt to regain some level of professionalism. “Your vitals are stable for now. But if those stitches reopen again, you’ll need another full closure.”
“Sounds romantic.” You chose to ignore that one.
“You’ll need to come back in a week so I can remove the stitches.”
“A whole week without seeing me?” he mused. “How tragic.”
“You say that like you don’t appear here every three business days.”
“That’s unfair.” To which I replied, "hardly," before standing up and making my way to his other reports to add them into the file as well.
Another silence settled between you.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that made you aware of stupid things.
Like the fact Leon’s voice always sounded rougher when he was tired.
Or how he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking.
Or how unfairly good-looking someone had no business being while half-drugged on painkillers. You could feel his gaze lingering again. It made concentrating nearly impossible.
“Why do you do that?” he asked suddenly.
You looked up. “Do what?”
“Act like you don’t like me.”
You nearly dropped the clipboard.
“I never said I didn’t like you.”
“You don’t have to.” His smile turned faintly crooked. “You get all professional whenever things stop being about medical stuff.”
“That is generally how being a doctor works.”
“Mm. See? There it is again.”
You set the clipboard down with perhaps slightly more force than necessary. “You are reading too much into things.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Before you could respond, Leon shifted forward in the chair with a quiet grunt. Immediately, your expression sharpened. “What did I just say about moving?”
“I dropped my phone!”
You are quick to pick it up and hand it to him. And as if on cue, it rang loudly in his hand.
Leon glanced at the screen and groaned dramatically. “Great. Hunnigan.”
“Answer it.”
“She’s gonna yell at me.”
“You deserve it.”
He narrowed his eyes at you before answering anyway. “Hey.”
You busied yourself backl with his file while he spoke.
Or rather, while he got scolded.
“Yes, I’m at medical.”
Pause.
“No, I’m fine.”
Longer pause.
“I said I’m fine.”
You heard a faint muffled voice and had to fight down a smile.
Leon pointed accusingly toward you while talking into the phone. “See? This is workplace bullying. You and her. You both are teaming up against me.”
You snorted quietly.
Apparently, that was audible enough because Hunnigan’s voice sharpened through the receiver.
Leon sighed heavily. “Okay, okay. Yes ma’am.”
Another pause.
Then his expression shifted slightly.
Subtler.
Softer.
His eyes flicked toward you briefly before he looked away again.
“...No,” he said after a moment. “Not yet.”
Your brows furrowed slightly.
Not yet?
Hunnigan must have said something else because Leon suddenly rubbed his face with his free hand.
“You are literally making this worse.”
Now you were curious.
Very curious.
A beat later, he hung up and tossed the phone onto his lap.
You crossed your arms. “Problems?”
"Aren't there always?...You know what I've realised, doc?" I looked at him, confused, "What have you realised?"
“I like being here.”
You blinked. “In medical?”
“In your office.”
Your heart stumbled traitorously. Was he smooth-talking right now?
“That might genuinely be the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’m serious.”
You looked at him carefully.
He looked exhausted still. Pale under the fluorescent lights. Hair falling into tired eyes. Stubbornness practically radiated off him in waves.
But underneath all of that was something else.
Ease. Like this was one of the few places where he could unclench for a minute.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
The rain outside had softened into a steady rhythm against the windows. Somewhere farther down the hall, footsteps passed and faded again.
Leon Kennedy looked unfairly pretty while exhausted.
"So...I've got a question for you", Leon spoke up, breaking the quiet. "Sure. What is it?" You noticed the slight shift in posture. The hesitation. The way his gaze flicked away for half a second before returning to yours.
“I was wondering...” He cleared his throat lightly. “If maybe you’d want to get dinner sometime.”
Your brain stopped functioning.
Completely.
You stared at him.
Leon immediately grimaced. “Wow. That bad, huh?”
“What?”
“The silence. Usually not a great sign.”
“No, I just…” You blinked rapidly. “You’re asking me out?”
"Well, I was trying to.” A faint flush touched the tips of his ears. “Kinda crashing and burning now.”
“You’re serious?” you said.
You folded your arms again mostly to hide the fact your hands suddenly had nowhere sensible to go. “Agent Kennedy, are you aware that there are probably regulations about this?”
“Probably.”
“And you didn’t even hesitate?”
“I hesitated for like six months.”
Your eyes widened slightly. “Six months!?”
“Listen,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m not exactly great at this anymore.”
The honesty in that statement hit unexpectedly hard.
Not self-pitying.
Just truthful.
Careful.
Like someone testing whether the ground beneath them would hold.
“You could’ve asked someone else,” you pointed out softly.
He looked at you for a long moment.
Then, quieter than before, “Didn’t want someone else.”
The room went still. Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far in the distance.
Leon leaned back again, clearly deciding he’d already embarrassed himself enough for one evening. “Anyway. You can say no. I figured I’d ask before you banished me to house arrest.”
"Wh-I...well..uhh." Words and thoughts had completely escaped you because this was genuinely the last thing you thought would happen.
"Hey its ok, you know? It's fine. I'm a big boy, I can take rejections."
You shook your head, trying desperately to ignore the stupid fluttering in your chest. “Leon.”
His expression softened slightly at the sound of his name.
“I’m serious” he said quietly.
"Well...You are going to recover first." And upon hearing that, he visibly perked up. As if you had just given a golden retriever its favourite treat. And god did the sudden, wide-eyed hopefulness look adorable on him.
"...and after?" He asked carefully
You tried to maintain professionalism.
You truly did. But the small smile found your face anyways. "After...maybe dinner."
Leon stared for exactly one second before visibly relaxing with a smile as he looked at you.
“There it is again,” he said softly.
You frowned slightly. “What?”
“That smile.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
A/n: First leon fic!! Not sure how I feel about it tho. Did you guys like it?
❥𝖨𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽!!
Synopsis: you and Leon are DSO partners. While infiltrating an umbrella facility, Leon gets infected by a new virus strain. One that mutates quickly when the person they love is within proximity.
Words: 7.6k
Part two here
A/N: it's just sex pollen, I just wrote some nonsense science to make it work lol. This is part one because I'm a crazy person that can never just sit down and write smut. I have to turn it into a 7.6k word angst build up. Not proof read because I don't believe in it, only raw passion and first drafts. You can imagine whatever Leon you want, it won't really matter in-text
Requested by my girly @angellwingsss
Some elements borrowed from this sex pollen fic here
Rain hammered the mountainside hard enough to blur the world beyond the windshield into streaks of gray and silver.
The Umbrella facility sat buried beneath it all, entangled with a dense forest that climbed over reinforced concrete like nature had tried to erase the place.
Leon killed the engine beside the tree line and the silence that followed felt tense.
For a moment neither of you moved. Rain ticked steadily against the roof. The dashboard cast faint blue light across Leon’s face, catching the sharp line of his jaw and the exhaustion settled beneath his eyes.
He looked older in low lighting. Worn in the way only years of surviving impossible things could make someone.
“You ready?” you asked quietly.
Leon checked his sidearm one final time.
“Never,” he answered.
Then he looked at you. He seemed to get more rigid.
“C’mon,” he murmured. “Let’s go ruin another corporation.”
You snorted softly under your breath as you pulled your hood up.
The two of you moved through the forest without speaking after that. You didn’t need to anymore. Years as partners had carved communication into instinct between you both.
Small gestures and glances. Shifts in posture that told a whole story. Leon could read your intentions before you fully acted on them, and you had long since learned the meaning behind every quiet look he gave you.
The rain soaked through your clothes within minutes.
Cold branches dragged against tactical gear as you descended the ridge toward the hidden entrance built into the mountainside. Moss crawled over thick reinforced doors nearly invisible beneath the rock face.
Umbrella always did love dramatic architecture.
You crouched beside the security panel while Leon positioned himself behind you automatically, broad frame partially shielding you from the rain while he scanned the tree line.
“You’re hovering,” you murmured while pulling wires free from the access port.
“You’re slow.”
“You’re old.”
“That one actually hurt.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Behind you, Leon’s hand rested loosely near the small of your back, protective in the unconscious way he always became during missions.
The keypad flickered green beneath your fingers.
“There we go.”
The heavy doors unlocked with a deep mechanical groan that echoed into darkness below.
Cold air rolled upward from the underground corridor carrying the faint smell of antiseptic, rust, and something worse underneath it all.
Decay.
Leon stepped slightly in front of you on instinct.
“You smell that?” you asked quietly.
“Yeah.”
His voice lowered.
“Stay sharp.”
The facility interior was dimly lit with emergency power only. Long concrete corridors stretched endlessly beneath flickering lights. Water dripped steadily somewhere deeper underground. Old Umbrella logos still marked sections of the walls despite years of abandonment.
Or supposed abandonment.
Your boots echoed softly beside Leon’s as you advanced deeper into the structure.
“You ever think maybe we deserve normal jobs?” you whispered.
He adjusted the rifle hanging against his chest before nodding toward a rusted blood smear dragged across the hallway floor.
“Little late for emotional stability.”
You followed the trail with your flashlight. The blood disappeared beneath a security door partially ajar at the far end of the corridor.
Leon moved first automatically. You covered him without discussion. Years of this.
Years of knowing exactly where the other person would stand before either of you consciously decided it.
The lab beyond had been torn apart. Research terminals smashed. Glass containment chambers shattered inward. Black stains climbed the walls in strange branching patterns that looked almost organic.
Your stomach tightened.
“Jesus,” you whispered.
Leon’s expression hardened immediately.
“Recent,” he said.
One gloved hand brushed lightly against your elbow as he passed you to inspect one of the overturned workstations.
You crouched near a terminal still flickering weakly with power.
“Got something,” you murmured.
Leon appeared beside you almost instantly, warm despite the cold underground air.
Your shoulder brushed his briefly as you pulled up corrupted files across the cracked monitor screen.
Human experimentation. Bioweapon integration.
Neural conditioning.
The usual Umbrella nightmare fuel.
Then, a file marked ACTIVE SUBJECTS.
Leon went still beside you. “Open it.”
You clicked and began reading something out loud.
Leon barely heard it. He was lost in sudden thought.
The mission had gone too smoothly.
This place felt…prepared. There had been almost no resistance.
You stopped reading and looked at him.
“You’re brooding again,” you murmured quietly.
Leon scanned the room one more time.
“Something’s off.”
You glanced back toward him over your shoulder then.
“Can’t you just be thankful,” you said. “No alarms. No B.O.W.s. No psychotic monologue. Honestly, this is kinda refreshing.”
Leon’s jaw tightened.
“No,” he said quietly. “This is worse.”
Leon stepped toward the main terminal slowly, eyes narrowing. He peeked around the corner.
You don't know what he saw, because at that moment, the computer screen glitched and drew your attention.
“Move,” he snapped instantly.
You reacted immediately because you trusted his instincts more than your own.
A loud metallic slam echoed somewhere deep within the facility.
Both of you turned immediately.
There was another sound.
Footsteps. Too many.
Leon grabbed your arm instantly and pulled you behind overturned lab equipment just as tactical lights flooded the corridor outside.
It wasn't a swarm of infected.
It was a unit of soldiers, organized and armed.
“Thought this place was abandoned,” you breathed.
Leon’s jaw tightened.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Me too.”
Voices crackled through radios outside the lab.
You counted at least eight. Maybe more.
Leon leaned close enough that his shoulder pressed firmly against yours, speaking low near your ear.
“East hallway. Service elevator. We move fast.”
You nodded once.
He looked at you for one extra second afterward.
Then both of you moved simultaneously.
Leon burst from cover first with terrifying precision, dropping the nearest guard before the others fully reacted. Gunfire exploded through the corridor. You covered the opposite flank automatically while Leon advanced ahead of you.
Years of missions together turned combat into choreography.
One moved. The other compensated.
Perfect.
You almost reached the elevator corridor cleanly, but the second you were about to cross the threshold, steel shutters detonated downward from the ceiling with a deafening crash that sealed every exit simultaneously.
Red emergency lighting flooded the corridor.
And then came the voice, broadcast overhead through the facility speakers.
“Good evening, Agent Kennedy.”
You froze.
Leon didn’t.
His weapon was already raised, eyes tracking every possible angle.
“Observation confirms previous reports were accurate,” the voice continued conversationally. “Your response times remain exceptional.”
Your stomach dropped.
Leon’s expression darkened instantly.
They knew exactly who he was.
“Unfortunately,” the voice continued, “your psychological profile also remains consistent.”
Gas hissed violently from vents overhead.
Leon’s head snapped upward instantly. “Gas!”
White vapor flooded downward from hidden vents across the ceiling.
Your lungs burned immediately, vision blurring.
Leon grabbed your arm hard enough to steady you as your knees nearly buckled.
“Don’t breathe it,” he ordered roughly.
You tried. God, you tried, but the world tilted violently anyways.
You pulled your gas mask free from where it hung in your utility belt, but it was too late for you. With your last remaining dexterity, you tugged it over Leon's face.
He almost pushed you away, but one hand was holding you and the other was aiming his gun.
He could have kept going. Leon Kennedy absolutely could have kept going. He would have found a way to escape.
Extraction had still been possible for him. Mission survival was still possible.
But he wouldn't go alone.
He dropped beside you instantly while gunfire closed in around both of you.
“You hit?” he demanded through the mask.
You tried standing. Your leg buckled immediately.
“Leon, go,” you said, your words slurring.
“Yeah,” he said breathlessly, aiming down sights again. “Not happening.”
“Leon–”
“Save it.”
Leon shoved himself between you and the advancing soldiers. You could see the fight still burning through him stubbornly as he fired down the corridor one-handed while holding you upright with the other.
Then even Leon staggered, and somehow, that scared you more than the guns.
His breathing turned ragged. Heavy.
One knee hit the ground hard.
“Leon–”
“I got you,” he rasped.
Dark figures surrounded both of you through the haze.
Leon tried to stand again and failed.
A hand grabbed the back of his tactical vest and forced him downward. Another reached for you.
Leon reacted instantly despite barely remaining conscious, like a feral animal’s last stand.
His hand caught someone by the throat hard enough to slam them against the wall before another blow struck the back of his head.
Everything blurred.
The last thing you saw clearly was Leon turning toward you through the gas, fighting against hands dragging him backward.
Still trying to reach you.
Then darkness swallowed both of you whole.
This had been engineered perfectly.
Not to stop any agent. It was specifically to trap Leon Kennedy.
Umbrella understood something most people didn’t: Leon’s greatest vulnerability had never been recklessness.
It was love.
Umbrella was building a weapon, and they wanted to test it on DSO’s greatest agent. But to do it, they needed one very specific element.
The thing Leon Kennedy loved.
You.
Consciousness returned slowly.
The first sensation was pain.
A brutal throbbing at the back of your skull pulsed in time with your heartbeat while nausea rolled heavily through your stomach. Your wrists burned next. Metal restraints bit sharply into skin already rubbed raw from movement you didn’t remember making.
Then came the cold.
Concrete beneath your boots.
Stale underground air.
The faint chemical smell of antiseptic and blood.
Your eyes opened carefully.
Dim industrial lights buzzed overhead, casting pale fluorescence across a large containment room stripped nearly bare except for drains built into the floor and heavy equipment lining the walls.
And directly across from you was Leon.
Relief hit so fast it almost hurt.
He was tied to a steel chair several feet away facing you, wrists restrained behind the backrest, shoulders tense beneath torn tactical gear. Blood streaked one side of his face.
His blond hair hung damply across his forehead, shadowing eyes already fixed entirely on you.
The instant he saw your eyes open fully, something in his expression eased.
“You with me?” he asked quietly.
His voice sounded rougher than usual.
You swallowed against the dryness in your throat.
“Unfortunately.”
One corner of his mouth twitched faintly.
Thank God.
Even drugged, restrained, and bleeding, Leon still managed to look like a man other people should be afraid of.
The sound of approaching footsteps cut through the room.
Leon’s attention sharpened instantly.
The heavy steel door opened moments later and three armed figures entered alongside a fourth man dressed not like security, but research staff.
Unlike the guards, he looked almost excited.
Thin man. Wire-frame glasses. White coat too pristine for a facility like this. He carried a tablet beneath one arm and a secured metal case in the other hand.
Leon noticed the case instantly. His expression hardened.
The researcher approached slowly, studying Leon with visible fascination.
“It’s remarkable finally meeting you in person,” he said conversationally. “You’ve disrupted years of research, Agent Kennedy.”
Leon said nothing.
The researcher smiled slightly.
“Yes. That aligns with your profile.”
He set the metal case carefully atop a nearby table before glancing down at the tablet in his hand.
“Former RPD officer. Federal agent. Counter-bioterrorism specialist.” His eyes lifted again. “Repeated exposure to enhanced viral strains without psychological collapse.”
Leon gave him the ol’ Kennedy-interrogation special: firm eye-contact and silence.
The researcher tilted his head thoughtfully.
“And most importantly, extreme attachment inhibition.”
Your brow furrowed slightly.
“You playing therapist or torturing us?” you ask, still groggy.
The researcher smiled in your direction.
“I suppose she is charming. In the way men like you might like.”
You ignored him to look at the guards. They had begun moving, approaching either side of Leon while the researcher paced slowly between your chairs.
“For years,” he continued, “Umbrella’s successors have struggled with a central problem regarding adaptive bioweapons.”
He sounded like a professor giving a lecture.
“The more emotionally advanced the host remains, the more unstable the mutation becomes. Human attachment creates competing neurological priorities.” He smiled faintly. “Love, as it turns out, is chemically inconvenient.”
You glanced toward Leon.
His jaw had tightened slightly.
The researcher noticed immediately.
“However,” he continued smoothly, “our recent work produced an interesting discovery.”
He tapped something across the tablet.
A monitor flickered alive nearby displaying medical scans and neural activity maps.
“The parasite strain responds aggressively to oxytocin, dopamine fixation, cortisol spikes associated with emotional attachment…” His eyes gleamed now. “In simple terms, proximity to a deeply bonded subject accelerates mutation dramatically.”
Your stomach tightened.
The researcher turned fully toward Leon now.
“We needed subjects capable of profound attachment while also possessing sufficient combat survivability to withstand transformation.”
Still Leon said nothing.
But you saw it.
The faint shift in his breathing. The increasing stillness.
He understood where this was going before you did.
“You were selected because psychologically, you appeared ideal,” the researcher said. “A highly disciplined subject with years of suppressed emotional conditioning.”
Leon finally spoke, low and flat.
“You built a virus around love?”
The researcher smiled.
“A gross oversimplification. But essentially, yes.”
One of the guards stepped closer toward you.
Leon’s attention twitched there instantly.
The movement was microscopic, but everyone in the room noticed.
The researcher’s smile widened.
“Ah,” he murmured softly.
You felt your pulse begin climbing.
This wasn’t interrogation. This was observation. They weren’t trying to learn about the mission.
They were studying Leon.
The researcher crouched slightly in front of him.
“Our issue,” he explained gently, “is confirmation. Emotional attachment is notoriously difficult to verify in psychologically compartmentalized subjects.”
Leon stared at him coldly. “So you kidnapped us to find out.”
“You came to us, actually.”
The researcher nodded once toward the guards.
One of them grabbed your jaw hard enough to bruise.
Leon moved instantly. The steel chair shrieked violently against the floor as he lunged forward hard enough to strain the restraints.
“Don’t,” he said.
The word cracked through the room sharp enough to make even the guards pause.
The researcher watched Leon carefully now, fascinated.
“There,” he whispered. “Again.”
Your stomach dropped.
Oh God.
Leon realized it too. He immediately went still, like he was trying to physically bury every emotion back beneath concrete.
The researcher sighed softly.
“You understand our position. We cannot proceed with inoculation until emotional reciprocity is confirmed.”
You frowned. “Inoculation?”
The metal case clicked open. Inside rested several vials filled with dark iridescent fluid.
The researcher removed one carefully. The liquid inside shifted strangely beneath the lights, almost moving toward warmth.
Your blood ran cold.
“The strain amplifies attachment-based neural pathways until they override higher behavioral inhibition,” the researcher explained calmly. “Affection becomes fixation. Fixation becomes dependency. Dependency becomes obedience.”
One of the guards suddenly forced your head backward by your hair.
The syringe appeared in the researcher’s hand.
Leon’s face changed instantly. It was raw protective terror that ripped violently through every layer of restraint he possessed.
“Stop,” he said immediately.
The researcher’s eyes lit with excitement.
“There it is.”
The needle hovered near your throat.
You tried jerking away but the guard held you firmly in place.
“Please,” the researcher said almost kindly to Leon. “This becomes much simpler if you cooperate.”
Leon’s chest rose sharply once, then again. His eyes never left the syringe.
“What do you want?” he asked tightly.
“Confirmation.”
The researcher smiled faintly.
“You love her, don’t you?”
Leon gave them nothing.
The syringe moved closer.
Leon’s restraints creaked audibly beneath the force of his grip.
“Agent Kennedy,” the researcher continued softly, “if attachment exists, the virus will bond aggressively through proximity. If it does not…” He shrugged lightly. “Well. Then she dies.”
Your heart slammed hard against your ribs.
“Leon,” you said immediately. “Don’t.”
His eyes finally found yours.
Whatever you intended to say next died instantly in your throat, because Leon looked devastated.
The researcher pressed the needle lightly against your skin.
“Leon,” you said, forcing your voice into softness. “It's ok. I'll be ok,” you try to convince him but he knows better.
“Don't give them what they want,” you continued.
“No?” the researcher asked, the needle pressing against your skin just so, threatening to pierce through.
Leon broke.
He closed his eyes briefly like something inside him finally gave way. Then looked at the researcher again, exhausted and completely honest.
“If she gets hurt,” Leon said quietly, “there won’t be enough left of this place to study.”
Silence swallowed the room.
The guards exchanged uneasy glances immediately.
Even the researcher stared at him differently now.
Because that wasn’t denial.
That wasn’t even really an admission.
What it was, was devotion so complete that Leon could no longer imagine a version of the world that continued existing without you alive inside it.
The researcher smiled slowly.
“Excellent.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Wait–”
The guards released you abruptly, and before either of you fully understood, they moved toward Leon instead.
His eyes narrowed instantly.
The researcher approached him with the syringe.
“You were always the intended subject.”
Leon surged against the restraints as the needle plunged into his neck.
Leon’s body arched hard enough to nearly overturn the chair completely. A strangled sound tore from him as the dark fluid disappeared into his bloodstream.
Then suddenly, his breathing stopped. Leon simply froze. Every muscle locked rigid beneath his skin.
Then his head lifted slowly.
And his eyes found you.
Instantly.
Like something biological had just rewritten the entire architecture of his DNA around your existence.
The researcher whispered in awe behind him.
“Oh… it worked.”
Nobody was watching you anymore. That was their first mistake.
Every eye in the room had shifted toward Leon the moment the virus entered his bloodstream. The guards stepped closer, weapons raised as his body strained against the steel chair.
Even the researcher had forgotten himself enough to move nearer, utterly captivated by what was happening to Leon in real time.
You used the distraction immediately. Slowly, carefully, you flexed your right wrist against the restraint again.
Pain flared sharply where metal had already scraped skin raw, but you ignored it. Earlier, while they had been occupied threatening you, you’d managed to shift the angle of the cuff just slightly against the chair frame. Not enough to free yourself then.
Enough now.
Leon made another strangled sound across the room.
Your eyes snapped toward him involuntarily.
God.
His breathing had become uneven to the point of violence. Every muscle in his body stood taut beneath torn black fabric, veins visible along his forearms where the restraints cut into him. But worst of all were his eyes.
They kept finding you.
Constantly.
Like something inside him had been rewired toward your existence so completely that even pain couldn’t interrupt it.
The researcher stepped directly in front of him now, speaking rapidly into a recorder.
Your left hand slipped free. You went still instantly.
No reaction from the guards.
Good.
Very slowly, you lowered your freed hand behind the chair, masking the movement beneath the angle of your body while you worked the second restraint loose.
Across the room, Leon suddenly jerked hard enough to drag the entire steel chair several inches across concrete.
One of the guards swore under his breath.
“Hold him down.”
Leon’s head lifted sharply at that.
You saw exactly why people feared him. When Leon Kennedy truly lost control, he became terrifyingly focused.
The guard nearest him reached toward your side of the room.
Leon reacted immediately.
“No.”
The word cracked through the chamber low and wrecked and lethal all at once.
The guard froze.
So did you.
Because underneath the distortion in his voice, underneath the infection and pain and rage, there was fear at the thought of losing you.
The researcher turned back toward Leon with visible fascination.
“Incredible,” he whispered.
Nobody noticed your second restraint fall silently open.
You stayed perfectly still for another heartbeat anyway, wrists free now but hidden carefully behind the chair.
His pupils widened instantly the moment he realized your hands were free.
Something fierce and relieved crossed his face so quickly it almost hurt to look at, but he said nothing.
He just held your gaze while another tremor tore visibly through his body.
Trusting you completely, like he already knew exactly what you were about to do.
You moved.
The freed restraint whipped around the nearest guard’s throat before he fully reacted. His weapon clattered uselessly to the floor as you drove your elbow backward into his ribs hard enough to hear something crack.
Another guard shouted.
You kicked his knee sideways and grabbed the dropped firearm before he hit the ground.
Gunfire erupted deafeningly through the containment room.
The researcher screamed and ducked.
The guard stumbled backward.
You dropped another man with two shots center mass before spinning toward the researcher.
“Don’t–”
You slammed him unconscious with the butt of the pistol before he finished speaking.
Silence crashed suddenly over the room afterward except for ragged breathing.
You turned instantly toward Leon.
He was still restrained partially to the chair, head lowered, breathing hard enough that his entire chest strained beneath torn tactical gear.
“Leon.”
No response.
You hurried toward him immediately, kicking weapons aside as you crossed the room.
The second you got close, he recoiled.
Violently.
The chair legs screeched backward across concrete as Leon shoved himself away from you hard enough to nearly tip over entirely.
Your stomach dropped.
“Leon?”
His head lifted sharply.
Something deep inside you went cold when you saw that his pupils were blown wide.
Unfocused.
His breathing had become uneven, every inhale visibly forced through clenched teeth. Sweat dampened strands of blond hair against his forehead now despite the freezing room.
And his eyes, God. The way he was looking at you, like he was starving. Like being near you physically hurt him somehow.
“Don’t,” he rasped immediately when you reached for him again.
You ignored him and crouched beside the restraints anyway.
“Gonna get you out,” you rushed, hands fiddling with the locks.
“Don’t.”
His voice sounded shredded now. Every word dragged out through visible effort.
You looked up at him, surprised.
He looked wrecked. He looked wild.
He looked sick. Slick with sweat, skin pale.
“Shut up, Leon. Don't care what you're sick with. Gonna get you free, get you home, and get you fixed up.”
You couldn't pick the lock.
Stepped back, picked up the gun again, and shot through the chain.
Then you bent to help him up while studying him with growing alarm.
Skin flushed.
Elevated pulse.
Dilated pupils.
Muscle tension severe enough to tremble intermittently beneath the surface.
Drugged, definitely, but not in any way you recognized.
Leon stood immediately, then staggered hard enough to catch himself against the wall.
You reached instinctively toward him.
Big mistake.
The second your hand touched his arm, Leon made a sound you had never heard from him before.
Low. Almost painful.
His eyes squeezed shut hard enough to crease his entire expression while one shaking hand gripped your wrist.
Not pushing you away. He was holding himself back.
“Leon,” you said carefully.
He released you instantly like your skin burned him.
“Need you to back up,” he said roughly.
You stared at him. “What?”
His breathing worsened. Every second near you seemed to be affecting him more.
“You’re symptomatic,” you said immediately, switching automatically into mission mode. “Tell me exactly what you’re feeling.”
Leon laughed once. A terrible sound.
“Not gonna like the answer.”
You stepped closer again despite him. “Leon.”
His eyes snapped toward you instantly, hopelessly. Like he couldn’t stop looking.
You understood something horrifying.
Not because of what he said. Because of how hard he was trying not to say it.
The infection wasn’t making him violent. It was making him desperate.
For you.
Leon dragged one trembling hand down across his face like he physically could not keep himself together anymore.
“We need to move,” he said tightly.
You studied him harder now. Every symptom escalated in your presence.
Heart rate. Respiration. Physical agitation. And underneath all of it, restraint.
Leon was fighting himself harder than he had fought the guards.
“You’re resisting it,” you realized quietly.
His jaw flexed. “Trying.”
Another wave hit him visibly then.
His shoulders tightened sharply, breathing faltered.
And for one terrifying second, his eyes dropped to your mouth with naked hunger so intense it almost didn’t look human.
Then immediately filled with shame afterward.
He turned away hard enough to brace both hands against the wall.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered hoarsely to himself.
Your chest tightened painfully, because Leon Kennedy – older, exhausted, painfully disciplined Leon Kennedy – looked genuinely horrified by whatever this thing was making him feel.
And somehow, that frightened you more than if he’d lost control completely.
“You're not lookin so great,” you tell Leon.
He exhales a shaky breath.
“Not feelin so great.”
You try to help him up. He pushes you away.
You step closer. He steps further.
Leon staggered against the wall.
The sound made your pulse jump.
Every breath he took sounded wrong now, like his lungs had forgotten how to function normally.
“Fuck, Leon, you need to get your shit together so I can help you get your shit together.”
Leon braced against the wall, pressing his forehead against him.
“God, I need you to leave.”
He dropped his forehead against the wall again, like the pain was grounding him.
“Can't control myself.”
You watched him, lips parted, pulse erratic, uncertain.
Then you decided what to do.
“If you're not going to help me, I'll find someone who can,” you said and walked over to the researcher.
His forehead had a nasty gash from where you split it open.
You fisted the front of his shirt and hoisted him up, slapping him repeatedly on the cheek until his eyes fluttered.
“Hello?” you called harshly. “Get your ass up.”
The researcher’s head wobbled until he could hold up his own neck.
“Fix him,” you snapped.
The researcher laughed weakly.
“You don’t understand what you’re seeing.”
You slapped him hard enough to snap his head sideways.
“Fix. Him.”
Across the room, Leon made another low sound beneath his breath.
Your attention snapped toward him instantly. Mistake.
The second your eyes landed on him, something visibly changed inside his body.
His pupils dilated and his posture tightened. He looked back at you with unbearable intensity.
The researcher watched the interaction with horrible fascination.
“There,” he whispered breathlessly. “You see it?”
You turned back toward him furiously. “See what?”
“The mutation.”
Leon braced one hand hard against the wall beside him. The steel dented slightly beneath his grip.
Your stomach dropped. That had not been human strength.
The researcher pushed onward quickly now, intoxicated by his own work.
“The strain was designed to amplify attachment-based neurological pathways through adrenal adaptation. Emotional fixation that triggers biological enhancement.”
Leon’s breathing worsened.
You looked over at him, your brow furrowing in worry.
“Stay with me, Leon.”
At the sound of your voice, Leon let out a low whine and stepped back.
The researcher laughed again when Leon physically recoiled from the sound of your voice.
“Remarkable,” he breathed. “The proximity effect is escalating faster than projected.”
You grabbed the front of his coat again. “What did you do to him?”
The researcher smiled through bloodied teeth.
“The bonded subject becomes biologically euphoric and behaviorally dependent. Heightened dopamine response. Heightened oxytocin fixation. Sensory enhancement linked directly to emotional stimulus.”
You stared at him blankly.
He nodded toward Leon.
“He can smell you from across the room now.”
Your pulse skipped.
The researcher continued almost eagerly.
“Pheromones. Skin temperature changes. Heartbeat fluctuations.” He tilted his head toward Leon with scientific awe. “You are chemically overwhelming to him.”
Leon looked genuinely miserable hearing it spoken aloud.
“Shut up,” he muttered.
But the researcher only smiled wider.
“The closer he remains to the object of attachment, the more aggressive the mutation becomes. Enhanced reflexes. Enhanced strength. Enhanced healing. Elevated aggression responses toward perceived threats to the bond.”
You swallowed hard. “And if we separate?”
The researcher’s expression brightened. “Oh.”
He laughed softly.
“He won’t tolerate separation for long.”
Your stomach turned.
“What does that mean?”
The researcher leaned back slowly despite your grip on him.
“It means his nervous system now interprets distance from you as biological distress.”
You stared.
“He’ll become stronger near you,” the researcher continued. “Faster. More adaptive. More lethal.”
Another tremor visibly moved through Leon’s body behind you.
The researcher smiled.
“But it will also become unbearable.”
You slapped him again. Harder this time.
“How do we stop it?”
The researcher spat blood onto the concrete floor.
“You don’t.”
You hit him again.
He laughed anyway.
“There is no cure.”
The room fell silent except for Leon’s ragged breathing.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“No,” you said immediately. “No, there has to be something.”
The researcher finally relented slightly beneath another violent shove.
“It can be stabilized.”
You froze. “How?”
He glanced toward Leon knowingly first. Then back toward you.
“The neurotransmitter cascade must remain continuously flooded,” he explained. “If proximity escalates the bond response, then elevated intimacy can temporarily satiate it.”
You frowned. “What?”
The researcher smiled slowly.
Leon looked away immediately. You suddenly realized he understood perfectly.
Heat crawled up your neck. You stared between them both.
“Translate.”
Leon rubbed one shaking hand down across his face. “Don’t.”
“Leon.”
His jaw flexed hard.
The researcher answered for him with visible satisfaction.
“Sex.”
Silence detonated through the room.
You blinked once.
The researcher’s smile widened cruelly.
“Orgasms, specifically,” he clarified. “Many.”
Leon closed his eyes briefly like he wanted the floor to open beneath him. Meanwhile your entire brain had simply stopped functioning.
The researcher continued conversationally despite the absolute psychological devastation unfolding around him.
“The biochemical release temporarily suppresses the escalation cycle. Oxytocin stabilization. Dopamine saturation. Cortisol reduction.” He shrugged lightly. “Primitive solution, really.”
You slowly turned toward Leon. He still wouldn’t look at you.
Leon Kennedy suddenly looked more horrified by having this conversation in front of you than by the actual experimental virus mutating his body.
And underneath the embarrassment, underneath the strain and shame and biological desperation, you could still see it.
The same thing that had always been there. Devotion, absolute and unrelenting.
Leon still wouldn't let you help him. When you tried to get him to follow you out of the building, he wouldn't.
Kept saying he wasn't safe to be around.
But you damn sure weren't going to leave him.
Leon sat on the floor beside the far wall now with his head tipped back against concrete, breathing slow and uneven through parted lips.
His tactical jacket had long since been discarded somewhere behind you both. Sweat dampened the black fabric clinging to his shirt, outlining the sharp lines of muscle beneath it every time his chest rose.
He looked sick. His body seemed to be burning itself alive into something stronger.
You crouched carefully in front of him again, reaching for his face.
“Leon.”
His eyes closed instantly the second your hand touched him.
A rough sound escaped him beneath his breath.
Your stomach tightened.
He was fevering badly now. Heat radiated off him hard enough that you could feel it against your palms as you pressed your hand to his throat, then his forehead. His pulse hammered beneath damp skin.
“Jesus,” you whispered.
Leon laughed once weakly. “Yeah.”
But his eyes had already drifted downward again.
Back to your mouth.
The look on his face nearly unraveled you.
Not lust, not exactly. Hunger, maybe. A need so overwhelming it had become painful to contain.
And underneath it, terror.
Leon Kennedy was a man built entirely out of self-control, and you could feel him losing pieces of it every second you stayed this close.
You pulled your hand back carefully. Immediately his breathing worsened.
His fingers flexed once against the floor beside him like his body wanted to reach for you automatically.
He stopped himself.
“You need satiation,” you said quietly, pointing to the now-dead researcher on the other side of a closed door, as if he would back you up.
Leon looked away. “We don’t know that.”
“Yes we do.”
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead.
You forced yourself to continue.
“We get you stable enough to move,” you said carefully, “then we get back to HQ. They’ll figure out a cure.”
Leon stared at the floor between you both.
“And when it stops working?”
Your throat tightened. “What?”
“The satiation.” His voice sounded rough now. Exhausted. “What happens when the virus isn’t satisfied anymore?”
Satisfied.
God.
You swallowed hard.
“Then…” You forced yourself onward despite the heat crawling into your face. “Then I’ll help again.”
Leon’s eyes lifted slowly toward yours.
You held his gaze.
“As many times as necessary,” you said quietly. “Again and again if we have to. Until they fix you.”
Something shattered across his expression.
He stood abruptly and moved away from you so fast it startled you. One hand slammed hard against the opposite wall while he bowed his head sharply like he physically couldn’t withstand being close to you anymore.
“No.”
“Leon–”
“No.”
His voice cracked harshly through the room.
You stared at him.
His shoulders rose and fell heavily beneath the thin black fabric stretched across his back.
“I’m not doing that to you.”
“You’re not doing anything to me.”
He laughed again, but there was nothing amused in it this time.
“You think I can tell the difference right now?”
The words hit hard because maybe he was right.
Maybe this thing inside him had twisted every instinct he possessed into something unbearable and biological and desperate.
But even now, even like this, Leon was still trying to protect you from himself.
He dragged one hand down across his face slowly before finally looking back toward you again.
His pupils were enormous now.
“You deserve better than being cornered into something because of me. I'm not going to make my survival dependent on your body.”
“You’re not cornering me.”
“I can smell you.”
Your breath caught.
His eyes shuttered closed.
“God, you smell so–” then he remembered himself.
Leon swallowed hard afterward like he regretted saying it aloud immediately.
“I can hear your heartbeat,” he admitted quietly. “I know every time you move. Every time you breathe.” His jaw tightened painfully. “You walk closer and my body reacts before I can stop it. I can’t distinguish between what I genuinely feel for you and what this virus is…chemically forcing on me.”
You stood slowly. “Leon.”
He shook his head immediately. “No. Don’t.”
But you moved toward him anyway, carefully.
His entire body visibly tensed in response. You could practically watch the restraint tearing through him in real time.
His breath was ragged against the space between you while he fought for control with visible effort.
“I don’t know what’s mine anymore,” he admitted quietly.
The confession sounded scraped raw from somewhere deep inside him.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Leon–”
“I knew before this.”
His voice cracked slightly on the words.
“I knew before they touched me.” He swallowed hard. “Before the virus. Before this place.”
Your breath caught.
Leon laughed once under his breath, exhausted and ruined by it.
“You walk into a room and I can breathe easier,” he admitted. “You smile at me and my whole day changes.” His jaw flexed sharply. “You get hurt and I stop thinking straight.”
His eyes opened then.
God. The look in them nearly undid you completely.
Not just hunger.
Worship.
Yearning so old and carefully buried it had probably been living inside him for years.
“I wanted you long before this happened,” he whispered.
The words settled heavily between you both.
“And now…” His breathing hitched unevenly. “Now I can smell your skin and hear your heartbeat and every part of me is screaming to touch you.” Shame flickered across his face immediately afterward. “I can’t tell how much of that is me anymore.”
You moved closer instinctively.
Leon’s entire body reacted.
A sharp inhale. His head falling briefly forward. One large hand bracing hard against the wall beside yours hard enough that the metal groaned faintly beneath his grip.
“I want you so bad right now,” he admitted roughly, voice dropping lower. “And that scares the hell out of me.”
You lifted your hand carefully to his face again.
He leaned into it immediately before catching himself, like instinct had overridden thought entirely.
“I don’t want this to be the reason you say yes,” he said quietly. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t want survival.” His eyes searched yours desperately now. “What I want from you–”
He stopped.
Struggled.
Started again quieter this time.
“I need it to be real.”
The room felt unbearably small suddenly.
“I can survive wanting you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Been doing that for a long time.” A broken sort of smile crossed his mouth briefly. “But if I touch you like this…” His gaze dropped again, visibly drawn to your lips before he forced it back upward. “I need to know it’s love. Not obligation. Not guilt. Not because you’re trying to save me.”
You stared at him for one aching moment longer before stepping fully into his space.
And Leon made that same wrecked sound again, quiet and helpless and starving, like he already knew he was about to lose the fight to hold himself back from you completely.
“It's love,” you said softly.
Leon closed his eyes briefly. “That kind of love doesn’t count.”
Your chest ached. “What kind?”
“The kind where you feel obligated to save me.”
You stared at him for a long moment.
“It counts.”
His eyes opened again.
“It counts,” you repeated. “I love you.”
Leon looked wrecked by the words instantly.
Not triumphant or relieved.
Ruined.
Like hearing it aloud had finally broken the last barrier keeping him upright.
You stepped closer again while speaking, unable to stop yourself now.
“I love you,” you whispered. “And I’m not saying it because of the virus. I’m saying it because it’s true.”
His breathing turned uneven immediately.
You reached for him carefully.
And that, that was his breaking point.
Leon caught your wrist so fast you barely saw him move. The strength behind it startled you instantly.
Enhanced.
His eyes locked onto yours with naked desperation now, every ounce of control visibly fraying apart.
“Don’t,” he warned hoarsely.
But he hadn’t let go.
You could feel the tremor running through his hand where it held your wrist.
You stepped closer anyway.
And Leon made a low, wrecked sound beneath his breath that nearly shattered your resolve entirely.
“I can’t control this,” he admitted. “I’m stronger now. Faster.” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before dragging themselves back upward through obvious effort. “I don’t know what I’m capable of.”
But his grip loosened slightly despite himself.
Because even now, even starving for you, Leon was still trying to give you a choice.
You lifted your free hand slowly toward his face.
And when your fingers brushed his jaw, he finally broke.
Leon leaned into your touch with a devastated sound like he’d been dying of thirst for years and had only just realized it.
“You won't hurt me,” you said with certainty.
You touched his face like something precious. Both of your hands rose to cradle his jaw, your thumbs brushing lightly along the roughness there while you stepped fully into his space at last.
And Leon, he came apart quietly in tiny, devastating fractures you could feel beneath your fingertips.
His breath left him hard.
His eyes shut immediately.
You felt the exact moment the virus reacted.
His entire body tightened around it.
Around you.
Every altered nerve ending inside him suddenly lit alive at once.
A tremor moved visibly through him while your hands remained against his face, and for one aching second Leon simply leaned there breathing you in like a dying man finally reaching air again.
Because to him now, you were everywhere.
Your warmth. Your pulse. The faint smell of soap and sweat and skin. The soft drag of your thumb beneath his eye. The shaky breath you took before kissing him.
The virus sharpened all of it into something catastrophic.
He could feel every tiny movement of your hands against him with unbearable clarity. Could hear the hitch in your heartbeat. Could smell the heat of your skin where your neck met your shoulder.
His body recognized you, biologically.
You had become structurally necessary to him.
His nervous system had rewritten itself around your existence like it had finally found the thing it was meant to orbit.
“God,” he whispered brokenly.
Then you kissed him.
Leon made a sound against your mouth that nearly ruined you.
It was relieved, like this was the first good thing that had happened to him in years.
He kissed you back instantly, fast and desperate, then immediately forced himself to slow down with visible effort, one shaking hand bracing beside your head against the wall instead of touching you directly.
Even starving for you, he was still trying to be gentle.
But the virus made gentleness feel enormous.
Every soft press of your lips sent another violent wave through him. His enhanced senses flooded mercilessly with you – your breath mingling with his, the softness of your mouth, the tiny sound you made when he kissed you deeper.
“Knew you'd be gentle,” you whispered.
Leon’s forehead pressed against yours, breathing ragged and uneven.
“Whole lot of effort,” he said, voice raw.
And then he kissed you again.
Like he couldn’t help it.
Like some desperate, aching part of him had waited too long already.
This one lingered.
His restraint cracked open inside it.
One hand finally found your waist with visible hesitation before tightening there almost painfully once he touched you at all. His entire body reacted instantly to the contact, another tremor moving through him hard enough that you felt it.
You kissed him softer in response and Leon practically melted.
Actually melted.
His head lowered further until he was breathing you in between kisses, visibly overwhelmed by the closeness of you.
“You have no idea,” he whispered shakily against your mouth.
Your fingers slipped gently into his damp blond hair.
Leon shut his eyes hard.
The reaction was immediate and devastating.
His knees nearly gave.
You felt him lose the rhythm of his breathing entirely while the hand at your waist flexed hard enough to pull you instinctively closer against him.
The virus might have amplified this feeling into something consuming, but it had not created it.
Leon kissed you like a man who had already loved you for a very long time, like every restrained glance and protective touch and swallowed feeling had finally been given permission to surface all at once.
When you finally pulled back, you looked at him.
God. The expression on his face.
Reverent and starving.
You opened your mouth to speak, but he closed the distance desperately, mouth on yours again.
It became sloppier, his teeth hitting yours, his tongue licking against your tongue, his teeth biting your lips like he was actually trying to consume you.
“Please don't stop,” he begged, right against your mouth. “Can't stop now. Please.”
“Won't stop,” you assured him, hands lacing around the back of his neck, tugging at the nape of his shirt so that it started rising against his torso.
He helped you pull it up, stripping his gear noisily on the floor, pulling his shirt up, breaking apart only enough to pull it off.
“Holy shit,” you breathed taking in the sight of him shirtless for only one second before he's pressing his lips back on hours.
All taut skin and thick muscles and white scars.
“Pretty,” you breathe against his desperate kisses.
He whines low in the back of his throat.
“Can smell you,” he rasps, as if he's not aware of anything outside his senses. “Wet.”
You nod against him.
He holds your head in between his big hands to keep you where he can kiss you.
“For you,” you pant.
Suddenly, you're cold as he takes ground-eating steps away from you.
His back presses into the wall hard enough to crack it.
You stare at him in shock.
His eyes rove over you.
“Lips swollen,” he said half-mad, “from where I kissed you.”
“Leon?” you asked, taking a step toward him.
“Messed up your hair,” he continued, still not making sense.
“You alright?”
“Smell how wet you are. Smells so sweet,” he said, taking a mindless step forward before forcing himself back.
“Leon,” you say sharply, bringing him partially back to himself.
His eyes focus.
“Lost myself,” he said breathlessly. “I swear, it's not normally like this with me,” he teased like it didn't cost him something to do it.
“Tell me what's going on, Leon,” you demand.
He looks at you, the blacks of his eyes dilating. He looks away.
“Thought I could control myself,” he says through strain. “Can't. Almost did something real rough with you.”
You step forward.
“You can be rough.”
He almost lost control.
“Don't…fuck–” he moaned. “If I move, I'm gonna be too rough.”
You stared at him for a long time.
He was still fevering, still sweating, still out of control.
But he was also still Leon, your partner, still the man you loved.
“Then don't move, Leon. I'll do it.”
You approached him slowly.
He let you, staring at you reverently.
“I'll do everything, just sit back. Just let me take care of you.”
summary: Leon had planned to propose properly: flowers, dinner, the perfect speech. But after nearly dying in Spain with only your name in his mind, he realizes the perfect moment doesn’t matter anymore. Only coming home to you does.
warnings: re4!Leon x reader, established relationship, proposal, emotional hurt/comfort, Raccoon City trauma, mentions of injury and blood, Leon’s past trauma, references to parental substance abuse, nightmares, RE4 events, Las Plagas/infection mention, near-death thoughts, angst with a happy ending, soft intimacy mentioned but not explicit, marriage talk, children talk, Leon being deeply in love and emotionally wrecked, english is not my first language.
wc: 3.1k
author’s note: This was requested by @xfadesposts in here and I actually CRIED while writing it because I’m so weak for emotionally destroyed for yearner Leon. I hope I make you guys feel as much as I felt with this work. Thank you so much for reading and for being patient with my requests. I’m slowly working through them, I promise. ♡
I reccomend you to listen to Turning page of Sleeping at last for the part when Leon comes home spotify youtube 🖤.
tags: @defvia @causeofmykoophoria 🪽
Leon remembered Raccoon City for many things.
For the rain falling over a city that was dying in plain sight, while no one could do anything to save it, even though he tried with everything he had to stop a tragedy that had been doomed to spiral out of control from the moment it was planned.
But above all of that, he remembered you.
It didn’t make much sense, maybe. Not when that night had been made of death and monsters that seemed pulled straight out of some sick nightmare, monsters that had once been innocent people, victims of a fatal fate. It didn’t make sense either because he had barely been a rookie cop, full of dreams that were ripped away from him in a single night. Leon S. Kennedy had walked into Raccoon City believing he was about to start a life, and in just a matter of hours, that life had been buried beneath broken glass, dark hallways, and corpses rising from the floor.
And then he found you.
You were hiding in one of the back rooms of the police station, your back pressed against the wall, one hand clutching your side, your eyes wide with pure terror. There was blood on your shirt, on your fingers, along the trembling line of your jaw, but you weren’t infected. Leon knew it before you could say anything. He knew it from the way you were breathing, from the human, clean fear on your face, from the way you tried to move away from him when he came in with his gun raised.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he told you then, slowly lowering his weapon.
You didn’t believe him at first. How could you? That night, everything that moved was a threat.
Leon crouched down in front of you carefully, his face stained, his hair wet from the rain, his blue eyes filled with a sincere kind of concern, though not enough to make you stop shaking.
“Were you bitten?” You shook your head quickly.
“No. Someone pushed me against a window, and I-I cut myself.”
He swallowed, looked at the wound, and then looked back at you, unable to understand how you were still conscious after how deep the cuts were and how much blood you had lost. He bandaged you as best as he could — badly, probably — but even so, he did it with gentleness, murmuring for you to breathe, telling you that you were doing so well, that it was okay, that he was going to get you out of there.
And somehow, he did.
Life after Raccoon wasn’t easy for either of you. You carried your own nightmares: the memory of empty streets, the wound burning at your side, Leon’s hand holding you up when your legs almost gave out. He carried something darker.
Leon didn’t talk much about his childhood.
At first, you didn’t ask either. Over the years, you learned to recognize those wounds in the little things: in the way he tensed whenever someone raised their voice too much, in how uncomfortable he looked around any kind of affection he didn’t know how to return, in the way he punished himself for mistakes that hadn’t even been his. He had a complicated childhood, losing his parents to substance abuse.
And then you came along, stepping into his life like a ray of sunlight through a window that had been closed for years.
Not because you were perfect, but because, even after everything you had been through, there was still something warm inside you. You were beautiful in a way that left Leon breathless, yes; with the kind of beauty that made people look twice, the kind that seemed to light you up even on the days you didn’t realize it yourself.
For years, the two of you kept getting to know each other. At first through slightly awkward phone calls, nervous messages, and meetings that seemed casual even though neither of you truly felt them that way. You would meet for coffee, go on walks, talk about small things. Sometimes you laughed, and one thing led to another.
There wasn’t one exact moment when Leon realized he had fallen in love with you, but one of the biggest signs was when he started noticing that he thought of you when something went right, and also when everything went wrong. Or even the simple fact that he wanted to call you after a mission just to hear your voice.
And one night, after having dinner together, he walked you to your door. It was cold, and you had your hands hidden inside your sleeves, while Leon couldn’t stop looking at you, the nerves written all over his face.
“What?” you asked, with a shy smile.
He shook his head, but he smiled too. That small, embarrassed smile of his.
“Leon…” you said, giving him an even warmer smile.
“It’s just…” He ran a hand through his hair, nervous. Leon Kennedy, who had survived Raccoon City, who had faced things no human being should ever have to see, was standing in front of you like a boy who didn’t know what to do with his hands. “It’s just that I like you.”
You went still.
Leon let out a low, humorless laugh, looking down at the ground for a second before lifting his eyes back to yours.
“A lot. And I know everything is complicated, but I don’t want to keep pretending I only meet up with you because we have something in common, or because of Raccoon…” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I meet up with you because I’m dying to see you.”
You didn’t know who moved first. You only knew that, all of a sudden, you were kissing him.
It was a clumsy kiss at first, soft. Leon touched your face, and you moved closer, and then he let out a breath against your mouth that sounded like years of restraint finally collapsing on top of him.
After that, Leon asked you out in such a Leon way that it still made you smile whenever you remembered how beautiful it had been.
He showed up with a bouquet of peonies, your favorites, because once, months earlier, you had mentioned almost without thinking that you found them beautiful, that there was something delicate and full of life about them. And Leon had remembered.
He also had a simple ring with him, a delicate, pretty piece. He gave it to you with his ears slightly red and the most vulnerable look you had ever seen on him.
“I don’t know how to say this, but…” he told you. “I just… I want to do this right with you. I want you to know I’m serious.”
You looked at the flowers, then at the ring, then at him.
“C-can I be your boyfriend?”
Leon turned even redder. You laughed, and he smiled in that way he only did when you were the one making him feel safe.
“Of course, Leon,” you said, with a smile that showed all your teeth.
From then on, you became his anchor.
You were the person he came back to when everything fell apart, the one who reminded him that he was still human when his job tried to turn him into a killing machine, the one who touched his hand in the middle of the night when nightmares tore him out of sleep.
Your first time together was just as imperfect and beautiful as everything about the two of you.
Neither of you really knew what you were doing, not truly. There were nerves, soft laughter, hands trembling a little, and tenderness in every single gesture. Leon asked you several times if you were okay, if you wanted to stop, if this was alright, looking at you as if you were something sacred, as if he was terrified of hurting you even when you assured him that you trusted him.
Leon held you carefully, kissed you, and made you feel wanted in every possible way. And when it was over, he didn’t pull away from you as if it had only been desire. That night wasn’t perfect because either of you knew exactly what to do. It was perfect because you loved each other with an enormous kind of honesty.
And for a while, Leon allowed that happiness to exist. After so many years, he let someone into his life through things as simple as your clothes in his laundry basket, the scent your shampoo left in his shower, mornings when he woke up before you and stayed there watching you sleep, wondering what kind of twisted miracle had led someone like him to end up with someone like you.
Sometimes, he thought about marrying you.
He thought about a quiet house far away from the horrors that seemed to chase him no matter the country, a dog sleeping at the foot of the bed, finding you in the kitchen, kissing the back of your neck, listening to you complain about some everyday little thing as if life had never been cruel to either of you, he even thought about having children.
Before leaving for Spain, Leon had already bought the ring.
It was beautiful, with a diamond, tucked inside a velvet box inside a drawer that Leon opened and closed like an idiot every time he was alone.
He had planned to ask you when he came back.
Not before, because he didn’t want to leave you with a promise in your hand and the possibility that he might not be able to keep it. Leon knew far too well what it was like to wait for a phone call that could destroy your life, so he left without saying anything. He kissed your forehead, promised you he would come back, and took the ring with him.
But Spain was worse than he had expected.
The mission began with the search for Ashley Graham and ended up becoming a descent into another kind of hell. Leon moved through mud, blood, and screams in a language he only half understood, his gun always ready and his body running on instinct.
But his mind kept coming back to you.
It came back to you when he washed his hands in freezing water and saw that the blood wouldn’t fully come off. It came back to you when Ashley asked him, during a brief pause between horrors, if he had someone waiting for him back home. Leon didn’t answer at first. He only adjusted the magazine in his gun and looked into the darkness.
“Yeah,” he said at last, his voice quieter. “I do.”
Ashley didn’t push, but she smiled a little, as if that answer was enough to understand something important.
Leon thought about how much you loved it when he brought you peonies and you saw them in a vase in the kitchen first thing in the morning. He thought about the night you had fallen asleep on his couch, your cheek resting against his thigh and one of your hands holding his.
He thought of you when he almost died.
When pain tore through his body and the infection tried to turn his thoughts into something foreign, Leon clung to your name like a rope. Sometimes he repeated it inside his head. Your face appeared to him in the most absurd moments: between gunshots, between running, between being slammed against damp stone walls.
When he passed out before knowing he was going to be cured, you were the only thing in his head. He was angry at the thought of leaving you alone, angry that he hadn’t been strong enough to make it back to you. But when the pain grew so intense that he could barely even feel hatred anymore, he found himself satisfied by the fact that, even if his life had been condemned to tragedy, he had had you. He would die knowing what it meant to love and be loved by someone unconditionally.
Finally, when Leon was cured thanks to Luis’ work, he started to believe in fate, or in any kind of religious entity if one truly existed. Luis’ death had been a tragedy, but maybe it was also a sign that Leon had been given a second chance at life, a second chance to come back to you.
When it was all over, when Ashley was safe, Leon didn’t rest. His body was exhausted, covered in wounds, but he could only think about one thing, getting back to you.
He didn’t remember the drive clearly. He only remembered the steering wheel beneath his hands, the road stretching ahead of him at an almost reckless speed. But after spending days believing he might never see you again, every traffic light, every curve, every second away from you felt like an offense.
The ring was in his pocket, he had stared at it for a moment before he started driving, still carrying the marks of the mission on his skin and his heart beating violently against his ribs.
He had planned something better. In his mind, there had been flowers, probably peonies again, dinner, a speech. But Leon no longer believed in waiting for the perfect moment. The perfect moment was a lie life used to steal the things you wanted to say.
When he knocked on the door of your apartment, it was an impossible hour of the night.
You opened it with messy hair, your face still marked by sleep, fear breaking through your eyes the second you saw him. Because Leon was there, yes, alive, but he was also pale, exhausted, wounded, with such a broken expression on his face that your hand flew to your mouth.
“Leon…”
He didn’t say anything at first. He only stared at you, as if he needed to make sure you were real, as if everything he had endured in Spain had been for this exact point: you standing in the doorway, breathing in front of him, looking at him with tears in your eyes.
You took a step toward him, but before you could touch him, before you could hug him, before you could even ask where it hurt, Leon dropped to his knees in front of you.
“Leon!” Panic shot through you.
You crouched down immediately, thinking he was collapsing, that he was worse than he looked, but he lifted one hand, stopping you with trembling gentleness.
“No. No, I’m okay. I’m…” He swallowed, and his eyes filled with tears before he could pretend otherwise. “Fuck…”
Your breath caught when you saw him pull the small box from his pocket.
The world went still again, like the night you met, like the day he showed up with peonies and a simple ring, nervous and beautiful, asking you for a chance. Only now, Leon was looking at you like a man who had almost lost everything and had decided never to keep quiet again.
“I had a speech,” he said, his voice breaking. “I had it planned before I left. I was going to do it right. Take you to dinner, buy flowers…”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
Leon opened the box, and the diamond shone beneath the warm light of the hallway, so beautiful it almost looked unreal between his fingers, which were still covered in tiny cuts.
“But I almost didn’t come back,” he continued. “And all I could think about there, every time I thought I wasn’t going to make it out, was you. I could only think that I couldn’t die without seeing you again.”
You covered your mouth with one hand, trying to hold back a sob.
Leon took a deep breath, but everything about him was shaking: his voice, his hands, his shoulders. That man, the one who had survived Raccoon City, monsters, and wars no one would ever know about, was kneeling in front of you as if you were the only thing capable of destroying him.
“I’ve wanted a life with you for a long time,” he said. “And I’m scared to admit that, because every time I’ve wanted something real, life has found a way to rip it away from me. But you… you’ve been my home since before I even knew I needed one.”
Your face crumpled completely, he swallowed again.
“When I found you in Raccoon, you were hurt and terrified, and I still remember looking at you and thinking I had to get you out of there. I didn’t know why it mattered so much. I didn’t know anything about you. But there was something in you that was still alive in the middle of all of that. Something good. Something warm. And over the years…” He smiled faintly, his eyes bright. “Over the years, you became the best part of my life.”
Leon glanced down at the ring for a second, as if he needed to gather his courage.
“You’ve seen me at my worst. You’ve seen the parts of me I try to hide: the anger, the fear, the nightmares, everything I don’t know how to say without saying it wrong. And yet you love me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to explain what that did to me.”
You were already crying, unable to stop yourself, so was he.
“I want to marry you,” he said, more firmly, even though his voice was still broken. “I want to wake up with you every day life allows me to. I want a dog that will probably hate me and love you more. I want to argue about stupid things. I want to make you coffee. I want to watch you grow old. I want…” His voice cracked. “I want a life. With you.”
Leon lifted the ring toward you.
“And if someday we can, and if we feel ready, I want children with you too. Not because I think that would fix anything. Not because I think love erases what happened to us. But because when I look at you, for the first time in my life, I think maybe something good could come from me. From us.”
You crouched down in front of him, unable to stay standing any longer.
Leon let out a trembling breath when your hands cupped his face.
“You don’t have to say yes right now,” he rushed to say, as if fear had caught up with him all at once. “I know it’s a lot, and I know I just showed up here in the middle of the night, looking like hell, and this isn’t fair to you. I just needed to say it. I needed you to know because I almost—”
You didn’t let him finish.
You kissed him.
It was a kiss salted by tears, clumsy from urgency. Leon made a small sound against your mouth, something relieved, and let you hold him as if he could finally set down the weight he had been carrying. When you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Leon went still.
“Yes?”
You laughed through your tears.
“Yes, baby. I want to marry you.”
For a second, Leon didn’t react. He only looked at you as if he hadn’t understood, as if his exhausted mind couldn’t process that something this good was actually happening.
Leon slipped the ring onto your finger with trembling hands. It took him a moment, because he was crying, his vision blurred with tears, and because you were shaking too. But when the diamond settled on your finger, beautiful and bright, the two of you stared at it as if it were more than a piece of jewelry.
You hugged him then, tightly, careful not to hurt him, and Leon sank into you as if he had been waiting for that embrace since Spain, since Raccoon, maybe even long before that. He buried his face in your neck and breathed in deeply, once, twice, three times, as if he needed to convince himself that he had really made it back.
And for the first time in a long time, Leon believed that life gave second chances because you existed.
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