Hi anon!! I'm not going to say yes necessarily, since I work best with the freedom to completely overhaul major details and plot points (y'all should see the runoff doc for Falling Dominoes, it went through so many permutations), but I'll hear ideas! Who knows, they might just take root and turn into something 👀
Forgot to mention in my long-winded reply under Dominos… I read Leon’s apology in the same tone as he did in Requiem when stepping back in Kendo’s courtyard 🥹 I’m sure that was intentional and it definitely had the desired effect on me… but then, the whole Raccoon City segment in the game broke me.
Also, I need to thank you for *no implied age* in your stories—this is an absolute pet peeve of mine and I’ve been finding stories with huge (and no so huge) age gap disclosures and it *really* turns me off both the story AND writer—so much so, that if I find a writer who states age gaps, I’ve been immediately blocking them—I don’t like doing this but age gaps are the hill I’ll die on 😥
Apologies for my rambles, I just needed to give feedback and I can be very *detailed* about it (aka: I’m sorry I crap on 🫣) Thank you for reading and take care! 💕 ~Hoovie
Yep, that was exactly the vibe!
*slaps his shoulders* these babies can carry so much guilt 🫠
No implied age is important to me, I want readers to feel the same immersion I feel while writing so I try to leave details like that vague 🙂↕️
Thank you for taking the time to leave feedback!! I appreciate you sm 💕
Falling Dominoes // NSFW Leon Kennedy x fem! reader
Summary: You have a coworker who is obsessed with you. Apparently, you don’t know the half of it.
After some interventions by Leon Kennedy … you’re gonna find out.
Thankfully Leon pays attention. And as it turns out, he might just be the nicest thing that’s ever happened to you.
WC: ~8.5k
CW: NSFW, creepy coworker, creep factor 9000, incel, stalker, kidnapping, implied non-con, reader gets drugged, reader held captive and exposed to non-con JO activity (implied), Leon Kennedy goes beast mode, rescue, protective Leon, modern epistolary (texting), there’s a lot of text and phone conversations, long distance relationship building, strangers to friends to lovers, first kiss, happy ending, Leon and his tramp stamp
Notes: This is mainly a strangers-to-friends-to-lovers story, but beware the reader DOES get put in a bit of a traumatic abduction/non-con situation in here. It is not detailed explicitly and there is no forced penetration.
Admittedly, the cafeteria was an easy guess. You should have gone with the sub-basement.
You’re tucked away at a small table near the back, as far from the stairs as you can get. Your second mistake was in parking it within sight of the coffee machine, because that’s the perfect excuse.
Your coworker – fucking Peter – is looming over the chair across from you, running his mouth about some asinine TV show you could give two shits about, gesturing with the paper coffee cup he hasn’t taken a single sip out of. He’s already the jack-in-the-box on the other side of your cube wall. You don't need him to be a second shadow, too.
God, can you have the day back that he spent ignoring you? What would you have to do?
No, strike that, never mind. He’d have to ask you out again. You’re just going to have to get more creative with your escapes.
“Yeah, I’ll definitely give it a watch,” you cut in, pointed focus on your laptop screen, fingers on the keyboard. “I’ll see you back up at the cube farm.”
“Aren’t you on break? You shouldn’t work over your break,” Peter says, and then just keeps on talking. Your stare at your laptop screen goes thousand-yard.
Something moves in your periphery and you follow the distraction. It’s someone at the coffee machine, flipping a cup onto the deck, touching buttons on the menu screen.
Holy christ. It’s not just any someone.
There’s a holstered gun on his hip. He’s built like a brick shithouse, and his shirt’s not pretending otherwise. His sleeves are pushed to his elbows and there’s a deep scratch on his arm, gummy and raw, held shut with butterfly closures. Most of his face is obscured by the fall of his hair but you know exactly who it is.
There’s not a single person in the building who wouldn’t.
Leon Kennedy is standing at the coffee machine, arms crossed, waiting for the machine to finish humming and hissing and start spitting out his frothy caffeine. Peter hasn’t noticed yet, his back to the rest of the cafeteria, still absorbed in talking at you like you haven’t tuned him out, like you haven’t been dropping heavy hints that he should go away, like you’re not about to snap and just tell him to fuck off. He’s lucky you’re a professional.
Leon’s head turns a fraction. You don’t know if it’s because he can feel your eyes on him or if he’s tuning into Radio Peter; maybe both. When he makes eye contact with you it feels like a goddamn life raft. He can probably see it on your face.
He flicks his gaze towards Peter, raises his eyebrows. Is this guy bothering you?
You widen your eyes. Like you wouldn’t fucking believe.
He tips his head, gaze strong; good to intervene?
You nod once, short, relieved. Peter’s finally realizing that you’re silently communicating with someone else and turns.
Leon, coffee in hand, is heading for your table. Peter backpedals like he’s dodging a moving train. Leon throws him nothing but a sidelong glance and a vague apology before putting his hand on the back of the chair across from you, urgent.
“Hey. Did you get my message?”
“Yeah, I’m working on it,” you say, pulling your laptop closer to yourself, harried.
Peter’s staring – at Leon’s height, his arms, his gun – and you have to ignore him or you’re going to break character.
“It’s high priority,” Leon’s telling you.
“I know, I was just –“
Peter mumbles something that sounds like ‘uh, later. See you. Up’ and backs away before turning tail, heading for the elevators. At the last second, he banks left and takes the stairs two at a time instead.
You both watch him go. Leon turns back to you.
“You’re quick,” he says.
You drop your shoulders, head loose on your neck.
“God,” you say. “Guy can’t fucking read a room.”
“Could’ve just told him to fuck off.”
“I thought about it.”
He raises his eyebrows, a silent question.
“I’m too polite.”
“Then it continues.”
“Not if I get slippery.”
His eyes narrow and you play your last sentence back. You shut your eyes for an extended beat.
“Work-appropriately,” you clarify. He sips his coffee.
“Sounds like a lot of extra work.”
It is. He’s right. You’ve already been plotting evasive maneuvers and pinning secluded spaces in a back corner of your mind. It’s sapping bandwidth.
And it’s not fucking normal, is it.
You just don’t know what kind of personality Peter will reveal if you shut him down entirely. The cold-shoulder day was a reprieve, but it was also noticeably… hostile. You’re unwilling to explore deeper waters, there. Civility, however taxing – is safe.
Leon’s watching you.
“There’s always HR.”
Well. Maybe Peter should have stayed, taken some notes on reading people.
You wave it off.
“He’s just… annoying.”
Maybe Leon believes you. He extends his hand across the table.
“Leon Kennedy,” he says. You shake his hand, his palm warm and rough, his grip firm.
“I know,” you say, and give him your name in return. “Thanks for the assist.”
His face softens into something that isn’t a smile but isn’t not a smile. It’s understated, self-assured, and very handsome.
“Enjoy the quiet.”
There’s nothing understated about the way he walks away. You catch yourself doing taffy eyes, transfixed by his broad shoulders, the bulk of his arms, and – well. The way his hips move make it difficult NOT to fixate. On all that.
Jesus christ.
You force your eyes down to your laptop, ears a little pink.
You’ve just met Leon Kennedy. You don’t know it yet, but it’s the first domino.
Incoming Call
Sherry Birkin
-> Answer
“Hey. I’m on my way in.”
“Just thought you might like to know… someone in legal is searching your name in the databases. Extensively.”
Leon glances at the center console screen, Sherry’s speakerphone call counting up the seconds.
“Should I be worried?”
“I don’t know. Log-in is one… Peter Dotson?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Leon says, easing the Porsche to a stop, traffic brakelights tinting him red. “Got his mug?”
“Sending.”
Leon’s phone buzzes and he scoops it from the cupholder, thumbing open the message. It’s a badge photo from a company ID.
“Oh.”
“Recognize him?”
“Yeah.”
When you hear the short knock on your cube wall, you’re sure it’s Peter. It’s always Peter. You shut your eyes, take a breath, and turn in your office chair.
It’s not Peter.
“Leon!”
Something crashes in the cube next door.
“Hey,” Leon says. “Coffee?”
You double-take, hesitant, reaching unconsciously towards your open laptop with an email half-composed in the foreground, a document half-read in the background, and several deadlines on your calendar.
“I’m, uh…”
You can’t look away from his face. His eyes are intense, like he’s laser-engraving a message on the back of your skull.
I need to talk to you. Now.
“Yeah, sure. One second.”
You save the email as a draft, shut the laptop and grab your phone. Leon holds the door for you to exit the cube farm into the main foyer.
You don’t see him make deliberate, razor-edged eye contact with Peter, who is standing, red-faced, in his cube.
The entire back wall of the cafeteria is plate-glass, looking out over a dewy, short lawn and a paved walkway that follows a copper creek overhung by gently swaying trees. It’s still early enough that the sun hasn’t entirely cut the fog that ghosts the water.
Coffee in hand, Leon winds between the tables in the main cafeteria. It’s moderately busy, commuters hunched over their hashbrowns and sausage, laptops open to multitask. No one pays your little two-person train much mind, aside from the occasional double-take at Leon, but it’s immediately followed by a ducked head.
He doesn’t even have the gun on him today.
Leon leads you into one of the cafeteria conference rooms at the back, branched off of the main space, sharing the plate-glass wall. It’s far from private – there's no door, just a half-wall of more glass – but it’s tucked back and it’s quiet. You sit at the furthest end of the long table, glancing out at the sunbeams streaming through the trees.
It looks serene.
You’re not fucking feeling it.
“Why’d you pull me out, agent?”
The chairs roll; Leon brings his up to the table and opens the lid of his coffee cup.
“Your favorite neighbor was… researching me this morning,” he says.
You raise your eyebrows, chuffing a laugh, but the humor quickly fades. A little googling wouldn’t ping a DSO agent’s radar. It definitely wouldn’t be noteworthy enough to then come tell you about it.
“Yeah,” he agrees, watching your face journey.
“Why the hell?”
“I don’t think he appreciated the improv theater yesterday,” Leon says, ripping open two sugar packets and dumping them into his coffee. “You called him annoying. What kind of annoying?”
“He just… talks. A lot. Shit I don’t care about. Shit I don’t need to know about.”
“Like what?”
“He’s a gossip,” you say, then tip your head, conceding. “Well, everyone is. But he’s… I don’t know. A dirty-laundry gossip. Like to an extreme. I don’t know where he’s hearing half that shit.”
“About coworkers.”
“Yeah.”
“How often are they men?”
You narrow your eyes.
“That matters?”
“Maybe. When did he ask you out?”
You sharpen on him, wary.
“I never told anyone about that.”
“Lucky guess,” Leon says dryly, pressing stray sugar granules from the tabletop into his fingerprint. “Did the trashing other men get worse after you turned him down?”
You sit back, heavy.
“Fuck.”
Leon looks at you from under his brow, dusting sugar off onto the floor.
“I’m serious about HR.”
You’re stupid. You’re really, really thick. You should not have needed someone else to point this out. Of course Peter didn't take no as gospel. He’s tenacious. Like a barnacle.
“I don’t have any proof.”
“Do you feel safe?”
You huff out a humorless laugh. “No.”
He dips his head. There you go.
“What if HR just… talks to him? Makes him retake the SH module and calls that dusted?”
“Unlikely. He’s also abusing access and slandering coworkers.”
“But that’s shit I can’t prove! What if he claims that I’m just trying to slander him?”
“Reports are anonymous.”
You shake your head, bitter.
“He’d know.”
Leon’s quiet for long enough that you glance over from picking at the lid of your coffee cup.
“You’re afraid of him,” he says, perceptively. You look away again, taking a deep breath.
“When I turned him down,” you tell him, resigned. “He spent the entire next day ignoring me. It was nice that he shut up, but. It was… off.”
“Off?”
“Like he was… mad. Not humbled, or embarrassed. Like I owed him, and I’d denied him. Part of me kept expecting a ‘see you in court’.”
Leon raises his eyebrows, wry.
“Good to know the psych eval’s watertight,” he says, and pulls his phone from his pocket. He sets it on the conference table, head-to-head with yours, and pulls up his home screen. You follow his lead. Your phone displays both ripple together, popping up contact cards.
Leon Kennedy just gave you his number.
“Bet you twenty he’ll have something to say about me,” he says, pocketing his phone. “You good to go back?”
No. “Eventually.”
He sets his hand on the table, waits for you to meet his eyes.
“Retaliation gets him fired if the initial report doesn’t,” he tells you. “You just get the ball rolling; he can kick it into his own face. Yeah?”
You nod, but not too hard. You might throw up.
“Alright. Keep me posted.”
You barely watch him go, this time.
You sit alone at the back of the empty conference room, staring hollowly out at the creek until your untouched coffee is stone cold.
—
Guess I owe you 20
Leon How many puppies have I kicked?
The incident in DC??
Incoming Call
Leon Kennedy
You immediately swipe to answer.
“Tell me he’s full of shit.”
For a moment, it’s just the crackle of the open line. Then,
“I can’t.”
You sit up, gripping the phone tighter than the arm of your sofa.
“Are you fucking serious? The president?”
“He… he wasn’t. Anymore.”
You’re glad he called. Those four words sound like a thousand. You sag back under the weight of them.
“Sorry.”
“I’ve dealt with it,” Leon says, another thousand words in four. “Is that all he dug up?”
“That was his smoking gun.”
“And are you scared off?”
“Why, you wanna ask me to coffee again?”
“What, step on Peter’s toes?”
“God. Shut up.”
He laughs, just a short vocal huff.
“You reported him?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
“Hey, Leon?”
“Mm.”
“Thanks.”
Five Days Later
Leon Status report.
Home sick
Leon You haven’t called in.
No voice
Leon No email, either. Two days.
why would you knwo that. Are you stalking me
Incoming Call
Leon Kennedy
-> Decline
I told you i can’t talk
Incoming Facetime Call
Leon Kennedy
-> Decline
i’m fine
Leon Then pick up.
Incoming Facetime Call
Leon Kennedy
Missed Facetime Call
trying to nap
Contacts -> Leon Kennedy -> Edit
Agent Creep Not convinced, Peter.
Your phone clatters onto a hardwood floor, the screen fracturing into a dense spiderweb of fine cracks.
“You’re gonna want to see this.”
Sherry’s tone is foreboding. A file drops in, loading slowly. Leon’s thumb hovers, waiting.
“This was among the files deleted before turning his laptop back in to I.T.,” Sherry continues. “Unfortunately, he forgot the Cloud backup.”
The file name is innocuous.
Doc2.doc -> Downloaded
“Brace yourself,” Sherry says.
—
My little mouse, the game has begun. Your blatant rejection stung, but now I see it for what it is: a challenge. Nothing worth having ever comes easy, and my darling, I know you’re worth having. You will come to see that we are bound by destiny, and as much as you run, little mouse, it is only because you aren’t ready. Don’t worry; I am patient. I’ll bring you around.
—
“Bad fucking start,” Leon says.
“It gets worse.”
There’s one paragraph per business day over the last month-and-some-change, all dated. Leon scrolls through entry after entry, skimming.
—
You changed your perfume, today. I notice these things about you. I can map where you’ve been, scenting the air for the lingering hints of you, my sweet flower. Your new scent is powerful, spicy, sultry. How am I to concentrate when you tease me with such heat?
—
I have to find a way to reel you in. Your discussion with Mark today about “what makes Luke warm” was abhorrently inappropriate; it made my blood boil to hear. Why do you flirt so brazenly with other men when you know I’m right here? Is this part of your game? You truly test my patience, little mouse. But no matter: I’ll soon turn your attention away. You’ll learn that the only man worthy of your consideration is me.
—
You appreciated the cupcake I stole for you, today. There was a birthday in IT; Jake, that one with the blue eyes and dimples that you were batting your eyes at ten days ago. No matter. He doesn’t get to see you the way that I do – legs tucked under you, soft feet bare, shoes kicked off to the side. You make such a pretty picture when you relax like that. Only around me.
—
Dearheart, you cut your hair. Did you know this would upset me? I’ve dreamed of tangling my fingers in your soft trusses, winding them around my hand, pulling your head back to keep you submissive. Good that you’re experimenting now, I suppose. When you’re my wife you’ll keep it long, as is proper.
—
“Sherry,” Leon says, and there’s an edge to it.
“I know,” Sherry says, heavy. “Page 18, second entry.”
Leon scrubs through the page numbers.
—
Little mouse, I cannot abide. When did you meet that agent??? Why would you have cause to consort with such rough company??? We work legal; what recourse does he seek? I must discourage this acquaintanceship; Agent Kennedy is dangerous, my sweet. I have to find a way to prove it to you before it’s too late.
—
“Rich,” Leon mutters. He scrolls to the bottom of the document. It’s not much further.
The final entries are short, hurried, jarring.
—
that agent is a snake in your ear. i knwo he told you to do this. he’ll devour you. i have to save you from his maw
—
i understand now. what games you play. i’m not intimidated by the obstacles you set between us; i know you’re waiting for me to prove myself a man. heard. i’m coming to get you, my angel. our heaven awaits.
—
“Fuck.”
Leon kicks his car door open and steps out onto the street.
The screen of your phone is so cracked, Peter can’t get the Slide to Power Off to track. He’s crouched under the overhang of his kitchen island, hands shaking, the floor dented where your phone had struck. He’d thrown it, foolish, in a flash of utter panic.
Kennedy knows.
No, he's bluffing. He can't know.
He can.
Fuck, Peter knew he should have shut your phone down the minute he had it. Damn the siren call of your camera roll, your Notes, your music; damn his thirst to know you.
The doorbell rings, simultaneous with a Person at Your Door chime from Peter's phone on the couch. He yelps and cracks his head on the kitchen island, your phone clattering to the floor again. He leaves it, leaping for his own phone, and ducks between the couch and the coffee table, heart pounding.
The doorbell camera takes a second to load.
Something’s wrong.
The live feed is mostly black with jagged light around the edges, shifting in confusing pixels. There’s something all over the lens.
The doorbell rings again; longer, impatient. Peter’s hands are clammy, shaking so hard he misses the two-way talk button on the first two tries.
“What do you want?”
Good. He sounds gruff and curt, definitely not nervous.
“Delivery,” the bored voice responds. It’s a man, but it’s not familiar.
“Just leave it on the porch.”
“Needs a signature.”
“What is it?”
“How should I know?”
“Wipe off the camera and show me.”
There’s a pause. “It’s bird shit, dude.”
“So get a tissue.”
“Look, guy, they’re timing me on this,” the voice says, sounding like a royally annoyed and underpaid delivery driver, and nothing more… sinister. “Signature or I walk with it.”
Peter approaches the door, wishing he had side windows to gauge a silhouette. He keeps the chain in place and opens the door, peering out.
At Leon Kennedy.
“Signature accepted,” Leon says in his normal voice. It echoes through Peter’s phone.
There’s a loud puff of compressed air, a horrible pain in Peter’s chest, and then the door kicks open and throws your ex-cubemate back, the snapped door chain scattering broken links across the floor.
The door slams shut.
Gasping like a beached fish, on his back on the floor, Peter presses his hand to the wet spot on his chest. He expects red, thick and dark and dripping. He sees blue.
“Wh-what?”
Peter looks up, right down the barrel of a gun, completely steady at the end of Agent Kennedy’s arm.
“Where is she.”
Kennedy’s wearing gloves. Fuck. Holy shit. He’s wearing gloves and he’s in Peter’s house and he’s pointing a gun at him and he knows.
“Wh-who? What the hell is this?” Peter’s voice isn’t gruff and curt anymore. It’s just a squeak.
Leon shoots him in the knee, another blue paintball that matches the burst mess in the middle of his shirt, that matches the gunk obscuring his doorbell camera. Peter howls, clutching at his knee, and Leon shakes the paintball gun, tossing it aside with a loud clatter.
“Damn, out of paint,” he says, and draws the real gun from his hip, aiming it at Peter’s head. “How ‘bout you keep playing dumb.”
“You can’t! You can’t!” Peter’s shrieking, shielding his face with his arms, cowering while trying to crawl away backwards. Leon barely has to move his arm to keep his aim. It’s pathetic.
“Tell me where she is.”
“Who!”
Leon shoots the floor next to Peter’s head; he screams and pisses himself.
The gun is silenced. Peter's neighbors aren't even gonna know to call the cops.
“Keep pushing your fucking luck.”
“Storage! Storage!”
“Where.”
“Public! Public Storage on 12th!”
“Unit.”
“414!”
“Keys.”
Peter’s hyperventilating, curled into a ball on the floor. Leon kicks his foot.
“KEYS!”
“Car! Car cupholder!”
Leon bends and grips Peter’s skull, cracking it on the floor. Peter falls limp, unconscious.
“Too fucking good for you,” Leon growls. He glances quickly around the living room, towards the open kitchen, spotting your phone lying facedown on the ground. He swipes it up, noting the ruined screen, and pockets it. Peter’s car keys are hanging by the door to the garage; Leon takes them and doesn’t return.
Unit 414 is a 10 x 15 concrete storage cell with an orange corrugated roll-up door. It rattles loud while Leon wrestles the padlock open; the door catches in its tracks halfway and Leon growls in frustration, shoving up under it. It slams open; the clatter echoes throughout the storage block, but no one else is out here.
He clicks on his flashlight.
It’s silent.
The unit isn’t empty; there are boxes piled inside, along with a pair of skis tipped over sideways, a dirty towel, a broken bookshelf demonstrating how the walls aren’t quite straight, a spill of magazines, a chipped ashtray.
It looks like a normal, innocent storage unit from out here.
Leon moves the flashlight, watching the shadows. The boxes don’t reach all the way to the back wall.
He calls your name.
Silence.
He steps into the unit. There’s a pathway through the boxes, the dusty concrete shushing under the soles of his shoes. He leads with the flashlight beam, leaning to see beyond the box walls.
It’s the edge of a naked mattress he sees first, shoved into the back corner, lying on the cold floor.
And then it’s your foot, your leg, you – and everything hits fast forward.
“Shit.”
You’re lying unconscious, in your work clothes, but wrong. Your blouse is cut in an upside-down triangle at the front, still tucked into your slacks at the back; it exposes your bare stomach, the bottom of your bra. Your slacks are unbuttoned and unzipped, flayed open, but not pulled down. Your underwear hasn’t been altered or shifted… but.
Bile rises at the back of Leon’s throat. Dried white stains stripe your bare stomach, clip the cotton of your waistband.
In his ear, Sherry speaks up.
“Leon? What are you seeing?”
He’s carefully turning your face where he can see it, tapping your cheek, saying your name. You’re not responding. He yanks his glove off with his teeth, pressing his fingers to your neck.
“I found her,” he says, hoarse. He lifts one of your eyelids, watches how your pupil responds to the flashlight. “I need cops and EMTs, Sherry.”
“Sending to your coordinates,” she confirms, tight. “Leon, how bad.”
There are zipties around your wrists, bound to the wall above your head; he cuts the restraint and brings your arms down slowly. He kneels up to tear off his coat, movements furious, jerky.
“You’d better send the cops to that bastard's house, too,” he bites out. “Or I'm going back for him myself.”
“Is she stable?”
Leon covers you gently with his coat.
“Yeah.”
He brushes your hair back. Your streak of silvers catch the cold light of the flashlight beam, as does the bruise on your forehead.
Leon has to steady himself against the back wall, clenching his jaw hard and breathing deliberately.
“Fuck.”
He should have reacted faster. He should’ve checked in with you the instant you didn't show.
He should’ve foregone the paintballs.
When the ambulance wails into the storage block, throwing flickering red and white shadows against the back wall, Leon breaks from his thousand-yard stare at the boxes in front of him. Under the coat, his bare hand rests over your wrist, one finger pad pressed to your beating pulse point.
It’s slow, but you’re alive.
You’re alive, and he’s got you.
“How did he know your address?”
You shake your head, picking at the side of your finger. You dig in a little too hard and wince; blood wells from the torn hangnail. You press your thumb over it.
“Followed me home? Hacked the IRS databases? Nothing would surprise me,” you say.
The officer notes this down with a cheap Bic pen in a little flip notebook.
“Where were you when he grabbed you?”
“My garage. It’s at the back of the house, off an alley. He ducked in under the closing garage door, which made it open again. That’s when I noticed him.”
More notes. She’s writing while you’re still talking. You lift your thumb from the side of your finger; blood beads up and you wipe it away, pressing the pad of your thumb back over it.
Your hands are shaking. You have your teeth clenched down so they don't chatter.
“Did he say anything to you? Can you recall?”
“He called me a little mouse,” you say, disgusted. “Something like ‘you can stop running, little mouse. I have you’.”
In the chair next to the hospital bed, Leon drops his head. His elbows are resting on his knees, his fingers threaded together.
“What happened next?” The officer flips to a new page. She wouldn’t have to, if it wasn’t such a tiny notepad. Pockets come bigger these days.
“I screamed ‘help’ and tried to run. He was already too close. He slammed me against the door to the yard and clamped something over my mouth, and then I don’t remember.”
“We’re working on collecting security doorbell footage from neighbors to help fill in the gaps.”
“I don’t think anyone has cameras in that alley. It’s no-man’s-land back there. Run by opossums and raccoons.”
The officer doesn’t note down that comment.
“Do you remember anything else?”
You wish you couldn’t.
You can still feel the zipties, plastic digging into your wrists. You can feel the cold, the concrete walls, his weight on your legs so you can't kick, the bite of a needle. You can still hear his disgusting voice, persistent like a mold stain on your brain.
Your blood’s rising.
“I remember he’s a fucking coward,” you spit. “A fucking piece of shit freak. He kept talking about transitions, shared life, perfect mates. I remember he pumped me full of sedatives and said it was because I was ‘too full of spark and didn’t yet know how to temper my flame’.”
You can tell Leon’s looking up at the heart monitor. It’s silent, but you’re sure the number’s climbing. Your heart is galloping, your breathing quickened, but it’s not out of fear.
You’re not afraid of Peter anymore. You’re too fucking angry.
The officer’s noticing the monitor, too. She closes her notebook and stands from the plastic chair, tucking it out of the way.
“Thank you for your answers. I know this isn’t easy,” she says, and hands you a card between middle and forefinger. “In case you need to reach us. But we’ll be in touch.”
You take the card, forgetting the hangnail situation. Your thumb leaves a small red stain, engraved with your fingerprint, on the thick paper.
“I’m, uh… I’m leaving town,” you tell the officer. “Staying with family for a while.”
“Good,” she approves, nodding. “I’ll make a note of it.”
She nods to Leon; he nods back. Then she’s gone, and it’s quiet.
You’re toying with the hem of the hospital blanket. They gave you a scrub top instead of your altered shirt, and the sleeves aren’t long enough to cover your wrists. The thin, dark bruising is too loud, even in your peripheral vision.
Your nose starts stinging; you turn your face away from Leon, your vision blurring.
The first tears feel impossibly hot searing down your cheeks.
“Hey.” Leon stands, touching your shoulder.
It breaks you.
You hunch forward, hiding your face behind your hand as you sob, like Leon won’t notice if he can’t see your eyes. He moves his hand to your upper back.
What he says next is ridiculous.
“I am so sorry.” It’s the tone. The ownership. The guilt.
You shake your head, because that’s unacceptable. This is not his fault, and he got you out. But words aren’t really happening for you right now, so you just turn and press your forehead to his chest. If he doesn’t read it as the exoneration it is, at the very least he’ll understand it’s forgiveness.
His arms come around you, light and easily shrugged off if you don’t want it. But it’s exactly what you do want, so you put your arms around him and hold on tight. It’s a relief when he matches you, his embrace strong and steady.
He doesn't let go until your sobs smooth out.
Unfortunately, that's almost immediate. It’s maybe the nicest hug you’ve had in years.
“When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Do you have a ride?”
You nod, wiping at your face. He glances around the room and moves a box of tissues onto your lap.
“Got a friend taking me,” you say. Your face feels swollen and your head’s starting to hurt. There’s a cup of water on the bedside table; you drain it and set the empty cup next to your brand new phone, plugged in and charging. Leon's looking at it.
“Phone number the same?”
“I.T. says it’s all been transferred.”
He nods. “Good.”
Leon Tell me when you’re home safe.
Okay, mom
—
Home safe
Leon Roger.
Aaand you’ve already forgotten my name
—
Leon Blame the concussions.
I think you need a new job
=================
Leon Sitrep?
You’re lying in bed; it’s well past noon. You know this. You don’t care.
You open the camera and take a picture without moving.
Leon Cryptic.
Current view.
Leon You’ve been raptured?
You huff through your nose, opening the camera again and tipping it down to catch the top of the wall along with the blank white ceiling this time.
Leon That's a bold choice.
The wall color of your childhood bedroom is retina-scalding bright and saturated. You last painted it when you were 16.
Everyone's a critic
=================
Leon Status report.
You open the camera again. It’s more honest than texting ‘fine’. More informative than saying ‘breathing’.
Leon Did you shrink?
What?
Leon That bowl’s enormous.
Homemade soup by the gallon. That’s how you know it’s serious
It’s enough chicken soup to feed a small army, cradled in your lap on the sofa. Weighing down your lap on the sofa.
Leon Don’t fall in.
=================
Leon Hey.
Hi
Leon What, no picture?
You pull up the camera. You catch your brother side-eyeing you.
“Gross. What’s that smile about?”
“Nothing. Don’t move.”
“I don’t consent,” he says casually.
“It’s not your face.”
“My armpit is part of 'I'.”
“Me,” you correct absently. “Me armpit is part of I.”
Leon What the hell am I looking at?
My brother’s sweater
Leon The glove?
He’s dying my hair
Leon What color?
That’s proprietary information
Leon I have clearance.
Come back with a warrant
He doesn’t reply, so you tuck your phone back under your leg. Three minutes later, it buzzes against the wooden seat and your brother makes a louder, mimicking noise of annoyance while fitting a shower cap over your thick, sticky hair.
Leon didn’t respond in text. He sent a picture.
It’s a picture of a post-it note stuck to a desk, three words written on it in Sharpie. It makes you fucking laugh.
WARRANT
What color
You’ll never catch me alive copper
Leon Shit, we got a runner.
You almost smack your head on the counter with the way the laughter whips out of you. You manage to take a picture of the color name on the gunked dye bottle and send it.
You’ll Never Catch Me Alive Copper
Leon Well aren't we smug.
=================
Leon Got an update on douchenozzle.
Do I want to hear it?
Leon Maybe. He’s in the hospital.
What??
Leon Yeah. Heard he was trying to ‘make friends’ inside.
TRULY how did he pass the psych eval
Leon Your guess is as good as mine.
=================
I’m braving bioweapons, Agent Kennedy
Leon What?
You snap a picture and send it through.
Leon Shit. Looks like a close call.
It's a mess at the back of your parents' fridge; a horrible, sloppy, moldy sludge, forgotten for weeks. Months?
You’re not sure how no one smelled it until now.
We’ll remember them for what they were, not what they’ve become.
Leon And what the hell were they?
Snacking peppers
Leon RIP
=================
Leon Looks like you have a new neighbor.
A picture drops in; it’s a name plate on a cube wall.
A name plate with a man’s name. Fucking fantastic.
A Thomas, not a Tom
Leon You wouldn’t like him when he’s Tom.
Have you seen him?
Leon Not yet. He starts tomorrow.
Any intel at all?
Leon Only speculation.
Hit me
Leon Boomer. Sweater vests. Former smoker. Replaced cravings with carrots. Raw.
Counter: Zoomer. Zero neckties. Hobby coder building dupe of the Pentagon Pizza Tracker called the Hexagon Hotwing Tracer
Leon Counter counter: Octogenarian. Trace of mothballs. Denture glue unreliable.
Counter counter counter: tank engine
=================
Leon Hey, you.
Hold on, getting stabbed
Leon That’s not reassuring.
“You mind if I take a picture? You’d be in it.”
The tattoo artist doesn’t even look up, bent low over your stomach and hyperfocused on the line they’re drawing.
“Go for it.”
You take a picture from an angle that hides your bared skin but clearly shows the tattoo machine.
Leon More reassuring.
You got any ink?
Leon Yeah.
Ok lemme guess. Leg
Leon No.
Shoulderblade
Leon Warmer.
Tramp stamp
Leon No comment.
Wait
Leon
Are you serious
Leon That’s proprietary information.
I was KIDDING
Leon Where’s yours?
Don’t change the subject
Leon I didn’t.
Say more right now!
Leon More.
You're the worst
=================
Leon What does this look like to you?
Did you leave that??
Leon I don’t sweat in Rorschach.
You pull up the image Leon sent, zooming in. It’s the bench of a weight machine, marked by an oddly symmetrical sweat pattern.
Looks like a damn Journey album
Leon Not Motorhead?
Ugh. You’re SUCH a gym bro
For a minute, no response. Then a screenshot from a music app drops into the text stream.
You collapse into hysterics.
Tip Toe Thru’ the Tulips with Me - Tiny Tim
PLEASE
Leon What?
If you workout to that I think they put you on a LIST
=================
It’s staring at you.
It’s over your therapist’s shoulder, bug-eyed and gangly, and your eye keeps returning to it. Like if you lose visual it’ll strike.
Before you leave, you ask if you can take a picture.
Leon What the fuck is that?
A giraffe? Long neck, dead giveaway
Leon I’m sure I’ve had to shoot something like that before.
It’s the demon on my therapist’s shoulder
Leon That’s in your therapist’s office??
I think her daughter made it
Leon Is it supposed to soothe your anxieties or replace them?
—
Are you up
You don’t expect an answer. It’s one in the fucking morning; you feel bad for reaching out. It took you fifteen minutes of warring with yourself to even send the text.
The three dots appear at the bottom of the screen and your heart lifts.
Leon Fast asleep.
Can I call you
Incoming Call
Leon Kennedy
“You okay?”
“I can’t stop hearing him.”
“Talk to me.”
“I thought I…” you trail off, your throat closing up. You put your hand over your eyes, feeling the familiar sting in your nose. You wish it was less familiar.
“Hey. Shit’s not linear,” he tells you, and it’s not his gentle tone, it’s his normal speaking cadence. “Probably just got stirred up today. It’ll settle.”
“But I was okay,” you whisper. Tears burn their way down the sides of your face, silent.
“You are okay,” he says, certain. “Except for that fucking giraffe.”
You laugh, sniffing, cuffing away your tears. You’re not going to let Peter win. He doesn’t deserve the brain space.
“What’re you doing up?”
“Folding laundry.”
“I bet you aren’t.”
You hear the crisp snap of fabric whipped in the background.
“Weird thing to lie about,” Leon says.
“Weird thing to be doing at one in the morning.”
“Sleeping is predictable,” he says. “Can’t have that.”
“I’ve actually never wanted anything more.”
"Mm. You need a bedtime story?”
“What, you gonna read me clothing labels?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Once upon a time, 100% cotton. Machine wash warm, tumble dry low. Do not bleach.”
“It was a dark and stormy night, outer shell 100% nylon, lining 100% polyester. Spot clean only.”
He laughs, just a warm rumble in your ear.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” he says. “100% latex.”
The laugh hits you like a punch – a gasp that turns into something deeper, from the belly. It shakes through you, building, unrelenting, until the air’s pressed from your lungs, until your stomach hurts.
“Jesus christ, Leon,” you wheeze, wiping at your eyes.
“That would be linen.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“Passing out is also sleeping,” he says, a verbal shrug.
“But what if he gets me?”
“Who?”
“Dickens in a catsuit.”
“…Your therapist is gonna garotte me, huh.”
=================
The shelf cloud rolling in over your parents’ house looks straight out of the movie Independence Day. The sky behind it is glowing – light refracting off of a hail core.
You’re scrambling to help your dad protect the car in the driveway with an extremely Pinterest-DIY hail shield; it’s just a bunch of cheap pool noodles duct taped together. You’re tossing a skein of rope back and forth to each other – over the car, under the car – tying the thing down.
You both stand back.
It looks like the car has court at noon but the circus at one. The pool-noodle shield looks like giant powdered wig. For clowns.
The wind is picking up, whipping at your clothes, tearing green leaves off of the trees, blowing bits of trash down the street. You raise your phone and snap a picture of the sky.
Well, it’s been nice knowing you
Leon Shit.
Fat raindrops start hitting the pavement, leaving coin-sized polka dots. You run for the cover of the house, shepherded by your dad. The door is no sooner closed than the haunting wail of the tornado sirens start, accentuated by your parents’ weather radio screaming the same alert from upstairs.
It’s nothing new. You grew up in the Midwest. This is just a basement kind of afternoon.
Tornado sirens
Leon Deep shit.
They call me a hipster I’m so underground
Leon The nerve, to make me read that.
Don’t block me I might need help
Leon You’re beyond help.
=================
The sun is barely up and you’re already bleeding.
“Shit.” You brush sidewalk grit away from your skinned knee, flex your leg experimentally. It stings, but it’s not terrible.
At least no one saw you trip. You’re on a dozy residential street, curtains and blinds lining the windows like so many eyelids closed. Someone’s automatic sprinkler system is hissing quietly three doors down, the only noise beside the waking birdsong.
You take out your phone.
Leon What happened?
Thought I'd take up running. I think it’s going well so far
Leon The key is to use your feet, not your knees.
Ha fucking ha
Leon Should I call for evac?
Nah I'll just drag my sorry ass home
Leon How far a drag we talking?
Quarter mile?
Leon Oh. Going well almost immediately, then.
I was looping BACK
=================
Leon Hey. I’m going dark for a few days.
Damn. They’re making you do your job again?
Leon Pretty fucking backwards, huh.
—
Be careful
Leon Me? Always.
Tell me when you’re home safe
Leon Wilco.
=================
GRAFFITI
It’s spraypainted in big bubbly blue letters on the brick wall of a public park restroom, an “OMG” and “WOW” smaller accent words added on in yellow. It makes you laugh.
Your phone is raised, camera open, before you remember that Leon’s gone offline.
Your phone lowers with the subtle sag of your shoulders.
You rally and take the picture anyway. You can always send it when he’s back.
Because he's coming back. He'll be fine.
=================
You’re draining your battery with how much you’re checking your phone.
You’re being ridiculous, you know you are.
That doesn’t make you stop.
=================
Leon Home safe.
Thank god, I was getting bored
You're so relieved you're lying on the floor about it.
Are you okay
A photo drops in. It’s Leon’s arm in a bright white cast. One of his nails is bruised black.
Fuck. Guess not
Leon Been better, been worse.
Are you getting people to sign it
Leon Yeah with PINs and bank passwords.
Like you need that, Mr Drives-a-Porsche
Leon Are you signing?
I only do art
Leon Alright.
Leon As long as it’s not that fucking giraffe.
Put some respect on his name
Leon It has a name?
I didn’t tell you?
Leon No.
Extended Stamos
Leon I don’t know what I expected, but that wasn’t it.
=================
Leon Hey. There’s an opening in DSO reception.
You’d trust me to be people-facing??
Leon You don’t bite.
Right, just the barking
Leon Won’t be a cube farm.
Is there a posting?
Leon I heard they want it up by EOD. I can send it your way.
Ok yeah
Thanks Leon
=================
What’s your email address
Leon Signing me up for questionable newsletters?
Forwarding some info
The email address shows up as a blue underlined link. You press your thumb over it to copy.
Sent
The three dots appear, then drop out.
You wait.
The dots reappear quickly.
Leon I’ll be there to pick you up.
You smile.
Ok. I’ll let you know if the arrival time changes
Leon Roger.
=================
On terra firma
Leon Welcome back.
Baggage carousel 5
Leon Headed there now.
Not even off the plane yet
Leon I’ll walk slow?
Your leg is bouncing impatiently. The plane is still taxiing into the gate, taking its sweet time. The cabin sounds like an arcade with all the pings and beeps and buzzes and jingles from other passengers letting loved ones know they’ve arrived.
Your phone buzzes in your hand. It’s the family group chat responding; you open the thread.
A text banner appears at the top of the screen.
Leon It’s a ghost town down here.
The fuck happened to walking slow?
Leon In my defense, it was right there.
You can’t stop smiling.
—
Your heart rate picks up the second you’ve set foot in the airport proper.
It keeps climbing as you join the growing stream of other passengers, headed for the escalators down to baggage claim.
Your heart's hammering as you’re looking off towards the baggage carousels, the escalator carrying you down – but he’s not over there.
He’s much closer.
He’s at the bottom of the escalator, watching you.
When you lock eyes, it’s like a firework goes off in your chest.
“Hey, you.”
He meets you with one arm open, easy, inviting. His other is in a sling; he holds it out of the way.
The first time you hugged him, you were sitting up in a hospital bed. Standing like this, your chin rests comfortably on his shoulder without needing tiptoes, the fold of your arms hitting at his high waist, just before he broadens.
You fit perfectly together.
He wraps his good arm around you and gently bumps his head against yours.
Your heart settles.
“Okay flight?” He takes your carry-on and shoulders it, unprompted. You part the sides of the sling to peer in at his cast.
“What’d you use, invisible ink?”
“Security reasons.”
“I’m using Sharpie.”
“There’s one in my pocket,” he says. “Congrats on the new job.”
You smile, walking side by side towards baggage carousel 5.
“Thanks. Heard some guy put in a good word.”
He smirks, looking over at you.
“You didn’t need it.”
There’s a small gift bag sitting on your keyboard when you roll up to DSO reception. You expect a book of sticky tabs, some mini highlighters, maybe a stress ball or some chocolates as a welcome from the team.
You pull out a tiny glass giraffe. Its face is a little wretched.
There’s a folded index card in with it.
Extended Stamos is a hard name to beat, but you’ve overcome worse. - LSK
“Oh! Do you collect them? My niece collects elephants,” your new coworker says, booting up her laptop. She had introduced herself as Tish, and you like her already.
“I guess I do now.”
“Me, I just collect cat hair,” she says ruefully, brushing the front of her cardigan. Her ID badge comes unclipped and skids under your chair. “Oh.”
“Got it.”
The desk phone starts ringing; Tish tucks it between shoulder and ear to answer, mouthing thank you when you hand her badge back. She indicates the front desk behind you with a little tip of her head.
You turn to find Leon standing there.
“Good morning, Agent Kennedy.”
“Hey, new face.” There’s humor around his eyes.
Tish hangs up her call and rolls over.
“Kennedy, don’t tell me you need a temp badge again.”
Oh, you really like her already. Leon catches you biting the insides of your cheeks and he rolls his eyes.
“Just saying hi, Tish.”
“Okay, good. Now shoo. She’s got training to do.”
—
Leon Iron fist, that one.
Stop texting me. She’ll confiscate my phone
Leon Training over lunch?
Nope
Leon Booked.
—
Leon is the giraffe uranium glass
Leon No.
Leon Why?
I think he’s fritzing the company laptop
Leon Not him. I got him from a very reliable mysterious stranger.
Cool, so he’s just haunted
Leon Have you named him yet?
Yeah
Stratos Ferris
Leon Well, fuck. I think you did it.
Two Weeks Later
You’re laughing; you can’t fucking stop.
“Don’t, don’t, you’re getting it in your hair!”
Leon grimaces, looking at the back of his good hand. The sweat on his forehead diluted the bird poop and it’s a thin, even smear of marbled green and white on his skin, both forehead and hand.
And in his hair.
“I can’t… fucking believe…” You’re clutching your stomach, wheezing, hanging off of his arm. The sling is gone but the cast doesn’t come off for another two weeks; your Sharpie art is worn and faded, but it fits the vibe.
You’d drawn barbed wire winding around the whole thing.
“It’s already drying,” Leon says, scrunching his forehead. He walks off the main running path and picks a weedy plant with smooth leaves; it just adds more green to his forehead, the leaves immediately bruising and wilting under his fingers as he scrubs.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
You’re gonna pass out. You’re gonna pass out or piss yourself, or both. You have to pull it together.
“Sit, sit down.”
You point him to the nearest bench, standing from your crouch and wiping at your streaming eyes. You pull your shirt off over your head and go to use it to wipe his skin, but he stops your hand.
“Not your shirt.”
“Because we can use yours,” you say, sarcastic. He’d left it at the car, before you’d even started the run.
And yeah, he has a tramp stamp. You’ve been looking at it for the last two miles as you fell behind.
Out of bird shit trajectory. You’re not gonna rub it in. The point is to scrape it off.
“Let’s just go back to the car,” he says.
“You really wanna run another five miles with bird shit on your forehead?”
He just looks back at you, shuts his mouth softly.
“Didn’t think so,” you say. “Hold still.”
His gaze lowers as you focus on scraping the mess off his forehead. You feel his fingers touch the middle of your stomach, right under the hem of your sports bra.
“Never saw your ink,” he says.
It’s a dagger in sharp black linework. The point ends right above your navel.
You remember the pain of the tattoo needles, permanently staining your skin.
You remember what the tattoo replaces, too. Stains that washed off, even if they didn’t feel like they did.
Stains that you have an easier time forgetting nowadays.
“You like it?”
Leon runs the pad of his thumb from the hilt down the length of the blade.
“Yeah.”
Despite the hot day, there are goosebumps on your skin. And it’s just registered how close you’re standing.
Between his legs.
He looks up at you, forehead clean. His grey eyes are stark in the daylight; you can see the freckles and striations of his irises, crisp and clear.
He’s studying you, too. When he speaks, it’s quiet. Private.
“What happens if I kiss you?”
Your stomach flips over. Your eyes fall to his mouth, and you answer just as softly.
“Why don’t you find out?”
The first touch of his lips is soft, chaste, lingering. It fizzes through you.
He watches your eyes open again, his own half-lidded. He hasn’t pulled back very far.
“Yeah?”
You drop your shirt on the bench, threading your fingers into the hair at the back of his head, tipping his face and kissing him deeper. His good hand slides onto your hip, coming to rest on the bare skin of your lower back.
You break for air and he diverts easily, laying kisses along your jaw. Your hand clenches in his hair.
“Leon. Are you gonna get in trouble for kissing your receptionist?”
“You’re not mine,” he says.
You pull back to look at him. His lips are pinker, spit-slick and shiny. You fit your thumb in the cleft of his bristly chin.
“No, I think I am,” you murmur.
He dips his head, kissing the pad of your thumb, eyes on yours.
“Two way street,” he says against your skin. You pull lightly at his bottom lip, your stomach full of butterflies.
“I think you should take me home.”
His pupils flex, his fingertips pressing into the skin of your back.
His hand drops away.
“Fuck.”
“What? Five miles?”
“Five miles,” he agrees.
“Do you need some motivation?” You tuck your thumb under the band of your sports bra, pushing it up half an inch. He shields his eyes.
“That's gonna make it harder to run.”
Abrupt, you swipe your abandoned shirt off the bench and take off running down the path. You throw a villainous cackle over your shoulder.
“You’ll never catch me alive, copper!”
For a beat, Leon just watches you go, a quiet, fond smirk on his face.
Then he gets up, and he runs.
Down the path, your swept-up shriek turns into defeated laughter, echoing back down to the empty bench.
The dominoes fell, and fell again, and from where you're standing? You think you got lucky.
On AO3
Creepy incel coworker Peter is FULLY based on a Reddit story that I heard read on Smosh that had me crawling out of my SKIN; a real guy kept a real journal about a real coworker that was, somehow, worse than what I wrote here. I apologize to any real Peter Dotsons out there I tried to choose a name that didn’t belong to any real guys with Wikipedia articles 😶
Thanks for giving this one a read! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist when I post these fics 💚
in reference to your previous ask, (different anon), you said you read a lot. could you pretty please tell me your fave classic romance novels if you have any? or if you could share any of your fave classics in general! i haven’t read many books and would like to know what you’re into! (esp cuz your writing is so beautiful and unique, so like i lowk trust you with recs :p).
Ough fank you anon
In a shocking twist, I don't really read much romance (and not a whole lot of classics, either)! Right now I'm reading a David Shafer novel (Whiskey Tango Foxtrot) that I pulled just because I liked the cover design, and I'm absolutely loving his writing style.
I'm also a big fan of Carl Hiaasen's books (he's witty and hilarious and so good at pacing), devoured the Murderbot Diaries books earlier this year, and will forever adore Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels, just to name a few standouts! 💖
Summary: Leon’s been your perfect wingman, because there’s no way he could be anything else. Right? Right.
Tonight, shit’s gonna go wrong. And then it’s gonna go so, so right.
WC: ~4.5k
CW: NSFW, minors DNI, you and Leon are friends, no mention of ages, no use of y/n, bar fight (loosely), mild jealousy, reader put in peril, implied attempted assault, reader is a strong independent woman, reader is injured, Leon patches you up, first time (together), oral (reader receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie, smearing fluids, sort of aftercare (Leon is sweet and attentive), showering together
Notes: MINORS DNI
“You got eyes on your six.”
You shift your weight, canting your hip a touch more provocatively, leaned against the bar.
“Please. It’s at least a ten,” you say. Leon’s to your right, casual on a barstool, communication hidden behind his whiskey glass; you’re addressing him but looking down at your drink, stirring your fingers through the condensation. He’s got eyes on the rest of the bar, watching you in his periphery.
At least a ten. But he’s not going to say it. That’s not his place.
You sip at your drink. “Who?”
“Black jacket. Glasses,” he says.
You turn around, leaning your elbows against the bar. Black Jacket & Glasses is definitely watching you. Up and down.
You snag your bottom lip on your glass and watch him back. Up and down.
That'll do.
“Mm. Target acquired,” you say, and push off from the bar.
Leon turns his stool around, setting his whiskey down next to a puddle of beer. He doesn’t need to watch what you’re doing, now. Next initiative; standby, wait for your exit.
He throws the last of his whiskey back, gesturing for a refill. It’ll do nothing to quell the writhing in his gut, but he’s learned to ignore it.
Fucking Black Jacket & Glasses.
Speak of the devil.
The man appears at Leon’s left, flagging down the bartender and ordering something fruity and strong. Leon side-eyes the guy, sour. He knows you can hold your own, but he doesn’t like the zero to sixty of it.
Going for blind drunk, huh? Working with some deficits?
The guy doesn’t order anything for himself. No card, no tab; he pays cash. He also doesn’t tip, folding a thick wad of small bills away before walking off. Leon snorts into his whiskey glass, the golden liquor thick and warm as it slides over his tongue.
What a catch.
He stays at the bar, hunched, a passive observer to the raucous, bustling life around him. He rations his whiskey, rubbing his thumb along the rim of the glass. Once, he catches your reflection in the mirror among the liquor shelves; your arms are up, dancing, Black Jacket & Glasses tight against your back.
He avoids the mirror.
Leon counts two more of the fruity, strong drinks leaving by BJ&G’s hand before he finally spots you heading for the door on the guy’s arm. You glance back, the usual acknowledgement. You’re leaning into Black Jacket’s side like you’re more than a few sheets gone, but your eyes are keen and alert when they meet Leon’s. You’re still in control.
Leon subtly raises his glass in a tiny ‘cheers’ gesture, only half looking your way.
You disappear into the night.
Leon looks down at his watch. He always stays for another fifteen, in case you come back.
He lifts his finger for another drink, shoulders low.
You’ve never come back.
His name is Jon, with no H. Lazy.
The hair at the crown of his head is thinning, but it’s just started, and it’s subtle. He missed a patch at the back of his jaw shaving, and he dances a little stiff, like he’s counting time or remembering choreography. To grind?
But it’s not nothing he’s working with while he grinds. So.
And he’s handsome enough. Athletic. Nice hands. You wish he had some scruff, a ticklish bristle to tease your neck while you were dancing, maybe some broader shoulders. But nobody’s perfect.
As soon as you’re out in the night air, he wraps his arm at your waist. It’s kind of tight. Not supportive, like he's just helping you walk after three (strong) drinks. No, it's a little bit… captive.
Like he expects you to run.
“I’m parked around back, baby.”
He steers you towards the dark alley that flanks the bar. There is parking at the back, but there’s also now a flag waving at the back of your mind.
It’s red.
“Ooo, hold on, hold on,” you say, and you keep it giggly. You stumble to a stop before the mouth of the alley, digging in your purse, making a show of it. “Shit. I think I left my card.” You didn’t.
His hand tightens at your waist, a little clench. Involuntary.
“It’s probably in there,” he says of your purse. “Come on, it’s dark out here. You can look in the car.”
He’s pressing you towards the alley with the bar of his arm. You keep your stance subtly wide, resisting.
“I think I left it on the bar,” you say, less giggly, more serious. “I shouldn't leave it, I’ll be right–“
You start to step out of his grasp and he redoubles it, crowding in close to mouth at your neck.
“Come on, baby. It’ll still be there tomorrow.”
“Jon, just let me–“
He shoves you past the threshold of sodium light, into the heavy shadow of the alley, and follows.
Leon glances up when the bar door swings open. He straightens, watching you push through the crowd, reading your tension, noting the hair fallen loose over your forehead.
You touch the firm, comforting heat of his shoulder, stealing his drink and knocking it back. You’ve put him between you and the door and your eyes are on it, sharp.
His eyes are on your hand with his stolen glass.
Your knuckles are busted.
Leon barely has time to open his mouth before the door swings open again, spitting Black Jacket & Glasses back into the bar.
Black Jacket & Busted Nose. His glasses are broken, clutched in his hand, and he’s holding his stomach, hunched over.
There’s murder in his eyes.
“Oh, fuck.” Leon deftly wraps you around behind him, and the motion draws Jon’s attention. Leon stands up, walling you off entirely. He’s taller than Jon. Definitely broader.
“Looks like she said no, buttercup.”
Jon’s apparently not firing on all cylinders, because he acts like he’s going to square up to Leon.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Your next problem, unless you walk away.”
“That bitch owes me for the drinks.”
“Ooh, keep talking,” Leon says, low and dangerous, just as you step out from behind him, pissed off.
“That’s not how it fucking works, jackass,” you say, putting extra sauce on the fricative. “Take the L and go, you creep.”
Jon smiles, condescending, and there’s blood on his teeth.
“I’m not leaving without my money, sweetheart.”
“Better start selling blowies in the bathroom, then, sweetheart, ‘cause you’re not getting anything from me.”
The confrontation’s drawn a small audience, because of course it has. You’re not being quiet. Some women nearby holler YEAH in dark delight, and some guy whistles.
Jon growls and lunges forward, but you’d read the intention and you’re already in motion.
You step back, pressing Leon up against the bar as you shove his empty barstool forward with your foot. Jon trips over it and goes tumbling gracelessly to the floor, tangled, and voices raise in surprise and curiosity as nearby patrons back quickly out of the way or crane to see what the commotion is.
The bartender’s not having it.
“HEY! Take that the fuck outside! Get out!”
You raise your hands in surrender, heading for the door and shouldering out into the night without looking back.
Leon eases away from the bartop. It leaves a harsh impression at the small of his back. He feels it less than the lingering weight of your body, your heat down his front.
When he steps outside, you’re not there.
Oh. No, you are, you’re just halfway down the sidewalk, doing your Fast Angry Walk.
“Hey,” you hear him say, but you don’t slow down. You’re seething.
“Fuck that guy.”
He catches up, keeping pace beside you. “Are you alright?”
“Fine.”
“What did he–“
“Unlock the car.”
You’re standing at the Porsche parked on the curb, your hand on the passenger’s side handle. Leon pulls the key from his pocket and the lights flash; you get in and shut the door, firm, knocking your skull back against the headrest once. Frustrated.
Contained. You move your hand with the busted knuckles onto your lap. It’s throbbing, hot and stinging. You hide it under your other hand, loose.
Leon gets in on the driver’s side, another car swishing past on the road, uncomfortably close. He shuts out the night and bubbles you both into an intimate quiet.
He glances in the rearview.
“What did he try.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Let me see your hand.”
You think about refusing, continuing to play avoidance, but the adrenaline is waning and you don’t want to pick a fight. Not with Leon. You sigh through your nose and set your hand on his waiting palm.
His thumb is gentle, running parallel to the broken skin. Even in the low light you can see the dark beginnings of bruising.
You don’t regret it. You’d do it again. Harder.
“We should be icing this.”
“I’ll live.”
You both look up when you hear shouting down the street; Leon ducks to see by the rearview and you lean forward to check the side mirror, looking back towards the bar. Jon is out on the curb, arms waving, belligerent. He’s standing in a perfect rectangle of yellow light from the door of the bar, propped open by whoever threw him out. His broken glasses are on the sidewalk; he bends to swipe them up, still raging, but the yellow light narrows into nothing and then leaves him in the dark to yell at the disinterested brick facade, alone.
You sit back, shutting your eyes.
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“What a waste of a night.”
You hear Leon’s clothes rustle; he’s checking his watch.
“Still early.”
You roll your head to look at him, his face in shadow save for a vague streetlight-orange highlight tracing his jaw, his nose, catching the shine on his lips.
You lift your busted hand.
"I should be icing this.”
Leon starts the car.
“Roger.”
So, everything’s gonna be a trial now.
It's your dominant hand you’d busted on that jackass’ face; it’s turning the simple task of unlocking your apartment door into an impossible puzzle of painful workarounds. You give up and try your non-dominant hand. You’ve almost got it, and then you fumble and drop the keys onto the coir mat.
“Come on.”
You hear a car door and then Leon’s coming up the steps behind you, taking them two at a time.
“Here.”
He unlocks the door and swings it open, leaving the keys hanging in the deadbolt. You grab them on your way past but leave the door wide open, heading for the kitchen. You thought it was a clear invitation but Leon isn’t following. You roll your eyes and call out to him.
“Mr. Chivalry. You got somewhere to be?”
You’re carefully arranging your busted hand flat on the countertop, weighing it down with an icepack, when he joins you in the kitchen. He’s left his coat in the foyer.
Thank god. You didn’t want to be alone.
“I’m hungry and I’m not putting in the effort,” you tell him, bending over your phone on the counter and pulling up a delivery app. “What’s good one-handed food?”
“I could always spoon-feed you,” Leon says, leaning back against the sink and crossing his arms. You throw him a look.
“Let’s save that for the nursing home.” You scroll past a menu photo that snags your attention; you scroll back up. “Ooo, fuck. We’re doing that.”
You put the order in and straighten up, lifting the icepack and checking your hand. It’s even more stiff than it was, cold and swollen. You eye the purpling bruises, the cracking scabs, the violent picture it all makes in the bright light of the kitchen, and remember the crunch of the would-be one-night-stand’s nose, the way it seemed to reverberate up your arm.
Leon’s mind seems to be on a similar track.
“Remind me never to piss you off,” he says.
“Yeah, you’re not an asshole,” you say, stashing the icepack and heading down the hall to your bedroom. You wanna get cozy before eating your weight in expensive takeout.
So then of course you can’t get a handle on the fucking zipper of your dress.
Leon’s quietly perusing the exploded gallery that is your fridge doors – photos, postcards, receipts, novelty magnets, save-the-dates, recipes, stupid doodles on post-it notes – when you come back out.
“I’m starting to regret my life of crime,” you tell him, and turn your back. “Help.”
His fingers brush your skin as he gets the zipper started. You keep your head tipped down, holding the front of the dress in place as the sides come apart and gape open at the back.
“Hey,” he says, and you feel his fingers press by your low shoulderblade. It burns and you flinch, turning your head like you can see anything without a mirror.
“What is that?”
He pushes the fabric aside, his thumb tracing a frame around something on your skin.
“That bastard forced you into the wall, didn’t he.”
“Goddamn it,” you mutter. You need a mirror.
He follows you to the bathroom, watching you twist to try to see your back, catching the tiny slump of your shoulders when you see it.
“Great.”
There’s a livid scrape the size of a matchbook where you’d caught the brick wall of the alleyway. It’s red and raw like rug burn.
Leon’s tone is tight, to match his jaw.
“Where’s your first aid?”
“Under the sink,” you say. You’re not going to argue, not going to insist you can do it yourself. It’d be a difficult spot to reach even with full mobility in both hands. You can let him take care of you.
You stand out of the way, still holding the front of your open dress, feeling a bit like a child watching someone else clean up your mess. First aid open on the sinktop, Leon rotates you gently, hands on your waist, to put your back in better lighting. You hear a foil packet tear open.
“It’s cold,” he warns you, and he’s right. You hiss when the antiseptic touches, stinging against your raw skin, but he soothes the wipe over it until the burning fades and all you can feel is the way he’s touching you. Careful, thorough.
Tender.
He rips open a card-sized bandage, places it methodically, smooths the adhesive edges down. You shiver, your skin raising goosebumps under his fingers.
“Okay,” he says, quiet. You open your eyes. When did you close them?
“You’re not gonna kiss it better?”
You go to throw him a smirk in the mirror, because you’re joking.
He must've missed it. He’s getting down on his knees.
Your pulse picks up.
“Leon,” you start to say, but you don’t know where to go with it. You were kidding. Maybe you don’t want to be. Don’t stop?
Don’t stop.
His hands are on your hips. There’s heat coiling low in your belly.
He kisses over the patch of the bandage. It’s not right. You can’t feel it.
“Lower,” you whisper.
His lips are warm and soft brushing your skin, his breath humid, his scruff a pleasant rasp that makes you shiver hard. Your breath tumbles from your open mouth.
He slips his hands under the open sides of your dress, palms dry against your naked skin, fingertips pressing in. He kisses over your spine, follows the low curve of your ribs, climbs to your shoulderblade, his mouth leaving wet impressions. You’re swaying, body warming, your heart thumping wildly.
“More,” you breathe.
He stands to mouth at your shoulder where it meets your neck, his hands sliding over your stomach under the dress, hugging you back against him.
You let go of the dress. He slides his hand up between your breasts, tips your head back. You receive his tongue with yours, meeting his kiss, and your body ignites.
God, you’re already soaked. You can feel the air of the bathroom cold against the wet fabric of your panties. You’re also feeling something else, pressed flush as you are against Leon’s front. You shift your hips, rubbing your ass against his fly, and he breathes hot into your mouth. You smile, grinding firmer on the hardening line of his cock.
“What’s that on my six?”
His fingers slip into the creases under your asscheeks, squeezing you, lifting as he rocks against you.
“It’s at least a ten,” he says, voice smoky and right by your ear.
“Damn right.” The roll of his body is hypnotizing, but he’s still wearing far too many clothes. You reach back, tugging his shirt from his waistband, and he lets you go so you can turn, helping him take it all the way off. He wraps it around his wrists, belting it under your ass, keeping you trapped. Like you want to go anywhere.
“Fuck, look at you,” he says, low.
“You’re one to talk.” The jingle of his belt echoes, your fingers deft as you open it, open his jeans, pushing the sides wide. You run your hand over his shaft, already straining the front of his boxer briefs, and he watches your face with half-lidded eyes, lips parted. You lean in, brushing his lips with your own, stealing his groan when you dip your hand under his waistband and squeeze him, so hot and full and satin-soft.
His hands are back on your ass, twin handfuls pulling and squeezing as he kisses you, and you laugh into his mouth.
“Can I interest you in something?”
You feel his teeth, nipping at your lips.
“Bend over the counter,” he tells you.
“Fuck.” Yeah, you’ll do that.
He smooths his hands down your back, going wide to avoid the bandage, and hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs. You step out of them, kicking them to one side, and feel his hands on your thighs, widening your stance. He kisses the rise of your ass, gently squeezing the flesh in his teeth, and travels lower.
“Hips back.”
You give a breathy moan at the first touch of his mouth to your drenched pussy. He kisses you there, firming his tongue to tease your clit, laving back through your folds and sucking light, releasing with a pop. You cry out when he turns his head, breaching you with his tongue, humming, fucking you with it before easing back, breathing out hot against you. You feel his teeth scraping your ass cheek again.
“Fuck, you taste sweet."
“You’re gonna spoil your dinner,” you gasp out, almost delirious. You moan when he rubs through your dripping slick with his fingers, slowly pushing one inside you. You rock back against it, fucking yourself on it, greedy.
“God. More, Leon. Stand up.”
His second finger stretches you; your hips stutter, breath hitching, then you press back and take him to the knuckles, groaning.
“Fuck.” He’s thrusting shallowly into your grip, your good hand tight around his cock, his waistband shoved down under his balls. You look back over your shoulder, watching the flushed pink head of his dick as it pushes through the tight circle of your fist, his tip leaking. You rub your thumb through it and he drops his head back, the luxuriant roll of his body almost too much for you to watch, his belt buckle clinking, cold against the back of your thigh.
“Jesus, Leon.”
You twist your wrist on the upstroke and he gasps, looking down at you, chest flushed pink, eyes completely blown.
That’s too much.
His back hits the wall; you’re shoving his clothes down his legs and off, his belt smacking the baseboard when you fling his pants away. You grab his shoulders and he hauls you up onto his waist; you belt your legs around him, your hips shifting as you try to catch the head of his cock where you desperately want it to go. He adjusts his grip on you, reaching down to line himself up, and you both gasp as he breaches you.
He lets you sink down on him, easing you, careful, pushing up with shallow thrusts. You take all of him, every throbbing inch until you’re flush against his pelvis. He stays there, letting you adjust.
You stir your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, looking down at him.
“I think you’re fired,” you tell him, a little shaky. He just looks at you, studying you, half his brain too blissed out to function.
“You’re a terrible wingman,” you say.
“Yeah?”
“How is anyone supposed to compete?” You rock your hips, biting off a groan as his cock strokes along your walls. He can reach deep, thick and hot inside you. “Fuck. You’re not supposed to ruin me for anyone else.”
“Oops,” he says without a shade of remorse, and snaps his hips in a short, deep thrust. You cry out, bouncing with it, and he does it again. And again.
“Oh my god, Leon, ruin me,” you whimper.
Your ass hits the cold sink countertop, Leon leaning forward to brace as he starts fucking you in earnest, your legs falling wide from his hips. He gathers them back in, blunt fingernails scraping down your thighs, and you press your hand to the mirror behind your head, body rocked by every thrust, the countertop unyielding against your tailbone. You can’t find it in you to care.
Leon reins it back for a stretch, going slow and deep, dipping his head to kiss the swell of your breast, drag the flat of his tongue over your nipple, circling it, sucking. You keen, digging your heel into the small of his back, sighing as he sucks lightly on your other nipple, scraping his bristly cheek along the skin of your chest to bury his face in the side of your neck, bracing his arms on the countertop again. The sound of skin slapping skin picks up, echoing around the bathroom, obscene.
“Since I'm not on payroll,” he starts conversationally, against your shoulder.
“You volunteered,” you say, breathless.
“I hated it,” Leon says.
“What?”
“Playing wingman.”
You push him back so you can stare at him. “You never said–“
“Yeah. Cuz I'm a quitter,” he says, gruff. “And I'd love to let you down.”
He pulls you up, down off the countertop, slipping out of you. He bends you over, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, lining up and pushing back in slow. He brings your leg up, the side of your knee against the countertop. You sigh, then moan loud when every new thrust starts slapping his balls against you.
“Oh, fuck, Leon!”
He grips your ass, his breathing harsher, fucking into you hard and fast. You feel the coil start to build, your toes curling, canting your hips just so, pushing yourself back against every thrust.
“God, like that,” you whine, face pinched in desperation as you near the edge.
“That’s it, shit – I can feel you,” he says, and then his fingers are circling your clit and you cry out, clutching at his arm. “Come on, sweetheart, I got you.”
And that’s you gone.
You crash down into a white-out orgasm that has you jerking and writhing beneath him, groaning brokenly, grasping at the countertop, grasping at him. He curses around your name, drapes himself over your back and fucks you through it, slow and rocking, then manages only a few more rapid thrusts before he’s bottoming out and pulsing inside you with a guttural moan, hot cum coating your walls that still convulse with aftershocks.
You both slide down onto the bathroom rug, gelatinous and spent. Leon slips out and you feel his cum following, trickling out onto your thigh, but it’s not on the rug so it’s not worth moving about.
Neither of you so much as twitch when the doorbell rings.
“Food’s here,” you say, eyes closed.
Behind you, Leon hums and drapes his arm over you.
“Don’t get up all at once.”
“Thanks, I won’t.”
He kisses your shoulder. “Shower?”
“Seems excessive,” you say, your eyes still closed. They flare open when Leon drags lazy fingers through the mess spilling out of you, smearing it up onto your stomach.
“You’re a monster.”
He smiles and pulls you to lie on your back, bending to kiss you slow and deep, fingers dipping inside you, gathering more of his cum. He paints it onto your thigh in little circles and swirls, languid and ticklish, and you can’t even be mad. The shower’s right there.
You pull his hand from between your legs and press it flat to his own chest, dragging it down.
“Better start the water. Our food’s gonna get up and walk away.”
The hot water stings your busted knuckles.
You hold your hand clear, smiling quietly while Leon massages shampoo into your hair and then tips your head back against his shoulder to rinse. You sigh when he runs his slippery, soapy hands all over your body, kissing your shoulder, your neck, your mouth.
You turn in his arms, push his wet hair back from his eyes, run your hands down his face. The pad of your thumb fits perfectly at the corner of his mouth; you run it along his bottom lip.
“Can I be honest?”
“Probably unwise.” You can see his eyes tracing arbitrary paths between your freckles; over your cheeks, nose, forehead.
“You’ve always been my metric,” you tell him, quiet. “I was always looking for someone like you.”
His gaze settles on yours, a pinch forming between his brows.
“And where was I?”
“Out of my league.”
He snorts. “You've gotta be shitting me.”
“Don’t give me that.”
He holds your chin, tips your face up to kiss you.
“Couldn't read me for shit, could you.”
“That's not fair, you're trained to be unreadable.”
“Guess I played myself.”
You study him, searching his eyes.
“What?”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I told you.”
“No, I mean, when the door was wide open,” you say. “When I broached the subject of a wingman. Could’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”
“It wasn’t right,” he says. “You were looking for fun.”
Your brow creases. “What are you looking for?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then,
“Keeps,” he admits, quiet.
Your heart does something probably medically suspect in your chest.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You kiss him, winding your arms around his neck, loose.
You’re smiling.
“Good.”
On AO3
Well this was a bolt-out-of-the-blue two-day rabid writing experience,, Fs in the chat for my other WIPs 😔
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