My Interests Change at the Drop of a Dime

I Maeg l 24 l Makes posts about Pokemon (GPL AU) and reposts a lot fanfics I think are neat 🥰

[greatpretending]

Here, have whatever this is from my drafts, pg-13

The Rust Syndicate building was quiet, most of the grunts having gone home for the evening. Your footsteps echoed as you crossed the lobby to the elevator. You and Corbeau had dinner plans and your days had worked out that it made most sense for him to stay a little late and have you meet him here.

The familiar ding of the elevator was like a welcome-home greeting, and the skip it brought to your heart was practically Pavlovian as you anticipated seeing your love. Corbeau didn't look up when the door opened, hyper-focused on whatever he was working on, but he did give you a gentle wave with one hand, and you saw a hint of a smile grace his lips for a moment.

"Hi!" you said, approaching his desk. "You ready?"

He definitely wasn't. He was still staring at his computer, his jacket was slung over the back of his chair, and he'd loosened his tie a little. You knew if you'd come 15 minutes later he would have had his sleeves pushed up to his elbows as well. Part of you wished you'd been late.

"Mm hmm," Corbeau replied absentmindedly, and you waited patiently as he typed for just a few more seconds before shutting his laptop and giving you his full attention.

"Okay," he finally said, standing up and grabbing his jacket. As he shrugged it on, you stepped into his space and tightened his tie, enjoying the warmth of his closeness and the ever-present toxicity of his scent. "Hi."

"Hi," you said again as you felt his hands rest lightly on your waist. You smiled when he leaned in to kiss you.

It was a greeting peck; warm, short, and sweet, but when Corbeau leaned back, his eyes were pulled together in confusion. His fingers tightened, pressing into your skin, and before you could ask him what was wrong, he was leaning in again.

Corbeau kissed you deeply this time, his lips pushing yours open and his tongue gliding along yours before grazing against the roof of your mouth. It took you off guard and had your knees melting. Corbeau held you steady, and your own hands gripped his jacket as a soft, almost-embarrassing whimper escaped your throat.

"What is that?" Corbeau asked between kisses, his voice low and dark in a way that sent a bolt of heat straight from your ears to your core. "Why do you taste so good?"

You slid your arms up, wrapping them around his neck to anchor yourself as he continued to kiss you, not letting you answer as he hungrily sought out the sweet, lingering flavor in your mouth.

"Gingersnaps," you gasped when he finally gave you a chance to breathe. "I passed a bakery on the way here and they had fresh cookies."

The sound that came from Corbeau's throat was somewhere between a groan and a growl, and it was accompanied by him reaching down to grab you by the thighs, setting you on his desk and pressing himself against you until every line of your bodies met.

"God," he said, his lips and tongue finding yours again. "I want to devour you."

You throbbed. Every part of your body was screaming at you to let him do just that. You clung to him, holding him as close as you could as his hands slid up and started to graze the skin just under the hem of your shirt.

"Corbeau," you said, the responsible side of your mind breaking through your lust-fogged daze.

Corbeau just hummed, kissing you again and sliding his hands further up your shirt. You turned your head to the side, and it didn't deter him, he just kissed a trail down your jaw and neck.

"We have to be at the restaurant in like twenty minutes."

"They can wait," Corbeau replied. His lips reached your collarbone and he paused there, his mouth opening over the soft skin and sucking gently.

"'Beau..." you'd wanted it to sound like a protest, but it came out as a breathy moan. It didn't help that your hands seemed to have a mind of their own, your fingers threading into his hair and pulling him closer.

Corbeau's lips found yours again, the kiss so deep and needy it pushed you back until you had to let go over him to brace one hand on the desk. With his forehead pressed against yours and his heavy breath washing over your face, Corbeau traced his fingers over the waistband of your pants.

"You had a treat before dinner, now I want one too."

[newtabfics]

Thoughts on intimacy with Corbeau?

Many thoughts. I have many thoughts. Okay so:

A giver/pleaser. He loves making his partner feel like a god. He loves worshiping and consuming every ounce of ecstasy from them.

A god with his fingers. I noticed he tends to clench his hand in some animations of him sitting at his desk. It's barely noticeable but he fidgets. Anyway, he loves tormenting his partner with his fingers. I'm talking g-spot rubbing, clit rubbing, hitting all the right spots. He actively enjoys it. ARCEUS. FORBID. you are in a restaurant with his lower half hidden because his hand is under that table making you reach Nirvana and you better hold it together because he will punish you for making a scene.

SPEAKING OF PUNISHMENT: It seldom happens. I have seen a lot of people saying he's crazy rough and aggressive in bed and super possessive and honestly i don't think so. Yes to possessive but not in the way that's typically depicted in anime/media. I think he enjoys torturing with pleasure and edging, making his partner beg for mercy/release.

He loves biting and teasing but fucking until they're walking funny for three days? Not really. He's a lover in bed. He's the guy that takes his time and unravels you like a Gordian knot. his fingers are in your hair as he kisses your lips, your nose, the corners of your teary eyes, your neck.

But that doesn't mean he wont fuck you into the mattress until your eyes roll back into your skull if you say please or just need something quick and dirty.

Weird take, but I like the idea of him ruining his own orgasm because of this. Like he could get off absolutely but he's more interested in their pleasure than his own. He overstimulates himself and struggles to come later because he's more interested in his partner clutching around him and sobbing his name. It's a control thing.

[menmadeofwarninglabels]

The reason Leon Kennedy works so well is because he is equal parts gentleman and deeply unwell, which means every sweet gesture comes with the undertone of a man trying very hard to hold himself together.

Like, because he's polite: he opens doors for you, walks on the outside of the sidewalk, remembers how you like your coffee

But because he's unwell: he checks every exit constantly, he needs to hear your voice after nightmares, little things become huge things with him

And that's the thing. The romance isn't that he would die for you. Lots of characters would die for you. The romance is that he's trying, every day, to live for you. And some days that is clearly the harder thing.

For example: you mention offhand that your car has been making a weird noise. Three days later he hands you the keys back and says, "Should be good now." You find out he spent his only free afternoon under the car teaching himself how to fix it from a repair manual because the thought of you breaking down alone on the side of the road made him physically ill. He never tells you that part. He just asks you to text him when you get home. Immediately. Every time. Forever.

A/N: love me an acts of service husband. Speaking of, today is my second wedding anniversary and I FORGOT hahahaha. I'm gonna be in trouble later. Guess he gets the oldest gift around *ties up hair in a scrunchie*

[reposeforthedamned]

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Can You Find Me? Chapter 2 (10927 words) by reposeforthedamned

Tags: bratting (both parties), soft dom Leon, transactional relationship (with burgeoning emotions), establishing boundaries, praise kink, light restraint, spanking, oral, piv, reader insert with a defined personality, Second Person POV

There is a plot, but for those wanting a quick-skip to smut, here's Chapter 2 (⁠◠⁠‿⁠◕⁠)

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The cab ride across town takes under half an hour, helped by the relative lack of traffic this late into the evening, having skirted the evening rush. With the windows rolled down to combat the stink of second hand smoke clinging to the leather seats, the fresh air is pleasant, a cooling contrast to the heat building between you. The air crackles with the same tension that started back at the bar. If this were a ride back to a date’s —or even a one-night-stand’s— apartment, it guaranteed you’d be pressed up against a wall as soon as you got in through the door and walking out like you’d cycled a marathon the next morning. It’s at a level you’ve scarcely felt before — hell, you don’t think you've ever experienced anything this electric.

Truth be told, the situation has your heart pounding for more than one reason: heading home with a man you've just met is gambling with your safety, when you add to that that he’s paying for your company?  

The thought you might actually get murdered won’t go away.

Frighteningly, the realisation that you don’t care won’t go, either. Not with everything you’ve worked for at risk, let alone what else is at stake.

A hand on your knee brings you back to the present. Warm, the pads of the fingers roughed by callouses, it doesn’t grope or wander but instead squeezes gently in a reassuring gesture. The cab has stopped — might have a while ago, you’re not sure. His eyes are on you, calm yet concerned. When you offer a sheepish smile and a murmured apology for zoning out, his thumb rubs slow, soothing circles on your skin.

“You sure you’re alright with going to my place?” He asks, voice steady and edged with concern. “I can get out, have the cab take you back home if you prefer.”

You shake your head a little quicker than you meant to. 

He looks unconvinced.

“I’m good. Really.” I need this.

You cover his hand with yours, your skin buzzing with the contact as if part of an electrical circuit; it feels similar to when you touched a stripped live wire on your phone charger, only the sensation here is pleasant and wanted rather than a nasty surprise.

When he stays silent, you lean close to press a soft kiss to his cheek, the roughness of the stubble beneath your lips sending a shiver through you that seems to pass through him, too.

“Shall we?” You ask.

There’s a slight pink hue to his cheeks now, descending down his neck beneath the V-neck of that too-tight shirt.

He nods, turning his hand over beneath yours and waits, giving you the choice to take his hand or slip away.

You interlace your fingers with his.

His responding smile reaches inside you, coils warm around your heart and low in your belly.

Why couldn’t we have met normally?

But you know the answer: you don’t date. Haven’t for years. It’s a distraction, one that’s not even worth it. And those few times you thought you’d found the one? If reality didn’t seep in first, life would always intervene and remind you why it wouldn’t have worked out anyway.

Hand still in his, you follow him out of his side of the cab, pausing on the sidewalk while he one-handedly works a large bill —definitely more than the fare— out of his wallet and tells the driver to keep the change. The interaction is a blur in your peripheral, attention drawn to your surroundings.

His apartment building is huge. The complex is modern, mostly glass interspersed with grey and orange brick work, spanning several buildings arranged around a lush green courtyard. It’s a stone’s throw (almost literally) from the river and the large arched bridge that leads to the southeast of DC. Something in this area, of this calibre… no wonder he was making jokes about the whiskey not being expensive enough.

Again, you can’t help but wonder what he does for a living.

As the cab pulls away, a gentle tug on your hand pulls you towards the entrance.

The automatic glass door leads into a lobby that’s more befitting a hotel than anything else, with plush communal areas and a large white concierge desk, behind which sits a pleasant looking young man stationed at a computer. A stockier gentleman in his thirties stands off to the side, dressed in a private security outfit.

The man you're with —who, you realise you haven't even exchanged names with— gives a nod to the men at the desk as you pass by. Further along to the left, past a communal area with a coffee machine, is a corridor that looks to lead  to more communal spaces — lounges, gyms, seating areas… Instead of leading you there, he pulls you down a corridor just to the side of the concierge desk.

“Sorry, I’d take you on a tour but I’ve only been down that way once or twice.” He explains, taking you through a well-decorated corridor to a small elevator around the corner. He presses the button to call it down.

“How long have you lived here?”

“A few months.” He steps inside, gently pulling you along by the hand. He presses the button for one of the upper floors. “Wouldn’t have picked this place myself, personally, but…” He trails off.

You arch an eyebrow.

He sighs, bringing his other hand up to rub at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “...But it’s paid for by my work, so I can’t complain too much.”

“Your work pays for this?”

He gives an exasperated chuckle as the elevator slows to a stop, hand slipping from yours to rub at the back of his neck. “Yeah, lucky me, right?”

Part of you wants to ask more, but between his tone and the fact you know you’re here for business not pleasure (though, there may be some of the latter), you let it go. You fall into a less-than-easy silence as you both step out into the hallway. There aren’t many doors, less than a handful, all spaced quite far apart. He stops at one near the end — sleek, black and modern, like the others. Opposite it is a white door with window panels and an ‘emergency exit’ sign glowing above it. He fishes around in his jacket pocket for a moment, retrieves a single key attached to a round black fob.

He turns the key in the lock, the heavy clack of the deadbolt unlatching unnervingly loud in the quiet gathered between you. Wordlessly, he pushes the door open and steps aside, motioning you in ahead of him.

Almost as soon as you're inside, you slow to a stop.

On the wall to the left are two doors, between which sits a small entryway table with a key bowl and a vase of fake flowers. The doors match the modern, integrated kitchen’s cupboards and drawers, a white that’s just a little too clinical for a home. There’s a small island counter with two black kitchen stools tucked up under it and a small cluster of potted plants on the grey granite top. The odd, waxy look to the plants’ leaves makes you question if they’re real or fake, like those in the vase. Appliance wise, there’s  an oven, a microwave, a professional-grade coffee machine and a blender — nothing else.

The long open-plan space is sparsely decorated, leaving a vast open space in the middle of the room; on either side is a door, with the one to the right left slightly ajar. At the end of the room, against the right-side is a suede L-shaped couch, a small dark hardwood coffee-table in front of it and a well stocked drinks cart to the side. Opposite them, on the other wall is an integrated storage unit that’s bare save for a sound system, a flat screen TV, a few more (probably plastic) plants and a sparse scattering of books and DVDs.

Beyond that is a view that can only be described as breathtaking. A tinted floor-to-ceiling window spans the entire width of the room, giving a clear view of the river all the way across to the city on the other side. The setting sun glints off the water’s cobalt surface, a few small boats dotted here and there adding to its picturesqueness. Cars make their way across an arched bridge to the right, their headlamps like fireflies traversing the evening sky while the lights of the buildings in the city beyond are scattered like stars on the horizon.

The warmth of his body against your back startles you slightly, too engrossed in the sight to register him closing and locking the door. He doesn’t touch you, just leans close to your ear to murmur, “There’s a balcony through the bedroom on the right, if you want a better look.”

You turn your head, words failing to come when, close as he is, your lips brush his jaw. The accidental touch sends a shiver through him and you both. What’s meant to be a steadying breath instead only serves to muddy your mind further, his scent engulfing you. Rich, woody and herbal — there's a hint of lavender that you're sure is from cologne. The heady mix of it all is potent enough for you to have to bite back a low moan as you take another inhale.

He stays still, as if rooted in place. Pupils blown wide, they follow your hand’s movements as you raise it to hover near his face, asking permission. He covers your hand with his and presses your palm to his cheek, eyes falling closed with a heavy sigh at the contact. Twisting your body to face him, the contrast of soft skin and scratchy stubble is pleasant under the pad of your thumb as you slowly run it back and forth over his cheek.

Eyes still closed, he leans into your touch. There's a tension in his shoulders that you hadn't realised he carried before, made apparent now as it melts away under your touch. The lines on his face smooth out, brought back by the occasional almost pained scrunch that brings them back at the bridge of his nose and between his brows — reminiscent of an animal unused to physical contact but relishing it nonetheless.

Exactly what possesses you, you're not sure. You lean forward, stretching up slightly to press a soft kiss to those scrunch-induced creases.

He whimpers when you pull back, blue eyes glossy. His hands move to cup the back of your head, the touch barely there until you nod, giving permission for him to continue. His thumbs skim your cheekbones as he mirrors your earlier action, pressing his lips between your brows. Slightly chapped but still soft, their touch sears. You feel the kiss linger when they move to your temple, your cheek, your jaw. His breathing has turned to ragged gasps which fan across your lips as his hover mere multimeters from your own. The smell of earlier’s whiskey on his breath has you desperate to know what it tastes like on his tongue.

He pulls away abruptly, holding your shoulders as you instinctively lean forwards to chase his lips. You catch yourself with a clear of your throat, leaning back on your heels as you steady your breathing.

“Have a seat.” His voice is steady,  the only thing belying the feigned nature of his composure is the breathlessness. “We should discuss some things before we go further.”

♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙

There’s a polite distance between the two of you as you sit side by side on the couch, two fresh old-fashioned cocktails (sans the orange peel) sat on the table in front of you. He’d apologised for not knowing how to make anything fancier, but insisted he could at least make it better than a bar — he was right on that.

“What’s your name?” He asks, starting the ball rolling.

You resist the urge to pick up the drink for something to occupy your restless hands. Forcing them to be still, to not fidget, you give him your first name.

“Leon.” He holds his hand out, the formal handshake he gives a stark contrast to earlier's intimacy. “Leon Kennedy.”

Leon. It suits him. Brings to mind old movie characters with dangerous jobs, and untamable lions; he looks rugged enough the former could fit, but the latter is ironic given everything so far — he certainly wants to be tamed.

“I’ll level with you.” He begins. “I don’t date. When I say my lifestyle doesn’t leave room for it, it’s the truth. Among other things, I don’t have the time to invest in a genuine connection.”

You nod in acknowledgement, biting your tongue from telling him he’s not done bad so far.

None of this is a date, you remind yourself. This is all part of a transaction.

When you don’t interject, he continues. “But I’m human. Coming back to an empty apartment is…” He gestures vaguely around. “...not what I want.”

He goes quiet for a moment, long enough you reach over to the table to pick up both your glasses. Handing him his, you bring yours to your lips. Before taking a sip, you venture, “That’s where I come in?”

He nods. “If you want to, that is.”

Your answering smile spreads, taking over his lips as well. “Depends on what the job entails.”

He wets his lips. Then takes a swig of his drink. Liquid courage downed, he answers: “Intimacy without emotional strings.”

“So…” You mull it over, head tilting. “A friend with benefits?”

“We don’t even have to be friends. Probably best if we’re not.”

“What, so you’d rather I dislike you?” It’s intended as a lighthearted tease, but the joke doesn’t land as you expected.

“You’d be surprised how easy that is.” Though his eyes don’t leave your face, they skirt yours — a good faux attempt at eye contact, but one you're familiar with from your own use of it.

Your hand covers his before you can think better of it. “Leon—”

“Don’t—” 

“—you could find someone the normal way” You push, pulling your hand away before he can retreat himself. The awareness you’re talking yourself out of a job is there, but the rawness to his confession weighs heavy on your conscience. You try and lighten the mood. “There’s hope for you yet. You didn’t start by messaging you’d pay to suffocate yourself with my panties.”

The snort he lets out surprises a laugh out of you. “Jesus Christ. Is the bar that low?”

You shrug, fighting off the remnants of your giggles as you sip your drink. “First message. No payment offered. Then a few unsolicited flaccid pics. While I understand getting your rocks off is different for everyone… Suffice it to say, I didn’t even entertain it with a reply.”

“Fuck me.” He laughs. “And I thought my social skills were lousy.”

You clink your glass lightly against his again. “See? You’re doing just fine.”

Silence returns, more comfortable now. You sip at your drinks, him finishing his while you stare at the dregs of yours.

“Friends with benefits sounds right then, though like I said, there’s no pressure for you to keep on liking me. I won’t be offended.”

“Same to you.” You swirl the last of your drink, eyes flicking between his as you think of how to ask him to define the exact benefits, when he saves you from another attempt at wit that’ll backfire.

“I know you’re not here for friends with benefits though. There’s a few things I can offer beyond what I’d hope would be good sex. Great sex, actually,” the exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows draws the chuckle he was fishing for, “so I’ve been told.” 

“Were you gagged when they said that?”

Gone is the tinge of self-depreciating sadness in his tone, replaced by a wickedness as sharp as his gaze. “Do I need to gag you?”

Hands coming up in acquiescence, you let him continue.

“Financial stability.” Though the playfulness dissipates, the warmth in his voice remains. “Bills, groceries, other expenses. I’d take care of them. Those tuition fees you mentioned leading you to this? Covered completely.”

Bills. Next month’s rent comes to mind, along with the overdue utilities.

Seemingly reading your mind, what he says next pulls you up short of a response: “One condition would be moving in. Here.”

There’s no doubt he sees the cogs turning as you work to process his words. Expression unreadable, he waits until you finally find your voice and ask, “You’re happy to let a stranger live in your home?”

He shrugs. “This place is like a PO Box for me. I spend more time away from it than I do in town.”

While to him it seems like nothing, for you? It’s huge. Until now you’ve absolutely refused to live with another person, a luxury afforded by your living expenses grant. The closest you’ve ever come to a housemate is Maya, who has acted as if she’s the exception and has spent more time at your place than hers in the several months you’ve known her — a frustrating habit, though you’d be lying if you said you minded all that much.

You understand the appeal of returning home to someone. Loneliness eats away at you given enough time.

“I have a minimum term on my lease.” You tell him simply. It’s the truth; you signed on for another twelve month’s contract this summer, before everything went to shit. You can’t just up and leave.

“I’ll pay any fees.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “If I can’t find someone to take it over, I’ll have to pay the remaining months.”

“You don’t have to find someone to take it over. Like I said, I’ll pay it off.”

“It’ll be thousands.”

“Not as if I’m paying rent for this place.” Deadpan. Either very dry humour, or totally serious.

You huff, muttering under your breath, “I’m not that good in the bedroom.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” He grins. “Besides, I’ll be the judge of that.”

You shift a little, earlier's boldness overshadowed by doubts and a self-consciousness you thought you’d perfected hiding. “You’ll be disappointed.”

“Where’s all that confidence from earlier?”

You prickle at the sudden seriousness in his tone. He eyes you with an expression you’re sure is similar to yours when faced with his insecurities earlier on, all quiet contemplation and genuine care.

Deflection is easier than letting anything like that simmer.

You down the rest of your drink. Purposefully, you lick the remnants from your lips. “You’re far too eager to set up a payment plan before you know what you’re getting for the money.”

His gaze softens, but the concern doesn’t totally disappear, despite his playful rebuttal. “I figured there wasn’t a free trial.” He smiles. “Will you consider it?”

“For me it’s a no-brainer.” You answer honestly. Because really, what is there to think about? He’s offering everything you want. Everything you need. “I just don’t think it’s an equal transaction.”

He quirks a brow. “Not equal how?”

“I’m getting a lot more out of this than you are.”

“You get some money in exchange for putting up with me? Sounds like you’ve got the shorter end of the stick, really.”

“Some money doesn’t cover it.”

Giving an exaggerated nod, he clicks his tongue. “Right. You’re also getting mindblowing sex along with it. Can’t forget that.”

The joked-about gag from earlier sounds appealing right now: you’re sure if something similarly cheesy comes out of his mouth again, when your eyes roll next they’ll get stuck up in your skull.

“Too much?” He covers his heart with his hand, feigning a modest change of heart with a hurt affect.

“Far too much. Not you, corny bastard you are. But what you’re offering.”

“Money means nothing to me.” He pinches the rim of your glass, trying to gently extricate it from your grasp but your hold is too tight. “Without meaning to sound conceited, I have so much I don’t know what to do with it. If it can improve things for someone, I’d consider it well spent.”

You look down at the glass, jaw working as you mull his words over.

While money means nothing to him, it’s everything to you. Right now, it’s the difference between your life’s worth in your own eyes and the alternative of death, which would be preferable if you don’t get enough together to finish your course: you need the degree, you need that job promised to you at the end of it, and all they promised along with it.

You need the money.

Loosening your grip, you let him take the glass from you. He sets both it and his own back on the table.

“I’d live here. Let you have sex with me whenever you want—”

“You can say no at any time.”

It’s your turn to snort. “Yeah, really.”

He shifts in his seat, bringing one knee fully up onto the couch and angling himself to face you head-on. “Consent would be key to this… arrangement. You can say no to anything you don’t want to do.”

Where's the damned catch? “So, optional sex, rent-free living, all-expenses paid…” 

“Might I point out again that the sex that’s on offer would be fantastic?”

“It had better be with how much you’re going on about it.”

From the grin alone, you have no doubt he intends to prove his assertions right.

It sounds too good to be true. An offer beyond your wildest imaginings. “What would the intimacy include?” You ask.

“That’s open to negotiation.”

“Then negotiate.”

He swallows, bravado wavering. “This place technically has two bedrooms, but I use the spare as an office. So, sharing a bed when I’m here would be needed.”

“Done, as long as you don’t hog the blankets or leave me on the edge of the mattress.”

His hand comes up again to rub the side of his neck. “I struggle with sleeping. It’s not as bad as it was but…”

His eyes are a little glazed, unfocused.

“What would help?” You ask, trying to draw him back from wherever his mind has wandered.

A small, almost sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Hopefully having someone to hold.”

“Well, that can be arranged…” Settling back into the easy flirtation from earlier, you lower your voice conspiratorially. “And I promise, I’ll do my best to tire you out beforehand.”

“Challenge accepted.”

“That wasn't…” Bragging about stamina now too. You shake your head. “Next?”

“Physical closeness.” When you quirk an eyebrow, his cheeks begin to redden. “Things that couples do.”

“So… stuff like the spooning?”

“Outside of the bedroom, too.” 

“Hugging, kissing—”

“No kissing on the mouth.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I do. But it’s too… personal.”

The line sounds familiar, but it wouldn’t have struck you as odd were it not for the way he fidgets while saying it or the odd cadence to his voice — reciting the words more than saying them. Then, noticing the spines of the DVDs on the shelves opposite, it clicks. “Are you saying that because they say it in Pretty Woman?”

He stumbles over a rebuttal that’s lost amongst the laughter that tears itself from you, the image of him curled up on the couch with the film playing on the TV opposite beyond amusing, albeit sweet. 

You sober up fast as his head lowers to avoid meeting your gaze.

“I’ll respect it.” You promise, bringing his eyes back up to yours with a finger under his chin. “But there’s a lot of personal stuff involved in sex, you know.”

“God, your one-liners are worse than mine. That’s impressive.”

You smile, brushing your finger up from his chin to lightly tap his lower lip. “No kissing on the lips. Got it.”

You’re about to ask about any other hard no’s but words evade you when, before you pull your hand away, he parts his lips and bobs his head forwards to take your finger into his mouth, down to the second knuckle. Hot, wet heat envelops the digit as he swirls his tongue around it, eyes locked on yours with a playful glint that only adds fuel to the fire pooling low in your belly.

“It’s this you saying  you’ve had enough drinks to let me call you a good boy?” Your voice comes out steadier than you thought it would.

He hollows his cheeks, sucking and swirling his tongue as he draws back up the length, stopping only to playfully nip at the pad before sitting back. His playful smirk fades, morphing into a more sober, restrained expression, the mask belied by the hunger in his eyes. “Not tonight.”

Your hand lowers. Instead of withdrawing to your lap, you lay it on his inner thigh, just above the knee. Keeping your eyes on his to gauge his response, you follow along the seam of his trousers as you slowly stroke up his leg.

The shudder that wracks his whole body sets you alight.

About three-quarters of the way up, your hand stills. Coy, teasing, you retrace your path back down to his knee, relishing the spark of confidence that ignites within you at seeing the unbridled lust in his hooded eyes. It’s only bettered by the soft groan he lets out as you slide your hand up once again, this time venturing higher, still not all the way, before sliding lower to caress the more sensitive skin of his inner thigh on your calculated retreat.

With the thickness of the cargo’s denim, you can't feel him and you doubt he feels much of your touch. But the effect is undeniable, maybe even better for the barrier — the idea alone working him up so quickly that you have to question his confidence in the bedroom department. His body’s desperation has you wondering how long it’s been since he last did this.

Probably less of a dry spell than you, you muse, thinking of the shoe box(es) under your bed, their contents having done more for you than most if not all of the men you’ve been with. They're quicker, less complicated, and actually get you off.

Will he get you off?

Hell, he’s paying for it. Enough you’ll happily fake it for his ego if he can’t manage it. Enough you probably should even if he doesn’t try.

But oh, how you hope he’ll try.

You don’t think he’d even need to put much effort in. All the flirtation, the tentative touches, the unexpected gentleness juxtaposed by the roughness of his hands and of him…

Between your thighs, tensing reflexively as you fight to maintain composure, the black lace panties you chose for the night cling to the wetness that’s been accumulating since he begged so nicely at the bar.

You want to ruin him — want him to ruin you. Both, in equal measures of excess.

Which is on the cards tonight?

Already, you know you’ll accept his offer.

Your palm glides up, up—

—as his head lolls to the side, lips parting as his jaw goes slack, chest heaving—

—and skims feather-light over the outline of the hard member that twitches under your touch, its thick outline visible in spite of the fabric barrier… Only for you to traverse higher to trace a single fingertip, the one he took into his mouth, up his stomach before pulling away.

Beneath the too-tight shirt, you see how his abdominal muscles twitch and clench, even with your hand gone.

He doesn’t make a sound. Eyes falling shut, breaths coming in through his nose as long and controlled inhales and leaving as shuddering exhales, he licks his lips slowly. “Is that a yes to the offer?”

You watch him for a moment, letting the question hang heavy in the air between you. The longer you wait, the more his breathy exhales catch in his throat, verging on soft grunts.

Leaning close —as close as you can without actually touching him— you ghost a kiss to his jaw, just below the earlobe, and whisper, “You’re right: there’s no free trial. So if you want more than a night, you’d better prove what you’ve promised.”

Another shudder. The furnace-like heat radiating from him engulfs you, body and mind. You ghost another kiss to his jaw, staying there a moment longer as you breathe in the intoxicating scent that’s a bit headier now, muskier—

One of his hands cups the back of your head. Strong, thick fingers weave through your hair, twirling it around their lengths so their grip is tight enough it hurts just right. Your startled gasp catches in your throat as his lips find yours but don’t connect — his open, panting mouth hovering millimetres away from your own, which has fallen open to let out the low moan startled from somewhere deep inside you.

No kissing. 

You share breath for so long, you think he’s reconsidered the rule.

With a ragged groan, he nuzzles his nose up the length of your cheekbone. 

The noises he’s making —that you’re making— are obscene: raw and carnal, they make the warmth pooling low in your belly surge, the coil it forms clenching and unclenching like your thighs as you press your lips tight together in an attempt to not beg.

For what? You’re too flustered to think.

“You’ve been downright evil.” His voice is so rough it’s a growl; its resonance tears a whimper from you that goes on embarrassingly long, becoming a low whine you don’t think will end until he’s inside of you. Your hands scrabble for purchase against his chest, clutching desperately at the neck of his shirt, only for both wrists to be caught in an iron grasp you only fight so it grows tighter. “I might, if you behave, be good for you. Another night. But tonight?”

He flexes his grip on your wrists. Lightly at first, then tighter when your hips jerk.

“Tonight, I want you to be good for me.”

The parts of your brain with higher-thinking capabilities have shut down; the energy that would be fuelling them is instead dedicated to resisting the urge to rut up against him like a beast in heat as you let out a breathless laugh. You can't help but tease, “That’s a really, really overused line.”

His sudden stillness is unnerving. 

“...Please.” He whimpers.

Realisation hits: behind all the restraint has been a wordless plea for consent.

He’s like an elastic band pulled taunt and ready to snap. Waiting for you to allow him to.

The coil in your stomach tightens painfully. The fight to keep your voice even is lost, replaced by one solely to ensure your words are coherent enough for him to understand. “I’m teasing because I want you to react.”

Comprehension dawns, palpable in the slackening of his grip on your wrists and how his fingers slip from your hair; any complaints are forgotten mid-speach as his large hands seize your waist to lift you up and pull you into his lap, the action as effortless as if you weigh nothing. Touch rough and grasping, he kneads at the curves of your hips, holding you in place as he grinds up against you hard, easing up only when your moans audibly take the form of his name.

“Such a fucking brat.” He punctuates that last syllable with a rough thrust upwards, his tight grip on your waist keeping you pressed pelvis-to-pelvis, your soaked core held down against his solid length.

You can’t help yourself. “You’re one to talk.”

The muted clap of flesh-on-clothed-flesh echoes in your ears before the feeling registers. By the time you can process it, he brings his hand down again in another spank, then another, then another. It's nowhere near as hard as you can take, but the action alone is so jarring it has you gasping and squirming.

His hand stills.

“Safe word?” He asks.

“Traffic lights.” It's the easiest system to think of when in the midst of play, at least in your mind. “Green. Green.”

He runs his palm lightly over your rear. “Good girl. You answered so fast, so sure.”

The praise has your hips bucking against him. The lace of your panties is almost no barrier at this point, soaked as they are, especially when faced with the roughness of the denim covering his cock. You grind down on the outline of him, the fabric of his cargos providing the perfect amount of friction as you rock back and forth over his clothed length.

The hand on your waist tightens, stilling you and keeping you from moving against him; you can't escape the punishment bestowed on your ass nor can you seek relief from the ache building between your legs as he brings his hand down on your backside again and again and again.

 The spanks are metronomic, each delivered harder than the last until the blooming pleasant pain has your thighs shaking. Force plateauing, they continue until you're whimpering pleas of his name, upper body hunched towards him, face pressed into the crook of his neck to muffle your cries of pleasure and frustration, all of it too much yet nowhere near enough.

The blows slow to a stop. His hand slides up to rub small circles on your lower back, touch firm yet gentle. He presses a kiss to your damp temple, murmuring praises interspersed with your name against your ear. When your breathing steadies, he asks, “If I take you to the bedroom, will you be good for me?”

You’re sure you'll enjoy it even if you disobey, but you're not incapable of yielding when you want to.

You nod, unable to hide your eagerness, though you can’t be too upset since it earns another kiss to your temple.

“Good girl.” One of his arms brackets your back, just below your shoulderblades, as the other hooks behind your knees. Again, acting as if your weight is nothing, he clutches you close as he stands up from the couch and carries you to the door to the left. Already ajar, it only takes a small nudge from his raised knee to open.

Like the rest of the apartment, the bedroom is fairly bare aside from an extra large bed —larger than the king-sized in your own apartment— with a slatted head- and footboard, flanked by a nightstand on either side. There’s a large dresser pressed against the wall to your right, next to an open doorway leading to what looks to be an ensuite. All the furniture is the same deep cherrywood as the coffee table and the TV-stand-slash-storage-unit in the living room. To the left there's another window-wall, this one inset with a glass door that leads out onto a balcony facing that same beautiful view from earlier. A single camping chair sits out there, angled away from the bridge.

The bed’s slatted footboard is low enough that the thick mattress rises above it, allowing him to crawl straight onto the bed to lay you down. The bedsheets and duvet are black, the slight roughness of their cotton reminding you of his hands, which are currently occupied with divesting you of your heels. He works at undoing the laces until you twist your foot, drawing his attention to the zipper on the inner side. Soon both your shoes and his are off and clattering across the floor, thrown in the general direction of the door.

He stands upright at the base of the bed, eyes on you. You haven't moved an inch since he laid you down, nor can you: the intensity of his gaze holds you in place like a specimen pinned for preservation; the comparison’s fitting, given the unwavering focus he studies you with. The old ‘take a picture, it lasts longer’ joke surfaces, but you’ve already said you’ll be good, so you set aside the impulse to break the tension. Instead, you raise your arms above your head and arch your back off the bed, the low pops from your spine and joints as you stretch pulling a soft sigh from your lips, parted slightly as you watch him watching you.

Slow and deliberate, he lowers himself to his knees on the end of the mattress, taking to all fours to crawl up on top of you. His legs bracket your hips as he sinks down, bracing an arm by your head to take most of his weight while using the rest to pin you down. Hot breath fans across your neck as he nuzzles from your collarbone up to your jaw, peppering little kisses each time your pinned hips jerk beneath his. You’re about to bring your hands down, to weave your fingers through his hair and offer little tugs of encouragement, but as soon as he feels you move them he takes hold of your wrists, one large hand encircling both yours in a firm grasp.

“Uh-uh.” He reprimands, nipping lightly at your pulse point. “I’ll be in charge tonight, sweetheart. Keep your hands up here and behave for me.”

Your frustrated whine is silenced by a sharp swat to your outer thigh.

The hand circling your wrists loosens, only pulling away when you keep your hands in place as asked. It ghosts down your arms, your cheek, your ribs, then squeezes your waist before it hooks under your knee to pull your leg up and over his hip. With each grind of his hips, the rough material of his cargos rubs your core, wringing little noises from you, his lips pressing lingering kisses up the column of your neck. He must hear how your breath hitches when he finds the sensitive spot behind your earlobe, stopping there to nip lightly at the sensitive skin while you whimper under him, hips moving to meet his thrust-for-thrust as he dry humps you into a frenzy.

You have to bring your hands down behind your neck and link your fingers to resist the urge to guide him or hurry things along, earning a hum of approval as he pulls on one end of the bow-neck of your dress, loosening it to give more access to your neck and chest.

 As he continues with his torturously slow pace, the warmth pooling low in your belly grows, thighs clenching around his hips hard enough to surprise a moan from him. “Easy, baby. Just ask.”

“Leon…” It’s halfway between a plea and a warning.

“Ask nicely.” It’s not a request; the keen edge to his voice turning the words into a command.

“Please.”

He clicks his tongue. “I said nicely.”

You swallow, both to clear your throat and to hold back a playful quip. Usually you’d push more —especially given he seems to enjoy it so much— but he’s asked you to be good and, oh, how you want to be good for him if he’ll be good to you. So, voice slightly trembling, you beg: “Please, Leon. I need you.”

You’re not sure if it’s the mention of his name and your need in the same sentence or the breathless rawness to your voice that makes him crack, but he relents with a groan, burrowing his face in the crook of your neck as he snaps his hips forward a few times until you say it again, and again. Meeting him thrust for thrust, you fight to hold back whines and whimpers as he pushes you closer to the edge than you care to admit from just heavy petting.

Pulling back abruptly, he takes a moment to compose himself. Flushed, panting, painfully hard from the feel and look of things, he sits back on his haunches and runs a hand through his hair. He toys with the hem of your dress as he palms himself through his trousers, a sight that would’ve sent you into a frenzy if you weren’t already worked up to one. “This have a zip?”

You shake your head. He wastes no time divesting you of it, only needing a little help from you with lifting your hips and shoulders when necessary as he bunches the fabric in his fists to tug it up and off you. The fabric lands somewhere on the floor, the muted sound of it hitting the hardwood lost amidst heavy breathing — yours and his.

His hands land on your thighs, bracketing his hips; they skim up over your sheer thigh-high stockings and black panties, sliding up your sides and behind your back to unclasp the strapless bra he tosses aside without taking his eyes off your chest.

Though no sound comes out, his lips move; they form something resembling fuck me before he sucks the lower one between his teeth, worrying at it as he returns to watching you with an expression close to reverence.

“Please.” You beg again, not wanting him to lose momentum.

He smiles, not quite snapping out of it but acknowledging your impatience. “Alright.” He runs his hands along your outer thighs again, up over your hips and the sides of your torso, stopping just beneath your breasts to rub slow circles with his thumbs. “Since you asked nicely. But another night, I get to take my time with you.”

His hands slide up to cup your breasts. Kneading, he pinches your already tight nipples into stiff peaks before pulling away to strip you of the rest of your clothes, stockings and panties thrown aside quickly to leave you totally bare before him.

Literally, before him: he’s still completely clothed, you realise with a soft huff, the sight of your naked body contrasted with his clothed one sending a shudder through you.

Before you can stop yourself, your hands come down from their place above your head to grasp at his clothed chest. You tug gently at the neck of his shirt as, once again, he bites at his lower lip.

His hands close around yours. You expect a reprimand for ignoring earlier’s instruction, only to be surprised by the gentleness of his lips against the back of your hands as he kisses one then the other.

“I’ve got scars.” He says, voice blunt. There’s no shame in his tone or on his face; the words aren’t a warning, just a courtesy. He doesn’t wait for a response before taking off his top.

Your breath catches.

His chest and stomach are toned and muscular, not in the way of a vanity-oriented body builder but someone who builds strength through labor, dusted with a light but noticeable covering of hair a few shades lighter than on his head. He’s littered with scars — many old, some fresher. The one that draws your eye is the circular one on his left shoulder — the skin there is a little silvery, slightly crinkled compared to the surrounding area; very old but undeniably from a bullet.

His lifestyle doesn’t leave room for someone.

You wonder again what that lifestyle is.

Dwelling on it, however, is not on the cards for the night; he makes sure of that when he unbuckles his belt.

“Right side —your left, sorry— nightstand,” he says, shoving his trousers down over his hips. “There’s condoms.”

The words are meaningless, just sound to your ears, all your attention fixed on the obscene bulge tenting his grey boxers and the darker patch that grows, just slightly, as you gape at it.

“Hey.” He grasps your chin, lifting your eyes back to his, the roughness of the action countered by the softness in his gaze and the amused, slightly lop-sided smile. “My eyes are up here, sweetheart.”

Be good be damned, you have to roll your eyes at that. “I could’ve used that line earlier, you know.”

He smirks. “You gonna get that condom or not?”

Nodding, trying —and failing— to keep your eyes up there as instructed, you begrudgingly shuffle backwards to give yourself enough room to flip over. In the drawer is an unopened box of condoms and a couple of bottles of lube. As you open the box and fish out a foil packet, there’s a thud as you presume his trousers hit the floor, followed by a metallic thunk as the belt no doubt follows. While you’re practically sopping wet, you grab up one of the bottles of lube as well before you close the drawer.

He doesn’t give you a chance to make your way back to him, opting instead to manhandle you again as he pulls you down the length of the bed by your hips, surprising a small giggle out of you.

Casting a glance over your shoulder, you place the lube down by the pillows as, holding the condom between your index and middle fingers, you wave it back and forth, showing it off like a prize. His attention however can’t be drawn from your backside.

“See something you like?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Thought you said you’d be good.”

“How is asking a question considered bad?”

He smirks. “It is when it’s another cheesy line.”

Pouting, you flick the condom in his direction. Turns out your aim is far better than you realised —or intended— when it hits him square in the face. Only at that does he seem to snap out of his trance, nose scrunching as he drops his gaze to stare at the fallen foil packet…

Which has landed on his bare thigh right beside his thick, erect, leaking cock.

Your burst of laughter is cut short at the sight. Jaw dropping, a —frankly embarrassing— choking sound replaces it before you swallow and scramble to gather your bearings.

He reaches forward to slip a couple of fingers under the hem of your panties. A thwack rings out when he pulls the material back and lets it go, snapping their elastic against your flesh; he has to do it a couple more times to pull your attention away from his member, which bobs with each of his movements, heavy and veined, flushed red with a bead of precum dribbling from the tip.

“I’m starting to feel a little objectified here.” He gives your underwear’s elastic one final snap before tugging it part way down your thighs. “Only fair if you can stare, I get to do the same, don’t you think?”

Acquiescing, you roll onto your back and lift your legs, letting him pull your underwear off as you run your hands over your undoubtedly flushed face, earning a chuckle from him.

“I’m teasing, sweetheart.” He reassures, rubbing your thighs gently before pushing them up and further apart.

Face growing hotter, you feel the trickle of your wetness as he holds your trembling legs open.

“I gathered.” There’s a slight shake to your voice. “I just…” You trail off as his hands slide higher, thumbs caressing your outer labia as they hold you open. Any attempt at continuing your sentence results in a whimper, so you give up on words for the moment.

“If I let you compliment my cock, can I say how pretty your pussy is?”

You groan at the line — how it sounds like it’s straight out of an erotica or a porno. Yet the effect of it coming from his lips, in that damn voice, is undeniable. Even if you wanted to rag on him for the line, it would be half-hearted and he knows it, especially given the fresh gush of wetness the praise brings.

He leans close, so close you think he’s going to bury his face between your thighs —oh, how you want him to— but he stops just short of where you want him. Testing, teasing, he rests his head against your thigh as he breathes you in with each inhale, puffing hot air onto your core with each exhale.

One of the things you paid for using the money he sent was a screening at a sexual health clinic. You knew you were fine already, but thought it good practice to send confirmation of a clean bill of health across — a courtesy he reciprocated. One of the other things was a full down-below wax session.

“Do you always go bare?” He asks, alternating between delivering gentle kisses and rough nips along the apex of your thighs.

Finding your words is hard, like swimming through syrup. “I… uh, no. Not this bare.”

He hums, running the tip of his nose up one side of your lower lips, then down the other. “While I appreciate the thought, sweetheart, and I’m loving the clear view… I want you to be comfortable. I’m not afraid of a bit of hair.”

A nod is all you can manage, not trusting your voice or even sure words will come out as he retraces his path back to the other side.

“May I?”

Another nod. He traces your lips with his nose again, giving a rough nip to your inner thigh when he reaches the other side.

“Words, please, sweetheart.” He orders.

Shivering, you clear your throat when no sound comes out beyond a soft squeak, then try again. “Yes, please.”

His lips are hot as they press a kiss against your mons. “Good girl.”

Strong hands keep your thighs open as he moves his mouth to your core, tongue firm and hot as he flattens it to lick a stripe from your dripping hole to your clit. Not seeking control but needing an anchor, you grasp at his hair. Seizing your wrists, this time taking one in each hand as he holds you open with his forearms, he repeats the action with his tongue again and again until your thighs shake. His thumbs rub soothing circles on your inner wrists, grip firm but unrelenting even when your moans morph into pleas as he traces your folds, circling where you need him but not giving in.

Your appeals earn no mercy. If anything, his ministrations grow slower, firmer.

Only when your back bows off the bed does he change it up. Sealing his lips around your clit, he sucks with just the right level of pressure as he taps his tongue against the throbbing nub; listening to your cries to keep going, he does just that — until that coil of tension building in your stomach finally snaps. You cry out several things, mostly his name and strings of swears as he does exactly as you asked and keeps going, his pace slowing only slightly to let you crest the first wave before speeding up again, seemingly determined to wring a second orgasm out of you before you've even had a chance to comprehend the first.

Only, when you're teetering on that edge for the second time does he let up. Pulling away so abruptly you cry out, his strong arms keep your jerking hips firmly in place as he smiles up at you, chin glistening with your wetness.

“I know I keep going on about ‘next times’,” he all but drawls, pupils blown and wild. “But I intend to fuck you thoroughly with my tongue. I just don't think I'm gonna last long enough to do it tonight, sweetheart.”

Hands still gripping your wrists, he kisses a languid path up your body, stopping every now and then to rub his cheek against you, stubble scratching as he smears your wetness over you. With each word you huff out, his swaps a kiss for a nip: “And here you were, bragging—” Your breath catches when he latches onto a nipple and bites hard enough to startle a hiss from you, soothing it with his tongue quickly before doing the same to the other side. “—bragging about your stamina.”

Kisses reaching your neck, he lifts his arms to pull yours up over your head, shifting once again to take hold of both your wrists in one hand. His other goes down between your thighs and he adjusts himself, moving so one of your thighs is flanked by both of his. The foil condom packet is somewhere — under your ass, you think. You're grateful he's yet to put it on because the sight of his need alone has you squirming: desperately hard, the tip soaked by the precum leaking more with every movement, it’s heavy on your thigh has you aching to know the feel of it —of him— inside you.

Too busy staring, he catches you off guard by sliding two fingers into your wet heat.

He goes slow, which you're grateful for since his digits are so, so much thicker than yours, the pleasant burn of their stretch dragging a whimper out of you as he thrusts in and out slowly, going a little deeper each time until he’s in as far as he can go. Ball of his palm pressed against your clit, he uses it to rub rough circles each time he thrusts, using your moans as guidance for pace and pressure until he's ruining you: hands pinned, mind too fogged to think (and words too difficult to form around the noises he's wringing from you, anyway), all you can do is take it as he adds a third finger, pace unrelenting.

When he finds the spongy patch you always seek but find is just out of reach for your own fingers without help from a toy, you're sure the neighbours hear the yelp his roughness with it draws from you, as well as the string of don’t stops that follow when he falters, checking in before continuing. 

There's a light sheen of sweat covering him now, as there is on you. He kisses your jaw, murmuring praises against your ear as you clench around his fingers, hips moving to meet his thrusts as you near that second wave again.

“Please.” You need him to keep going.

His voice is strained, but he doesn’t let up. “You're doing so well, telling me what you like.” 

His palm presses harder, fingers curling a little more as he finds that spot on your neck again and bites, sending you hurtling over the edge once again. He groans at how hard your muscles clench around his fingers, not slowing his movements one bit as he helps you ride it out, only easing off when it tips into overstimulation and you wriggle your hips away.

He withdraws his hand from between your thighs, though his grip on your wrists remains. It eases slightly for him to flex his fingers, tightening when you move to escape his grasp.

He tuts lightly. “Not done with you yet, sweetheart. Keep ‘em here.”

Only after you nod in acknowledgement does he let them go.

Sitting back, he looks around on the sheets for something. “Where’d the…”

Twisting your hip, you jerk your chin down to indicate. “I'd get it but…” You trail off, keeping your wrists together as if bound by more than just his request, wriggling your fingers for effect.

Humming in approval, he skims his fingers over your ass in search of the foil packet. 

He has it open and rolled on in what must be a world record, his speed a sure indicator of his desperation if the visual indicators weren't enough of a tell.

“I, uh…” Your mind goes back to the contents of the drawer. A flush forms on your cheeks that's not from arousal. “If you can use some of that…” You indicate the lube bottle behind you with a tilt of your head.

Another reason the toys under your bed are preferable to men from dating apps or met in bars: they don't challenge your knowledge of your body. Bring up lube and a good few take offence, acting as if the mention of it alone is a slight against them; others told you it wasn't necessary, insisting you were worked up enough… Listening to them instead of your body always left you unsatisfied and usually in pain for days. You’ve long since learnt to listen to your own needs over their egos.

Unlike them, though, he's paying for this. 

Holding your tongue might be necessary, but you hope his earlier line applies to more than just your preference for your body hair.

Shaking his head, he picks up the bottle. “I can’t use this.”

“What?”

Before you can even consider forming more of a response, he flips the bottle around to show you the label.

“Need the water-based, not the silicone.” He explains. You’re sure you're gawping, because he laughs, a little self-conscious. “Am I wrong or something?” Then, a little quieter, he adds, “Could’ve sworn the silicone ones ruin the rubber.”

Your eyebrows lift slightly. “It's fine.”

“That only apply to toys then?”

“Pretty sure…” You cock your head, filing that away for later.  “You don't have a problem with it?”

Another laugh, this time much deeper, more comfortable. “Fucking hell, the bar is really low.”

“You’ve got no idea.” His smile warms you, calming an anxiety that shouldn’t form but past experiences have cemented in you. “Pretty sure it's impossible to trip over it though.”

“Little too high for that?”

“Nope, it's buried in the ground at this point.”

Expecting another laugh, the little, almost imperceptible furrow of his brows and slight downturn to the corners of his mouth catches you off-guard.

Not wanting the mood to tip over into anything too tender, aware that kind of emotional thing is exactly what he’s trying to avoid, you try to combat the sudden change in atmosphere. “Don’t go soft on me now.”

He looks down between your bodies and deadpans: “No chance of that, sweetheart.”

The eye roll you give is aimed more at yourself than him, having completely missed the double entendre. He gives a little chuckle at his own crappy joke, noticing your own slight smile. Not what I meant, but it works.

Hiking your leg up high, you hook it over his waist, drawing his attention back to what you’re doing in the hopes it stops him thinking about the sad state of your sexual history.

Funny how a guy paying for it seems to care more than anyone that’s come before. The irony should bring tears to your eyes, but instead it frustrates you.

Because in another lifetime? This would be everything you could ever want. It feels like it should be kismet. Instead? It’s perfectly imperfect: a tease of what romance stories preach about, dangled within reach but separated by the invisible yet palpable barrier of common sense and reality.

It’s not what either of you want from this arrangement.

Thankfully, the thought doesn’t have a chance to linger.

The bottle’s open, glistening liquid dripping from the cap onto his waiting fingers. He coats himself, adding to the small amount already slicking the condom. The rest, he brings to your entrance.

“This enough?”

You nod. Without thinking, you bring your arms down to wrap over his shoulders. Before your lips touch, you remember the boundary, quickly ducking your head to press your face into the crook between his shoulder and neck.

He doesn’t correct you for moving your hands — possibly a result of the long, low growl you pull from him when, giving in to an impulse, you sink your teeth into his skin, hard enough to feel but not hurt or break the skin. 

His hips jerk, his lubed cock leaving a wet streak along your stomach as he bucks so as not to enter you abruptly — you’re thankful, given his size, although a deep rooted, bestial part of you wishes he had despite the discomfort it would cause.

You soothe the bite with your tongue, relishing the guttural sound he releases when you sink your teeth down again, a little harder.

Bracing himself on one forearm, he reaches down to line the head of his member up with your entrance. The stretch that follows is divine.

Jaw dropping, you pant as his shallow thrusts drive him further and further in each time. The noises he’s making near your ear don’t help your attempts to relax to make his entrance easier, each movement he makes inside of you sending a zap down your spine straight to where you’re both connected. Your walls clench so tight you feel everything of him.

“Fucking hell—” Exclamation ending in a whimper, he slows his hips. A quick glance down shows he’s only half-way in. “Is this o—”

“Please, don’t stop.” Your arms tighten around his neck as your other leg comes up to hook over his hip. Through the barrier of the condom, you feel the thick veins along his girthy length pulse. “Please, please, p—”

He starts up again at your plea, knocking the air out of you. 

You can’t think about anything beyond the feeling of him inside of you juxtaposed with the emptiness left in his wake as he pulls back, keeping only the very tip in you before pushing forward and filling you once again. Every now and then, his angle is just right to hit that spot he all but abused earlier with his fingers, drawing sounds that spur him on as he adjusts to strike it again and again.

After a couple more thrusts, he’s fully sheathed. He slows again, breathing heavily as he grinds against you. Any protests at the loss of momentum dissipate as the action grinds his pubic bone against your clit, and all conscious thought is devoted to not succumbing to the building waves of your orgasm then and there.

“Can I—”

“Move.” It’s meant more as a desperate plea than an order. Though he complies, pulling back out nearly all the way, he nips your neck in retaliation.

“Still such a—” He’s punctuating each syllable with a hard snap of his hips. “—fucking—”

Knowing the best angle now, he’s unrelenting in hitting the spot that keeps you crying out in ecstacy.

The word he intends to end with is obvious, though it never comes. You make sure of that as, using your last remnants of conscious thought, you hike your calves up and cross your ankles. With your heel pressing into his tailbone, you drive him deeper, holding him there as you bring your hips up to meet his again and again, and the breath that would’ve formed brat instead catches in his throat as his hips stutter.

He’s cumming, his cock twitching like a live wire inside of you as his pace grows sloppy. 

Any other time, you’d reach down to touch yourself and pull yourself over, too. You have to dig your fingers into your own forearms, looped around his neck as they are, to stop yourself from doing it now, awareness seeping in that this… this is for him, not you.

When his thumb finds your clit, absolutely aching for the touch needed to help you join him, you see stars as he rubs hard and determined at the throbbing bundle of nerves. It’s too much but not enough, wringing cries from you but not quite getting you there — which he seems to realise, even in the heat of the moment; replacing his thumb with his fingers (the angle awkward enough you’re sure his forearm will ache later), he changes his technique as his mouth finds that spot on your neck again and, as you did to him earlier, bites down hard.

Whether it's the continued stimulation or his sheer determination, it doesn’t matter: he succeeds in dragging you with him over the edge.

Where people describe seeing stars or a flash of white, instead all you see behind your scrunched-shut eyelids is his face as his name spills from your lips. 

Thighs shaking around him, he keeps going as you ride it out together. He soothes his bite with kisses as he rocks his hips against yours, keeping at it until you’re down from the high, high, high heights he sent you spiraling to. Only when you’re sated and retreating once again from overstimulation does he pull away.

Eyes still closed, you work to catch your breath as his weight and warmth disappear. A whimper works its way out of your pressed lips. Nearby, there’s a metallic clunk and a rustle of a plastic bag or bin liner; a tap runs for a short while.

Pulse slowing slightly, it ramps up again as weight dips the mattress to your side. His musky, herbal-wood scent engulfs you again as a warm cloth presses against your aching sex.

“Shh, shh.” His lips press to your temple as he gently wipes the sticky remnants of the lube and your wetness from between your thighs. He works slowly, whispering praises, until he’s satisfied you’re cleaned enough and his weight shifts away from you.

With the tell-tale prickle of tears forming under your closed eyelids from his tenderness, you keep them closed even as your hand darts out to seize his wrist. Aware as soon as your skin meets his that you’ve fucked up.

This was meant to be easy. No emotional strings. No personal attachments.

You pull your hand back, shame at losing yourself seeping in.

A long stretch of silence follows.

So when his weight and warmth return to the empty space on the mattress beside you, you have to swallow the small, traitorous sob that would belie the blooming of feelings you can never nurture or allow to flourish — even as he gathers you up against his chest. Shifting so as to pull you both beneath the duvet, he keeps you close as your exhausted body succumbs to sleep while enveloped by his arms and the awareness that this might not be as easy of an arrangement as you had thought.

[seungminogie]

[ruibits]

It's Tails! ✈️

a little aged up so he's 13-14 -ish here, he built his first drone when he was 8.

More of sonic human au here

[hyperspacecorbeau]

*breaks out of 1800s psych ward*

What about Corbeau with a GN! reader who is so used to being depended on and has been independent since they were like 10 that they feel like a liability if they depend on him? And like Corbeau really wants them to break away from thinking that they’re a liability because he just wants to take care of his beautiful partner?

*gets dragged back to psych ward*

You. You get me anon. If you’re in the psych ward I’m right there with you amen

I kinda took this prompt and ran so I hope it lives up to what you imagined!

(Side note it is so hard to format things in an appealing way on Tumblr mobile dear god)

Dependable

Corbeau x gender neutral reader

In which you injure yourself on a job, and Corbeau refuses to let your stubbornness stop him from helping.

Themes worth mentioning: minor injuries, wound dressing (probably not completely medically accurate but fuck it we ball), insecure reader, reader who is self sufficient to a fault and thinks needing or even wanting help makes them a burden (it does not!! You are loved, and you deserve love and care!)

When you’re used to being the glue holding together those around you, you don’t just get to ‘relax’. The word itself left a sour taste in your mouth, how dare you? How dare you when there’s a city to aid and all these incredibly deserving people leaning on you? It’s not like you were new to the stress, or the expectations, or the constant moving forward, forward, forward.

The idea of slowing down, not holding it all on your shoulders even for a moment, it just felt so wrong.

The morning was calm enough, thankfully you’d gotten to ‘sleep in’ a bit, (although for you that meant doomscrolling after Corbeau had gone to work, your body’s internal clock always had you awake at the crack of dawn, and his early rising certainly didn’t help matters), but when your Rotom Phone buzzed aggressively with a call, you sighed and shot up out of bed like a rocket.

The first task of the day was simple, some alpha pokemon was fiercely fighting off the cities best efforts to relocate it somewhere where it couldn’t hurt anyone, you’d dealt with plenty similar issues, nothing your team couldn’t handle.

The houndoom causing a ruckus was huge and exceedingly fast, protecting her recent litter, and she didn’t go down without a fight. Putting your arms up to block your face as she lunged, you were nicked by her large horns, but managed to command your ace fast enough that she couldn’t do any real lasting damage. Once you’d caught the mother and her pups, you sat at a nearby bench and tended to your arm with a small first aid kit. This wasn’t your first rodeo, but that didn’t mean you were great at it. The gauze and bandages quickly soaked through, but you didn’t have time to worry about that as your next task was called in. You simply tugged your sleeve down and continued off.

Next, you’d been asked to stop at Nouveau Café to pick up an order for a Quasartico business meeting, a petty task that you were thankful for with how your first one had gone. By the time you made it to the truck, blood had completely soaked through your sleeve, not that you noticed, simply stuffing the pastry order in your bag and grabbing drink trays with both free hands. Grisham, however, did notice.

“Oh, that doesn’t look too good, what happened?” His usual serene expression was painted with worry.

“Ah, occupational hazards, I’m all good!” You brushed off, turning on your heel as to not be interrogated further, you didn’t have the time for that, “thanks for having the order done so fast! And tell Griselle I said hi when she’s back from her break!”

“Are you sure you’re alright? There’s a first aid kit in the…truck…” he trailed off as you hurriedly started off towards Quasartico.

“No time! Thanks though, Grisham!” You shouted back.

You pulled a sweater on before you entered Quasartico, no need for Urbain to pry at what happened, it was fine.

“Heya! Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver!” The aforementioned cheered, taking the coffee from you, then quickly realizing he didn’t have room in his hands for the pastries.

“I’ll bring em in, lead the way, CEO,” you chuckled, following his eager footsteps to a soon to be bustling boardroom.

After the delivery was made and spread out on tables, you walked through the plaza while scrolling through a list of research tasks from Mable, seeing what you could potentially get done before you were whisked off to your next job. Your strolling scroll was interrupted by a call from Corbeau, a rarity during the workday. Quickly, you accepted the call, a smile already finding its way to your face.

“Hey love, how’s work?”

“It’s going swell. Say, could you stop by the office? I’m having trouble making out this hyperspace data and I could use some outsider insight.”

You quirked a brow, confused. Him asking you instead of Philippe, or even Mable, was certainly odd. Nevertheless, you wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to see him during your likely soon to get busier day.

“Not sure how much help I’ll be, but sure!”

“Excellent, see you soon, my dear.” He hung up as quickly as he normally did, never one to linger once the conversation had finished.

When you walked into the office, you were surprised to find him alone, laptop shut, hands folded, a small wooden box on the desk.

“What’s up? Where’s Philippe?” You looked around as you walked to his desk, as if the large man could possibly be hidden in the open space.

“Take off the sweater,” he demanded once you reached him. Not harsh, but worry biting at his tone.

You jumped a bit at the sudden request.

“Uhh…How exactly is that gonna help with hyperspace? And why didn’t you answer my question?”

“Grish called me, said you were bleeding like a stuck tepig, and when he offered to help you dashed off.” Corbeau’s expression was a mix of confusion and concern.

“I don’t know why he even bothered you with this, I’m fine, honest,” you chuckled, but he wasn’t convinced.

“Indulge me then. Take the sweater off and let me see for myself.”

“Beau, it’s really not a big deal, I just got nicked, that’s all,” you sighed, “I already bandaged it up.”

He quirked a brow, unconvinced.

“I’m hearing a lot of words but I’m not seeing the sweater come off.”

“Fine, but it looks worse than it is.”

You huffed and shrugged the sweater off, letting it fall to the ground, the sleeve of your shirt stuck to the arm with drying blood.

“I see why he called now,” Corbeau furrowed his brow, pulling the sleeve up to reveal soaked bandages, “Arceus…What on earth happened?”

You looked away, the worried look on his face made this unbearable pit in your stomach. He shouldn’t have to do this, he shouldn’t have to take time out of his probably extremely busy day to play doctor with you, and didn’t he know you could take care of yourself?

“An alpha houndoom grazed me while I was catching her and her pups to relocate, and I didn’t have time to properly deal with it earlier. Just give me the kit and I’ll fix it up.” You reached for the wooden box, now that you were close you could see the green medical cross on the top of it.

He pulled the box back with the hand not holding yours.

“I’ve got medical training, let me.”

“You don’t need to, it’s just a cut, I’m not a child.”

“I know, dear, I never said you were. In fact, you’re extremely capable, if a bit headstrong, but that’s not the point,” he squeezed your hand before letting it go, then stood up, rounding the desk. “You say you had no time, what was so urgent?” He lifted you up onto his desk as if you weighed nothing, putting you at a better angle to patch up.

“Urbain forgot to order for his meeting until the last minute, that’s why I was at Nouveau in the first place, and if I didn’t rush I wouldn’t have gotten it to him in time.”

“You neglected yourself to get some snobby rich people their coffee?” Corbeau tsked, shaking his head as he unwrapped your bandages, “you really do confuse me with your priorities sometimes.”

“Urbain’s not exactly rich yet, or snobby, and besides, he was depending on me,” you argued, “plus the business and publicity of being Quasartico’s chosen coffee is good for the reputation of the café. It’s a win/win, since Urbain gets less crabby investors when they’re caffeinated.”

“A win for everyone but you, it seems,” he placed a towel under your arm, then picked both up in one hand, using the other to douse the wound with sterile water from the first aid kit.

“I was gonna deal with it when I had a second. I know how to take care of myself.” You muttered, more venom in the words than intended.

“Hey, I know you do, I’m sorry if I came off condescending,” his voice was soft, “but you take care of everyone around you, can’t I take care of you for once, my beloved?”

You clenched your jaw as he applied wound glue to the cleaned cut.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“Have to? When have you known me to be forced into anything that I didn’t willingly want to do?” His expression grew serious, troubled by the idea. “Is it so hard to believe that I want to?”

“Why would you want another responsibility on top of everything you already deal with?”

“A responsibility? Something to deal with? Is that how you think I see you?” He frowned. “Because if so, I need you to know that’s entirely incorrect.”

“I mean, I don’t know, shouldn’t you? Why should I be depending on you to fix me when I can do it?” Your voice shook, “I can fix myself, it’s selfish of me to take help when I don’t need it.”

“It’s like I can hear my younger self saying those exact words,” he chuckled, a tinge of sadness in it. “You shouldn’t feel bad for depending on me, for letting me help you, that’s what a lover is for. In fact, I’d like it if you’d let me take care of you more often, you don’t have to carry the world alone, I don’t want you to feel like you do.”

“It’s…It’s all I’ve known.”

“I know what that’s like, but I’ve learned a car doesn’t drive on one wheel. You need people in your corner, people who don’t just take, but give back, people you can pass the weight off to when it gets too heavy,” he applied fresh gauze and bandages to the wound, bringing the wrapped arm to his lips and kissing it gently.

Tears pricked your eyes, you blinked and felt them roll down your cheek. “I don’t know how…I don’t know how to let other people help me,” you sniffled.

He thumbed the tears from your cheeks, holding your face in his hands.

“Hey, I didn’t either, it comes with time.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, savouring the contact, the feeling of his cold hands holding you like something precious.

“I think everyone can handle it if you take the weekend to relax. Hell, I’ll take the weekend too, I can’t be a hypocrite after all,” he laughed, “I already have tomorrow off, and I’m sure I can swing it with Philippe to fill in so I can take Sunday off too, he’s always nagging me to rest anyway.”

“But what if they need me? I can’t just leave everyone hanging…”

“Then I’ll send grunts to take care of it, or someone else can go deal with it, I promise they’ll be okay,” he kissed your forehead, “you need to rest.”

“I’ll get through today and then take the weekend,” you promised, but he shook his head.

“Nonsense, you’ll start resting immediately, boss’s orders,” the tone was teasing, but you knew he meant it all the same, more of a plea than anything.

“I still have to get these pokémon to the rehabber, and I was supposed to—“

He cut you off with a peck on the lips, “consider it dealt with, I’ll have someone drop them off, and whatever else can wait.”

“But I promised Mable I’d—“

“Absolutely not. She can most definitely wait, she’s got plenty of people doing tasks for her, I’m sure it’ll tie her over.”

You pouted, “fine, but if you’re gonna make me rest I’m hanging out in here until you’re off.”

“I’ll come work on the couch then,” he grinned, grabbing his laptop, “Fridays are always slow anyway.”

You hopped off the desk, following him to sit on the couches, “I’m still confused, where is Philippe?”

“Picking up coffee, we agreed Grish deserved a good tip after helping keep our favourite do-gooder safe. He also figured you probably didn’t want him watching me patch you up.”

“Good call, that would’ve been even more awkward,” you joked, but his expression was soft, filled to the brim with adoration.

“I don’t think taking care of you is awkward,” he smiled, voice soft, “I think it’s all I want to do forever, actually.”

“Forever, huh?” You grinned, “I’ll hold you to that.”

“No need, it’s nonnegotiable, you’re stuck with me now,” he winked, a rare boyish grin on his face. He pulled you in to lean on his shoulder as he booted his laptop again, pressing a kiss to your hair, “now relax, and silence your phone. No one else gets to bother you until Monday.”

[satorucele]

post re4!bf leon headcanons pt. 3 | sfw

cw: suggestive part 1, 2, 3

leon has a secret picture of you asleep on the couch, cat sprawled out on top of you hiding in his wallet that slips out when he’s fishing for his card. you’d pick it up and he’d play it off soooooo smoothly. “they always say never fall asleep first at the sleepover…” right…

he reads your books to you when you do your makeup and gives them his own little commentary. you are rarely offered knowing how he feels about anything but you imagine his verbal convictions suggests he has some semblance of inner monologue

leon has perfected the art of being your instagram photographer. he routinely raises your digital camera in front of his face until only his knitted brows protrude from behind the device and without failure produces the best photo you’ve ever seen of yourself. he’s real dedicated to his craft.

he has a pair of glasses he absolutely hates wearing. he seldom wears them around you and the first time he does it’s like hanging meat in front of a lion. almost always ends with you in your sweats slipping onto his lap and a “you come here often?” only followed by a “mmm”

leon likes skin to skin a lot. it’s not an indecent fascination but it’s almost a need for him to lift your shirt up and trace shapes on your spine in order for him to fall asleep

you taught him how to braid your hair and it becomes a habit reserved for when he’s especially disconsolate and afraid he’s going to lose you (if you ever hear him admit it you need to take immediate lethal action)

leon’s a big “tell me” guy, in general hes very commanding on the surface. in all actuality once dissected its very obvious it’s shrouded in consideration and that he would never intentionally act authoritative toward you

enjoy !!!!!!! thank u to evb sending asks, i promise i will get to them eventually i indulge in a little bit of sloth one may say

[hesperus42]

Do You See Me? | Part 5 (End)

Leon Kennedy x DSO!Awkward!Reader

Summary: You work in the basement department of the DSO. There you specialize in creating fake identities for agents, scrubbing the internet for leaked videos and evidence of BOWs, and covering the DSO's digital footprint.

Over the years you have been assigned on and off Leon's cases and before you know it, you developed a one-sided crush on a guy that doesn't even know you exist. And how could he? No one ever visits the basement department, especially if you are someone as important as THE Leon Kennedy, who works on one of the highest floors. You don't let it get you down and figure it's a silly work crush. That is until you see him in the basement asking for you.

Part 1 Here | Part 2 Here | Part 3 Here | Part 4 Here | Part 5 (Reading Now)

Warnings: Long chapter. Canon-level gore/Violence/zombies/Leon kicking ass. Gunshot wound.

Song Used: Fall In Love by Caroline Kingsbury

___

Three months passed by in a blur.

The routine you fell into before Leon reclaimed you as if he had never interrupted. That made it worse. It was as if the two of you never met. Now you were back to staring at him from behind a screen.

Back to being invisible.

The only difference now being you know. You know the curve of his smile, the light of his eyes, the sound of his laugh. No longer a static image for you to wonder about.

You carried a weight of him in your chest that refused to leave. It buckled your knees. Left you breathless at moments. Your heart had surrendered to him, but he wasn't there to pick it up.

That feeling that spread through you chest and captured your whole being stemmed into a hollowness. It grew with each passing day.

The basement no longer felt like a sanctuary. It now held fragmented memories of him. The desk that he used to lean on felt out of place without him there. Your shoulder felt cold to not have him looking over you. The hum of the vents were no match to the softness of his voice.

He had disappeared from your life, leaving behind only pieces.

You gave up on looking at your phone after the first month. Of course, he wasn't able to reach out, but something told you he wouldn't have even if he could.

You couldn't tell if you were being dramatic at his point. It was unsettling with how you left things and now those paranoid thoughts grew around you.

You made your way to your desk and plopped down into your chair with a heavy sigh. New reports were assigned and had to be done by the end of the week. You scanned them when your eyes widened.

The latest mission of recovered footage was of Leon.

You snapped to attention and loaded the footage on your computer in an instant. A new vigour of suspense riddled your body.

The video appeared on screen and you watched as he entered a hall and then left into another room. You scoured the footage to find the room he entered.

If I have the footage now the mission must be complete, you thought to yourself. And yet he still hasn't reached out...

That second thought deflated you. Nonetheless you continued your task in tracking him down.

The eighteenth camera finally gave you eyes on him. He had entered a lab much like ones you've seen in previous videos. But as soon as he entered the door shut behind him.

He had his gun aimed and ready.

Something flashed across the camera, blocking your view.

"Shit," You muttered under your breath.

The next thing you see is Leon on the ground.

And he wasn't getting up.

You shot up from the chair and pushed yourself closer to the screen. You skimmed through different angles of the room until finally you landed on a closer view.

You watched the creature that initially blocked you. It twisted with muscle and mucus unlike anything you had ever seen. Bones pierced out of its collar and up its neck. The beast was large and armed with its rabid teeth and deformed claws.

It was fast.

It swiped at Leon in the midst of his shooting.

He dodged the first swing, but it followed his momentum and clashed its boney tail into his abdomen.

Leon crashed into the sealed doors.

"No, no, no, no, no," You repeated the word endlessly.

You squinted through the pixelated screen to see a bone piercing out of his stomach. He held it and red stained his hands. His body caved in on itself and his head swayed.

The camera went black.

"No! You can't—Please..." You trailed off and looked through each and every recovered video you could find.

That was it.

You jumped from your desk and raced up the corridor to the elevators.

Is he dead? Is he alive? Is he okay?

Those worries circled your head as you found yourself in the elevator. The wait only intensified the fears. You held the closed door button the entire way up. Not sparing a second for anyone.

When the doors opened you darted off the lift but someone grabbed your arm.

Nigel.

"Ma'am, you can't just—"

You tore your arm out of his grip and followed the path that Sherry had led you down.

You burst through his office door only to be met with the dim light emitting through the closed blinds and...

Sherry?

She was packing up files and tidying his desk.

"Y/N?" She said, alarmed and noting your manic state.

Nigel finally caught up to you and tried to grab you again. You evaded him once more and started for Sherry.

"Is he okay? I saw it on the footage—He was attacked—He didn't get up—!"

"Ma'am, you need to come with me."

Sherry passed you and shot Nigel down with a cold stare. He made a move to argue but she slammed the door in his face before he could say anything more.

She then returned her attention to you. That cold glare gone and softened with concern. Her hands found your arms quickly to ground you. You body vibrated with anxiety.

"What did you see?" She asked calmly.

You felt like you were going insane.

Leon wasn't here. Sherry was grabbing files? Was she clearing out his desk? Was he dead?

Suddenly your breathing came all too fast and not quick enough.

That feeling of hollowness merged into a sharp fear the streaked down your spine in painful flashes. Your knees buckled and suddenly you were grabbing Sherry for support.

She took it in stride and gripped you tighter, gently guiding you through your breathing.

"In and out, Y/N. Just breathe with me."

Her words were soft and slowly she went through the motions of breathing with you. You urged your lungs to mimic her steady inhale and exhale.

Breathe.

You found your rhythm after several attempts of shaky breaths. The air felt clearer and your lungs not as constricted.

Your grip on her eased but she kept a firm handle on you.

"You saw Leon?"

You nodded, still recovering your breath.

"He's okay," Sherry reassured and rubbed your arms to calm down the nerves exploding on end. "He's okay."

At her words, relief flooded you in waves.

The jitters of your body calmed and your breathing finally returned with ease.

"He's okay?"

"Yes."

Sherry kept her eyes locked with yours. It was only when you finally let go of her that she softened her grip on you.

Her hands moved to your back and your shoulder, now guiding you to the leather sofa sat in front of a coffee table.

She sat you both down and gave a gentle squeeze to let you know she was there. She was listening.

You breathed out your final shaky breath.

"I saw him on the recovered footage. This monster attacked him. He was impaled and on the ground. I didn't see him get up."

Sherry nodded with your words. "He's okay. He's alive. When he completed the mission the DSO sent him on mandatory medical leave. I was retrieving some files for him because the man doesn't know how to take a break in peace." She chuckled lightly, but gauged your reaction.

In all honesty you weren't sure how to react. His mission was complete. He was alive. All that was a massive relief, but then another thought worried you.

"He didn't reach out to tell you?" Sherry asked.

You shook your head. The adrenaline and fear left your body exhausted in its aftermath. Your thoughts were racing but you forced it to slow and allow yourself a moment to think.

Another heavy sigh left you and you leaned back into the couch.

"Sorry... for barging in here."

Sherry smiled. "Hey, I get it. I would have done the same thing."

The two of you sat in silence with Sherry weighing her question carefully.

It wasn't long before she voiced it. "Did something happen between you two? I thought he looked a bit off before he left... but I figured it was just stress."

You internally groaned and closed your eyes. "I messed up," You stated truthfully. You didn't want to go into it further and Sherry sensed that.

Still she tried her best at easing your concerns.

"Leon can be a complicated person. He is actually rather sensitive," She said with a small laugh. "He tries to hide it, but when he opens up to people it can be difficult not to show. I'm sure whatever happened between you two can be solved. He's not the kind of person to leave things unresolved."

All you had the energy to do was nod. Sherry rubbed your shoulder again, trying to soften your worries and find understanding in her words.

You did understand, but the pain that accompanied that understanding was hard to ignore.

___

Two weeks had passed since that moment with Sherry.

She made sure to reach out to you and keep you in the loop about Leon. Even took you out a few times to take your mind off of things. She became a quick and good friend that you were truly grateful for.

She said that Leon was due to return to work soon. At this point you weren't sure how you were going to approach him.

You realized soon after leaving Leon's office, you were angry.

Angry that he didn't hear you out three months ago. Angry that he didn't let you know he was on leave. Angry that he left you in the dark and was forced to assume the worst through a video.

You also knew all that anger was building up to shield you from your feelings. They were strong and only anger could keep you distracted from them.

This very early morning, you found yourself standing in wait on the subway. Lots of people were dispersed here and there. You kept to yourself with your headphones on, ignoring everything but your music.

That was an easy escape as of late.

You're standing out in the rain And I'm watching you through the window You got this effortless thing Everywhere that you go

With your eyes drifting over the cart of people, you mindlessly scanned to the other end of the subway. There was a bend in the track and curved the other end away from you.

As it straightened, a person moved in a spasm of jolts.

Another curve of the track and the cart evaded your sight again.

The air around you shallowed as you focused in on the strange sight from a far. Waiting for the track to straighten out agin.

The person was now on the floor. A very clear ring of people scrambling to the sides.

From where you stood it was difficult to see. People were pressing more into your cart and blocking your sight. You moved to see in between the gaps.

The person convulsed on the ground. Their arms stayed pinned to the ground but their hands twisted and grabbed for the air. Their head tilted up, searching for their breath to soothe their ailment.

You squinted.

Their veins were darkening. Up their exposed arms. Up their strained and reddening neck. Their eyes pierced open, squirming the crowd to shove themselves further away.

A scream startled from the other end of the cart.

You whipped your head around with everyone else.

Shit.

You threw yourself to the floor as someone flung themselves overhead. Another shrill scream came through your music.

Been all alone with a broken heart for so long It's the end of the night and I don't wanna go home Fucked up my plans, I was fine on my own It's the end of the night and I don't wanna go home

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit—

The doors opened at your stop and everyone booked it for the surface.

You started for the door but a thick boot kicked your jaw on the floor. Sharp pain emitted up your chin and into your ears. You did everything in your power to ignore the pain and shove yourself to the exit.

You broke through the doors onto the platform.

Chaos ensued.

From the top of the stairs more infected spilled out and threw their bodies at their prey.

They're coming from the surface.

You moved to run but quickly dodged a pair of hands grabbing for you. From there you avoided a thrash of hands and teeth between a pair in a locked struggle.

People slammed into you from all directions. There wasn't a clear path to follow. The platform was surrounded.

The subway behind you closed, shutting in infected and victims alike. Their hands beat against the glass to no avail.

Your feet forced a sprint. Your body ignoring the panic in your brain and realizing that standing around meant death.

The stairs on the other end of the platform were no better than your current predicament. But they weren't flooding with infected.

The stench of blood and decay overcame you and nausea threatened your stomach. Wailing and screams still muffled behind your headphones.

You dropped your bag and sprinted up the stairs. Moving quick and sharp against the onslaught of infected.

When you finally made it to the surface, matters did not improve.

The undead took over the city.

The DSO. That was your safest bet. But it was on the edge of the city and you were somewhere in the middle?

Your eyes darted around as your legs kept you moving, trying to find familiarity in where you were.

A shriek locked you feet in place.

Soulless eyes pinned you where you stood. The infected crouched themselves over a body. Its teeth still bit into the person. Tendons spilled from its twisted jaw. A sound emitted from the back of its throat, promising to lodge it into your own.

It started for you.

Your lungs had hollowed out by now as you raced through the streets to find sacntuary.

Fire blazed from your right and undead pillaged at your left.

Your feet gave way under you at a hand snatching your ankle. Your hands blocked your fall and turned you over.

The infected shrieked a war cry before lunging over your fallen body.

Its head burst in mid air.

Its blood splattered across your face and dripped down your neck. You turned around to see who your saviour was.

Of course.

No, I don't want to take my heart back I gave it away just like that I wanted to run, you brought me back I gave it away just like that

Your music carried Leon's presence forth as he reloaded his gun.

He hadn't looked up yet, but you made out every distinct feature. The way he carried himself. His set jaw. The focus in his eyes.

You were in his terrain. Now only another saved or dead victim for him to pass.

But then his gaze lifted and they settled over you.

The stoicism vanished. Fear overcame him and those soft eyes worried a level of concern you couldn't ignore.

"Y/N..." Your name came out breathless.

The moment between you shattered.

He reacted on instinct. Shooting the infected threatening to near either of your vicinity.

You finally pulled off your headphones with your moment of respite. The natural sounds of the end of the world startled you. It froze you for a moment. And only then could you hear your shallow and whimpered breaths.

A gloved hand firmly grabbed your upper arm. You whipped back to Leon.

"Stay behind me," His command was cold.

You did as he said and quickly he cleared a path to a cafe on the side of the street.

He forced the door open and pushed you in before following behind. He lead the two of you into the kitchen and barricaded the door.

You stood in place. Not sure what to do. Not sure how to help. You have seen these events countless times through a screen. You were ignorant to believe the same thing wouldn't happen to you.

The exhaustion of fear finally spent the energy in your legs. They wobbled and collapsed you in a chair.

Leon returned after scouting the perimeter. He held out a cloth he had found.

You looked up, confused.

"For the blood."

Oh.

You took the cloth and proceeded to wipe contents of infected off your skin.

The cloth fell limp in your lap, following the exhaustion of your arms. You looked up to see Leon analyzing you. His eyes traced over every part of you.

"Are you hurt?" His words were once again cold, but his question gave away his concern.

You looked down at your body, not sure if it had the energy to signal anything to you.

"I... I don't think so." Your voice came out quieter than you intended.

At the first sound of your voice in months, Leon's posture relaxed.

"Good," was all he said.

Another moment of awkward silence stretched between you.

"Are you okay?"

A steady tremor flooded your hands. You nodded, knowing full well your voice would betray you.

Leon seemed to catch on. He didn't say anything on it. Instead he offered his hand.

"We should keep moving."

___

The two of you forged a path back to the DSO. The building now stood a block away.

Leon took down infected after infected. The action you would watch on screen held no comparison to the real thing.

He gave you a large knife from the cafe's kitchen. It came in handy far too many times. Being a worker at the DSO came with mandatory self-defence classes. It used to be a pain in the ass every year, now it was very much saving you in your time of need.

You clothes were now tattered and stained with splatters of blood. Whereas Leon remained in perfect condition. His leather jacket, you came to realize, was a very useful set of armour.

The two of you didn't say much. A heavy tension grew between you. Almost breaking when the other was in peril.

You kept watching Leon focus on you in those moment. A hard stare and a set line across his lips. Like he had many things to say and not enough time to say it all.

When the two you found yourselves in a juncture between several back alleyways, that was when you had enough pretending.

"Leon—"

"We're a few blocks from the DSO. It looks like the infected are sparse further out. Once you're in the building I'll head back to the centre to finish them off—"

"Leon," You said, again but now stern an devoid of any shake in your voice.

That snapped his attention to you.

"What are we doing?" You gestured vaguely with your knife. Its soaked end spilling across the pavement.

He looked between you and the knife. That infuriating brow still tense and set.

"I just told you—"

"No." Now you were pointing with the knife.

You couldn't tell if he was concerned from you tone or that he gave you a knife in the first place.

"Us." You emphasized. A harsh chuckle came from you before you could stop it. And honestly, you didn't want to stop the words that were begging to spill. "I haven't seen you in months. I thought you were dead and now you're barely talking to me at the end of the world."

He evaded your eyes and kept them on his gun. "End of the world is a bit much—"

"Leon."

You watched a turmoil spiral in his head. He shook it off. His eyes staying stern and focused on the task at hand.

"This isn't the place to talk—"

"No," You agreed. "No. It really isn't, but I would like to know that I made amends before I die from a fucking zombie."

He cautiously stepped forward, still weary of your knife. "You're not going to die—"

"That's not the point. I'm done pretending between us."

Now it was your turn to look away. For this first time in a long time you were going to be honest with yourself.

"It hurt not being noticed. By anyone at all."

You finally looked up at him and he stared back with an intensity that would usually force your gaze away. But now all this anger, this fear, everything finally made you stand your ground.

"I was scared," You admitted. "When you first started showing interest in me. In whatever this relationship is. I didn't think it was going to last because it never did with anyone else. I didn't want to get attached but—fuck... I failed miserably at that."

You still couldn't make out what he was feeling, but his stare locked with yours nonetheless.

"When you told me you were going away for a few months I tried to hide how I felt because..." You shrugged, not fully sure yourself. "Because I'm an idiot. And getting attached usually means I end up getting hurt."

A big breath escaped you. Feeling vulnerable and all around terrible at your admission. Wasn't honesty supposed to make you feel better?

Well, time for one more big truth.

"I'm... I'm in love with you, Leon."

Just as the words came out, the biggest shriek you had ever heard in your life started barreling down the alleyway.

Leon grabbed and pushed you behind him to dodge a thrash of long, gangly claws. His hands were firm and held you unbearably close to his side.

He fired several shots at this vast creature. Much like the one you saw on the recovered footage a week ago.

Great, you thought to yourself, perfect fucking timing.

"Y/N, run!" He spared a moment to look at you. His eyes filled with a new found fear. "Y/N—Please, run!"

Hesitation filled you for a moment but you knew you would be nothing but a burden in this fight. You cussed under your breath before agreeing and racing to the other end of the alley.

Escaping out of the back alleys, you saw the DSO in the distance.

Loud gunshots from Leon's gun, had your legs kicking harder than you ever had in your life.

You had to get help.

You slashed your way through a hoard of infected. All of which seemed to meet at the entrance of the DSO.

You were faster than them and swifter than their teeth with your knife.

The DSO held a perimeter just outside of the main entrance. You darted through the hungry undead.

An onslaught of bullets had you covering your head as you raced now blindly towards the brigade of DSO agents.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!"

A sharp and hot pain jolted up your abdomen. You looked up to see Harold racing out into the field of infected.

"Leon—" You pointed to the alley behind you and several agents made their way to the location.

Harold threw your arm over his shoulder and half carried you to safety inside the DSO.

Why was he dragging you?

Your thoughts suddenly became very sluggish and the pain didn't make any sense. Were your legs going numb?

Harold gently set you down against a pillar in the lobby.

You looked down—

"Don't—Don't—Don't—"

Too late. Too fucking late.

Blood dribbled out of the bullet hole in your stomach. It spilled across your lap and dampened your pants.

Another pair of hands were on you.

You slowly raised your sights to see Leon now hovering over you.

Good. He was okay.

His eyes travelled everywhere. Across your face, your legs, your arms, the wound in your stomach. Actually, he paid more attention to that than anything.

"How do I look?"

Your subtle attempt at humour fell on deaf ears. For the first time, in the months that you knew Leon, he didn't joke back. He didn't fill the worry with optimism like he usually did.

"Y/N keep your eyes on me." He looked back to Harold. "Medic?"

Harold shook his head, his own eyes filling with a certain sadness you had never seen in him before. "All out in the field."

"So..." You started, your throat suddenly very dry. "Not dying by a zombie, but a gunshot."

"Gunshot!?" He turned to Harold for clarity as he stripped himself of his leather coat.

"A DSO agent shot her."

An agent. You knew you were invisible, but damn.

"Which one?" His voice was oddly calm but an underlying anger enraged his voice.

He slipped his coat around your shoulders then laid you flat on the ground. A sharp groan emitted for your trembling lips at the sudden movement.

Leon pressed his hands firm into your stomach to stop the bleeding.

You screamed and instinctively hit his arm.

"I know, I know, baby, but you gotta let me."

You closed your eyes to focus on your breathing.

"Hey—Hey—Hey. Eyes on me. Eyes on me."

He repeated it until you obeyed, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

"Talk to me, Y/N."

You liked when he said your name. It gave butterflies and warmth and... pain. Fuck your stomach hurt.

You cleared your throat, trying for something but nothing came out.

"Get angry at me," Leon said. "I—I was a complete asshole. Tell me off. Please, sweetheart."

Right. You were angry at him.

"You didn't... You didn't tell me you went... on medical leave."

Medical leave... right? Or was it vacation? Your mind started spinning and with it your vision.

He nodded, rather aggressively. "Yeah—Yes! I shouldn't have done that. Tell me off. Yell at me. Scream at me."

Scream? At him? Why would you do that? He looked so beautiful hanging over you. His hair had fallen across his face, nearly blocking those blue eyes, filling you with so much love.

You loved him so much.

You were a coward for not telling him sooner.

Against the pain and the weak muscles, you reached your hand up. It hurt, but you had to feel his hair, his skin, the curves of his face.

Leon watched helplessly as you pushed back his hair and dropped them over his cheek bone. They were wet.

Why were they wet?

His eyes glistened and gingerly you wiped under them to catch the tears falling.

"Y/N. Don't do this to me."

So commanding, you thought to yourself. It made you smile.

Leon's eyes traced the curve of your smile and light in your eyes. No longer shy to his gaze. He wondered when you wouldn't look away from him and stare boldly into his own.

"I should have went down to that basement years ago," He said. His voice lightly shook. "The second I saw you I couldn't ignore you. I see you, Y/N. I see you everywhere. In everything. You're all I think about and have since the first day we met."

His head dropped to your chest and you missed his eyes. Your hand softly brushed at his hair. He looked up at you.

"Please... I—"

Then everything went black.

___

Ow.

That was your first thought.

Like seriously. Ow.

Your eyes opened very slightly to the fluorescent light hanging overhead.

Ugh, was your second thought. You hate those lights.

Your hand reached out across the cot to feel the cotton blankets and the cotton fabric clinging around you. Hospital gown. Hospital bed. Hospital lights.

You tried your best glare up at them.

Well, safe to say you were in a hospital.

You moved slightly but hissed at the pain radiating from your stomach. Layers of bandages could be felt under your gown.

To your side you saw a vase of flowers. You squinted until your vision became clear. Harold and his wife had put them there. You smiled, noting they were your favourite.

It was difficult to move your neck. It being so stiff from sleeping for who knows how long.

You continued to reach out with your hands until your right one came across... hair?

You smoothed it out across the person's forehead. Ridges formed in the lines of their brow. Even in sleep. A small chuckle escaped as you peered down the best you could.

Leon.

THE Leon Kennedy.

He had moved the chair to be directly beside you. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows and places on the edge of the bed with his head resting on them.

His brow was furrowed and set like usual.

You ran your thumb over the lines, trying to smooth them out. You brushed in between his brows and watched the lines fade. His head settled closer to the warmth of your hand.

Softly his eyes began to open.

And then they shot open.

He grabbed your hand, noticing in his half-asleep state that it was moving. Then his eyes snapped to yours. He moved faster than either of you could register.

Because then his lips were on yours.

You inhaled a breath of surprise but immediately melted into it. His lips were firm as they slotted against your own, as if this was a test to see that you were truly here, awake. Only when you moved yours lightly, did his soften and follow in the rhythm the two of you were setting.

His grip on your hand tightened and the other slid up your cheek and into your hair. Your lips parted at the feeling of his fingers dragging across your scalp. He met your parted lips with his own. His tongue smoothed over your lower lip in an ask.

You were quick to answer, but as you raised your other hand to cradle his head, a sharp pain invaded your moment.

Leon snatched himself back out of concern and then looked down to your covered wound. "Shit—Sorry. I didn't mean—I shouldn't have—"

You grabbed his collar and met his flustered words with a softer kiss. He silenced immediately and gingerly placed his hands back.

It was a nice change to see him stumbling over his words.

You broke a part after a moment. Leon still stayed close to you and softly brushed your hair behind your ear.

"You scared the hell out of me."

Your head lulled to the side in the bed. You revelled in the feel of his fingers tracing your features and memorizing the shape of your face.

You smiled lightly. "I had to get back at you."

He laughed and it looked like it had been a while since he did that.

Leon's fingers lowered from your face and instead wrapped both hands around your own. He pressed his lips into them. Savouring the warmth of your skin.

"What did I miss?" You asked. "And how long was I... asleep?"

"Three days," He answered into your skin, not allowing anything to tear him from your hand. "Everything is still getting cleaned up."

You gingerly covered your wound, feeling a small pull of pain. "Whoever that agent was... he is getting a hell of a fake identity."

"No need. I fired him."

You snapped your eyes to him. "Leon—!"

"He shot you," He defended. And honestly that was a pretty good reason.

You nodded sluggishly. "I guess he did shoot a civilian."

"Not just any civilian," Leon pressed.

Warmth spread up to your face.

He directed the attention back to you.

"How are you feeling? Do you need anything—Shit, I need to get the nurse."

You giggled at his erratic state as he pulled himself from your hand to press the button at the side of your bed.

Leon stood back, but not too far, as the nurses did their routine check. When the doctor came in, Leon was standing and staring them down with every piece of information being shared about your condition.

No fatal organs were hit. Expected to recover over the next three months. Won't be discharged for the next two weeks.

Leon continued asking questions. Ones that seemed almost trivial, but you let him do so. Based on what you had seen of his office setting, he liked being in control. It looked as though it was his way of coping.

Sherry arrived after hearing you woke up. She brought you things from home and did everything in her power to make sure you were comfortable. It seemed as though the two of them were the same in intimidating the medical team at even a slight cause of discomfort on your end.

She left once visiting hours were winding down.

One nurse attempted to tell Leon, but that only resulted in a hard glare and an apologetic nurse.

You offered a sympathetic smile the entire time.

He never let you out of his grip if he could help it.

Your thumb smoothed over his knuckles and you watched that familiar softness return to his eyes.

"You know, I think I can manage on my own for a night. You need rest, Leon."

He shook his head. "I just want to be here with you, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. Baby. Those pet names came rushing back before you passed out. And now suddenly the words he had said. At the time it was hard to focus on them. Now you were slowly piecing them together.

Especially the last part. What was he going to say?

"Leon?"

He hummed in acknowledgment.

"What were you telling me before I passed out?"

It took him a second to understand what you were asking. Initially too caught up in the bliss of having you there in peace with him.

A soft smile widened his cheeks as he leaned in towards you. He brushed your hair back and you leaned into his hand as he did so.

"I was telling you how from the moment we met you caught my attention. How not a second has gone by where I don't think of you."

Your eyes locked and that warm, beautiful tension filled the space between you.

"That I'm in love with you."

You smiled back as he leaned in closer and pressed his lips to yours. It was soft and gentle unlike in the morning filled with desperation and need to show the other how they felt. This was certain and familiar. A seal of understanding between the two of you.

It was proof that this was constant with many more to come.

___

Three months had passed and in that time the city had forgotten the outbreak. Well, nearly everyone. Those who had witnessed the outbreak unfortunately fell victim to it or were black-mailed, bribed, threatened. Again, you weren't too sure what that side of your organization did.

Harold raced to meet you at the entrance of the DSO building like usual. And as part of your consistent routine you gave him his muffin.

"So," He started with usual question. "Got a date tonight?"

At that question you caught the eye of an infamous agent across the lobby. Who looked to have been waiting for you. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a tailored suit. Those familiar soft eyes that settled over you.

"Actually, yes. I do."

Leon made his way to you in quick steps. He excused the two of you away from Harold who gave you a knowing smile.

You were lead to the back of the lobby between the elevators and the stairwell.

"I gotta get to work but I will see you in a bit for the Moscow case file."

You simpered a laugh at the code name he chose for your fake file.

"Yes, of course Agent Kennedy," You teased.

He leaned in a pressed a quick kiss to your lips. "I love you," He said as he began to part from you.

"I love you too," You smiled back as he kept his eyes on you until he physically couldn't anymore.

You shook your head at his antics but your smile only grew.

As you made your way down to the basement a thought dawned on you. You never needed anyone else's attention. Only his.

Having him see you was more than enough.

___

Note: Sorry if this got cheesy lmao. Thanks for reading this far! This is the last part of the series. Hopefully you all enjoyed it! Thank you so much for all the love you have given to this story. As a writer, who hasn't shared her writing with others in a while, it means everything to me!

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[escapic-mezzanine]

Miss– Mrs. Kennedy? Well, your wife…

Leon S. Kennedy x DSO agent!reader

Summary:  You were pretty sure you preferred being strangled to death on a mission over having a phone call with a stranger… Embarrassing as it felt. Luckily, your closest co-worker is there to save you.

word count: 2k

You were the best interrogator Leon ever worked with. Not that he worked with many, actually, but he wasn’t blind to the respect you brought up in other people. 

Leon saw you killing with your gaze when necessary. He has read your 100-ish page rapports and scientific analyses. You bargain with people with ease, and brushed tipsy guys off in bars. Even if you were nervous, it took Leon a long time to start noticing it. You were tough and professional above anything.

And now you froze.

He felt the shift in the air before he even turned his head to look at you.

“Oh…”

“What?” He accepted the fact that your slightest discomfort bothered him more than it should a long time ago.

It was already quite tense before. The two of you stood outside some conferential room, both dressed in fancy suits that felt much tighter than they actually were. Not even 5 minutes ago you yanked the papers out of Leon’s grasp because he was fidgeting too much and almost ripped them in half. 

Speeches.

Neither of you were fond of speeches. You both had your advantages – you were more accustomed to them and Leon’s nature was more composed than yours, – but in the end, as a pair, you were close to a shaking bundle of nerves. You put on brave faces only to not make fools out of yourselves. Obviously, you laughed it out, joking that facing the undead was easier.

You could handle it, you were professionals after all, but no one ever suffered from a little complaining, right? A phone call, though… At this moment you were not so sure if you could survive that.

Leon didn’t hear the ringing of your phone, it was too loud around. Now he looked at you, and noticed the face stilled in mortification, when you stared at the screen.

“What’s wrong?” He shifted his weight against the wall, like he was ready to save you from the vibrating thing. “Who is it?”

“I… I don’t know. Unknown number,” you muttered quietly and could already feel your cheeks burning up.

He will laugh at you now, won’t he?

“Then… pick up to find out?” He offered with a grin, but then noticed the slight shake of your hand that held the phone.

You were never shaking and he knew it. He spent enough time with you to notice even the smallest things. Your firmness and stability weren’t small things, though. You were proud of it and didn’t shiver even at the sight of the worst things nor when you were attacked. You stayed still when Leon’s shoulders twitched up, and he often mocked that you were simply too slow to react – in return you picked on him that he was simply jealous.

“Y/n. Are you waiting for that call? Something bad happened?”

You wanted to roll your eyes and tell him to not pry, but you couldn’t. You looked away from him so he wouldn’t stare at you so intensively.

“Gosh, no,” you scoffed under your breath. “I just… I don’t know. I hate phone calls from strangers, okay? Absolutely despite it.”

You were embarrassed like never, but Leon looked like it all finally made sense to him.

“Ohh, so that’s it.” He nodded with a smile polite enough, then stretched out his hand to you. “May I?”

You stared at him for a moment, still waiting for the jokes to come. Leon wasn’t a cruel person, not at all, but how could he know that the topic was… rather touchy for you?

“You… You want to handle it for me? I couldn’t ask you to–”

“Do you want me to?”

You stopped your rushing train of thoughts then looked to your feet.

“Please,” you muttered, feeling like a helpless child, and gave him your phone.

He draped a comforting hand on your shoulders while raising the phone to his ear. “No need to be ashamed, you know?”

Then he quickly moved, realizing that you might want to hear it too. He placed the phone between the two of you.

“Hello,” said the female voice on the other side and you already felt bad. Why couldn’t it be an attempt to harass you or something like that? It would make your irrational worries more reasonable.

“Hey, who’s speaking?” Leon asked, still smiling at you.

“It’s Anna from the housing community, uh… Sorry, I wanted to reach Miss Y/n.”

“She is unavailable right now, I’m afraid.” Damn, he was good at this. If you had to lie on the phone like that it would take you one-to-three working days to figure out a good answer. “Perhaps I could help you somehow?”

“And may I ask for your name, sir? This is rather unusual...”

“Leon Kennedy. Consider me Y/n’s proxy right now.”

“Oh,” she was clearly confused. “Proxy as in…?”

He looked at you in a silent question for any ideas. You shook your head, too occupied by wondering what Anna from the housing community could want from you.

Leon hummed, before speaking up again.

“As in I’m her husband.”

“Ohh,” she said again, and you waited for a while, like it was a verdict of your life, “sure, now it all makes sense. Sorry for the confusion, Mr. Kennedy. I’m calling because there’s been… some complaints around.”

“That so?”

Leon raised an eyebrow like he wanted to mock you about getting into trouble. You didn’t feel like laughing, though.

“Yes… I don’t mean complaints about Miss Y/n! There’s this strange man around, and we have decided to give people a call to let them know. It’s probably nothing, but it’s better to warn people, right?” She explained quickly.

“Sure. Good decision,” Leon agreed. “So what’s this about, really?”

“We cannot tell, exactly, just yet, sir. Your neighbors reported an unknown man wandering around the building and bothering people. He doesn’t live nearby and no one really knows what his purpose is. The police have been informed already, though! They will patrol the area, just to be sure.”

You made a confused face, not knowing anything about that. Not that you were at home a lot. The job was time-consuming and honestly the biggest part of your life.

“Well, we didn’t notice anything strange,” Leon answered the woman, “but thank you for the information.”

“Of course. I need to ask you, Mr. Kennedy, to pass the information to Miss Y/n… Mrs… Well, your wife.”

“Naturally, I will.”

There was a short pause on the other side, then you could hear a muffled and very much nervous laugh.

“You know, actually I was especially worried about her, alongside other women that live in the building that I thought were single, but now… Yeah, I only mean to say that you calmed me. Can I count on you to let me know if either of you notice something suspicious?”

“Absolutely, Anna.”

“Perfect. Thank you for your time, Mr. Kennedy.”

The click signalizing the end of the call allowed your shoulders to relax again. They fell down and only now you realized how tense you were through the whole time.

“So,” Leon dragged, while doing something on your phone, “Anna is now in your contacts and I believe she is nice enough and not very dangerous. Promise, a word of a DSO agent,” he said with a hand on his heart and handed you the phone. “Just in case you ever need to call her.”

Truth be told, he wasn't a fan of phone calls either, ever since he was young, but it was childishly easy to handle it for you. Sometimes he also thought jumping into fire for you wouldn’t be much harder, but that was a detail.

“It’s bullshit,” you muttered under your breath.

“What? The community lady warning you about some weirdo?”

“No, I mean me being scared!”

You were able to name it. That’s an improvement already.

“Nah, it’s not bullshit.”

But him brushing it off wasn’t enough. The embarrassment drifted away when you noticed he wasn’t going to judge you. You could already feel your chest tightening, and the words that demanded to be let out built up.

“It’s about not seeing the face, you know?” You snapped. “I mean, you know me well. I don’t struggle with social interactions. I just… I lose my mind when I don’t know someone and can’t read their face.”

Leon shifted to listen to you closely.

“That’s understandable if you ask me. I’m not too comfortable with that either.”

“But you can handle it! You don’t panic. Is that… Is something wrong with me? Maybe I should–” The words that so desperately wanted to be freed now disappeared, and you felt like an even bigger idiot. “Like… get a diagnosis on that, or something.”

You chuckled immediately but Leon remained serious like he didn’t want to offend you. But that wasn’t just him trying to fight the laugh. You knew him well enough and knew that he sometimes could laugh straight into your face just like that. Now he was truly serious.

“It wouldn't hurt, would it? Was it always like that?”

That was the worst. You knew very well why you were so scared, yet refused to say it out loud. Now… now you were forced to, weren’t you?

“No,” you muttered simply and checked the time on your wristwatch.

“So something triggered it?” Leon pried.

When you first started working together, he thought he was annoying you. He quickly realized that being annoying was the only way to get some things out of you. Funnily, he didn’t even notice that he was exactly the same. Perhaps it was a contagious disease of DSO agents.

You sighed.

“Remember, uh… Jim Harker from the office?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he passed away two years ago. Heart attack?”

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to look at him again.

“He was murdered. It was safer to make it classified info… Leon, I’m asking you to keep it for yourself.”

“‘Corse,” he agreed immediately. “You know me.”

You did.

“We were close friends. He found out some shady intel that I was later checking on the field, and we messed with the wrong sort of people. DSO called the mission off, locked it and kicked us away. We tried again… Jim was killed in his own house.”

“Jesus…”

“Yeah… His wife and kids survived probably only because they were out of town.” You stopped for a moment, but didn’t want to think about the memory. Most of the time the voice of a grieving furious widow was still ringing in your head, and it was a lot to handle. “And all I got was a suspicious phone call with the information of my colleague’s death and a warning. Never messed with the topic again.”

He frowned, clearly thinking about something. You smiled sadly. “Come on, take a guess if you really want to.”

He did. He was only wondering if it’s appropriate to do that when you were talking about your dead friend.

“It was Umbrella-connected, wasn't it?”

“Of course, it was.” You nodded your head.

“I’m sorry.” A firm hand fell to your shoulder again. “Hey, don’t bother yourself about it.”

“A man dying or being unable to pick up a phone call?”

“Uh… Both, I guess.”

Your shoulders started shaking, and you had to almost slam your palm up to hide your face. Leon shifted petrified, thinking that you started crying, but he calmed when he gently tugged on your arm and moved it down. You fell into a nervous laughter, and he playfully pulled you into his side.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I was always extremely good at cheering people up,” he joked, rubbing your arm.

You could barely register that he placed a quick kiss at the top of your head.

“Are you okay now?”

“One hundred percent,” you promised.

“Good, ‘cause you’re gonna have to do the speech on your own. I can’t even remember the topic anymore.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes.

“Fine, Mr. Kennedy, sir. I do the talking, and you just stand in the back, looking pretty.”

“I always do,” he argued humorously.

“I didn’t say you don’t.”

a/n: two worst things about being an adult? Not being able to pull the ‘my mom won’t let me’ card whenever you don’t want to go somewhere and having to pick up phone calls. Just e-mail me instead, I’m begging you… (YES, this is inspired by a phone call if you can’t already tell

[slowerghost]

a blurb about going on a motorcycle ride with leon 'cause..... yeah

leon is such a sucker.

he had held you off for quite a while, a few months, but about the thousandth time you asked him to take you on a motorcycle ride, he gave in. your goddamn eyes had a hold on him. he couldn't help it.

so now he rolls up to your place, pulling the helmet off and kicking out the stand on his bike. within a few seconds, you had already hopped off your front porch, hands reaching out to admire his bike.

"hello, gorgeous thing."

"took the words right out of my mouth." leon quipped back without hardly thinking about it. you tutted, ignoring the smile that crept across your face. it wasn't the first time he'd expressed his attraction to you, and it'd hardly be the last, but it still had your body tingling nonetheless.

leon tried not to stare, he really did, but the image of you in a leather jacket swinging a confident leg over his bike and shooting him an excited smile, peeking up under your lashes at him, was hard to tear his gaze from. goddamn, you were cute. sometimes he swears you ham it up on purpose to torture him.

"here," he smooths your hair back before placing the helmet securely on you. "gotta protect that head of yours."

"what about you?" you're already looking around for another helmet.

"don't worry about me, smacked my head so many times at this point, i don't think a little more brain damage'll hurt." he mutters, ignoring the disapproving frown you give him.

"i think you just don't want to mess up your hair."

"mhm," he snorts, watching you desperately try to blow stray hair from your eyes. without a second thought, he tugs at the front chin of your helmet to pull you closer. you try your best not to stare. "i got you." his voice gruff, with a syrupy sweet tint as his eyes flicker over you, careful fingers tucking your hair into the helmet. you can smell the leather, the slight scent of cologne. it smells comforting, reminds you of the nights spent with him, the mornings waking up to his arm slung over you that you both never acknowledge.

the blush rises in your cheeks quickly, and leon certainly notices. the smirk on his face is too damn happy. you're not sure why you get so shy doing civvie shit like hanging out with him- missions were nothing. killing undead people were nothing. and it was certainly not the most intimate thing you had done together. but it was as if these small touches, small, but blatant glimpses of the care leon has for you, put whatever unspoken, in-between relationship between you out in the open.

if there was one thing the both of you tiptoed around, it was certainly the massive fucking elephant in the room.

so maybe thats why when leon revvs the engine, tells you to hang onto him, you grab his shoulders like you were starting a conga line. it was some sort of middle school move, but you were stubborn as a bull if nothing else, and stuck to your position. as leon pulled away and began to gain speed, you tried to focus on enjoying the ride. and maybe part of the ride was a pair of huge biceps and wide, confident shoulders. you're only human.

slowing at a newly red light, leon places one foot on the ground to lean on while he waits. after a pregnant pause, motors rumbling next to you and someones music in the distance of traffic, he turns his head to the side to direct his voice to you.

"you don't have to be afraid to touch me, you know," his hand leaves the handlebars, covering yours to slip them down to his waist. he pulls your grip around to his stomach, leaning back into you just enough to make you crave his weight, crave his nearness further. "i don't bite—well," he glances at your covered collarbone with a sly smile. the hickey he left there almost ached in response the memory playing in your head. "you might enjoy that."

you're glad a helmet is covering your face.

"keep that up, you're gonna get bitten." you mutter. the light changes, he looks back at you again.

"promise?"

[pienjoshigomi]

LEON KENNEDY — SELF-IMAGE [NSFW]

Leon Kennedy x afab!reader

summary: your self-esteem issues get in the way of a lot of things. you had agreed to try mirror sex with Leon thinking you could handle it, but your brain decided to ruin it for you.

wc: 1,546

tags: angsty smut to more angst to fluff, extremely sweet and protective bf Leon, mirror sex, p in v, reverse cowgirl, groping, praise, interrupted sex (by yourselves), implied mentally ill reader, self-esteem issues/self-hatred, comfort, lots of reassurance, hugging you, aftercare

a/n: the start could be triggering for people with terrible self-esteem like me, read at your own discretion. this is extremely self-indulgent, and based on my own experience—basically i'm just coping lol. i believe this is FTM friendly, but please correct me if i'm wrong!

available on ao3

Mirror sex is supposed to be fun.

At least, it was when you didn't already struggle to look at yourself in said mirror after waking up. Or after stepping out of the shower. Or when you brushed you teeth. Or—

"Nghh, fuck—" Leon grunted in your ear, hands kneading your breasts as you sat in his lap with his bare chest against your back, and his cock buried deep inside you.

When you were discussing trying out new things and he brought up mirror sex, you accepted without really thinking about it. Thought it couldn't hurt—that it was nothing crazy and that it might even end up being exciting. Lots of people like it, right?

But you're already starting to regret it.

Because self-hatred runs really deep when it comes to you.

You tried at first, but all you managed to do was stare at Leon in his closet's mirror door, ignoring yourself completely like you didn't even deserve to be there. It just served as a reminder that he looked so good, and that you pulled someone way out of your league. And it fucking hurt.

You've always had a problem with overthinking during sex. Wondering if you look good, if you taste good, if you feel good, or if your face looks weird right now or not—but now that you actually get to see what you've been dreading for so long, there's an even bigger pit settling in your stomach.

Your eyes have been closed for a good minute now, but your hips are still grinding against each other's, your hands braced on his forearms. He feels incredible—god, the sex with him is heavenly—but the little voice in the back of your head whispering 'he probably thinks you're hideous' over and over is keeping you from truly enjoying the moment.

One hand slowly drifts from your breast up to your jaw, tilting your head up as his thumb pressed against your cheek. "Open your eyes baby—mmph... look at how pretty you are, come on." He murmured against your throat, placing hot open-mouthed kisses at the junction of your neck and shoulder while his eyes stayed focused on your reflection.

You could feel him twitch inside of you—he's absolutely loving it, and it's making you feel even more guilty.

You swallow thickly, eyes fluttering open obediently but with difficulty. But the moment you see yourself again, every little imperfection, every little complex comes back to mind.

Your eyes close again on instinct, your brain fighting between pleasing your boyfriend and protecting you from your own thoughts. Your grinding is unconsciously starting to slow down, teeth biting onto your lower lip with growing anxiety and nails digging into his skin.

Leon smiled against your skin, amused at first as he assumed you were just being a little shy. His free hand reached down to grab your hip and guide your movement, a sweet encouragement if you weren't currently freaking out.

"Come on, you can do it—uhff. God you're so—" Tight. He wanted to say, but cut himself off abruptly.

"Leon, i can't—"

You're getting tight. A little too tight. I'm-not-so-comfortable-anymore kind of tight.

His grip on you tightened as he switched from guiding your hips to holding you still instead, sensing something was deeply wrong.

"...Baby?" He murmured, voice quieter now as alarms rang in his head. "Hey—hey, baby." His head leaned over your shoulder, checking on you directly instead of through the mirror.

Your little frown, your eyes squeezed shut, the tears threatening to fall. Shit.

He immediately went into panic mode.

"Hey—w—what's wrong? Wait, let me—" He murmured in a hurry, strong arms very carefully lifting you up and off his lap, pulling out of you as gently as possible before he lowered you onto the edge of the bed next to him.

"Oh, sweetheart..." He muttered softly at the sound of your little sniffles. Before asking any questions, he started by gathering his boxers and his t-shirt—covering you up with the latter and making sure not to make any more physical contact than necessary, then pulling his boxers back on.

"Do you need something? Water? I'll get you something to clean yourself with—you can do it yourself if you'd rather i don't touch you right now." He rambled nervously as he reached towards his nightstand for his water bottle and some tissues, movements clumsy as he tried to go too fast.

"I'll fetch your panties too if you want." He added as he put the tissues down and uncapped the bottle for you, almost spilling some over himself in his haste.

All he wanted for you right now was to feel comfortable again, safe enough to explain to him what happened and avoid the possibility that you'd clam up.

You took the bottle as he offered it, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand before taking a sip, while he searched your pile of clothes for your underwear.

"There." He muttered, neatly folding the thin piece of fabric like a habit and placing it down next to the tissues like some absurd peace offering.

Leon forced himself to wait patiently for you to finish, all curled up as you cleaned yourself up with a tissue and blew your nose with another. Once you slipped your panties back on, he finally allowed himself to turn towards you.

"...You wanna talk, or you need more time?" He asked quietly, his eyes searching for yours.

"I... i'm sorry." You blurted out like a reflex, throat tightening again with guilt.

"Hey, no no no, you didn't do anything wrong," He said with a faint shake of his head, voice low and quiet in an attempt to seem non-threatening. "It's not your fault or anything like that. But i need to know what happened."

He can tell you're hesitant. You won't look at him like you're ashamed, and it's tearing his heart apart.

"...It's okay. We can go slow. Do you, uhh... can i—can i hold you?" He couldn't help but ask. "You don't—have to say yes, i'm just... really worried." He reassured, hand fidgetting against the sheets as he internally prayed that he wasn't the reason you were in this state.

He released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when you nodded slowly, scooting closer on the edge of the bed as his arms wrapped around you. One hand settled on the back of your head while the other rubbed your back in hopes it'd comfort you at least a little.

You let out a few quiet sobs against his shoulder, feelings scrambling together in your head. "I couldn't... i couldn't look." You croaked out, voice muffled against his warm skin.

He figured it out the moment you admitted that. Your horrendous self-esteem wasn't exactly a secret to him, but he didn't expect you to just... break down mid-sex.

"Do you think you can tell me why?" His thumb rubbed against your temple soothingly.

"I feel so... so ugly. I don't—i don't understand why you're even with me—" You admitted, voice shaky, head lowering in shame. "I thought i was gonna be okay—i just wanted to make you feel good...!" As soon as you teared up again, his hold on you tightened like he was allowing you to hide into his body if this is what you needed.

"Shhh... that's not important right now, you're my priority. You didn't ruin anything, nor did you hurt my feelings." He reminded you gently. "I still love you. I promise, you're safe."

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head before resting his chin there. "I think," He started, tone a tad lighter. "You're the most beautiful thing i've ever laid my eyes on."

"But i'm way out of your league—"

"You don't get to decide who i should date and for what reason." He corrected kindly as his hand started to pet the back of your head. "I think you're stunning and you're the one i want to date. My feelings are not up for debate."

You sniffled quietly again, a comfortable silence falling over the two of you as he hugged you, holding you from completely crumbling, but ready to piece you back together if you fell apart.

"Alright," He sighed with a hint of relief as he saw your head lift a little, taking it as a small victory. "You know what we're gonna do?" He smiled as your gaze hesitantly met his, one hand brushing your hair back and out of your puffy eyes. "I'm gonna run us a bath, make sure you relax—even if it means i gotta sit in scalding hot water for an hour because i know you prefer it that way." He chuckled to himself. "Then we'll cuddle in bed together, and watch a bad movie while eating a bunch of unhealthy snacks."

He cupped your cheeks and lifted your head up a little more, giving you that stupidly charming smile of his in an attempt to coax you out of your shell. "Okay?"

You stared at him for a few seconds, always so stunned by how fast his pretty face made your worries melt away.

"...Yeah, okay."

[jillsandwhichs]

hi!! i was wondering if you could write a post re4 remake Leon S. Kennedy x reader oneshot with angst + comfort?

basically, leon is having a really bad nightmare and he's tossing and turning in his sleep, clearly distressed. it wakes up the reader, and she tries to gently wake him up, talking to him and shaking him a little but it's not working.

then when she touches him, he suddenly reacts like he's still in the dream. he flips her over and pins her down, thinking she's a threat, and ends up putting his hand around her throat. like enough to cut off her breathing for a few seconds.

she manages to snap him out of it, and the second he realizes it's her, he immediately lets go and backs off. he's horrified and disgusted with himself and genuinely shaken up that he could've hurt her.

even though y/n isn't upset and understands it was just a trauma response, leon refuses to sleep next to her again because he's scared it'll happen again.

id love it if the ending is comfort-heavy, where y/n reassures him, maybe gently argues with him, and eventually convinces (or even bribes lol) him to come back to bed, showing him she trusts him and isn't afraid.

I’ve got you anon !!

REQUEST 1, Heavy heart

Masterlist

Pairing: Post RE4 Leon x F!Reader

Type: SFW

Song to listen to whilst reading: Take you away - Angus & Julia Stone

A/n: Requests are open. Check my masterlist for past and future request writings :)

Another sudden toss from Leon could be felt as it vibrated throughout the bed and its frame. You couldn’t ignore it any longer. You know Leon and how he suffers from PTSD. Some nights are easy, others? Not so much. Tonight just may be one of those rough ones.

You feel horrible for him. He’s gone through literal Hell and back. One thing about him, he’s always struggled to open up about things. It took him two whole months alone to explain what happened in Spain and at that, even longer to have him better explain how his disorder works against him. You are patient, no doubt about it.

Rubbing your eyes, you sat up in the bed and yawned as once again, you felt Leon shift and then say something. You couldn’t really make it out, but it’s most definitely partial to his nightmare he’s having.

“Leon?” You whispered to him. You ran your fingers through his soft hair, though it felt slightly damped with sweat.

This must be a rough one.

“Baby? Wake up. You’re okay, you’re home.” You spoke up.

Still nothing.

Laying your hand gently upon his cheek, you caressed it with your thumb. The faint and recently shaved stubble was felt beneath the pad of your finger. He looks incredibly precious whilst he rests. If only he didn’t have to suffer from such a shitty mental threshold.

“Wake up Leon. Please hun. You’re oka-“

Before you could finish your sentence, a sudden restrained noise came from deep in your throat as Leon hastefully pinned you onto your back and before either of you even knew it, his left hand was around your throat with a tightness that was clearly visible to the fact he felt in danger.

Jesus fuck.

You gasped for air and held onto his wrist, attempting to remove it.

“Le- Leon.” You were quiet. His hand is so firm around your neck. This doesn’t feel real. He must’ve been so deep into the bad dream. You made eye contact with him and it was then that he realized what he had just done.

Being more quick with his movements compared to how he was when it came to choking you, Leon threw his entire body off of you and climbed out of the bed, running that same hand through his hair before he inhaled deeply, and exhaled with a speed that didn’t seem healthy. “Holy fuck!” Leon shouted and put his hands onto his fibrous knees.

Sitting up on the back of the bed, you wrapped your arms around your legs, taking the moment to catch your breath and process everything; That appeared to be what Leon was doing himself.

Staring at him, his eyes were on you. Not on your eyes, but right below—locked on where he was just strangling you.

Leon has never felt more disappointed in himself.

“God damnit!” He yelled out again and you shook your head. “Baby, it is okay.” Your reassurance meant nothing to him. He just choked the love of his life and what, because of a stupid nightmare? He finds himself to be absolutely pivoted with vile currently. He can’t believe himself.

Who has he become?

“It’s not okay!” Leon was starting to do his pacing, which you took as your queue to crawl near the side of the bed he was walking beside. You can tell he’s not in the right headspace. His stress levels are through the roof right now and it’s going to take a lot of convincing to bring him back down to Earth.

“Leon,” you went to reach for his hand but he conveniently backed away until his back hit the wall. Ironically enough, a photo was hung up beside him of the two of you when you both attended a wedding together.

It is crazy how time flies.

It’s hard to think of what to say. Leon is so vulnerable right now. He feels horrible. What he just did to you, he will never forgive himself for.

“I’m not upset with you, at all. Don’t beat yourself up, Leon, you were having a nightmare. We knew this was a risk, we looked into it.”

At the beginning of Leon’s nightmares, you two had decided to do some at home research about PTSD and its side effects. A warning was that nightmares can result in physical reaction. The moment Leon knew of that, he was on edge. You always told him you’d forever understand, and you meant that. You love Leon, which also means you will always stick by his side, through thick and thin.

Shaking his head, Leon glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand. “I have to go to work in two hours knowing I just hurt my girlfriend.” Leon scoffed out and rubbed his face. You sighed softly and stood up. You went to grab his face and he took your hands, gazing at you. “Let me touch you.” You were sad now. You need to feel him, in any way.

He hesitated.

“We can’t sleep together anymore. Now that it’s happened, I just… I can’t.” Leon stated.

But he gave in to your touch.

You rubbed his cheeks with such love. You swear you felt the tension from his body go away in seconds. Leon has always told you that you are his relaxer, it seems he’s never exaggerated that factor.

“It has happened once in the countless nights we’ve slept side by side. Leon, it is a risk I am willing to take every night.” You said. “I love you and I refuse to not sleep beside my man every night.” You pleaded with him but you were met with silence.

Fuck sakes.

“Please say something,” you sniffled and wrapped your arms around his neck, hugging him lovingly before running your fingers through his hair via the back. He expired deeply, his hands on your upper back as he tucked his head into the crook of your neck, pressing sweet kisses to it. It was like he’s apologizing to your throat for hurting you potentially.

“I don’t know.” “Why don’t you know, Leon?” “If we should continue to sleep together… Maybe I should stick to the couch for awhile.”

You pulled away and looked at him with melancholic eyes. “Leon,” you hand your hands on his built chest—you could feel his rapid heart beats. “I would rather get choked every night than sleep away from you. I truly would.” You spoke with such truth that it struck Leon just how serious you’re being.

He still appeared unsure.

“Leon, that’s enough.” You let go of him and crawled back into bed before aggressively pulling the blanket on his side of the bed down, insinuating you wanted him to get in as well. He just looked at you, his eyes tired and his stature unsure. “Get in the bed before I make you.” You cocked your head and patted on the bed.

Just then, he nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed, his feet on the carpeted ground. You sat up on your knees directly behind him before you also began to place kisses along the outer part of his ear before whispering to him.

“I love you.” And kissing his ear lobe. “Lay down with me.” You were desperate. You need him.

Fully getting into bed, you made some room for him before laying your head onto his bare chest. He’s warm, very cozy. “I love you too honey.” Leon let out a deep breath, wrapping his arms around you.

All the while knowing he’s a truly lucky man—because it takes love to be able to deal with such a thing.

[chaoslibra]

leon is the type of guy to just instinctively place his hand on every edge or corner of any counter that you either are ducking/ leaning under or walking past. it’s not even a conscious decision, it comes naturally to him. he watches you near a corner from his peripheral and his hand moves without command. he sees you drop a pen under your desk and has his hand on the edge of the table above your head before he can even think about it.

[snowblossomreads]

Promise

Summary: "Leon...I'm scared." It was the three words that shattered him as he raced towards the home that you two had finally settled in. The sound of the muffled intruder alarm continued to go off in the background of the call as every scenario played through his head. You were in trouble, and he had made a promise to keep you safe in his vows. But would he make it in time?

Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x Wife!Reader

WC: 6.8K

Tag(s)/Warning(s): Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fear, Fluff (I guesssss) Burglary Attempt, Leon's Survivors Guilt doing it's thing. They do make out a bit as they should, oh yeah my beloved age gap bc i want that middle aged man!

A/N: I am still in Leon hell and I think Imma be trapped here for a hot minute (no complaints). Also I will stop scaring Leon and Reader at some point but not today : D. I gave Reader a bit of background as well just for story purposes she's an archivist for the Smithsonian because that's cool.

Also I imagine this takes place 3ish years before RE9 maybe, TBD lol

Read on AO3 as well!

"L-Leon…Leon I'm scared."

"I know sweetheart I know. The cops are almost there and I'm on the way. Just stay where you are and do what I told you."

The line went silent, and his anxiety did the complete inverse.

"Sweetheart?"

"I-I love you Leon."

He gritted his teeth. The grip he had around the steering wheel tightened, and he slammed on the accelerator.

"I love you too [Y/n]. You're gonna be alright."

Fuck. 

He should have been home. This would have never happened if he had had a normal work schedule and had been home with you already. And now you were alone. Hidden in a closet with a gun that you were terrified to use, and scared to death as someone beat at the front door in an attempt to break in.

None of this should have happened. He was supposed to keep you safe. It was in his vows to you the day you married him. That whatever madness he got dragged into, you wouldn't be pulled down as well. That was the promise he had made to you. And whether or not this was a random act, or something more sinister, you were in danger, and he wasn't there to keep you safe.

The tension in the car was suffocating as his mind spiraled down a path of increasingly worse case scenarios. Thought after thought of 'what-if' piled upon his psyche until he couldn't control the harsh exhale that escaped him before barking out a desperate,

"Fuck!"

It had started with him calling you that afternoon after he received word that he needed to assist with a recon assignment that was happening overseas. Had he not had plans with you that evening, he would have still been annoyed. But, knowing that he was going to have to ask you to reschedule your biweekly date for work, made him even more irritable.  

Ironic that the reason you both had set the dates was because of the erratic work schedules you both shared. Who would have thought that you, a newly appointed archivist for the Smithsonian, would also have such an unpredictable schedule like his? Neither of you did, but you both worked it out, and it was a fulfilling career for you that made you happy, which in turn made Leon happy. 

So when he called to deliver the news, a slight frown on his lips, he was relieved to hear your voice as it helped calm some of the annoyance simmering in his chest.

"My hero!" you chirped on the other line. "Wasn't expecting a call from you but glad you did when you did. Was just about to head out with Amara for lunch."

One leg crossed over the other, he leaned back against his chair and chuckled at your enthusiasm before greeting you, "Well hello to you too sweetheart. Sound like you're having a good day."

"Mhmm I am!" you replied with glee. "I'm talking to you, it's about to be lunch time and we're getting a new shipment of some fun exhibition items that I get to catalog when I get back," you listed off with a smile that he could feel radiating in his direction, even over the phone. "So, you could say I'm winning today."

"Definitely sounds like you're a winner, it's not even Friday yet. Maybe should play the lotto or something with the luck you're having?"

"And ruin my winning streak? Nuh-uh no thank you. Gotta keep it alive for our date night. The one in which I look forward to destroying you in whatever game we choose."

The smile on his face morphed into a grimace at your words as he was reminded why he had called you during the middle of the day. 

"Sweetheart," he sighed, "that's actually kinda why I'm calling."

You went silent on the line for a second before you spoke with a more subdued tone than earlier.

"Don't tell me…my winning streak's already over isn't it?"

Another sigh as he nodded.

"Unfortunately. Got something that came up this evening, probably won't be making it back until later tonight."

A disappointed grumble could be heard from your side, and while he knew it was because his brain was being wholly unreasonable, it made him wonder if you regretted being with him. The number of times work had come between plans you two would make was not super egregious, but it also wasn't normal. 

Sure, you had also had some conflicts with your job and school at times, but those were few and far between. And now that you had graduated from your master's program, it was definitely more him than you. Perks of how dynamic reporting directly to the president and dealing with bioweapon crises could be, he guessed.

Readying himself to listen to you voice your justified disappointment, as this hadn't been the first time he had to cancel on you, he was surprised (though he shouldn't have been) at your next question.

"Just for tonight right?"

"Huh?" he intoned, caught off guard by the question before answering, "yeah, just for tonight, not a boots on the ground type situation. Just doing some assisting with something."

Your soft hum filled the phone line for a moment as you thought, and it wasn't long before you spoke again.

"Well, as long as you're coming home tonight, I can't say no can I?"

"I mean you could say no."

"Really? Okay. Mr. President, if you're listening in on us right now, can you please let Leon skip the important assignment so me and him can play board games and have takeout tonight?" you asked half-jokingly, which caused Leon to let out a clipped laugh as he listened to your unexpected bargain. "I'll even let you touch the cool artifacts we're not supposed to let people touch at the exhibits."

Still in the midst of laughter, he shook his head, amused at your midday antics. "Didn't say it would work though," he chuckled, "but that is a sweet bargain if anything."

You sighed, "Darn!"

"I know, but I'll make it up to you sweetheart," he promised, amused yet still feeling guilty about the change in plans.

The sound of your giggles filled the line. It was shy, yet there was a mischievous undertone that was uniquely you as he waited for what you were about to come up with.

And he wasn't disappointed when you asked him in a low, borderline sultry tone, "Really? And how're you gonna do that, Mr. Kennedy?"

Warmth crawled up his spine as he flicked his eyes up to the open door of the temporary office he occupied whenever he was needed in-house. Across from him, there was an empty glass meeting room, and he could see people walking around on the other side. No one had really walked past the room he had been in since he entered, so he threw caution to the wind.

"Mmm, thinking about how I'll wake you up when I get home because I know for a fact you'll be sleep," he stated lowly so only you could hear him on the other end while he shifted in his chair. "Start with kissing that sweet face of yours that always twitches when you're having a good dream about me. Then kiss those pretty lips that always know what to say, and do."

He could hear your breath become slightly shallower, a quiet, "Leon," escaping your lips as he detailed what his plans were.

Enjoying the way he could hear your voice hitch, he continued, "Make my all the way down till I'm kissing those soft thighs that can't help but wrap around me when I'm treating my girl so good. Do it till you wake up for me all needy and asking for more. But because I'm making it up to you, I won't tease," he paused. "Well, not as much as I do usually. Sound good to you, Mrs. Kennedy?"

"Fuck me," you groaned breathlessly in a way where he could just see you squirming in your seat, while your cheeks got hot from his husky words.

Without missing a beat, Leon replied, "That's what I'm trying to do." 

The squeal that came from your side of the line caused him to chuckle louder, and had he been in the same room as you, he would have seen you kicking your legs and hiding your face. It was a good thing you had your own private office so that no one could ask you what was wrong. That'd be embarrassing in its own right.

"Okay mister, I need to hang up now before you get me in trouble," you laughed, still warm and fuzzy inside from his words.

"What's life without a bit of trouble?" he teased, earning a sound of agreement from you. "I'll text you later, let you know when I'm on the way home."

"Mmm sounds good! Love you Leon!"

"Love you too sweetheart, be careful tell Amara I said hello."

"Will do bye!"

His lips were still turned upwards in a soft smile as he hung up. Your voice always did wonders to make him feel better, especially on days like this. It wasn't too often that he had to be in an office, but it still was a headache. Checking his watch and mentally listing out the tasks he needed to complete, he decided to have a quick lunch and try to get some of it done now, so he could leave shortly after the evening's assignment was completed.

It had been around 11 that night when he sent you the text that he was wrapping up for the evening and would be heading home soon. With it being late, and you having an early morning, which you always said was against your will, he hadn't expected you to respond to him. But you did, and it was a pleasant surprise for him as he watched the little bubble indication of you typing pop up after his first message.

Leon: ETA 1 hour

You: midnight? I might be passed out by then.

Leon: Surprised you're still up. Everything locked up?

You: ofc! also leftovers in the oven lasagna! poke me when you get home

Leon: Perfect. We'll see. Goodnight sweetheart love you.

You: love yoouuuu❤❤❤!

His lips twitched upwards at your message, and he couldn't help but wonder how he got so lucky with you. You had the patience of a saint when it came to him and his work, even when it caused disappointments, just like tonight.

Of course, you got upset about it sometimes; you were human, but you always told him it was never something you guys couldn't work out. That understanding streak of yours made him love you even more.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, his eyes flicked up to your contact picture momentarily and to your name in his phone: 'Sweetheart - [Y/n]'. The joy it brought him was immense, and the smile on his lips showed that as he took one more glance at your grinning face on his phone.

The faster he got the recon report done from that evening, the faster he could be back home. Maybe he would even have time to make it up to you, just like he had talked about earlier.

Locking the phone and flipping it face down, he was about to get to work, already opening the forms he was looking for, when his phone dinged with a notification. He ignored it at first and continued to work, but several seconds later, the sound of another notification on his phone filled the room. 

And then another.

And another.

"What the hell?" he muttered as he picked the device up to check what all the commotion was.

It was from the front door camera he had installed before you both had moved in. Something was moving outside on the porch. 

At 11 pm.

His mood shifted in an instant. Brows furrowed, and a frown etched on his lips, Leon unlocked his phone and went to check what was going on. When he opened the camera app, he felt his heart skip and then plummet straight to his stomach at the sight. One of his worst fears was coming true. 

Outside, standing on the porch, were two people donning masks to obscure their faces. And…they were armed. That's what the notifications had been about. Before he could even say anything, Leon watched in what felt like slow motion one of the two bring their hand up to the camera before it went dark. 

Fuck!

Out of his chair in an instant, your phone number was already illuminating his phone screen as he called, praying you hadn't gone to sleep yet or at least would wake up.

"Hunnigan! Send the police to my house now!" 

"What's wrong?" she asked, eyes wide, startled by Leon's booming voice filling the once-silent room. 

She watched as he bolted straight out of his temporary office and across the room, making a beeline towards the stairs as he wasn't about to waste time waiting for the notoriously slow elevator.

"People trying to break into the house, [Y/n]'s there I'm trying to get a hold of her now."

"Christ," she hissed, already connecting with operators. "I'm on it go!"

"Mmm hey baby com-"

"[Y/n] sweetheart I need you to listen to me okay? Can you do that for me?" he interrupted, and by the sound of his voice, something was wrong. 

Very wrong.

You blinked; the drowsiness of almost falling asleep vanished in an instant at the urgency in his tone. 

"Yeah-yeah of course. What's wrong?"

"There are some people outside right now, two by the looks of it that are trying to break in."

That got your attention as you sat straight up, adrenaline already beginning to kick in while you untangled yourself from the comfort of your blankets.

"What! Leon please tell me your -" 

'BANG BANG BANG!'

A startled cry left your lips as you were interrupted by the sound of something downstairs shattering, and at the same moment, the alarm system began to blare. The sharp sound masked your cry, yet you still slapped your hand over your mouth, trying to keep in the scream that wanted to be let out.

"[Y/n] listen to me and do what I say," he commanded as he sprinted across the parking garage, making a beeline to his car. "Lock the bedroom door now!"

"I'm already going," you whimpered, having already jumped out of bed, practically running to the door and locking it. 

Heart pounding so loud that you could hear it in your ears, you did your best listening to Leon guide you, while also trying to drown out the sound of the shrill alarm.

"Okay now I want you to go to the bathroom and lock that door, and then go into the closet. Can you do that?"

"Yes okay I've locked the door going to the closet now," you replied, your voice trembling as you felt your stomach flipping with anxiety. "This is so fucked Leon."

"I know sweetheart I'mma get you through this, not gonna let anything happen to you," he assured as he got in the car, already starting the engine and getting ready to peel out of the garage. "You in the closet?"

"Yeah locked it too," you replied.

"You're doing great, now listen to me, turn on the lights," he instructed, which you followed immediately. "I want you to open the safe box that's by my shoes, do you see it?"

Doing as he asked, you crouched down and reached for the metal safebox that he had shown you when you both had finished unpacking.  

"Y-yeah I see it I got it." 

"Good and you remember the code right, your birthday?"

The dopamine hit you had gotten when he had first told you that he used your birthday for the code had made your heart flutter. But in this moment, your heart was fluttering for a completely different reason. Nervousness, anxiety, fear. All of those words and more couldn't sum up the pure terror you felt coursing through your veins.  

"Mhmm yeah I'm opening it now."

Typing in the digits as steadily as your trembling fingers could, the LED light on the lock blinked green before the lock on the box disengaged, allowing you to open it. Undoing the latch, you lifted the top to reveal its contents.

A sleek black and silver handgun that was sat in a cushion, and two preloaded magazines were next to it. Your breath hitched. 

"L-Leon I don't, I don't know if I can," you whispered. 

Target practice with him was one thing. Shooting makeshift marks and cans just so he could teach you the basics was no problem for you. Actually shooting someone. A real living, breathing person. That was something entirely different. 

'Clang!'

The sound of something else downstairs being knocked over pierced through the sound of the shrill alarm, which caused you to jump and gasp.

"Sweetheart listen to me, listen," Leon urged, doing his best to calm you and walk you through the situation. "You have to do this  please. Remember how I taught you right? Magazine in, feed it, safety off, aim and pull the trigger."

Your hands shook, and you felt your fingers tingle as you stared at the gun with uncertainty for a second more before finding some resolve. 

"Yeah, yeah okay I remember, just h-hold-hold on."

Putting the phone down next to you, you picked up the weapon and did as he told you. With one magazine loaded and a bullet fed to the chamber, you put the other magazine in your pajama pants' pocket. Hopefully, you wouldn't have to use it, but the more the merrier you guessed.

"Mmmkay I did it," you confirmed as you picked up the phone from the ground and sandwiched it between your head and neck.

"Good now turn the light back off, and then I want you to hide where I told you to if anything like this happened."

"G-got it, I got it," you replied as you slid the box back where it had been with your foot and turned the light off.

Crossing the short distance to the other side of the walk-in closet, you stood in front of a built-in floor-length mirror that was pretty inconspicuous. You don't know why the words that came next left your mouth. Well, you did, as humor seemed to be the one thing that hadn't left you even in this situation.

"When I said this would be a sick spot for hide and seek," you whispered, opening the mirror to be met with darkness and an opening large enough for a person. "I mean like a non-lethal one. Not whatever this is."

You could swear you heard a huff tinged with amusement on the other end, and for however brief it was, you smiled as you practically threw yourself in the space and closed the 'door' behind you.

The space was dark, cramped, and unbelievably suffocating, which didn't help with you trying to slow your breathing. While you could still hear the alarm blaring outside, it was much more muffled than before. However, that heavy uneasiness in your stomach still grew as your hand tightened around the gun handle.

You guys had just moved in and finished unpacking last month, and now this. The best-case scenario was that the people who had broken in were just looking for valuables and nothing else. 

Amateurs trying to make a quick buck. 

The worst case…well… 

A wave of nausea flooded your body at the grim thought that momentarily crossed your mind, and you couldn't hold back your soft cry of,

"L-Leon…Leon I'm scared."

Had you been on a video call with him, there would be no missing the way his face crumpled at your words. 

"I know sweetheart, I know, the cops are on the way, and so am I okay?" he asked, trying his best to put on a reassuring tone. "Just stay where you are and do what I tell you. It's gonna be alright."

The silence that came from you caused his already frazzled nerves to worsen.

"Sweetheart you there?"

"Leon…," you sniffled. "I-I love you."

The finality in your words damn near made his heart stop.

There had been so many people in his life that he couldn't save. So many times where he wished he could go back, change what he had done, and save those people who had deserved another chance. Ever since Raccoon City, until now, the memory of the people he had lost still haunted him. An everlasting failure that he bore and tried to make right with his fight against the organizations that created bioweapons.

And now you. He couldn't lose you. Not like this.  

"Fuck, sweetheart," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion that he tried to push down, knowing it wouldn't help the situation. "I love you too and you're gonna be alright. You trust me right?"

You answered without hesitation, "More than anything."

"My brave wife," he praised, knowing how terrified you were. "Sweetheart, listen to me, I'm going to go on mute now, and I want you to be as quiet as possible, got it?"

"Okay, got it."

"Good. You call to me if you need me, but if anything happens you do what you have to sweetheart," he said, his eyes flicking down to the navigation screen of the car and seeing he was getting close to the house. "I know you're scared but you're gonna get through this. I'm almost there."

"I will Leon," you answered softly, your tone full of desperation as you added one last thing. 

"Hurry. Please."

He gassed it down the sparsely populated streets, a blessing and a curse of it being close to midnight. A blessing because he could race to you, a curse because if he had already been at home, this wouldn't have happened. With a shake of his head, he tried to push the thoughts aside. It didn't matter anymore. He was going to get to you. He had to.

That was a promise.

Furious didn't even come close to describing the expression that Leon's face was twisted into when he slammed the car door shut. Each step he took towards the house, now swarming with officers and blue lights, was heavy and filled with one purpose:

To get to you.

"Sir you can't-"

"It's my house."

The murderous and frankly seething stare in Leon's narrowed eyes as he spoke to the police shut the officer up immediately.

He looked like a man ready to commit a brutal murder. And had he been a crueler person who didn't value human life, he probably would have. When it came to you and your safety, his inhibitions were easily clouded, and he always had to work harder to keep them in check. 

You were his priority. 

So when his eyes fell upon the two men now sitting in the back of the police car, he felt his hands twitch. Hot rage pulsed through his veins, and there was this ringing in his ear that drowned all the chatter out from the officers who were there.

All of it was filtered out, except the two who had subjected you to those moments of terror earlier. So it was ironic, that it was also you, who kept him from ripping the car door open and pummeling them right where they sat. 

"Leon!" 

A watery cry, your watery cry, brought him out of the rage-induced fog in an instant as he turned to see you. Clad in your pajamas and slippers, you ran to him with outstretched arms and a relieved expression that instantly collapsed when you slammed into his chest and threw your arms around him to hug him.

Immediately, he was wrapping himself around you, squeezing you tight, and cradling your head into his shoulder as you let out a muted sob. You shook so hard against him that it felt like your bones would break from the release of adrenaline, and it was only Leon who was keeping you together in that moment. 

"Oh sweetheart," he murmured, planting kiss after kiss on the top of your head as he tried to comfort you. "Fuck [Y/n] I should have been here, should have protected you." 

"N-no it's okay you did protect me! I-I'm okay," you whimpered, yet you were still shaking, and your eyes were still shiny with tears as you looked up at him. "I'm okay."

"You call this okay?" he said, giving you a once-over to make sure you weren't physically hurt before looking at your tear-stained face. "You're fucking shaking."

You sniffled and shook your head at him, which only caused him to let out a raspy sigh. "Just the adrenaline wearing off, but I'm okay…I'm okay ," you whimpered, your voice cracking a bit before you took a deep breath in an effort to calm your frazzled nerves.

Everything was okay. Leon was here. The people who tried to break in were in handcuffs, and you didn't have to shoot anything. It was a win, yet your body was still having a hard time processing what the hell had just happened. Physically, you were okay, but mentally, you just kept repeating to yourself that you were okay like some kind of mantra. Maybe if you said it enough, it would calm you down…

"[Y/n] I'm-" 

"Excuse me, Agent Kennedy."

About to apologize once more, Leon was interrupted when one of the officers on the scene came up to you. He hadn't meant to glare at the man, but he couldn't keep his emotions in check, and he saw the way the officer immediately froze at the hardened glare that was leveled at him.

"What?"

The officer gulped, visibly nervous as his eyes jumped between you and Leon, who had taken to holding you closer against him as you lifted your head to look at the officer as well.

"What?" Leon repeated, his voice edging between harsh and almost malicious.

He could feel your gaze on him, practically telling him that it was okay. But this time, he ignored it as his entire being was screaming to keep you safe. And even if the danger seemed to be gone, it was going to take a bit for him to come back down from what he saw as him failing you.

"I'm- I'm sorry to interrupt," the officer apologized with a stutter, clearly affected by the coldness he was receiving. "But we are going to need a statement from you as well. And um, considering the circumstances, there might be some other things that we need."

Ah, right, the circumstances. 

Leon let out a humorless laugh.

"Right, circumstances yeah, give me as sec."

"Yes sir take your time," was the clipped reply, before the officer quickly put some distance between you both and himself. 

You would have laughed at the scene had you not been so high-strung, but instead, you just shook your head and gave Leon a weak smile.

"He's just helping."

He huffed at the call out, answering you with a silent look of 'sure' before he wiped a tear away from your eye with his thumb.

"We're going to talk about this later," he muttered under his breath before pressing his lips against your forehead for a second. "Let me get this situated, sweetheart and then we are going to go stay elsewhere for tonight. Okay?"

There was no room for argument in his tone and in his stern gaze. But you had no intention of doing so and nodded.

"Okay, but I wanna come with you to talk to them."

He hesitated before giving you a curt nod. Unwinding you from his arms, he instead took you by the hand and pulled you close to his side as you both went to speak to the officers who were waiting near the front door.

The good news. 

After running a database search on her end at Leon's request, Hunnigan had confirmed that the two men were just normal assholes. They weren't associated with any bio-organization or entity that Leon had pissed off in his past 20-some years of ass-kicking, which was great. Maybe they were part of some new up and coming one, but with the way everything had happened, it was too sloppy for something like that. 

The relief was palpable when he learned that. His shoulders, which had been practically up to his ears with tension, finally relaxed. And you were glad, because you had joked that if he kept it up, they would look like Nosferatu's. It was funny to you, but he just stared at you with those piercing blue eyes and a tight frown that had you hiding under the hotel bed's blankets.   

Had you not been as exhausted physically and emotionally, you would have said something flirty about the way his back and shoulder muscles rippled as he sat on the edge of the bed. However, you were, and honestly, you just wanted to talk to him as you watched him rest his head between his hands. 

Now for the bad news, which was lightly putting it. 

The guilt.

Specifically, Leon's guilt. 

You could tell he blamed himself for your predicament. He was always hard on himself about things like this, even if it wasn't his fault. Even if he had done his very best and given everything he could. He would still blame himself if there was a poor outcome.

Just like Raccoon City. Just like the men he lost in D.C. Just like this.

It hurt. It always did to see someone who always did everything they could, feel as if they failed somehow when it wasn't true. So here you were now, crawling over to him, your knees and hands sinking into the mattress beneath you as you closed the short distance between the two of you. Once behind him, you sat down and crossed your legs.

"It's me," you whispered, alerting him that you were there before you hugged him from behind and placed your head on his shoulder. "Everything okay?"

It took him a second to answer, but when he did, it was with a clipped, "Mhmm." And he was silent again.

That's how you both stayed for a bit, you hugging him from behind, occasionally kissing his shoulders before resting your head against him. You could feel when he inhaled and exhaled, his body moving up and down just slightly as he did so. The only sounds in the room were the intermingling of your breaths and the faint noise of an occasional car passing outside. 

It was soothing somehow, and just the type of calm you needed after what had happened. The drowsiness that had been creeping up since you both had arrived at the hotel around a quarter till 2 in the morning seemed to be exacerbated as well. You could fall asleep just like this. Arms wrapped around your husband's waist, head resting on his back as you both just sat with each other. 

"Sweetheart."

"Hmm?" you hummed, eyes already closed even though you hadn't even noticed.

There was silence again before he spoke. His voice was low, gravelly, barely above a whisper.

"I'm sorry."

Your eyes fluttered open at his words, and you blinked as they adjusted to the warm lighting in the room.

"Nothing to be sorry about Leon," you murmured against his skin before propping your chin on his shoulder. "You kept me safe. Talked me through everything. You did what you could for me at that mom-"

"But I wasn't there," he interrupted, turning his head slightly to the side to look at you with cloudy blue eyes that held a world of regrets in them. "I should have been home with you tonight. What would have happened if I didn't check my phone? What if-"

"Stop."

He froze. Looked at you with a questioning gaze as you unwrapped yourself around him and shuffled about so that you could sit next to him. Once settled, you turned to him, a sleepy smile on your lips and your arms stretched wide open, a silent invitation to come close.

Hesitation was written all over his features as he looked at you, but it didn't last long as he scooted over and wrapped his arms around you, bringing you into a hug that was absolutely relaxing. 

Your body melted against his as you threw your arms around his neck and nuzzled his cheek, and you could feel him doing the same.  You felt so safe in his arms, and it broke your heart that he felt guilty about not being with you. But he couldn't always be with you; you both knew that, that's why he had taught you all these steps. So to see him beat himself up, it made your heart ache. 

"You know you're my hero right?" you murmured, running your fingers through thick brown hair that had a few strands of grey beginning to peek through. "You've taught me so much. Made sure I knew what I had to do if anything ever happened. Because we both know you can't always be there with me, right?"

It took him a second to answer, but when he did, it was with a short, "I know." 

You hummed, not truly convinced that he really knew, but you also wouldn't force anything out of him. Doing that was a losing game, and you knew Leon. When he got like this, it was hard to get him to tell you things. So you would wait until he was ready to let you know what was on his mind. 

He always did, and he had been getting better at telling you sooner than later the longer you had been with him. So you decided you wouldn't push it tonight. It had been a long day. You were exhausted, and you sure as hell knew Leon was as well, even if he tried to hide it. 

"If you know, then promise me you won't beat yourself up anymore baby. Whether you believe it or not, you protected me Leon, and I'm okay. We are okay."

There was silence from his end for a moment, a little sniffle here, and a sigh there, but no words. Not that there was any need for them at this point. Both of you sat quietly for a bit longer before Leon was unwrapping himself from you, and you from him, so you both could face each other.

"You always know what to say to make me get my shit together, you know that right?" 

A grin appeared on your lips, and you shook your head. "Well someone's gotta keep the great agent Kennedy in check," you responded as you went to stroke his cheek, his stubble raking against your palm, which tickled you. "It's why you married me."  

He gave you a thoughtful look and nodded. "Yeah…and you make some of the best pastries that I've ever had, so that's a plus too."

A clipped humorless laugh escaped your lips, and you rolled your eyes at him. Bumping his shoulder with your own, you looked up at him and snarked,

"Men."

He didn't miss a beat.

"Women." 

There your Leon was.

"You love this one though right?"

A smirk played at his lips as he moved his face closer to yours, noses brushing affectionately as you continued to stroke his cheek. 

"You know I do sweetheart," he answered softly, his voice gravely and close to a growl when he spoke again. "Damn near strangled those men when I saw them in cuffs. Wanted to make sure they couldn't do what they did to anyone else."

"Mmm glad you didn't though," you hummed, tilting your face a little so your lips brushed against his briefly. "Don't need you catching a charge for me."

"Do more than that for you."

The protectiveness in his voice made you shudder. Your skin pebbled instantly with goosebumps, and the hairs on your arms stood up as you instinctively closed the space between you both.

"I know Leon, I know," you answered in a hushed whisper, before you leaned forward and captured his lips in a passionate yet tender kiss.

A throaty groan left him as he cupped the back of your head and pulled you close to him to deepen the kiss. Your chest brushed against his, and when you felt his arm wrap around your waist, you couldn't stop the moan that flitted from your lips to his. He felt so good against you, so solid and steady, and you couldn't help that your eyes were fighting to stay open as you kissed him.

"L-Leon," you panted, your damp lips escaping his for only a moment before your hands were around his neck, and you found yourself tasting him again.

He hummed as his free hand found your lower back and began to rub circles against it, causing you to try to cuddle closer to him. Your noses bumped a bit whenever you tilted your head, and you would giggle before those sounds morphed back into moans.

With each passing moment of his lips on yours, you felt your eyes grow heavy, intoxicated by Leon and the way he held you. But also, by the last bits of adrenaline that had finally begun to release its grip on you, and in turn caused your body to begin to shut down.  

This went on for a bit before what started off as a flurry of motion, simmered down as your kisses slowed, and your noises also died down. Not only that, your eyes had closed at some point and hadn't opened again until Leon pulled away from you, which made you let out a weak noise of protest.

"Hey sweetheart," he panted lowly, thumbing your already swollen lips as he looked at your lidded eyes that seemed to be having a hard time staying open. "Still with me?" 

You giggled. It was airy and sleepy, but it was definitely a giggle as you looked at him with what he could only describe as a dopey ass smile. God he looked so good. And god you wanted more, but also, you didn't know if you could stay awake much longer. 

"Hanging on by a-" you were interrupted by a surprise yawn that made your cheeks ache at the stretch. It lasted for a few seconds before you closed your mouth with a smack of your lips and smiled.

"Thread."

A short laugh left his lips, and he could only shake his head at you while you stared at him with your dopey smile. What was he going to do with you?

"C'mere sleepy head."

Arms wrapped around you still, he pushed the duvet covers down, and after a bit of maneuvering, which was accompanied by your weak protests, he had somehow gotten you both in bed. Situating you against his chest, he reached over you and pulled the duvet over the two of you, cocooning you both in softness. A big yawn forced its way between your lips as you tangled your legs around his. 

"Mm sorry, think everything's finally caught up."

"Don't be sweetheart, my wife needs her rest, right, Mrs. Kennedy?"

"Mhmm! You got that right Mr. Kennedy," you giggled a bit, delirium setting in, but you still had things to say to him. "Don't--" Yawn  "don't forget though," you murmured. "Gotta make it up to me."

"You drive a hard bargain even when you're halfway to lala land," Leon teased, his arm wrapped around your shoulder while he looked down at you. "Don't worry sweetheart, plan on making it up to you when you're not close to passing out.

A sleepy smile found its way on your lips, and you gave him a thumbs up before your eyes closed once more.

"What can I say? I--"  Yawn " I…I."

You couldn't even finish your sentence before your body just decided it was time, and you were out. Leon tried not to chuckle too hard as he watched you fall asleep so suddenly. Had it been a normal day, he would have worried, but after everything that had gone on, it was a surprise that you hadn't passed out the moment you had gotten in bed.

"Love you sweetheart," he murmured against your head, planting a kiss on top of it and scooting you close to him. 

"Sweet dreams."

And sweet they were. 

Especially, when you woke up the next morning to find the sweet dream to not be a dream at all, as Leon fulfilled his promise of making it up to you. 

A/N: I love them your honor. And also you know Leon doesn't think he's a hero but reader is like stfu u are and i shall always call you that 🥺🥺 and he likes it. I also have more cooking up for them that's actual pure fluff and smut but gotta get this angst out my system. okay let me know if you like it (do scream at me please it helps with morale!)

[hheaven-sentt]

gentle intimacy

summary: leon would not describe himself as good or kind, and he's cut open and bleeding at your feet, but you know he can be gentle | leon kennedy x f!reader

word count: 6.2k

warnings: a sickening amount of yearning, leon taking care of you, seriously this guy is down bad, leon being self deprecating, alternating povs, acts of service as a love language, mentions of injuries, sherry birkin appearance /// 18+ MDNI, SMUT!!!, unprotected piv, oral (f receiving), creampie by technicality, trust me there's plot, this is LOVE MAKING at its core

notes: re9 gave me the leon bug BAD. personally, I wrote this with DI!leon in mind but re9!leon also works here bc that old man's still got it | ao3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“That was stupid,” Leon says, hauling you into him. The words aren’t unkind, but they’re not gentle either. You stumble against him.

“Have I been known to be anything else?” you ask. He grunts. “Besides, I’ve got you to take care of me,”

He doesn’t respond. He finds a quiet spot, a reclusive corner where he can assess the damage. There’s a wicked gash along your side, cutting from near your navel up towards your ribs. It makes your vision tunnel when you finally lay eyes on it. You hadn’t known how bad it was. His fingertips are gentle around the surrounding skin.

“You’re lucky evac is two minutes out,” he says. His voice is hushed, like he’s telling you a secret. Maybe he is.

“Yeah?” you ask, a breathy noise that you’re not certain you could recreate. The sound is deep, rooted in desperation and blood loss. Leon’s eyes flick up at you from where he’s crouched, icy gaze cutting through his lashes. He looks pretty like this, bent low in front of you, looking at you with something you can’t place. It makes you shiver.

“You’re losing blood,” he says. You nod.

“Gonna give me yours?” you tease. Your vision tunnels a bit, and you slump forward. Leon catches you, pulling you flush against him. He smells like sweat and cedar and smoke, something that nearly lulls you into sleep. You hear a distant rumble as the building continues to crumble.

He helps you out of the derelict building. You’re barely even walking, just sort of stumbling beside him as he carries most of your weight, and you feel strangely guilty for making him do all the work. The helicopter’s blades never slow as it touches the ground. Leon helps you into your seat, guiding you gently. He’s soft as he slides the headphones over your ears, even going as far as to smooth a piece of hair out of your eyes. You can hardly keep them open.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs. It feels like a promise. “Can’t have you dying on me, now,”

“That would ruin your whole week,” you say, trying to smile. It’s a weak attempt at a joke, and he knows it. You can see tension make its home under Leon’s skin. It rears its head with every pull of muscle, every furrowed brow.

“We’ll be home soon,” he says. You nod. You’re not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself.

When you do finally land, you’re pulled away from him for medical attention. You fight as best as you can, attempting to sit in on the briefing, but Leon levels you with a gaze you’ve never seen him wear, and you accept defeat. There’s two medics standing idly in the room, and they turn to see you hobble in, eyes widening.

“What the hell happened?” one of them asks. You shrug, sitting down on the bed.

“Caught something sharp,” you say. They lift your shirt, which is in ribbons. A shock of pain rips through you, and you stifle a groan.

They work quickly, giving you a tetanus shot. You wince as the needle sinks beneath your skin. The pain only adds to the rest of it searing through your muscles. Now that you’re sitting, adrenaline having dissipated, everything hurts. The gash oozes blood, which makes you feel dizzy. Your back hurts, your legs hurt, your side hurts. Every time they touch you, you suck in a breath.

Finally, you’re stitched up. They tell you to take it easy for a week, shove pain meds into your hands, and send you out the door. Leon leans against the opposite wall, watching his boots. He looks tired, run down. He’s covered in dirt. Black streaks smear across his cheeks, his biceps. His hair falls like a golden frame over his eyes. You sigh.

He looks up then, watching you. He scans over your body, checking for any lingering injuries the medics managed to miss. You offer him a weak smile.

“No hospital?” he asks, pushing off the wall to meet you where you stand. His steps are heavy, tired. You shake your head. “Good. Let’s get you home,”

You follow him out of the building. It’s winding turns and desolate hallways until fresh air smacks you in the face. You take a deep breath, trying to let the residuals of the mission fall off of you. Leon’s car faces you, a beat up old Buick–he refuses to get anything newer–and it stares at you like it knows something you don’t. You fit easily into the passenger seat, like you were made for it. You lean back against the headrest. You feel suddenly exhausted, like a two ton weight rests in your chest. You just want to sleep. The drive to your apartment isn’t long, and you’re counting down the seconds until you’ll be able to slip into the shower and let the day wash down your back.

Leon helps you upstairs. You try to protest, tell him that the elevator isn’t going to exert you any more than the walk to the building itself, but he refuses to listen. He follows silently behind you until you reach your door. He’s like a shadow as you enter the apartment, still bathed in the darkness of night. You hate to do it, but you turn on the light, flooding the room and making you wince. Leon holds your arm to keep you steady as you toe off your shoes.

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you say, not looking at him. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been hurt,”

He doesn’t say anything for a long, pregnant moment. But then, “I would like it to be the last, preferably,”

You huff a weak laugh, something hoarse and weary. “You and me both, partner,”

He follows you from room to room, picking things up as you drop them. Your right arm is effectively useless because any movement on that side sends shockwaves of pain through your entire body. You sigh heavily, fighting back tears. Leon stands in the threshold of your bathroom, holding your bundle of clothes and hairbrush. He looks at you with something you can’t identify–not quite pity, but something adjacent. He looks so pretty, so collected, even in his dirty state. You clutch your side.

“I can take it from here,” you say, breathless. “I’ll see you in a week,”

Leon stares at you. His fingers fidget with the hem of your sleep shorts. He opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again. Then, “Do you want help?”

You blink at him. You hadn’t considered he’d be willing to help you. You hadn’t thought so far ahead as to know what you’d do to get out of your clothes.

With a breath, you say, “Yes, please,”

He nods wordlessly. Your clothes find their home as a heap on the sink counter. He pats the top of it once as if casting a spell to make them stay put. He turns to you then. He’s broad, forces you to dial in on him. His hands linger at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

You lift your left arm above your head, a silent encouragement to get him to touch you. His hands fall on you like a caress. Gently, he lifts your shirt up. His knuckles brush against your side, making your breathing hitch. He’s not watching you, fully focused on his task, but you can’t look away from him. He looks so focused, like one wrong move would paralyze you. He catches one end of the shirt in your armpit, pulling the other side out so you can slip your arm through. He helps ease your head through the collar, then pulls it off entirely via your other arm. He breathes in heavily through his nose at the expanse of skin he’s revealed. Then he takes a step back. You swallow thickly.

“I need…” you mumble, brain rotting inside your skull. “I can’t reach-”

“I got it,” he says. The words sound broken on his tongue.

You spin for him, presenting the clasp of your bra. You purse your lips when his warm hands make contact with the smooth skin on your back. He makes surprisingly quick work of it. Within seconds, you feel it loosening around your ribs, a small blessing. You breathe out something heady and heavy.

“I’ll be out there if you need anything,” Leon says. He leaves little room for argument by bustling out of the room as quickly as he can. You blink.

The shower water is hot on your skin, but it feels good. You can feel the tension slipping down your shoulders in rivulets. Somehow, you manage to wash yourself one handed, which you feel mildly proud of. The steam loosens you. It’s only when you step out of the water that you remember that you have to put a shirt on.

You struggle for what feels like hours. Every movement pulls on your stitches. You’re near tears when you finally call out for Leon.

“Yeah?” he asks, cracking the bathroom door. You sniffle.

“I can’t…” you say, taking a breath to recollect yourself. “I can’t get my shirt on,”

“I’ll help,” he says. His voice is so soft, so intimate. He enters quietly, staring at anything that isn’t you.

The shirt looks miniscule in his hands. Carefully, almost reverently, he eases the collar over your head. His gaze still lingers just past your shoulder. You frown. You slip your good arm through the sleeve.

Leon finally looks at you. You nod, letting him know it’s okay to put his hands on you. You see the turmoil in his eyes, the need for consent.

“You can touch me,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He nods once.

He grips the hem of the shirt, pulling as far down as the fabric will let him. Then, softly, he helps guide your arm through the sleeve. His fingers brush against you again, just along the curve of your breast, but the touch is electric, crackling with something unsaid. The moment is so intimate, so personal, you could burst into tears. Then the shirt is fully on your body. You wonder if Leon can hear your heart hammering against your chest. If he can, he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“Thanks,” you say, breathless. He nods. “I can handle the rest,”

“You sure?” he asks. There’s no suggestion in his tone, and that almost makes it worse. You breathe heavily through your nose, nodding.

He stands there as you fumble with your hairbrush. Your lips are pursed as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You’re barely halfway through the tangled strands before he stops you.

“Let me help,” he says–no begs. You glance at his reflection. He looks as wrecked as you feel. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, gaze unblinking as he waits for you.

“Okay,” you say softly, voice hollow and breathy as you pass him the hairbrush.

He’s gentle as he works the brush through your hair. His gaze remains focused on the wet strands, but yours is on him. His brow furrows slightly, that bottom lip pulled snugly between his teeth as he pulls on a particularly tough tangle. His eyes look so blue in the yellowing light above the mirror. The care he takes with you is enough to make you sick. His hands are frustratingly warm as they bump against the back of your neck. He never once pulls or yanks, never scrapes the bristles against your skin, never gets frustrated. He works until it is done, unwaveringly, and you didn’t expect anything less. The moment is so soft, so delicate, you’re afraid that something might break when you pull away.

“I think I got it,” he says, soft as a whisper against you. You nod.

“Thank you,” you say. You stay idle for a moment, just watching him. He looks so unsure.

You think, in another lifetime, miles and miles away from here, that you could’ve loved him. He’s funny when he wants to be, charming in a boyish sort of way. You count on him, but he doesn’t let it get to him. He gives because he thinks it a privilege that you let him. You reach up to wipe away some of the dirt still smudged on his face. He stiffens beneath your fingertips, not prepared for such affectionate contact.

He swallows thickly. You remove your hand, and you see him relax just a fraction.

“Do you need any more help?” he asks in an almost broken way. You shake your head. “I’ll see you later, then?”

“Yeah,”

He ducks his chin at you, then shuffles out of the bathroom. You hear the front door open and click shut a moment later, leaving you alone in your apartment.

...

Leon is not sure that he would describe himself as kind or good. But on his drive home, as he thinks about your withered form presented to him in the dim light of your bathroom, looking up at him through your lashes like he was something holy, he starts to think that that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he is kind or good because you kept looking at him like he was all you ever needed. He can still feel your skin against his fingers, sending shivers down his spine. 

He’d frozen up. He knows that he probably looked ridiculous, like a flushed school boy who had just stumbled into the girl’s locker room by accident. Your skin had been so soft. The expanse of flesh he’d discovered beneath your tattered shirt lives in his brain as he shuffles into his apartment. The space is dark and empty. He has very few personal items, unlike you. His space looks abandoned, which he guesses it usually is. He really only uses this place to sleep and eat sometimes. 

He crashes onto his couch, still unshowered and unclean. He just needs a moment, he tells himself. Just one moment, to collect the memories of you like precious items to set on his vacant shelves. The way you shivered against him when he brushed your side, the way you watched him, doe eyed, in the mirror as he brushed your hair, the humidity of the room clinging to you; they all go, framed and perfect, on shelves in his mind. He breathes out, something heavy and soft all at once. 

He’s unfamiliar with this feeling. He doesn’t know how to embrace it, so he decides that he shouldn’t. He’s not sure he deserves something as sweet and gentle as you. You’re better than him, in almost every way. You don’t let the job wear you down, you take pride in what you do. You tease him. The mercy and compassion you give him are foreign in his brain. And he feels so selfish for accepting every last scrap. He eats up the way you look at him, the way you laugh at his weak attempts at jokes, the way you worry after him even with a ten inch gash on your side that very easily could’ve gutted you. He is gluttonous and greedy and selfish. You are consuming him, and he is letting you. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t let you plague him this way. He knows that it could all too soon be ripped away from him, but in this moment, in the dim light cast by the moon streaming through his curtains, he doesn’t care. A shudder rakes through his body, from head to toe. 

It would be all too easy to blame you. He could curse you for whatever spell you’ve cast to make him stupid in this way. But he knows the fault is his and his alone. It’s his fault that he mistakes your casual compassion for anything more. It’s his fault that he devours whatever good comes his way, just to corrupt and blacken it. And he doesn’t want to do that to you. He doesn’t want to see where this will end, even if he has before and knows it as intimately as he knows every other aspect of death and decay.

He tips his head back against the couch. There’s a crack in his popcorn ceiling, cutting through the expanse of white like a vein. 

He knows he’s cut open and bleeding at your feet. He’s wounded in a way that doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t want you to help him. Not because he doesn’t ache to feel your gentle hands smooth over his scarred flesh, working out the evil with every electrifying touch, but because he does, and that would make you the universe’s top priority. 

He is cursed, a bad day after a worse one. And he knows that if he were to let you have him the way he wants, you’d become cursed too. Cursed with him and his aches and pains, his scars and bruises, his anger and resentment. 

When he settles beneath the sheets that night, he dreams of you. He dreams of your soft skin against him, your laughter, your easy smiles. He dreams of the life he could have were it not for his exceedingly awful luck.

He could save you. He could prevent you from ever coming nearer. But that somehow feels like a worse, more torturous ending. And he is nothing if not selfish.

...

The next time you see Leon, it’s nearly a week later. The swelling on your side has gone down and most of the pain has subsided, but it’s still tense and unforgiving, especially so early in the morning. There’s little light coming through the curtains thanks to the steady stream of rain pelting the earth.

His hair is soggy, casting thick shadows over the high points of his face. There’s crystal droplets on the shoulders of his jacket, ones you want to reach out to shake off, but you refrain. He smiles at you, that gentle half smile he only ever wears when he’s half exhausted. 

“Came to check on you,” he says softly, words turned plush on the corners of his lips. You smile.

“Unfortunately, I’ve succumbed to sepsis. You’re seeing a ghost,” you joke. He rolls his eyes and pushes past you into the apartment.

He shakes off like a dog as he hangs his coat on the hook. A few rogue water droplets smatter your face. You take a moment to observe him. The lines of his body are rigid like there’s something pulling him taught. For a moment, you ache to reach out and smooth your palms over his muscles, to help him relieve some of that tension. You wonder if that’s something that would be okay, if he would welcome your touch. There is a line that stands between you, and you’re not sure which side of it you reside on. 

“Anything interesting happen in the week that I’ve been gone?” you ask, leaning against the back of the couch.

Leon hums, pursing his lips as he thinks back on the last few days. “There’s a new coffee machine in the break room,”

You huff a laugh. “Can’t wait to try that baby out,”

Silence stretches thick between you, like a rope that’s been left out in the rain. You watch him move with careful precision, finding where would be the best place to exist within. You wonder why he never seems to relax, even in your space. You wonder if he knows how much you care. Subconsciously, you run the pads of your fingers over your injury. It’s a rough stretch of skin now, bubbled with scar and scab. You frown.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, suddenly standing again to get to your side. He catches your wrist where it hovers near the tear.

You shrug. “Only when I think about it,”

He purses his lips and emits a low hum, giving you a once over. “Have a fever at all?”

You shake your head. He nods, once and curt, before dropping your wrist and stepping away from you. 

“Do you need any help?” Leon asks, avoiding your gaze by scanning around the room. “Any chores that have been neglected? Any errands I can run for you?”

You feel the corner of your mouth tick up in a small smile. Shaking your head, you say, “No, Leon. I’ve been able to manage on my own,”

“I know,” he says. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing on the soft flesh there in thought. Then, soft as a whisper, he says, “I was worried about you,”

You feel your heart catch in your throat. You think back to the way he looked at you that night, like you were broken before him and he couldn’t do anything to fix you. You think about how gentle he was with you, how careful he was like you were bursting at the seams. You see his cheeks turn a tinge of pink as the silence stretches thick between you. You reach out, placing a flat palm against his chest. There’s no sound in the apartment, just the rain outside and your own heavy breathing.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Leon,” you say, just as soft. “I know you’ll always take care of me,”

He swallows, something heavy and unsaid, and nods. “I will,”

It feels like a promise. It feels like a vow.

With an intake of breath, you say, “Anything on our docket?”

Leon purses his lips. “Not on yours,” he says. You frown. “You’re on light duty for a while,”

You twist your face up in a nasty expression, which makes Leon smile a fraction. “I don’t like that,”

“That’s what I figured you’d say,” he says. He moves around you to finally sit down. You’re almost surprised as he gets comfortable on your couch. You move to join him. “I tried to tell Hunnigan you wouldn’t go down easy,”

“I can’t imagine I have much choice,” you say, grumbling. “Did they say for how long?”

Leon shakes his head. “Could be a while,”

You groan.

“Hey,” he says, gently. “You took a hard hit. It’s either office duty or a grave,”

You scowl at him, and he flashes you a smile. “Promise me you won’t get yourself killed while I’m gone,”

He makes a motion over his chest. Cross my heart.

The next week, Leon is shipped out to God knows where. They won’t tell you, probably afraid you’d commandeer a craft to chase after him. You’re checking in with Hunnigan by the hour, who tells you you’re being paranoid. How can you not be? He’s out there, alone, doing something, something dangerous, and you’re stuck writing reports and drinking watered down coffee from the new machine in the break room. He could be hurt, he could be dead, and you would never know the difference. It makes you sick, it makes you scared.

“Separation anxiety?” Sherry asks, taking a seat beside you. You’re staring at a monitor, feeling like your eyes are melting out of your head.

“Shut up,” you retort, making her laugh. “I just worry about him,”

“Y’know, I think I had this exact conversation with him a couple weeks ago,” Sherry says, grinning at you. You scowl at her. “You two act like if you’re not attached at the hip, you’re basically dead,”

“That’s what it feels like,” you murmur. You sigh. “You don’t get it,”

“Maybe not,” Sherry says, shrugging. “But I do know what it’s like to feel,”

You blink at her. “Don’t you have somewhere else to go be annoying?”

Sherry jabs a finger into your side, making you yelp. “Don’t be mean to me just because you’re grumpy,”

You huff.

You are not grumpy.

...

Leon feels half dead on his feet as he trudges up the stairs of your apartment building. He’s been gone almost two weeks, with little to no contact with you. It feels like it’s killing him. He feels like it’s sucking out his will to live. He just wants to see you.

He knocks gently on your door. It’s late, just past midnight, but he knows you’re still awake, always the night owl. You open it a second later, wearing a shirt three sizes too big and an old pair of sweatpants; he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful. You give him a once over, scanning him for injuries, and when you don’t appear to find any, you crash into him. He lets out an oomph as his arms settle around your waist. You smell like home, and he feels his heart crack open a little.

“Worried about you,” you whisper into his shoulder. He holds you a little tighter.

“Not over yet,” he says, and you pull away, squinting at him. He shrugs his jacket off to reveal a nasty cut along his bicep. He smiles sheepishly at you.

You sigh, and it’s like the greatest symphony ever written. “Grab a seat at the table. I’ll patch you up,”

His pain ebbs as he sits. You return to him moments later with a first aid kit and a scowl. Your soft hands against his skin are what keep him tethered to the earth. Pain threatens to eat at his muscles and sinew, to consume him. But you’re gentle, easing through it like a softbed creek, curving over already smooth stones.

“Did you even try to get out of the way?” you murmur. You don’t look at him, but he’s watching you. He sees the twitch at the corner of your mouth as you clean the wound, the pull of your brows in concentration. You look so beautiful like this, like a pink sunrise, a reminder that good is out there.

“Sort of,” he mumbles back. You frown at him. “I didn’t really have time,”

You hum. Once the wound is thoroughly disinfected, you prime the needle for stitches.

“This will hurt,” you say, sinking the steel beneath his flesh. He doesn’t react. You make quick work of the area, making sure to tape over it to protect the stitches. When he’s all patched up, you pat his other arm, saying, “Try to make time so that this doesn’t happen again,”

He nods, watching you. You’re a breath away, inspecting him for any other injuries he may be sequestering. He reaches up hesitantly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He feels giddy at the way your eyes widen.

“Pretty,” he says, so softly he’s not even sure you hear it. He wonders if he’s concealing the deep, desperate love he has for you, or if he’s bearing it all with his gaze. At this point, he’s not sure he cares. 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Kennedy,” you say, smiling at him. “I’m still mad at you,”

Soft as a whisper, he says, “I think I can handle that,”

Without much further thought, Leon closes the gap. You let out a little squeak when his mouth meets yours, but you almost melt into him. He’s so relieved that he could cry. Your hands find purchase along the curve of his jaw, his own grasping at the loose fabric of your shirt. You sigh sweetly into him, coating his nerves in a saccharine so destabilizing he can’t help but return it. When you fall into his lap, parting your lips and winding your arms around him, he’s afraid he’s died and gone to Heaven. And when your tongue finally meets his, he groans, something deep and guttural and unbecoming.

You pull away, a string of saliva hanging from your kiss bitten lips. You rest your forehead against his. His every perception centers on you; your hands on his chest, your nose bumping his as your chest heaves, your smell, the skin of your neck, open and exposed for him. He wants you, needs you like you’re the only thing that can save him. And when you kiss him again, a fire burns anew in his chest. Your hands are everywhere; his arms, his shoulders, his chest, and they find a home winding into his hair. A gentle tug against his scalp has his hands tightening their grip on your hips, begging you to still.

“Leon,” you murmur against his mouth, heady and soft all at once. 

“I’m here,” he says, and he means it. He has never been more present. And then he’s standing, lifting you with him to place you back on the floor. You stare at him, pupils blown wide, gnawing on your bottom lip.

He pulls you flush against him because he can’t help himself. He is nothing if not selfish, nothing if not gluttonous and greedy, and now that you’ve given him this small victory, he wants to see if he can keep winning you. He sees the quiet desperation in the deep color of your eyes, the way you’re watching him with your full, rapt attention.

“You can touch me,” you say, voice low and barely audible. He wants to eat you alive.

He wastes little time after that, mouth crashing against yours with renewed energy. His heart swells in his chest when you cling to him all the same. Your fingers dig into the tops of his shoulders. He taps his fingers once against your thigh, signaling you to jump. He catches you, carries you close against him until you’re laid out against the sheets. He doesn’t stray far, following you into the linen, soft and sweet.

He watches you for a moment, taking it all in. You’re smiling at him, grinning really as he hovers above you. You brush your fingers against his cheek, smoothing away whatever doubt may be lingering. He ducks his head, pressing feather light kisses to the column of your throat, making your breath hitch there. He doesn’t get far, not when you pull his mouth back to yours, grasping at his shirt in an effort to rid him of it. Leon is a compliant man, flashing you a grin as he pulls back to yank it off. He wonders if your cheeks warm like his, if you can hear the hard hammer of his heart in his chest.

...

Leon is all rigid muscle, sinew pulled tight and corded along his arms, the plans of his stomach, his shoulders. You feel almost animalistic, feral. You run flat palms over him, feeling him twitch and tremor under your touch.

“Pretty,” you say, soft as a whisper. He huffs a laugh.

You push him back slightly, only giving yourself enough room to sit forward to pull off your own shirt. You watch him swallow thickly as it gets discarded somewhere across the room. His hands are soft, gentle against the revealed skin as he kisses you again. Feather light touches across your waist, your stomach. Rough and callused palms against your breast, thumb finding your nipple. You arch into him at the contact, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

You’re aching, cut open and bleeding. His hands leave goosebumps and fire in their wake as he lays you back against the sheets, tracing his lips down your torso, stopping at the waistband of your pants. He looks up at you, chest heaving. You nod, a gentle duck of your chin. Your breath catches in your throat as he slowly–painstakingly slowly–tugs your pants down. He lets his hands wander over your exposed thighs, hopefully ignoring your choice of underwear. Light touches against your hips cause them to fall open. You wonder if you look as vulnerable as you feel. He presses the gentlest kisses to the insides of your thighs, head bouncing between them.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, a mumble against your skin. It sends shivers down your spine.

When he presses an open mouth kiss to the apex of your thighs, you think you black out for a second. A breathy gasp echoes off the walls. He tugs your underwear out of the way to flatten his tongue against you. The sound you make is unbecoming, head dropping back against the pillows. He wastes little time, sucking and kissing and licking as he finds his rhythm, finds what you like, what makes you the loudest. He eats you out like it’s a game, like he’s determined to get the highest score. Your vision is nearly white, fingers buried in his hair. When you tug on it a bit, he groans, deep and sultry, sending shocks to your brain. 

Your thighs begin to shake when he pulls your clit between his teeth, a breathy moan escaping you. He locks an arm across your hips to keep you in place. You’re shamelessly grinding against his face, chasing release. You keen high and whiny as he slides two fingers into you.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says, low and heavy. “Make a mess on me,”

He curls his fingers against you. The stretch and tempo and timbre of his voice were nearly enough to send you over the edge, but what does you in is seeing him lean back to watch you, stubble brushing the inside of your thigh. You clench around his fingers as you come, writhing and panting like an animal. You watch him lick his fingers clean before you’re clawing for him, pulling his mouth back up to yours. You groan as you taste yourself on his tongue. Your fingers fumble with the clasp on his belt, fighting to free him of it. You feel him chuckle against you as he reaches down to help you. He pulls away a bit to shuck off his trousers.

Your mouth waters when his cock springs free from his boxers, thick and flushed and dripping. Instinctively you reach for it, but he stalls you, gently grasping your wrist. You frown up at him.

“Won’t last very long,” he says by way of explanation.

“Next time, then,” you say, chest heaving. He grins at you, climbing over you again.

His kisses are addictive, you decide. You’re not sure how you ever went without them. They’re all consuming, send you spinning. You’re flat on your back again, pulling him as close as you can, running your hands down the expanse of his chest. He lines himself up with your entrance, gently pushing himself inside. The stretch is devastating. You break the spell of his kiss to gasp, jaw slack. His chest heaves as he buries himself in you, arms flexing on either side of your head. He stalls once he’s fully seated inside you. You smooth his hair away from his face, thumb swiping against his cheekbone. You feel so full; of him, of want, of love.

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse and heavy. You grin at him.

“Never been better,” you say.

You lock your legs around his waist, begging him to stay close to you. He drops his head, turning into your palm more as he begins to slowly pull out of you. The drag of him against your walls has you keening. He almost pulls out fully before pushing back in, setting a languid pace that has you boneless. One hand smooths up your side, cupping your breast. You pull him back down to you, mouth meeting his in a devastating kiss. He sighs heavy against your lips, a whimper so delicious it has you rolling your hips just to hear it again. He moves to bury his face in your neck, pressing gentle kisses to the skin there.

“So pretty,” he mumbles. You sigh. “Like you were made for me,”

The praise has you scratching your nails lightly down his back, earning you another pretty noise. His thrusts pick up their pace but never lose their softness. He ruts into you like a man consumed, mumbling against your sweat slick skin.

“Dreamed of this,” he says. His hands wander over you, fingertips gentle against your injury. “Dreamed of you. My pretty girl,”

There’s a pressure building in your stomach, a coil wound tight, threatening to burst every time he opens his mouth.

“Yours,” you say. “Always have been,”

His thrusts turn shallow, deep. He says, “Doin’ so good, fuckin’ perfect,”

You clench around him, huffing a breathy moan. “Leon,”

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here,”

His thumb finds your clit, and you’re seeing stars. White hot pleasure radiates throughout your body, threatening to consume you. He picks up the pace, chasing his own release. He thrusts one, two, three more times before he’s groaning in your ear and filling you up. He collapses against you, chest heaving and panting. Your fingers wind into his hair, toying with the ends. Every now and then you feel him press kisses to the column of your throat. 

“Leon,” you whisper. He hums. “I think your stitches split,”

He laughs then, a bright, airy sound that splits your chest open with want. He pulls back to look at you, and you note the way his eyes brim with adoration. You feel suddenly shy.

“You gonna patch me back up?” he asks, soft against you. You grin.

“Yeah,” you say, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “I will,”

When he kisses you, it feels like a vow.

[fluffylino]

🖤

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, neighbors to lovers, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), reader first orgasm, soft dom Han Jisung, emotional vulnerability, praise kink, mention of toxic relationship, slight exhibitionism (thin walls), slight degradation of ex-boyfriend, aftercare, fluff, soft angst (parental neglect), mdni

notes: in which han jisung hears you faking your orgasms through the walls of your apartment--and things spiral from there.

The walls in this building are a joke.

Half an inch of drywall. That’s all that separates his shitty one-bedroom from yours. He’s counted.

It’s not like he meant to know so much about you. He’s not trying to eavesdrop on every late-night argument, every hungover FaceTime call, every time you drag your heavy Econ textbook across the floor.

He just lives here.

And unfortunately, so do you.

Jisung never asked for the proximity. He never asked to know the way your voice rises when you're tipsy or how you only sing when you thinks no one can hear. But he does. He knows. He knows you eat too many frozen waffles and tha tyour microwave beeps twice before you remember to take shit out. He knows the name of your boyfriend, the sound of your laugh when you’re trying too hard, and worse—

The exact pitch of your moans when you’re faking it.

Because you fake it. Every damn time.

And he would know. He’s had the misfortune of being hard at 2AM with your paper-thin walls pressed against his back and that sorry excuse for sex filtering through his second-hand studio monitors like a mockery of porn.

It’s always the same: breathy gasps, your boyfriend’s awkward grunting, the bed springs squeaking like hell, and then—

“Oh my god, yeah, just like that...”

Flat. Perfunctory. The kind of moan that sounds practiced. Rehearsed. Completely unconvincing.

Jisung rolls his eyes and turns the volume up on his mix.

Not because it bothers him. Not because he cares.

It’s just distracting.

He’s got better things to do than think about the pretty girl next door faking orgasms like it’s a part-time job.

Like finish this track. Like land an actual gig. Like figure out how the fuck he’s going to keep affording rent in a city that eats people alive and doesn’t even burp after.

He’s not interested.

He’s not.

Except—

Sometimes he wonders what it would sound like if you meant it.

What you’d sound like if someone took their time. If someone made you come for real, dragged it out of your with fingers in your hair and lips on your neck and the kind of steady, brutal rhythm that doesn’t stop until you’re shaking.

What you’d sound like if it were him.

Jisung curses under his breath and drags his headphones off.

His eyes are dry. His dick’s half-hard. His track’s going nowhere.

Cool.

Maybe he just needs to… do something. Anything. Something mundane. Something that reminds him he’s a functioning adult with a trash bin and a spine and better things to focus on than the soft moans of the girl next door and the way they don’t sound quite right.

He grabs the overstuffed trash bag by the door, ties it with too much force, and makes a beeline for the hallway before he can talk himself out of it.

The fluorescent lights hum. The elevator’s broken again. Everything smells vaguely like burnt toast and someone’s fruity shampoo.

This building is hell.

He loves it.

Jisung drops the bag down the chute, lingers a second too long just to feel the rush of cold air against his face, then heads back.

He’s barely two doors away from home when he sees you.

You’re standing outside your apartment, arms crossed over your chest, loose sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder like it’s been a long night. Your boyfriend—Jason? Jared? Justin?—is leaning in too close, his mouth moving fast. Jisung can’t make out the words, but the tone’s familiar. Sharp. Defensive.

The boyfriend tries to kiss you.

You turn your face away.

Jisung doesn’t mean to stop walking. His feet just… do.

“I said I’m tired,” you mutter.

“Oh, you’re tired?” the guy snaps, way too loud for this dingy little hallway. “You weren’t tired twenty minutes ago when you were riding my dick, were you?”

Jesus.

Jisung should keep walking. Should disappear into his apartment and mind his business like he always does.

But instead, he just—

“Hey.”

His voice comes out cracked around the edges, like it hasn’t been used in a while. Which is accurate. He hasn’t really spoken to anyone in three days. Not unless you count the talking he does into the mic when he’s laying down verses at 3AM.

You both turn to look at him.

Jisung tries to smile.

It’s more of a grimace.

“You, uh…” he clears his throat, glancing at you instead of the walking ego next to you. “You okay?”

You hesitate.

The boyfriend doesn’t.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Jisung shoves his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket. “Neighbor.”

The guy blinks, then laughs. “Oh. So you’re the one blasting that emo SoundCloud shit through the wall every night?”

Jisung winces. A breath stutters out of him like he’s been lightly slapped.

Then he notices it—you wince, too. The tiniest flicker of guilt flashing across your face, so fast he almost misses it.

And yeah. Okay.

That stings more than it should.

“I didn’t say it was shit,”you mumble under your breath, clearly meant only for your own conscience.

“Don’t worry,” Jisung says quickly, forcing a light tone as he scratches the back of his neck. “It’s fine. Totally fair. Some of my stuff is… uh. Kinda dogshit.”

The boyfriend grins like he’s just won something.

“Glad we agree. Thought I was gonna have to explain how sound works to a wannabe DJ.”

Jisung opens his mouth—then closes it again.

Not worth it.

Definitely not worth it.

Except you’re still looking at him. Still standing there with your arms folded tight, sweatshirt slipping down further. And your face—

There’s something in it. Not pity. Not sympathy.

More like… regret.

He hates that it softens him.

The boyfriend, oblivious, barrels on. “Anyway, next time you feel like giving a concert at four in the morning, maybe wait until someone asks.”

“Next time you feel like giving headboard percussion lessons at two,” Jisung mutters, “maybe make sure she actually comes.”

The words leave his mouth before his brain catches up.

Instant silence.

You gasp. Cover it with your hand, like you’re trying not to laugh—or scream.

The boyfriend just stares at him.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Jisung shrugs, already stepping toward his apartment door. His hands are shaking a little, but he keeps his voice light.

“I mean, the moaning’s impressive. Real Oscar-worthy shit. But you’d think a guy who talks that much would at least know when he’s not doing it right.”

“You little—”

“Hey, man.” Jisung turns back for half a second, nodding at him with a crooked, tired smile. “If I can tell through the wall that she’s faking it, that’s not on her. That’s on you.”

He shuts the door behind him before the guy can even finish winding up his insult.

Click.

Deadbolt.

Silence.

Except for the thundering in his chest.

Jisung exhales hard, forehead thunking against the door. “What the fuck did I just do?”

He sinks down to the floor like his legs have given up. Which, to be fair, they kind of have.

This isn’t him. This isn’t what he does.

He doesn't talk back. Doesn’t mouth off. Doesn’t insert himself into other people’s messy lives—especially not yours. He barely speaks to delivery guys. Half his social life happens through a pop filter.

And yet.

“You’d think a guy who talks that much would at least know when he’s not doing it right.”

God. It was kind of funny.

But still—Jesus.

Jisung scrubs both hands over his face, embarrassment curling in his gut like a hangover.

Across the wall, he hears footsteps. Muffled shouting. The boyfriend’s voice, sharp with wounded ego. And then—

The unmistakable slam of a door.

Silence.

No more voices. No more fake moans. No more anything.

Jisung doesn’t move.

Eventually, when the silence stays long enough to feel safe, he hauls himself up off the floor. Brushes dust from his sweats. Tries not to replay what he said out loud like a greatest hits compilation of shit he absolutely should not have said out loud.

____________________________________________________________________________

He sleeps like shit.

Of course he does.

And when morning comes, it hits in a wave of cheap sunlight and neighborly noise.

He hears your usual routine unfold with near-perfect familiarity: fridge door opening, kettle clicking on, cabinet slam (twice—you always forget which one holds the instant coffee). Muffled cursing. Zipper. Then keys jingling against the lock.

He listens as you step out, lets the door fall shut behind you, and walks down the hall toward the stairs.

Everything is the same.

And none of it is.

Because this time, when you leave,your footsteps pause right outside his door.

Just for a second. A breath.

Then gone.

He groans and pulls the blanket over his face.

The rest of the day moves in its usual haze. Jisung does what he always does: noodles with a half-finished beat, eats instant ramen over the sink, ignores three texts from Chan asking for an update on the mix. His headphones stay around his neck most of the day, never quite getting used.

By sunset, the hallway is quiet again.

The beat he’s working on is shit. He knows it’s shit. He keeps tweaking it anyway.

It’s not even music anymore. Just sound. A bunch of clunky, disjointed loops that won’t glue together no matter how many times he messes with the tempo.

He’s just about to scrap the whole thing when—

Knock knock.

He freezes.

It’s soft. Measured. Hesitant.

He doesn't move right away—just sits there in his desk chair like someone just rang the doorbell in a horror movie. Then he leans back slightly, just far enough to peek over the edge of his laptop.

Another knock.

His heart does something stupid.

He stands. Pads barefoot to the door. Checks the peephole.

Of course it’s you.

You’re standing there in leggings and an oversized hoodie, arms cradling a plastic container like its armor. Your hair's pulled back, face bare. You look—

Small.

Unsure.

You lift one hand and knock again, even softer this time.

He hesitates a second longer, then opens the door.

Not all the way. Just a crack.

Your head jerks up. You blink. “Hi.”

He blinks back. “Uh. Hey.”

You shift your weight. “Can I—uh, are you busy?”

He opens the door a little wider, eyes flicking down to the container you’re holding. “No. I mean. Just… failing at music.”

That gets the faintest smile out of you.

“Right. Yeah. I, um…” You hold out the container. “These are for you.”

He stares. “Cookies?”

“Apology cookies.”

There’s a beat.

Then:

“I didn’t bake them,” You admit. “But I did walk two blocks to the overpriced organic place to get them. So. Effort was made.”

He blinks down at the container again, like it might disappear if he stares hard enough.

“Effort noted,” he mumbles.

You shift again, hugging your arms tighter. “You don’t have to eat them. I just—felt weird not saying thank you. Or sorry. You didn’t have to do what you did last night.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. Felt weird not saying something. So.”

You stand there in the doorway for a second, both of you clearly unsure of what to do now that the thing you came to say has been said. He should probably invite you in. Or take the cookies. Or smile, or make a joke, or something.

Instead, he clears his throat.

You jump in to fill the silence. “Also, just so we’re clear—I didn’t actually mean the SoundCloud thing. That was… low-hanging fruit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So you’ve listened?”

That earns him a flush, bright and instant. “Not on purpose.”

“Wow.” He presses a hand to his chest. “What a glowing endorsement.”

“I’m just saying—I wasn’t trying to be a bitch. That wasn’t fair.” Your gaze softens. “Your stuff is good. Better than good, actually. The one with the—uh—strings and that lo-fi beat underneath?”

His eyebrows raise. “Track twelve?”

She nods.

His stomach flips. It’s ridiculous. But that track had been sitting unfinished for weeks, like something he wasn’t sure anyone but him would ever care about. And now she’s standing here—face bare, voice quiet—quoting it back to him like it meant something.

He doesn’t know what to say.

For someone who spends hours arranging syllables and syncopation for fun, it’s laughable how words immediately bail on him when they might actually matter.

“You, uh…” He shifts the container to one hand. “You’ve got a good ear.”

You smile. It’s small. A little sheepish. “I’ve got shit walls.”

That makes him laugh—quiet and surprised.

“I should let you hear more sometime,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it.

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

“I mean—only if you want to. No pressure. I just thought…”

He trails off, scratching at the seam of his sleeve.

“I’d like that,” You say.

And he doesn’t know what to do with the warmth that blooms in his chest. It’s not huge. It’s not loud. But it’s there—steady and unexpected, curling under his ribs.

“Cool,” he says, voice softer now. “I’ll, uh. Let you know next time I make something new.”

You nod, then shift your weight backward—just enough to start retreating. But not before your eyes flick to his again, briefly, like you want to say something else.

He thinks might.

But all you do is smile—small and real—and take one step back towards your door.

“Goodnight, Han.”

His name on your lips feels like something it shouldn’t. Like a secret.

He nods. “Night.”

And then you turn. Cross the narrow hallway back to your apartment, keys already in hand. you hesitate at the door for half a second—he notices that, because of course he notices that—then slides the key in, disappears inside, and lets the door fall shut behind you with a soft click.

He watches the empty hallway for a beat longer.

He stares at his own door for a moment after he closes it, forehead pressed against the wood like the words you left behind are still floating in the air.

Goodnight, Han.

He hadn’t realized how nice his name could sound until you said it like that.

It echoes in his chest. Warms something that’s been cold for a while.

When he finally moves, it’s slow. He sets the cookies on the kitchen counter, grabs a pen, and flips open the nearest notebook—one he’s barely touched in weeks.

And he writes:

Track idea: starts quiet. Voice sample, maybe hers? Lo-fi beat behind it, soft keys. Let it build. Don’t let it rush. Let it breathe.

He underlines let it breathe three times.

Then he puts his headphones on.

And for the first time in a long time—

The music comes easy.

______________________________________________________________

You never planned on being friends with Han.

The boy next door with the quiet mouth and loud headphones. The recluse who only seemed to exist in studio beats and half-heard melodies through the wall. You knew his name before you knew his face—Han, printed on a mailbox slot too narrow.

Now he nods at you in the hallway. Smiles, even. You’ve learned that they’re rare, his smiles—crooked and shy, like they’re still trying to figure themselves out. You’ve started waiting for them.

Some mornings, you catch him in the elevator, hoodie pulled over messy hair, a takeout coffee in one hand and sleep in his eyes. You say hi. He says hey. He always holds the door for you.

It’s nothing. But it’s not nothing.

And then, one night—it’s something.

It starts with your friend’s voice, high and nervous. “I swear I had your keys. I swear they were just—fuck, okay, check your bag again—”

You’re too drunk to care. Or think. Or stand up straight

Your bag is wide open on the hallway floor, a war zone of receipts, gum wrappers, lip glosses with no caps, and an unopened pack of hot sauce packets you swear you didn’t steal from Taco Bell. Your friend is crouched beside it, frantically digging like she’s searching for buried treasure.

And that’s when the elevator dings.

You don’t even bother turning around. You’re too busy trying to balance one heel on top of a rogue pack of gum like it’s a tightrope.

Your friend, however, freezes. Then straightens sharply, whisper-hissing, “Oh shit—it’s your neighbor.”

You blink. “Which one?”

“The hot one.”

That gets your attention.

You turn—wobble—and there he is: Han. Grocery bag in one hand, hood halfway off, hair a little windblown. His eyes flick from your friend to you, then to the scene at your feet: your life in full chaotic display.

He pauses. Then says, with the softest little blink of disbelief,

“Uh… everything okay?”

You blink right back at him.

Then lean toward your friend—not subtly, not gracefully, and definitely not quietly—and whisper at full volume:

“You’re right, he is hot.”

It echoes.

Down the hall. Into the vents. Probably into the next dimension.

Your friend claps a hand over her mouth.

Han stares at you, frozen mid-step, grocery bag dangling like it no longer belongs to him.

You sway slightly. Flash him a winning, drunken grin. “Hi.”

His ears go pink.

He recovers with a cough and a quiet, “Hey.”

Your friend steps in, trying to salvage the moment. “She, um… lost her keys. And maybe her filter. And maybe also her last three brain cells.”

“I have at least five brain cells,” you argue, eyes still locked on Han like you’ve just spotted the last bottle of tequila on Earth. “Maybe six.”

“Okay,” your friend says sharply, grabbing your arm before you can say anything worse. “She’s drunk. She needs to sleep. You’re right next door. I trust you, I think. Will you—can you—?”

“I’ve got her,” Han says, voice gentle. Too gentle. Like he’s trying not to laugh but also trying not to die of second-hand embaressment.

He steps forward, freeing his hand long enough to steady you when you stumble again. His grip is warm, careful. You immediately lean into it like he’s a weighted blanket.

“Wow,” you murmur. “Strong and polite. A dangerous combo.”

He just smiles—shy and crooked, the way he always does when he doesn’t know where to put his face. “You good to walk?”

“No promises.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘maybe,’” he says, easing your arm over his shoulder.

Your friend sighs, already backing toward the stairs. “If she tries to seduce you, just tell her she cries at Disney movies and once got drunk and tried to fistfight a traffic cone.”

“I won, though,” you shout after her.

Han chuckles.

Your friend throws one last suspicious look over her shoulder, mouthing to Han, text me from her phone if she throws up, before disappearing down the stairwell.

And now it’s just you and Han.

And the heat of your skin pressed to his side.

And the wild, buzzing thought in your brain that you’ve never been this close to him before.

He shifts his weight. Glances down at you.

“You seriously okay?”

You nod. “I feel great.”

“You say that while using me as a crutch.”

“Yeah. But like—a sexy crutch.”

He laughs, head ducking slightly like he’s embarrassed for both of you.

But he doesn’t let go.

And he doesn’t stop smiling.

Han’s arm stays steady around you as he unlocks his door, grocery bag still dangling awkwardly from one wrist. He guides you inside carefully, flicking on the lights with his elbow and nudging the door shut behind you.

You blink, taking it in through a haze: tiny apartment, warm lighting, a bunch of wires and gear by the desk, no couch in sight.

He catches you swaying and steers you toward a plain padded chair by the wall. “Here, sit for a sec.”

You plop down like a ragdoll.

Han crouches in front of you instantly, gently tugging your heels off one at a time like he’s afraid you’ll tip over trying. “You good?” he murmurs, setting your shoes aside neatly. “Anything feel weird? Dizzy?”

You grin at him. “You’re so worried.”

He flushes instantly. “I just—yeah. I mean. You’re really drunk.”

“Yeah, but like, in a fun way.”

“Still,” he mutters, already handing you a bottle of water from the counter. “Drink this. Slowly.”

You take it. “You’re like a… a boyfriend. But like, a really responsible one. Like—tax-paying, call-my-mom-for-me energy.”

Han snorts and gets up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, you’re done talking now.”

“I’m not!” you call after him as he sets the grocery bag down. “I’m very interesting!”

He just shakes his head, trying (and failing) to hide his smile.

When you blink again, he’s in front of you, holding out a hand. “C’mon. Bed’s this way.”

You pause. “You only have one bed.”

His ears go pink. “You can take it.”

You squint. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

He shrugs, awkward. “Floor. I’ve got blankets.”

“That’s tragic.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

You pout but don’t argue as he pulls you gently to your feet again. You’re warm, wobbly, still clutching the water bottle like a security blanket, and when he steers you toward the bed, you barely resist at all.

He helps you sit, then hands you a second pillow and adjusts the blanket like he’s not trying to combust over how soft you look there. He’s halfway to standing up again when you tug the edge of the blanket higher and murmur:

“Thanks, Han.”

He’s still standing near the edge of the bed, half in the dark, blinking at you like you’ve just short-circuited every single brain cell in his head.

His voice is a little uneven when he says, “Y-Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You smile at him, all cozy and soft, limbs draped across his sheets like you belong there.

He doesn’t even know where to put his hands.

“I, uh—” He scratches at the back of his neck. “I still have a bit of work to do. Just mixing something. I’ll, um. Be over here.”

You blink up at him. “What kinda work?”

“Music stuff.” His voice cracks a little, and he clears his throat immediately. “I won’t bother you. You can—yeah, you can just pass out. All good.”

“You don’t mind me on your bed?”

Han stares at you for a second too long.

Then jerks his gaze away. “No. I—I mean. No, definitely not. Like, at all.”

He fumbles over to his desk, nearly knocking over a pair of headphones, and drops into the chair like his legs have forgotten how to bend properly.

You snuggle deeper into the mattress, dragging the blanket over your legs with a dramatic sigh. “This is comfy. You have good taste in sheets.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, clicking around on his laptop even though the track’s already loaded. 

You giggle.

He pretends not to notice.

You don’t see it—but his eyes flick to you constantly. Quick little glances when you shift, or sigh, or tuck your face into the pillow like it’s your new favorite thing. He can’t not look.

You yawn, cheek squished into his pillow. “You smell nice.”

He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a cough and a quiet plea for mercy. “You should, uh. Try to sleep.”

“Mhm.”

You don’t move.

Just keep lying there. All sweet and sleepy and tangled up in his blankets, on his bed, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And even though he should be focusing—he really, really should—

Han can’t stop smiling.

He turns back to his screen and presses play, the familiar beat fills his headphones, looping low and steady.

It’s not done—not even close. The layers are uneven, the bass too soft, the melody still fighting to find its place. But it’s something. And tonight, it’s the only thing keeping his hands busy while his mind refuses to stop thinking about you in his bed.

You’re quiet for a while.

He thinks maybe you’ve finally fallen asleep. You haven’t said anything in minutes, and your breathing’s slow, almost even. He lets himself glance over his shoulder.

You’re still awake.

Eyes open. Watching him.

You shift slightly under the blanket, cheek still pressed into his pillow. Your voice is soft, drowsy. “Can I hear it?”

He blinks. “What?”

“The track you’re working on,” you murmur. “Can I listen?”

Han’s heart does a somersault. Or maybe a backflip. Hard to tell through the static in his chest.

He turns fully in his chair. “Now?”

You nod, slow and lazy. “You promised. You said I could listen next time you made something new.”

Right. He had said that.

But not this one.

Not track twelve.

He fidgets with the headphone wire. “It’s not that one.”

You blink at him, confused.

“The one with the lo-fi strings,” he explains, voice quieter now. “Track twelve. I still haven’t finished it.”

“Oh.”

You don’t sound disappointed. Just curious.

He rubs a hand over his face, then offers a crooked little smile. “But you can hear this one. If you want.”

You nod again, eyes fluttering half-shut like the night is finally catching up to you.

He hesitates.

Then gently unplugs the headphones from the jack, letting the soft sound of the track fill the room.

It’s quiet. Dreamy. Bare bones but beautiful—slow, pulsing synth layered under a simple piano loop. There’s a vocal sample buried under the mix, something wordless and airy, like a breath that never ends.

You close your eyes fully this time, listening.

And Han watches you—watches the way your body relaxes into the sound, how your lips part just slightly, like the music is pulling something from you even in sleep.

He turns back to the screen, fingers hovering over the trackpad.

You speak again, barely above a whisper.

“It’s sad,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer.

“Not in a bad way,” you add quickly. “Just… it sounds like it’s missing something. Like it’s looking for something.”

Han swallows.

Yeah.

That’s exactly what it is.

He stares at the waveform on his screen and says, very softly, “I think it’s trying to say something I don’t know how to say yet.”

You don’t reply. Not right away.

When you do, your voice is already trailing off into sleep. “You don’t have to say it. It’s already in the music.”

And then you're still.

Breathing even. Eyes shut.

Han doesn’t move for a long time.

Just sits in the soft blue glow of his screen, heartbeat slowing down to match yours, wondering how the hell he’s supposed to finish a song when the thing it’s missing is falling asleep five feet away.

______________________________________________________________

It’s been months since that first night.

Since the couchless sleepover, since the drunken key fiasco, since you fell asleep to the sound of his unfinished song.

And in that time, Han has come out of his shell in the slowest, sweetest way possible.

At first, he was shy. Still the hoodie-wearing recluse with his eyes glued to Ableton and his words tucked somewhere behind clenched teeth.

But then he started showing up more. At your door with takeout. With headphones and half-finished demos. With quiet, tentative smiles that stretched wider the more you smiled back.

You got to know him.

He told you about Malaysia—about sticky summers and midnight noodles and the way his parents still call twice a week even though they’re oceans apart. He told you how he moved to Korea for college, studied for a year, and then dropped out when he realized his brain was wired for sound, not textbooks.

You told him about your life, too—your parents and their ever-shifting conditions for love, the apartment they still pay for, the degree you’re grinding out just to prove something. To who, you’re not even sure.

And Han—turns out he’s kind of a chatterbox. Once he’s comfortable, the boy talks. About anything. About everything. With his hands, with his whole face. About samples and synths and the absolute travesty that is powdered parmesan.

Now, it’s like this: casual, constant, inevitable.

You crash at his place sometimes—not because you're locked out, but just because. Sometimes you bring your laptop and do homework on his floor. Sometimes you nap in his bed while he works. You keep a toothbrush there now. A hoodie of his has quietly migrated to your closet.

You even invited him to your graduation this spring. “It’s not like my parents are coming,” you’d shrugged, and Han had just blinked at you, then said okay, like it wasn’t the biggest fucking deal.

He still blushes when you call him hot. Still won’t take the bed when you stay over. Still treats you like you might disappear if he lets himself want too much.

And today, you’re at your place—your couch this time, legs tangled together on either end, killing time the way only two people who are too comfortable with each other can.

Lazy game of truth or dare. No real stakes. Just soft laughter and shared snacks and the kind of questions that teeter between teasing and tender.

Han’s fingers are brushing against your ankle, casual and unthinking. The popcorn bowl is somewhere on the floor, long forgotten. You’re both half-reclined, cozy and loose, a tangle of limbs and friendship that’s been threatening to become something else for weeks now.

You’ve already dared him to do his worst celebrity impression, and he’d made you sing a jingle from one of your old childhood commercials. The kind of dumb, lazy game that only works when you trust someone enough not to twist the blade when things get close.

Now it’s his turn.

“Truth,” you say, yawning, stretching like a cat in the sun. “I’m feeling vulnerable.”

He gives you a look. One brow raised, fingers tapping thoughtfully against his thigh. “Okay. What was your best orgasm?”

You blink.

Then laugh.

He flushes instantly. “Shit—was that too far? I thought we were in the spicy round.”

“No, no,” you say, waving a hand, trying to keep your smile light. “It’s fair.”

But you don’t answer right away.

You sit there for a second, fiddling with the hem of your oversized sleep shirt. His question settles somewhere low in your stomach—not uncomfortable, just… exposed. Like a truth you’ve learned to laugh off before anyone can look too closely.

You glance at him, then say it—half-teasing, like a joke you’ve told a few times before.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Han blinks. “You wouldn’t—?”

You shrug. “Never had one. Not a good one. Not any, actually.”

There’s a pause. His brows lift, lips parting slightly, but you beat him to it with a raised hand and a crooked grin.

“I know, I know. Tragic. I’m either defective or cursed. It’s a toss-up.”

He doesn’t laugh.

You thought he might—just to lighten the mood. Maybe roll with the joke, keep it casual.

But Han’s expression softens instead. Slowly. Like he’s putting something together.

But Han’s expression softens instead. Slowly. Like he’s putting something together.

“That’s not funny,” he says, voice quiet. Barely a wrinkle of sound between you.

You blink. “It’s kind of funny.”

“No, it’s not.” He leans in a little, eyes searching yours. “And it’s definitely not true.”

You hold his gaze for a beat longer than you mean to. “Tell that to every guy I’ve slept with.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. Just says, soft but certain, “They don’t count.”

Something in your chest pulls tight.

You sit back, let out a soft exhale through your nose. Try again, lighter this time. “I mean, at some point, you start to wonder if it’s just you, right? Like maybe I missed a biological memo.”

“You didn’t,” he says, firm now. “You just haven’t been with someone who cared enough to figure you out.”

You snort softly, eyes dropping to his lips before flicking back up. “What, and you do?”

His breath catches, just slightly. But he doesn’t flinch.

“Yeah,” he says. Simple. Sure. “I do.”

You go quiet.

It’s not the answer that surprises you—it’s how steady he is when he says it. Like it’s not even a question in his mind. Like he’s already imagined it, already decided what he’d do if you ever let him.

That steadiness makes your throat go tight.

“Okay,” you say, voice quiet. “Then what would you do?”

Han shifts slightly, eyes locked on yours, his expression unreadable. Focused.

“I’d start slow,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like a line—it sounds like a plan. “Let you get used to being touched in a way that’s not… performative.”

You blink.

He leans in, just a little. Not close enough to touch. Not yet.

“I’d watch your face,” he continues, softer now, “and actually pay attention. I’d figure out what makes you squirm. What makes your breath catch. What makes you ask for more.”

Your pulse thrums at your throat, hot and sharp.

“I’d talk to you,” he murmurs. “Tell you what I’m doing. Tell you how fucking good you look while I’m doing it. Make sure you know every second that it’s about you.”

Your pulse thrums at your throat, hot and sharp.

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

Because Han is looking at you like he already has you spread out in his mind. Like he’s memorizing every microreaction, storing them away like he might need them later. Like he’s already tasting the sound you’ll make when he finally breaks you open.

Your voice comes out low. Barely there.

“That’s a lot of attention for one orgasm.”

Han’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not quite yet.

“I’m not aiming for one.”

You feel it in your chest—in your spine—the way his voice sinks into you. Low. Purposeful. Like he’s already in your skin, like the words themselves are a touch.

You can’t breathe.

He’s so close now, and still—still—not touching you. He could. He should. Your body is already leaning into the heat of him, legs still curled beneath you, the hem of your sleep shirt brushing high on your thighs. But he doesn’t move.

“Have you… done this before?”

He blinks. “Made someone come?”

You nod, quick, almost shy.

“Yeah.” His mouth lifts at one corner. “Why?”

You hesitate, eyes flicking over his face. “I… thought you were a virgin.”

Han blinks. Then he laughs—a soft, breathy thing that curls low in his throat.

“Wow,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks already going red. “That’s, uh… new.”

You’re not teasing anymore. Not really. Not with the way your eyes keep flicking over him—his mouth, his hands, the pink creeping up the slope of his neck. Not with how you’re sitting up straighter, how your thighs squeeze just slightly together without meaning to.

He notices.

And it flusters him, of course it does—he’s Han, after all. All nervous energy and soft-spoken charm. But there’s something else underneath it too. Something steady. Something you didn’t see before.

“You really think I’ve spent this much time listening to you fake it through the walls and didn’t fantasize about doing it better?”

Your breath catches. Hard.

His gaze doesn’t drop. Doesn’t falter.

And suddenly, you’re seeing him for what he is—really seeing him.

The slightly older boy next door. The dropout with big hands and bigger dreams. The quiet music producer who hides behind humor but notices everything. The same Han who always opened his door, always gave you the bed, always walked on the street side of the sidewalk—but now you realize he’s been wanting you the whole time.

And you missed it.

You look at him now—and you feel it.

The shift.

Because he’s still Han. Still hoodie-clad and sweet and overly cautious.

But he’s also a man.

And god, it’s hitting you all at once.

The way his eyes haven’t left your mouth. The way he says things like I’m not aiming for one with such quiet, devastating confidence. The way he can be so careful with you and still make your skin burn like he’s already touched you everywhere.

You swallow hard.

“So,” you murmur, voice dipping low, “you’ve done this before.”

His fingers twitch where they rest against his thigh. “Yeah.”

“How many girls?”

He blushes harder at that. Clears his throat. “I mean, not a lot.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m not—” he fumbles, flustered now, voice high-pitched with embarrassment, “—like, I’m not some sex god, okay?”

You giggle. Can’t help it.

He glares, weakly. “Don’t look at me like that.”

You lean in. Let your voice soften. “Like what?”

He shifts under your gaze, eyes flicking down again before returning to yours. “Like you’re surprised.”

“I am,” you whisper.

And you are.

Surprised by the heat in your belly. Surprised by the tension in his jaw, the way he’s not looking away now. Surprised by the fact that the Han you thought you knew—the one who panicked over burnt rice and once apologized to a houseplant—is sitting in front of you, cheeks flushed, voice low, practically thrumming with restraint.

And the restraint is unraveling. You can see it. You can feel it.

His hand is still resting on his thigh. Tense. Useless.

You want it on you.

He must know, must feel the shift in the air, because he breathes out through his nose—shaky, controlled—and finally moves.

Not to kiss you.

Not yet.

Just slides closer, knees brushing yours. Hands braced on either side of your thighs like he’s holding himself back from climbing into your lap. Like if he gets too close, he won’t be able to stop.

His voice is soft when it comes. Careful.

“I don’t wanna mess this up.”

You blink. “What?”

“This,” he says, eyes darting between yours. “You. Us.”

Your heart kicks.

“I’m serious,” he adds. “If you want me to stop, I will. Even if I’ve already started. Even if you change your mind in the middle. I need you to know that.”

You just look at him.

At his flushed cheeks, his trembling fingers gripping the couch cushion, the way his eyes won’t stay still—darting to your mouth, your thighs, your eyes again.

You don’t know how to say what’s clawing up your throat. Don’t know how to explain that you’ve never felt like this. Like you could fall apart and not have to put yourself back together alone.

So instead, you reach for him.

You thread your fingers through his, bring his hand to your thigh—bare skin under the edge of your sleep shirt—and press it there, warm and waiting.

His breath stutters.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His breath stutters.

That’s all it takes.

His fingers flex against your thigh—just a twitch, nothing urgent. But the heat of them sinks in deep. You can feel how careful he’s being, how tightly he’s holding the leash on himself, like he doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he moves too fast.

You tilt your hips slightly. Just enough.

He moves.

Slides his hand higher, beneath the hem of your sleep shirt. Knuckles grazing soft skin, the inside of your thigh, and you’re already trembling. The anticipation is thick—so much thicker than anything that’s come before it. Your body’s aching and he hasn’t even touched you where you need it yet.

Han breathes out slowly. You can hear the effort it takes not to rush.

His fingers reach your panties.

They’re soaked. Clinging to you. And he makes a sound in the back of his throat when he feels it—somewhere between a sigh and a groan, like it’s hurting him, how wet you already are.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“I’m trying not to.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, and leans in to kiss the corner of your mouth. “You can just let me take care of it.”

And you do.

You sink into the cushions and let his hand keep climbing. Let it trail over skin that’s already too hot, too tight, too aware. The hem of your shirt rides up over your hips as he moves, exposing soft skin and damp fabric.

He touches you through your panties first. Just a single stroke—up and down, slow, deliberate.

You jolt.

Your thighs twitch. Your hips tilt into his hand before you even mean to.

His fingers are steady. Gentle. No fumbling, no testing limits just to say he did. He strokes over the soaked cotton with maddening patience, slow enough that your body’s buzzing before he even slides them aside.

He strokes over the soaked cotton with maddening patience, slow enough that your body’s buzzing before he even slides them aside.

When he does, it’s with a breathless little sound—almost like awe.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice low and tight. “You’re so wet already.”

You shiver.

He doesn’t ask permission again. He doesn’t need to. Your legs fall open on instinct, your body already offering itself up like it’s been waiting for this. For him.

He dips his fingers into you with quiet care—just the first two, slow and unhurried, and it’s so much. Not just the stretch, not just the slick slide of it—it’s the way he groans like he can feel how good you feel around him. Like your body is turning him on just by existing.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “How has no one made you cum?”

You whimper.

“Seriously,” he says, fingers curling slightly inside you, rubbing against that spot that makes your toes curl. “You’ve got the prettiest fucking pussy I’ve ever seen. Wet and warm and just—fuck, baby.”

Your hips jolt when he says it—baby—and he notices. His mouth quirks.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, watching your face like it’s giving him instructions. “You like that. Being talked to while I fuck you with my fingers?”

You moan—helpless, high-pitched—and your hand shoots down to grab his wrist.

He stills immediately. “Too much?”

You shake your head. Or maybe you nod. You don’t even know anymore—your brain’s barely holding on, your body dragging you under, soaking up everything he gives like it’s the first drop of water in a drought.

He watches your reaction like it’s gospel. Like every twitch and gasp is holy.

“Thought so,” he says, and starts to move again—slow, controlled pumps of his fingers, careful not to lose that rhythm now that he’s found what works. The way your walls clench when he curls. The way your hips chase him when he retreats. The way your breath hitches when his palm drags across your clit just a little too hard.

And god, he uses it all.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes glued to where he’s working you open. “If this pussy was mine, I wouldn’t be able to leave you alone.”

You gasp.

“I’d keep you like this every night,” he says, voice thick now. “Stuffed, dripping, begging for it. Just like this.”

You keen, head falling back against the cushions, thighs straining around his wrist. Another twist of his fingers, another filthy curl, and you’re spiraling again—clenching, grinding, chasing something you’ve never actually caught before.

But it’s still not enough.

Close, so close. You can feel it in your gut, in the burn behind your eyes, in the way your whole body draws tight like a wire about to snap. But then it slips, slithers away like it always does, leaving you aching and wrung out and panting like you’ve been running in circles.

Han doesn’t stop.

He slows, sure. Eases off that pressure like he knows—like he felt the way you were peaking and watched it fall apart all over again.

Your breath stutters. Your hands tremble where they’re gripping the couch cushions. Your whole body shakes with the frustration of it.

Han looks fucking thrilled.

“Shit,” he whispers, eyes glued to the slick mess between your legs. “You’re gonna be a fucking problem, huh?

You whimper—shaky, half-desperate—and try to pull your legs closed, but his free hand slides up your thigh and keeps them open. He’s still panting, still hard in his sweats, and yet somehow entirely focused on you.

Your voice comes out broken. “I can’t—fuck, Han, I was so close—”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, leaning over you. His fingers finally slip free, soaked and shining, and he brings them to his mouth like it’s nothing. Like tasting you is just a thing he does between breaths. “You’re so fucking pretty can’t believe no one’s ever made you come.”

He sucks one finger between his lips, humming low in his throat, and your entire body jerks.

He grins around his knuckle. Blushy. Sweet. Still Han, somehow—except his eyes are dark now, slow-burning, locked onto you with intent.

And when he speaks, it’s not teasing. It’s reverent.

“I knew you’d taste good,” he murmurs, dragging his hand down your thigh again. “Didn’t think you’d ruin me this fast, though.”

You squirm, still reeling from the touch of his fingers, still aching from how close you came—how it slipped just out of reach. Your panties are somewhere around your knees now, tangled and damp, and your thighs are trembling despite the warmth of the room.

But Han doesn’t give you time to settle.

He drops back down between your legs like it’s instinct.

Like he belongs there.

You brace for it—his mouth, his tongue—but nothing prepares you for how intentional it is.

Because when he licks you, it’s not just lust. It’s devotion.

The first press of his tongue is slow, hot, drawn out like he’s tasting something forbidden. It drags through your folds, slick and maddening, before he pulls back just slightly and exhales a shaky breath against your cunt like it’s worship.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You’re so fucking sweet. So wet—dripping for me, baby.”

Your hips jerk. A soft moan tears from your throat, helpless and startled.

He hums at the sound. And then his tongue is on you again—lapping, curling, sliding in lazy circles around your clit, not rushed, not rough. Patient.

But it’s overwhelming.

Too much and somehow still not enough.

You gasp, spine arching. Your thighs twitch against his shoulders again and he presses his hands there—holding you open, keeping you still. His grip is firm, grounding. Gentle only in contrast to the way he eats you.

He groans low when your hips roll, when your slick coats his lips and chin. Like it turns him on more than anything else. Like this is the part he needs.

He devours you like he’s starved for it.

Like he’s been thinking about this—you—for longer than he’s willing to admit. Tongue slow but deliberate, savoring every stroke, every gasp you give him. He doesn’t speak now, doesn’t need to. The sounds alone—your moans, the wet suck of his mouth, the way your breath stutters every time he flattens his tongue against your clit—say enough.

But it’s your reactions that do it. The way your body jumps every time he moves just right. The way your hands scramble for the couch cushions, for him, like you don’t know what else to hold onto. The way your thighs clamp around his head when he groans into your cunt.

That’s when he realizes.

You’ve never been eaten out before.

It hits him all at once—in the way you shiver, in the way your body doesn’t quite know how to take the pleasure he’s giving. There’s something raw about it. Uncharted. Holy.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tease. Just lets the knowledge settle deep in his chest like a vow.

So he slows down. Not to drag it out—to care. To guide you through it.

He pulls back just slightly, presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another one, lower, softer. You can feel his breath against your skin, shaky and uneven, like you are unraveling him just by letting him do this.

He kisses down, worshipful, open-mouthed presses of tongue and lips trailing toward where you’re slick and trembling—until he’s back on you, groaning deep in his chest like he needs this to survive.

He laps at your cunt like a man obsessed. Messy, wet, obscene.

His tongue flicks fast over your clit, sloppy and relentless, and when you whimper—high and panicked—his hands tighten on your thighs, dragging them wider, pushing you open like he can’t get enough. His nose presses into the soft swell of you and his mouth won’t stop.

And god—god, the noises.

The slick suck of his mouth, the soft wet licks between your folds, the broken, wanton moans he keeps letting out like your taste is fucking euphoric.

Your thighs are trembling against his cheeks, toes curling against the cushions, hands fisting in the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this plane of existence. Every time you start to come down, he drags you right back up—tongue flicking, then flattening, then sucking.

You’re soaking him. You know it. Can feel the slick mess coating his lips, his chin, now—but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t even flinch. Just dives in deeper, grinds his mouth against you like it’s the only thing that matters.

And maybe it is.

You’ve never made sounds like this before. Never felt anything like this. It’s a full-body unraveling—pleasure so raw and high-pitched it’s almost unbearable. You can’t even find words anymore. You try—gasp out his name, maybe a plea, maybe a warning—but it’s just breath. Just noise.

He hears it anyway.

Groans in response, and the vibration shoots through you—tightens every nerve, every muscle. You feel it everywhere. In your spine, in your belly, in your fucking teeth.

He licks through your folds like he’s trying to commit the shape of you to memory, tongue dragging over your clit in slow, hard laps now—intentional, devastating. One hand lets go of your thigh to slide underneath you, to lift your hips, tilt you toward his mouth like an offering.

Like you’re his altar and he’s ready to worship.

You don’t even realize you're crying until the tears hit your cheeks—silent and sudden, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it, the depth of it, the relentlessness of him.

Jisung doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does and just thinks it’s holy.

Because he’s still moaning against your cunt like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Like this is salvation. Like this is his first time, too.

The warmth is unbearable. Sharp and sweet and all-consuming, climbing up your spine in thick, molten waves that won’t stop—won’t let you go. Your muscles are locking up, your breath catching in your throat, your fingers cramping from how tight you're clenching the cushions.

You’re going to break.

You know it.

You want to.

And he just keeps going—tongue pressed flat and firm against your clit now, dragging in slow, filthy circles while his lips suck softly, reverently, like he’s trying to love you apart piece by piece.

You feel it snap somewhere deep inside you.

The heat—the ache—the need—it peaks.

And then it bursts..

Your thighs clamp around his head, your hips jerk off the couch, your moan rips loose from your throat like you’ve been silenced your whole life and this is the only language your body ever needed to speak.

You’re cumming. Hard. Helpless.

Everything pulses—your cunt, your chest, your fingers. Every nerve is alight, every inch of you clenched and shaking, your whole body seized in the grip of something so big you can’t name it.

And Jisung doesn’t stop.

Not when your legs twitch.

Not when your body tries to squirm away.

Not even when you sob his name, high and wrecked, too sensitive to breathe.

He eats it up. Literally.

Groaning low in his throat, nose pressed to your mound, tongue still working your clit like he wants to wring another orgasm out of you before this one’s even ended. You try to stop him, legs trembling, fingers pushing at his hair with barely any strength behind them.

But he just moans again, long and loud and ruined, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“H-Han—” you gasp, voice cracked and teary.

But he can’t stop. He won’t.

You’ve broken open for him—shattered for him—and it’s like something inside him snapped too. His mouth keeps moving, lapping through your folds like he’s addicted, like he needs the taste of you to live, sucking every drop from your body like he’s trying to memorize it.

You try again to push him off. This time with real effort. A desperate shove, your fingers fisting in his hair and yanking—not hard, not mean, but urgent.

“Han, please—”

He finally pulls back.

Gasps.

His chest is heaving. His mouth is slick and swollen, the lower half of his face soaked in your release, and he blinks up at you like he forgot where he is.

“Shit—fuck, I’m sorry, I—” he pants, voice wrecked, dazed.

Then he looks down.

And groans.

Because you’re still dripping.

Slick pooling out of you, slow and obscene, catching the light as it runs in glistening streaks down the curve of your pussy and the swell of your ass, soaking the couch beneath you.

And he can’t help himself.

His hands slide up your thighs again—possessive, reverent—and before you can stop him, he leans back in.

One long, filthy lick—from your entrance to your clit—slurping up everything you spilled. He moans as it hits his tongue, deep and satisfied, and swirls it around like he’s tasting honey.

He pulls back just far enough to look at you.

Face flushed, lips swollen and slick, chin glossy with your release. His eyes are glassy—fucked-out and starving and soft in a way that shouldn’t match the filth of what he just did to you. But somehow it does.

Somehow, it makes it worse.

He’s panting like he just ran miles. Sweat dampens his curls, his hoodie clings to his chest, and his cock is still straining hard against his sweats—visibly aching. But he doesn’t even look at himself. Doesn’t even care.

He’s still looking at you.

At the mess he made.

At your cunt—pink and soaked and fluttering with aftershocks, spread open on the couch like he carved you out just for him.

And he fucking smiles.

“Jesus,” he breathes, dragging his thumb along your inner thigh, slow and lazy, eyes still locked on the slick between your legs. “You’re unreal.”

You’re still trembling—wrung out, flushed, completely silent now except for the shattered sound of your breath.

But he isn’t done.

Not really.

Because then his thumb moves—trails closer, closer, until it’s swiping through the slick seam of you, collecting it, spreading it.

You flinch, hips twitching, breath hitching on a wrecked little gasp.

He freezes.

“Sorry—shit, sorry,” he murmurs, voice gone soft in the edges. “You’re probably so fucking sensitive right now.”

You nod, dazed. Barely. You’re not even sure you meant to.

But his eyes drop back down—and the sight of your cunt twitching under his touch, the way slick is still dripping out of you, slow and shiny, pooling where your thighs meet—

It short-circuits whatever restraint he had left.

“Can I…” he starts, already leaning in again, lips parted, breath ragged. “Just—one more taste, baby. Please.”

And before you can answer, he’s there again.

Licking into you.

Tongue flat and greedy, slow and deep, sliding through the wreckage he left behind like he needs it to breathe. He moans—loud—when it coats his tongue, when it drips down his chin, when he presses another kiss to your clit like he’s thanking it for everything.

You can’t stop shaking.

From how tender he’s being while still devouring you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. From how overwhelmed your body feels—stretched between too much and not enough, oversensitive but still wanting.

He doesn’t rush now. Doesn’t try to make you cum again.

This is different.

It’s reverent. Like he’s cleaning you up with his mouth, dragging his tongue through every slick drop, pressing soft kisses into the mess like he’s trying to soothe the tremble in your thighs.

You whimper, just once—raw and hoarse.

That’s when he stops for real.

You sigh into his mouth, quiet and trembling, the kind of sound that only comes when everything inside you is raw—peeled back, exposed, open. He swallows it like it’s precious. Like it matters.

His hand at your waist shifts, pulling you gently forward until your chest brushes his. You’re still bare from the waist down—thighs sticky, breath uneven—and he’s still clothed, still hard, still aching beneath his sweats.

But he doesn’t grind against you.

Doesn’t ask for anything.

He just holds you.

Your knees fall around his hips, lazy and loose, and his thumb strokes the hinge of your jaw—slow, absent, like he needs the contact to stay calm.

The kiss deepens. Not with hunger. With heat. With reverence. His lips move against yours like he wants to memorize the shape of your mouth, your breath, the taste of your tongue mixed with your own arousal.

You break first—pulling back just a fraction to breathe, eyes fluttering open.

He’s already looking at you.

And there’s something in his gaze that wasn’t there before. Something stunned. Struck. Soft.

He whispers, “You okay?”

You nod. Maybe too fast. You feel stripped down to something small and shaking, something new—but his hand doesn’t leave you. His thumb still brushes your cheek. His chest still rises and falls like he’s feeling everything with you.

You whisper back, “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

Jisung exhales a laugh—wrecked and wrecking.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, leaning forward again to press a kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple. “Then I guess we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

You don’t even realize you’re smiling until he kisses it. Presses his lips right there, at the corner of your mouth, so gentle it makes your eyes sting all over again.

There’s a beat of silence—thick and golden, warm between the ruined rhythm of your breathing.

Then he asks, quieter this time, “Can I hold you for a while?”

And god. You’ve never wanted anything more.

______________________________________________________________

The crowd pours out of the auditorium like a tide—caps slightly askew, diplomas clutched tight, families gathered in little clusters of congratulations and cameras. Laughter. Shouts. The click of heels and the flutter of gowns. You scan the crowd, heart racing, eyes darting.

And then you see him.

Leaning awkwardly against a tree, holding a slightly crumpled bouquet of grocery store flowers and dressed in the nicest outfit you’ve ever seen him wear. Still a hoodie—because he’s him—but it’s black and clean and zipped halfway up over a plain white tee. His hair’s been pushed back, curls tamed, face soft in the sunlight.

Like he wanted to look good.

For you.

You run.

Full sprint, no hesitation. Laughing, radiant, the hem of your gown flying behind you. And Jisung barely has time to react before you crash into his arms—legs wrapping around his waist, face buried in his neck.

He catches you without thinking. Arms locked tight around your back, holding you like the whole world could fall away and he’d still have you.

“Jesus—hi,” he breathes, stunned, grinning into your shoulder. 

“You came,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to look at him, eyes glassy and sunlit.

“Of course I came,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “I wouldn’t miss this.”

You swallow, smile trembling just a little. You’re still holding your cap too tightly. Still searching the crowd behind him, over his shoulder, behind trees and between cars—hoping.

And Jisung sees it.

Sees the flicker in your expression when you realize no one else is coming. No familiar voices calling your name. No parents weaving through the crowd, late and disheveled but here. Nothing.

Just him.

You try to play it off—force a smile, tilt your head.

But Jisung just exhales, jaw tight, eyes warm and sharp.

“Hey,” he says softly, tipping your chin up. “Fuck ‘em.”

Your breath hitches—more from the way he says it than what he says. No apology. No pity. Just truth, blunt and biting and yours.

“Fuck ‘em,” he says again, firmer this time. “They don’t get to take this from you.”

And something in you cracks. Not the kind that breaks—the kind that lets light in.

Your cap slips from your hand to the pavement. You don’t even notice. You just lean forward and let your forehead rest against his, eyes fluttering shut as the noise of the world fades away.

“I thought it wouldn’t matter,” you whisper. “That I didn’t care.”

He nods like he already knew. Lets his hand fall to the small of your back, thumb tracing slow circles through the fabric of your gown.

“But it does,” you admit.

“Of course it does,” he murmurs. “You deserved more than this.”

You pull in a shaky breath. Exhale. Nod against him.

And then you laugh—quiet, almost startled. “God, you look nice.”

He pulls back just enough to give you a crooked smile. “You noticed?”

You sniffle, wiping under your eyes. “You did your hair.”

“I used product and everything,” he says solemnly, and that makes you laugh for real this time. His face lights up at the sound. Then, like he remembers something, his eyes go wide and he fumbles for something in his pocket.

“Wait—here. Got you something.”

You raise a brow as he pulls out a pair of slightly beat-up white AirPods and holds them out like they’re wrapped in silk.

“Your... earwax?” you tease, voice still thick, but lighter now.

Jisung groans, face going red. “Just put them in, smartass.”

You give him a look, lips twitching like you’re holding back another laugh, but you take them. Slip them in with practiced ease, still smirking, still sniffling a little.

And then—

You hear it.

Soft at first. A low, warm hum of synth. That familiar piano progression you’ve heard a hundred times echoing from his bedroom speakers, half-finished and always evolving. A quiet heartbeat of static underneath, the sound of something personal, unfinished—

But not this time.

Now it’s whole.

The bass comes in slow. The melody rises. The rhythm finds its footing like it’s been waiting for you.

Then his voice.

His voice.

Low. Raw. Stripped back and unfiltered, like he recorded it in the middle of the night, barefaced and half asleep. It’s not polished. It’s intimate. Each lyric laid out like a confession, like he’s pressing it directly into your chest.

You freeze.

Your mouth parts, but no words come out. You just stare at him—eyes wide, breath caught, the world suddenly nothing but him and the song in your ears.

Jisung watches you closely, fidgeting, clearly trying to read your face.

“I, uh… I finally finished it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Track 12. I—kind of stayed up all night working on it. Wanted you to be the first to hear it.”

You swallow hard. “You—wrote this… for me?”

He nods, sheepish. “Well, yeah. Who the fuck else would it be for?”

You blink at him, still stunned, still half-floating somewhere between the melody and his smile.

The music wraps around you like a secret, like sunlight through a window. His voice in your ears. His eyes on your face. His hands fidgeting at his sides, picking at the edge of his hoodie sleeve, suddenly nervous like he didn’t just lay his heart bare in a three-minute track.

And then he says it.

Quiet. Almost like it slips out.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your breath stutters.

He panics a little, eyes going wide, hands gesturing now like he’s trying to physically catch the words and shove them back into his mouth.

“I mean—not in like, a weird, ‘I wrote you a song and now you have to marry me’ way. I just—I’ve been in love with you for a while, and I didn’t know how to say it. And then I kept not saying it, and then you let me eat you out on your couch and I was like, oh cool, guess I’m definitely in love with her—”

You stare at him.

Mouth slightly open. Ears still ringing with his voice from the track. Face flushed from the heat of him and the way he’s unraveling in front of you, hands flailing, words tumbling out too fast, too honest, too him.

“And now I’m saying it,” he rushes on, breath hitching. “And maybe it’s too soon or maybe it’s stupid but—fuck, I don’t care. I love you. And I don’t just mean in the afterglow, post-head, 'wow-she’s-so-pretty-when-she’s-cumming' kind of way—which, like, you are—but I mean in the real way. In the way where I think about you all the time and you’re in my music and my coffee and my fucking laundry detergent because you smell like it now—”

You cut him off with a laugh—soft and stunned, the kind that comes from something blooming too fast in your chest. Your hands reach for him instinctively, palms pressed to his chest like you’re trying to slow his heart down, or maybe match yours to it.

Then lean up and kiss him.

He melts into it—hands landing on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float off if he doesn’t hold you down. His mouth is soft, a little shaky, like he still can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s kissing you with both hands behind his back, offering up his heart like a truce.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his.

You’re smiling. He is too, in that breathless, stunned way—like you’ve both finally exhaled.

“I’m in love with you too,” you whisper.

He chokes out a sound. Somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “No shit?”

You nod. “No shit.”

Jisung blinks, then grins—slow and wide and boyish.

He just stands there, still holding you, like his body hasn’t caught up with what just happened.

Like he's trying to memorize this moment—your smile, your closeness, the soft heat of your hands resting over his heart.

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something else. Closes it again.

Then settles for a quiet, breathless, “...Okay.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Okay?”

He nods, dazed. “Yeah. Just… okay. Everything’s okay now.”

You lean into his chest, let your head fall to his shoulder. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months. His arms wrap around your waist again, this time more certain. More steady.

And for a moment, neither of you says anything.

The crowd is still bustling in the background. Cameras flashing. Tassels swinging. Parents calling names that don’t belong to you. The sound of it used to sting—but not now. Not with him holding you like this. Not with the song still echoing in your ears, a private chorus written just for you.

You glance up. “So what now?”

He looks down at you, still smiling like he doesn’t know how to stop.

“We go home,” he says. “Order too much food. Fall asleep on the couch. Pretend we’re not both crying during The Office reruns.”

You snort. “That’s your big plan?”

He leans in, nudges your nose with his. “No,” he murmurs, softer now. “My big plan is to love you for a really, really long time.”

Your heart stutters.

And it’s so simple—so quiet, so uncomplicated—but it wraps around you like warmth, settles deep in your bones like something you forgot you were allowed to want.

You tip forward and kiss him again, just once. Just enough.

“Sounds like a good plan,” you whisper.

He grins. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Eventually, your fingers find his, threading together as the crowd begins to thin. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, grounding and sure.

You glance down at the flowers, still clutched in your other hand—slightly crushed, petals soft and folding in from the heat. But they’re yours. Someone showed up. Someone stayed.

You’re walking away with his hand in yours, the sun dipping low behind you, the final track still playing softly in your head.

It ends the way all good songs do.

Quiet.

Certain.

Yours.