You never expected Rin to celebrate birthdays seriously.
You expected maybe a kiss. Maybe a quiet wish in his deep, calm voice while kissing your forehead. But you definitely didn't expect waking up to see your phone full of notifications, not from your friends but from RIN'S fan accounts.
Rin has posted a photo of YOU. And in that picture you're asleep on Rin's chest while his hand is curled protectively around your waist.
His caption?
世界で一番愛する人へ、お誕生日おめでとう。
(To the person I love most in the world, happy birthday.)
You choke on air.
Because Rin never posts. He hates social media. His account is mostly managed by PR people.
But this post? It's raw, intimate, untouched by public polish.
And in the picture there's a soft look in his eyes as he was gazing down at you, the corner of his lips was twitching into a real smile. Into that kind of smile which only you get to see...
You hear the soft knock on your bedroom door before it creaks open and Rin walks in, holding a tray with breakfast. And he immediately freezes seeing you staring at your phone.
You hold it up. "Rin. What... is this?"
He blinks, then calmly sets the tray down. "Happy birthday. It's too early for you to wake up."
You stare harder. "You never post. And now this?"
He doesn't meet your gaze. "It's your birthday."
"That doesn't explain why you decided to break the internet."
Rin stays quiet and instead of answering you he grabs something from the bedside drawer. A small box wrapped in deep blue.
"For you."
You sit up slowly, taking the box with wide eyes. Rin watches, expression unreadable, as you carefully untie the ribbon and open it.Inside is a delicate necklace— a simple silver chain with a small charm, a star and a crescent moon intertwined.
You blink. "It's… beautiful."
"It's supposed to mean balance," Rin mutters, not quite meeting your eyes. "Because that's what you are for me. Even if I'm… not very good at showing it."
You're speechless. All you can do is launch yourself into his arms, wrapping him tight.
He finally looks at you. Sharp ocean-teal eyes filled with something tight, something feral.
"You're mine and I'm tired of hiding it," he says simply, voice low. "The world should know now."
Your heart flips. "But I was asleep."
"You look beautiful when you're asleep."
"WHAT IF I DROOLED?!"
"I don't care. I drool too."
You gape.
Rin exhales he kneels beside you, pushing your hair back with soft fingers, then cups your cheek.
"I didn't know how to make it special," he mutters. "I wanted to book a restaurant, but you hate crowded places. I thought about buying you something expensive, but I didn't want to make you feel awkward. So... I did the only thing I could think of."
"Which is announcing me to your millions of followers?"
He nods. "They needed to know. It was always irritating to me that people thought I'm available."
You laugh and throw your arms around his neck, pulling him into the bed with you. "You're unbelievable."
"I'm serious."
"I know you are," you whisper, kissing his jaw. "Thank you. This is already my best birthday ever."
He tightens his arms around you. "It's not over yet."
He kisses you then, desperately. Hands gripping your hips, your waist like you'll disappear. His breath shaky, movements bolder than usual.
And then you pull away, panting slightly. "Rin. Breakfast."
"I'll feed you later," he mumbles against your neck, voice thick. "Just let me hold you first."
He's under the covers now, dragging you close like a possessive cat curling around his favorite thing. His hands slip under your shirt, but not to touch inappropriately— just to feel your skin, like reassurance.
"I hate this day," he confesses against your shoulder.
You frown. "Why?"
"Because people will try to get your attention. Everyone will call. Everyone will want to see you. And I'll have to share."
You smile softly. "You're jealous, even on my birthday?"
He kisses the corner of your lips. "I'm jealous every day."
"I'm not going anywhere, Rin."
"You better not," he warns lightly. "You're mine today. All day. No one else's."
Your phone buzzes again. Rin immediately grabs it, turns it off and throws it to the other end of the bed.
"Rin—!"
"I don't care who it is. You're busy."
"With what?"
He kisses your throat. "Me."
You let out a helpless laugh, trying to push him away despite smiling from ear to ear.
"You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
You rest your head against his chest, listening to the familiar, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "I love you, Rin."
His eyes soften in a way only you ever get to witness.
"I know."
You roll your eyes.
"That's not what you're supposed to say."
"...I love you too."
The words come awkwardly, almost as if they don't leave his mouth often enough.
But they're real.
He presses one last lingering kiss to your forehead before pulling the blanket over both of you again.
"Happy birthday," he whispers.
You smile against his heartbeat, closing your eyes.
If every birthday for the rest of your life began and ended like this, safe in his arms, loved without hesitation, and treasured so fiercely—
in which you leave gotham for a not-so-long trip, and a deeply anxious jason tries to hide how much he hates letting you out of his sight, only to refuse to let you go for days the second you return.
Jason had been standing by the counter for twenty minutes, ostensibly making coffee he wasn't drinking, his eyes fixed on the open suitcase lying on the bed down the hall. Every clothes hanger that clicked, every zipper pulled, every small, mundane action of your packing seemed to strike a raw nerve he was trying very hard to cover up behind a posture of bored indifference.
He came down the hallway with that quiet, heavy footed tread of his, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. His arms were crossed tight over his chest, shoulders broad and hunched just enough to betray the tension coiled in his neck.
"You really need three jackets?" he asked, his voice low, gravelly, and entirely lacking its usual casual bite. He gestured toward the bag with a sharp tilt of his chin. "It’s a trip, not an expedition to the arctic. You’re overpacking"
You paused, looking up from the bag where you were trying to fit the last few essentials. A soft, knowing smile tugged at your lips at the sheer transparency of his irritation. "It's cold where I'm going, Jay," you answered gently, folding the third jacket smaller to save space. "And knowing you, if I get a cold while I'm away, I'll never hear the end of it."
"I'm serious," he grumbled, refusing to look directly at you, though his gaze tracked your every move through his dark lashes. He stepped fully into the room, crossing over to the bed. Without asking, his large hands reached down to refold a sweater you had just set down. He did it meticulously, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles with unnecessary focus, just to have something to do with his hands. "Flights get delayed. Luggage gets lost. Half the places out there aren’t safe anyway, and you’re going to be carrying all this weight around by yourself."
"I can handle my own luggage, big guy," you replied softly, placing a hand over his busy ones to stop their restless movement. "I've planned out the route, the hotel is in a good area, and it's only a few days. It's going to go by fast."
"A few days is too long," Jason muttered under his breath, his hands coming to a halt under yours, though he didn't pull away.
As you reached down to pack a pair of shoes, his hand caught your wrist. He didn't squeeze, but the weight of his grip was absolute, grounding, heavy, and reluctant. His thumb brushed over the inside of your wrist once, measuring the steady pulse there, before he let out a short, harsh breath through his nose.
"Call me when you land," he commanded softly, the roughness in his voice slipping into something fiercely protective. "Not a text. A call. I don't care what time it is over there. You don't hit the pavement until I know you're off the plane."
"I will," you promised, turning your wrist in his grip so you could press your fingers against his palm. "First thing after I clear customs, I'm calling you. I swear."
He pulled you in then, sudden and unprompted, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and burying his face into the crook of your neck. The embrace was almost suffocating, broad chest pressed solid against yours, his heart thumping a heavy, steady rhythm. For a man who spent half his life pretending he didn't care about anything, the way he held you right before you left was always a full body confession. He didn't say I'll miss you. He just held on until the very last second, his breathing warm and ragged against your skin, letting you carry the weight of his anxiety with you.
Three days later, the return trip felt like a haze of jetlag and noise, but the moment you stepped into the arrival terminal, the atmosphere shifted.
Jason was standing near the edge of the crowd, away from the main flow of traffic, trying, and failing, to look like a regular guy waiting for a flight. He had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark leather jacket, his eyes darting methodically over the faces coming through the gates. The moment his eyes landed on you, the tight, rigid set of his jaw visibly melted.
He didn't wait for you to drag your bag over. He closed the distance between you in four long, urgent strides.
Before you could even speak his name, he had hauled you straight off your feet, wrapping his arms tight around your waist and burying his face deep into your hair. He drew in a long, shuddering breath, taking in the familiar scent of you beneath the stale airport air, and held you suspended for several seconds just to prove to himself that you were actually there, solid and real in his arms.
"You took your sweet time" he muttered into your shoulder, his voice thick and rough. When he finally set you down, he didn't let go. One hand stayed clamped firmly on the back of your neck, his fingers threaded through your hair, while his thumb stroked your cheek bone with an intensity that bordered on fierce. His dark eyes searched your face, scanning every detail as if looking for any sign that the world had bruised you while you were out of his sight.
"Come on," he grunted, taking your heavy bag in his free hand without a second thought, while his other hand immediately slid down to interlock his fingers tightly with yours. "Let's get out of here."
The first night back, the clinginess wasn't loud, but it was absolute.
Jason didn't leave your side. If you went into the kitchen to get a glass of water, you’d turn around to find him leaning against the doorframe, watching you with quiet, hawkish intensity. If you sat on the sofa, he was right next to you, not just near you, but pressed up against your side, one heavy arm draped over your shoulders, pulling you into his side so tightly that your head rested against his chest.
By the second afternoon, the pattern hadn't broken; if anything, he’d settled deeper into it.
You were sitting on the couch trying to read, but Jason had effectively neutralized any possibility of productivity. He was lying down with his long frame stretched out across the cushions, his head resting squarely in your lap. One of his large hands was resting on your knee, his fingers lazily tracing random patterns over the fabric of your pants, while his other arm was tucked around your waist, tethering you to him.
"Jason," you murmured, running a hand through the dark hair at the crown of his head, your fingers catching slightly on the white streak near his forehead. "I need to get up for a second."
A low, rumbling groan came from his chest. His grip on your waist tightened instantly, pulling you down an inch lower.
"No," he said, simple and stubborn, his face burying deeper into your stomach.
"I've been sitting here for three hours."
"Good. You were gone for three hundred. You owe me." He turned his head slightly, peering up at you through dark, heavy lidded eyes. The sharp, violent edge he wore out on the streets of Gotham was entirely stripped away here, replaced by a quiet, protective possessiveness that he only ever allowed you to see. "You're staying right here."
"I was just going to grab my phone" you chuckled, your fingers massaging the base of his neck, feeling the thick tension in his muscles finally give way under your touch.
Jason reached down into his jacket pocket, which was tossed onto the floor beside the couch, pulled your phone out, and set it on your chest without even looking. "There. Problem solved. Don't move."
He brought your hand down from his hair to his mouth, pressing a long, warm kiss to the back of your knuckles, then to your palm, before resting your hand over his cheek. He held it there, his calloused skin warm against yours, his thumb absently rubbing your wrist where he had measured your pulse two weeks ago.
"I hated it," he admitted softly, the room quiet save for the distant murmur of Gotham traffic outside. He didn't look up, but the honesty in his voice was stark, stripped of any bravado. "Place felt like a morgue while you were gone. Couldn't sleep. Every time the floorboards creaked, I thought..." He let the sentence hang, shaking his head slightly.
He shifted, lifting his upper body just enough to rest his chin on your chest, looking up at you with a heavy, unwavering stare. His hand moved to wrap around the back of your neck, his thumb resting gently against your jaw line.
"You aren't going anywhere for a long time," he said, not as a command, but as a quiet, unspoken plea wrapped in his usual rough delivery. "Got it?"
You smiled, thumbing over the small scar near his lip. "Got it"
Jason grunted in satisfaction, leaning up just enough to press a deep, lingering kiss to your lips, slow, deliberate, and full of a quiet hunger that had been building for fourteen days. When he pulled back, he didn't move away; he just rested his forehead against yours, breathing in the quiet safety of the apartment, content to stay exactly where he was for as long as you'd let him.
El Gigante - Leon Kennedy x Reader (Fever Saint Part 14)
Summary: The stimulant is working almost too well, but Leon can't ponder on it yet. There's always another fight to be had.
Masterlist | Playlist | AO3 Link
It unnerves him how energetic you are.
Less than half an hour ago, you looked near death’s door. Limp. Lifeless. Not an ounce of strength left in your body. But now, you walk ahead of him with enough energy to shock him. You look restless and itchy, like you can’t move fast enough no matter how hard you try. Your fingers won’t stop moving against the barrel of the shotgun, and your feet stay several steps ahead of him no matter how hard he tries to stay pace with you.
From beside him, Luis is watching you too. The way he gazes at you reminds him that, before all this, the man was a researcher for Umbrella.
He casts a suspicious glance at the Spaniard.
“Why help us? What’s in it for you?”
Luis raises his hands defensively, shrugging. “No need to be suspicious! I said I’d help you, and I meant it.”
Leon scoffs, eyes turning back to you. Your fingers are grazing a wooden post beside you, tapping over the worn lumber. Ahead, the small tunnel seems to open up into a large mine. It would make sense. There’s mine carts and pickaxes scattered about, old oil lanterns dangling above his head.
“Little hard to place my faith in someone who used to work for Umbrella.”
At the mention of Umbrella, your head whips backwards, towards them both. Your eyes have sharpened into something lethal. “... Umbrella?”
Luis nods sheepishly. The moment his head stops moving, you’re there, inches from his face. The speed of it makes Leon’s head spin. Your fist has already found the front of Luis’ jacket, tugging him closer to you. Your face has gone red with rage.
“You worked for Umbrella?”
Another nod, his hand coming up to grab your wrist. “Si. But Umbrella’s done for, senorita. You don’t need to worry about them anymore.”
Your eyes narrow suspiciously at the brunette, fist gripping tighter into the dirty leather. “What are you after?”
Leon’s mind thinks back to Raccoon City. The damned pharmaceutical company that started it all. Had that familiar red and white logo haunted you all these years too? How badly had Umbrella scarred you?
Luis is trying to smile, but it comes out more as a grimace. “I just want to feel good about myself. Make amends, or something like that.”
For a brief moment, your injured arm comes up, fist raised. Leon is quick to grab your hand.
“Rabies. Focus on Ashley.”
At the mention of the girl’s name, your face falls, hand dropping from Luis’ jacket. The man lets out a shaky breath of relief, but you don’t apologize. Instead, you start walking again, eyes scanning the tunnel. But, still, you’re moving wrong. Like your body has been overclocked, strung thin by stress and whatever drugs Luis had pumped into your veins. It looks wrong in all the worst ways.
Ahead, the tunnel comes to a close, a large grate the only exit. Bands of warm light stream into the tunnel, though Leon can’t see beyond the metal slats. When you get to the grate, you kneel down, fingers touching the rusty screws keeping it pinned to the wall.
“I think I can get this open…” You jab your nail into the screw, starting to loosen it. But your hands are jittery, and your nail slips out of it easily.
Before you can try again, Leon is already bringing his leg up, landing a firm kick to the center of it. It falls open with a deafening clatter, metal falling into the room beyond. Your brows raise, annoyed.
“Or we could just do that, I guess.”
He shrugs, looking back at Luis for a second before peering into the new room. “You’re shaking. My way was easier.”
Luis approaches from behind, putting a hand on his hip. There’s dust clinging to strands of his hair. “If you two are done,” He gestures vaguely to the now open hole, “Ladies first.”
“What a gentleman.” You roll your eyes, moving towards the light. It’s only then that Leon sees the large figure waiting below.
“Stop!” His hand grasps the back of your shirt before he can even think, throwing you backwards. You fall to the dirt, your bad arm knocking against the ground, but you don’t seem to notice the pain. You’re staring at him, wide eyed, almost horrified.
He understands why a second later, when a large, giant sized hand encircles his legs. It’s a crushing weight, his bones grinding uncomfortably beneath the pressure. Not enough to break, thank god, but enough to bruise him for days. He can feel a hand grab his own- Luis’, he realizes- Before they’re both being dragged into the light, bodies falling to the metal floor below.
He can hear your scream for him, but he’s too busy staring wide eyed at the monster before him.
It’s two of the giant behemoths from before, the El Gigante, he can remember reading. They’re massive, towering above him, at least seven times his size. They have disfigured, disgusting faces. Eyes too big and bulging, lips too thin. It makes him grimace.
“Leon!” You call from above. He spares a split second to glance upwards. You’re leaning out of the hole in the wall, looking down at him with wide eyes. “Are you okay?!”
He almost wants to laugh at the question, but he doesn’t have the time. One of the monsters is slamming its foot down in his direction, and he just barely manages to roll out of the way in time. Gunshots erupt beside him, and he can vaguely realize it’s Luis, shooting wildly to try and get the monster away from him.
“Shit!” He hears you call out. “I’m going to go get something to help! Keep ‘em busy while I’m gone!”
“She says that like it’s easy!” Luis barely manages to jump out of the way of an incoming fist. It’s Leon who shoots this time, aiming for the monster’s head. It roars when a buckshot slams into its eye, viscera shooting out like a busted hose. There’s blood and pus and other things that he doesn’t want to think about. They’ll haunt him later, when he’s out of this damn place and trying to sleep. For now, all he needs to focus on is surviving. The monster howls, one massive hand clawing at its face where the buckshot tore through flesh. The sound rattles through the mine, bouncing off the stone walls until Leon feels it in his ribs. The creature’s arm swings blindly through the air, catching the edge of a wooden support beam and snapping it in half like it’s nothing. Splinters rain down around them. He ducks beneath the swing, boots sliding against the dirt as the force of the impact sends dust clouding around his feet.
For something that big, it moves too damn fast.
“Oi, Sancho!” Luis yells, “Any idea what that friend of yours has planned?!”
When he looks over, the man is narrowly dodging another massive punch. “No fucking clue!”
As if on cue, your head appears in the hole again, calling down to them. “Luis! Can you get to high ground somehow?! Anywhere?!”
Luis whips his head around for a moment, landing on a ladder and a high platform across the room. “Yes, I can, Senorita!”
You nod surely. “Then catch! You take one, I’ll take the other! Leon, for the love of fuck, distract them!”
Something red drops from above, falling directly into Luis’ hands. It takes a moment for Leon to register what it is. When he does, his stomach feels like it drops out of him. It’s dynamite. At least multiple pounds of it, red sticks heavy in Luis’ hands.
“How the hell did you get that?!” He yells, but he doesn’t get an answer. Luis is gone, running towards the ladder. You’re leaning your head down again, calling to him this time.
“Could you lead one of them over here?!”
Your plan suddenly comes together in his mind. It’s so insane that he almost laughs. It’s stupid and reckless and absolutely absurd, but at this point, it’s the only option he can take. With any luck, if it doesn’t kill the things, it’ll stun them long enough for all of you to somehow escape.
He nods once, and begins shooting at one of the creatures. The bigger one, with larger arms and ganglier legs. It roars when a bullet hits its neck, some blood and ooze dribbling down to its chest. It begins to charge at him, and he barely even has a moment to jump out of the way before it’s there. He lands on his side with a painful thud, looking up at the monster feet away from him. Two seconds too late, and he would have been a pancake.
Like some form of reckless, feral angel, you’re leaping down from above.
From the hole in the wall, you jump, red dynamite tucked under your arm like a football. It only proves to him that you’re still thinking clearly enough to come up with strategies. Still sharp enough to analyze the room. Still the same person who fought through a church full of infected villagers and kept Ashley alive for days.
And yet he knows the truth.
You’re only still moving because some chemical Luis shoved into your veins is convincing your body it isn’t dying.
You somehow manage to land on the creature’s back, coming to your hands and knees, barely managing to balance as it thrashes. A hand comes up to try and grab you, but its arm isn’t long enough, and it barely falls short, much to Leon’s relief.
For one horrible second, all he can see is Raccoon City. Another person disappearing in front of him. Another person he couldn’t save. But, you’re not another one of those people. You’re in front of him, somehow managing to strap the dynamite onto the creature’s back, and jumping down to join him.
You fall right beside him, landing on your good side, heaving in a heavy breath.
“Leon! Shoot it!”
He does so without hesitation. It takes only a moment for him to line up the shot, the creature still trying to swat the new weight off of its back. The trigger pushes down beneath the rough pad of his finger-
The dynamite explodes into a burst of flame and soot. A heatwave hits him so hard that it feels like he’s burning, and when he forces himself to move past the smoldering feeling in his lungs, he can see the monster falling to its knees, a gaping hole where its back used to be. Viscera is raining down from the ceiling, falling with wet slaps beside him, blood and gore splattering towards his body.
“Rabies?” He rasps, head whipping around. Across the room, he can see Luis on top of a platform, luring the other creature closer to him.
A wet cough, right over near the wall. “Over here!”
You’re up against the stone wall, dirt smeared along your skin and viscera around you. You must’ve been close enough to the shockwave that it threw you against the wall. You’re still trying to catch your breath, chest heaving. Leon doesn’t get a chance to go to you. Across the room, the other giant roars.
“Oi! You two!” Luis screams, jumping down from the monster’s shoulder. “Shoot it! Now!”
Again, his finger tightens on the trigger. Again, a blast of heat as blood shoots outwards from where the monster’s back used to be. This time, he’s able to watch as the creature screams in pain, doubling over and falling to the ground with a force that makes the Earth shake. As soon as the chaos had begun, everything goes painfully silent.
Luis takes in a few breaths, shaking the dust and debris off of himself. “Sancho, I think we can get out over there.” The Spaniard is gesturing towards a large metal door. To the side of it is an opening, high above his head. “Give me a push, eh?”
You’re already up and walking, though Leon doesn’t miss the unsteady tremor in your steps. Again, it’s like your body is trying to move faster than it’s able to. Like you’re doing too much to something that can’t do anymore.
Every muscle in his back protests as he kneels so that Luis can get onto his back. “You handle yourself pretty well. You sure you’re just a researcher?”
A weight lands on his shoulder blade, and he grimaces through the pressure as Luis gets on top of him, jumping up to grab the edge of the metal. He manages to haul himself over it, dropping down with a loud thud.
He can hear the man tsk. “What can I say?” He laughs, voice muffled by the metal barrier. “I’m just the average guy who happens to be quite the ladies’ man.”
From beside Leon, you groan, rolling your eyes. “Whatever. Can you get it open?”
“Yes, yes.” A quiet huff. “Do you have no sense of mystery?”
You nearly growl out your response. “We’re in a death cult’s underground mine. Open the damn door.”
With a click, the door unlocks, and Luis opens it with a smile. “You couldn’t ask nicely, doncella?”
You don’t bother answering, already pushing past him, almost stumbling for a second before catching yourself. Your eyes squint to peer around at where you are. “Where are we headed, anyway? You sure this will get us to Ashley?”
Leon watches the brunette man nod, gesturing vaguely ahead. “I am sure, though it will likely be a wild ride.”
a/n: GOOD NEWS, i FINALLY got an apartment in japan in less than 3 weeks of moving there wow kura you barely made it 😍
so sorry i haven't been posting as much, it was mainly bc of that 😭😭
synopsis: the two of you just make sense together.
ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, bachira meguru, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito, kaiser michael, ness alexis, chigiri hyoma, barou shoei, yukimiya kenyu, hugo vivian
isagi yoichi
nobody knows how the two of you accidentally became one of the hardest couples on earth because, individually, you're both surprisingly approachable, to say the least.
isagi smiles too much. you laugh too loud. you wave at old ladies crossing the street. and the second you're standing next to each other? something shifts. it's like your auras synchronize into one singular, terrifying force field. strangers physically move out of your way without realizing they're doing it.
people will literally whisper, "that's isagi yoichi and [name]," as if they've just spotted royalty at the airport. it's not because either of you are trying to look intimidating. you're simply standing there with matching black coats, the same pace, mirroring expressions because the two of you are listening to the same music through one wired earpod. that's enough to make everybody else feel like background characters, like sorry for ever stepping foot in the same AIRPORT as you two.
he's the type to unconsciously copy everything you do. if you shove your hands into your pockets, so does he. if you lean against the wall, he follows two seconds later. your body language eventually becomes so synchronized that fans start making side-by-side compilations titled: "[name] and isagi sharing one braincell, but they make it attractive."
the funniest part is that behind the scenes?
"yoichi."
"yeah?"
"your bag is open."
"... again?"
the aura evaporates instantly the moment nobody's watching.
after world cup matches, photographers practically beg you two to look at the camera together because every single photo goes triple platinum. you don't even pose. isagi has one arm around your waist, you're fixing his medal because it's crooked, he's looking at you instead of the camera... done. it becomes an accidental renaissance painting.
everybody says you make him look cooler. everybody also says he makes you softer in a way. together, you land perfectly in the middle.
itoshi rin
people have accepted that speaking to either of you individually is already stressful enough. speaking to both of you at once? psychological warfare.
it's not intentional. the two of you are actually having completely normal conversations.
"did you eat?" "yeah." "good."
all the while the poor staff member standing a meter away feels like they're interrupting a classified government meeting.
your couple photos should not be legal. neither of you smiles. neither of you poses. rin has one hand lazily shoved into his pocket while you're standing beside him with sunglasses on, and the photo ends up looking like the cover of vogue's "people significantly cooler than you" issue.
social media has given you the nickname: the final boss couple. because there's genuinely no visible weakness??? people spend hours trying to find an awkward candid. they can't. even the awkward candids look expensive.
once, a reporter asked how the two of you maintain such a cool image. rin answered, "we don't." you answered, "he forgot his phone today." "... why would you tell them that?" "i'm keeping the public informed. thought we should try honesty this time."
fans loved you even more because apparently the only person capable of ruining rin's intimidating image is you.
whenever the two of you leave fashion events together, paparazzi stop yelling directions because they already know they'll get the shot they want. you naturally fall into step. rin naturally reaches for your hand. your outfits somehow always complement each other without matching.
one photo. 30 million likes. comments just saying:
"yeah no they're endgame." "i'd fold if they looked at me." "this isn't a relationship, it's a concept."
itoshi sae
sae has always carried himself like someone who exists six steps ahead of everybody else. then you appeared. and you matched his frequency perfectly, effortlessly existing beside him like you've always belonged there. then everyone realized– oh. that's why nobody else ever looked right next to him.
the two of you don't do excessive affection in public. you don't need to. sae lightly adjusts your collar before cameras start rolling. you brush invisible lint off his sleeve. he waits half a second longer so you can catch up before walking. your relationship consists of tiny gestures that = absurd amounts of chemistry.
there's a reason fashion brands practically fight over you two. you could both be wearing the simplest outfits imaginable – white shirt, black trousers, plain sneakers, but somehow it still looks editorial.
people in the comments are zooming in trying to figure out why. spoiler: they can't.
interviews become hilarious because reporters keep trying to expose who has more aura.
"who wears the pants in the relationship?" you blink.
sae blinks. "we're both wearing pants." the interviewer has to laugh because that deadpan answer was funnier than anything they had prepared to receive.
fans genuinely say the two of you don't feel like boyfriend and girlfriend. you feel like... a matching set. like buying one without the other feels incorrect.
whenever somebody edits videos of sae walking through madrid, they immediately splice in clips of you without even thinking. because in everyone's head, you're part of the picture now.
nagi seishiro
everyone expected nagi to date someone who balanced him out. instead, he found someone who somehow matched his exact wavelength.
people don't understand how two people can look this effortlessly cool while simultaneously sharing one functioning brain cell.
you're both sitting in the airport lounge wearing oversized clothes, headphones around your neck, looking like off-duty models... and then someone overhears your conversation.
"did we check in?" "... i thought you did." "i thought YOU did." "... oh shit. we should probably do that."
it’s like the laziness contributes to the aura.
nothing about either of you looks rushed. you don't chase trends. trends chase you.
fan edits of the two of you are genuinely outrageous. any audio that’s used in your edits trend within the next 24 hours. clips of nagi looking at you like you're the only interesting thing in the room. clips of you absentmindedly fixing his hood while he keeps talking about a video game.
40 million views. comments filled with:
"they're literally just existing." "AND THEY'RE WINNING."
nagi loves that there's zero pressure around you. you're both comfortable enough to exist in silence for hours. which also means people constantly mistake the two of you for looking "cold."
in reality? he's currently texting you from two feet away because he's too comfortable to speak.
nagi: hungry. you: then say it. nagi: this is easier.
even your domestic moments have aura. convenience store date. he's carrying six snacks. you're carrying iced coffee. the sunset hits at exactly the right angle. somebody secretly takes a photo. and then it's circulating everywhere with the caption: "omg love actually exists."
mikage reo
if couples had brand deals just for existing... the two of you would've been billionaires.
everything about your relationship screams put together. you don’t meticulously plan it. but reo manages to make everything look intentional.
"wait..." "what?" "our outfits match." "they do?" you look down. navy. cream. silver accessories. neither of you discussed it, yet it happened anyway.
when the two of you walk into charity galas, luxury events, fashion weeks, award ceremonies, everybody turns. not like “OMG!!!” but in the very human, involuntary way where your eyes just... follow people who naturally command a room.
reo absolutely loves hyping you up, but he does it so casually that people don't even realize he's doing it.
"that's nice." "thanks." "looks better on you than whoever designed it." "reo 🙁” "what? i'm right." he says it like it's the most obvious fact in the world.
fans adore the fact that your energy matches so perfectly. you're never trying to compete. nobody's carrying the other's image. you both elevate each other.
it's the kind of relationship where people stop saying, "he's out of her league," because the second they see you standing together... they immediately go, "actually, no. they're in the exact same league."
your edits are criminal. paparazzi photos. airport walks. gala entrances. trophy ceremonies. luxury vacations. random grocery store runs somehow looking like magazine spreads.
the comments are never normal.
"this isn't boyfriend and girlfriend anymore." "this is a franchise." "your honor, they're simply too powerful together." and finally, of course, "#mydreamcouple."
bachira meguru
everybody agrees that the two of you have zero swag gap, but nobody can explain why. you're not trying to cultivate some mysterious "power couple" image. half the time bachira has your bag slung over his shoulder because "it matched my fit better," and you're standing there letting him wear your sunglasses upside down because he insists it makes him "look like an alien celebrity." it should be embarrassing. it isn't.
bachira has absolutely no understanding of personal space, but because it's you, nobody thinks twice about it. he'll walk up behind you and hook his chin over your shoulder while you're talking to somebody, lace your fingers together in the middle of a conversation because your hand was "available," or absentmindedly play with your bracelets while waiting for food.
everybody else would get shoved. he gets away with it because you instinctively lean back into him every single time.
your candids always go viral because they're never staged. one photo is the two of you doubled over laughing after bachira accidentally scared himself with his own reflection in a store window. another is him pointing excitedly at a pigeon while you're trying (and failing) to look serious.
comments are in shambles.
"they're both losers." "the coolest losers i've ever seen." "need whatever disease they caught."
people always assume you're the calmer one in the relationship until they overhear you encouraging him.
"jump it." "bet." "WAIT DON'T ACTUALLY–” too late.
shidou ryusei
the two of you radiate the exact same flavor of "this conversation could become a public disturbance."
shidou has the energy of someone who wakes up every morning ready to make somebody else's day more complicated. you look him dead in the eye and decide to join him.
every date becomes a spectacle through absolutely no fault of your own. for example, you go bowling. shidou celebrates every strike like he won the world cup. you celebrate every spare with the exact same enthusiasm just to annoy him. by the end of the night, you're both getting politely asked to lower the volume.
"they hate to see two people have fun." "they're literally staring." "because we're icons."
nobody questions why you're together after seeing the way you egg each other on.
"i bet you won't." "watch me." this is genuinely how half your memories begin.
the funniest thing is that shidou becomes weirdly protective around you. he's still loud and dramatic and accidentally kicking chairs because he talks with his whole body. but if somebody's rude to you? his smile disappears so fast it gives everyone whiplash.
fans call you the "double or nothing couple." because every interaction between the two of you is either completely wholesome… or ends with security getting involved.
karasu tabito
karasu swears the two of you don't flirt. he always says: "we're just talkin’."
everybody else watches him spend 15 minutes making fun of your music taste before immediately carrying your shopping bags without being asked. like sure… whatever you say bro.
conversations between you two sound like competitive hating.
"you take forever to reply." "i'm employed." "that's crazy because i saw you reposting memes." "don't bring evidence into this???” it's impossible to tell who's winning because you're both laughing by the end.
the reason people say there's no swag gap is because neither of you tries too hard. you don't coordinate outfits. you don't post matching captions. you don't manufacture "couple goals." you just naturally end up looking like the best-dressed people in every room because your styles complement each other without looking copied.
karasu absolutely lives for making you break character. you'll be standing there looking cool, arms crossed, serving face... then he quietly says something so absurd that you snort. camera flashes. now that's the photo everybody likes the most.
every edit of you two has comments saying:
"they flirt like they're trying to lose an argument." or a more accurate one: "this is literally two twitter users in love."
kaiser michael
people online have a running joke that dating michael kaiser requires surviving a weekly performance review. then they watch him interact with you. and it’s like "... oh." turns out he actually does know how to be pleasant.
the funniest thing about your relationship is that you're the only person who doesn't react to his theatrics anymore.
"did you miss me?" "you were gone for 12 minutes." "it was a long 12 minutes." "i managed." every person within earshot starts laughing because you delivered that line with a sae itoshi ahh expression.
the two of you clean up so ridiculously well that every event feels like a magazine shoot. kaiser always knows exactly where the cameras are. you don't. he casually moves half a step so you're standing in the better lighting before the photographers even start taking pictures.
"did you just..." "yes." "that's kind of crazy. how do you always know where the camera is? are you a dictator or something?" "don’t start with that again."
people love your relationship because you never inflate his ego. he'll fish for compliments. you'll hand him constructive criticism instead.
"be honest." "your hair looked better yesterday." "... you wound me." "wahhh, you'll live."
fans say your relationship works because you're one of the only people alive who treats michael kaiser like... michael. not michael kaiser™.
ness alexis
people expect you to be the cool, mysterious one who balances ness out. then they realize you're sitting there asking him follow-up questions while he passionately explains something nobody else even noticed.
"wait, go back." "really?" "yeah, i wanna hear the rest." he lights up like a star.
there's something ridiculously satisfying about watching the two of you interact because everything feels... practiced. not rehearsed. like you've spent so much time around each other that your brains automatically fill in the blanks.
he hands you the straw wrapper because he knows you fold them into little stars. you grab his charger before leaving because he forgot it (again).
people online always say you "match each other's freak," except your version of freak is accidentally spending 45 minutes discussing one completely random topic because neither of you realized how much time had passed. ness yaps. you encourage the yapping. that's the ecosystem.
"am i talking too much?" "probably." "... should i stop?" "no, i wanna know how this ends." wow! you just bought yourself another 20 minutes.
fans adore seeing the way you look at each other because it's painfully obvious neither of you is pretending to be cooler than you actually are. the relationship has style, sure. but what people envy most is how easy it looks.
the comments are always full of "they look like they actually like each other." which, on the internet, is apparently the highest compliment a couple can receive.
chigiri hyoma
there are couples that look good together. then there's the two of you, where people physically stop scrolling because the photo loads and their first thought is, "oh brother, these two again."
they’re not tired of seeing you, but it’s just that every picture somehow looks like it belongs in an ad campaign.
chigiri has this quiet confidence that never asks for attention and you match it perfectly. neither of you are loud in public. you don't need to announce yourselves. you just walk into a room looking put together and now everybody's wondering if they should've dressed better.
the funniest part is that your conversations are painfully normal.
"do we need milk?" "we bought milk." "did we?" "you're holding it." someone across the grocery store is secretly taking a photo because they think they're witnessing cinema.
people online have a conspiracy that the two of you practice your candids. the truth is you don't. chigiri just naturally slows down to match your pace. you instinctively fix the collar of his shirt before he steps outside. he'll reach over and tuck your hair behind your ear without interrupting the conversation. none of it is planned. it just happens after spending so much time together.
every comment section eventually reaches the same conclusion:
"they don't even look like boyfriend and girlfriend." "they look like they were released as a matching set."
barou shoei
everybody expected barou to date someone who'd either worship the ground he walks on or constantly argue with him. but surprise! he found someone who looks him dead in the eye and goes, "move." "... excuse me?" "you're standing in front of the fridge." "... oh."
that's when people realized why your relationship works. you don't entertain his diva moments. you simply keep the program moving.
barou is unbelievably particular about everything – the house, his schedule, his meals, his clothes. the list goes on. you somehow fit into all of it without changing who you are. if anything, you've made him slightly less dramatic (emphasis on slightly).
one time, a fan spotted the two of you furniture shopping. instead of the intimidating king everyone expected... barou spent 15 minutes comparing two nearly identical black dining chairs while asking, "which one's better?" "they're literally the same chair." "would you just look closer." that story made it onto twitter before either of you even got home.
everybody loves the fact that you can match barou's intensity without trying to overpower him. he's commanding. you're composed. together, you have the kind of chemistry that makes people go, "yeah... i wouldn't interrupt them."
you’re the perfect couple.
yukimiya kenyu
if there were an olympic event for serving face, the two of you would've brought home gold, silver, AND bronze.
every picture of you together has people zooming in like they're conducting forensic analysis.
"who took this?" "what filter is that?" "where is that jacket from?"
the answer is always disappointingly simple. one of your friends took it in about seven seconds.
yukimiya has an eye for aesthetics, but dating you made him even worse. you'll ask him if your outfit looks okay. instead of saying yes... he'll start adjusting your necklace, fixing your sleeve, brushing invisible lint off your shoulder.
"there." "was anything actually wrong?" "no, not really."
the two of you accidentally become fashion references for fans. every few weeks somebody posts, "trying to dress like [name] and yukimiya." followed by a mood board full of neutral and monochrome colors, expensive sneakers, and accessories that cost more than rent.
the best part? the second cameras disappear, all elegance leaves the chat. you're arguing over whose turn it is to choose dinner. he's reading five-star reviews. you've already ordered takeout.
"you didn't even let me finish researching." "my bad, i got hungry."
hugo vivian
hugo has the kind of confidence that makes it seem like the entire room belongs to him. you walk in beside him looking equally unbothered. now everybody else feels like they're trespassing.
your relationship has an effortless energy of "we've been doing this forever.” no awkward hovering or wondering where to stand. he'll casually open the car door for you while continuing his conversation. you'll straighten his tie without either of you acknowledging it. it's all second nature.
french media absolutely adores the two of you because every public appearance turns into free marketing. luxury brand event? best dressed. football awards? best dressed. grocery run in sweatpants? still best dressed.
people always expect hugo to be the smoother one. they're wrong. you'll catch him staring for half a second too long.
"what?" "... it’s nothing." "vivian." "... you look pretty.” "that took you 30 seconds to say." "i had to process it first."
your edits are ridiculously popular because they never rely on the “loud” moments. it's always the tiny clips – him waiting until you've gotten into the car before closing the door, you fixing the cuff of his jacket before an interview, both of you laughing because neither of you could pronounce an english reporter's last name correctly.
the comments always read: "damn, they've got absolutely zero swag gap." "they make looking in love look so easy." "i just know his heart is going poum-poum."
the movie had become background noise at this point.
“quit cheating…!” you laughed, trying to shove valko off the couch.
“I’m winning,” he chuckled. the whole “fight” consisted of him trapping your wrists together with one hand while tickling you so you couldn’t break free.
“tickling- *gasp* is cheating!”
“skill issue.”
you huffed dramatically, kicking his legs. he paused for a second, just enough for you to push against his chest and straddle his lap.
“hah! I win!” you grinned.
his eyes narrowed, a pout forming on his lips.
before you could bask in victory, he lunged again, tackling you back into the couch cushions. laughter bubbled from both of you as you shoved at his face, unsuccessfully trying to push him away.
“argh…!” you huffed.
he looked down at you for a moment, taking in your messy hair, flushed cheeks, and smug smile. something in his expression softened. he leaned down and chomped lightly onto your shoulder.
“hey!” you pushed him away. “bad dog.”
valko whined. his fluffy ears sprouted out from his tufts of hair and pinned down sadly. “no I’m not…” he whimpered, licking the spot he bit. “say I’m not, say I’m a good boy…”
his hands cradled your neck and waist gently as he licked your shoulder affectionately. his knee slotted between your thighs as he pressed his groin against your thigh.
“I’m good puppy,” he whined, rutting against you. his fluffy tail puffed out behind him, wrapping around your calf affectionately.
“valko…” you warned. “you’re going to make a mess.”
he kissed up your neck until he could nuzzle against your cheek. “I’m sorry for biting you, pup. tell me I’m good, please,” he begged.
“fine,” you obliged. “you’re my good boy. my puppy.”
valko sucked in a breath, his hips stuttering as a damp warmth spread across his pants. he pulled you in and kissed you.
"Let's play duos." Nagi whines dragging his head up from where he's been drooling all over your stomach to lay his heavy head onto your chest. He's been glued to his phone playing clash, only ever murmuring for you to keep scratching his scalp or rubbing his back when you thought it was safe to stop, obviously not...
"Duos on what?"
"Fortnite."
"Boy, we are not running fortnite duos." You murmur, wriggling around as he puts more of his weight on you, he's allowed to spend as much time as he'd like on his phone, but the second you do something similar he's using his big head to block the screen, wriggling his way so that your only focus can be on him. "Why not? I'll carry you." He pleads "Ask Reo." You huff as you claw your way out from under him. "Reo can't build."
"I can't build either!"
"Ughhh" Nagi makes a dramatic noise as he whines like a baby into the crook of your neck, pulling you back to cuddle. He'd rather have you spooning him but this is fine too...
"Can we please play fortnite dous? Please? I won't ditch you in the storm.." He murmurs pleadingly, like a little puppy whining for one extra little treat.
"What?"
"I said can we--"
"Ever." You snort at your own stupid joke while Nagi just bonks his head between your shoulder blades, trying to bite but just ends up chewing on the fabric of your shirt. "Ewww Seishiro! Your drool is soaking the fabric!"
"Play wif me!!" He grumbles again, half muffled with his face pressed up against your back. "Seishiro! How about I watch you play and i'll give you a kiss anytime you kill someone?" You offer close to just yanking him away by his hair. He pauses and contemplates the offer, it's definitely less fun than you yelling at him to help whenever someone is shooting you, or making him give you all his ammo but still... kisses and your attention isn't a horrible compromise.
"Okay... but it can't be some copout peck!"
"Okay fine!"
"Rub my back." He mumbles as he gets comfortable, expecting a hand up the back of oversized shirt, nails scratching between his shoulder blades or he'll just lay on top of you and won't get up. "You're so rude." You pinch his side which makes him squirm a little, but he relaxes when you start. He grinds fortnite mobile like an idiot, turning his head whenever he kills someone, lips already puckered and pouty, and if you try pulling away too quick for his liking he just leans forward enough to make sure you stay connected for a second or two longer.
"Watch this shit, 'm gonna win." He murmurs getting competitive about something most people gave up on in middle school, you roll your eyes as he succeeds winning battle royale. Him showing you his phone with a proud expression, like a little kid showing a shitty drawing you're meant to coo at.
For such a feat, Nagi's expecting a kiss with tongue, maybe some heavy petting. Oh well, he's spoiled.
Enjin's eyes remained fixed on August's fingers as they grazed your hips. His characteristic smile, usually mischievous and carefree, now trembled at the corner of his lips, betraying a barely contained tension.
"One more measurement here and we'll move on to your legs," August said.
The tailor took the measuring tape slowly and looked at you intently through his glasses. His eyes shone with intensity, fueled by the new design his mind was already shaping. He bent down slowly, and just as his fingertips touched the skin of your thigh, Enjin let out a fake, exaggeratedly loud cough.
"Well, well, I think that's more than enough for today," Enjin interjected. His voice sounded strange, forced, as if he were making a monumental effort to suppress jealousy. "We don't want August to feel pressured, do we, doll?"
"But we’ve barely started…" you protested, but your words were cut short when Enjin firmly grabbed your arm, pulling you close.
"He must be extremely busy with other important designs, right, buddy?" Enjin insisted, giving you a withering look.
August didn’t flinch. Instead, a mischievous, amused smile spread across his lips, openly enjoying the control he had over Enjin’s patience.
"You’re absolutely right, buddy!" August replied with mock joviality, stuffing the measuring tape into his pocket. "So don’t worry. I’ll make some time in my schedule to take the rest of her measurements alone… tonight."
Enjin’s grip on your arm tightened instantly. Without another word, he firmly took hold of your waist and dragged you hurriedly toward the exit. Before you could protest his rudeness, he leaned in and whispered in a husky, possessive voice directly into your ear,
"You’ll be sleeping in my room tonight." His warm breath sent shivers down your spine. "And I’ll make sure to double-lock the door, if necessary."
As the echo of Enjin’s hurried footsteps reverberated through the barracks corridor, your mind tried to process the chaos of the last five minutes. You were completely baffled by the absurd rivalry that had just erupted in the sewing workshop. You had only gone there to find August to give a few quick stitches to the tear in your uniform jacket, not to have them design a whole new wardrobe for you from scratch.
Glimpsing Enjin’s rigid profile and clenched jaw, you knew that complaining would be pointless. The tension in the air made it clear that, for them, clothes were the least of their concerns; The real disputed territory was you, and the night promised to become quite complicated if August decided to keep his word.
surprising, because dan heng—cautious, hesitant, wary of risking anything he loves—is the kind of guy that would weather an event of cosmic proportions before he even considers anything beyond companionship. there are too many factors at play, too many risks, too many people that want his heart on a platter (in more ways than one). he’d say you already put yourself in enough danger as is, and dan heng wouldn’t risk making you collateral damage unless the world was ending.
and maybe that’s it. because, well, once he got over that hurdle—
“took you long enough—mmph!”
—the trailblaze’s “all or nothing” spirit makes itself evident.
march shrieks. phainon drops dawnmaker with a clatter. balance coins jingle as they change hands—hey, that’s your job!—but the insult dissipates once you finally realize what’s happening.
dan heng is kissing you. dan heng. and he’s doing it with the kind of desperation that commits eon-old taboos.
your hands scramble to find an anchor. heat sinks beneath your skin, a claim. the world blurs to nothing but two, and for the first time in your life, you know what falling must feel like—endless, dizzying, and unsteadying enough to cut fate’s puppets from their strings.
his lips stay soft even as he steals your air and your kiss, as greedy hands pull you flush to his chest like it could keep your wild heart from running free. your hands find their way to his shoulders, his neck, his face, and you would think he’s unlearned shame from the way his tail wraps behind you. he’s taller than before you left and frantically relieved in a way that makes your heart stutter. you taste deliberation unraveled, caution cast aside, and love that has waited millenia to be received.
a soft noise escapes, one that he swallows without question, taking the chance to tilt his head and fall further into you. you're hardly given a chance to breathe. when you try to, he nips at your lip and hums—pleased, the bastard—when you melt back into him.
“dan heng,” you try, the name muffled between your mouths.
“mhm?”
the slightest tap against his cheek, and you two break apart with a little gasp. dazed, you allow him to litter apologetic pecks—slower, less frantic—against your throat as you try to catch your breath.
“h—wow, okay—ah, not—that i’m against this, but“—a few more slow kisses pressed to your face, into the soft of your cheeks and the crown of your head—“is this a new way of saying i miss you?”
“i missed you,” he confirms. “aeons above, you have no idea.” your name follows with the utmost tenderness, as though he’s finally found home.
the laugh that escapes you is breathless, staggered with a smile on your face. “oh, you’re bold now. where did sir silent-and-stoic go?”
“learned his lesson,” dan heng says simply, muffled against your temple.
“gasp, i didn’t know you liked me so much! for how long?”
but tragically, before he can answer—(and maybe continue with his affections)—stelle leaps at the two of you with march and sunday in tow and turns the junior express crew into a pile on the ground. you can’t help but laugh with them, joy incandescent.
and dan heng, your hand still in his, looks at you with the kind of devotion that undoes you from the inside out, that rages in the face of loss and thinks about again and again and never again.
it echoes through you as dawn breaks after an eternal night. when light falls on the world, dan heng looks at you like you’re his.
Cobalt Blue - Leon Kennedy x Reader (Fever Saint Part 13)
Summary: You're running on fumes. Luis has a temporary fix for that, however risky it may be.
Masterlist | Playlist | AO3 Link
He’s careful as he lowers you onto the cold metal floor of the elevator.
You’re going delirious again. He can tell by the way you stare off into space, head seemingly empty, limbs limp and listless against the floor. Your eyes are swimming in their sockets, refusing to focus. Even when he forces himself into your line of sight again, you still can’t focus on him. Leon spares a brief glance back at that damn underground lab, with the creature, the freezing mist, everything, before he looks back to you.
You’re murmuring again. Something about it makes his stomach churn.
“... I’m gonna… I’m gonna get you out of here, okay…?” You’re not talking to him. You’re talking to whatever ghost is haunting you. Your arm shakily reaches out towards nothing, before falling back to the metal. “I know it hurts…. It’s temporary… I promise…”
His palm presses gently against your good shoulder. He has to ignore the infection markings criss crossing over his arm. His mind is focused on you, trembling and quivering, speaking to a person that isn’t there, and hasn’t been for some time.
The tightness in his chest is getting worse. He can feel the parasite’s limbs twitching over the different chambers of his heart, pinching the muscle in ways that makes his skin itch. For a second, he has to close his eyes and catch his breath. When his eyes open, the marks on his skin are worse. Darker. Angrier. They twitch and writhe, a horrible tingling sensation in his limbs. It makes him want to rip his skin off. To grab his knife, filet the lines off of his body, and tear the parasite out himself. Before his body isn’t his own anymore.
The elevator dings hollowly, and his head shoots up, looking out into the room before him. He nearly wants to scream in relief.
Luis is standing against a wooden post, a satchel slung across his body and a metal tin of something in his hand. He has a crooked smile on his face. If this was any other situation, Leon would want to punch that grin off of him. Now, however, it’s so normal that it feels like a blessing.
The man is about to say something, when his eyes go down from Leon to you. His face falls. “Qué pasó?!” Luis straightens, hands falling to his sides and brows raising in alarm. “How did it get this bad?!”
Leon picks you up, one arm under your knees and the other under your back. He hates the way you’re near limp, head falling backwards and exposing your throat. He can smell the metallic blood from your wound, the sickly sweet scent of rot. Nausea bubbles up in his throat, and he has to look away for a moment to tamp it down. “Long story. Just tell me you have that damn medicine.”
The brunette man nods, gesturing to a few old wooden boxes to the right of him. “Lay her down, Sancho.”
When he does so, it’s gentle, doing his best to keep your body from hitting the boxes too hard. You don’t resist when he closes his fingers around your wrists, moving them from where they dangle to the side back to your midsection. Your eyes open briefly, pupils untrained and staring off at the ceiling, before closing again.
Leon feels a tap on his arm, and he looks over. Luis is holding out a small metal vial, pointing it towards the markings on his skin. “Here,” the man’s accented voice mutters, “Use this. It’s temporary, but it will help suppress the nature of your… problem.”
He doesn’t even think twice about it. He takes the syringe, shoving one end of it against his arm while pressing down on the other. For a second, there’s a sting of pain, of a needle being shoved deep into his veins, and then he feels a blissful numbness. A cool, empty kind of burn as the lines on his arms start to fade away. The clenching around his heart even stills, the unbearable pinching becoming something much more manageable. He can’t help but sigh in relief, fingers clenching and unclenching, like he can’t believe they’re obeying him.
“Better?” Luis has kneeled down to your level, his hand moving over to your wrist and pressing his fingers into your pulse point. There’s a small curse in Spanish, before he’s reaching into the satchel at his side. He empties it with practiced efficiency, lining several syringes across the crate. Some are filled with clear liquid, others amber, one almost unnaturally blue. It makes Leon’s brows raise in alarm.
“What are all those?” Leon’s footsteps feel easier now, less weighed down. It doesn’t steal his breath away when he moves.
A glance over in his direction, before Luis is uncapping the syringes and laying them out in front of him. “A few things to keep her going. It’s not a cure, but it will help her to stay awake until we all can get out of this damn place.”
Your eyes open a little, head turning to look at the needles. There’s some kind of recognition behind your eyes, a brief flicker. “What… What medicines…?”
The Spaniard finally smiles. It’s crooked and mischievous, but genuine. “Ah, there you are. Don’t worry about these, si? They’ll just hurt for a moment.”
Your head shakes, and Leon is quick to put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “No, no. Tell her.”
Truthfully, he’s curious himself. He may trust the man enough to give him a suppressant, but he doesn’t trust him fully. Each needle feels more like a threat than a fix.
“Ah, alright. This first one here,” he gestures to the largest syringe, filled with something clear. “Is an antibiotic. Pretty strong one.”
You nod, your hand moving to your arm, tapping over a vein. Luis follows, injecting it right where you show him. It makes you hiss as the medicine is pushed into your arm, but other than that, you remain still. The next syringe comes up dutifully. “A painkiller. Strong one. You might feel a bit dizzy, doncella guerrera. But it will make the next part easier.”
“The next part?” Leon’s eyes squint in suspicion, even as he watches Luis give another injection. This one seems to do something this time, as your eyes fly open, lungs inhaling greedily. The painkillers must be strong, as your pupils have dilated into saucers. You sigh in relief, even as another bead of sweat rolls down your temple. When his palm finds your forehead, it still feels blisteringly hot.
He nods. “Si, caballero. This next one is… less than legal, so to say.”
“Is it safe?”
Luis gestures to your shoulder. “Nothing is safe with this injury, but yes.”
Your head turns to the side, facing the two men. Your eyes still won’t focus, but you murmur. “... Stimulant?”
Another askew smile from Luis. “You’re an observant one, aren’t you? Yes, it’s a stimulant. Very strong. It may make you feel like you’re all better and can do anything…” He trails off, grabbing the last syringe. The liquid inside is cobalt colored, the glass of the vial covered in a thin line of dust. “But the feeling is temporary. A few hours, at most. Once it wears off…”
He doesn’t need to finish. You’re tapping your arm again, impatient, and he preps the needle, turning it over in his fingers. His hands hesitate before he lowers it down to your arm. Leon doesn’t miss the way he hovers with the needle, like he’s regretting even having to use it. It makes dread sit low in his stomach.
The moment the liquid pushes into your vein, the change is immediate.
Your eyes fly open, pupils turning to pinpricks and shakily staring holes into the ceiling. Fingers twitch against the wooden boxes below you, picking at the individual grains. Even your feet twitch, jerking where they lay. Leon is quick to move, positioning himself near your head and putting a hand on your good shoulder. Underneath your skin, he can feel your pulse thundering madly, hammering back at him. Tiny muscles in your jaw are spasming, breathing going wild. For a second, he feels like he’s looking at a wild animal. Something rabid and injured, giving one final fight before they finally stop breathing altogether.
By the time the syringe is empty, Leon feels like he’s watching your final moments on this Earth. For a second, you go still. Your limbs fall flat against the wood, head laying back. His breath catches in his throat at the sight. "...Luis?"
The Spaniard doesn't answer. Two fingers remain pressed against your wrist, his eyes fixed on the second hand of his own watch. His expression is unreadable, mouth set into a thin line as he silently counts.
Leon feels his stomach sink. "Luis."
Still nothing. The room feels impossibly quiet. Then, like what feels like a miracle, your lungs seize. A sharp gasp tears into the silence, your entire body arching off the wooden crates. Air rushes into your chest in one violent inhale after another, your fingers digging so hard into the splintered wood that tiny flakes catch beneath your nails. Your eyes dart wildly around the room. Left. Right. Ceiling. Floor. Anywhere but the people kneeling beside you.
Your pulse hammers beneath Leon's hand like a frightened bird.
"Easy." Luis's voice is calm now, almost gentle. "Easy, doncella guerrera. Breathe."
Another harsh breath, and your hand, the one on your bad side, raises to feel around yourself. Your head is whipping around, landing on Luis. Your gaze lingers on him for another second before drifting toward Leon. Unlike before, this time your eyes actually focus. Recognition spreads slowly across your face.
"...Leon."
He doesn't realize he'd been holding his breath until he exhales. "Yeah."
Your lips part slightly, sucking in more air. "You... look awful."
For one stunned second, Leon just stares. Then a short, disbelieving laugh escapes him. It’s filled with relief, his head dipping down as he responds. "You're one to talk."
The corner of your mouth twitches. Luis lets out a slow breath through his nose, shoulders easing for the first time since Leon stepped off the elevator. His hand leaves your wrist only long enough to move his finger in front of your eyes, slowly sweeping it side to side.
"Follow it."
Your gaze tracks the movement. Your pupils move jaggedly, staying still for one moment and jerking to follow him the next. The look of it settles wrong in Leon’s head.
“... Feeling better?” He’s not quite sure what answer he’s hoping for.
You nod, swinging your legs over to plant your feet on the floor. “I feel… pretty great, actually. Where’s Ashley? We need to go find her.” Your voice is clearer now, but there's something wrong with it. It’s too fast. Each sentence comes before the last has fully finished, as though your thoughts are outrunning your mouth. "I can walk."
You’re standing before either man can stop you, your boots hitting the floor with a harsh thump. For a moment, Leon expects you to fall. To double over and collapse to the dirt floor. But, somehow, you stay standing, though your upper body sways a little as you find your footing.
Your eyes look down to the floor, and then back up at him. A large grin breaks out on your face. It feels wrong considering the circumstances. Part of him wonders how much your fever is still affecting you. How the stimulant is making you see the world.
Your grin is manic as you turn on your heel, grabbing your shotgun from where it’s holstered on Leon’s back. The sight of your teeth, your pale gums, your flushed face; it doesn’t reassure him. If anything, it frightens him.
Your steps are shaky and jagged, but you keep going anyway.
♡ summary: after two terrible days, all you want is to use your boyfriend as a mattress. unfortunately for you, gojo satoru is very easily distracted.
♡ warnings: 18+ mdni • explicit sexual content • established relationship • oral (f!receiving) • multiple orgasms • piv sex • praise • possessive language • dirty talk • creampie • fluff
♡ author’s note: this was inspired by a post from @silentlunarkiss based on this fanart 😭 i screenshotted it immediately because i knew i wanted to write it, then somehow lost the original post before i could tag them. finally found them again!! ♡
banner by @pixopix
The apartment is quiet when you finally drag yourself through the door, your work bag feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds. Your feet are killing you, your brain is fried, and all you want is to collapse into bed and not move for approximately twelve hours.
You kick off your shoes and shuffle down the hallway, already pulling your hair out of the bun you'd done up that morning, now mostly falling out on its own. The bedroom door is cracked open, and when you push it wider, you find exactly what you were hoping for.
Satoru is sprawled across the bed like a starfish, still wearing his teaching clothes—black pants and a rumpled button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His blindfold is tossed carelessly on the nightstand, and his white hair is an absolute disaster, sticking up in every direction like he's been running his hands through it all day. His eyes are closed, one arm thrown over his face.
He looks as exhausted as you feel.
"Rough day?" you ask, and he groans without moving.
"The first years tried to fight a curse three grades above their level because Yuji said it 'looked easy,'" he mumbles into his arm. "I had to bail them out. Again. Then Megumi and Nobara got into an argument about mission protocol that somehow turned into a full-blown screaming match about who ate whose leftovers from the fridge. I had to separate them like they were toddlers."
Despite your exhaustion, you snort. "Sounds about right."
"And then," he continues, finally moving his arm to peek at you with one brilliant blue eye, "Yaga cornered me about paperwork I was supposed to file last week. Do you know how much I hate paperwork?"
"I'm aware." You're already moving toward the bed, unbuttoning your work pants. "You complain about it literally every time."
"Because it's the worst. I'm the strongest sorcerer alive. I shouldn't have to file incident reports."
"Mm-hmm, very tragic." You shimmy out of your pants and leave them in a heap on the floor—a problem for future you. Your blouse follows, leaving you in just your bra and underwear. "My day was also shit, for the record."
"Yeah?" He's watching you now with lazy interest, too tired to even sit up but still tracking your movements.
"My boss is an idiot, the coffee machine broke, I had to sit through a two-hour meeting that could've been an email, and Janet from accounting passive-aggressively cc'd the entire department on an email about someone stealing her lunch. Which, for the record, I didn't do, but she definitely thinks I did based on the way she was glaring at me."
"Want me to hollow purple Janet from accounting?" he offers, completely serious.
"Tempting, but no." You crawl onto the bed and without ceremony, flop directly on top of him, your full weight pressing him into the mattress. You bury your face in his chest with a long, dramatic groan. "I'm dead. This is me, dead."
"Hi, dead. I'm also dead." His arms come around you automatically, wrapping you up even though you're both too tired to really move. "We're both corpses now. This is our life."
"Our death," you correct, muffled against his shirt.
"Our death," he agrees solemnly.
For a moment, you just lie there, breathing in sync. He smells like his cologne mixed with the faint scent of the training grounds—sweat and grass and something distinctly him. It's comforting in a way you can't quite articulate. This exhausted, collapsed-together moment feels like home.
His hand starts moving on your back, slow and gentle, rubbing up and down your spine. It feels incredible, and you make an embarrassing sound of contentment that you'll deny later.
"You're tense as hell," he murmurs, fingers working at a knot between your shoulder blades.
"You try dealing with Janet's accusatory emails and see how relaxed you are," you mumble, but you're already melting into his touch.
"I'd just block her."
"You can't block coworkers, Satoru."
"You can if you're powerful enough." His hand slides lower, still rubbing your back, and you feel some of the day's tension starting to ease. "This okay?"
"It's perfect. You're my favorite human pillow."
"Just human pillow? Not devastatingly handsome boyfriend who you're lucky to have?"
"That's implied," you say, but you're smiling against his chest.
His other hand joins the first, both of them working at your tired muscles, and you honest-to-god almost start purring. This is exactly what you needed. Just this—him, the quiet apartment, his hands on you, the weight of the day slowly lifting.
But then his hands start to wander.
It's subtle at first. His fingers drift from your back to your sides, tracing the curve of your waist. Then lower, skimming over your hips. And then—
He grabs your ass. Both hands, full handfuls, squeezing appreciatively.
"Really?" you ask, lifting your head to look at him. "We're both dead, remember? Corpses don't grope."
"I'm a very motivated corpse." He squeezes again, shameless, and there's a grin tugging at his lips now. "Can't help it. You're lying on top of me in your underwear. What did you expect?"
"Self-control? Restraint? Basic human decency?"
"Baby, you know me better than that." His hands are still kneading your ass, and despite your sass, you can feel heat starting to pool low in your belly. "Besides, you love it."
"I love that you can't even wait until we've recovered from our respective terrible days before getting handsy?"
"Exactly." He's fully grinning now, that cocky, insufferable grin that makes you want to kiss him and smack him at the same time. "Your ass is the best stress relief. It's science."
"That's not science, you idiot."
"It's my science."
You snort, but you're not moving away. His hands are warm and familiar, and honestly, after the day you've had, this isn't the worst thing in the world. You let your head drop back to his chest, eyes drifting closed.
"Comfortable?" he asks, voice softer now.
"Mmm," you hum in agreement. "Don't stop."
"Wasn't planning on it."
For a while, it's just quiet. His hands keep moving—sometimes squeezing, sometimes just resting there, thumbs drawing lazy circles. You can hear his heartbeat under your ear, steady and strong. The tension in your shoulders is almost completely gone now, replaced by a different kind of warmth, something slower and heavier.
You're half-asleep when you feel it—the unmistakable hardness pressing against your hip.
"Satoru," you mumble, not even opening your eyes.
"Hmm?"
"Are you seriously getting hard right now?"
There's a pause. Then he says, "...Maybe."
You lift your head to look at him, one eyebrow raised. He has the decency to look slightly sheepish, but there's heat in his eyes now, that familiar hunger that never really goes away when it comes to you.
"We were having a nice moment."
"We still are."
"You've got a boner."
"I do…That doesn't cancel the nice moment."
You stare at him for another second before letting out a laugh.
"Seriously?"
"What?"
"I come home exhausted, use you as a human mattress for ten minutes, and somehow I'm the problem?"
"You are absolutely the problem."
"I literally haven't done anything."
"You climbed on top of me, got all comfy, made that little happy humming noise, and then fell asleep on my chest."
"I hummed?"
"You hummed."
"I don't hum."
"You do when you're really comfortable."
You narrow your eyes. "I've never noticed that."
"I have."
You glare at him.
"…Baby." He exhales dramatically, like he's carrying the weight of the world. "You're makin' me so hard."
You snort. "You're unbelievable."
"I'm trying to be respectful."
"Are you?"
Silence.
"…No." He grins without an ounce of shame. "Not really."
Despite yourself, you laugh again, dropping your forehead back against his shoulder.
"You're ridiculous."
"I know."
His arms tighten around you just a little. "But you look so comfortable."
His voice is quieter now. "So happy."
You burrow your face further into his shoulder.
"…I like when you're like this."
You feel yourself smile before you can stop it. "You're such a sap."
"Only for you."
There's a comfortable silence. Then his hands drift just a little bit lower again.
"…Okay," you mumble. "Now you're definitely not being respectful."
"No." He gives your ass another shameless squeeze. "I'm definitely not."
Before you can respond, he's sitting up, keeping you in his lap, and capturing your mouth in a kiss that's hungry and demanding. You can taste his desperation, feel it in the way his hands grip you like he's afraid you're going to disappear.
When he pulls back, his lips are already swollen, his eyes are dark with want. "I need to taste you," he says, and it's not a request. "Get up here."
"Up where—"
But he's already moving, sliding down the bed and pulling you with him. "On my face. Come on."
"Satoru—"
"Please." And there it is, that needy edge that makes your stomach flip. "I've been thinking about this all day. About you sitting on my face, riding my tongue until you come. Please, baby. I need it."
How are you supposed to say no to that?
"You're ridiculous," you say, but you're already moving, letting him position you. He's lying flat on his back now, looking up at you with such raw want that it makes you shiver.
"Not ridiculous. Desperate." His hands come up to grip your thighs, pulling you forward. "Now stop stalling and sit on my face."
"Bossy," you mutter, but you're lowering yourself down, and then—
"Oh fuck," you gasp as his tongue makes contact, sliding through your folds in one long, deliberate stroke.
He groans under you, the vibration going straight to your core, and his hands tighten on your thighs. "That's it," he mumbles against you. "Right there. Don't move."
But you're already moving, you can't help it, grinding down against his mouth as he licks and sucks and devours you like a man starving. His grip on your thighs is almost bruising, holding you exactly where he wants you, and when you try to lift up, worried about suffocating him, about being too much—he just pulls you back down harder.
"Satoru—"
"Stay," he demands, voice muffled. He pulls his face back to look up at you. "Fuck my face. Come on, baby, I can take it. Give it to me." Then he lowers his mouth to you again.
It's obscene, the wet sounds of his mouth on you, the way he's completely lost in it. His tongue circles your clit, then dips inside you, then back to your clit, and you're already shaking, already so close.
"That's it," he encourages, and you can hear the smugness in his voice even now. "You're dripping, baby. such a mess on my face."
"Shut—up," you gasp, but there's no heat in it because he's right—you can feel how wet you are, can feel it on his chin, his lips, and it should be embarrassing but it's just hot.
"Make me," he challenges, and then he's sucking your clit into his mouth, hard, and you cry out.
Your hands fly to the headboard, gripping the edge to steady yourself as the pleasure intensifies. You start to really move now, riding his face with purpose, and he moans underneath you like this is exactly what he wanted all along.
"Fuck, yes," he groans against you, the vibration making you gasp. "Just like that. Use me, baby. Take what you need."
His hands guide your hips, encouraging the rhythm, and his tongue is relentless—circling, flicking, pressing flat against you in a way that makes your thighs shake. You can feel yourself getting closer, that coil of heat tightening in your belly.
"Satoru, I'm—fuck—"
"Do it," he demands, voice rough. "Come on my face.”
His tongue flicks rapidly over your clit, and that's all it takes. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, pleasure rolling through your entire body. You're grinding down against his mouth, riding it out, and he's groaning underneath you like this is the best thing that's ever happened to him.
When you finally come down, shaking and oversensitive, you try to move off him, but his hands tighten on your thighs.
"Not yet," he mumbles, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, anywhere he can reach. "Just—give me a second. You taste so fucking good."
"You're gonna kill me," you pant, but you're smiling.
But he's already diving back in, and you gasp as his tongue finds your clit again. Your whole body jolts at the sensitivity, but he doesn't let up—he's relentless, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you steady as he works you over. The pleasure is almost too much, bordering on overwhelming, and you're already moaning his name.
"Satoru—fuck—it's too much—"
"I know, baby," he groans against you, the vibration sending another wave through you. "But you can take it."
He's eating you out like he's starving, like he can't get enough, and your whole body is shaking. Your hands grip the headboard tighter, your hips moving against his mouth almost involuntarily. The pleasure is building again, impossibly fast, and you're gasping and moaning as he works you toward another orgasm.
"Oh god—Satoru—I'm gonna—"
"That's it," he encourages, his tongue flicking faster.
Your second orgasm hits you like a wave, even more intense than the first, and you're crying out as pleasure crashes through you. Your thighs are shaking so hard you can barely hold yourself up, and he's groaning underneath you, clearly getting off on how much he's affecting you.
When you finally collapse, completely spent and oversensitive, he finally releases you, and you fall onto the bed next to him, breathing hard and trembling.
"And I'm dramatic?" He's grinning like he just won the lottery, his face wet, his hair a complete disaster. "That was—fuck. I love you, baby."
"You're insane," you say, but you're pulling him in for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips.
"About you? Absolutely." His hands are already roaming again, cupping your face, then sliding down your sides. "But I'm not done with you yet."
"Oh really?"
"Really." He's kissing you again, slower this time, deeper. When he pulls back, there's something vulnerable in his expression beneath all the confidence. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Then show me," you challenge, and his eyes darken.
"Oh, baby."
He's fumbling with his pants, shoving them down along with his boxers, and his cock springs free—flushed and hard and already leaking. You reach for him, wrapping your hand around his length, and he hisses.
"Fuck, baby—"
"What?" You stroke him slowly, base to tip, and he's already trembling.
"Your hands—shit—they're so much smaller than mine. Look so good wrapped around my cock."
"Yeah?" you tease, giving him another slow stroke.
"Yeah." His voice is strained.
He gently removes your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm, and then he's pulling you against him. His arms wrap around you, one hand sliding up your back, the other gripping your hip possessively. You can feel him, hard and hot against your thigh, and he's just... holding you there.
"Satoru—"
"Give me a second," he murmurs, his voice already rough. His breathing is uneven against your neck, and you can feel the tension in his body—the way he's trying to maintain control. "Just—fuck—you feel so good.”
His hips shift slightly, and you feel the length of him drag against you—not entering, just the pressure of him sliding through your wetness. The friction makes you gasp, and he groans.
"There it is," he breathes. "That sound. The little gasp you make when I—" He does it again, a slow roll of his hips, grinding against you. "When I touch you just right."
"Satoru, please—"
"Please what?" His hand slides down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter against him. "Tell me what you want, baby."
"You know what I want."
"I do." Another slow grind, and you can feel how wet you are, how easily he slides against you. "But I wanna hear you say it. Love the way your voice gets all breathy when you're desperate for me."
"You're killing me—"
"Good." He's kissing your neck now, teeth grazing your pulse point. "You've been killing me all day. All week. Every time you look at me with those eyes, every time you smile at me like I'm the only person in the world—fuck, baby, you have no idea."
His voice is shaking now, and you realize he's not teasing anymore—he's barely holding on. The head of his cock catches at your entrance, and you both freeze.
"I can't—" His forehead drops to your shoulder. "I can't think straight around you. Can't control myself. You just—you exist, and I'm gone."
"Then stop trying to control it," you whisper, and you feel him shudder.
"Fuck." He shifts, lining himself up properly, and then he's pushing in—slowly, so slowly. The stretch is intense, pleasure edged with the sweetest hint of pressure as he fills you inch by inch. "Fuck, baby. You feel so good. So tight. So perfect."
"Satoru—"
"I know. I've got you." He's only halfway in, taking his time, letting you adjust. His forehead is still pressed to your shoulder, and you can feel how much restraint this is taking him—the way his muscles are tense, the way his breath comes in short gasps. "You're taking me so well. You always take me so well."
Finally, finally, he's fully seated inside you, and you both just breathe for a moment, adjusting to the feeling of being completely connected.
"Okay?" he asks, lifting his head to look at you.
"Yes baby," you manage. "You can move.”
"Thank fuck." He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then thrusts back in. The drag of his cock against your walls makes you gasp, and he groans. "That sound. Fuck, I love that sound."
He sets a steady rhythm, deep and deliberate, each thrust making you feel impossibly full. His hands are everywhere—cupping your face, tangling in your hair, gripping your hips—like he can't decide where he wants to touch you most.
"You're so beautiful like this," he murmurs, watching your face. "All flushed and breathless. The way your eyes get all hazy when I'm inside you—fuck, it drives me crazy."
"Satoru—"
"I love you so much." His voice is rough with emotion now, not just desire. "Love everything about you. The way you feel, the way you look at me, the way you let me have you like this—"
"I love you too," you gasp, and his hips stutter.
His eyes squeeze shut for a moment, and when he opens them again, there's something raw there.
"Say it again."
"I love you."
"Fuck." His pace falters, becomes less controlled. "You can't—you can't just say it like that when I'm inside you. You're gonna—shit—"
"You feel so good," you tell him, cupping his face. "So perfect. You always make me feel so good."
His breath catches, and suddenly he's kissing you desperately, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, less measured.
"You're everything," he gasps against your mouth. "Everything to me. The way you trust me, the way you look at me like I'm—fuck, baby, I can't—"
"You are," you insist, and his composure cracks completely.
"Fuck—" He's moving faster now, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "Love how you fit around me. Like you were made for me. Like we were made for each other."
"We were," you gasp, and his eyes flash with something fierce and possessive.
"Damn right we were." He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly every thrust is devastating. "There it is. That's the spot, isn't it?"
"Yes—fuck—right there—"
"I know, baby. I know." His voice is breaking now, emotion and desire tangled together. "Gonna make you come again. Wanna watch your face when you—fuck—when you come because of me."
The pleasure is building so quickly you can barely breathe. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, his back, trying to anchor yourself as he drives into you again and again.
"That's it," he encourages, watching your face like he's memorizing it. "I can feel you getting tighter. You're close, aren't you? So fucking close."
"Don't stop—"
"Never." One of his hands slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel it. Let me see you."
The combination of his cock hitting that perfect spot and his thumb on your clit is too much. Your orgasm hits you hard, pleasure crashing through you in waves that make your whole body tense and shake. You're clenching around him, and he groans at the sensation.
"Fuck, yes," he breathes, still moving, fucking you through it. "That's it. That's my girl. You're so good. So beautiful. Fuck, I love you so much."
When you finally start to come down, gasping and trembling, you expect him to follow you over the edge. But instead, he slows his movements, pressing soft kisses to your face.
"Satoru—"
"Not done with you yet," he murmurs against your lips.
Before you can respond, he's pulling out and lifting your legs, draping them over his shoulders. The new position opens you up completely, and when he pushes back in, he's somehow even deeper than before.
"Oh fuck—" you gasp, and he groans.
"There we go." He starts moving again, and this angle is devastating. Every thrust feels impossibly deep, hitting places that make your toes curl. "How's that, baby? That good?"
"Yes—fuck—Satoru—"
"I love you so much," he says, his voice rough. "You know that? I'm never letting you go. You're mine. Always gonna be mine."
"Yours," you agree breathlessly, and something in his expression goes even more intense.
"That's right." His thrusts are harder now, more purposeful. "Gonna take care of you. Gonna make you feel so good. Gonna love you for the rest of my life."
His hand moves to your stomach, pressing down, and suddenly his eyes go wide. He can feel himself inside you, the bulge of his cock with each thrust, and something feral takes over his expression.
"Holy shit," he breathes, completely mesmerized. His hand traces the outline, feeling himself move in and out of you, and he starts fucking you even harder, unable to look away. "Look at that. Look at you taking me so deep."
You're already building toward another orgasm, the intensity of this angle and his words and the way he's looking at you like you're the most incredible thing he's ever seen—it's all too much.
He's transfixed, watching his cock disappear inside you again and again, feeling the movement under his palm. His breathing is ragged, his movements becoming more frantic.
"Can you feel that, baby?" he asks breathlessly, his voice completely wrecked. "Fuck—I'm so fucking deep—you feel that?"
You look up at him with half-shut glazed eyes, your mouth parted open, completely fucked out. "Yes—fuck—yes, Satoru, I feel it—"
He groans at the sight of you—at how thoroughly wrecked you look, at the way you're falling apart beneath him. "You're so hot. So fucking hot. The way you look right now—fuck—I'm obsessed with you."
He's fucking you harder now, more urgently, his hand still on your stomach feeling himself move inside you with each thrust. The visual seems to drive him wild, and his movements become almost desperate.
"Come for me again," he demands, his other hand finding your oversensitive clit. "I know you can. I know you've got one more in you. Come on, baby. Give it to me."
"Satoru—I can't—it's too much—"
"You can." His thumb presses harder, circling your clit. "You can, baby. I need you to.”
The pleasure is building impossibly fast, almost painful in its intensity. You're so sensitive from your first two orgasms that every thrust, every touch feels magnified.
"That's it," he encourages, watching your face. "I can see it. You're right there. Just let go, baby.”
His voice is breaking, his control completely shattered, and then something raw escapes from him.
"I want you—" His hips snap forward harder. "Fuck—want all of you.”
His composure finally snaps.
"They've been on my ass my whole life about the bloodline. About heirs. About duty." Another hard thrust, his voice is cracking. "And I never—fuck—never wanted it."
He's breathing hard, almost gasping between words.
"Not until you."
His forehead drops closer to yours, his movements becoming more frantic.
"Only you. Want to marry you—want to wake up to you every day—want to call you my wife and—ah—know you're mine—"
Your orgasm crashes through you even harder, triggered by his words, by the desperation in his voice, by the sight of him completely undone above you. You're clenching around him so tight he gasps, your whole body shaking with the intensity.
"Fuck, yes—" He's just… staring at you, still moving, still feeling himself inside you. "So beautiful—The way your face—the way you sound—fuck—"
The sight of you completely wrecked under him, the feeling of you clenching around him, the way you gasp his name—it pushes him over the edge.
"Ah—fuck—fuck—fuuckk—" He buries himself as deep as he can go and comes hard, spilling into you in hot pulses. His whole body shudders with the intensity of it, and you can feel him throbbing inside you, can feel the warmth spreading.
He collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you but clearly boneless. For a while, you just breathe together, sweaty and satisfied.
"Holy shit," you mumble.
"Yeah." He's pressing kisses all over your face—your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips. He can’t seem to stop touching you, his hands running over your skin like he needs the contact. "You're amazing. Incredible. Best girlfriend in the entire world."
"Best girlfriend, or best pussy?" you tease, and he pulls back to look at you with mock offense.
"Both. Definitely both." He's grinning now, that soft, genuine smile that he only gives you. "But mostly you. I love you. Like, so much. An embarrassing amount."
"I love you too, you needy disaster."
"Your needy disaster," he corrects, and he's still touching you, hands running over your skin like he can't bear to stop. "Mine now. No takebacks."
"Wouldn't dream of it," you say softly, and you mean it.
He pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest, and you can hear his heartbeat starting to slow. The exhaustion from earlier is creeping back in, but it's different now—satisfied, content, the good kind of tired.
"We should probably shower," you murmur, but you're already half-asleep.
"Later," he mumbles into your hair. "Right now I just wanna hold you."
"Clingy."
"Yep." He doesn't even sound ashamed. "You're stuck with me. Forever. Hope you're ready for that."
"I think I can manage," you say, smiling against his chest.
And as you drift off in his arms, you think that yeah… you can definitely manage. This ridiculous, needy, perfect man is yours, and you wouldn't have it any other way.
Summary: When Leon got assigned as your bodyguard he was not expecting to fall for you
When Leon was assigned as your personal bodyguard, he tried to refuse immediately. The position felt misplaced, almost insulting. He was trained for extraction missions, counterterrorism, high-risk operations, not to trail behind someone like a shadow. He argued that it was not his field, that his skills were better used elsewhere, that assigning him to a protective detail inside city limits was a waste.
But orders were orders.
The question stayed with him anyway.
What made you so special?
When he finally stood in front of you, the answer struck him harder than expected.
You carried the unmistakable presence of your father, the same man whose authority had shaped Leon’s career path more than once. The resemblance was there, subtle but undeniable. Yet where your father’s features were sharp and intimidating, yours were softened by something gentler. Your eyes were larger, brighter, carrying a quiet warmth that felt dangerously disarming.
You were beautiful in a way that did not try to be.
And that unsettled him more than any spoiled arrogance ever could have.
He had prepared himself for stubbornness, entitlement, carelessness. He had expected to babysit someone reckless. Instead, you were composed, polite, almost painfully sincere. Your kindness felt natural, not calculated. The way your small hand fit into his during that first introduction lingered in his memory longer than it should have. The brush of your fingers against his palm felt harmless, yet it lingered like heat beneath his skin.
Training had never covered this.
It had never prepared him for mornings that began with the scent of something homemade waiting on the table for him. It had never prepared him for the way you smiled when he entered the room, as if his presence alone was reassuring. You treated him not as hired protection, but as someone you were genuinely grateful for.
He told himself it was professionalism that made him attentive. That was why he carried your belongings before you could struggle with them. That was why he stood closer than necessary in crowded spaces. That was why he watched your expressions so carefully.
But professionalism did not explain why he memorized the way your eyelashes lowered when you laughed.
It did not explain why your sadness unsettled him so deeply.
When you admitted that you sometimes felt lonely, something shifted inside him. Your eyes were wide and fragile in that moment, shimmering with vulnerability. You looked at him as if he was capable of filling that empty space.
And he wanted to.
More than he should have.
He crossed a line the moment his hand rose to your face. His thumb brushed your cheek with a gentleness that contrasted everything about him. The kiss that followed was not forceful, not rushed. It was tentative at first, almost disbelieving. As if he needed to confirm that you were real, that this was real.
The softness of your lips against his undid something carefully built inside him.
He pulled back only slightly, just enough to see the warmth spreading across your face, the faint tremble in your breathing. The silence between you grew heavier, charged with awareness.
He kissed you again.
Slower.
More certain.
His hand slid to your waist, holding you carefully, almost reverently, as if you might vanish if he gripped too tightly. You leaned into him without hesitation, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. That small gesture of trust ignited something reckless inside him.
He knew the consequences. He knew your father would not hesitate to destroy him for this. His career would be over. His name erased.
He did not care.
The way you responded to him felt like surrender and devotion at once. Your pulse quickened beneath his touch. Your body fit against his as if it had always belonged there. He deepened the kiss gradually, savoring every second, every subtle sound you made when you needed to breathe.
He had become softer for you. It was undeniable.
Every caress carried more than desire. It carried protection, possessiveness, a silent promise that no harm would ever reach you as long as he stood between you and the world.
When his lips moved from your mouth to the curve of your jaw, then lower to the warmth of your neck, it was not hurried. It was deliberate, almost worshipful. His hands traced your sides with restrained intensity, mapping every inch he dared to touch.
You melted beneath him, trusting, pliant, holding onto him as if he was the only solid thing in your world.
He lost himself in that feeling.
In the taste of you.
In the way your breathing grew uneven.
In the realization that protecting you was no longer just a duty.
It was devotion.
And when he kissed you again, deeper this time, slower and more consuming, there was no hesitation left in him.
Only the certainty that he would burn for this if he had to.
The morning sun filtered softly through the slats of the blinds, casting warm, golden stripes across the messy sheets. It was a rare, quiet moment in the chaotic world of the shelter, and you wanted to soak in it forever.
You shifted slightly, intending to stretch, but something heavy and warm anchored you in place. Zanka had his arms tightly wrapped around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His breathing was slow and steady, blowing warm air against your skin, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.
You smiled, turning your head a bit to plant a soft kiss on his messy hair. As much as you wanted to stay trapped in his embrace all day, reality suddenly hit you. Today was mission day. The team had a massive operation scheduled, and being late was not an option.
"Zanka," you whispered, your voice raspy with sleep. "Hey, wake up. We need to get ready. There's a mission."
A low, disgruntled grunt vibrated against your skin. Instead of loosening his grip, Zanka tightened his arms, pulling you completely flush against his chest.
"Five more minutes," he murmured, his voice incredibly deep and rough from sleep.
"We don't have five minutes, love," you said with a soft chuckle, placing your hands on his forearms to gently pry them open. "Enjin will be knocking on our door any second. Let me get up."
You managed to free your torso and sat up, feeling the cool morning air on your bare shoulders. But you didn't get very far. Before your feet could even touch the floor, a pair of strong hands grabbed you by the hips. With a sudden, gentle yank, Zanka dragged you back onto the mattress.
A gasp escaped your lips as you fell flat on your back, and within a second, Zanka was already hovering over you. His usual sharp, guarded expression was completely gone, replaced by a soft, heavy-lidded gaze that made your heart skip a beat. He looked incredibly handsome like this: disarmed, relaxed, and entirely focused on you.
"Stay," he murmured, his thumb caressing your waist.
"Zanka, seriously, we're going to be late," you protested, though your hands automatically found their way to his shoulders, feeling the firm muscle beneath his sleeping shirt.
Instead of answering, Zanka leaned down, leaving a trail of slow, deliberate kisses along your jawline, moving down to your neck. You let out a quiet sigh, tangling your fingers in his hair. He knew exactly what he was doing. He bit your skin gently, just enough to make you gasp, before soothing the spot with his tongue.
The lazy atmosphere shifted instantly, turning thick with a sudden, heavy passion. Zanka's hands slid underneath your shirt, his warm palms pressing against your bare skin as he molded his body to yours. The urgency of the mission began to fade into the background, completely eclipsed by the friction of his lips against yours when he finally brought his mouth to yours.
The kiss was deep, possessive, and filled with a needy hunger he usually hid behind his rough exterior.
Your breath hitched as his knee parted your thighs, and his hands pinned your wrists above your head. The heat between you was rising rapidly, your hearts beating in unison, and just as Zanka lowered his lips to your collarbone, ready to take things much further...
Knock! Knock! Knock!
"Yo! Lovebirds!" Enjin's loud, booming voice shattered the silence from the other side of the door. "The truck is loaded and everyone is waiting. If you guys aren't down in five minutes, I'm coming in to drag you out by the ankles!"
Zanka froze. His forehead rested against your collarbone for a long, agonizing second as he let out a deeply frustrated, muffled curse against your skin.
"We're coming!" Zanka yelled back, his voice thick with irritation, tightening his fingers against the mattress.
"Five minutes, Zanka! Don't make me kick the door down!" Enjin chuckled, and his footsteps finally faded down the hallway.
You couldn't help it; a breathless laugh escaped your lips. Zanka sat up slightly, looking down at you with pure frustration reflected in his eyes and his cheeks tinged with a faint flush. His hair was an absolute disaster, and his lips were slightly swollen from the kisses.
"I hate him," Zanka growled, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against yours. "Well, I wish I did."
"We have to go," you whispered, running your fingers through his hair to soothe him, even though you felt just as breathless and unsatisfied as he did.
Zanka let out a long, dramatic sigh, slowly releasing your wrists. He leaned in one last time, catching your lips in a brief, rough kiss that left you dizzy. When he pulled away, his dark eyes locked onto yours with absolute promise.
"This isn't over," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky promise as he finally sat up and let you out of bed. "The second we get back from this mission, I'm locking that door. And you're not leaving this bed for the rest of the night."
A shiver ran through your body at the intensity of his voice. You smiled, tossing him his uniform jacket from the chair.
ʚɞ The time she's not around, somewhere out-of-town has been hard ʚɞ
⚘ Pairings: Phainon/Khaslana x Reader
⚘ Summery: Having mentioned your upcoming trip to the Grove, you find yourself before an afraid Titan of Worldbearing, begging for you to stay. Neither of you know what danger looms, and his heart aches more than anything at the fact that he can no longer protect you.
⚘ Tags: Angst, established relationship, Titan!Phainon, slight possessiveness, clingy Khas, probably has a separation anxiety, this is the previous part
⚘ Word count: 525
⚘ A/N: i wanted to work with this concept again i miss him, guess who passed the semester finals ❤️🩹❤️🩹 and Spain won the World Cup 🤑 anyways pls Himeko come home the kids miss you
"Khas, I promise I will be back." You reassure the Titan before you, though the words hardly serve their purpose. If anything, they only seem to deepen the fear settling within him.
This all began when you casually mentioned your upcoming trip to the Grove of Epiphany. It was not a vacation, merely a work obligation—but the very mention of it was enough to send Khaslana spiraling. Even as the mighty Worldbearing Titan, he has always feared being separated from you.
"How do you know?" he asks, his voice unsteady. His larger fingers hover near you, brushing faintly against your form as he resists the overwhelming urge to pull you into his chest—something he once could do so easily.
You understand where his fear is rooted—in the agony he endured in his past life. You are infinitely more fragile than a Titan of his scale, and that truth terrifies Khaslana more than anything.
Your lips press into a thin line, unable to form a proper answer. His question is not one you can refute. You do not know what will happen, nor can you guarantee your safety. Once, you could—back when Phainon would immediately gather his things at the mention of your travels, his greatsword always secured at his side as he followed without hesitation.
Now, as a deity, he cannot even hold you. What kind of lover is he, if the one he loves could crumble beneath this cruel world while he stands afar, offering radiance to those who would never cherish you as he does?
"Take me with you," Khaslana finally murmurs, his words slipping through unsteady breaths. He sounds as though he stands on the verge of tears—but those have long since abandoned him. His tears dried the moment Phainon stepped into the Vortex of Genesis with the last Coreflame.
Your expression softens at his plea, touched with quiet sorrow. Your hand comes to rest against his cheek, a fleeting warmth he treasures more than the eternal radiance he upholds. "You know that's not possible, my love," you reply gently, as though handling something as fragile as glass. "But I promise, I will be back before you know it."
The Titan falls silent. His golden eyes remain fixed on you, filled with love yet heavy with grief. Oh, how he wishes he could simply hold you—keep you safe, keep you close, forever. But fate is rarely so kind.
"Then… stay a little longer," he asks softly, lowering his head closer to you. If he could, he would never look away—would watch over you endlessly to ensure no harm could ever reach you. "I want to hear your voice… remember it clearly until you return. So speak—tell me everything. I will listen."
What a tragic being Amphoreus has placed its faith in—a deity who still yearns like a man. One who craves warmth that has long since been taken from him. Such a luxury is no longer his to have.
And yet, just for now, he allows himself the illusion—pretending he is still the man who would abandon everything without a second thought, just to follow the one he loves wherever they go.
Damian Wayne is the clingiest sleepy boyfriend imaginable. though, he'd never admit that. every night he is practically your body guard.
The manor was quiet in the way only deep nights could be — the kind of silence that made every creak of the old floorboards feel louder than it should. You woke up slowly, blinking against the darkness, your throat dry and your mind fuzzy from a half-remembered dream. The clock on the nightstand read 3:42am. You’d only been asleep for a few hours, but your body was already demanding water.
You tried to slip out of bed quietly, careful not to wake Damian. He was curled up beside you, one arm draped possessively over your waist even in sleep, his breathing deep and even. His dark hair was messy against the pillow, his face relaxed in a way it rarely was during the day. You smiled softly, brushing a stray strand from his forehead before easing out from under his arm.
The second your feet touched the floor, he stirred.
“Mm… where are you going?” His voice was thick with sleep, rough and low, but his hand reached out immediately, fingers brushing your wrist.
“Just getting water,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right back.”
He made a small, discontented sound, but his eyes stayed closed. You padded to the bathroom, the cool tile under your feet a relief. You filled a glass from the sink, sipping slowly, listening to the quiet drip of the faucet. When you turned to leave, Damian was standing in the doorway, hair even messier, eyes half-open, wearing his sleeping shorts and an old t-shirt.
You nearly jumped. “Damian? What are you doing up?”
He shrugged, stepping closer. “Making sure you don’t hurt yourself." fall in the toilet.”
You stared at him, trying not to laugh. “I’m not going to hurt myself getting water. I’m a grown woman.”
He crossed his arms, looking adorably stubborn even half-asleep. “The floor is slippery at night. And you’re tired. I’m just… being cautious.”
You smiled, setting the glass down and stepping into his space. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. His chin rested on your head, warm and solid.
“You’re clingy when you’re sleepy,” you teased softly, fingers tracing patterns on his back.
“I am not clingy,” he muttered, but his arms tightened around you. “I’m… protective. There’s a difference.”
You laughed quietly, nuzzling into his neck. “Sure. Protective of me falling into the toilet or something at 3am.”
He huffed, but didn’t let go. Instead, he walked you back to the bed, still holding you close, and pulled you down with him. You ended up curled against his chest, his arm draped over your waist, leg tangled with yours. He pressed a soft kiss to your hair, already drifting back to sleep.
“Stay,” he mumbled. “Please.”
You smiled against his skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He made a small, contented sound and held you tighter.
The next night, it happened again.
You woke up around 2am, needing the bathroom. The second your feet hit the floor, once again; Damian stirred beside you. This time he didn’t even pretend to be asleep. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction.
“I’ll come with you,” he said, voice gravelly.
You turned, smiling in the dark. “Damian, I can go to the bathroom by myself. I’ve been doing it for years.”
He frowned, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “The hallway is dark. And cold. You might trip.”
You laughed softly, but let him follow you anyway. He walked beside you the whole way, one hand on your lower back like he was ready to catch you if you stumbled. When you reached the bathroom door, he waited outside, leaning against the wall until you came out. Then he took your hand, leading you back to bed without a word.
Once you were both under the covers, he pulled you against his chest again, arms wrapping around you like a shield. His chin rested on your head, breath warm against your hair.
“I'll say it again. you're clingy,” you whispered, smiling.
“I am not,” he muttered, but his hold tightened. “I’m… ensuring your safety. That’s all.”
You kissed his collarbone. “Well I love your version of safety.”
He made a small, pleased sound and fell back asleep almost immediately, holding you like you might vanish if he let go.
It became a pattern.
Every night, no matter how deeply he slept, the second you moved, Damian was awake. If you got up for water, he followed, standing in the doorway like a silent guardian. If you had a nightmare and sat up gasping, he was there instantly, pulling you into his arms, murmuring soft reassurances in Arabic until you calmed down. If you simply rolled over, he’d reach out, hand finding yours under the covers, lacing your fingers together like he needed the connection to stay asleep.
During the day, he was the same reserved, slightly arrogant Damian Wayne the world knew — blunt, focused, keeping everyone at arm’s length. But at night, in the quiet dark of your shared room, he was soft. Clingy. Needy in a way he’d never admit.
One particularly cold night, you woke up shivering. Before you could even reach for the extra blanket, Damian was already moving. He pulled you closer, wrapping his arms and legs around you like a human blanket, his body heat seeping into yours. His face pressed against your neck, breath warm and steady.
“Cold?” he mumbled, half-asleep.
“A little,” you whispered, smiling as you snuggled into him. “You’re warm though.”
He made a small, contented sound, nuzzling closer. “Stay close then. I’ve got you.”
You fell back asleep like that — wrapped up in Damian Wayne, his arms around you, his leg thrown over yours, like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you.
In the morning, he’d wake up first, as always. He’d slip out of bed quietly, pretending the clingy boy from the night before had never existed. He’d make coffee, set out your favourite mug, and act like nothing had changed. But you’d catch him watching you with that soft look when he thought you weren’t looking. And when you’d smile at him across the table, he’d blush faintly and look away, ears pink.
But at night, he’d reach for you again. Every single time.
Because no matter how much he denied it during the day, Damian Wayne was the clingiest sleepy boyfriend in the world. And you wouldn’t have him any other way.
A/N: lil guy so cute I love him sm. sorry for constantly disappearing im lowkey setting up a queue rn
my husband suddenly became love"sick"?! ft. phainon
basically regressor au bc he lowkey fumbled in the past lifetime (and you died) so he pulled the uno reverse card and highkey turned back the time (pt3)
Imagine: You woke up to the feeling of someone persistently poking your cheek with a finger.
Once.
Twice.
On the third time, without opening your eyes, you caught the person’s wrist and warned hoarsely:
“Do that again, and you’ll lose a finger.”
“How cruel,” Enjin drawled, sounding not even remotely sorry. “And here I was, just checking whether you were still alive.”
You finally cracked one eye open.
He was sitting on the edge of your bed, leaning slightly forward. His umbrella rested against the wall, his outer clothes had been carelessly tossed over the back of a chair, and his face wore the unmistakable expression of someone who had absolutely no intention of admitting that he had been worried.
“As you can see, I’m alive,” you murmured sleepily.
“Not convincing,” he shot back.
“Well, I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
“Maybe you’re a ghost.”
You rolled your eyes tiredly and tried to turn toward the wall, but Enjin did not let you. His hand settled gently on your shoulder, holding you in place.
“Hey.”
This time, there was none of his usual teasing in his voice.
Your entire body ached after yesterday’s mission. Your side hurt the most, the place where a trash beast had struck you and sent you flying. Eishia had already examined you and said there was nothing serious, but she had still ordered you to spend at least a full day in bed.
You had been planning to get up an hour ago. But then you heard Enjin arguing with someone in the hallway, insisting that you needed rest, silence, and that “all kinds of irresponsible idiots should stop bothering her with their nonsense.”
Judging by Riyo’s voice, you realized that by irresponsible idiots, he meant everyone except himself.
“Eishia said I’m fine,” you reminded him.
“Eishia said you lost a lot of blood,” he corrected. “That’s not the same thing.”
“Did you come here to lecture me?”
“Do I look like the kind of person who lectures people?”
You gave him a pointed look.
Enjin sighed.
“Fine. Sometimes I do.”
For several moments, he remained silent, studying you. Something heavy, almost painful, flickered in his gaze, but he quickly hid it behind a smile.
Fortunately, you knew those kinds of smiles all too well.
“It was my fault,” you said quietly. “I didn’t notice the beast coming from the side.”
“You did.”
“What?”
“You noticed it.”
His fingers tightened slightly on your shoulder.
“You just decided to shield Rudo instead of moving out of the way.”
“He wouldn’t have had time to turn around.”
“So you decided you had time to take the hit for him?”
“Enjin…”
“No, seriously.” He gave a short laugh, but there was no amusement in his voice. “Explain to me why all of you suddenly decided you were immortal. Was there a meeting nobody invited me to?”
You frowned.
“You would’ve done the same thing.”
“Of course.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is, it would’ve been me.”
The answer came so quickly and confidently that you were left speechless for several seconds.
“So it’s fine to risk your life?”
“Exactly.”
The room suddenly became far too quiet.
Enjin seemed to realize what he had said as well. He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.
“Anyway…” he muttered. “Don’t make me run like that again.”
“You didn’t run.”
“I absolutely did.”
“Riyo said you nearly fell down the stairs while running to me.”
“Riyo talks too much.”
You could not help but smile faintly.
“She also said you barged into Eishia’s office and demanded to be let in first.”
“Blatant lie.”
“And threatened to break down the infirmary door.”
“Slander.”
“And stood outside the room the entire time she was examining me.”
Enjin narrowed his eyes.
“I’m starting to question whether keeping Riyo on the team is really necessary.”
“You were worried,” you said, unable to hide your smile.
“No.”
“Very worried.”
“Don’t make things up.”
“Enjin.”
You tugged on his wrist, making him lean closer. He obeyed surprisingly easily, bracing one hand against the mattress beside your head.
Now there was barely any distance left between your faces.
“You don’t have to admit it,” you whispered. “I already know.”
“How confident of you.”
“I learned from you.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. You lifted yourself slightly and kissed him briefly, almost weightlessly.
Enjin froze.
“What was that?” he asked suspiciously.
“A thank-you for worrying about me.”
“Pretty weak for a thank-you.”
“You’re not getting another one.”
“Oh, no.”
He leaned in before you could protest.
This time, the kiss lingered. It was careful only during the first few seconds, as though he was afraid of hurting you, but then his hand slid to your cheek, and all his feigned ease disappeared.
Only tenderness remained. And the fear he had been trying so hard to hide ever since you returned.
When Enjin finally pulled away, his forehead remained pressed against yours.
“Don’t do that again,” he said quietly.
“Don’t kiss you?”
“Don’t scare me.”
You went still.
His thumb slowly brushed over your cheekbone.
“I’m serious,” he added. “Next time, think about yourself first.”
“And what if you’re in danger?”
“Then you don’t have to think.”
You laughed softly and wrapped your arms around his neck.
“Idiot.”
“At least I’m still alive.”
“For now.”
“Is that a threat?”
“A warning. Poke my cheek to wake me up one more time…”
“And what?”
You closed your eyes again, settling back against the pillow.
“You’ll lose a finger.”
Enjin snorted, but he did not leave.
He lay down beside you on top of the covers, carefully wrapped an arm around your waist, and pulled you closer, making sure not to touch your injured side.
Verdugo - Leon Kennedy x Reader (Fever Saint Part 12)
Summary: Leon gets his bearings, to find that he's in some kind of cave. Then, a fight with the fearsome Verdugo.
Authors Note: I know I generally post a chapter of Beneath the Rot in between Fever Saint chapters, but the writers block for that fic is BAD BAD rn so hopefully it won't take too much longer
Masterlist | Playlist | AO3 Link
The water surrounding his legs is cold.
Leon really wishes that one day, he’ll have to trudge through nice, warm water. But today isn’t his lucky day. He hasn’t had a lucky day in years, and he’s sure as hell not getting one anytime soon. Around him, the cave stretches endlessly onwards, darkness enveloping his frame. If it wasn’t for his flashlight, he’d be blind.
Across his shoulders, you’re mostly still. Your breathing is harsh, accented by pained gasps and wispy cries, but you’re not struggling when he has to maneuver though a particularly tough spot. You don’t fight him when he briefly flips his hold on you, carrying you bridal style over some rough terrain before switching you back onto his shoulders. The lack of protest leaves him feeling uneasy and strained. Part of him wants you to try and kick him in the ribs, or argue with him over how he’s holding you. Instead, an anxious silence settles over both of you.
He can feel the parasite now. It’s somewhere in his chest, limbs scratching over his ribs and establishing itself over his heart. It itches and burns within him. The kind of pain that he’s only ever imagined, never been able to feel. There’s a tightness in his lungs that won’t go away. It makes breathing hard. Painful, actually. When he looks down, he can see the veins on his arms turning a sickly dark green. He can only imagine what the rest of him looks like right now. Is his face covered in the same markings? His eyes? His organs?
A weak groan pierces his train of thoughts. It’s you, whimpering into his shoulder. When he angles his head to the side, he can just barely see your face. Your eyes are squeezed shut, worry lines carved into your forehead.
“Rabies?” He tests, turning his head forward again. When he squints and angles the flashlight just right, he can see a door up ahead. With his luck, it won’t lead to anywhere good, but anything has to be better than this.
Another hiss of pain as you respond. “‘M here.”
Your answer does nothing to reassure him. If anything, it just raises his blood pressure further. You don’t sound good. Your words are tilted and wrong, like you’re barely even there anymore. Even as he keeps walking, cold water wading up to his knees, his brain is focusing on how you’re practically slack over his shoulders. He might as well be carrying around a corpse. Shit, maybe he will be carrying around a corpse, pretty soon. You might be the medic, a former nurse, but he doesn’t need to understand medicine to see how far gone you are.
He wonders how Ashley is. How far her parasite has progressed. Does she have that same feeling in her chest right now? The same broiling, burning, stinging pain? God, what are those cultists doing to her? The poor thing is alone right now, probably terrified out of her mind.
“... Keep- Keep them out…”
You’re mumbling, he realizes. Not to him, no. Mumbling to no one. Mumbling to whatever fever dream your heat addled brain is showing you.
You keep saying things, even as he gets to the door and opens it. Cold air hits him as he peers inside. It looks like some old kind of lab, all metal and rust and clinical tables. It doesn’t look safe, but it’s probably safer than the cave.
Your head sways alongside his movements. “.... Don’t let them into peds… Lock the doors…”
Water drips off of him as he steps inside, echoing wetly against the floor. He shivers as another cold chill hits his body, only amplified by the water.
“Room twelve… There’s still someone in room twelve.”
Peds. Room twelve. Keep them out.
Something clicks in his brain and it makes his heart ache, for more reasons than just the parasite.
Nobody does this line of work by choice.
The word ‘outbreak’ nearly hits him over the head. He can only imagine it. You, years ago, clad in pastel scrubs covered in blood and bile. Some kind of monster chasing you down as you tried to help some faceless kid. Is that how it had gone? What outbreak had you even been part of? There’s been quite a few that he can think of. But then his brain interjects the words you said earlier, while comforting Ashley on that floral patterned couch. Back when you were still coherent.
“It must’ve been… 6 years ago- ish.”
6 years ago. He does the math.
1998.
Realization hits him so hard that he nearly drops you. Only one major outbreak happened in that year. He should know. He was there.
Raccoon City.
For a moment, he’s dizzy. The world tilts and spins around him, threatening to throw him to the ground. His brain is flashing back to that damn night. The screaming and gunfire. Faces contorted in pain. Bodies destroyed by the virus. Corpses walking towards him, teeth bared and ready to bite.
You’re still muttering something over his shoulders, fingers twitching against his arm.
“Close that door… They’re getting in!”
His own hand finds yours. For a moment, he can’t tell if it’s you that’s shaking, or him. He’s not sure he’ll like the answer either way. His mind is still somewhere back in that damn city. The city that you must’ve been in too. His worst day and yours are intertwined. How far away from him had you been? The hospital wasn’t far from the police station. Had you been there while he was? Been fighting for your life at the same time as him?
“... He’s only six… Please, carry him… He can’t run fast enough…”
His grip on your hand tightens. What had you seen back then? Who did you try to protect? Just how horribly, horribly wrong had it gone?
He feels a drop of wetness land on his bicep. When he glances over, there’s fever sweat dripping down your forehead. Your body feels too hot against his. Part of him debates doubling back to the cave. Dipping you in the cold water to try and get you to cool down. But, he knows that would probably only make it worse.
Your lips move again, and he stops in his tracks.
“... Officer… Please…”
His breathing halts. His body freezes. You keep going anyway.
“Please save him… That thing bit him… Don’t-! Don’t shoot!”
Your words are going frantic, body jerking and arms twitching. Leon has to force himself to move again. Carefully, he lowers himself, letting you slide off of him. His arms stop you from hitting the floor, instead lowering you down carefully, setting your upper body against a low pair of cabinets. At the motion, your eyes fly open, but your pupils don’t land on him. They flit about the room, taking in everything but nothing all at once. He positions himself in front of you, so that his face is the only thing you can see.
“Rabies?”
Your head shakes a little, limbs weak beside you. When he lifts a hand to your forehead, he nearly has to pull it back. You feel burning hot against the rough skin of his palm. Slowly, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you, he moves his hands to your arms, grabbing you. His touch seems to jolt you a little, pupils finally finding him and staying there.
Weakly, shakily, your head raises a little.
“... Leon…?” You sound unsure, like you don’t know if it’s him or someone else.
He nods. For a second, he wonders if you’re seeing him, or another person. A different officer from the same city that doesn’t exist anymore. How close had you two been back then? Within a mile of each other? Less?
There’s a sweaty clump of hair stuck to the side of your face, and he pushes it behind your ear cautiously. He lets your eyes track his hand. Lets you try and remember where you are and what’s going on.
“Rabies, you need to listen to me.”
A small noise in acknowledgement. It makes his chest ache.
“I’m going to get you and Ashley out of here, alright?”
You nod, but he’s not quite sure if you understand what he’s saying. Your head perks up just a little when he says Ashley’s name, but you’re quick to settle it back against the metal cabinets again.
Leon grits his teeth, whipping his head around to take in his surroundings again. There’s an elevator, but it looks to be powered off. With any luck, the power control is a little deeper into the facility. But, is it safe? Is it too dangerous to drag you in there with him? Or would it be worse for him to leave you here while he restores the power? You’re closing your eyes again, face going slack with exhaustion. It sends adrenaline racing through his veins.
The shotgun is still strapped to your back. Carefully, gingerly, he leans you forward, taking it off of you and depositing it into your hands.
“I’m going to be back, okay? I’m not leaving you here.” He pats the shotgun, pushing it further into your hands. When he checks, there’s still a handful of rounds left. “Use this if anything comes through that door.”
Your fingers curl weakly around the barrel of the shotgun, other hand going to the grip of it. Your eyes still don’t open.
“... Okay.”
He nods, letting out a low breath. When he stands, he spares one last glance to you. Still on the floor, body propped up halfway while your hands hold the gun that almost looks too strong for you. Hours ago, he knows that you could have handled that weapon just fine. Now? He’s not sure how you’re even still conscious.
He takes a step, and freezes. Somewhere, deeper into the facility, he can hear something. A scraping noise. Loud. Harsh. Metal on metal, it sounds like. The noise rings through his body, reverberating in his head. The sound isn’t coming from machinery or lab equipment, no. It’s coming from something alive.
One last glance back. Your head has gone slack, resting all of your weight on the cabinets. Then, he starts moving.
.
.
.
The further into the lab he goes, the worse it feels.
The noises aren’t stopping. They move around him slowly, like they’re following him through the walls. Sometimes, when he stops moving and tilts his head to hear it better, the noise seems to stop with him. Whatever it is, it’s tracking him. As he moves, the scraping noise goes from above him, to his side, and then somewhere impossibly far to the left.
He’s unnerved, yes, but part of him is almost relieved. If it’s tracking him, then it’s leaving you alone. At least this way, he knows where it is. He knows it can’t hurt you if it’s on him.
When he finally reaches the power switch, it feels painfully easy to flip it back on. Across the lab, back where he left you, he can hear the elevator power on. He turns, ready to get back to you, ready to get the hell out of here-
The metal grate next to his head explodes, shards of metal and debris flying out towards him. He barely manages to dodge it in time, shards of steel coming within inches of his body. Something flies through the wall. Huge. Dark as night. He’s turning on his heels within an instant, trying to catch sight of whatever nightmare he’s about to face.
The creature in front of him is massive. It has a semi human face, though contorted and mixed with something insectoid. Its body is covered in some kind of chitin, stretched limbs covered in the armor. It’s staring right at him, a strange, high pitched chittering noise coming from the mandibles in front of its jaw. It stares at him, unblinking, limbs folding and unfolding like a praying mantis.
Leon doesn’t think. He readies his pistol, turns, and runs.
It chases after him with reckless abandon, limbs creaking and snapping as it runs. He doesn’t look back. He has to get back to you. To grab you, throw you into that elevator, and get the hell out of here. With any luck, he can somehow slow it down enough so that it won’t follow. When he comes across a turn, he nearly skids off balance, somehow managing to stay on his feet and keep going. The monster slams into the wall as it tries to follow, a few bricks shaking loose. It stops for a moment, its body chittering and jerking, before sprinting at him again.
Just as he comes across another turn, he spins, pistol up and firing. Bullets hit the thing square in its forehead, flesh exploding and blood spitting out. But the thing keeps coming, even as chunks of its face are slipping off its body to the floor. When he shoots lower, trying to take out the creatures makeshift knees, the bullets just ricochet uselessly off of the chitin.
He’s about to keep running, to keep trying to slow it down, when a noise interrupts him.
Across the facility, he can hear a groan of pain. Breathy and feminine. Yours.
The creature stops in its tracks, turning its head inquisitively. A few more odd chirps spill from the creature’s mutated jaws.
Then, it turns away from him, towards a vent in the wall, and barrels through it. Out of sight in a flash. He can hear the scraping noise from before, this time farther away from him. Towards…
“Shit!” Leon moves so fast that it amplifies the pain in his heart, the burning in his lungs. He ignores the way it tries to steal his breath away. “Rabies!”
He’s taking off before he can think. His muscles ache, his lungs feel like they’re going to burst. The parasite in his chest feels like it’s clenching around his heart, constricting him. Stopping him. But he keeps moving. Even as pained spots bleed into his vision, white stars forming in front of his eyes.
The pain doesn’t matter. He has to get to you before that thing does.
When he finally skids back to the room he left you in, body aching and head dizzy, he wants to scream in relief that the monster isn’t there. You’re still against the cabinet, head limp but body tense, hands clutching the shotgun. But, then he glances over to the elevator.
It isn’t there yet.
The dials above the doors show that the elevator itself is only about halfway to you both. The dial is moving lazily, the mechanisms slow. Fuck. It’s going to take at least a few more minutes for it to arrive.
His heart drops, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. The wall beside him explodes into shards of brick. In a flash of shiny black, the creature is barreling past him, going straight towards you.
He’s about to scream, to run, to shoot, anything. Anything to keep it away from you. He doesn’t get the chance.
A blast rings out.
You’re still sitting there, looking feverish and exhausted, Your face is still flushed, shoulder still bleeding. But, your arms are up, shotgun aimed perfectly at the thing's face. Your eyes are slits, your pupils struggle to focus, but the barrel stays trained squarely on its face.
It stops for a moment, more red cascading down its features, head snapped at an unnatural angle. Then, it roars. A high pitched, awful noise. One that grates on his ears and makes his head hurt. Leon doesn’t waste the opportunity. He’s surging forward, past beast, past the blood and the spent shotgun shells. His hand grabs your good arm, forcing you upright even as your body fails. His arm moves to loop around your waist, tugging you deeper into the lab. If he can move fast enough, then maybe, just maybe, he can avoid the thing until the elevator arrives.
“What’s- What’s happening?” Your head is tucked down, and though he isn’t looking, he can imagine your eyes are closed again. Your body is almost completely limp, legs not supporting any of your weight. It’s slowing him down, but he’s going to have to manage.
His head shakes, hand gripping along your side. “Don’t worry about it. Just stay conscious.”
Your boots scrape uselessly against the floor, as though you're still trying to walk under your own power. Behind him, he can hear the noise again. Metal on metal. Creaking limbs. The horrible scraping noise as the monster keeps hauling towards you both. The noise only spurs him on, his feet hitting the floor harder, legs moving to keep going faster. Still, it’s not fast enough. He can hear it rushing him, getting closer every second. The ground beneath him shakes as it gets closer. He can tell it’s within a few feet of him now, so close that he can feel air move as claws swipe in his direction.
He does the only thing he can to get you out of harms way. He drops you.
You fall to the floor, a sharp cry tearing from your throat. But, it works. Instead of you, the creature hits him full force. It sends his body flying sideways, hitting the wall with a sickening crunch. Pain blooms in his back. Sharp. Intense. Heavy. For a second, his vision whites out, the world disappearing away. Even his hearing dissolves into a high pitched ringing as fire shoots down his spine. He feels like he’s going to vomit.
“Leon!” Your voice breaks him out of his trance. You’re on the floor, eyes trying to track him as the creature steps closer to his frame. “Move!”
Your hand is reaching up, towards a button that he hadn’t seen before. It’s glowing a dull green in the dimmed lights, so faint that he can barely see it himself. Before he can process what you’re doing, he’s up, throwing himself to the side. He has no idea what you’re reaching for, but he does it anyway. At the same time, your hand slaps the button, and you roll over best you can, shielding your face from whatever seems to be coming.
Freezing white mist billows up from the floor in an instant.
Even from feet away, the cold chill sends a shiver down his spine. Leon watches in awe as the creature bellows in what seems to be agony, white enveloping its hulking form. It flails, claws reaching for him, but the movements are slowed and sloppy. Each motion makes its limbs creak hollowly, struggling to move as the freezing cold takes hold of its body.
By the time the white stops, the creature is frozen in place, limbs still reaching out emptily towards his body. His eyes flick from the frozen creature to you. You're still on the floor, breathing hard. The shotgun has slipped from your grasp, laying beside you on the floor.
“Holy shit.” The words leave him as a breath of overheated air. His pupils track how close the thing’s claws had gotten to his body. Its outstretched fingers are within inches of his chest. Up close, the claws are even sharper. Almost like daggers.
You’re shaking again, he realizes. It hits him like cold water.
You look up at him as he stands, head weakly moving to follow his steps.
“... Are you- You okay?”
Fuck. You still sound awful. He has to shake away his worry. With any luck, Luis and his medicines are close. He said he had something to help you. To help Ashley. Hell, to help him. He has to keep moving, and he has to do it now.
