Synopsis. Control his jujutsu powers when he first puts it in? Impossible.
Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Kashimo x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, when it’s so good he loses control, ínnapropríate use of jujutsu, GOJO’S POWERS, rough s, matíng presses, Geto’s tentacIe curse, true form Sukuna, dp, cervíx kíssing, marathons, ratio technique, unlimited void, creampíes, cúmplay, chokíng, FÉRAL men, dúmbifícation, exhíbitíonism (Higuruma), pet names, swéaring.
A/N. KASHIMO MADE THE CUT YEAHHH-
♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - P*SSY KlLLER?!
“Please- ngh, Toji—” You can’t help but trill at the sloppy movements of Toji’s tongue, swipin’ and slurping it’s way carnally between your slick, dribbling folds.
The slimy end of his muscle curves in just right past your entrance and you find yourself sobbing, gushing out the creamy remnants that Toji had pumped you oh-so-full with just mere minutes prior. And he’s parched.
Smacking his scarred, puckered lips whilst they stick with his seed like a white gloss, watching you only grow wetter and he’s gasping—“Oh.”
Mossy eyes drooping, swollen length spent n’ still aching.
Just about the only guttural noise he can make, the only thing he can even register before creeping two calloused hands underneath your boneless thighs. “A-again.” Toji pants out, hypnotized. Manhandling - barely even realizing the superhuman strength he’s using to pliably bend your knees up, up, up to your heaving chest.
“B-but Toji–” You’re nervously eying the poor, sagging bedframe. “You broke the bed-”
“And?”
It doesn’t matter how many times he’s stretching out your walls to the extreme with his red, hard cock, how many times he’ll be eagerly eating your dripping pussy out with all his cum - Toji Fushiguro will always want more.
Will always feel the crowned tips of his digits twitching with need already, digging a few blossoming bruises along your cute inner thighs. Letting out a sultry breath of ‘fuck’ before in a split-second you’re reeling with the whiplash of being shoved down onto your hardwood floors.
Off the bed, at his mercy.
With Toji’s big, beefy biceps cushioning the impact to your body, he’s pinning your squirming hips down with his v-line and snarling- “Here-” The curvaceous tip of his shaft so scorching hot and wet where he’s rubbin’ straight down your slit in impatient gyrations, “Again. Right here.”
“O-on the hngh- floor–?”
“Bed’s broken, doll.” All the explanation that Toji’s granting you with, hovering so tall and proud between your legs.
If he needed only half of his heavenly restriction to shatter your mahogany bed, then he didn’t even need a fraction of that to nudge your jittery legs apart. Coating your outer pussy with an opaque glaze of pre, Toji spanks the bulbous underside of his cockhead and grins at the puddle he’s smearing down your thighs.
And just that first, squelching smooch from the top of his strawberry shaft to your teary orifice makes the hulking man shiver. Makes him pant.
Makes him slouch until you were caged by his meaty chest, draaaagging his caramel-salted lips across your own, “But I’m not.”
And then he’s easing in.
“Sh-shit.” Your numbing legs can’t even thrash, can’t even move with the full weight of him pressing into you. The stretch of his utterly fat, bulging cock was so much that your spine’s pushing you up against his every ridged ab, gripping onto Toji’s muscular back for dear life.
Easing and easing- more like rummaging. Rough, forceful ruts of his bulging crown that’s swabbing right ‘round your hole. He’s so thick that even the softest, sweetest clench makes Toji throw his perspired head back and hiss with sensitivity.
SLAM!
“Oh.” The surface beneath you thunders dangerously with the vibrato of his left hand striking down on the floor. Grunting, “Don’t tap out-”
Roaming one of his thick thumbs between your legs, Toji’s further prying apart your sappy folds with a drawn-out sluuuurp to stretch your cunt. Making sure you gulp down each single, barreling inch. “Don’t run.”
And that groaned warning was targeted at the way your jittery legs had started to plant down on the floor and push.
Unsure of whether to run or swerve your hips back for more, more, more.
You’re sobbing, the prettiest hitch in your voice that makes his heavy cock jolt. Feeling a fresh few dewdrops of precum sprinkle all the way near your throat. “It’s just s-shooo big, Tooooji–”
Toji’s hooded eyes dilate until he’s looking feral, such a vulgar grin plastering across his lips once he’s giving you a wild buck at your cries. “Ohhhh– come- hah! come back here, mama.”
Calloused, mean fingertips curl over your gulping throat to haaaul you all the way back down the floor. Swatting your ass against the messily tufted darkness of his happy trail, veins popping up down his arms. He looked so unfairly hot with pearls of sweat twinkling down his temple, greedy gaze half-hidden through his bangs. “No runnin’.”
You couldn’t run away even if you tried.
He had you pushed into the sloppiest mating press, scooped up in his arms until all you could feel was his bullying, fattened cock.
“Mmm— hngh! Toji, you’re in so d-deep!” And Toji’s giving a thorough push that has his puckered pink tip lodging all the way into your cervix, the texture of his zig-zagging veins making your knees weak. “S-so full.”
“Riiiight? Again- again.”
And it wasn’t just his full cock splitting your insides, you’re hiccuping after each syrupy splosh of his cum pooled within you. Slick strands of seed leaking out of your slit and gluing your thighs together like adhesive-
“Need it all inside.” Or, at least, it would’ve if it wasn’t for the way that Toji’s hand lifts briefly off of your throat to smear over that overspilling mess. Drenching the pads of his fingers with a frothing of white he shovels between your gasping maw– “Again. Need to…”
Dazed. He trails off, glassy green eyes drifting down to concentrate on your tummy - your womb. Like he could see something you didn’t.
Moaning, Toji’s rugged cadence shifts like lightning to precisely strike your quivering g-spot. Looking down at you with the most lecherous pussydrunken grin whilst you tremble, “-breed you, doll.”
Ah- there.
“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck- think you already hngh- have–!” You’re whining, flinching at the sudden sizzling somewhere above your head.
“Not enough.”
And it’s only then that you realize that Toji’s simply hoisted his other hand off of the wooden ground to reveal a burning handprint. A crater. “Heh- broke the ngh- floor, too.”
That very same powerful palm clinging on instantly to the side of your hips once Toji curves your gyratin’ tempo to directly match his. Lifting you nearly into midair, he’s using you like some cute, glorified doll to plant hit after hit on your bruising g-spot.
Over n’ over, no one’s ever treated your pussy like this before - like his own personal dartboard, and he was hitting every bullseye. “Fuck- i-it’s so much–”
Slide-slide-sliiiiding the ridge of his mushroomy tip down that splotchy area you loved so much, “Not enough-” And you’re feeling a shockwave run down your spine at the way big, bad Toji Fushiguro sounded on the verge of tears. Breath hitched, tone octaves higher. “More need- more.”
“P-please-” You’re strangling out the same set of syllables again and again into his scorched red ear, tangling your fingers across the flexing knots of his deltoids-
And Toji, oh- Toji’s letting goosebumps line the middle of his broad back at the touch. Immediately snatching your hands with his sap-soaked one, “Like haaa- feelin’ me, huh?”
You could feel the power radiating underneath, could feel his rapid, rabbity heartbeat as he gropes your hands all over him. “F-feel me then. This body.” Punctuated with thrust by thrust, your eyes roll backwards as you feel his spherical circumference bruise deep against your womb. “This cock.”
From every strong tendon, to his tensed ladder-like abs, to the valley of his shuddering pecs— your mouth waters at the feeling of his muscles.
Even more so when he lazily wraps your fingers around his throat- “Choke me, mama.”
♡ NANAMI KENTO - 7:3 Fuck-nique
“R-rough…?”
And it takes everything in Nanami Kento’s strong, battle-worn body to keep his voice steady for you, feeling the raw swipe of his blushing tip past your pussylips and already hissing.
Parched Adam’s apple bobbing with a few strangled coughs, “My wife wants it–” His half-lidded gaze locks on your face, your spit-glossed mouth already dropping into a pretty, cockdrunken ‘oh’ as you nod over your shoulder. “-rough.”
In lewd response, your soppy cunt only squelches out a few dollops of glazing slick. Slipping down the sides of Nanami’s swollen shaft and making his puffy veins glisten in the dim lighting, “You’re probably stressed after that hah- jujutsu mission today, Ken–” Your fingers start caressing a soft massage into his tense forearms, “You can take it out on- ngh…me.”
Oh.
If he hadn’t lost his sanity before then he sure has now.
And Nanami’s thick, ravenous fingertips brush your thighs and twitch with primal strength. It only takes a split second - barely even a nanosecond - for him to pick your jittery limbs up and push push push down.
To fold you into the world’s meanest doggy style while you whine. “My pretty wife wants it rough…”
The only thing sweeter than his cooing, deep tone was the saccharine kiss he’s planting down on your entrance with his cherry-red tip. “-then you’re gonna get it-” The single nicest thing Nanami gifts before mercilessly pinning your hips down with his weight and siiiiinking in with a primal noise. “-rough, my love.”
“Fuck-” Your eyes roll back at the sudden stretch, the pryin’ intrusion of his barreling girth sticking against your walls like a second skin. Stretching n’ stretching. “Oh my– mmm, Kento!”
Nanami swears he’s trying to hold back, he swears he’s trying to keep himself under control when he first puts it in.
But the tiniest glide of his sensitive pink slit across your glossy insides and he’s gnawing down on the inside of his cheek, letting out a sharp gasp. “Oh.” Before shoving your arched spine down and rutting-
“Oh fuck-” You’re yelping, feeling the bullying push of his crowned tip brush near your fucking lungs. His bulging shaft swabbing every tiny crevice to mush, “You’re in so- you’re- hck! Kentoooo–!”
And the only thing you can say is Nanami’s damn name.
The only thing stringing together in the heaping mess of what used to be your brain as he reaches over with his towering frame. Thighs against shaky thighs, fat cock against your sloped pussy.
Pushing and pushing with a few vulgar strokes until you hear faint pops! of your joints. Using his inhuman strength, your husband’s cradling your hips- the only thing holding you up whilst he hauls over one of his meaty thighs n’ presses down on your lower spine with his knee.
Bending you, stretching you.
“Shit- shit, m’sorry, darling.” Puffs out his sweltering gust of a gasp against the back of your neck, Nanami’s grip on you bruising while he tries to steady himself. His sanity.
You’re so soft n’ warm- it feels like heaven, and he’s trying to ease his bulbous tip back for your pussy to get used to. Spraying out a fountain of pre as he pulls out– and then gyrates down a slow, sensual thrust all the way from his reddened mushroom tip down to about halfway, sweetly. “Hate to knock you around- fuck. I can’t have you hurt, my love. Forget going rough, relax f’me and I’ll- I’ll…”
But you don’t relax.
You do the exact opposite - you clench.
And oh- oh, Nanami’s shattered.
He can’t even think, can’t even remember to breathe before there’s a sudden surge of tightness in the heady air. Your irises blinking at the millisecond of flashing black and red light- before disappearing all the way into the depths of your skull once Nanami twitches.
Like a madman, he’s bashing your poor g-spot dead-on - and the sheer force of it is so strong that you’re feeling your toes curl, vision blurring.
His plump, puckered tip wedges right into that sweet spot in your walls, hard enough that it leaves your cunt stinging with a bruise the size of his fat circumference. Once. And then again, in a rough, ragged drill of his toned hips.
A bullseye- thrice. A hatrick.
“Oh- right- there- mmm–” You don’t even need to say it, because Nanami’s striking three direct hits each second, his cadence sloppy. Fast. Hard.
“Look at thaaaat–” Croons out a scratchy bass from above, and it takes you a few blinks of your wet lashes to realize that the one talking was your husband. He’s never sounded this raspy, this ruined. “-you’ve got me a-all worked up n’ now…”
Comically, your pupils are swirlin’ in circles inside of your eyes with each whack! whack! whack!
Spittle dangling out like he’d just opened a floodgate the moment there’s another flash, and then a sizzling drag of his split-ended crown weepily pressing on your g-spot, precisely.
Your bleary gaze adjusts to the flickering bedroom lights as Nanami carries out his sultry pace, gasping. “W-wait did you just- fuck!” And again, the air pressurizes against your skin as he’s drilling into you animalistically. Filthy half-thrusts that leave your g-spot aching, your ass scratched with his tawny happy trail. “Kento, did you just use- ngh- black flash?”
“Hmmm–?”
Mewling, “Thrice?”
“Oh.” He’s so damn pussydrunk he didn’t even realize, didn’t even register the cursed energy zapping from the ends of his fingers and down to your restless body.
Dazed, Nanami experimentally creeps down his fingertips to give your perky clit a squeeze– and watches in awe once you’re writhing n’ singing out the cutest whines at the vibrations of jujutsu.
Thrice, huh? Without even knowing - just using his powers to reach your most favorite spot like he knew you wanted.
Your husband pushes up the drooping metal frames of his glasses and almost wishes he didn’t- the sultry sight of your pussy too much for him. All bulging and quivering to oh-so-desperately take his entire barreling size, he can’t help but give you a rewarding little smooch of his curvaceous cockhead.
Letting the slick syrup of his pre dribble allll out of your folds at the sheer volume, “B-black flash…so I did, my love.” That ratio technique coming in way too fucking handy to measure out where your g-spot was, Nanami lays his knee down deeper at the base of your back n’ lets your boneless body sag. “And she liked it.”
Deep down into the mattress he was fucking you into, deep down into where he was letting his powers spark with another flash.
“Oh- I’m–” Your mouth gapes haplessly back n’ forth, no sound dragging out because Nanami’s pounding every ounce of breath from your lungs with a single more thrash into your tenderest area.
A fourth black flash - his record.
The black and red light dotting behind your eyelids once his strawberry divot comes hammering against your g-spot and pushing - a slip n’ slide that drags his ridged, veiny shaft down your walls and hitting your spongy cervix with a thwack!
Reeling you straight over the edge before you’ve even realized what’s happening.
Eyes clenched, body shiver, maw hanging open upon the torrents of spittle- You’re throwing your head back and sobbing in carnal bliss as Nanami shifts his body closer.
Jujutsu crackling out of him in oodles, it twitches out of his touch and leaves your swollen lips stinging once Nanami cranes over to lap away your goblets of drool with his tongue.
“F-four.” He grumbles, low. Almost in disbelief. Almost gone. Letting the slimy curve of his tip probe thoroughly into your exact bundle of nerves, “Let’s break my record, darling.”
♡ GETO SUGURU - Tentacular.
“Keh– so damn messy.” Geto whispers, feeling the soggy wetness of your cunt open ‘round his bulbous tip. That cherry pink curve piercing its way just past your clamping entrance, “This is what you wanted- right, gorgeous? This…”
And he doesn’t finish the tail end of his sentence - he doesn’t have to.
Because you’re feeling it, instead. That sudden, slimy tendril slipping over your slick-glossed inner thighs. Kissing just the puffy outer edge of your pussy as Geto sinks in-
“Oh- oh!” You’re gurgling back a moan at the reddish coil of your boyfriend’s tentacle curse, one he’d summoned hours ago and was teasing you with ever since.
Letting the pointed tip of one tendril slip n’ slide playfully down your stuffed slit as he stays torturously still, edging you with flicks of pleasure that have you keening. Squirming endlessly, “Puh-please! Wan’ more- Suguru, more.”
“Ah ah, gorgeous–” And fuck- Geto Suguru has the audacity to bring the biggest, fattest one of the eight cursed tentacle meanly spanking down on your drivelling slope. Letting a wet thwack! sing out into the heady air while you sob out– “You can’t be heh- whining like that. Use your big girl words.”
“But- but-”
But you couldn’t - not when Geto was prying you open like this.
Not only was his hard, reddened cock massively big, letting his plump girth roam around your glazed insides- he’d managed to slip in one of those cloyingly sticky tentacles, too.
Just the first few inches of its curly tress, spreadin’ your folds apart until Geto could let his girthy cock sink allll the way in. His size was just so damn staggering that you’re finding your head dizzy, the sheer stretch having you tumbling your sweaty scalp back into the futon-
“Manners manners.”
For only a split-second, before he’s crawling himself forwards, two of those dextrous tentacles following you to lift your head up. “Look at me when I ngh- put it in.” Hazed amethyst peripheries locked on you, “And tell me- haaaa- tell me what you want.”
Mewling each time his rock-hard length and a singular tendril bully inside to push the button of your g-spot. Rubbing it sensually, crowning it with a sleek frosting of buttery pre, “I— hck! Sugu, I– mmm, right there.”
“Awww, my poor girl can’t even speak.” Geto’s cooing down at you, tone ragged. It’s not like he was doing any better- fuck, he really wasn’t.
He was just shivering at the warm gushing of your wet cunt, so soft and blissful that he can’t even put it in at first without losing control of his powers.
The tentacle curse was unplanned. You and that sweet pussy liking it was even more unplanned.
And Geto lets his meaty thighs widen with an out-of-control pound that leaves your inner-thighs stinging, he’s holding back his hitched breath. Blinking away the lusty haze in his vision, swabbing your orifice with yet another rut after rut like a madman.
“Heh– and yer legs are s-sooo weak.”
You’re flinching once two more tentacles coil in rings around both of your jittery legs and leave them hanging over Geto’s broad shoulders, one kissin’ your ankles in place to keep them tightly held.
Lips gluing together with saccharine sweet spit, “Sh-shit you’re even deeper now.”
Groaning, “All you’re doing is ngh- drooling. How rude.” His raven lashes come fluttering down at the squelch! your slick cunt lets off once he skims a pale thumb down your middle. Flooding even there.
Leaving your teary slit open allll for him to admire while he fucks you like he’s angry. Like he’s trying to make you slobber out even more. “C’mon- hah.” Geto’s big, buff body shudders with something visceral at the bolt of cursed energy running down his spine, “C’mon, let’s show her some of our…ngh- manners.”
And it takes you one-two-three thrashes of Geto’s scorching hot tip entering your hole, impaling your pussy n’ hitting right against your g-spot for you to realize that he wasn’t talking to you.
Not at all.
He was talking to the greedy coils of tentacles wrapping further n’ further around your body like you were the cutest lil’ gift. Two toying over the nubs of your nipples with their sultry suction, two more tying your ankles together over Geto’s shoulders.
And, hell, Geto was even using one to curl around your pretty throat and help drag you past every recoil of his whacking hips. Just the slightest parting from your gummy cervix was way too much for him to handle, he needed you there to take it all - and he needed it now. Always.
But your sobbing cunt? That was all for him- “Dirty giiiirl—” for now, that is. The softened end of one tendril sneaks past your saturated pussylips and squeezes- bullies a singular inch through your entrance. “You want me or that? Tell me- tell me.”
“I- ngh- I want.” The only thing you can do is blubber stupidly as that fat muscle slithers in deep- scouring your dewy wet walls easily for your sweetest spots. Each one.
Pinching and rubbing your pulsating clit, letting his cock dig into your tenderest depths.
So much that you’re almost starting to crawl away—
“Where’re we goin’, gorgeous?” Geto snickers, an innocent blush spreading all over his handsome face at the adorable sight of you being dragged back down by his tentacles when you start to run.
He’s fucking you - with both. Hard, rough. And after bashing his ruby red tip against your g-spot, Geto’s heading straight for it again with his cursed technique.
Choking, hauling, Geto pushes one in between your spit-slippery lips and makes you keen. “Theeeere we go. Open that mouth-” Whining, you’re letting off the most primal splat! of puddled saliva as he grins. Wrenching your unfastened jaw open when you could only babble, “What cute hngh- noises. Speak f’me now, smart girl. My biiig fucking cock, or…”
Though, you felt anything but with the fuzzy feeling of your cockdrunk brain right now. Stupidly letting your maw sag to the side as he fills you up doubly, “Both-”
Geto leans in mockingly close, one of his palms cupping his ear to listen for your sweet sounds. Drawling, “What’s thaaat?”
“B-both, Suguru–!”
Oh- both.
And for just a second you think that Geto has stilled - you think that he’s stopped fucking breathing. Just a low, strangled few pants wrenching from the back of his throat-
Before he snaps his hips and strikes you with an ambushing whack of his bulging crown, followed up by the sluuurping snake of one of his tentacles pushing and pushing. Stretching your pussylips so wiiide with the circumference that you swear you see cartoonish stars floating above his head.
Only to realize that it’s cursed energy, something oh-so-carnal as Geto flicks the slick tip of his tendril in tempo with his sloppy dick. Drilling you double, drilling you until you see double.
“And now…” Geto coaxes you into a carnal embrace, sweetly pecking the top of your perspiration-covered head before he’s extending even longer. The thick veins decorating all over his shaft pressing into your sides, his cursed technique throbbing- just waiting.
Waiting for that perfect moment to grow even bigger inside of you. And the best bit was he wasn’t even fully in control anymore - too pussydrunk to, just by feeling you.
Geto grins at that soft gasping ‘oh!’ you let out once you realize, leaning down to darkly murmur. “Let’s count how many hah- inches before I…get even bigger, gorgeous.”
♡ KASHIMO HAJIME - ROSE (TOY)
Kashimo didn’t think he’d be here - four hundred years in the modern day and held hostage by your sweet, sweet pussy.
Fuck- he feels himself claw a powerful hand down the side of your smoothly gyrating hips, gliding your swollen pussy further down his cock and he’s bucking-
Greedy. Desperate.
His other hand trembles with the weight of your softly buzzing rose toy, lightning sparking between his fingers to make it vrrrrr louder between your legs. Electrified.
This was dangerous. He’s already feeling the cursed energy rush, already making up his mind to gently jostle you off for the greater good- but instead, he’s swiping his cherry-red tip between your folds and pushing.
“Fuck- fuck.” Words departing in seething hot pants, Kashimo can’t help but grit his teeth and reel his slender hips back. Only for the clamping wetness of your walls to make him dizzy, “You seriously feel like this?” Something high-pitched, in disbelief. “S’the hah! sweetest lil’ cunt in the world, blossom.”
“Ngh- nghhh fuck! Hajime…” You’re cutely mewling out, the feeling of his thick, bulging cock opening up your snug walls was so addictive. And that burning stretch already had your poor knees weakening along with your sultry bounces.
Pap after pap after pap- Kashimo counts each slam of your sexily restless ass cheeks against his pelvis.
Feeling his skin already start to redden, he’s grinning. Drinking up everything sloppy slurp ringing from below whenever he’s striking your dewy orifices, “Shhh sh sh, little one.” Boring down at you with half-lidded azure eyes so intense, “Let me hear- this fucking- pussy.”
And it’s the first time he’s feeling something like this, the first time he’s mazing his weepy cocktip to glue against the surface of your cervix and feel you squeeze.
“Fuh-fuck!” He bucks, he pants. Eyes flickering with lightning-
And Kashimo doesn’t know what’s louder - the crack of your nearby bedroom lamp shattering into a zillion pieces, or the way your rose toy notches up until its vibrations are damn near deafening.
His power out of control - all leveraged against you and that cute cunt.
Whimpering, you back arches oh-so-sinfully once he’s dragging the lecherously suctioning tip just across your clit. Teasing you with the soft suckling of your toy, “H-how hck! I thought the battery would be ngh- dead by now.”
“Oh, it is—” He’s crooning from below you, beryl strands of his bangs plastering to his sweaty forehead as he looks up at you. Kashimo’s grin is just so satisfied once he toys with your perky clit until you’re whining n’ sniffling, “Such cute lil’ things you hah- have these days…”
And you’re watching on in confusion when Kashimo keeps giving your teary pussy one kiss from your vibrating rose toy. Another. And another, a sleazy grin spreading all over his face at the way it makes your dewy cervix twitch with each clench.
Again n’ again.
“S’too bad that-” Before suddenly wrenching that hot pink toy away across your dampened sheets- immediately out of battery without his cursed energy. Unneeded now. And giving your awaiting cunt a good spank of his electrically buzzing fingerpads, “-I can do it even better.”
He’s right- fuck, he’s more than right.
In only a split-second, Kashimo has his probin’ cockhead buried deeply between your damp folds and his fingers pinching your swollen clit. The light jujutsu power on them making your head throw back with a moan– “O-ohhh fuck! Tha’s cheating, Hajime-”
“Shush- what did I ngh- say? Not you-” Purposefully, he’s rudely swatting your cunt more to let the sparks of lightning zap down your spine all the way from your drooling cunt. “Though, I do like when you heh- scream, blossom. But I wanna hear fuuuuck– her.”
His fingers were like living, moving vibrators - just making your sensitive slit quiver all over with your arousal.
You’re so wet that it’s formulating a cute puddle where you were riding him, thighs twitching when you’re slipping and sliding all down his hungry cock. Your stuffed hole repeatedly letting out the sexiest wet squelches-
“Oh? Oho? How chatty.” Kashimo snickers from between his clenched snarl, pearly whites spread in such a wiiide grin hearing your pussy this way. Nodding as if he was in conversation, “S’that sooo–”
You’re flinching once his sultry eyes target your own, flattening his feet on the ground to look right into your stare as he mazes his crowned mushroom tip along your walls. Hitting your cervix and making sure to leave a slightly bruised crater for you to feel afterwards, “Guess what this- hah! naughty fuckin’ girl just asked me, little one?”
“Wh-what?” You yelp, voice cracking once he twists his thumb on top of your sensitive nub to draw a tiny lightning bolt.
“She wanted me…” Kashimo drawls out, trailing off as the side of his veiny shaft slaps your sweetest spots. Rendering you speechless and shivering at the lightning bolted texture, “-to go even harder.”
And oh, you knew that look on the incarnation’s face.
You knew it- that wild, wide-eyed look of absolute fucking madness before he lurched his hips off of the overworked bedsprings. Making your maw dangle with a shrilling gasp when he’s milking his swollen, red cock on your warm cunt.
Kashimo snickers, “Can- can you even imagine?” The prominent cuts of his v-line massaging up into your lower tummy, over n’ over punctuating each syllable. Each breath. “G-going harder.”
“O-oh, fuck–” You’re squirming restlessly at the way his fingers only seem to buzz even harder with lightning cursed energy. The way it was seeping out of him now, making your overhead lights flicker, making the air turn static.
“Well- I can only- listen to every fucking word she says.”
And maybe it’s the way that the flicks of his cursed energy jolt down your slit even needier, maybe it’s the way he’s roaming his knobbled thumb even further between them to draw a sweet, sweet heart. Plump, pink-colored tip giving your g-spot one of his countless mean hits- this time sending white-hot sparks skittering down your walls. Either sheer brute force or jujutsu - you don’t even know before you’re throwing your head back and cumming.
Eyes blearing with so many tears, voice wobbly as you call out– “I-inside.” Gazing down at Kashimo’s slightly wide-eyed, shocked pupils. “Cum inside, Hajime.”
And in all his over four hundred years of living, this might be the first time his powers had ever been so out of control.
Every single light in your house shatters, the power shuts, Kashimo’s long lashes streak with miniscule flickers of purple lightning as he finally finishes off. In the most unsteady, heavy way.
“Oh shit- shit shit shit- this s’all your fault.” He’s filling you up with so many weighty ropes of cum, letting the lecherous knots slick down your pussy channel and stick to your cervix like an adhesive. “All your fault all your- ngh!”
Swivellin’ over one of his slender fingertips where your hole was slobbering out in a milky sap, you yelp after each mindless rut of his body. Washboard abs massaging your front, thwacking each driveling ounce leaking out of him.
“D-don’t even think I can cum anymore.” He trails off, finally realizing the darkness in the room. The way he’d just left every ward in Tokyo without electricity.
Kashimo’s sapphire eyes glow as he pummels his sticky wads of seed deeper, buzzing fingers still twitching. Lips curling into a smile the more he toys, the more he makes a mess. Thrusting, “But that’s how losers think.”
♡ CHOSO KAMO - Blush blush blush
Choso was so good for you like this- he was so gone.
Just the first, most innocent peck of his glittery wet cocktip swipin’ down your slit and he’d found himself cumming. Pretty eyes clenched tight, face burning, rosy lips sagging with awe—
“I’m ngh- s-sorry, baby–” He’s babbling, the cutest wobble shivering his wet-sheened lips. With one set of his slender fingers wrapped ‘round his fat hilt, he’s pushing to let the raw entrance of your cunt swallow up his creamy wads ravenously.
Choso tumbles his head back and moans at the sinful sight, his own dry Adam’s apple bobbing with an overeager swallow. “Sorry- made such a mess.” Stirring the entrance of your drenched pussy with the crowned tip of his cockhead, “Gonna clean it all up- d-don’t you worry about a thing, baby.”
You’re cooing, running your dominant hand through his sweat-polished locks. “Aww– s’okay, Cho. It’s your hah- first time, after all. We can stop now if you-”
“No.”
And that wasn’t just a plea - it was a beg.
Before you know it, Choso’s pulling your boneless legs over his shoulders. And he’s so strong, dazed eyes boring into yours whilst he effortlessly folds you in half into a mating press that had your ass cheeks lifting off the bed.
Rippling deltoids pushing forwards, his twitching hand angrily pumping his red-hot hilt. “Nonono- no.” Choso whispers wetly, his heated breaths fanning your face. “I can do it again- ngh- watch me-”
“But, baby, if you can’t-”
“I will.” And you’ve never seen your sweet boyfriend sound so ragged, it’s as if his gentle baritone was holed with rasps and something primal. Choso’s dazed, mindlessly creeping over one of his other clammy hands to squeeeeze your cheeks rudely together and make you watch. “M’gonna get h-hard again for my baby. I will.”
And it’s only then that you’re seeing - properly seeing.
The way that Choso’s sexily slashing tattoos grow deeper over his nosebridge, the way his entire body flexes with cursed energy- oh.
He’s using his powers. And your eyes immediately snap to the way his right hand curls snugger over his bulky base and buzzes with blood manipulation technique.
Choso’s bulbous, red tip was so hard with every ounce of blood rushing between his legs that it’s twitching weepily. Slobbering ribbons of pre frothing over your pussylips and making your cunt gleam with sap.
“S-see?” He utters out, guttural. Broad pecs glittering with beads of sweat after every feverish heave, he was working himself overtime. Working himself for you. Spank goes the way that he’s swatting your slit with his veiny shaft, “You want it like this? Haaaah- got m’self all ngh- needy for you again.”
Your hips buck up impatiently, making Choso’s bawling divot bump directly against your sloppy hole and watching him whimper. “Cho– want it inside.” Mouth watering, he was just so hot. “Every inch, promise?”
“P-promise.” Oh, Choso would kneel at your feet and vow an oath if you showed even the slightest inkling that you wanted him to.
And his mouth saps over with a fresh bout of drool at the feeling of your dampened cunt letting him in, pushing past your dewy wet folds to give your walls a carnal scrape of his weepy orifice.
“Promise- promise, oh- I promise-” He’s babbling away, chestnut eyes glazing over with tears of primal bliss as he’s rocking his hips into yours. The slimy abrasions of his veins leaving your back arching- Choso wasn’t even fully finished with using his blood manipulation, yet.
Not even fully done- and yet, he’s just so addicted. Just so greedy with the notion of pounding your pretty pussy like it deserved. Still fisting the sensitive base of his cock, “Gonna m-make myself real hard. Gonna make you feel hngh- reeeeal good with my fucking cock, baby.”
“Cho- oh- fuck!” You’re mewling, your own salty tears hitting your lips at the sheer stretch. “Y-you’re so big.”
And really, Choso was just so big that his big, bulbous cockhead was pushing into your lungs. Making you feel every inch of his prolonged length inside your hidden nooks n’ crannies - and that lil’ power of his was only making him bigger.
Harder.
Oh-so-big that you were almost struggling to fit all of him-
Fuck- had you said all that out loud? Choso’s hooded gaze was frenzied with a low look of panic, the tough lines of his hipbones bashing your inner thighs with his fervor. His ruts.
Gulping, “I need it to fit.” And yet, he was bulging and bulging so long and wide inside of you that every motion forwards made you shrill out. Blood manipulation going out of control, flaring his soaked slit up until he’s molding your soft walls to his each precise measurement. “Want it- need it a-aaaaaall the way up…”
Your mouth parches like the fucking Sahara as you watch Choso snakingly guide his free hand along your middle. Drawing a line straight up from the very top of your clit- up, up, up past your womb. Your tits, your collarbones, until he’s levelling his touch over the beginning of your throat. “-here.”
Chuckling to himself - oh, he was going to make that a reality.
And the sudden burst of cursed energy was telling you the same thing, “B-but you’re only getting even mmm– bigger, baby.”
“And you’re only getting s-soooo much fucking wetter.”
Pushing and pushing. He was fucking you as if he would pass out - as if he would die - if he wasn’t all shoveled all the way between your plump, puckered pussylips.
Choso’s touch was sizzling with power by now, every area of contact with your skin rubbing your flesh all raw and lewd. He didn’t even have to furiously jerk off his long shaft anymore, so engorged with lust that it almost hurt.
Out of control.
But it hurt him more to not be all the way inside of you- he puffs out. “T-take a deep breath, baby–”
Still reeling from that probin’ girth of his, your tit heaving tantalizingly as you gasp. “I-it’s fitting, Cho-”
“It’s fitting-” He’s echoing in utter disbelief, the glittery flaps of his mouth sagging into a perfect oh! when he’s straining to hear that squelch-squelch-squelch of each bloated inch being bullied inside of you. Growing even bigger with delight- and his lecherous cursed energy, Choso lets out a shocked ‘fuck’ once his rounded ballsack spanks your cunt with a thwack!
Struggling to clamp your glossy walls around his thick circumference, the tightness makes him close his teary eyes with a whimper. Still growing bigger- “Baby- m’I getting ngh- pregnant tonight or are you?”
♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - King of Doubles
“Fuck- fuck.” Sukuna shutters his devilish crimson eyes in an attempt to veer off that embarrassing set of heart-eyes taking over his gaze.
Hell, he even shakes his head- he even grits his sharpened canines every time he’s hitting the roof of your pussy with every deep plunge. But it still didn’t work, and he’s feeling his mask of cursed energy start cracking, already reaching out and radiating off of him in waves.
Rovering each globular end of his shaft along your tenderest, mushiest spots, he groans. “This is all your fault- and yours.”
“Wh-whose?” You’re blabbing out stupidly, taking a few seconds to actually follow the King’s line of sight down to where your cunt was greedily trying to gulp him up. Fuck- you’re realizing with a jolt, he was talking to your pussy.
The first time you’re actually letting him lodge both massive, dual lengths inside and it’s driving you wild. Your legs thrash with each sunken inch, needing more– “Oh- mmm– s’too much, Kuna.”
“Too much- too much?” Sukuna mocks, octaves higher in a derisive tone that really doesn’t match yours. Breathes stuttered, tone thick. “I’ll show you too much, fucking brat.”
He was on the verge of losing it.
And all it takes is a singular bat of your eyes - and suddenly you’re no longer sprawled out all prettily on Sukuna’s royal silk sheets. You’re being lifted cleanly into midair- legs dangling, gravity drooping, clinging onto his seven-foot frame and at his completely n’ utter mercy.
Two of his clawed hands creep downwards to grope a good handful of your ass cheeks, grinning as you gasp at the change in positions. “Look what yer doing- do you even hah- realize?”
He’s holding you up like it’s nothing, letting your cute human hands scrape all down his muscular back. Shit, those barely even feel like kitten scratches to him.
“Ngh- o-oh my god, mm– s-so big, Kuna. Feel you so deep-”
“That’s it, easy there-” Sukuna feels the second cursed mouth smeared across his abs drool at the sopping wet squeeeelch your cunt lets off once he’s sinking even deeper. “Filthy fuckin’ pussy- sucking up both.” Letting gravity do its lecherous thing while he’s holding you up without a care in the world- acting as if he wasn’t absolutely shattering at the feeling of you taking both his bulging twin cocks for the first time. “Eeeeeeasy there, girl- s-stay still and take it.”
Holy shit, did you just make Ryomen Sukuna stutter?
Your head snaps up in shock, looking at him with the prettiest teary gaze. “D-did you just-”
“Shut up.” Gasping, fuck- he couldn’t lose face like this. And before you know it, the King’s pushin’ your gaping maw towards his cushy, shuddering pecs.
Letting your mouth slobber a sloppy piling sheen of saliva, two of Sukuna’s arms nestle safely underneath your legs and push you up higher. Rummaging your pussy with a few vulgar strikes that have your pupils circlin’ your eyes-
Determined to fuck you dumb.
“Shut up and take it a-all up to here now.” Your throat bobs with a swallow once the pointed curve of one of his claws draws a horizontal line halfway across your tummy, nearer to your throat than not. “Otherwise your king will be hah- displeased, little human.”
“W-wan’ it all, Kuna–” You’re whining, the doughy heels of your feet latching around his broad waist. He was just so monstrously massive that you’re straining to even cling on, crawling up to caress his neck. “I want both- ngh!”
And it wasn’t just his aching, swabbing girths that were rummaging your insides uncontrollably- with just the slightest reach to the top of his frame, Sukuna’s second mouth is slithering its slimy tongue tip between your inner thighs.
Making sure you feel the rough texture of his tastebuds when he’s swiping it between your teary pussylips and lapping up every inch of you from the outside.
“Shit-” He’s moaning out over the sweaty crown of your head, the arched length of his spine shivering with zaps of electricity. Narrowing his gaze downwards, “Wh-who told you to…”
And he can’t even finish his damn sentence.
Not when you’re rocking your hips back into the dampened gape of his cursed maw, letting Sukuna’s split-ended tongue toy the tiniest lecherous circles over the buttony nub of your clit. Spanking– he swears, “Nghh- and who told you to-”
He couldn’t even control his damn second mouth anymore.
You taste so damn sweet that he can’t help but grow bigger, stretching your slippery walls out to the maximum.
Panting, slouching, ears popping with the pressure of cursed technique so strong that the King of Curses himself is struggling to steady the tremble in his meaty thighs. “Keep those h-hands to yerself, brat, unless you nghhh- want me to-”
You gasp- Sukuna wasn’t just inflating from the protruding end of his double shafts, he was growing taller. More muscular.
Your breath catches in your throat as you watch his jujutsu energy let his true form rip through even more. No longer toning himself down for you, he’s struggling to fight against the powers making him well over eight feet, oh-so-large.
“Y-you have…” You’re muttering, eyes widening as you trace your fingers over the sharp, pointed ends of the horns that’d just grown from his skull.
Horns. He had horns now.
More monster than man.
And Sukuna shivers just as soon as your doughy fingerpads scrape near the base, just as sensitive as if you were tickling his aching cocks. “O-ohhh– you’re ruining me, girl.” Peripherals darkened, trying to reel himself back in. Trying to wield his cursed energy. “You don’t know what you’re haaah- up against. You don’t know if you can even take it.”
Almost pleading- and yet, you’d never step down from that.
It turns out that his horns were where Sukuna was the most intimately sensitive, “But I wan’ that, Kuna—” You’re whining, lower lip jutting with a pout as you grab onto both those long tusking projections.
“O-oh.”
Using it - using him to roll your hips back in swivelling gyrations, bludgeoning the spheroid circumference straight into the gooey depths of your pussy. Slamming n’ slamming the thrashing fringe of his tip into your g-spot.
Growling, “You asked for ngh- this, spoiled brat.” He couldn’t shift back even if he tried, Sukuna throws his head back with a shiver as his frame chisels further.
Now damn nearing nine feet, he’s pushing his deeply barreling lengths into you until your cunts painting the tattoos on his hilts all translucent. “So you’re gonna- fuuuck- take it.”
Sukuna’s second mouth laps up the glittery sploshes of your arousal as you whine, and you can’t help but notice that his canines had grown so sharp. He was so much bigger, stronger, cursed energy stifling you to him until his fat, veiny cock was all you could think about.
“And then-”
“Th-then?”
So utterly dumb with his vicious pace, he’s planting a striking bash dug into the spongy wetness of your cervix that finally - finally - bottoms him out. Gasping, your eyes flap confusedly open at the feeling of something hot…and swollen kissin’ the base of your ass cheeks.
What was…oh, fuck.
“Then…” Grinning toothily, Sukuna watches on as you’re swervin’ your cunt back to feel more more more of his aching knot. A knot— all to plug you up from the inside, fat n’ throbbing. He has to slouch nearly his entire body to whisper in your ear, “-you’re gonna squirt on my knots as thanks, spoiled lil’ human.”
♡ GOJO SATORU - “Next.”
Gojo’s blindfold dangles haphazardly off of your clammy neck as you instantly gape- his rasping baritone sending shivers where it hits the top of your arched back.
Scorching a light breeze down your spine where goosebumps pebble, the strongest lays one hand on the right of your ass cheek and pulls out with a squeeelch! That lewd noise making him twitch, making him gasp–
“Oh…” He’s grumbling out, plump n’ pink mouth sagging into a gaping oh! at the heaps of creamy white cum that dribble from between your pussylips.
It’s making such a mess down his milky upper thighs, a syrupy ringed frothing falling from between your stuffed, driveling cunt. “Next.” Rounded tips of his fingers pushing and pushing it all back in where it belonged. Breath hitching, “Next.”
Fuck- you don’t know where it even began.
One second your husband was off on one of his usual missions, and the next he’s teleporting back and kneeling at your feet to fuck your sweet, sweet pussy. Mouth already watered because of the sheer saccharine scent— “Fuck me.”
Though, that was hours upon hours - rounds upon rounds ago.
He’d begged, and right now he was groaning at the plop! of wetness ringing out from your entrance. A free hand curling just around your gasping throat-
“Look.” Gojo utters, something primal seeping into his tone as he sinks in. “Look.”
He doesn’t even need to tug on your sweaty crown with tendrils of his cursed energy, Gojo’s choking your tender airway upwards. Making your fluttering, lust-filled eyes stare right into the mirror propped up at the end of your bed.
And oh- oh.
The sight that greets you makes your heart race.
Gojo Satoru - but not like you’ve ever known him.
This was the strongest that curses and sorcerers alike feared- half-opened eyes aglow, skin skittering with pale blue lightning, he looked like he’d just crawled from hell just to drag you down with him. And he was ravenous.
The crescent nailmarks curve deeper into your skin, Gojo leaning his own smoky throat closer. “I want you to look at me while I breed you, sweetheart.”
“B-but Toru–” You’re whining, your teary pupils roaming ‘round the surface of the mirror. Catching on the way the unbolted pieces of furniture in your bedroom were floating at the sheer pressure of his jujutsu. “-the- ngh- your power-”
He was so out of control as he slipped just a few inches inside, letting that cute strawberry-pink tip of his get swallowed up by your entrance. You’re clenching and sparks of cursed energy burst–
“Satoru, the bed!”
Oh, the bed.
Gojo was in so deep, losing himself to the soft n’ sweet clench of your cunt so much that even the damn mattress was starting to hover.
At your cute shrilling yells, he’s looking around airily as if in a daze. You’re peering through the half-fogged reflection at the way that his hoarse larynx rips out a tiny, ‘oh’. Immediately snapping his fingers—
“Fuh-fuck!” It wasn’t just the flying furniture that topples - it’s you, too.
Straight onto the soaked silken sheets of your shared bed- or, at least, you would have if it wasn’t for Gojo’s clasped hand trapping your throat. Holding your woozy head up whilst the rest of your hips sticks to the rickety bedsprings, the weight of him - the weight of his cursed technique - too much for you to handle.
“Wh-what did you-” You’re letting out a softly whining gasp at the press of charged atoms near your slick outer pussy.
Suddenly, it just felt like your walls stretched so much wider - yearned for his fat, plundering cock so much more. And Gojo can only look down at the mess he’s made with a dopey grin, “Unlimited void, huh?”
Posing it as a question- he didn’t even realize.
“Didn’t mean to oh- mmm yeah—” Letting the dampened ends of his bangs tickle your neck, he’s rubbin’ his curvy cocktip against the gummy roof of your pussy back and forth back and forth back and forth. Deeper. Harder. “Ooooo– didn’t even mean to hah- do this, my girl.”
Whimpering, your hips buck back greedily in tempo with his once he dips just the tail ends of a free hand past your quivering folds.
Eyes widening, breath stuttered- Gojo can’t help but hold back his ruined whimper and rut. “Oh, s’really unlimited void.” Sending a splosh of sap to hit the sides of your walls and pool at the very bottom of your womb. “Was an accident but…”
It’s so noisy the way you’re dripping with creamy knots of his cum, all down between your thighs. Squeeelch goes your pretty pussy, and he’s finding himself greedily swallowing.
Now he could fit all he wanted into you.
Nodding along as if he was in conversation, “If you ngh- insist, sweetheart.”
“Toru- who are you–”
“Her, duh.”
Rolling his hazy azure eyes- and if Gojo was talking sweetly to your pussy, it sure didn’t mean that he was pounding into you nicely. “Next” Repeating like a mantra. “Next.” Drilling away like he was crazed, like he couldn’t fight back the urge to reach underneath you and push down on the inflation of cum n’ dick outlining your pretty tummy. “Next next- next.”
Your teeth rattles with the splashing swat of each ribbon after ribbon of thin, wiry cum he’s milking out of himself. Dragging the zig-zagging veins of his shaft repeatedly into your gooey orifices until his overworked divot was sputtering out more seed.
He needed this- needed you to be all full to the brim.
Just to feel how wet you were with his icy white sap, Gojo pushes his v-line against your hips until you’re keening. Roughly lining the inside of your sweet spots with a precise glide, he’s feeling the insides of your flooded cunt and smiling. “Mmm– you’re about to cum.”
The Gojo Satoru above you was drooling- whimpering.
Gaze locked. Cock ravaged.
He was fucked out.
And so were you- all it takes is one, two, three accurate hammers against the bulbous orb of your g-spot before you’re hitting your high. Whining drunkenly as you finish off, Gojo lets off a syrupy swing of his length to stir your insides before he himself cums. Dry.
If you were in any better state of mind you’d have noticed how the lights were now permanently off, how every glass object in your bedroom shatters. In practically every ward in Tokyo, actually.
And somewhere in Gojo’s out-of-control, powerful senses he’s registering the sudden spike of cursed energy- surely, the alarm bells were going off for every sorcerer in the area.
But ah, he’s the strongest. And the strongest was more focused on you right now.
“Oh, sweetheart.” You jolt when you feel the burning stare of his Six Eyes– Gojo snickers. Pushing you down further to cream himself, reverse cursed technique seeps out of him like a second skin when he hears the faint pop! of joints. “It’s gonna be- hah…a girl.”
Blinking back the stupid circles your dilated eyes were traveling, you’re still twitching with the euphoric remnants of your high. “A-a girl?”
“Mhm.”
It doesn’t matter if it makes him shiver like no other- flickers of blue cursed energy shatter across his muscular body as Gojo plants another slurring thrust on your rummaged pussy. Feeling his fattened tip freeze just where his eyes saw your womb to be- “Let’s make it twins.”
♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Jailhouse Fuck
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The thrice-repeated slamming of Higuruma’s gavel left you hostage to his rudely probin’ cock, locked in your husband’s domain and at his mercy ever since you’d decided it was time to put his work aside for a little…relaxation.
He didn’t even mean to call on his jujustu- but fuck, if it didn’t feel like your pussy was even sweeter when your body’s being pressurized with charged atoms of energy.
“O-oh, please, Hiromi–!” Calls out your hoarse throat, head tumbling back stupidly as you buck your hips on top of his toned ones. It just felt so filthy to be riding Higuruma right then n’ there in his office chair. “It f-feels so good-”
Tugging on the black velvet of his tie, he’s staring up at you through such heady half-lidded eyes. “S’that so?”
And fuck- you’re noticing the way that his courtroom domain seems to only radiate with even more waves of cursed energy. The way that split-ended circle at the end of his lengthy shaft was pouring out dewy sprinkles of precum, flooding your poor insides.
Grunting, Higuruma plants his hand on the side of your ass to hold you still whilst he impales your cunt with a thorough thrust. Dead-on your g-spot- “Bullseye.”
“Mmm– r-right there!”
“Can feel you hah- clenchin’ around me so much, sweet angel.” He’s puffing out as a sigh, circling his hips underneath yours to make his blushing red tip stiiir your insides sensually. “You’re not lasting long.”
Responding with the cutest pout- oh, how it makes his aching balls tighten even more. “Can’t help it–”
And here, in his domain, Higuruma was even stronger.
The coldness of his matching wedding ring sizzles against the clammy side of your hips, manhandling you with a mere fraction of his strength to ride his cock even sloppier.
Higuruma wrestles you up n’ down his veiny shaft like he was trying to milk himself, like he was gliding the pointed end of his dick against your gummy walls with the aim to bruise. “Mhm- oh yes, you can’t ngh- help it, sugar.”
And though he’s nodding his head along n’ agreeing, there’s something dark seeping into Higuruma’s deep tone that makes you falter.
Something he doesn’t have the patience for - something his thoroughly pussydrunken mind can’t even stand right now.
“Ah ah-” With a soft spank near your right ass cheek, he claws down your clammy flesh and makes you slam your hips down. “So…” Stinging with the ridges of his sculptured pelvis, rubbed all raw with his black happy trail. Glancing somewhere over your shoulder, “Do you think she deserves to cum?”
And fuck- fuck, how could you have forgotten that lil’ part of Higuruma’s domain?
You two had a cursed audience - that massive shikigami your husband called ‘Judegman.’ Looming near the edge of the domain and closely watching as he ruined you on his lengthy cock.
Feeling your heart race in embarrassment and something else. “H-Hiro, that’s ngh- fuck, you’re so mean-”
“Now now, don’t make me haaaa- hold you in contempt of the court, angel.” He’s cutting through your babbling mewls, and shit- you catch that dimple near the corner of his lips as Higuruma grins. “We have…exhibit evidence here.”
Once more speeding up his relentless cadence, he’s slamming against that goopy g-spot of yours and instantly making you see stars. Your maw falling open with a few glittered beads of saliva that hit his broad pecs with a splatter!
Both you and the wooden chair sing out in croaky synchronization with each bucking swerve back where he was drilling up into you. Pummeling you with all his long inches, “Please- please let me cum–”
“Behave.”
And he wasn’t just silencing you - Higuruma was reaching for that sexily dangling tie still around his neck. Slipping the soft fabric over your mouth to wrench it cutely shut, he finds himself pulling back with a snicker at how pretty you looked with your whiny mouth all gagged. “Order in the court.”
Toying with the perked outer edge of your clit, he gives you a striking whack there right on time with a particularly harsh probe against your g-spot. “Hmm…I don’t think she deserves to ngh- cum.”
Watching as you muffle out a shriling plea-
He only swats your sensitive nub with a rapid spank, “How about it?” Further dumbifying you with the most lecherous drags of his cock- and despite riding him, it was allll on him now to ruin you. “Think she ngh- deserves it?”
You know the question’s not directed at you, but you’re still nodding. Lurching yourself closer to where grunts were spilling through Higuruma’s mouth after every push of his barreling thrusts.
So hot and soft inside you that- fuck, even he was weak to the way you’re gazing down at him with the most adorably dazed eyes. Occasionally criss-crossing when his plummy tip kisses your favorite spots, “Do you deserve it, angel?”
You were burning. You were being split apart.
And the only thing you can do is give your wailing answer– strangled through the tie and yet still reaching your husband’s ears as a constant ‘yes yes yes yes!’
“S’that sooo–?” Gruffly, Higuruma lifts the edge of his frigid wedding band to glide down the slope of your pussy. Watching as your creamed pussy quivers and gushes. So sinful. So addictive.
And he might be a damn good lawyer- but fuck, was he weak for his wife. And he languidly watches as the golden glint of his ring gets covered in all your translucent slick, “Well-” Looking right in your eyes when he’s bringing it up to his spit-glossed lips to suck. “-the verdict says…”
You barely even hear what his cursed shikigami says - barely even need to know, because in a split-second Higuruma’s face splits with a snarling, feral grin and he bucks.
Smoochin’ your g-spot so hard that it propels you from your edged agony and straight into heaven. Oh- you’d been judged, and you’d been allowed to cum.
And Higuruma was making sure that you’re riding it allll out to your heart’s content-
“Ride me. Use me.” He’s groaning, superhuman reflexes carrying your weight easily to swivel his slimy tip inside n’ drag out peak after peak. The driveling gloss of Higuruma’s precum collects all over your g-spot and makes you feel hot all over, your orgasm making your vision flash.
Toes curling, your mouth unhinges so wide that that rude tie flops straight into your lap.
Lips moving with those next few words of yours before you’re even registering them in your melty mess of a mind. “F-fill me up, please, Hiromi?”
“O-oh.” For perhaps the first time in your marriage, Higuruma opens his mouth and falters. Stoic bass cracking, huffed pants coming out heavy, you feel his domain crackle with a sudden surge of powerful energy– he’s never been more gone. “I don’t have any objection to that, sugar.”
A/N. Heheh first time writing for a four-hundred year old man kinda nervous.
Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, making him cúm dry, making him WHlMPER, p sIapping, spítting, chokíng, headIocks, challenges, DlLF!Toji (well he already is), Avatar AU (for Geto), Fire-bending master!Geto, use of powers, true form!Sukuna, Heian era, DP, Sukuna’s second mouth, overstím, squírting, slight dry-húmping, they’re GONE, GOJO’S POWERS, Shinjuku Showdown FR, ìnappropriate use of cursed techniques, unIimited void, he’s feraI, slight pIots, matíng presses, fuII neIsons, manhandIing, pussydrunk JJK men, sIight bóndage (Higuruma), creampìes, cúmpIay, slight cúmfIation, pet names, swéaring.
A/N. ALRIIIIIIIGHT I heard you babygirls ab Zuko okay?! And he just kept remindig me of Sugu so…
♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - 6 rounds.
Your neighbor Toji has been eyeing you for a while.
Of course—one could argue that that was simply due to the structure of this place. It was one of those shoebox apartments; deceptively smaller-looking on the outside, with a pitiful few sprigs of a garden and an elevator that never worked. The only thing the exterior got correct was just how…intimate you’d be with your next-door neighbor.
And you knew all too well.
When you first moved, you’d walked the few steps it took to knock on your neighbor’s door - Fushiguro, the nameplate said - and you were met with…the most attractive man you’ve ever seen.
Off-color undershirt. Tall stature.
A body that could’ve been handcrafted by the gods themselves as he lifted a muscular arm up to grasp the door frame. “Tch. Whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying.”
But you weren’t put off - because you’ve been eyeing Toji, too.
And the moment you saw him, you’ve been wanting to ride that man dry.
But perhaps that was too much for an introduction to your next-door neighbor, no? That was probably more of a second meeting thing- hah. And so you’d hastened to explain that you were actually the new tenant, handing over the bundle of cookies that you’d baked for the residents you were close to.
And Toji had looked at the cookies, and at you….and at the cookies…and at you- before ultimately sticking his head outside and glancing down the hallway - as if to make sure that this really wasn’t some superior marketing tactic.
And yes, he really had just gotten free cookies.
Finally, he raised a dark brow at you and smiled - or at least what you imagined was a semblance of a smile. Just the slightest quirk of his scarred lips. “Heh…we’ll get along. Nice to meetcha, I’m Fushiguro Toji.”
And just then, Fushiguro Megumi had made an entrance at the wafting smell of freshly-baked treats. Immediately tugging the bag out of the man’s hands and taking it for himself-
You promised Toji that you’d make another batch for him.
And so you did. And so you baked, you accompanied Toji shopping, you helped him move away from giving poor Megs instant ramen for dinner all the time—you even got to bake in their kitchen when your oven once broke down.
Thus. After a few months, Saturday nights often looked like an amalgamation of both your previous routines; with you ignoring your manager’s overtime phone calls to put on your favorite show and indulge in some selfcare. Toji with his pen out and his eyes squinting at the latest jockey racing results- dammit, Haru Urara lost again.
Down the hall, Megumi was fast asleep.
All in his apartment.
You can’t remember the last time you’d wound down in your own- but before you can consider what that meant…Toji’s throwing his pen down. He heaves himself up from the brightly-lit dining table to sit down beside you—gaze narrowing at the half-shitty soap opera you’d put on to pass the time. “What…the hell is that?”
“A show.” You retort.
“I get that- hah, you think m’stupid?” Toji rolls his sage green eyes. And before you can reply with something smart, he’s gesturing half-heartedly at the screen before him. “I mean- why the hell is there so much…crying and moaning.”
Your gaze snaps to the quickly-shifting scenes on-screen, “That is, uh…” In the few seconds you’d looked away to scour Toji’s library for a book that wasn’t a sports magazine or a Haru Urara fanbook, it seems the plotline on the TV had taken…a far more different route. “Sex.”
“You think I fucking don’t know what’s-” As you’re laughing your head off, Toji cuts himself off and pinches the top of his nosebridge. Surely to ward off his oncoming headache.
You always did do that to him. In the best way.
And after a deep breath, he gestures idly at the screen once more. Or more specifically: the way the love interest’s eyes widen in shock, mouth dropping as he looks between where they were connected. He’s saying something that makes you still, “Why is he talking about…cumming dry? There’s no way that’s fuckin’ real.”
“It is?” You’re peering at him in confusion. “It literally is?”
Toji crosses his beefy arms, “No way.”
“You’re going to argue with science, Toji?”
“M’just saying- it’s never happened to me.” He retorts.
And the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them- “…Is that a challenge?” You regret them as soon as they’re entering the tense air, making the older man stiffen beside you—
And you’re just about to apologize and bow yourself out of the awkwardness when-
“Oh you can fucking try.”
It’s how you find yourself being guided to Toji’s single bedroom - no matter how many times you’ve been in his apartment, you’ve strayed far from here - and sprawled out on his vast mattress. Legs straddling his hips. Hands braced on his pecs.
You’re grabbing a nice feeling of them and it makes the beefy man groan. He’s peering up at you through his jet-black bangs, only half-covering his smoldering gaze. “So…? I’m fucking hot, yeah, but you’re just gonna stand there ogling me or…”
“So humble, too.” You scoff.
And then you’re fiddling with the drawstrings of his sweatpants to take his thiiiiick, reddened tip in a single swoop - or at least try to. He grins, “Yeah. And don’t forget big.”
.
.
.
Toji Fushiguro fucks you - or it’s more like you’re on top n’ bouncing your hips down onto him - so that you won’t forget it.
So that you’re feeling the lil’ twinge of pressure between your legs once you’re walking out of this damn room, so that you’re feeling the remnants of his cum glued creamily to your pussy. It better feel empty without him in there - and Toji has one palm of his pressed up against your gaping mouth, so that you won’t wake Megumi.
And the other one of his was latched your left hip.
Gripping lovingly onto the flesh there and lurching your hips up and down—faster and faster. Moving. Manhandling. Because with just a few strokes of his sheer girth, you’re seemingly dickmatized.
And leaving it aaaaaall up to Toji to guide n’ prod.
To angle your hips in figure-eights so that he can feel his cum swirling inside. Stirring it with his glistening cock. “Atta girl.” Toji gruffs out at the feeling of being utterly slathered by your walls. “And what was that about cumming dry? Hah- because m’still rock-hard and the only one having trouble here is you—”
“You’re trouble.” You huff.
“Not what I said.” He snickers. Before his handsome face leans upwards and licks off a stray tear dangling from your cheek, “But you’re lucky you’re- hck! cute. And how many rounds was that, huh, doll?”
“Six.”
“Good. And how many rounds have I cum dry?”
“Zero…” Huffing at the smug look on his face- oh, how you wanted to wipe that off. Oh, how you wanted to make him eat his words—and perhaps without even realizing it, you’re jerking your hips stubbornly back and forth.
It wasn’t matching up to the controlled place that he was slammin’ away at the back of your cervix- but it sure was something.
Your velvety walls were utterly drenched in Toji’s hot cum by now - and that just made it so much easier for you to ground your feet into the mattress n’ take him. All of him. All of those crude, curved inches of him that opened you up perfectly—“B-but don’t think that you’re gonna get off that easily.”
“Oh yeah?” A moan hatches at the back of his throat- botched exhales. “And what’s different about this time, huh?”
“This time-” Fuck, Toji’s grin spreads in a feline way across his face. He was looking at you through half-lidded eyes, vision just a little blurred from pleasure, and there was an almost…wolfish hunger in them that makes you answer- “This time I don’t have enough space.”
And that makes one of his brows raise, “Hah?”
“I said it.” To emphasize your point, you’re parting your thighs just a little—almost difficult with the way his sap had them glued together. The milky-white ribbons of Toji’s cum leakin’ out of your poor pussy, so much of it that it’s dripping down and making his black curls there glisten. “Look…”
Toji’s pants slightly quicken at the sinful sight.
“Next time, you better not cum so much again- or else s’not gonna fit.”
Scoffing, he runs a thumb freely between your pussylips- and pushes in a few of the escaping wads. “And what if I just…make it fit.” Along with the fat edge of his thumb. “Juuuust like this.”
You’re wracking with shivers at the sudden intrusion, “What- cock so sensitive you can’t stop cumming?” Though you really liked it - with how much he was flooding your cunt every time - and he knew it, too.
“Pussy so whiny she can’t handle one more?”
“You wish.”
And that’s earning you a good spankin’ on top of your pussylips.
One. Two. Three.
Without pause. Soon, your cunt’s feeling utterly raw in the aftermath—and you’re clinging onto Toji’s firm deltoids for dear life.
But that didn’t mean you were going to back down anytime soon.
No…instead, you’re using the sudden grip to steady your weakened hips. With your two knees squeezing either side of his obliques, and your back arched into a curvature that makes his mouth water - you’re meeting Toji’s sloppy pace. Pushing him back down by the shoulders and taking over the sloppy pace—
Toji’s tipping over onto the pillows now. You’re smack-smack-smacking your hips down onto his at a jackhammerin’ cadence - faster than even he was, perhaps…
And it’s that fact that makes him breathe, “O-oh, okay.” Toji’s unsure where to put his hands- so you’re swiftly taking them into yours and making him puuuuush down on your bloated stomach. The wads of his cum glisten down your thighs, catching the dim lighting of the bedroom. “This is new.” Never has anyone ever tried to take charge of him.
And there was something so hot about it.
Something so irresistible about that determined set of your brow. The way you’re ruined on his cock and attempting to desperately make him even more so. The way you’re squeezing your cunt so tightly around his length—dragging your walls down it. And up. And down.
Your hamstrings ache as you ride. Your pussy’s grabbin’ him all over from the veeeeery crowned top- and then down to his thickened hilt.
Milking him is the only expression he can use to describe the motion.
“New as in…” You’re feeling the smile stretch across your face, milking Toji’s cock was all he was worth. Your hips accelerate. “-going-to-make-you-cum-dry sort of new? Or?”
Another spank- this time, right on your clit. “D-don’t get ahead of yourself.”
Pushing him down from attempting to take control of the pace once more. You’re throwing your head back and riiiding out his erection the way you like it - “M’just saying…you just stuttered.” His breath hitches at your response- “So victory might be closer than I thought.”
“I…”
“Awww. Is the big, bad Toji Fushiguro speechless for once?”
“Oh, fuck you.”
But, truly, he could feel the pressurized build-up at the base of his cock. Starting off small. Starting right above where his balls were twitchin’ and aching - and then moving up, up, uuup every single inch to angrily throb at his tip.
Furious, furious.
It had barely even started yet, and somehow Toji already knew that it was something different from all those orgasms that came before it. And so he’s clenching his eyes shut and gritting his teeth as he feels it overcoming him—
“Fuh-fuck.” He’s out-of-breath just from the first wave. And desperately - pathetically - Toji’s hoping to anything that’d listen that it wasn’t a dry orgasm. He’s pleading. He’s mentally on his knees and begging-
And then…with a sudden buck of his hips Toji’s round, blushin’ cockhead strikes the bottom of your pussy. It’s then that he’s realizing that perhaps manifesting really doesn’t work for some old bastard like him- because he doesn’t even have to feel the contrasting wetness of your cervix to already know.
To realize that though his bliss was searing through his body in waves-
His cock was dribbling out absolutely nothing.
Six rounds and he’d finally lost it.
The rush of his orgasm coursing through him, accompanied by the inexplicable emergence of nothing more. His achingly hot tip can do nothing more than stick deep into your pussy n’ swerve around the bundled-up wads of cum there. Not adding. Not taking.
Horny embarrassment mingles with his broken pride; and Toji clenches his jaw as he peers up at you—you and that damn accomplished smile.
You’re fluttering your lashes innocently down at him- “Yes, Toji? Got anything else to say about cumming dry?”
“No…” He reluctantly admits. Before spitting out -“What else does that TV show have?”
♡ NANAMI KENTO - 10 rounds.
You didn’t expect your husband to be anything but a gentleman.
Who would?
Nanami Kento was the epitome of everything one would want their partner to be; he was sweet, he was patient, he was intelligent in many ways—but most of all, emotionally. He loved you at your best and he loved you when you didn’t feel so - and thus, he was the man that stood before you at the altar.
Donned in a dark hakama. Blond hair slicked back.
Rose-gold ring glistening on one hand.
Stating vows to love one another from here onwards and forevermore; and he’s never meant anything more. Nothing has been truer in his entire life.
The celebrations were uproarious- not from Nanami’s end, but rather from your elated friends. Your new husband sat beside you silently during the reception, making sure you were eating well and that the air conditioning at the venue wasn’t too cold—though when he did get a few beers in him, he kept whispering from a scandalously close proximity how beautiful those robes looked on you…how much better it might look off—
You remember during this time that Shoko had tottered by - held up by weary Utahime - and blessed the two of you ten times over. Ultimately clapping Nanami on the shoulders and telling him to take good care of you.
And to not disappoint you on your wedding night-
But that was around the time that Utahime had decided that your brown-haired friend had taken one too many vodka shots. No chasers.
And she’d dragged her away whilst you and Nanami sat hot-under-the-collar in your seats. Avoiding much eye contact - because surely most could guess what was bound to happen at the end of the reception, the farewell.
And so had come the wedding night.
.
.
.
The two of you had barely made two steps into your five-star wedding suite before the expensive wedding clothes were falling to the floor.
And Nanami’s gotten you pressed into the most delicious full nelson on top of the rose petal-covered mattress. Cock heavy and hard. Those crimson flowers forming a heart underneath your two tangled bodies, and Nanami’s cock echoing the most lewd slurps n’ squelches.
It’d only gotten louder throughout the night- as Nanami swabbed the droplets of his creamy white cum inside you. Just married and he was already stuffing you full—
Four hours and hours. Making you cum through each one.
As a gentleman should, of course.
You think it’s around the tenth or so round when your head’s tipping stupidly backwards - resting against his firm collarbone - as Nanami’s burnished red cocktip rams into your g-spot again. Glued using a few webs of his seed, it’s a carnal sensation that sets your teeth on edge, and the blond-haired man crushes you close—
“Sh-shit…” You’re keening out, voice taking on a shrill pitch. “Kento- oh, ngh—” Barely able to speak through the loooong, thorough thrusts that he was planting inside you. “I n-never knew you could be so…”
Another hard slam! that leaves your ears ringing. And Nanami’s tone husked to almost nothingness as he asks, “Yes, my love—?”
“Rough.” Crying out.
Though they were cries of utter pleasure- of wanting him to continue. Because in the years that you’ve known him, Nanami Kento has never fucked you like this—has never fucked you the way he was hammerin’ mean strokes into you on your wedding night. Harsh plap! after plap! of skin-on-skin.
Of his stinging pink pelvis pushing into yours.
And your husband moves at a carnal pace - muddled brain unable to process anything more - once he feels your limp hips slippin’ out from above him. Covered in a thin layer of sweat and slick leaking like a waterfall between your glossy pussylips. “Sh-shit, Kento, m’gonna…”
“I’ve got you, my love.” Nanami wraps his bulky arms underneath both legs and hauls you upwards.
“Oh…” Your jaw drops, “You’re just moving me so easily.”
He merely chuckles at your cuteness- were you cockdrunk already?
And once you’re in proper position, laid out on top of the toned line of Nanami’s abdomen, he gently removes his arms. You’re almost disappointed at the massage of his flexing muscles- but before you can miss him too much, your newly-wed husband has them latched onto you again.
This time, in a headlock.
Left arm looped around your pretty throat.
Right arm slithered between your legs and squeezing your clit immediately.
You buck up at the sudden burst of pleasure- stars behind your eyes. Moans ready at the tip of your tongue—
“Shhhh shh shh, I wouldn’t want whoever’s next door to hear my- haaaah, beautiful wife’s sounds. I’m a protective man, darling.” He murmurs throatily behind you, “Unless it’s that new last name of yours.”
So gone by the way his round, throbbing tip was bulldozing into you until your toes curled- “N-new last name…?” It’s taking you a little while to register it.
But Nanami Kento always was a patient man, wasn’t he? And so he’s simply nodding, leaning down and spittin’ straight between your pretty lips to claim that mouth as his own- and his as yours. Of course. “Your last name.” He responds. “Mrs. Nanami.”
The mere sound of it is enough to make you shudder—“Oh.”
“Or…your last name is mine, too.” Nanami hums to himself- now so utterly gone on the idea of it all. Of marriage. Of the fact that you’re his wife - his wife. He tightens his headlock and kisses your temple gently, “It’s actually why m’a little more…rough, today, my love. You’ll have to forgive me.”
“I l-like it.” You’re replying, “And this is all because of- hngh, our wedding night, Kento?”
“Not quite.”
And you’re feeling cum glue to your cervix as you’re bucking downwards- but of course, your husband would never keep you waiting long. With a simple kiss to that wedding ring you were wearing, he raises your left hand up, up, upwards—to grip at his golden tresses. You’re going to need it.
Because in the next few seconds, Nanami then plants his feet further flatly on the mattress and drills his cock up into you. Tunneling. Mazing. Bashing his ruddied tip against every sweet spot.
He was fucking you like he hated you - and the creaking bedsprings would agree - but oh, how he loved you so.
The sheer amount of pleasure that courses through you was almost numbing.
And without further ado, you’re babbling out the sweetest whimpers n’ whines of his name. Nanami’s breath fanning your face hotly as he leans in and whispers—“It’s because you’re my wife.”
Lightning strikes you to your very core.
You could feel your high imposing.
Nanami’s honed canines nip at your earlobes, “It’s the same but not-” He continues, throat growing more n’ more ragged with grunts, the more the thrusted inside. “It’s what I’ve been dreaming for this entire time- fuck, but it’s…so…so much better.” Voice shattering at this very moment. “Darling, it’s like I can’t stop.”
And he fully meant it.
You’re clawing at the beefy expanse of his forearms as he accelerates, your high starting to shoot and crackle with no end-
“I’ve tried.” Nanami’s voice sounds hollow, echoing with something far more primal than you’ve ever heard of him. And hit thrusts- oh, his strikes were so toe-curling. “I’ve tried—but I just can’t seem to. I’ve told myself, I’ve made myself…” The most sinful squelch! wrenches from your pussy as he rolls over your clit and makes you cum once more, “But no matter how hard I try…I just can’t seem to stop wanting to cum inside my wife’s pussy.”
“K-Kento—” Your back arches- lights flashing behind your eyes. “Inside- please.”
“That’s exactly the problem.” He sounds like a man maddened. “I need to see this pussy drippin’ wet with my cum.” You’re shivering as he runs the flatness of his thumb between your cunt’s folds, just so sensitive that the barest graze leaves electricity zapping through your body. “Nine time- nine fucking times-” He rarely swore. “-and I still feel the urge to watch her try to gulp me up. To watch her overspill. To feel her soppin’ wet right down to the womb—”
Breathless with need. “Then do it, husband…”
“I can’t help myself.”
And then Nanami’s cumming.
Like he’d always planned to, of course. But the only problem was that this time - the tenth - he’s feeling nothing but the smallest trickle of cum. Just the faintest few ounces.
And then nothing more- although it feels like he’s still pouring out as much as it takes to flood you.
It hits him instantly that he’s cumming dry.
And Nanami’s mouth drops, blond lashes fluttering just a bit as he takes in the situation. No matter how many times he was draaagging his vein-covered cock in and out of your channel, it only left him as dry and overstimulated as ever.
Tears pricking behind his eyes, Nanami gasps. “This feels like a-a premonition…”
“Of?” You blink.
“The fact that this night’s not over yet.”
♡ GETO SUGURU - 8 rounds.
“Please- ngh—” The sound that leaves you is far too pitiful for your reputation. How could you have ever thought…“P-please, I beg of you-”
“Oh? You beg of me, hm?” Geto’s words were just dripping with amusement, and his smile presses up against your throat. Clammy. Pulse thundering. That beautiful long hair of his was completely untied and falling over the sides of your body, strands tickling down your arched back- it was like a cloak of night. And so was the firebending master.
You’re throwing your head back and keening—“More.”
“You beg more of your enemy?”
What treason. What treachery.
How did you even get here?
You could blame all the training; all the long nights and the countless days spent by the water, the feeling of power rippling through your body as you mastered it. It was no secret that the Fire Nation and the Water Nation were at war.
These were the days that would end up as history, after all.
But you just wondered whether this battle would…between one of the best of the Water Nation - you - and the Fire Prince himself. Geto Suguru.
Announced as next-in-line to the throne. The man your age with a fear-striking reputation that ran far and deep. And treacherous.
It was a siege planned by the group of rebels you were a part of, and it was simple: attack the Fire Nation’s Royal Palace and end their bloodline once and for all. And for that, you’d have to take care of the prince himself.
Little did you know that what had begun as a one-on-one fight between the two of you at highly close quarters would turn into something….else entirely. As you’d straddled him during combat and prepared to call upon your powers - chest heaving, eyes locked - you had no idea who leaned in first. You had no idea which one of you was the first traitor.
And so here you were…
Knees digging into the hard floor of the Fire Nation’s Imperial Dojo, mouth slobberin’ out lungfuls of moans. Your head throwing backwards and hitting the prominent collarbones of none other than your sworn enemy—Geto Suguru.
Who was fucking his hard, red-hot cock into you like he hated you.
And he probably did.
And yet…and yet- he can’t stop himself from lunging his needy hips forwards and slamming French kisses into the back of your cervix. Those nice, gooey depths that welcomed him with such fervour it almost made him laugh. But despite how bemusing it might be, Geto knows he should stop. He knows he needs to adhere to his duties…but here he was again.
And again and again.
Runnin’ on his seventh round, where he’s ruggedly pulling his vein-covered cock in and out of you. He fucked mean. And he was only getting meaner as he cranes his neck forwards, digging his pearly white canines into the crook of your neck.
Harder and harder.
“N-ngh…” It’s just barely-there. Sneakily, Geto muffles that broken noise emanating from the back of his throat - meanwhile, you’re left moaning once his hot sap starts to fill your cunt up once more.
Just the cutest few drops - drooling - before he immediately pulls out and sprays those satiny ribbons down your outer pussy. Coating a few milky-white layers on top, he then rubs his swollen n’ sap-glossed tip uuuuup and down your pussylips; a few times before plunging back in again. “M-more…”
It’s so quiet and pitchy that he barely hears it. But Geto Suguru wasn’t the nation’s fiercest warrior for nothing- “Pardon?” Those amethyst eyes of his widen at your request. It took a lot to surprise the Fire Prince, but now…he’s leisurely blowing the jet-black bangs out of his face to peer at you. “Repeat that.”
“Is that a command?” You bite.
And what you’re getting in response is a quick swat on your left ass cheek. Geto’s trained fingers were purposefully increasing their body temperature, leaving his imprint sizzling on your skin—“It is.” That chiselled body of his leans his weight even further down on you, massaging you with smooth, perspired abs. His long tendrils tickle your neck, “And what do you have to say to that, smallfry?”
“I say…” You’re whispering.
Leaning down even closer- practically pinning you beneath him. “Mhmmmm?”
“Fuh-fuck you.”
You weren’t repeating a single thing.
Turning your head ‘round to spit at him. Right across his face.
Except; Geto Suguru anticipates this very moment to leave his unfairly pretty lips ajar and let you spit in his mouth. Straight into his mouth. You’re watching in slow-motion as the glittery wad enters past his maw, getting smeared as the firebender then crashes his lips onto yours.
Such a filthy, filthy kiss.
You’re moaning deep into his mouth Geto roves his hips back n’ starts prodding even harder. Even harder. With the red, spherical tip of his cock—he enters your womb and lingers for a bit. “Now…” Another slap. “That isn’t a very nice thing to say, princess.”
You gasp. He knew.
That lineage you’d fought to keep hidden, for years upon years as you trained and grew stronger, noticed so easily by the prince himself…
Two royals tangled in something you couldn’t discern from passion and a fight.
Geto’s smile spreads against your mouth, and his hands come pummeling down in a rapidfire smack-smack-smack on your ass cheek. Temperature raising at the tips of his fingers. It’s practically sizzling- “What? Cock got your tongue?”
Another smack on your cunt. “Shut up.”
“Tha’s alright- you don’t have to answer me.” He croons. Dragging out with the tip of his tongue- and his cock, the sheer sensitivity of your pussy means that now even the slightest hit at your g-spot makes you jump—
Only for Geto to drag you backwards with a single arm wrapped around your throat. His bulky forearm bulges as he traps you in a headlock; and you’re just starting to ogle his muscles as he rams and rams his trained hips into you. Accelerating. Dragging it down your walls even faster- “But there is just one question I need to find out the answer to.” And that hand of his comes spankin’ down even harder. Smoothing along your ass cheek, “Can the Water Princess squirt—?”
“Fuh-fuck.” He was ruthless. If you thought that Geto was fucking you mean earlier, then you weren’t ready for right now. Your hands claw at the flooring before you, “No sooner than the Fire Prince can cum dry.”
It was the eighth round now and the both of you were gone.
With his hips pinning you down to the dojo ground. His headlock tighter than ever- veiny and muscular. The plump head of his cock drills into you so rapidly that it was nearly nothing but a blur of pink—in and out. In and out.
Geto’s making it a few more sharp thrusts before he feels pleasure coiling at the pit of his stomach. And he can’t have that - of course he can’t cum before who’s supposed to be his mortal enemy - so he squeezes his hand between your legs n’ rolls over that oversensitive nub with two fingers. Powerful fingers—his heat was sizzling, a carnal sensation that you couldn’t even begin to describe.
You yelp.
And though you couldn’t exactly call on your waterbending at the moment, you’re still able to jerk your hips back n’ meet Geto’s thrusts.
Fucking him just as angrily as he was fucking you.
Again and again.
The dojo grounds around you two rumble as though the most passionate fight, before your head throws back and you’re feeling your orgasm hurtling into you. And without thinking twice, you’re reaching underneath your body and grazing Geto’s aching, pistoning cock- just the slightest wisp of your waterbending power…being used to make your fingertips cold.
Cold to the touch.
Cold to contrast against his furiously hot cock.
With a flinch- you’re both tumbling into your highs.
“Fuck- oh…fuck.” You—with your cunt soakin’ itself in the excess of your orgasm. Dopamine coursing through your veins and your eyes fluttering shut- your peripherals sprint to the back of your head. And your toes curl…“I can feel you cumming dry, Suguru.”
“Sh-shut up.”
And so he was—his cockhead was flinching like he’d been spurting out ribbony wires of cum, his balls were clenching…and yet there was nothing. It wasn’t like the previous rounds when you had your deepest depths splashed in a sudden warmth- Geto, this time, was simply emptying out nothing.
Still fucking you ravenously through it-
“Cumming dry.” Elongating his wave of bliss. Rammin’ into your g-spot like a button, just so you could feel the slightest bit of the overstimulation he was. Almost laughing to himself, “You really fucking made me cum dry-”
“Problem, Fire Prince?”
“Not at all, Water Princess.”
And once he’s finally feeling it bate - his shaft having pumped out nothing throughout its entire duration - Geto presses his face into the crook of your neck and moans.
“Best of three then?”
♡ CHOSO KAMO - 3 rounds.
“Baby, I just…” Choso’s tone quivers, something deep and dark seeping into his words. They seemingly erupt from the back of his throat, against his own will, and hang in the air like a sudden spritz of perfume—
Wait…you swear you’re smelling actual perfume.
Brows furrowing. Turning your nose upwards, you take in the fleeting flowery scent; before looking over your shoulder at where your boyfriend was standing.
It was a slow, sleazy weekend: time for just the two of you. The honks of cars were winding down, and sunset dripped from Tokyo city’s roofs and foliage. The only time when Choso was allowed to refuse the missions that the higher-ups foisted upon him, and when you could decline your manager’s calls without feeling even the slightest bit of guilt.
Instead. He was supposed to help you bake cookies today, he was supposed to be padding into your shared kitchen n’ press a sweet, sweet kiss to your cheek - then insist he take over as he always does. He was supposed to be…not this. Whatever this was.
Leaned against the dooframe. Head dropped. Hair loose. Breaths coming out in gusts. Choso had his Brother Bear t-shirt off and his bare chest flushed—damp with perspiration. It’s as though he’d been taken over by a sudden fever, ravaging through him, radiating heat through every single pore. Making his rosy cheeks flush even rosier as he jerks his dark, glazed eyes up to look at you.
And a sudden jolt goes through the both of you-
“Choso…?” You’re cautiously taking a step towards him- to which he’s surprising you by taking a step back. “Baby, what happened?”
“I-I just—” His voice hatches and cracks. Urgently clawing at himself. “Remember how I wasn’t feeling too well in the morning?”
You nod, taking another step closer.
He scratches behind his neck - movements torrid and heavy. Lethargic. “So I took a nap, and when I woke up it was just feeling…” Almost subconsciously, Choso’s hands snake down to the drawstrings of his sweatpants- fuck. And it’s just then that you’re registering the throbbing, aching bulge between his long legs. “-hot.”
Wordlessly, you’re looking at the calendar propped up on one end of the kitchen counter. Ah—the realization makes your lips part. Today’s date sticks out like a jagged nail, or - more accurately - like a…
Your gaze flickers back down to where Choso mindlessly paws at his erection. Breathless. Heating up.
“Cho, baby.” You’re catching his attention once more. Chocolate brown eyes glisten with tears- “I think you’re in heat.”
A shiver crawls through his body.
And his jaw drops, “Oh.”
Soon enough, you’re crossing the sizzling distance between you both and taking your agonized boyfriend by the hand. He flinches - just a little - as his skin touches yours- before you’re pulling him into a kiss and he simply melts—moans your name.
The two of you aren’t making two steps towards the bedroom before Choso hugs you from behind n’ crushes his red-hot, sensitive erection into your back. Breathing out a barely-audible plea. And then you’re both crashing onto the floor - the half-curse’s hands tugging on your panties, your hands flying to his cock.
He’s gotten you kneeled and arched into his scorching body temperature- before he reels backwards and funnels his cock in.
Just the very curve of it. Just the very tip—blushed red like a strawberry and twice as thick, he’s letting his eyes flutter shut as Choso cums instantly - instantly - at the feeling of your soaked pussy. The half-curse glues his hips to yours and starts spraying out satiny ropes of cum, “F-f-fuck…” His bottom lip quivers so cutely.
“Already, Cho?” Your purr.
It was just so cute. Because in the next few seconds he’s almost sobbing- “I…I can’t help myself.” Pretty face coming down to press in the junction of your throat, plastered with hot sweat and tears.
“Awwww.” You’re turning around to place a kiss on his cheek, “That heat’s made my poor boyfriend so sensitive, huh?”
And Choso simply nods and nods- “But m’not done yet.” Then you’re feeling the buzz of cursed energy- Choso’s cursed energy. You’re feeling your breath hitch as the technique of blood manipulation courses through his veins and renders his cock as hard as ever, flushed so hot you could feel him scorching between your swollen pussylips.
He just whimpers at the sensation. Blood manipulation always did leave him a little dizzy…
Then his hips are hammerin’ away into yours as though he was hungry to reach every pulsing spot and nerve inside. Every ounce of space. That spongy layer of your cervix felt like fucking heaven to him, and he didn’t know why but…but something was calling at him to keep on pushin’ his bundles of cum even deeper down there. To keep hitting it over and over.
To give you looooong, textured drags from his tip to his foamed hilt.
To let the most sensual grunts emanate from his throat every time he’s feeling your soaked walls attempt to clench around him. Chasing after the sensation of him stuffing you full.
In more or less of a doggy position, you’re steadying your hands on the lust-red carpet beneath you- and bucking your hips up. He was sizzling hot.
Once.
It makes Choso’s doey eyes widen—and he’s staring at you with bated breath. “What are you…”
Twice.
The globes of your ass cheeks reach backwards and smack! his toned pelvis. That sugary scent in the air only seems to grow even stronger- “Fuh-fuck, baby, that’s dangerous. If you do that, m’gonna…”
Eyes glazing over twofold. A slick line of drool on the corner of his mouth.
Your own twitches in amusement- you had him absolutely wrecked in nothing but a few bounces. In nothing but a few figure-eights making his pupils run to the back of his head. You’re bucking your hips back n’ forth to milk him even more—
“B-baby…”
And that seems to be the last straw for the heat-struck Choso Kamo: who’s lurching his needy body forwards. Pressing one large hand on the upper area of your spine, it doesn’t take much for him to lean his hefty weight down and make you collapse onto the floor-
As you’re toppling - your boyfriend following closely behind as though stuck to you by superglue - he’s placing a forearm underneath your face. A soft cushion.
Making sure you don’t knock yourself on anything- it’s the last act of kindness you’re getting before Choso drills his hips down and pumps out hot, glutinous cum into you again. Head throwing back. Adam’s apple bobbing at the sharp electricity shooting through him—so much of it. And so soon, too.
It must be an effect of the heat, he’s thinking…or at least he would have had it not been for the state he was in.
Utterly ruined. Utterly pussydrunk.
Choso Kamo has his maw pressed in an open-mouthed kiss against the column of your throat, deep shivers wracking through his body as he whines n’ bucks. “B-baby, it just doesn’t seem to stop-” His slippery shaft sticks into your g-spot and you gasp- “I don’t know if it even can stop—”
Both in cumming- and in fucking you.
Without him even calling upon it, his blood manipulation rushes through his body n’ straight to his now-upright cock. Your poor, powerful boyfriend isn’t given a single split-second to let himself go flaccid before his cursed energy takes over again.
He’s rutting and rutting his body forwards. Mouth gaped open at the sensation, and his wet pants synchronizing with the even wetter plaps! of skin-on-skin. They were getting even louder, even sloppier, by the second as Choso’s cum seeps out of your pussy n’ kept getting smeared between your legs.
Hamstrings aching. His abs massaging your back-
Your eyes kept fluttering shut at the sheer pleasure- it was just about past the second round and you still haven’t gotten used to Choso’s sheer size. Only growing and plumpening himself out even bigger as he kept tunneling between your legs—and you swear that damn heat of his left you even more dickmatized than usual, too.
Letting out the prettiest music to his ears as his curved cock slams into your g-spot once more. “Maybe I don’t- hngh, want it to.” You babble out. “Maybe I need you to cum inside- oh, again.”
“Ohhhh, don’t say that.” Pelvis pressed up so harshly against your body that his happy trail scratches you in a way that was so carnal. And any time you’re shifting - Choso has his right hand wrapped around your throat and haaaaauling your weakened body backwards, “P-please don’t say that.” It all comes out in a rush. “If you do then…”
You’re shivering as his nose runs down your throat- drunk on your pheromones. “Then?”
“Then m’gonna cum again.” He whimpers, “And this time I don’t know if I can stop.”
And, truly, Choso could feel his next orgasm building and building at the pit of his stomach - and at the tip of his shaft. It was different than the two before—just a bit stronger, just a bit more electric- he was feeling zaps of electricity shooting to every point in his body; every blood vessel and axiom inside him.
His mind was feeling foggier. His eyes were having a hard time keeping open just from the sheer pleasure of your velvety, wet pussy. Engulfing every inch of him. His hips were rammin’ sloppy strokes into you again and again and again until he-
“I-I—fuck.”
Until he finally explodes into his high.
Tears streaming down his flushed face. Mouth glued to yours.
One hand at your waist n’ swervin’ your hips around so that you can gobble up every ounce of seed he was streaming. Except…
Choso’s eyes shoot open once he realizes-
Except he wasn’t cumming at all.
“Baby, wait.” Because the half-curse surely felt like he was cumming, he surely knew that he’d reached the peak of his pleasure n’ was stretching out that dopamine every time he plunged into you.
And he also knew that your wettened walls were squeezing out every drop like you knew, too, yet he just couldn’t feel a single thing dripping out. Not a single thing.
Choso grips the base of his cock with furrowed brows, “I think I’m…”
“Noooo, don’t pull out.” Needily, you’re reaching behind and clawing at his wrists as he attempts to. Only for Choso to shake his head and replace his engorged cock with a few fingers - it wasn’t as good as his entire length, but it was something.
And then he pumps and pumps his cock- if he couldn’t fuck deep into you then maybe he could coat your pretty pussylips with his glittering sap. But the only thing he’s able to let out is nothing. Cumming dry.
“Dry?” You’re looking behind in interest, and it’s just then that he’s realizing he must’ve said that out loud. Fuck, he’s so gone. “Three times was too many, huh-”
“No.” Choso interrupts, “No- no, baby. Don’t even think of that.” And he’s so tearful—he’s so apologetic at the fact that he couldn’t…
Cooing, “There’s nothing wrong with that, Cho-”
“I know, but…” And he hesitates, but the words disrupt from his throat anyways. “-something in me says I need to stuff you full of my cum until I can…hck- see your tummy bloat with it. Now.”
Your jaw drops at the sight of your innocent boyfriend uttering such words. Such dirty, dirty words.
And before you know it, you’re laid flatly on your back with Choso’s handsome face looming over you. The air between you two charges with cursed energy once more, and his red-hot cockhead sliiiides between your pussylips.
Blood manipulation leaving him harder than ever.
He hisses, “Th-this time, I promise to you m’gonna cum…”
“Whatever you say, baby.” Arms flinging around his broad shoulders.
♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 21 rounds…?
You most definitely weren’t going to survive, you think.
The Sukuna Estate has been in an uproar; though this time it wasn’t by reason of an attack, a duel, or the King’s torrid temper. Surprisingly. This time, it was because Ryomen Sukuna had returned from a far-off journey - he’d heard some relative of the Kamo Clan was spouting nonsense about being able to match the four-armed sorcerer in terms of cursed energy, and had gone to put that to the test - and he was victorious.
Of course, he was victorious.
There was no time that he wasn’t. In the few years that you’d volunteered yourself as one of Sukuna’s concubines, you’ve never known the King to lose to an argument let alone a duel.
And of course, it must be said that Sukuna had numerous - if not hundreds - of women and men housed in his Estate. None coerced; the accepted concubines were more residents for his reputation, than anything. Stories had spread far and wide that he accepted those searching for pay, food, or simply a place to stay—and no intimate relations were a prerequisite for anything that they wanted. You could come at any time, you could leave at any time.
He’d long since tired of mortal desires.
Except for the ones you stirred up, of course.
The stories of the Kamo sorcerer’s pitiful defeat had also spread far and wide- and it’d been the subject of much laughter in the concubine quarters lately. In addition to the fact that - in his woeful attempt at snagging a win and a name for himself - the opponent had called on the help of several different clans (the Abe, the Zenin, the Fujiwara traitors) to ambush and attack Sukuna.
Though of course they were fallen. As were their men.
And according to the whispers, the death toll had reached the hundreds before Sukuna made his path back home. Back to you…if you were to be so presumptuous.
It wasn’t a secret that you were his favorite- and the ministers of the Estate are coming straight to you to personally announce that the King was nearing. You’re nodding sagely.
You knew what that meant - as it always did after a battle - that Ryomen Sukuna was hungry. The more struck-down opponents, the hungrier. Not for anything to consume or to refresh, but rather a starvation much more carnal and deeper within—the primal taste for flesh against flesh.
You were sitting in perfect poise and your smile hidden as the door to the master bedroom slams! open. The sliding door splinters on one end- and you shiver as you realize that this was going to be one of those nights…he was famished. The King removes his sokutai robes and lets them drop to the tatami floor with a heave, and then his deep footsteps pad over to you.
“Master.” You start to bow-
“You are aware I have a distaste for when you do that.”
Before you’re peeking up at him with a sly grin. “I’m aware. I just like how it riles you up so much, Kuna.”
His second mouth opens in guffaw.
And Sukuna raises one pink brow, “And I expect you are well-hydrated? For this night shall be long and merciless.”
You smile even wider.
.
.
.
One round.
Two.
Three.
Four—
It was just one round after the other. So many and so often; so many vicious slashes of Sukuna’s hips that already made you lose count- again and again. Your hands cascade down his thoroughly-built front to hold on for dear life. The windows were pulled shut, though you could feel the glowing of daylight behind it. The King was laid back against his oak headboard and helping you straddle his hips - your thighs crushed against the muscular, ridged area of his obliques as his cocks drilled into you twofold.
They were one after the other.
Thrust after thrust.
Stacked on top of one another—the upper length was slightly longer than the bottom one. Numerous inches long. Tufts of dark-pink hair. Getting your inner thighs wet with globs of sweet, sweet cum that dribble out every time he’s pulling out-
And then ramming deeply back in again. Ravenous.
He’s been cumming so many times this night—but he still wasn’t done. He was still throbbing at his heavy balls, no matter how many puddles of sap swashed inside of you. He was still rock-hard and running on his monstrous stamina.
So many times that you’re swearing you feel your eyes sprinting to the back of your skull-
“Ah ah-” One of his four hands lifts up to cup your gorgeous face…or so you think. Instead, Sukuna’s straightening his hand out and swatting the side of your face- jolting you back to your senses.
You’re whining as you’re pulled back. Nose crinkling in irritation, you’re looking at him: and oh—was it a sight to behold. Sukuna’s incredible muscles were pumped up to be even bigger n’ bulkier as he manhandled you on top of him, sweat dripped from in-between his pink brows, and his second mouth stuck his tongue out and laps at his cursed lips with them. Before moving to yours…
Fervent moans crack at the back of your throat as Sukuna’s tastebuds glide-glide-gliiiiide along the sensitive inner parts of your thighs. Before spreading apart your pussylips and rolling over your clit.
As you’re shattering on top of him - your nth high coursing through you like a tidal wave - he chuckles. Both greedy mouths. “Not givin’ up so soon, are you, brat? Do not be like all those other humans-” He spits it out like acid, “-I’ve had to defeat today.”
“B-but…” Babbling out stupidly. Your tears stream down your cheeks, your bottom lip quivers as his hips accelerate. “But I am, human—”
“With a distinct difference.” He answers.
A few more merciless strokes and you’ve given up all hope of attempting to meet his pace. His plap-plapping cadence. His hips against yours, causing such a searing sting that makes your spine arch into his sweaty body.
Into his cursed mouth that wraps its unbelievable length around one of your thighs and uses it like a lasso- tugs you closer to him. Like a ragdoll.
The very tip of his tastebuds start ticklin’ at your clit once more, and you’re feeling your body droop limply into Sukuna’s toned front. Your chin rests between his plush pectorals; and he reaches two beefy arms behind you to guide your hips. To perk you up n’ down, up n’ down, up n’ down—
And with a third palm, the King shuts your drivelling maw- “Besides your…slobber, you are above the title of just any human.” Those mean lips of his dip down to whisper into your ear, “You’re my human. And I expect you to be my future Queen- the future mother of my children.”
A fourth and final one of his hands comes down to press on your cumflated tummy. Just the slightest pressure enough to make hot, white seed foam out of your pussy-
“This royal pussy shall have to drink my cum up until we have an heir, yes?”
And you nod- you nod. You’ve spoken on the matter with the King of Curses before - a somewhat surprising occurrence - and both of you knew you wanted this.
Both of you were weakly pushin’ your hips firmly against his to milk out whatever ropey ounces of cum he was giving. He was flooding your insides. More and more; orgasms crashing into one another—Sukuna cums deeply inside you again with both cocks and it still wasn’t enough for him. “B-but how will we ever…oh, how will we know it’s even taken, Kuna?” Sobbing.
You’re looking down and it’s just an utter mess of creamy cum n’ the glossed-over tufts of his pink hair. Both bulbous tips twitching as they rammed inside you-
Sukuna smiles as he answers, “Oh…good question. Heh.” The inches of his tongue probe between your legs once again, though this time you’re feeling the ridges of his tastebuds enter your stuffed hole instead of merely grazing over your cunt. That prickly sensation glues to the back of your throat. “If my counting is correct, this is about the 21st- ah, round.” Looking down at his muscular stomach for confirmation, his cursed mouth squelches! outward and hums in confirmation. “How about…”
“N-ngh—” And you think if you’re about to cum, your body prevents you from it. Too pushed to its limits, you can only whimper and writhe on top of him-
And as you’re cumming with a mere few twitches, Sukuna’s cum seeps something hot and sticky in the back of your cunt. “Human, milk your King until he can’t cum anymore.”
Until he’s cumming dry?!
Your heart races as you wonder just how many more rounds that would take out of you-
Just how much more stamina does the strongest sorcerer of all time have? How much could he possibly—
It’s as though he was expecting a far stronger fight from his sorcerer counterparts, so any and all pressure was being placed on your cunt now. With Sukuna’s driveling tips so hot n’ ruby-red—plummeting and plummeting between your swollen pussylips in search of drenching your pretty cervix white. He empties out a few more beads of pearlescent white before snickering, “Don’t worry too much for your mortality, brat…”
Your eyes flutter open- and he’s pulling you into a deep kiss. Through that, his reverse cursed energy courses through your own faltering body.
“I’ll be done in one more round…two…five…” He murmurs, “Perhaps another twenty-one.”
♡ INO TAKUMA - 3.5 rounds.
“N-no, I promise…” Ino’s hiccuping hitches were just so cute- they interrupted him mid-sentence and made him sound as though he was pleading. “I promise- this time- now-”
“Baby, you don’t have to force it.” You’re cooing gently.
And he all but sobs- “No- no, no no…I promise I’m not too- hck! overstimulated to cum.”
Though…you’re getting the sense that he really was.
Your proud, stubborn boyfriend was on his knees and begging—his chocolate-brown eyes wide, his brows furrowed, his bottom lip quivering in just the slightest way that was just the cherry on top. Ino gasps as he fists his cock even harder, dragging his palm down its left-leaning curve; again and again.
And you’re peering down at the man as he grows more and more frustrated with himself- at the fact that no matter how many times he’s jerkin’ his cock off…he still refused to cum.
Or, at least, he did cum - just without the creamy white mess that’d usually accompany it.
Three (and a half) rounds and Ino was cumming dry. Cumming nothing. With his body kneeled before you, with his mouth hoverin’ over your glistening wet pussy—he’d been making out sloppily with your pussy- all slathered in wads of his seed from rounds prior. Clenching and warm. And it was just the hottest thing he’s ever tasted.
So you really couldn’t blame the guy for pulling on his reddened cock as he did so…but that was precisely when disaster had struck.
When Ino had quirked the edge of his thumb underneath his sopping wet slit - just how you do it - and out came…absolutely nothing. Absolutely nothing and he was devastated—
“I-I don’t understand.” He’s babbling to himself. His gaze flickers between his angry cock and his even angrier hand- not smeared with cum. “I don’t understand, I always…”
Softly placing a hand on his slim shoulder, “Baby, I told you s’okay.”
“But it’s not okay…” Ino mutters, tone practically a pout. He averts his face from your gaze, “I never last the rounds and rounds they do in books. And lately I’ve been going to the gym n’ everything more to increase my stamina, too.”
“Is that why you’ve been buying dumbbells for the house, too?” You laugh, “And here I thought you were on some strange decorating spree.”
He juts his lower lip out, “Don’t make fun of me, sweetness…”
“I’m not, I’m not.” You’re insisting. And without further ado, you’re holding either side of Ino’s sunkissed shoulders and helping him get up, standing his lanky body before you. He’s dragged to your every whim and want; as you’re taking him by the hand and guiding him to the bed- before long you’re laying back in it with Ino hoverin’ above you.
Wrapping your feet around his small waist, you let his blushin’ cockhead kiss your pussylips. He shivers. “Oh, fuck.”
“That’s what I’m doing.” Slyly, you’re letting him ease inside you- your poor boyfriend’s seeing stars at the sudden stimulation. His hips coming down to hammer his cock into you—
But you’re stopping him with a leisurely hand at his hips, shaking your head with a smile as he stares down at you with teary eyes. A plea on his lips- “Now now…” You’re cutting that sweet noise of his off with a tut, spreading your thighs apart even further n’ letting his rotund cock maze its way inside - sloooowly. “Take it easy, Taku. Easy—don’t worry, we’re gonna make you cum this round, m’kay?”
He’s nodding jerkily- uncertainly. “Y-you can really do that, pretty?”
“Of course.” Raising one brow, “Don’t trust me?”
And he’s hastening to shake his head. Urgent and alarmed. “What- no.” And as though to prove this point, Ino leaves his hips at a complete standstill. Painfully so - for him. “No, no—I would n-never not trust you, sweetness. I was just-”
“Shhhh, I know, Taku.” Soothing him. You push away a tuft of chestnut-brown hair from his sweaty forehead, “I know…”
Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, you’re both staring down at the place where you were connected. His throbbing cock. Your glistening wet pussy.
And then you’re breathing out in a tone that’s low and slow—practically hypnotizing him the more of his inches he’s sweepin’ inside. “Just need you to fuck me, baby.”
He’s shuddering as he bottoms out.
Deeeeeep; those inches are red-hot and vein-covered, massaging your walls as he’s sliding in. The crown of his cock is a circumference you could feel at your very throat- and Ino’s head throws back prettily as he’s hittin’ your cervix a few times. “Sh-shit—”
You’re holding back your giggle, “Everything alright, Taku?”
“No- yes.” And after a few more sloppy strokes, he whines. “No…”
Because how could he be? Less than a few minutes ago, he’d been ruttin’ against your calves and cumming dry into his fist. Right now, he was feeling as though the pearly gates of heaven had opened up wiiiiiide between your legs n’ was sucking his soul with every passing second- even the tiniest slurps of your pussy meant his brow was furrowing.
The tips of his ears growing red, “I-it’s just…I feel like m’gonna cum again.” Ino babbles into your mouth- capturing it in a sinful kiss. “And I think m’gonna cum dry-”
“How’d you know if you haven’t done it yet, hm?” You ask, bouncing your hips up to meet his own. The smack-smack-smacking sounds between you two was all but deafening, “C’mon, baby. Cum inside- hah, fill me up again.”
“Shit- now m’really gonna cum soon…” He’s echoing out desperately. Pelvis rammin’ into yours- and it was already torturous enough for his aching shaft - pistoning deeper and deeper - without your body greedily pushing up into his.
And he feels his heart race as the grin stretches across your face, “Good.” Kissing the soft nape of his neck, it makes his tip ooze out just a little more milky drops of precum. They glue to the pulsating area of your g-spot. “Because I really, really—mmpf.”
And before you know it, your sorcerer boyfriend has reached behind you and clasped- at the discarded ski mask that he was usually known to make.
The soft, fluffy cotton of it glues your mouth shut.
Muffling your lewd words to the back of your throat - you don’t have a chance to get out whatever it is you wanted to say. Whatever it is you knew would drive him over the edge.
And yet, Ino Takuma was still completely and utterly ruined as he punctures his ravenous cock between your legs-
Over and over and over.
“Oh- ngh.” The cutest little whimper leaves his throat, and Ino turns his big, tearful eyes towards you. “O-ohhh, please…sweetness, m’really not joking. M’really gonna cum this time.”
“Mmmm—” Nodding fervently.
“I swear m’gonna do it.” Kissing your forehead in apology for the gag- though he could feel just how wet you were getting between your legs. The sheen of your slick soaks his pelvis, his v-line, and the upper parts of his own thighs. Burned slightly red with constant. “I s-swear m’gonna cum.”
“Do it-” You just barely manage out. Before getting cut off- with both the ski mask being pushed deeper into your mouth, and the squeeze of Ino’s slender fingers on your clit.
Making you see stars-
Toes curling. Back arching. As though a feverish sensation is taking over your body, making your skin perspire and your head throw into the pillows.
And just as your orgasm rages through you, Ino’s does, too.
This time…he’s pumping and pumping his ruddied cock—dragging the luscious curve of it across every single sensitive spot and dip. Those bundles of nerves that he was mapping out. And it’s as if Ino was trying to milk himself - to drag out the wetness of his orgasm if it kills him.
And luckily for him, he doesn’t cum dry.
Somewhat.
He’s beading out a single drop of seed that gets pushed right to the back of your womb- smeared by the rotund curve of his tip.
And then Ino looks at you with watery, content eyes. “I-I did it, sweetness.”
“That you did, Taku.”
“D’you think I can cum again?”
♡ GOJO SATORU - INFINITY.
“Honey, I’m home~”
Which would have been a completely ordinary greeting from your husband, of course. Which would never have made you think twice before you opened the door for him, of course.
Except…there was one little issue.
The Gojo Satoru you’re married to was wide-eyed and crazed on your television screen; Mei Mei’s livestream of the Shinjuku Showdown was playing in 4K on your 115-inch TV. And from your standstill in front of the locked door, you could still see your husband’s black t-shirt starting to tear through once he increases his Hollow Purple to 200% and bursts it right in the direction of Ryomen Sukuna—or more like…the Ryomen Sukuna that was inhabiting the body of your honorary son.
But that was semantics. Or so you liked to think to keep yourself sane in here.
It had been Professor Yaga’s idea to keep you home whilst the battle raged on - there was no telling where the King of Curses would go or attack to gain an upper hand on his opponents. Evil never fought fair. And it was here - in the humble…but not-so-humble abode of your’s and Gojo’s penthouse apartment - that he’d cast the strongest veils.
Talismans and protective omens from far and wide. Around the world.
Over the years, Gojo had taken it upon himself to make your house the safest place in the world - a home for his home—you. He knew the burden that came with being loved by The Strongest, and this was the one thing he could do to alleviate it.
And it was perfect.
But there’d be no home here without your husband. And your stomach twists as you watch the white-haired sorcerer break out in a grin when his compression shirt gets completely torn and his throat nearly slashed.
Sweat glimmers across his defined muscles, and you’re finding it so hard to look away. The battle was reaching a climax- you could tell by the wild look in Gojo’s eyes.
A blur of movements and another explosion of candescent purple-
And then the door clicks! open.
This can’t be.
Surely, this can’t be.
Gojo was still on-screen.
Gojo was crouching over the King’s chosen vessel and watching as the marked tattoos disappear from what is now - and hopefully forevermore - just…Megumi’s face. He seems to be sleeping peacefully, and the victorious sorcerer on-screen presses two fingers to the poor boy’s pulse.
Brows furrowed in concentration- or concern?
Before a brilliant smile breaks out across Gojo’s face- and he nods to some of the others off-screen. Then you’re seeing the livestream falter on a sudden rush of white coats and stretches, a few of the paramedics reaching for your wounded husband as well—
Before you blink and he disappears. The only evidence of ever existing at the Shinjuku site being the bewildered faces of the doctors- and you.
And the fact that that very same Gojo Satoru was before you know.
Chest heaving. Those cloud-white tufts of his hair were messy - a far cry from his usual updo.
And his eyes…oh, his eyes were harrowed.
Empty. Unfocused. As though his mind was still in the midst of battle- though his body’s natural instinct was to come to you. And though power still radiated off of him in waves, it’s nothing of the calm river of coldness that normally layered his body. This was a torrential rain—drenching your living room, drenching the entire apartment.
Pure uninhabited cursed energy; the dam had broken now. The very space he enters drops a few degrees in temperature.
The very same man you’d kissed goodbye before his battle- now with a simple layer of debris and dust covering him. It left him almost ghost-pale, and you wanted to brush it off as though discarding such an omen - he’d won.
With nothing but a few cuts on his brows and his lip, some already healing across his arms, he’d won. And he was standing right before you.
Unsteady on his feet.
He slowly raises his eyes to the livestream behind you and comments, “Ah- that’s a little delayed.” And then his gaze drops down to you - finally, finally drops down to you - and he breaks out into a smile.
Brighter than any sun.
Gojo had escaped the arms of death and run straight to you.
.
.
.
“Mmmm-mmpfg—” The blindfold muffles your mouth perfectly - which should be ironic, considering that all Gojo was thinking about during that damn battle was hearing your voice. At least one last time.
One last time.
And perhaps then, he could pass…peacefully.
But he hadn’t; for who could be stupid enough to underestimate Gojo Satoru? Especially not Gojo Satoru himself. And so here he was: with his hot blindfold gift-wrapping your mouth, and his cock drivelling into you like he was a machine—
In the lewdest doggy position possible; and you only wanted more.
Unable to vocalize, you’re fisting at the sheets- then behind at Gojo’s toned body. Clawing at those rippling obliques of his to try and draw him even further forwards. “M-more…mmmpfore.”
Forwards and forwards.
Even deeper in.
The sudden change in angle makes Gojo’s puckered tip kiss up at your g-spot - even harder than before. And by now you’ve memorized the exact length n’ circumference of him—the exact measurements that were swabbin’ aside your wettened walls and tumbling into every spot you loved so much.
He knew every single one. Every single one.
And he was welcoming himself back- he was making sure you’d never forget him again and again and again—
Gojo’s long since lost track of time- and he doesn’t care. Hours could have passed, days could have passed - but the only thing that really mattered to him was finally having his hands on you—and his cock glued to the back of your pussy.
It was almost concerning how many times he’d stuffed your greedy orifice full - and yet, still kept on cumming. Cumming so long and hot inside you.
“Oh…mmm.” Moans muffled. Lashes flickering shut. And your hamstrings ache with fatigue he couldn’t feel because of his training - the man had just fought history’s strongest sorcerer, for heaven’s sake.
And yet, Gojo wasn’t feeling the slightest bit of lethargy as he loops one forearm underneath your hips and scoops your droopin’ hips back up. Plastering them against his own. Sweat and slick sizzles between your clashing bodies—and Gojo’s voice cracks just a little as he asks. “More…?” Breathless. Higher than usual. Your husband’s eyes were wide and piercing- begging you for an answer.
His red-hot tip was just so ready to explode, and that syrupy white cum was already beginning to drivel out. To smear. To stuff inside. “T-tell me what you want, sweetheart.” He gusts his breath down your spine; absolutely scorching. “Is it more—?”
“It’s more- it’s more-” Sometimes, you wonder if he could read minds. And at the state that Gojo was in right now - you wouldn’t be surprised. Just barely, you’re managing to utter coherent words through those merciless restraints, and oh, how he loved watching you gagging on his blindfold.
Filthy.
Tears flooding your gorgeous eyes. Your spittle cascading down in two streams- either side of your mouth.
Hot cum spills between your legs, and you’re still begging for more.
Hah…Gojo can’t help but plant a loving peck on the side of your messy face. Humming, “Then m’gonna give you more.”
“Yes—” Nodding, you plant your hands on the patch of mattress before you. Attempting to haul yourself up just a lil’ so that you could at least try and match his ramming pace-
“Nuh uh, sweetheart.” Had this been anyone but Gojo, then you would’ve found that smug tone of his oh-so-irritating. Just then, Gojo’s leaning his hefty weight over and pinning you down even further onto the mattress—rubbin’ his blossomed cockhead across every inch of your cunt.
You’re getting cut off mid-gasp.
You’re fucking collapsing. And Gojo’s just colliding into you from behind.
Tangled up into such a mess; he’s drunkenly buckling on top of you and crashin’ and crashin’ his hips into you from above. Nose-deep into the crook of your neck. Mouth parted with constant sensual grooooans—“Wh-whatever my wife wants…” He’s easily massaging your g-spot back and forth a few times, and then pulling all the way out with a resounding pop! “-your husband- The Strongest is gonna get it for you.”
“Yes- yes, Toru…”
“M’serious.” He says in a jagged tone. “You wanted more?” The sudden confrontation of his words make you startle- and you’re giving him a quick nod. To which Gojo runs his buzzing fingertips between the sopping crevice of your folds, “Then m’gonna give you more. Hah, careful not to squeeze too tight.”
At that exact moment, you feel the air…stiffen around the two of you.
It was the same sort of tension you’d felt when Gojo had first entered the apartment: the presence of the world’s most powerful cursed energy. It coiled around your bodies and set your skin alight- before focusing on one particular spot—
Shockwaves run up your spine. And your husband reaches down to pat your stuffed pussy- “Unlimited void.”
You freeze. “M-mmpmf…?” You’ve already talked about such uses of Gojo’s powers with him before - you just didn’t expect it now—but you sure as hell weren’t complaining.
It seems as though Gojo’s cursed energy was coursing through every axiom of him and supercharging it - he didn’t control it. You didn’t know if he could. It was seeping from his body into yours, and turning your slick channel into…that. Whatever it was. Something he could reel his hips back from and rut n’ rut and rut - without it ever getting stuffed too full.
Instantly - and because of the overuse of his powers - Gojo’s feeling his warm tip dribbles out a few more ropes of cum.
And it’s almost like a…challenge at this point: just to see whether he could properly fill that gaping hole of yours. Gojo’s catching his pretty rose-pink lip between his teeth when he gazes down between those tremblin’ legs, “Fuck- see?” Voice growing more ragged by the second, “See—?”
Nodding and nodding.
“Th-this pussy wanted more, and n-now she’ll never get full. Now she’s flooded with me right down to the womb-” Pressing his second palm on top of your stomach. “-and she still wants more. Hungry girl. Now she can take so much more that- hngh.” Getting cut off with a ruinous moan himself - he’s pumping out pearlescent webs once more. Another orgasm.
“That?” You’re choking out.
Breathed between clenched teeth, “That you’re gonna milk The Strongest dry, sweetheart.”
“O-oh…” A jolt of pleasure runs through your body at the notion- or maybe it was just Gojo’s slender fingers tightly grasping your clit. Those digits of his were coated in so much thrumming cursed energy that it drove you mad—“Is that even possible?” That expensive blindfold finally loosens its restraint ‘round your mouth, the constant jostling to and fro causing it to unravel.
“Hmmmm?” Jackhammering hips. Interest piqued. Bolts of lightning shooting from the edges of his eyes as he smiles.
Again and again and again, his shaft scours your insides and stirs every sweet spot up. “I just mean-” Making you feel lightheaded. “How many rounds has it- oh, already been? Are we even sure you can cum dry, Toru?”
“Dunno.” He answers, and your jaw drops.
Just then, you’re sure that he’s hit with another orgasm—and you are, too.
Yours starts out in-between your legs with a sudden twitch- before suddenly the pleasure’s setting your body alight. Your heartbeat thrums in your ears, and Gojo’s humming softly to himself as he fucks you through it.
As he’s letting a few sloppy draaaags out before gritting his pearly-whites and dropping his head forwards. Deeper into the crook of your neck; Gojo lets out moan after moan as he dribbles out squelchin’ cum for the nth time tonight.
One after the other.
Loooong and luxurious. Those satiny ropes are emptied out into the deepest depths of your channel, and he was so thoroughly overstimulated by the charged euphoria that he sobs-
And a lightbulb bursts in the distance.
“M’not cumming dry yet.” Gojo’s heavy balls twitch once he’s plasterin’ them to the forefront of your pussylips. And you can feel them swelling and throbbing after every trickle- “But we have the whole night for that, don’t we?”
“Night? I think s’been days.” You retort, sneaking a glance at the daylight-shimmered curtains.
“Ah, semantics~”
♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - 5 rounds.
“I just don’t understand, angel.” Higuruma leans back in his faux leather-bound chair and sighs, his gold-tipped pen coming to tap between his eyebrows as though searching for some button hidden in there - one that would preferably jumpstart the rest of him into normalcy. He continues, “This Fujiwara case has just made me lose all my stamina.”
Because it’s always a long, hard day in the courtroom.
And Higuruma Hiromi knows that - he’s the best defense lawyer Tokyo ever did see. There’s a reason he graduated at the top of his batch, there’s a reason he started his own law firm at around half the age that most of his colleagues do.
There’s a reason that Higuruma Hiromi, criminal defense attorney, makes the tension in courtrooms thicken until they’re almost stifling the second he walks through those polished pews.
But this case…
It was the usual- some poor sap blamed for a white-collar crime that he clearly didn’t do. And though Higuruma had half the brain to eye his bosses strangely, the nature of this case also meant that the prosecuting team was the best of the best—being that they knew how to twist their words.
And Higuruma was left haggard after a single session. Not that he didn’t think he stood a chance - he knows he does, he knows that guy’s getting out scot-free after this - but it’s just that…he had to do this for months.
He had to walk into the courtroom and feel his mind becoming more n’ more fossilized by the second- that damn prosecuting team was abhorrent.
And so here he was.
11:41PM. Cooped up in his office room at home; Higuruma was slumped down at his desk, whilst you stood concerned beside him. As he lets out another prolonged sigh, you’re stepping behind the chair and starting to massaging his firm shoulders - surely knotted to hell and back.
Higuruma shoots you a grateful smile, “It’s awful. I had to sit there and try not to throw my chair at those prosectors for-”
“Five hours.” You’re finishing his sentence.
He’s gazing up at you lovingly, “And even for lawyers they’re insufferable- and that’s coming from me.”
You’re furrowing your brows in humor, “Hey—you’re only half-insufferable.”
That makes him let out a laugh, “But I’m telling you, angel-” And almost as quickly as it came, it disappears. Higuruma’s pinching the bridge of his handsome nose for the nth time this night, “I’m not at that age just yet, but it seems I must work on my stamina. Today was absolute hell.”
“Five hours, huh?” Even saying it out loud made you feel weary, “Y’know how long that’s about?”
“Hm?” He looks at you, “How long?”
Leaning down to whisper in his ear, “That’s about as long as a…” And even before you’re saying the words, you’re sensing the goosebumps that skitter down Higuruma’s neck and even further down his collar. Just how far…you wonder. “-marathon that we have, hm, Hiromi?”
“Yes…” He breathes out. Long, dark lashes nearly shuttering.
He’s been so caught up with that damn case lately- so caught up, he hasn’t had enough time to spend with you. And just the mere mention of it…of being between those pretty legs n’ fucking you for hours and hours is enough to leave him a little heated.
And Higuruma’s meeting your eyes like two magnets that have finally met- first, his lips are on your neck. Then he’s tugging you onto his lap.
.
.
.
“Yes—” Higuruma hisses out- voice pitched into a tone so utterly unlike him. Something so botched in his words, something so ruined—
He’s been fucking your perfect cunt for hours now, and was showing no signs of stopping.
Your attorney husband has a steadfast hold on your hips; from the luxurious chair you’ve moved onto the edge of his desk. Pressed on your front over the mahogany table, hands clawing out haplessly in front of you, ass archin’ up into his vicious thrusts.
The skin ‘round Higuruma’s pelvis has turned red by this point, and he was hissing between his teeth every time his hips came in contact with yours—smack!
So hard that you’re flinching just a little bit.
And that makes a few streams of cum dribble out from between your clenched pussylips- the pure-white sheen of it coating your thighs. Higuruma doesn’t let a single sweet ounce of it go to waste before he’s snaking a hand down and thumbin’ off just a few drops.
And then you’re finding it stuffed between your lips- “M-mmmm…” Your tears form a lacquer down your cheeks, “Hiromi, you’re so filthy.”
“You married me for it, didn’t you?” He grins. Head tipping back just a little once you’re clenching your sopping wet walls in confirmation, “F-fuck, ngh—keep doing that. Just a little tighter, sugar.” And if you were in any clearer of a state of mind, then you’d have noticed that his husky tone was cracking—voice breaking at the tail end of his sentence.
Higuruma was feeling his sanity drip away every time he entered your pussy- but so were you.
You moan, “Need more-”
He pats at your pussy adoringly, feeling the wetness of your slick mixed with his clingy white cum. “More, huh? Sure you can handle it, angel?” Darting a look at the clock, “We’re already on…a few hours. Round five.”
Nodding and nodding.
And you’re all but keening for more as you feel him edge his ravenous cock away - just a few inches. It honestly wasn’t even a movement that should impact the sheer carnal streeeeetch he was bestowing upon you.
But with your needy senses, you’re turning your head over your shoulder. About to mouth off to your husband about pulling away when you were hungry for him the most when-
When you’re seeing that he’d been reaching for that scrap of fabric thrown over his chair.
A stray discardment in the heat of the moment earlier.
His tie.
Your restraints now.
Because in a split-second, Higuruma loops the jet-black fabric around your dangling wrists. It doesn’t take him long to fasten it and tighten it—testing it just by giving it a little pull- he finds himself grinning as your body’s able to be lifted and moved ‘round just by this.
Perfect.
The semi-coarse cloth was strangely sensual against your skin- almost biting.
Higuruma himself leans down to give a small nip at your right shoulder, before he’s leaning back and hauling you—inches off the table. Two hands clasped around your wrists, the cold hiss of his wedding ring matching yours, the red, rotund head of his cock swipin’ inwards and making your walls bulge with the size of him. “O-oh, fuuuuuck-”
His dribbling divot navigates straight to the bottom of your pussy. “Yeah- yeahhhhh, you’ve got this.” Higuruma whispers as your orgasm wracks through you - and his own fifth one was nearing ever-closer. “You can take it. You can take me-”
“Should I be concerned about the- ngh, amount of space I have left?” In unison, you’re snapping your head down at the area between your legs. Limp.
“Concerned?”
Cum was seeping out of you in what looked like bucketloads- in all the physical stamina that Higuruma was determined to prove that he still has. And he sure does - or at least your thoroughly-stuffed pussy seemed to think so - but your husband was still pumping away even harder.
Rougher.
Splatterin’ patterns of syrupy sap on your skin- where contact was being made constantly. Higuruma laps at the gentle leaking with his thumb once more, “Sugar, this pussy was made to take my cum.”
Manhandling you backwards using the restraint of his tie, and slammin’ a final French kiss into the back of your cervix. You feel him start to twitch—in the way that Higuruma always does before he’s about to coat your walls with a layer of cum. “I-inside…” You whine. “All of it- inside.”
“Mhmmm, your husband has you, angel.” And then he’s holding you close-
Tip thickening at the very flared edge, the crown of it, he’s pouring out a few glittery ropes of…nothing. Absolutely nothing. Higuruma’s dark eyes shoot open as it sinks in: he was cumming in every way, shape, sensation, and form—except for the absence of cum. The absence of gooey white cum seeping out his shaft- and he’s feeling it.
But he isn’t drenching your pussy in the way he’s expected to.
And Higuruma seethes- “Angel, I…” Lower lip trembling as he takes in the cum that’d frothed out of you and was now being pushed back, “I-I believe I didn’t-”
“Hiromi, did you cum dry—?” Wonderment seeps into your tone. “I didn’t even know you could do that-”
“I didn’t, either.” There was something akin to…disappointment in his tone. Something akin to sadness, something akin to determination- “I can’t believe I…angel, my stamina is fucked-”
“Baby, you just went five rounds without stopping-”
“And if I don’t cum on the sixth…” That ruby-red tip rubs up against your g-spot, ready to splurge out cum at least this time.
It’s no secret that Satoru loves watching you squirm—hips writhing, tears glistening, legs twitching. He adores those high pitched sounds you make when you’re overwhelmed, delicate hands trying to push him away when he fucks you a little too deep.
So now he wonders…
How loud would you scream if he added some toys to the mix?
“No, no, no-“ you’re begging, tummy tensing and hips bucking as Satoru brings the wand back up to your already overstimulated clit. “I can’t, Toru!”
“Oh, come on, angel-“ he rolls his hips, smooching your cervix with his leaky tip to make you squeal. “You’re not tapping out already, are you?” he mocks you, turning the vibrations back on-
“Fuck!” you’re crying, legs kicking and hands smacking Satoru’s abs in an attempt to save yourself from another tortuous orgasm. “Too much- I c-can’tttt-“
“I don’t care, baby.” his voice is sickeningly sweet, sapphire eyes crazed as he watches you with a twisted satisfaction. “Gimme another one-“ he grunts, hips settling back into a slow rhythm—he hits that pleasurable spot deep inside you with cruel precision every time.
“Feels- ngh- different!” the pleasure-pain that courses through your veins is intoxicating—you can feel every painful buzz on your overly sensitive clit, your tummy contracting every time he hits the very back of your abused cunt.
“You can do it, princess-“ Satoru chuckles, leaning over you to plant wet kisses on your tear-stained cheeks. “Just relaxxx and let it happen, hun.”
“Please-!” you squeal, not sure if you're asking for more or for it to end—your entire body jerks, once, twice-
“Fuckkk, baby.” Satoru groans, hips stuttering as you squeeze him so tight. Clear liquid comes out in spurts, soaking his pelvis and the bedsheets as your cunt visibly pulses.
You let out broken moans as Satoru fucks you through your orgasm—pathetic gushes of your squirt slowly decreasing in amount.
“No more- can’t-“ the bliss of your orgasm dulls into a full body ache—your hands pull at the forearm holding the wand, trying to pry it off. “Toru- it hurtsss-“ you sob, feet kicking as his body weight remains pinning you down.
“Shhh- s’okay, angel-“ he coos, finally pulling the nightmare of a device off your swollen nub and turning it off. “Did sooo good-“ he pecks your quivering lips, holding you close as your body tremors.
“How many times was that?” Satoru laughs, still balls deep inside of you. “Felt like a new record for you, babe.” he gives the side of your hips a few smacks, urging you to speak.
“Dunno.” you whisper, falling limp against the messy sheets.
“Hey-“ he smacks your hip again. “I’m proud of you, princess.”
CHOSO KAMO ~ SOMNOPHILIA
Choso and yourself had a conversation not too long ago—about your boyfriend’s tendency to need sex all the time, that is. Before the two of you got together, your previous partners had a hard time keeping up with your libido. But ever since you met Choso, your sex drive has been put to shame.
To solve this…issue, you had given Choso the green light to use you when you’re asleep—in the event that you’re too tired, at least.
You’re softly snoring when Choso enters the room, his dick straining against his jeans as he stalks towards the bed. He had a hard day, but he was even harder—he couldn’t stop thinking about your voice, your silky hair, the dip of your waist, your hips-
Your pussy.
He gently pulls the covers from your form, only to find you naked—nipples peaked, legs spread, cunt glistening just for him. “God damn, sweetheart.” he mumbles, unbuckling his studded belt and taking his sweat scented shirt off (yum).
His fingers explore you tentatively, soft brushes across your nipples all the way down to your bare mound. You don’t stir, breaths remaining stable as he collects your slick—bringing it up to his gaping mouth for a greedy taste.
Choso climbs on top of you, making a place for himself between your legs. He crowds you, nuzzling his nose in the crook of your neck and inhaling your scent like a dog. “Mfmm- missed you, love.” he gets a sleepy snore in response, a giggle escapes his throat before his hands return to groping you.
He frees his cock from the confines of his boxers and starts grinding in the wetness of your pussy lips—his leaky tip painting your clit with glossy pre. “Been waiting to fuck you all day, pretty-“ he licks a hot stripe up the side of your neck, lining himself up and pushing in-
“Cho?” you whimper, blinking the sleep from your eyes as you’re fucked open.
“Shh- just me, sweetheart-“ he bottoms out with a sigh of relief, planting a wet smooch on your lips and squeezing your plump tits. “Go back to sleep-“ he murmurs, his deep voice soothing you.
“M’kay-“ you’re far too tired to be bothered by the fullness of your cunt—you’ve grown accustomed to the feeling, so much so that it lulls you back to sleep.
“Sooo good for me.” Choso chokes back a whimper, gently thrusting in and out of your warmth. It doesn’t take him long to paint your insides with his sticky cum—with the tension of the day, the simple wet, heat of your pussy is enough for him to drown in pleasure.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” he whispers fondly as he pulls out, covering your relaxed body with kisses while he waits for his release to leak out of you.
Choso makes sure to snap a picture of that precious creampie before cleaning you up and snuggling next to his beloved girlfriend.
He’ll probably fuck you in the morning too.
TOJI FUSHIGURO ~ ANAL
“How does that feel, doll?” Toji grunts, your little pucker is squeezing him unbelievably tight—your body weight resting on his chest and legs pulled up, up, up in a full nelson-
After about a week of working you up with his fingers, Toji came to the conclusion that you were ready for his dick. Although, given how big he is, your smallest hole still wasn't fully prepared for the intense stretch.
“Feels weird-“ you’ve never felt so full yet so empty in your life—the sensation is similar…but like it’s happening next door, making your cunt clench around nothing. You let out a choked gasp when he shifts just a little bit- “Fuck- ngh- too deep-“
“Gotta let loose, doll-“ he snakes a large hand down your front, nibbling and licking your ear before making contact with your glistening pussy. “Can’t- mfm- tense like that.” he rubs your clit in slow circles, occasionally dipping down to your hole and collecting more slick.
“Haaa-“ you let out a breathy moan, trying your best not to close your legs around the stimulation—not that you really could, given that they’re being forced open by Toji’s arms. “Feels good-“
“Yeahh it does, doll-“ Toji thrusts his hips justtt a tad, experimenting with your limits. You yelp, head falling limp on his shoulder—your back arches off of his abs, inadvertently taking his cock even further into your ass. “Told you it’d feel nice, heh-“
“Want more-“ you whine, the pressure feels amazing, the heavy weight of him seated deep inside of you makes you wish you had agreed to this sooner.
“More?” Toji huffs a laugh. “You’re just perfect, aren’t ya?” the hand on your clit sneaks lower, two girthy fingers slide inside of your neglected cunt and curl-
“Ohhh my god-“ Toji’s hips settle in a slow, shallow pace, keeping you nice and stuffed while he fingers you with fervor—audible squelches and loud cries fill your once quiet bedroom.
“Yeahh- you like getting your pretty little holes stuffed, huh?” the heel of his palm grinds against your clit with every single prod of his fingers to that spongy spot inside your pussy—you swear you can feel his dick rubbing against his digits through the separating wall with every thrust-
“Gonna cum!” you squeal, body thrashing in Toji’s hold as the most intense orgasm you’ve ever felt builds to a peak-
“Good fuckin’ girl-“
Toji had never expected his girlfriend—the one who wouldn’t even let him eat her ass a few weeks ago—would turn into such an anal slut. As of recently, that’s all you’ll ever ask him for: to be fucked in the ass while he plays with your pretty pussy.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t love it.
SUGURU GETO ~ SHIBARI
Suguru loves being in control—he adores seeing you on your knees, eyes wide, as you wait for him to give you a command. So safe to say you weren’t surprised when he started tying you up during sex.
It started with just him holding your wrists, keeping you where he wanted you. Then he upgraded to handcuffs, some simple knots with silk, maybe a belt-
But nothing compares to how he has you right now.
“Too tight, gorgeous?” he asks, tying the last of many delicately woven knots. You watch his veined hands tug at the rope intently, your slick dripping down the crevice of your ass no doubt.
“A little.” you admit, unable to move your limbs—your legs are spread wide, knees forcibly bent from the rope that binds your calves to your thighs, heels flush to your ass. Your hands are tied to your sides, breasts framed tightly with the same rope that circles your spine and shoulders.
It’s an art form, no denying that, but it is a little uncomfortable. You know it shouldn’t be, but Suguru enjoys leaving marks on you.
“Good.” he purrs, walking around the bed until he’s standing next to your head. “Open up, baby.” he taps your cheek, thick cock hanging over your face with a fox-like grin plastered across his features.
Suguru slides into your willing mouth with a groan, hungry eyes wandering over his handiwork. “You’re so beautiful like this-“ one of his hands buries in your hair while the other caresses your tied body. “Pliant and unable to squirm-“ he pinches your nipple, hard-
“Mfmm!” you whine around his dick—Suguru is fucking your throat, holding your head still by your scalp. Electricity shoots straight down to your clit every time a groan slips past his lips, your cheeks are hollowed, desperate to please.
“You’re so wet, gorgeous.” his hand snakes down to your cunt, collecting the obscene amount of slick and bringing it up to your clit. “I’d almost think you could- ngh- cum from me fucking your mouth alone.” Suguru laughs, grip in your hair tightening.
“Mhmm!” you try to nod but he keeps you still, hitting the back of your throat to make you gag—there’s a mix of your spit and Suguru’s pre dripping down your chin, but you can’t bring yourself to care when he finally starts rubbing your neglected clit.
“Such a dirty girl-“ he pulls his cock from your mouth with a wet pop, using the concoction of fluids to gloss your lips. “You like being tied up, huh?”
“Yes.”
RYOMEN SUKUNA ~ EXHIBITIONISM
The King of Curses is an avid enjoyer of your humiliation—he loves watching the embarrassed flush rise to his favorite whore’s face when he tells you to kneel in a room full of people.
It started with you being forced to feed him fruit while he’s sat on his throne, then he made you do it naked, and now-
“Tsk- eyes on them, brat.” he tuts, one of many hands grabbing your face and forcing it forward.
It was about that time of the year that Sukuna had people from each of the villages bring him offerings to save themselves from an inevitable slaughter—only today, he yearned to put on a show it seems.
“Look at those scum while I take you-“ he pulls you back down on his cocks, forced so deep in your holes you swear you’ll burst. “Show them how generous I am.” an evil cackle radiates throughout the main room of the shrine, a wide crowd of eyes trained on the obscene display in front of them.
If it weren’t for Sukuna’s prior threat of decapitation, you’re sure they all would’ve scrambled out the ornate doors over an hour ago.
“So generous- nghh- Kuna!” your whines bounce off the walls, along with the squelching of your slick. Your legs are spread wide, draping across the armrests with your stuffed cunt and ass on full display for the unwilling audience.
“Such a good cocksleeve aren’t you, my dear?” he croons into your ear from behind, huge arms maneuvering you up and down, down, down his monstrous dicks. It’s brutal—you’ve cum multiple times already, the evidence dripping down your ass and onto the ground beneath you.
“Mhmm!” you nod profusely, another orgasm already worming its way into your belly. You unfortunately lock eyes with a frightened woman as your body starts to convulse—a torturous stream of squirt sprays with every pound-
“That’s right, brat-“ Sukuna grunts, his grip on your face bruising. “Show them how good I make whores like you feel, heh-“ his many eyes roam the crowd, making sure they’re all still watching until-
Screaming.
Blood splatters across your face as someone close loses their head—an almost equally disgusting display as to what’s happening on the throne.
[ SERIES SYNOPSIS ] — it was obvious when this started, it was simply a mutual understanding between two horny college students — with very high libidos, and didn’t want any random stds — that this was purely a sexual relationship only. and yet, both of you are unintentionally toeing the line between that and something else. [ frat!kuna fwb series ]
[ TAGS ] — MDNI. 18+ nsfw. contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. angst. friends with benefits. toxic frat culture. hazing. fraternity/sororities. hurt/comfort. hurt/no comfort. SLOW BURN. fluff. spit. ráw. rough. heavy spanking. degradation. dacryphilia. slight exhibitionisim. pda. soft sukuna. choso + yuuji r his younger brothers. every position. heavy creampies. violence. depression/anxiety. anger issues. squirting. cockwarming. alcohol. family death. family trauma. reader slightly oc. sukuna is a football (soccer) player too. HAPPY ENDING. tags will be updated as series continues.
✮ ch 1 || how it all started ✮ ch 2 || miss me already?
✮ ch 3 || call me ✮ ch 4 || two worlds
✮ ch 5 || conditions ✮ ch 6 || cracks
✮ ch 7 || tbd ✮ ch 8 || tbd
✮ ch 9 || tbd ✮ ch 10 || tbd
✮ ch 11 || tbd ✮ ch 12 || tbd
✮ pt 1 — sukuna is starting to toe the line
✮ pt 2 — you’re desperate to prove this is just sex
✮ pt 3 — cockwarming him for the first time
✮ pt 4 — sukuna’s brothers visit unexpectedly
✮ pt 5 — pregnancy scare with sukuna
✮ pt 6 — sukuna has a stash of naked polaroids of you
✮ pt 7 — halloween special: scare actor!sukuna
✮ pt 8 — sukuna’s noticeable bulge at the gym
✮ pt 9 — high stakes no nut november edition
✮ pt 10 — holiday special: grinch!kuna naughty or nice
✮ pt 11 — sukuna leaves his door open when you’re over
✮ pt 12 — tbd
✮ visuals ✮ bts lore ✮ playlist ♪ ✮ tiktok tag ✮
✮ pinterest board ✮ ask tag ✮ main masterlist ✮ ao3 ✮
[ INFO ] : the chapters are the actual series. it begins mid-spring semester JUNIOR year. the parts exist in the same story, but as stand alone canon oneshots and will not be mentioned in the chapters. they take place between sept-nov fall semester of their SENIOR year [parts and chps can be read separately]
THERE IS NO SERIES TAGLIST ✦ age should be visible on your blog — (art: @/xhealer_ tiktok, dividers: @/lariesographic )
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁ 18+ | roommates!stsg jerking off to the thought of you (more roommates!stsg here)
“god, i'm so fucking horny,” satoru groans softly, manspreading on the sofa with his head tipped back, elbows leaning on the same edge.
suguru’s sitting next to him, scrolling on his phone before he shortly pauses, making sure he heard satoru correctly. he then looks up at his best friend, a somewhat disturbed look on his face.
“why are you telling me? go get laid or something.”
satoru lifts his head to look at suguru, too, almost incredulously. “i haven't touched any other girls since our cute roommate… it's a shame she went back to visit her family,” he sighs heavily, feeling a stir in his cock simply from the thought of you.
“are you in love with her now?” suguru asks teasingly, lifting a single brow in satoru's direction.
“what? no. fuck, i don't know, i'm too horny to think about it right now,” satoru huffs. “besides, don't think i didn't hear you in the shower earlier, moaning her name and shit. god, that's making me hard too,” he groans again, beginning to palm himself through his sweats, letting his eyes drift shut and picturing you.
imagining your hand wrapped around his cock, just as eager as him, stroking him at the perfect pace that he showed you he liked. imagining the way you'd spit on the tip and let it dribble down, easing the glide of your hand.
“fuck…” he whispers, so caught up in his fantasy, stroking his length through the thick fabric of his sweats.
but suguru's voice cuts through, snapping him out of his thoughts. “get a room, satoru,” he scowls. “you're a fucking freak, you know that?”
“yeah, yeah, tell me something new.”
satoru opens his eyes and looks over at suguru, his gaze skirting down to see the growing bulge in suguru's own pants. he smirks, blue eyes flicking back up to meet purple.
“i'm not the only freak here, huh?”
suguru rolls his eyes, making no move to relieve himself and trying to focus back on his phone. key word: trying.
neither of them has fucked you yet, but the hold you have on them is strong. their pretty roommate who’s as perverted as they are, fooling around together and going back to normal the next day. sharing heated looks, hungry eyes raking over each other’s bodies.
but, to their dismay, you went back home to see your family for the weekend. it’s barely been two days and they both already itch to be able to touch you again.
“at least i have the decency to jerk off in private.”
“unfortunately for me, that's true,” satoru sighs playfully. then, he laughs when suguru gives him another questioning look. “what? god forbid a guy appreciates a good view.”
and, oh, what a view it truly is.
while satoru was frantic and desperate as he fisted his cock, pulling ragged pants and deep moans from his chest, suguru took his time.
slowly pumping his thick cock, pulsing his palm around it gently, teasing his tip with his thumb where precum beads out. eliciting a shuddering breath out of him when he drags his thumb across the wet slit. the same way you’d run your tongue over it.
he focuses on the flustered head, tugging and squeezing, imagining the way you lather your tongue all over it and hollow your cheeks out. solely to ruin him.
“fuck, that's good,” he groans, voice hushed as if he's praising you while you’re right in front of him.
satoru's heady gaze keeps drifting over to suguru, watching suguru's pretty fingers wrapped tightly around himself. precum dribbling over his knuckles, the pretty vein on the underside throbbing with need, and of course, the ladder piercings that draw husky groans from suguru.
satoru spits onto his cock, using the glide of his hand to make it slick with his own saliva. a lewd, wet sound bounces off the walls of the living room, complementing each stroke of his fist over his aching cock.
“she has us fucking whipped,” satoru says, and a breathless laugh tumbles out. his head tips back against the sofa, frosty hair scattering.
he knows that what they’re doing is completely depraved. jerking off to their roommate who isn’t even there. but he can also guess that you probably miss them as much as they do - if there was anything that you all had in common, it was the perverse tendencies.
“haven’t even felt that sweet pussy-- oh, shit, shit… haven’t felt it wrapped around me and she still drives me insane,” satoru murmurs, voice strained with pleasure.
his abs tense as he feels himself getting closer, his dick twitching in his grip at the thought of your pussy clenching around him. he bucks his hips into his fist, desperate, fucking his own hand to the thought of you, wishing it could be yours. a moan slips out, uninhibited and needy.
suguru speeds up his strokes slightly, his breathing growing heavier. “it’s only been just over a day and this is the second time i’m jerking off because of her. fucking pathetic.”
satoru laughs again before a choked moan cuts him off, his hand almost a blur as he moves it up and down. his hips jerk violently, cock twitching eagerly like it wants to cum inside you. to make a mess of you, rather than his own palm.
with a few more furious strokes and moans that sound too similar to whimpers, satoru cums all over his stomach and hand. his body goes completely lax against the sofa, his stomach contracting with each pulse and rope of cum that his cock shoots out. he keeps his hand going until he’s finished and spent, left panting beside suguru.
he glances over to his best friend, noticing the angry red of suguru’s tip as he continues to jerk off, not having cum yet. suguru’s eyes are half-lidded, heavy with desire. he’s biting down on his lower lip, muffling the little sounds that are eager to make themselves heard.
satoru grins, sitting back up. “hey,” he says, “wanna cum in my mouth?”
suguru gives him a side glance. “you really are a freak.”
“well, i don’t hear you saying no, sugu. i know you love fucking our roomie’s mouth, makes me kinda jealous.”
“jealous of me, or her?” suguru already knows the answer; considering how his best friend is, he can guess which one it is.
satoru grins again, moving closer to suguru and ducking his head to take the head of his cock into his mouth. as soon as his lips close around it, suguru groans softly, eyes fluttering shut when satoru’s tongue flicks over his tip, tasting the saltiness of his precum before he takes his length deeper.
he sucks hard, eager to make him unravel. his tongue laps at suguru’s dick, dragging along a prominent vein as he takes it even further until it hits the back of his throat.
another beautiful groan falls from suguru’s mouth when he feels satoru’s throat constrict around his cock. “fucking-- i’m gonna cum, satoru,” he warns through rough, heaving breaths.
your snowy-haired roommate hums, a blissful vibration that triggers suguru’s orgasm. his tensing fingers thread through satoru’s hair, holding the back of his head as he releases strings of ivory into his eager mouth. his hips shoot up once involuntarily, making satoru choke but he keeps it there, swallowing every drop of cum that doesn’t leak out.
“fuck, i hate how good that felt,” suguru mutters, coming down from his high.
it’s only when his dick begins to soften that satoru pulls off, beaming like he just got one of his favourite sweets. suguru reaches out to swipe his thumb over satoru’s chin, cleaning his cum off it and he presses it against satoru’s lips which automatically open to lick it up.
“don’t lie, we’ve done worse and you love it.”
a smirk tugs at suguru’s lips. they have done worse and you have no clue. it’s cute watching you get flustered and turned on simply watching them kiss. he wonders how you’d react if they did anything more in front of you.
a/n: the ending definitely isn’t hinting at the next fic i have in mind hehehe (also dividers by @uzmacchiato )
MDNI ⋆˚࿔ your boyfriend toji fushiguro is just too big! 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ m.list
there was nothing nice about the way your boyfriend toji fushiguro was fucking you right now.
he's got you caged underneath him, his much larger body atop yours, his sculpted chest and abs shimmering with a thin sheen of sweat. the veins in his biceps are prominent against the taut skin, every hard ridge of his body encompassing your small frame.
you're laid out on your back, legs spread open and hiked up over his broad shoulders, soft breasts bouncing and blossoming with dark bruises and bite marks.
and he was big, not just in his muscular, wide frame— his cock was huge. thick and long and slightly curving to the left, finished off with a bulbous tip that turned into the angriest shade of red when he got hard just from thinking about you.
even after he’d get your tight little cunt stretched out and dripping from scissoring his long, thick fingers in and out of your hole, you were never really prepared for his absolute monster of a cock.
“can't ‘ji— please, s’too big toji!”
“tooojiii it's tooo biiig!” he mocks you, voice rough and gravelly, low grunts emanating from his chest between each deep roll of his hips.
the calloused pads of his fingers press in hard against the fat of your thighs, dimpling and bruising the soft skin. he leans down to lick a wet, filthy stripe up from your collarbone, his tongue moving languidly against your heated skin, all the way up your neck until he meets your ear lobe.
“nah, you can take it, can't ya’ doll?” he rasps past scarred lips that are tugged into a smirk as he leans up and stares down at your fucked out expression.
“be a good girl and answer me when i'm talkin’ to ya’, or did’ya forget how to use that pretty little mouth of yours?” he smacks your face— not hard but just enough to sting— before squeezing your cheeks together, feeling the warmth of your tears meet his fingertips.
“mmph—” you look up at him with glassy eyes, tears of overwhelming pleasure blurring your vision as you feel his cock bulge just below your belly button.
“s-so— hmph— deep tojiii-” your whimpered words come out as a pitiful whimper, eyes fluttering closed as he releases your cheeks to press down on the outline of his cock in your tummy— your hands scrambling against the sheets as you try to ground yourself from the mind-breaking, overwhelming pleasure.
“s’fuckin’ deep you can feel me all the way in your stomach, can’t ya’?” he whispers as his eyes are locked onto where the two of you connect, watching as his cock pushes against your lower tummy.
“‘ji- i- hmmmph—” you babble incoherently— the only thing you're able to focus on is toji’s thick cock filling you up, your plump lips swollen from rough kisses and glistening with spit as drool slowly starts to trickle down the sides of your face.
“hah— already fucked dumb on toji’s big cock?” his voice comes out a bit shakier, feeling his cock swell and leak more precum into your sopping hole. he smacks your thigh with his free hand, making your skin ripple like a wave before rubbing soothing circles against the sting.
at this point his fat cock is absolutely bullying your cervix— thick veins dragging along your silkened walls, a filthy ring of your arousal starting to gather at the base of his cock and drip down onto his heavy balls with each relentless thrust.
“mmph— takin’ my cock so— mmm— fuckin’ well, my sweet pretty princess is turnin’ into such a good slut f’me, yeah?”
“y-yeah- yes toji! please, s’too much— feels like m’gonna explode!” you sob out as the pleasure becomes borderline unbearable, the way his cock curves right up to kiss your cervix, his hand still pressing down on your lower tummy— you actually think you might just piss yourself from the intense pressure on your bladder.
“mhm— that's it baby, let it out— milk my fuckin’ cock and cum for me.” he rasps as he buries his head into the crook of your neck and bites down hard.
“t-toji!” you gasp as your cunt clenches, gummy walls clamping down around his dick as your powerful release causes you to see stars. warm syrupy slick gushes out around the base of his cock, all the way down to his heavy balls and down your ass to make a big wet spot on the bed.
“f-fuuuck— look at that— such a good slut, squirtin’ on my cock— o-oh fuuuck-”
toji comes hard, thick ropes of cum filling you up completely, making you gasp out and your pussy clamp around him harder.
“greedy fuckin’ girl— milkin’ me fuckin’ dry.” he pants, his cock continuing to spurt hot ropes of cum until his balls are completely spent and empty.
you're both left a panting mess, your thighs sticky with your syrupy slick, his cock still buried deep inside of your fluttering hole as his cum begins to leak out in thick rivulets.
“toji— c’mon, gotta get cleaned up.” you weakly pat his beefy, sweaty bicep, your throat dry and voice hoarse.
“tch, oh my sweet baby.” he almost lets out a laugh as he raises his head to look at you— hair messy and sprawled onto the pillow, cheeks stained with tears and drool still dripping down your chin. he pets your head, blunt fingernails dragging along your scalp.
“i'm nowhere near done with you yet. you've still got holes for me to loosen up.” he places a kiss to your nose while playfully smacking your used and sensitive pussy. “and you're gonna be a good little slut f’me and take whatever i give you, yeah?”
you yelp and jump as he smacks your pussy again, a loud wet squelch echoing through the room. but you cant deny the fact that you're already feeling flutters in your tummy from his crude words, ready to take anything and everything he's planning on giving you…
“y-yeah… i'll take it all for you, ‘ji.”
comments and reblogs appreciated! ♡
repost from my old account sytorusdoll
click here if you'd like to be added to the taglist!
✦ SEX POLLEN! CURSE V. THE STATE (OF HIS FORMERLY FAILED MARRIAGE)
syn: who would have thought that a sex pollen curse with no ability to get prosecuted, would be the key to solving higuruma's failed marriage with the woman he still loves?
── ✦ tags + cw: smut; a bit of plot, but mostly smut (he's submissive asl); implied tumultuous marriage; tad bit ooc; insanely beautiful art by warmiipalomaa on tiktok<3
“h-hiromi..? what the hell are you doing here? and why do you… look like that?”
when you rushed out of your room, shirt hastily put on at the sound of the door of your apartment door being knocked, you didn’t expect for your ex-husband to appear.
hiromi’s eyes were hooded, tie all fucked up. his jaw was clenched. his skin was pale and his pupils were dilated—as if he was high on adrenaline. it was probably 11 at night; you called off and you lounged all day after an unpleasant encounter with one of the judgemental supervisors. your plan tonight was to watch some reality tv—potentially get take out, paint your nails and even try out a new toy you bought yourself.
you didn’t expect to open the door to then deal with your ex-husband? (who you potentially…still miss…) but he looked insane, restless.
“can i… come in by chance?” you knew hiromi wasn’t one to be a leech. he was far from that—and was the type of person who’d rarely ask for help.
you blinked, swinging the door open and motioning inside. “yes, get in here.”
it was true, that hiromi higuruma would rarely ask for help. hell, he was the top student in every institution he attended—and even as a jujutsu sorcerer did he rarely ask for help. he was a damn genius.
a genius in academics and harnessing skill, that is. not so much when it comes to managing time and communicating within his marriage to you (another lawyer…and the only love of his life).
but when kusakabe asked him to defeat some sketchy curse by the shinjuku train station, and got hit by a type of aphrodisiac pollen that radiated from said curse, he just had to ask you for help. you lived near and maybe… just maybe..? you were definitely smarter than him, but for old time’s sake?
he knows he shouldn't expect you to say yes, to help him. because look at the state of your marriage—or rather former marriage. the two of you led stressful lives as attorneys, with hiromi being a criminal defense attorney and yourself being legal counsel for a major bank downtown. however, even despite being together for years and being friends with each other for longer, time only made the two of you distant.
and before he knew it, he found himself in court for himself, signing away his marriage and you. then came the case with oe, his sudden jujutsu abilities and the culling games, and now?
he didn’t realize how much he missed you—fucking needed you—until he was in the face of one of the—if not, the, most terrifying sorceror of all time.
but one thing’s for sure: hiromi was surely out of his goddamn mind the moment his body moved and made a beeline to your apartment. he still loves you. he still wants to wake up to see you every morning… he misses you so much and regrets how much he wasn’t selfish for once and lost you because of it.
now here he was, utterly intoxicated from the aphrodisiac ability the curse had, and minutes away from rutting into the damn couch.
you held him by the arm of his blazer, and sat him down in your couch. hiromi’s eyes traveled all over your body; you wore some loungewear, an oversized shirt he’s pretty sure was his, with no bra, and realllll pretty shorts that make your thighs look so good. your hair and skin were damp, and you smelled fucking divine.
was that the vanilla he liked? the nice vanilla body oil you’d lather on your perfect smooth skin every night before bed, the same oil he could get drunk off of every time the two of you slept together.
god, and your tits? your cute breasts bouncing with every step you took and your nipples protruding from the cotton of your shirt. it took everything in him not to pounce on you, despite being a 36-year-old man with a job, responsibilities, and such. but he sure as hell missed laying his head on your chest when he finished a long day of work.
was it the pollen that was making him act this way? potentially. he’s not one to be that much of a pervert (when it comes to you, at least).
but fuck, you looked ravishing… and hiromi felt like a horny college boy again. it was damn embarrassing but you’re the only person who’d be the most understanding… considering his current circumstance.
“are you okay?”
“i’m fine…”
you narrowed your eyes and tapped your foot on the floor. your apartment was dim—lit by the ecofriendly lamps you got accustomed to using since hiromi was enthusiastic about eco-conscious appliances. you felt your face go hot—embarrassed and nervous. so much so that you felt your heartbeat fasten.
“how’s work?” you winced, wondering if it was really valid to ask about that considering hiromi looked absolutely ruined.
“fine. how’s life? how’s mochi?” mochi was the cat you both raised until you gained custody of said cat.
you exhaled sharply. “she’s fine…i’m fine. she's being watched by a friend of mine today.”
it was silent between the both of you before the two of you decided to suddenly speak. to cut the suffocating silence before you could impulsively kick him out for invading your ‘me-time’.
“what’s going on?” “w-were you doing anything?”
fuck.
your eyebrows pinched together and your lips pursed. “what? hiromi?”
he hummed, breath shaky. “i’m—hahh—just curious. you looked like you were potentially busy lounging around considering—“ he eyed your body and nodded, blinking furiously.
it felt awkward; the tension could be cut with a damn chainsaw from how loud the silence between the two of you was, so to speak. it was heavy, and it was killing you.
before, you’d have conversations for hours stemming from the most mundane things and now you can’t even acknowledge the fact that your ex-husband looks out of his goddamn mind and has an evident tent in his slacks that’s practically arousing your interest.
“are you saying that ‘cause of my clothes..?” you paused, glancing at him, whose eyes were stuck on your breasts. “or something else?”
you weren’t one to have your eyes linger but jesus—hiromi’s fucking bulge couldn’t be more damn obvious. his hands were fidgety and he was biting his lower lip. not to mention, his presence felt stronger than when you last saw him a few months ago for your alimony court hearing.
“look…i—”
you grimaced. “hiro, i’m worried. you come into my apartment at random; you look fucking insane right now, and not to mention… you seem to have a bit of a problem. what the hell is going on with you? is everything okay?”
his breathing was labored and he looked pathetic. like he was injured... or rather, aroused.
hiromi blinked rapidly. he couldn’t lie to you…not now. he’s already in deep enough shit with you considering you’re divorced in the first place.
“i—i’m fine…” he mentally smacked himself…why—how could he lie to you?
“you’re full of shit, hiromi.”
so he decided to pivot. hiromi remembers how in the early years of your relationship, you poked fun at your superstitious grandmother’s tales of ‘jujutsu sorcerers’… unaware that he’d become one over 15 years later.
“s-so you k-know how…that urban legend? jujutsu?”
you narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms. “yeah, my grandmother would talk about it all the time… what about it?”
hiromi leaned against the couch and sighed. “i—uh… long story short, some jujutsu curse effected me. i—"
"you're...sure?" he looked up at your expression, all serious. you believed him..? “can’t you—uh—reverse curse it? or something—i forgot what the old lady said…”
he shook his head—voice all shaky, which practically sent you over the edge to see your stern, enigmatic ex-husband of several years on the point of breaking down over a simple little curse. “no…trust me, i’ve tried…”
hiromi suddenly leaned towards you, with what appeared to be tears in his eyes on the borderline of slipping down his eyes. "please...y/n. i have no one else to fucking t-tell...please... i—“
he looked away as if he was embarrassed.
you stared at him blankly, lips pressed to a fine line and crossed your legs. "what type of curse do you think it was?"
"an aphrodisiac one of sorts...f-fuck...please, i need your help y/n. i know we're on not so good terms.”
hiromi felt fucking pathetic—his voice just cracked in front of you and he felt like a hot, horny, stupid mess…so much for wanting to win you back. “i can’t do it if it’s not with you…”
you stayed quiet for a moment and looked away, like you were contemplating.
“okay.”
"i'll help you," you said, standing up. you held his hand as he stood up from the couch, walking with you to your bedroom where you suddenly pushed him on the mattress and stood facing the wall.
"now strip."
hiromi’s known you since the two of you were in high school. he knows how you bite your lip when you’re embarrassed and twiddle your fingers when you’re shy…and you were doing just that.
"really? you're really h-helping me?"
you exhaled, sighing deeply. "they do say time makes the heart grow fonder..."
"rea-"
"hiro, just do what i asked you to do, yeah?"
hiromi took off his shirt, unbuckled his pants and slid them down. his eyes followed you as you crawled onto the bed, eyeing his rock-hard cock that laid above his tummy, already leaking pre-cum.
“jesus christ… you weren’t kidding.” you hummed, looking at bit too amused at your husband’s current state. you planted your knees on each side of his thighs and stroked his cock, all stiff and twitching in your hand.
you glanced at his upper torso and your eyes widened; he no longer had that soft body you liked—slightly plush tummy and firm arms, no… hiromi was lean now, like he was actively working out. your chest tightened; was he trying to look good for another bitch?
you began licking the sides of his cock, tracing his veins with your tongue as you licked it like a lolly if the lolly was running out of flavor.
“ohhh—hahhh…fuckkkkkk…” he breathed out, composure all disheveled.
you had forgotten how much you missed your husband’s pretty cock; all nice and large, veiny, and certainly girthy. so much so, you could feel your panties getting wet at the memory of how well he stretched you out every time you two had sex.
your tongue swirled around his weeping shaft while your hand worked at the base of his cock, stroking it. the taste of his salty-sweet cum in your mouth made you feel almost needy for more as you took him whole. your thighs tightened around his legs, and you could feel your cunt practically throb in anticipation.
tears began brimming at your eyes as you looked up at him, eyes closed and lips parted as he kept letting out quiet groans at the feeling of you suctioning around his cock. hiromi’s breathing became more jagged and his forehead gleamed with sweat already, a string of curses leaving his lips.
“mmm…shit…” he squeezed his eyes shut as your tongue teased his cock slightly, giving him butterfly kisses until you took him whole again.
you slurped on his cock further, as hiromi’s hands gripped on your hair as you did so, his voice cracking with every whine, and you’ve never felt more aroused. his cock twitched, with his creamy load splurting in your mouth.
you wiped the corners of your lips and swallowed.
“please—y/n, fuck me...”
your widened doe eyes looked up at him, still on your knees. hiromi blinked, lips pursed, and face all flushed. he was clearly embarrassed at his sheer state of depravity and desperation. you lifted yourself up, where you were chest to chest with him, and grabbed his cock from the small space between the two of you.
you stroked him slowly, giving it a few pumps given the fact he got hard as soon as he came in your mouth. your hips bucked up as you aligned the tip of his cock to your puffy, wet slit, your cunt gleaming from your arousal, and with your panties to the side.
“just a moment, sweetheart,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around his neck as you slowly adjusted yourself.
you moved your hips to side to side and shifted your weight on your knees as you went up and down his cock.
"hahhhh, fuckkkk..." you could feel every pulsating vein and how lengthy yet filling his cock was in your pussy. you missed him...you missed his dick.
“move. fuck me. please.” you said it in such a manner that your voice cracks and whiny tone almost unlocked something in him. his slow touches on your ass became rougher, with more weight and force.
hiromi's hips went at a damn near animalistic pace, rutting into you with vigor as his hands maneuvered your ass up and down on his dick. the pitter-patter sound of your soaked thighs meeting his echoed through the bedroom loudly, and that alone made you whine, feeling the sticky and hot skin with every move of the hips.
it felt almost nostalgic that you could cry—sheer memory or the fact you're taking him now, take your pick.
"god...you're so fucking tight, my beautiful girl..." he breathed out, slapping your ass and holding the plush fat in his palm.
“nghhh—oh my godddd—fuckkkk-!” you whined, scratching at his tan-toned biceps; they were so defined, strong. your face was buried in the crook of his neck as you felt him pant against your warm skin.
hiromi had pressed your body closer to his, your perky breasts against his toned chest while he fucked you with such vigor, it made your head spin.
“don’t stop, please. please, baby,” he groaned, the raspy sound of his voice leaving you with butterflies in your stomach and your pussy fluttering around his cock.
“fuckfuckfuckfuck—y/n…” he closed his eyes and held you tighter, the sensation of him emptying his load only had you squeezing your eyes shut and knees bucking against his sides.
“i missed you… so damn much.”
that tight feeling in your lower tummy felt as if it released, a warm buzzing feeling washing over your body.
“hahhh—nghhh—h-hiro—! mmmmm…” you threw your head back, your hips moving in a figure-8 motion before gasping.
hiromi lifted you from your waist, wrapping his surprisingly strong arms around your waist and turning you around so that your back met his chest (his also surprisingly lean chest…).
“look at yourself, all beautiful…” he sounded like he was damn intoxicated, a stupid smile on his face while he looked at your appearance in the mirror before the two of you, facing the bed.
you looked a mess; your hair was a mess and a sleek sheen of sweat covered your body. your lips were swollen and your cunt was glazed with your mixed arousals.
"oh my fucking—!" you cried out, with hiromi slamming you on his cock over and over torturously fast.
“unghh—fuuuckk…” hiromi rolled his hips, the sound of his load sloshing inside your cunt becoming noticeable. you threw your head back into his shoulder and winced at the pace he took.
“why the hell did we even divorce…?” he huffed, lifting your hips further. his gaze was glued onto the mirror—observing the faces of pleasure you were making and the way your eyes rolled every time his cockhead kissed your cute little cervix so nicely.
you choked, hips rolling and maw slack. he really hit all those deliciously pleasurable spots that made you cry. you chanted hiromi’s name as if it was a prayer, feeling your cunt twitch against his cock and your skin becoming feverish and slippery the more you moved yourself on him. his wet thrusts became sloppier—more erotic. a scream escaping your lips as your arousal gushed out around his cock as ropes of his cum filled you after, again.
“hnghh—i—hic!—don’t fucking know!” your brain was fucking scrambled from how deep his thick cock was pistoning in you, still.
hiromi panted against your skin, slowly lifting you. “i think the pollen effect wore off so—"
and before he could even pull back, you squeezed his arm and attempted to get closer to him.
you turned your head, catching your own breath and making eye contact with his own crazed look. “how—hahhh—about 1 more time? yeah? old times' sake."
.
.
.
notes: lol, one can say that i really do hc higuruma having a wife/partner who is also an attorney, but specifically a private practice legal counsel (bc it does introduce that nuance in their relationship and their difference in ideals... hear me out). anyways happy 3k! i'm so happy with the new moots i've gotten to interact with. thank you guys very much for supporting my silly fics <333. i hope the characterization here was decent-ish despite the trope in the fic. btw #unedited idk how to feel abt the smut 😭
dry humping w/ higuruma in the tub (so it’s not that 'dry') mdni 18+
with hiromi higuruma, the hour of return trends late.
(as of 2018, japan’s crime rate sits at roughly 6.5 per 1,000 people—a society remarkably safe by international comparison. theft accounts for the majority of incidents; violent crime appears only sparingly in police summaries. domestic violence, however, charts a steady and troubling incline.)
he’d come home carrying the residue of such arithmetic.
shoes off, briefcase deposited by the entryway. the rest proceeds according to a private ritual: the tap turned on, the bath left to fill halfway before he steps in fully clothed, lowering himself into the water. a methodical dissolution.
sanpaku eyes—that visible crescent of white beneath the iris—lend his gaze a permanent air of cynicism, a look well known to witnesses and defendants alike. those eyes remain open while he soaks, fixed on the ceiling, his brain sifting back through the day’s arguments.
you appear eventually, as you often do. the curve of a coy smirk concealed behind the back of your hand as you pad across the tiles barefoot. the lace of your negligée darkens the instant it touches the bathwater, adhering in liquid folds as you carefully lower yourself onto his lap. damp silk turns nearly translucent, adhering to the soft weight of your breasts and the hardened peaks of your nipples. by now, his suit trousers are completely saturated. wool plastered tight to his thighs and crotch. the shape of his erection standing out quite plainly as you begin to rock your hips against him.
hiromi has never considered himself a kinky man by nature. but you have a way of coaxing out the more unruly facets of him, and he finds he is not opposed to the exploration.
his hands leave the rim of the tub to cup your breasts—adoring yet still a touch furtive even all this time, kneading, squeezing the weight of them in his palms whilst caressing your nipples with his thumbs. this allows you to lean forward to kiss him. a muffled moan escapes as he slips his tongue into your mouth.
again, not a kinky man by nature.
you try to be patient. you really do.
but only for so long. your hand slips down between you, fingers fumbling briefly with his fly before freeing his cock from the waterlogged confines. you sink down onto his cock with a long, shuddering sigh. hiromi finally closes his eyes as he relishes in your warm tightness, one hand sliding down to your waist as he starts to thrust up to meet you.
pleasure build on each other—bodies straining against each other, quiet moans muted in the splashes on porcelain. until the first wave of orgasm ripples through. the sensation leaves you both trembling slightly. the water is getting cold.
afterwards, you’d step out and take a quick shower together. once clean, you’d collapse onto the bed, and finally fuck properly—until exhaustion finally drags you both under.
Synopsis: You’re the no-nonsense top officer at Raccon Police Department who swore off training rookies, right up until Leon Scott “golden retriever” Kennedy gets assigned to your hip.
Tags: pre–full apocalypse, grumpy x sunshine, coworkers, an attempt at comedy, fluff, mutual pining, patch-up scene
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, profanity, emotional intimacy, mentions of blood/wounds, brief animal violence (dog is infected!)
Words: 22k
A/N: every time I think about re2 leon kennedy I think of that tik tok sound “how old are you? i'm 4 years old!” my shayla
The station always felt half-asleep at this hour.
Not dead, not empty, just… dozing. The fluorescent lights along the ceiling hummed lazily, flickering every now and then like they were reconsidering their career choices. The air-con pushed out that tired, overworked breath the building had been exhaling since the eighties. Somewhere, something dripped. Somewhere else, a vent rattled. The RPD was old, but in the way a grizzled officer is old, stubborn, loud, still standing.
You liked it like this.
No radios crackling, no phones ringing off the hook, no officers tromping around telling the same story for the sixth time. Just you, the paperwork, the smell of burnt coffee baked into the walls, and the faint electrical buzz that said: the city is still asleep, take the win.
Your key slid into the side door and turned with a soft clack. That sound always hit you with a weird, quiet satisfaction, the sound of being first, of beating the day to the punch. You pushed the door open, stepped into the dark bullpen, and were greeted by that familiar stripe of light from the vending machine at the far wall. Everything else was shadow and soft blue-gray.
You didn’t turn on the overheads. Those were for the chaos hours. You crossed the room and clicked on your desk lamp instead, a warm, small circle of light that cut out a little territory just for you.
Your corner.
Exactly how you’d left it yesterday: reports stacked in descending order of priority, pen jar turned with the labels facing out, a closed file where you’d stopped mid-sentence, and your mug, handle to the right, tilted just so. No one touched your desk. Not because anyone was afraid of you (though some were), but because after a while people learned, you kept things the way you kept them for a reason.
You dropped your bag under the desk, slid into your chair, and pulled the top file toward you. Break-in, residential, no forced entry, no usable prints, witness half-drunk. You’d read this case a thousand times in a thousand neighborhoods. It didn’t matter. You still read it. Because sometimes there was a pattern. Sometimes someone else missed what you didn’t. That was the part you secretly liked, the puzzle-hunting.
The clock above the copier clicked over to 6:10 a.m.
Good. That gave you maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes before the rest of the department began to stagger in, grumpy and loud and full of fresh disasters. If you were disciplined, and you were, that was enough time to clear two, maybe three reports before people started asking for things.
You stood, crossed to the communal coffee pot, and poured the first cup of the day. It was the kind of coffee that hated you and wanted you to fail: thin, bitter, scorched. You drank it anyway. Two sugars, exactly. Stir twice clockwise, once counter. Not superstition, not really, just rhythm. Ritual was the thing between you and the noise. Ritual meant you were the one in charge.
The first sip burned your tongue, and some half-dormant part of your brain purred at the heat. Alert, now. Ready.
A floorboard or a pipe groaned somewhere behind the records room. You didn’t even flinch. The building did that sometimes. Old bones popping. You were the one who had to read the “I heard something” reports, half of them were the plumbing, the other half were bored officers, and the last 3% were actual problems. Today, it was the first category. Not worth getting up.
You sat again, tapped your pen twice, and sank into the silence. It wrapped around you like a worn-in jacket. In here, this early, you weren’t the one people whispered about or asked for or rolled their eyes at. You were just another pair of eyes on paper. It was almost… nice.
The phone on your desk blinked once, red. Voicemail, 3:42 a.m. You ignored it. If it had been a real emergency, it wouldn’t have waited for voicemail. Let Morning You deal with that.
Outside, behind the blinds, the sky was doing its best imitation of morning, but Raccoon City was stubborn about sunlight. Thin gray light seeped in anyway, making the dust in the air glow. Another day. Another pile of things broken by other people that you’d have to fix.
You flipped a page. Evidence chain incomplete. Of course it was. You circled the line and scrawled in the margin: Follow up with Miller. AGAIN. You sighed through your nose.
Rookies.
Always rookies.
They came in waves, faces that looked too young to hold a gun, all posture and big talk. They asked where to put their lunch, how to log evidence, where the clean cups were, who had the good chair. They were excited, hopeful, romantic about the job. You’d been like that once, maybe, the memory was fuzzy. Now it just got in the way.
You’d told the sheriff two years ago you weren’t training any more of them. They burned time, they burned energy, and half of them quit when they realized this wasn’t an action movie. “They learn more from getting it wrong,” you’d said. “I don’t have the hours to hold hands.”
He’d agreed. Or at least, he’d stopped asking.
So when the front doors creaked open too early, when footsteps sounded way too fast and way too upbeat for 6:15 a.m., you already knew who it was.
Leon Scott Kennedy. RPD’s newest golden retriever.
The kid who smiled at everyone. The kid who apologized to filing cabinets when he bumped them. The kid whose laugh you could hear from the parking lot.
You took a long, fortifying sip of coffee and said to no one, “Here we go.”
The quiet survived for exactly twenty-three seconds.
The squeak of boots on linoleum echoed down the hallway, repeating in a chipper little rhythm that made you want to introduce someone to proper stealth technique. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.
“Morning!”
His voice bounced across the bullpen like it had no idea what walls were. Bright, young, open-throated. You could almost see the grin.
You grunted into your mug. The international sign for not now.
It didn’t dissuade him in the slightest.
Leon rounded the desks and came into your little pool of lamplight like it was the most natural thing in the world. Up close, he was somehow even more… shiny. Brand-new uniform, still a deep navy because it hadn’t met rain and grime and blood yet. Collar perfect. Hair neat. Eyes, stupidly blue and awake, like he had actually slept last night, like he didn’t understand how offensive that was.
He planted himself at the edge of your desk, boots squeaking one final time, hands in his pockets like he wanted to seem relaxed but hadn’t practiced it enough.
“I’m still getting lost around here,” he said, chuckling a little like he was confessing to something small and adorable. “This place is huge.”
You didn’t look up. “Then get a map.”
He laughed. Laughed. Full, bright, genuine. Like you’d said something funny. You hadn’t.
“Right, yeah. A map. That’s a good one.”
You finally lifted your eyes, slowly, giving him The Look, the one that said you were too tired for sunshine and too experienced for charm. Most rookies got that look once and avoided you for a week.
Leon just smiled wider.
He lingered, clearly expecting you to add something, maybe ask how he was settling in like you were some kind of welcoming committee. You didn’t. You turned a page.
There was a little beat, the kind where you could watch a brain decide whether to keep bothering you or to go bother someone else, and then, like a happy dog catching the scent of more people, he swivelled and bounced off toward the other desks.
Good. Let him spread the energy over there.
Within ten minutes, the rest of the station began to trickle in. By then Leon had already made himself useful: he carried a stack of files for Donna from Records, refilled the sugar, helped someone figure out the copier, and did it all with that same I’m happy to be here grin that made older officers soften a little.
“Careful, Kennedy, that pot bites,” one of the detectives called when he reached for the coffee.
“Only if you don’t respect it, sir,” Leon said, completely serious.
The bullpen burst into laughter.
Of course they loved him. Of course. He was exactly the kind of rookie they liked, polite, helpful, could take a joke, good jawline for pictures. Meanwhile you sat in your corner and pretended your report was the most interesting thing you’d ever seen.
He’d been here what, two and a half weeks? Long enough for half the department to claim him. Long enough for the forensics girl to say, “He’s so sweet.” Long enough for dispatch to start asking if he wanted to join poker night. Long enough for you to peg him.
He was the kind of guy who probably thanked the vending machine when it actually dropped the right snack.
You tried to tune him out. You really did. But his laugh carried, bright and unfiltered, not yet sanded down by too much shit. It didn’t sound like it belonged in a room that also held three unsolved homicides and a faulty AC. It sounded like it belonged outside, on a good day, with a dog and no paperwork.
You kept reading.
Then you made the mistake of glancing up.
He was over by Miller’s desk, leaning over a map, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, talking with his hands, big, animated gestures like he used to play sports. Miller looked amused, like he was indulging him. Leon said something, Miller laughed, and then Leon glanced across the room.
Right at you.
You were mid-sip.
He waved. Cheerfully. Like you weren’t glaring. Like of course you were watching him.
You froze.
He was coming back.
Fantastic.
He slid into the chair opposite you without invitation, spun it around, and straddled it like he was in one of those “down-to-earth cop” recruitment posters. “Hey, you’re (L/N), right? Everyone keeps saying you’re the best. You must’ve seen it all.”
“Most of it wasn’t worth seeing.”
He laughed. Again. God. “Guess I’ve got a lot to learn.”
“You do.” You flicked your eyes to him, then pointedly to the floor between you. “Starting with boundaries.”
He blinked, then scooted his chair back… about an inch. “Personal space. Got it.”
That was not “got it.” That was “I acknowledged the concept.”
He tipped his chin toward your paperwork. “What’re you working on?”
“Paperwork.”
“Oh. Cool.” He nodded, totally sincere. “I love paperwork.”
You looked up, slow, disbelief written across your face. “No one loves paperwork.”
“Well, I mean, it’s not exciting, but it’s organized.” He shrugged, boyish, easy. “I like organized.”
You stared at him for half a second longer than you meant to. Because okay. That was… not the worst answer. You were almost willing to say, Huh, when someone in the back yelled:
“KENNEDY! You still owe me that coffee!”
He jolted upright. “Right! Coming!” He looked back at you as he stood. “We’ll talk later?”
“Let’s not.”
“Cool, see you soon!”
Then he was gone again, vanishing into the crowd in a trail of squeaky boots and good intentions, leaving the air four decibels louder than it had been.
You rubbed your temples. “This department needs earplugs.”
You dropped back into your report. You didn’t get three lines in before your brain supplied, unhelpfully: He’s not the worst rookie you’ve seen.
You ignored it.
The morning bled into proper shift hours. More bodies, more noise, more coffee. By now the bullpen was at that low, constant hum of work, phones ringing, printers chewing paper, someone cursing because a form was missing a signature. You settled into it, that well-practiced blindness that let you read even while chaos moved around you.
And then you heard him again.
Not near you this time. At the lockers. Voice carrying easily down the hall.
“She’s the best on the force, right? I kinda wanna train with her.”
Your pen stopped.
Your heartbeat didn’t speed up, you were too controlled for that, but something tightened right under your sternum. You stilled, eyes fixed on the same line you’d been reading.
Of course he wanted you.
You dipped your head, muttering into your mug, “Over my dead body.”
A couple of guys by the lockers laughed, that low, ugly kind of laughter men have when they think they’re being funny at a woman’s expense.
“You don’t want her, kid,” someone said. Dwyer, by the voice. “She’ll have you polishing her boots before she lets you touch a case file.”
Another chimed in, piling on. “She doesn’t train rookies. Burned through the last one in two days.”
More laughter.
You didn’t look up. You didn’t take the bait. You’d had worse said about you in rooms where you were the only one actually doing the damn job. Let them talk. Let them think you didn’t hear.
Then Leon spoke again. And his tone was different.
“Maybe she’s just the only one doing her job right.”
The laughter faltered.
He didn’t stop.
“I’ve seen her reports,” he said, still casual, but the edges of the words had steel. “She doesn’t miss anything. If that’s what ‘burned through’ looks like, maybe we should all be taking notes.”
Silence rolled across the room like a slow wave. The kind of silence people fill with coughs because they don’t want to admit they were being assholes. Eventually someone muttered, “Watch your mouth, rookie,” and the sound of papers shuffling resumed like nothing had happened.
You stared at your report, but the words were lolled together now, refusing to be separate. Something warm, annoyingly warm, crept up the back of your neck.
He defended you. Why?
He had no reason to. He didn’t know you. He’d met you, what, three times? You’d been nothing but short with him. And still, he’d said it like it was obvious. Like anyone with eyes would say the same.
You finally let yourself glance over.
He was still by the lockers. Still smiling, but it wasn’t the goofy, I-love-everyone smile from earlier. It was smaller. Defiant. There was spine under all that sunshine.
He glanced up, caught you looking, and lifted a hand in a little wave.
You rolled your eyes and went back to your report, pretending to read, even as the corner of your mouth betrayed you with the smallest twitch.
“Perfect,” you muttered. “The rookie’s a hero now.”
You thought that would be the end of it. You thought: Fine. He defended me. I’ll nod at him next time or something. Then he’ll get bored and go charm forensics again.
But the universe hates your plans. Because right then, the room changed again.
Not loud, quiet. That special quiet that sucked the air out slowly. The one everyone recognized.
Sheriff Graham walked in.
Coffee in one hand, clipboard in the other, expression like the day was already going his way. He strode through the bullpen like a man inspecting his troops.
“Morning, everyone!”
A few tired “mornings” came back. You didn’t bother. You just sat up a little straighter and set your pen down. Whenever he greeted everyone like that, it meant he was about to make the day worse.
His gaze swept the room, taking in faces, desks, the mess of lives being lived in dark blue. Then his eyes landed on Leon.
“Kennedy,” he said, already smiling. “You settling in?”
Leon practically snapped to attention. “Yes, sir! Great team here, sir!”
Of course he said that.
“Glad to hear it. We’re proud to have you.” The sheriff flipped through his clipboard, made a show of scanning the notes. The room went a shade quieter. You felt it coming. You felt it like you feel a storm in your joints.
“Now…” he said slowly, tapping the board with his pen, “about training assignments…”
You closed your eyes.
No. No, no, no, no, no-
“_______,” he said, too cheerful, “since you’re our top field agent, I’m assigning Kennedy here to shadow you for the next month.”
There it was.
The thunderclap.
Your hand tightened around your mug so hard you almost cracked the handle. “Absolutely not.”
The sheriff didn’t even look up. “Consider it a character-building exercise.”
“Whose character?” you shot back. “Mine or his?”
He finally glanced at you then, eyes amused. “Both.”
There was a ripple of poorly hidden laughter around the room. You didn’t have to look to know some of those same guys from the lockers were smirking. Let’s see how long the ice queen lasts. You’d seen the look before.
Meanwhile, Leon, bless his shiny, oblivious soul, was beaming.
“Thank you, sir!” he said, practically glowing. “I won’t let you down!”
You turned toward him slowly, every motion deliberate, and said with all the exhaustion of five years on the force: “You already are.”
For half a second, his grin faltered. Then, somehow, impossibly, he rallied. “Yes, ma’am!”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Don’t call me that either.”
The sheriff chuckled, clearly very pleased with himself. “Play nice. Dismissed.”
And then he abandoned you to your fate, vanishing into his office on a cloud of smug and caffeine.
The second his door shut, the bullpen erupted.
“Twenty bucks says she doesn’t last the week.”
“You kidding? She’s gonna eat him alive before Friday.”
“I give him three days before he cries.”
You ignored all of it. You gathered your file, your notepad, and your now-lukewarm coffee and headed for the hallway like a woman being marched to the firing squad.
You didn’t even make it three desks before you heard the quick, eager footsteps behind you.
“So! Partnered up, huh?”
You didn’t bother to look at him. “Don’t call me partner.”
“Right, right.” He fell into step beside you like he’d always walked there. “Mentor?”
“No.”
“Sensei?”
You stopped. He almost rear-ended you, skidding to a halt just short of your shoulder. You turned your head slowly, giving him the kind of look that had made grown men apologize.
“If you call me sensei, I’ll shoot you.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Got it, boss.”
“Not that either.”
“Understood, coach.”
You closed your eyes for a one-second prayer. “Kennedy—”
“Okay, okay,” he said, hands up, laughing, actually laughing, like this was a fun day for him. “I’ll just… follow your lead.”
“You were already doing that,” you said, dry as old paper.
“Guess I’m good at it, then.”
And there it was again, that stupidly sincere smile. Unarmored. Like he was actually happy to be assigned to you. Like he hadn’t heard all the crap they said.
You turned the corner toward the briefing room and caught your reflection in the glass — uniform crisp, expression sharper than your badge. Behind you, Leon followed like he belonged there. Like a golden retriever glued to its person.
“So,” he piped up again, because of course silence was illegal for him, “what’s first on the agenda, ma’am, I mean —____?”
You didn’t answer. You just pushed open the door and muttered, just loud enough for him to hear:
“First, you’re getting a leash.”
He laughed. Of course he laughed.
And as you walked inside with him at your heels, you realized, you’d survived firefights, blackouts, and one stairwell trying to kill you. You weren’t entirely sure you’d survive him.
The moment Sheriff Graham disappeared into his office, you were already on your feet.
Nothing good ever came after one of his “character-building exercises.” If you stayed seated, somebody would remember you. If somebody remembered you, you’d get roped into something even worse than babysitting a rookie, community liaison stuff, press, or, God forbid, another high-school career day. So you moved. Fast.
You tucked the folder under your arm, slid your chair in with that automatic, military-precise motion that said you’d been doing this too long, and sent up a silent, extremely unprofessional prayer that the universe would grant you five whole minutes of freedom before Leon Kennedy realized you’d left the room.
Five minutes. Three, even. Long enough for him to get distracted by the vending machine, or by someone with softer edges, or by anyone who didn’t regard rookies as time vampires with badges.
There were plenty of kind people in this building. People who brought homemade brownies on Mondays. People who asked about everyone’s kids. People who had photos of their dogs taped to their monitors. People who looked at Leon and saw “promise” instead of “noise.”
He could follow any one of them.
If I move fast enough, you told yourself, maybe he’ll attach himself to someone else like a golden parasite.
You slipped out of the briefing room like you were escaping a hostage situation. Your boots barely made a sound on the scuffed tile. You kept your head down, folder angled against your ribs, weaving through desks and half-finished reports and morning chatter like you were running a quiet little op no one else knew about.
Down the hallway. Past records. Past dispatch, where the radio chatter was just starting to pick up. A shaft of pale sunlight cut across the corridor from one of the too-small windows, throwing a stripe over your shoulder as you moved. You reached the locker corridor and let yourself feel the smallest, pettiest bubble of satisfaction.
No blond hair. No too-bright eyes. No “hey, partner!”
You almost smiled.
Then you heard it.
Boots. Jogging.
“Wait up, partner!”
You didn’t even have to turn around. You closed your eyes mid-stride and let out a long, slow, despairing groan, the kind you usually saved for missing evidence receipts and twelve-page internal memos drafted by people who had never once stepped onto a crime scene.
He caught up to you in exactly three long, eager strides. Of course he did. He was a puppy. Puppies had no understanding of “no.”
He appeared at your side, a little out of breath but beaming like he’d just won a race you hadn’t agreed to run. “You walk fast.”
“I have places to be,” you said, tightening your grip on the folder. “Alone.”
He nodded, like you’d just said something inspiring. “Me too! But… together!”
You stared ahead and decided not to answer that. Some things didn’t deserve oxygen.
Instead, you veered right toward your locker, yanked it open with more force than necessary, and started rummaging around the top shelf like you’d forgotten something critical, a notebook, a spare radio, your will to live. Maybe, by some miracle, he’d take the hint and go… anywhere.
He did not.
“You need a hand?” he asked, head tilted, peering over your shoulder like a golden retriever checking to see what you’d dropped. His hair fell forward a little and you hated, on principle, that it looked soft.
“No,” you said. Short. Flat. Final.
He leaned against the locker beside yours anyway, hands shoved into his pockets, posture casual but eyes lit up, radiating patience like he had endless time to wait for you to finish being annoyed at him. You could feel him watching you. You could feel half the bullpen watching you. You slammed the locker closed hard enough to make the metal ring, grabbed a notepad, and pivoted toward the exit.
He pivoted too.
You stepped left. He stepped left.
You faked right.
He mirrored you perfectly, like this really was a drill. “Oh, we’re doing drills?” he said, almost delighted.
You stopped so abruptly he almost ran straight into you. You turned, slow, eyes narrowed. “Do you always hover?”
“Only around people I like,” he said, not missing a beat.
You made a noise somewhere between a choke and a sigh, the kind of noise that said I am too sober for this. “Unbelievable.”
“I get that a lot.”
You rolled your eyes and resumed walking, faster this time. The hallway stretched ahead, long and bright and entirely too public. Sun cut in through narrow windows, painting pale bars across the floor. You ignored the morning laughter from the bullpen behind you, ignored the faint echo of someone placing a bet on how long you’d last, and kept your gaze pinned on the red EXIT sign like it was the finish line.
Leon matched your pace like it was nothing. His boots squeaked just slightly out of sync with yours, enough to annoy you, not enough to qualify as a true offense. He dropped back a step, jogged up again, like he was trying to find whatever tactical distance would make you least homicidal.
Maybe he thought this was trust-building.
“You know,” he said cheerfully, not even winded, “for a veteran, you’ve got great cardio.”
You did not slow down. “Keep talking and you’ll need yours.”
He laughed, bright, open, happy, and the sound bounced off the concrete walls like sunlight. “That’s fair!”
By the time you pushed through the metal door to the lot, the air outside had already started to warm, that early, faint heat of a Raccoon City day that hadn’t quite decided if it wanted to be kind. The smell of asphalt, exhaust, and old rain hit you. You narrowed your eyes against the light.
Leon was still right beside you.
Of course he was.
You crossed the parking lot toward your patrol car, folder tucked tight under your arm, walking like you didn’t see him. He kept pace like a soldier in formation, his shadow overlapping yours every few steps. You could hear the faint scuff of his boots, the quiet jingle from his belt, the easy way he breathed, unbothered by the morning, by you, by anything.
“I brought snacks,” he said suddenly, proud, like this was the part he’d really been waiting to share. “Protein bars. Thought it might be a long day.”
You unlocked the car door without looking at him. “You can eat yours when I drop you off.”
“Drop me off where?”
“Anywhere else.”
He laughed, genuinely amused. “You’re funny when you’re pretending not to like me.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“Sure,” he said lightly. “You’ll warm up to me eventually.”
You opened the driver’s door, slid in, and gave him a flat look over the roof. “Don’t bet on it.”
He leaned on the frame, still smiling, as if your refusal hadn’t so much as dented him. “Guess I’ll just have to prove you wrong, partner.”
You shut your door very pointedly.
Through the glass you watched him mouth something that looked suspiciously like you’ll thank me later as he jogged around to the passenger side.
You sighed, started the engine, and told yourself the truth:
This was going to be a very, very long day.
The ride started in silence.
Not a comfortable, companionable silence, not the kind you had with seasoned officers who knew when to shut up. This was the thick, foggy kind that sits in the cab of the car and hums with all the things you don’t want someone to say.
You drove.
He fidgeted.
Five minutes in, he had already adjusted his seat three different ways, opened and closed the glove box twice, checked his seatbelt as if it might have changed since the last time he looked, and was now turning the radio knob back and forth between two static-filled frequencies like he was trying to decode secret transmissions.
“Do you ever stop moving?” you asked, eyes still on the road.
“Nope,” he said, cheerful as ever. “Helps me think.”
“Then maybe stop thinking.”
He laughed, unoffended. “Can’t. Thinking’s kind of my thing.”
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes so hard you saw your own brain. Outside, the city rolled past, low buildings, storefronts just waking up, a guy hosing down the sidewalk, a woman walking her dog. The hum of the engine and the steady whir of tires should’ve been calming. Instead, Leon started humming along to the static on the radio.
You gave him a sideways look. “That’s white noise, Kennedy.”
“Yeah,” he said, drumming his fingers on the dash. “But it’s catchy.”
You turned the radio off.
“Rude,” he muttered under his breath, still grinning.
You grabbed the clipboard from the dash and handed it to him. “Check the route log.”
He flipped it open, scanned it like this was the most interesting document he’d ever seen, and, because he was constitutionally incapable of silence, said, “So… how long have you worked here?”
“Too long.”
“You like it?”
“Define like.”
He chuckled. “What’s your worst case?”
You didn’t answer.
“Okay, what about ghosts? You believe in ghosts?”
You turned your head just enough to look at him properly. His expression was open, honest, annoyingly earnest. He actually wanted to know.
“Only the ones still taking up desk space,” you said.
He barked out a laugh. “That’s a good one.”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
He grinned anyway. Nothing could kill this man’s mood. You were starting to suspect he was immune to sarcasm.
The questions continued: favorite weapon, favorite street, first arrest, worst partner, biggest pet peeve, whether you thought Raccoon City was haunted (you did), whether you had any hobbies (you didn’t tell him), whether you liked dogs (you pretended you didn’t). Each answer from you got shorter, tighter, sharper.
Finally, after his tenth question, something like, “Have you ever had a partner that wasn’t terrible?” you muttered, “You’re exhausting.”
He lit up like you’d handed him a trophy. “Thanks, I get that a lot.”
At the next stoplight, he tried to balance his coffee on the dashboard.
You didn’t even have time to tell him not to.
The cup tipped, slid, and sloshed straight across the dash and down onto his thigh.
“Ah—! Damn it—no, no, no—” He scrambled, hands darting around like he could catch the spill in mid-air. He grabbed the first thing he could find, a single napkin, and dabbed at the mess, which of course did nothing.
Without even glancing, you reached into the door pocket and handed him the full stack of actual napkins you kept there for this exact reason. Not for him, but for humanity in general.
“Next time,” you said, eyes still on the road, “maybe drink it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, blotting at his pants, at the dash, at his vest. “Crisis averted. Minimal casualties.”
“You’re a walking incident report.”
“That’s unfair,” he said, smiling again. “I’m at least a two-person incident report.”
You almost laughed. Almost. It came out as more of a quiet exhale and a mouth twitch. You hid it behind a sip of your own coffee.
For a moment, a rare, blessed moment, silence actually held.
He leaned back in his seat, let out a slow breath, and watched the city blur by through the windshield. The sun had climbed higher now, casting everything in a soft, washed-out glow. It made him look younger. New. Breakable.
“You’re really calm behind the wheel,” he said at last, voice lower than before, less performative, more real.
“It’s called experience,” you said.
“I like that,” he said simply.
You rolled your eyes, but the words sat there between you, small and warm and annoyingly sincere.
The radio crackled then, saving you from having to respond.
“Unit 14, disturbance reported at 5th and Cedar. Possible lost pet, no sign of injury. Check it out.”
You picked up the mic. “Copy that. On route.”
Leon perked up instantly, like someone had just thrown a ball. “Action time,” he said, straightening his vest.
“It’s a lost pet, Kennedy. Not exactly a shootout.”
“Still counts as field work,” he said, actually bouncing a little in his seat.
You sighed, took the turn, and pulled up to the corner store. A handwritten MISSING DOG flyer was taped crookedly to the front window. A woman in her fifties, apron still on, hair frizzed from stress, stood out front the moment she saw the car.
“Oh, thank God,” she said, rushing toward you. “He ran off again, the neighbor’s mutt scared him, he’s so small, I don’t want him in the road—”
Before you could even open your door, Leon was already out, the picture of eager concern. “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll find him!”
You stared at him through the windshield. “He we’d you,” you muttered.
You got out a bit slower, professional, steady, while he was already crouched near a line of bushes by the sidewalk.
“Here, buddy,” he called softly. “Hey, c’mere… it’s okay…”
He dropped his voice, and for the first time all morning, there was no performative brightness in it. It was warm, coaxing, the same tone people used for scared kids and baby animals. You watched him with your arms crossed, because damn it, it was… effective.
Two minutes later, a shaggy little mutt poked its head out from under a dumpster, sniffing suspiciously.
“Heyyyy,” Leon said, grinning. “There you are.”
The dog trotted out, tail wagging, straight into his hands.
Leon scooped him up gently, scratching behind his ears. “Gotcha, pal. You okay?”
The woman’s relief hit like a wave. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” She took the dog from him, pressing her nose to its fur. “You’re such a sweet boy.”
Leon laughed, dimples and everything. “He’s a brave little guy. Just needed a snack and some encouragement.”
You were watching. You were absolutely watching. Because right there, in that stupid small moment with a stupid small dog, the chaos smoothed out of him and you saw the cop underneath. The one who’d kneel for old ladies. The one who’d stay with a scared kid. The one who’d go into a bad building even if his hands were shaking.
You cleared your throat. “You done making friends?”
He looked over at you, bright again. “Just doing my civic duty.”
“You can put that on your evaluation,” you said, turning back toward the car.
He thanked the woman again, of course he did, then jogged to catch up to you. When he climbed in, he was still a little breathless, still smiling. “That went well, huh?”
You put the car in gear. “You didn’t lose the dog. Congratulations.”
“That’s an A-plus, right?”
“A passing grade, at best.”
He leaned back, arms folded behind his head like he’d just saved the city. “I’ll take it. Small victories.”
You caught his reflection in the side window, sunlight catching in his hair, lips still curved. And, unfortunately, your own faint smile in the mirror.
He’s not hopeless, you thought. And you immediately hated yourself for thinking it. You adjusted the mirror. Just in case he noticed.
The rest of the afternoon blurred into regular patrol rhythm, calls, checks, drive-bys, the ordinary little crises of a city still pretending everything was fine. By the time you rolled into that quiet residential strip on the west side, with its narrow sidewalks and overgrown hedges, you could feel your patience wearing thin.
Which is exactly why you pointed toward the mouth of the alley and said, “Check the perimeter.”
It was a test. And also a break. Mostly a break.
“On it,” he said immediately, saluting like he was in an RPD brochure.
You’d expected him to circle the block and get distracted by someone’s garden gnome. Rookies could turn a five-minute task into a thirty-minute adventure involving three civilians, a dog, and a traffic cone.
You didn’t expect him to come back seven minutes later with a raccoon.
He came jogging back down the sidewalk, cheeks flushed, jacket half-zipped, and something moving inside it.
“Found this little guy by the dumpster,” he said, proud, as a small masked face poked out from the fold of his jacket. “He looked cold.”
Your pen stopped in mid-air.
“That’s not perimeter security,” you said slowly. “That’s wildlife theft.”
He looked genuinely offended, clutching the raccoon closer. “But look at his little hands!”
Across the street, a woman on her porch watched the scene unfold with unearned delight. You could feel the “awww” from here.
“Put it back,” you said. “Before it files a report.”
“I don’t think it would file anything,” he said thoughtfully. “Didn’t look like the filing type.”
You stepped forward, because at some point in this partnership someone had to be the adult. You reached out and took the raccoon. It was warm, and heavier than it looked, and its tiny fingers grabbed your sleeve for a second. You hated that your heart stuttered.
“You’re lucky it didn’t bite you,” you said.
“I think it liked me,” he said, all sunshine.
“That makes one of us.”
He trailed you as you walked it back toward the dumpster, narrating like an idiot. “We could call him Rocky. No, wait, that’s cliché. Sarge? Mini Leon?”
“Stop naming it. We don’t name evidence.”
“It’s not evidence,” he protested. “It’s a citizen.”
“Citizens don’t rummage in dumpsters at seven a.m.”
“Then we know at least three officers who aren’t citizens,” he muttered.
You ignored him.
You tucked the raccoon back into the little space behind the dumpster, made it a small nest out of cardboard, and straightened. Leon watched you like you’d just saved a puppy, eyes bright, shoulders still buzzing with energy. The neighbor lady waved.
“He’s a sweet one, huh?” she called.
Leon grinned and pointed at you. “Yeah, she’s the best coach ever!”
You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “I will end you.”
He just laughed. And you, traitor that you were, almost laughed, too.
The sun was already melting down behind the RPD by the time you pulled back into the lot. Everything was dipped in honey-gold, the cars, the glass doors, the metal railings. The air was warm and tired, smelling faintly of hot concrete and old exhaust. Your shoulders ached. Your brain hummed. You were, miraculously, still sane.
You sat there for a second with your hands on the wheel, looking at the building. Today had been… a lot. Eight hours of corralling living sunshine. Eight hours of bumping, talking, laughing, rescuing raccoons and small dogs and random civilians from themselves. Eight hours of not snapping.
Which, in your book, counted as a win.
Leon hopped out before you could say anything, stretching with an audible groan, vest riding up, shirt pulling across his chest. He looked… disgustingly content. For someone who had tripped twice, spilled coffee once, nearly got you killed by a car, and openly challenged half the department’s opinion of you… he looked pleased.
He rounded the hood, still smiling, and leaned on the roof. “So,” he said, “how’d I do?”
You took a sip of your cold coffee just so you didn’t have to answer right away. “You didn’t die,” you said at last. “That’s a start.”
His smile widened. “So… like a C+?”
“A generous C+.”
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, that nervous, innocent gesture he did when he was happy and didn’t know where to put it. “I’ll take it. Better than an F. Or a funeral.”
You started walking toward the building, folder under your arm. His footsteps fell in beside yours, like they always did. You didn’t tell him to move. Not this time.
“Thanks for letting me tag along today,” he said.
You snorted. “I didn’t let you. I was forced.”
He grinned. “Still counts.”
You shook your head, but the sincerity in his tone lodged somewhere under your ribs. You hated that.
You reached the steps. The light hit the concrete in a long, warm strip. A couple of officers were heading out. Someone waved at Leon. Someone else called, “How’d the ice queen treat you, rookie?”
Leon just grinned. “She was great!”
You wanted to die. You turned toward the lot again. “Go home, Kennedy. Before I remember to file a complaint.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
You were halfway to your car when you heard him again, loud, unbothered, absolutely fearless.
“See you tomorrow, partner!”
You groaned, not even trying to hide it. “Don’t push your luck, Kennedy!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it!” he called back, right before tripping over the curb. You heard the stumble, the flailing, the little laugh he gave himself.
You didn’t turn around.
You opened your car, slid in, and for the first time all day, the silence wrapped around you again. Familiar. Comforting. Yours.
You told yourself he was still just an assignment. A problem to manage. A box to check on someone else’s clipboard.
But as the engine hummed to life and you caught your reflection in the rearview, a faint, stupid, uninvited smile tugging at your mouth, you realized you couldn’t quite make yourself believe it. Just a flicker. Nothing dramatic. Nothing anyone else would’ve seen.
You swiped it away with a snort and muttered, “Yeah. That’s the part that worries me.”
Outside, the last of the light bled out of the sky. And somewhere behind you, you knew, Leon Kennedy was still grinning.
The next day started the way they all did lately, with you pretending you weren’t listening for the sound of Leon Kennedy’s footsteps.
You had your coffee, your folder, your usual spot at your desk. You went through the same motions as always: check the overnight reports, file the ones that mattered, ignore the ones that didn’t. The bullpen buzzed with that particular mix of too much caffeine and too little patience. Nothing new. Nothing exciting.
You weren’t waiting for him. Of course not. Then the door opened and there it was, the sound of energy entering a room, all optimism and squeaky boots.
“Morning, partner!”
You didn’t look up. “You’re late.”
“It’s seven-oh-one.”
“Exactly.”
He grinned, dropped his bag onto his chair, and began the daily ritual of getting ready like a kid suiting up for summer camp. Keys clipped. Notebook tucked. Vest straightened twice. You told yourself you weren’t watching him do it, that you were only looking in that direction because the light was better.
He still looked too new for the job, too clean, too bright. You half expected him to leave muddy pawprints on the tile.
You were halfway through pretending to type something meaningful when the dispatcher’s voice cut through the morning noise:
“Unit 14, report of disturbance at the Old Fairview building. Possible trespasser or animal. Check it out.”
You sighed. Of course.
Leon perked up like he’d just been given a winning lottery ticket. “That’s us, right?”
You took a slow sip of coffee and muttered, “Apparently.”
“Nice! First call of the day.”
You glanced up, one brow lifting. “It’s a disturbance, Kennedy. Probably a raccoon.”
He shrugged. “Could be a dangerous raccoon.”
You almost smiled. Almost. “Let’s go, rookie.”
The drive out was quiet at first. The sky had turned that dull gray that never quite decides between rain or thunder, and the wipers kept time in slow, steady arcs. The city blurred past, old warehouses, sagging power lines, the edges of Raccoon City that people forgot existed until someone called in a complaint.
Leon sat in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio until you slapped his hand away. Then he moved on to checking his sidearm. Once. Twice. A third time.
“Something wrong with it?” you asked dryly.
“No, just… making sure,” he said. “Never know when things go sideways.”
You resisted the urge to smile. “If things go sideways on a simple trespass call, you’ve done something very wrong.”
He shot you a grin, still fiddling with the strap of his vest. “So this is real fieldwork, huh?”
“Not unless you count stepping in puddles as tactical maneuvering.”
“Hey, I’ll take what I can get.” He leaned back, tapping his boot against the floorboard. “Better than more filing duty. I swear I can still smell the ink from those reports.”
“Don’t get too excited,” you warned. “You’ll jinx it.”
He laughed, unfazed. “Can’t jinx a good day, boss.”
You didn’t bother correcting him.
Rain began to tap against the windshield as you turned onto the old service road that led toward Fairview. The buildings here leaned into each other like tired drunks, brick chipped, windows boarded, everything smelling faintly of wet concrete and decay.
The Old Fairview building came into view around the corner: a hulking, skeletal thing fenced off with rusted chain-link. Graffiti covered the walls in bright streaks of rebellion, names, tags, angry faces staring back through the grime. The wind moaned through a broken upper window, carrying the faint clatter of loose metal.
You parked at the curb, engine idling.
Leon leaned forward in his seat, peering through the rain-speckled glass. “Wow,” he murmured. “They weren’t kidding about abandoned.”
The place looked half-alive in the storm light, every shadow a suggestion, every doorway a dare. You’d been in worse, but something about Fairview made the air feel heavier.
“Stay sharp,” you said, more out of habit than necessity.
He nodded quickly, but you caught the flicker in his expression, bravery brushing against the first edges of unease. His hand hovered near his sidearm, not touching it, just there.
You glanced at him, the ridiculous hair, the nervous smile that wouldn’t quite fade. He looked like someone about to walk into a haunted house because he’d already bought the ticket.
“Still think it’s just a raccoon?” he asked, voice light but strained.
You opened your door, the sound of rain filling the silence between you. “If it’s not,” you said, stepping out into the gray, “I hope it bites you first.”
He laughed as he followed, boots splashing into a puddle. “That’s fair, partner. Totally fair.”
You didn’t look back, but you heard the quiet chuckle that followed you toward the gate, and for reasons you couldn’t name, the sound didn’t bother you as much as it should have.
The moment you pushed the door open, the smell hit first, damp plaster, rust, and something faintly organic that had been rotting longer than it had any right to.
The air was thick enough to taste. It clung to your tongue, humid and stale, a breath caught in the building’s throat. You stepped inside, boots crunching on a layer of broken tile and grit, the beam of your flashlight slicing through the haze of dust like a knife through fog.
“Charming,” you muttered.
Leon stood just behind you, shining his own flashlight in a wide, sweeping arc. His boots creaked across the warped floorboards as he looked up, down, everywhere at once. “Wow,” he whispered. “It’s like something out of a horror movie.”
You gave him a sideways look. “If you start humming theme music, I’m leaving you here.”
He smiled, completely unbothered. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You moved further in. The old building sighed around you, long, slow groans from the beams above, the soft patter of water dripping through unseen cracks. The sound echoed down the empty corridors, stretching and bending until it was impossible to tell where it began. Somewhere deeper inside, something metal rattled.
Your light caught on a peeling wall. The wallpaper had once been floral, but years of moisture had turned it into a mess of brown curls and mold patches. A half-collapsed chair sat in one corner, its legs splintered. The air smelled faintly of rainwater and rusted pipes.
You’d just started toward the main hallway when Leon moved. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught him stepping ahead of you, flashlight raised like he was in charge.
You reached out, grabbed the back of his vest, and pulled him back so fast he nearly tripped.
“Hey—!”
“No.” You turned your head just enough to glare at him through the dark. “You don’t lead. You observe. I move, you follow.”
He blinked, sheepish. “Got it. Observing.” He gestured vaguely to the space behind you. “From right behind you. Very close.”
“Leon.”
He froze. “—Stopping.”
You released his vest slowly, like letting go of a leash you weren’t entirely sure he wouldn’t bolt against.
The two of you fell into an uneasy rhythm: your steps slow, precise, scanning each doorway; his a little too quick, too light, his flashlight beam jittering along the walls. You moved like a ghost. He moved like someone trying not to trip over one.
The corridor opened into a long, narrow hall lined with office doors. Most were cracked open, revealing glimpses of overturned desks, mold-eaten carpet, a scattering of old papers that fluttered when the wind sighed through the broken windows. Your beam landed on a rusted filing cabinet toppled onto its side, drawers hanging open like gaping mouths.
“Guess nobody’s filed anything here in a while,” Leon said quietly.
You shot him a look over your shoulder. “If that was an attempt at humor, stop.”
He grinned faintly, but his eyes stayed sharp. You had to give him that, he might talk too much, but he wasn’t careless. He kept scanning, even as his nerves bled through in the restless tap of his boot.
A low creak rolled through the ceiling. Dust fell from above in a lazy drift. Both of you froze.
You tilted your head, listening. Just the building settling. Or pretending to.
“Old place like this,” you murmured, “you don’t assume silence means empty.”
Leon nodded, his grip on the flashlight tightening. “Right. Empty things make noise too.”
You gave him a quick glance, surprised by the phrasing. Then you turned back to the hall, letting the comment hang in the air.
At the end of the corridor, a flickering red light cast intermittent flashes over a sign that still read EXIT in fading paint. Every time it buzzed, the shadows jumped, walls breathing, corners twitching. The water dripping from the ceiling made a soft, constant rhythm somewhere behind you.
You reached an intersection where the hall split in two directions. Left led deeper into the building. Right descended into shadow, probably toward the basement. Neither option looked friendly.
You scanned left first, your beam glinting off shards of glass and a fallen ceiling tile. Something skittered across the floor and vanished into the dark, a rat, hopefully.
Leon’s flashlight followed yours. “I vote we don’t go right,” he said.
“You don’t vote,” you reminded him.
“Right. Observing. From behind. Quietly.”
You exhaled through your nose, the sound almost a laugh. “Getting there.”
You started forward again, keeping your light trained on the edges of each doorway, the corners of the ceiling. He stayed close, his shadow brushing yours now and then when the lights crossed. The narrowness of the hall pressed in around you both, too tight, too quiet, every breath too loud.
The silence between you wasn’t just silence anymore. It had weight. And for once, Leon didn’t fill it with words.
He just followed, footsteps steady, eyes flicking to every little sound. You caught yourself glancing back once, maybe to check his position, maybe for something else. He gave you a quick thumbs-up, grin barely visible in the low light.
You shook your head and turned back to the dark.
The building groaned again, a long, low shudder that ran through the floorboards beneath your boots.
“Still think it’s just a raccoon?” Leon asked softly.
You didn’t answer.
Because you weren’t entirely sure anymore.
The deeper you went, the more the building seemed to fold in on itself. Corridors narrowed. The air thickened, weighted with damp and dust. Every sound was drawn out and strange—each footstep echoing longer than it should have, like the place was repeating it back just to prove it was listening.
Your radio hissed once, a short burst of static, then went silent again. You frowned and tapped the transmitter clipped to your vest.
“Signal’s weak,” you muttered. “Stay close, or you’ll lose contact.”
Leon was only a few steps behind, flashlight beam dancing across the warped floorboards and scattered debris. “Got it,” he said, voice bright but lower now, as if the shadows demanded it. “No wandering off.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
You reached another junction, two halls splitting in opposite directions. Both were long, dark, and equally uninviting. The one on the left sloped downward, a cracked sign half-hanging above it that once said Storage. The one on the right ended in a set of broken double doors with glass panes punched out like missing teeth.
The radio hissed again, louder this time, a quick burst of interference that made you wince.
You unclipped it, adjusted the channel dial out of habit, and spoke into it. “Dispatch, Unit 14 checking Old Fairview interior. Static’s heavy, confirm frequency lock?”
Nothing but crackle answered back.
Leon tilted his head, listening. “Think it’s the concrete?”
“Or the wiring,” you said. “These old buildings eat signal. We’ll need to stay in shouting distance.”
He nodded, then glanced down the right-hand corridor. “Want me to check that way? Looks shorter.”
You considered it. The place was quiet, too quiet, but if there was anything here, some vagrant, stray animal, it’d show itself faster with two angles covered.
“Fine,” you said finally, tightening your grip on the flashlight. “Check the hall on the right. Stay in range. I mean range, Kennedy. If I call, you answer.”
He gave you that trademark grin, equal parts confidence and sunshine. “Got it. In range. I’ll be right around the corner.”
You wanted to roll your eyes, but something about the steadiness in his tone made you just say, “Good,” instead.
You watched him go, the beam of his flashlight bouncing over the walls. He moved slower now, careful with each step, shoulders squared like he’d practiced it in a mirror.
The second he turned the corner, the silence hit. It was immediate, total. Like the whole building took a breath and held it.
You waited a few seconds, listening for his footsteps. Nothing.
“Rookie?” you called, pressing the radio button again. “Kennedy, do you copy?”
A burst of static answered. A crackle. Then nothing.
You exhaled sharply through your nose, the start of irritation rising in your chest. “Unbelievable. Can’t follow one simple instruction.”
You took a few steps forward, trying the radio again. Still dead.
The shadows seemed thicker now, your flashlight beam barely pushing them back. Each door you passed was slightly open, like the building wanted to keep its secrets half-told. Your boots crunched over shattered glass. The air smelled of mildew and dust, and underneath that, something metallic.
“Leon?” you called again, louder this time.
No answer.
The irritation twisted into something tighter in your gut, something that wasn’t quite anger anymore. You moved faster, sweeping your light across the walls, past peeling wallpaper that hung in curls like old bark, over a toppled chair, across a scrawled message in spray paint half-lost to water damage.
You turned the corner.
Empty hall.
“Leon!”
Your voice came back to you, distorted by the acoustics, bouncing off the walls. The echo sounded too much like someone else saying his name.
You checked the next doorway, gun hand steady, flashlight cutting through dust motes. The next room was an old office, metal desks overturned, chairs rusted through. A flickering light somewhere in the ceiling flashed every few seconds, too dim to be useful, just bright enough to make the dark feel alive.
Then you saw it.
A thin streak of light cutting through from the far side of the room, moving—faintly, irregularly.
You crossed the floor quickly, boots whispering over wet linoleum, stepping around fallen debris.
The beam came from beyond the next door.
You pushed it open, the hinges groaning, and your light fell across him.
Leon was there, half-crouched, flashlight in one hand, the other braced against the wall. His shoulders were tense, head turned toward something just out of your line of sight. The light in his hand trembled slightly.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
“Jesus, Kennedy,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “You lose radio contact and go sightseeing?”
He turned at the sound of your voice, relief flashing in his face before he quickly straightened. “Hey. Sorry, signal dropped, and I thought I heard something down here. Just… checking.”
You lowered your weapon, the annoyance still a steady pulse under your ribs but easing now that you could see him, alive and upright.
“Next time,” you said quietly, “you stay where I can see you.”
He nodded quickly, a little breathless. “Got it.”
But as you stepped forward, you caught the edge of something moving in the dark behind him—quick, low to the ground, too fast for comfort.
Your instincts took over.
“Leon—down!”
He dropped instantly, years of training, or just dumb luck, kicking in.
You swung your light toward the sound. The beam caught on a flash of fur, teeth, motion—something animal but wrong, lean and wild-eyed.
Then the shadows erupted.
The sound came first, low, ragged, wet around the edges, like something breathing through broken glass.
Leon had already taken two careful steps toward the far corner of the room, his flashlight beam trembling slightly across the peeling paint. You could see the muscles in his shoulders tense as the growl came again, louder this time, followed by the sharp scrape of claws against linoleum.
Your instincts screamed to call him back, but the radio was still nothing but static.
Leon’s voice carried through the dark, calm but steady. “Easy, boy… hey, it’s okay.”
It wasn’t.
Your light swung to the side just in time to see it lunge from the shadows, a dog, or what used to be one. Ribs showing under patchy fur, eyes clouded and wild, jaw hanging at a crooked angle where flesh had torn away. Its movements were jerky, desperate, driven by hunger or pain or both.
Leon reacted fast, not fast enough. He threw up an arm as it launched itself at him, flashlight flying from his hand and skittering across the floor. The impact took him down hard, his shoulder slamming against a fallen filing cabinet.
You moved before you could think, crossing the space between you in three strides.
The beam of your light caught a flash of teeth, a smear of blood, Leon’s boot shoving up between himself and the creature’s snapping mouth. He was trying to keep it back, muscles straining, panic flickering behind his eyes even as he gritted out, “It’s fine! I got it.”
“No, you don’t.”
You drew your sidearm, breath steady, and fired once.
The shot cracked through the silence, deafening in the confined space. The creature crumpled instantly, sliding off Leon’s leg and hitting the ground with a wet thud. The air filled with the smell of gunpowder and rot.
For a long second, neither of you moved.
Then Leon let out a shaky breath and fell back against the cabinet, chest heaving. “Jesus”
You holstered your weapon, stepped forward, and toed the carcass carefully with your boot. No twitch. No sound. Just stillness.
“Jesus had nothing to do with that,” you said quietly.
Leon’s laugh came out half-choked, half-relieved. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving a smear of dust and sweat. “You’re not kidding.”
You crouched beside him, scanning him quickly. No visible bites, just a torn sleeve and a new bruise already blooming along his arm.
“You okay?” you asked, voice low but firm.
He nodded, though his breathing was still uneven. “Yeah. Totally. Minor heart attack, but fine.”
You raised a brow. “That looked like more than minor.”
“Guess I’m an overachiever,” he said, trying for a smile.
You didn’t return it. You stood, offered him a hand, and when he hesitated, you grabbed his vest and hauled him up instead. He stumbled once, caught his balance, and looked down at the dead animal. His voice dropped, quiet, uneasy.
The stench hit first — a sour, chemical rot. Up close, it was worse than you’d thought. The fur had thinned to ragged patches; the exposed skin underneath looked slick and discolored, streaked with deep gray-green lesions that pulsed faintly under the beam of your flashlight. Around the jaw, the flesh had receded entirely, teeth showing through rotted muscle.
Leon leaned in, squinting. “You ever seen anything like this?”
You hesitated, scanning the animal’s ribs, too visible, warped under the skin like something had eaten its way outward. “No,” you said finally.
“Maybe… leprosy?” he guessed, voice low, uncertain.
You shook your head slowly. “No. Look at the tissue, it’s necrotizing. Like it’s… eating itself.”
He frowned, stepping back a little. “That’s… not normal, right?”
You shot him a look. “Nothing about this is normal.”
He gave a breathless chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “Good to know we’re on the same page.”
You crouched beside the body, taking one last look. The smell burned the back of your throat, but you forced yourself to study it, the mottled veins, the stiff limbs, the faint shimmer of fluid drying on the floor.
“Maybe we’ll send labs out to check it,” you said finally, straightening. Your tone was even, measured, too much so. The kind of professional certainty you used when you didn’t actually have any.
Leon caught it anyway. He glanced at you, expression softer now, concern cutting through the leftover adrenaline. “You don’t sound sure.”
You flicked off your flashlight, holstered it again. “Doesn’t matter what I sound like. Let’s move.”
But the air still felt wrong.
The sound of dripping water filled the silence, a slow, deliberate rhythm. You scanned the room, catching the way the shadows shifted when the wind slipped through the cracks in the ceiling. Everything in here seemed to breathe, even when it shouldn’t.
Leon followed you out into the hallway, quieter now. The adrenaline was wearing off, and you could feel it in the space between you, that brittle stillness that came after things almost went bad.
You stopped just long enough to check your radio again. Still dead.
“You need to work on following orders,” you said finally.
He huffed a quiet laugh behind you. “What, ‘don’t get mauled’ wasn’t clear enough?”
You looked over your shoulder at him. “Next time, stay close.”
His grin flickered, softer this time, the edge of nerves still in it. “Copy that.”
You didn’t say anything else. You just kept walking, the flashlight beam swinging ahead of you, cutting through dust and shadow.
Behind you, you could still hear him breathing, steady, alive, trying not to step on your heels.
And even though you’d never admit it out loud, the sound made the silence a little easier to bear.
The air changed first. A low, splintering groan rippled through the ceiling, wood complaining against time, metal straining against rust. It was the kind of sound old buildings make right before they quit.
“Leon—” you started, but the warning barely made it past your lips before the beam gave out.
The crack was deafening.
You didn’t think, you moved. You shoved him down, body slamming into his as you both hit the floor behind a desk just as the world came apart overhead.
Plaster exploded across the room. Ceiling tiles shattered, pipes snapped. The sound was a roar, then a whimper, then a long, ragged silence. Dust filled your lungs before you could gasp for air.
When it stopped, you were half-sprawled over him, the world around you nothing but gray haze and the sting of dust in your eyes.
Leon coughed beneath you, voice muffled against your shoulder. “...You alive?”
You coughed once, your throat raw. “Yeah. You?”
He gave a breathless laugh. “Think so. Mostly.”
You shifted, blinking grit out of your eyes. The desk above you was half-collapsed, one leg bent inward but miraculously still standing. The air was so thick it looked solid—like you could carve your way out with your bare hands.
And in that choking fog, the two of you were pressed together so close it didn’t feel real.
His chest rose against yours with every breath, fast and shallow. His heartbeat was a wild drum, muffled but there, right under your ribs. You could feel it, every pulse of it. His vest was gritty against your jacket, his breath warm against the curve of your neck.
You heard him whisper, almost laughing, voice low and rough. “So… this part of training too?”
You turned your head, lips close enough to his ear that he could feel the words more than hear them. “Don’t make me regret saving you.”
He huffed a soft laugh, quieter this time. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You exhaled slowly, forcing your pulse to steady. The dust began to settle around you in lazy swirls. Somewhere in the distance, a beam groaned and shifted, the noise muffled by the debris piled over half the room.
You could feel him trembling, not fear, but leftover adrenaline, the kind that didn’t have anywhere to go. You’d seen it before, but never felt it like this, the tiny vibrations running through both of you.
You were about to move, shift your weight, give him room to breathe, when it happened. His hand brushed your back.
Barely a touch. Just a small, instinctive movement, like he was checking you were still there, still solid. But even through the layers of your uniform, the contact lit a spark beneath your skin, quick and confusing.
He froze the moment he realized it. You could feel the hesitation, the tension in his fingers before he pulled his hand back slightly, murmuring, “Sorry. Just, making sure you’re okay.”
Your voice came out lower than intended. “Next time, use your words.”
“Noted,” he whispered.
The silence that followed was thicker than before, broken only by the distant drip of water and the slow, uneven sound of your breathing. You told yourself it was ridiculous to notice things like warmth or nearness when you were literally lying in the wreckage of a half-collapsed building. But your hand was close to his, so close your pinky brushed the edge of his glove when you shifted.
Neither of you moved away.
For a second, it felt suspended there, the two of you breathing the same dust, hearts thrumming just out of sync, every sound amplified by the quiet aftermath of the collapse.
You cleared your throat, pushing yourself up just enough to peer over the desk. The ceiling was a disaster, cracked beams, fractured plaster, sunlight bleeding through from somewhere above.
You let out a long breath. “When I say ‘stay close,’ Kennedy, I don’t mean this close.”
Even through the grime, his smile managed to look boyish. “Sure. Got it. Different kind of close next time.”
You rolled your eyes and pushed yourself off him, ignoring the way his hand instinctively hovered near your back again as if to steady you. You told yourself it was out of habit—muscle memory from training, but you didn’t tell him to stop.
He climbed up after you, brushing dust off his shoulders. “Guess the building didn’t like us much.”
“Most people don’t,” you muttered, checking your flashlight. It flickered weakly back to life.
“Yeah, but I’m not ‘most people,’ right?”
You gave him a look, but it didn’t land the way you meant it to. “Don’t make me test that theory.”
He grinned faintly, rubbing the back of his neck, and for once, you didn’t correct him when he fell into step behind you.
The two of you stood for a moment, side by side in the pale shaft of light cutting through the dust. You could still feel the phantom imprint of his touch on your back—warm, grounding, impossible to shake.
You told yourself it was just the adrenaline. That it meant nothing.
But when you started walking again, you didn’t tell him to give you space.
The rest of the building was blessedly still after the collapse. No groaning beams, no ominous shifting above you, just the steady, faint hiss of rain starting to fall somewhere outside.
You and Leon made your way through the dim corridors, your flashlight cutting through the haze of settling dust. The air smelled like wet plaster and old metal, thick and sharp in your lungs.
Dispatch crackled faintly in your ear again, distorted but finally coming through: “Unit 14, status? We lost your signal. Backup en route.”
You thumbed the radio. “We’re fine. Minor collapse. Situation contained.”
Leon shot you a sidelong look, coughing into his sleeve. “Minor?”
You didn’t bother answering, just nudged open the nearest door with your boot and stepped out into the gray light of the overcast evening. The rain was coming down soft at first, the kind that clung to your eyelashes and ran down your collar in slow, cold trickles. It felt cleaner than the air inside, like the world outside hadn’t noticed the building dying behind you.
Two RPD units pulled up near the old fence line, lights flashing lazily. A couple of officers leaned out the driver-side window, faces lined with curiosity.
“Everything good, ______? Heard you on the radio, sounded rough.”
“Minor collapse,” you repeated, voice even. “We’re fine.”
They looked past you at Leon, who was standing beside you, uniform streaked gray with dust, hair plastered damp against his forehead.
He gave them a sheepish thumbs-up. “Just… atmospheric.”
You didn’t wait for the follow-up questions. You waved the backup off with a curt gesture, then started toward the patrol car. Leon fell in behind you automatically, quiet for once.
The rain picked up as you walked, flattening the dust that still clung to your boots. The lot glistened under the flashing lights. It was almost peaceful, if you ignored the adrenaline still humming in your veins like an overworked circuit.
You reached the car and leaned against the door for a second, finally letting yourself breathe. The rhythmic patter of rain against metal filled the silence between you.
Leon stood a few feet away, head tilted back, eyes closed, letting the rain hit his face. The dirt streaking his cheek was running clean now, tiny rivers carving paths down his skin. For once, he wasn’t smiling.
You broke the quiet first. “Congratulations. You survived another day.”
He looked over, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “Because you had my back.”
You crossed your arms, the motion automatic, defensive. “Don’t get used to it.”
He chuckled softly, but there was something gentler in his voice when he said, “You didn’t leave me.”
The rain made a steady rhythm between you, punctuating the quiet.
You met his eyes briefly, then looked away toward the skyline, the outline of the RPD faint in the distance. “Could’ve,” you said simply. “Didn’t.”
He nodded slowly, not pushing it, not smiling. Just standing there with that quiet kind of understanding that somehow said more than his usual cheer ever did.
You pushed off the car door and opened the driver’s side. “Get in before you rust,” you muttered.
He snorted but obeyed, sliding into the passenger seat with a faint grunt. The car’s interior smelled faintly of old coffee and dust now, but it felt safer than the building had, too small, too close, but safe.
Neither of you talked much on the drive back. The rain turned heavier, blurring the edges of the city through the windshield. You could hear the wipers working overtime, the occasional rattle when the car hit a puddle.
Every now and then, you caught Leon glancing your way, nothing overt, just the quiet kind of look someone gives when they’re making sure something’s still real.
When you finally pulled into the RPD lot, the world was washed gray and silver. The other cars glistened under the streetlights. The storm had turned the asphalt slick enough to reflect every flash of the lights on your dash.
You killed the engine. The sudden quiet filled the cabin.
Leon unbuckled slowly, eyes still somewhere distant. “Guess we’ll have paperwork for this one.”
“Guess you’ll be writing most of it,” you said, leaning back in your seat.
He laughed under his breath. “Fair.”
You watched the rain trail across the windshield for a moment, the steady pattern of it tapping against the glass. The adrenaline had ebbed, leaving something else in its place, something you didn’t want to name.
You opened the door. The rain hit you again, cold and grounding.
Leon climbed out on his side, jogging around to meet you near the back of the car. He hesitated, hands shoved into his pockets, then said, “Hey, thanks. For… you know.”
You tilted your head. “Not letting the ceiling crush you?”
“That too.” He smiled, small and genuine. “But also for not leaving.”
You sighed, turning toward the building entrance. “Don’t make it sound dramatic, rookie. I was already there.”
He grinned at that, the warmth back in his voice. “Right. Lucky me.”
You didn’t answer. You just started walking, your boots splashing softly through shallow puddles. You could hear him fall in behind you again, his steps a little lighter than before.
This time, though, he didn’t step on your heels. He kept just enough distance, close, but not too close.
When you reached the door, you caught yourself glancing back, just for a second. He was still there, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes bright even in the rain.
You told yourself it was just part of the job. Training. Another rookie to wrangle, another day to survive.
The rain followed you in.
Not literally, but close enough. It clung to your jacket and your sleeves and the ends of your hair, dripping in slow, stubborn beads that hit the tile with soft little plinks. By the time you cleared the lobby, you’d left a dotted trail behind you that Maintenance was absolutely going to complain about in the morning memo. The building hummed its usual song, fluorescent lights buzzing like tired insects, typewriters chattering somewhere deeper in, printers wheezing out reports no one wanted to read. The smell was the same as always, too: burnt coffee, paper, gun oil.
After an afternoon spent in a building that smelled like wet rot and old ghosts, it felt almost rude to walk into somewhere so… normal.
You didn’t slow down. You didn’t shake off the rain. You just made a straight line for the bullpen, folder under your arm, jaw set. You could already feel him behind you — that rookie energy, too bright to disguise, trailing after you like sunlight that didn’t know when to stop.
The second you pushed through the bullpen doors, every head turned.
They always did when something disrupted the monotony. A busted perp, a shouting match, a rookie dripping plaster dust. And the two of you definitely counted. You were soaked, uniform spotted with gray dust, hair damp around your face. Leon looked worse, or better, depending on who you asked. His vest was streaked palest gray where the ceiling had kissed him, his hair was matted to his forehead, and there was a smear on his cheek he hadn’t noticed yet.
Somebody spun their chair around like this was the entertainment break.
“Hey, _____,” one of the older patrol guys called, grin already loaded. “You finally break a partner?”
You did not have the energy for this.
You didn’t even look his way. You just lifted a hand, palm out, lazy, dismissive — the universal keep talking and I’ll make you fill out your own incident report. It got the usual chuckles, the office kind, all low and knowing. None of them meant any harm. They almost never did.
Behind you, Leon didn’t fire back. Didn’t even roll his eyes. He ducked his head like the comment had been aimed at him, which, okay, maybe it had, and kept walking. Too polite to glare. Too new to throw something back. He looked like a soaked golden retriever that had been told it was “a bit much.”
You cut through the room toward your desk, ignoring the looks. The clack of keyboards, the smack of someone closing a filing cabinet, the faint radio chatter, it all faded once you had your target.
You pointed at the chair beside your desk. “Sit.”
He sat. Immediately. No questions, no soft protest, no I’m fine. Just okay, like his default setting around you was obedience. The chair gave a damp little squeak when he hit it; his vest made that miserable soaked-fabric sound. You winced on behalf of the upholstery.
Only then did you catch the line of red on his arm.
It wasn’t dramatic, not a gash, not a bullet wound, not even anything worth bragging about. Just a shallow scrape along his forearm, where a piece of debris had clearly hit him when the ceiling came down. It had bled more than it should’ve, like all arm wounds, and now it was smudged with dust and rain and God knew what else that had been in that building.
He didn’t even seem to realize it was there. He was too busy trying not to make eye contact with the officers who were obviously watching him. And he knew they were, you could tell by the way he kept looking just above their heads, like he hadn’t quite learned the art of ignoring a room yet.
You sighed. Of course. You set the folder down, opened the overhead cabinet, and pulled out the first-aid kit. “Hold still.”
He blinked up at you, surprised. “Oh, I— it’s really fine, I can—”
“You’re leaking on the floor, Kennedy,” you said, already popping the kit open. “Sit still before I staple it shut.”
That did it. His mouth shut with a little click. His hands folded in his lap like he was in high school and you were about to ask him why he was late to homeroom. He looked up at you, not afraid, just… chastened. A dust-streaked, rain-soaked, six-foot-tall scolded puppy.
Unfair.
You crouched beside the chair, the plastic of the kit creaking as you dug through it. Someone had put everything back in the wrong order, again, so you had to sift past gauze, triangular bandages, a pair of scissors you didn’t trust, and three individually wrapped alcohol swabs before you found the antiseptic.
You soaked a cotton pad, the smell of mint-and-vodka antiseptic filling the air between you, and pressed it firmly to the scrape.
He hissed. Loudly.
“Don’t move,” you warned.
“That burns.”
“That means it’s working.”
He blew out a breath through his nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “ow,” and you ignored him. You’d cleaned worse. You’d cleaned bullet tracks, glass cuts, split brows, knife slips. This was cake.
Still, the room sounded different now.
The bullpen had gone back to its usual rhythm, phones, printers, chairs rolling, but it was all further away, like someone had turned the volume down. You were aware of the rain ticking against the windows and the hum of the fluorescent light overhead more than you were of the conversations.
You were also very aware of him.
“Stop squirming,” you said, because he’d shifted his arm a half-inch.
He let out a half-laugh, half-groan. “I’m not squirming.”
“You’re absolutely squirming.” You pressed a little harder, just to prove a point. “Hold still or I’m stapling you to the chair.”
He sucked a breath in through his teeth, eyes squeezing shut for a second — and then he laughed. Properly this time. Low, unguarded, the kind of laugh people don’t make on purpose.
“You’re really gentle, you know that?” he said, voice still warm with it.
You looked up long enough to give him the blankest stare you could manage. “You don’t bleed quietly, rookie.”
That earned you another laugh, softer. It didn’t belong in this room, not with the white walls and the bad lighting and the smell of floor cleaner, but somehow it made the place feel less like a building and more like somewhere people actually worked.
The scrape wasn’t deep, but it was messy, little flecks of plaster stuck in the dried blood. You worked them out carefully, thumb steady on his wrist. You felt his pulse there, steady, strong. Too steady for someone who’d been underneath a falling ceiling an hour ago.
You tried not to notice that, too.
“Hold this,” you said, pressing one edge of the gauze into his hand.
He took it immediately, fingers gentle on the fabric, like he didn’t want to mess up your work. The quiet obedience might’ve annoyed you if it hadn’t been paired with that look, the one where he watched you like the sun watches the horizon. Not needy. Not pushy. Just… there. Warm.
You reached for the tape. He shifted in the chair, not a lot, just enough that his boot scuffed the floor and his knee knocked into your thigh.
You didn’t look up. You also didn’t move away.
The gauze wrapped cleanly around his arm, bright white against his dark uniform. You smoothed it down, then tugged the tape a little tighter than strictly necessary.
He winced, shoulders tensing.
“There,” you said, sitting back on your heels. “All patched.”
He flexed his fingers once, testing how much give you’d left him. “Tight.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
“Pretty sure that’s a tourniquet.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
He smiled, and this time, it wasn’t the big, poster-boy grin he gave the rest of the department. It was smaller. Less teeth, more eyes. Warm, but quiet about it. It hit lower than you wanted it to.
You were close enough now to see the tiny spray of freckles at the edge of his jaw. The wet strands of blond hair stuck to his forehead. The way the line between his brows smoothed out when he realized you weren’t actually mad.
You weren’t sure when you’d stopped pretending to ignore him.
He watched you check the bandage, watched your fingers as you smoothed the edge, made sure it wouldn’t peel. You let your hand stay there for half a second too long. You told yourself it was to check the pressure.
He was not staring at you. Staring would’ve been obvious. This was worse. This was looking. The kind of looking that sees. The kind that gathers. Like he was storing away the moment, or your face, or the way your hands moved. Like he wanted to remember it.
Why does he have to look at people like that? you thought, irritated at how soft the question sounded in your own skull. Like he’s cataloguing reasons to stay hopeful.
You cleared your throat, broke the moment. Reached for one of the alcohol wipes just to have something to do with your hands.
“Should’ve worn your long sleeves,” you muttered.
“Didn’t plan on wrestling the undead drywall,” he said, automatically.
You blinked at him. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m kind of funny.”
“You’re really not.”
But he smiled like you’d just confirmed his existence.
He let the silence sit for a second, then said, and this time the playfulness was gone “You didn’t have to do this yourself.”
You stilled. The wipe hovered over your hand. Sincerity always did this, made everything feel like it had too much gravity.
You shrugged like it was nothing. “Better me than whoever last used the station scissors.”
He huffed a small laugh, eyes dropping to the floor like he was embarrassed to be taken care of. “You ever let anyone else patch you up?”
You snapped the kit shut harder than you needed to. “I don’t get hurt.”
He looked up, eyes warm in a way that made you want to look anywhere else. “Right. Of course you don’t.”
You grabbed a paper towel from the counter and wiped your hands. The antiseptic smell clung stubbornly to your skin. He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t push. Just sat there, elbow on his knee, staring at the neat line of white around his arm like it meant he’d passed some kind of test.
You crossed your arms. “What?”
He met your eyes, something softer in his expression now. “Just… thanks.”
It was simple. But it landed.
You let out a slow breath, looked away. “Don’t make a habit of it.”
He smiled again, tired, genuine, none of the show-off shine. “No promises.”
The room settled around you again. Not the awkward silence from earlier, not that jagged thing that wanted to be filled. This one was… quiet. Comfortable. Like the noise from the bullpen had faded to something you could ignore.
He sat there longer than he had to. You let him.
Then, finally, he spoke again, even softer this time. “I know I’m not easy to work with.”
You paused mid-reach, the kit halfway to the shelf. You turned, brows pulling together. “Where’s this coming from?”
He shrugged, mouth twisting like he was trying to find the least embarrassing way to say it. “You don’t have to say it. I can tell. I talk too much. I… get in the way. I missed your signal back there.” His gaze flicked to the bandage. “You shouldn’t have had to cover for me.”
You opened your mouth with the automatic response, you didn’t listen, you moved out of range, don’t do it again, but it didn’t feel right now that he’d said it himself. He already knew. He’d already flagged his own mistake.
So instead you said, quieter, “Then listen more. Talk less.”
He looked up, and that smile, the quiet one, the one he didn’t use on everyone, eased back onto his face. “Yes, ma’am.”
You almost smiled back. Almost. It tugged at the corner of your mouth and you swatted it away before it could escape.
You sat on the edge of your desk, arms folded. “You really think I’m the one you should be learning from?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah.” Then, almost shyly, “You’re… good at this. You don’t miss stuff. You don’t panic. You make it look like… like the job isn’t bigger than you.” He shrugged again, self-conscious. “I wanna be like that.”
You looked away, not because you were annoyed, but because you didn’t like being seen that clearly. “Observation skills need work.”
He grinned, leaning back. “Guess that’s why I’m learning.”
The silence after that was different. Settled. Like both of you knew something had shifted and neither of you was going to poke it too hard.
You closed the kit properly this time and put it back in its place. “You’re done. You can go.”
He pushed himself up, testing his arm again like he wanted to make sure it would pass your inspection. Then he just… stood there. Not leaving. Not fidgeting, for once. Just looking at you like he was trying to memorize the way you looked in bad lighting and damp clothes.
“You know,” he said finally, rubbing the back of his neck, scattering a few flecks of dust onto the floor, “I think we make a pretty good team.”
You raised a brow. “You think too much.”
“Still true.”
The grin he gave you then wasn’t bright. It wasn’t loud. It was just… warm. For you, specifically. No audience. No need to prove he was happy to be here. Just a rookie who’d nearly gotten mauled in a dead building and still somehow thought partnering with you was the best part of his day.
He turned to go, boots squeaking a little on the still-damp tile. At the door, he glanced back over his shoulder.
“See you tomorrow, partner.”
You didn’t stop him.
The door closed with a soft click. The room, suddenly, felt too big. Too quiet.
You exhaled, shoulders dropping without permission. You told yourself it was just part of the job, keeping the rookie alive, keeping the reports clean, keeping the sheriff off your ass. Routine. Nothing more.
You reached for your jacket, slinging it off the back of the chair, and your hand paused.
There, on the sleeve, just above the cuff, was a faint smear of dried blood. His. From when you’d steadied his arm. From when he’d looked at you like you were the safest thing in the room.
You should’ve grabbed a wipe. You should’ve scrubbed it off. You always did.
Instead, your fingers brushed over it once. Then stayed.
You didn’t wipe it off. Not right away.
You turned off the light, stepped out into the hallway, and let the door close behind you, carrying with you the stubborn, ridiculous warmth of a rookie who smiled like the world hadn’t gotten to him yet.
For now, he was still your responsibility. And, annoyingly, you didn’t hate that.
The RPD after dark never quite sleeps. It hums.
Not the kind of hum that says alive, but the kind that settles into the walls — a low, constant thrum beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights, the whisper of air through the vents, the slow tick of the clock above the filing cabinets. It’s the sound of a building that’s been awake too long.
Outside, thunder rolls somewhere far off, more like a sigh than a warning. Rain streaks the windows, cutting the reflection of your desk lamp into thin, fractured lines. Every few seconds, a drop slides down the glass and catches the light before vanishing. You’ve been watching them more than you’ve been watching the words on the page.
Your jacket hangs off the back of your chair, still damp from the walk in. It’s started to steam faintly in the warmth of the room. Your hair’s doing the same, sticking to the back of your neck, strands curling where they’ve started to dry. You should’ve gone home hours ago. Everyone else did. The bullpen looks hollow without the noise: empty chairs, stacks of folders abandoned mid-process, someone’s forgotten mug leaving a ring on a report. The overhead lights are off in most of the room, just your desk lamp left on, a small circle of yellow light fighting back against the gray.
The vending machine hums in the corner, louder than usual. It fills the silence like a stand-in for conversation.
You type slowly. Not because the report is hard, but because the words feel heavier than they should. “Old Fairview disturbance: resolved. One injured civilian. One deceased animal. Cause: undetermined.” The rest of the blanks you leave half-empty. You can’t think of the phrasing for “looked like it was rotting alive.”
You stop to rub your eyes. The screen blurs when you open them again.
The coffee in your mug has gone cold, bitter on your tongue when you take a sip just to have something to do. The smell lingers in the air anyway, mixed with paper and the faint tang of cleaning solution. It’s ordinary. Comforting in a way you don’t quite trust.
You tell yourself you’re here because you need to finish the paperwork, that it’ll drive you crazy if you leave it unfinished. But that’s not true. Not really.
You’re here because you don’t want to go home yet.
Because you can already picture it: the apartment dark, the slow drip of a leaky faucet, the silence pressing too close. The kind of silence that doesn’t hum like the RPD, it listens.
You glance at the chair opposite yours, the one he sat in earlier, fidgeting while you wrapped his arm, laughing too softly at your scolding. It’s empty now, the cushion still dented from his weight. You look away fast, typing another line into the report that you’ll probably delete later.
You reach for the stack of incident notes and shuffle through them just to make noise. Anything to fill the space.
The rain outside shifts from steady to soft, the rhythm uneven, like footsteps trying to keep time. The thunder grumbles again, distant, half-hearted.
It’s too late for anyone to still be around, but you hear a door close somewhere down the hall. A faint echo, metal on metal. Maybe someone from night patrol. Maybe the janitor.
You glance toward the hallway, but the sound dies before you can decide whether to care. You go back to your report, fingers hovering over the keys. You type your name at the bottom and stare at it. It looks strange in this light, too sharp, too formal. You delete it and type it again.
It’s not the work that keeps you here. You know that. It’s the space between the day and the night, the part where the adrenaline wears off, but your mind hasn’t caught up yet. The part where you start to feel things you don’t have names for.
You breathe out through your nose, slow and steady. The lamp hums. The clock ticks. The world outside drifts in shades of gray. You tell yourself you’ll leave after this page. You don’t believe yourself.
The footsteps reach you before the man does, light, uneven, hesitant. You don’t even need to look up to know who they belong to. No one else in the RPD walks like that.
You keep your eyes on the report, fingers resting on the keys as if you’re still typing. It buys you a few seconds of pretending.
Then: “Hey.”
You look up anyway.
Leon’s standing in the doorway, haloed by the hallway light, damp around the edges, like the rain followed him in. His hair is still wet, darker where it clings to his forehead, and his sleeves are rolled up just far enough to show the new bandage on his arm. His badge hangs a little crooked, his vest half undone. He looks exhausted, but not wrecked, just softened. The sharp edges of the day worn down to something human.
He’s holding a folder in one hand and a thermos in the other — the kind of props people bring when they want to look like they have a reason to be somewhere.
“You left this in the car,” he says, lifting the folder slightly.
You glance at it. “You walked through a thunderstorm to bring me a folder?”
He shrugs, mouth twitching. “I was in the neighborhood.”
You snort, finally sitting back in your chair. “The neighborhood is six blocks and a river away.”
“Yeah, but it’s a nice river.”
You give him a flat look. He grins like he can’t help it.
The sound of rain presses faintly against the windows again, a steady hush that fills the space between you. He lingers in the doorway for a second too long, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed in. You don’t tell him to leave, and that seems to be permission enough.
He crosses the bullpen quietly, the floor creaking under his boots, and drops the folder onto your desk. Then he gestures to the thermos. “Brought you coffee too. Thought yours had probably turned into tar by now.”
You eye it suspiciously. “You didn’t make this, did you?”
He gasps, feigning offense. “What kind of person do you think I am?”
“A rookie who once called the copier a printer with ambition.”
That earns you an honest laugh. The kind that crinkles at the corners of his eyes and shakes off a little of the tension in the air.
“Fair,” he admits, setting the thermos down gently beside your cold mug. The smell of actual coffee, fresh, not burnt, curls up from the lid when you unscrew it. It’s warm, comforting, and far too considerate.
He doesn’t move away, though. He leans against the edge of your desk, just outside the pool of lamplight, watching you the way someone does when they’re searching for an opening and can’t find one. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the hum of the vending machine and the rain against the window.
Then he says, softly, “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
You take a sip of the coffee to stall. “You didn’t think, period.”
“Maybe.” His grin fades, replaced by something quieter. “Still figured you’d be the last one out.”
You glance up at him. “That a compliment or an accusation?”
“Little of both.”
The silence that follows isn’t the sharp kind. It settles in like an old coat, familiar, worn, just heavy enough to notice.
Leon’s still there, arms crossed loosely now, gaze flicking from the reports on your desk to your face and back again. He looks like he wants to say something else but can’t decide if he should.
You don’t ask. You don’t need to.
Whatever it is, you already know it isn’t about the folder.
Leon doesn’t leave the way you half expect him to. Instead, he drags the empty chair, the same one you’d made him sit in earlier while you wrapped his arm, across the tile and drops into it with a soft scrape of metal legs. The sound folds into the hum of the room like it belongs there.
He looks too big for the space, knees bent awkwardly, forearms resting on them. You should tell him to go home, to clock out and get some sleep, but you don’t. You just keep typing, eyes fixed on the screen.
He picks up one of your pens from the desk and starts tapping it lightly against his knee, a steady rhythm that threads through the ticking clock and the whisper of rain. You try not to let it get under your skin. You’ve always hated background noise, but somehow, his isn’t grating. It’s just… there. Filling the space that would otherwise feel too empty.
A few minutes pass like that. You keep working. He keeps watching. The sound of the keys, the tap of the pen, the rain, steady, hypnotic, almost domestic. It feels wrong for something in this city to feel that way.
Finally, his voice breaks the quiet. “You always stay this late?”
You don’t look up. “Paperwork doesn’t file itself.”
He grins softly. You can hear it in his tone when he says, “You’d think being the best on the force gets you out of grunt work.”
“You’d think wrong,” you reply, flipping a page of the report.
He chuckles under his breath and keeps tapping. “Guess it’s nice, though. Quiet. Nobody yelling, no phones ringing. Kinda peaceful.”
You hum in acknowledgment, the sound barely audible. Peaceful isn’t what you’d call it. Peaceful feels like an illusion. But you don’t argue.
For a while, the silence stretches again, warm this time instead of heavy. You can feel his gaze on you, not prying or invasive, just steady. The kind of look that sits softly on your skin. You ignore it, keep pretending you don’t notice, even though it makes the back of your neck prickle.
The clock ticks louder now that the rain’s softened outside. You add another line to the report, fingers brushing against the rim of the coffee thermos he brought you earlier. It’s still warm. You hate that he thought to do that. You hate that it matters.
When he speaks again, it’s quieter. “You know… I used to think this place would feel different.”
You glance up, caught off guard by the shift in tone. He’s not looking at you this time, he’s staring at the far wall, pen still tapping gently against his knee. “The RPD, I mean. I thought it’d feel… I don’t know. Bigger, I guess. Like something out of a movie.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
He smiles faintly, still not looking at you. “You didn’t.”
You freeze for half a second too long before going back to the report. “Flattery’s not going to make me finish this faster.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
The tapping stops. You can feel his eyes on you again, heavier this time. It’s almost enough to make you shift in your seat. Almost.
You write another sentence just to have an excuse not to meet his gaze.
Then, softly, so softly you almost miss it, he says your name.
Your actual name. Not your last name, not the clipped “Officer” everyone else uses, not even “boss.”
It lands like static in your chest, a tiny spark under your ribs.
You stop mid-word. The pen halts, ink pooling slightly on the page.
When you look up, he’s watching you, steady, uncertain, but not apologetic. There’s no smirk this time, no teasing grin. Just quiet honesty.
“Don’t call me that,” you say, the words coming out lower than you mean them to.
His brow furrows. “Why not?”
You hold his gaze for a beat too long. “Because it sounds like you mean it.”
The room goes still again.
No pen tapping. No typing. Just the slow drip of rain against the window and the steady, rhythmic tick of the clock. He doesn’t look away. Not this time.
You wait for the usual comeback, some half-joke to break the tension, but it never comes. Instead, he leans back in the chair, exhaling softly, and the sound fills the space between you like something fragile and human. You should look away. You don’t.
The air feels heavier than it should, thick with everything neither of you has said. You’re both too tired to name it, too wired to ignore it.
When you finally glance back down at the desk, the pen in your hand feels strange, like it doesn’t belong there anymore.
Neither of you laugh this time.
You don’t realize you’ve stopped typing until the screen saver flickers to life, washing your desk in a dim, shifting glow. Your fingers hover above the keys, suspended in the quiet. Across from you, Leon’s still sitting there, too still. The tapping of his pen has stopped.
You set the pen down, leaning back slightly. The exhaustion has settled deep in your bones now, but something else hums beneath it, low, persistent, uneasy.
“Why are you really here, Kennedy?”
Your voice cuts through the hum of the vending machine. He blinks, caught off guard, then looks down at his hands. His thumb runs along the curve of the pen like it’s something delicate.
He shrugs once, eyes darting up, then away again. “Didn’t want the day to end like that.”
You study him for a moment. “Like what?”
He breathes out slowly through his nose, like he’s trying to find the right words. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, stripped of its usual brightness. “Like it didn’t matter.”
The line lands sharper than you expect. You feel it in your chest, that small, heavy weight of honesty. You deflect, automatically. “It was just another call. We did our jobs.”
Leon shakes his head, hair still damp enough to catch the light when he moves. “It wasn’t just another call.” He hesitates, gaze flicking back to you. “You could’ve been hurt. I—”
He stops. The word hangs there, suspended in the air like a wire pulled too tight. You can see it, the next thought forming behind his eyes, the one he’s debating whether to let out. His fingers drum softly against the desk, a nervous rhythm that betrays him.
You should cut him off. You should say something before he crosses a line you don’t know how to uncross.
So you do. Quietly. “Don’t.”
It isn’t sharp, not really. It’s tired, weighted. It carries too much behind it. Not yet. Don’t make me look at it. Don’t ruin the fragile thing we’ve built.
The rain outside fills the silence that follows. It hits the glass in uneven beats, soft and endless. You can feel the air change, that small shift that happens when two people realize they’ve reached the edge of something, and both know one more step might make it real.
He looks at you for a long time. The kind of look that doesn’t demand an answer, doesn’t apologize for existing. Just is.
Then he nods. Once. “Okay.”
The word is barely a whisper, but it echoes anyway, the kind of quiet agreement that feels like understanding.
He pushes his chair back slowly, the legs scraping softly against the tile. The sound is too loud in the stillness of the room. You watch him stand, hands sliding into the pockets of his uniform pants like he needs somewhere to put the things he didn’t say.
He lingers for a second, eyes meeting yours again. Something flickers there — warmth, regret, maybe both. Then he looks toward the hallway, toward the exit, toward safety.
For a second, you think he might actually say something more. But he doesn’t.
He just exhales, small and steady, like he’s letting go of a breath he’s been holding since the collapse. The rain keeps falling. The clock ticks. And you stay exactly where you are, hand still resting on the desk, feeling the ghost of a word that didn’t get spoken hanging in the air between you.
Leon makes it halfway to the door before stopping. The rain outside throws rippled shadows against the frosted glass, and for a second, the only sound is the hum of the lights and the faint tick of the clock above your desk.
He turns, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other still shoved deep in his pocket. His voice comes softer than before, stripped of the usual humor.
“You should go home soon. It’s late.”
You look up from the half-finished report, the cursor blinking uselessly on the screen. “You’re still here.”
“Guess I just wanted to make sure you’d be okay.”
You huff, more out of habit than anything else, and lean back in your chair. “I’ve been okay for a long time.”
He nods slowly, gaze steady, expression unreadable except for the smallest flicker of something you don’t have the energy to name. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “But you don’t always have to be.”
The line hits harder than it should. It’s too simple, too kind, and you don’t know what to do with it.
Before you can find an answer, he’s already turning away. The door opens with a low groan, a flash of hallway light spilling across the floor, and then it closes again, gently, like he’s afraid of waking something.
The quiet returns, heavier now.
You stare at the empty chair across from you, the one still angled just slightly toward your desk, and feel the leftover echo of him in the space, the faint warmth where he’d been sitting, the coffee cup he’d left behind, the silence he took with him when he walked out.
Your hand tightens around the pen. You tell yourself you’ll finish the report. You’ll file it, clock out, go home. Routine. Structure. Safety.
But the pen doesn’t move. Because somehow, against all reason, the room feels lonelier now that he’s gone.
The air still hums with the leftover charge of sirens and adrenaline.
The call had been routine, supposedly. A petty theft, a suspect fleeing down a narrow alley slick with oil and rainwater. Nothing the report will remember. But now that it’s over, the silence feels sharper than the chase itself.
You’re parked beneath a sputtering streetlight, its pale cone of gold trembling against the wet pavement. The city’s hum fades at this hour, just the low thrum of distant engines, the whisper of tires on rain-slick asphalt, the faint hiss of wind through puddles. It’s the kind of quiet that feels earned and unwelcome at once.
Leon’s pacing beside the car, his boots splashing faintly in shallow water. He runs a hand through his damp hair, breath still uneven, and tries to laugh, too light, too quick. “Well, that could’ve gone worse, right?”
You don’t laugh. You’re standing by the open driver’s door, one hand braced against the roof, pulse still thrumming under your skin. “You don’t rush in like that. You wait for backup.”
He freezes mid-step, eyes flicking toward you, rain streaking across his temple. “There wasn’t time!”
“Then you make time, rookie.”
The word lands harder than you meant it to. Sharp, like a slap meant for something else.
Leon exhales, the laugh dying in his throat. “I thought I had him.”
“You thought.” You slam the door shut harder than necessary, the sound cracking through the night. “That’s how people get killed.”
He blinks, water dripping from the ends of his hair. “I’m fine. You’re fine.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s kind of the point!” he shoots back, voice raising before he catches it and softens again. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I just—reacted.”
You shake your head, pacing a few steps away, the rain finding its rhythm against your shoulders. “You don’t react. You think. You assess. You wait.”
“I couldn’t see you,” he says, and the words come out quieter this time, rawer. “You went around the corner and I—” He cuts himself off, swallows. “I just didn’t want something to happen and have to listen to it instead of stopping it.”
You stop, turning just enough to see him through the blur of rain and streetlight. He looks smaller like this, not in size but in the way he’s holding himself, jacket unzipped, hands twitching uselessly at his sides, trying to find somewhere safe to put his guilt.
“I didn’t ask you to play hero,” you say, voice quieter now, but still tight.
He looks up, meets your eyes, and for a beat the distance between you feels thinner than the space it takes to breathe. “I wasn’t,” he says softly. “I just didn’t want to lose sight of you.”
The words are too close to something else—something neither of you is ready to name. You look away first, running a hand down your face. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah,” he says, half a laugh, half an exhale. “Been told that a few times today.”
The argument dissolves, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the rain and the sound of both your breathing. You lean back against the car, feeling the metal cold through your jacket. The puddles reflect the flickering light, catching pieces of both your faces in warped gold and silver.
He stands across from you now, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. The tension’s still there, stretching between you like a pulled wire, but under it, something else hums: relief, exhaustion, something dangerously close to care.
You sigh, finally letting your shoulders drop. “Next time,” you say, not looking at him, “you wait for backup.”
Leon nods, rain dripping from his chin. “Yes, ma’am.”
The words come quiet, earnest. Not teasing this time. Just a promise.
The wind picks up, carrying the smell of wet asphalt and the faint trace of gun oil from your holster. You tell yourself the shiver that runs through you is just the cold. But when you glance at him again, still standing there, still watching, you know it’s something else entirely.
The thing about adrenaline is it never leaves cleanly.
Even when the sirens are gone and the suspect’s cuffed and the report in your head is already half-written, it still clings, to your jaw, to your breathing, to the way your voice comes out sharper than it needs to. It’s still in you now, humming like a bad wire, and he’s close enough to get shocked.
“You can’t do that,” you say again, because saying it once wasn’t enough to burn it out of your system. “You can’t just charge in because you feel like it.”
Leon throws his hands up, rain flicking off his fingers. “I didn’t ‘feel like it’ I saw an opening.”
“You saw a bad idea.”
“It worked.”
“It almost didn’t.”
He stares at you like he can’t believe you’re still mad. “We got him.”
“You could’ve gotten hurt.”
The word comes out too fast, too loud. It startles even you.
Leon blinks, water dripping off his lashes. “I—”
“You don’t get to decide that’s worth it,” you go on, unable to stop now that you’ve started. “You don’t get to decide, ‘Oh, I’ll just take the hit, she’ll cover me.’ That’s not how this works.”
“I thought we were a team,” he fires back, sudden, wounded. “Isn’t that the point?”
“It is,” you snap. “Which is why you don’t make me watch you run into fire, Kennedy.”
The name cracks across the wet street. The streetlight above you flickers like even it’s flinching.
He stares at you for a half-second, rain on his brow, jaw tight, chest still rising too fast from the chase, and then something in him just… breaks free.
“I can’t not care about you!”
It rips out of him, rough and raw and way too loud for a sleeping street. Not polished. Not sweet. Just the truth dragged out of him at last because you pushed and pushed and pushed. The words hit the air and hang there like steam, bright and exposed. You freeze.
You feel the pulse thunder in your throat, in your ears, in the place behind your ribs you keep locked. The rain suddenly feels colder. The street suddenly feels too small. That one sentence rearranges everything between you.
He realizes what he said the exact second you do.
His eyes widen; his mouth opens and closes once. “I mean—” He stumbles over it, hands lifting, useless. “I mean you’re my partner, I just— I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t.” Your voice is low now. Not angry, dangerous. “Don’t walk it back.”
He shuts his mouth.
You swallow, rain rolling down the line of your jaw. “You don’t get to say things like that, Kennedy.”
That’s when he laughs.
Not the big, bright, “everyone likes me” laugh. This one’s small and uneven and kind of broken around the edges, like he can’t believe this is happening and also somehow knew it was always going to.
“You say my name,” he breathes, shaking his head, rain dripping from his hair, “like it’s supposed to make me stop.”
The streetlight above you gives another tired flicker, painting both of you in stuttering gold. The rain picks up just a little, coming in sideways now, driven by a wind that carries the smell of wet pavement and river water. Your jackets are soaked through. Your breath fogs the air between you.
But the silence that slides in now isn’t the same silence from before. It isn’t angry. It isn’t annoyed. It’s thick. Aware. It’s the silence of two people staring straight at the thing they’ve both been pretending not to see.
You hold his gaze. You shouldn’t. You should look away, tell him to get in the car, tell him to write up the damn report. Instead you just… look.
He looks back, and without the jokes, without the sunshine, it’s unbearable. Because it’s all there, finally: the way he tracks you in a room, the way he remembers your coffee, the way he followed you into a collapsing building like that was just what you did when it was you. All of it sitting in his eyes, unhidden.
Wind rolls down the street, shivering through the puddles. Somewhere far off, a dog barks. Everything else is just wet and night and him.
He takes a step forward.
Not a lunge, not a grab, not even something he could pretend was instinct. Just one, measured step, closing the distance from work partner to I can feel your body heat in the rain. Close enough that the damp from his jacket mixes with yours. Close enough that you can see the pulse in his throat.
He stops there. Doesn’t crowd. Doesn’t trap. Just… chooses to be closer.
His voice, when it comes, is softer. “You scared me,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Back there. When I lost sight of you.”
You open your mouth, but nothing worth saying is ready. So he fills the space instead, that earnest, infuriating honesty spilling again. “You tell me to wait, I’ll wait. You tell me to back off, I’ll back off. But don’t ask me not to care. I can’t do that.”
The rain hisses on the asphalt. Your heart does something painful. He’s too young for this, you think, not in age, but in the way he still believes he’s allowed to love things out loud.
You force your jaw to work. “You’re making this—”
“Real?” he offers, wry, eyes shining rain. “Yeah. I know.”
He smiles, but it’s shaky, like maybe this costs him too. “But it already was.”
Rain always makes things worse.
It softens edges, blurs streetlights, slows sirens, and it makes it so much harder to lie. You can hear your own breathing too clearly. You can see his, fogging faintly in the air between you. Everything feels closer, like the world narrowed down to wet pavement, a flickering lamp, and the stupid rookie who won’t stop looking at you like you hung the moon over Raccoon City.
His shoulders are still rising a little too fast from the chase, from the argument, from whatever this is. Yours too. The patrol car ticks quietly as it cools. Somewhere deeper in the city a siren wails and fades, like it belongs to someone else’s night. Not yours.
Then Leon says it.
“I tried not to,” he says, voice lower now, stripped of all the bright edges. “I swear I did. But I—” He huffs out a laugh that isn’t a laugh, shaking his head as rain drips from his hair. “I can’t keep pretending you’re just my partner.”
The words hit like cold water under the collar, sudden, invasive, inescapable.
You should’ve expected it. He’s been circling this for days, in the way he stayed late, in the way he followed you too close in the hall, in the way he said you don’t always have to be okay like he had any right to know that about you. But hearing it out loud still punches the air out of your lungs.
You go for the only weapon you ever trust: logic. Distance. The thing that always saved you.
“You’ll grow out of it,” you say, trying to make it sound obvious. Inevitable. The way rain stops. The way rookies quit. “You’re new. You like people. That’s not the same thing.”
He should roll his eyes, crack a joke, let you have the out you’re handing him. He doesn’t.
He shakes his head, rain sliding down his temple, gathering on his lashes. His smile shows for a second, not the big one, not the “I’m happy to be here” smile, just a small, trembling, God, I wish this was easier smile.
“You don’t grow out of the people who change the way you breathe,” he says.
You hate that it lands. You hate that something in you knows what he means, that small adjustment your chest makes when he appears in a doorway, the way the bullpen noise dulls when he’s near, the way your hand pulled him behind that desk without even thinking. You hate that your body recognizes him even when your brain refuses to.
The air goes different after that. Thinner. Charged. Delicate like glass held too tight.
You become aware of everything at once, of the rain soaking into the collar of your shirt, of the way your hair sticks to your cheek, of the way his jacket is dark with water and still steaming slightly in the cold night air. You can hear his heartbeat, or maybe it’s yours, loud in your ears. You can see the way his hands flex like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
You tell yourself to walk away. Right now. Say no. Say we can’t. Say this is the job and the job comes first. You have said no to easier things. You have walked away from softer people. You know how to do this.
But your feet don’t move.
Because he’s looking at you the way people only look when they’ve decided something, not about you, but about themselves. He’s not asking. He’s not trying to win. He’s just… telling you where he ended up.
You meet his eyes and it hits you, all at once, how young he is and how old this kind of courage is. His eyes are wide but sure, and behind the rain and the tiredness and the last dregs of adrenaline you see it all, laid bare: the fear when he lost sight of you, the admiration when you cleared that room, the way he listened to every order even when he didn’t like it, the devotion that was growing even when you were trying so hard not to water it.
It isn’t grand. There’s no swelling music, no dramatic camera pan. It’s just two people on a wet street, too stubborn and too tired to keep lying.
You swallow, throat tight. “Leon,” you start, because his name is the only thing you trust yourself to say without breaking. “This city eats people alive. It eats partnerships. It eats good intentions. You can’t—”
“I know,” he cuts in, gentle, not arguing. “I know it’s messy. I know it’s wrong on paper. I know I talk too much, and I follow too close, and I make you crazy.”
“You do,” you say, because you need him to know that part is still true.
He almost smiles. “I know. But I still—” He looks down for half a second, searching for the word. When he lifts his head again, it’s there. “I still choose you.”
The way he says it,not I love you, not please love me back, not you owe me this, just I still choose you, makes something in you lurch.
You look past him for a second, out over the empty street, as if the answer might be in the shapeless dark. There’s nothing there. Just puddles catching light and the shape of his shoulders in your periphery.
“I don’t know if I can give you what you want,” you say, quietly, because you’ve always been more honest than kind. “I don’t— I’m not—” You gesture vaguely at yourself, rain flicking off your fingers. “I don’t do this.”
He nods, too fast, like he expected that. “That’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
“It is,” he insists, stepping just close enough that his words warm the space between you. “Because I didn’t tell you so you’d say it back. I told you because I didn’t want you thinking I was just… following orders.” His eyes search yours, steady, pleading only for understanding. “I follow you.”
That almost undoes you.
Because you remember him in the hallway, in the car, in the building, saying I’ll follow your lead like it was easy. Like it didn’t cost him anything. You remember thinking he was just a golden retriever rookie with too much heart and not enough sense.
Turns out it wasn’t thoughtless. Turns out it was deliberate.
You let out a slow breath, barely more than a sigh. “You make things complicated, Kennedy.”
He huffs a laugh that’s wet and shaky. “You make things worth it.”
God, he’s so earnest. So painfully sincere. So unashamed to feel things out loud. It’s recklessness of a different kind, not the kind that chases suspects into alleys, but the kind that sits in front of someone guarded and says I care anyway.
You look at him, really look, and realize there was never going to be a different ending. Not with the way he kept showing up. Not with the way you kept letting him. You’ve both been walking toward this street, this rain, this confession since the morning you told him to get a leash and he laughed like that meant stay.
“It’s not going to be easy,” you say at last, voice tired and soft and so, so honest.
He nods. “I know.”
“You might regret it.”
“Doubt it.”
“You might.” You search his face for some sign of uncertainty. There isn’t one. Only rain. Only him. “I might.”
His eyes soften like he’s already made peace with that. “Then we regret it together.”
The rain eases like it finally got tired. What was coming down sideways a minute ago softens to a fine, steady drizzle, the kind that hangs in the air and clings to your lashes.
Leon’s watching you like he’s afraid you’ll spook.
Not afraid of you, afraid of losing you. There’s a difference. It’s in the way his shoulders stay squared but his hands won’t quite settle, in the way his breath catches halfway in, in the way his eyes keep flicking from your mouth back to your eyes, checking, checking, checking.
He doesn’t move. Not yet.
He waits, and that, somehow, is what undoes you the most. That he’d follow you into a collapsing building without hesitation but won’t cross this last inch of rain-wet air without your permission.
You don’t take a step back. You don’t even tilt your head away. You just… stay.
That’s all he needs.
He exhales, slow, shaky, full of the day and the fight and the confession he just put in your hands. Then he leans in.
Not fast. Not reckless. Slow. Careful. Every inch is a question. Here? Is this okay? Still okay? He gives you a chance to stop him at the start, and then again halfway, and then again when you can feel the warmth of him through the cold.
You tell yourself you’ll pull back.
You tell yourself you’ll stop it before it lands, before it becomes real, before it becomes something the two of you will have to carry in the morning.
Any second now. But you don’t.
Because by the time he’s close enough that his breath ghosts across your cheek, you realize you’ve been waiting for this without letting yourself want it. Every near-miss, every shoulder bump, every “stay close, rookie”, all of it was orbit. This is the center.
His mouth meets yours like a secret.
Not crushed, not frantic, just placed. A confession made in the only language that won’t crack the night in half. It’s warm despite the rain, soft despite the tension braided through both of you. He tastes like coffee gone cold, like rain, like the copper tang of adrenaline fading, like someone who ran too hard and still came back.
For half a heartbeat, you’re too stunned to move. Then your body remembers what to do.
Your hand finds his jacket, not delicate, not practiced, just a fistful of damp fabric right over his chest. He makes a tiny sound against your mouth, not quite a laugh and not quite a gasp, more like oh, surprised you’re pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
His hand comes up, hesitant at first, like he thinks touching you will break the spell, and hovers near your jaw. Then it settles, fingers splaying gently along the line of your face, thumb brushing the rain from your cheekbone. He holds you like you’re something he found in a burning building.
The world shrinks.
No squad car. No reports. No sheriff. No RPD. Just the heat of him and the cool rain and the way his heartbeat slams against your knuckles through his jacket. The streetlight hums above you; the city blurs at the edges. Somewhere, water runs into a gutter. Somewhere, somebody’s closing up shop. None of it matters.
He kisses you like he meant every word he said. Like I can’t not care about you didn’t fall out by accident. Like he’s been holding this back since the first morning you told him to get a map.
It isn’t a kiss that asks for more. It’s a kiss that says this is it. This is what I meant. It aches, not because it’s hungry, but because it’s careful. Reverent, even. He’s not trying to take anything. He’s just trying to give you the truth the way you’ll actually let yourself take it.
You tilt your head a little, not much, and the angle changes, deeper but still soft. His thumb strokes your jaw once, slow, grounding. You can feel the shiver that runs through him where your hand is fisted in his jacket. Not fear. Just too much feeling with nowhere to go.
You should stop.
You tell yourself again. Any second now. I’ll stop. I’ll pull away. I’ll tell him we can’t.
But he’s warm, and the rain is cold, and his mouth is gentle, and for the first time in a very long time, you don’t feel like someone asking too much of you, you feel chosen. You feel seen.
So you don’t stop.
You let it last. Just long enough for it to sink in. Long enough for him to know you’re kissing him back, not letting him. Long enough for that stubborn, bright, rookie heart to understand you didn’t just tolerate his confession, you accepted it.
When you finally break, it’s not dramatic. You just breathe.
You pull back an inch, maybe two. Your fingers are still knotted in his jacket. His hand is still on your jaw. Both of you are breathing like you ran another alley, short, hitched, trying to catch up.
His forehead tips forward until it’s resting against yours, rain dripping from his hair onto your nose, both of you laughing these tiny, ridiculous, breathless half-laughs that come from relief more than humour.
He whispers, voice rough from holding it all in, “God… I really like you.”
You huff, but it comes out softer than any insult you’ve ever thrown. “You’re an idiot.”
He grins, wide now, unstoppable, stupid-happy even in the rain. “Yeah. Your idiot, though.”
You don’t say no this time.
The next morning you tell yourself nothing’s changed. You walk in exactly on time, hang your jacket on the same hook, brace for the usual RPD chaos — phones, printers, someone swearing at the copier. The bullpen looks the same: too bright, too loud, too gray. Nobody here knows you kissed a rookie in the rain. Nobody knows your heart is doing something stupid about it.
Then you get to your desk. There’s a coffee waiting. Not the burnt communal sludge, a real one, still steaming, your first name messily scrawled on the side. Next to it: a folded sticky note.
It says, in all caps: “FOR STAYING ALIVE. – L”
and underneath, smaller: “p.s. if you don’t like this coffee I will cry in the locker room (quietly)”
You snort. Out loud. “Something funny?” someone calls. “No,” you say way too fast, already sipping. It’s good. Of course it is. He paid attention.
You feel him before you see him — that Boy Scout gravity. He leans on your desk like he owns the spot, hair still damp, uniform crisp, smile criminally soft. “Morning, partner,” he says, just for you.
“You bribing your mentor now?” you mutter.
“Bribing?” he gasps. “That was a romantic gesture.”
“This is a police station.”
“Yeah, and you’re still drinking it.”
You flick the sticky note at him; he fumbles it, laughs, tucks it in his vest like evidence. Then he strolls off and, way too loud, goes, “Morning! Don’t mind me, just keeping my officer caffeinated!”
Half the bullpen looks straight at you. You glare at him like you could set him on fire. He just beams. You take another sip, stare very hard at your report, and tell yourself nothing’s changed. Your pulse, annoyingly, says otherwise.
Synopsis: Rivals turned undercover partners, you and Leon Kennedy fake a relationship during an Umbrella operation. Only to realise the hardest mission isn’t survival, but choosing each other.
Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Fake Relationship, Forced Proximity, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Emotional Vulnerability, Miscommunication, Action/Combat, Protective Leon Kennedy, Rivals to Equals, Confession Scene.
Warnings: Gun Violence, Injury, Blood, Emotional Distress, Arguments, High-Stress Situations, Feelings
Words: ~17k
A/N: im just going to ignore the infection on leon's neck in the new trailer :') (pls capcom dont play with me rn)
The Division of Security Operations headquarters never slept, but it also never felt alive.
Steel-panelled walls reflected fluorescent light in a way that flattened everything, faces, voices, victories. Even the air felt regulated, filtered until it lacked personality. The kind of place that existed to remind you that emotions were liabilities and efficiency was king.
Which was ironic, considering how personal things always got.
The leaderboard hung at the far end of the operations floor, suspended like a silent judge.
Agents gathered as the system refreshed, boots echoing against polished floors, conversations tapering off mid-sentence. There was always a crowd when post-mission reports finalised. Half anticipation, half fear. Careers shifted on that screen. Egos bruised. Grudges sharpened.
You stood with your arms folded, posture casual in a way that took effort. Like you weren’t waiting. Like you didn’t already know exactly who you’d be fighting for space with.
The board flickered.
For a split second, everything went dark.
Then the names snapped into place.
#1 — YOU
#2 — LEON KENNEDY
The reaction was immediate.
A low whistle cut through the room. Someone muttered, “Jesus, again.” Another agent laughed softly, like they’d just lost a bet.
You didn’t smile.
Smiling would’ve felt like gloating, and gloating around Leon Kennedy always came back to bite. Instead, you exhaled through your nose, jaw tightening just enough to hurt. Relief tangled with triumph, knotted together in a way that never quite felt like a win.
Across the floor, Leon stood a few feet away. Too close. Close enough that you could feel him without looking, like static in the air, irritating and unavoidable. He didn’t react. No sigh. No curse. No flicker of irritation that would’ve been satisfying to see.
He just stared at the board, hands loose at his sides, shoulders squared like this was exactly where he expected to be. Second.
That was the thing about Leon. He never looked bothered. Which only ever made you want to bother him more. Finally, he turned his head. Not fully. Just enough to acknowledge your existence.
“Congrats.”
The word was clean. Controlled. Devoid of warmth. Not a compliment, an obligation. You turned on him immediately.
“Wow,” you said, voice light in a way that wasn’t. “That sounded painful. You okay?”
A few agents nearby froze, suddenly very interested in anything that wasn’t the two of you. Someone cleared their throat. Loudly.
Leon’s eyes slid to you then—really looked. Blue, steady, unreadable. Like he was cataloguing you, the way he always did, as if you were a problem he hadn’t solved yet.
“I’ll survive,” he said. “I usually do.”
There it was. The implication. The reminder. That he didn’t need the board. Didn’t need the validation.
You scoffed. “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”
Your heart was beating faster than it should have. You hated that. Hated that he still had that effect. You told yourself it was just rivalry. Professional friction. Two agents chasing the same metrics.
Except metrics didn’t make your blood boil. Metrics didn’t make you remember every mission where he’d overridden your call. Every briefing where he’d questioned your judgment with that infuriating calm. Every time he’d acted like you were a variable to manage instead of an equal.
Leon gave a short nod, not concession, not respect. Closure.
Then he turned away.
As if the conversation hadn’t mattered.
As if you hadn’t mattered.
Your fingers curled before you could stop them. You remembered the first time you’d tried to talk to him. Fresh out of training, adrenaline high, stupid enough to think camaraderie was a given. You’d said his name.
He’d walked straight past you. You’d decided then that he was an asshole. Every interaction since had only reinforced it.
The operations floor slowly returned to life as agents peeled away toward briefings, the tension dispersing but not disappearing. Not between you and Leon. It never did.
As you headed toward the briefing room, you caught his reflection in the glass wall ahead. Same expression. Same calm. Locked down so tight it felt deliberate. Like a wall he wanted you to slam into. And God help you, part of you wanted to break it. Just to prove that something under there could crack.
You squared your shoulders and kept walking. You didn’t care. You absolutely did.
The mission briefing chime cut through the operations floor with surgical precision.
“Conference Room A. Five minutes.”
The reaction was immediate and universal.
Groans rippled through agents who hadn’t moved fast enough to make themselves scarce. Chairs scraped back. Tablets were snapped shut. The loose, post-leaderboard tension evaporated, replaced by something sharper, more disciplined.
You moved with the crowd on instinct alone.
It wasn’t until you were halfway there that you realised exactly where it was taking you.
Conference Room A.
You grimaced internally.
The room was large by design, tiered seating, wide tables, enough space to accommodate egos as well as bodies, but it had a habit of shrinking whenever certain people occupied it.
You stepped inside and scanned for an open seat, already bracing yourself.
Of course.
Leon was already there.
Middle row. Dead centre. Prime vantage point of the screen and the handler’s podium. Perfect posture. Perfectly composed. Like he’d planned it that way.
There were empty chairs scattered throughout the room, but they might as well not have existed. Too far. Too obvious. Too cowardly. The only viable option, the one that didn’t scream avoidance, was the seat beside him.
Unavoidable. You took it. You dropped into the chair with more force than necessary, the legs giving a brief, sharp screech against the floor. Leon didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to.
The tension snapped into place the instant you sat down, tight and immediate, like a wire pulled too far. You felt it in your shoulders. In the way your spine straightened despite yourself.
Conversations around you faltered. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that you noticed the sudden lack of noise in your peripheral hearing. Someone a few rows back leaned in to whisper something to their partner. Another agent glanced at the two of you, eyebrows lifting before they very deliberately looked away.
No one wanted to be involved. The air felt thick. Pressurised. Like it might rupture if either of you pushed too hard.
Leon crossed his arms, posture relaxed but closed. Casual in the way that required discipline. Control. You leaned back, ankle resting on your knee, adopting your own version of indifference. Two opposing stances. Same message.
The handler entered, and the room snapped to attention.
Lights dimmed. Screens flared to life, flooding the space with satellite imagery, data streams, mission headers scrolling in clean, clinical fonts. The low hum of equipment filled the silence left behind by agents who suddenly remembered how to listen. For a few minutes, it was almost normal. Almost.
“Umbrella-affiliated assets have increased activity along the European biotech circuit,” the handler said, laser pointer gliding across the map. “High-profile events. Private funding galas. A lot of noise. Very little traceable movement.”
Leon leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table.
“Which means the actual exchange won’t happen on-site,” he said. Calm. Certain. “It’ll be routed through a secondary node. Off-grid. Clean.”
You didn’t look at him.
“Or,” you cut in, eyes still fixed on the screen, “they keep it local because no one expects them to risk exposure in a room full of donors and diplomats.”
The room stilled. You felt the shift before you saw it, attention pivoting, subtle but undeniable. Leon turned his head slowly. Deliberately.
“That would be sloppy,” he said. No heat. No edge. “Umbrella isn’t sloppy.”
You let out a soft, humourless breath. “Neither are shell corporations hiding in plain sight,” you replied. “Especially when they’re backed by people who think money makes them invisible.”
A pause. Leon’s mouth twitched. Not irritation. Amusement.
“That’s an assumption,” he said. “Arrogance isn’t a reliable variable.”
You turned then, meeting his gaze head-on. “It is when arrogance is the only reason they’ve survived this long.”
For a split second, his eyes held yours. Then he smirked. Not big. Not obvious. Just enough. And it pissed you off instantly.
A few agents shifted uncomfortably. Someone cleared their throat. The handler didn’t intervene, never did. Not when it was the two of you. They’d learned better. From somewhere across the room, barely under someone’s breath, came a muttered, “God help whoever has to work with them.”
It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t annoyed. It was resigned.
You saw Leon’s reaction out of the corner of your eye. The faint tightening at the corner of his mouth. Not anger. Something closer to agreement. Like the comment confirmed something he already knew. The rivalry wasn’t subtle. It never had been.
Leadership knew it. Field agents knew it. Even analysts who avoided combat zones like the plague knew better than to put the two of you on the same assignment without contingencies.
And yet. Here you were. Side by side. Again.
As the briefing continued, the friction didn’t ease, it deepened. You filled gaps Leon dismissed as irrelevant. He dismantled assumptions you made with surgical precision. Neither of you raised your voice. Neither of you yielded an inch.
It wasn’t about ego. It was about being right.
Leon shifted beside you, the movement small but unmistakable. Intentional. Close enough that you could feel his presence without looking. Close enough to feel like a provocation.
You refused to glance at him.
The handler cleared their throat sharply.
“Enough,” they said. Calm. Firm. “Both of you.”
You leaned back in your chair, jaw tight, eyes still forward.
Leon didn’t move at all.
Except for that damn smirk that hadn’t quite faded.
The briefing ended the way most did.
Not with resolution but with an abrupt cutoff and a roomful of people pretending they hadn’t been holding their breath.
The lights brightened. Screens went dark. Chairs shifted as agents remembered how to move again. Conversations started up too fast, too loud, like noise could erase what had just happened.
It couldn’t.
Agents filed out in a rush, boots striking the floor with sudden urgency. No one lingered. No one made eye contact longer than necessary. The tension was something physical now. Something that could snag you if you weren’t careful, wrap around your ankle and drag you down with it.
You were halfway to the door when the handler’s voice cut through the noise.
“You. Kennedy. Stay.”
Your spine stiffened.
Of course.
Leon stopped beside you without looking at you, like he’d been expecting it. Like this was just another outcome he’d already calculated. You hated that most of all, that nothing ever seemed to catch him off guard.
The rest of the room emptied fast.
Too fast.
Even the analysts who usually hovered with questions and clarifications suddenly remembered pressing deadlines and non-existent meetings. The last agent slipped out, the door sliding shut behind them with a soft, almost polite hiss.
Click.
The sound echoed.
Silence flooded in, heavy and deliberate.
The handler didn’t bother with theatrics. They never did. They stood at the head of the conference table, hands loosely clasped, posture easy in a way that only came from authority earned the hard way.
They looked unimpressed.
Calm. Experienced. Patient in the way of someone who had watched far worse people implode and lived to tell the story.
Their gaze flicked to you.
Then to Leon.
Like they were reviewing two familiar problem variables in a report they already knew by heart.
“You’re going to hate this assignment,” they said evenly. “So I’m going to give it to you quickly.”
Leon’s shoulders barely moved. No reaction. No protest.
You crossed your arms tighter, already bracing for impact.
The handler tapped the remote.
The screen behind them changed, maps and data streams replaced by a glossy event flyer dripping with gold accents and forced elegance.
THE KENSINGTON BIOTECH BENEFIT
A private gala supporting global medical innovation.
You scoffed quietly.
The kind of event that smelled like money, power, and immunity.
“Umbrella-adjacent shell companies have been laundering research funding through three different foundations,” the handler continued. “One of them is sponsoring this gala. Donors, executives, foreign ambassadors. Wealth. Influence. Enough plausible deniability to make a prosecutor cry.”
Another click.
A timeline appeared. Then a guest list, names blurred, titles redacted, power implied without explanation.
“Tonight,” the handler said, “their data broker makes a handoff. We believe it includes proprietary files and field logs. Evidence of illegal trials. Off-book transport routes. Personnel rosters.”
Your focus sharpened despite yourself.
“Where’s the handoff happening?” you asked.
Leon beat you by half a second.
“And how do we extract it without tipping the room?”
You felt irritation spark immediately. Predictable. Of course he’d jump straight to logistics, like this was just another clean operation and not a nest of vipers in tuxedos.
The handler’s eyes flicked between you again, cataloguing the tension like it was another asset to manage.
“The handoff is digital,” they said. “Encrypted drive. Stored temporarily on a secure device in the VIP lounge. The broker uploads it to an off-site server at 23:00. We need the device before then.”
Too clean.
You frowned. “So we infiltrate. Grab the device. Disappear.”
“Correct,” the handler said. “Which is why this is an on-site operation. No drones. No external breach. Umbrella’s countermeasures are tight.”
Leon’s jaw flexed once. Barely noticeable. You caught it anyway.
“Then we’ll need invitations,” he said.
“Already handled.”
The handler clicked again.
The screen changed.
Two names appeared. Two immaculate profiles. Wealthy. Connected. Polished to perfection.
A couple.
Your stomach dropped.
You read it once.
Then again.
And again.
Couple profile.
You looked up slowly. “No.”
The handler didn’t blink. “Yes.”
You let out a short laugh, sharp, humourless. “Absolutely not.”
Leon still hadn’t spoken.
His eyes were locked on the screen, but his posture had gone rigid in a way you recognised. The same way it did right before a firefight. Before something went wrong.
His jaw was tight. Mouth set into a flat line.
If a bullet had been aimed at his head, he would’ve looked exactly like this.
“The guest list is exclusive,” the handler continued. “Couples only. It’s not charity, it’s a filter. Singles draw scrutiny. Couples imply stability.”
You leaned forward, palms slamming onto the table. “Send literally anyone else.”
“There is no anyone else,” the handler replied calmly. “Not for this.”
Your temper flared hot and fast. “Why? Because we’re top-ranked?”
“Because your skill overlap is ideal,” they said. “One of you excels in social manipulation and close-quarters infiltration. The other excels in threat assessment and extraction under pressure.”
You opened your mouth.
“Don’t,” the handler said sharply. “You’re both excellent. Together, you’re efficient.”
Leon finally spoke.
“And if we refuse?”
Low. Controlled. Dangerous in its restraint.
The handler didn’t soften. “Then we miss the handoff. Umbrella keeps their data. People die later because we didn’t do our jobs now.”
Cold. Final.
You clenched your jaw. “So your plan is to shove us into a ballroom and hope we don’t kill each other.”
“My plan,” the handler said, “is to send two professionals into a controlled environment with a clear objective. Your personal feelings are irrelevant.”
“They’re not irrelevant if they compromise the mission,” you snapped.
Leon glanced at you then.
Brief. Sharp.
Unreadable.
He didn’t defend you. Didn’t agree. Didn’t disagree.
He just stood there, calm, contained, infuriatingly above it, like he always did.
You wanted to shake him. To crack that composure just once.
The handler watched you both like someone observing a storm they’d already charted.
“If you can’t play nice for one night,” they said evenly, “you don’t deserve that leaderboard.”
The words landed hard. Because they were true.
Because the leaderboard wasn’t just numbers. It was proof. Of every sacrifice. Every cut corner. Every fight you’d survived to get here. You felt the hook sink deep.
Leon didn’t react outwardly, but you saw it. The subtle lift of his chin. The tension in his throat as he swallowed. Pride caught him too. The handler shut off the screen.
“You’ll attend as Dr. and Dr.,” they said, sliding dossiers across the table. “Long-term couple. Convincing. You will touch. You will smile. You will sell it.”
You stared at the dossiers like they were weapons. Leon picked his up with careful precision. Of course he did.
“This is not optional,” the handler said. “Get the device. Get the data. Come back.”
They looked at you both.
“Try not to embarrass me.”
The door unlocked with a hiss.
You didn’t move.
Neither did Leon.
The truth settled ugly and heavy in your chest.
You weren’t being asked to work with Leon Kennedy. You were being forced to pretend you wanted him.
The training wing smelled like disinfectant and old sweat, cleaned often, never enough. The kind of smell that clung to the back of your throat no matter how many times they scrubbed the floors. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, cold and unforgiving, washing everything in a sickly white glow that did no one any favours.
The DSO didn’t do cozy. It did functional. It did survive.
A door slid open at the handler’s badge swipe, revealing a smaller room tucked off the main mat space. It was laid out like an interrogation room that had tried—and failed—to pass itself off as an office.
One table. Two chairs. A stack of folders.
And a tablet already lit up with a form that made your soul leave your body on sight.
You stared at it like it had just insulted your family.
“Sit,” the handler said.
Leon took the chair opposite you immediately. No hesitation. No comment. Of course he did. You waited half a second longer, purely out of spite, then sat, crossing your legs and folding your arms like the tablet might try something.
The handler slid two clipboards across the table.
“You’ll fill these out together,” they said. “Your cover is long-term. Married. High-value donors with private ties to the foundation. Security will look for inconsistencies: names, habits, timelines. If you don’t align, you’ll set off alarms before you hit the champagne.”
They pushed a third folder toward Leon. “Apartment layout. Memorise it. If someone asks where the bathroom is in your home, you answer without thinking.”
Leon scanned the paperwork with that infuriatingly calm focus he brought to bomb schematics and ambush routes. No sarcasm. No commentary. Just silent efficiency.
You hated him a little extra for it.
“I’ll be outside,” the handler added. “You have forty minutes. Try not to kill each other.”
The door shut.
Click.
You and Leon were left alone with the lie. For a moment, neither of you moved. Leon’s eyes stayed on the paperwork. Yours stayed on him.
You grabbed the top sheet and skimmed it.
How did you meet?
When did you move in together?
Anniversary date:
Pet names used in public:
Pet peeves:
Shared routines:
Preferred terms of endearment (optional):
Your jaw clenched.
“This is ridiculous.”
Leon finally lifted his gaze. “It’s standard.”
You scoffed. “Standard. Right. Because nothing says ‘authentic marriage’ like a fill-in-the-blank worksheet.”
He picked up his pen. “How did we meet?”
The bluntness threw you for a second. “Wow. No warm-up? No foreplay?”
Leon didn’t blink. “Focus.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Prague.”
His pen paused midair. “Vienna.”
You stared. “I’m sorry, did you just veto my city?”
“Vienna makes more sense,” he said evenly. “Diplomatic circuit. Donors. Embassy galas.”
“Prague is beautiful,” you shot back. “Historic. Romantic. Exactly the kind of place two rich idiots would pretend to fall in love over overpriced wine.”
Leon’s mouth flattened. “It’s cliché.”
“And Vienna isn’t?”
“It’s believable.”
“So is Prague.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was counting to ten. “We need a story that holds up under scrutiny.”
“And we need one that doesn’t sound like it was written by a man who alphabetises his spices.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes. “I don’t alphabetise my spices.”
“Wow. Growth.”
The argument escalated almost instantly. It was petty. You both knew it. It was also loud, because neither of you was willing to lose the first detail. Like it mattered. Like this wasn’t all fake anyway.
Leon tapped the page. “Vienna. We met at a benefit dinner. You spilled a drink on me.”
You barked a laugh. “Of course I did.”
“It’s memorable.”
“It makes me clumsy.”
“It explains why we talked.”
You bristled. “Or you bumped into me.”
Leon raised an eyebrow. “That makes you the victim.”
“And?”
“It makes me the asshole.”
You smiled sweetly. “Finally. Something accurate.”
For a second, his mouth twitched. Barely. Gone as fast as it appeared.
“Anniversary date,” you said quickly, flipping the page.
“November,” Leon said without hesitation.
“Why November?”
“Forgettable.”
“Wow. Romantic.”
He didn’t react. “The fifteenth.”
You paused. “That’s weirdly specific.”
His gaze flicked away. Just for a fraction of a second. “It’s fine.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You absolutely have something on the fifteenth.”
“No.”
“Uh-huh.”
You wrote it down anyway.
Pet peeves.
You read the line and looked up. “This is where you put ‘people who talk too much,’ isn’t it?”
Leon folded his arms. “It’s where we put things we can answer quickly.”
“Oh. Then write ‘emotion.’”
“What’s yours?” he countered.
“Men who think silence counts as depth.”
His pen stilled. “You hum when you’re thinking.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“That’s not a pet peeve.”
“It is when it’s constant.”
Heat crept up your neck. “You’re creepy.”
“Observant.”
Next line.
Pet names used in public.
You stared at it like it might explode.
“No.”
“We need something.”
“Something neutral.”
“Babe.”
You physically recoiled. “Absolutely not.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Try again.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Honey.”
Leon grimaced. “That’s worse.”
“It’s normal.”
“It sounds like a threat when you say it.”
You gasped. “Rude.”
“Pick one.”
You exhaled hard. “Love.”
He froze.
“What?” you snapped.
“It’s… British.”
“We’re in London half the year. Write it down.”
He did.
Your stomach did something annoying.
You shoved the clipboard away. “Done?”
Leon flipped to the apartment layout. “No.”
He started listing details like a man preparing for war. Door directions. Furniture placement. Appliance locations.
“You’re insane,” you muttered.
“It’s my job.”
The way he said it stopped your next insult cold. Before you could unpack that, the door hissed open.
“Time,” the handler said. “Training.”
The training room was louder. A raw, grinding decibel that felt less like sound and more like physical pressure against your eardrums. It was hotter, a dense, clinging heat that rose from the mats and bodies and pooled against the ceiling. This place was brutally, viciously honest in a way the slick corridors and polished debriefing rooms of headquarters never dared to be. Here, pretence was the first thing stripped away.
Every sound was amplified, thrown back by the barren walls: the scuff and slap of boots against padding, the meaty thud of bodies hitting the mat, the sharp, bitten-off bark of instructors.
This was where elegance went to die. Where you were reminded what you were underneath the tech and the tactics: flesh, bone, and flawed instinct.
Leon shrugged out of his jacket as if shedding a second skin. The movement was economical, unshowy, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting in a deliberate roll beneath his dark shirt as he pushed his sleeves to his elbows. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. His indifference was a practiced weapon, and he wielded it perfectly.
You hated that you tracked the motion anyway. Hated the way your eyes followed the line of his forearm, the shift of his weight. A silent catalogue of the enemy.
Mirroring him was a reflex, but you made it aggressive. You rolled your shoulders back until the joints gave a soft pop, tilted your neck until it burned. Your pulse was already climbing, a drumbeat of pure, undiluted adrenaline bleeding into your veins ahead of the impact. This wasn't nerves. It was a craving for collision.
“Close-quarters,” the handler’s voice cut through the din from the edge of the mat. “No distance. No weapons. You’re going to be in each other’s space until one of you breaks or the clock does.”
Lucky me.
Leon turned to face you fully, and the overhead lights carved him out of the gloom. The sharp, unyielding line of his jaw, the steady, metronomic rise and fall of his chest. His eyes swept over you once. Not dismissive. Not curious. Assessing. Coldly, clinically reassessing a variable he already had quantified.
“Try to keep up,” you said, the words grating out, already furious at the glacial calm on his face.
The corner of his mouth twitched. A phantom of a smirk, there and gone. “Show me.”
The first clash was less a fight and more a detonation.
You lunged without preamble, a silent, violent blur closing the distance before he could settle into a textbook stance. He reacted not with surprise, but with a speed that felt like an insult, catching your leading arm, redirecting your momentum with infuriating efficiency. Your shoulder slammed into the wall of his chest. Solid. Immovable. The impact reverberated up your neck, rattling your teeth.
You hooked his leg; he countered your hook. You twisted for leverage; his grip shifted, strong, calloused hands locking like manacles around your wrist and forearm. He stepped into you, using your own forward drive to uproot your balance.
The mat rushed up to meet you. You hit with a force that punched the air from your lungs in a sharp, humiliating wheeze.
He followed you down, a controlled avalanche. One knee braced near your hip, his weight a deliberate, undeniable pressure. One hand planted beside your head, caging you. The other pinning your arm with machined precision.
Too close.
His heat enveloped you, a living, breathing furnace. You could feel the coiled tension in the muscles of his arms and chest as he held himself back, a restraint that was somehow more arrogant than full force. His breath, still steady, washed over your cheek.
“Yield.” A single, quiet word, dropped into the scant space between your mouths.
You bared your teeth, a soundless snarl. “Dream on, Kennedy.”
You bucked, shifted your hips, used the micro-second his weight adjusted to hook your leg and roll. The world flipped, ceiling lights streaking, his form a blur of controlled motion, and suddenly you were on top, your forearm braced against the solid column of his throat, your knees digging into the mat on either side of his ribs.
Beneath you, his chest heaved once. A deep, aborted expansion. For a suspended heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Sweat slicked your skin where you pressed against him. The mat was warm and smelled of defeat. Leon’s hand came up, his grip closing around your wrist, not to throw you, not to hurt. To test. To measure the resistance. He was already adapting, his body learning yours even as yours screamed to reject his.
Your pulse was a roar in your ears, a chaotic counter-rhythm to his terrifying calm.
You shoved off him as if burned, scrambling to your feet before the strange, charged stillness could solidify.
“Not so perfect,” you spat, your breath coming in gusts you hated.
Leon sat up smoothly, as if rising from a lounge chair. As if your reversal had been a predicted, inconsequential sub-routine. “You’re fast.”
It wasn’t praise. It was data entry. And you hated that the distinction felt so vital, and that it landed somewhere in the uncharted, dangerous space between contempt and something else.
“Again,” the handler barked.
The next round was worse. Longer. More intimately brutal. It was a war of pressure and proximity. He caught a strike and used it to drive you back into the mat, his shoulder pinning you down, his forearm a bar of iron across your chest, not crushing, just absolutely controlling. You could feel every breath he took. You kicked out, twisted, your hands scraping against the corded steel of his arms as you broke free.
“You fight angry,” he muttered, the words a low vibration in the scant space between your bodies as you circled again, panting.
“You fight like a robot,” you shot back, your voice raw.
“You’re predictable.”
“Only to someone arrogant enough to think they’re smarter.”
“I think you’re reckless.” His eyes were chips of ice in the heat.
You lunged again, if only to wipe the assessment from his face.
He caught you, of course he did, but this time you were ready. You rolled with the momentum, dragging him down with you in a tangle of limbs. The mat shuddered. The grapple became a raw, grinding struggle for dominance, a silent conversation of strain and resistance. Your knee found his side; his elbow bracketed your ribs. Sweat-slick skin slid against damp fabric. Neither of you would yield an inch. The sheer, stubborn will of it was a third entity in the fight.
By the time the handler called the reset, your skin was sheened, your lungs burned, and your muscles trembled with fatigued fury. Across from you, Leon’s breathing had finally deepened, still controlled, but unmistakably heavier. His shirt was plastered to the planes of his back, darkened in a long, damp streak down his spine.
You refused to acknowledge it. You refused to even look.
“Live-fire simulation,” the handler called, gesturing to the adjacent door. “Now.”
The next room was a labyrinth of moveable walls, strobing lights, and disorienting sound cues. Training pistols, heavy with marking rounds, were thrust into your hands. No room for error. No room for anything but the drill. You and Leon moved through the doorway as a single, fractured unit. No words. No signals.
You took point on instinct. He covered the angles you couldn’t see, his presence a shadow at your six. It felt profoundly wrong, this seamless coordination, how your strides synced, how you pivoted around a corner and he was already there, clearing the blind spot. It felt like a betrayal of the mutual contempt that had been your only common ground.
A target snapped up from a left-side port.
You pivoted, weapon rising, finger finding the trigger -
Leon moved.
No shout. No warning. A pure, unthinking kinetic shift.
He stepped into your line of fire, his body turning, his shoulder angling to intercept the shot that wasn’t even real. A blunt, physical declaration.
Protective. Automatic.
The training round smacked into the hard plate of his vest with a dull, final thwack.
Your finger froze. The world narrowed to the spot of neon paint now blooming on his shoulder, to the broad back that had just placed itself between you and a theoretical threat.
“Reset!” the handler’s voice was distant, irrelevant.
Leon stepped away immediately, his posture snapping back into that flawless, impregnable control as if the last five seconds had been edited out. As if his body hadn’t just made a decision his mind would never consciously permit.
You stood rooted, your pulse a frantic bird in your throat, staring at the mark on his vest.
The venue rose out of the city like a monument to excess.
Marble columns framed the entrance, pale and flawless, each one tall enough to make a statement about permanence, about money that didn’t worry about time or consequence. Crystal chandeliers glittered beyond the glass doors, scattering light across polished floors in a way that felt deliberate, curated to impress and intimidate in equal measure.
Inside, an orchestra played something classical and unobtrusive, strings swelling just enough to fill the space without demanding attention. The music threaded through conversations held in low, confident voices, people who had never had to check over their shoulders when they spoke.
This place wasn’t just expensive. It was insulated.
You stepped inside and felt it immediately: the invisible barrier between the people here and the rest of the world. Consequences didn’t reach this far. They slid off champagne flutes and tailored suits, drowned under polite laughter and charitable donations.
Umbrella executives were everywhere. Not obvious. Not branded. Just… present. Men and women with immaculate posture and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. People who knew exactly how much power they held and exactly how well it was hidden.
You straightened instinctively, not because you needed to, but because the room demanded it. Tonight, you weren’t an agent.
The dress was a calculated piece of armour. It clung and moved in a way that looked effortless, the kind of confidence that came from knowing every movement would be watched and finding satisfaction in it. Hair styled, posture relaxed, expression composed. Lethal, but not visibly so. Danger tucked beneath refinement.
Leon stood beside you, and the contrast was almost obscenely perfect. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed. The tailored suit fit him like a second skin, draping over broad shoulders and a lean frame with an almost insulting elegance. It was dark, understated, and it made him look disarmingly respectable, the kind of man donors instinctively trusted. The earpiece was invisible, his edge concealed beneath a veneer of sophisticated calm. He looked… safe. Predictable. It was the most effective disguise he’d ever worn.
No weapons. No tactical gear. Just a man who cleaned up a little too well. Neither of you looked like agents. You looked like you belonged.
Leon’s eyes swept over you as you adjusted a strap on your shoulder, his gaze lingering a fraction longer than strictly operational. When he spoke, his voice was a low, private rumble. “They didn’t mention the dress.”
You kept your eyes forward, scanning the crowd. “It’s not in the briefing notes, Kennedy. It’s called a uniform.”
“It’s a distraction,” he said, and there was a trace of something in his tone, not warmth, but a clinical sort of acknowledgment.
Before you could retort, the second you crossed the threshold fully into the ballroom, his hand settled at the small of your back.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t awkward. It was proprietary.
His palm rested there with a pressure that was both grounding and possessive, his fingers splayed just above the curve of your hip. His thumb brushed once, a slow, deliberate stroke against the delicate fabric, and your entire spine went rigid in response. The heat of his hand burned through the silk, a brand you felt in every nerve ending.
He leaned in, his breath disturbing the hair near your temple. “Easy,” he murmured, his voice a velvety counterfeit of intimacy. “Smile.”
You did, a perfect, glazed curve of the lips. Under your breath, barely moving them, you hissed, “If you leave your hand there any longer, I’m billing the DSO for emotional damages and a dry-cleaning bill. Your palm is sweating.”
Leon didn’t look at you. His hand didn’t move. If anything, his fingers pressed more firmly, pulling you a millimetre closer into the orbit of his body. “Relax, sweetheart,” he said aloud, his tone soft, affectionate, convincingly doting. “You look breathtaking.” The endearment was a bullet wrapped in velvet.
A nearby couple glanced over, their smiles fond and approving.
Your jaw ached from clenching. “You sound disturbingly natural. I think I might throw up.”
His mouth curved, a private, dangerous flicker. “That’s because you’re holding your breath. They’ll notice the lack of oxygen before they notice the lie.”
“Maybe if you weren’t manhandling me.”
“My hand’s not moving,” he replied, his calm an infuriating counterpoint to your tension. “You’re just hyper-aware of it. Mission focus, remember?”
You hated that he was right. The awareness was a live wire running from the point of contact straight to your core. Publicly, you were seamless, an elegant couple drifting into the flow of the gala, bodies aligned, steps synchronised. Privately, it was a silent war of attrition.
Leon guided you toward the bar with infuriating ease, his hand a constant, navigating pressure. He nodded politely, offered brief, warm smiles. You felt every shift of his fingers, every minute adjustment of his grip.
An Umbrella executive, tall, with cold, appraising eyes, glanced your way.
Leon’s hand shifted. His fingers spread, pressing more fully against your spine as he angled you subtly, protectively, closer to him. His head dipped, his lips near your ear. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, your own gaze locked on the executive.
“Focus,” Leon murmured, his voice a low vibration you felt in your bones. “He’s not just looking. He’s calculating. Smile at him. Like you find him tedious.”
You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift over the man with the lazy, disinterested contempt of the truly privileged. You offered a faint, dismissive smile. The man’s gaze lingered, then moved on, satisfied you were no one of consequence.
Leon exhaled, a soft sound that feathered against your skin. “See? That’s the point.”
You glanced up at him, your cheek nearly brushing his jaw. “Don’t get smug.”
“I’m not smug,” he said, raising a hand to effortlessly snag two champagne flutes from a passing server. He handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours. “I’m effective.”
“You remembered the champagne,” you noted flatly, taking the glass.
“I remember things,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room over the rim of his flute. “Drink with your left hand. Your ring’s on the right. It flashes under the lights.”
You froze for a half-second, a tiny, betraying stumble in your composure. Then you switched hands smoothly, the crystal stem cool in your left fingers. “Stop paying attention to irrelevant details about me.”
“Can’t,” Leon said, his voice dropping back into that confidential murmur as he guided you away from the bar. “That’s the job tonight. Every detail is relevant.”
The orchestra swelled as the evening deepened. The air grew thick with perfume and false camaraderie. Leon’s hand remained on your back, a constant, maddening presence. You became a connoisseur of its pressure, firmer when navigating a crowd, lighter but no less present when stationary, his thumb tracing an absent, subconscious arc that made your breath catch.
As you moved, you saw the illusion take hold. The casual glances from guests, the approving nods from older patrons, the way security teams assessed you as a unit and then dismissed you. They bought the story. The elegant, connected, slightly bored couple.
The realisation was a cold trickle down your spine. Because it wasn’t just them. It was him, too.
He moved through the charade with a terrifying, fluid ease. His touches, his murmured words, the way his body curved around yours in a crowd, it all looked effortless. Like it cost him nothing. Like the simmering hostility that defined your every interaction had been switched off, replaced by this seamless, galling performance.
You were starting to resent how good he was at it.
A guest intercepted you near the edge of the ballroom, an older man with silver hair and a practiced smile, glass of champagne cradled loosely in one hand. His eyes flicked between you and Leon with open curiosity.
“Forgive me,” he said pleasantly, inclining his head. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Leon smiled before you could respond, warm and unhurried. “Of course. This is my wife.” The word still sent a strange jolt through you.
“And you are?” the man asked, turning his attention to you. “Involved in the foundation as well?”
You opened your mouth to speak. To think of something fast before you started spilling word vomit.
“She is,” Leon answered smoothly, his hand settling at your back again. “She led the data consolidation project for the Helios Initiative last year. Streamlined the entire reporting pipeline. Saved the board six figures and a lot of embarrassment.”
You stilled. Just for a fraction of a second. The man’s brows lifted, impressed.
“She has a talent for finding inefficiencies people prefer not to admit are there,” Leon continued, tone light, almost fond. “She’s very good at seeing patterns others miss.”
Your heart stumbled. The guest chuckled. “Dangerous skill.”
Leon’s thumb brushed your spine once, subtly. Familiar. “Only if you’re hiding something.”
The man laughed and excused himself moments later, drifting back into the crowd, already satisfied. You remained where you were, gaze fixed ahead, the music suddenly too loud in your ears.
“How did you know that?” you asked quietly, once you were certain no one was listening.
Leon didn’t look at you. “You did it during the Marseille op,” he said simply. “Flagged the discrepancy in the shipping logs. Everyone else missed it.”
“That was years ago,” you said. “I remember,” he replied.
There was no pride in his voice. No edge. Just fact.
You leaned back into his touch, your shoulder blades pressing against his chest as you pretended to point out a painting. Your voice was a razor in the velvet dark between you. “They’re eating this up. It’s almost pathetic.”
“Yes,” Leon replied, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder. His breath was warm on your neck. “They are.”
He gave you nothing else. Just the steady, burning pressure of his hand.
The orchestra shifted, the music melting into a slower, more intimate piece. The dance floor began to fill. Leon felt the shift in the room’s rhythm a moment before you did.
He turned to you, his expression softening into something convincingly expectant. He extended his hand, palm up. Not a question. A quiet command in the language of the evening.
You stared at his offered hand, at the faint scars across the knuckles you knew the origin of. Then you placed yours in it, your cool fingers sliding against his warm, calloused palm. “You step on my feet,” you whispered, “and I’ll make a scene they’ll talk about for years.”
A ghost of a real smile touched his lips. “Noted.”
He drew you into him, one hand returning to its familiar place on your back, the other closing around your hand. The world narrowed to the space between your bodies. You could feel the fine wool of his suit under your splayed fingers, the solid muscle beneath.
“You dance like you fight,” you accused as he led you into the first steps.
“Precisely?” he murmured, his eyes holding yours.
“Stiffly. Like you’re waiting for an attack.”
“You’re leading.”
“I am not.”
“You’re anticipating my lead and resisting it. It’s the same thing.” He adjusted his grip, his hand on your back firming, guiding your turn. “Stop fighting the rhythm. Let it happen.”
You bristled. “I don’t just let things happen.”
He leaned in, his lips a breath from your ear. His voice dropped, losing its polished edge, revealing the rougher truth beneath. “You do. You always have. You anticipate the strike. You brace for the impact. You’re doing it now.”
The direct hit silenced you. The banter evaporated, leaving only the truth of the movement. You were bracing. Against him. Against the music. Against the unnerving synchronicity.
Somewhere in the next turn, the resistance broke. Not with a surrender, but with a mutual, unspoken recalibration. Leon’s guidance became less a direction and more a suggestion. Your following became less a resistance and more a mirror. Your weight settled, your steps aligned. He shifted; you matched. It became effortless. Fluid. A silent, perfect dialogue of motion.
It felt exactly like the rare, terrifying moments in the field when everything went to hell and instinct took over, when you moved not as two separate entities, but as a single, coordinated organism.
Your breath hitched. You felt his do the same, a stutter in his otherwise controlled chest. Neither of you spoke.
The music carried you, and his hand on your back was no longer a point of conflict. It was an anchor. His other hand held yours, not with performance, but with a simple, undeniable connection. You were suddenly, acutely aware of every point of contact: his thigh brushing yours, the heat of his palm, the steady beat of his heart against your own racing one.
The song began to wind down. Security was tightening; you could see the increased scrutiny at the edges of the room.
Leon’s voice was a raw scrape against your ear, all pretence of gentleness gone. “They’re locking the perimeter. Broker’s in the east wing. We need to move.”
You nodded, your forehead almost touching his chin. The final note hung in the air. Applause scattered through the room. Couples began to separate. Leon didn’t let go.
His hand remained on your back. His fingers were still laced with yours. In the dim, chandelier-lit haze, for a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity, you just stood there, locked in the echo of the dance and the glaring, inconvenient truth it had revealed.
You were still holding on. And so was he.
Finally, he released your hand, the absence feeling like a sudden chill. His palm slid from your back, leaving the ghost of its heat imprinted on the silk. You took a half-step back, the ballroom noise rushing back in.
“Next time,” you said, your voice strangely thin, “warn me before you decide to be competent at something.”
He looked at you, his blue eyes stripped of their usual ice, something darker and more complicated swirling in their depths. “You didn’t need a warning. You kept up.”
He turned, offering his arm again, the picture of the attentive partner. After a stunned second, you slid your hand into the crook of his elbow, your fingers trembling slightly against the fine cotton.
Conversations continue, a tapestry of polished lies, but your senses have already pared them down to a meaningless drone. Your focus narrows, homing in on the anomaly. Across the room, an Umbrella scientist, a man with the pallid complexion and careful detachment of someone who spends more time with data than people, has stopped moving.
He isn't staring. That would be amateur. His attention is a series of precise, surgical observations: the way you stand with your weight slightly forward, not relaxed back; the subtle, the specific tension in your shoulders that speaks of readiness, not repose. His head tilts, a fraction of a degree.
Your pulse kicks, a single, hard thud against your ribs. "Leon," you breathe, the word a ghost against the rim of your champagne flute.
"I see him." His reply is immediate, a low current beneath the placid surface. His posture hasn't changed, but you feel the minute shift in the energy beside you, the coiling of a spring. "Don't look at him. Look at me."
But it's too late. The scientist’s eyes, cold, magnified behind thin glasses, flicker. Not with full recognition, but with the dawning, critical suspicion of it. I know you. From where? The unspoken question hangs in the charged space between you. The danger isn't here yet, but it's coming, a tide you have seconds to turn. Leon doesn't hesitate. He never does.
One moment you are two adjacent entities, sharing a cover story. The next, his arm bands around your waist, pulling you in with an irrevocable certainty. His other hand rises, fingers threading into the hair at your nape, his palm cradling the line of your jaw with a possession that steals the breath from your lungs.
And then his mouth is on yours.
It is not a kiss born of passion, but of pure, unadulterated necessity, a tactical strike executed with devastating precision. There is no cautious exploration, no soft inquiry. His lips meet yours with a firm, undeniable pressure, sealing the world out. It is immediate. Consuming. A forced intimacy that feels more like a claiming than a performance.
The shock of it is a lightning bolt to your system. Every thought, every alarm bell, is momentarily short-circuited by the sheer, overwhelming physicality of him. The warmth of his skin, the faint, clean scent of him cutting through the cloying perfume of the gala, the solid, unyielding wall of his chest against yours.
His mouth moves, and it is not the gentle persuasion of a lover. It is decisive. Convincing. He angles his head, deepening the contact just enough to be unquestionable, his thumb stroking a slow, deliberate arc along your jawline, a gesture of affection that feels, in its practiced perfection, like a weapon. He is building a shield with his body, blocking the scientist's view, rewriting the narrative in the space of a heartbeat: You are not a threat. You are distracted. You are mine.
And you respond. It is the true betrayal. Your body, trained for survival, obeys a different instinct. Your free hand, the one not clutching the forgotten champagne flute, comes to rest against his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself. A small, stifled sound catches in your throat. Your lips part beneath his, not in invitation, but in a gasp of pure, stunned reflex that he seamlessly incorporates into the act.
And then, as abruptly as it began, the pressure changes. Leon’s kiss softens, becomes a lingering press, a final punctuation mark. The immediate threat has passed; the scientist, presented with an indisputable picture of private passion, has turned away, dismissing his suspicion as irrelevant.
But Leon doesn't pull back. For three endless heartbeats, he remains there, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours in ragged sync. His eyes are closed, his expression a stark mask of concentration, as if he is listening for an echo of the danger, or perhaps for something else entirely. His thumb continues its slow sweep along your jaw, a soothing rhythm that feels anything but soothing.
You are the one who breaks. You wrench your head back, a shudder running through you. The cool air of the ballroom hits your damp lips, a shocking contrast. Your hand, still splayed on his chest, pushes, a weak, belated attempt to reinstate a boundary that has been utterly demolished.
"Don't," you manage, your voice a scraped-raw whisper. "Don't you dare read into that."
Leon's eyes open. They are dark, pupils blown wide, the usual icy blue swallowed by a storm you've never seen before. He looks at you and for a second, the professional facade is utterly absent. There is only a raw, unsettled intensity that mirrors the chaos in your own veins.
"Trust me," he says, his voice low and rough, stripped of its earlier polish. "I'm not." It is the most transparent lie either of you has told all night.
The silence that follows is louder than the music. He slowly, carefully, unwinds his arm from your waist, his fingers loosening from your hair as if disarming a live wire. The distance between you feels cavernous, charged with the aftershocks of what just happened. You can still feel the imprint of his body against yours, a phantom brand. Your lips are tender, buzzing with a sensation that has nothing to do with the champagne.
Leon clears his throat, the sound harsh in the quiet between you. His gaze darts away, reassembling his composure piece by piece. "He's moving toward the east corridor. The distraction worked."
"Right," you say, the word tasting like ash. You straighten your spine, a soldier coming to attention after a devastating blow. You smooth your dress, a futile gesture. The elegance feels like a costume now, hanging awkwardly on the raw, shaken thing you've become underneath.
He offers his arm again, a formality. You take it, your fingers trembling slightly as they settle on the fine wool of his sleeve. The contact is sterile, polite. A mockery of the intimacy that just fused you together.
You know now, with chilling clarity, that Leon's first instinct was not to create distance, not to signal a retreat, but to eliminate the threat to you by any means necessary. He didn't just sell a cover. He consumed it. He didn't hesitate. And in that breathless, stolen moment, neither did you.
The line has not just been crossed. It has been incinerated.
You keep your chin high, your smile in place, moving back into the glittering fray. But the gala has shifted. The colours are too bright, the music too shrill. Every nerve ending is alive, hyper-aware of the man beside you, of the memory of his mouth, his hands, the terrifying efficiency of his protection, and the even more terrifying echo of your own response.
The gala breathes around you, music swelling and receding, laughter rippling through the crowd, the illusion of safety pressed into every polished surface. But the clock is ticking louder now.
You feel it in the way security shifts positions too often. In the way conversations stall, restart. In the subtle tightening of the room’s rhythm as the night edges closer to whatever Umbrella has planned.
Leon’s hand rests lightly at your elbow as he steers you toward the edge of the ballroom, bodies angled just close enough to sell the cover. His touch is careful now, less possessive than before, more controlled. Like he’s consciously reining himself in. His voice reaches you through the comm, low and steady beneath the orchestra.
“Broker’s device is active. Signal spike just came online.”
Your gaze sweeps the room automatically, cataloguing exits, shadows, patterns. “VIP lounge,” you murmur.
“Yes,” Leon replies. “But there’s a secondary access corridor behind the east stairwell. Two choke points.” A pause. “If we go together, we bottleneck.”
You glance up at him, jaw tightening. “If we split, we lose eyes.”
“We gain speed.”
“And risk,” you counter quietly, lips barely moving as a couple passes too close. “Security’s tightening. They’re already clocking patterns.”
Leon slows just enough to turn toward you. Not fully. Not enough to draw attention. But enough that you feel the weight of his focus settle on you. The chandelier light catches his eyes, sharp, intent, stripped of the softness he’s been wearing for the room.
“Protocol says split,” he says. “Two access points. Redundancy.”
You scoff under your breath. “Protocol didn’t account for Umbrella improvising.”
“It accounts for us adapting.”
“It accounts for you adapting,” you snap back, the edge in your voice slipping through despite your control. “I’m the variable you’re pretending isn’t there.”
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps once, just beneath the skin.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” You lean in closer, the pretence of intimacy giving your words cover. Your pulse is loud now, insistent. “Because ever since that-” You stop yourself, breath hitching. “Since earlier, you’ve been playing it safe.” Leon’s breath stutters once. Barely perceptible. But you feel it.
“I’m playing it smart,” he says.
You shake your head. “Same thing. Different excuse.”
A server brushes past, tray wobbling dangerously close. Leon reacts instantly, his hand sliding to your waist, pulling you in as he murmurs something affectionate aloud. You force a smile, lean into him, sell it.
The server moves on. Leon’s hand doesn’t. His fingers remain splayed at your side, warm and grounding, the pressure unmistakable.
“Listen to me,” he says quietly now, close enough that his breath warms your ear. “The device will be gone in minutes. If we hesitate, we lose it.”
“And if something happens?” you whisper back. “If one of us gets boxed in-”
“We won’t,” he says too fast.
You pull back just enough to look at him. “You don’t know that.”
For a moment, the argument stalls. You don’t like being away from him. You hate that you know the cadence of his movements. That you can predict his choices before he makes them. That the thought of moving through hostile space without his presence at your back makes your chest feel tight and exposed. Leon looks away first. His hand slips from your waist, deliberately, like he’s forcing himself to let go.
“Two minutes,” he says, voice clipped. “If either of us hits resistance, we abort and regroup at point C.”
“And if comms drop?” you ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Then you trust me.”
The words land harder than they should. You swallow. “That’s a big ask.” Leon turns back to you, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes give him away. “You already do.”
You hate that he’s right. The realisation burns low and sharp in your chest.
“Fine,” you say, forcing steel into your voice. “East stairwell. I’ll take the service corridor.”
Leon nods once. No hesitation. No argument. Like this was always the plan.
You separate smoothly, drifting apart like any other couple momentarily distracted by different conversations. His presence fades from your side, and the absence of it is immediate, an ache you weren’t prepared for.
The service corridor is quieter, narrower. The music fades to a distant hum, replaced by the soft whir of ventilation and the echo of your own footsteps. The lighting here is dimmer, more utilitarian, less forgiving. You move with practiced ease, posture relaxed, pace unhurried. Just another donor who took a wrong turn.
A guard stands at the far end of the corridor, back partially turned. He glances up as you approach, eyes narrowing just a fraction too long.
You smile. “Sorry, restrooms?” He hesitates. Just long enough. “Down the hall,” he says eventually, gesturing.
You thank him and keep walking, heart thudding. You feel the weight of the distance now, the absence of Leon’s quiet presence through the comms, the way he usually covers angles you don’t have eyes on.
You reach the door marked AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY and slide the keycard from your clutch with steady fingers. The lock clicks open.
Inside, the air is cooler. Server racks hum softly, lights blinking in orderly patterns. The device should be here, hidden, discreet, temporary. You scan quickly. Nothing. Your pulse spikes.
“Leon,” you murmur into the comm. “Device isn’t here.”
A beat. “I’m seeing the same,” he replies. “They’ve moved it.”
“Where?”
“VIP lounge,” he says. “Security just doubled.”
Of course they did. You pivot toward the exit, and the door slams shut behind you. Your heart jumps. You spin, hand already moving toward the concealed weapon at your thigh. The lock engages with a sharp click.
“Leon,” you hiss.
“I hear it,” he says immediately. “Stay calm.”
“Working on it.”
Footsteps sound outside the door. Two sets. Guards murmuring. You scan the room, calculating. No windows. No alternate exit. The ventilation shaft is too small.
“You okay?” Leon asks, voice steady but tight.
“Yes,” you lie. “Just… boxed in.”
A pause. You can hear his breathing through the comm now, controlled but faster.
“I’m rerouting,” he says. “Hold.”
You close your eyes for half a second, forcing yourself to breathe. You trust him. The guards’ voices grow clearer. Keys jingle. Someone tests the door. Your hand tightens around your weapon.
“Leon,” you whisper. “If this goes loud-”
“It won’t,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
The certainty in his voice steadies you more than you want it to. Seconds stretch. Then, gunfire. Shouts. Chaos, distant but unmistakable. The lock disengages. The door bursts open and Leon is there. Breathing hard. Suit rumpled. Eyes sharp and furious and fixed entirely on you.
“Move,” he says.
You don’t argue. You slip past him, shoulder brushing his as you fall into step, moving together like you never separated at all. As you disappear down the corridor, adrenaline still singing in your veins, one thought cuts through the chaos, clear and undeniable.
You barely make it three turns before the building decides to turn hostile.
It starts as a low chime, soft, almost polite, like a warning meant for staff, not guests. Then the lights above you flicker, the bright warmth of the gala’s corridors stuttering into something colder.
Red emergency strips ignite along the ceiling.
A beat later, the sound hits, an alarm that rises in pitch until it becomes a physical pressure against your skull.
Leon’s head snaps up. “That’s not fire protocol,” he says into the comm, voice already shifting into command mode.
“It’s not us,” you reply, breathing hard as you jog. “We haven’t even touched the-”
“Doesn’t matter.” His tone turns razor-thin. “Umbrella emergency.”
As if the words themselves flip a switch, the corridor ahead explodes with movement. A door slams open. Men in black tactical uniforms pour out, armed, masked, efficient. Not event security. Not rent-a-cops.
These are Umbrella’s.
The sound of the orchestra fades behind the thick walls, replaced by the heavier music of boots and shouted commands. Guests scream in the ballroom somewhere distant, the party dissolving into panic on the other side of a carefully controlled barrier.
Leon grabs your wrist and yanks you down a side hall just as a round cracks past where your head had been. The bullet bites into marble, spitting stone dust into the air.
“Contact!” someone barks. “Target moving, east corridor!”
Your comms crackle with interference, the line spiking and dropping as systems overload. Leon’s grip tightens once, steadying you, not for comfort, you tell yourself, but for speed.
“You okay?” he asks, already moving.
“Fine,” you snap, then add, because honesty feels like weakness, “They’re faster than I expected.”
“They’ve been waiting,” Leon says. “We triggered something they wanted triggered.”
You hate that he’s right. Hate that it means this wasn’t just security tightening. It was a trap snapping shut.
A door ahead locks with a heavy clunk as magnetic seals engage. The hallway narrows into a dead-end stretch lined with service entrances. Red light pulses across steel panels, making everything look like it’s bleeding.
Leon slows just long enough to scan. “No exits.”
“Then we make one,” you say, already reaching for the weapon concealed beneath your dress.
Leon’s gaze flicks to your thigh holster, then to your face. No comment. No surprise. Just that quiet, grim acceptance that you’d both come prepared.
A burst of gunfire erupts behind you.
Leon pushes you forward. “Move.”
You sprint. He’s right beside you, close enough that you feel the air shift with him, matching your pace without effort. You round a corner and slam into a tight corridor that funnels you into a narrow kill zone.
Two Umbrella operatives are already there.
No time for thought.
You fire once, clean shot, shoulder. Leon fires in the same breath, headshot. The second operative tries to swing their weapon up. You’re already moving, stepping in, elbow driving into their throat. Leon catches their arm and twists, disarming with a practiced snap that looks almost casual.
The man drops.
Silence doesn’t follow. More footsteps. More coming.
Leon reloads without looking, hands moving fast and sure. You pivot, back hitting his for half a second as you take position.
Back-to-back.
It happens instinctively.
No discussion. No argument. No ego.
Just movement.
Leon’s voice is low, calm. “Three behind. Two ahead.”
You swallow the adrenaline and check your magazine. “Left side is mine.”
“Copy.”
You hear the click of his gun as he finishes his reload. You don’t need to see it. You know the sound now, the rhythm of him, how long it takes, when he needs cover, when he’s about to shift.
The first wave hits.
A door bursts open to your left. You pivot and fire, dropping one before his boots fully clear the threshold. Another lunges in right behind him, weapon raised. You duck, feeling the heat of a shot pass over you, then slam your shoulder into the wall and rebound forward, knife flashing out of your clutch like it’s always been there.
Leon’s gun cracks twice at your back, perfectly timed, covering you as you close distance.
The man goes down.
Another steps into the corridor ahead, weapon trained. Leon shifts his weight, shoulder pressing lightly to your back, a cue, not a shove. You understand instantly, stepping left as he steps right, breaking the enemy’s line of fire before it can settle.
You fire.
Leon fires.
Two bodies fall.
You’re breathing hard now, sweat slick against your skin beneath the elegance of the dress. The fabric pulls tighter across your ribs with every inhale, a reminder that you’re fighting in clothes meant for champagne and photo ops, not blood and bullets.
And Leon is still in his suit, jacket discarded somewhere behind you, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He looks like a man who stepped off a runway and straight into a warzone.
He moves like he belongs here.
So do you.
A sharp crack echoes, too close. Stone dust sprays across your cheek as a bullet hits the wall inches from your head. You flinch, just once, and Leon’s hand comes up immediately, palm to your shoulder, guiding you down behind a corner.
“Stay low,” he murmurs.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you hiss automatically.
Leon doesn’t take the bait. He leans out, fires twice, then pulls back, already reloading. “Cover me.”
You do, because you always do. Because your body already knows what to do when he says it.
You step out, firing controlled shots that force the operatives back. Leon’s reload finishes. He’s up and moving again, switching positions with you so smoothly it feels like choreography.
It hits you mid-fight, sudden and unwanted.
You fight the same way.
Not identical but the same mind. The same instincts. The same calculation running behind your eyes at the same speed. The same ruthless efficiency under pressure.
You both make decisions in fractions of a second.
You both adjust without needing to speak.
You both anticipate.
Mirrors.
The thought is so sharp it almost distracts you.
And suddenly the rivalry makes sense.
Because it was never really hate. It was recognition.
A loud mechanical whine cuts through the chaos, the sound of an internal security shutter descending. The corridor ahead begins to seal off, metal plates sliding down from the ceiling to block the route.
“We’re getting boxed,” you warn.
Leon’s eyes flick. “We go now.”
You don’t argue. You surge forward together, moving fast as the plates descend. A man steps into your path, too late to stop you. You slam into him like a force of nature, knee driving into his stomach. Leon’s elbow snaps into the side of his head, clean and brutal.
You clear him and keep moving.
The shutter slams down behind you with a heavy, final clang.
For half a heartbeat, there’s only your breathing and the distant muffled alarm.
Leon’s chest rises and falls hard. His hair is slightly out of place now, a thin sheen of sweat at his temple. His eyes are bright with adrenaline, sharp as a blade.
You’re too close, face to face in the tight corridor, bodies still buzzing from combat. You can feel the heat of him, the electricity of the movement that just happened between you without words.
He scans you quickly, your face, your arms, the exposed skin at your shoulder. “You hit?”
“No,” you say, then more softly, “You?”
He shakes his head once.
Your comms crackle again. A burst of static. Then the handler’s voice cuts in, strained: “Emergency protocol is fully active. Extraction compromised. Get that device and get out. Now.”
Leon’s gaze meets yours.
And for the first time all night, there’s no sarcasm in it. No rivalry. No distance.
Just certainty.
“We finish this,” he says.
You swallow, pulse still pounding.
“Yeah,” you reply. “We finish it.”
Then you move again together, like you’ve been doing this side by side for years.
Like you were always meant to.
You duck into the service room just as Leon slams the door shut behind you, shoving a metal cart into place with a sharp grunt. The barricade isn’t elegant, but it’s solid enough to buy you time. For now.
The alarms are muffled here, reduced to a distant, angry pulse. Red light seeps through the narrow window in the door, flashing in slow intervals that make the room feel like it’s breathing.
You lean forward, hands braced on your knees, dragging air into your lungs. Your heart is still racing, adrenaline buzzing so loud it drowns out everything else. Sweat clings to your skin, your dress ruined, hair pulled loose from its careful styling.
Leon turns toward you immediately.
“Stay still,” he says, already closing the distance.
“I am still,” you snap, even as you straighten reflexively.
His hands are on you before you can object—efficient, professional. He checks your arms first, fingers firm but careful as they skim for blood. Then your shoulder, where stone dust still clings to your skin. His touch lingers there a fraction longer than necessary, thumb brushing lightly as if confirming something he already knows.
You swat his hand away. “I said I’m fine.”
Leon’s jaw tightens. “Humour me.”
“I don’t recall that being part of the mission.”
His eyes flick up to meet yours, sharp, annoyed, but there’s something else there now too. “You flinched.”
“You were in my line of fire,” you fire back. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly, hands dropping. “I’m checking my partner.”
The word lands heavier than either of you expect.
You scoff, turning away to pace the small room. “Don’t get sentimental now.”
Leon exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re the one snapping.”
You whirl back on him. “Because you nearly got yourself shot pulling that move back there.”
“And you nearly took a round to the head rushing that corner,” he shoots back without missing a beat.
There it is, the familiar bite. The clash. But it doesn’t sting the way it used to.
You hold his gaze, chest still heaving. “You didn’t have to cover me.”
Leon’s voice is steady, but quieter now. “Yes, I did.”
The certainty in it disarms you more than any argument ever has.
Silence stretches between you, thick with everything neither of you is saying. The room hums softly around you, vents rattling overhead, the smell of oil and metal grounding you in the aftermath.
Your pulse finally begins to slow.
You look at him properly then, not as a rival, not as an obstacle, but as the man who just fought back-to-back with you without hesitation. Who knew when you needed cover before you did. Who moved when you moved, adapted when you adapted, like your thoughts were running parallel tracks.
It clicks.
He never underestimated you.
Not once.
All those arguments. The clipped remarks. The way he never rose to your jabs, never reacted the way you wanted him to. You’d always read it as arrogance. Distance. Superiority.
But standing here now, suit scuffed and tie gone, breathing hard just like you, the truth settles uncomfortably into place.
He wasn’t looking down on you.
He was matching you.
Meeting you at the same level and refusing to drop below it. Treating you like an equal long before you were ready to believe it. Long before you’d stopped mistaking restraint for dismissal.
Leon shifts his weight, eyes still on you. “You good?” he asks again, softer this time.
You nod once. “Yeah.”
A beat passes.
“You fight like me,” you add, almost against your will.
His brow furrows slightly. “No. You fight like you.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” he says.
Another silence, but this one is different. Less sharp. Less hostile. Charged, but steadier.
Leon glances toward the barricaded door, listening. “We’ve got maybe ninety seconds before they reroute.”
You straighten, rolling your shoulders despite the ache settling into them. “Then we’d better move.”
He nods, and for the first time, there’s no tension in the agreement. No need to assert control or prove anything.
Just two agents, side by side, breathing in sync.
The safe room isn’t safe in any comforting way.
It’s a concrete box tucked behind an unmarked service door three levels below street access, the kind of place that doesn’t show up on public blueprints. The air smells faintly of dust and old metal. A single strip light hums above, casting pale, uneven illumination across gray walls and a scarred steel table. No windows. No softness. No distractions.
Just four walls and the aftertaste of adrenaline.
You shut the door behind you and twist the lock twice out of habit, even though the handler swore this location was clean. Leon stands a few feet away, chest rising and falling hard. His suit is ruined, dark smudges at the knee where he’d hit the floor, the white of his shirt stained with sweat and dust. His tie is gone. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms streaked with grime, knuckles raw.
He looks like a man who belongs in a fight, not a ballroom.
You look… less polished too. Your dress is torn at the hem, a thin snag running along your thigh where you’d caught it on something sharp while vaulting a barrier. Your hair has slipped free of its careful pins. There’s stone dust at your collarbone. The only thing that stayed flawless is the shape of your posture, trained, controlled, refusing to collapse.
You cross the room and drop the data device on the steel table. It makes a solid, satisfying clack that echoes in the small space.
Done.
For now.
Leon reaches up and removes the earpiece, rolling it between his fingers before setting it down beside the device. You do the same, tugging yours out with a little too much force. Without comms, the room gets quieter. The silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels loaded.
Weapons come next, unclipped, unloaded, set aside. You place your handgun on the table, then the spare magazine. The movement is efficient, practiced. Leon mirrors you without a word, laying his gear down in clean, ordered lines like he can impose control on chaos by arranging it neatly.
A tremor runs through your fingers when you reach for a chair. You close your hand into a fist before anyone can see.
Leon’s gaze flicks to you anyway.
You hate that he notices everything. Hate that you’re suddenly grateful he does.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
The adrenaline is still in your bloodstream, buzzing like a live wire under your skin. Your thoughts keep trying to sprint, to latch onto the next move, the next threat, the next exit.
But there is nothing to chase.
No alarms. No targets.
Just the hum of the strip light and the slow return of sensation: the ache in your ribs, the sting across your knuckles, the bruise blooming at your hip where you’d hit the wall harder than you meant to.
Your body is remembering you’re human.
It’s the worst part, the calm. In the fight, everything had been simple: move, shoot, breathe, survive. Now, with nothing pressing in, the silence forces everything else forward.
The kiss. The way Leon moved in front of you. The way your hands had lingered on his wrist. The way he’d said I’ve got you like it was an unshakable fact.
You take a slow breath and realise your lungs are still working like they expect to be chased.
Leon finally breaks the stillness, voice low. “We got it.”
“Yeah,” you answer too quickly. “We got it.”
He nods once, but his eyes don’t move away from you. There’s something in his expression, still controlled, still restrained, but the edges have softened, as if the adrenaline has melted some of the steel away and left the person underneath exposed in small, dangerous ways.
You don’t know what to do with that.
You turn toward the wall instead, stare at the blank concrete like it can offer you an instruction manual.
Your hands shake again, just slightly. You flex your fingers, forcing them steady. You refuse to let your body betray you, not after everything. Not in front of him.
“Sit,” Leon says.
It isn’t an order. Not really. It’s… practical. Almost gentle.
“I’m fine,” you snap automatically.
Leon’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t argue, he simply steps closer and reaches for the small first aid kit mounted on the wall. You hadn’t noticed it. Of course he did.
He sets it on the table with a quiet thud and flips it open, movements clean and efficient. Like tending wounds is just another protocol.
You watch him for half a second too long.
The light catches the lines of exhaustion in his face. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. A smudge of dried blood at the edge of his knuckles that isn’t his, you think. The muscles in his shoulders shift as he rolls them once, like the weight of the night is settling in.
A tremor runs through his hand as he pulls out antiseptic wipes.
He pauses, almost imperceptibly, then continues like it never happened.
So he’s not untouched either.
That realisation lands strangely. You’ve spent so long imagining him as something unbreakable—smooth, composed, always in control. Seeing the cracks should satisfy you.
It doesn’t.
It makes your throat tighten.
“Give me your hand,” Leon says, still not looking directly at you.
You laugh once, short and sharp. “That’s rich.”
He finally looks up. “Don’t start.”
The tone is familiar, dry, controlled, but it lacks its usual bite. It’s not a challenge. It’s tired.
You should refuse out of principle.
Instead you step forward and extend your hand, palm up, because the alternative, fighting him on this, feels suddenly exhausting.
Leon takes your hand.
His fingers are warm, steady, calloused. His grip is firm but careful, like he’s handling something that matters more than he wants to admit. He inspects your knuckles, the small splits in the skin, the smear of grime.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s blood.”
You roll your eyes. “Congratulations, Kennedy. You can identify bodily fluids.”
A flicker, almost a smile, touches his mouth. It’s gone before you can be sure it was real.
He cleans your knuckles anyway. The antiseptic stings. You hiss and try to pull away. Leon holds your hand a fraction tighter, not letting you retreat.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
Your pulse jumps at the softness of it.
You hate that.
“You’re enjoying this,” you mutter, trying to salvage something sharp.
Leon doesn’t look up. “I’m not.”
The honesty in his voice knocks the air out of your sarcasm. He sounds… genuine. Like he’s too worn out to pretend.
He finishes cleaning your hand, wraps it quickly, efficiently. The tape catches briefly on your skin, and his thumb brushes your wrist as he smooths it down.
You feel it like a spark.
You hate that you feel it.
Leon lets go, but his hand lingers for a half second too long, fingers resting against your pulse as if confirming it’s still there.
Then he pulls back, clearing his throat, gaze shifting away like he’s caught himself doing something he didn’t mean to.
The silence returns.
He starts tending to his own wounds next, wiping blood from his knuckles, wrapping tape with the same clinical focus. But his hands still shake faintly, the aftermath of adrenaline refusing to fade completely.
You don’t comment. He doesn’t either.
The strip light hums.
Your breathing finally slows to something normal. With it comes the weight of everything you’ve been avoiding since you first saw his name on that leaderboard.
The first time you tried to speak to him.
The way he ignored you.
The silence that followed you for years like a ghost.
It’s there now, in this room, louder than the alarms ever were.
You don’t plan to say anything. You don’t want to hand him another weapon.
But the words break loose anyway, scraped raw by exhaustion and adrenaline and the fact that he just held your hand like it mattered.
“Why,” you ask, voice quiet enough it barely exists, “did you ignore me back then?”
Leon freezes. The strip light hums. Somewhere in the building, pipes creak. The sound feels unbearably loud. His gaze lifts slowly. For once, there’s no immediate retort, no controlled reply. Just stillness.
You swallow, suddenly aware that you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. “You walked right past me,” you continue, the old anger flaring in your chest like it never left. “I said your name. You didn’t even look at me. Like I wasn’t-” Your voice catches. You force it steady. “Like I wasn’t worth the effort.”
Leon’s throat works as he swallows. He looks down at his hands for a moment, fingers flexing, then back up to you. His eyes are hard, not with anger, but with something else. Something that looks a lot like regret.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quietly.
You laugh, brittle. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s choosing each word with care. Like he can’t afford to get this wrong.
“I didn’t know what to say,” Leon admits. The words hang in the air, plain and stark.
You blink. “What?”
“I didn’t know what to say,” he repeats, more firmly this time, like he’s pushing through something stuck in his throat. “You… came up to me. Confident. Like you belonged here already. Like you weren’t scared of anyone.”
Your chest tightens, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to understanding.
Leon’s jaw flexes. “And I…” He hesitates. It’s subtle, but it’s there, the first real hesitation you’ve seen from him that isn’t tactical. “I didn’t want to screw it up.”
You stare at him, thrown off balance. “Screw what up?” you demand, too sharply.
Leon’s eyes meet yours, steady but exposed. “Whatever it was,” he says quietly. “I-” He exhales, a sound that almost turns into a laugh but doesn’t. “You intimidated me.”
The confession hits like a punch. You’re speechless for a beat, mouth opening and closing like you’re trying to find words that aren’t there.
“Me?” you echo finally, incredulous.
Leon nods once, almost reluctantly. “Yeah. You.”
He shifts his weight, restless, uncomfortable, like he’d rather be facing down a dozen armed guards than this conversation. “I’d just transferred. I was… trying to keep my head down. Trying to be the guy who didn’t make mistakes.”
His gaze drops again briefly, then lifts. “And you looked at me like you expected something. Like you wanted to talk. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”
The room feels smaller. You remember that hallway. Remember the way you’d felt, nervous but determined, trying to be friendly, trying to prove you weren’t just another ambitious agent. You’d thought it would be simple. You’d thought he’d smile. Instead he’d walked away and left you standing there with your pride bleeding out on the floor.
“And you decided ignoring me was the best option,” you say, voice tight.
Leon’s mouth twists. “I thought if I said the wrong thing, it’d be worse.”
“So you said nothing.”
“I said nothing,” he agrees, and there’s no defence in it. Just ownership. “And then you looked at me like you hated me, and…” He pauses, eyes flicking to yours. “It was easier to let you.”
Your throat tightens. Because it’s suddenly all too clear: the rivalry didn’t start because he thought he was better than you.
It started because he was scared, and you were hurt, and neither of you had ever been brave enough to admit it.
The strip light hums above you, the only witness to the truth finally surfacing between bare concrete walls.
You let out a slow breath, hands still, heart quieter now but heavier.
“Leon,” you say, voice low.
He looks at you, waiting. The silence after his confession is different from the ones that came before it. It doesn’t feel sharp or loaded with expectation. It feels… open. Exposed. Like something has finally been set down between you instead of hurled back and forth.
Leon doesn’t move. He doesn’t fill the space with explanations or excuses. He just stands there, shoulders tense, waiting. For you.
You stare at the concrete floor for a long moment, jaw tight, pulse steadying as the truth rearranges itself in your chest. All the years of irritation. The constant edge. The way every victory against him had tasted hollow, every loss unbearable. It clicks into place with an almost humiliating clarity.
“You know what the worst part is?” you say finally, voice quiet but steady.
Leon’s eyes lift to yours. He doesn’t speak.
“You made me better.” The words scrape on the way out. You let out a short, humourless breath. “Every time I saw your name above mine, or just one slot below, it pissed me off. And I worked harder. Smarter. I pushed myself because I refused to be second to you.”
Leon’s brow furrows slightly, but he stays silent.
“And I told myself it was hate,” you continue, forcing the words out before you can second-guess them. “That you were arrogant. Cold. That you thought you were better than me.”
Your laugh this time is quieter. Rougher. “It was easier to be angry than to admit the truth.”
Leon’s jaw tightens. “Which is?”
The room doesn’t collapse. He just watches you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
“I hated you,” you say, softer now, “because it was safer than wondering why your opinion of me mattered so much.”
The admission leaves you raw. Exposed in a way gunfire never could. Leon exhales slowly, like he’s been holding that breath for years.
“I noticed,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Noticed what?”
“That you were always pushing.” His voice is calm, but there’s something unguarded in it now. “That every time I thought I’d finally pulled ahead, you closed the gap. That when I messed up, you didn’t gloat, you got sharper.”
He shakes his head once, a small, almost self-deprecating motion. “I told myself I didn’t care. That it was just competition.”
You snort. “Let me guess. Lie.”
“Yes.” He meets your gaze fully now. “I measured everything against you. Missions. Scores. Decisions. I never wanted to be less in your eyes.”
The words land heavier than you expect.
Leon shifts his weight, restless. “I mistook the tension for hostility because that was easier than admitting I was… invested.”
“In what?” you ask quietly.
“In you,” he answers, just as quietly.
The air between you changes.
Not explosively. Not dramatically.
It settles.
You look at him finally, as someone standing on the same ground, stripped of armour and pretence.
Equals.
“I thought you ignored me because you didn’t respect me,” you say.
Leon’s mouth tightens. “I respected you too much.”
That shouldn’t undo you.
It does.
Your shoulders sag slightly, tension bleeding out of muscles you didn’t realise were still locked. “We’re idiots,” you mutter.
Leon huffs a quiet laugh. “We’re agents.”
“Same thing.”
For the first time, the humour doesn’t feel like a weapon. It feels shared.
You step closer without fully realising you’ve moved. The space between you narrows until you’re acutely aware of his presence again. You can hear his breathing. Feel the warmth radiating off him.
Leon doesn’t retreat.
His hand lifts slightly, then hesitates, hovering near your wrist like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to cross that line. The restraint is somehow worse than if he’d just touched you.
Your fingers twitch, an instinctive response.
The moment teeters.
It’s there in the closeness, the shared breath, the fragile understanding humming between you. One step closer. One hand reaching. One choice away from something that feels inevitable.
Leon’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth.
Your heart stutters.
Then -
A sharp crackle tears through the stillness.
Your discarded earpiece comes to life on the table, static bursting from it in an ugly rush of sound. You both jerk back instinctively, training snapping into place.
“-repeat, safe room compromised-” the handler’s voice cuts in, distorted and urgent. “Umbrella units inbound. You need to move. Now.”
The spell shatters.
Leon’s hand drops instantly, professionalism snapping back into place like a reflex. Your pulse spikes, adrenaline surging back through veins that had only just begun to calm.
You exchange one look.
Not rivals. Not enemies.
Partners.
“Guess we don’t get a quiet ending,” you mutter.
Leon’s mouth curves faintly, not a smirk, not yet. Something steadier. “We’ll finish this first.”
You nod, already moving toward your weapon. But as you pass him, your fingers brush his wrist, deliberate this time.
Just enough to promise. This isn’t over.
Then the door rattles under the first distant impact, and whatever comes next barrels toward you both at full speed, truth laid bare, denial gone, and something fragile and dangerous waiting on the other side of the fight.
The first impact hits the door like a warning.
Metal groans. The cart you shoved against it shudders, wheels squealing against concrete. Dust shakes loose from the ceiling in a fine gray drift.
Leon’s eyes snap to the lock. Yours snap to your weapon.
“Move,” he says at the same time you do.
The strip light overhead flickers once, then dies.
Darkness swallows the room.
For half a heartbeat, there’s nothing but the faint red pulse bleeding through the narrow window in the door and the sound of your own breathing.
Then the world explodes.
Gunfire tears through the door in a blistering spray. Splinters of metal and concrete burst inward, sparks flashing like violent stars in the dark. You drop instinctively, hitting the floor hard, shoulder slamming into the table leg as rounds chew the space where you’d been standing a second ago.
“Down!” Leon barks, unnecessary, because you’re already there.
Your ears ring. The air smells like hot metal and smoke. The darkness makes everything closer, sharper. You can’t see Leon, but you can hear him, his breath, controlled but quick, the scrape of his boots as he shifts.
Another impact slams into the door. The cart grinds forward an inch.
“They tracked us,” you spit, teeth clenched.
Leon’s voice is tight. “They wanted us to bring the device somewhere quiet.”
Personal, then.
Not a show of force. Not a random contingency.
A message.
A punishment.
You raise your pistol, steadying your aim toward the door’s window slit. Red light strobes across your hands in pulses. You can’t see targets, but you can predict movement by sound, boots, the clink of gear, the clipped rhythm of someone stacking up for entry.
Leon moves to your side, a shadow in the dark. You feel the brush of his shoulder against yours, close, grounding, real.
“On my mark,” you murmur.
“Always,” he whispers back, and the word lands heavier than it ever has.
The door buckles.
A wedge of light knifes through as the barricade gives. Someone rams it again, and the door bursts inward with a metallic shriek. Figures flood the gap, black armour, masked faces, rifles up.
You fire first.
A clean shot, then another. The muzzle flash briefly illuminates the room in harsh white bursts, enough to catch glints of visor, the sharp edge of a weapon, Leon’s face set and fierce beside you.
Leon moves in the same instant, firing over your shoulder, his shots precise, economical. An operative drops in the doorway, collapsing into the pile of debris. Another stumbles back with a curse.
“Push!” Leon barks.
You surge forward together, slipping through the smoke and chaos. Close quarters now, too tight for long-range. Your shoulder slams into one attacker, throwing him off balance. Leon’s elbow drives into another’s jaw, cracking hard enough that you feel it in your teeth.
You don’t think.
You move.
Someone grabs your arm from behind. You pivot, wrenching free, gun coming up, only to have Leon’s hand catch your wrist, redirecting your barrel a fraction.
“Left,” he snaps.
A shot cracks where your aim would’ve been wrong. A man drops behind you, silent and sudden.
Your pulse spikes, raw gratitude laced with terror.
You’re alive because Leon didn’t hesitate. Again.
More operatives spill into the corridor outside, attempting to funnel you back into the room. You back up instinctively until your spine hits the wall.
Leon shifts behind you.
Back-to-back, without discussion.
The old rhythm returns, but it’s different now. It’s sharpened by something you can’t pretend is just training.
A rifle butt swings toward Leon’s head. You hear it more than see it. You react—knife flashing up, slashing across the attacker’s forearm. Leon ducks and counters, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him crashing into the corridor wall.
“Leon!” you call, not as a warning, but as an anchor. A check-in. Still there?
“I’m here,” he answers, voice tight.
Gunfire erupts again, closer. A round clips the wall by your ear. Another slams into Leon’s side.
For a second, you don’t register what happened.
Then Leon makes a sound, sharp, involuntary, like his body betrayed him.
He staggers.
Your stomach drops through the floor.
“Leon!” you gasp, turning-
He catches himself against the wall, one hand pressing hard to his ribs. When he lifts it, his palm is dark in the strobing red light.
Blood. Too much.
His face tightens, not with fear, with frustration. With the shock of losing control for even a second.
“I’m fine,” he grits out.
“No,” you snap, voice cracking with something you can’t hide. “No, you’re not.”
Another operative charges, and instinct takes over before panic can swallow you whole. You fire, dropping him mid-step. You move closer to Leon without thinking, body angling to shield him from the corridor.
“Don’t-” Leon starts, but his breath catches, pain stealing the rest of the sentence.
You rip some fabric from your dress, and shove it against his side. “Hold pressure.”
Leon’s eyes flare. “We need to move.”
“We are moving,” you hiss. “But you are not dying in front of me.”
He tries to straighten. He’s breathing harder now, sweat slick at his brow, his usual control slipping at the edges. Disorientation flickers in his eyes for half a second, like his body is threatening to go down whether he wants it to or not.
The sight guts you.
The fear hits fully then, hot and absolute, stripping you of everything sharp and snarky and protected.
“I am going to be so mad if you die on me,” you say, voice raw, unfiltered.
Leon’s eyes rolled before his gaze locks on yours. You could’ve sworn you saw a smirk on his face.
Then his jaw tightens. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and for once, it isn’t a challenge. It’s a promise.
The corridor fills with footsteps again.
You pivot, planting yourself between Leon and the oncoming threat. Every muscle in your body tightens with purpose. Protective. Focused.
You fire in controlled bursts, forcing the operatives back. Leon pushes off the wall, gritting his teeth, raising his weapon despite the tremor in his arm. You hear the strain in his breath, the way his body fights him now.
“Stay with me,” you mutter, not a command, an insistence. “Match me.”
Leon’s voice is ragged but steady. “Always.”
You move together again, but now every decision is laced with instinctive concern. You take the riskier angles, so he doesn’t have to. You cover him longer than necessary. You bark directions closer, faster, because the thought of losing him makes your vision narrow into something dangerous.
An enemy lunges from the side. You catch him with your shoulder and slam him into the wall. Leon steps in to finish it, but his knees buckle for a heartbeat. Your hand shoots out, gripping his forearm, hauling him upright.
You clear the last attacker with brutal efficiency, and the corridor finally opens, an escape route just beyond the carnage.
Leon sways, teeth clenched. You hook your arm around his back, taking more of his weight than you should be able to, and he lets you.
That, more than anything, tells you how deep this has gone.
You stagger forward together into the dim service stairwell, alarms still wailing, red light flashing, the world still trying to tear you apart.
The extraction is quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after everything loud has already burned itself out.
You barely register the transition from stairwell to armoured transport. Leon’s weight leans heavy against you until medics swarm, voices overlapping, hands pulling you apart with practiced urgency. Someone eases you back while someone else lowers him onto a stretcher. The world narrows to flashes: gauze pressed to his side, blood-stained shirt cut away, a monitor chirping insistently.
You stand there uselessly for half a second too long before someone tells you to sit.
You don’t remember sitting.
You remember your hands shaking when you notice they’re covered in his blood. You scrub them together reflexively, like you can erase the image if you try hard enough. A medic hands you a bottle of water. You take it without drinking.
Leon is alive.
The knowledge settles slowly, like something too fragile to trust all at once. His chest rises and falls, uneven but steady. His eyes flutter open briefly when they stitch him up, unfocused but aware enough to find you where you stand.
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
Later, how much later you’re not sure, you’re in another room. Cleaner. Brighter. Too sterile to feel real. Leon is propped up on a narrow cot, bandaged and pale but breathing without effort now. The monitors have gone quiet, content to hum along instead of scream.
Your injuries are minor. Someone fussed over them anyway. You let them, numb and obedient, because the alternative was thinking.
Now it’s just the two of you again.
Silence settles between you like a blanket instead of a weapon.
You stand by the wall at first, arms folded, posture rigid out of habit more than necessity. Leon watches you from the cot, expression unreadable but soft around the edges in a way you’ve never seen before.
“You should sit,” he says quietly.
You shake your head and answer as you always do. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue but rolls his eyes as he always does.
The adrenaline has fully drained now, leaving behind a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. Your hands are still trembling slightly, even as you clench them into fists and force them still. You feel wrung out, scraped raw, like something vital has been stripped away, and something else left behind in its place.
Leon shifts, wincing faintly, then settles. His gaze never leaves you.
“I scared you,” he says.
It’s not an accusation. It’s not fishing for reassurance.
It’s a statement.
You swallow. “Yeah.”
Another silence. Thicker. More honest.
“I didn’t mean to,” he adds.
“I know.” You push off the wall before you can stop yourself, closing the distance until you’re standing beside him. You don’t look at the bandages. You look at his face. “But you did.”
Leon nods once. “I won’t apologise for getting hit.”
“Good,” you say immediately. “Because I’d never forgive you for it.”
That earns the faintest huff of a laugh, more breath than sound. It fades quickly, leaving the room quiet again.
You don’t sit. Instead, you reach out without fully deciding to, your fingers brushing the edge of the bed. Leon’s hand shifts instinctively, stopping just short of yours.
The hesitation is mutual.
“You don’t have to-” he starts.
“I want to,” you say softly.
The words feel different now. Steadier. Chosen.
Leon’s fingers close around yours, careful, deliberate. His grip is warm, grounding, real in a way that has nothing to do with cover stories or mission parameters. He doesn’t pull you closer. He just holds on, like he’s confirming you’re still here.
You breathe out slowly, the tension easing from your shoulders in a way you hadn’t realized was still there.
This isn’t the gala. There’s no music. No audience. No danger pressing in from all sides. No reason at all, except want.
You step closer, close enough that your knees brush the side of the cot. Leon tilts his head up slightly to look at you, eyes searching, open.
When you finally lean in, it’s slow. Unrushed. Intentional.
Your lips meet his with a softness that surprises you both.
It’s nothing like the kiss before.
There’s no urgency driving it this time. No desperation, no need to convince anyone watching. No sharp angles or calculated pressure. Just the quiet, deliberate meeting of mouths, slow, careful, unguarded in a way that feels far more dangerous.
Leon kisses you like he’s letting himself feel it.
His lips are warm, firm but unhurried, moving against yours with a patience that makes your breath stutter despite yourself. It’s not demanding. It’s exploratory. As if he’s memorising the shape of you instead of claiming it.
His hand lifts to your wrist, fingers closing there gently, thumb brushing over your pulse. You feel it jump beneath his touch, too fast, too loud, and the knowledge that he can feel it too sends a low, unwanted heat curling through your stomach.
He doesn’t comment.
He just deepens the kiss slightly, a subtle shift that draws a quiet sound from the back of your throat before you can stop it. His other hand hovers at your side, not quite touching, the restraint almost worse than contact.
When he finally does settle his palm against your waist, it’s careful. Grounding. Like he’s reminding both of you exactly where you are, and exactly how close you’re choosing to be.
You kiss him back without thinking, lips parting just enough to meet his, the world narrowing to breath and warmth and the steady strength of him in front of you. The orchestra fades. The room dissolves. There is only this, this shared, wordless understanding humming between you.
When you pull back, it’s slow.
Reluctant.
Your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling, close enough that you can feel the faint tremor he hasn’t quite managed to suppress. His thumb still strokes your pulse, absent-minded now, like he’s forgotten he’s doing it.
Neither of you speaks.
You don’t need to.
There’s no declaration. No promise shaped into words. Just the shared understanding humming between you, solid and undeniable.
When you finally straighten, Leon’s eyes are still on you, softer now. Lighter.
“Guess,” he murmurs, “that wasn’t part of the cover.”
You smile, a real one, unguarded. “Guess not.”
The silence returns again after that.
But this time, it doesn’t ask anything of you.
It simply lets you be.
The debrief room looks exactly the way it always does.
Gray walls. Steel table. A screen mounted at the far end displaying mission timestamps and sanitized summaries. The kind of room designed to strip events of their chaos and compress them into bullet points.
You sit side by side. Your shoulder almost brushes Leon’s, close enough to feel without touching. He’s back in clean clothes now, bandages hidden beneath a fresh shirt, posture straight despite the stiffness he hasn’t quite shaken.
The handler stands across from you, expression neutral as ever.
There’s no need to look at each other to confirm anything. You already know what the other is thinking. Where they’ll speak. When they’ll stay quiet. It’s effortless now, like the friction burned itself out and left something smooth behind.
The handler’s gaze flicks between you briefly. Assessing. Noting the absence of hostility.
“Good work,” they add. “Both of you.”
High praise, coming from them.
They dismiss you with a clipped nod and turn back to the screen. The door slides open with a soft hiss, and you stand at the same time, movements synchronized without thought.
Outside, the operations floor hums with its usual low-level chaos. Agents pass, analysts cluster around consoles, voices overlap in familiar rhythms. Nothing looks different.
But it feels different.
You walk together toward the leaderboard without speaking, the silence companionable instead of sharp. The board flickers as you approach, updating, recalculating, doing what it always does after a major operation.
For a split second, the screen goes dark.
Then the names appear.
You stop.
So does Leon.
#1 — YOU
#1 — LEON KENNEDY
Perfectly even.
Tied.
You stare at it longer than you expect to, waiting for something, satisfaction, irritation, the old flare of competitiveness.
It doesn’t come.
Leon exhales softly beside you, something between a laugh and a breath of disbelief. He tilts his head, eyes moving from the board to you.
That familiar smirk appears, not sharp, not challenging. Lighter. Easier.
“Guess we’ll have to settle this another way,” he says.
Synopsis: Rivals turned undercover partners, you and Leon Kennedy fake a relationship during an Umbrella operation. Only to realise the hardest mission isn’t survival, but choosing each other.
Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Fake Relationship, Forced Proximity, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Emotional Vulnerability, Miscommunication, Action/Combat, Protective Leon Kennedy, Rivals to Equals, Confession Scene.
Warnings: Gun Violence, Injury, Blood, Emotional Distress, Arguments, High-Stress Situations, Feelings
Words: ~17k
A/N: im just going to ignore the infection on leon's neck in the new trailer :') (pls capcom dont play with me rn)
The Division of Security Operations headquarters never slept, but it also never felt alive.
Steel-panelled walls reflected fluorescent light in a way that flattened everything, faces, voices, victories. Even the air felt regulated, filtered until it lacked personality. The kind of place that existed to remind you that emotions were liabilities and efficiency was king.
Which was ironic, considering how personal things always got.
The leaderboard hung at the far end of the operations floor, suspended like a silent judge.
Agents gathered as the system refreshed, boots echoing against polished floors, conversations tapering off mid-sentence. There was always a crowd when post-mission reports finalised. Half anticipation, half fear. Careers shifted on that screen. Egos bruised. Grudges sharpened.
You stood with your arms folded, posture casual in a way that took effort. Like you weren’t waiting. Like you didn’t already know exactly who you’d be fighting for space with.
The board flickered.
For a split second, everything went dark.
Then the names snapped into place.
#1 — YOU
#2 — LEON KENNEDY
The reaction was immediate.
A low whistle cut through the room. Someone muttered, “Jesus, again.” Another agent laughed softly, like they’d just lost a bet.
You didn’t smile.
Smiling would’ve felt like gloating, and gloating around Leon Kennedy always came back to bite. Instead, you exhaled through your nose, jaw tightening just enough to hurt. Relief tangled with triumph, knotted together in a way that never quite felt like a win.
Across the floor, Leon stood a few feet away. Too close. Close enough that you could feel him without looking, like static in the air, irritating and unavoidable. He didn’t react. No sigh. No curse. No flicker of irritation that would’ve been satisfying to see.
He just stared at the board, hands loose at his sides, shoulders squared like this was exactly where he expected to be. Second.
That was the thing about Leon. He never looked bothered. Which only ever made you want to bother him more. Finally, he turned his head. Not fully. Just enough to acknowledge your existence.
“Congrats.”
The word was clean. Controlled. Devoid of warmth. Not a compliment, an obligation. You turned on him immediately.
“Wow,” you said, voice light in a way that wasn’t. “That sounded painful. You okay?”
A few agents nearby froze, suddenly very interested in anything that wasn’t the two of you. Someone cleared their throat. Loudly.
Leon’s eyes slid to you then—really looked. Blue, steady, unreadable. Like he was cataloguing you, the way he always did, as if you were a problem he hadn’t solved yet.
“I’ll survive,” he said. “I usually do.”
There it was. The implication. The reminder. That he didn’t need the board. Didn’t need the validation.
You scoffed. “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”
Your heart was beating faster than it should have. You hated that. Hated that he still had that effect. You told yourself it was just rivalry. Professional friction. Two agents chasing the same metrics.
Except metrics didn’t make your blood boil. Metrics didn’t make you remember every mission where he’d overridden your call. Every briefing where he’d questioned your judgment with that infuriating calm. Every time he’d acted like you were a variable to manage instead of an equal.
Leon gave a short nod, not concession, not respect. Closure.
Then he turned away.
As if the conversation hadn’t mattered.
As if you hadn’t mattered.
Your fingers curled before you could stop them. You remembered the first time you’d tried to talk to him. Fresh out of training, adrenaline high, stupid enough to think camaraderie was a given. You’d said his name.
He’d walked straight past you. You’d decided then that he was an asshole. Every interaction since had only reinforced it.
The operations floor slowly returned to life as agents peeled away toward briefings, the tension dispersing but not disappearing. Not between you and Leon. It never did.
As you headed toward the briefing room, you caught his reflection in the glass wall ahead. Same expression. Same calm. Locked down so tight it felt deliberate. Like a wall he wanted you to slam into. And God help you, part of you wanted to break it. Just to prove that something under there could crack.
You squared your shoulders and kept walking. You didn’t care. You absolutely did.
The mission briefing chime cut through the operations floor with surgical precision.
“Conference Room A. Five minutes.”
The reaction was immediate and universal.
Groans rippled through agents who hadn’t moved fast enough to make themselves scarce. Chairs scraped back. Tablets were snapped shut. The loose, post-leaderboard tension evaporated, replaced by something sharper, more disciplined.
You moved with the crowd on instinct alone.
It wasn’t until you were halfway there that you realised exactly where it was taking you.
Conference Room A.
You grimaced internally.
The room was large by design, tiered seating, wide tables, enough space to accommodate egos as well as bodies, but it had a habit of shrinking whenever certain people occupied it.
You stepped inside and scanned for an open seat, already bracing yourself.
Of course.
Leon was already there.
Middle row. Dead centre. Prime vantage point of the screen and the handler’s podium. Perfect posture. Perfectly composed. Like he’d planned it that way.
There were empty chairs scattered throughout the room, but they might as well not have existed. Too far. Too obvious. Too cowardly. The only viable option, the one that didn’t scream avoidance, was the seat beside him.
Unavoidable. You took it. You dropped into the chair with more force than necessary, the legs giving a brief, sharp screech against the floor. Leon didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to.
The tension snapped into place the instant you sat down, tight and immediate, like a wire pulled too far. You felt it in your shoulders. In the way your spine straightened despite yourself.
Conversations around you faltered. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that you noticed the sudden lack of noise in your peripheral hearing. Someone a few rows back leaned in to whisper something to their partner. Another agent glanced at the two of you, eyebrows lifting before they very deliberately looked away.
No one wanted to be involved. The air felt thick. Pressurised. Like it might rupture if either of you pushed too hard.
Leon crossed his arms, posture relaxed but closed. Casual in the way that required discipline. Control. You leaned back, ankle resting on your knee, adopting your own version of indifference. Two opposing stances. Same message.
The handler entered, and the room snapped to attention.
Lights dimmed. Screens flared to life, flooding the space with satellite imagery, data streams, mission headers scrolling in clean, clinical fonts. The low hum of equipment filled the silence left behind by agents who suddenly remembered how to listen. For a few minutes, it was almost normal. Almost.
“Umbrella-affiliated assets have increased activity along the European biotech circuit,” the handler said, laser pointer gliding across the map. “High-profile events. Private funding galas. A lot of noise. Very little traceable movement.”
Leon leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table.
“Which means the actual exchange won’t happen on-site,” he said. Calm. Certain. “It’ll be routed through a secondary node. Off-grid. Clean.”
You didn’t look at him.
“Or,” you cut in, eyes still fixed on the screen, “they keep it local because no one expects them to risk exposure in a room full of donors and diplomats.”
The room stilled. You felt the shift before you saw it, attention pivoting, subtle but undeniable. Leon turned his head slowly. Deliberately.
“That would be sloppy,” he said. No heat. No edge. “Umbrella isn’t sloppy.”
You let out a soft, humourless breath. “Neither are shell corporations hiding in plain sight,” you replied. “Especially when they’re backed by people who think money makes them invisible.”
A pause. Leon’s mouth twitched. Not irritation. Amusement.
“That’s an assumption,” he said. “Arrogance isn’t a reliable variable.”
You turned then, meeting his gaze head-on. “It is when arrogance is the only reason they’ve survived this long.”
For a split second, his eyes held yours. Then he smirked. Not big. Not obvious. Just enough. And it pissed you off instantly.
A few agents shifted uncomfortably. Someone cleared their throat. The handler didn’t intervene, never did. Not when it was the two of you. They’d learned better. From somewhere across the room, barely under someone’s breath, came a muttered, “God help whoever has to work with them.”
It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t annoyed. It was resigned.
You saw Leon’s reaction out of the corner of your eye. The faint tightening at the corner of his mouth. Not anger. Something closer to agreement. Like the comment confirmed something he already knew. The rivalry wasn’t subtle. It never had been.
Leadership knew it. Field agents knew it. Even analysts who avoided combat zones like the plague knew better than to put the two of you on the same assignment without contingencies.
And yet. Here you were. Side by side. Again.
As the briefing continued, the friction didn’t ease, it deepened. You filled gaps Leon dismissed as irrelevant. He dismantled assumptions you made with surgical precision. Neither of you raised your voice. Neither of you yielded an inch.
It wasn’t about ego. It was about being right.
Leon shifted beside you, the movement small but unmistakable. Intentional. Close enough that you could feel his presence without looking. Close enough to feel like a provocation.
You refused to glance at him.
The handler cleared their throat sharply.
“Enough,” they said. Calm. Firm. “Both of you.”
You leaned back in your chair, jaw tight, eyes still forward.
Leon didn’t move at all.
Except for that damn smirk that hadn’t quite faded.
The briefing ended the way most did.
Not with resolution but with an abrupt cutoff and a roomful of people pretending they hadn’t been holding their breath.
The lights brightened. Screens went dark. Chairs shifted as agents remembered how to move again. Conversations started up too fast, too loud, like noise could erase what had just happened.
It couldn’t.
Agents filed out in a rush, boots striking the floor with sudden urgency. No one lingered. No one made eye contact longer than necessary. The tension was something physical now. Something that could snag you if you weren’t careful, wrap around your ankle and drag you down with it.
You were halfway to the door when the handler’s voice cut through the noise.
“You. Kennedy. Stay.”
Your spine stiffened.
Of course.
Leon stopped beside you without looking at you, like he’d been expecting it. Like this was just another outcome he’d already calculated. You hated that most of all, that nothing ever seemed to catch him off guard.
The rest of the room emptied fast.
Too fast.
Even the analysts who usually hovered with questions and clarifications suddenly remembered pressing deadlines and non-existent meetings. The last agent slipped out, the door sliding shut behind them with a soft, almost polite hiss.
Click.
The sound echoed.
Silence flooded in, heavy and deliberate.
The handler didn’t bother with theatrics. They never did. They stood at the head of the conference table, hands loosely clasped, posture easy in a way that only came from authority earned the hard way.
They looked unimpressed.
Calm. Experienced. Patient in the way of someone who had watched far worse people implode and lived to tell the story.
Their gaze flicked to you.
Then to Leon.
Like they were reviewing two familiar problem variables in a report they already knew by heart.
“You’re going to hate this assignment,” they said evenly. “So I’m going to give it to you quickly.”
Leon’s shoulders barely moved. No reaction. No protest.
You crossed your arms tighter, already bracing for impact.
The handler tapped the remote.
The screen behind them changed, maps and data streams replaced by a glossy event flyer dripping with gold accents and forced elegance.
THE KENSINGTON BIOTECH BENEFIT
A private gala supporting global medical innovation.
You scoffed quietly.
The kind of event that smelled like money, power, and immunity.
“Umbrella-adjacent shell companies have been laundering research funding through three different foundations,” the handler continued. “One of them is sponsoring this gala. Donors, executives, foreign ambassadors. Wealth. Influence. Enough plausible deniability to make a prosecutor cry.”
Another click.
A timeline appeared. Then a guest list, names blurred, titles redacted, power implied without explanation.
“Tonight,” the handler said, “their data broker makes a handoff. We believe it includes proprietary files and field logs. Evidence of illegal trials. Off-book transport routes. Personnel rosters.”
Your focus sharpened despite yourself.
“Where’s the handoff happening?” you asked.
Leon beat you by half a second.
“And how do we extract it without tipping the room?”
You felt irritation spark immediately. Predictable. Of course he’d jump straight to logistics, like this was just another clean operation and not a nest of vipers in tuxedos.
The handler’s eyes flicked between you again, cataloguing the tension like it was another asset to manage.
“The handoff is digital,” they said. “Encrypted drive. Stored temporarily on a secure device in the VIP lounge. The broker uploads it to an off-site server at 23:00. We need the device before then.”
Too clean.
You frowned. “So we infiltrate. Grab the device. Disappear.”
“Correct,” the handler said. “Which is why this is an on-site operation. No drones. No external breach. Umbrella’s countermeasures are tight.”
Leon’s jaw flexed once. Barely noticeable. You caught it anyway.
“Then we’ll need invitations,” he said.
“Already handled.”
The handler clicked again.
The screen changed.
Two names appeared. Two immaculate profiles. Wealthy. Connected. Polished to perfection.
A couple.
Your stomach dropped.
You read it once.
Then again.
And again.
Couple profile.
You looked up slowly. “No.”
The handler didn’t blink. “Yes.”
You let out a short laugh, sharp, humourless. “Absolutely not.”
Leon still hadn’t spoken.
His eyes were locked on the screen, but his posture had gone rigid in a way you recognised. The same way it did right before a firefight. Before something went wrong.
His jaw was tight. Mouth set into a flat line.
If a bullet had been aimed at his head, he would’ve looked exactly like this.
“The guest list is exclusive,” the handler continued. “Couples only. It’s not charity, it’s a filter. Singles draw scrutiny. Couples imply stability.”
You leaned forward, palms slamming onto the table. “Send literally anyone else.”
“There is no anyone else,” the handler replied calmly. “Not for this.”
Your temper flared hot and fast. “Why? Because we’re top-ranked?”
“Because your skill overlap is ideal,” they said. “One of you excels in social manipulation and close-quarters infiltration. The other excels in threat assessment and extraction under pressure.”
You opened your mouth.
“Don’t,” the handler said sharply. “You’re both excellent. Together, you’re efficient.”
Leon finally spoke.
“And if we refuse?”
Low. Controlled. Dangerous in its restraint.
The handler didn’t soften. “Then we miss the handoff. Umbrella keeps their data. People die later because we didn’t do our jobs now.”
Cold. Final.
You clenched your jaw. “So your plan is to shove us into a ballroom and hope we don’t kill each other.”
“My plan,” the handler said, “is to send two professionals into a controlled environment with a clear objective. Your personal feelings are irrelevant.”
“They’re not irrelevant if they compromise the mission,” you snapped.
Leon glanced at you then.
Brief. Sharp.
Unreadable.
He didn’t defend you. Didn’t agree. Didn’t disagree.
He just stood there, calm, contained, infuriatingly above it, like he always did.
You wanted to shake him. To crack that composure just once.
The handler watched you both like someone observing a storm they’d already charted.
“If you can’t play nice for one night,” they said evenly, “you don’t deserve that leaderboard.”
The words landed hard. Because they were true.
Because the leaderboard wasn’t just numbers. It was proof. Of every sacrifice. Every cut corner. Every fight you’d survived to get here. You felt the hook sink deep.
Leon didn’t react outwardly, but you saw it. The subtle lift of his chin. The tension in his throat as he swallowed. Pride caught him too. The handler shut off the screen.
“You’ll attend as Dr. and Dr.,” they said, sliding dossiers across the table. “Long-term couple. Convincing. You will touch. You will smile. You will sell it.”
You stared at the dossiers like they were weapons. Leon picked his up with careful precision. Of course he did.
“This is not optional,” the handler said. “Get the device. Get the data. Come back.”
They looked at you both.
“Try not to embarrass me.”
The door unlocked with a hiss.
You didn’t move.
Neither did Leon.
The truth settled ugly and heavy in your chest.
You weren’t being asked to work with Leon Kennedy. You were being forced to pretend you wanted him.
The training wing smelled like disinfectant and old sweat, cleaned often, never enough. The kind of smell that clung to the back of your throat no matter how many times they scrubbed the floors. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, cold and unforgiving, washing everything in a sickly white glow that did no one any favours.
The DSO didn’t do cozy. It did functional. It did survive.
A door slid open at the handler’s badge swipe, revealing a smaller room tucked off the main mat space. It was laid out like an interrogation room that had tried—and failed—to pass itself off as an office.
One table. Two chairs. A stack of folders.
And a tablet already lit up with a form that made your soul leave your body on sight.
You stared at it like it had just insulted your family.
“Sit,” the handler said.
Leon took the chair opposite you immediately. No hesitation. No comment. Of course he did. You waited half a second longer, purely out of spite, then sat, crossing your legs and folding your arms like the tablet might try something.
The handler slid two clipboards across the table.
“You’ll fill these out together,” they said. “Your cover is long-term. Married. High-value donors with private ties to the foundation. Security will look for inconsistencies: names, habits, timelines. If you don’t align, you’ll set off alarms before you hit the champagne.”
They pushed a third folder toward Leon. “Apartment layout. Memorise it. If someone asks where the bathroom is in your home, you answer without thinking.”
Leon scanned the paperwork with that infuriatingly calm focus he brought to bomb schematics and ambush routes. No sarcasm. No commentary. Just silent efficiency.
You hated him a little extra for it.
“I’ll be outside,” the handler added. “You have forty minutes. Try not to kill each other.”
The door shut.
Click.
You and Leon were left alone with the lie. For a moment, neither of you moved. Leon’s eyes stayed on the paperwork. Yours stayed on him.
You grabbed the top sheet and skimmed it.
How did you meet?
When did you move in together?
Anniversary date:
Pet names used in public:
Pet peeves:
Shared routines:
Preferred terms of endearment (optional):
Your jaw clenched.
“This is ridiculous.”
Leon finally lifted his gaze. “It’s standard.”
You scoffed. “Standard. Right. Because nothing says ‘authentic marriage’ like a fill-in-the-blank worksheet.”
He picked up his pen. “How did we meet?”
The bluntness threw you for a second. “Wow. No warm-up? No foreplay?”
Leon didn’t blink. “Focus.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Prague.”
His pen paused midair. “Vienna.”
You stared. “I’m sorry, did you just veto my city?”
“Vienna makes more sense,” he said evenly. “Diplomatic circuit. Donors. Embassy galas.”
“Prague is beautiful,” you shot back. “Historic. Romantic. Exactly the kind of place two rich idiots would pretend to fall in love over overpriced wine.”
Leon’s mouth flattened. “It’s cliché.”
“And Vienna isn’t?”
“It’s believable.”
“So is Prague.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was counting to ten. “We need a story that holds up under scrutiny.”
“And we need one that doesn’t sound like it was written by a man who alphabetises his spices.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes. “I don’t alphabetise my spices.”
“Wow. Growth.”
The argument escalated almost instantly. It was petty. You both knew it. It was also loud, because neither of you was willing to lose the first detail. Like it mattered. Like this wasn’t all fake anyway.
Leon tapped the page. “Vienna. We met at a benefit dinner. You spilled a drink on me.”
You barked a laugh. “Of course I did.”
“It’s memorable.”
“It makes me clumsy.”
“It explains why we talked.”
You bristled. “Or you bumped into me.”
Leon raised an eyebrow. “That makes you the victim.”
“And?”
“It makes me the asshole.”
You smiled sweetly. “Finally. Something accurate.”
For a second, his mouth twitched. Barely. Gone as fast as it appeared.
“Anniversary date,” you said quickly, flipping the page.
“November,” Leon said without hesitation.
“Why November?”
“Forgettable.”
“Wow. Romantic.”
He didn’t react. “The fifteenth.”
You paused. “That’s weirdly specific.”
His gaze flicked away. Just for a fraction of a second. “It’s fine.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You absolutely have something on the fifteenth.”
“No.”
“Uh-huh.”
You wrote it down anyway.
Pet peeves.
You read the line and looked up. “This is where you put ‘people who talk too much,’ isn’t it?”
Leon folded his arms. “It’s where we put things we can answer quickly.”
“Oh. Then write ‘emotion.’”
“What’s yours?” he countered.
“Men who think silence counts as depth.”
His pen stilled. “You hum when you’re thinking.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“That’s not a pet peeve.”
“It is when it’s constant.”
Heat crept up your neck. “You’re creepy.”
“Observant.”
Next line.
Pet names used in public.
You stared at it like it might explode.
“No.”
“We need something.”
“Something neutral.”
“Babe.”
You physically recoiled. “Absolutely not.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Try again.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Honey.”
Leon grimaced. “That’s worse.”
“It’s normal.”
“It sounds like a threat when you say it.”
You gasped. “Rude.”
“Pick one.”
You exhaled hard. “Love.”
He froze.
“What?” you snapped.
“It’s… British.”
“We’re in London half the year. Write it down.”
He did.
Your stomach did something annoying.
You shoved the clipboard away. “Done?”
Leon flipped to the apartment layout. “No.”
He started listing details like a man preparing for war. Door directions. Furniture placement. Appliance locations.
“You’re insane,” you muttered.
“It’s my job.”
The way he said it stopped your next insult cold. Before you could unpack that, the door hissed open.
“Time,” the handler said. “Training.”
The training room was louder. A raw, grinding decibel that felt less like sound and more like physical pressure against your eardrums. It was hotter, a dense, clinging heat that rose from the mats and bodies and pooled against the ceiling. This place was brutally, viciously honest in a way the slick corridors and polished debriefing rooms of headquarters never dared to be. Here, pretence was the first thing stripped away.
Every sound was amplified, thrown back by the barren walls: the scuff and slap of boots against padding, the meaty thud of bodies hitting the mat, the sharp, bitten-off bark of instructors.
This was where elegance went to die. Where you were reminded what you were underneath the tech and the tactics: flesh, bone, and flawed instinct.
Leon shrugged out of his jacket as if shedding a second skin. The movement was economical, unshowy, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting in a deliberate roll beneath his dark shirt as he pushed his sleeves to his elbows. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. His indifference was a practiced weapon, and he wielded it perfectly.
You hated that you tracked the motion anyway. Hated the way your eyes followed the line of his forearm, the shift of his weight. A silent catalogue of the enemy.
Mirroring him was a reflex, but you made it aggressive. You rolled your shoulders back until the joints gave a soft pop, tilted your neck until it burned. Your pulse was already climbing, a drumbeat of pure, undiluted adrenaline bleeding into your veins ahead of the impact. This wasn't nerves. It was a craving for collision.
“Close-quarters,” the handler’s voice cut through the din from the edge of the mat. “No distance. No weapons. You’re going to be in each other’s space until one of you breaks or the clock does.”
Lucky me.
Leon turned to face you fully, and the overhead lights carved him out of the gloom. The sharp, unyielding line of his jaw, the steady, metronomic rise and fall of his chest. His eyes swept over you once. Not dismissive. Not curious. Assessing. Coldly, clinically reassessing a variable he already had quantified.
“Try to keep up,” you said, the words grating out, already furious at the glacial calm on his face.
The corner of his mouth twitched. A phantom of a smirk, there and gone. “Show me.”
The first clash was less a fight and more a detonation.
You lunged without preamble, a silent, violent blur closing the distance before he could settle into a textbook stance. He reacted not with surprise, but with a speed that felt like an insult, catching your leading arm, redirecting your momentum with infuriating efficiency. Your shoulder slammed into the wall of his chest. Solid. Immovable. The impact reverberated up your neck, rattling your teeth.
You hooked his leg; he countered your hook. You twisted for leverage; his grip shifted, strong, calloused hands locking like manacles around your wrist and forearm. He stepped into you, using your own forward drive to uproot your balance.
The mat rushed up to meet you. You hit with a force that punched the air from your lungs in a sharp, humiliating wheeze.
He followed you down, a controlled avalanche. One knee braced near your hip, his weight a deliberate, undeniable pressure. One hand planted beside your head, caging you. The other pinning your arm with machined precision.
Too close.
His heat enveloped you, a living, breathing furnace. You could feel the coiled tension in the muscles of his arms and chest as he held himself back, a restraint that was somehow more arrogant than full force. His breath, still steady, washed over your cheek.
“Yield.” A single, quiet word, dropped into the scant space between your mouths.
You bared your teeth, a soundless snarl. “Dream on, Kennedy.”
You bucked, shifted your hips, used the micro-second his weight adjusted to hook your leg and roll. The world flipped, ceiling lights streaking, his form a blur of controlled motion, and suddenly you were on top, your forearm braced against the solid column of his throat, your knees digging into the mat on either side of his ribs.
Beneath you, his chest heaved once. A deep, aborted expansion. For a suspended heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Sweat slicked your skin where you pressed against him. The mat was warm and smelled of defeat. Leon’s hand came up, his grip closing around your wrist, not to throw you, not to hurt. To test. To measure the resistance. He was already adapting, his body learning yours even as yours screamed to reject his.
Your pulse was a roar in your ears, a chaotic counter-rhythm to his terrifying calm.
You shoved off him as if burned, scrambling to your feet before the strange, charged stillness could solidify.
“Not so perfect,” you spat, your breath coming in gusts you hated.
Leon sat up smoothly, as if rising from a lounge chair. As if your reversal had been a predicted, inconsequential sub-routine. “You’re fast.”
It wasn’t praise. It was data entry. And you hated that the distinction felt so vital, and that it landed somewhere in the uncharted, dangerous space between contempt and something else.
“Again,” the handler barked.
The next round was worse. Longer. More intimately brutal. It was a war of pressure and proximity. He caught a strike and used it to drive you back into the mat, his shoulder pinning you down, his forearm a bar of iron across your chest, not crushing, just absolutely controlling. You could feel every breath he took. You kicked out, twisted, your hands scraping against the corded steel of his arms as you broke free.
“You fight angry,” he muttered, the words a low vibration in the scant space between your bodies as you circled again, panting.
“You fight like a robot,” you shot back, your voice raw.
“You’re predictable.”
“Only to someone arrogant enough to think they’re smarter.”
“I think you’re reckless.” His eyes were chips of ice in the heat.
You lunged again, if only to wipe the assessment from his face.
He caught you, of course he did, but this time you were ready. You rolled with the momentum, dragging him down with you in a tangle of limbs. The mat shuddered. The grapple became a raw, grinding struggle for dominance, a silent conversation of strain and resistance. Your knee found his side; his elbow bracketed your ribs. Sweat-slick skin slid against damp fabric. Neither of you would yield an inch. The sheer, stubborn will of it was a third entity in the fight.
By the time the handler called the reset, your skin was sheened, your lungs burned, and your muscles trembled with fatigued fury. Across from you, Leon’s breathing had finally deepened, still controlled, but unmistakably heavier. His shirt was plastered to the planes of his back, darkened in a long, damp streak down his spine.
You refused to acknowledge it. You refused to even look.
“Live-fire simulation,” the handler called, gesturing to the adjacent door. “Now.”
The next room was a labyrinth of moveable walls, strobing lights, and disorienting sound cues. Training pistols, heavy with marking rounds, were thrust into your hands. No room for error. No room for anything but the drill. You and Leon moved through the doorway as a single, fractured unit. No words. No signals.
You took point on instinct. He covered the angles you couldn’t see, his presence a shadow at your six. It felt profoundly wrong, this seamless coordination, how your strides synced, how you pivoted around a corner and he was already there, clearing the blind spot. It felt like a betrayal of the mutual contempt that had been your only common ground.
A target snapped up from a left-side port.
You pivoted, weapon rising, finger finding the trigger -
Leon moved.
No shout. No warning. A pure, unthinking kinetic shift.
He stepped into your line of fire, his body turning, his shoulder angling to intercept the shot that wasn’t even real. A blunt, physical declaration.
Protective. Automatic.
The training round smacked into the hard plate of his vest with a dull, final thwack.
Your finger froze. The world narrowed to the spot of neon paint now blooming on his shoulder, to the broad back that had just placed itself between you and a theoretical threat.
“Reset!” the handler’s voice was distant, irrelevant.
Leon stepped away immediately, his posture snapping back into that flawless, impregnable control as if the last five seconds had been edited out. As if his body hadn’t just made a decision his mind would never consciously permit.
You stood rooted, your pulse a frantic bird in your throat, staring at the mark on his vest.
The venue rose out of the city like a monument to excess.
Marble columns framed the entrance, pale and flawless, each one tall enough to make a statement about permanence, about money that didn’t worry about time or consequence. Crystal chandeliers glittered beyond the glass doors, scattering light across polished floors in a way that felt deliberate, curated to impress and intimidate in equal measure.
Inside, an orchestra played something classical and unobtrusive, strings swelling just enough to fill the space without demanding attention. The music threaded through conversations held in low, confident voices, people who had never had to check over their shoulders when they spoke.
This place wasn’t just expensive. It was insulated.
You stepped inside and felt it immediately: the invisible barrier between the people here and the rest of the world. Consequences didn’t reach this far. They slid off champagne flutes and tailored suits, drowned under polite laughter and charitable donations.
Umbrella executives were everywhere. Not obvious. Not branded. Just… present. Men and women with immaculate posture and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. People who knew exactly how much power they held and exactly how well it was hidden.
You straightened instinctively, not because you needed to, but because the room demanded it. Tonight, you weren’t an agent.
The dress was a calculated piece of armour. It clung and moved in a way that looked effortless, the kind of confidence that came from knowing every movement would be watched and finding satisfaction in it. Hair styled, posture relaxed, expression composed. Lethal, but not visibly so. Danger tucked beneath refinement.
Leon stood beside you, and the contrast was almost obscenely perfect. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed. The tailored suit fit him like a second skin, draping over broad shoulders and a lean frame with an almost insulting elegance. It was dark, understated, and it made him look disarmingly respectable, the kind of man donors instinctively trusted. The earpiece was invisible, his edge concealed beneath a veneer of sophisticated calm. He looked… safe. Predictable. It was the most effective disguise he’d ever worn.
No weapons. No tactical gear. Just a man who cleaned up a little too well. Neither of you looked like agents. You looked like you belonged.
Leon’s eyes swept over you as you adjusted a strap on your shoulder, his gaze lingering a fraction longer than strictly operational. When he spoke, his voice was a low, private rumble. “They didn’t mention the dress.”
You kept your eyes forward, scanning the crowd. “It’s not in the briefing notes, Kennedy. It’s called a uniform.”
“It’s a distraction,” he said, and there was a trace of something in his tone, not warmth, but a clinical sort of acknowledgment.
Before you could retort, the second you crossed the threshold fully into the ballroom, his hand settled at the small of your back.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t awkward. It was proprietary.
His palm rested there with a pressure that was both grounding and possessive, his fingers splayed just above the curve of your hip. His thumb brushed once, a slow, deliberate stroke against the delicate fabric, and your entire spine went rigid in response. The heat of his hand burned through the silk, a brand you felt in every nerve ending.
He leaned in, his breath disturbing the hair near your temple. “Easy,” he murmured, his voice a velvety counterfeit of intimacy. “Smile.”
You did, a perfect, glazed curve of the lips. Under your breath, barely moving them, you hissed, “If you leave your hand there any longer, I’m billing the DSO for emotional damages and a dry-cleaning bill. Your palm is sweating.”
Leon didn’t look at you. His hand didn’t move. If anything, his fingers pressed more firmly, pulling you a millimetre closer into the orbit of his body. “Relax, sweetheart,” he said aloud, his tone soft, affectionate, convincingly doting. “You look breathtaking.” The endearment was a bullet wrapped in velvet.
A nearby couple glanced over, their smiles fond and approving.
Your jaw ached from clenching. “You sound disturbingly natural. I think I might throw up.”
His mouth curved, a private, dangerous flicker. “That’s because you’re holding your breath. They’ll notice the lack of oxygen before they notice the lie.”
“Maybe if you weren’t manhandling me.”
“My hand’s not moving,” he replied, his calm an infuriating counterpoint to your tension. “You’re just hyper-aware of it. Mission focus, remember?”
You hated that he was right. The awareness was a live wire running from the point of contact straight to your core. Publicly, you were seamless, an elegant couple drifting into the flow of the gala, bodies aligned, steps synchronised. Privately, it was a silent war of attrition.
Leon guided you toward the bar with infuriating ease, his hand a constant, navigating pressure. He nodded politely, offered brief, warm smiles. You felt every shift of his fingers, every minute adjustment of his grip.
An Umbrella executive, tall, with cold, appraising eyes, glanced your way.
Leon’s hand shifted. His fingers spread, pressing more fully against your spine as he angled you subtly, protectively, closer to him. His head dipped, his lips near your ear. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, your own gaze locked on the executive.
“Focus,” Leon murmured, his voice a low vibration you felt in your bones. “He’s not just looking. He’s calculating. Smile at him. Like you find him tedious.”
You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift over the man with the lazy, disinterested contempt of the truly privileged. You offered a faint, dismissive smile. The man’s gaze lingered, then moved on, satisfied you were no one of consequence.
Leon exhaled, a soft sound that feathered against your skin. “See? That’s the point.”
You glanced up at him, your cheek nearly brushing his jaw. “Don’t get smug.”
“I’m not smug,” he said, raising a hand to effortlessly snag two champagne flutes from a passing server. He handed one to you, his fingers brushing yours. “I’m effective.”
“You remembered the champagne,” you noted flatly, taking the glass.
“I remember things,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room over the rim of his flute. “Drink with your left hand. Your ring’s on the right. It flashes under the lights.”
You froze for a half-second, a tiny, betraying stumble in your composure. Then you switched hands smoothly, the crystal stem cool in your left fingers. “Stop paying attention to irrelevant details about me.”
“Can’t,” Leon said, his voice dropping back into that confidential murmur as he guided you away from the bar. “That’s the job tonight. Every detail is relevant.”
The orchestra swelled as the evening deepened. The air grew thick with perfume and false camaraderie. Leon’s hand remained on your back, a constant, maddening presence. You became a connoisseur of its pressure, firmer when navigating a crowd, lighter but no less present when stationary, his thumb tracing an absent, subconscious arc that made your breath catch.
As you moved, you saw the illusion take hold. The casual glances from guests, the approving nods from older patrons, the way security teams assessed you as a unit and then dismissed you. They bought the story. The elegant, connected, slightly bored couple.
The realisation was a cold trickle down your spine. Because it wasn’t just them. It was him, too.
He moved through the charade with a terrifying, fluid ease. His touches, his murmured words, the way his body curved around yours in a crowd, it all looked effortless. Like it cost him nothing. Like the simmering hostility that defined your every interaction had been switched off, replaced by this seamless, galling performance.
You were starting to resent how good he was at it.
A guest intercepted you near the edge of the ballroom, an older man with silver hair and a practiced smile, glass of champagne cradled loosely in one hand. His eyes flicked between you and Leon with open curiosity.
“Forgive me,” he said pleasantly, inclining his head. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Leon smiled before you could respond, warm and unhurried. “Of course. This is my wife.” The word still sent a strange jolt through you.
“And you are?” the man asked, turning his attention to you. “Involved in the foundation as well?”
You opened your mouth to speak. To think of something fast before you started spilling word vomit.
“She is,” Leon answered smoothly, his hand settling at your back again. “She led the data consolidation project for the Helios Initiative last year. Streamlined the entire reporting pipeline. Saved the board six figures and a lot of embarrassment.”
You stilled. Just for a fraction of a second. The man’s brows lifted, impressed.
“She has a talent for finding inefficiencies people prefer not to admit are there,” Leon continued, tone light, almost fond. “She’s very good at seeing patterns others miss.”
Your heart stumbled. The guest chuckled. “Dangerous skill.”
Leon’s thumb brushed your spine once, subtly. Familiar. “Only if you’re hiding something.”
The man laughed and excused himself moments later, drifting back into the crowd, already satisfied. You remained where you were, gaze fixed ahead, the music suddenly too loud in your ears.
“How did you know that?” you asked quietly, once you were certain no one was listening.
Leon didn’t look at you. “You did it during the Marseille op,” he said simply. “Flagged the discrepancy in the shipping logs. Everyone else missed it.”
“That was years ago,” you said. “I remember,” he replied.
There was no pride in his voice. No edge. Just fact.
You leaned back into his touch, your shoulder blades pressing against his chest as you pretended to point out a painting. Your voice was a razor in the velvet dark between you. “They’re eating this up. It’s almost pathetic.”
“Yes,” Leon replied, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder. His breath was warm on your neck. “They are.”
He gave you nothing else. Just the steady, burning pressure of his hand.
The orchestra shifted, the music melting into a slower, more intimate piece. The dance floor began to fill. Leon felt the shift in the room’s rhythm a moment before you did.
He turned to you, his expression softening into something convincingly expectant. He extended his hand, palm up. Not a question. A quiet command in the language of the evening.
You stared at his offered hand, at the faint scars across the knuckles you knew the origin of. Then you placed yours in it, your cool fingers sliding against his warm, calloused palm. “You step on my feet,” you whispered, “and I’ll make a scene they’ll talk about for years.”
A ghost of a real smile touched his lips. “Noted.”
He drew you into him, one hand returning to its familiar place on your back, the other closing around your hand. The world narrowed to the space between your bodies. You could feel the fine wool of his suit under your splayed fingers, the solid muscle beneath.
“You dance like you fight,” you accused as he led you into the first steps.
“Precisely?” he murmured, his eyes holding yours.
“Stiffly. Like you’re waiting for an attack.”
“You’re leading.”
“I am not.”
“You’re anticipating my lead and resisting it. It’s the same thing.” He adjusted his grip, his hand on your back firming, guiding your turn. “Stop fighting the rhythm. Let it happen.”
You bristled. “I don’t just let things happen.”
He leaned in, his lips a breath from your ear. His voice dropped, losing its polished edge, revealing the rougher truth beneath. “You do. You always have. You anticipate the strike. You brace for the impact. You’re doing it now.”
The direct hit silenced you. The banter evaporated, leaving only the truth of the movement. You were bracing. Against him. Against the music. Against the unnerving synchronicity.
Somewhere in the next turn, the resistance broke. Not with a surrender, but with a mutual, unspoken recalibration. Leon’s guidance became less a direction and more a suggestion. Your following became less a resistance and more a mirror. Your weight settled, your steps aligned. He shifted; you matched. It became effortless. Fluid. A silent, perfect dialogue of motion.
It felt exactly like the rare, terrifying moments in the field when everything went to hell and instinct took over, when you moved not as two separate entities, but as a single, coordinated organism.
Your breath hitched. You felt his do the same, a stutter in his otherwise controlled chest. Neither of you spoke.
The music carried you, and his hand on your back was no longer a point of conflict. It was an anchor. His other hand held yours, not with performance, but with a simple, undeniable connection. You were suddenly, acutely aware of every point of contact: his thigh brushing yours, the heat of his palm, the steady beat of his heart against your own racing one.
The song began to wind down. Security was tightening; you could see the increased scrutiny at the edges of the room.
Leon’s voice was a raw scrape against your ear, all pretence of gentleness gone. “They’re locking the perimeter. Broker’s in the east wing. We need to move.”
You nodded, your forehead almost touching his chin. The final note hung in the air. Applause scattered through the room. Couples began to separate. Leon didn’t let go.
His hand remained on your back. His fingers were still laced with yours. In the dim, chandelier-lit haze, for a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity, you just stood there, locked in the echo of the dance and the glaring, inconvenient truth it had revealed.
You were still holding on. And so was he.
Finally, he released your hand, the absence feeling like a sudden chill. His palm slid from your back, leaving the ghost of its heat imprinted on the silk. You took a half-step back, the ballroom noise rushing back in.
“Next time,” you said, your voice strangely thin, “warn me before you decide to be competent at something.”
He looked at you, his blue eyes stripped of their usual ice, something darker and more complicated swirling in their depths. “You didn’t need a warning. You kept up.”
He turned, offering his arm again, the picture of the attentive partner. After a stunned second, you slid your hand into the crook of his elbow, your fingers trembling slightly against the fine cotton.
Conversations continue, a tapestry of polished lies, but your senses have already pared them down to a meaningless drone. Your focus narrows, homing in on the anomaly. Across the room, an Umbrella scientist, a man with the pallid complexion and careful detachment of someone who spends more time with data than people, has stopped moving.
He isn't staring. That would be amateur. His attention is a series of precise, surgical observations: the way you stand with your weight slightly forward, not relaxed back; the subtle, the specific tension in your shoulders that speaks of readiness, not repose. His head tilts, a fraction of a degree.
Your pulse kicks, a single, hard thud against your ribs. "Leon," you breathe, the word a ghost against the rim of your champagne flute.
"I see him." His reply is immediate, a low current beneath the placid surface. His posture hasn't changed, but you feel the minute shift in the energy beside you, the coiling of a spring. "Don't look at him. Look at me."
But it's too late. The scientist’s eyes, cold, magnified behind thin glasses, flicker. Not with full recognition, but with the dawning, critical suspicion of it. I know you. From where? The unspoken question hangs in the charged space between you. The danger isn't here yet, but it's coming, a tide you have seconds to turn. Leon doesn't hesitate. He never does.
One moment you are two adjacent entities, sharing a cover story. The next, his arm bands around your waist, pulling you in with an irrevocable certainty. His other hand rises, fingers threading into the hair at your nape, his palm cradling the line of your jaw with a possession that steals the breath from your lungs.
And then his mouth is on yours.
It is not a kiss born of passion, but of pure, unadulterated necessity, a tactical strike executed with devastating precision. There is no cautious exploration, no soft inquiry. His lips meet yours with a firm, undeniable pressure, sealing the world out. It is immediate. Consuming. A forced intimacy that feels more like a claiming than a performance.
The shock of it is a lightning bolt to your system. Every thought, every alarm bell, is momentarily short-circuited by the sheer, overwhelming physicality of him. The warmth of his skin, the faint, clean scent of him cutting through the cloying perfume of the gala, the solid, unyielding wall of his chest against yours.
His mouth moves, and it is not the gentle persuasion of a lover. It is decisive. Convincing. He angles his head, deepening the contact just enough to be unquestionable, his thumb stroking a slow, deliberate arc along your jawline, a gesture of affection that feels, in its practiced perfection, like a weapon. He is building a shield with his body, blocking the scientist's view, rewriting the narrative in the space of a heartbeat: You are not a threat. You are distracted. You are mine.
And you respond. It is the true betrayal. Your body, trained for survival, obeys a different instinct. Your free hand, the one not clutching the forgotten champagne flute, comes to rest against his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself. A small, stifled sound catches in your throat. Your lips part beneath his, not in invitation, but in a gasp of pure, stunned reflex that he seamlessly incorporates into the act.
And then, as abruptly as it began, the pressure changes. Leon’s kiss softens, becomes a lingering press, a final punctuation mark. The immediate threat has passed; the scientist, presented with an indisputable picture of private passion, has turned away, dismissing his suspicion as irrelevant.
But Leon doesn't pull back. For three endless heartbeats, he remains there, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours in ragged sync. His eyes are closed, his expression a stark mask of concentration, as if he is listening for an echo of the danger, or perhaps for something else entirely. His thumb continues its slow sweep along your jaw, a soothing rhythm that feels anything but soothing.
You are the one who breaks. You wrench your head back, a shudder running through you. The cool air of the ballroom hits your damp lips, a shocking contrast. Your hand, still splayed on his chest, pushes, a weak, belated attempt to reinstate a boundary that has been utterly demolished.
"Don't," you manage, your voice a scraped-raw whisper. "Don't you dare read into that."
Leon's eyes open. They are dark, pupils blown wide, the usual icy blue swallowed by a storm you've never seen before. He looks at you and for a second, the professional facade is utterly absent. There is only a raw, unsettled intensity that mirrors the chaos in your own veins.
"Trust me," he says, his voice low and rough, stripped of its earlier polish. "I'm not." It is the most transparent lie either of you has told all night.
The silence that follows is louder than the music. He slowly, carefully, unwinds his arm from your waist, his fingers loosening from your hair as if disarming a live wire. The distance between you feels cavernous, charged with the aftershocks of what just happened. You can still feel the imprint of his body against yours, a phantom brand. Your lips are tender, buzzing with a sensation that has nothing to do with the champagne.
Leon clears his throat, the sound harsh in the quiet between you. His gaze darts away, reassembling his composure piece by piece. "He's moving toward the east corridor. The distraction worked."
"Right," you say, the word tasting like ash. You straighten your spine, a soldier coming to attention after a devastating blow. You smooth your dress, a futile gesture. The elegance feels like a costume now, hanging awkwardly on the raw, shaken thing you've become underneath.
He offers his arm again, a formality. You take it, your fingers trembling slightly as they settle on the fine wool of his sleeve. The contact is sterile, polite. A mockery of the intimacy that just fused you together.
You know now, with chilling clarity, that Leon's first instinct was not to create distance, not to signal a retreat, but to eliminate the threat to you by any means necessary. He didn't just sell a cover. He consumed it. He didn't hesitate. And in that breathless, stolen moment, neither did you.
The line has not just been crossed. It has been incinerated.
You keep your chin high, your smile in place, moving back into the glittering fray. But the gala has shifted. The colours are too bright, the music too shrill. Every nerve ending is alive, hyper-aware of the man beside you, of the memory of his mouth, his hands, the terrifying efficiency of his protection, and the even more terrifying echo of your own response.
The gala breathes around you, music swelling and receding, laughter rippling through the crowd, the illusion of safety pressed into every polished surface. But the clock is ticking louder now.
You feel it in the way security shifts positions too often. In the way conversations stall, restart. In the subtle tightening of the room’s rhythm as the night edges closer to whatever Umbrella has planned.
Leon’s hand rests lightly at your elbow as he steers you toward the edge of the ballroom, bodies angled just close enough to sell the cover. His touch is careful now, less possessive than before, more controlled. Like he’s consciously reining himself in. His voice reaches you through the comm, low and steady beneath the orchestra.
“Broker’s device is active. Signal spike just came online.”
Your gaze sweeps the room automatically, cataloguing exits, shadows, patterns. “VIP lounge,” you murmur.
“Yes,” Leon replies. “But there’s a secondary access corridor behind the east stairwell. Two choke points.” A pause. “If we go together, we bottleneck.”
You glance up at him, jaw tightening. “If we split, we lose eyes.”
“We gain speed.”
“And risk,” you counter quietly, lips barely moving as a couple passes too close. “Security’s tightening. They’re already clocking patterns.”
Leon slows just enough to turn toward you. Not fully. Not enough to draw attention. But enough that you feel the weight of his focus settle on you. The chandelier light catches his eyes, sharp, intent, stripped of the softness he’s been wearing for the room.
“Protocol says split,” he says. “Two access points. Redundancy.”
You scoff under your breath. “Protocol didn’t account for Umbrella improvising.”
“It accounts for us adapting.”
“It accounts for you adapting,” you snap back, the edge in your voice slipping through despite your control. “I’m the variable you’re pretending isn’t there.”
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps once, just beneath the skin.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” You lean in closer, the pretence of intimacy giving your words cover. Your pulse is loud now, insistent. “Because ever since that-” You stop yourself, breath hitching. “Since earlier, you’ve been playing it safe.” Leon’s breath stutters once. Barely perceptible. But you feel it.
“I’m playing it smart,” he says.
You shake your head. “Same thing. Different excuse.”
A server brushes past, tray wobbling dangerously close. Leon reacts instantly, his hand sliding to your waist, pulling you in as he murmurs something affectionate aloud. You force a smile, lean into him, sell it.
The server moves on. Leon’s hand doesn’t. His fingers remain splayed at your side, warm and grounding, the pressure unmistakable.
“Listen to me,” he says quietly now, close enough that his breath warms your ear. “The device will be gone in minutes. If we hesitate, we lose it.”
“And if something happens?” you whisper back. “If one of us gets boxed in-”
“We won’t,” he says too fast.
You pull back just enough to look at him. “You don’t know that.”
For a moment, the argument stalls. You don’t like being away from him. You hate that you know the cadence of his movements. That you can predict his choices before he makes them. That the thought of moving through hostile space without his presence at your back makes your chest feel tight and exposed. Leon looks away first. His hand slips from your waist, deliberately, like he’s forcing himself to let go.
“Two minutes,” he says, voice clipped. “If either of us hits resistance, we abort and regroup at point C.”
“And if comms drop?” you ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Then you trust me.”
The words land harder than they should. You swallow. “That’s a big ask.” Leon turns back to you, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes give him away. “You already do.”
You hate that he’s right. The realisation burns low and sharp in your chest.
“Fine,” you say, forcing steel into your voice. “East stairwell. I’ll take the service corridor.”
Leon nods once. No hesitation. No argument. Like this was always the plan.
You separate smoothly, drifting apart like any other couple momentarily distracted by different conversations. His presence fades from your side, and the absence of it is immediate, an ache you weren’t prepared for.
The service corridor is quieter, narrower. The music fades to a distant hum, replaced by the soft whir of ventilation and the echo of your own footsteps. The lighting here is dimmer, more utilitarian, less forgiving. You move with practiced ease, posture relaxed, pace unhurried. Just another donor who took a wrong turn.
A guard stands at the far end of the corridor, back partially turned. He glances up as you approach, eyes narrowing just a fraction too long.
You smile. “Sorry, restrooms?” He hesitates. Just long enough. “Down the hall,” he says eventually, gesturing.
You thank him and keep walking, heart thudding. You feel the weight of the distance now, the absence of Leon’s quiet presence through the comms, the way he usually covers angles you don’t have eyes on.
You reach the door marked AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY and slide the keycard from your clutch with steady fingers. The lock clicks open.
Inside, the air is cooler. Server racks hum softly, lights blinking in orderly patterns. The device should be here, hidden, discreet, temporary. You scan quickly. Nothing. Your pulse spikes.
“Leon,” you murmur into the comm. “Device isn’t here.”
A beat. “I’m seeing the same,” he replies. “They’ve moved it.”
“Where?”
“VIP lounge,” he says. “Security just doubled.”
Of course they did. You pivot toward the exit, and the door slams shut behind you. Your heart jumps. You spin, hand already moving toward the concealed weapon at your thigh. The lock engages with a sharp click.
“Leon,” you hiss.
“I hear it,” he says immediately. “Stay calm.”
“Working on it.”
Footsteps sound outside the door. Two sets. Guards murmuring. You scan the room, calculating. No windows. No alternate exit. The ventilation shaft is too small.
“You okay?” Leon asks, voice steady but tight.
“Yes,” you lie. “Just… boxed in.”
A pause. You can hear his breathing through the comm now, controlled but faster.
“I’m rerouting,” he says. “Hold.”
You close your eyes for half a second, forcing yourself to breathe. You trust him. The guards’ voices grow clearer. Keys jingle. Someone tests the door. Your hand tightens around your weapon.
“Leon,” you whisper. “If this goes loud-”
“It won’t,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
The certainty in his voice steadies you more than you want it to. Seconds stretch. Then, gunfire. Shouts. Chaos, distant but unmistakable. The lock disengages. The door bursts open and Leon is there. Breathing hard. Suit rumpled. Eyes sharp and furious and fixed entirely on you.
“Move,” he says.
You don’t argue. You slip past him, shoulder brushing his as you fall into step, moving together like you never separated at all. As you disappear down the corridor, adrenaline still singing in your veins, one thought cuts through the chaos, clear and undeniable.
You barely make it three turns before the building decides to turn hostile.
It starts as a low chime, soft, almost polite, like a warning meant for staff, not guests. Then the lights above you flicker, the bright warmth of the gala’s corridors stuttering into something colder.
Red emergency strips ignite along the ceiling.
A beat later, the sound hits, an alarm that rises in pitch until it becomes a physical pressure against your skull.
Leon’s head snaps up. “That’s not fire protocol,” he says into the comm, voice already shifting into command mode.
“It’s not us,” you reply, breathing hard as you jog. “We haven’t even touched the-”
“Doesn’t matter.” His tone turns razor-thin. “Umbrella emergency.”
As if the words themselves flip a switch, the corridor ahead explodes with movement. A door slams open. Men in black tactical uniforms pour out, armed, masked, efficient. Not event security. Not rent-a-cops.
These are Umbrella’s.
The sound of the orchestra fades behind the thick walls, replaced by the heavier music of boots and shouted commands. Guests scream in the ballroom somewhere distant, the party dissolving into panic on the other side of a carefully controlled barrier.
Leon grabs your wrist and yanks you down a side hall just as a round cracks past where your head had been. The bullet bites into marble, spitting stone dust into the air.
“Contact!” someone barks. “Target moving, east corridor!”
Your comms crackle with interference, the line spiking and dropping as systems overload. Leon’s grip tightens once, steadying you, not for comfort, you tell yourself, but for speed.
“You okay?” he asks, already moving.
“Fine,” you snap, then add, because honesty feels like weakness, “They’re faster than I expected.”
“They’ve been waiting,” Leon says. “We triggered something they wanted triggered.”
You hate that he’s right. Hate that it means this wasn’t just security tightening. It was a trap snapping shut.
A door ahead locks with a heavy clunk as magnetic seals engage. The hallway narrows into a dead-end stretch lined with service entrances. Red light pulses across steel panels, making everything look like it’s bleeding.
Leon slows just long enough to scan. “No exits.”
“Then we make one,” you say, already reaching for the weapon concealed beneath your dress.
Leon’s gaze flicks to your thigh holster, then to your face. No comment. No surprise. Just that quiet, grim acceptance that you’d both come prepared.
A burst of gunfire erupts behind you.
Leon pushes you forward. “Move.”
You sprint. He’s right beside you, close enough that you feel the air shift with him, matching your pace without effort. You round a corner and slam into a tight corridor that funnels you into a narrow kill zone.
Two Umbrella operatives are already there.
No time for thought.
You fire once, clean shot, shoulder. Leon fires in the same breath, headshot. The second operative tries to swing their weapon up. You’re already moving, stepping in, elbow driving into their throat. Leon catches their arm and twists, disarming with a practiced snap that looks almost casual.
The man drops.
Silence doesn’t follow. More footsteps. More coming.
Leon reloads without looking, hands moving fast and sure. You pivot, back hitting his for half a second as you take position.
Back-to-back.
It happens instinctively.
No discussion. No argument. No ego.
Just movement.
Leon’s voice is low, calm. “Three behind. Two ahead.”
You swallow the adrenaline and check your magazine. “Left side is mine.”
“Copy.”
You hear the click of his gun as he finishes his reload. You don’t need to see it. You know the sound now, the rhythm of him, how long it takes, when he needs cover, when he’s about to shift.
The first wave hits.
A door bursts open to your left. You pivot and fire, dropping one before his boots fully clear the threshold. Another lunges in right behind him, weapon raised. You duck, feeling the heat of a shot pass over you, then slam your shoulder into the wall and rebound forward, knife flashing out of your clutch like it’s always been there.
Leon’s gun cracks twice at your back, perfectly timed, covering you as you close distance.
The man goes down.
Another steps into the corridor ahead, weapon trained. Leon shifts his weight, shoulder pressing lightly to your back, a cue, not a shove. You understand instantly, stepping left as he steps right, breaking the enemy’s line of fire before it can settle.
You fire.
Leon fires.
Two bodies fall.
You’re breathing hard now, sweat slick against your skin beneath the elegance of the dress. The fabric pulls tighter across your ribs with every inhale, a reminder that you’re fighting in clothes meant for champagne and photo ops, not blood and bullets.
And Leon is still in his suit, jacket discarded somewhere behind you, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He looks like a man who stepped off a runway and straight into a warzone.
He moves like he belongs here.
So do you.
A sharp crack echoes, too close. Stone dust sprays across your cheek as a bullet hits the wall inches from your head. You flinch, just once, and Leon’s hand comes up immediately, palm to your shoulder, guiding you down behind a corner.
“Stay low,” he murmurs.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you hiss automatically.
Leon doesn’t take the bait. He leans out, fires twice, then pulls back, already reloading. “Cover me.”
You do, because you always do. Because your body already knows what to do when he says it.
You step out, firing controlled shots that force the operatives back. Leon’s reload finishes. He’s up and moving again, switching positions with you so smoothly it feels like choreography.
It hits you mid-fight, sudden and unwanted.
You fight the same way.
Not identical but the same mind. The same instincts. The same calculation running behind your eyes at the same speed. The same ruthless efficiency under pressure.
You both make decisions in fractions of a second.
You both adjust without needing to speak.
You both anticipate.
Mirrors.
The thought is so sharp it almost distracts you.
And suddenly the rivalry makes sense.
Because it was never really hate. It was recognition.
A loud mechanical whine cuts through the chaos, the sound of an internal security shutter descending. The corridor ahead begins to seal off, metal plates sliding down from the ceiling to block the route.
“We’re getting boxed,” you warn.
Leon’s eyes flick. “We go now.”
You don’t argue. You surge forward together, moving fast as the plates descend. A man steps into your path, too late to stop you. You slam into him like a force of nature, knee driving into his stomach. Leon’s elbow snaps into the side of his head, clean and brutal.
You clear him and keep moving.
The shutter slams down behind you with a heavy, final clang.
For half a heartbeat, there’s only your breathing and the distant muffled alarm.
Leon’s chest rises and falls hard. His hair is slightly out of place now, a thin sheen of sweat at his temple. His eyes are bright with adrenaline, sharp as a blade.
You’re too close, face to face in the tight corridor, bodies still buzzing from combat. You can feel the heat of him, the electricity of the movement that just happened between you without words.
He scans you quickly, your face, your arms, the exposed skin at your shoulder. “You hit?”
“No,” you say, then more softly, “You?”
He shakes his head once.
Your comms crackle again. A burst of static. Then the handler’s voice cuts in, strained: “Emergency protocol is fully active. Extraction compromised. Get that device and get out. Now.”
Leon’s gaze meets yours.
And for the first time all night, there’s no sarcasm in it. No rivalry. No distance.
Just certainty.
“We finish this,” he says.
You swallow, pulse still pounding.
“Yeah,” you reply. “We finish it.”
Then you move again together, like you’ve been doing this side by side for years.
Like you were always meant to.
You duck into the service room just as Leon slams the door shut behind you, shoving a metal cart into place with a sharp grunt. The barricade isn’t elegant, but it’s solid enough to buy you time. For now.
The alarms are muffled here, reduced to a distant, angry pulse. Red light seeps through the narrow window in the door, flashing in slow intervals that make the room feel like it’s breathing.
You lean forward, hands braced on your knees, dragging air into your lungs. Your heart is still racing, adrenaline buzzing so loud it drowns out everything else. Sweat clings to your skin, your dress ruined, hair pulled loose from its careful styling.
Leon turns toward you immediately.
“Stay still,” he says, already closing the distance.
“I am still,” you snap, even as you straighten reflexively.
His hands are on you before you can object—efficient, professional. He checks your arms first, fingers firm but careful as they skim for blood. Then your shoulder, where stone dust still clings to your skin. His touch lingers there a fraction longer than necessary, thumb brushing lightly as if confirming something he already knows.
You swat his hand away. “I said I’m fine.”
Leon’s jaw tightens. “Humour me.”
“I don’t recall that being part of the mission.”
His eyes flick up to meet yours, sharp, annoyed, but there’s something else there now too. “You flinched.”
“You were in my line of fire,” you fire back. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not,” he says quickly, hands dropping. “I’m checking my partner.”
The word lands heavier than either of you expect.
You scoff, turning away to pace the small room. “Don’t get sentimental now.”
Leon exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re the one snapping.”
You whirl back on him. “Because you nearly got yourself shot pulling that move back there.”
“And you nearly took a round to the head rushing that corner,” he shoots back without missing a beat.
There it is, the familiar bite. The clash. But it doesn’t sting the way it used to.
You hold his gaze, chest still heaving. “You didn’t have to cover me.”
Leon’s voice is steady, but quieter now. “Yes, I did.”
The certainty in it disarms you more than any argument ever has.
Silence stretches between you, thick with everything neither of you is saying. The room hums softly around you, vents rattling overhead, the smell of oil and metal grounding you in the aftermath.
Your pulse finally begins to slow.
You look at him properly then, not as a rival, not as an obstacle, but as the man who just fought back-to-back with you without hesitation. Who knew when you needed cover before you did. Who moved when you moved, adapted when you adapted, like your thoughts were running parallel tracks.
It clicks.
He never underestimated you.
Not once.
All those arguments. The clipped remarks. The way he never rose to your jabs, never reacted the way you wanted him to. You’d always read it as arrogance. Distance. Superiority.
But standing here now, suit scuffed and tie gone, breathing hard just like you, the truth settles uncomfortably into place.
He wasn’t looking down on you.
He was matching you.
Meeting you at the same level and refusing to drop below it. Treating you like an equal long before you were ready to believe it. Long before you’d stopped mistaking restraint for dismissal.
Leon shifts his weight, eyes still on you. “You good?” he asks again, softer this time.
You nod once. “Yeah.”
A beat passes.
“You fight like me,” you add, almost against your will.
His brow furrows slightly. “No. You fight like you.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” he says.
Another silence, but this one is different. Less sharp. Less hostile. Charged, but steadier.
Leon glances toward the barricaded door, listening. “We’ve got maybe ninety seconds before they reroute.”
You straighten, rolling your shoulders despite the ache settling into them. “Then we’d better move.”
He nods, and for the first time, there’s no tension in the agreement. No need to assert control or prove anything.
Just two agents, side by side, breathing in sync.
The safe room isn’t safe in any comforting way.
It’s a concrete box tucked behind an unmarked service door three levels below street access, the kind of place that doesn’t show up on public blueprints. The air smells faintly of dust and old metal. A single strip light hums above, casting pale, uneven illumination across gray walls and a scarred steel table. No windows. No softness. No distractions.
Just four walls and the aftertaste of adrenaline.
You shut the door behind you and twist the lock twice out of habit, even though the handler swore this location was clean. Leon stands a few feet away, chest rising and falling hard. His suit is ruined, dark smudges at the knee where he’d hit the floor, the white of his shirt stained with sweat and dust. His tie is gone. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms streaked with grime, knuckles raw.
He looks like a man who belongs in a fight, not a ballroom.
You look… less polished too. Your dress is torn at the hem, a thin snag running along your thigh where you’d caught it on something sharp while vaulting a barrier. Your hair has slipped free of its careful pins. There’s stone dust at your collarbone. The only thing that stayed flawless is the shape of your posture, trained, controlled, refusing to collapse.
You cross the room and drop the data device on the steel table. It makes a solid, satisfying clack that echoes in the small space.
Done.
For now.
Leon reaches up and removes the earpiece, rolling it between his fingers before setting it down beside the device. You do the same, tugging yours out with a little too much force. Without comms, the room gets quieter. The silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels loaded.
Weapons come next, unclipped, unloaded, set aside. You place your handgun on the table, then the spare magazine. The movement is efficient, practiced. Leon mirrors you without a word, laying his gear down in clean, ordered lines like he can impose control on chaos by arranging it neatly.
A tremor runs through your fingers when you reach for a chair. You close your hand into a fist before anyone can see.
Leon’s gaze flicks to you anyway.
You hate that he notices everything. Hate that you’re suddenly grateful he does.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
The adrenaline is still in your bloodstream, buzzing like a live wire under your skin. Your thoughts keep trying to sprint, to latch onto the next move, the next threat, the next exit.
But there is nothing to chase.
No alarms. No targets.
Just the hum of the strip light and the slow return of sensation: the ache in your ribs, the sting across your knuckles, the bruise blooming at your hip where you’d hit the wall harder than you meant to.
Your body is remembering you’re human.
It’s the worst part, the calm. In the fight, everything had been simple: move, shoot, breathe, survive. Now, with nothing pressing in, the silence forces everything else forward.
The kiss. The way Leon moved in front of you. The way your hands had lingered on his wrist. The way he’d said I’ve got you like it was an unshakable fact.
You take a slow breath and realise your lungs are still working like they expect to be chased.
Leon finally breaks the stillness, voice low. “We got it.”
“Yeah,” you answer too quickly. “We got it.”
He nods once, but his eyes don’t move away from you. There’s something in his expression, still controlled, still restrained, but the edges have softened, as if the adrenaline has melted some of the steel away and left the person underneath exposed in small, dangerous ways.
You don’t know what to do with that.
You turn toward the wall instead, stare at the blank concrete like it can offer you an instruction manual.
Your hands shake again, just slightly. You flex your fingers, forcing them steady. You refuse to let your body betray you, not after everything. Not in front of him.
“Sit,” Leon says.
It isn’t an order. Not really. It’s… practical. Almost gentle.
“I’m fine,” you snap automatically.
Leon’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t argue, he simply steps closer and reaches for the small first aid kit mounted on the wall. You hadn’t noticed it. Of course he did.
He sets it on the table with a quiet thud and flips it open, movements clean and efficient. Like tending wounds is just another protocol.
You watch him for half a second too long.
The light catches the lines of exhaustion in his face. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. A smudge of dried blood at the edge of his knuckles that isn’t his, you think. The muscles in his shoulders shift as he rolls them once, like the weight of the night is settling in.
A tremor runs through his hand as he pulls out antiseptic wipes.
He pauses, almost imperceptibly, then continues like it never happened.
So he’s not untouched either.
That realisation lands strangely. You’ve spent so long imagining him as something unbreakable—smooth, composed, always in control. Seeing the cracks should satisfy you.
It doesn’t.
It makes your throat tighten.
“Give me your hand,” Leon says, still not looking directly at you.
You laugh once, short and sharp. “That’s rich.”
He finally looks up. “Don’t start.”
The tone is familiar, dry, controlled, but it lacks its usual bite. It’s not a challenge. It’s tired.
You should refuse out of principle.
Instead you step forward and extend your hand, palm up, because the alternative, fighting him on this, feels suddenly exhausting.
Leon takes your hand.
His fingers are warm, steady, calloused. His grip is firm but careful, like he’s handling something that matters more than he wants to admit. He inspects your knuckles, the small splits in the skin, the smear of grime.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s blood.”
You roll your eyes. “Congratulations, Kennedy. You can identify bodily fluids.”
A flicker, almost a smile, touches his mouth. It’s gone before you can be sure it was real.
He cleans your knuckles anyway. The antiseptic stings. You hiss and try to pull away. Leon holds your hand a fraction tighter, not letting you retreat.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
Your pulse jumps at the softness of it.
You hate that.
“You’re enjoying this,” you mutter, trying to salvage something sharp.
Leon doesn’t look up. “I’m not.”
The honesty in his voice knocks the air out of your sarcasm. He sounds… genuine. Like he’s too worn out to pretend.
He finishes cleaning your hand, wraps it quickly, efficiently. The tape catches briefly on your skin, and his thumb brushes your wrist as he smooths it down.
You feel it like a spark.
You hate that you feel it.
Leon lets go, but his hand lingers for a half second too long, fingers resting against your pulse as if confirming it’s still there.
Then he pulls back, clearing his throat, gaze shifting away like he’s caught himself doing something he didn’t mean to.
The silence returns.
He starts tending to his own wounds next, wiping blood from his knuckles, wrapping tape with the same clinical focus. But his hands still shake faintly, the aftermath of adrenaline refusing to fade completely.
You don’t comment. He doesn’t either.
The strip light hums.
Your breathing finally slows to something normal. With it comes the weight of everything you’ve been avoiding since you first saw his name on that leaderboard.
The first time you tried to speak to him.
The way he ignored you.
The silence that followed you for years like a ghost.
It’s there now, in this room, louder than the alarms ever were.
You don’t plan to say anything. You don’t want to hand him another weapon.
But the words break loose anyway, scraped raw by exhaustion and adrenaline and the fact that he just held your hand like it mattered.
“Why,” you ask, voice quiet enough it barely exists, “did you ignore me back then?”
Leon freezes. The strip light hums. Somewhere in the building, pipes creak. The sound feels unbearably loud. His gaze lifts slowly. For once, there’s no immediate retort, no controlled reply. Just stillness.
You swallow, suddenly aware that you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross. “You walked right past me,” you continue, the old anger flaring in your chest like it never left. “I said your name. You didn’t even look at me. Like I wasn’t-” Your voice catches. You force it steady. “Like I wasn’t worth the effort.”
Leon’s throat works as he swallows. He looks down at his hands for a moment, fingers flexing, then back up to you. His eyes are hard, not with anger, but with something else. Something that looks a lot like regret.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quietly.
You laugh, brittle. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s choosing each word with care. Like he can’t afford to get this wrong.
“I didn’t know what to say,” Leon admits. The words hang in the air, plain and stark.
You blink. “What?”
“I didn’t know what to say,” he repeats, more firmly this time, like he’s pushing through something stuck in his throat. “You… came up to me. Confident. Like you belonged here already. Like you weren’t scared of anyone.”
Your chest tightens, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to understanding.
Leon’s jaw flexes. “And I…” He hesitates. It’s subtle, but it’s there, the first real hesitation you’ve seen from him that isn’t tactical. “I didn’t want to screw it up.”
You stare at him, thrown off balance. “Screw what up?” you demand, too sharply.
Leon’s eyes meet yours, steady but exposed. “Whatever it was,” he says quietly. “I-” He exhales, a sound that almost turns into a laugh but doesn’t. “You intimidated me.”
The confession hits like a punch. You’re speechless for a beat, mouth opening and closing like you’re trying to find words that aren’t there.
“Me?” you echo finally, incredulous.
Leon nods once, almost reluctantly. “Yeah. You.”
He shifts his weight, restless, uncomfortable, like he’d rather be facing down a dozen armed guards than this conversation. “I’d just transferred. I was… trying to keep my head down. Trying to be the guy who didn’t make mistakes.”
His gaze drops again briefly, then lifts. “And you looked at me like you expected something. Like you wanted to talk. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”
The room feels smaller. You remember that hallway. Remember the way you’d felt, nervous but determined, trying to be friendly, trying to prove you weren’t just another ambitious agent. You’d thought it would be simple. You’d thought he’d smile. Instead he’d walked away and left you standing there with your pride bleeding out on the floor.
“And you decided ignoring me was the best option,” you say, voice tight.
Leon’s mouth twists. “I thought if I said the wrong thing, it’d be worse.”
“So you said nothing.”
“I said nothing,” he agrees, and there’s no defence in it. Just ownership. “And then you looked at me like you hated me, and…” He pauses, eyes flicking to yours. “It was easier to let you.”
Your throat tightens. Because it’s suddenly all too clear: the rivalry didn’t start because he thought he was better than you.
It started because he was scared, and you were hurt, and neither of you had ever been brave enough to admit it.
The strip light hums above you, the only witness to the truth finally surfacing between bare concrete walls.
You let out a slow breath, hands still, heart quieter now but heavier.
“Leon,” you say, voice low.
He looks at you, waiting. The silence after his confession is different from the ones that came before it. It doesn’t feel sharp or loaded with expectation. It feels… open. Exposed. Like something has finally been set down between you instead of hurled back and forth.
Leon doesn’t move. He doesn’t fill the space with explanations or excuses. He just stands there, shoulders tense, waiting. For you.
You stare at the concrete floor for a long moment, jaw tight, pulse steadying as the truth rearranges itself in your chest. All the years of irritation. The constant edge. The way every victory against him had tasted hollow, every loss unbearable. It clicks into place with an almost humiliating clarity.
“You know what the worst part is?” you say finally, voice quiet but steady.
Leon’s eyes lift to yours. He doesn’t speak.
“You made me better.” The words scrape on the way out. You let out a short, humourless breath. “Every time I saw your name above mine, or just one slot below, it pissed me off. And I worked harder. Smarter. I pushed myself because I refused to be second to you.”
Leon’s brow furrows slightly, but he stays silent.
“And I told myself it was hate,” you continue, forcing the words out before you can second-guess them. “That you were arrogant. Cold. That you thought you were better than me.”
Your laugh this time is quieter. Rougher. “It was easier to be angry than to admit the truth.”
Leon’s jaw tightens. “Which is?”
The room doesn’t collapse. He just watches you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
“I hated you,” you say, softer now, “because it was safer than wondering why your opinion of me mattered so much.”
The admission leaves you raw. Exposed in a way gunfire never could. Leon exhales slowly, like he’s been holding that breath for years.
“I noticed,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Noticed what?”
“That you were always pushing.” His voice is calm, but there’s something unguarded in it now. “That every time I thought I’d finally pulled ahead, you closed the gap. That when I messed up, you didn’t gloat, you got sharper.”
He shakes his head once, a small, almost self-deprecating motion. “I told myself I didn’t care. That it was just competition.”
You snort. “Let me guess. Lie.”
“Yes.” He meets your gaze fully now. “I measured everything against you. Missions. Scores. Decisions. I never wanted to be less in your eyes.”
The words land heavier than you expect.
Leon shifts his weight, restless. “I mistook the tension for hostility because that was easier than admitting I was… invested.”
“In what?” you ask quietly.
“In you,” he answers, just as quietly.
The air between you changes.
Not explosively. Not dramatically.
It settles.
You look at him finally, as someone standing on the same ground, stripped of armour and pretence.
Equals.
“I thought you ignored me because you didn’t respect me,” you say.
Leon’s mouth tightens. “I respected you too much.”
That shouldn’t undo you.
It does.
Your shoulders sag slightly, tension bleeding out of muscles you didn’t realise were still locked. “We’re idiots,” you mutter.
Leon huffs a quiet laugh. “We’re agents.”
“Same thing.”
For the first time, the humour doesn’t feel like a weapon. It feels shared.
You step closer without fully realising you’ve moved. The space between you narrows until you’re acutely aware of his presence again. You can hear his breathing. Feel the warmth radiating off him.
Leon doesn’t retreat.
His hand lifts slightly, then hesitates, hovering near your wrist like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to cross that line. The restraint is somehow worse than if he’d just touched you.
Your fingers twitch, an instinctive response.
The moment teeters.
It’s there in the closeness, the shared breath, the fragile understanding humming between you. One step closer. One hand reaching. One choice away from something that feels inevitable.
Leon’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth.
Your heart stutters.
Then -
A sharp crackle tears through the stillness.
Your discarded earpiece comes to life on the table, static bursting from it in an ugly rush of sound. You both jerk back instinctively, training snapping into place.
“-repeat, safe room compromised-” the handler’s voice cuts in, distorted and urgent. “Umbrella units inbound. You need to move. Now.”
The spell shatters.
Leon’s hand drops instantly, professionalism snapping back into place like a reflex. Your pulse spikes, adrenaline surging back through veins that had only just begun to calm.
You exchange one look.
Not rivals. Not enemies.
Partners.
“Guess we don’t get a quiet ending,” you mutter.
Leon’s mouth curves faintly, not a smirk, not yet. Something steadier. “We’ll finish this first.”
You nod, already moving toward your weapon. But as you pass him, your fingers brush his wrist, deliberate this time.
Just enough to promise. This isn’t over.
Then the door rattles under the first distant impact, and whatever comes next barrels toward you both at full speed, truth laid bare, denial gone, and something fragile and dangerous waiting on the other side of the fight.
The first impact hits the door like a warning.
Metal groans. The cart you shoved against it shudders, wheels squealing against concrete. Dust shakes loose from the ceiling in a fine gray drift.
Leon’s eyes snap to the lock. Yours snap to your weapon.
“Move,” he says at the same time you do.
The strip light overhead flickers once, then dies.
Darkness swallows the room.
For half a heartbeat, there’s nothing but the faint red pulse bleeding through the narrow window in the door and the sound of your own breathing.
Then the world explodes.
Gunfire tears through the door in a blistering spray. Splinters of metal and concrete burst inward, sparks flashing like violent stars in the dark. You drop instinctively, hitting the floor hard, shoulder slamming into the table leg as rounds chew the space where you’d been standing a second ago.
“Down!” Leon barks, unnecessary, because you’re already there.
Your ears ring. The air smells like hot metal and smoke. The darkness makes everything closer, sharper. You can’t see Leon, but you can hear him, his breath, controlled but quick, the scrape of his boots as he shifts.
Another impact slams into the door. The cart grinds forward an inch.
“They tracked us,” you spit, teeth clenched.
Leon’s voice is tight. “They wanted us to bring the device somewhere quiet.”
Personal, then.
Not a show of force. Not a random contingency.
A message.
A punishment.
You raise your pistol, steadying your aim toward the door’s window slit. Red light strobes across your hands in pulses. You can’t see targets, but you can predict movement by sound, boots, the clink of gear, the clipped rhythm of someone stacking up for entry.
Leon moves to your side, a shadow in the dark. You feel the brush of his shoulder against yours, close, grounding, real.
“On my mark,” you murmur.
“Always,” he whispers back, and the word lands heavier than it ever has.
The door buckles.
A wedge of light knifes through as the barricade gives. Someone rams it again, and the door bursts inward with a metallic shriek. Figures flood the gap, black armour, masked faces, rifles up.
You fire first.
A clean shot, then another. The muzzle flash briefly illuminates the room in harsh white bursts, enough to catch glints of visor, the sharp edge of a weapon, Leon’s face set and fierce beside you.
Leon moves in the same instant, firing over your shoulder, his shots precise, economical. An operative drops in the doorway, collapsing into the pile of debris. Another stumbles back with a curse.
“Push!” Leon barks.
You surge forward together, slipping through the smoke and chaos. Close quarters now, too tight for long-range. Your shoulder slams into one attacker, throwing him off balance. Leon’s elbow drives into another’s jaw, cracking hard enough that you feel it in your teeth.
You don’t think.
You move.
Someone grabs your arm from behind. You pivot, wrenching free, gun coming up, only to have Leon’s hand catch your wrist, redirecting your barrel a fraction.
“Left,” he snaps.
A shot cracks where your aim would’ve been wrong. A man drops behind you, silent and sudden.
Your pulse spikes, raw gratitude laced with terror.
You’re alive because Leon didn’t hesitate. Again.
More operatives spill into the corridor outside, attempting to funnel you back into the room. You back up instinctively until your spine hits the wall.
Leon shifts behind you.
Back-to-back, without discussion.
The old rhythm returns, but it’s different now. It’s sharpened by something you can’t pretend is just training.
A rifle butt swings toward Leon’s head. You hear it more than see it. You react—knife flashing up, slashing across the attacker’s forearm. Leon ducks and counters, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him crashing into the corridor wall.
“Leon!” you call, not as a warning, but as an anchor. A check-in. Still there?
“I’m here,” he answers, voice tight.
Gunfire erupts again, closer. A round clips the wall by your ear. Another slams into Leon’s side.
For a second, you don’t register what happened.
Then Leon makes a sound, sharp, involuntary, like his body betrayed him.
He staggers.
Your stomach drops through the floor.
“Leon!” you gasp, turning-
He catches himself against the wall, one hand pressing hard to his ribs. When he lifts it, his palm is dark in the strobing red light.
Blood. Too much.
His face tightens, not with fear, with frustration. With the shock of losing control for even a second.
“I’m fine,” he grits out.
“No,” you snap, voice cracking with something you can’t hide. “No, you’re not.”
Another operative charges, and instinct takes over before panic can swallow you whole. You fire, dropping him mid-step. You move closer to Leon without thinking, body angling to shield him from the corridor.
“Don’t-” Leon starts, but his breath catches, pain stealing the rest of the sentence.
You rip some fabric from your dress, and shove it against his side. “Hold pressure.”
Leon’s eyes flare. “We need to move.”
“We are moving,” you hiss. “But you are not dying in front of me.”
He tries to straighten. He’s breathing harder now, sweat slick at his brow, his usual control slipping at the edges. Disorientation flickers in his eyes for half a second, like his body is threatening to go down whether he wants it to or not.
The sight guts you.
The fear hits fully then, hot and absolute, stripping you of everything sharp and snarky and protected.
“I am going to be so mad if you die on me,” you say, voice raw, unfiltered.
Leon’s eyes rolled before his gaze locks on yours. You could’ve sworn you saw a smirk on his face.
Then his jaw tightens. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and for once, it isn’t a challenge. It’s a promise.
The corridor fills with footsteps again.
You pivot, planting yourself between Leon and the oncoming threat. Every muscle in your body tightens with purpose. Protective. Focused.
You fire in controlled bursts, forcing the operatives back. Leon pushes off the wall, gritting his teeth, raising his weapon despite the tremor in his arm. You hear the strain in his breath, the way his body fights him now.
“Stay with me,” you mutter, not a command, an insistence. “Match me.”
Leon’s voice is ragged but steady. “Always.”
You move together again, but now every decision is laced with instinctive concern. You take the riskier angles, so he doesn’t have to. You cover him longer than necessary. You bark directions closer, faster, because the thought of losing him makes your vision narrow into something dangerous.
An enemy lunges from the side. You catch him with your shoulder and slam him into the wall. Leon steps in to finish it, but his knees buckle for a heartbeat. Your hand shoots out, gripping his forearm, hauling him upright.
You clear the last attacker with brutal efficiency, and the corridor finally opens, an escape route just beyond the carnage.
Leon sways, teeth clenched. You hook your arm around his back, taking more of his weight than you should be able to, and he lets you.
That, more than anything, tells you how deep this has gone.
You stagger forward together into the dim service stairwell, alarms still wailing, red light flashing, the world still trying to tear you apart.
The extraction is quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after everything loud has already burned itself out.
You barely register the transition from stairwell to armoured transport. Leon’s weight leans heavy against you until medics swarm, voices overlapping, hands pulling you apart with practiced urgency. Someone eases you back while someone else lowers him onto a stretcher. The world narrows to flashes: gauze pressed to his side, blood-stained shirt cut away, a monitor chirping insistently.
You stand there uselessly for half a second too long before someone tells you to sit.
You don’t remember sitting.
You remember your hands shaking when you notice they’re covered in his blood. You scrub them together reflexively, like you can erase the image if you try hard enough. A medic hands you a bottle of water. You take it without drinking.
Leon is alive.
The knowledge settles slowly, like something too fragile to trust all at once. His chest rises and falls, uneven but steady. His eyes flutter open briefly when they stitch him up, unfocused but aware enough to find you where you stand.
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
Later, how much later you’re not sure, you’re in another room. Cleaner. Brighter. Too sterile to feel real. Leon is propped up on a narrow cot, bandaged and pale but breathing without effort now. The monitors have gone quiet, content to hum along instead of scream.
Your injuries are minor. Someone fussed over them anyway. You let them, numb and obedient, because the alternative was thinking.
Now it’s just the two of you again.
Silence settles between you like a blanket instead of a weapon.
You stand by the wall at first, arms folded, posture rigid out of habit more than necessity. Leon watches you from the cot, expression unreadable but soft around the edges in a way you’ve never seen before.
“You should sit,” he says quietly.
You shake your head and answer as you always do. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue but rolls his eyes as he always does.
The adrenaline has fully drained now, leaving behind a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. Your hands are still trembling slightly, even as you clench them into fists and force them still. You feel wrung out, scraped raw, like something vital has been stripped away, and something else left behind in its place.
Leon shifts, wincing faintly, then settles. His gaze never leaves you.
“I scared you,” he says.
It’s not an accusation. It’s not fishing for reassurance.
It’s a statement.
You swallow. “Yeah.”
Another silence. Thicker. More honest.
“I didn’t mean to,” he adds.
“I know.” You push off the wall before you can stop yourself, closing the distance until you’re standing beside him. You don’t look at the bandages. You look at his face. “But you did.”
Leon nods once. “I won’t apologise for getting hit.”
“Good,” you say immediately. “Because I’d never forgive you for it.”
That earns the faintest huff of a laugh, more breath than sound. It fades quickly, leaving the room quiet again.
You don’t sit. Instead, you reach out without fully deciding to, your fingers brushing the edge of the bed. Leon’s hand shifts instinctively, stopping just short of yours.
The hesitation is mutual.
“You don’t have to-” he starts.
“I want to,” you say softly.
The words feel different now. Steadier. Chosen.
Leon’s fingers close around yours, careful, deliberate. His grip is warm, grounding, real in a way that has nothing to do with cover stories or mission parameters. He doesn’t pull you closer. He just holds on, like he’s confirming you’re still here.
You breathe out slowly, the tension easing from your shoulders in a way you hadn’t realized was still there.
This isn’t the gala. There’s no music. No audience. No danger pressing in from all sides. No reason at all, except want.
You step closer, close enough that your knees brush the side of the cot. Leon tilts his head up slightly to look at you, eyes searching, open.
When you finally lean in, it’s slow. Unrushed. Intentional.
Your lips meet his with a softness that surprises you both.
It’s nothing like the kiss before.
There’s no urgency driving it this time. No desperation, no need to convince anyone watching. No sharp angles or calculated pressure. Just the quiet, deliberate meeting of mouths, slow, careful, unguarded in a way that feels far more dangerous.
Leon kisses you like he’s letting himself feel it.
His lips are warm, firm but unhurried, moving against yours with a patience that makes your breath stutter despite yourself. It’s not demanding. It’s exploratory. As if he’s memorising the shape of you instead of claiming it.
His hand lifts to your wrist, fingers closing there gently, thumb brushing over your pulse. You feel it jump beneath his touch, too fast, too loud, and the knowledge that he can feel it too sends a low, unwanted heat curling through your stomach.
He doesn’t comment.
He just deepens the kiss slightly, a subtle shift that draws a quiet sound from the back of your throat before you can stop it. His other hand hovers at your side, not quite touching, the restraint almost worse than contact.
When he finally does settle his palm against your waist, it’s careful. Grounding. Like he’s reminding both of you exactly where you are, and exactly how close you’re choosing to be.
You kiss him back without thinking, lips parting just enough to meet his, the world narrowing to breath and warmth and the steady strength of him in front of you. The orchestra fades. The room dissolves. There is only this, this shared, wordless understanding humming between you.
When you pull back, it’s slow.
Reluctant.
Your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling, close enough that you can feel the faint tremor he hasn’t quite managed to suppress. His thumb still strokes your pulse, absent-minded now, like he’s forgotten he’s doing it.
Neither of you speaks.
You don’t need to.
There’s no declaration. No promise shaped into words. Just the shared understanding humming between you, solid and undeniable.
When you finally straighten, Leon’s eyes are still on you, softer now. Lighter.
“Guess,” he murmurs, “that wasn’t part of the cover.”
You smile, a real one, unguarded. “Guess not.”
The silence returns again after that.
But this time, it doesn’t ask anything of you.
It simply lets you be.
The debrief room looks exactly the way it always does.
Gray walls. Steel table. A screen mounted at the far end displaying mission timestamps and sanitized summaries. The kind of room designed to strip events of their chaos and compress them into bullet points.
You sit side by side. Your shoulder almost brushes Leon’s, close enough to feel without touching. He’s back in clean clothes now, bandages hidden beneath a fresh shirt, posture straight despite the stiffness he hasn’t quite shaken.
The handler stands across from you, expression neutral as ever.
There’s no need to look at each other to confirm anything. You already know what the other is thinking. Where they’ll speak. When they’ll stay quiet. It’s effortless now, like the friction burned itself out and left something smooth behind.
The handler’s gaze flicks between you briefly. Assessing. Noting the absence of hostility.
“Good work,” they add. “Both of you.”
High praise, coming from them.
They dismiss you with a clipped nod and turn back to the screen. The door slides open with a soft hiss, and you stand at the same time, movements synchronized without thought.
Outside, the operations floor hums with its usual low-level chaos. Agents pass, analysts cluster around consoles, voices overlap in familiar rhythms. Nothing looks different.
But it feels different.
You walk together toward the leaderboard without speaking, the silence companionable instead of sharp. The board flickers as you approach, updating, recalculating, doing what it always does after a major operation.
For a split second, the screen goes dark.
Then the names appear.
You stop.
So does Leon.
#1 — YOU
#1 — LEON KENNEDY
Perfectly even.
Tied.
You stare at it longer than you expect to, waiting for something, satisfaction, irritation, the old flare of competitiveness.
It doesn’t come.
Leon exhales softly beside you, something between a laugh and a breath of disbelief. He tilts his head, eyes moving from the board to you.
That familiar smirk appears, not sharp, not challenging. Lighter. Easier.
“Guess we’ll have to settle this another way,” he says.
SUMMARY: After coming home from a mission, Leon's wife, you, not only help him with his wounds, but also give him a very much deserved reward for making to home alive, just like you did when you were young
‼️ NSFW: oral sex (male receiving), masturbation, p in v (unprotected sex, married couple), cowgirl position. Angst to fluff to smut to fluff. Mentions of almost dying and wounds
✹ PAIRINGS: RE9 Leon Kennedy x Wife!Reader
✹ WORD COUNT: 4401 ✹ Find me on AO3 (read the OC version here)
✹ Make your RESIDENT EVIL REQUESTS here (information included)
✹ My RESIDENT EVIL MASTERLIST ✹ DILF LEON MASTERLIST
📂 Day 5/9 of 9 DAYS TO REQUIEM | 🏷️: @millimeraki @lskluvbot @ficresident @aurorag98
💬 Thoughts on this one? I've had this in mind for a long time now hehe
Leon pushes the door open carefully while, with his other hand, he presses hard against his side.
His breathing is far too unsteady but, as always when he comes home this late, he’s as careful as possible not to wake you or your daughter.
He steps inside and pauses, taking his time to make sure you’re both asleep.
The hallway lights are off, and it doesn’t seem to be a single one on in your bedrooms.
Good.
He sighs, trying to swallow the groans of pain, and closes the door quietly behind him, though he ends up making more noise than he’d have liked to.
“Fuck me…” he mutters under his breath, annoyed.
Leon removes one of his gloves and then the other, tossing them onto the kitchen table before heading straight to the bathroom without turning on any lights.
He has to clean himself up, take some antiseptics, and go straight to bed to hug you.
The plan sounds simple… until he notices the silhouette on the couch.
You’re curled on your side, and the blanket that was covering you is now half fallen to the floor. One arm is tucked under your head, and the other is resting on what’s probably the pillow from your bedroom.
You shift slightly, a bit uncomfortable, slowly becoming alert of the faint noise you’re hearing.
Leon realizes he woke you too late.
You open your eyes, slowly, squinting when you make out your husband’s figure in the dim light.
“Leon? Is that you?” you ask, confused.
He closes his eyes, runs a hand down his face, and sighs.
Great. Just exactly how he didn’t want things to go.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he murmurs, trying to sound as unconcerned as possible. Doing his best to sound fine. “Sorry, love. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
You sit up quickly on the couch, letting the blanket fall to the floor. You rub your eyes and force yourself to fully wake up.
Leon came back home.
Alive.
The moment you look at him, you understand why he didn’t want to wake you.
Your gaze goes from his jacket, completely torn and stained with dried blood, to the way he’s standing.
He’s barely staying upright, and he has a hand pressing far too hard against his side.
“Leon.”
“It’s not what—”
“You’re bleeding,” you cut him off, standing as you see him make an effort to walk.
“That was a while ago. I’m not bleeding now.”
“You’re limping,” you say, grabbing him and forcing him to sit on the couch.
“I just twisted my ankle.”
You lean toward the small table beside you and switch on the lamp. Then, you gently take Leon by the chin and tilt his face toward the light.
“Listen, seriously—”
“Don’t come with that seriously right now, Leon,” you snap. You begin examining him more carefully, looking for injuries that might not be that obvious. “You’re pale. When was the last time you ate? How much blood have you lost? When did you last—?”
“Yesterday? And… I don’t know. Do you think I’m still bleeding?”
You start to panic, but you try to hide it.
“Stay there. Don’t you dare move.”
“We can wait until tomorrow,” he says, his words faltering slightly. He coughs, and the sound makes you fear the illness eating away at him. That same illness you were immune to. “Our daughter’s asleep, and you must be exhausted from—”
“Stay exactly where you are,” you repeat. “Don’t you fucking dare to move.”
Leon opens his mouth, but then thinks better and decides to not say anything else.
He lets himself sink back into the couch.
He can’t take it anymore. The pain is unbearable.
He groans, louder now, his entire body tensing.
You hear him not sounding so good and quickly drop to your knees in front of him without hesitation. You carefully open his jacket, but the fabric sticks, forcing you to tug harder to remove it.
Leon grits his teeth, letting out a long breath when the fabric finally peels away from his body, revealing blood that still seems to be seeping from his side.
“Leon… you look like shit.”
“You should’ve seen Gideon,” he replies with a weak smile.
You shake your head.
“I swear, if you keep making comments like those while you’re this bad, we’re going to have a problem.”
“Might be worth it. I like when you’re mad and bossy."
“Don’t push your luck.”
You stand up, and he instinctively tries to follow you.
“I’ve already told you, and I’m not repeating myself: stay there, and don’t you dare move,” you snap, much more firmly now. “I mean it, Leon. This could get worse.”
“It’s not like I’m about to start dancing…”
Leon sinks back into the couch, allowing himself to relax a little. He tilts his head back and, despite your shouted reminders from the kitchen not to even think about falling asleep, he closes his eyes.
For the first time since he left for that stupid mission and ironically, now that it’s over, he feels like he might actually die.
He focuses on the sounds: a door opening at the end of the hallway. Then, the closet. He listens to you moving around, opening and closing drawers, probably cutting gauze with scissors, grabbing the first-aid kit you always keep for emergencies which, of course, happen far more often than you ever anticipate.
“Leon, open your eyes. Is it that hard to listen to me? I don’t want you to die, and—”
He obeys, leaving you mid-sentence.
He doesn’t want to argue when all you’re doing is worrying about him. The truth is, he doesn’t even have the energy to answer you. He feels weaker as time goes by, and for the first time since heading out on that reckless mission, he truly feels mortal.
“Take off your t-shirt,” you order.
“My t-shirt?”
“Yes, Leon. Your t-shirt. Now. Unless you’d rather I take it off for you.”
“Well, that wouldn’t be so bad.”
You shoot him another warning look, and he complies.
He removes his t-shirt carefully, slow and controlled to keep the pain from spiking. You see multiple bruises along his side, deep purple and blue, darkening by the minute.
You also see where the blood is coming from: a cut that looks deep at first glance but isn’t quite as bad, though it’s definitely still bleeding despite all the dried blood around it.
You press gently around the area, assessing the damage.
Leon exhales sharply, cursing under his breath.
“Be careful…”
“That’s what I’m trying to, but I need you to don’t move,” you reply, softer now. “The blood’s coming from a cut that’s not as bad as you think,” you explain. “And, from what I can tell… I’d say you have several ribs that aren’t broken, but they’re definitely cracked.”
“I figured, yeah…”
“Didn’t you think about telling me all this earlier?” you ask, somewhat annoyed.
“You asked me if I was bleeding. If you’d asked about my ribs…”
“Leon Scott Kennedy: can you stop your stupid humor at least for a moment?” you snap. “This is serious. God, I swear you’re impossible…”
“And yet, look at you: 20 years and still married to me.”
You’re about to reply again, but it’s pointless.
Instead, you choose to stay silent and clean his wound. You work in complete silence for a while, and Leon seems to respect it. He simply watches you: the way you frown when you’re focused, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear without even realizing it…
Your husband is in pain. He’s dizzy. He feels like, if you keep treating the cut, cleaning the blood, and making sure to protect his side, he might definitely die right there.
But at least he knows he’s now there, with you.
“You scared me.”
That confession catches you both off guard.
You leave the blood-soaked gauze on the small table and straighten up.
Leon swallows nervously.
What is he supposed to say, when you’re absolutely right?
“I swear I did everything I could to not wake you…”
“That’s not what I mean, Leon,” you interrupt.
He shifts on the couch, uncomfortable, unsure whether it’s because of the pain or the conversation he knows you’re about to have.
You say nothing. You’re completely focus in securing a piece of gauze with some hydrogen peroxide and tape over the area that was bleeding, then offering him a glass of water and way too many painkillers.
Luckily, Leon takes them without protest.
“The thing is…” you stand up. You don’t know how to keep talking because you don’t want to worry him more, especially not in his condition, but… You’re trembling. “One of these days you’re going to come home and I won’t be able to help you. Yes, you know that when the government took us after what happened in Raccoon City they gave me medical training, but I’m a journalist, Leon. A journalist doesn’t know how to save lives, love.”
Leon reaches out with his left hand and takes yours.
You notice it doesn’t look as bad as it did before, but… a bit better.
Much better, actually.
You decide not to ask him for now.
“I came home,” he tells you calmly. “You know I always come home.”
You look at him. Really look at him, and all the reproaches you had in mind disappear. Instead, all you feel is pity for him.
You see Leon tired, vulnerable.
Worried.
“The DSO doesn’t pay you extra for coming home alive, love…” you say, stroking his hand with your thumb, trying to soothe him.
Leon smiles faintly.
“Well. At least I try. Maybe Sherry will convince them after what we’ve achieved—”
“Mom? Dad?”
You both freeze.
“Fuck…” you whisper, closing your eyes.
Your daughter appears in the living room. Her hair is completely messy, and she’s wrapped in a blanket. She’s not wearing her glasses, and you know she probably can’t see much.
“Dad? Are you finally back?”
Leon straightens up a little, forcing a smile.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he says tenderly, as if your daughter weren’t already 20 years old. “Go back to bed.”
She squints to see better.
You recognize the panic on her face when she realizes how bad Leon looks.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” both your daughter and you say at the same time.
Hope and you look at each other and can’t help but laugh at how in sync you are.
Leon, however, just sighs, though he laughs a little, too.
You point toward the hallway at your daughter.
“Bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Did the mission go well? The one about that girl, Grace?” Hope asks, worried and insistent. “I talked last night with aunt Claire and with Sherry, and they told me that—”
“Hope Kennedy: we’ll talk tomorrow morning.”
This time it’s Leon who insists and, despite hesitating for a few moments, your daughter finally nods.
“Okay, fine. Good night.” She turns to leave and then turns back to look at you. “You better not die today, old man.”
“I can’t promise anything,” Leon replies just as sarcastically.
“Dad.”
“I’m kidding,” he quickly adds. “Good night. We love you.”
You say nothing else until you hear her bedroom door upstairs close.
You let out a sigh and return to what you were doing: trying to make Leon as comfortable as possible. Now, kneeling in front of him again, you focus on wrapping a bandage so the taped gauze won’t come loose. You also apply some ointment to the areas that look a bit darker, and that you know hurt more than he wants to admit.
“You’re sleeping alone tonight. I’ll help you go upstairs now.”
Leon raises an eyebrow, confused.
“Because I’m hurt?”
“Yes, Leon, because you’re hurt,” you confirm. “Besides, you snore a lot when you’re on painkillers,” you joke. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, and the smile he gives you suggests he finds that funny. “I want you to be as comfortable as possible. I think I can manage sleeping on the couch for a few nights. We’ve slept in worse places.”
“Love…”
You stand up and begin gathering all the supplies you used, putting them back into the first-aid kit as neatly as you can, even though your hands are trembling too much.
You’re nervous.
He could have died.
You try to push that thought out of your head.
You sit down on the couch, facing him. You tuck your legs beneath you and try to relax now that Leon seems much more comfortable and, above all, no longer on the verge of passing out.
Even so, you stay alert.
“So…” you begin, not quite sure how to bring it up.
“So… what?”
“Are you going to tell me what happened, or do I have to guess again?”
“It was a complete disaster, love… I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” he admits.
Leon sighs and then looks down the hallway.
“Leon…”
You take him by the chin and make him look at you.
“That’s not the answer I want. I think you already know that.”
“It was all supposed to be easy, you know, like we talked about: stop Gideon, rescue Ashcroft… and that’s it,” he recounts. Nothing you didn’t already know. After all, you and Sherry were the ones investigating everything Grace and Guideon related. “But things went wrong.”
“Yes, that’s what usually happens,” you mutter.
“And Grace…” Leon continues. “Fuck, she was scared as fuck. She’s just a kid, love…”
A knot forms in your throat.
You know why he’s saying that. And that’s exactly the same reason it makes you nervous.
“But she defended herself, you know? I figured she was smart, you know… with all this FBI stuff… But she really did everything too well to obviously have never been in a situation like that before in her life,” Leon explains. “I guess that’s why she was still alive when I got there.”
You don’t answer because you know he wants to keep talking, even if he hesitates.
“She reminded me of Hope,” he admits quietly. “Especially with how stubborn she is. I don’t even want to imagine what’s going to be with both of us when she’s a few years older…”
“God help us,” you laugh softly.
“She wouldn’t stop asking questions. Especially…” Leon continues. “She mostly asked me about Raccoon City when we were there. About what really happened.”
You tense up, uncomfortable.
“And you didn’t answer her, obviously.”
“I told her enough,” he says. “She was seeing it all for herself… but I couldn’t hide certain things from her. You know what I mean.”
Oh, you definitely do.
You know he doesn’t want to talk about it when he closes his eyes and says nothing for several minutes that, without you realizing, turns into almost an hour.
You don’t know when you fall asleep, but you realize you have when you see your phone says 4:13 a.m.
And if you remember correctly, Leon got home around 1:38 a.m.
Leon.
You see he’s still beside you, his head resting against the back of the couch and his hands on his bare stomach. You shift slightly to touch his forehead to check his temperature. Thankfully, he’s not as warm as before and, judging by the steady rise and fall of his chest, he seems much calmer now the medication seems to be working.
“I’m awake, love,” he tells you softly.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” he says calmly, his voice hoarse. “I was the one who didn’t want to wake you.”
“But—”
“I told you before: you seemed exhausted. You needed to rest more than I did…”
“Come here.”
He interrupts you, extending his arms so you can lie against him. You do, doing your best to not hurt him more than necessary.
Unconsciously, you slide your hand gently over his collarbone.
His breathing shifts slightly, and you notice immediately.
You pull away from him at once.
“I’m sorry…”
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” he replies.
His voice is much deeper now.
28 years knowing each other, 22 years dating, and 20 years of marriage are more than enough for you to know what’s going through your husband’s mind right now.
You arch an eyebrow, scolding him.
“Leon…”
“I missed you,” is all he says.
You know he means it, but still…
“You were only gone three days,” you reply. “And just now I was asleep, here, with you, on the same couch.”
“Please, love: I miss you when I go training, and that’s three hours a day. How am I not going to miss you after being gone for three fucking days?” he insists.
“Leon…”
Your husband shakes his head and, to your surprise, carefully shifts on the couch and turns toward you to lean in and kiss you on the lips.
“You know… that didn’t hurt. You patched me up well, Doctor Kennedy.”
“You’re impossible, honestly…”
You don’t give him time to say anything else.
Instead, you’re the one who leans in to kiss him.
Leon’s hand instinctively slides up to your waist, his fingers gripping the fabric of your pajamas out of pure muscle memory.
You don’t know how long you stay like that, only pulling apart to catch your breath before kissing again.
You notice how hard Leon’s getting. He lets out a groan that’s far too loud, unable to stop himself.
“Leon, be quiet…” you pull away from him just enough to kiss him again.
“What? Love, you have no idea what you’re doing to me right now…”
You force yourself to pull away even though all you want is his lips on your neck, just like he was about to do.
“Hope,” you say as quickly as possible. You didn’t want to, but… you need him. Now. “She might hear us…”
“Right… Sorry, but I need my wife…”
God, he was definitely impossible.
Impossible, and crazy in love with you.
“Are you telling me you have cracked ribs, you almost bled out, I’d swear you had a fever not long ago, and you still want to have sex with me?” you ask, laughing under your breath as your hands move over his chest. “Not to mention Hope could catch us…”
“If we’re quiet, I guarantee she won’t notice. It’s not the first time we’ve done this,” he replies, sliding his hands down to your ass and squeezing it. You moan. “I think you can control yourself at least a little, right, love? Could you do that for me?”
“Seriously, Leon…”
“Fuck, love, you have no idea how much I love you…” he runs a hand over your waist again. “I love you. God, I love you so fucking much…”
You take his face in your hands, caressing his cheeks.
You notice his neck is completely healed, and you’re not quite sure why.
Leon realizes what you’re doing, so he grabs you by the waist and pulls you onto his lap, not caring how much you scold him about the damage he could cause himself.
He swears he’s perfectly fine, but you know he’s not.
You just know he needs you as much as you need him.
“Do you really want to…?” you ask softly, still running your hands over his chest and arms.
“Of course I do,” he says. “I want to do this… just like when we were young. Nothing has changed, except…”
“Everything has changed.”
“Not that I regret it, though,” he smiles, tilting his head as he begins to massage your tits over your pajama shirt.
“I don’t think your ribs would agree with us having sex tonight…”
“Fuck my ribs. I want to fuck my wife and make her feel good.”
“Leon, you’re hurt and exhausted. I don’t think—”
“Come on, love: like when we were young, alright?”
“You’re not making this easy…” you whisper, pressing your forehead to his.
“I know. Sorry.”
His fingers start lightly playing with the fabric of your pants, not pulling, as if testing his next move.
“Leon… Control yourself,” you tell him, unable to stop yourself from smiling.
“I’m trying, but fuck… You’re not making it an easy job for me…”
That’s when you decide to get off his lap and, instead, kneel in front of him.
You look at him steadily as you place one hand on his knee and bring the other to the button of his pants, undoing it with as little clumsiness as possible.
“You don’t have to do this…” Leon tells you.
“I know, but I want to,” you reply calmly. “Just like when we were young, remember?”
Leon lifts himself slightly to make it easier for you to remove his pants and boxers.
His cock, fully erect, is left exposed.
You take it in your hands, determined, and begin to stroke it, earning several moans from him, all of them whispering your name.
You give his length a long, slow lick, never taking your eyes off him.
“God, love…” he says much louder than he should.
“Leon…”
You hollow your cheeks and take his cock into your mouth. You trace his veins with your tongue, increasing the speed while using your hands to stroke what doesn’t fit, also moving to his testicles to give him as much pleasure as possible.
Leon throws his head back, placing his hands in your hair as he slowly guides your movements until the pleasure he’s feeling, what you’re making him feel, makes him give in and surrender completely to you.
You see one of his hands gripping one of the cushions tightly. That motivates you to go even faster, licking the tip of his cock when you feel the pre-cum leaking.
He’s close. You can tell by the way his breathing becomes erratic. How his words shift from quiet moans to a stream of praises about how good you’re making him feel, how much he loves you and, above all, when he tells you to pull away because he’s about to come.
You don’t, of course, because you know he loves coming in your mouth.
And, of course, today is your husband’s day.
You take his cum eagerly as the orgasm completely overtakes him.
“Fuck, love, I’d forgotten this was so…” he says, adjusting himself while, carefully, you climb back onto his lap after removing your pants and underwear. Leon looks you up and down and bites his lip. “Fuck, love…”
“We had sex four days ago, Leon,” you reply, leaning down to kiss him on the lips as you begin to seek friction against his still-erect cock.
You can’t hold back any longer.
You take Leon’s cock in your hand and, after aligning it with your entrance, begin to rock your hips.
You focus on going as slow as you can, trying to keep a steady rhythm. Leon simply smiles, noticing your intention, massaging your tits and kissing you to quiet your moans, which are growing louder.
Leon moves his hands to your hips to help guide the pace as it gradually increases. You feel the pleasure building inside you, so you bury your face in your husband’s neck, taking the chance to leave bites, kisses, and small marks that will likely darken over the next few hours.
“I love you so much, Leon…” you try to say, consumed by moans and pleasure. “You have no idea how much I love you…”
You feel your pussy begin to tighten around his cock. Leon, though exhausted and barely able to handle his own body, does his best to reach your clit, starting to rub it and push you toward release.
“Keep going, love, don’t stop…” he encourages you, even though you’re already trembling on top of him, clinging to his neck to keep from falling, completely focused on Leon. “God, I love you so much…”
You hold back your orgasm so that you and Leon can come at the same time, but it only takes a few more thrusts, much deeper and more deliberate, for you both to finish together.
You collapse on top of him. Leon kisses your forehead, then your cheek, still stroking your waist.
“God… You’re incredible,” he whispers softly, unable to stop looking at you.
“You must be half drugged from the medication,” you joke. “How do you feel?”
“Right now?” he takes the hand resting on his cheek and kisses the back of it. “Much better. I’m safe, at home, with my wife and my daughter. Not to mention the sex session we just had…”
“Leon,” you take his cheeks in your hands and force him to look at you. “I’m serious. Don’t make those kinds of comments when I’m actually asking how you are! Do I have to remind you that you almost didn’t make it home alive?”
“Good thing I have a doctor…” You glare at him, and he corrects himself. “Pseudo-doctor, journalist, whatever you want to call it… but a super sexy one, always ready to help me out with everything.”
“Until I don’t know what to do,” you reply.
“Then you’ll be my super sexy chauffeur and drive me to the hospital.”
“You’re hopeless, Leon Kennedy…”
“At this point in our marriage, you should know me,” he shoots back. “We’ve known each other for almost 30 years, in case you forgot.”
“That’s why I haven’t yet asked why it seems you’ve stopped being infected with—”
You force yourself to stop before finishing the sentence.
Leon’s expression hardens.
He looks away from you again.
You know he’s hiding something.
“Leon…” you insist, even though you know it’s useless.
He takes you by your waist and gently lays you down on the couch, positioning himself carefully over you.
“Leon, you shouldn’t move like that. You’re going to hurt yourself and—”
“I promise.”
You stare at him, confused.
“What? Leon, whatever’s going through your head, you’d better—”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow what happened. Everything. I promise you.”
He points to his neck.
Then, he raises his hands to you.
You know what he means with that.
“I just want to be here with you, calm, doing nothing and… just enjoying ourselves,” he says. “I don’t want to think about anything else, love. Please… I don’t want to think anymore tonight about the times I’ve almost lost you. Let us be just like when we were young.”
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! Feedback on the comments and/or reblogs are very much appreciated but, if you feel shy, just send me an anonymous ask! 💖 This will be a safe space and I won't share any of RE9 spoilers, so don't worry! Take care of spoilers out there, and PLEASE: if you stuff, use spoiler warnings and be empathetic to those who want to wait for release date!
