Summary: Based on the ask: "okay period fics are my guilty pleasure but az finding out mortal women get them every month would make him spiral LMAOO"
Word count: 1.2k
Warnings: Some angst but it's mostly Az freaking out lol, periods
a/n: Thank you thank youuu for this ask this was so fun to write!! Enjoy <3
More Az x human!reader and here as well :)
Main Masterlist ♡
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The first thing Azriel noticed was the tang of iron in the air—subtle, but impossible to miss with his training. He was used to this indistinct undertone in the human lands, but not this close to your house, and never so closely tied to you.
The second thing Azriel noticed was that the minimal expanse of your quaint house was actually not very minimal at all. After picking up on the scent and feeling his limbs vibrate with panic, he slammed your front door open and bounded down the hall. His wings clashed harshly against the walls, the space too narrow for his broad stature, but Azriel didn’t care. He needed to get to you.
Azriel played through every possible horror in his mind. You were dead, hurt beyond imaginable, sick internally with no cure—the shadowsinger had to calm his rampant worries most days, but with your blood so obviously near, he let them consume his every thought.
He hadn’t had enough time with you. It had only been a year at most, and that wasn’t enough time. Azriel had considered bringing you to Velaris on multiple occasions, desperate to keep you safe, but he talked himself out of it each time. He had seen the hardships Feyre’s sisters experienced in their transition to Pyrithian, and they had been fae then. He couldn’t put you through that. He couldn’t lock you up in the House of Wind over his fear.
As Azriel pried open your bedroom door with a damp palm, he regretted that kindness.
He braced himself for the worst, prepping his wings to grab you and take off to find a healer, but you were… sitting up in bed and looking at him strangely. You had been sleeping, expression still pressed under fatigue, and that offered him some semblance of relief. It was short-lived—the scent of your blood was even more prevalent now.
Azriel pressed forward, swiping your blankets back and scouring his eyes over your body. There was no visible sign of harm and that only worried him more. You let out a disgruntled sound of surprise that Azriel only vaguely registered. He pressed your shirt up and then ran his hands over both of your arms. When nothing came up, he moved to your head, kneeling beside your bed and taking your face into his palms.
You blinked at him blearily as he examined your eyes, pressing his fingers around your hairline and along the back of your head. Nothing there—not even a lump or a patch of misplaced hair.
Azriel was spiralling.
“What—” you began, stopping for a moment when Azriel brought you to his chest, his hands coming around your back. You spoke into the juncture of his shoulder. “—are you doing? Azriel, why—”
“Where are you hurt?” he demanded. It had been two weeks since you’d seen him last and those were the first words he’d spoken.
You clutched at his leathers as he pulled you back. “Hurt? Az, I’m not—”
Azriel felt like he was choking. If you weren’t even aware that you were injured there were so many possibilities for what could be wrong. Would he be able to smell internal bleeding? Azriel had never wished for a bond more than he did in this moment, because if you were his mate, he was sure he would understand how to help you.
You searched his expression fervently, gaze catching on the deep furrow of his brow. You brought your thumb up to soften the twist but to no avail. “What’s happened, Azriel?”
The gentleness of your tone broke him. He began gathering you to his chest, his movements rushed, uncoordinated. “I’m taking you to Velaris.”
“What? Azriel, slow down. Slow down and—Azriel, I’m not making a suggestion. Stop,” you ordered, and like a dutiful soldier, he paused with you in his arms, his feet just steps from your front door. You huffed in a deep breath. “Thank you. Now tell me what’s wrong.”
Azriel’s jaw clenched. His eyes looked forward because he couldn’t bring himself to look at you. He would start moving again the second he saw your face. “You are bleeding. Something is wrong with you.”
A pause, and then you laughed.
Azriel considered disbelief at first. And then shock. And then delirium. The source didn’t matter; Azriel was sure now that you must be on the verge of death. He tightened his grip on you and took another step.
“Put me down.”
“No,” he refuted. “You need—”
“I will tell you what I need, Azriel, and it’s not to be paraded in front of your family and then embarrassed for the rest of my menial human life.”
At the laughter in your voice, Azriel shot his gaze down to you. He always hated it when you spoke of the shortness of your life, and he hated it even more now as he felt panic stealing the space in his chest.
“They would not—”
“Azriel, my love, I am just on my cycle. I am not going to die.”
The sentiment should have comforted Azriel. It did not. “You are wrong,” he softly spoke, though his arms around you shook. “You were on your cycle two months ago—when I visited from the camps. This is not your cycle.”
“Yes, well, unfortunately, it does happen to be a monthly occurrence.”
“Monthly?”
“Like clockwork.”
“And—that… is supposed to happen?”
“Yes—Azriel, how often do fae women experience their cycle?” you asked, perplexed by his disbelief.
“Twice a year, if they’re lucky,” Azriel answered. He still hadn’t let you go and you weren’t about to part from him with the wild look lingering in his eye.
“Lucky,” you muttered under your breath with a scoff.
Azriel caught it anyway. “Children are rare. Many women pray for their cycles due to that fact alone. But I know that it’s painful.”
“Yes, it’s not the most comfortable experience.”
At that, Azriel let some of the tension melt from his shoulders. He sighed, and then pressed a kiss to the side of your head, eyes closing as he tried to soften the sharp gaze he knew was lingering. You weren’t dying. You weren’t comfortable, but you weren’t dying. He could handle that.
“Allow me to make it more comfortable then,” he said at your ear, his lips pressing to your skin once more.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. This probably isn’t the best time to visit. Last time you came at the end of my cycle so I had more energy and—”
Azriel was already walking you back to the bedroom. The thought of leaving you here alone—despite the fact that you were unharmed and safe—felt unfathomable. Something bit into his peace deep inside, urging him to stay, to protect you when you were vulnerable. He knew that you were fine and didn’t need his help, as you would continue to insist, but the scent of your blood was still in his nose and he couldn’t leave.
“I will stay,” Azriel simply replied, gently placing you back on the bed and drawing the blankets up. “Unless you will me away.”
You hummed. “I would only will you to stay.”
So Azriel stripped himself of his leathers and laid beside you, pulling you close with low, disgruntled murmurs about the absurdity of monthly cycles.
summary. nerdy sim jaeyun is sweating buckets when the baddie he's been crushing on sits in his lap on a two-hour road trip.
pairing. nerdy!jake x baddie!female reader
genre(s). oneshot, smut, big porn with a small plot
warnings. MDNI, jake is a professional yearner, jake is very shy and repressed (and a bit insecure), masturbation, pervert!jake, subby switch!jake, top or bottom he's always a sub, reader is a bit mean, jake cries a lot and begs a lot, slight sunsunki if you squint, handjob, blowjob, nose-riding, jake eats her out as well, reverse cowgirl, cowgirl, missionary, BRO WHY IS IT NEVER-ENDING, but like it's messy, EDGING EDGING EDGINGGGG, reader calls him jaeyun, reader is jealous and possessive, implied aftercare, enhypen ensemble, hmm please let me know if i missed anything! not beta read we die like injang
word count. 14,807 words
note. oh boy! this used to be a veeeery old, 8k-word draft, my take on nerdy jake that i decided to polish and give life to. it is also a gift for my bestie and fellow jake's wife: dr. @twocupsofsuga 🫶🏼 congratulations on passing medschool! you're so smart mhm here's my lap dance for you 😏
Women make Sim Jaeyun nervous.
Especially someone as bold and confident like you.
There's something about the soft lilt of your voice that makes him feel ashamed to even speak in your presence. There's something about your enticing eyes that makes him stutter and stumble with his own words, his grammar-police persona flying out the window. There's something about the sure sway of your hips that makes him want to avert his gaze and look more all the same time; like something sinful he shouldn't want but crave for anyway.
You're the kind of woman that makes Sim Jaeyun nervous.
Park Jongseong's cousin from the States that always comes to visit for summer, with that bold show of your body that'll usually often get frowned upon in his neighbourhood, that honey tint of your skin that's far from the local society's beauty standard. You're upfront and so unapologetically you, something he admires and makes him overly conscious if his hair looks nice or not.
It's another summer and you're here again. You're always a welcome addition to their annual trip to Jay's beach house, a road trip that's usually joined by the other five plus you and him. But this year, Nishimura Riki had a last minute decision to cancel his flight to Japan and opted to spend the summer with them instead of with his family.
Which leaves all of you with no space for one person inside Jay's SUV.
"I call dibs on the rear seats," Heeseung says before anyone gets the chance to and disappears into the car. Riki opens his mouth, about to follow the eldest of the group, when Jungwon shoots him a sharp look and blocks his way with his hand.
"No, Riki. You're not getting a seat."
Riki's face morphs into horror. "What?! Am I excluded from this trip?"
"You cancelled your flight this morning. You were never included in the trip."
Seeing the look of hurt on his face, Sunoo actually takes pity on Riki. Peering inside, the blonde mumbles with a pout when he sees a small ice box sitting beside Heeseung. "Surely we can squeeze him into the rear seat, right…?"
"All of his six-feet-one ass? I'd like to see you try, Sunoo hyung." Jungwon shakes his head. He leans on the passenger door, already the assigned co-pilot of the car, in charge of Spotify playlist and Waze and moral support to his Jay hyung. "Either one of you sits in another's lap, or we can Uber Riki to the beach house."
Hearing that, Riki immediately throws his hands. "It's a two-hour drive, hyung, I might just be paying for the Uber's car loan! It's gonna be so expensive!"
"If you can afford cancelling your flight with no refunds, then I think you can afford an Uber to Sokcho."
Riki whips his head to his Sunoo and Jake hyung, jutting out his lips in a pout that's borderline pitiful. Jake mirrors his expression, not really having the power to go against Jungwon's verdict—as if anybody could. Jake pities him, really, but it's Yang Jungwon. There's a whole menace behind those cute dimples and boba eyes.
Beside him, Sunghoon lets out a long sigh. "Then one of us will have to sit in another's lap."
It's an option that has everybody darting their eyes around, afraid that any eye contact with Jungwon will make them become the sacrificial thighs for the two-hour road trip. They're all men packed with mass and muscles, a result of a gym routine that unexpectedly becomes a problem today. Each of them at least weighs one hundred-forty pounds. Jake's sure that if he was chosen, he'd lose his legs by the time they exit Seoul.
Just in time, a loud thud is heard from the car boot. You and Jay walk into the scene, just having finished loading all of their stuff into the car. Jake adjusts his glasses instinctively, unknowingly fixing his appearence when his eyes land on you.
You've abandoned your cardigan, now only wearing a yellow camisole top that only reaches your belly button and a pair of jeans shorts that ends at the bottom swell of your ass. Your outfit choice hides nothing about your figure—your perfect body that admittedly has always been on his mind.
Jake gulps and lets his eyes trail down to your legs. You're seriously one of the most beautiful and hottest girls he's ever seen, and unfortunately, he has a severe problem of having a crush on baddies who are completely out of his nerdy league. You're definitely one of them.
When he looks up, Jake almost faints when your gaze catches his eyes with an unreadable expression. He quickly averts his eyes, adjusting the thick black rims of his glasses that didn't need adjusting.
Did you notice him staring?
"Car seat problem?" Jay asks when he senses the tension among the boys, already foreseeing this issue the moment Riki told him that he was joining their road trip over the phone this morning. They hesitantly nod.
"So what's the solution?"
"Riki takes an Uber to Sokcho—"
"Which will cost him his tuition fees," Jay comments, ever the hyperbole-user.
"—Or someone has to sit in another's lap."
Judging from the expression on Jay's face, he, too, doesn't think it's a comfortable position to be sitting in on a two-hour road trip.
But apparently, someone thinks otherwise.
"Oh, then let's do that!" You pipe in, flashing them with your charming smile. "I don't mind doing it!"
There's an elephant silence that follows your statement. Upon seeing their gaped expression, your smile slowly dies down, unsure if you had said the right thing.
"…Or not."
"Or yes!" Riki interrupts, relief flooding his senses. His eyes lit up as he looks around at each one of his friends. "Guys, she's offered to sit in anyone's lap. We can do that, right?"
Jungwon narrows his eyes. "It's a two-hour drive."
Riki blinks nervously. "But noona wants it."
"Then let Y/N noona sit in your lap."
Now, there's a rosy blush blooming across Riki's cheeks. Jake frowns. Lucky bastard. "I-I mean—"
"Not him," you cut in, a small smile playing on your lips. Jake can feel the exact moment everyone holds their breath, as if the air pauses on its own accord and waits for the rest of your sentence. Either they're anticipating or dreading to be your exclusive seat in the car—he's not sure. He's certain that he's the former, but he's also certain you'd pick someone more your type—Sunghoon or Riki, who are loyal gym buddies that possess strong thighs for you to sit on—or even Heeseung who's abandoned his nap and is eavesdropping the conversation now.
He doesn't know why, but surely someone hot like you would pick someone just as hot, right? And hot in Sim Jaeyun's definition is someone who matches your confidence (not him), someone who has a good body and is not shy to show them (Jake thinks his body is nice, but he's also always wearing long-sleeves), or just anyone but him.
Jay pinches the bridge of his nose. "Then who?"
When your eyes meet Jake's, the brown-haired boy almost loses his breath.
A smile curves up your lips. Jake thinks he's hallucinating because there's no way you are smirking at him.
"With Jaeyun."
There's a ripple of gasps, disbelief and shock mixing with a hint of betrayal (no doubt from Riki). Jay's brow disappears behind his hair.
"Seriously, Y/N? You don't have to—Riki's rich enough to pay for the Uber."
Riki's protest is muffled when Jungwon pulls him into a chokehold and slaps a hand over his mouth. Jake wants to pity him, really, but this time he thinks he's the one who needs help because what do you mean? There's no way—
"I'm serious. Jaeyun-ah."
—Oh my fucking God. Jaeyun. Jaeyun. Who's Jaeyun? Who the fuck is Jaeyun?
Jake has a trouble hearing you over the loud roar of his blood, heart threatening to jump out of his throat. But he manages a small, airy, 'Hm?' when all eyes are on him.
You tilt your head slightly, eyes never letting go of his, holding him hostage in your gaze alone. This, paired with the way you call his government name—a name you prefer over Jake because 'it's cuter' (according to you, not him) when he first introduced himself to you four years ago, and Jake had let you because he could never say no to you—are the most perfect, never-before-seen formula to unravel the physics genius Sim Jaeyun.
Yeah. Jake is a goner. And will soon have a boner if no one stops you from picking him as today's sacrificial thighs.
"Can I sit with you, Jaeyunnie?"
Someone please say no. Someone please stop you. Someone please tell this Jaeyun to say no because—because why him? Is this some kind of a cliché ploy that popular girls do to play with men's feelings, especially a physics nerd like him? Because if it is, Jake hates to admit that he'd be a willing participant (even if it'd break his heart a little).
"Yes, sure," he squeaks, finally recognising that Jaeyun is his name. He's still trying to process that you chose him—not Sunghoon with his ridiculous broad shoulders, or Riki with his ridiculous long legs, or Heeseung with his ridiculous charm—but him, who's sweating buckets and dampening his armpits underneath his long-sleeved T-shirt. His glasses almost glide down his nose from how sticky it is.
"It's settled, then!" Sunoo claps once, already red and irritated from having to stand under the unforgiving sun for longer than necessary. "Jake hyung and Y/N will sit together. So I will be sitting with—"
"Me!"
"Me!"
Sunoo ignores Sunghoon and Riki, and walks straight to the rear seats. "With Heeseung hyung!"
Soon, there's shuffling and then everyone's already inside the car. Riki sits in the middle with a pout, a penalty for causing the minor disruption and losing rock-paper-scissors to Sunghoon and Jake. Sunghoon is happily humming to a song from the 80s, occassionally turning around to tease Sunoo who's been trying to join Heeseung in his mandatory road-trip nap. Jay and Jungwon have settled into their designated seats as the drivers of the day, already talking about the route they're taking and traffic condition. While Jake—well, he's preparing himself for the inevitable.
You're still standing by the door, overseeing the situation at hand, and Jake tries to ignore the way his cheeks burn under your weighted gaze.
"Can I sit now?" You softly ask. Jake hesitates a moment before nodding his head frantically.
"Y-Yes."
You, on the other hand, do not hesitate at all. Jake instinctively spreads his legs when you climb into the car, already aiming his lap as your throne for the next 120-minute of the ride. His senses heighten, overly aware of his friends' eyes watching his every move, and the soft scent of peach from your body wash that invades his nose when your weight finally settles on him.
In a split second, Jake goes from never daring to touch you to having you resting your ass comfortably on his clothed dick, thanks to a certain Japanese who's now queueing songs like he didn't just commit a fatal crime against his Aussie hyung.
His slightly longer thighs bracket your exposed ones in a hesitant cage, every point of your skin meeting his seems to burn through the fabric of his jeans. Your hair and neck are one breath away from his nose now, where he's inhaling lungfuls of peaches and creams and your vanilla-ish perfume, and Jake chooses to blink at the ceiling to avoid looking over your shoulders and possibly flashing himself with the swell of your chest under that thin camisole top. The already-cramped space feels even smaller, and Jake doesn't think he can breathe properly.
While at it, Jake hopes his prayers could break through the car roof and reach the heavens.
God, please have mercy on me and let my other head not have a brain of its own.
God answers him shortly in the form of you shifting around.
"You comfortable?" You ask innocently, adjusting yourself on his lap. Jake nearly inhales his tongue, feeling blood rush to his ears and south. A strangled noise escapes his throat instead.
"Mhm."
From the front, he can hear a snort coming from none other than Jay. "You sound constipated, dude."
'Try having a pretty girl sit on your dick then!', is what Jake wishes he could say to his friend, but he knows that this is more of a him-problem. Someone like Jay won't get flustered in this kind of situation—at least not as bad as he is, who doesn't even fucking know where to put his hands, hovering in the air like he's about to conduct a choral speaking.
So, Jake resorts to conveying his rage through the rearview mirror instead, hoping that his glare and frown are enough to make Jay feel bad. (They don't, Jay finds him cute instead).
Jungwon comes to save the day as he turns to the backseat. "Do you have everything with you?" All of them except Jake hum. He thinks he doesn't have his sanity anymore, but of course the younger boy pretends to ignore him.
Jungwon eyes each one of his friends, his gaze stopping longer at the sight of Jake gripping the leather seat, the white of his knuckles almost matching his face, and you smiling innocently at him. Jungwon badly wants to laugh.
Jake widens his eyes at Jungwon. Help me!
The younger boy gives him an indecipherable look before turning to face the front. "Alright. We're not turning back for you even if you forgot your PlayStation."
Jake wants to say that they might want to leave a certain Sim Jaeyun to save him from this misery, but all words are gone from his mind when the car starts forward with a sharp jolt. Your back meets his chest in a soft thud, punching air out of his lungs. Your ass pushes deeper into his lap and Jake nearly pierces the leather with his nails from how desperately hard he's gripping it.
"Oops, sorry!" Jay chimes from the driver seat, sounding far from sorry.
You straighten up and turn around, looking more sorry than your cousin. "You okay? Sorry about that, Jaeyunnie."
Oh, fuck. Please don't use that voice on him when he's one bump away from kissing your lips. You're so close it feels like you're breathing in the same air he exhales, so close he can see the faint, tiny freckles dusting your cheeks and the bridge of your nose.
"Yeah," he manages, voice hoarse like he's just swallowed a bucket of sand. "I'm okay."
There's a halt in your movement, like you're actually seeing him through the calm façade he's exuding. His breath catches when your eyes drop to his lips briefly, the bitten-red skin tingles under your heated gaze.
Then, after a moment, you smile at him so easily; as if the tension never existed, as if the pull was only one-sided.
"If you say so."
When he's met with your shiny hair again, Jake lets out a breath he unknowlingly held. Your voice fills up the space softly as you begin talking to Jungwon and Jay, all cheery and unrestrained while he's exerting mental training equivalent to physical labour of a building constructor to stop his dick from hardening every time you move.
He hears a snicker from his left and immediately meets with Riki's mischievous eyes. The younger boy mouths something that has Jake closing his eyes and leaning on the headrest in defeat.
'Don't get horny now, Jake hyung.'
Jake is worried that if it's not now, it'll be the next time Jay hits a bump.
Instead of a road bump, Jake's personal enemy turns out to be you.
Ten minutes in, everything is still going fine. Jake is still breathing, alive, and hasn't popped a boner that could traumatise you and get him banned from the car permanently. You also seem okay, still engrossed in a conversation with the cat-duo driving the car, talking about college and your winter trip to Japan.
For a moment, Jake selfishly thinks if his lap was that…sitable, seeing as you haven't shown any signs of discomfort yet. Or, to be fair, it has been barely ten minutes since they're en route, and though those minutes are enough to pull the others into a car nap, ten minutes feel like one round of orbit around the Sun when he has you sitting on his lap.
Jake can feel himself melt into the seat. Maybe this isn't so bad at all. Maybe he can make it to Sokcho without having to cut his dick off before anyone could see his hard-on. He just has to sit really quietly and will his mind to avoid teetering dangerous territory.
Yeap. Everything is fine.
Not until you decide to put your hands on his thighs.
Jake almost jolts at the contact, flexing his thighs instinctively when you place your perfectly manicured fingers on the surface of his jeans. It's a brief touch, one that can pass as accidental, but the lingering heat it leaves behind feels almost physical.
His eyes dart to the back of your head, trembling with nerves nearly frayed at the edges, gauging your reaction, and bites the bottom of his lips when you resume your conversation as if nothing happened. Or nothing really happened to you.
It's just a touch, for God's sake. Calm your dick down.
If a simple touch from you could unravel him this fast, what about other things? What if you hug him, or-or if you hold his hand, or—wait, is he wishing for other things to happen between you and him? (He does, but he knows that it won't happen.)
Jake gulps harshly and decides to enjoy the scenery instead. He stares hard out the window, so intense like he's memorising every species of the trees they pass by, mind lost in a whirlwind of horny thoughts clashing with rationality, when you do something again.
This time, it isn't an innocent touch on his thigh. It's an innocent move to hear Jungwon better. You lean forward, pushing your ass deeper into his lap simultaneously, offering your ear to Jungwon who seems to be sharing a secret about Jay. Jake's breath hitches and his hands almost come up to hold your waist, the friction sending heat through his body.
Fuck. He peels his eyes away from the window forcefully and follows down the dip of your spine to where your ass meets his crotch. Your position highlights the narrow of your waist and the width of your hips, all sinful curves that have him swallowing harder, something inside his pants threatening to stir alive. Jake closes his eyes.
Think of Jesus, Jake. Think of Layla. He absentmindedly fixes his glasses. Think of quantum physics. Think of—
"—Oh!" You squirm excitedly, round butt wiggling slightly against his cock. "Yes, I met her before!"
Jake hisses before he can stop himself, the sound serving like a knife cutting the conversation. You and Jungwon instantly turn to look at him, the latter wearing a mischievous expression when he sees the heat painting Jake's face red.
"Are you okay?" You prompt in concern, noticing how stiffly Jake is nodding at you.
"Y-Yeah. Good. I'm horgoony."
Freudian slip is gonna be the death of him.
Jay and Jungwon burst out laughing, catching the slip as fast as any dirty-minded man would. Jake's face turns a darker shade of red, avoiding your eyes whose brows now pinching in confusion.
"Horgoony?" You echo, pretty confident you have never heard of that strange word spoken before. Jake immediately shakes his head, panic creeping into his chest when Jungwon shows a sign of opening his mouth.
No! Do not let that orange cat speak! Jungwon only cares about his downfall!
"I feel horribly good! Yeah," Jake stammers, to hell with any logical reasoning. "Like, I feel good because we're on a road trip. But also kind of horrible because I get motion sickness sometimes."
Now that the string of the sentences has flowed out of his mouth, Jake thinks he is kind of making sense. Satisfaction blooms in his chest when you nod in understanding, because two conflicting emotions—feeling good and horrible—can exist simultaneously, right? Like the way he wants to push you from his lap and hide in the deepest part of the Sokcho forest forever but also craves to just grab your hips and pull you close and have his way with you—wait stop.
What a horrible, horny, nothing-good man you are, Sim Jaeyun.
"That does sound horrible." Jake snaps out of his thoughts when he registers your voice, nodding fervently to amplify the faux pity that he's just orchestrated.
You give him a sorry look, the one where it pulls the corners of your mouth down into a frown. Jake sighs in relief. You bought it. Thank God for his smart brain.
"Yeah. I think I'm just gonna take a nap," he adds, voice turning softer when you still look at him in concern. He feels a strange need to overexplain.
"Motion sickness happens because your eyes see one thing while your inner ears and muscles feel another. If I take a nap, it'll eliminate the visual stimuli that causes the conflict…" Jake trails off, catching himself before he could go on and on and on on why humans experience motion sickness, and possibly bore you to death. He shakes his head imperceptibly. "So—yeah. I should take a nap."
To his surprise, you only give him a warm smile. "I never knew that, Jaeyun. Then what's the correlation between motion sickness and playing your phone in a moving vehicle?"
Jake blinks behind his glasses, genuinely taken aback that you're actually listening instead of zoning out halfway through his rambling.
"Oh. Um." He clears his throat. "It's kind of the same concept. Your eyes are focused on something stationary—your phone—but your body still feels the movement of the car."
You hum softly, leaning back against him slightly, prompting him to continue. Jake immediately forgets how lungs work.
"S-So your brain gets confused because the signals don't match," he continues weakly. "Your eyes tell your brain you're sitting still, but your inner ears are like, 'No, we're moving.' It's like mixed signals, and our body doesn't like mixed signals."
His ears are warming up from how true the words are to the situation he's having with you.
"And right now you're seeing my stationary body while the car's moving," you continue with a subtle tilt of your mouth, "so you're nauseous and all dizzy now, right?"
Jake almost chokes to death. Did you know about his little problem? He blinks at you rapidly, hand itching to touch his glasses in a fit of nerves.
Oh my God. He's going to die. He's going to die and Jungwon will write 'Sim Jaeyun was a smart friend, died a horny man with a dick that never went down, a standing ovation to his contribution to Seoul National University' as his headstone epitaph. You know about it so Jake is going to die!
He stumbles with his own words. "I-I mean—It's actually—"
You give him a cheeky smile. "I'm just joking with you, Jaeyun. You're probably sick because you're having me on your lap like this."
You start digging into your front pocket, frowning when it's empty. Jake holds his breath when your hands move to your back pocket, looking for whatever it is that gets you so determined and his dick so excited whenever your finger brushes against his crotch. Jake is almost blue from not breathing.
He thinks this time he's really going to die.
"Found it!"
You offer your palm to him, where two mint candies sit idly on the soft surface. Jake's chest slowly feels lighter as air rushes in, no longer collapsing under the pressure of your searching hand accidentally brushing against him moments ago. He clears his throat.
You beam at him. "These will soothe your sickness, Jaeyunnie. Please take them."
Jake studies your face.
Do you know what you're doing to him? Was everything done on purpose, or are you really oblivious to everything?
He swallows and forces a nod, taking the candies from your palm, feeling a spark of electricity in his system when his fingers brush your skin.
"Thank you, Y/N."
You turn your back on him, resuming your conversation with Jungwon and Jay. All sweet and cotton candy, unaware of the turmoil he's going through. Jake stares at the candies in his hand, a mocking sign to his misery, and heaves out a quiet sigh. He glances at his wristwatch.
It feels like two world wars had happened but it's only been twenty minutes into the drive. An hour and forty minutes of horny torture remains for Sim Jaeyun to endure, and he's not sure if he's going to survive.
He slowly closes his eyes. Maybe sleep can help with horniness, too.
It does, but only for a moment, because Jake could swear he just blinked when you tap his shoulder a few times.
Jake blinks, half-groggy and half-alert. Did he have a wet dream of you and get hard in his unconsciousness? Is that why you woke him up?
But he's met with your apologetic face instead. "I'm sorry for waking you up," you whisper, trying not to wake other boys who are fast asleep. "But my back's sore. Can I lean on you for a moment?"
In a flash, all incoherent thoughts fly out the window. Guilt starts lodging in his chest as he realises—glancing at his watch—that you've been sitting straight for one hour. Before he knows it, Jake is already nodding at you, adjusting his seat to accommodate the new position.
"Y-Yes, you can."
God, he's such a loser. The word 'no' seems to disappear from his dictionary whenever you're around.
You reward him with an appreciative smile and waste no time to turn around and lean back softly on him. The moment your back touches his chest, Jake can feel his system kick start, a chemical reaction that he can never understand no matter how hard he studies Biology.
You physically relax into his chest. "This is so much better," you sigh, a dreamy smile on your face, resting your head in the crook of his neck. Then you tilt your head upwards to glance at him. "Is this okay for you?"
Jake hopes you can't feel how fast his heart is beating through the fabric of his shirt. The brown-haired boy nods wordlessly. "More than okay."
For a moment, you just stare at him, brilliant eyes holding his in a soft gaze. It's a silent minute full of everything unspoken, rendering him speechless and even more restless because no matter how smart he is, he could never decipher the meaning behind this look you're giving him. There's something you hide that he feels like he should know, like an open secret waiting for the right time for him to catch.
This time, Jake is even sure that you can hear his heartbeat.
Then, as if that moment never happened, you close your eyes and get comfortable.
"We should sleep, Jaeyun. Don't want you to get carsick again."
You nuzzle closer and Jake holds his breath, feeling the silky strands of your hair brushing against his jaw. His hands hover, not knowing where to land, though the pinch of your waist is where he wants to hold the most. Eventually, Jake settles on his thighs, watching the difference between his veiny hands and the smooth span of your thighs.
Is he still sleeping? Is he dreaming or are you really sleeping on his chest?
It seems that sitting in his lap really tired you out, because you're fast asleep in less than five minutes. The guilt in his chest amplifies at the sight of your closed eyes, breathing evening out as sleep overtakes your being. Jake bites his lips.
He's so shameless, napping to avoid getting turned on instead of caring for your being. He’s so horrible, worrying more about his hard-on than the fact that you’ve been uncomfortable for an hour. Jake wants to cry so bad.
Jake spends the rest of the ride watching you sleep. He fixes your hair when it falls over your face, tucking it behind your ear carefully, and then smiles to himself when he sees your pout. He blocks the sunlight with his hand when it's glaring on your skin through the window, not minding letting his hand redden from the harsh light. He instinctively holds your waist at a sharp turn, firm and secure, though he lets go just as fast as if it burns, afraid that it's not a touch you'd receive had you been conscious.
Other than the carnal desire he has suppressed for you, this road trip also makes him realise the depth of the feelings he actually harbours for you. He's so doomed. He's so doomed because in what universe would a hot, sweet, popular California girl like yourself, return back the feelings of a bland, studious, quiet Korean-Aussie boy like him?
In fictions. In another lifetime. But not in Sim Jaeyun's current universe right now.
However, the Sim Jaeyun in this universe also will never know peace.
Because just as he's getting comfortable with the you-watching routine that he just recently discovered, the road has another plan for him when Jay finally, and actually, hits a bump this time.
The first bump is a mild surprise. Jake gathers it's a small bump, one that Jay overlooks while getting excited over Bon Jovi playing on the rodeo. But the aftermath brings you settling deeper into him, pressing on him in a way that has his breath hitching. Jake holds your waist on instinct.
"Oh my God, I didn't see that," Jay mutters from the front.
Jake tries to steady his breath. That's…a shock. One that shatters the soft atmosphere he created while watching you, now replaced with the same tension he's been fighting the last hour.
Jake lets go of your waist when he assumes that it's just a one-time thing. But then the bump happens again, and instead of a solid, big one—it's shaky, like they're sliding through endless, tiny jagged rocks.
"Damn bro, this road needs fixing," Jay makes another commentary. He glances at the rearview mirror. "You good, Jake?"
Jake doesn't know what to answer. "I think I am," he mumbles, voice clipped.
Is it good that you're practically bouncing in his lap, adding more pressure with almost no interval for him to recover mentally? He thinks not. But Jay doesn't have to know that.
"We're almost there," Jungwon chimes in, navigating the map. There's a shakiness in his voice that comes from the vibration caused by the bumps. "Fifteen minutes at most. We found a shorter route just now and traffic was smooth."
Fifteen minutes.
Jake thinks he might actually die in fifteen minutes.
Another bump sends your body rocking against him softly, your sleeping face scrunching for a brief second before relaxing. His grip tightens.
Fuck.
If Jay doesn't stop the car and fix this damn road himself then he's definitely going to pop a boner soon.
Jake squeezes his eyes shut when another bump rattles through the car, and then again, and again, and again until Jake can barely separate one sensation from another anymore. Until he doesn't know where he starts and where you end anymore. You shift unconsciously, settling heavier against his chest before Jay hits another bump.
This time, Jake makes a mistake of looking down at you.
He didn't notice it before, too lost in his sappy, romantic feelings for you. But right now, it's actually so damn obvious that the angle from where he sits taller than you and you lean against him, he can easily see your cleavage past the neckline of your camisole.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The road doesn't stop shaking beneath the tires, and so does his pulse as he watches your breasts bounce with every bump that comes their way. Jake averts his eyes, so stiff and so strained, but can't help letting his gaze drift back to watch the soft mounds shake.
This is bad. This is very, very bad, and Jake is nothing but a bad fucking pervert.
A particularly rough patch of road sends the entire car jolting. Your body bounces against him harder this time, more pressure and more friction that Jake almost whimpers. He tips his head back, gulping harshly as the line of his long neck glistens with a sheen of sweat.
Inside his jeans, he can feel his cock kick.
Oh, fuck—he's definitely hard now.
Oh my fucking God.
"This is the last one, promise!"
Jake doesn't even register Jay's words, or the way your head hits his jaw from impact, because his internal system is flooded with horny-filled panic. He can feel it: his dick twitching and getting semi-hard from the continuous stimulation from your bouncing. He doesn't even realise that he's now clawing at his own thighs, seeking strength that could neutralise his blooming lust, or that you are finally awake.
"Are we almost there?" You ask groggily, blissfully unaware of the raging boner forming under your ass. You sit up when the coastal view greets your blurry vision, mouth gaping in awe.
"Oh, wow!" You gasp, always excited to visit Sokcho no matter how many times you've been there. "It's beautiful as always!"
The road is smooth now, but Jake's final torture arrives in the form of you bouncing, excitedly and consciously, in his lap. You wiggle in enthusiasm, urging Jungwon to pass your phone that's been charging at the front to take some pictures and send it to the family groupchat.
"Jungwon, Jaeyun, look at those seagulls!"
Jake is seeing no seagulls. He's only seeing white hot, painful pleasure as you move in his lap, his brain dissolving into useless static. His fingers twitch, itching to grab your waist and force you to stay still, but you're so excited that he almost didn't have the heart to do it.
"Did you see that?" You lean to the window, and then shift happily when you spot kites in the sky. "We should do that too! Hey, Jay, do you think you can—"
Jake finally has had enough.
The restraint that he's been holding onto finally breaks like a taut wire getting cut. His hands snap to your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, hips almost bucking up from the delicious friction alone. His lips drop to the shell of your ears, hot, ragged breath brushing the sensitive skin as his voice lowers an octave.
"Y/N," Jake licks his dry lips, the tip of his tongue peeking through. He watches with dark eyes as the hair on your neck stands straight under his unforgiving proximity.
"Stop fucking moving."
And that's the moment you feel it.
A bulge, hard and rigid and big, poking your ass from where you rest in his lap.
Oh my fucking God.
Sim Jaeyun is hard.
You freeze, breath hitching.
Neither of you dare to move. Not even your excitement of being back to your uncle's beach house, or Jay's questioning look from where you cut your sentence, can bring you to move. No.
You couldn't, not when Jake's hard dick is nudging at you right now, so tangible and unmistakably his.
The brown-haired boy is still panting in your ear, shooting tingles through your system. His grip on your waist is almost bruising, like he's trying very, very hard to hold back from overstepping lines that shouldn't be overstepped.
You hadn't meant for this to happen. Sure, Jake is fun to tease. That boy is all broken words and nervous glances whenever you're in his proximity, and it can't be helped when he blushes prettily too.
You just can't stop yourself from seeking his attention in your own way, because aside from being a pretty boy, Jake is also such a sweetheart and so, so smart. And in an age where intellligence is a scarcity, you absolutely adore smart guys.
Especially the one who isn't condescending and is actually eager to help people like him.
So, really—you hadn't meant for this to happen. Offering to become the one without a seat is a decision you made when you consider yourself to be lighter than most of the guys, but offering to sit in Jake's lap is definitely a decision born from personal bias. You kind of knew what it would cause—seeing how stiff and awkward Jake had been—but you let it go halfway through when the soreness in your back outweighs your desire to tease.
Which has now brought you to this situation.
The car's still moving like nothing happened, and the boys are slowly stirring to life one by one. Everything is normal, except for the nails digging into your waist and the deep timbre in your ear.
You swallow harshly, not daring to move. Jake is so close, so close that you can feel every movement of his chest. You sit still in his hold, trying not to wince from how hard he's gripping your hips, and how hot you find the situation is.
His dick, despite no movement is being made, only hardens further. Jake gasps almost imperceptibly, almost matching the way your breath leaves your mouth when you notice, again, just how big he is.
Fuck. Fuck, that's so hot. Sim Jaeyun is so hot and you can feel yourself slowly getting turned on.
Without any warning, as if driven by an invisible force that urges to look at him, you finally turn around.
And Jake looks absolutely wrecked.
Beads of sweat dot on his forehead, the furrow of his eyebrows showing restraint and constraint. His lips are red from how hard he's biting them, and his previously clean, smooth glasses are now fogged up and hazy. His eyes, glazed over with tamed lust, lock into yours, half-lidded and dark.
A breath catches in your throat.
This is not the Jaeyun you know.
Or, more accurately, this is not the Jaeyun he usually shows.
This is another side of him, like seeing Jake wearing short-sleeves and showing his arms for the first time. Gone are his round, puppy eyes, now replaced with this narrowed, slit gaze that makes you shiver under his heated stare. He used to be so nervous around you, and you can feel that he's nervous now, too, but his pent-up sexual frustration seems to outweigh any rational daily-Jake thoughts.
This is still Sim Jaeyun. Just a different, never-before-seen side of Sim Jaeyun.
"Are we finally there?" Riki, the last one to awaken, stretches beside the two of you. You don't even notice that the car has pulled up into the driveway of Jay's ridiculously huge beach house from how piercing Jake's gaze is holding your eyes captive now.
Jake bites his lips, the fog in his head slowly clearing up now that the car has stopped. As if snapping out of a daze, he quickly maneuvers you into Riki's lap instead, showcasing his strength that he often hides. The latter yelps at the sudden weight and grabs your waist on instinct, before Jake darts out of the car without looking back.
"Sim Jaeyun! Bring your own fucking luggage!" Jay shouts from the car boot, but the brown-haired boy has already disappeared behind the door.
You sit, stunned in silence, still frozen and unable to speak. Not until Riki nudges at you, Heeseung and Sunoo impatiently asking the both of you to move so that they can get out.
"Are you okay, noona? Is hyung okay?"
You nod. You give the youngest a strained smile as you slowly move out of his lap and out of the car, careful not to start another war of hormones.
"We're okay."
The lie tastes bitter on your tongue.
Jake is avoiding you.
It's a foreseeable aftermath. It's inevitable. But it pains you regardless.
It gets to the point where he straight up refuses sitting next to you at dinner, which raises some eyebrows and teasing from the boys. But you know better.
He is deliberately avoiding you.
It frustrates you, really. Because every summer, it is your thing with Jake to sit in silence in the morning and read at the porch, enjoying the sunrise over wordless, comfortable silence. But now he purposely sleeps in, waking up later than usual, leaving you alone in the cold of dawn, your paperback copy of The Inheritance Games left untouched on your thighs.
At movie nights, he'll be the last one to join, just to see where you sit first to avoid being near you. He'll become extra quiet when you speak, acting like the floor is more interesting than your face, not even sparing you a glance.
And your patience is wearing thin. Almost thinner than the bikini you're wearing right now.
Fine. He can ignore you all he wants, act like he didn't just pop a boner after letting you sit in his lap. He can pretend like you never affected him, pretend like nothing happened, but one thing you know is that Jake could never betray his attraction for you.
So, be fucking it. You don't care if it's petty to pick the skimpiest bikini you own today, the one in hot pink that always contours the line of your cleavage, perfectly bunching up your tits and making them look rounder. The one that you know will drive Jake crazy from how bouncy your ass looks, basically confirmed when his eyes can't seem to stop trailing after you even after you dive into the pool.
You come to the surface with a gaping mouth, letting the water slide down the lines on your body, and make no show of hiding yourself from looking straight at Jake.
That coward has the nerves to look away after staring at you like a touch-deprived teenager.
"Is Sim Jaeyun single?"
The reason why you always agree to join the all-boys road trip is because it's not exactly all-boys. There are girls who live nearby. Girls you're acquainted with from how often you follow your cousin to his beach house every summer. Spoiled rich girls whose parents come from the same tax bracket as your and Jay's family.
And one of those girls is shamelessly checking Jake out now, hungry eyes drinking in the way his wet, long-sleeved shirt sticks to his torso, outlining the faint lines of his abdomen that he never shows. She's sitting on the edge of the pool, feet-dipping while you take a break from your swim.
You narrow your eyes, an ugly spark of jealousy blooming in your chest. You don't like the implication of the question, and you absolutely hate the way she's looking at him now.
"Don't even think about it."
Your neighbour only shrugs and continues her eye-fucking. "He's so my type. So nerdy, so smart. I wonder how he'll look like without the glasses?"
You will poke her eyes before she gets the chance to. "Use your own imagination," you hiss, almost bitter when you realise that you also have barely seen him without his glasses.
Jake has sensitive eyes that react badly to contact lenses, which explains his preference for thick glasses than going out without them. Even now, when everyone is fooling around Jay's enormous pool, his thick, black-rimmed glasses perch on the bridge of his tall nose—the nose you hope you can put into good use one day.
The girl only hums, half-listening to you. She sighs dreamily. "I can't believe that I have his number."
At this point, the jealousy has turned so ugly you're actually seeing green. Or red. Or whatever that Cortis song sounds like. "You have his number?"
She finally pays attention to you. "Yeap! I asked him yesterday. I don't know what I should say to start the conversation though," she pouts, glancing back at Jake who's now sitting on the side with Sunghoon, sipping on coconut water. "Should I ask him if I can join dinner at your house tonight?"
Jake gave his number to her?
You grit your teeth. The hurt has materialised into a knife, twisting in your chest in a sharp pain disguised in jealousy. So, while Jake's been avoiding you like a fucking plague, he's been spending his time giving away his number to any curious girl? He's been talking with other girls while leaving you with radio silence, one that you didn't deserve because it was him who popped that boner?!
You are the one who's supposed to ignore him—not the other way around!
What a fucking loser.
You can't stop the bitterness from leaking through your voice when you finally speak.
"It's me and Jay that you should ask—not Sim Jaeyun. And no, you cannot join dinner at my house tonight."
You leave her dumbfounded by the pool, seething in anger that the water on your skin could steam from the heat alone. You march to the slide doors, giving Jake and Sunghoon the nastiest side-eye you could ever give when the latter calls out to you, and slam the door behind.
Whatever. Or not whatever. Sim Jaeyun is a fucking pervert and a jerk and a coward, and stupidly hot while being so oblivious to how hot he actually is. Whatever! You don't care.
You don't care that he barely speaks a word to you. You don't care that he leaves any room you walk into. You don't care that he's flirting with other girls and giving away his number willingly when you had his on default for being Jay's younger cousin, and from Jay himself at that.
The corner of your eyes burn.
You wish you didn't care.
You're ignoring Jake.
Jake knows this the moment you no longer come to the porch to read. Instead, every morning is now spent in the garden with Jungwon, tending to Jay's mom's flowers. After, you'll brew some hibiscus tea that you pluck from the garden and share it with Sunoo and Riki.
And when he walks into the kitchen to get some food, you no longer meet his eyes, or save that apple that he knows you know he likes to eat for breakfast. You let Heeseung eat all of them! It's so—so unfair, because he likes apples and you know it!
It sends Jake to the end of a cliff. Why are you suddenly being like this?
His sanity is stretching thin as he tries to work his brain. Why the sudden change? Is it because of his silence? But he's just embarrassed to face you! Or—did you find out about it?
Genuine horror floods his mind when he thinks, oh no, you must've realised how disgusting he truly is. How dirty-minded and perverted he is, that every day he has to take cold showers three times a day whenever he catches a glimpse of you.
You in your sleepwear. You in your casual shirt. You in shorts.
You in bikini.
Jake has fallen out of any point of salvation, because God, could any man get this horny just from a mere look? In the back of his mind, he knows it's the image of you sitting in his lap that ignited the beginning of his undoing, but the continuous hard-on he gets whenever he's around you is definitely, entirely on him.
And Jake, oh so sweet Jake, doesn't dare touch himself to the thought of you. No. He'd rather leave his balls blue, take cold showers every morning, every evening, and every night, and let his dick go from standing tall like a national anthem was being played to becoming flaccid under the cold water without any action. He doesn't even have the guts to touch his own fucking dick, the guilt blocking him from doing anything to relieve himself.
So—did you find out about it? Because if you did, then Jake could understand the cold shoulders you're giving him.
But Jake is a mere man—maybe a bit perverted, and a bit too horny despite his image, so he couldn't stop himself from getting hard the moment he sees you walking into the living room in nothing but an oversized white tee that falls off your shoulder. He grabs the nearest cushion and places it on top of his crotch, blood already rushing south when he sees the strap of your black bra.
This is why he has to go to church sometimes; to balance everything out. Because Einstein never talked about the solution or formula to cure men's (Jake's) sexual desires that seem endless. And sexual desires that come from seeing a strap of a bra alone.
Whatever it is, Jake's soul has almost left his body, already tuning out of his surroundings. He doesn't even realise that Jay and Riki are wrestling for the TV remote, and accidentally sending said remote flying onto the floor just a few feet away from him.
He only comes to when you stand in front of him, back facing him, and bend over to pick up the remote.
You. Bend. Over. In. Front. Of. Him.
In a second, Jake has a full view of your ass. The shirt rides up slightly, revealing white shorts that stretches across the round flesh as you bend over to reach the remote and Jake feels like he's brought back to the car when he was fighting demons as you unintentionally ground his crotch with every movement.
His grip on the cushion tightens, head dizzy from the way you practically shove your butt in his face.
Jake releases a shaky exhale.
He can see the outline of your panties and wonders if it matches your black bra.
And he can see the outline of his doomed future if he stays in the living room any longer.
"Whose turn is it to pick the movie?" You casually ask, now straightening up as if you just didn't flash Jake with your perky ass.
"Jake hyung," Jungwon replies from the center of the long couch, carding his hand through Sunoo's silky hair, the blonde who's now laying down his head on his lap. "It's his turn."
Your face remains expressionless as you turn to the glasses boy. But instead of taking the remote from your hand, Jake stands up, avoiding eye contact and clutching the cushion tight over his crotch.
Then he flees the living room, leaving behind six confused men and one very angry, very upset girl.
Jake thinks he deserves a medal for surviving the living room.
Or perhaps an exorcism.
The moment his bedroom door clicks shut behind him, Jake drops the cushion onto the floor and drags both hands down his face with a groan. His glasses nearly fall off his nose in the process.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
He paces once across the room, then twice.
Outside, he can still hear the muffled sounds of the movie downstairs—Riki yelling dramatically at a character, Sunoo complaining about spoilers, Jay laughing too loudly. Normal sounds. Normal people.
Meanwhile Jake feels like he's one accidental glimpse of your shoulder away from committing a crime.
His eyes squeeze shut.
That white shirt.
The black bra strap.
The way you bent over in front of him so casually, completely unaware that Jake nearly ascended right there on Jay's living room couch.
"Fuck," he whispers weakly to himself.
Jake drops onto the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees.
Maybe he should take another cold shower. That would make four today.
"I should sleep," he mutters to himself, breath shaky. "S-Sleep can help with motion sickness and horniness."
With a newfound resolution, he turns off the lamp and settles under the blanket. His movement is stiff and awkward, overly aware of the tent straining his shorts. Once he pulls the blanket over his chest, Jake closes his eyes, forcing sleep into his system.
Only, the image of you swimming in your hot pink bikini flashes behind his eyelids.
"No, stop. Not that," he whispers, brows scrunching in protest. He shakes his head, as if physically removing the image away, and tries again.
This time, the image of you in his lap comes back, stripped down to heated skin and soft breaths, your body moving against his in ways that make his stomach twist.
His eyes fly open. The image is so clear and vivid, thanks to his photographic memory and insane imagination—the very thing that's been saving him in the academic department now serving as the tool that brings him to his downfall.
His cock twitches involuntarily.
"N-No," he pants, chest moving rapidly. He grips the edge of the blanket, knuckles turning white. "I—Stop—"
Then he remembers just now: you bent over, giving him a delicious access to his ass-shaped sufferings, and Jake almost whimpers from the flashback alone.
The room rises in temperature, the air conditioner doing nothing to tone down the feverish lust spreading through his body. Jake finally relents and discards the blanket, glasses all fogged up as he stares at the bulge under his shorts.
"I'm sorry," he whimpers, slipping off his shorts and boxers until they bunch up around his knees. "I'm so fucking sorry."
His cock springs free, standing tall in the dimness of his room. The tip glistens, already drooling with precum that shows no sign of stopping. With shaky hands, hesitance still edging around his lust, Jake finaly touches himself.
He has to bite down hard on his lips to muffle the sound threatening to escape. His hand stutters, the feeling of finally rubbing some relief after days of holding back comes crashing down on him. His head spins from how heavy his cock is in his hold, veins protuding like they're going to combust.
He slowly starts moving his hand, lathering up precum to ease the glide. His head tips back, a strangled sound catches behind his throat.
"Oh, God," his head spins, sparks of lust bursting at the tip of his fingers. "Oh, fuck—"
Through his hazy gaze of the blurry lenses, Jake tightens his grip slightly. A moan escapes his lips at the force, his cock only getting heavier in his hand. He plays with the mushroom tip of his dick, thumbing the slit and hissing when it sends pleasure up his spine.
"Ngh—" his eyes squeeze shut, brain putting up pieces of his memory of you. His body jerks when the rough pad of his thumb touches the underside of his cock, and as if on cue, the image of your jiggly breasts inside the car flashes behind his closed eyes.
"Fuck—Y/N," Jake sobs, picking up his pace. His wrist turns and flicks, biceps flexing hard at the speed he's going. Guilt starts accumulating inside his chest the more he thinks of you, of your voice, of your gaze, of your scent—but guilt isn't enough to stop Jake from chasing his own release.
"'So sorry," he chokes, letting go of his bottom lip, bitten-red and swollen. He imagines it was your hand instead of his, smaller and softer, with those manicured nails that he loves so much. How tiny your hand would look around his hard dick, trying to grip his length in its fully erect state.
Jake isn't inexpereinced. He's had his own fair share of sexcapades with a few people, and he's always been told that he's bigger than average. The big dick that he hides under his pants, further concealed by his nervous persona that only certain girls find cute.
But seeing his state right now, Jake thinks he's the furthest thing from cute.
He's pathetic.
Pathetic and gross and disgusting, feeling bad for jerking off to the thoughts of you but still unable to retract his hand and stop. The sound of his cries that he fails to hide fills up the space, and for the first time in days he's very glad that he won paper-rock-scissors during room assignment.
"Oh, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N," he chants, mouth gaping open when he can feel himself close. His wrist is already tired and numb from the relentless pace he's set, the slick sound of his sinful act matching the roar of his blood rushing in his ears.
"Please, please, 'm gonna cum," he sobs, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. His hips lift off the mattress. "Please—"
"Do not fucking cum, Sim Jaeyun."
Jake's entire body locks up.
His wrist stills immediately, pleasure crashing into horror so fast it makes his stomach twist. For a second, he genuinely thinks his heart stops beating.
The room goes dead silent except for his ragged breathing.
Through fogged-up lenses and teary eyes, Jake stares at you standing by the door, unable to process the fact that you're actually here.
That you heard him.
That you saw him.
Oh my fucking God.
His hand jerks away from himself like he’s been burned, chest heaving violently as he scrambles to sit up straighter. The blanket tangles around his legs from how abruptly he moves.
"I—"
Nothing comes out.
Jake has never felt this level of humiliation before.
Not when he failed his chemistry olympiad in tenth grade. Not when he tripped in front of his entire lecture hall. Not even when Jungwon found his hidden Pokémon card collection at nineteen.
This is worse. So much worse.
Because it's you.
You, standing there in that oversized white shirt slipping off your shoulder again, eyes dark and unreadable as you look at him sprawled across the bed like something shameful.
Jake feels sick. His face burns so hot he thinks he might actually pass out.
"S-Sorry," he chokes out instinctively, because apologising is the only thing his brain knows how to do right now. "I didn't—I wasn't—I—"
His voice cracks miserably.
Jake is going to cry.
What should he even say in this situation? Sorry that you caught him jerking off to you? Sorry that he's such a nerd, such a loser that the only time he could talk smoothly with you was when he was defining what motion sickness was, but never had the courage to tell you how much he likes you and how much you affect me? Sorry that he's such a pervert that he thinks of you in positions way too inappropriate to be just friends?
The weight of his arousal sits heavy against his thigh, a testament to a newfound, lifelong embarrassment that he'll carry to his grave.
Jake squirms under your heated gaze, and quickly covers his crotch with his blanket when you slip into his bedroom wordlessly. The door clicks shut, the sound amplified by the heavy silence hanging in the air. His body tenses up.
Oh my God—he messed up, didn't he? Jake hangs his head low in shame, tears gathering along his lashlines.
"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to…"
His vision turns blurry. Fuck, you must hate him now.
"I-It's wrong—I know that—I'm sorry—ah!"
Jake looks up in surprise when your bold hand cups his erection. There's angry lines in your forehead, a sneer on your mouth, but the nasty look you're giving him does nothing to soothe down his arousal.
If anything, twisted as it is—it turns him on even more.
"Couldn't even look me in the eye downstairs," you begin, "but you here you are, jerking off to me like I wouldn't find out?"
The venom in your voice hurts him. You're being mean with your words, and it hurts his feelings but Jake couldn't care less. His mind is a messy jumbles of guilt and pleasure and shame, so all he does is cry and shake his head.
"I-I'm sorry, Y/N—"
"Are you really sorry?" you tighten your grip on his cock, one knee dipping into the mattress. "Your dick doesn't seem sorry though."
Jake wants to cry—oh, he's already crying. His hand curls into the sheets beneath him, unable to form coherent words when you start rocking the heel of your palm on his hard-on. The friction from the blanket and the pressure from your hand only spark electric pleasure through his system.
Within seconds, Jake is all hard again—even harder than before.
"Tell me, Jaeyunnie. Did all of this happen because I sat in your lap?"
Jake whimpers pathetically. You knew. Of course you knew. You're not only hot and pretty and kind, you're also smart like him, so in tune with your surroundings. You're a little mean right now, but it's okay because Jake believes that he deserves this after avoiding you without any explanation.
"Answer me, Sim Jaeyun."
"Yes," he croaks, shame burning his face red. His eyes screw shut. The admission sets his being on fire, skin flushed from embarrassment. "O-Oh, God, y-yes."
He cracks one eye open when you don't reply. Instead, he's met with your fiery gaze. The edges have softened with lust, like you're also affected by this, but you're good at keeping your control.
Unlike him, who's unraveling like a loose thread under your touch alone.
Jake almost whines when you retract your hand, but the sound is muffled with a gasp when you yank the blanket open. He instinctively closes his crotch area with his hands, but you're fast to slap his wrists away.
"I'm so pissed off, Jaeyun," you mutter, swinging your leg over his thighs so now you're straddling him. You fix him with your sharp eyes, hand finding his dick again.
"You've been acting like we're strangers and it hurts me so bad."
Jake's mouth hangs open as you gather his precum and start working your wrist around his cock. His brain barely registers your words, too lost in a cloud of lust, but when he finally processes it, he desperately shakes his head.
He wants to apologise again and again and again, because he is truly sorry—he didn't know how affected you were. How could he not, when you're always described as everything out of his league, but he's always described as everything that doesn't fit your type?
"I'm sorry, I was just—fuck—just ashamed—" he gasps, hips bucking into your touch. "Didn't mean to—t-to hurt y—ngh, Y/N, faster please."
You coo at him, feigning sympathy as you set a ruthless pace on his cock. Jake is big—something that isn't a surprise anymore since that day you sat in his lap—but the sheer size of him is enough to make your mouth water and your panties damp.
Damn these nerdy boys. Acting all shy and innocent when they have this monstrousity hiding behind those ugly glasses.
"Faster? You wanna cum, Jaeyunnie?" you tilt your head. Jake nods frantically. "I don't think you deserve it, though. Why not ask from those girls you gave your number to?"
Something sharp twists in his stomach. Jake's eyes fly open, almost cowering when you give him a distasteful look. He grabs your arms desperately and shakes his head.
"N-No! She asked me first—" you put more pressure and Jake damn near loses his mind. "—said she needs—help—w-with Physi—cs—"
You roll your eyes. It's that easy to fool him? Can't he see the way those girls fuck him with their eyes? Without waiting for his sentence to finish, you sink down and take him in your mouth.
"Oh, fuck!" Jake screams, accidentally thrusting up his hips. He bites his lips, glasses crooked on the bridge of his nose as you take him deeper, tracing the line of his veins with your sinful tongue. "Oh, Y/N—please."
You hum around his length, tongue swirling as you hollow your cheeks to deepen the suction. Jake nearly busts from that alone, mind melting into a puddle of your name, the wet heat of your mouth serving as a better pleasure than his own hand.
You start bobbing your head up and down, marveling in the way the weight of his dick sits on your tongue. He's so big that you're so close to choking, but you don't care. You need to remind Jake how stupid he's been acting and how stupid he is if he thinks that you were not just as attracted toward him.
Jake sobs into his hands, hips jerking with every touch of his tip hitting the back of your throat. His head is getting dizzier, he can feel the coil in his stomach getting tighter and he knows that anytime soon, he will come undone on your skillful tongue.
But just as he's about to reach that high, you let go of him with a pop.
"No!" Jake whines, tears sliding down his cheeks. You're so mean. "P-Please let me cum."
"Not yet, nerdy boy." You mutter, red lips slick with saliva and precum. Jake can only sob, dick throbbing in need and desperation.
This is the punishment he deserves for being a jerk. He knows that, but he can't seem to stop crying. God, he's so pathetic.
Then he feels movement on his thighs. He blinks through the foggy lenses and lets out a breathless moan when you lift up your shirt and shorts and discard them away, leaving you in nothing but a pair of bra and panties. His mouth starts salivating at the display of your beautiful body, and Jake swears he almost cums when he sees that you're indeed wearing black panties.
Oh, fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Just as he imagined—God, you're so perfect he wants to kiss you.
But instead of a kiss, you push his at his chest instead. "Lie down."
And like the obedient puppy that he is, Jake follows your word, carefully descending his back onto the mattress. He's still sniffling from the previous denial, but now it's mixed with anticipation of what's to come when you hover above him.
You trace a gentle finger along the tall bridge of his nose, a barely-there touch that makes him shiver. With a slow tap on the tip of his nose, you finally speak.
"Did anyone ever ride your nose, Jaeyunnie?"
H-His nose?
Girls always compliment his nose, but he's never given it many thoughts as to why they did that. "N-No. Never."
There's a wicked smile on your face as you stand on your knees. Jake watches with a mouth gaping open as you make a show of shimmying down your panties, painfully and traitorously slowly that he almost rips it with his hand.
"Ah, what a shame," you sigh dreamily. "Guess I have to be the first one then."
Once your panties are out of the picture, Jake is instanly hit with a wave of your arousal. Your pussy glistens under the moonlight, soaked with slick and dripping with need. Jake inhales shakily, stopping himself from darting out his tongue to get a taste.
Fuck. He's sure he has actually died in the car and this is heaven because not even in his wildest dream did he get to have you like this.
Too lost in his reverie, Jake belatedly notices that you have removed his glasses. Despite your mean words and your mean actions, the caresses of your thumb on his cheeks are so gentle that he thinks he's hallucinating.
"You're so handsome, Jaeyun," you murmur. "But I bet you'll look better buried between my thighs."
You give him no time to recover from your crude words when you slowly move to straddle his head. Then, with a hand in his hair, you descend, letting the tip of his nose nudge at your clit.
And oh my fucking God—you smell so divine.
"Ah, Jaeyunnie," you moan, rocking your hips slowly to test the waters. "Your nose feels so good."
You sound even more divine. Jake's eyes roll to the back, savouring the way your sinful moans fall on his ears as you use his nose to get off. The bridge of his nose slides through your folds—wet and sticky and so sweet that he can't get enough of it.
Jake wraps his arms around your thighs to give you support, and another moan escapes your lips upon seeing his veiny arms around your supple skin. He stares at you through half-lidded eyes, groaning despite your cunt suffocating him, the vibration sending jolts of pleasure to your system.
"Ngh—Jaeyun—"
He can't breathe, and he can't hear properly from how hard you're clamping his head with your legs, but he can't deny that this is the best way to die. Being suffocated by your leaking pussy sounds like a dream death compared to dying in Jay's old SUV.
You keep your rhythm, rocking your hips back and forth, grinding your clit on his nose and dragging your folds on the tall bridge until the sharp tip of his nose catches at your hole. The grip you have in his hair hurts his scalp, but everything is worth the pain when Jake can watch you fall apart on his face, his own cock pulsing with a trembling need to cum.
"Ah—ah—Jaeyun oppa—"
Fuck. Fuck that sacred nickname.
The dynamics between you two often makes Jake forget the fact that he is indeed older than you. Coming from the States, it's uncommon for you to address people with such honorifics.
But right now, using that very honorific against him ignites something inside him; a carnal desire that's been thrumming low in his guts, waiting to be unleashed.
This time, Jake barely stops himself from stealing a taste. He darts out his tongue, prodding your hole with the tip, and hums in satisfaction when your stance falters slightly.
"Don't," you hiss, but there's no heat in it. Jake takes it as a sign to continue, licking more into your weeping cunt until your pace turns sloppy.
He doesn't care. You're probably gonna be so mad at him and punish him more, but whatever it is you have prepared can wait. Right now, Jake is having the best pussy of his life—barely breathing but still eating so, so fucking well.
"Jaeyun—stop—"
"No," Jake protests when you try to get up, pulling you down until the full weight of your body rests on his face.
Oh God, choking on pussy has never felt so good.
"Sim Jaeyun!" You squirm, feeling the stirring inside your belly getting wilder. Despite your weak attempts, your hips keeps grinding on his nose, showing no signs of stopping. You throw your head back.
You knew his nose would be the best thing to ride on, but hearing the slurps of your slick and his saliva—the sinful noises of him feasting on your cunt—makes you almost regret not letting him eat you out first.
"Ngh—Jaeyun—I'm close—"
Jake pulls your hips harder, letting you grind your clit on the tip of his nose as his tongue pushes into your hole mercilessly. You let out a high-pitched scream, muscles pulling tight at his ministrations. The double stimulations are fast pushing you over the edge.
Soon, white hot pleasure crashes into you, your vision turning black momentarily. It's so blurry and messy that you haven't realised that you've been screaming his name raw, hips unrelenting to chase the high. Jake swallows every drop of your sweet nectar, moaning into your spasming hole as he licks it clean.
Fuck. He's already desperate to have another round.
When you come down from your orgasm, hair matted to your forehead, you look down at him furiously.
"Let me go! I told you not to do it!" You attempt to sit up, but Jake doesn't let go, shaking his head with a pout. His nose and chin are drenched with your release, it's so sinful and filthy and you can't lie that you like seeing him so wrecked and fucked over like this.
"Can I have more? Please," he begs, kissing your inner thigh unhurriedly. He's already so addicted to the taste of you, Jake thinks he's gonna die if he doesn't have another fill. "I'll be so good to you, Y/N. Wanna eat you out so bad."
You grit your teeth, pushing away the temptation to save your pride. "No. Get up, Jaeyun."
But Jake is stubborn. He's so desperate to have more of you that he doesn't mind if he's leaving his own cock neglected and balls blue. "Please, I need it bad," he nudges at your pussy with his finger, pupils blown wide at the strings of sticky cum decorating your folds. "Fuck, please, Y/N, I want to eat you out."
"I said get up, Jaeyun."
"Y/N—"
"Jake."
The sharpness in your voice cuts through the haze instantly.
Jake stills immediately.
The desperation in his eyes flickers into something softer, more uncertain, like a scolded puppy finally realising he’s crossed a line. His grip on your thighs loosens at once, chest rising and falling hard beneath you.
The sound of his English name on your tongue feels foreign and almost painful, because it lacks the usual warmth and intimacy that your 'Jaeyun' usually holds. Yet, something inside him pulses harder, liking the change more than he'd like to admit.
“S-Sorry,” he whispers automatically, voice rough. “I just…”
He doesn’t even know how to explain it. How could he? That hearing you moan his name made him lose every coherent thought in his brain? That he’s spent days trying to stay away from you only to end up here, beneath you, completely ruined anyway?
You study him for a long moment before finally shifting off his face.
“Sit up.”
Jake obeys instantly.
The movement is clumsy and needy. His hair is a mess, lips swollen, face still flushed from lack of oxygen and desire. Without his glasses, his eyes look unbearably open like this—too honest, too vulnerable.
You cup his jaw gently, the touch losing its cruelty. Jake melts into it.
"There he is," you murmur softly, fixing his bangs that are obscuring his eyesight.
Jake can feel his heart stutter traitorously. This version of you—tender and sweet—a glimpse of the usual-you, is always more dangerous than any teasing.
Wordlessly, you tug at his shirt, and Jake obediently holds up his arms to let you peel away the fabric. Your eyes flick downward, amusement tugging at your lips.
"You know," you start, fingers trailing slowly down his sculpted chest, "for someone who acted terrified of touching me in the car…"
He groans softly, already embarrassed.
"…You were pretty damn desperate down there, Jaeyun."
His face burns hotter. Fine, he's just a touch-starved man, desperate for you in every way possible. But how could he not? Have you even looked at yourself?
"I-I can't help it…" His eyes drop to your lips. "You tasted so good."
A breathy chuckle escapes you, quiet and fond. But to Jake's ears, he's already hearing the wedding bells chime.
And suddenly the humiliation twisting in his chest eases into something warmer when you climb into his lap again, turning slowly until your back presses against his chest.
The exact same position. That fucking position in the car that has his mind on an endless frenzy that he thinks he was genuinely getting crazy.
Jake goes completely still beneath you.
“Oh,” you whisper, settling against him deliberately. “Now you’re quiet again?”
His hands hover uncertainly near your hips, like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you.
“You’re mean,” he mumbles weakly against your shoulder. You laugh, one hand patting his hair as the other one aligning his neglected cock on your entrance.
"But I know you like it, Jaeyunnie."
At the same time you presses on the nickname, you sink onto his cock slowly, letting the bulbous head of his length spear you open.
The both of you moan simultaneously. Jake's hands find puchase on your waist, trying his best to stop from manhandling you to just fucking bounce on his dick and letting you adjust. You, on the other hand, let the stretch burn, your walls spasming to accommodate his length.
"S-So big," you stutter, taking him inch by inch. Jake drops his head on your shoulder, his own breathing ragged. "So—full—"
When he finally fits inside you to the brim, you let out a long, drawn-out moan. He fills you up so good that you can feel every vein against your walls, every pulse kissing your insides. It's a dizzying experience that prompts you to start moving your hips.
Jake’s fingers dig into your waist, trembling.
Not because he wants to stop you.
Because he’s trying so hard not to lose himself completely.
The position alone is enough to send him spiraling—your back against his chest, your body in his lap exactly like the car ride, except now there’s no seatbelt digging into his side, no boys teasing from the front seat, no restraint left between the two of you.
Just you and him.
And the devastating realisation that you wanted him too.
Jake lets out a broken sound against your shoulder when you move again, his forehead falling against your skin. His entire body feels feverish, overwhelmed by too much sensation and too many emotions crashing into him at once.
"Wasn't this what got you so hard, Jaeyunnie?" You pant between breathless moans. "Me in your lap, bouncing on your cock like this?"
"Ngh—" A strangled noise escapes his throat. Jake watches with bated breath as your hands find the clasp of your bra and finally let the two soft mounds free. Now, he badly wants you to turn around, eager to relive the scene of your bouncy breasts in Jay's car.
"Did you not—ah—crave this?"
You arch your back, pleasure tingling every nerves as his cock drags against your walls. Jake feels his dick throb inside your hole, the same position that ruined him now had him completely at your mercy.
"S-So tight," he whimpers, mouth falling open at the way you clench around his cock and roll your hips. "S-So fucking tight, Y/N, fuck."
Jake clings onto you desperately, bucking his hips to chase your movement. But you hold down a firm hand on his thigh, completely in charge.
"Don't," you warn, grinding down on him in a way that makes your ass ripple. "Or I'll get up and leave."
Jake freezes instantly.
The warning slices straight through him, sharp and effective. His hands tighten on your waist, but he forces his hips back against the mattress despite every instinct screaming at him to chase you harder.
“O-Okay,” he breathes quickly. “Okay. Sorry.”
God, he sounds wrecked.
You can feel the way his thighs tremble beneath yours, the strain in his breathing every time you move your hips slowly against him. Jake drops his forehead between your shoulder blades with a weak groan, like simply holding himself back is physically painful.
"I'm still mad at you," you murmur. You roll your hips again, faster this time, and Jake nearly whimpers into your shoulder. His jaw clenches so hard he might pop a vessel.
"Are you sure you're not the one—" you moan, your thighs burning from how fast you're exerting yourself. The wet sound of skin hitting skin starts getting louder the harder you slam down your hips. "The one who's being—mean?"
Jake sobs into your skin, half-regretting, half-dizzy. The tight heat of your cunt pulses and flutters around his dick and he genuinely feels horrible for only thinking using his other head now.
Even so, he still manages to apologise again. "I'm s-sorry—"
You clench around him on purpose. Jake digs his nails deeper. "Fuck—"
"Stop fucking apologising," you seethe, voice trembling as you feel your release getting near. "Delete her number or I'll sit in Sunghoon's lap when we get back to Seoul."
There's no bite in your threat. It's just a spur-of-the-moment kind of things, one that you say just to rile him up.
But Jake takes your words like a verdict. He snakes an arm around your waist, lips worshipping your skin in desperate, wet kisses.
"I'm sorry, Y/N, darling," he begs, tears clinging to his lashes. He bites his lips in an attempt to stop himself from moaning because he's so, so close. "I will block her. Fuck—I will delete her number. P-Please don't sit with S-Sunghoon—"
His speech is interrupted by a high-pitched whine. Jake hasn't come all night, he's nothing more than a thread waiting to snap. The moment you bounce harder and faster, the supple skin of your butt jiggling wilder, Jake can feel that he's about to come.
"Y/N—ah—p-puh—lease—" he whimpers, voice scratching at his throat. "'M close, 'm g-gonna cum—"
But he should've known that you're so, so mean.
The moment you lift off his cock, Jake genuinely sobs out loud, thrashing under you.
"No! No, please—" he chokes, hiding his crying face behind his hands, too shattered when his orgasm being denied again. "Please, no—I wanna cum, please."
You turn around and the sight of him—red-faced, wet cheeks, lips trembling—it softens your heart. You quickly pull his wrists and rest his hands on your hips, your own cupping his cheeks.
"I'm sorry, baby," you shush him, blowing kisses to the tip of his nose as you take him again. Jake whimpers quietly. "I'm so sorry—I'll let you cum this time, hm?"
Jake weakly nods, then lets out a soft moan at the familiar feeling of your walls enveloping him. You move again, already sore, but you no longer have it in you to torture your poor, poor Jaeyun. This time, you immediately begin with a fast pace, giving him a show of your tits bouncing with every thrust.
"Ah—fuck—Jaeyunnie—" you bite your lips, expression so erotic that it has the brown-haired boy drooling. "Glasses—like you better with glasses."
Jake is too dazed to register your words, so you pick the glasses on your own and put them on him. And there he is—your sweet, sweet boy, your Jaeyunnie that you adore so much, your Jaeyun that thinks it's bad for wanting you this much.
"S-So—handsome, Jaeyunnie," you roll your hips, chest arching into his face. "My nerdy boy, you're mine, hm?"
Jake physically cannot take it anymore. The sight of you on top of him, bouncing on his cock like your life depends on it, putting on his glasses and calling him yours—it's too much for Sim Jaeyun who's never been given this kind of attention and affection.
Especially from you.
His lips move, but you can barely hear him.
"Hm? What did you say?"
"I said I'm sorry, Y/N," his nails dig into your waist. "I'm so fucking sorry, please don't be mad at me."
Your brows furrow in confusion, but before you know it, Jake is already flipping you around, changing your position in one swift movement. You have half a second to gain your breath before the boy hovering over you pulls you closer by your ankles and throws your legs over his shoulders.
"I'm s-sorry," Jake stutters, slipping his dick back into your cunt and starts thrusting fast. "I-I can't hold it anymore."
Despite the showcase of his strength, Jake looks absolutely ruined. There's a flicker of guilt in his eyes, but from the pace he's railing you, you know that his lust ovverrides whatever little guilt he has.
Soon enough, the air smells so thickly of sex. The sound of his balls slapping your ass, accompanied by your high-pitched moans and his groans are the only one filling up the space, to the point that you're sure one of the boys must've heard you.
It's so hot and filthy that Jake's glasses are all fogged up again. His grip on your waist is now leaving bruises, but you don't care because all you can think of is Jake, Jake's big cock, Jake's stupid glasses and just Jake, Jake, Jake.
"F-f-f-fuck," he exhales shakily, splitting you open with his cock. "I-I'm so—close—"
You thrash around, fisting the sheets until it tears from the force of your nails. "Jaeyun—" you gasp when he keeps abusing that spot that has you seeing stars. "Oh, fuck—Jaeyun—harder—"
Jake leans forward, straining his arms on either side of your head. His glasses slide down his slick nose slightly when he bends down to capture your lips in his thick ones. You both moan into the kiss, finally getting the taste of each other, tongues already clashing for more.
Jake licks into your mouth, hips never faltering, and sucks on your bottom lip. You whimper, the sensation becoming too much until you're just breathing against his lips, all heat and teeth and saliva. Jake groans.
"I-I'm gonna—cum—" he gasps against your mouth, face scrunching in pleasure when you clench around him. "O-Oh my fucking God, Y/N, fuck—please let me cum inside."
His hands find your waist again, thrusting harder than before. His head drops to your shoulder as he begs, again and again.
"P-Please let me cum inside, please," he whimpers, voice needy and whiny. "Please—I'm gonna—I wanna—"
"Just cum," you moan when his teeth scrape against your skin. "Jae—Jaeyunnie—"
Jake groans. With last few, deliberate thrusts, he finally cums—a full-body orgasm that has him shuddering, his cock spurting out rope after thick rope of his release, painting your walls white.
You follow him just a second after, vision blurring for a moment as your second orgasm rips through your body. Your mouth falls open on a silent scream, eyes rolling back from how delicious your climax is.
Jake takes a long moment breathing into your ear, grinding his hips slowly before he's finally pulling out. He hisses as he drags out his cock, careful not to overstimulate you, and watches in awe as white fluid flowing out of your pulsing cunt.
"Oh my fucking God."
You breathe out a laugh, sounding breathless and disbelieving. Seeing Jake sitting still by your legs, you open your arms toward him.
"C'mere, Jaeyunnie. Let's cuddle for a moment before washing up—I'm too sore to walk."
Jake perks up at that. Gone is the hungry, lust-driven boy a few moments ago, now replaced with the shy, kicked puppy holding his tail between his legs.
"Cuddle?" he echoes, unsure. "Are you not mad at me?"
"I could never be mad at you for too long," you reply, giving him a reassuring smile.
It gives Jake a flicker of hope. He scoots closer, still cautious and observing, like approaching a scared animal.
"But I avoided you…"
You drop your arms and pretend to think, making a show of tapping your chin with a finger.
"You're right. You were mean for that. Why don't you carry me to the bathroom and clean me up so we can cuddle afterwards?"
Hearing that, Jake finally relaxes, his tight muscles loosening. With an eager smile, he scoops an arm under your knees and your back, and then lifts you up easily as if you weigh nothing.
"Your wish is my command, my princess."
The next morning, you receive knowing looks from the boys. There are lingering stares on your neck from where Jake was mauling your skin last night, but you have no problem showing them off.
Jake, on the other hand, is on the edge of another breakdown.
"So, Jake," Jay starts, already planning a mischievous teasing inside his head. "How did it feel like to get railed—"
"I did not get railed!" he squeaks, ears blushing red. "I-I was the one who railed her! Right, Y/N?"
There's a laugh bubbling inside your chest as you watch Jake squirm under the relentless teasing of his friends. It felt good to be the one in charge, but after that display of strength and the way he manhandled you last night?
You don't mind having him on top of you.
But the both of you know who's truly in charge.
And if you choose to sit in his lap again, this time grinding and shifting on purpose that he gets hard until the car reaches Seoul, nobody has to know that.
Summary: Years after surviving Raccoon City, you and Leon are still living with the infection left behind. When Leon is sent on the mission that could finally cure both him and Sherry, he promises to bring a second dose home for you.
Warnings/tags: RE9 spoilers, major character death, terminal illness, grief/mourning, heavy angst, blood, survivor’s guilt, mentions of infection/virus, no happy ending
Rain dragged itself down the windows of their apartment in crooked trails, blurring the lights outside into watery streaks of gold and red. The city below still moved with the restless pulse of late-night traffic, but inside the apartment, everything felt hushed beneath the soft hum of the television and the occasional rattle of Leon coughing into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. The sound came rough and deep from his chest.
From the kitchen counter, you looked up immediately, fingers still curled around the ceramic mug you'd been drying. "You're supposed to be resting," you said quietly, though there wasn't much bite left in the words anymore. Worry had worn itself smooth over the years.
Leon leaned deeper into the couch cushions with his eyes half-closed, one arm draped across his stomach. The veins beneath the skin of his hand curled darkly beneath the lamplight, blackened tributaries crawling over pale flesh before disappearing beneath the cuff of his sleeve. The splotch spreading along the side of his neck looked darker tonight, too, bruised violet against tired skin.
"I am resting," he muttered.
"You fell asleep sitting upright again."
"Occupational hazard."
A soft breath escaped you at that, halfway between amusement and exhaustion. You set the mug aside before crossing the apartment toward him. Even after all these years, Leon still watched you like you were something grounding. Something untouched by all the rot clinging stubbornly to him.
Your fingers brushed carefully against the side of his neck, just beneath the stain spreading there. Leon tried not to flinch beneath your touch.
"Tender?" you asked softly.
"No worse than usual."
That was the lie both of you used now. No worse than usual. It covered everything from sleepless nights to coughing blood to the way Leon occasionally lost his breath climbing the stairs after missions that once wouldn't have even quickened his pulse.
You studied him for another moment before moving toward the medicine cabinet near the kitchen. The apartment smelled faintly of soup and disinfectant, a strange combination that had followed you home from the hospital for years. Leon used to tease you about it back when things felt lighter. Back before every quiet moment carried the weight of wondering how many were left.
Now the smell only reminded him of how exhausted you looked lately. You tried to hide it well. Most days, you still tied your hair back neatly before work. Still ironed your scrubs. Still left sticky notes near the coffeemaker, reminding Leon to eat something green while you worked late shifts. To anyone else, you probably looked fine.
Leon noticed the small things, though, they're not that small. The way you paused before standing too quickly. The faint tremor in your hands when you thought nobody was watching. The shadows beneath your eyes growing darker every week. And the coughing. God, the coughing.
You returned with his medication and a glass of water before settling beside him on the couch. "You missed another dose this morning."
Leon accepted the pills from your hand. "I was busy."
"You were unconscious for fourteen hours."
"Exactly."
You rolled your eyes faintly, though exhaustion softened even that reaction. When Leon swallowed the medication, you rested your head carefully against his shoulder, fitting there like habit. Outside, thunder murmured somewhere far away.
For a little while, neither of you spoke. Leon could feel the warmth of you pressed against his side. Too warm. His jaw tightened.
"You should've called out today," he said eventually.
"And told them what?" you asked softly. "Sorry, I can't come in because my husband and I are both slowly mutating."
A tired sound escaped him that almost resembled a laugh.
"Was it bad today?" he asked after a moment.
You stayed quiet long enough for him to know the answer before you finally spoke. "My hands cramped up during an IV insertion," you admitted. "Mrs. Holloway noticed."
Leon stared ahead at the flickering television screen without really seeing it. "You shouldn't still be working."
"We've had this argument."
"You almost collapsed last week."
"And you came home coughing blood three days ago."
That silenced him immediately. The rain thickened harder against the windows. You shifted slightly beside him, curling your fingers carefully around his infected hand despite the ugly black veins webbing beneath the skin. Leon remembered the first time you'd seen them appear. He'd expected horror. Fear. Distance.
Instead, you'd taken his hand exactly like this and whispered, "Still you." It nearly ruined him then. It still did.
"We're running out of time, aren't we?" he asked quietly.
The question lingered between you like smoke. You didn't answer immediately. Leon knew you were choosing your words carefully, the same way you always did when trying not to hurt him.
"There are people who lasted longer," you said at last.
"That's not what I asked."
Your fingers tightened slightly around his. Leon finally looked at you then, really looked. At exhaustion you couldn't hide anymore. At the faint discoloration creeping beneath the collar of your sweater. At the fragile steadiness, you wore like armor because somebody in the apartment had to stay calm. You gave him a small smile that broke his heart on contact.
"You know what scares me the most?" you asked softly.
Leon frowned. "What?"
"That you keep looking at me like I'm already gone."
The words hollowed something inside his chest.
He turned toward you fully despite the ache pulling through his ribs, one hand rising to cup the side of your face. "Don't," he murmured immediately. "Don't say that."
"But you are."
"I'm trying to fix this."
"I know."
"No," Leon said, more fiercely this time. "I am. I'm close."
Your expression flickered then. Hope and grief colliding in equal measure. You believed him because you loved him, and that somehow made it worse.
Leon rested his forehead carefully against yours, breathing shallowly through the pressure tightening in his lungs. "I'm not losing you to this," he whispered.
"I don't want to lose you either."
Morning arrived gray and slow, the kind that barely deserved to be called morning at all. Rainwater still clung to the fire escape outside the apartment windows, dripping steadily beneath a sky the color of bruised steel. Somewhere below, traffic hissed across wet pavement while distant sirens blurred into the rhythm of the waking city. The television had long since shut itself off overnight, leaving the apartment wrapped in soft silence broken only by the uneven sound of Leon breathing beside you.
You woke first. Not because you were rested, you honestly couldn't remember the last time you'd felt rested. Your body ached before you'd even fully opened your eyes. Heat coiled beneath your skin in restless waves, feverish and familiar, while your joints protested the simple act of shifting beneath the blankets. For a moment, you stayed still, staring hazily at the dim light filtering through the curtains while your heartbeat thudded heavily behind your ribs.
Then Leon coughed. The sound tore violently through the quiet room. You pushed yourself upright immediately, the motion making dizziness swim unpleasantly through your vision. Beside you, Leon sat hunched forward at the edge of the mattress, one hand braced against his chest while the other covered his mouth. His shoulders trembled beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
"Leon," you said softly, voice still rough with sleep.
He held up a hand without turning toward you, the universal signal for wait. Another cough wracked through him hard enough to make your stomach twist. By the time he finally lowered his hand, there was blood smeared faintly across his knuckles. Your chest tightened painfully.
"Jesus Christ," you whispered, already reaching for the tissues on the nightstand.
"I'm fine."
"You're coughing blood."
"It's not that much."
"That sentence stopped comforting me months ago."
Leon let out a tired breath through his nose as you handed him the tissues. Morning light spilled weakly across the side of his face now, illuminating the darkened veins stretching along his throat and disappearing beneath his collarbone. The discoloration had spread farther during the past few weeks. Neither of you mentioned it anymore.
You sat beside him carefully, one hand resting between his shoulder blades, while the coughing finally subsided into shallow breathing. His skin felt burning hot.
"You should stay home today," you murmured.
Leon gave you a look that could only be described as exhausted disbelief. "You said the exact same thing last night."
"And I meant it last night, too."
"I can't."
"You can barely breathe."
"I've been worse."
You closed your eyes briefly at that. The problem with Leon was that he genuinely meant it. Somewhere along the line, his definition of manageable had become horrifyingly distorted.
When you opened your eyes again, Leon was already trying to stand. The movement almost immediately betrayed him. His breath caught sharply, and he grabbed the edge of the dresser hard enough for his knuckles to whiten beneath the black veining spreading across his skin.
"Leon."
"I'm okay."
"Are you sure?"
"I said I'm okay."
The irritation in his voice wasn't directed at you. You knew that. It came from frustration. From humiliation. From the unbearable reality that his own body was becoming something unreliable. Still, silence settled heavily between you afterward. Leon stared at the floor for several long seconds before finally exhaling shakily and sinking back onto the edge of the bed. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders as he rubbed a hand over his face.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I just hate this."
The honesty in his voice hurt more than the coughing had.
You moved closer until your shoulder brushed his. "I know."
"No, I really hate it." He laughed once under his breath, bitter and tired. "I used to go days without sleeping during missions. Now I get winded walking to the kitchen."
You watched him carefully. Leon rarely spoke about the fear directly. He covered it with sarcasm, deflection, stubbornness, anything that kept the terror from fully surfacing. Seeing it now, raw and exhausted in the dim morning light, made something ache deep inside your chest.
"You're still you," you said softly.
His jaw tightened immediately, "That's part of the problem. I don't think I will be for me much longer."
You looked down at your own hands resting in your lap. The faint tremor had returned sometime during the night. Tiny involuntary movements beneath skin that looked normal enough until someone paid close attention.
At the hospital last week, one of the newer nurses had asked if you were feeling alright after you'd nearly dropped a tray of syringes. You'd smiled. You'd lied. You were getting very good at lying. Leon noticed your hands before you could tuck them away.
His expression shifted instantly. "How long?"
You hated that question because he always sounded so afraid of asking it. "Just this morning," you answered carefully.
"That's not what I asked."
You swallowed. The truth sat heavily behind your teeth. "A few weeks."
Leon went still beside you. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows again.
"You should've told me," he said quietly.
"And what would that have changed?"
His silence answered for him. Everything. It would've changed everything.
Leon leaned forward suddenly, elbows braced against his knees, while one hand pressed hard against his mouth. You could practically see the guilt chewing through him in real time, relentless and familiar.
"This is my fault," he muttered.
Your head snapped toward him immediately. "Don't do that."
"If I'd gotten you out faster that night..."
"Leon."
"If I hadn't left you alone at the hospital..."
"Stop."
His voice roughened sharply. "You got infected because of me."
The words struck the room like shattered glass. Neither of you could move after those words left his mouth. You reached out for him after a moment, sliding your hand carefully against his jaw until he finally looked at you. His eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, shadows buried heavily beneath them.
"You listened to me very carefully back in Raccoon City," you said softly. "So listen to me now."
Leon's breathing stayed uneven beneath your touch.
"You did not infect me," you continued. "You did not fail me. You did not ruin my life."
His expression cracked slightly at that, pain flickering openly across his face.
"You saved my life," you whispered. "I got years with you that I never should've had."
Leon looked away immediately like the words physically hurt him.
"That's not enough if one of us dies," he says hoarsely.
Your chest tightened. That was the tragedy of loving Leon Kennedy. No matter how much he gave, he still believed he should've found a way to give more.
The apartment was dark except for the kitchen light Leon had forgotten to turn off. A single yellow glow spilled weakly across the counter and into the living room, cutting through the early morning dark in tired slants. The digital clock on the microwave read 2:17 AM in harsh green numbers. Rain had finally stopped sometime during the night, leaving the city outside damp and quiet beneath a low blanket of fog.
You should've been asleep. Instead, you stood barefoot near the hallway entrance with one hand braced against the wall, trying to steady the dizziness rolling unpleasantly beneath your skin. Exhaustion clung heavily to your limbs after another twelve-hour shift at the hospital, but the silence in the apartment had dragged you awake the second you realized Leon wasn't beside you.
At first, you thought he might've gone outside to smoke again. He'd picked the habit back up months ago despite your endless arguments about it. Then you noticed the light, and the sound of paper shifting.
You moved quietly toward the kitchen, the cold hardwood floor creaking faintly beneath your steps. Leon sat hunched at the table still wearing yesterday's clothes, shoulders rigid beneath his gray sweatshirt while files and photographs lay scattered around him in uneven piles.
Medical reports, autopsy images, government seals.
Your stomach tightened immediately. Leon didn't notice you at first. His eyes stayed locked on the papers in front of him, jaw clenched hard enough to twitch beneath the dim light. One hand pressed against his mouth, while the other gripped a photograph so tightly the edges had bent beneath his fingers.
He coughed suddenly, the sound tearing violently through the quiet apartment. Leon turned sharply away from the table, coughing hard into his sleeve while his free hand braced against the countertop nearby. The force of it nearly doubled him over.
"Leon."
He froze instantly. For one terrible second, guilt flashed across his face before he smoothed it away too late for either of you to pretend you hadn't seen it.
"You should be sleeping," he said roughly.
You ignored the comment entirely, eyes drifting instead toward the files spread across the table. Photographs stared back at you. Five different faces. Five different civilians. Every single one labeled deceased.
Cold unease curled through your stomach. "What is this?"
Leon went very still. The silence lasted long enough for dread to start settling into your bones.
Finally, he leaned back in the chair with a slow exhale, exhaustion hollowing out his features. "Cases connected to dormant viral exposure after Raccoon City."
Your pulse thudded unevenly. You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, gaze catching on dates and medical terminology scattered across the reports. Progressive organ failure. Neurological deterioration. Respiratory collapse. One victim had been only thirty-two. Another had survived nearly ten years before symptoms resurfaced.
You felt sick. Leon watched you carefully the entire time, like he was waiting for something to shatter.
"How long have you had these?" you asked quietly.
"A while."
"A while," you repeated softly. "Leon."
His jaw tightened. "I didn't want you seeing them."
"Why?"
The question came out sharper than you intended. Leon pushed a hand through his hair roughly before standing from the table. The motion looked unsteady, exhaustion dragging visibly at his body. He crossed toward the sink and gripped the edge of the counter hard enough for the tendons in his infected hand to stand out beneath the dark veins.
"Because none of them survived," he said flatly.
The walls felt like they were slowly closing in around you. You stared at his back in silence while the refrigerator hummed quietly nearby.
"Were they all infected the same way we were?"
"Similar strain."
"And you've just been reading this alone?"
Leon laughed once under his breath, bitter and exhausted. "What exactly was I supposed to say to you?" he asked. "'Hey, sweetheart, I found six years of autopsy reports proving this thing eventually kills civilians slower than it kills everybody else'?"
"You found five reports."
His shoulders stiffened immediately. The realization hit both of you at the same time. Five victims. You would be the sixth. Leon turned away sharply before you could fully see his expression, but not before grief cracked visibly across his face. That hurt more than the files did.
You crossed the kitchen slowly until you stood a few feet behind him. "Leon."
"I'm figuring it out."
"You don't know that."
"I said I'm figuring it out." His voice came harsher now, fraying at the edges beneath exhaustion and panic.
You watched him brace both hands against the counter, head lowered while his breathing turned uneven again. The dark veins stretching across the back of his hands looked almost black beneath the kitchen light now.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then your eyes drifted back toward the table. Toward the notes. Toward the highlighted sections and handwritten annotations covering nearly every page. Leon had memorized these people. Every symptom. Every timeline. Every death.
Your chest tightened painfully. "You're preparing for me to die," you said softly.
Leon's head snapped upward immediately. "No."
"You are."
"No, I'm not."
"You know all their timelines, Leon."
"Because I need to."
"You know how long they lasted after symptoms progressed."
"I need to know what we're dealing with."
"You organized them by stages."
"Because there's a pattern."
Your voice finally cracked. "Because you're trying to predict when I'll die."
Silence slammed into the room. Leon looked stricken like you'd reached into his chest and dragged something ugly into the light before he could hide it.
"That's not..." He stopped hard, swallowing visibly. "That's not what I'm doing."
"You're trying to figure out how much time we have left together."
His composure finally broke. "I'm trying to keep you alive!"
The words exploded out of him loud enough to echo through the apartment. You flinched slightly. Leon stared at you immediately afterward like he hated himself for it. His breathing turned ragged.
"I can't lose you," he said hoarsely, quieter this time. "I can't sit here and pretend this isn't happening while you get worse every week."
You felt tears burning painfully behind your eyes now. "I know."
"No, you don't." Leon dragged a shaking hand over his face. "You don't know what it's like watching you cough and wondering if that's the moment it starts getting bad. You don't know what it's like hearing you come home exhausted and thinking about those files every time you look tired."
His voice cracked hard on the last sentence. For a second, he looked less like a government agent and more like a man drowning slowly in anticipatory grief.
"You think I'm preparing for you to die?" he whispered. "I'm trying to find the point where I can still save you."
The raw desperation in his voice hollowed something inside your chest. You crossed the remaining distance between you carefully before resting your hands against his face. Leon's skin felt fever-warm beneath your palms. His eyes closed immediately.
"I'm still here," you whispered.
Leon's expression tightened sharply, grief flickering across it so fast it almost looked painful.
"That's what scares me," he admitted quietly. "Because they were too. Until they weren't."
After that night, every day after felt fragile in a way cracked glass still technically holds together until the exact wrong amount of pressure finally splinters in apart.
Gray daylight spilled weakly through the apartment windows while the coffee maker sputtered in the kitchen, filling the air with the bitter smell of burnt grounds. Leon stood at the counter in sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt, one hand braced against the edge of the sink while he waited for another coughing fit to pass.
You stood nearby pretending to butter toast while listening carefully to the uneven rasp dragging through his lungs. Every cough sounded painful now. Wet. Heavy. The kind of cough that settled deep in bone and refused to leave.
He finally spit blood into the sink.
You closed your eyes briefly, "Leon."
"I know," he muttered hoarsely.
"You can barely stand."
"I'm standing right now."
"You're leaning like a seventy-year-old chain smoker."
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, though it disappeared quickly beneath exhaustion. He rinsed the sink carefully afterward, watching diluted pink swirl down the drain before gripping the counter again when dizziness hit him too fast.
"Sit down, Lee."
"I'm fine."
"You almost folded in half."
Leon exhaled sharply through his nose before finally relenting, dragging himself toward one of the kitchen chairs with the slow stiffness of someone twice his age. The movement alone seemed to drain him. By the time he sat down, his breathing had already turned shallow again.
You'd watched this man sprint through collapsing streets with barely a second thought for his own survival. Now, climbing out of bed looked like it cost him something.
You slid a plate toward him anyway. "Eat."
Leon looked down at the toast like it had personally offended him. "You made enough for an army."
"You need protein."
"This isn't protein."
"You're lucky I didn't make eggs."
"You almost burned water last week."
"That happened once."
"It absolutely did not happen once."
Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you. Leon's expression softened immediately at the sound. There it is, his eyes seemed to say.
It almost felt normal again. Then your hand started shaking. The knife slipped slightly against the countertop with a sharp metallic scrape. Leon noticed instantly. The warmth vanished from his expression so quickly it physically hurt to watch. You curled your fingers inward automatically, but it was too late.
"How bad?"
You hated how quietly he asked that now. Like every symptom had become another brick added carefully to the wall of terror building inside him.
"It's fine."
"That's not an answer."
You set the knife down carefully before your trembling hand could drop it entirely. "Just tired."
Leon stared at you across the kitchen table. The silence stretched long enough to become unbearable. Finally, he pushed himself upright despite obvious effort and crossed toward you slowly. The dark veins creeping beneath the skin of his arms stood out starkly beneath the weak kitchen light.
"You're pale," he murmured.
"So are you."
"You're shaking."
"You coughed blood into our sink thirty seconds ago."
For one brief moment, frustration flashed across his face before exhaustion swallowed it whole again. Leon rested both hands carefully against the counter on either side of you, head lowering slightly.
"I got a call last night," he said quietly.
Your stomach tightened instantly.
"A mission?"
Leon nodded once.
Something cold slipped beneath your ribs.
He hadn't mentioned work in weeks unless absolutely necessary. The government had already reduced his field involvement after his symptoms worsened, but "reduced" still meant they dragged him back whenever things became dangerous enough.
"When?"
"Tomorrow night."
You looked down immediately. Not because you wanted to avoid his eyes. Because you already knew what his expression would look like. Guilt. Fear. Determination sharp enough to cut himself open on.
"What kind of mission?"
Leon hesitated. That terrified you more than the answer probably would have.
"There's a lab in Raccoon City," he said carefully. "They think they found something."
Your heartbeat stumbled unevenly. "What kind of something?"
Leon's jaw tightened faintly before he answered. "A cure."
"You're really going back there?"
"I have to."
The entire apartment suddenly felt suspended in place around that single word. Cure. Not a treatment, not a symptom management, a real cure.
"You're sure?" you whispered.
"They think so."
That was the dangerous thing about hope after years without it. Even the smallest amount hit like a flood.
"There's a facility connected to the original research," he continued softly. "That's where they're sending me."
Of course they were sending him. Because whenever something impossible needed surviving, the government always handed it to Leon Kennedy like they'd forgotten he was human years ago.
The thought settled heavily into your chest. Leon watched your expression carefully, and suddenly you saw it. Beneath the exhaustion. Beneath the coughing and the dark veins and the constant fear. Hope. Real hope. You hadn't seen it in him for months. Maybe years.
"This could work," he said quietly.
The words sounded almost fragile coming from him. Leon rarely allowed himself optimism anymore unless he absolutely believed it.
You swallowed hard. "For you?"
"For me," he agreed.
Then his eyes met yours.
"And for you."
The ache that followed nearly split your chest open. Because suddenly you could see it happening too. The fever gone. The coughing stopping. Leon finally sleeping through the night without waking breathless and shaking beside you. A future that didn't end in hospital reports and autopsy photos.
Leon stepped closer carefully, one hand brushing against your wrist. "They only confirmed enough doses for Sherry and me," he admitted quietly. "But if this works..."
You frowned slightly. "Leon."
"I'll bring one back for you."
His voice carried absolute certainty. Not hope. Not maybe. Certainty.
Your eyes burned immediately. "You can't promise that."
"Yes, I can."
"You don't even know what you're walking into yet."
"I don't care."
The answer came sharp enough to cut. Leon's fingers tightened slightly around your wrist while exhaustion and desperation flickered openly across his face.
"I don't care what that place looks like," he said roughly. "I don't care how bad it gets. If there's a cure in that facility, I'm bringing one home for you."
The conviction in his voice hurt. Because this wasn't just another mission to him anymore. This was the first time in years Leon genuinely believed he could save someone he loved before it was too late.
You reached up slowly, brushing your fingers against the darkened skin along his neck. "Leon..."
"I mean it." His voice softened then, cracking slightly beneath the weight of everything sitting between you. "When this is over," he murmured, "you're gonna get better."
By the time Leon's departure day arrived, the apartment had settled into the kind of quiet that made every sound feel important. The radiator clicked softly beneath the windows. Rain slid steadily down the glass in silver trails, distorting the city lights outside into blurred streaks of gold and white. Somewhere several floors below, a car horn echoed briefly through the wet streets before disappearing again. Everything beyond the apartment kept moving normally, while inside, time felt painfully suspended.
Leon was in the bedroom packing. Or pretending to. You stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him fold the same black long-sleeved shirt for the third time in less than ten minutes, before setting it back into the duffel bag with visible frustration. His movements lacked their usual sharp efficiency tonight. Exhaustion dragged heavily at him now, dulling the careful precision he normally carried before missions. The veins stretching along the backs of his hands looked darker beneath the lamplight. You hated how often you noticed things like that now.
Leon finally glanced up after sensing you watching him. "What?" he asked quietly.
A faint smile tugged weakly at your mouth despite everything. "You packed that shirt already."
His eyes flickered downward toward the bag before he exhaled softly through his nose. "Right."
The answer sounded distracted. Tired. You crossed the room slowly, your body protesting every step with deep aches spreading through your chest and limbs. The fever simmering beneath your skin hadn't broken in almost two days now. Even walking across the apartment left you slightly breathless, though you'd spent the entire evening pretending otherwise. Leon noticed immediately anyway. He always noticed.
The second you stopped beside him, his expression tightened faintly. "You're overdoing it again."
"I walked across one room."
"You got winded doing it."
You rolled your eyes softly, though the motion lacked any real energy behind it. "You say that like you're not coughing up pieces of your lungs every morning."
"That's different."
"How?"
Leon opened his mouth before immediately seeming to realize he didn't actually have an answer. A tired breath escaped him instead.
You smiled faintly. "Exactly."
For a moment, silence settled between you again. Rain tapped steadily against the windows. Leon looked at you then. Really looked at you. His eyes lingered too long. On the shadows beneath your eyes. On the exhaustion you couldn't fully hide anymore. On the slight tremor in your hands where they rested against the bedroom dresser. Something fragile flickered across his face so quickly it almost hurt to witness. He was memorizing you. The realization hollowed your chest.
You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, hands settling carefully against the front of his shirt. Beneath your palms, you could feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing. His lungs had sounded worse all week.
"You're scared," you murmured softly.
Leon laughed once under his breath, tired and humorless. "That obvious?"
"You reorganized your bag four times."
That finally pulled a real smile from him. Small. Exhausted. But real.
God, you loved him. Even now. Even with sickness hollowing both of you out from the inside. Even with fear sitting heavy between every conversation and every quiet glance. You loved him so much that it sometimes physically hurt.
Leon's hands settled carefully at your waist.
"You should rest before I leave," he murmured. "You look exhausted."
"So do you."
"Occupational hazard."
"You already used that line this week." A weak laugh escaped you before fading again almost immediately.
The reality of the evening settled heavily back over the room. Tomorrow, Leon would be gone. Tomorrow, you'd wake up alone in this apartment with your worsening symptoms and too much silence. The thought sat sharply beneath your ribs.
"You know," you said quietly, "I used to hate when you left for missions."
Leon's brow furrowed slightly. "Used to?"
"Well," you murmured, "now I really hate it."
The fragile composure he'd been holding together all evening cracked slightly around the edges. Suddenly, Leon looked less like a broody, hardened man preparing for deployment and more like a man trying very hard not to fall apart in front of the person he loved. He stepped closer until barely any space remained between you.
"I'll come back," he said softly.
You looked up at him carefully.
He believed that.
Not because he thought the mission would be easy. Not because he underestimated whatever nightmare waited for him out there.
Leon believed he'd come back because he'd attached your survival to the outcome.
He wasn't going after a cure for himself anymore.
He was going after you.
Your throat tightened painfully.
"You better," you whispered.
Leon's hands slid upward slowly until they cupped your face with aching gentleness. His palms felt warm despite the infection darkening beneath his skin.
"You wait for me," he murmured.
The words nearly undid you. Not because of what he said. Because of how desperately he said it. Like he was trying to bargain with fate itself.
Your eyes burned sharply. "Leon..."
"I mean it." His forehead rested carefully against yours while his breathing turned shallow again. "You wait for me, and I'll come home with that cure."
Emotion climbed painfully into your throat. You wanted to promise him. God, you wanted to. But deep inside, beneath all the fear and hope and denial, your body already knew something the rest of you was still trying not to face. You were getting worse too quickly.
So instead of answering, you reached for him. Leon kissed you immediately. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just heartbreakingly familiar. One of his hands cradled the side of your face while the other settled against your back, pulling you gently against him like he couldn't bear even an inch of distance between you. The kiss tasted faintly of coffee and exhaustion and everything that had always been uniquely Leon. You melted into him despite the ache spreading through your chest.
For a few precious seconds, the world outside the apartment disappeared entirely. No infections. No missions. No looming grief waiting just beyond the horizon. Just Leon. Just the steady warmth of his hands and the careful way he kissed you like something precious.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead remained resting against yours. His eyes stayed closed for a moment longer, like he was gathering strength simply from being near you. Slowly, he lifted his head enough to look at you again.
The exhaustion in his face nearly broke your heart open. Dark circles bruised beneath his eyes. The infection staining his neck had spread farther over the past month, curling beneath the pale skin in ugly, blackened veins. Even breathing looked exhausting now.
And still, he was leaving tomorrow to walk directly into another nightmare because somewhere at the end of it waited the possibility of saving you. The realization hurt so badly you could barely breathe around it.
You reached up carefully, brushing trembling fingers against the side of his face. Leon leaned into your touch immediately, like it was instinct.
"I love you," you whispered.
The words filled the room softly. You can see how terrified he is beneath all the determination. His hand covered yours against his cheek.
"I love you too," he said quietly. "More than anything."
Tears burned painfully behind your eyes now. Leon kissed your forehead gently before pulling you into his arms again, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. You could hear the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his chest. Fast. Unsteady. Afraid.
Your arms wrapped around him carefully while exhaustion settled heavier and heavier into your bones. You wondered briefly if he could feel how weak you'd become. If he noticed how hard it had become for you to hold onto him for long periods now. If he realized you were memorizing him, too.
It's rained for a week straight. The night Leon left, it finally stopped...ironic, right?
Clouds still hung low over the city in heavy gray sheets, but weak sunlight filtered through the apartment windows for the first time in days, washing everything in pale gold that made the quiet feel almost unreal. Dust drifted lazily through the light near the couch. Somewhere outside, water dripped steadily from fire escapes and rooftops onto the streets below.
You stood near the kitchen counter wrapped in one of Leon's old sweatshirts while he checked his weapons at the dining table. The sweatshirt smelled like him. Laundry detergent. Cigarettes. Faint traces of gunpowder that never seemed to fully leave his clothes anymore.
You'd stolen it from the bedroom sometime during the night, after another fever woke you, shivering so hard your teeth hurt. Leon noticed immediately when he came out of the shower earlier, but all he'd done was stare at you for a long moment before quietly saying, "Keep it on."
Now he sat across the apartment, slotting magazines into place with practiced movements while tension coiled visibly beneath his skin. His jaw stayed tight. His shoulders tighten. Every few seconds, he looked at you. Checking. Always checking. You pretended not to notice.
The truth was, standing upright already exhausted you. Your chest felt heavy this morning. Breathing took conscious effort in a way it hadn't before. Even the short walk from the bedroom to the kitchen had left your pulse hammering unevenly beneath your ribs.
"You should sit down," he said without looking away from the pistol in his hands.
"I'm fine."
"You almost tripped over absolutely nothing ten minutes ago."
"There was a rug."
"There has been a rug there for three years." A weak laugh escaped you despite yourself.
Leon's expression softened instantly at the sound, and for one brief moment, he looked less exhausted. Less haunted.
God, you wished you could keep him here. The thought arrived suddenly and sharply enough to hurt. You could ask. You knew you could.
If you looked Leon Kennedy in the eyes right now and said don't go, he wouldn't. The government could burn down outside the apartment windows, and he'd still stay beside you.
And that terrified you. Because if he stayed, there would be no cure. Not for him. Not for Sherry. Not for anyone. So instead, you tightened your fingers around the sleeve hanging over your hands and swallowed the fear clawing up your throat.
Leon finally stood from the table, though the movement immediately triggered another coughing fit. He turned away sharply, coughing hard into his fist while his shoulders tensed beneath his jacket.
By the time it stopped, Leon's breathing had gone shallow again.
"Jesus," you whispered softly.
"I'm okay."
Blood spotted faintly across his knuckles. You both saw it. Neither of you acknowledged it. Leon grabbed a rag from the counter and wiped his hand clean before you could move toward him. The dark veins stretching beneath the skin of his wrist looked almost black now, curling beneath pale flesh like fractures spreading through glass.
Then he looked back at you, and immediately frowned. You realized too late that your hand had drifted against the counter to steady yourself.
Leon crossed the apartment instantly. "Hey."
"I'm fine."
"You're pale."
"So are you."
"You're shaking again."
"I've been shaking for weeks, Leon."
Leon stopped directly in front of you, both hands settling carefully at your waist like he was afraid you might collapse if he let go. The awful thing was, you weren't entirely sure you wouldn't.
"You should be in a hospital," he murmured quietly.
You managed a faint smile. "I work in one. Does that count?"
"It's not funny."
"I know."
The apartment fell silent again. Outside, a siren wailed faintly somewhere downtown before fading into the distance. Leon stared at you for several long seconds, and suddenly, you could see it happening in real time. The hesitation. The instinct screaming at him not to leave you like this. Your chest tightened painfully.
So you reached for him first. Your hands slid carefully beneath the collar of his jacket before pulling him closer until his forehead rested against yours. Leon exhaled shakily the second you touched him.
"Go," you whispered softly.
His eyes closed immediately. "You don't mean that."
"You're the only one who might be able to save us... to save Sherry. We need you."
You leaned upward carefully and kissed him. Leon made a soft sound against your mouth that almost broke you apart right there. His arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you firmly against his chest while he kissed you back like he was trying to memorize every second of it. Every touch. Every breath. Every tiny detail he could carry with him into whatever nightmare waited ahead.
You could feel how fast his heart was beating beneath his jacket. Afraid. Leon was afraid. Not of the mission. Of losing you.
When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved far apart.
"I'm coming home to you," he whispered against your forehead.
The words lodged painfully beneath your ribs.
You swallowed hard before forcing a small smile. "Then I guess I'll have to wait for you."
Leon looked at you like he wanted to believe that more than anything in the world.
Then his phone vibrated. The sound shattered the moment instantly. Duty. Always duty. Leon closed his eyes briefly before pulling the phone from his pocket. You watched the exact second his expression hardened back into something operational. Controlled. Professional. It hurt watching him put the armor back on.
"They're downstairs," he said quietly.
Your chest constricted. Already? Leon stared at you for another long moment before reaching up to brush his thumb carefully beneath your eye. You hadn't even realized tears had started slipping down your face.
"Hey," he murmured softly.
You laughed weakly through the emotion catching in your throat. "I'm trying really hard not to cry right now."
"You don't have to do that for me."
"Yes, I do." Your voice cracked slightly. "Because if I start, you might not leave."
The honesty of it hit both of you at once. Leon's composure visibly faltered. For one terrible second, you genuinely thought he might stay. Then he cupped your face carefully and kissed you one final time. Slow. Tender. Devastated.
"I love you," he whispered against your lips.
Your throat tightened painfully. "I love you too."
Leon rested his forehead against yours for one last second before finally stepping away. The distance felt immediate. Wrong. You watched him grab his bag from beside the table while every instinct in your body screamed at you to stop him. To tell him not to go. To beg him to stay here, where you could still touch him.
Instead, you stood frozen in the middle of the apartment while Leon reached the front door. His hand settled against the knob. Then he looked back. That was the moment that would haunt him later. You standing there in his sweatshirt with exhausted eyes and trembling hands trying so hard to smile for him despite how sick you looked. Waiting for him. Always waiting for him.
Leon stared for half a heartbeat too long before finally opening the door and disappearing into the hallway. Then the apartment went silent. Completely silent. The emptiness hit instantly. Your knees nearly gave out beneath you.
At first, traces of him still lingered everywhere strongly enough that you could almost pretend he'd only gone downstairs for cigarettes or coffee. His mug still sat beside the sink from that morning, a faint ring of coffee staining the bottom. His jacket remained hooked over the chair near the dining table because he'd changed into tactical gear at the last minute. Even the bathroom mirror still carried the faded ghost of steam from his shower.
But as the days stretched onward, the silence changed shape. It deepened. By evening on the fourth day, the apartment no longer felt temporarily empty. It felt abandoned.
You sat curled beneath a blanket on the couch wearing Leon's sweatshirt while weak blue light from the television flickered across the room. You hadn't actually been watching anything for nearly an hour. The sounds blurred together beneath the pounding in your head and the fever simmering painfully beneath your skin.
Your breathing sounded wrong tonight. Too shallow. Every inhale dragged sharply through your chest like your lungs had become lined with broken glass. You coughed into the blanket again. Blood stained the fabric. For a long moment, you simply stared at it, then quietly folded that section beneath itself so you wouldn't have to keep looking at it.
The rain had only stopped for a few days before it seemed constant again. Tonight was no different. You closed your eyes. Leon was in Racoon City, fighting his way through creatures, trying to find a cure. You wonder if he's thinking of you as much as you're thinking of him... probably.
You imagined him moving through dark hallways with a gun in his hands and exhaustion carved deep into his bones. You imagined the infection tearing through his body harder every time he pushed himself too far. You imagined him fighting anyway because that's what Leon always did. He kept going. EVen when he was breaking apart, especially when something important was on the line.
A shaky breath escaped you before another coughing fit hit hard enough to bend you forward painfully against the couch cushions. This one lasted longer. By the end of it, black spots danced across your vision.
"Jesus Christ," you whispered weakly once it stopped.
Your voice sounded small in the empty apartment. You tried standing and it turned out to be a mistake. Dizziness slammed into you so fast the room tilted violently sideways. Your knees buckled before you even fully understood what was happening, and suddenly you were gripping the edge of the coffee table hard enough your fingers hurt while your pulse thundered wildly beneath your skin.
It took nearly a full minute before the apartment stopped spinning. You stayed crouched there breathing unevenly while fear crawled coldly through your chest. It was getting bad... quickly. Somewhere deep down, beneath all the denial you'd been clinging to for Leon's sake, you finally understood the truth.
You weren't going to make it long enough. There was no dramatics or sudden panic. It was certainty settling softly into your bones. Your eyes burned painfully.
"No..." you whispered immediately.
You forced yourself upright again eventually, moving slowly toward the kitchen for water. Every step exhausted you now. By the time you reached the sink, your breathing had already gone ragged.
The glass slipped from your trembling fingers before you could even fill it properly. It shattered against the floor. The sound rang violently through the apartment. You stared at the broken pieces for several seconds before tears suddenly blurred your vision without warning.
Leon wasn't here. If Leon had been here, he would've immediately crossed the room toward you with that worried crease between his brows. He would've checked your hands for cuts before even looking at the floor. He would've told you to sit down while he cleaned the mess himself. The apartment felt enormous without him. Lonely in a way that physically hurt.
You slid slowly down against the kitchen cabinets before you could stop yourself, exhausted enough that the cold tile beneath you actually felt comforting against your feverish skin. And suddenly, all you wanted was to hear his voice.
Your hand shook badly while pulling your phone from the pocket of the sweatshirt. Three missed calls from Leon. Two unread messages.
Made it to the checkpoint. You awake?
An hour later.
Miss you already. Love you.
Your chest cracked painfully around the words. A sob climbed abruptly into your throat before you swallowed it back down hard. You couldn't do this to him. Not now. Not while he was fighting through hell trying to bring salvation home in his bare hands.
Your gaze drifted slowly toward the kitchen table. Toward the notebook resting beside the fruit bowl. And something inside you quietly gave way. The walk back to the couch took nearly everything you had left.
By the time you lowered yourself carefully onto the cushions again, your entire body trembled with exhaustion. Rain whispered steadily against the windows while the city lights outside blurred softly through the fever haze clouding your vision.
You pulled the notebook into your lap and opened to the first blank page. For several long moments, you just stared at the blank page, tears slipping silently down your face. It's not easy to write a love letter that's also a goodbye letter.
You sat for a long time before slowly, carefully, you began to write.
By the time Leon finally returned, dawn had started bleeding weak gray light across the city skyline. The apartment door unlocked roughly.
"Hey," Leon called breathlessly as he stepped inside. "Hey, sweetheart?"
His voice sounded different. Lighter. Hopeful. For the first time in years. He shut the door quickly behind himself while rainwater dripped steadily from his jacket onto the floorboards. His breathing sounded clearer now. Stronger. The dark veins once curling beneath the skin of his neck had faded significantly.
In his hand, clutched tightly enough to hurt, sat two glasses vials. He'd done it. He'd actually done it.
"I got it," he said breathlessly, already moving further into the apartment. "I got enough for both of you. You should've seen the shit I had to..."
Then he saw you and the words died instantly. Silence crashed through the apartment. Leon stopped moving completely. For one horrible second, his expression didn't change at all. His brain physically could not understand what it was seeing.
You sat curled against the corner of the couch beneath the blanket, still wearing his sweatshirt. One hand rested loosely in your lap. The television cast pale flickering light across your still face. Waiting for him. Just like you promised.
"No," Leon whispered.
The vials slipped from his fingers onto the carpet. He crossed the room instantly.
"Hey," he breathed shakily, dropping hard to his knees beside the couch. "Hey, hey..."
His hands reached for you frantically, cupping your face, your shoulders, anywhere he could touch like enough contact might somehow undo reality itself.
Your skin was cold. Leon made a sound then. A sob, a swallowed scream, something broken.
"No, no, no..." His voice cracked apart violently while he pulled you against his chest. "Please. Please don't do this to me."
His entire body shook around the words. The cure sat forgotten on the floor beside him. Too late. Too fucking late.
Leon pressed his forehead desperately against yours while tears spilled uncontrollably down his face. "I came back," he choked out. "You said you'd wait for me."
His shaking hand brushed against something on the coffee table. Your notebook sat open where you tore the pages out. Leon froze. For several seconds, he simply stared at your handwriting on the folded paper before realizing what it was. Then his breathing broke all over again. His hands trembled violently while opening it.
My dear Leon,
If you're reading this, then you came home. I always believed you would. I'm sorry you had to find me this way, Lee. I need you to know this isn't your fault. You didn't fail me.
You've spent years carrying the weight of Raccoon City. It's carved into your bones, and I know you're already preparing to carry this too. So before anything else, I need you to listen to me one last time.
This isn't your fault. Not the city. Not the infection. Not this.
Loving you is the easiest thing I ever did. Even at the end, especially at the end. I know you probably came home carrying a cure for me. That thought hurts more than dying does. I know you fought for me. I know you pushed yourself too hard trying to reach me in time. I know you probably didn't sleep and ignored every injury because that's who you are.
I want you to know I fought too, I fought so fucking hard to stay awake until you came home. You gave me years I never should've had. After Raccoon City, I thought my life was over. Then somehow, impossibly, I got mornings with you. Movie nights on the couch. Burnt coffee and late-night takeout and listening to you complain every time I made you eat vegetables. I got to love you long enough to call you my husband. How special is that?
When you read this, I need you to do something impossibly hard for me. Live. Really live. Don't just survive missions and carry those ghosts until they bury you.
I need you to sleep in sometimes. I need you to laugh. I need you to stop apologizing for surviving.
Thanks for coming back for me. I loved you until the very end, and wherever I am now, I love you still. Always have and always will.
By the time Leon reached the final line, he could barely see through the force of his own tears. A shattered sound escaped him as he folded forward against your shoulder, clutching the letter so tightly it crumpled in his hands. Then, still sobbing hard enough to shake, Leon pulled you closer against his chest and held you there like love alone might somehow still be enough to keep you warm.
Leon didn't know how long he stayed there holding you. Time stopped making sense almost immediately after he realized you were gone. The apartment had gone completely still around him. Morning light slowly crept across the floorboards in pale gray stripes while rainwater continued dripping softly from the hem of his jacket onto the carpet below. Somewhere nearby, the television kept talking in cheerful voices that sounded grotesque against the sound of Leon trying not to break apart.
Your body rested against his chest beneath the blanket, cold even through the sweatshirt you'd stolen from him days ago. Leon couldn't stop touching you. His hands kept moving without thinking, trembling fingers brushing through your hair, cradling your face, rubbing warmth uselessly back into your hands like if he just tried hard enough, your skin would stop feeling so cold beneath his own.
"I'm here now," he whispered hoarsely.
The words dissolved into another shaky breath. His chest no longer hurt when he breathed. That realization arrived suddenly and violently. Leon froze again.
No pressure in his lungs. No cough clawing up his throat. No burning weakness curling through his ribs every time he inhaled. The infection was gone because he was cured. And somehow that made everything worse. Because now he gets to live his normal life, and you're not here to do it with him. He survived. Sherry would survive. You should have too.
A broken sound escaped him before he folded forward against your shoulder again, clutching you tighter while grief tore violently through him. "No," he choked out. "No, no, no..."
His eyes drifted blindly across the apartment through tears he could no longer control. That was when he started noticing things. The blanket wrapped tightly around you despite how warm the apartment felt. A cup of tea sitting untouched on the coffee table. Tissues overflowing in the trash can beside the couch. Dark red staining several of them.
His stomach twisted violently. "No..."
His gazed landed on the kitchen. Broken glass still littered the floor near the sink. Had you fallen? Had you been too weak to hold up the glass? His breathing turned ragged again quickly.
Leon could suddenly picture it perfectly. Your trembling hands. Your fever. You trying to get water alone because he wasn't here to help you. Because he'd left you here.
His eyes darted frantically around the apartment now like every detail had become another wound opening inside his chest. Your medicine bottles remained untouched on the counter. One of the couch cushions had been dragged slightly crooked, like you'd struggled to get comfortable.
He noticed your phone, still resting beside you beneath the blanket. He grabbed it with shaking hands. It was open on the messages he sent you earlier.
"Oh, God..." His voice broke apart again completely.
You'd read them. You had to have read them. Which meant you'd been alive then. Alive and alone and getting worse while he crawled through hell believing he still had time.
Leon pressed a shaking hand hard over his mouth as sobs tore uncontrollably from his chest now. He buried his face briefly against the top of your head while guilt ripped through him with surgical precision.
"I would've come home," he choked out. "You should've called me. I would've come back."
But even while saying it, he knew you wouldn't have done that to him. Because you knew exactly who he was. You knew if he thought you were dying, he would've abandoned the mission without hesitation. And then nobody would've been saved. Even at the end, you'd still been protecting him.
He reread the letter again. And then again, and again, and again. By the fifth time, the paper had become damp and wrinkled from his shaking hands.
Loving you was the easiest thing I ever did.
Leon squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to ache. "I loved you too," he whispered brokenly into the silence. "Jesus Christ, I loved you so fucking much."
His phone started vibrating somewhere nearby. Leon ignored it. Then it rang again. And again. Eventually, another sound joined it. Knocking. Hard and urgent against the apartment door. Leon barely reacted.
"Leon!" Sherry yelled from outside.
The sound of her voice cut faintly through the fog swallowing him whole. Another knock.
"Leon, open the door!"
He didn't remember standing. He only remembered the unbearable emptiness that hit the second he carefully lowered your body back against the couch cushions. Like some vital piece of himself had physically separated from him the moment he let go.
The walk to the door felt unreal. He opened the door looking less like the government agent he was trained to be and more like the hollow shell of the man he once was.
Sherry's expression changed instantly the second she saw him. Relief vanished when she saw his face. Then confusion washed over. Then fear.
"Leon, what happened? They said you stopped responding after debrief and I..." Her voice trailed off the moment she looked past him into the apartment, where she saw you on the couch, unmoving.
"Oh my god."
Leon couldn't speak. He tried, but nothing came out except a shattered breath. Sherry's eyes immediately filled with tears as she stepped slowly into the apartment. She understood instantly. Of course she did.
She saw the cure vials abandoned on the carpet. She saw your body curled beneath the blanket. She saw the letter crumpled tightly in Leon's shaking hand. And because Sherry Birkin knew grief intimately, she didn't fill the room with useless condolences. Instead, she walked quietly toward Leon and wrapped her arms around him.
"I was too late," he whispered hoarsely.
Sherry held him tighter.
"No," Leon choked out immediately after, like correcting her before she'd even spoken. "I had it. I actually had it."
Sherry started crying then too. Leon pressed the heel of his hand hard against his eyes, but the tears kept coming anyway. Endless. Exhausted. Years of horror finally collapsing inward all at once.
Behind them, the apartment sat painfully unchanged. The television still flickered softly. Rain still tapped against the windows. Your tea still sat untouched on the table. The world kept moving with unbearable indifference.
Hours later, people finally arrived. Voices filled the apartment in low careful murmurs. Medical personnel. Government contacts. Procedures that needed to be preformed. Leon hated every second of it. They spoke too softly around him. Looked at him too carefully.
When they finally approached the couch, Leon's expression hardened instantly.
"No."
One of the responders hesitated gently. "Agent Kennedy..."
"No." His voice cracked sharply. "I'll carry her."
Nobody argued after that. Leon crossed the apartment slowly before kneeling beside the couch one final time. His hands shook while brushing hair carefully back from your face. You looked peaceful. That almost destroyed him all over again.
For one terrible moment, Leon remembered kissing you goodbye in this exact apartment only days earlier. I'm coming home to you. The memory hollowed him out.
"I'm sorry," he whispered shakily.
Then, with unbearable gentleness, Leon slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back before lifting you carefully against his chest. The apartment blurred around him afterward. The elevator. The rain outside. People speaking softly nearby. None of it felt real. The only thing Leon truly registered was how light you felt in his arms. Much too light.
By the time he returned to the apartment alone later that night, silence had fully settled into every room. The couch sat empty now. The blanket folded neatly over one armrest. Your tea cup now in the kitchen. The glass in the trash. Leon stood motionless in the doorway for a long time before slowly crossing the apartment toward the couch. Then he sat down exactly where he'd found you that morning. Your letter, once again, clutched tightly in his hands.
Nearby, the cure that had saved his life rested untouched on the table. Sherry took hers home. And now Leon was alive. Cured. And completely fucking alone.
Thanks for reading! My requests are open! <3 Special thanks to the anon who requested this. I love writing angsty heartbreak like this.
summary: requested by this anon ♡ Leon comes home from a mission quieter than usual, and you try to give him the kind of peace he never knows how to ask for. But when a nightmare pulls him somewhere far away from you, he wakes up to something he can barely forgive himself for: hurting you.
warnings: re4!leon x reader, heavy angst with fluff, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort, PTSD/nightmares, trauma response, accidental violence during sleep, choking/strangulation, panic, guilt, crying, emotional breakdown, mentions/allusions to Leon’s childhood trauma, mentions of past abuse/neglect, Raccoon City trauma, self-hatred, fear of hurting a loved one, intense emotional distress, comfort after a traumatic incident, english is not the authors first language.
wc : 6k.
author's note: sorry this took me so long to post. This one needed more time than I expected, mostly because I really wanted to handle Leon’s trauma and vulnerability with the weight they deserved instead of rushing it. Thank you for being patient with me and for sending requests in general — I promise I’m still working through them. Some take me longer than others, especially when they get this emotionally heavy, but I haven’t forgotten about them. This fic deals with PTSD, nightmares and accidental harm during sleep, so please read with care — nothing here is meant to romanticize trauma or violence♡.
Leon and you had been together for a few years.
You knew he was a special agent and, unfortunately, one of the very few survivors of Raccoon City, something that had left a deep scar on his mental health and marked the rest of his life. It was part of the reason he did what he did now.
You met one night at a bar because you had a few mutual friends. When Leon saw you for the first time, he was stunned by your beauty. No exaggeration, it was like everything around you disappeared. He only had eyes for you and that warm, loving light you seemed to carry with you.
Leon hadn’t had an easy childhood. His parents had struggled with substance abuse, so he had been raised by his grandparents, and when they passed away, the emotional emptiness he already carried only grew heavier. When he first started talking to you, everything was a little awkward and cliché: the cold, guarded boy and the sunshine girl.
The first day he saw you, he was far too embarrassed to approach you. Even though Leon was objectively handsome, he was deeply insecure about himself. It was at another gathering with your mutual friends that he finally worked up the courage to come closer. He started with dumb jokes, the kind that didn’t usually make many people laugh, but they always managed to pull a smile from you, and every time that happened, Leon melted a little more inside.
You began texting, then started meeting up more often, and he always offered to drive you home. Until one of those nights, outside the entrance of your building, you shared your first kiss: innocent, genuine, nervous. Not long after, you officially started dating, and since then, your relationship had been good. Really good.
Of course, it was hard not being able to see Leon much whenever he was away on missions, but you knew he was out there protecting thousands of people.
For Leon, however, the beginning of your relationship was a little harder. Not because of you. Never because of you. He considered you, even if he rarely said it out loud, the best thing that had ever happened to him. His life had always felt like a stormy sea, dark and violent, full of whirlpools of pain since he was old enough to remember, and then you had arrived like a warm breeze, pulling him out of his own mind. That was exactly why he felt so terribly guilty sometimes. He thought he wasn’t good enough for you, that you deserved something better than him, even if there were moments when you managed to make him believe, just a little, that he was worthy of being loved.
It was supposed to be a quiet night in the apartment you had shared for years.
Outside, it was cold. The city was wet from the thin rain that had been falling since late afternoon, and the headlights of passing cars reflected against the asphalt like blurry stains of color. Inside, though, everything was warm. The heating was on, a blanket lay abandoned on the couch, two mugs had been left on the coffee table, and a movie was playing softly in the background.
Leon had come home only a few hours earlier.
He hadn’t told you much about the mission, like he usually did whenever something had gone worse than expected. Over time, you had learned to read him without needing to ask. You knew the difference between when he was truly tired and when he was simply pretending to be tired so he wouldn’t worry you.
That night, it was the second one.
He had showered as soon as he got home, changed into clean clothes, and left his jacket hanging over the back of a chair. He was wearing a dark shirt and comfortable pants, his hair still slightly damp, his jaw tight with that tension that always settled there when his mind was still somewhere else, even if his body had already made it back home.
Still, he was trying to be there with you.
That was what hurt the most about Leon sometimes. Even when he was destroyed, he still found a way to sit beside you, ask about your day, listen to you talk about any domestic nonsense as if that alone was enough to convince him the world could still be a livable place. He had asked if you had eaten, if you had gotten home from work safely, if the bathroom light had started flickering again — the one he had been promising to fix for weeks, though there was always another mission before he could.
“You’re very quiet,” you said from the kitchen as you put away the glass you had just washed.
Leon was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you in a way that wasn’t exactly sad, but not peaceful either. He looked like he was trying to memorize you. The shape of your face under the yellow kitchen light, your comfortable clothes, the way you moved around your home like everything there was safe.
Like he was safe too.
“I’m fine,” he answered.
He was terrible at lying when it came to you.
You turned around slowly, drying your hands with a towel, and looked at him with that expression of yours that always managed to make him lower his guard, even when he didn’t want to. Leon held your gaze for a few seconds, then looked away with a small exhale through his nose, almost a laugh, but without any humor in it.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Leon said, something close to pleading hidden in his voice.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re reading my mind.”
You approached him calmly, without crowding him too much at first, because you had also learned there were nights when Leon needed to be held tightly, and others when he first needed to remember he was allowed to be touched. You placed a hand against his chest and felt the uneven rhythm of his breathing beneath your palm.
“I don’t need to know everything,” you murmured. “I just want you to rest.”
The way his eyes softened was almost unbearable.
Leon lowered his gaze to your hand on his chest and, for a moment, he looked much younger. Like a boy. Not the trained agent, not the survivor, not the man the government called whenever the world started falling apart. Just Leon. The same Leon who had approached you years ago with a terrible joke, pretending to have a confidence he didn’t really possess, and who had stared at you as if he couldn’t understand what you could possibly see in someone like him. The same boy who had only ever wanted love from his family.
“Sometimes it’s hard to come back,” he confessed suddenly.
He didn’t say it dramatically. He didn’t even look at you when he said it. He said it quietly, like he was ashamed of admitting it. Like speaking about it in the middle of such a normal life would somehow stain it.
You didn’t answer right away. You only lifted your hand to his neck, gently stroking his skin with your thumb. Leon closed his eyes for a second.
“But you do come back, Leon,” you told him, caressing his cheek. “That’s so much more incredible than you think.”
You led him to the couch, and Leon let you.
He let you sit him down, let you cover him with the blanket, let his head fall back as you settled beside him. The movie kept playing on the screen, but neither of you paid attention to it. You talked for a while, more to fill the silence than because you had anything important to say. You told him about a woman who had cut in line at the supermarket, about a package that had been delayed, about something silly on your phone that had made you laugh, and Leon listened carefully.
Every now and then, his fingers found yours beneath the blanket. He didn’t say anything, but he squeezed your hand a little tighter whenever you laughed.
Later, when the weight of the night started settling over the apartment, you noticed his eyes were far too tired.
He almost never slept well after coming home from a mission. Some nights, he stayed awake until dawn, sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, trying not to make a sound. Other nights, he fell asleep from pure exhaustion and woke up startled an hour later, chest rising and falling too fast, his hand instinctively searching for something that wasn’t there anymore.
You knew about his nightmares. You knew the names he sometimes muttered without meaning to, the places he returned to whenever he closed his eyes.
But that night, he seemed too exhausted even to fight sleep.
“Let’s go to bed, baby,” you whispered sweetly, running your fingers through his hair.
Leon opened his eyes slowly, like he had been seconds away from falling asleep sitting up.
The bedroom was dim when you got into bed. From there, the rain sounded softer, barely a murmur against the window, and the streetlight slipped through the curtains, drawing pale lines over the sheets. Leon lay on his back at first, stiff, one arm resting over his stomach, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. You turned toward him without saying anything. A few seconds passed before he lifted his arm.
You moved closer slowly, resting your head on his chest, and he wrapped his arm around you carefully. Your hand stayed against his side, feeling his breathing slowly begin to match yours.
You fell asleep before he did.
The last thing you remembered was his hand stroking your back in slow, repetitive movements, almost unconscious.
For a while, everything was quiet.
Then something changed.
It wasn’t a loud noise or a sudden movement at first. It was a small tension in Leon’s body. A nearly imperceptible hardening beneath your cheek. His breathing, which had been heavy and deep until then, began to break into strange intervals, as if something inside him was dragging his sleep toward a darker place. You didn’t fully wake up. You only frowned, still trapped in that confused space between sleep and consciousness.
Leon moved, barely at first, then with more force.
His arm, which had been resting over your waist, tightened around you. His fingers closed around the fabric of your shirt, and his breathing grew faster, more agitated. He muttered something you couldn’t understand.
“Leon…” you whispered, your voice thick with sleep.
You lifted your head, propping yourself up on one elbow, trying to see his face through the shadows. His brows were furrowed, his eyes squeezed shut too tightly, his jaw clenched. He didn’t look like he was simply asleep.
He looked trapped.
Like something invisible was pressing down on him from the inside, forcing him to relive a scene you couldn’t see.
“Baby,” you murmured, touching his shoulder gently. “Leon, wake up.”
One second, you were sitting up on the mattress.
The next, he had moved with a violence that knocked the air out of you from sheer shock. You didn’t understand what was happening at first. You only felt the weight of his body turning toward you, one hand pushing you down against the bed and the other closing around your throat.
For the first few seconds, your mind refused to accept what was happening.
It was Leon. Your Leon. The same man who brushed your hair away from your face when you fell asleep on the couch, the same one who held your hand in the street without realizing it, the same one who apologized if he brushed against you too roughly while passing through a narrow doorway.
That was why it took you a moment to feel fear.
Because before fear, there was confusion.
“Leon…” you tried to say.
Your voice barely came out.
He was still asleep. Or somewhere worse than sleep. His face was distorted, washed in the weak light from the window, but there was nothing conscious in his expression. He wasn’t looking at you. He wasn’t seeing you. His breathing came out harsh, furious, desperate, like he was fighting someone who wasn’t you.
You tried to pull his hand away gently at first. Still with that absurd part of your mind trying not to scare him, trying to wake him without hurting him.
“Leon… it’s me…”
But the pressure increased.
Your fingers closed around his wrist with more force. You tried to move your head, to pull away, but you were trapped against the mattress and he was too heavy. Your legs shifted under the sheets, kicking clumsily against the bed. The sound of your breathing turned horrible, weak and broken, trying to find oxygen where there wasn’t any.
Your nails dug into his skin. You pulled at his hands, tried to say his name again, but only a strangled sound came out, almost unrecognizable. Tears filled your eyes before you could stop them.
And the worst part was that it was still Leon.
His hair fell over his forehead the way it always did. His shirt smelled like detergent and him. The hand stealing the air from your lungs was the same hand that had been stroking your back to help you fall asleep less than an hour earlier.
The contradiction was so cruel that a part of you couldn’t process it.
Then, somehow, you managed to touch his face.
It wasn’t a strong hit. Barely a clumsy, desperate tap against his cheek. But it was enough for Leon to suck in a sharp breath, as if something had violently dragged him up from underwater.
Then he looked at you.
And that second was almost worse than everything before it, because you saw consciousness return to him little by little. His eyes dropped to his own hand, still closed around your throat.
Leon let go of you as if you had burned him.
He backed away so quickly he almost fell off the bed, hitting the nightstand without even noticing. You half sat up, bringing both hands to your throat as you coughed violently, trying to drag air back into your lungs. Every breath scraped. Your throat burned. The sound that came out of you didn’t seem like your own.
Leon was standing on the other side of the bed.
The pale light from the window carved across his face, and you had never seen him like that. Not even after a mission. Not even when he had come home covered in wounds, his gaze lost.
This was different.
This was naked, absolute horror.
“No…” he murmured.
It was barely air.
You were still coughing. You tried to look at him, tried to say something, but you couldn’t. Your throat wouldn’t obey.
Leon took a step toward you by instinct, then stopped.
His eyes fell back to your neck, to the marks already beginning to turn red against your skin. The color drained from his face.
“No, no, no…” he repeated, this time with his voice breaking as he brought both hands to his head. “Oh my God. Oh my God, what did I do?”
The room filled with an unbearable silence.
Leon looked like he didn’t even dare to blink. His eyes were fixed on you, but not like before. Not with the quiet tenderness he had when he watched you in the kitchen or on the couch. He looked at you like you were living proof of everything he feared most about himself.
“Leon…” you finally managed to say.
Your voice came out hoarse, damaged, almost unrecognizable.
He brought a hand to his mouth, like he was going to be sick. His shoulders collapsed forward and he shook his head over and over again, unable to accept your broken voice, your marked throat, your wet eyes still trying to understand him even then.
You tried to move toward the edge of the bed. You didn’t know if you wanted to hug him, calm him down, or simply make sure he was there too, that both of you had made it back from that nightmare.
But the second he saw you trying to get closer, Leon stepped back.
“No,” he said, with a desperate urgency. “Don’t come near me.”
“Leon, you were asleep…” you said, your voice slowly clearing.
You stayed seated on the bed, struggling to breathe, while he began to fall apart in front of you in a silent, horrible way. Leon didn’t cry like other people. He didn’t allow himself to collapse completely. He only went very still. Too still. His jaw barely trembling, his eyes shining with a guilt that looked like it was eating him alive from the inside.
“Look at me,” you whispered.
He couldn’t.
“Leon.”
It took him several seconds to obey. When he finally lifted his gaze, there was so much fear in his eyes that for a moment, you forgot the pain in your throat. Leon Kennedy, the man who had survived monsters, dying cities, missions that would have destroyed anyone else, was looking at you like a terrified child who had just discovered his nightmares could crawl out of his head and touch the only good thing he had.
“I thought…” he started, but the sentence broke before it could go anywhere. “I was there again. I couldn’t… I couldn’t tell the difference. Someone was on top of me, or I was… I don’t know. I don’t know what I saw. I just know that when I opened my eyes, it was you and I…”
Leon tore his eyes away from your neck and pushed both hands into his hair, tugging at it with such raw desperation that it hurt to watch. His breathing began to break, first in short, dry bursts, then into a sob he tried to swallow but that came out anyway, ugly and devastating.
He bent forward, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and head lowered, as if the weight of everything he had spent years burying had fallen on him all at once.
“No,” he repeated, but it no longer sounded like an order meant for you. It sounded like a plea against himself. “No, no, no… God, no.”
Leon broke with a choked, almost childlike sound, bringing one hand to his mouth as if he was ashamed you could hear him. His chest tightened, his shoulders began to shake, and suddenly there was no agent, no survivor, no man capable of walking into hell and coming out alive even if it tore him apart.
There was only Leon, barefoot in the dark bedroom, crying like he had become the boy who learned too early that no one was coming to save him.
“I can’t do this to you,” he said between sobs, almost breathless. “Not to you. Not you.”
You moved slowly, with all the care in the world, as if any sudden gesture could make him believe he was still inside the nightmare. You got out of bed without coming too close, keeping your hands visible, your voice low and soft, even though you were trembling inside too.
“Leon, look at me for a second.”
He shook his head, pressing his fingers to his eyes.
“No. I can’t look at you after…” The sentence died in his mouth. He sobbed again, harder this time, with a broken anger that seemed to come from somewhere very old. “I saw your face. I saw your face and I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know if it was you, I didn’t know if I was there, I didn’t know if it was…” He ran out of voice, breathing too fast. “And my hands were on your throat.”
“You were asleep.”
Leon’s head snapped up.
His eyes were red, bright, full of a guilt so wild it looked like he was hating himself with everything he had.
“What if I hadn’t woken up?” he asked, his voice destroyed. “What if next time I don’t wake up? What if you can’t…” He choked on the sentence, pressed a hand to his chest, and shut his eyes like he was going to be sick. “I can’t. I can’t touch you. I can’t be near you.”
That hurt more than the mark on your throat.
Because you knew him. Leon was scared, trying to tear himself out of your life before, in his mind, he could destroy it. He was the same man who blamed himself for cities he couldn’t save, for partners he couldn’t bring back, for decisions made when he was barely more than a boy in a uniform too big for him, a gun in his hand. He was Leon locking himself back inside that dark room from his childhood, where no one had ever taught him that love could stay even when he was a mess.
“I’m not going to leave you just because you’re scared,” you murmured.
“Please,” he said then, and that word completely disarmed you. “Please don’t make this harder.”
You stayed still. Not because you wanted to obey him, but because you understood that coming closer without permission, right then, could sink him even further. Leon was trembling all over. His breathing was out of control, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white, and still, he couldn’t stop staring at your neck.
“Okay,” you whispered. “I’m not going to touch you if you don’t want me to. But stay here with me. Breathe with me.”
He didn’t answer.
“Look at my hand,” you said, lifting it slowly between the two of you. “Just that. Don’t look at my neck. Don’t look at anything else. Look at my hand.”
Leon swallowed. It took him an awful effort, but eventually he obeyed. His eyes dropped to your fingers as you opened and closed them slowly, giving him a simple, almost silly rhythm, as if you were calling back a part of him that had been trapped somewhere else.
“Breathe in with me,” you asked. “One… two… three…”
His chest rose shakily.
“That’s it. Now let it out.”
The air left him broken.
The second breath was worse than the first. The third too. But by the fourth, his shoulders lowered just a little, enough for you to see he was trying to come back.
“You’re not there,” you told him softly. “You’re home, with me. Your boots are by the door because you never put them away properly, even though you swear you do.”
Leon made a sound that almost became a laugh, but turned into another sob instead.
“And I’m here,” you continued. “I’m alive.”
He covered his face with both hands.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and then again, lower, more broken. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to open your eyes and see that the only person who…” His mouth trembled, unable to say it without falling apart. “The only person who has ever made me feel safe was scared of me.”
That was when you couldn’t stop your own eyes from filling with tears.
Because Leon never said things like that. Never so clearly. He loved you in small, quiet, almost clumsy acts sometimes. Checking your car before a trip. Leaving you the warm side of the bed when he got up earlier. Making coffee even when his hands were shaking after a bad night. Staying awake watching the door while you slept.
Hearing him admit you were his safe place while he hated himself for making you afraid was too much.
“Leon,” you said, taking one tiny step closer. “I was scared of what was happening. Not of you.”
The sentence came out so small that for a moment, you stopped seeing the grown man in front of you. You saw the boy who had probably learned to hide in silence, not to ask for help, not to cry too loudly because no one would comfort him, or because crying only made things worse. You saw the teenager who probably grew up believing affection always came with conditions, that tenderness could disappear at any second, that if someone touched him, it was safer to prepare for the blow. You saw that twenty-one-year-old boy who arrived in Raccoon City with his whole life ahead of him and left with eyes that looked older forever.
And you understood Leon wasn’t only crying because of that night.
He was crying for all the nights of his life.
“Come to the bathroom with me,” you whispered.
He looked up, confused, still soaked in tears.
“What?”
“Not for anything weird. Just… come. Let’s wash our faces. Both of us.”
You walked toward the door slowly, without touching him. At first, you thought he wouldn’t follow. You heard him breathing behind you, too still, too lost. But a few seconds later, the mattress creaked, and his footsteps appeared behind you, uncertain.
In the bathroom, the light was too white.
You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror: messy hair, wet eyes, your throat marked. Leon saw it too. He froze in the doorway, jaw clenched, and for a second you thought he was going to leave.
“Don’t look at that right now,” you asked him.
“How can I not look at it?”
“Because right now I need you to look at me.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but couldn’t. He just stood there, broken and obedient, his eyes lowering to your face as if he expected to find hatred there.
He didn’t.
He only found exhaustion, fear still, yes, but also love.
So much love.
You turned on the faucet and waited until the water ran warm. You soaked a small towel, wrung it out, and moved closer to him, stopping before touching his face.
“Can I?”
Leon swallowed. His eyes filled again. He nodded once, barely, and you lifted the towel to his cheek.
You cleaned him with a tenderness that almost hurt. You passed the damp fabric beneath his eyes, along his jaw, over his trembling mouth as he tried to hold back more sobs. Leon closed his eyes when you touched his forehead, and suddenly he looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
He was exhausted from waking up every night ready to fight ghosts no one else could see.
“You were little,” you murmured, not really knowing whether you meant the nightmare, Raccoon, his childhood, or all of it at once. “Too little for everything that happened to you. And then the world just kept asking for more.” You wiped away another tear before it could fall. “More strength, more cold blood, more missions…”
Leon lowered his head.
This time, when he cried, he didn’t try to hide it as quickly. The sound came from deep in his chest, raw and aching, and you set the towel down on the sink so you could hold his face between your hands. He tensed at first, but he didn’t pull away.
“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he confessed, his voice barely there. “I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to… stop. When I was a kid, I learned not to make noise, not to bother anyone, to hold on until it passed. After Raccoon…” He shut his eyes tightly. “Just more orders, more dead people. And then you came along, and for the first time I thought maybe I could have something clean. Something that wasn’t rotten because of everything I’ve touched.”
It hurt to hear him talk about himself like that.
“You’re not rotten, Leon,” you told him, frowning at his words.
“You don’t know how many things I’ve done.”
“I know how you love me.”
He opened his eyes, ruined.
You stroked his cheekbones with your thumbs. Leon closed his eyes again and rested his forehead against yours with a trembling slowness, like such a simple gesture scared him and soothed him at the same time.
“I want to shower,” he murmured suddenly. “I need to… get this off me.”
You prepared the shower while he sat on the closed toilet lid, staring at a fixed point on the floor, fingers intertwined, shoulders collapsed. You left a clean towel nearby and adjusted the water until it was warm. You didn’t try to make it romantic. There was nothing like that in that moment. Only care. Only real intimacy, the kind that asks for nothing but to hold the other person when they can’t hold themselves.
When he stepped under the water, he left the shower door partly open, maybe because the idea of being completely alone with his head scared him. You sat on the bathroom floor, leaning your back against the sink cabinet, so he could see you if he opened his eyes.
At first, he said nothing.
The water fell over his hair, down his neck and back, and Leon pressed one hand against the wall, lowering his head. His shoulders started shaking again. This time, he didn’t do it silently. He cried with the water falling over him, his breathing broken, one hand covering his mouth and the other gripping the tile, as if that shower were the only place where he could let himself fall apart.
“I’m here,” you reminded him very softly.
Leon nodded without looking at you, but his fingers loosened slightly against the wall.
When he stepped out, wrapped in a towel, wet hair sticking to his forehead, he looked younger. Not calmer yet, but less far away. His eyes were swollen, his face clean, his skin flushed from the hot water, and there was such obvious fragility to him that you wanted to hug him until the whole world went quiet.
You handed him a clean shirt. He took it with clumsy fingers.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Come here.”
This time, he didn’t step back.
You moved closer slowly and dried his hair with another towel, rubbing gently, careful not to make any sudden movements. Leon let you, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his gaze lowered and his hands resting on his knees. Every now and then, a late sob escaped him, one of those that linger after the worst of the crying has passed.
Leon had never received this as a child.
You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head, barely brushing him.
Then, with a slowness that almost undid you, he rested his forehead against your stomach and closed his eyes.
He didn’t hug you at first. He only stayed there. Then you lowered one hand to his damp hair and the other to the back of his neck, holding him carefully.
It was enough.
Leon let out a trembling breath and wrapped his arms around your waist. Not tightly, not like before, but with fear, with reverence, as if he were holding something sacred he never wanted to break again.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured against your shirt.
You returned to the bedroom without rushing.
You changed the sheets because Leon couldn’t look at the bed without tensing, and you didn’t argue. You let him do something useful: gather the old sheets, open the window for a few seconds, adjust the pillows. You knew he needed to feel like his hands could be used to care, not only destroy.
After everything was clean and the room smelled faintly of cold air and soap, you turned off the main light and left only the bedside lamp on.
Leon stood beside the bed.
“I can sleep on the couch.”
“I don’t want you to sleep on the couch,” you answered quickly. “You can stay on the other side of the bed. We can leave space between us. We can keep the light on. We can do whatever you need, but I don’t want you punishing yourself.”
His eyes filled with tears again, though this time they didn’t fall with the same violence. He looked too exhausted even to hate himself.
“What do you need?” he asked.
The question touched something deep inside you.
“I need you to listen when I tell you I’m still here. And I need you not to push me away.”
Leon nodded.
You got into bed carefully. He lay on his back, rigid, hands on his chest, staring at the ceiling. You turned toward him. For a while, you didn’t touch him. You only watched him breathe, noticing how every muscle in his body still seemed ready to run.
“Leon.”
He barely turned his head.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question seemed to hurt him and comfort him at the same time.
“Yes,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it.
You moved just close enough to kiss his cheek.
Once.
Then again, a little higher.
Then his temple, where his hair was still damp. His forehead, over a crease of tension that refused to disappear. The bridge of his nose. His cheekbone, just beneath his eye, where the salty trace of tears still lingered.
Leon closed his eyes.
“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured.
You gave him another kiss on the cheek.
“You’re good, Leon.”
His breath caught.
Tears slipped out again, silent this time, sliding toward his temples. You kissed the corner of his mouth with such tenderness it was barely a touch. You only wanted him to know your love hadn’t been extinguished by fear.
“You are not your nightmares,” you whispered. “You are not what they did to you, or Raccoon, or the hands of whoever hurt you when you were little. You’re Leon. My Leon. And you’re here with me.”
He turned his face toward you, completely disarmed.
“I’m scared to sleep.”
“Then don’t sleep yet. Stay with me.”
Leon swallowed and nodded, though every part of him still looked like it wanted to keep apologizing until his voice gave out.
He watched you for a few seconds, as if he were still asking for permission in silence, and then he moved toward you with a broken, almost ashamed slowness. He didn’t hug you all at once. First, he rested his forehead against your chest, right above your heartbeat, and when he heard it still there, alive and steady beneath his ear, something in him finally surrendered.
His arms wrapped carefully around your waist, still trembling, and he clung to you as if you were the only thing capable of keeping him in the present. You ran a hand through his hair slowly, feeling his breathing fall apart against your shirt in small, exhausted sobs, and Leon squeezed his eyes shut, hiding his face in you like a child who had finally found a safe place to break without being left alone.
“When I was little,” he whispered against your chest, “sometimes I imagined someone coming into my room and telling me I could sleep. That I didn’t have to watch the door. That I didn’t have to listen for footsteps.”
You moved a little closer and covered his face in small, slow kisses, placing them wherever the pain seemed to have settled. His forehead. His temple. His cheek. His closed eyelid. The tip of his nose. His tense jaw.
Leon slowly stopped crying.
“You can sleep,” you told him softly. “I’m here. The door is closed. No one is going to hurt you. I’m with you.”
His mouth trembled one last time.
Leon closed his eyes.
For a moment, you thought he was going to cry again, but he only let out a long, tired, almost defeated sigh. The tension in his shoulders began to loosen very slowly, like a rope that had finally stopped being pulled to the point of snapping.
“I love you,” he murmured, his voice so small it seemed to come from some hidden place inside him.
“I love you too.”
Leon kept looking at your face through half-lidded eyes, as if he needed to check one more time that you were still there, that you hadn’t become another loss, that the night hadn’t taken away the only good thing he allowed himself to want.
You stroked his knuckles with your thumb, slowly, over and over again, until his breathing began to match yours.
In the end, Leon fell asleep without letting go of you.
It wasn’t a deep sleep at first. His brow furrowed every now and then, his hand tightened over yours, and every small sound in the apartment seemed to brush against his skin even while he slept. But he wasn’t alone inside his head anymore. Every time his breathing changed, you whispered his name gently, and he came back.
And when his body finally surrendered completely, Leon searched for your warmth, his face calmer than you had seen it all night.
You pressed one last kiss to his forehead.
“That’s it, love,” you whispered, even though he could barely hear you anymore. “Rest. You don’t have to survive tonight anymore.”
hope you enjoyed it! i'm open to any requests! follow me on ao3 too here
summary: requested by this anon ♡ Leon comes home from a mission quieter than usual, and you try to give him the kind of peace he never knows how to ask for. But when a nightmare pulls him somewhere far away from you, he wakes up to something he can barely forgive himself for: hurting you.
warnings: re4!leon x reader, heavy angst with fluff, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort, PTSD/nightmares, trauma response, accidental violence during sleep, choking/strangulation, panic, guilt, crying, emotional breakdown, mentions/allusions to Leon’s childhood trauma, mentions of past abuse/neglect, Raccoon City trauma, self-hatred, fear of hurting a loved one, intense emotional distress, comfort after a traumatic incident, english is not the authors first language.
wc : 6k.
author's note: sorry this took me so long to post. This one needed more time than I expected, mostly because I really wanted to handle Leon’s trauma and vulnerability with the weight they deserved instead of rushing it. Thank you for being patient with me and for sending requests in general — I promise I’m still working through them. Some take me longer than others, especially when they get this emotionally heavy, but I haven’t forgotten about them. This fic deals with PTSD, nightmares and accidental harm during sleep, so please read with care — nothing here is meant to romanticize trauma or violence♡.
Leon and you had been together for a few years.
You knew he was a special agent and, unfortunately, one of the very few survivors of Raccoon City, something that had left a deep scar on his mental health and marked the rest of his life. It was part of the reason he did what he did now.
You met one night at a bar because you had a few mutual friends. When Leon saw you for the first time, he was stunned by your beauty. No exaggeration, it was like everything around you disappeared. He only had eyes for you and that warm, loving light you seemed to carry with you.
Leon hadn’t had an easy childhood. His parents had struggled with substance abuse, so he had been raised by his grandparents, and when they passed away, the emotional emptiness he already carried only grew heavier. When he first started talking to you, everything was a little awkward and cliché: the cold, guarded boy and the sunshine girl.
The first day he saw you, he was far too embarrassed to approach you. Even though Leon was objectively handsome, he was deeply insecure about himself. It was at another gathering with your mutual friends that he finally worked up the courage to come closer. He started with dumb jokes, the kind that didn’t usually make many people laugh, but they always managed to pull a smile from you, and every time that happened, Leon melted a little more inside.
You began texting, then started meeting up more often, and he always offered to drive you home. Until one of those nights, outside the entrance of your building, you shared your first kiss: innocent, genuine, nervous. Not long after, you officially started dating, and since then, your relationship had been good. Really good.
Of course, it was hard not being able to see Leon much whenever he was away on missions, but you knew he was out there protecting thousands of people.
For Leon, however, the beginning of your relationship was a little harder. Not because of you. Never because of you. He considered you, even if he rarely said it out loud, the best thing that had ever happened to him. His life had always felt like a stormy sea, dark and violent, full of whirlpools of pain since he was old enough to remember, and then you had arrived like a warm breeze, pulling him out of his own mind. That was exactly why he felt so terribly guilty sometimes. He thought he wasn’t good enough for you, that you deserved something better than him, even if there were moments when you managed to make him believe, just a little, that he was worthy of being loved.
It was supposed to be a quiet night in the apartment you had shared for years.
Outside, it was cold. The city was wet from the thin rain that had been falling since late afternoon, and the headlights of passing cars reflected against the asphalt like blurry stains of color. Inside, though, everything was warm. The heating was on, a blanket lay abandoned on the couch, two mugs had been left on the coffee table, and a movie was playing softly in the background.
Leon had come home only a few hours earlier.
He hadn’t told you much about the mission, like he usually did whenever something had gone worse than expected. Over time, you had learned to read him without needing to ask. You knew the difference between when he was truly tired and when he was simply pretending to be tired so he wouldn’t worry you.
That night, it was the second one.
He had showered as soon as he got home, changed into clean clothes, and left his jacket hanging over the back of a chair. He was wearing a dark shirt and comfortable pants, his hair still slightly damp, his jaw tight with that tension that always settled there when his mind was still somewhere else, even if his body had already made it back home.
Still, he was trying to be there with you.
That was what hurt the most about Leon sometimes. Even when he was destroyed, he still found a way to sit beside you, ask about your day, listen to you talk about any domestic nonsense as if that alone was enough to convince him the world could still be a livable place. He had asked if you had eaten, if you had gotten home from work safely, if the bathroom light had started flickering again — the one he had been promising to fix for weeks, though there was always another mission before he could.
“You’re very quiet,” you said from the kitchen as you put away the glass you had just washed.
Leon was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you in a way that wasn’t exactly sad, but not peaceful either. He looked like he was trying to memorize you. The shape of your face under the yellow kitchen light, your comfortable clothes, the way you moved around your home like everything there was safe.
Like he was safe too.
“I’m fine,” he answered.
He was terrible at lying when it came to you.
You turned around slowly, drying your hands with a towel, and looked at him with that expression of yours that always managed to make him lower his guard, even when he didn’t want to. Leon held your gaze for a few seconds, then looked away with a small exhale through his nose, almost a laugh, but without any humor in it.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Leon said, something close to pleading hidden in his voice.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re reading my mind.”
You approached him calmly, without crowding him too much at first, because you had also learned there were nights when Leon needed to be held tightly, and others when he first needed to remember he was allowed to be touched. You placed a hand against his chest and felt the uneven rhythm of his breathing beneath your palm.
“I don’t need to know everything,” you murmured. “I just want you to rest.”
The way his eyes softened was almost unbearable.
Leon lowered his gaze to your hand on his chest and, for a moment, he looked much younger. Like a boy. Not the trained agent, not the survivor, not the man the government called whenever the world started falling apart. Just Leon. The same Leon who had approached you years ago with a terrible joke, pretending to have a confidence he didn’t really possess, and who had stared at you as if he couldn’t understand what you could possibly see in someone like him. The same boy who had only ever wanted love from his family.
“Sometimes it’s hard to come back,” he confessed suddenly.
He didn’t say it dramatically. He didn’t even look at you when he said it. He said it quietly, like he was ashamed of admitting it. Like speaking about it in the middle of such a normal life would somehow stain it.
You didn’t answer right away. You only lifted your hand to his neck, gently stroking his skin with your thumb. Leon closed his eyes for a second.
“But you do come back, Leon,” you told him, caressing his cheek. “That’s so much more incredible than you think.”
You led him to the couch, and Leon let you.
He let you sit him down, let you cover him with the blanket, let his head fall back as you settled beside him. The movie kept playing on the screen, but neither of you paid attention to it. You talked for a while, more to fill the silence than because you had anything important to say. You told him about a woman who had cut in line at the supermarket, about a package that had been delayed, about something silly on your phone that had made you laugh, and Leon listened carefully.
Every now and then, his fingers found yours beneath the blanket. He didn’t say anything, but he squeezed your hand a little tighter whenever you laughed.
Later, when the weight of the night started settling over the apartment, you noticed his eyes were far too tired.
He almost never slept well after coming home from a mission. Some nights, he stayed awake until dawn, sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, trying not to make a sound. Other nights, he fell asleep from pure exhaustion and woke up startled an hour later, chest rising and falling too fast, his hand instinctively searching for something that wasn’t there anymore.
You knew about his nightmares. You knew the names he sometimes muttered without meaning to, the places he returned to whenever he closed his eyes.
But that night, he seemed too exhausted even to fight sleep.
“Let’s go to bed, baby,” you whispered sweetly, running your fingers through his hair.
Leon opened his eyes slowly, like he had been seconds away from falling asleep sitting up.
The bedroom was dim when you got into bed. From there, the rain sounded softer, barely a murmur against the window, and the streetlight slipped through the curtains, drawing pale lines over the sheets. Leon lay on his back at first, stiff, one arm resting over his stomach, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. You turned toward him without saying anything. A few seconds passed before he lifted his arm.
You moved closer slowly, resting your head on his chest, and he wrapped his arm around you carefully. Your hand stayed against his side, feeling his breathing slowly begin to match yours.
You fell asleep before he did.
The last thing you remembered was his hand stroking your back in slow, repetitive movements, almost unconscious.
For a while, everything was quiet.
Then something changed.
It wasn’t a loud noise or a sudden movement at first. It was a small tension in Leon’s body. A nearly imperceptible hardening beneath your cheek. His breathing, which had been heavy and deep until then, began to break into strange intervals, as if something inside him was dragging his sleep toward a darker place. You didn’t fully wake up. You only frowned, still trapped in that confused space between sleep and consciousness.
Leon moved, barely at first, then with more force.
His arm, which had been resting over your waist, tightened around you. His fingers closed around the fabric of your shirt, and his breathing grew faster, more agitated. He muttered something you couldn’t understand.
“Leon…” you whispered, your voice thick with sleep.
You lifted your head, propping yourself up on one elbow, trying to see his face through the shadows. His brows were furrowed, his eyes squeezed shut too tightly, his jaw clenched. He didn’t look like he was simply asleep.
He looked trapped.
Like something invisible was pressing down on him from the inside, forcing him to relive a scene you couldn’t see.
“Baby,” you murmured, touching his shoulder gently. “Leon, wake up.”
One second, you were sitting up on the mattress.
The next, he had moved with a violence that knocked the air out of you from sheer shock. You didn’t understand what was happening at first. You only felt the weight of his body turning toward you, one hand pushing you down against the bed and the other closing around your throat.
For the first few seconds, your mind refused to accept what was happening.
It was Leon. Your Leon. The same man who brushed your hair away from your face when you fell asleep on the couch, the same one who held your hand in the street without realizing it, the same one who apologized if he brushed against you too roughly while passing through a narrow doorway.
That was why it took you a moment to feel fear.
Because before fear, there was confusion.
“Leon…” you tried to say.
Your voice barely came out.
He was still asleep. Or somewhere worse than sleep. His face was distorted, washed in the weak light from the window, but there was nothing conscious in his expression. He wasn’t looking at you. He wasn’t seeing you. His breathing came out harsh, furious, desperate, like he was fighting someone who wasn’t you.
You tried to pull his hand away gently at first. Still with that absurd part of your mind trying not to scare him, trying to wake him without hurting him.
“Leon… it’s me…”
But the pressure increased.
Your fingers closed around his wrist with more force. You tried to move your head, to pull away, but you were trapped against the mattress and he was too heavy. Your legs shifted under the sheets, kicking clumsily against the bed. The sound of your breathing turned horrible, weak and broken, trying to find oxygen where there wasn’t any.
Your nails dug into his skin. You pulled at his hands, tried to say his name again, but only a strangled sound came out, almost unrecognizable. Tears filled your eyes before you could stop them.
And the worst part was that it was still Leon.
His hair fell over his forehead the way it always did. His shirt smelled like detergent and him. The hand stealing the air from your lungs was the same hand that had been stroking your back to help you fall asleep less than an hour earlier.
The contradiction was so cruel that a part of you couldn’t process it.
Then, somehow, you managed to touch his face.
It wasn’t a strong hit. Barely a clumsy, desperate tap against his cheek. But it was enough for Leon to suck in a sharp breath, as if something had violently dragged him up from underwater.
Then he looked at you.
And that second was almost worse than everything before it, because you saw consciousness return to him little by little. His eyes dropped to his own hand, still closed around your throat.
Leon let go of you as if you had burned him.
He backed away so quickly he almost fell off the bed, hitting the nightstand without even noticing. You half sat up, bringing both hands to your throat as you coughed violently, trying to drag air back into your lungs. Every breath scraped. Your throat burned. The sound that came out of you didn’t seem like your own.
Leon was standing on the other side of the bed.
The pale light from the window carved across his face, and you had never seen him like that. Not even after a mission. Not even when he had come home covered in wounds, his gaze lost.
This was different.
This was naked, absolute horror.
“No…” he murmured.
It was barely air.
You were still coughing. You tried to look at him, tried to say something, but you couldn’t. Your throat wouldn’t obey.
Leon took a step toward you by instinct, then stopped.
His eyes fell back to your neck, to the marks already beginning to turn red against your skin. The color drained from his face.
“No, no, no…” he repeated, this time with his voice breaking as he brought both hands to his head. “Oh my God. Oh my God, what did I do?”
The room filled with an unbearable silence.
Leon looked like he didn’t even dare to blink. His eyes were fixed on you, but not like before. Not with the quiet tenderness he had when he watched you in the kitchen or on the couch. He looked at you like you were living proof of everything he feared most about himself.
“Leon…” you finally managed to say.
Your voice came out hoarse, damaged, almost unrecognizable.
He brought a hand to his mouth, like he was going to be sick. His shoulders collapsed forward and he shook his head over and over again, unable to accept your broken voice, your marked throat, your wet eyes still trying to understand him even then.
You tried to move toward the edge of the bed. You didn’t know if you wanted to hug him, calm him down, or simply make sure he was there too, that both of you had made it back from that nightmare.
But the second he saw you trying to get closer, Leon stepped back.
“No,” he said, with a desperate urgency. “Don’t come near me.”
“Leon, you were asleep…” you said, your voice slowly clearing.
You stayed seated on the bed, struggling to breathe, while he began to fall apart in front of you in a silent, horrible way. Leon didn’t cry like other people. He didn’t allow himself to collapse completely. He only went very still. Too still. His jaw barely trembling, his eyes shining with a guilt that looked like it was eating him alive from the inside.
“Look at me,” you whispered.
He couldn’t.
“Leon.”
It took him several seconds to obey. When he finally lifted his gaze, there was so much fear in his eyes that for a moment, you forgot the pain in your throat. Leon Kennedy, the man who had survived monsters, dying cities, missions that would have destroyed anyone else, was looking at you like a terrified child who had just discovered his nightmares could crawl out of his head and touch the only good thing he had.
“I thought…” he started, but the sentence broke before it could go anywhere. “I was there again. I couldn’t… I couldn’t tell the difference. Someone was on top of me, or I was… I don’t know. I don’t know what I saw. I just know that when I opened my eyes, it was you and I…”
Leon tore his eyes away from your neck and pushed both hands into his hair, tugging at it with such raw desperation that it hurt to watch. His breathing began to break, first in short, dry bursts, then into a sob he tried to swallow but that came out anyway, ugly and devastating.
He bent forward, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and head lowered, as if the weight of everything he had spent years burying had fallen on him all at once.
“No,” he repeated, but it no longer sounded like an order meant for you. It sounded like a plea against himself. “No, no, no… God, no.”
Leon broke with a choked, almost childlike sound, bringing one hand to his mouth as if he was ashamed you could hear him. His chest tightened, his shoulders began to shake, and suddenly there was no agent, no survivor, no man capable of walking into hell and coming out alive even if it tore him apart.
There was only Leon, barefoot in the dark bedroom, crying like he had become the boy who learned too early that no one was coming to save him.
“I can’t do this to you,” he said between sobs, almost breathless. “Not to you. Not you.”
You moved slowly, with all the care in the world, as if any sudden gesture could make him believe he was still inside the nightmare. You got out of bed without coming too close, keeping your hands visible, your voice low and soft, even though you were trembling inside too.
“Leon, look at me for a second.”
He shook his head, pressing his fingers to his eyes.
“No. I can’t look at you after…” The sentence died in his mouth. He sobbed again, harder this time, with a broken anger that seemed to come from somewhere very old. “I saw your face. I saw your face and I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know if it was you, I didn’t know if I was there, I didn’t know if it was…” He ran out of voice, breathing too fast. “And my hands were on your throat.”
“You were asleep.”
Leon’s head snapped up.
His eyes were red, bright, full of a guilt so wild it looked like he was hating himself with everything he had.
“What if I hadn’t woken up?” he asked, his voice destroyed. “What if next time I don’t wake up? What if you can’t…” He choked on the sentence, pressed a hand to his chest, and shut his eyes like he was going to be sick. “I can’t. I can’t touch you. I can’t be near you.”
That hurt more than the mark on your throat.
Because you knew him. Leon was scared, trying to tear himself out of your life before, in his mind, he could destroy it. He was the same man who blamed himself for cities he couldn’t save, for partners he couldn’t bring back, for decisions made when he was barely more than a boy in a uniform too big for him, a gun in his hand. He was Leon locking himself back inside that dark room from his childhood, where no one had ever taught him that love could stay even when he was a mess.
“I’m not going to leave you just because you’re scared,” you murmured.
“Please,” he said then, and that word completely disarmed you. “Please don’t make this harder.”
You stayed still. Not because you wanted to obey him, but because you understood that coming closer without permission, right then, could sink him even further. Leon was trembling all over. His breathing was out of control, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white, and still, he couldn’t stop staring at your neck.
“Okay,” you whispered. “I’m not going to touch you if you don’t want me to. But stay here with me. Breathe with me.”
He didn’t answer.
“Look at my hand,” you said, lifting it slowly between the two of you. “Just that. Don’t look at my neck. Don’t look at anything else. Look at my hand.”
Leon swallowed. It took him an awful effort, but eventually he obeyed. His eyes dropped to your fingers as you opened and closed them slowly, giving him a simple, almost silly rhythm, as if you were calling back a part of him that had been trapped somewhere else.
“Breathe in with me,” you asked. “One… two… three…”
His chest rose shakily.
“That’s it. Now let it out.”
The air left him broken.
The second breath was worse than the first. The third too. But by the fourth, his shoulders lowered just a little, enough for you to see he was trying to come back.
“You’re not there,” you told him softly. “You’re home, with me. Your boots are by the door because you never put them away properly, even though you swear you do.”
Leon made a sound that almost became a laugh, but turned into another sob instead.
“And I’m here,” you continued. “I’m alive.”
He covered his face with both hands.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and then again, lower, more broken. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to open your eyes and see that the only person who…” His mouth trembled, unable to say it without falling apart. “The only person who has ever made me feel safe was scared of me.”
That was when you couldn’t stop your own eyes from filling with tears.
Because Leon never said things like that. Never so clearly. He loved you in small, quiet, almost clumsy acts sometimes. Checking your car before a trip. Leaving you the warm side of the bed when he got up earlier. Making coffee even when his hands were shaking after a bad night. Staying awake watching the door while you slept.
Hearing him admit you were his safe place while he hated himself for making you afraid was too much.
“Leon,” you said, taking one tiny step closer. “I was scared of what was happening. Not of you.”
The sentence came out so small that for a moment, you stopped seeing the grown man in front of you. You saw the boy who had probably learned to hide in silence, not to ask for help, not to cry too loudly because no one would comfort him, or because crying only made things worse. You saw the teenager who probably grew up believing affection always came with conditions, that tenderness could disappear at any second, that if someone touched him, it was safer to prepare for the blow. You saw that twenty-one-year-old boy who arrived in Raccoon City with his whole life ahead of him and left with eyes that looked older forever.
And you understood Leon wasn’t only crying because of that night.
He was crying for all the nights of his life.
“Come to the bathroom with me,” you whispered.
He looked up, confused, still soaked in tears.
“What?”
“Not for anything weird. Just… come. Let’s wash our faces. Both of us.”
You walked toward the door slowly, without touching him. At first, you thought he wouldn’t follow. You heard him breathing behind you, too still, too lost. But a few seconds later, the mattress creaked, and his footsteps appeared behind you, uncertain.
In the bathroom, the light was too white.
You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror: messy hair, wet eyes, your throat marked. Leon saw it too. He froze in the doorway, jaw clenched, and for a second you thought he was going to leave.
“Don’t look at that right now,” you asked him.
“How can I not look at it?”
“Because right now I need you to look at me.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but couldn’t. He just stood there, broken and obedient, his eyes lowering to your face as if he expected to find hatred there.
He didn’t.
He only found exhaustion, fear still, yes, but also love.
So much love.
You turned on the faucet and waited until the water ran warm. You soaked a small towel, wrung it out, and moved closer to him, stopping before touching his face.
“Can I?”
Leon swallowed. His eyes filled again. He nodded once, barely, and you lifted the towel to his cheek.
You cleaned him with a tenderness that almost hurt. You passed the damp fabric beneath his eyes, along his jaw, over his trembling mouth as he tried to hold back more sobs. Leon closed his eyes when you touched his forehead, and suddenly he looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
He was exhausted from waking up every night ready to fight ghosts no one else could see.
“You were little,” you murmured, not really knowing whether you meant the nightmare, Raccoon, his childhood, or all of it at once. “Too little for everything that happened to you. And then the world just kept asking for more.” You wiped away another tear before it could fall. “More strength, more cold blood, more missions…”
Leon lowered his head.
This time, when he cried, he didn’t try to hide it as quickly. The sound came from deep in his chest, raw and aching, and you set the towel down on the sink so you could hold his face between your hands. He tensed at first, but he didn’t pull away.
“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he confessed, his voice barely there. “I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to… stop. When I was a kid, I learned not to make noise, not to bother anyone, to hold on until it passed. After Raccoon…” He shut his eyes tightly. “Just more orders, more dead people. And then you came along, and for the first time I thought maybe I could have something clean. Something that wasn’t rotten because of everything I’ve touched.”
It hurt to hear him talk about himself like that.
“You’re not rotten, Leon,” you told him, frowning at his words.
“You don’t know how many things I’ve done.”
“I know how you love me.”
He opened his eyes, ruined.
You stroked his cheekbones with your thumbs. Leon closed his eyes again and rested his forehead against yours with a trembling slowness, like such a simple gesture scared him and soothed him at the same time.
“I want to shower,” he murmured suddenly. “I need to… get this off me.”
You prepared the shower while he sat on the closed toilet lid, staring at a fixed point on the floor, fingers intertwined, shoulders collapsed. You left a clean towel nearby and adjusted the water until it was warm. You didn’t try to make it romantic. There was nothing like that in that moment. Only care. Only real intimacy, the kind that asks for nothing but to hold the other person when they can’t hold themselves.
When he stepped under the water, he left the shower door partly open, maybe because the idea of being completely alone with his head scared him. You sat on the bathroom floor, leaning your back against the sink cabinet, so he could see you if he opened his eyes.
At first, he said nothing.
The water fell over his hair, down his neck and back, and Leon pressed one hand against the wall, lowering his head. His shoulders started shaking again. This time, he didn’t do it silently. He cried with the water falling over him, his breathing broken, one hand covering his mouth and the other gripping the tile, as if that shower were the only place where he could let himself fall apart.
“I’m here,” you reminded him very softly.
Leon nodded without looking at you, but his fingers loosened slightly against the wall.
When he stepped out, wrapped in a towel, wet hair sticking to his forehead, he looked younger. Not calmer yet, but less far away. His eyes were swollen, his face clean, his skin flushed from the hot water, and there was such obvious fragility to him that you wanted to hug him until the whole world went quiet.
You handed him a clean shirt. He took it with clumsy fingers.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Come here.”
This time, he didn’t step back.
You moved closer slowly and dried his hair with another towel, rubbing gently, careful not to make any sudden movements. Leon let you, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his gaze lowered and his hands resting on his knees. Every now and then, a late sob escaped him, one of those that linger after the worst of the crying has passed.
Leon had never received this as a child.
You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head, barely brushing him.
Then, with a slowness that almost undid you, he rested his forehead against your stomach and closed his eyes.
He didn’t hug you at first. He only stayed there. Then you lowered one hand to his damp hair and the other to the back of his neck, holding him carefully.
It was enough.
Leon let out a trembling breath and wrapped his arms around your waist. Not tightly, not like before, but with fear, with reverence, as if he were holding something sacred he never wanted to break again.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured against your shirt.
You returned to the bedroom without rushing.
You changed the sheets because Leon couldn’t look at the bed without tensing, and you didn’t argue. You let him do something useful: gather the old sheets, open the window for a few seconds, adjust the pillows. You knew he needed to feel like his hands could be used to care, not only destroy.
After everything was clean and the room smelled faintly of cold air and soap, you turned off the main light and left only the bedside lamp on.
Leon stood beside the bed.
“I can sleep on the couch.”
“I don’t want you to sleep on the couch,” you answered quickly. “You can stay on the other side of the bed. We can leave space between us. We can keep the light on. We can do whatever you need, but I don’t want you punishing yourself.”
His eyes filled with tears again, though this time they didn’t fall with the same violence. He looked too exhausted even to hate himself.
“What do you need?” he asked.
The question touched something deep inside you.
“I need you to listen when I tell you I’m still here. And I need you not to push me away.”
Leon nodded.
You got into bed carefully. He lay on his back, rigid, hands on his chest, staring at the ceiling. You turned toward him. For a while, you didn’t touch him. You only watched him breathe, noticing how every muscle in his body still seemed ready to run.
“Leon.”
He barely turned his head.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question seemed to hurt him and comfort him at the same time.
“Yes,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it.
You moved just close enough to kiss his cheek.
Once.
Then again, a little higher.
Then his temple, where his hair was still damp. His forehead, over a crease of tension that refused to disappear. The bridge of his nose. His cheekbone, just beneath his eye, where the salty trace of tears still lingered.
Leon closed his eyes.
“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured.
You gave him another kiss on the cheek.
“You’re good, Leon.”
His breath caught.
Tears slipped out again, silent this time, sliding toward his temples. You kissed the corner of his mouth with such tenderness it was barely a touch. You only wanted him to know your love hadn’t been extinguished by fear.
“You are not your nightmares,” you whispered. “You are not what they did to you, or Raccoon, or the hands of whoever hurt you when you were little. You’re Leon. My Leon. And you’re here with me.”
He turned his face toward you, completely disarmed.
“I’m scared to sleep.”
“Then don’t sleep yet. Stay with me.”
Leon swallowed and nodded, though every part of him still looked like it wanted to keep apologizing until his voice gave out.
He watched you for a few seconds, as if he were still asking for permission in silence, and then he moved toward you with a broken, almost ashamed slowness. He didn’t hug you all at once. First, he rested his forehead against your chest, right above your heartbeat, and when he heard it still there, alive and steady beneath his ear, something in him finally surrendered.
His arms wrapped carefully around your waist, still trembling, and he clung to you as if you were the only thing capable of keeping him in the present. You ran a hand through his hair slowly, feeling his breathing fall apart against your shirt in small, exhausted sobs, and Leon squeezed his eyes shut, hiding his face in you like a child who had finally found a safe place to break without being left alone.
“When I was little,” he whispered against your chest, “sometimes I imagined someone coming into my room and telling me I could sleep. That I didn’t have to watch the door. That I didn’t have to listen for footsteps.”
You moved a little closer and covered his face in small, slow kisses, placing them wherever the pain seemed to have settled. His forehead. His temple. His cheek. His closed eyelid. The tip of his nose. His tense jaw.
Leon slowly stopped crying.
“You can sleep,” you told him softly. “I’m here. The door is closed. No one is going to hurt you. I’m with you.”
His mouth trembled one last time.
Leon closed his eyes.
For a moment, you thought he was going to cry again, but he only let out a long, tired, almost defeated sigh. The tension in his shoulders began to loosen very slowly, like a rope that had finally stopped being pulled to the point of snapping.
“I love you,” he murmured, his voice so small it seemed to come from some hidden place inside him.
“I love you too.”
Leon kept looking at your face through half-lidded eyes, as if he needed to check one more time that you were still there, that you hadn’t become another loss, that the night hadn’t taken away the only good thing he allowed himself to want.
You stroked his knuckles with your thumb, slowly, over and over again, until his breathing began to match yours.
In the end, Leon fell asleep without letting go of you.
It wasn’t a deep sleep at first. His brow furrowed every now and then, his hand tightened over yours, and every small sound in the apartment seemed to brush against his skin even while he slept. But he wasn’t alone inside his head anymore. Every time his breathing changed, you whispered his name gently, and he came back.
And when his body finally surrendered completely, Leon searched for your warmth, his face calmer than you had seen it all night.
You pressed one last kiss to his forehead.
“That’s it, love,” you whispered, even though he could barely hear you anymore. “Rest. You don’t have to survive tonight anymore.”
hope you enjoyed it! i'm open to any requests! follow me on ao3 too here
mark grayson who tried not to cry when the words spoken between you left your lips, it just wasn't working you tried, he tried, but it wasn't enough like everything else in his life is, even though he wanted to keep going you couldn't. so you ended it with him, and now goes the nights he can go home to you and rest in your arms, there goes the times you would help patch him up in a fight, or-everytime he would spiral or just feel like things aren't okay, atleast he had you to talk to, to confide in, but of course it's not like that anymore, but it's okay he'd do anything to protect you, to make you happy.
mark grayson when the moment you both broke up, got himself more into reckless fights, yeah more bruises? more bleeding wounds? and maybe more hospital trips but he's practically invincible it's fine, everything's fine, he's fine, you both didn't work out of course, you didn't fit in his world and somehow anyhow everything would-can just go wrong and he couldn't control that, control who he was, it wasn't your fault you couldn't love someone like him or could afford to anymore, maybe he's the problem.
mark grayson who would still remember your usual routes without you knowing, maybe still remember that specific cafe you would go to get your usual drink, and yeah he would still memorize your order every time, always know where you'd get your groceries, always remember everywhere you go like it's memorized and engrained in his head, you would never know but he would linger floating in the sky, you wouldn't see him of course, but he would see you and he didn't mean it, but he'd subconsciously try to look for you in the crowd, always looking for you within the people on the streets or just anywhere, just to get a glimpse of you, to know if you were okay.
mark grayson who probably can't date other people without seeing you or think of you, and even if he ever did go on those dates or try it just wouldn't be the same, no other girl could ever really live up to who you were in his life, no one else could really take your spot, yeah he would probably accidently hurt their feelings! but he doesn't mean it on purpose, for he can't help his feelings for you, it really didn't help that you were on his mind every time like a constant broken record.
mark grayson who would leave everything everywhere exactly how you left it, a few of your sweaters or shirts in his room? always in that same spot maybe hung in his closet, other belongings of yours like maybe a stuffed animal you gave him, he'd cuddle it to sleep hoping to smell your scent because it's always comforting to him it's like your here even when your not, and if anyone even his brother try to tidy his room or say something?
mark grayson who frustratedly gets more irritated when oliver just tells him to move on, for his sake and he would just lose it. how can anyone understand where he's coming from? william with his whole "more fish in the sea" or eve's "if you love her enough, you should let her go, for your sake and her's" he doesn't want anyone else, just YOU. why can't anybody get that? why can't people just leave him be, and just leave it alone, they wouldn't get it no one understands, no one understanded him more than you do.
mark grayson who's maybe his living situation would get more messy, like the obvious signs of someone that doesn't take care of themself well enough, homecooked healthy foods out of the window because he doesn't really have enough energy or motivation to take care of himself so he'd probably eat junk food, dishes in the sink? maybe when he'd get time to do it he would but sometimes it'd stay there stubbornly, maybe takeout containers on the counter, and yeah he should probably take care of himself more, but he's just been tired being invincible and well he doesn't have you so whats the point anymore? your not here to scold him anyway, it doesn't matter not anymore.
mark grayson who would probably hover outside your window, he wouldn't knock no, he wouldn't go in, he respects you even though every part of him just craves to burst inside and just hug you, kiss you, do anything but to feel your touch again, to feel you, and for you to take him back again, because he'd be better he would swear to be better, because he loves you so much to the point it hurts, he misses coming home to you, he wouldn't want anyone else, he only wants you.
mark grayson who just maybe is losing it every day-like he can't ever get rest, with the looming doom of viltrumites invading and killing everybody over his head hung like a death sentence, his family situation with his father's shit dumped onto his back, and people always expecting more of him, and the fear of him becoming exactly what he didn't want to be, since when can he ever get a break? when can he get to rest? he missed you, missed you so much, you would understand, you'd always understand and lately, it felt like no one did.
mark grayson who maybe felt more lonelier then ever since you left his life, every time he would wake up, you aren't next to him so the side of that bed is always cold and every time he wakes up in the hospital bed injured wrapped in bandages you aren't by his bedside holding his hand, and every time he would come back home sometimes thinking someone was home but comes back to an empty house, and realizes that he is alone, and he doesn't have you to come home to.
mark grayson who wouldn't change or even bother to shower, exhausted, mentally tired out, just stumbles to his bedroom and collapse in the bed, and like routine, holding the stuff animal you gave him in his arms desperately as if it was the last thing he had of you and maybe it was, just reminiscing of every time you were here for him and every good memory you both had and realizing that it's not gonna happen anymore, so another day, another life of being who he was supposed to be, invincible, even if maybe he didn't feel like it nowadays, but none of it mattered if he didn't have you, and he didn't, he lost you the most important thing that he fucked up in his life like everything else that was fucked up in his life, just another night of being disappointed in himself and now sleeping cold alone in his room with you not next to him anymore.
🍒 you have a boyfriend and roy harper hates him. || roy is kinda a dick, your boyfriend sucks, angst, no comfort, roy is jealous but he won’t tell, friends to lovers but you guys are stuck on friends. || ⋆˚࿔ if the guy is not roy harper then he sucks
contexto da putaria: seu namorado pedindo pra você dedar ele :)
n.a: recebi na ask do kooqitas mas tudo que posto lá posto aqui e vice-versa entããão... não é a primeira vez que um homem leva dedada nesse blog então tbm não surtem quanto a isso quem não quiser é só não ler obrigada <3
todo mundo sempre diz que jihoon não é o maior fã de toque físico, e bem, ele realmente não é, mas sempre abre exceção pra você. com o passar dos meses de namoro se tornou comum trocarem beijos e abraços cotidianamente, e era isso que vocês estavam fazendo agora, começou como um filme despretensioso na cama, e agora os beijinhos molhados que você dava no maxilar dele estavam o derretendo, depois de um dia exaustivo de trabalho ficar agarradinho contigo era um dos programas favoritos dele, o carinho no cabelo grandinho deixando ele manhoso sob você.
“a-amor” falou mole nos seus braços.
você ri, descendo os beijos para os ombros de jihoon, a camiseta grande te deixando expor o colo dele para deixar beijinhos molhados ali também, fazendo ele manhar ainda mais.
“vou cuidar de você hoje, vida!”
a malicia na voz evidente principalmente pelo tempo em que já estavam juntos, jihoon não planejou te chamar pra ver filme esperando sexo, contudo jamais iria reclamar quanto a isso, não quando os beijos deixavam ele tão afetado por você.
a camisa grande foi retirada rápido, expondo o peitoral definido que você tanto gosta, porra, melhor que qualquer travesseiro.
deixa beijinhos molhados ali, ouvindo seu namorando gemer sôfrego manhoso pra você, sua bucetinha melando a cada suspiro dele, e quando enrola a língua no mamilo, jihoon parece que vai colapsar.
“p-princesa…” a mão afaga seus cabelos, o mamilo pequeno coberto por sua saliva, os leves chupões ao redor do peito.
e então você desce, passando a língua pela barriga do seu namorando, sentindo cada gominho com sua boca, enquanto ele segue suspirando.
você tira a bermuda dele, sorrindo quando vê a mancha na cueca vermelha, o pau já babando pra você, e se aproveita pra também retirar o tecido. “cê já ta duro?” brinca com ele, passando o polegar na cabecinha, jihoon se contorce.
“pra você? sempre”
é tão casual esses carinhos entre você, que não demora muito pra sugar jihoon, o pau grosso pulsando dentro da sua boca, o gostinho salgado indo direto pra sua garganta, a mão fazendo carinho no seu cabelo te incentivando a fazer o que quiser.
sua língua passa pelas bolas de jihoon, fazendo ele levantar o quadril, abrindo mais um pouco as pernas, o gemido se tornando ainda mais manhoso, “a-amor” ele tenta pedir, falhando na própria respiração quando sente você sugar o testículo cheinho.
e então ele levanta o quadril de novo, um pouco mais desesperado, te chamando sôfrego, dando um leve puxão no seu cabelo querendo sua atenção, e quando você o encara ele pede rápido, quase sem nem pensar.
“amor, u-usa os dedos.”
você o encara, tentando entender se ouviu certo, seu namorado está realmente pedindo pra você dedar ele?
jihoon nota o olhar confuso, e sem qualquer vergonha (talvez pelo tesão eminente), te pede de novo, te encarando quase que como um filhotinho.
“amor, mete os dedos em mim, por favor.”
você é incapaz de negar, e quando vai ao banheiro procurar lubrificante, é ágil em achar o cortador de unha e cortar sem sequer processar, isso é um problema para depois, agora só precisa dar prazer ao seu jihoon.
volta rápido pra cama, a bochecha do seu namorado vermelha, os pés no colchão deixando a parte que ele tanto quer que seja tocada exposta. e sem qualquer resistência você volta ao corpo dele, brincando com o períneo e fazendo ele soluçar entre gemidos.
você cospe no buraquinho piscando, só pra depois voltar a beijar jihoon, sentindo ele se esfregar e manhar em você, até que, sem qualquer aviso, esfrega o dedo com lubrificante no buraquinho enrugado, e a verdade é que seu namorado nunca gemeu tão alto.
“p-porra, i-isso.”
o beijo é quebrado, só pra você poder encarar as orbes escuras enquanto afunda o dedo médio, encontrando fácil o pontinho sensível dele, fazendo jihoon se agarrar aos lençóis e choramingar.
“d-de novo. por favor, amor, de novo” ele implora sem qualquer decência, e você dá o que ele quer, acertando de novo ali, sentindo seu namorado tremer. “m-mais”
o seu anelar se junta ao dedo médio, com um pouco de dificuldade, sentindo ele contrair cada vez mais, tentando expulsar os seus dedos, mesmo que não fosse isso que jihoon queria.
você volta a beijar seu namorado, ele engolindo cada som falho enquanto tenta manter o ritmo. é meio impossível decifrar o que ele diz quando você aumenta a velocidade, jihoon se tornou uma bagunça de gemidos e choro baixo. o tesão em ter você tomando ele dessa forma o consumindo por completo, tornando ele burrinho.
e tudo piora quando você desce, voltando a chupar o pau dele sem tirar os dedos, disposta a fazer ele gozar na sua boca, afundando ainda mais os dedos no cuzinho do seu namorado, enquanto a piroca grossa afunda na sua garganta.
ele tenta engolir os próprios gemidos, mas não consegue, completamente perdido no próprio tesão, sem acreditar que a namorada está realmente fazendo aquilo com ele, a respiração desregulada, os olhos sequer ficam abertos enquanto ele choraminga coisas indecifráveis.
os dedos dos pés dele entortam, o buraquinho se apertando ainda mais contra os seus dois dedos, e o pau pulsando na sua boca.
e é assim que jihoon goza, a porra espessa indo direto na sua garganta, um gemido alto e manhoso que te tira de órbita.
você não para os movimentos, ainda sugando cada gotinha do esperma e dedando o cuzinho apertado, não consegue ver, mas sabe que seu namorado está revirando os olhos, principalmente pela forma como o corpo se move contra os lençois, desesperados.
“v-vida. d-demais-” a mão dele encontra seu pulso, meio desajeitado, mas quase em súplica pra você parar, a estimulação pós orgasmo acabando com ele.
você ri, respeitando a vontade dele e parando, aproveitando a ultima gotinha de porra que chupou pra cuspir na boca dele, beijando em seguida, misturando as salivas e a porra densa entre as bocas.
é jihoon quem engole tudo depois.
pra depois se aninhar em você, um pouco envergonhado, foi a primeira vez que pediu algo assim.
“foi bom?” você pergunta, preocupada com o prazer dele.
“f-foi.” a voz ainda trêmula. “eu já cuido de você, amor! me dá só um t-”
“relaxa, vida. hoje foi sobre você...”
“mas você nem-” o cortou mais uma vez.
“shhh, descansa.” é você quem o abraça, sendo a conchinha maior, sentindo ele empinado contra você, não perde a oportunidade de deixar um aperto na bunda branquinha, a marca vermelha se formando ali enquanto jihoon geme. “não sabia que você conseguia ser tão sensível… eu realmente vou querer testar isso mais vezes.”
e jihoon relaxa, dormindo tranquilo nos braços da mulher dele.
﹕𝜗𝜚﹕ NOTES : new toxic series hehhh this chapter is only js the beginning of the story and this is only an introduction to his toxic behavior!! 😗 i hope you’ll like it cuz i personally am not 100% satisfied… but i got lots of ideas for next parts hehe
﹕𝜗𝜚﹕ NOTES ; got irritated just writing the last few slides BYEEE and i’m sorry chat i’m in love with jake, almost put more of his pics then i remembered girl this is hoon’s series LMFAOO anyway hope you’ll like it it’s a bit calmer after the past chapter 😆 but it’s only calm before the storm
winning back a bad bitch is harder than losing one- jay edition.
desperate ex!jay x reader. stupid shit. super suggestive. funny. readers petty but in denial! decided to make this a series for all members, heres hee's. hoon's. jake's. won's so far!
synopsis: When your boyfriend Soobin struggles to satisfy you in the bedroom, you both agree to see the city’s most sought-after sex therapist: Jeon Jungkook. Charming, confident, and dangerously skilled with his hands, Jungkook doesn’t just offer advice— he shows you exactly how it’s supposed to feel. What starts as clinical demonstrations quickly turns into something far more intense, with Soobin watching helplessly from the corner as Jungkook takes his time teaching your body pleasures your boyfriend never could.
warnings: smut mdni, masturbation, use of a vibrator, cuckholding, fingering, oral (f.rec.), unprotected sex, missionary, lotus, doggystyle, biting, ass eating (because @merakoo asked for it), ass slapping, hair pulling, rough sex, lots and lots of dirty talk, creampie, squirting, this is filthy as fuck, soobin x reader.
✶﹐word count: 10.5k
The room was quiet except for the slow, uneven sound of your breathing slowly returning to normal. You lay on your back beside Soobin, both of you staring up at the ceiling where the same faint crack in the paint had been mocking you for months now. The sheets beneath you felt sticky and warm, but the warmth wasn’t the satisfying kind that usually came after really good sex. It was just… fine. Everything lately had been fine. His hand had been gentle on your hips, his kisses soft against your neck, and when he finally came, he let out that familiar quiet groan before collapsing beside you. But you hadn’t. Not even close.
In the beginning of your relationship, the sex had been good enough to leave you content. It wasn’t mind-blowing or adventurous, but it was warm and loving and enough to make you curl into him afterward with a sleepy smile. Over the last couple of years though, things had slowly changed. The spark had dimmed into something mechanical, almost routine. You found yourself lying there more often than not, faking soft little moans so he wouldn’t feel bad, while the ache between your legs only grew more frustrated. Sometimes you wondered if he noticed how often you slipped away afterward. Tonight, you knew he did. You could feel it in the way his body had tensed just slightly when he pulled out, the unspoken awareness hanging heavy between you.
Soobin shifted beside you, the mattress dipping as he rolled over. His arm draped loosely across your waist for a moment before he leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there like an apology he didn’t quite know how to voice. “Goodnight, baby,” he whispered, voice already thick and sleepy. You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced yourself to sound normal.
“Goodnight,” you replied softly, turning your head just enough to brush your nose against his shoulder.
You waited in the dark, listening carefully as his breathing gradually slowed and deepened. Minutes stretched out, each one feeling longer than the last. When you were finally sure he was fully asleep, you slipped out from under his arm with practiced care, trying not to disturb the mattress too much. The cool air of the room hit your bare legs as you stood, and you padded quietly to the bedside drawer. Your fingers closed around the smooth, familiar shape of your vibrator, the one you’d come to rely on more than you wanted to admit. The weight of it in your palm felt almost comforting now.
You tiptoed into the bathroom and closed the door behind you with a soft click, locking it out of habit even though Soobin was dead to the world. The small nightlight cast a gentle golden glow across the tiles as you leaned back against the sink counter. Heart still racing from the unresolved tension in your body, you hiked up the oversized t-shirt you’d thrown on and parted your thighs. The moment the buzzing toy pressed against your swollen, neglected clit, a shaky exhale escaped your lips. This was never fine. This was intense, almost desperate— the sharp pleasure you craved but could no longer get from the man sleeping in the next room.
Your free hand gripped the edge of the counter as you worked the vibrator in slow, teasing circles, then faster, chasing the release that had been denied to you earlier. Your mind wandered while your hips jerked against your hand, thoughts drifting dangerously toward the crumpled business card you’d tucked away in your purse weeks ago. Jeon Jungkook. Licensed Sex Therapist. Specialist in couples’ intimacy issues. You’d stared at that card so many times, equal parts ashamed and curious. The glowing reviews online had mentioned how thorough he was… how hands-on.
Your thighs trembled as the pressure finally built to its peak. You bit down hard on your lip to stay quiet, eyes squeezing shut while the orgasm crashed over you in strong, pulsing waves. For a few blissful seconds, everything else disappeared— the frustration, the guilt, the growing distance between you and Soobin. Only the sharp pleasure remained. But as the high faded and you caught your breath under the dim nightlight, the reality settled back in. This couldn’t keep going on like this. Something had to change.
The next day dawned gray and quiet, the kind of overcast morning that made the apartment feel smaller than it was. You woke up before Soobin, his arm still loosely draped over your waist from the night before. For a long moment you just lay there, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling that had become an unwilling witness to so many disappointing nights. Your body still carried the faint ache of unresolved need, even after last night’s secret session in the bathroom. The memory of the vibrator’s buzz and the sharp, guilty pleasure it brought made your thighs press together under the sheets.
All day the business card burned a hole in your pocket.
You went through the motions— making coffee, answering emails, attending meetings, but your mind kept circling back to it. Should I say something? What if he gets defensive? What if he thinks I’m unhappy with him as a person and not just… this? The card felt heavy, its edges sharp against your fingertips every time you brushed your hand over your pocket. At lunch you pulled it out in the bathroom stall just to stare at the elegant black text again: Jeon Jungkook, Licensed Sex Therapist. Specialist in Couples’ Intimacy & Desire. Your stomach twisted with nerves and something else, something hotter and more dangerous.
By the time evening came, the anxiety had twisted into a constant, low hum beneath your skin. You cooked dinner in silence while Soobin set the table, the two of you moving around each other with the familiar, gentle choreography of a couple who had been together for years. Pasta with creamy tomato sauce, garlic bread, a simple salad, comfort food on a night that felt anything but comfortable. The apartment smelled warm and safe, yet your heart wouldn’t stop racing.
Halfway through the meal, you couldn’t take it anymore.
Your fork paused above your half-eaten plate, twirling a strand of pasta that you no longer had any appetite for. Soobin was talking softly about his day, something about a deadline at work, but the words barely registered. Your fingers trembled as they slipped into your pocket and pulled out the slightly creased business card. Without a word, you slid it across the wooden table until it rested beside his glass of water.
Soobin’s voice trailed off. He looked down at the card, fork hovering in mid-air for a second before he slowly set it down. The quiet clink of metal against the plate sounded impossibly loud. You held your breath, chest tight, watching his face as he picked up the card with long, elegant fingers. His eyes scanned the text once, then again, more carefully. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock on the wall.
You waited for confusion. For hurt. For anger, maybe. Instead, Soobin let out a long, slow sigh.
It wasn’t the frustrated kind you’d feared. It was… relief. Deep, exhausted relief. His shoulders sagged as he placed the card back on the table, turning it over once between his fingers before looking up at you. His eyes were soft, a little sad, but strangely calm.
“You’ve been thinking about this for a while, haven’t you?” he asked quietly.
You swallowed hard, nodding. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Yes. I… I know things haven’t been great. Between us. In bed. I know you’ve felt it too.”
Soobin leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. He stared at the card for another long moment, then looked at you again— really looked at you. There was no defensiveness in his gaze, only a quiet acknowledgment that made your throat tighten.
“I have,” he admitted, voice low. “I’ve felt it for months. Every time I touch you and you don’t… every time you make those little sounds like you’re trying to spare my feelings.” He gave a small, self-deprecating smile that broke your heart a little. “I didn’t know how to bring it up. I didn’t want you to think I don’t want you anymore, because I do. So fucking much. I just… I don’t know how to fix it.”
The honesty in his words made your eyes sting. You reached across the table and took his hand, squeezing it gently. For the first time in a long time, it felt like you were really seeing each other again. “I don’t want to keep pretending everything’s fine when it’s not,” you whispered. “I think… maybe we need help. Real help. From someone who knows what they’re doing.”
Soobin glanced back down at Jungkook’s name on the card. His thumb brushed over the printed letters almost absentmindedly. After a long pause, he nodded. “Okay,” he said softly. “If you’re sure you want to do this… then I’m in. We’ll do it together.”
You let out a shaky breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, a strange mix of nerves and excitement fluttering in your stomach. The decision was made. The appointment would be made.
The waiting room of Jeon Jungkook’s private practice was quieter than you expected. Soft ambient music played low in the background, something instrumental and soothing that did little to calm the rapid beating of your heart. You sat on a sleek gray couch beside Soobin, your hand resting loosely in his lap while his thumb brushed slow, absentminded circles over your knuckles. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and clean linen. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in natural light, but the tension in your chest made everything feel slightly unreal.
You had been nervous all morning. The drive here had been mostly silent, both of you lost in your own thoughts, but now that you were actually here, sitting in this elegant, minimalist office, the nerves had twisted into something sharper. A low, thrilling hum of excitement sat right beneath the anxiety. Your thighs pressed together under your sundress as you replayed the glowing reviews in your head. Thorough. Transformative. Life-changing.
Ten minutes felt like an eternity.
Every time you heard footsteps in the hallway, your breath would catch, only for the sound to fade again. Soobin squeezed your hand gently, offering a small, reassuring smile, but you could see the same mixture of uncertainty and hope in his eyes. He looked handsome today in his button-up shirt, but even that familiar sight couldn’t stop the restless energy buzzing under your skin.
Finally, the door opened.
Jeon Jungkook stepped inside, and for a moment the world seemed to tilt.
He was stunning. Easily one of the most beautiful men you had ever seen. Tall and broad-shouldered, he moved with a quiet, confident grace that immediately filled the room. His black hair was slightly tousled, falling over his forehead in a way that looked effortlessly perfect. Sharp jawline, full lips, and dark, piercing eyes framed by long lashes. He wore a fitted black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing tattoos that disappeared beneath the fabric, and tailored slacks that accentuated his powerful thighs. The subtle scent of his cologne, something woody and expensive, reached you as he closed the door behind him.
You couldn’t stop staring.
Jungkook didn’t speak right away. He crossed the room and settled into the large leather chair across from you, clipboard in hand. For several long minutes he simply read over his notes, his expression calm and focused. The silence was heavy. You found yourself tracing the line of his neck, the way his fingers held the pen with quiet strength, the faint flex of muscle in his forearm as he turned a page. Heat crept up your neck. Soobin shifted beside you, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from the man in front of you.
After what felt like forever, Jungkook finally looked up.
His eyes met yours first, then shifted to Soobin. A small, professional smile curved his lips, warm, but with something unreadable flickering behind it. “Hello,” he said, voice smooth and low, like velvet dragged over stone. “I’m Jeon Jungkook. Thank you for waiting. I’ve reviewed the intake forms you filled out online.” He set the clipboard on his lap and leaned back slightly, giving you both his full attention. “So… why don’t you tell me what brought you here today?”
You swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry. Soobin gave your hand another squeeze, silently encouraging you to start. Your voice came out softer than intended as you began to speak.
You told him everything. How the sex had been good in the beginning, warm, loving, safe. How over the past couple of years it had slowly become routine and unsatisfying. You described lying beneath Soobin, faking soft moans while your body remained tense and frustrated. The mechanical rhythm, the lack of real spark, the growing ache that no amount of “fine” could satisfy. You mentioned slipping away to the bathroom at night with your vibrator, chasing the intense pleasure your boyfriend could no longer give you. Your cheeks burned as you spoke, but Jungkook’s gaze never wavered. He listened with complete focus, occasionally nodding or jotting something down on his clipboard.
Soobin chimed in quietly, his voice laced with vulnerability. He admitted feeling the distance growing between you two. How he could sense you weren’t fully there with him anymore, how guilty it made him feel, how much he still wanted you but didn’t know how to reach you the way he used to. He spoke about the pressure of wanting to please you and constantly falling short.
Jungkook listened intently the entire time.
His dark eyes flicked between the two of you, absorbing every word. Every so often he would write something down in neat, precise strokes, his pen moving across the paper with a soft scratch that somehow felt intimate in the quiet room. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t offer empty reassurances. He simply absorbed it all, head slightly tilted, expression thoughtful and impossibly focused. You found yourself wondering what exactly he was writing. What he was thinking. Whether he could already picture exactly how to fix what was broken between you.
When you both finally fell silent, the room felt heavier than before. Your heart was racing, thighs warm, a traitorous pulse beating between your legs as you watched Jungkook tap his pen against the clipboard once, twice, before setting it down.
“I appreciate how open you’ve both been so far,” he began, eyes flicking between you and Soobin. “But to truly help, I need to understand the specifics. The details matter. How often do you have sex currently? How long do your sessions usually last, from start to finish? And most importantly… what does it actually look like when you’re together?”
You felt heat bloom across your chest and climb up your neck. Soobin’s hand tightened slightly around yours, his palm growing warmer. Jungkook waited patiently, giving you both space, but his dark eyes were sharp, missing nothing. When neither of you spoke immediately, he continued gently, guiding the conversation. “Let’s start with positions,” he said, tone professional yet undeniably intimate. “What positions do you usually use? Do you switch often? How does foreplay factor in— duration, techniques? And how long does penetration usually last before one or both of you finishes?”
The questions landed heavily in the quiet room. You swallowed, mouth dry, your sundress suddenly feeling too thin against your skin. Jungkook’s gaze settled on you expectantly, patient but commanding. There was something about the way he looked at you— focused, knowing, like he could already see the frustration coiled tight in your body, that made your pulse throb between your legs.
You took a shaky breath and forced the words out, voice barely above a whisper at first. “We… we mostly just do missionary,” you admitted, cheeks burning. “It’s what feels most natural for us, I guess. Comfortable. Soobin on top, me on my back. Sometimes I’ll ride him, cowgirl, but not very often. And when I do… there’s not much vigor to it. I get tired quickly, or it just doesn’t feel… right.”
Jungkook nodded slowly, writing something down in those neat strokes. The scratch of his pen seemed louder than it should have been. He didn’t look surprised or judgmental. Instead, his expression remained thoughtfully neutral, though you swore you caught the faintest flicker of something darker, interest, perhaps, behind his eyes.
“And how long does it usually last?” he asked, voice smooth. “From the moment clothes come off to when it’s over. Be honest.”
Soobin cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably beside you. His ears had turned pink. “Maybe… ten to fifteen minutes?” he offered quietly. “Sometimes less. I try to hold out, but…”
You squeezed his hand, both ashamed and relieved to finally say it aloud. “It’s not that it’s bad,” you added quickly, though the words felt hollow even to you. “It’s just… short. And always the same. Missionary with him above me, moving steadily until he finishes. I rarely do on my own during it. When I ride him, I try to move, but it feels awkward. Like I don’t know how to make it feel good for either of us anymore. There’s no real… intensity. No roughness. No experimentation.”
Jungkook listened with complete focus. His full lips pressed together in thought as he processed your words. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, closing some of the distance between you. The scent of his cologne wrapped around you, warm, masculine, expensive. “No oral?” he asked calmly. “No doggy style? No standing positions, no restraints, no toys during sex together? You mentioned using a vibrator alone at night, does Soobin ever use it on you? Or watch you use it?”
Each question felt like a layer being peeled back. You squirmed in your seat, painfully aware of the growing wetness between your thighs. The way Jungkook spoke, so direct, so clinical, yet dripping with unspoken promise, made your mind race with images you knew you shouldn’t be having in this moment. Him. Those tattooed arms. That confident grip. Showing you exactly what you’d been missing.
Soobin shook his head slowly. “We’ve tried oral a few times, but… it doesn’t last long. And no, we’ve never really done any of the other stuff. It just never felt necessary before. Or maybe we didn’t know how.”
You nodded in agreement, biting your lip. “It’s always been vanilla. Safe. But now it feels too safe. Too… predictable. I love him. I do. But I lie there wondering if this is just how it’s going to be forever.”
Jungkook’s eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary before he wrote a few more lines. The silence that followed was thick with tension. He finally set the pen down and looked at you both, his expression composed but carrying an undeniable edge of authority. “I understand,” he said, voice dropping slightly. “You’re stuck in a very narrow script. Missionary and occasional cowgirl with minimal energy or variation, that explains a lot about the frustration you’re both feeling. Your bodies have adapted to routine. Comfort has replaced desire.”
Jungkook set his clipboard aside completely now, the soft thud of it hitting the side table sounding final. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and fixed both of you with a steady, intense gaze. The professional mask was still there, but something sharper and more commanding lingered just beneath it.
“I’ve heard enough to see the pattern clearly,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Words and explanations can only go so far. At this point, the most effective way for me to help is through demonstration. I’d like to show Soobin exactly how to touch you, how to build real desire, and how to awaken the parts of your body that have been neglected.”
He let the words settle in the heavy silence of the room before turning his full attention to you. “I won’t do anything without your explicit consent,” Jungkook continued, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “This would involve me touching you directly while Soobin watches. I’ll start slow. I’ll show him how to kiss you, how to touch you, how to read your body’s responses. If at any point you want to stop, you say the word and everything ends immediately.”
Your heart hammered wildly in your chest. Heat flooded your face, your neck, and lower. You could feel Soobin’s hand tense in yours, his breathing shallow beside you. For a long moment, the only sound was the soft ambient music and the rush of blood in your ears.
Jungkook waited patiently, giving you time. His gaze never wavered— calm, confident, and impossibly magnetic. You swallowed hard, throat dry. Nervous energy twisted in your stomach, but underneath it, something hotter and more dangerous stirred. A deep, aching curiosity. Excitement. “Yes,” you whispered, voice barely audible at first. Then stronger, “Yes… I want that.”
Jungkook’s lips curved into a small, approving smile. He glanced at Soobin. “And you? Are you comfortable with me demonstrating on your girlfriend while you observe?”
Soobin hesitated for only a second, then gave a slow nod, his cheeks flushed. “If she wants it… then yes.” Jungkook stood up smoothly, moving with that quiet, predatory grace. He crossed the short distance between his chair and the wide, plush chaise lounge where you and Soobin were seated. He extended his hand to you.
“Come here,” he said softly. “Lie back and get comfortable.”
Your legs felt unsteady as you stood. Soobin released your hand, and you moved to the chaise, heart pounding so hard you were sure they could both hear it. You lay back against the soft cushions, your sundress riding up slightly against your thighs. Jungkook sat on the edge beside you, the heat of his body immediately noticeable. He was so close now. The scent of his cologne, the faint warmth radiating from his broad frame, the way his button-up shirt stretched across his chest, it was overwhelming.
He looked down at you, eyes dark and focused. “Relax for me,” he murmured. “We’re going to start very slow.” Jungkook leaned in, one hand gently brushing your hair away from your neck. His breath ghosted over your skin first, sending shivers racing down your spine. Then his lips pressed softly just below your ear. The kiss was feather-light at first, warm, deliberate. He took his time, kissing down the sensitive column of your neck with slow, lingering presses of his mouth. Each one felt intentional, like he was learning the map of your reactions.
A shaky exhale left your lips. Your eyes fluttered half-closed as he kissed lower, finding the spot where your neck met your shoulder and sucking gently. The wet heat of his tongue traced a small circle there, and your back arched instinctively. One of his hands slid up your side, slow and confident, until his large palm cupped your breast through the thin fabric of your dress. He squeezed gently, thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, teasing strokes until it hardened under his touch.
“See how she responds when you take your time?” Jungkook said quietly, speaking to Soobin without pulling his mouth away from your neck. His voice had dropped even lower. “Don’t rush straight to the obvious places. Build it. Make her feel wanted.”
He kneaded your breast with just the right amount of pressure, rolling your nipple between his fingers over your dress, while his mouth continued its slow exploration of your neck and collarbones. Soft, open-mouthed kisses. The occasional gentle scrape of teeth that made your thighs press together. Your breathing had already grown uneven, small sounds escaping you that you didn’t even try to hold back.
Jungkook’s free hand rested on your waist, holding you in place as he shifted slightly closer. The weight and warmth of him beside you made your head spin. Every touch was precise, controlled, and devastatingly effective. You could already feel yourself getting wet, arousal pooling between your legs far faster than it ever did with Soobin.
Soobin sat quietly in the chair nearby, eyes wide and fixed on every movement. His hands were clenched tightly in his lap, breathing audible. Jungkook pulled back just enough to look at your face, his thumb still lazily circling your nipple. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “How does that feel?” he asked you, voice husky. “Be honest.”
You could barely form words. Your neck tingled where his mouth had been, your breast warm and heavy under his hand. “It feels… really good,” you breathed, cheeks burning.
A satisfied smile tugged at Jungkook’s lips. “Good,” he murmured, leaning back down. “Then let’s continue.” Jungkook’s hands moved with deliberate confidence as he sat up slightly on the edge of the chaise. His dark eyes never left your face, reading every flicker of nervousness and arousal that crossed it. “Let’s remove this,” he murmured, voice low and reassuring. “I want you to feel everything without barriers.”
His fingers found the hem of your sundress, slowly sliding it upward. The fabric whispered against your skin as he lifted it inch by inch, exposing your thighs, then your hips, then the soft curve of your stomach. You raised your arms obediently, heart hammering against your ribs. With one smooth, practiced motion, Jungkook pulled the dress up and over your head, leaving your hair slightly tousled. He set the garment aside neatly on a nearby chair, his gaze roaming over your body now clad only in your bra and matching underwear.
The cool air of the room kissed your newly exposed skin, making you shiver. You felt incredibly vulnerable under their combined stares— Soobin’s wide-eyed and tense from his seat, and Jungkook’s dark, hungry, yet still controlled. Jungkook hummed softly in approval, his large hands returning to your body immediately.
He leaned down again, lips finding your neck once more. This time his kisses were deeper, more possessive, sucking gently at your pulse point while one hand cupped your breast through the thin lace of your bra. His thumb brushed over your nipple in slow, teasing circles, coaxing it to a stiff peak. He kneaded the soft flesh with just the right pressure, firm enough to make you arch into his touch, but never rushed.
“Watch how I’m touching her,” Jungkook said quietly to Soobin, his mouth still hovering against your heated skin. “Don’t just grab. Mold her breast in your palm like this… feel its weight. Use your thumb to tease her nipple until it’s sensitive. Her body is already responding, see how her breathing changed? That’s what you want.”
You let out a shaky whimper as he emphasized his words by pinching your nipple lightly through the fabric, rolling it between his fingers. Pleasure shot straight down between your legs. Jungkook continued kissing down your collarbone, occasionally glancing toward Soobin to explain, his voice smooth and instructional even as his hands worked magic on your body.
After several long, indulgent minutes of kissing and caressing your breasts, Jungkook’s hand began to travel lower. His palm smoothed down your stomach, fingers tracing the waistband of your underwear. He looked up at you, eyes intense. “Still okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded quickly, biting your lip. “Yes…”
With your permission, his hand slipped beneath the fabric of your panties. The first touch of his fingers against your bare, heated skin made you gasp. You were already slick with arousal, embarrassingly wet from everything he’d done so far. Jungkook’s middle and ring fingers found your swollen clit and began rubbing slow, lazy circles over it.
“Fuck… she’s soaked,” he murmured, almost to himself, though loud enough for Soobin to hear. His fingers moved with expert precision, not too fast, not too light, applying perfect pressure as he circled your clit again and again. “This is key, Soobin. Don’t rush to penetrate her. Spend time here. Learn exactly how she likes to be touched. Feel how her hips are already trying to follow my hand?”
Your thighs trembled. Soft, needy sounds spilled from your lips as Jungkook continued the torturously slow rubbing. Heat coiled tighter and tighter in your lower belly. Every circle of his fingers sent sparks of pleasure racing through you. He kept his mouth on your neck and chest the entire time, kissing and gently biting while his hand worked between your legs.
After several drawn-out minutes of this, Jungkook shifted slightly. He used two fingers to pull your soaked panties to the side, fully exposing you. Without warning, he slowly pushed one thick finger inside you, then a second, stretching you open with delicious care. A broken moan escaped your throat. Your back arched off the chaise as his fingers sank deeper, curling slightly to find that sensitive spot inside you. Jungkook groaned softly in approval at how tightly you clenched around him.
“See that?” he said to Soobin, voice huskier now. “She’s gripping my fingers so tightly. This is what happens when you take the time to arouse her properly. Slide in slowly… curl them like this… and listen to the sounds she makes.” He began thrusting his fingers in and out in long, deep strokes, his thumb returning to rub circles over your clit at the same time. The dual sensation was overwhelming. Your hips rolled against his hand instinctively, chasing the building pleasure while Soobin watched every single movement with flushed cheeks and parted lips.
Jungkook’s eyes flicked back to your face, watching you intently as he fingered you with steady, devastating skill. “You’re doing so well,” he praised softly, pumping his fingers deeper. “Let me hear you.”
Jungkook’s fingers moved with growing intensity, thrusting deeper and faster into your soaked pussy. The wet, obscene sounds of his thick fingers pumping in and out filled the room, mixing with your increasingly loud moans. You couldn’t hold back anymore. Your head fell back against the chaise as shameless whimpers and cries spilled from your lips. “Ah— fuck… Jungkook—” you moaned loudly, your voice breaking on his name. Your fingers dug desperately into his muscular arm, gripping the hard bicep through his shirt as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded. Your hips bucked up to meet every thrust, chasing the overwhelming pleasure he was giving you so effortlessly. “Oh my god… it feels so good—”
“That’s it,” Jungkook praised, his voice low and rough. “Let it out. Don’t hold back for me.” His fingers curled perfectly against that sensitive spot inside you with every stroke, faster now, more relentless. The wet squelching sounds grew louder as your arousal coated his hand and dripped down between your thighs.
Your moans turned into desperate, breathy cries. Your thighs trembled violently around his wrist as the pleasure built higher and higher, far beyond anything you’d felt in months.
Jungkook suddenly slowed his fingers, keeping them buried deep inside you, and shifted his position. He moved onto his knees on the chaise, spreading your legs wider with his free hand. He looked over at Soobin, eyes dark with lust but still carrying that instructional tone. “I’m going to eat her out while I keep fingering her,” he told Soobin calmly. “This combination is extremely effective. Watch how I use my tongue.”
You whimpered at his words alone, already anticipating what was coming. Jungkook hooked his fingers under the waistband of your soaked panties and pulled them down your legs, tossing them aside. Completely exposed now, you shivered under his gaze.
He leaned down between your spread thighs, face inches from your dripping pussy. Without warning, he spat directly onto your swollen hole, the warm saliva landing right at your entrance. You gasped sharply at the filthy sensation. Jungkook used two fingers to spread the spit around, mixing it with your own wetness, before pushing his fingers back inside you.
Then his tongue was on you. A loud, broken moan tore from your throat as his warm, wet tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your pussy before focusing on your clit. He sucked the sensitive bud into his mouth while his fingers continued thrusting in and out of you, faster than before. Then he did exactly what he’d described, he fucked the spit into your hole with his tongue, pushing it inside you alongside his fingers in messy, obscene strokes.
You were on cloud nine.
“Fuck—! Jungkook— oh my fucking god—” you cried out, voice loud and unrestrained. Your back arched sharply off the chaise as intense pleasure crashed through your body. Your hands flew to his head, fingers threading through his soft dark hair, gripping tightly as his tongue fucked into you deeper. The wet sounds of his mouth devouring your pussy mixed with the filthy squelch of his fingers pumping relentlessly inside you.
Jungkook groaned against your cunt, the vibration sending shocks of pleasure through you. He alternated between fucking you with his tongue and sucking hard on your clit, all while his fingers curled and stroked that perfect spot without mercy. “Soobin,” Jungkook said, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips shiny with your juices. “Come closer. Sit right next to her. She needs you here.”
Soobin moved quickly, his face flushed dark red. He sat on the edge of the chaise beside you, eyes wide as he watched Jungkook devour you. You reached out blindly, grabbing Soobin’s hand and squeezing it hard as another loud moan ripped from your throat.
“Baby— ahh— it feels so good,” you whimpered to Soobin, voice shaking. Your body thrashed under Jungkook’s skilled mouth and fingers, hips grinding desperately against his face. You gripped Soobin’s hand like a lifeline while your other hand stayed tangled in Jungkook’s hair, pulling him harder against your pussy.
Jungkook doubled down, tongue fucking into you even deeper, spitting on your cunt again before diving back in with messy, hungry strokes. His fingers never stopped their brutal pace, curling and thrusting until your moans turned into near-screams of pleasure.
You were lost in it, whimpering, moaning, and shaking uncontrollably as the man between your legs showed you exactly what your body had been missing, while you held your boyfriend’s hand through every devastating wave of pleasure.
The pleasure built to an unbearable peak as Jungkook’s tongue fucked relentlessly into your dripping hole and his fingers curled against that perfect spot inside you. Your moans turned into desperate, broken cries, growing louder and more frantic with every filthy stroke of his skilled mouth. You gripped Soobin’s hand so tightly your knuckles turned white, your other hand fisting Jungkook’s dark hair as your hips bucked wildly against his face.
Suddenly, the coil inside you snapped.
You came hard on his tongue with a loud, shuddering scream. “Jungkook—! Fuck, I’m cumming—!” Your entire body convulsed violently, thighs clamping around his head as powerful waves of pleasure crashed through you. Your pussy clenched and fluttered around his fingers and tongue, gushing wetly against his mouth while he continued licking and sucking through every pulse of your orgasm. You thrashed on the chaise, moaning shamelessly, eyes squeezed shut as the intense release left you trembling and breathless. Soobin’s hand stayed firmly in yours the entire time, grounding you even as you fell apart under another man’s mouth.
Jungkook worked you through every last aftershock, licking you slowly and gently until your body finally sagged against the cushions, panting and dazed. Only then did he pull back, his lips and chin glistening with your cum. He looked devastatingly handsome like that, flushed, eyes dark with lust, and breathing heavily.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked between you and Soobin, voice low and husky but still controlled. “Are you both willing to continue?” he asked. “I’d like to move into demonstrating positions. The difference between what you’ve been doing and what she actually needs.”
You didn’t even hesitate. Still floating on the high of your orgasm, arousal already stirring again, you nodded eagerly. “Yes,” you breathed, almost desperately. “Please… I want more.”
Soobin swallowed hard, visibly affected by what he’d just witnessed, but he nodded as well. “If she wants it… yes.”
A satisfied, almost predatory smile tugged at Jungkook’s lips. “Good,” he murmured. “I’m going to fuck her raw. Skin to skin. No condom. She needs to feel the full effect, the heat, the friction, everything. Then I’ll show you, Soobin, exactly how to make missionary feel incredible for her instead of just… adequate.”
Jungkook reached behind your back with skilled fingers and unclasped your bra. He slid the straps down your shoulders slowly, savoring the moment as he pulled the lace away and dropped it aside. Your breasts spilled free, nipples already hard and aching. He groaned softly at the sight before leaning down and capturing one nipple in his mouth.
He sucked on it hungrily, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his large hand kneaded the soft flesh of your other breast. He switched sides, giving the same devoted attention to the other nipple, sucking harder, grazing his teeth gently, then soothing with his tongue. The wet sounds of his mouth on your breasts filled the room as you moaned and arched into him, your body responding instantly.
After several long, indulgent minutes of worshipping your chest, Jungkook finally positioned himself between your spread thighs, after kicking his pants and boxers off. He gripped his thick, hard cock in one hand, stroking it slowly as he looked down at your flushed, dripping pussy. “Watch carefully,” he told Soobin, voice rough. “This is how you claim her.”
He rubbed the swollen head of his cock up and down your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness, before pressing against your entrance. With a low groan, Jungkook pushed forward and slid into you in one long, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside your tight, fluttering heat.
You cried out loudly at the stretch, your back arching sharply. He was big, thicker and longer than Soobin, and the raw, bare feeling of him inside you was overwhelming. “Fuck… so tight,” Jungkook growled, holding still for a moment to let you adjust. Then he pulled back almost all the way before slamming back in, setting a rough, brutal pace immediately.
The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room as he fucked you hard and deep. Each powerful thrust rocked your entire body, your breasts bouncing with the force of it. Jungkook’s hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as he drove into you again and again, the wet, filthy sounds of your pussy taking his cock filling the air. “That’s it,” he groaned, eyes locked on your face. “Take my cock. Feel how deep I am?”
Your moans were loud and unrestrained, turning into near-screams every time he bottomed out inside you. The brutal pace left you shaking, gripping the cushions beneath you as wave after wave of intense pleasure rolled through your body.
Jungkook’s grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your soft flesh with possessive strength. He used your body like a personal toy, pulling you down onto his thick cock with every brutal thrust. Instead of just fucking into you, he yanked your hips forward to meet him, slamming you onto his length over and over again in a relentless rhythm. The wet, filthy sound of your soaked pussy being filled echoed loudly in the room with every powerful motion. Each time he dragged you back down, his cock buried itself impossibly deep, the head kissing your cervix and sending sparks of overwhelming pleasure shooting through your entire body.
“Fuck—!” you cried out, voice hoarse and broken. Your head tossed back against the chaise, mouth falling open in a constant stream of moans and whimpers.
Jungkook glanced over at Soobin, breathing heavily but still in control. “Soobin,” he growled, never slowing the way he was manhandling you onto his cock. “Play with her clit. Rub it while I fuck her. She needs the extra stimulation.”
Soobin hesitated only for a second before leaning closer. His hand trembled slightly as he reached between your bodies and found your swollen, sensitive clit. He began rubbing slow circles over it, just like he’d watched Jungkook do earlier. The added sensation was immediate and devastating.
Your moans instantly grew louder, turning into desperate, shameless cries. “Oh my god—! It’s so good… so fucking good— Jungkook, your cock is so big— I can’t— ahh!” The words spilled out of you in a messy, nonsensical stream.
Jungkook groaned in satisfaction at your words, his pace growing even more punishing. He kept yanking your hips down onto him with raw strength, using your body exactly how he wanted. The wet slap of skin against skin was constant now, your arousal dripping down his balls and soaking the chaise beneath you. Every brutal thrust made your breasts bounce heavily, your entire body jolting with the force of him claiming you.
Soobin’s fingers kept rubbing your clit, faster now, his eyes wide and dark as he watched you fall apart. “You look so beautiful like this,” he whispered, voice thick with a mix of emotions. “All fucked out… you’re glowing. So fucking pretty when you’re moaning like that.”
His words only pushed you higher. You squeezed Soobin’s hand tighter with your free one while your other hand clutched desperately at Jungkook’s forearm, nails digging into his tattooed skin. “Your dick is so big, it feels too good, I can’t think— please don’t stop—!” you babbled loudly, words slurring together between broken moans and gasps. Tears of overwhelming pleasure pricked at the corners of your eyes as he continued to wreck you.
Jungkook smirked, dark eyes gleaming with lust and satisfaction. He adjusted his angle slightly and started pounding into you even harder, pulling you onto his cock with every snap of his hips. The new position made him hit that perfect spot inside you with devastating accuracy on every thrust. Sweat glistened on his forehead and neck, his shirt now clinging to his muscular chest from exertion.
“That’s right,” he growled, voice rough and low. “Feel how deep I am? This is what your pussy needed. Not soft, polite sex. It needed to be ruined like this.”
He kept using your body ruthlessly, yanking you down onto him, grinding deep, then pulling back only to slam you onto his length again. Soobin never stopped rubbing tight, slick circles on your clit, his eyes flicking between your face and the sight of Jungkook’s thick cock disappearing inside you repeatedly.
The pleasure was blinding. Your moans echoed shamelessly through the room as another orgasm began rapidly building, even stronger than the first. Jungkook was fucking you better than you had ever been fucked in your life. The brutal pace of Jungkook’s cock slamming into you, combined with Soobin’s fingers rubbing relentless circles on your swollen clit, pushed you straight over the edge again.
Your second orgasm hit you like a freight train.
“Jungkook—! I’m cumming— fuck. ” you screamed, your voice cracking as your entire body seized up. Your pussy clenched violently around his thick cock, fluttering and gushing as powerful waves of pleasure ripped through you. Your back arched sharply off the chaise, thighs shaking uncontrollably while Jungkook kept fucking you through it, dragging out every last pulse of your release. Soobin’s hand never stopped, prolonging the overwhelming sensation until you were sobbing with pleasure, tears slipping down your cheeks.
You were still twitching and gasping, trying to catch your breath, when Jungkook suddenly pulled out of you with a wet sound. Before you could even whimper at the loss, he grabbed you by the waist and lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing.
He turned and sat down on the chaise, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap facing him. He guided you down onto his cock again in one smooth motion, burying himself back inside your sensitive, fluttering pussy. This new position pressed your bodies flush together, chest to chest, your knees bent on either side of his hips.
“This is called the lotus position,” Jungkook explained to Soobin, voice deep and slightly breathless as he held you firmly on his cock. “It’s intimate. She’s completely wrapped around me, which lets me hit every sensitive spot inside her. The closeness increases stimulation on her clit and lets her control the depth and rhythm while I guide her. It feels incredible for her because she’s full and every movement grinds right against her g-spot.”
You barely had time to process his words before your body took over. Still trembling from your last orgasm, you started moving on him, slow at first, then faster, rolling and bouncing on his thick length with desperate need. The new angle made him feel even deeper, pressing against places you didn’t even know existed.
“Ahh! Jungkook!” you sobbed, pleasure bordering on too much. Your hands gripped his broad shoulders tightly, nails digging into his shirt as you rode him. Your head tipped back, mouth open in a constant stream of broken moans and cries. “It’s so deep… so fucking deep, oh my god.”
Tears continued slipping down your flushed cheeks as you moved faster, chasing the overwhelming pleasure. Your breasts bounced heavily with every roll of your hips, pussy swallowing his cock again and again with wet, obscene sounds.
Jungkook groaned deeply, his hands sliding down to grip your ass. He kneaded the soft, plump flesh roughly, spreading your cheeks as he helped guide you up and down on his cock. Then— smack, his palm came down hard on your right cheek, the sharp sound echoing through the room. You cried out at the sting, clenching tighter around him. “Fuck, that’s it,” he growled, slapping your ass again, harder this time. “Ride me just like that. Use my cock.”
He buried his face between your bouncing tits, sucking one nipple into his hot mouth while his hands continued kneading and spanking your ass in rhythm with your movements. He groaned against your skin, tongue swirling and teeth grazing as he devoured you.
You were lost in it— sobbing, moaning, and babbling nonsense while you rode him with everything you had.Your head stayed tipped back, eyes half-lidded and glassy with overwhelming pleasure as you held onto his shoulders for dear life. Soobin watched everything in stunned silence from just inches away, eyes dark and fixed on the way your body moved on Jungkook’s cock and how his hands owned your ass.
Jungkook pulled his mouth from your nipple just long enough to look up at your pleasure-drunk face, voice rough with lust. “That’s my good girl… Keep fucking yourself on me. Let him see how pretty you look when you’re falling apart.”
You were completely lost in the overwhelming pleasure, rolling your hips desperately on Jungkook’s thick cock in this position. Your voice had grown hoarse from moaning, but his name still fell from your lips like a prayer. “Jungkook… Jungkook— fuck, Jungkook—” you whimpered repeatedly, your head tipped back and eyes glazed over.
Jungkook pulled his face from your breasts, lips shiny, and looked up at you with dark, lust-filled eyes. His hands squeezed your ass firmly as he held you down on his cock, grinding up into you slowly. “What is it, pretty girl?” he asked, voice low and teasing, a smirk playing on his lips. “What do you need? Tell me. Use your words.”
You sobbed softly, still moving on him, drunk on the feeling of being so full. “I want it from behind,” you begged, voice shaky and desperate. “Please… I want you to fuck me from behind.”
Jungkook let out a deep, amused chuckle that vibrated through his chest. “Greedy girl,” he murmured affectionately. Without warning, he lifted you off his cock, making you whine at the sudden emptiness. He easily maneuvered your body, turning you around on the chaise.
He guided you into position with strong, confident hands. “Soobin, sit down right here,” he instructed. Soobin obeyed, sitting on the chaise with his back against the cushions. Jungkook then pushed you forward until your face hovered just above Soobin’s lap, your elbows resting on either side of his knees. Your back was arched deeply, ass up and presented perfectly for Jungkook behind you.
You looked up at Soobin through your lashes, flushed and breathing hard, your cheek nearly brushing against the bulge in his pants.
Instead of immediately sliding his cock into you, Jungkook knelt behind you. He spread your ass cheeks wide with both hands, exposing you completely. He leaned in and sank his teeth gently into the soft flesh of your right ass cheek, biting and sucking hard enough to make you gasp sharply.
“I’m going to eat her ass now,” Jungkook explained to Soobin, voice calm but dripping with lust. “Most men skip this, but it feels incredible for her. It relaxes her and makes her even wetter. Watch.” Before you could fully prepare yourself, Jungkook buried his face between your cheeks.
A loud, broken cry tore from your throat the moment his warm, wet tongue licked a slow, filthy stripe over your tight hole. “Oh my god!” you screamed, your whole body jerking forward. He licked you again, slower this time, swirling the tip of his tongue around your rim before pressing it inside you.
You were crying out uncontrollably now, the pleasure intense and strangely intimate. Your hands scrambled desperately for purchase, grabbing onto Soobin’s thighs and squeezing hard as Jungkook devoured your ass with filthy enthusiasm. He groaned against your skin, the vibrations making your eyes roll back.
His tongue pushed deeper, fucking into your tight hole with wet, obscene sounds while one of his hands reached underneath to rub firm circles on your clit. He alternated between long, broad licks and pointed thrusts of his tongue, eating you like a man starved. Every stroke sent jolts of sharp, dirty pleasure racing up your spine. “Fuck— Jungkook, it feels so fucking good!” you sobbed, pushing back against his face instinctively. Tears of overwhelming sensation rolled down your cheeks as you panted against Soobin’s thigh, looking up at him with glassy, fucked-out eyes.
Jungkook pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your wet skin. “Hear how loud she gets when I eat her ass? This is what she’s been missing.” Then he dove right back in, licking and sucking even more eagerly, his face pressed fully between your cheeks as he worked you open with his skilled tongue.
Your moans and cries filled the entire room, shameless and loud, while your hands gripped Soobin’s thighs like a lifeline, trembling as Jungkook continued. Jungkook didn’t rush. He kept his face buried between your spread cheeks, devouring you with slow, filthy dedication. His tongue swirled and probed at your tight rim, licking long stripes from your dripping pussy up to your asshole before pushing inside again. Every time his tongue fucked into your ass, a fresh wave of overwhelming pleasure crashed through you, making your back arch deeper and your fingers dig harder into Soobin’s thighs.
Your hips pushed back against his face instinctively, chasing more of that dirty, intense sensation. He groaned deeply against your skin, the vibration traveling straight through you as he continued with even more enthusiasm. He spread your cheeks wider with both hands, fully exposing you, and spat directly onto your hole before diving back in, licking and sucking like he couldn’t get enough.
Minutes stretched out in a haze of pleasure. Jungkook took his time, alternating between broad, sloppy licks and sharp, pointed thrusts of his tongue deep inside you. One of his hands stayed between your legs, rubbing slow, firm circles on your swollen clit while the other kneaded and slapped your ass cheek occasionally, the sharp smacks making you jolt and moan louder. You were a mess, sobbing, whimpering, and shaking as he continued rimming you relentlessly, pushing you closer and closer to the edge again without ever letting you tip over.
Only when your legs were trembling uncontrollably and your cries had turned into constant, desperate begging did Jungkook finally pull back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and rose onto his knees behind you, his voice rough with lust as he spoke to Soobin. “Now I’m going to fuck her from behind. Hard. This position lets me go deeper and gives me full control.”
You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt the thick, blunt head of Jungkook’s cock pressing against your soaked entrance. In one powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside your pussy, stretching you open around his thick length.
A loud, broken scream tore from your throat. "Fuck yes!" He didn’t give you any time to adjust. He immediately set a brutal, punishing pace, slamming into you hard and deep. The sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoed loudly through the room with every thrust. He gripped your hips tightly, yanking you back onto his cock over and over again, using your body exactly how he wanted.
“Fuck— so tight,” he growled, voice low and strained.
Every brutal snap of his hips drove his cock impossibly deep, the head kissing your cervix with every stroke. Your elbows trembled as you tried to hold yourself up, face buried against Soobin’s thigh while your moans and cries grew louder and more broken. Jungkook reached forward and grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back slightly so your back arched even more for him.
“You like that?” he groaned, pounding into you mercilessly. “You like being fucked like a little toy from behind?”
“Yes! Yes, fuck— Jungkook!” you sobbed, tears of overwhelming pleasure streaming down your face. The angle was devastating. Every thrust ground against that perfect spot inside you, making your legs shake violently. Your pussy clenched tightly around his cock, soaking him with every rough stroke as he continued to rail you without mercy.
Jungkook’s pace was relentless, hard, fast, and animalistic. The wet, filthy sound of your arousal squelching around his cock mixed with the sharp slap of skin on skin. He kept one hand fisted in your hair and the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks, pulling you back onto him with every thrust like he was trying to bury himself even deeper.
Jungkook continued pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes, his hips snapping against your ass with a loud, rhythmic slap. Your moans were constant and broken, your body jolting forward with every brutal thrust while your face stayed pressed against Soobin’s thigh. Jungkook’s grip on your hips was iron-tight, fingers digging into your skin as he used you relentlessly.
He slowed his thrusts just enough to speak, his voice rough and commanding, yet still instructional. “Soobin,” he said, breathing heavily. “Grab her hips. Both hands. I want you to help move her back and forth on my cock. Feel how she takes me. Learn the rhythm she needs.”
Soobin hesitated for a moment, eyes wide as he watched Jungkook’s thick cock disappear inside you again and again. His cheeks were flushed dark red, but after a few seconds, he leaned forward and placed his hands on your hips, right beside Jungkook’s.
“That’s it,” Jungkook encouraged, still buried deep inside you. “Pull her back onto me when I thrust forward. Help her fuck herself on my cock. She loves it deep like this.”
Soobin’s hands tightened on your hips. At first his grip was gentle, almost uncertain, but as Jungkook started moving again, Soobin began pulling you back onto Jungkook’s cock in time with his thrusts. The added force made Jungkook’s cock slam even deeper inside you.
A loud, broken cry ripped from your throat. “Oh my god!” you sobbed, eyes squeezing shut as the new sensation overwhelmed you. Soobin’s familiar hands pulling you back combined with Jungkook’s massive cock stretching and ruining you created an intensity you’d never felt before. Every time Soobin yanked your hips back, Jungkook’s thick length drove into you harder, filling you completely.
Jungkook groaned in approval. “Good. Harder, Soobin. She can take it. Look how her pussy is gripping me every time you pull her back.”
Soobin’s grip grew firmer, more confident. He started pulling your hips back with more strength, helping impale you on Jungkook’s cock over and over again. The wet, filthy sounds grew even louder — the obscene squelching of your soaked pussy mixed with the sharp slap of skin whenever your ass met Jungkook’s hips.
You were falling apart between them.
“Fuck— fuck— it’s so deep!” you cried out, voice muffled against Soobin’s thigh. Your hands clutched desperately at Soobin’s legs, nails digging into his pants as your body was rocked between the two men. “Jungkook’s cock is so big… Soobin, baby, he’s so deep inside me— I can’t”
Jungkook kept a steady, brutal pace while Soobin pulled you back onto him with every thrust. The dual control over your body made you feel completely used, a toy being shared between them. Jungkook’s cock kissed your cervix with every forceful pull, stretching your walls perfectly around his thickness. “That’s it,” Jungkook growled, one hand moving up to grip the back of your neck while Soobin continued manipulating your hips. “Feel how she’s dripping down my cock? She’s fucking loving this. Pull her harder, Soobin. Make her take every inch.”
Soobin obeyed, his fingers pressing deeper into your soft hips as he yanked you back more forcefully. The new intensity made your eyes roll back, loud, shameless moans spilling from your lips as Jungkook fucked you raw and Soobin helped drive you onto him again and again. You were trembling violently, tears of overwhelming pleasure streaming down your face, caught in the devastating rhythm the two of them created together.
The combined rhythm was absolutely devastating. Jungkook’s thick cock slamming into you while Soobin pulled your hips back with increasing confidence created a merciless, perfect storm of pleasure. Your moans had turned into constant, broken sobs as your body was rocked between them.
Jungkook’s breathing grew harsher, his thrusts becoming more erratic and deeper. “Fuck— I’m close,” he growled, gripping your hip tighter while Soobin continued helping pull you back onto his cock. “Gonna fill this pretty pussy up.”
You could only whimper in response, your mind hazy with overwhelming pleasure. Jungkook’s pace turned punishing, slamming into you with short, brutal strokes as he chased his release. With a deep, guttural groan, Jungkook buried himself to the hilt inside you and came hard. You felt every powerful pulse as he emptied himself deep inside your pussy, thick ropes of hot cum flooding your walls. He kept grinding into you, pushing his load even deeper while growling your name under his breath.
The feeling of Jungkook cumming so deep inside you triggered your own orgasm instantly. Jungkook’s grip on your neck tightened as he pounded into you even harder. “That’s it, pretty girl. Cum on my cock. Let go.”
The pressure built impossibly high, tighter and hotter, until it finally snapped. You came harder than you ever had in your life. A loud, guttural scream tore from your throat as your entire body seized up. Your pussy clenched violently around Jungkook’s cock, and then you were squirting, hard. Clear, hot liquid gushed out around his thick cock with every thrust, soaking his hips, dripping down your thighs. You shook uncontrollably, sobbing and moaning as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed through you. Jungkook didn’t stop, fucking you through your orgasm and prolonging it until your vision went white and your legs gave out completely.
“Fuck, look at her,” Jungkook groaned, voice rough with satisfaction. “She’s squirting everywhere. Good girl… such a messy, beautiful girl.”
Your body finally went limp, trembling with aftershocks as Jungkook slowed his thrusts and eventually stilled deep inside you. He stayed buried in your pulsing heat for a long moment, letting you feel every inch of him while you tried to catch your breath. Soobin’s hands gently rubbed your hips, soothing the marks he’d left behind.
Jungkook eventually pulled out slowly, a rush of your combined juices dripping from your ruined pussy. He helped you collapse gently onto the chaise, turning you onto your back so you could breathe easier. Your chest heaved, body covered in a light sheen of sweat, cheeks flushed, and eyes glassy with exhaustion and satisfaction.
Jungkook sat back on his heels, breathing heavily but looking pleased. He glanced at Soobin, then down at your spent body. “That,” he said calmly, “is what she needs. Not just gentle, loving sex. She needs to be fucked properly, deeply, roughly, and without hesitation. She needs variety. She needs to be used and worshipped at the same time.” He looked at you softly. “How do you feel?”
You could barely speak, still floating. “Incredible…” you whispered hoarsely. “I’ve never… felt anything like that.”
Jungkook smiled, then turned back to Soobin. “You did well today. Helping move her like that was a great start. We’ll work on building your confidence and skill. This was only the first session.”
He helped you sit up eventually, handing you a soft towel and a bottle of water from a nearby table. While you recovered, he spoke to both of you about aftercare, communication, and homework, things for Soobin to practice at home before the next appointment.
As you slowly got dressed, your legs still shaky, you couldn’t stop stealing glances at Jungkook. The memory of how he had completely ruined you while Soobin watched was burned into your mind. Soobin was quiet, but he stayed close to you, gently rubbing your back and pressing a kiss to your temple. There was a new tension in the air, something shifted between all three of you.
Before you left, Jungkook leaned against his desk, arms crossed, looking unfairly composed and handsome. “Book your next session soon,” he said with a small, knowing smirk. “We still have a lot to work on… and I think you both know now how much she needs it.”
You left the office leaning on Soobin’s arm, body sore in the most delicious way, your mind already replaying everything that had happened… and wondering how much further Jungkook would take you next time.
Summary: When Beau had the bright idea of going undercover to observe a pair of questionable Alphas at a casino, he never expected to meet you, caught in the crossfire of a perilous operation.
Based on this @jacklesversebingo prompt: “If I win this fight, your Omegas are mine.”
Author's Note: Ready for some more of our angsty, lovable sheriff — with an Alpha twist?
Series Tags & Warnings: (18+) | Omegaverse, angst, kidnapping, references to human trafficking and non-con (non-graphic, but read with caution), and death. But also the road to healing, recovery, emotional support, hurt/comfort, romance, protective Beau, love triangle, A/B/O dynamics, true mates, and smut | + other chapter-specific tags
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⏾˚ Chapters:
𖤓 Part 1: Sting
𖤓 Part 2: Magnetism
𖤓 Part 3: Trust
𖤓 Part 4: Catharsis
𖤓 Part 5: Truth
𖤓 Part 6: Heat
𖤓 Part 7: Belonging
𖤓 Part 8: Conviction
⤷ Read now on Patreon! || Tumblr: May 24
Series in progress!
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The zip ties were cutting into your wrists, which was, objectively, the least of your problems.
The bigger problem was the man in the tactical vest pacing in front of you, monologuing about leverage.
"—and once Invincible shows up, we make our demands. Simple as that." He snapped his fingers at one of his lackeys. "Someone get eyes on the sky."
You sighed through your nose.
This was the third time this month.
Third.
The first time had been some D-list villain called Phosphor who'd grabbed you outside a coffee shop, absolutely convinced that Mark Grayson would come crashing through the ceiling the moment he saw you in distress.
Mark had come, eventually. He'd been polite about it. A little awkward. He'd untied you, defeated Phosphor, and then stood there in full costume rubbing the back of his neck while you both pretended the last eight months hadn't happened.
The second time had been more embarrassing — a whole organization that had somehow gotten outdated intel. They'd had a whole operation. Matching uniforms. A slideshow. A slideshow that included a photo of you and Mark from junior prom.
And now this.
"He's going to be so annoyed," you muttered under your breath.
"What?" Tactical Vest Guy spun around.
"Nothing."
He narrowed his eyes. "You should be scared."
"I'm working on it."
The ceiling exploded inward, which was right on schedule, honestly. Dust and plaster rained down, and then there he was — a flash of color, jaw set in that way that meant he was trying to look intimidating and mostly succeeding.
Mark's eyes found you immediately. Something flickered across his face. Not relief, exactly. More like... exhausted resignation.
Yeah, you thought. Same.
"Let her go," he said, voice doing the hero thing — lower, steadier than his normal register.
Tactical Vest Guy pointed at him triumphantly. "Invincible. You came. Now here are our—"
"She's my ex-girlfriend."
A beat of silence.
Tactical Vest Guy blinked. "...What?"
"We broke up." Mark crossed his arms. "Eight months ago. We're not together."
The man looked at you. You gave him a small, confirmatory nod.
"I — but our intel said—"
"Your intel is wrong." Mark sounded tired. “We broke up because of the whole secret identity thing and the dying-constantly thing and the general superhero lifestyle thing. It was mutual. We're — we're fine, it's fine, but we are not together."
"We're fine," you echoed helpfully, because you were a good person.
Tactical Vest Guy looked between you both with the expression of a man whose entire plan had just dissolved. "But — the leverage—"
"There's no leverage." Mark uncrossed his arms. "I would still help her because she's a person in danger and that's literally my job, but it's not the same kind of leverage you think it is."
One of the lackeys in the back raised a tentative hand. "Do we... still do the thing?"
Mark hit him into a wall before he finished the sentence, and then the whole room devolved into the predictable chaos of a superhero fight — bodies flying, things breaking, the screech of metal. You mostly stayed still because you'd learned by now that the most useful thing you could do was not be in the way.
It was over in under two minutes.
Mark crouched down in front of you and snapped the zip ties with two fingers. "You okay?"
"Fine. Little numb in the hands."
"Sorry." He looked it. "You should — maybe tell people. That we broke up."
"I have been telling people Mark." You rubbed your wrists. "Word just travels slow in the supervillain community, apparently."
He almost smiled at that. Almost. "Right."
You both stood up, and there was a moment — the kind you'd gotten used to over the last eight months, where the familiarity of him was so close you could almost forget the reason you'd had that last conversation. Almost.
"I'll fly you home," he said. He always said that.
"You don't have to."
"I know." He always said that too.
You looked at the disaster of the room around you, the groaning henchmen, the cracked floor, the absolutely ruined drop ceiling.
"This is going to keep happening, isn't it," you said. It wasn't really a question.
Mark exhaled slowly. "Probably until someone updates the database, yeah."
"Great."
"Yeah."
He held out his hand — the automatic gesture of someone used to carrying you through the sky — and you took it, because you were practical, and also because the alternative was taking the stairs past a pile of unconscious men in tactical vests, and that felt worse somehow.
Outside, the city spread out below you, and the wind was cold, and Mark didn't say anything, and neither did you.
It was a very particular kind of quiet — not comfortable, not uncomfortable. Just real. The shape of something that had mattered, and still did, just differently.
"You should really update your emergency contacts," he quipped finally, when your building came into view.
"My emergency contacts are fine."
"They clearly are not —"
"Mark."
"Yeah."
"Thank you. For coming."
He was quiet for a second. "Always."
Which wasn't helping anything, but you let it sit there anyway, because some things were just true and didn't need fixing.
He set you down gently on your fire escape, like he always did, and then he was gone — a streak of red against the dark — and you stood there for a moment before going inside and putting the kettle on.
Next time, you were going to make a sign.
The fourth time, you were ready.
You had a laminated card in your wallet now. You'd made it yourself, on a Tuesday, while watching television and feeling very productive. It read, in clean bold letters:
I AM NOT INVINCIBLE'S GIRLFRIEND.
WE BROKE UP 9 MONTHS AGO.
HOLDING ME HOSTAGE WILL NOT WORK.
PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL VILLAIN NETWORK FOR UPDATED INTEL.
You were very proud of it.
Unfortunately, the man who grabbed you outside the grocery store — cape, no mask, very poor threat assessment — didn't give you time to reach your wallet before the bag went over your head.
So much for preparedness.
This one was different, you realized, when the bag came off.
The other times had been — not comfortable, exactly, but manageable. Theatrical. Men with plans and grudges and a fundamental misunderstanding of your relationship status. Scary in the abstract. Not scary in the immediate.
This felt immediate.
The room was industrial. No windows. The man sitting across from you wasn't monologuing. He wasn't pacing. He was just watching you with the kind of stillness that meant he'd done this before and didn't feel the need to perform about it.
"You're going to send a message," he stated.
"I'm not his girlfriend," you replied. Automatic at this point.
"I know." He folded his hands. "I don't need his girlfriend. I need his attention."
That was new.
Your stomach dropped in a way it hadn't during the other three times.
"He'll come regardless," the man continued. "He always does, for you. Girlfriend or not. Which tells me something useful."
You didn't say anything.
"All I need is for him to be distracted.” A small, unremarkable smile. "You're very good at distracting him."
Outside, somewhere in the city, a phone was ringing. Mark's phone. Or Cecil's. Or whoever it was that handled these things — the logistics of you being in danger, the alert systems, the satellite imaging. There was infrastructure around this by now, embarrassingly.
You thought about the laminated card in your wallet.
You thought about Mark's face in that last location, many months ago, doing the hero voice while clearly wanting to just be Mark about it.
You thought, for the first time, with genuine and uncomplicated feeling: I would really like to not be here right now.
The problem with being a distraction was that it worked.
Mark came through the wall — not the ceiling this time, the wall — which meant he was either getting more dramatic or he'd been in a hurry, and the fight that followed was faster and messier than the others. There were more of them than there'd seemed. The man with the stillness had backup.
You'd been moved twice already, shuffled between rooms while the sounds of impact echoed through the building, and you were in the middle of being moved a third time when the lackey holding your arm made the mistake of using you as a physical barrier between himself and six feet of extremely unhappy Viltrumite.
Mark stopped.
That half-second was all it took.
The lackey shoved you forward — not toward Mark, sideways — and you hit the corner of something metal and unforgiving, and the pain that spiked through your side was sharp enough to white out your vision for a second. You heard yourself make a sound you immediately wanted to take back.
Then the lackey was gone — you didn't see how, the white was still fading — and the floor was cold against your knees, and Mark was there.
"Hey." His hands found your face first, tilting it up. Still in the suit, still in the mask, but his voice had dropped the hero register entirely. Just Mark. Scared Mark. "Hey, look at me. Look at me."
"I'm looking," you groaned. Your voice came out steadier than you expected. "I'm fine."
"You made a sound—"
"I'm fine.” You moved to stand and the pain spiked again and you stopped moving. "Okay. Less fine than advertised."
Something crossed his face that he didn't bother hiding. He got an arm around you carefully, the kind of careful that felt almost worse than the injury — like he was aware of every inch of distance he was managing.
"I've got you," he stated softly. "Don't move."
"The guy—"
"Gone. All of them. It's done." His jaw was tight. "Just — just stay still."
You stayed still.
The building was quiet now. Dust settling. That particular aftermath silence that you'd gotten familiar with over a year of being with him and nine months of being without him. He was checking your side with careful hands, and you watched his face while he did it, the furrow between his brows, the way he wasn't looking at you because he was looking at the injury but his hands were shaking slightly.
Slightly.
Mark Grayson, who could punch through reinforced steel, whose hands did not shake when fighting, whose hands did not shake for basically anything.
"I'm really okay," you said quietly.
"You don't know that yet."
"I know my own body."
"You said you were fine and then couldn't stand up."
"That's a normal human experience, Mark."
He looked up at you then, and it was — it was a lot. His eyes were doing the thing they did sometimes when he forgot to manage his face, where everything he was thinking was just there, unedited.
"I can't—" He stopped.
"Can't what?"
He sat back on his heels, still on the floor with you, hands falling to his knees. He looked at the middle distance. The hero composure was just gone now. He looked exactly like himself — twenty, exhausted, unhappy in a very specific way.
"I can't keep doing this," he said.
Your chest did something complicated. "I know. I made a laminated card, I've been trying to—"
"That's not what I mean."
Quiet.
"This is the fourth time," he said. "And every time I get the alert, every time I see your name, I—" He pressed his mouth together. "It's not a work thing. The way I feel about it. It's not how I feel when anyone else needs help. I thought it would get easier and it keeps getting worse, and I don't—"
He stopped again. Looked at the floor.
"I don't know why we thought this would work," he stated softly. "The not being together."
Something loosened in your chest, slow and aching. Like something that had been held very tightly for nine months finally recognizing it could let go.
"Because of the lifestyle," you answered. Your own voice sounded strange to you. "The potential dying-constantly thing."
"I know."
"The secret identity thing. The way it was hard."
"I know." He finally looked at you. "Was it better? After. Was it better for you?"
The honest answer lived in your throat.
Nine months of technically being fine. Nine months of reading about his fights in the news and feeling your stomach clench. Nine months of almost texting him when something funny happened, when you saw something he would have liked, when you were scared, when you weren't scared and just wanted to hear his voice anyway.
Nine months of him showing up every time, every single time, with that expression he kept trying to put away.
"No," you said.
He exhaled — not relief exactly, more like someone putting down something heavy.
"It's not practical," he said. "My life isn't—"
"I know what your life is."
"You got hurt —"
"Because a man used me as a shield, Mark, not because we were dating. They grabbed me when we were broken up."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. The logic landing in real time.
"Being your girlfriend doesn't make this more dangerous," you stated gently. "It just means we stop pretending that nine months of this is somehow the easier choice."
He looked at you for a long moment. The dust was still settling. Your side ached. The fluorescent light overhead had been half-broken in the fight and was flickering slightly, which felt dramatic and appropriate.
"I'm sorry I couldn't make it easier," he said finally. "The lifestyle thing. I wanted to. I thought about it a lot."
"I know." You had known, even at the time. That was the worst part. "I'm sorry I let us convince ourselves it was the reasonable decision."
"It seemed reasonable."
"It seemed responsible."
"Not the same thing, apparently."
"Apparently not."
He reached out — slow, giving you every chance to not — and took your hand. His thumb moved over your knuckles. That same careful touch.
"I still might die," he said. It came out almost gentle. Like he needed you to have it, the honest version.
"I know."
"It'll still be hard."
"Mark." You squeezed his hand. "I spent nine months not being with you. It was hard then too. At least this way I'd have a reason for it."
He made a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite not a laugh.
"That's a terrible reason to get back together," he replied with a snort.
"It's a real reason," you retorted. "I'll take real."
He looked down at your joined hands. Then up at your face. His expression had settled into something quieter and more certain than you'd seen in a long time.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Yeah." Something in him loosened. "Yeah, okay."
Outside, the city continued its evening. Somewhere an ambulance wailed. The light flickered. Your side still hurt.
You leaned your head against his shoulder, careful, and he adjusted to take the weight of it like it was the most natural thing — like nine months hadn't happened, like muscle memory was just there- loyal and patient, waiting.
"You're still flying me to the hospital," you replied.
"Obviously."
"And then we're getting food."
"Your side—"
"I will eat carefully, Mark."
He laughed then — real, quiet, the one that lived just for people he trusted. "Yeah. Okay. Food."
You sat on the floor of a wrecked industrial building while he called someone to deal with the cleanup, his hand still in yours, and you thought: this is the part they don't put in the headline. Not the fight, not the rescue. Just this. The ordinary gravity of two people finding their way back to the same place.
The fourth time was the last time, as it turned out.
Not because people stopped trying — they didn't, for a while. But because it stopped working as leverage the moment it stopped being a secret, the moment Mark Grayson was photographed outside your building in civilian clothes at seven in the morning, coffee in hand, looking like a man who had simply stopped pretending.
The villain community updated their databases, eventually.
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