None of these fics are my own, but I needed to organize all my faves for easier access.
(Updated 3/21/26)
Baldur's Gate Masterlist
Resident Evil
Leon S. Kennedy
Assistant || Gun Range || Stressed Welcome Home || Sleepy Morning Sex || Incubus x Hunter || A Homecooked Meal || Vampire in a Library || Lonely Homework || Bad Day Made Better || Keeping Quiet in a Closet || Teacher x Leon || Say it || Vasectomy || Meeting Again But Traumaaa || Snowy Days ||
Masterlist of Spice | Another Masterlist
Chris Redfield
Newlywed Welcome Home || Angsty Exes on a Near Death Mission || Sex Pollen/drug || Morning in Bed || Teasing Chris in a Meeting ||
Other
Ada x Reader x Leon Roomies
The Babysitter (AxRxL)
Training Sesh Chris x Leon x Reader
Distracting from Homework C x L x R
Gym Showers C x L X R
Love and Deepspace
Sylus
3x He held it together || Drunken Confessions || Chronic Illness || Quiet Love || A Safe Person || PoTS || Bad Day Cuddles || Near Death Savior || First time Over
Others
Arranged Divorce Series (Zayne)
The Holy Trinity (SnappleCrow)
SnowCrow Sandwich
Prince vs Pauper (CrowApple)
ADHD CxR + SxR
Marvel
Druig
Sparrow Series
Incentive Series
One Mind Series
Spicies Masterlist
Headache Fluff
Loki
Loki Wins Soulmate || Overtime || Fluffy First Time || Movie Night Couch Sex || Gray Sweater || Fancy Party Steve's Ex
✦summary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. ✦
✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦
✦wc: 10.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!✦
You’re not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, they’re a big, fat liar.
Active scanning is not looking. It’s a part of the job, to see who’s here. What kind of interviews you’re going to be able to get, who’s already closing in on who, who’s snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If you’re smart about this—and you always are—you’re going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.
But not him.
You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.
“They’re here.” Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. “Holy shit, they’re actually here-“
“It’s their fundraiser.” You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. “It would be crazy if they weren’t here.”
“Yeah, but- It’s all of them. I’ve never seen all of them-“
“Yes, you have.”
Stacy glares at you. “Well, not so close.”
You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. “They’re not that close.”
“I could touch one.” Stacy breathes, and you snort.
“You should go try that.”
That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator who’s going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. You’ve read it three times, and it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-
Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize it’s nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesn’t stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-
“He’s looking at you.” Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement you’re sure she’s about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and you’re going to throttle her.
“He is now, because you,” you shove her shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. “Fucking made him notice-“
“No, he was looking before-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Yes, he was-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Who wasn’t what.”
You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. You’re going to kill her. You’re going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then you’re going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-
“Hi, Mr. Captain Sir.” She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed it’s him expression.
I’m going to kill you. You mouth. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by the threat.
“Uh- Hi. You don’t have to-“ You hear him shift on his feet behind you. “Steve is alright.”
You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when he’s a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesn’t kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-
He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like you’re a bit of plastic that’s stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because it’s not fair.
Steve’s just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, he’s more handsome. You don’t know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and he’s so tall it makes you dizzy, and he’s fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like you’re important to him.
And you’re not. You know you’re not.
You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And he’s Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and you’d thought you were already over it so you’d said yes.
You thought you could just be his friend. He hadn’t made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, you’d thought you were over it.
But Steve is Steve. And he’s got some titanic hold over your heart that’s left finger marks dug in through the landscape. There’s a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now it’s far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. You’ve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope they’d help you move on.
They don’t. They won’t. Nothing can.
The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you can’t even tell him without making it a problem.
Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.
She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you can’t afford false faith. All you have is what’s grounded between your fingers.
Steve’s right here. He’s smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. He’s got a drink in his massive hand for you. You’ve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.
You’re aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.
In an ideal world, you’d be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.
You need to get a fucking grip.
“Hi.” You say, and it’s sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-
Steve’s face splits into a big, happy smile. “Hi. How’s the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?”
You scowl. “It’s not- They’re not victims-“
“You treat them like they’re victims.” His grin widens. “Sometimes I feel like I should be saving them.”
“They’re all fine. It’s not like I’m drugging them or something.”
Steve’s brows raise. “That makes me think you are drugging them.”
“Nuh uh.” You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.
“One day you’re gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.” He holds out the drink he brought you.
It’s your favorite. It’s always your favorite.
You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. He’s never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.
“I don’t think I will.” You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. He’s warm. He’s like a walking furnace, and you’d like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-
“Kid, you already have.”
Steve looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesn’t. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.
Kid. That’s all you are to him. Kid.
“But if I got in trouble, you’d save me.” You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.
With his presence. His closeness.
How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.
“’Course I would. Already saving you by pretending I don’t see you getting all those Senators drunk.”
You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacy’s abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.
“Are you feeling alright?” Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. “You been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-“
“I’m fine.” You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.
The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. You’d throw up, if you didn’t think he’d take care of you after.
“Everything’s fine.”
Steve’s lips twitch. You’re not sure he believes you.
But it doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.
And you’re just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.
“You do look nice.” He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.
You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. “Thanks.”
I dressed up for you.
“I think he’s in looove with you.” Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.
“Is the printer out of paper still?”
“I don’t know, you print everything for me.” She pokes your chair with her foot. “Pay attention to me, I said Steve’s in love with you-“
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he’s not-“
“Yes, he is-“
“Is this the same thing you were fighting about last time?” Steve’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. “Or is that just… How you two talk.”
Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. “It’s the same fight as last time.”
“Oh.” He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. “Is everything okay?”
“Mhm.” Stacy beams. “Hi, Steve.”
You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.
“Hi, Stacy.”
She almost glows. “You remember my name?”
“Yeah.” He glances down at you. “I try to remember most people’s names.”
Stacy swoons. “Of course you do.”
Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.
“What are you doing here?”
“Uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. “Lunch, remember? We planned it last week.”
Oh. You did do that. “I told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-“
“Oh, she already did.” He laughs. “But I’m here for you, not a front page.”
You flush, and Stacy giggles like she’s watching TV.
“So…” Steve shrugs. “Lunch?”
Right. Lunch.
“How’d you even get in the building.” You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.
“I took a photo with the guards.”
“Steve, I told you to stop doing that-“
“It made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-“
“I know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.”
Steve frowns. “It’s not that big an inconvenience for me-“
“But you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it-“
“Steven Rogers.”
You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.
“I don’t love them.” He mumbles, and you nod.
“Next time, tell them no.”
“But then I can’t come upstairs.”
You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. “You can text me. Like you’re supposed to-“
“Or I can just do the photos-“
“No-“
“Bye, guys.” Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. You’d forgotten she was there.
“Um… Bye.” You wave awkwardly, and she grins.
He’s here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.
No hope. It just makes everything else harder.
If Steve wanted you, he’d say something. And you’re a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he won’t leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.
His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.
You can’t handle this at all.
The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that it’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.
You’re in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. You’re obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.
Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity who’s respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. You’re really shattering glass ceilings with that one.
You want to shoot yourself in the face.
It’s impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when he’s everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and he’s on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.
“It’s a stupid name, though.” You’d said, and he’d shrugged.
“Tony says the name doesn’t matter, as long as it’s got our faces on it. Apparently that’s what people are buying for.”
He’d frowned at that, and you’d given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and you’d told him gently you’re sure people will also buy for charity.
You’d been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, it’s not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. It’s because Steve’s face is smiling at you from the plastic, and you’re no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.
Not that you’re much better about that, either.
“I could give you an interview.” Steve offers on day, when you’d been complaining to him about slow news. “It can be about whatever you want-“
“I don’t want your pity journalism, Steven.”
He frowns. “It’s not pity. I’m trying to help you.”
You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “Well, I can’t accept your help.”
“Why not-“
“It’s unethical.”
“I… don’t think that’s true-“
“Well, I didn’t earn it.”
“You don’t have to earn it.” He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. “You work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-“
“I don’t have questions ready.” You cut in quickly. Flatly.
Steve just shrugs. “Make some up. I know you can.”
You wish he’d stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.
“I have nothing I want to ask you.” You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.
“I don’t believe that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.”
You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. “Maybe I just know everything about you,” you mutter, and he snorts.
“No. You don’t.”
That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.
“There she is-“
“Shut up.” You lean across the table, and his smile widens. “What don’t I know about you.”
“A lot.”
“Like what-“
“You have to ask me to find out.”
You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.
“You suck.” You grumble.
He shrugs. “I know you think that.”
You’re both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, you’d be able to trace the line of his nose. He’s so handsome. It’s unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.
“I’m going to punch you in the face-“
“I’d like to see you try, kid.”
Kid.
You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you don’t give him the chance to question it. You just push on.
“I need a napkin.” You mutter., leaning back into your seat. “To write questions.”
“Yeah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go get that for you.”
Of course he will.
And when he’s talking to the waitress—paper and a pen in his hand—she twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didn’t know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think that’s where you all went wrong.
This all might’ve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you don’t like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interview—feeling little detached from your own body, like he’s a million miles away—and touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.
You might’ve gotten to touch him more, if he didn’t mean something to you.
But you wouldn’t trade knowing him for the world.
And that just makes it all hurt even more.
Steve’s been trying to get you out with his team for years. You’ve said no, over and over and over. You don’t need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Don’t need the reminder that he probably rejected you because you’re not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.
Not that you think Steve would think you’re any less because you’re not enhanced. You know he wouldn’t.
Consciously.
But that doesn’t change the reality of it. He wouldn’t want you, when he’s surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you don’t have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And you’ve heard the rumors about them.
You’ve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isn’t a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasn’t theorized about secretly dating.
And you know none of it’s true. Steve’s told you himself.
But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.
Which is why you didn’t want to do this. And Steve had always respected that—because he’s perfect, and he respects everything—so you’d thought you’d never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesn’t push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks you’re just too busy to go out the other times. That you’re saying no because you simply don’t have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you don’t want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.
But you still kept saying no.
Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldn’t stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now you’re here.
Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.
Steve hasn’t left your side since you got here. It’s been the only anchor you have. You’d been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you don’t really want to have. It’s not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.
But you’re the only one here right now. And if you could, you’d sew your hand into Steve’s so he couldn’t leave you alone.
And that’s always a little true. You want that all the time.
More than usual right now. But all the time.
“I’m going to get drinks.” He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.
“Wait- I’ll come with you-“
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He grins down at you, patting your head like you’re a dog or something. “You don’t have to stand up.”
You want to shout at him that this isn’t about him being a gentleman, it’s about him not leaving your sight. But you’re weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.
You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesn’t work.
“You’re the journalist.” A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.
“I’m a journalist-“
“No. You’re Roger’s journalist.” Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but don’t dare to move away.
That’ll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you don’t inch away from him.
“I understand what he’s been going on about.” Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore.”
Your eyes narrow. “Like me?”
“Mhm.” Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.
“What am I like, Mr. Stark?”
He chuckles, leaning back. “Little spitfire, aren’t you-“
“Only to people who deserve it.”
That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.
You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. He’s by the bar, your drink already in his hand. It’s the same one you always get. He’s holding it close to his chest, like it’s something priceless.
There’s a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.
And Steve’s entertaining her. smiling at her.
The same way he smiles at you.
You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t want to see how it’s not even the Avengers that he’d want more than you, it’s everyone else. She’s getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but you’re not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because he’s probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like she’s talking sweet, and he’d probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. He’s a God. He’ll say he’s not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.
There’s a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you don’t want to see this. You can’t see this.
You tried to be his friend. You really tried.
But you can’t.
“What’s wrong with you?” Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.
“Nothing.” You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. “I just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.”
You glance over to Steve again. He’s laughing at something she’s saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.
“Right now.” You mumble. “I have to go do it right now.”
Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right now, huh.”
“Yep.” You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.
“What is it? If it’s so urgent.”
“Stuff.” You snip.
Stark chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus, he’s batting in a whole other sport with you.”
“What the fuck does that mean-“
“Nothing.” Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. “Go on. I’ll tell Cap you had stuff.”
You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.
But you look up, back to Steve. And he’s grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, you’re going to vomit.
You have to go now.
“Thanks.” You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. “Have a good night.”
And Stark laughs, as you turn away.
“Oh. I’m sure I will.”
You avoid Steve for a week.
Properly avoid him.
He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, you’re going to respond to them. If you respond to them, he’ll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, you’re never going to get over him.
You’re going cold turkey on him, like he’s a drug.
To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.
Steve doesn’t come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.
You don’t know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say he’s walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And you’re going to be able to do this. You’re finally going to move on.
Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.
You’ve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they aren’t Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.
There’s a guy you’ve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and he’s far from bad to look at. And it’s not like you’re going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isn’t Steve.
And maybe this guy—you can’t really remember his name, but you’ll learn it—is blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but that’s nobody business expect yours, and your pillow’s. It knows better than anyone that there’s only one way you can fake it.
Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until you’re over Steve, and there’s never any temptation to look back.
You dress up, telling your brain you’re going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing that’s nobody’s business. You’re doing what you need to, and it’s going to get you over him. You’ve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesn’t seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but that’s where you need to shut your brain up. There’s not going to be anyone who’s like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but it’s not him, and that’s okay. That’s good. It’s going to help you move on. You’ve got your jacket, and your purse, and you’re going to do this and move on-
You yank the door open, and freeze.
Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.
This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you can’t remember how to speak. He’s here. Why is he here. He’s been giving you space, because he’s amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didn’t care when he wasn’t right in front of you. Looking like you’d just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if he’s lost sleep.
He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesn’t smile. It makes you want to cry.
“Steve-“
“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mutters, the words thick and low. “And- I’m not here to fight about it. I didn’t think you were going to open the door, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to bother you. Just- Never mind.”
You blink. “I- What are you-“
“You got a date?” He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. He’s fisting his hands.
“Um-“ You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
“With whom.”
Shit. You still can’t remember. “Someone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-“
“On an app.” He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. “You know, Stark made me try those once.”
You swallow. You don’t want to hear about his dating life. “How did that go.”
“Bad. And I tried, I just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name.
This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. He’s got a gravity over you, and he doesn’t know it, and why is he here.
“Is he nice.”
Steve’s voice is low. Pained. You don’t understand the question.
“Who?”
“Your date.” He grunts. “Is he nice to you.”
“Oh.” You forgot about that part. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you can’t look him in the eyes.
“What did I do?”
His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and you’ve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just… Sad. Defeated. Like even he isn’t sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.
“You didn’t do anything-“
“I must have.” He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. “You’ve never been mad at me before, and- Now you’re-“
He waves to your outfit, and you frown.
“It’s just a date-“
“Just a date.” He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.
“I’m allowed to date, Steven-“
“I know you are!” His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. “I- I know, but that’s not- Why are you avoiding me?”
He’s pleading. It’s almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isn’t fair. Steve’s not stupid. He can’t have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, he’s not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly can’t be dense enough to not tie together that you’re avoiding him, and going on a date. You don’t go on dates. You’re usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.
Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesn’t understand. Being so nice about it, when it’s clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.
Because he’s golden and perfect. All respectful, like you’re just another lady to him.
Like you’re not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.
A lump is pressing up your throat. It’s a battle to hold his gaze.
“Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did-“
“Steve-“
“And I’ll fix it, whatever I did, I’ll fix it-“
“You can’t fix it!” You shout.
He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.
“You- You can’t fix it, Steve.” You whisper, staring down at his shoes. “Just- Stop.”
“Stop what?” He rasps. “I- I know I messed something up, but-“
“Stop being so nice to me.”
He’s silent for a moment. You don’t even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.
“I... I’d rather not.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“Then please leave me alone.” The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. “I- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I can’t.”
“Can’t-“
“Can’t be your friend.” You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. “I can’t be your friend, Steve, it’s too hard. I- I-“
You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He can’t talk right now. It’s already too hard.
“I love you.” You say, barely a breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear anyway. “I love you too much, and- It’s not your fault that you don’t- That it’s not the same. But please.” You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. “I- I need space.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.
Letting you go.
You think it’s hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that you’d tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day he’d look at you and realize he made a mistake.
But he steps to the side. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.
A dream.
You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. You’re going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.
Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.
You’ll get over it. You’ll get over it. It’s hard to breathe right now but you’ll get over it-
“God- Screw it.”
A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you don’t even think to fight.
Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesn’t know he’s already got a claim on you. Like he’s trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with what’s happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and you’re sure he ate something earlier but you don’t really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and you’re being crushed under the force of him but it’s intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like you’re being remade-
It’s over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like they’re still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.
You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.
Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure what’s happening.
Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. You’re breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.
He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.
But you’ve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.
This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.
He’s never been a drug. You’d been getting a secondary high, but this-
This is a hit.
And you need to have more.
You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and you’re quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steve’s arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.
He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until you’re drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.
You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think you’re going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.
He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.
It takes you a second to catch your breath, and that’s all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You can’t help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.
“St- Steve-“ You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. “Jesus fucking- God-“
“I know.” He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.
“Fuck- You-“ You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.
At this angle, you’re almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. It’s one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.
Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didn’t think you could cum like this, but there’s a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.
He sits up to look at you, and you’re sure it’s a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isn’t the kind of thing you thought he’d be into. He’s too perfect, too good, and maybe you’ve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steve’s all about honor. You’d been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.
But that’s not what you see in Steve’s eyes. They’re hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.
“Oh-“ You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.
Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy.
His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. You’re wound so tight you’re certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steve’s hold, and his attention snaps back up.
“You’re good, doll.” He coos. “Relax for me.”
You blink at him, shaking your head. You can’t stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like there’s nothing else in the world.
Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.
“Look at me.”
His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.
You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours.
“I don’t want space.” He mutters. “I want you.”
You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. “You- You can’t just-“
“Shh.” He pushes further down, until it feels like he’s almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. “Is that all I did?”
“Wha- Oh-“
He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesn’t even break a sweat.
“You and me.” He mutters, studying your every expression. “That’s it. That’s what was gonna make me lose you.”
“You- You didn’t lose me-“
“Almost did.” He squeezes your knee. “You walked.”
You glare up at him. “You let me-“
“No, I didn’t.”
Steve’s lips slam back over yours, and you can’t really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and he’s hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.
Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.
Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm.
“I- I didn’t want to ruin something.” He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.
“Ruin…”
“Us.” Steve’s face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. “You were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didn’t want to risk that.”
You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.
“I was willing to risk it.” You whisper, and he sighs.
“I know. But-“ He looks away, words choked and low. “I thought it was a crush. That you’d get over.”
You laugh weakly. “Well, it wasn’t.”
“I know.” He sighs. “Mine wasn’t either.”
You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.
“I love you.” He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. “It is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.”
It does.
Just as fast as they’d shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. They’re clearer than before. More colorful. It’s no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesn’t ripple away. And that’s more than enough.
You lean down and kiss him. It’s slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.
Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steve’s cock that can’t be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.
“Hey.” Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise. “Easy.”
You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. “Easy?”
“Yeah, that’s what I-“
“I just came on your knee.”
His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. “I, uh- Fair.”
“Mhm.” You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.
Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “Jesus- Baby-“
You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steve’s eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.
You’d very much like to see him give up.
“Does that feel good?” You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.
Steve grunts. You’re going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.
“I don’t want to go slow, Stevie.” You purr, and his chest heaves under you. “I want you to fuck me. Pleeease.”
You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steve’s face drops against your chest.
“Jesus, woman.” He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. “Come on, ‘s not playing fair-“
“Don’t wanna play fair.” You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. “Wasn’t fair how you turned me down.”
“’M sorry about that-“
“You should be.” You kiss under his ear. “Hurt my feelings.”
“Thought-“ He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. “Thought I was helping-“
“You weren’t.”
“I got that now-“
“But you know what would make it better?” You lean back up, holding Steve’s gaze with a lazy smile.
He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.
“Fucking me.”
Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.
You’d peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and he’s so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.
Steve’s a good boy. A sweet boy.
He also doesn’t like things that he can’t account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.
You’re sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.
He has to, if you’re begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.
“Pleaseee.” You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. “Fuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I can’t walk-“
He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.
“Make me yours, make me cry, fuck-“ You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. “God, fucking- Please, Steve-“
That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steve’s resolve, and he’s on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.
“Steve- Shit-“ Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Fuck, slow down-“
“You said you didn’t want to slow down.” He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. “Said you didn’t wanna play fair.”
“I- Um- Ooooh-“
You drop your head against Steve’s shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.
“Wet fuckin’ pussy.” He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. “Knew you got soaked for me, princess. Didn’t know it was this bad.”
“You- You-“ He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like you’re burning alive in the best way possible. “You knew?” You squeak, and Steve chuckles.
“Always knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.”
You try to twist and glare at him. “And you didn’t tell me-“
“Like you would’ve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.” Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.
“Fuck-“ You whimper. He’s right. You can barely even stand that right now. “Steve, please- Please-“
You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like you’re about to explode.
Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.
“’Course you like that.” He mutters. “Dirty girl, testing me every fucking day.”
He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.
“Felt that.” Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. “Greedy, princess. You’ve been waitin’ this long, you can hold it a little longer.”
“Ca- Can’t-“ You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. “Can’t, Steve- Can’t wait-“
“Yeah, you can.” He grunts. “Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, aren’t you, baby.”
He’s playing with your clit like it’s just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.
“Steve- I- I’m going to- Oh my god-“
Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.
He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.
“Getting you ready.” He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. “It’s okay, babydoll, you’re doin’ real good.”
You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. You’re struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.
Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you haven’t been turned to a puddle under his hands.
“Breathe.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like he’s being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.
You hear the click of his belt, and as much as you’d like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.
He’s massive. That’s the kind of dick you’ve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry can’t replicate it. You’re not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.
“I was… Endowed.” He mumbles, ears red. “Before the serum. Then…”
He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.
“Jesus, Steve-“
“It won’t hurt you.” He says quickly. “I know there are those rumors ‘bout be being a virgin, but-“ He sighs, pouting slightly. “God forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesn’t want to talk about his sex life, suddenly he’s never even touched a boob-“
“Dude.” You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if I still think you’re a virgin after that.”
You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.
“Dude?”
“Um-“
“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you.” He grumbles, and you’d laugh at him if that didn’t make your heart skip. e
“Sorry, sir.”
You say it half to mock him, half to test something.
Steve’s jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and you’re still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.
“You think something’s funny?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No, sir.”
Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.
“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath, and you’re still laughing softly.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
You laugh again, because you’re really not. It’s hilarious, and he’s adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.
Steve assesses you like you’re a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.
He never does anything halfway.
“Alright, princess.” He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. “Open.”
You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.
The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are.
Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didn’t even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think he’s found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.
“I know.” He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. “You’re taking it, baby, there you go.”
“Steveee-“
“Feels good, doesn’t it.” He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.
You’ve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steve’s still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. He’s patient. You don’t want him to be.
“More.” You push out, and he raises his brows.
“Sweetheart-“
“More.” You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. “Fuck me, Steve- Mmm-“
He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.
He’s unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.
“Yeah, that’s it.” He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “Pretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, don’t you.”
“Ye- Yes-“ You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. “Yes- Oh my god, yes-“
Steve’s started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until you’re moaning and writhing around him.
“Feel that, don’t you.” He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. “Feel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesn’t-“
“So good.” You babble, but who can blame you. “So good, Steve, you’re so-“
Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and he’s going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.
A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.
“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. “If I’d know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.”
You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.
“Oh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.”
Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. You’re spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. You’re just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steve’s massive body draped over yours, and you’d probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.
“You were made for me.” He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-“
You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.
“Good girl.” He coos. “There you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know you’re getting close.”
You are. You’ve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steve’s breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.
He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.
“Fuck- Fuck- You feel so good,” he groans your name in your ear. “So good, it’s- Christ-“
That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.
“Steve.” You breathe out. “Steve- I- I’m gonna-“
He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you. Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.
It’s a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.
Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like you’re an angel, fucking you like you’re just a toy, and you can’t even remember how to tell him how good it feels.
“Steve…” You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. “Steve- Ooooooh-“
Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how he’s turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.
“My pretty girl.” He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. “Close. We’re so close. You can make it. Make it for me.”
You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steve’s abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.
“Steve- I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” Not a suggestion. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. “Come for me, now.”
The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.
“Fuck,” he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.
It’s almost as good as your own orgasm. You’re tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-
You can barely breathe in the best way. You’ve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then it’s drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out it’s everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.
Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.
“Woah.”
“Shit.” Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. “I- I didn’t- I usually pull out, you just-“
“Steve-“
“We need to get you in the shower, it’s everywhere-“
“Steve-“
“I’m so sorry-“
“Steven.” You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.
You’re already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. You’re going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that you’ll keep next to the bed.
“Does that happen every time?”
He swallows, and nods.
“Uh- Not that much.” He mumbles. “But yeah.”
Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. “Okay.”
Steve blinks. “Okay?”
You nod, and he shakes his head.
“I ruined your room-“
“I liked it.”
He stares. You smile.
Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.
“You’re impossible.” He mutters, and you giggle.
“Yeah, but you love me. And you can’t take it back now, you already said it-“
He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.
“I do love you.” He mutters against your lips. “And no one could make me take it back if they tried.”
You smile. You have no plans to do that.
Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And there’s no way you’re letting him go now.
✦End note: this was so fun for me to write i love a puppy dog man. i hope you enjoyed it!✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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Summary: After years of hard work and widowhood, you buy the house of your almost-dreams and move into it at the same time you’re mean to renovate it.
As if things weren’t messy enough, it turns out you have a really hot, kind and friendly neighbour who happens to be single and really good with your son.
You’re not sure you’re gonna be able to resist Thor Odison for long, especially when he offers to help you so much.
Chapter summary: When your son decides to explore the (much better) yard next to yours, you meet your very hot new neighbour.
WC: 2.8k words
Warnings: Modern AU. Meet-Cute. Some fluff. Slowburn.
Masterlist
“Dustin!” you called out, rushing from the living room into the kitchen. “Don’t touch that door!”
You reached him just in time, blocking his path before his hand could make contact with the kitchen door.
“Don’t use that door,” you said, your voice firm but gentle. “If you want to go out, you’ll need to use the front door.”
The house, well, it was… a work in progress. A fixer-upper in every sense of the word.
You’d gotten it at a good price from an older couple who refused to sell to house flippers. It had taken a combination of savings, a bit of help from your parents, insurance, and a settlement you’d received to make the down payment. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to make the loan manageable, and the house was in a good location. Still, it needed a lot of work.
“Why?” Dustin asked, peering at the door with furrowed brows.
“It’s unstable,” you said, gently guiding him away from the kitchen. “Come on, let’s go.”
“What’s unstable?” he asked, still curious.
You tried to suppress a smile. There were so many things that were unstable in your life right now. Some days, you probably were one of them, too. But you kept those thoughts to yourself.
Dustin was sweet and incredibly inquisitive, always asking questions, and eager to learn. You appreciated that and tried to nurture it as best as you could.
“Unstable means something that doesn’t have balance,” you explained, choosing your words carefully. “Like… a door that could fall off its hinges if we use it, or a person walking on a tightrope. It means something that isn’t secure, that might fall apart if you’re not careful. Like that door — it could come down on us if we open it now.”
“Why don’t you look it up in your dictionary?” you suggested.
Dustin paused, looking up at you with wide eyes.
“I can’t now. I’m going to play outside. I’ll look it up later.”
“Alright,” you agreed. “But if you’re going to play outside, you have to go through the front door and use the gate. And don’t forget your hat. The sun’s really strong today.”
Dustin nodded enthusiastically, grabbed his cap, and pulled it onto his messy blonde hair. He dashed off to the backyard, eager to escape into his world of play. You watched him go, eyes lingering on the door, the one that would need fixing sooner rather than later.
The decision to buy this house had been complicated. You’d been saving for it for eleven years, ever since you started working at eighteen. When you and your fiancé got together, he joined in the effort, adding to the growing fund.
For the last seven years, you two had been building a life together, dreaming of the future — especially after Dustin was born, three years into your relationship. You both wanted to give him everything, a solid foundation for the future. A good house was part of that. And even though it wasn’t perfect yet, you could see it becoming something special.
It was the reason you had insurance — for both of you. You’d kept yours, even after everything.
If anything happened to one of you, at least the other would have a way to provide for Dustin.
And something did happen.
Victor passed away when Dustin was only a toddler, three years ago. It was a work accident, caused by the company’s negligence. They fought you every step of the way, trying to blame Vic for the incident and prevent you from getting the settlement. The whole thing was a nightmare — messy, and ugly, with TV stations picking up the story and the internet buzzing with outrage.
You were certain that the only reason they eventually caved and paid you off was because the bad publicity was starting to hurt their reputation. You couldn’t have been more sure of it.
But it meant getting a house that was close enough to your dreams — somewhere Dustin could go to a good school, not too far from your parents’ home, so you’d have a support network when you needed it most, with your sister as a roommate.
You had lived with them for those years after Vic’s death, because, frankly, you weren’t stable enough to be on your own yet.
You were only twenty-five. Your partner of five years had been taken from you suddenly and you had a toddler to care for and a life that demanded you keep moving forward, even though you didn’t feel ready to.
Life didn’t stop after Victor’s death, even if it felt like it should. The world kept spinning, and you had no choice but to move with it. So, there you were — living in your childhood room, your baby at your side, trying to find some semblance of normality in a life that had been ripped apart.
It had taken a while, but now, you finally had some semblance of normalcy. Dustin was about to enter those crucial school years — the years where he would learn how to read, and how to do Math — and you knew it was time to move. You wanted it to be his last move. Doing it any later, even if it was possible, would only disrupt his learning, and his sense of stability, and you didn’t want that.
So, here you were — officially living in a house you were also in the middle of renovating.
Fantastic, really.
Rooms were half-painted, and fixtures sat in boxes waiting to be installed. Your sister, Julia, had moved in with you, and your plan was for her to take the basement, which was meant to be an independent unit. But the place needed so much work that she ended up taking the room that had been meant for Dustin, and Dustin had to settle for what was supposed to be your closet.
Your boy didn’t seem to mind the mess; kids were adaptable, after all. He was excited about the space, and about the backyard where he could run and play. You’d promised him that once the house was done, it would be perfect, just like the ones in the books you read to him at night.
Some days, the weight of it all felt too heavy — the late nights of sanding floors, the early mornings of unpacking boxes, the constant juggling of work, Dustin, and the endless projects around the house. But you kept going because that’s what you had to do.
Julia, bless her, wasn’t much help with any of that. She was a wonderful aunt, great at a lot of things, but fixing up a house? That wasn’t her strong suit. You couldn’t trust her with a drill even if seven contractors were supervising.
You glanced out the kitchen window, watching Dustin in the garden, poking at leaves with a stick, getting his hands dirty as he explored the world around him.
“I think the water heater’s working better,” Julia called from the living room, stepping into the kitchen. “What did you do to it?”
You turned to look at her, an innocent shrug on your shoulders.
“Turned a valve.”
Your little sister snorted, shaking her head in amusement.
“Genius,” she teased. “Well, I’m off to work now.”
“Good luck,” you said back, watching her grab her things.
You turned back to the yard, and your heart dropped into your stomach when you noticed Dustin was gone.
What?!
“Dustin!” you called out, panicking before you could think about it twice. “Dustin?!”
No answer.
You bolted out of the house, not even thinking about the kitchen door, just shoving it open as you ran into the backyard. The old door creaked and fell down on the floor, forgotten in your haste.
Your heart barely steadied when you spotted him. But then it hammered again — this time with panic — when you saw he was on the other side of the fence.
How did he get over there?
“Dustin Victor, you come back here this instant!” you shouted.
Dustin froze, holding a rock in his small hand, his wide green eyes locking with yours as he slowly stood up from where he had been crouching.
Dustin didn’t move, his gaze fixed on you as if he couldn’t quite decide whether to stay put or run. The rock in his hand trembled slightly, and you could see his mind working through something — his curiosity, his defiance, or maybe just his love for exploration.
“Dustin,” you said again, your voice softer now, though still firm. “Come back. Now.”
He parted his lips as if to say something, but no words came out. He pouted for a moment, then carefully placed the rock down, before making his way toward you. He ducked under the fence, pushing aside two planks as he slipped through.
“What were you doing?” you asked, your eyes focused on his face, your voice tinged with concern. “You can play in our yard, but that’s not ours.”
Your heart was pounding so loudly in your ears that you didn’t notice someone approaching from the other house until it was almost too late.
“Hey, neighbour,” a deep voice called.
You froze, instinctively pulling Dustin close to you.
A very tall, blonde-haired man stood on his porch, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, your voice tight with the mixture of relief and embarrassment in you. “I looked away for just a second, and he sneaked out. It won’t happen again.”
The man offered a small smile, and you couldn’t help but notice how handsome he was. Very tall, broad-shouldered, with a kind of easy strength about him. And that hair — blonde and sun-kissed, almost glowing in the light. He had that golden retriever look about him, the kind that made you think he was the type to help you carry your groceries or fix a flat tyre without asking.
Very, very good-looking,
“I didn’t know the house was occupied,” he said, taking a few steps closer. “I would’ve come by to introduce myself earlier.”
Handsome Neighbour squinted a bit in the sun, moving into the shade, and when he lowered his hand, he just became even more... good-looking. It was almost unfair.
“We moved last week,” you explained. “We’re still settling in.”
“I’m Thor,” he said with a grin, looking down at Dustin. “Like the god... and the comic superhero.”
Dustin gasped, his eyes lighting up with excitement. He was all about superheroes.
“Y/N,” you introduced yourself, giving a polite smile, “and this—”
“I’m Dustin!” your son interrupted proudly. “I’m four!”
Thor chuckled, his smile widening even more.
“Well, Dustin,” he said, leaning slightly to focus on him, “I’m 34.”
He stood up fully, his gaze shifting back to your face.
“Welcome to the neighbourhood,” he said warmly. “We were starting to fear the house was going to be torn down or bought by flippers.”
You chuckled, appreciating the humour in his voice.
“No, just a few of us,” you replied with a small smile. “Again, I’m really sorry about him invading your yard. I’m not sure what got into him.”
Dustin, ever the adventurer, spoke up.
“He had nice rocks!” he exclaimed, holding up his little hands as if to show the evidence. “I saw them!”
Thor chuckled, clearly amused by Dustin’s enthusiastic defence.
“Nice rocks, huh?” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Well, I guess I can’t argue with that.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.
“He’s got a knack for finding trouble, this one.”
Thor’s grin softened, and he gave a slight nod.
“Don’t worry about it,” he assured you. “Happens more often than you’d think. Kids are drawn to danger, for some reason. The strange beyond, the high unstable shelves, the mud potions they absolutely aren’t supposed to put in their mouths…”
You giggled, nodding along.
“The curtains that aren’t meant to be climbed,” you added lightly.
He chuckled along.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, looking back at Dustin. “As long as you’ve got an adult with you, you’re welcome in my yard anytime. But never alone, got it?”
Dustin beamed, clearly excited.
“You promise?” he asked.
“I promise,” he assured him. “But only with an adult, okay? And I do not count.”
Your son nodded quickly.
“Okay.”
And he ran right out of your grip and ducked under the same loose planks to go explore, and you grimaced, but he just chuckled.
“I guess he picked now,” Thor said with a small sigh.
You shook your head, feeling the familiar tension in your shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, reaching out as if to stop Dustin. “I can go after him.”
Thor waved off your concern, his gaze still on Dustin as he scampered across the yard.
“It’s fine,” he insisted. “The covered platform is a pool,” he added, “so as long as he doesn’t figure out the tall button to pull it back, we’re fine. He can get apples from the trees, too.”
You looked into his yard, taking in the pristine scene. It was clean and well-manicured, with fruit trees sprouting in neat rows, and a lovely wooden platform that looked like something straight out of a magazine. Thor had clearly put a lot of care into making his space beautiful.
Your gaze wandered back to your own yard. It was… not quite like that. The grass had patches where it stubbornly refused to grow, and the overgrown vines crept over parts of the fence like nature’s attempt to reclaim it. You half expected to find some undiscovered species of bug or the remains of a long-forgotten civilization hidden somewhere in the mess. Archaeologists would probably be thrilled with the chance to explore it.
You couldn't help but laugh quietly to yourself at the contrast.
“And… you’re planning to renovate?” Thor asked, glancing over at the house.
You followed his gaze to your fixer-upper.
Yeah, it definitely needed work — because, well, it was practically begging for it.
“You don’t like the aesthetic?” you teased, tilting your head. “The abandoned look is very in right now. At least in Chicago. You know, boarded-up windows, a leaky roof, a front door that’s barely hanging on… real trendy.”
When you turned back to him, Thor was watching you with raised eyebrows, clearly unimpressed by your sales pitch.
You sighed, shaking your head.
“I’m joking,” you assured him. “We’re renovating. And… we’ll be at it for a long time.”
Finally, Thor laughed — a deep, rich sound that filled the space around you, warm and effortless. And, if you weren’t careful, maybe just a little bit contagious.
“I’d say you’ve really nailed the abandoned aesthetic,” Thor said, gesturing to your yard. “And that broken door? Nice touch.”
You turned to look at your porch — where, sure enough, your kitchen door lay abandoned on the ground.
“Well,” you said slowly. “That was an accident.”
Yeah, you were very right about that door.
Thor chuckled.
“If you don’t mind, I could do some trimming when I mow my lawn?” He nodded toward the overgrown mess. “Just to make it a little less…”
He trailed off, searching for the right word, and you smirked.
“Amazon rainforest?” you supplied.
He laughed.
“I was going to say ‘snake-friendly.’”
Your smile vanished.
“Wait. Snakes?” you turned to face him fully. “We get snakes around here?”
How come no one had told you that?!
Thor shrugged, far too casual for your liking.
“Not that I’ve seen,” he admitted. “But best to stay ahead of it.”
You exhaled in relief.
Oh, good, good.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” you said, focusing on his face. “I’d hate to impose.”
Thor waved off your concern.
“You’re not. Honestly, I’ve been dying to get in there.”
You chuckled, a little nervous. Yeah, you could imagine it wasn’t exactly pleasant sharing a fence with a jungle.
“Alright,” you said, offering a small, amused smile. “Have at it.”
Thor returned the smile — and what a smile it was.
Damn. That was unfair.
He glanced down for a moment, reaching behind the fence. When he straightened, he held out a card.
“And if you ever need help with the house,” he said, tapping it, “I’ll give you a neighbour’s discount — so long as you don’t tell anyone else.”
Curious, you took the card and read it.
Thor Odison, Odison’s General Contracting.
Well, wasn’t that quite useful?
“A contractor?” you mused, lifting a brow. “Aren’t you just the perfect neighbour?”
Thor grinned.
“Some might say I’m a gift.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the amused smile tugging at your lips.
“A very humble one, I see.”
He grinned.
“Only when it comes to fixing things.”
You glanced back at your house, then at the yard that had probably seen better days — maybe decades ago. Having a contractor next door was practically a miracle.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” you told him, slipping the card into your pocket. “And I promise not to spread the word about this top-secret neighbour discount.”
Thor pressed a hand to his chest in mock relief.
“Thank you. My reputation as a ruthless businessman remains intact.”
You laughed, shaking your head. Damn, this man was charming.
“Mama!” Dustin called. “Mama, look! I told you he had pretty rocks!”
And back to motherhood you were.
…
“Fix-Her Upper” is a Modern Thor x Reader AU that was initially posted on my Patreon on March 2025. To read the available chapters now, subscribe to my page! It’s just $2 a month and I promise you won’t regret it.
…
Next Chapter: Chapter 2: Thor comes over to clean up your yard and you two chat.
Tags: Fluff, Smut, Post Elder Brain, Domestic Vibes, Spawn Astarion, Dom Astarion, Soft Astarion, Kissing, Knife Play, Biting, Choking, Overstimulation, Unprotected P in V Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Cunnilingus, Nipple Play, Finger Sucking, Begging, Tears In Eyes, Clit Play, Slicing Through Clothes, Cuddling, Falling Asleep In His Lap, Explicit Language
Word Count: Around 2600
Written For: @fandom-free-bingo @julybreakbingo @smutceptember2025
Squares/Prompts Filled: Card B: G5 - Peace for Fandom Free Bingo: Virtues and Vices Edition | Card A: "Look me in the eyes." for Post July Break Bingo 2025 | Day 9 - Knife Play for Smutceptember 2025
Dividers By: @/saradika-graphics
A/N: Hi my loves! This fic contains Knife Play! Please heed the warnings! Also, this is still Spawn Astarion. I choose not to write for Ascended Astarion. Anyway, thank you all for reading! ❤️
The little cabin you and Astarion shared stood nestled in a pocket of quiet woodland, hidden from prying eyes. The war was over, the Elder Brain destroyed, Faerûn safe again, and yet the silence that followed victory had felt almost strange at first. Peace wasn’t something either of you had ever trusted. But here, with the smell of pine in the air and the sound of the river running just beyond the trees, you had learned to believe in it.
Or at least…you had.
Astarion, though he knew no enemies were lurking beyond the trees, was never quite able to rest. He said as much when you teased him about the small collection of knives that always seemed to multiply on the table, on the shelves, by the bedside.
And every evening, once the shadows grew long and the sun had bled from the horizon, he would set himself down with his blades. A cloth in one hand, whetstone in the other, his pale fingers moving with ritual precision.
That's where you found him now, meticulously cleaning one of his favorite daggers. Moonlight streaked across the floorboards in pale ribbons, silvering the edges of the furniture and brushing soft light across Astarion where he sat at the table by the window.
He had rolled his sleeves back to his elbows, his pale forearms bare, tendons flexing with each careful movement of his hands. Spread across the table before him was a neat row of knives, small, elegant, vicious things that you had seen sink into enemies’ throats and hearts not so long ago. Tonight, though, they lay harmless, awaiting his touch like loyal pets at rest.
You leaned in the doorway, arms loosely crossed, watching him. You should’ve been reading by the fire or tending to the tea cooling on the hearth. But once again, you were caught, unable to look away.
Astarion’s focus was absolute. One hand cradled the knife, fingers long and slender around the hilt, while the other drew a whetstone slowly along its edge. The rhythm was steady, unhurried, and meditative.
Scrape. Pause. Scrape.
His every motion was precise, practiced, as though this ritual was not only a habit but something sacred to him.
And gods help you, it was distracting.
The way his pale wrist flexed, the slight curl of his fingers as he adjusted the angle, the gleam of steel catching candlelight and moonlight both, it all tugged at your chest and your stomach at once. He was beautiful always, but with a blade in his hands? He was devastating. Lethal grace, caged and calm, but always ready to spill over.
His white hair was a bit unruly tonight, a stray lock falling across his forehead. The collar of his shirt hung loose, giving a teasing glimpse of collarbone, of throat, of pale skin you had memorized with lips and teeth. The faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you he knew exactly what he looked like.
Without looking up, he spoke, his voice curling into the quiet like smoke.
“You’re staring again, my sweet.”
You startled slightly, then huffed, crossing the room a little. “And you’re smug about it.”
That earned you a faint chuckle. Still, he didn’t raise his eyes, continuing instead to run the blade along the stone with maddening patience. “What can I say? It’s rather flattering, knowing I can hold your attention so completely with something as mundane as keeping my weapons sharp.”
“Mundane?” you repeated, drifting closer. “There’s nothing mundane about the way you do it.”
At that, his crimson gaze finally flicked up, meeting yours. The knife paused mid-motion, balanced perfectly between his hands. He tilted his head, a predator’s motion even here in your peaceful home.
“Oh?” he purred. “And just what is it that you see, darling, when you look at me like that?”
Your mouth went dry, because how were you supposed to answer that? That it was the danger in him, the poise, the reminder that even at rest he was sharp and unyielding and utterly captivating? That every flicker of steel in his hands made you want to touch him more, kiss him harder, claim him as yours just as much as he claimed you?
“I see…” You moved closer, until you were behind his chair, your hands ghosting over the line of his shoulders. “…someone who knows exactly how irresistible he is to me when he holds a blade.”
His laugh was quiet but genuine this time, his lips curling into a full smile. “Irresistible, am I?” He set the knife down on the table with a soft clink and caught one of your hands, lifting it to his mouth. His lips brushed your knuckles, cool and feather-light, though his eyes burned as he looked up at you. “How dangerous of you to admit that to a vampire, my love.”
You leaned down, lips brushing the curve of his ear as you whispered, “Danger’s part of the appeal.”
Astarion stilled, then hummed low in his throat, a sound that sent heat spiraling through you. His other hand came up to cover yours where it rested on his chest, pressing it more firmly against him. The knives, the whetstone, the table, everything else seemed to fall away as his attention snapped wholly to you.
“Well then,” he murmured, voice silken and slow, “perhaps I should put away my toys for tonight. Unless, of course, you’d rather watch me work just a little longer?” His smile widened, teasingly. “I could give you quite the show.”
Astarion’s crimson eyes glittered as he studied you, your breath already quickening just from his suggestion. He could read you as easily as one of his polished knives reflected candlelight, every twitch of your lips, every shift in your pulse, every secret you thought you hid.
And tonight, he meant to savor it.
He reached for one of the knives lying nearest on the table, the one he had just finished sharpening. He cradled it between his fingers like it was an extension of himself, twirling it once, twice, until the edge caught the moonlight and gleamed silver-white. His gaze never left you as he lifted it slowly, his smirk pulling wickedly at his mouth.
“My sweet,” he purred, rising from the chair with a predator’s grace, “I think I finally understand why you stare at me when I play with these little toys.”
Your throat tightened, your body thrumming with heat and anticipation. You took a step back without meaning to, but he followed, closing the distance until your back met the edge of the table.
Astarion hummed, amused. “So skittish…and yet you’re trembling with want.”
The tip of the blade rose, hovering, ghosting lightly near your throat you felt the cold kiss of the steel without it ever breaking skin. Your breath caught, and his eyes flickered with victory.
“Mm, just as I thought,” he murmured, the knife tracing down, softer than a whisper, over the column of your throat, down to the hollow just above your heart. His free hand curled around your waist, holding you still, his thumb rubbing lazy circles through the fabric of your clothes as though to soothe you. “You like this…the danger. The idea that I could take everything from you with one slip.”
The blade skimmed lower, grazing the swell of your collarbone. Your lips parted, breath shallow, body caught between terror and lust, though both were only fuel to the fire pooling deep inside you.
“But you know I won’t, don’t you?” His voice was molten velvet now, softer, coaxing, even as the tip of the knife slid down your sternum, stopping just at the edge of your shirt’s neckline. “You trust me with this little game.”
You nodded, unable to find words, your thighs pressing together at the sheer intensity of it. He chuckled darkly, leaning in to press a kiss just beneath your ear, his cool lips a stark contrast to the heat blazing through you.
“You’re trembling, darling,” he whispered, his breath brushing your skin. “Do you know how intoxicating that is? You’re already wet for me, aren’t you? All from the promise of a blade.”
The knife trailed sideways now, over your shoulder, down your arm, the barest scrape of metal along your sleeve. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make your pulse stutter and your knees weaken.
He turned your face with his free hand, forcing your eyes to meet his as the blade traced slow circles at your wrist. “Look me in the eyes,” he demanded softly, fangs glinting in the candlelight. “Tell me how much you like the danger.”
Your voice came out ragged, barely more than a whisper. “I love it.”
His grin widened, feral and triumphant, as he pressed the flat of the blade against your racing pulse, just for a heartbeat, before lowering it to his side. His free hand was on you in an instant, mouth claiming yours with a hunger that left you gasping.
“Good girl,” he growled against your lips. “Now let me show you just how sharp my devotion truly is.”
In the next heartbeat, Astarion had you lifted and set atop the wooden surface, his hand greedy on your waist as if he couldn’t bear even a sliver of space between you. His lips crushed against yours, fangs grazing your lower lip as his tongue swept into your mouth with all the hunger of a starving man.
You gasped into him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. His body pressed between your thighs, forcing them apart as he stepped into the cradle of your hips, his cock unmistakably hard against you.
“Darling,” he groaned, breaking the kiss only to drag his mouth along your jaw, down your throat. “Do you feel what you do to me? All this trembling and the sweet sounds you make drive me absolutely mad.”
You whined softly, arching into him, your head falling back as his mouth fastened at your pulse, sucking just enough to make you moan. He chuckled against your skin, low and sinful, before pulling back just far enough to reach for the knife again.
The sight of it in his hand, gleaming in the candlelight, wicked and sharp, sent another rush of heat pooling between your thighs.
Oh, and of course, he noticed.
“My, my,” he purred, holding the blade aloft between two fingers, letting the edge glint in front of your eyes. “One look at my dagger and you’re already breathless. I bet you're soaked for me.” His other hand slid down, cupping between your thighs, pressing hard enough through your clothes that you cried out. “Yes, you are. Gods, I can feel you.”
Your hips bucked against his hand, desperate, but the cold touch of steel at your throat stilled you. The blade traced slowly down the line of your neck, over your collarbone, to the swell of your chest. Your breath stuttered, and his eyes darkened with delight.
“So responsive, love.” His voice was like velvet. The tip of the knife dipped lower, just enough to catch the edge of your shirt, and with a sharp flick, he cut the fabric open down the center. The sound made your pulse race even faster.
He set the knife flat against your sternum, dragging it slowly downward while his mouth returned to your skin, kissing over your exposed chest. Your nipples hardened under the cool air, and Astarion’s free hand slid up to pinch and tease one as his lips closed around the other.
The combination of the cold steel, his fangs grazing your sensitive flesh, and his fingers rolling mercilessly, had you crying out, clutching at his hair.
“Astarion!”
He laughed against you, a low rumble that vibrated against your chest. “Yes, scream for me, my sweet. Let the whole forest know how much you crave me…how much you crave the danger.”
The knife trailed down your stomach now, dragging slow, teasing lines over your skin until it reached the waistband of your trousers. His hand replaced the steel there, tugging roughly to bare you, spreading you wide for him on the table. The knife returned to skim over your inner thigh lightly, making your whole body jolt.
You were already slick, dripping onto the table, your arousal glistening in the dim light. Astarion groaned at the sight, his tongue darting out to taste you, but still he held the knife steady against your thigh, pinning you in place with the dual threat of his mouth and his blade.
“You taste divine,” he murmured between strokes of his tongue, his crimson gaze locking onto yours. “So wet from nothing more than a little steel. You crave the danger only I can give you.”
Your response came in broken gasps, every word a plea, your hips grinding desperately against his mouth even as the blade slid along your delicate skin.
He devoured you slowly, expertly, his tongue circling your clit while the knife pressed lightly against the trembling skin of your thigh. The danger, the pleasure, the relentless scrape of his fangs against your pussy, it was too much.
You shattered on his tongue with a cry, clutching his hair so tightly your knuckles ached. He drank you in, groaning against your cunt, his hand gripping your hip to hold you through the storm. Only when your body sagged against the table did he finally set the knife aside, his hands replacing cold steel as he dragged himself up your body.
His mouth was slick with you when he kissed you again, groaning into your lips. “You see, my love,” he whispered darkly, grinding his cock against your dripping core, “you’ll always be sharpest when you’re in my hands.”
And with one hard thrust, he buried himself inside you.
The moment he slammed into you, the table creaked in protest, but Astarion didn’t care, he was too lost in the way your body seized around him, too consumed by the sounds tearing from your lips. His hips drove forward in ruthless, deliberate strokes, each thrust angled to make you arch off the table.
“Gods, darling…” he groaned, his lips at your ear, his voice rough with hunger. “You feel so good around me. So wet, so tight.”
You whimpered his name, clutching at his shirt, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your earlier orgasm. But he wasn’t gentle, he didn’t let you float down. He wanted more.
One hand braced your hip, holding you in place as his thrusts grew deeper and harder. The other reached across the table, fingers curling around the knife once again. Your eyes went wide when he brought it back into play, the metal catching the flicker of candlelight.
“Astarion-”
He silenced your protest with a hard kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, and when he pulled back, his fangs glinted as he smirked down at you. “Don’t worry, my sweet. I’ll never hurt you. But oh, how you love the thought of it, don’t you?”
The knife kissed your throat again, the very tip trailing from beneath your ear down to the hollow between your breasts. Each time he dragged the edge over your skin, you clenched tighter around him, and his eyes rolled back at the sensation.
“Fuck...yes. I love when you squeeze me like that.” His hips snapped against yours, the table rocking beneath the force. “Every little shiver tells me how needy you are for this. For me.”
Your moans filled the room, head tipping back, throat bared to the blade. He pressed the flat of it against your racing pulse, savoring the frantic rhythm as his thrusts grew faster, harsher, his control fraying.
“I wish you could see what you look like right now.” he rasped, leaning down to drag his fangs along your jaw while the knife slid lower, grazing over your stomach. “A goddess of surrender. My goddess.”
He shifted the blade to your inner thigh again, drawing lazy circles just shy of your soaked cunt, and you nearly sobbed in desperation. The contrast of the cool steel so close, his cock buried so deep, was overwhelming.
“Astarion, please-”
He chuckled darkly, his thrusts slowing just enough to drive you mad. “Please what, love? Please don’t? Or please more?”
Your answer came in a desperate cry, your hips bucking against him, your body begging for everything at once. His grin was feral and triumphant.
“Gorgeous,” he purred, dragging the flat of the knife across your clit in one fleeting touch before tossing it aside with a clatter. “So brave, so reckless. All mine.”
He fucked you hard and deep, relentless now, pounding into you until the table rattled and your nails dug crescents into his shoulders. His mouth latched onto your throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, though he resisted the urge to bite.
“Cum for me again,” he growled against your skin. “Soak me, scream for me, let the whole world know you belong to me.”
The command, the brutal rhythm of his body, everything crashed over you at once, and you came undone with a scream, clenching around him so tight his rhythm faltered. He followed soon after, thrusting deep as he spilled into you with a guttural moan, his fangs sinking into your shoulder at last in a perfect, claiming bite.
The table was still warm beneath your back when Astarion finally pulled out of you, both of you trembling from the force of your release.
He didn’t give you long to recover. No, that wasn’t his way. He thrived on the way his name fell from your lips, on your soft little gasps of overstimulation. He loved you most when you were helplessly undone.
And right now, you were perfect.
“Oh, love,” he murmured, dragging two fingers through the slick mess between your thighs. He held them up to the candlelight, glistening. His grin widened as he licked them clean with a slow, decadent groan. “I could spend forever feasting on you. Sweetness and surrender, all in one.”
You whined, hips twitching, desperate for more friction, but he only chuckled. He reached for the knife again, twirling it lazily between his fingers as he leaned over you. The sight of him, hair wild, lips swollen, crimson eyes still burning with hunger, made your breath catch.
“Look at you,” he whispered, lowering the blade until the tip hovered just above your sternum. “Already aching for me again. So greedy, darling.”
Your thighs parted further without you even realizing it, a silent plea. He noticed immediately.
“Tsk tsk tsk.” His smirk turned wicked as he trailed the cold steel down the curve of your breast, across your belly, stopping just above your clit. The tip pressed so close you gasped, your pussy clenching around nothing. “You’d let me ruin you with this, wouldn’t you? Gods, you’d spread yourself wide open and beg me to fuck you over and over again if I asked.”
“I’d beg for it,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut.
The knife pressed a fraction closer, still harmless, still teasing. His other hand wrapped around his cock, already hard again, stroking himself as he watched you squirm.
“Beg then,” he commanded softly. “Beg me to give you what you so desperately crave.”
You whimpered, lifting your hips, words spilling from you in a rush. “Please, Astarion…please touch me, fuck me, anything. I need you.”
He groaned at the sound, his hand tightening around the base of his cock. “Gods, you sound exquisite when you’re desperate.”
But instead of granting mercy, he set the knife flat against your inner thigh, sliding it slowly back and forth while he leaned down to press kisses along your throat. His lips lingered at your pulse, his fangs grazing, threatening. The combination had you keening, clutching at his shirt, but every time you arched toward him, he pulled back, denying you.
Minutes stretched unbearably. He teased, and you begged. He ran the flat of the knife over your soaked heat, making you jolt and cry out, but he never let it push you over. He thrust shallowly into you, just the tip, just enough to make you clench, before pulling out again with a dark laugh.
“More,” you begged, tears stinging your eyes. “Please, gods, Astarion, I’ll do anything.”
His hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at him. He was radiant in his cruelty, his eyes molten. “Anything? And yet you’d give it all away for a single thrust, a single flick of my tongue. You truly are mine, aren’t you?”
“Yes!” you cried, voice breaking. “Yours, always, just please let me come!”
For a long moment, he only studied you, knife tracing idle circles over your hip bone while his cock slid teasingly against your soaked cunt. Then, at last, he smirked, victory flashing across his face.
“Very well, my sweet. You’ve begged beautifully. Time to reward you.”
The knife clattered back to the table as he slammed into you in one brutal stroke, his hand closing around your throat, squeezing lightly. His pace was merciless now, pounding you into the wood with enough force to rattle every knife still lying there. His fangs sank into your neck again, and the mix of pain, pleasure, and the release of finally being allowed what you’d begged for shattered you instantly.
You came with a strangled cry, your body convulsing around him, soaking his cock as he fucked you deeper. He growled your name against your skin, his thrusts growing ragged before he spilled inside you again, filling you to the brim.
When he collapsed against you, his kisses were softer, his fingers stroking your hair as if soothing the fire he’d just set. “You sound so pretty when you beg, my love,” he whispered against your temple. “I could keep you on the edge for eternity, and I’d never tire of it.”
The table still bore the evidence of your passion, the gleam of steel scattered across its surface, the smell of sweat and sex heavy in the air. But Astarion’s attention was no longer on the chaos you’d created together. His gaze was fixed only on you.
You were flushed, trembling, your hair messy from his hands. Yet to him, you had never looked more beautiful. His crimson eyes softened, his lips tugging into the faintest smile.
“My darling,” he murmured, brushing a lock of damp hair back from your cheek with fingers that moments ago had gripped you mercilessly. His touch was soft now. “Look at you. Absolutely ruined…and yet somehow even lovelier than before.”
Before you could answer, he bent to press a tender kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment. Then, with surprising ease, he slid his arms beneath you and lifted you from the table. You melted against him, your cheek falling to his shoulder, your body boneless with exhaustion.
He carried you to the armchair by the fire, his movements fluid despite the weight of you in his arms. The flames had burned low, but with a practiced flick, he tossed another log into the hearth, stirring the embers into a gentle roar.
Astarion settled into the chair with you still in his arms, adjusting you until you straddled his lap, pressed flush to his chest. His shirt hung open, cool skin beneath it, but the warmth of the fire wrapped around you both like a blanket.
“Mmm,” he hummed as you sighed contentedly, your head lolling against him. His fingers began tracing lazy patterns up and down your spine, soothing and hypnotic. “That’s better. No knives or my fangs,…just us.”
You stirred faintly, your lips curving into a tired smile. “I like the knives...and your fangs,” you mumbled, half-asleep already.
He chuckled softly, the sound reverberating through his chest beneath your cheek. “Yes, my wicked little minx, I know you do. But right now, I’d rather remind you of the simpler pleasures I can give you.”
He tipped your chin gently upward with two fingers, capturing your lips in a kiss that was nothing like the earlier frenzy. It was slow, tender, lips brushing, lingering, coaxing rather than taking. You sighed into him, your hands curling in the fabric of his shirt as you let him guide you.
When he pulled back, he kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the slope of your cheek. “My eternal love,” he whispered against your skin, before pressing another kiss to your temple. Then one to the tip of your nose. Then back to your lips again, softer still.
Each kiss was a vow in its own way, gentle, filled with all the devotion he never quite found words for. He kissed your brow, the crown of your head, your shoulder, your knuckles when he caught your hand in his.
Your breathing slowed under the rhythm of his touch, each press of his lips drawing you deeper into calm. The fire popped softly, shadows dancing across the walls, wrapping the two of you in warmth and light.
“You’re mine,” he whispered at last, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, his voice so low you almost thought you dreamed it. “And I’ll spend every night proving to you that I am more than what I was made to be. I'm no longer a monster. I’m yours.”
You nestled closer at those words, your head tucking beneath his chin. He rested his cheek against your hair, his fingers combing through it with infinite care. Every so often he tilted his head to kiss you again, your forehead, your temple, the curve of your cheek, never letting more than a few breaths pass without reminding you of his love.
The steady rise and fall of his chest lulled you further, and before long your lashes fluttered closed. You fell asleep in his lap, your lips still curved faintly from the last kiss you’d shared.
Astarion exhaled softly, his arms tightening around you as he shifted deeper into the chair. His crimson eyes lingered on your sleeping face, softened by the firelight, and he pressed one final kiss to your brow.
Astarion Tag List: @kashii9652 @labyrinth-runner @roguishcat @linllewellyn @fantasyheroine @forpunishers
✦summary: five times Dean thought the peace would be forever, and one time he was sure.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, husband!dean, dad!dean, domestic, tooth-rotting fluff, overprotective dean, idiots in love, implied smut✦
✦wc: 8.8k✦
✦author's note: the highly requested return of dad!dean✦
Dean isn’t used to thinking this feeling is going to be forever. He trained himself to know it would’ve be. That happiness was a pit stop that got blown up behind you, rare and dangerous on the long road of life. You could carry bits of it, in the glove compartment and your pockets. You could savor it for a second on your tongue, but then your teeth were getting knocked out and you were choking on blood and you forgot for a long while after. How good that taste had been.
When you finally settled down together, he was happy. But he held onto it with white knuckles. He grit his teeth and dragged it against his chest, always braced for it to slip away. For you to leave.
But you didn’t. You fought, and then just… stayed.
Dean had never had someone stay before. For a while, he still didn’t trust it. You staying was the kind of thing that used to make him think he was in a Djinn dream. Too good to be true.
You don’t talk about that one time, when he had one of those bad weeks, and you found him freaking out in the kitchen with the Colt in his sweating hands. He had thought it was Djinn dream. It took you hours to truly convince him it wasn’t. Sometimes you still have nightmares about it, or Dean does, or you both do and you hold each other tight until sunrise.
He’s gotten better at, at least, knowing that this is real. He’s hitched. He’s a dad, and he hasn’t dropped your kid on her head yet. Once he let her stumble and she scraped her knee. You found them sitting in the Dean cave with popsicles and Scooby Doo after. Dean looked more freaked out by the whole thing that Charlie did. She’d mostly been happy that Daddy let her have a popsicle, and she didn’t even have to promise not to tell Mommy.
You would’ve smacked him upside the head, if he hadn’t looked like he’s just watched Charlie die.
“She’s fine, De.” You’d whispered that night, and he’d grunted.
“I know-“
“Do you?”
He’d let out a slow breath, shoulder slumping. His head had bowed, one hand shooting out to steady himself against the dresser. You’d padded across the room, and wrapped your arms around his stomach. He’d grabbed your interlocked hands, holding them there. You’d kissed his shoulder, and he’d shuddered like you were pulling him apart.
“I keep thinkin’,” he’d choked out. “That I’m gonna blink and something’ll get past me.”
“Nothing gets past you-“
“Yet.” His voice had lowered. Dark and tired. “There’s always something new, sweetheart. You know that.” He’d let out a slow breath. “Always fucking something.”
You hadn’t answered. There was never anything you could say, to make this kind of thing better. All you could do was stay. Let Dean hold onto you, until he was sure you weren’t going to start dissolving between his fingers like sand. You’d kissed his shoulder, and he’d turned around, pulling you tight into his chest.
He still wasn’t sure, then. Not of you and Charlie—never of you and Charlie—but of himself. He wasn’t sure he was enough. That he’d given enough, to have earned this sticking to his hands.
The first time he is sure is when Charlie is two. She runs around faster than her little body can handle, and wears the kind of sneakers that light up—because he bought them for her, after she gave him that face that’s far too similar to yours, and how the hell was he supposed to say no—and laughs at almost everything anyone does.
Sometimes, she’d get serious, and Dean would think she only got his face. Her little lips pout and wobble, and she crosses her arms and refuses to move, and Jesus, that’s all you. He tells you as much. That does get him smacked.
“She’s just stubborn, that’s not like me.”
Dean smirks down at the dishes in his hands. “Sure, baby.”
“Sure.” You mock, rolling your eyes. “Fuck you.”
“Mhm.”
“Don’t mhm me-“
“Sorry, princess.”
“You- You fucking-“
Dean looks up with raised brows, and finds you flushed and sputtering with anger. He chuckles, and your flush deepens.
“Shut up,” you whine, and his grin turns shit eating.
“Didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking things,” you grumble, shuffling right into his side.
Dean smiles to himself, when you press your face into his shoulder and hug his bicep. He’ll let you shove him around all he wants. He likes it more than he’ll ever tell you, and at least it reminds him he has two feet on the ground to trip over. He kisses the top of your head, and goes back to the dishes. He’s done this dance before. A lot, over the past few months. It’s like you got shot up with some kind of horniness serum. He’s a little worried that, at this rate, you’re going to break his poor dick.
Good way to die, though. He never stops you, because he can’t think of a better one.
“Charlie’s asleep.” You say softly, and Dean laughs under his breath.
“Uh huh.”
“She made me tell her the story about Daddy and the evil men again.” You hum, tracing your pointer finger over ever line in his forearm.
Dean sighs. “Jesus, you’re gonna make her think I’m Superman or something.”
“I think you’re Superman.”
“Yeah, well-“ Dean clears his throat, bowing his head so you don’t see his blush. “I fuck you. That doesn’t count.”
You laugh softly, propping your chin on his shoulder. “You know, my favorite story to tell her is about Uncle Sammy and the spooky town.”
“Of course it is-“
“Because.” You cut off his grumble with a dangerously adoring smile. “She always gets so excited when Daddy shows up. And saves Uncle Sammy.”
Dean’s heart stumbles. He has to put the dishes down and squeeze his eyes shut. You’ve seen him cry countless times, but he still hates it. You reach up and wipe the tears escaping down his cheek, and he leans into the touch.
“She loves you, Dean. You’re a hero-“
“I’m not,” he grunts. “I sold my soul, heroes don’t do that shit-“
“Oh, I know that. I was there. I nearly killed you myself.”
Dean chuckles, wet and tired. You turn his face, forcing his gaze to meet yours.
“But just because you were stupid, it doesn’t make you less of a hero.”
Dean works his jaw. He doesn’t believe you. You know he doesn’t. Not fully.
One day, maybe he’ll believe Charlie.
“I don’t love that you tell her those stories, sweetheart,” he rasps, and you huff a laugh.
“Because they make you look good?”
“’Cause that shit isn’t something she should know about-“
“She thinks it’s fake, Dean. She knows you’re a hero.”
“I don’t tell her about all your stuff-“
“Liar.” You give him a pointed look. “Last week she asked me if I really beat an archangel.”
Dean chuckles guiltily. “Hey, she asked. I’m not gonna lie to her about how cool her mom his.”
“Well, I’m not lying to her about how cool her dad is.”
Dean sighs. He stares at you for a moment, and you just smile back. You know you’ve won. You always win.
“She’s pretty cool herself,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Yeah. She is. What kinda toddler likes hearing about her old man getting beat up for a bedtime story.”
“Your toddler.”
“Nah, sweetheart. That’s all you.”
You roll your eyes, and your expression shifts. Dean tilts his head, already questioning, and you sigh.
“You have to promise not the be weird about it.”
“Me? Bein’ weird about something? Baby, never-“
“Dean.” You squeeze his bicep. “I’m serious.”
Dean sighs. “Yeah. Alright. Hit me.”
And he’s a little worried. What if he said something. What if you’re done. What if you remembered that he’s not that cool guy anymore. Just some douchebag with a jawline who eats all your daughter’s fruit snacks and lets her sit in the Impala with him while he works on the engine. No better than his dad, no good for you and Charlie-
“I want another one.” You blurt, staring at his neck instead of his face. “Please.”
Dean blinks. “Another… baby?”
You nod, flushing furiously, and a grin breaks slowly over his face.
Another one. Another little piece of him, in a whole lot of you. Another kid. You still love him, enough to have another kid with him, on fucking purpose.
“I think I can swing that,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes, but smile. You smile when he kisses you. You giggle when he throws you over his shoulder, because damn, he’s still fucking got it.
And he thinks it. Right there.
Maybe this is going to last forever.
The second time he thinks it is when you’re full and knocked up and it becomes painfully clear. This place is too big. There are too many sharp and pointy things, too many cold drafts, and—according to you, but Dean never argues—not enough color. Charlie’s going to be going to preschool soon. You’re going to have a second kid, and sure there are plenty of rooms, but raising a family in this place sounds like hell.
Too many memories, as well. There are rooms Dean can’t go in alone, and rooms you can’t go in all together. For Christ’s sake, you have a dungeon, and Charlie’s going to find it one day.
The bunker can’t be home anymore.
You’ve gotta move.
Dean spends weeks, looking at buying land closer to the city. Somewhere mixed with woods and people, so you’re not one of those annoying suburban families you used to make fun of on hunts. You aren’t getting yoga pants and joining a Friday night book club. Dean isn’t about to start golfing, and he sure as shit isn’t driving a minivan. Block parties sound like hell. All those people, outside on his lawn, messing up the hidden wards. No damn way.
“You can’t build a house, De.” You sigh, leaning over his shoulder. Dean just kisses your cheek and clicks his tongue.
“No faith in me, sweetheart. I got a hammer. We got wood. Put ‘em together-“
“If you say house, I am throat punching you.”
Dean chuckles, and grabs the hand hanging against his chest. It’s the one he put a ring on. Sometimes he likes to fidget with it, just to remember that it’s there.
“Remind me why we’re so against the suburbs?” You murmur.
“’Cause we don’t suck,” Dean drawls your name, and you laugh softly.
“I think we suck.”
“No, I think we’re awesome. Maybe sometimes I suck. And- Heh.” He smirks. “Sometimes you suck, but I ain’t talking about the adjective-“
You clamp a hand around his mouth, and he laughs, grabbing it and turning it over to kiss your knuckles. You get pushy and violent when you’re pregnant. And you’re always a little pushy and violent—in a hot way—but not usually towards him. Not like this.
Charlie had been worse, though. Dean had joked the whole time that she was going to come out like him, because there was no way she was getting all that sass from you. Sam had muttered that he might have rose colored glasses, and you’d thrown a shoe at his head. But you’d been pregnant. Sammy should’ve known better.
“Dean Winchester.” You hiss in his ear, and Dean doesn’t know better. He loves you too much for it to matter anyway. “Charlie is in the other room-“
“Playin’ with her toys, baby. She’s not listenin’ to us.”
“What if she is-“
“She’s not.”
“But what if-“
Dean says your name, stern and low, and you drop your face dramatically into his neck.
“You don’t suck,” you mumble against his neck.
“I know.” He doesn’t. It’s why you always say it.
“And you- You could build the house, I just- I don’t think we’re going to have time.”
“Yeah.” Dean sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Know that too. Just- Woulda been pretty sweet.”
You hum, looking up at the computer. “You could build use a shed. Or- This one would love a tree house.”
You pat your swollen belly, and Dean laughs. “Would she, now?”
“Mhm.”
“And she’s tellin’ you that through what, the umbilical cord.”
You roll your eyes. “No. She just- She feels more like you.”
And that knocks him off his feet. He would’ve loved a tree house. They never had a tree to build one in—or a dad who would’ve picked up the hammer—but Bobby had come pretty close once. Old thing in his yard, where Dean used to sneak up when he needed no one the find him. Bobby had known, of course. Bobby had always known. He hung up a hammock one afternoon, and never mentioned it to Dean again.
But his kid, they would have more than a hammock that Dad made Bobby rip down when he found out. They’d get a proper tree. A proper dad. A real, full blown childhood.
“What’s so bad about the suburbs?” You repeat the question, softer this time. And for the life of him, Dean can’t think of a real answer.
“Those places are expensive.” He mutters, and you hum.
“We got money.”
“Stolen money-“
“Still money.”
He looks back at you. You hold his gaze, gentle but firm.
“I love spiders and foxes as much as anyone else, De-“
“We wouldn’t have spiders-“
“We would in the woods.” You give him a stern look, and he shuts his mouth. “They’ll want their friends to come over. We’ll want our friends to come over.”
“We don’t have friends-“
“We will. And you’ll go fishing with a bunch of other dad’s who suck.” You pet his hair, rising fully up so his head is pressed against your belly. “And I’ll hang out with mom’s who hate their husbands, and tell you all the gossip they tell me-“
“Even the bedroom problems?”
That gets a laugh. “Especially the bedroom problems. And we can make fun of everyone together then host a very nice, boring dinner, then make fun of them some more.”
Dean sighs, looking up at you under lidded eyes. You smile. He smiles back, because that this point his face just does that, in reaction to you.
“You get a grill,” you add, and he chuckles.
“I’m already sold, princess.” He kisses the back of your hand. “I’ll start lookin’.”
You smile, and lean down to kiss his lips. Dean stays up late that night, then the next, looking for that boring, easy house. And he’ll never tell you how right you were—he doesn’t have to, you know—but a small, long buried part of him is poking it’s head up in excitement. Nothing’s more fun that people watching with you. This is just gonna be a whole life of that, and being five minutes from a nice bakery, and not needed to worry about his kids getting lost in the woods and being raised by wolves.
He finds the place in a week. He shows it to you, hands shaking more than he’s ever going to admit, because he wants it. It looks like what he used imagine houses looked like—what he’d close his eyes and try to remember, from the house that burned down—and Dean wants it so bad he can feel it, drumming in his chest.
“Listing says the garage door needs fixing, and- One of the doors doesn’t close all the way- One of the sinks doesn’t get hot right, either, but-“
“You can fix it.” You say, looking back to folding Charlie’s clothes. “Okay.”
Dean blinks. “Okay?”
“Okay. We’ll do that one.”
He coughs. It can’t be that easy. “You, uh- There are more pictures, if you wanna look more-“
“Is it in a good school district?”
“Yeah, and they got a good library, too-“
“Then okay.” You shrug.
Dean swallows. There’s a lump in his throat he can’t logic with. He doesn’t want you to hear it. “You wanna go check it out first?”
“No. I trust you.”
I trust you.
Just like that.
Dean has to sit on the edge of the bed. You notice him falling apart—you always do—and set down the clothing to hug him. He gets to put his face right in your boobs. He always forgets that part. If he remembered, he’d cry a hell of a lot more.
“You think Charlie’s gonna like it?” He chokes out, because he can’t think of anything else to say.
“Yeah,” you say, like it’s easy. Like he doesn’t think this might be forever again. “I do.”
Charlie loves it. That’s when he feels it the third time.
It takes months to get out of the bunker. There are so many things that need to be boxed up and shipped, more things that need to be given away, and uncountable thing that he doesn’t even know what to do with. Dean didn’t know they had so many things. As far as he could remember his whole life could fit in a duffle bag, and that duffle bag could be stuffed in a car, and if he lost the bag at least he still had the shit on his bag and in his pockets. But now he’s waking up and there are toys and photos and trinkets and shoes and jackets and a million other things to mark and pack.
Charlie keeps growing, but you say that you should keep everything for the next one.
“What if it’s not a girl?” Sam asks, eyeing your belly, and you shrugs.
“It’s a girl.”
“Did you guys check the sex-“
“No.”
“Well,” Sam shoots a look at Dean, like he’s supposed to know what to say about this. “You- You can’t know what the sex of the baby is, then-“
“But I do.”
“No, you literally can’t-“
“Is she inside you, Samuel?” You give Sammy a withering glare, and he flinches.
“No…”
Sam bows his head like a child in time out. You hum, pleased with yourself—you usually are, because they’ve known you for years and Dean can’t remember a single time when you haven’t won an agruement—and rub a hand over your swollen stomach. Dean isn’t sure if you got this big with Charlie. He thinks that might point to it being a boy, but he knows better than to tell you that directly.
“Winchesters get big,” He murmurs to you that night, testing the water. “Sam was five billion pounds.”
You snort, running your fingers through his hair. “Five billion?”
“Mhm. Massive freakin’ head, too. Dad let me hold him, thought he was an alien.”
That just gets a giggle, and Dean kisses the tip of your nose. He should keep you pregnant all the time. You get sweet and soft, and mean and sharp, and he’s never sure if he’s supposed to be coddling you like an angry kitten or bracing for the bite of feral dog. He kind of loves it. Sam says that ain’t healthy or whatever. Dean tells him that he’s just never had a wife as hot as you are. Sam says he’s never had a wife at all. Dean says exactly, and walks away before the argument can become something he loses.
Sammy just understand how much you are when you’re knocked up, and how awesome that is. It’s like there’s twice as much of you for Dean to love. You’re perfect no matter what, but you’re so perfect Dean doesn’t know what to do with it sometimes, and when you’re knocked up you just tell him. You kiss him like you’re drowning, then burst into tears when Charlie goes to bed because she’s growing so fast, and Dean feels useful keeping you steady.
“What’re you gonna do if it’s a boy?” He asks casually, and you roll your eyes.
“It’s not a boy.”
Dean sighs. “Sweetheart-“
“It’s not.”
“I know, but I just kinda wanna know what’s gonna happen if it is.”
You glare at him. His lips twitch up—you’re pretty when you glare—and you don’t seem to know if you want to smile back or keep trying to kill him with your eyes.
“I know you’ll love him either way,” he adds, softer this time. “I’m just thinkin’- like- Names, y’know?”
That makes you relax. You look up the ceiling in thought, and Dean kisses your breasts over your shirt. It’s his shirt, but you’ve long claimed all rights to things that he touches. He doesn’t mind. Makes him feel wanted. And son of a bitch, if you don’t look like a wet dream with your belly all swollen from his kid and his shirt hanging just above your thighs. Dean’s had that wet dream. He thinks it might’ve been practice, for not blowing his load when he has you like this for real.
“If it’s a boy…” You say slowly. “We can name it Robert.”
Dean likes that plan, and kisses your cheek. You smile at him, and it knocks him out every time. You keep pulling that shit, you’re going to end up pregnant all the time.
“How’d you know it’s not a boy, anyway?” He asks, because he kind of hopes you have a real answer.
He wants it to be a girl. He’ll love the little monster if they’re a boy too, but Charlie looks too much like he does. Doesn’t mean he loves her less. He just wants one that looks like you. He wants fifty that look like you. They can start a new nation of little Amazons that don’t try and kill their dads, and every country in the world can be run by his brilliant daughters.
“It feels like you,” you tell him, and Dean pauses.
“You think I feel like a chick?”
You giggle, and kiss his forehead. That doesn’t feel like an answer.
“I’m not a freakin’ girl-“
“You’d be a very pretty girl.”
“Oh, I’d be smokin’, that’s not the issue-“
“Dean-“
“Nothing wrong with being a girl,” he cuts you off with an aimless grumble, mostly because you’ve been married for two years, together for far longer, and now he’s finding out you think he’s a girl. “But I’m not.”
You hum, clearly amused. “You’re right. You’re a very pretty man.”
Dean scowls, and you kiss him, and that’s a little better. He still doesn’t love it, at least until you show him some fancy article the next morning about how men with higher testosterone have more daughters, and that fixes pretty much everything.
“You’re an idiot.” Sam says flatly, and Dean flips him off.
“You’re just jealous you don’t have daughters, Sammy,” he says smugly. “Don’t worry. Few horse pills and performance enhancers, you’ll get there.”
Sammy throws a paper towel at his head, and you laugh. Dean considers himself rich, for a moment. Maybe an elite, when Charlie starts shouting for him from her room, and demands that he sits with her while they go through her room.
“You wanna keep this one, kiddo?” Dean asks, holding up one of those poofy flower dresses she wears. Charlie nods, and Dean sighs.
She’s wanted to keep every dress. Dean doesn’t think there are enough boxes in the world, to get them all to the new house.
“You sure?” He tries. “You don’t even let Mommy put you in this one-“
“Not for me.” Charlie frowns at Dean like he’s crazy. “For baby.”
Dean blinks. For a second he thinks she’s talking about the car. “Uh- I’m sure baby appreciates it, but I don’t think it’s gonna fit-“
“Mommy says baby is growing.” Charlie says wisely, and Dean feels like an idiot.
The literal baby. Right.
“Did you give uncle Sammy your dresses?” Charlie asks, and Dean snorts.
“Oh, yeah. All of them.”
Charlie hums, pulling on the ears of her stuffed animal. “Did he like them?”
“Yep. Still has them today.”
An hour later, Charlie asks Sam if she can see his dresses. Dean dies laughing, holding himself up with a hand on the counter while Sam glowers at him. The kid will get over it. Dean’s the one who gets in trouble anyway, because now he has to go out and buy dresses for Sam to pretend were his, and you’re not happy with him for lying.
He apologizes and gets away with it. He gets away with more than he cares to admit. Probably because he’s just that good at being a husband.
“Think we got everything,” he mutters, looking around the library for a stray mug or blanket. “Just gotta- Y’know,” he grins at you. “Move.”
You hum, and lean into his side. Dean rests a hand on your bump, and pointless tears sting at his eyes. This kid is never going to know what it’s like to live in a place with alarms and guns and chains. There won’t be halls with blood crusted on the wall, that Dean might’ve spilt himself. She’s going to grow up with Charlie, in a house with a backyard, and the ability to throw a punch but never a need to.
And part of him is worried, when they take Charlie to the house, that she’s going to hate it. He spent hours painting rooms and building furniture. Hours thinking about exactly what she’d like, what you’d like, and—secretly, although he thinks you know anyways—what he would’ve wanted for himself.
Charlie toddles behind him through the door, holding his hand. He’s got you on the other arm, and tries not think about how chick flicky this feels. Like a shot from a cheesy movie, the kind he used to avoid like the toxin of happiness would seep into him, and he’d start to miss what he knew he’d never even had.
Dean looks at you, and you’re smiling around the hall. That’s a good sign. You’ll probably tell him that painting is a little crooked, but he left some things wrong on purpose, because he knew you’d want to fix a few things.
Charlie tugs on his arm, and he glances down. She’s blinking up at him with those eyes you say are just like his. He’s never been able to agree. They look better on her. More hopeful. More important.
“Daddy.” Charlie whispers, and Dean raises his brows.
“Charlie.”
“Mr. Ears needs to go potty.”
Mr. Ears is the elephant. Dean bites back his laugh. “You think so?”
Charlie nods solemnly. “He told me.”
“Alright.” Dean stretches out a hand. “I’ll take him, you can stay with Mommy-“
“No.” Charlie holds Mr. Ears tight to her chest. “He wants me to go potty with him.”
You laugh softly. It makes it pretty hard to keep his serious Dad face on.
“Well, do you need to go potty too?”
Charlie shakes her head, and Dean shrugs.
“I think Mr. Ears is gonna want some privacy, then. So I’ll just take. Him, and-“
“I do need to go potty!” Charlie says quickly, and Dean grins, scooping her up with one arm.
“I know, kiddo.” He kisses her cheek, and she giggles.
He’ll never get sick of that sound. It’s more like your laugh than his, and you’ve got the best laugh in the whole damn world.
Charlie observes the halls as he carries her upstairs—leaving you to collapse on the couch, because you’re getting to the point of pregnant where Dean has to pretend he’s not half-carrying you everywhere—and seems to be mimicking your analyzing face. It’s the one where your brows pinch and your lips pout, a sharp glint in your eyes as the world becomes a courtroom and you become a judge.
“Horses.” Charlie points to a picture Dean found at some yard sale, and he hums.
“Horses.”
“Do we have horses now?”
Dean snorts. “No, Char. You can’t have a horse in a neighborhood.”
Charlie huffs. “Why not.”
“’Cause. They’re too big.”
“But you’re big, Daddy. And we keep you.”
Jesus. He’s glad you’re not here. He’d never get you to stop laughing. “I’m think I’m smaller than a horse, sweetheart.”
“Hm.” Charlie tips her head up, and she might look like him, but that righteous, confident look is all you. “Mommy told Auntie Eileen that you were big.”
Dean chokes on the air. He sputters for a second, trying to think of what the hell he could possibly say to explain that, but Charlie’s already moved on.
“You’re bigger than a doggie.” She examines Dean like he’s just some asshole walking around in her house. “Can we get a doggie?”
Dean sighs. “Let’s do the baby first.”
Charlie looks skeptical. “Are you bigger than a baby?”
“I’m bigger than you,” Dean pokes her, and she giggles. “And you’re gonna be bigger than the baby.”
“I’m gonna be bigger than the baby?!”
“Oh, yeah. Baby can fit in Mommy. We can’t.”
Well. Dean can. He’ll tell you that joke later, and it’ll probably get him smacked, but it’ll also be worth it when you kiss him stupid after.
“Pants.” Dean reminds Charlie when she tries to climb on the toilet with them still up. She rolls her eyes like he’s crazy. Another thing that’s all you.
“I was gonna take them off, Daddy.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I was showing Mr. Ears how to get up.”
“Ah. ‘Course.” Dean smiles to himself. “Very thoughtful of you, Char.”
Charlie nods, like she already knows. Dean helps her with the potty—she ain’t that big, he doesn’t know where the hell she keeps those massive shits in her body—and when he checks on her face, she’s staring at the bathtub with an open mouth. Dean tips his head.
“You alright, kiddo?”
Charlie nods, hugging Mr. Ears tighter to her chest. “We have a pool,” she whispers, and goddamnit. There’s a lump in his throat now, and he has to grab the toilet seat to keep himself up on his knees.
Because it’s just a damn tub, but the Bunker didn’t have those. And he can swear on his battered, fogged up memory of his childhood that Sammy once said the same thing, when Dad finally swindled them a motel with more than a rusty shower.
“It’s called a bathtub.” He says, so choked he worries Charlie is going to hear. “Kinda like a tiny pool.”
“Can I play in it?” Charlie looks at him hopefully, and even if she couldn’t, there was no way in hell Dean could ever say no.
“Yeah. We can do some bathtime tonight.”
Charlie beams, and there it is. That feeling. You were right, talking him into this white picket house with bathtubs and horse pictures on the wall and a big garden that Charlie rolls around in, all afternoon. It’s everything he never let himself dream about. He almost cries there in the bathroom, then in the garden, then that night with his face back in your boobs because he feels it, and it’s lasting more than a moment.
He can see himself here in ten years. Twenty years. Thirty, maybe forty if he’s got that much left in him. He’s never been able to see himself past next month.
But he’ll be here until something finally gets him. Couldn’t drag him away.
And this. This is going to last.
Years pass, and Dean doesn’t feel it all the time, but it comes and goes with more certainty. Like a desert that’s slowly turning to ocean, the tides rising higher and higher every day. It’s small. He doesn’t even really notice the difference until it’s at his ankles, then his knees, then his waist.
He really realizes how high it’s gotten when Charlie hits six, and the second one—Ella, the exact photocopy of you he wanted, but with a bubbly little kick in her that you say is all Dean—is in preschool. He’s trying to get you to go for just one more. You say you’ll think about it, and Dean doesn’t say it, but he knows that means yes. If you didn’t want to do it, you would’ve cut off the shooter supply yourself with the scissors in the kitchen. But he tells you he’s scheduled the appointment, and you make him cancel it.
He grins, wiggling his brows, and you give him that disgusted look that’s always a little too flushed to be real.
“Shut up.”
“Didn’t say anything-“
“You’re thinking things.” You point an accusing finger, and he just keeps grinning.
“Yeah?” Dean slides a hand up your waist. “What kinda things am I thinking, baby?”
Your breath hitches, and your body leans, but you keep that pretty little pout on your lips. “You know.”
He kisses your shoulder. “Do I?”
“Mhm.” You’re hugging yourself now, and Dean chuckles. He’s gotta work for it. He can do that.
“You know, if we call Sammy, he and Eileen need practice herding the monsters tonight.” He kisses under your jaw. “Really, we’d be doing them a favor.”
You sigh, your arms wrapping around Dean’s neck, and he smirks against your skin. You always fit so well against him, so soft and pliant in his arms. He’s feeling pretty generous tonight. Generous and selfish. Not much of a difference, when it comes to you.
“Know that sweet pussy of yours is already dripping for me, sweetheart.” He pulls your thigh up, tracing his fingers on the curve of your ass. “Don’t worry, Daddy’s gonna take care of it.”
You hit him and whine, but it doesn’t do much. You’re strong, you’ve only gotten stronger, but your punches against Dean have always landed flat. Hell, some days he thinks that the only reason he’s still kicking. Just like he’s never been able to push you away, you’ve never been able to get properly pissed at him. Fair trade, he thinks. He can’t even pretend to be mad at you.
“Gonna go call Sammy,” he mutters. “He’ll take them tonight, the gremlins will love it. He can feed them sugar and learn what that does to them after midnight.”
You pause, your nails digging into Dean’s neck. “Tonight tonight?”
“Yeah, that’s the plan-“
“We can’t tonight.” You sigh, dropping your face into his shoulder.
Dean reaches up, rubbing your shoulders as he tries to figure out why you can’t tonight. Ain’t a holiday or birthday. Charlie’s got none of those kid activies she’s gotta be driven to, the ones where Dean sits on some cold bleachers for an hour while you ignore his texts about how awesome Charlie is at everything. You’re not bringing Ella to any of those toddler classes where you get in a sexy swimsuit then just sing nursery songs for half an hour. You got that neighborhood book club thing now, but you hate it—you spend three hours in bed after, complaining about the book and the women—and he’s pretty sure it’s on Fridays anyways-
“Sam’s already taking them.” You sigh, a light dancing in your eyes. You know he forgot.
Dean grimaces, his smile tighter as he keeps trying to figure out what he fucked up. “Right- Uh- Because…”
You raise your brows, and Dean swallows. It better not be something real. He’s been so fucking good about remembering everything, and if it’s your anniversary or something, he’s going to find the nearest ghost and let it kill him.
“It’s… Our…”
“Parent teacher conference.” You prompt gently, your smile stretching your cheeks all pretty, and Dean groans.
“Shit, you said that was the ninth-“
“It is the ninth.”
“No, it’s Thursday, that’s the tenth.”
You roll your eyes, grab his phone out of his pocket, and show him the date. The big, fat 9 on the screen is mocking. Dean groans and drops his face into your chest.
“I wanted to have sex tonight,” he grumbles, and you laugh.
“I know, big guy.” You lower your voice to that honeyed, sweet coo he only gets when you’re real confident. “Sammy’s got them the whole night. If you’re on good behavior…”
You trail off, and Dean pulls back, scanning over your teasing expression.
“Yeah?”
You shrug, and he grins. He’ll be on the best behavior. No jokes that make the other parents look at him like he’s some kind of asshole. No snide comments about how soft they all are. No bullying the other kids, even though they’re not half as good at math as his Charlie. You probably don’t want him smacking your ass or making out with you in front of the other, perfectly classy and boring couples. But he really misses having you for a whole night. It’s been too many months of quickies and hushed fucks under the covers. As sexy as it is, to cover your mouth with his and rut into you until you’re crying, he needs to hear it again. The way you moan and scream his name.
So he’s on the up and up. He wears a shirt that he irons, like an asshole, and jeans without oil handprints. His shoes are clean. He even puts some of that good smelling shit in his hair and rolls up his sleeves like an adult. You smile at him, adjusting his buttons—he doesn’t think he did them wrong, but you seem dead set on touching him, and he’ll never say no to that—and Dean kisses your cheek.
“Look at us,” he says. “So normal.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re wearing a dead guy’s watch.”
“Everyone’s got a dead guy’s something, baby. Mine is just cool as shit.”
“Mhm.”
“Mhm?”
“What? I’m agreeing with you-“
“You’re sassing me.”
Dean noses at your cheek, and you roll your eyes. He doesn’t know why you bother, when he can feel your heartbeat under his fingers. “Shut up.”
He hums, kissing your nose. “Fighting words.”
“They’re not-“
“They will be. Trust me, pretty girl.” He leans back, holding your blown out gaze. “I’ll take care of you later.”
You try to scoff, but it’s so pathetically breathy, Dean knows he’s not going to be the one begging by the time the night is over. He squeezes your ass once for the road, and you drag him out the door. You’re always so worried about being on time, and Christ, Dean wouldn’t give less of a shit if he wasn’t worried about you snapping yourself in half.
“Breathe, baby.”
“I am breathing-“
“You’re gonna hurt yourself-“
“I’m gonna hurt you.”
You mutter the words under your breath, and Dean snorts. “Oh, now you’re just askin’ for it.”
He gets smacked, and laughs it off. You get violent and bratty when you’re trying to invite him to do something about it. And he will. After being—as you told him to—on his best behavior.
Usually, during these kinds of activities—the ones where his kids aren’t actually there to need his support, he’s just supposed to show face and smile for the sake of all the other families—Dean tunes out. His hand rests on your hip and his eyes stay fixed on the curve of your mouth when you talk, the melodic sound of your voice over all the other noise. He’s barely more than a figurehead for the Queen. You’ll deal with it, and tell him what to say, and he’ll keep an eye for when you start to get too tense and it’s time to take over or—even better—just hit the road.
But Dean stands in the little first grader classroom, and he can’t stop thinking about it. How tiny all the chairs are. How bright and colorful the walls and carpet are. He never got this far, in school. Dad kept them out of the systems until he couldn’t anymore, so first grade was a workbook he picked up in a goodwill with half the questions already done in red felt marker.
You’re floating through the room—you always do—and Dean lingers in your wake, trying to wrap his head around it. Everything is so small.
“I was never this small,” he mutters in your ear, and you laugh softly.
“Yeah? You popped out six feet?”
“Six-two, baby.”
“Your poor mother.”
“’Least I wasn’t Sammy. That’s actually what killed her, you know.”
You snort, shooting him a disbelieving look of amusement. He’s gotten better at joking about that. Distance and time and you, all mixing together to make old gashes turn to muscles that ache when he twists them just wrong. He sits down at Charlie’s desk, knees pushed up to his chest, and pats his knee in offering. You shake your head.
“C’mon-“
“No.”
He glances around the room. All the other families have the mom sitting in the chair. Oops. He tries to get up, but you push him back down by his shoulders.
“She’d want you to sit there.” You crouch down at his side, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“She’s five. She doesn’t know what she wants-“
“Well, I want you to sit there.”
Dean huffs, because what the hell is he supposed to tell you, no. Never really been an option before, and it’s sure as shit not one now.
“I love you,” you whisper, and he grunts.
“Sure you do.”
“You look very handsome-“
“I look like I’m being packed to ship, sweetheart.”
You laugh, and take a picture of him that’s probably getting sent to Sammy, and he’s never going to get it down. At least he talks you into perching on his knee. Anyone who’s got a problem with it better remember that they all got kids here, so no ones got any puritan legs to stand on.
The teacher rambles about learning objectives and goals for the year. Dean doesn’t pay attention—he tries, but it’s not like there’s a pop quiz later—and his gaze wanders over Charlie’s desk. She clearly wrote her nameplate, and probably drew the fat unicorn that covers the ie. Her a’s look better. Dean’s pretty proud of that. They’ve been working on them a lot.
Charlie left a pile of her papers on the surface. Dean doesn’t know if he’s supposed to look at them, but he does anyway. It’s a lot of first grader stuff. Rainbows and letters and numbers all in crayon. Dean smiles to himself, thinking of Charlie scribbling her name on the top of the paper the same way she does on diner napkins. He thinks she’s shaping up to have good handwriting, even though he has no idea what the hell good handwriting looks like for a kid.
But that’s not what gets him.
It’s the drawing. Four stick figures, all stringy proportions and massive heads. There’s the little on in the middle, with pigtails. Dean doesn’t think Charlie’s ever had pigtails, but it’s labelled me in wobbly, scribbled letters. There a tiny lump on the floor that’s got feet poking out of it, labelled Ello, and the kid ain’t wrong. Ella’s not much more than a lump right now. Of the big ones, there’s the one got your hair, and is labelled Moomy. He chuckles, and almost pulls on your arm to make you look at it.
Then he sees himself. He’s got spiky sticks for hair and scribbles all over his face. He touches his jaw, and his beard has gotten longer than he meant it to, but you never complain. He’s the only one with shoes on, and the only one without any scratched on clothing. He’s holding your hand, standing a foot over your head, and he’s not that tall. Or broad. And he sure as shit doesn’t have bug eyes like Charlie gave him, but he’s never loved a picture of himself more.
A lump forms in his throat, as his fingers trace over the label. Doody. He snorts, but it’s wet and quiet, and you give him a strange look. He gestures weakly to the paper, and you smile. You kiss his brow and rub his shoulder, and Dean just bows his head. He’s not going to break down like a little bitch right now. Not with so many people around.
He folds the paper up, and shoves it in his pocket. He’ll put it in his wallet later. Hug Charlie real tight when he gets home. She’s still so small, but she’s getting bigger. She’s already older than Dean was, when he had a gun in his hands and one eye on the door all night. He never allowed himself to think she’d end up with a life like that. But now time passes, and he realizes in that first grade classroom that he was still clenching his jaw. Bracing himself for the other shoe to drop, for the luck to dry out and his sorry ass to be stranded back in the burning, cold and lonely desert.
But it’s only getting better. Dean allows himself to sit in it, for the first time. All of this is only getting better. And he’s never going to allow it to get worse again.
Ella has her first nightmare when she’s about three. Dean’s dealt with them from Charlie before, but it’s different. Charlie’s quieter. More serious. Usually he doesn’t figure out she even had a nightmare until she comes down the stairs in the morning with drooping eyes and messy hair, then says she didn’t sleep the night before. Ella gets loud. She screams and cries, and Dean thinks he’s about to walk into a murder scene. His heart gets hard like softer metal being pressed into something they could make bullets out of. He grabs the gun you let him keep in the dresser the kids can’t reach, and runs out of the bedroom before you can even call his name.
He locks you in the bedroom. If it’s a fire he’ll go back, if not you shouldn’t be anywhere near a monster. You can be pissed at him later, but you’ve got the third one cooking in your stomach, and Dean can take care of the ones with legs. He’ll take care of all of it. That’s what he’s for.
But there’s nothing in Ella and Charlie’s room. Charlie’s knocked out and grumbling in her sleep, the closet is a little ajar, and Ella’s curled into a tiny ball against her headboard. The blankets are bunched in her little hands, but she lets go of them to reach for Dean. He lowers his gun and goes to scoop her up, scanning around for the threat. He finds only silent room, and isn’t really sure what to do with it.
“Ella, what’s wrong-“
“Monster.” Ella sobs, pressing her little face into Dean’s neck. “Monster in- In the closet-“
She starts crying so hard she can’t talk, and Dean sets his jaw. There’s no bad smell. No temperature drops and flickering lights, but he knows better than to just dismiss it.
“Alright, sweetheart, I’m gonna put you down and check it out-“
“No!” Ella wraps her arms around his neck, and Dean doesn’t know how such stringy little arms can choke him better than some demons ever managed.
“El,” he tries gently. “You’re just gonna wait on the bed, and I’ll make sure there’s nothin’, okay?”
Ella sniffles, shaking her head, and Dean sighs. The fact that he’s been in here so long without an attack is a good sign. He kisses her forehead and pries her off his neck, slinging her onto one arm. He almost asks her to keep quiet, but that’s what Dad would’ve told him. And Dad never warded the house like you did. The more he thinks about it, the more Dean realizes that there’s no damn way something could’ve even gotten past the driveway.
He keeps his gun in his hand, though. Old habits.
Ella’s still shaking, when he pokes open the closet and finds nothing but lumps of clothing and boxes of toys. Charlie seems to have shoved everything in, before bedtime, and it’s made a strange shape and cast long shadows. And there, on the top, is that damn stuffed dog Sammy got Ella for her birthday. The one she drags around everywhere and screams about when they so much forget about it in the car. Dean grabs it and holds it near Ella’s face, lips twitching.
“This the monster?”
“Don’t wanna look, Daddy-“
“You sure?” He sighs, pressing the dog’s nose to her cheek. “Think he might be your friend.”
It takes a few seconds, but Ella looks. She shrieks in delight, and rips the dog out of Dean’s hands. It does the trick, even if she’s still a little spooked. Dean carries her back to your room to drop off the gun, then brings her back to bed.
“Did he fight the monster?” Ella asks him when he puts her down, and Dean pauses.
And he’s got a choice. Tell Ella there was never a monster, and that monsters aren’t real, or tell her that a damn stuffed dog can fight them off. Dad would tell her there was never a monster, but that when one comes she better not reach for the stuffed animal.
But Dean isn’t Dad. And looking at Ella’s big, soft eyes—far too much like yours for him to know how to let them cry—he doesn’t understand how Dad ever managed to let Sammy be afraid like that. How he let either of them be afraid like that. It’s not like Dean’s not going to be there, if something like that comes. Ella never has to worry.
“He was the monster, El,” Dean says, and it feels like the right thing. “And do you need to be scared of him?”
Ella giggles. “He’s not a monster, daddy-“
“You thought he was-“
“Because he was looking scary.”
“But was he scary?”
Ella pauses, still sniffling, then shakes her head. Dean smiles, running his fingers through her hair.
“Told you.”
“Hm.” Ella pulls at the dog’s ears, then looks up at Dean. “Can you sleep here, Daddy?”
Dean sighs, glancing at the door. “I think Mommy wants me with her-“
“Mommy can come too.”
Ella looks at him with those big eyes, and Dean caves. He always caves. You say he’s just big and soft like that, but he’s not. Stronger men would give in, if they had kids like his.
“How about we go to Mommy,” he offers. “So Charlie can keep sleepin’.”
Ella considers it, then agrees. It’s a bit of a trial, getting in bed without waking you up or letting Ella kick the baby bump, but Dean manages. Ella goes out in seconds, wrapped more around you than Dean, and he doesn’t mind. You pulled her into your arms without thinking, and she’s got her face pressed into the pillows just like yours, and Dean doesn’t know how he got so luck. Maybe he’d been banking up, all those years, and it just decideds to cash itself out. Maybe he hit some kinda lottery. Doesn’t really matter. All he knows is that he’s got this, and it’s not going away.
It’s not going away.
He lets himself breathe in that, for the first time in his life.
He’s got this good thing, and it’s not going to go away.
He doesn’t notice anymore. And he notices that he doesn’t notice on his birthday. You make him a cake. Charlie and Ella get him a mug and a shirt, and they’re kind of crappy but they picked them out, so he loves them more than anything else he owns.
You’re so pregnant you waddle more than walk, and Dean refuses to hear about you taking care of it. He doesn’t care that it’s his birthday. You’re the gift, he tells you, then laughs when he gets smacked in the face.
And he spent so many years, making his birthday one real nice pie and some expensive motor oil for baby. He glanced at red, analogue motel clocks and watched the clock hit midnight, before sighing and throwing an arm over his face. He wouldn’t sleep, because he was never sure if he’d make it to the next one. If this was the year his time ran out, and he was hitting the last number on his line.
But he has this birthday, and he blows out his candles, and he’s just… Not surprised. Another year. For the next one you won’t be all round and wobbly—which he’s still into, but you don’t seem to find that as reassuring as he means it to be—and you can take care of everything the way you keep insisting. Charlie will be older, and Ella will be stronger, and he can rent that lake house he’s always wanted and take his girls fishing.
The next one.
He thinks it, and doesn’t pause. Because it’s not a feeling worth dwelling on forever. This is just it.
This is going to last forever.
✦End note: i would have his babies. ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto & @omi-resources
word count: 835
synopsis: Jason’s secret relationship is discovered by Damian—who keeps showing up uninvited. Jason’s patience is tested, popcorn is made, but at least Damian brought cinnamon rolls.
a/n: this one went off the rails slightly and the rest of the upcoming parts are equally as unhinged (at least compared to what I usually write).
Compared to your apartment, Jason’s place was practically Fort Knox. You and he had been dating long enough that you’d practically moved in—and you knew his secret identity. Still, you’d never met his family, something Jason was adamant about keeping that way. You knew of them, of course, but hadn’t expected to meet them anytime soon.
Which was why you definitely weren’t expecting a ten-year-old ninja to break in.
You had just stepped out of the shower when you heard it—the quiet thud. At first, you thought it might’ve been Jason returning from patrol early. But then came the faint creak of the window opening.
Jason never used the window.
Cautiously, you stepped into the living room, still in a robe, hair dripping. And froze.
There, near the kitchen counter, stood a boy. Arms crossed. Hood down. Eyes sharp as blades.
“You’re not his roommate,” he said flatly.
You blinked. Your shoulders slowly relaxed. While you’d never met Damian Wayne personally, you’d seen enough pictures—and heard Jason complain just enough about the “demon child”—to recognize him instantly.
“…And you’re not the pizza guy,” you replied, equally dry, one brow raised. “So I guess we’re both surprised.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink. Just stared, like he was trying to unearth your darkest secrets with sheer willpower.
“Who are you?” he demanded, stepping forward.
“His girlfriend,” you said, calmly. And waited for the explosion.
There was no point in hiding it. You figured that now that you’d met Damian, it was only a matter of time before the rest of the Bat-family found out. Honestly, you were surprised they hadn’t already—weren’t they supposed to be the world’s greatest detectives?
It didn’t take long.
“I knew it,” the boy hissed. “He’s been acting suspicious for weeks. Staying out longer. Not snapping at everyone. There was even a smile—a smile—on his face during training.”
He circled you slowly, hands behind his back like a miniature detective—or a very judgmental cat. “I assumed he was hiding something. Drugs. Maybe a dog. But you… you’re worse.”
Your lips twitched. “A dog would’ve been worse, to be honest. He’s not exactly home on time for walkies.”
He ignored your joke. “How do I know you’re not a threat? An assassin. A spy. Someone sent to manipulate him.”
You raised your hands in mock surrender. “You think I’m seducing Jason Todd for intel?” You snorted. “Believe me, no one’s paying me for this kind of emotional labor.”
His lips twitched—just barely. Not a smile. Not quite. But something close.
Still, he didn’t back down. “What do you know about him?”
“Enough to stay,” you answered simply, dropping onto the couch and toweling off your hair. “Enough to know he sleeps better when I’m here. Eats better. Talks more. Still leaves his laundry everywhere, but that’s apparently not fixable.”
Damian stood frozen, like he was running your answer through a thousand internal filters.
Eventually, he moved to sit—perching like a hawk on the armrest across from you, expression still wary but less… militant.
“So you know what he does,” Damian said stiffly.
“It’s how we met,” you replied, reaching for the remote. “He was horrible at keeping the whole alter ego a secret.”
“Are you trained?” he asked next.
“To deal with him? Yes.” You shot him a grin. “To fight? Not really. But I have excellent aim with a frying pan.”
For the first time, a snort escaped him—quick and unintentional. And then: “I suppose you’re tolerable.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone under five feet has said to me.”
Damian frowned. “I’m ten.”
“Still under five feet.”
He huffed but stayed where he was, and after a moment, reached for the coffee table and grabbed the half-finished puzzle you’d been working on. Without asking, he began fitting pieces into place with alarming precision.
An hour later, Jason came home through the fire escape, expecting silence—or maybe the sound of you watching reruns, bundled up in one of his old shirts.
What he didn’t expect was the sight of you and his youngest brother sitting side by side on the floor, surrounded by puzzle pieces and popcorn, mid-argument about whether Red Hood could beat a grizzly bear in a fight on pure strength alone.
He stopped in the doorway and stared.
Damian glanced up. “You’re late.”
Jason blinked. “You broke in.”
“He made popcorn,” you said helpfully, tossing a piece into your mouth.
Jason pointed between the two of you. “What the hell is happening?”
“She’s tolerable,” Damian said, as if that answered everything.
Jason groaned. “I leave for two hours…”
“And you almost lost your popcorn privileges for keeping me hidden,” you added, smirking at him. “Apparently, I’m a national security threat.”
Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about Wayne surveillance equipment and upgrading the locks to keep out demons.
But secretly?
He didn’t mind the sight of the two people he cared about most, sitting there together and getting along.
re4r!Leon Kennedy x f!reader
summary: after six years of silence, you stumble into a ghost from your past at a crowded bar; only to find the boy you once knew replaced by someone hardened, haunted, and barely holding himself together.
wc: 11.5k (whoops)
content warning: SMUT MDNI!, porn w plot, brief use of y/n, alcohol consumption, swearing, kinda mean leon (at the beginning), fingering (f receiving), unprotected p in v, rough sex, aftercare, angst at the end, happyish ending
note: my first work! i apologize for the length i got far too carried away but i hope you enjoy! This is the first thing I've ever written for leon so if it's not as true to his character i will try to work on that. i'm very new to posting on this platform so if there's any issues please bear with me lol
-
The local dive bar was crawling with people. It was a Friday night, dead of summer, everyone eager to start the weekend off right. Including you. It was a long, exhausting work week, and all you wanted was a night out with your close work friends and indulge in a drink. You’d lost count of the drinks somewhere between just one and definitely too many. All you knew was that the music was vibing well tonight and the alcohol coursed through your veins. You were dancing in the middle of the bar, bumping and grinding against your friends as they all laughed and sang terribly along with the music. Your head felt featherlight as you kept dancing, clearly feeling all the good effects the drinks had to offer. You lifted your cup and downed whatever was left of your drink, tossing the cup into the nearest trashcan. You looked over to one of your friends who wasn't the most fucked up, and leaned into her ear and slurred that you were going to get another drink. Your friend gave you a look, as to say are you sure you need another one? But you just shrugged it off. You deserved to get wasted tonight.
You sauntered your way across to the bar, hips swaying in your tight black mini skirt, along with a skin tight black tank top that definitely left nothing to the imagination. Your hair was curled loosely and laid gently across your back. Your eyes beelined to the bar, not aware of all the lingering stares from various men eyeing your ass or trying to get your attention. You also didn't register another familiar pair of eyes clocking you approaching him at the bar.
Leon was slumped in the barstool, like he usually was every weekend. Head hung low, eyes dark and brows in a permanent furrow on his face. He cradled a glass of whiskey, neat, also unsure of what number he was on now. Although he wasn't drinking in celebration. He was drinking to forget.
It had been a month since Spain, a month since he endured that treacherous mission and saved the President's daughter from whatever fucked up cult she found herself entangled with. As rewarding as it was to complete his mission, it never made up for the amount of trauma Leon would endure afterwards. Constant nightmares as soon as he had gotten home, memories of the Plaga coursing through his veins and almost causing him to fail his only mission, keep Ashley Graham safe. The only thing that would subside the nightmares and triggering thoughts was getting blackout drunk every night. That way he couldn't think straight, could forget about not only Spain, but everything that had led up to this moment in the past six years.
So here he was, downing yet another glass of whiskey to lull him to that so-called "safe space". He wanted to blend into the shadows of this bar and drink himself to death. The last thing he wanted was for someone to approach him. And as he sluggishly lifted his head to order another drink from the bartender, he couldn't help but feel his breath hitch as he saw you approach the bar.
He felt like he was transported back to his college days, about to graduate from the police academy, eager to save the world as he watched you put two supporting hands on the bar. They had known each other since high school, friends for years that coincidentally ended up going to the same college. Back when all Leon had to worry about was upcoming exams and whether or not you could tell that he was in love with you. He could feel his chest swell at the memories of debating whether he should upright tell you, those late nights they would spend together in each other's dorms studying when all he really could do was stare into your beautiful eyes. But that was six years ago. He wasn't that same enthusiastic, go getter boy that believed in the best in the world anymore, and he hated being reminded of that. Hated being reminded of what his life could've been, a police officer that just wanted to make the world a better place. He quickly turned his head back down to stare into his empty glass, hoping he could curl up enough to make sure you didn’t notice him.
You stumbled up to the bar, hands coming up to stabilize yourself so you didn't face plant into the hardwood of the counter. You got onto your tip toes so you could lean into the bartender's ear to shout your drink order over the loud chatter and music. Double vodka cranberry slurred out of your mouth and the bartender gave you a thumbs up. You settled back down, looking across the room to your friends absentmindedly dancing together. You turned your head the other way, towards the bartender, and watched with somewhat blurry eyes the other people trying to order drinks. Just then, you noticed someone sitting down at the end of the bar, shoulders hunched over and blond, shaggy hair hanging over their face. A full drink was slid over to their direction, a hand coming up to instinctively grab it before it slid onto the floor. At that point their head lifted to welcome the drink into their mouth, and you finally caught a glimpse of this familiar someone.
Holy shit, you thought to yourself, as none other than Leon Kennedy was at the end of the bar. The last time you had seen him was just before everything that happened at Raccoon City. You remembered how excited he was to have gotten a position at RPD, but after that fateful night you didn't know what had happened. You thought the worst, he was killed on duty trying to save the city. But it wasn't until a couple of weeks ago that you had heard through someone that he was the guy that rescued the President's daughter in Spain. You were more than relieved to hear that he was still alive, but what was more confusing was why you hadn't heard from Leon in the past six years. You thought that they were relatively close, but perhaps not.
If you weren't so hammered right now, you would've been able to read Leon's body language and realized that he was not in the mood to chat tonight. But the vodka was working overtime, and the man you thought was dead for the past six years was in the same bar as you right now. The bartender slid over your drink, and you picked it up before sauntering your way over to him. You approached Leon, head still hung low, eyes fixated on the brown liquor before him. You rested your elbow on the counter, leaning down to try and get a good look at him.
"As I live and breathe," you spoke a little too loud, trying to get your voice across the loud music and chatter, "Leon Kennedy? Is that you?"
Leon's grip tightens around the glass, knuckles almost white as he exhales a slow, agitated breath out his nose. He kept his head down, eyes closing tightly as the last thing he wanted to happen tonight came true. His free hand taps against the counter of the bar in an impatient rhythm, as if he was counting down the seconds until this encounter was over.
"Christ," he muttered to himself, voice rough from the lack of talking and slight burn of the whiskey down his throat. His icy blue eyes slowly make their way to look up at you, and he almost forgot why he was so upset.
You were even more beautiful than he remembered. Older now obviously, but all of your features had found their place to compliment yourself. Your hair was longer, cheeks slimmer, breasts fuller and your tiny black skirt hugged curves that weren't there six years ago. But you still had those bright eyes, still just as much fire and joy behind them. That's what brought him down to earth. As far as Leon could tell, you were still the same girl that he knew you to be. And you would be terrified to know that he was completely different. His eyes linger back up to yours, dark and unamused, the left side of his mouth twitches almost as if he tried to smirk, but came out more like a warning.
“Yeah, it‘s me.” His tone is flat, dismissive. He lifts his drink up to his mouth, glass clinking against his teeth as he takes another slow sip, trying to draw out the feeling of the burn down his throat. He takes another look at you as he lowers his glass, down at the drink you’re holding, then back up to your face, eyes hesitating a second too long at your tank top that hugged just tight enough around the swell of your breasts. He didn’t mean to stare too long, but he was drunk enough for his eyes to wander before focusing back at you.
“What do you want, y/n?” He said your name like it sliced his tongue, stinging over the feeling of who they used to mean to each other. “I’m not in the mood for a fucking reunion.”
You should’ve taken that as a warning and let him be, but you couldn’t keep your eyes off of him. He looked good. A little rough around the edges it looked, and definitely way too many late nights as you noticed the dark circles under his eyes, but his features were much more defined than they used to be. He lost all of the baby fat he once had, jawline sharper and cheeks hollowed out, his striking blue eyes laced with something darker that he didn’t have before. You glanced down at his drink, more so at the huge bicep straining over the grip he had on the glass.
You took a sip from your drink, barely registering the harsh taste of vodka on your tongue. You lean in just a tad closer, “Shit, didn’t realize you had a stick up your ass or something,” you laughed, your eyes grazing over the black compression t-shirt he was wearing, all his muscles perfectly accentuated, “it’s been awhile, no? Like, six years now?”
You could hear Leon scoff, and definitely not in a good way. He barely looked at you, and when he did, his gaze was sharp. Almost as if it pained him to see you here. You pulled out a stool beside him, as much as he would’ve rather you not, and sat down. You placed your drink down on the bar and propped your elbow up to rest your chin on your palm. You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol talking, or if it had been far too long since you had gotten laid, but the smell of Leon’s cologne and the whiskey that came off of his breath had you going crazy.
He still had not said anything to you, so you tried to bring something up to talk about. You remembered his latest mission in Spain, and your eyes lit up.
"Celebrating tonight? After saving the President's daughter? That had to have been interesting."
Leon's jaw clenched and his grip seemed to grow impossibly tighter on his glass at the mention of Spain. As if he had been trying all night to forget about that had gone down the drain. He looks over at you, noticing how much closer you had gotten and the way your eyelashes batted gently as you spoke. A hint of something sweet, like salted caramel, wafted into his nose instead of the stale bar air. He was getting pissed off. He didn't want to talk, and he was getting frustrated that you weren't getting the hint.
"Celebrating? Yeah. Real fucking party." His voice was a low growl, laced with something dangerous. "You wanna hear about it? Fine. It was a total shit show. People died. and I got to play hero as the whole goddamn city turned into a fucking graveyard." He watched as your eyes widened, still attentively looking at his own.
“Fuck, Leon, I didn’t know-”
"No, you don't fucking know," He cut in, leaning in just enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, the sharp edge of his cologne mixing with the whiskey on his breath, "I'm not here to reminisce. I'm here to drink. So unless you're gonna buy me another round y/n, get the fuck out of my face."
His eyes dropped down to your lips for just a split second, pink and plush from your lipgloss, slightly parted as you listened to him speak. Just as quick as it left, something soft flickers in his gaze. The woman he was once in love with was standing right in front of him, and you’re looking at him like how you used to; like he's not a total mess. He grinds his teeth, and knocks his head back to finish off the rest of his whiskey. "Or don't. I don't give a shit."
Leon's tone was just enough to snap you back to reality for a second. Sounds like whatever he had been up to the past six years was not treating him well. You knew he was angry, but as you watched his eyes, how dark they had gotten after mentioning his mission, you could sense he was hurting. Like he's longing for what he's lost over the years.
You don't say anything when you signal the bartender down, and order two more drinks for the both of them. You looked over at Leon again and smiled,
“Can I stay then?”
Leon almost rolls his eyes as he grunts, neither saying yes or no to your invitation. You took that as a yes, and settled into the barstool further. The bartender slid the drinks their way, and you grabbed yours and clinked the glass against Leon's before lifting it up to your lips.
"Here's to drinking our problems away, right?" You teased, giving him a wink and throwing your head back to fuel the liquid courage.
"Fucking hell..." Leon said under his breath, watching as you clinked your glass against his. Watching your neck extend as you drink causes him to shudder. He can't help but have his eyes wander again, the way your legs are crossed in the stool, skirt riding up far more than he's comfortable with. He has to tear his eyes away to his glass before he acts on something he shouldn't. You placed your drink back on the counter, and watched as Leon traced his finger over the rim of his glass, tongue licking his bottom lip unknowingly. You remembered that was a habit he had when he wanted to say something but wouldn't let himself.
You leaned in closer, one of your hands slowly snaking itself to the one Leon was using to toy with his glass, just gently hovering over it.
"You know," you dragged, words just slightly slurred and eyes lolling across Leon's face, "you're still just as handsome as I remember you."
Before you can react Leon's hand grips tightly around your wrist, just enough to make you gasp and yanks you closer, noses just inches away from each other. You can smell the whiskey off his breath, you look up at Leon's blown out pupils that are already burning holes into your face. His voice is low and rough when he speaks,
"Stop this game, y/n. You think I don't know what you're doing? Think I don't see the way you're looking at me?" His thumb presses into your pulse, feeling it drum against him. You swallowed a lump down your throat, not daring to break eye contact.
"I see the way you're looking at me too, Leon. My eyes aren't on my tits." A playful smile creeps up your face, wriggling your wrist free to glide a hand up Leon's forearm. Leon retracts his arm like your hand is on fire, and pulls it down into your lap. His hand stays pressed firmly against your thigh as he moves his lips to the shell of your ear, just ghosting over the skin.
"You don't know me anymore. I'm not the boy you remember, y/n." He pushed himself off of you, and leaned back over to his drink. Another second longer against you and he would've given in. Would've forced his lips onto yours and kissed you like it was his last day on earth. But he can't do that to you. Can't have you believe that he's someone he even recognizes anymore.
But just as quickly as Leon pushed away from you, you lean back over to him, hooking a finger onto the collar of his shirt and pressing your lips flush against Leon's ear.
"You seem to be forgetting something, Leon. I'm not the same person from six years ago either." You smiled against him, teeth grazing over his ear. You pulled back to look at his face. If he wanted to be rough with you, you could handle that.
"You've got this, hard front you're portraying," you began, letting go of Leon's collar to wave your hand gesturing to him, your free hand grabbing your drink, "mad at the world that you were the one to get caught up in its shit." You finish off your drink, clinking the glass down onto the counter.
“That’s not-”
"Do you want me to feel sorry for you? Is that it?" You’re leaned over the bar again, fingers tapping against the counter. "I can do that, if you'd like me to," you purred, your other arm coming to rest on Leon's shoulder, "but I think what you really want is for someone to take your nightmares away."
"You don't know what the fuck I want." Leon's voice is a razor blade, a bitter laugh claws against his throat. His hand wraps around the wrist hanging over his shoulder, not shoving it away, but gaining control. He leans into you, forehead almost touching, his breath hot and uneven against your face.
"I don't need your sympathy, y/n. I need-" He stops himself before he can say it. He realized that maybe he does need someone to help him forget. The whiskey was only doing so much, and for the time that you had been talking to him, all he'd been thinking about was how it would feel to kiss you. To slide his tongue into your mouth, to press his chest against yours.
Your hand intertwines with his, your head nudging just slightly to test the water. Your nose brushed against his and you felt Leon's breath shake. As standoffish as he was trying to come off right now, what you could really see was the hesitation. He kept stopping himself from doing what he truly wanted to.
"What, Leon? What do you need?" You whispered, your free hand coming to rest at the back of Leon's neck, fingers playing with his nape. You could see the contemplation behind his eyes, darting between your eyes and lips. Before you can ask him again, his lips crash against yours. It's rough and unsteady, teeth clashing and lips bruising. You melted into his touch, hands coming to cup the sides of Leon's face as you pulled him in closer.
Leon puts a hand in your hair, pulling it gently to tilt your head to kiss you deeper. Your lips part gently to gasp, which Leon takes advantage of to slide his tongue into your mouth. He can taste the vodka and cranberry juice against your tongue, he slides his free hand up to your throat to place gentle pressure, enough to make you moan into the kiss. For a minute, the thoughts in Leon's head go silent. All he can think about is you.
It doesn't stop him from pulling away just as quickly, though. His chest heaving as his wild eyes roam your face, the furrow in his brow just slightly loosening. the grip around your neck pulses, feeling your heartbeat racing against his palm.
"You wanna take my nightmares away? Show me that you can handle what's left of me."
Your lips pout slightly at the loss of Leon's touch, your eyes wild and roaming. You started to notice stares from other people in the bar now paying too much attention to the two of you. The way Leon's hand is gripped around your throat could be taken as something more malicious than it actually was. You turned to look over at your friends at the other end of the bar, still dancing and completely unaware of the situation. What harm could be done if you went home with him?
You got up from the barstool, your hands sliding up Leon's shoulders, a chaste kiss planted to the side of his neck. You could feel his neck strain at the feeling.
"People are watching, Leon," you whispered, your eyes pointing towards the exit, "you got somewhere we can continue this?" You could feel the adrenaline starting to flood through your veins, the heat between your legs making itself more known by the second. Without waiting, you made your way towards the exit of the bar, feet stumbling just a tad from the alcohol. You glanced over your shoulder to see Leon take his last sip of whiskey before throwing himself out of the barstool.
Leon couldn't have given less of a fuck if people were watching the two of you. Let them, he thought, let them watch how easily I can make you melt. He throws a wad of cash onto the bar counter and beelines his way to catch up to you. His blood boils as he watches you sway out of the bar, hips moving from side to side, your skirt riding up to just above the swell of your ass. He can already feel himself stiffening from just looking at you. It doesn't take him long to catch up behind you, pushing the door open to lead the both of you outside.
"My place is just a block away, unless you've changed your mind," He growls as he leans down to your ear, his hand coming down to press firmly on your hip. The cool air feels like nothing to the two of you from the way the heat of this tension radiates off of their skin. You placed a hand on top of his, looking up to meet his ice blue eyes.
"Lead the way, baby," you whispered, leaning in to kiss him passionately, your tongue swiping Leon's bottom lip. He groans into the kiss, using all of his strength not to just take you right now on the brick wall of the bar. He resists, pulls his lips away and leads you to his apartment.
Up ahead, a skyscraper is now in your line of vision. You almost got dizzy trying to look at the very top covered by the clouds. Leon pressed a couple of buttons and you heard the doors unlock with a click, where then Leon ushered you inside and walked towards the elevator. They enter the elevator, and Leon presses the button that leads up to the penthouse. You let out a breathy laugh, crossed your arms and leaned against the wall of the elevator.
"Penthouse, huh? President pay you handsomely after saving his daughter?" You could see Leon's shoulders tense, he slowly turned around to face you. He stalked toward you, an arm coming to cage you in between him and the elevator wall.
"Yeah. Government pays well for silence," he muttered, tone coming off more painful than he'd prefer. You looked over at the mirror on the other side of the wall, watching the way Leon's back muscles twitch under his shirt.
"Not as scrawny anymore either," you hummed, hands reaching up to feel up his biceps to his shoulder blades, "bet they whipped you into shape after Raccoon City, huh? Lucky me." A lustful smile crept onto your face, flashing your pearly white teeth. Leon's body presses harder into yours, pushing you deeper against the elevator wall. His other hand comes to grip your jaw, tilting it to have your gaze on his face.
"Lucky you?" His voice is a dark, dangerous purr, lips just gently brushing against yours as he spoke, "Sweetheart, you have no idea what you just got yourself into." The elevator dings just as Leon puts a firm grip on your thighs, fingers digging into the plush skin as he lifts. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, arms resting on his shoulders and leaned down to plant another sloppy kiss.
Leon walks backwards into the foyer of his apartment, the darkness of the living room engulfing them the further he went inside. Your hips ground into Leon's waist, your hands trailing up to rake through his hair. A low groan vibrated out of Leon's lips, eyes wiring shut and brows in a tighter furrow than before. It feels like he's walking for forever until you get tossed onto a couch, eyes flying open to Leon looming over you.
You took a quick glance at your surroundings. Everything about the penthouse is dark. The walls, furniture, even whatever lights on are dimmed low. The floor to ceiling windows are wide open, beautiful views of the city and night sky surrounds them. You noticed how pristine the place is. No pictures of friends or family, except for a singular picture of a blonde little girl in the corner of the room. Empty whiskey bottles are littered around the coffee table and kitchen island. You wondered if Leon ever actually spends any time here, if it actually feels like a home.
Before you can ask any questions, you feel Leon's presence quickly closing in on you. He's propped up on top of you, hands a mind of their own. They’re on your thighs, hips, waist, chest, neck, and finally tugging at your hair. His lips come down to kiss along your neck, sucking hard enough to definitely leave marks in the morning.
You moaned, your eyes fluttering closed and your lips parted slightly. Leon's hands left your hair, his right hand coming down to play with the hem of your tank top before yanking it high enough to expose your lacy bra. He pulls himself off your neck to look at your chest.
"You're just fucking asking for it aren't you?" He gives you no time to answer as his hand gropes your chest over the bra, calloused fingers pinching at your nipple. A breathy gasp leaves your mouth, locking eyes with Leon as he continues to stimulate you. The friction between the fabric is becoming too much, you pull his hand away to pull your tank top and bra over your head in one swoop. A lazy grin forms over Leon's face, eyes trailing down to your now exposed breasts.
"Cutting to the chase are we?" He purred, both hands now reaching to grab at you. You let out a tsk, hands quick to grab Leon's wrists.
"Your turn." You looked at his too clothed torso, eyes practically burning through his shirt. Leon sits up, breaking free from your grasp.
"So needy, not even a please?" Leon pulls the shirt over his head, throwing it on the floor next to him. His chest glows from the light out the windows, collarbones hollow, ab muscles tightening with each breath. What you didn't expect to see was a long scar going diagonally across his right pec. Something, or someone, had done that to him. You tried to rise from the couch, fingers extended to try and reach his stomach, but he stopped you. With enough force he pushed you back down onto the cushions.
"Enough of that," he said, hands coming to rest on your knees, spreading them apart before him, "you don't get to touch me without my permission now." A whine escaped your lips, eyes never breaking contact with his. He reaches for your skirt, your hips lift off the couch at the same moment he goes to tug it off of you. All that's left is a matching lacy black thong, already soaking wet.
Leon pushes your knees all the way apart, hands slowly creeping their way down your thighs, one stopping right at your pelvic bone while the other feels your mound over the underwear. Leon groans at the wet spot, the fact that you’re already so turned on for him makes him feral.
"Already so wet for me," he slowly rubs circles with his index and middle finger on your clothed clit, hips bucking up in reaction. He picks up the pace, other hand pressing firmer on your hip to stop from squirming. Your chest is heaving, one of your hands grasping at your breast to increase the stimulation.
"Fuck, Leon, been so long since someone's made me feel good like this," you moaned, "you do know how to make a woman cum, right? Or did they not teach you that in the military?" A laugh escapes your lips but is just as quickly morphed into a high gasp as your panties are ripped off of you, and two fingers are forcefully inserted deep in your core.
Leon wastes no time in pumping his fingers in and out of you, eyes transfixed on the way his fingers disappear inside of you. He can feel the way your walls are already tightening around him, causing the strain in his jeans even more unbearable. Your body writhes under his touch, your hands begging to wrap around his shoulders and claw your nails into his back.
"Leon..." you moaned, eyes pleading and lip pouting, "...need to touch you, please." You exhaled, breaths erratic as you felt that familiar knot in your stomach tightening.
"So you do know your manners," Leon purred, the pace of his fingers only getting faster, "you wanna touch me? Will that make you feel better?" A sloppy nod is your response, voice occupied with whines and moans.
“Use your words baby.”
“Y-yes! Please, Leon, let me touch you.”
"Good girl," a smile crept onto his face, pearly teeth catching the light. That gave you enough to lunge your arms around him, pulling your chest flush against his. Leon met you halfway with a kiss, never wavering in the motion of his fingers. He used his thumb to rub deep circles over your clit, causing a moan to vibrate against Leon's lips. That gave him the opportunity to slide his tongue in your mouth, deepening the kiss much more passionately.
You can feel yourself getting closer and closer, your hips grinding against Leon's fingers to reach that one sensitive spot. A third finger slips inside, the stretch burning your entrance in the best possible way. Your hands rake down his back, crescents indenting his back from your fingernails.
"You getting close? You gonna cum all over my fingers?" He teased, all three fingers curling right up inside of you, pace quickening at the reaction of your body.
"F-fuck, I'm so close," you whimpered, hips bucking and back arched off of the couch. The knot is taught in your belly, and with a few more strokes of his fingers and the deep circles over your clit, the knot snapped.
The orgasm flooded over your body, thighs shaking around Leon's hand, walls clenching tightly around his fingers. He continued to pump to ride out your high, until your back relaxed onto the couch and breaths evened.
You watched through lidded eyes as Leon pulled his fingers out of you, the digits soaked in your slick and glistening in the moonlight. Before you could realize what he was doing, the fingers prodded at your lips and you welcomed them into your mouth, tasting yourself on your tongue.
You sucked on his fingers, tongue swirling around them to swallow every last bit. Leon’s eyes were glued to your mouth, lips parted in awe and eyes full of lust.
“Fuck sweetheart, just like that,” he encouraged, taking the moment to register the beauty laid before him. Your hair was tousled over your shoulders, cascading down your chest and framing your breasts. Deep purple splotches were already beginning to form down your neck and chest, nipples pebbled from the brisk air of the apartment.
Leon’s mind was racing. You were so beautiful, so obedient to him, and that almost scared him. You didn’t know the extent to what he had been through in the last six years, you barely even knew who he was at all now. And he had convinced you to follow him back up to his apartment to let him bruise you? Let him ravage you? He felt sick. He felt like he was spoiling the last good thing left on this earth. He shook his head, cleared his throat and pulled his fingers out of your mouth.
“Turn around.”
You paused for a split second as you watched Leon’s hand exit your mouth and move to his belt buckle. You quickly flipped yourself around on the couch, hands and knees scrambling to prop yourself up. Your thighs still trembled from the orgasm that ripped through you not too long ago, your entrance aching at the emptiness. You could hear the clinking of Leon’s belt being unbuckled, jeans being unzipped and the soft thud of them hitting the floor next to you.
Leon’s large hands came to grip at your hips, hiking them higher up causing your face to smush against the couch cushions. One hand left your hip and you heard him hiss, sucking a breath through gritted teeth. It was your turn to gasp as you felt the tip of Leon’s aching cock swipe through your folds, coating the head with your slick. He lined up at your entrance, and wasted no time in fully pushing himself inside, bottoming out.
You yelped into the couch cushion, the hard smack of Leon’s hips against your ass is enough to make it sting. His cock hooks into that perfect spot, slamming it down again and again.
“God! Leon!” You whimpered, thankful now for his fingers stretching you out to prepare for what was about to come. You reached your hand in between your thighs to rub tight circles over your clit, matching the rhythm of the thrusts hitting your sensitive spot. Leon’s hands grip down hard on your hips, fingers pressing deep into your skin to keep him grounded. As if he needed to be touching you everywhere, he leaned down to press his chest against your back, grunts now purring in your ear.
“Fuck-” His voice is a growl, his lips brushing your ear as he feels you tighten around his cock, your walls fluttering as you once again get closer to that release. “So fucking pretty with my cock inside you.”
All that can be heard in the penthouse was the crack of his hips, balls slapping against your cunt as Leon quickened the pace even more. Moans just slipped out of your mouth involuntarily, forgetting the dominant front you had been putting up all night. He was making you feel delirious, eyes clouding with pleasure, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.
“Don’t stop baby, it’s right there, don’t stop…” You babbled, back arching into his chest the closer you got to another orgasm. Leon’s hand slid around your throat, not choking, but holding, claiming. His thrusts slow, just enough to tease, and you can feel a smirk press into your temple.
“You’re all mine, y/n. Say you’re mine, or I’ll stop.” His hips rolled against yours, his cock dragged against that soft spot inside of you, breath hot on your face.
“Yours! I-I’m all yours, Leon!” You cried out, hips backing into his to try and regain the stamina, orgasm fighting to flood all over you. You craned your head back to try and look at him, eyes watering and saliva dripping down your chin, eyes begging for more. “I belong to you Leon, please, belong to only you.”
With that, Leon’s body shudders, and his hips pick up their speed again, pounding deeper than before. You cry out in pleasure, hand fumbling at your clit to add intensity to that familiar knot tightening in your core.
“That’s it- take it,” Leon snarls, taking his hand off of your neck to replace it with his whole arm, stabilizing your head better the deeper he rammed inside of you. His bicep pulsed in front of you, and without thinking you buried your face into it, teeth sinking down into the hard flesh.
A guttural groan tore from Leon’s throat as the pain mixed with the pleasure, his cock throbbing inside of you. He unleashed a whole other wave of energy, cock rammed its way into your core, hard enough to almost split you in half. With every thrust that reached your sensitive spot, your teeth sunk deeper into his bicep to muffle the screams.
“Fuck! Yes, Leon!” You muffled into his arm, tears streaming down your face as the walls of your cunt constrict around Leon’s cock.
“Cum on my cock, baby, wanna feel you fucking soak me,” He groans, his hips never letting up on the pace, one hand still firmly gripped on your hip. With a few more thrusts, and your fingers pressing into your clit, the knot snapped. Your orgasm crashed into you, your entire body vibrating as the pleasure made its course.
your high. But he wasn’t done yet. The silence between them is thick, all that can be heard are the ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city below them. Leon’s fingers twitch against your hip, loosening slightly. Just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you go. His lips press against the back of your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin just hard enough to make you shiver. Every sense on your body is heightened, nerves shot and overstimulated.
“Fuck.” Leon exhales, almost like the sound of a chuckle. His hands slide up your waist, fingers splaying over your ribs like he’s mapping you, mesmerizing you. “You’re gonna be the death of me, y/n.”
You whimper as you feel him pull out, his cock still throbbing and red hot. “I think it’s gonna be the other way around, Leon. You haven’t even cum yet.”
“Yeah, about that.”
Leon gives you no time to react as he’s flipping you around, back against the couch and his body caging on top of you. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, his voice a low, dangerous purr,
“Round two.”
His mouth crashes onto you before you can respond, his kiss bruising and demanding. His hands roam all over your body like he’s starving for you, he grabs a handful of your breast and squeezes the soft flesh.
“Oh good,” you moan, “I’ve been dying to look at your pretty face while you fuck me.” Your hands cup the sides of Leon’s face as you kiss him deeper, your hips coming up the grind against rock hard member. Leon groaned into the kiss, his own hips grinding back letting his cock slide between your slick, swollen folds.
“Yeah? You wanna watch me as I pound into you? What a dirty girl.” He pulled his face back to meet his gaze to yours, eyes dark and possessive. You stared back at him with half lidded eyes, exhaustion slowly beginning to take over you with the alcohol wearing off.
You just smiled, hands leaving his face to rest on his shoulders. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling his hips flush to your core, begging to fill that empty void between your legs. Leon wastes no time and recognizes what you’re doing, he lines himself up and buries himself into you in one rough thrust.
“Keep your eyes on me, sweetheart,” he groaned, a hand reaching to grab ahold of your jaw. His grip is firm on your face, keeping it still and locked on his gaze. Your jaw slacks open, saliva dripping down your chin and onto his hand. He pounds into you, his cock repeatedly hitting that sensitive spot over and over again. His gaze burns into you, watching you as your back arches off of the couch, legs tightening around his waist to push him deeper inside.
“Oh Leon-” you whine, nails raking down his back, feeling every muscle tensing in his body. His pace is ruthless, hips snapping rapidly against you, the grip on your jaw tight enough to ache.
His possessiveness should scare you, but all you can do is writhe under his touch, walls clamping down around his cock. Your hand flies back down to your clit, rubbing tight circles around yourself as the intensity in your core builds up for the third time that night.
You watch as Leon’s gaze trails down to where you connect, where your hand sloppily teases at your clit. He grunts, slapping your hand away from your mound and replaces it with his own, thumb pressing down hard where your fingers once were. Your hips buck in reaction, rolling against his hand to create further friction. Leon lets out a breathy chuckle,
“Pussy’s all mine, love the way it’s fucking milking me,” he leans down to kiss you, tongue spreading your lips apart forcing his way in, “you’re gonna cum for me one more time, yes?”
“Mm- yes, one more, please-” You said, voice raw from whines and moans.
“You’re so close, I can feel you. Cum on my cock and then I’m gonna fill you right up it’ll be coming out of you for days.”
Your hands dig into Leon’s back, indenting the skin as he rams deeper into you, your stomach tightening with a third orgasm. The feeling is too much for you, your senses overstimulated and your body begins to shake.
“Oh f-fuck Leon!” You scream, eyes wiring shut and head thrown back on the couch cushion as the final knot snaps. Your body locks tight, feeling the pleasure consume you as Leon continues to pound into you, never slowing down the pace.
At the peak of your high, you feel a gush of liquid soak between your legs, you pull your head up to look down at where you’re connected. Your face goes red hot with embarrassment as you realize that you had squirted all over Leon. You don’t dare to meet his gaze as your head slams back down onto the couch eyes rolling into the back of your skull,
“Shit- sorry, I-I’ve never done that before…” You whisper, hands coming up to cover your face. Leon never slows the pace, but he leans down and tears your hands away to make you look at him.
“Don’t be sorry, it was fucking hot.” He smiles, coming down to plant a kiss on your lips. It was softer than before, lips pressing gently against your own almost as if to reassure you. Your body began to relax, legs loosening around his waist, arms now just resting around his neck. You looked over at Leon’s arm, a deep red bite mark left over on his bicep.
Leon’s thrusts became more sporadic, breathing uneven, you could tell he was nearing the end. You went to caress his face, holding his cheeks so you could stare into his icy blue eyes, looking just a little lighter than earlier in the night.
“You close, baby? Gonna use my pussy to get yourself off?” Leon’s body shudders, brows knitting together and lips parted ever so slightly.
“Fuck-” He groans, cock swelling inside of you, balls drawing up tight the closer he got to his release.
“Let me help,” You whisper, and with whatever energy you had left you lifted your hips slightly, letting him plow deeper inside. You clench around him tight, ready for him to fill you up.
“You want it? You want me to cum for you?” His hips thrust faster and more shallow as he chases his release, your walls almost too tight for how sensitive his cock is.
“Please, Leon, fill me up until it’s dripping out of me.”
The sound of almost a whimper escapes Leon’s lips, and with a final bruising thrust he buries himself inside you, his orgasm hitting him like a freight train. You can feel the hot ropes spurting inside of you, feeling impossibly full as he completely drained himself. He lets out a raw, desperate groan, his body trembling as he marks the inside of your walls.
Leon collapsed on top of you, the weight crushing your chest but also giving a sort of comforting pressure. You can feel his heart stammering against your chest, his sweat coated skin sticking to yours and his breaths fanning across your face. All that could be heard were the deep breaths the two of you were trying to regain, and the silence wasn’t tense. It was comfortable, and you could sense that Leon was beginning to accept that welcoming quiet.
Your foreheads are pressed together, your eyes fluttering open to see Leon’s wired shut, eyebrows still knotted together. Your hands come to gently hold his cheeks, one lifting to brush the hair that had messily fallen in front of his face. You placed a gentle kiss at the furrow of his brow, on the tip of his nose, and then his lips. He kissed back, strong at first, but then you could feel his muscles relax and melt further into the kiss. You pulled away, and brushed your thumb across his cheek.
“You okay?”
Leon’s eyes opened, scanning your features. Your tear stained cheeks, mascara smudged under your eyes, cheeks flushed pink and lipgloss that had been kissed away quite a while ago. He thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid his eyes on. And you were looking at him like how you used to. Like that optimistic twenty one year old who was still madly in love with you, who still felt like he had a purpose in life. That’s what scared him, that you weren’t aware of who he had become and you still trusted him. After he had used your body for pleasure, it definitely went far too rough than you were comfortable with, and you’re still here. Not running. He blinked a couple of times to register what you had just said, and nodded lazily.
“I should be asking you that, sweetheart,” he muttered, his thumb coming up to brush against your bottom lip, “I’m fine. Better, actually.”
“Good.” You smile, placing a kiss on his thumb. You look over across the apartment, the night sky dark without the bright lights of the city illuminating it. You glance over at a nearby clock, reading far too late to want to catch a cab at that hour.
“I hope this isn’t the part where you kick me out of your apartment,” you awkwardly chuckle, not meeting Leon’s gaze, “because honestly, I don’t think I’ll even be able to get off this couch if I wanted to.” You slowly look back at him and his brows are furrowed again, but not in that cold, dismissive way. It was more concerning, like how you could even be questioning that he would throw you out after everything? He shakes his head quickly, the hand at your bottom lip coming to fully caress the side of your face.
“What? No, I-I wouldn’t leave you like that. You’re staying.” His eyes widened slightly, like the thought of you leaving at a moment like this actually bothered him. His shoulders slumped a little, the exhaustion creeping its way through his body. You nodded, your eyes fixed on his so he could fully take in that you weren’t going to leave.
“Okay, I’ll stay.” You nudged your head against his as your arms came to embrace him. It was soft, genuine, and comforting. Not just for Leon, but for you too. What the two of you had done was intense and barbaric, and even though you had loved every second of it, you knew you needed this moment to come back down to earth.
You could feel Leon’s breath shuddering above you, his body tensing as if he’s not used to this type of comfort. Not used to somebody holding him without a sort of expectation. Your hand reached up to cradle the back of his head, gentle strokes through his hair. You turned your head slightly to place a soft kiss onto his temple.
“I’ll stay as long as you need me to, Leon,” you whispered, “I meant it when I said I can help you. You don’t have to talk about it, but you’ve gone through some tough shit. Might help to talk to someone who will listen.” You spoke carefully, not wanting to say the wrong thing or get him upset.
You knew that was a difficult thing to ask him, hell, it’s been six years since you’ve last seen each other. You’re practically strangers now. But there was a past, there was a time where the two of you could speak so openly to each other, you hoped that there was still a part of him that remembered that.
You continued to stroke his hair, and looked over his shoulder at the apartment around you. This place wasn’t home to him. It was somewhere to crash in between missions with the lack of personal decorations, except for that singular picture of the little girl. The bottles of whiskey littering the place left a bitter taste in your mouth, realizing that the only thing that could “ease” the pain was the alcohol. You wanted to be able to take that pain away from him, wanted to hold him close like this and tell him that everything would be fine.
You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, breathing getting a little erratic as his mind started to spin. He thought he wanted a distraction, something rough and meaningless to drown out the thoughts and forget the pain. But then you held him, fingers gliding through his hair, your gentle, genuine words.
Something inside him cracks. He remembers before Raccoon City, remembers the amount of joy you brought into his life. How he could come to you to talk about anything. His heart ached at the memories, he didn’t deserve to spill his trauma onto you after all this time, he didn’t want to burden you more than he had already done tonight. But your words were so soft, your lips against his temple so comforting. Years of building those impossibly tall walls felt like they were beginning to crumble.
His hand slid up your back, fingers trembling as they splayed over your spine, pulling you closer. His head nestled into the crook of your neck, hiding his face as he could feel it getting hot. His voice is a rasp, like he’s afraid to speak too loud or the moment will shatter.
“You don’t get it, y/n. I don’t deserve this,” his breath shakes against your collarbone, “I-I did what I could in Raccoon City, but it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t save everyone, I couldn’t save-” His voice cracks, and he stops himself. He lifted his head to look at you, and you instantly raised your hands to cradle his face. His eyes were red and glassy, breath stuttering as he whispered,
“I survived that day. And everyday since then, I wish I hadn’t.”
You can feel your own eyes start to get well up, but you swallow it away. You have to stay strong for him, be the one to bring him back. You push yourself up on the couch, sitting Leon up and settling yourself in his lap. You grab ahold of Leon’s face again, a little firmer to make sure he’s looking right at you.
“Stop thinking you’re a lost cause, Leon, because you’re not,” you said with a firm tone, not meaning to scold him, but to try and reason with him. “The guilt is eating you away, and it may not feel like it, but you do deserve this. You deserve to feel better.”
Leon lets out a deep, shaky breath, hands resting at your hips, fingers digging into the flesh gently.
“You should run now before it's too late,” he mumbled, “I’m just gonna drag you down.”
“Don’t say shit like that.” Your voice couldn’t help but break, it killed you to hear him talk about himself so lowly and watch the defeated expression on his face. Your arms wrap around his neck, face leaning in to press light kisses onto his cheeks. “You tell me to run, and it only makes me want to stay even more. I’m not gonna give up on you Leon, you hear me?” You notice his gaze shifted, eyes looking at the picture of the little girl. His face hardened, trying to contain the emotions beyond the surface.
“Who is she?” You said ever so softly. You felt his muscles tense at the question, surprised you even noticed the picture. His fingers press into your hips deeper, trailing his gaze back to your eyes.
“Her name’s Sherry,” He rasped, looking down at your hips where his hands are holding, “she was twelve when I found her in Raccoon City. Twelve, y/n.”
“And you couldn’t..?”
“N-no, I did get her out. We were both taken under the government. But no kid should ever go through what she had to. That I couldn’t save.” Leon’s head drops to your shoulder, breath fanning over you as he tries to calm himself down.
“We can stop-”
“-And I still hear the screams,” he begins, voice cracking, “I hear them in my dreams. I see the blood, the fire, and I can’t fucking escape it.” His shoulders begin to shake, and you wrap your arms around them tight. You hold him as silent sobs rake through him, brushing your hand up and down his spine.
“Oh, Leon,” you whispered, softly shushing as you felt his hands slide up your waist and pull you closer against him, “you’re okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
You let him hold you for as long as he needed, rubbing soothing circles over his back to help calm his breathing. You could feel a tear of your own roll down your cheek, letting yourself feel everything he had been dealing with on his own for all of these years. You were unbelievably proud of the amount he shared with you, you knew this wasn’t easy for him and you were just grateful that he was able to trust you.
Leon’s shoulders stopped shaking, and his breathing returned to a steady rhythm. When you felt like he had calmed down enough, and you felt composed enough, you pulled away from the embrace, arms resting on Leon’s shoulders. His head hung low, not meeting your gaze, but you noticed his flush face and tear streaked cheeks nonetheless. You brought a hand to gently lift his chin, his blue eyes; once dark and icy now slowly melting into a sky blue meeting yours.
“Thank you for talking to me, Leon,” You began, voice steady and comforting, “you don’t have to go through this alone anymore. But I’m gonna need you to trust me.” Your thumb circles his shoulder, watching as his brows twitch at your words. He’s crying for help, even if he doesn’t realize it. The liquor bottles scattered all over the place, his under eyes dark, the self deprecating talk. He’s needed a shoulder to cry on for years.
“If this is gonna work, you’re gonna have to put your guard down, and let me in. You’ve already done a great job, Leon.” It wasn’t stern, wasn’t demanding, but enough to put your point across. He scoffed, head leaning into the touch of your hand,
“Don’t know if crying like a baby is considered a good job.” You sighed, the hand on his shoulder coming to wipe the tears off of his cheeks.
“Letting yourself cry about it is a great start. You’re allowing yourself to feel that pain. To own it.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” You confirm, giving him a confident look to make him believe your words. You give him another tight embrace, rubbing soft circles on his back, feeling the scratches from your nails earlier. You could feel the sweat sticking to your skin, the smell of sex and whiskey on his body. His hair was sticking up in various places from your fingers running through it, while yours clung to your forehead and the sides of your face. You needed a shower. Bad.
The night had been exciting enough, but now all you wanted to do was take care of Leon. It was time to wind down. You slowly let go of Leon and stood from the couch, your hand still holding one of his.
“Where’s your bathroom, honey? Can I help you clean up?” Leon shuddered at your words, fingers tightened around your hand, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His gaze drops down to your entwined hands, your thumb brushing over his knuckles.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” his voice is hoarse, uneven, “second door on the left.”
You nod gently, and guide him off of the couch and towards the bathroom. He follows slowly behind, intensely watching you find your way. The alcohol is fading away, the adrenaline, and all you can feel is exhaustion. Your body aches, and your mind is flooded with all different sorts of emotions. The severity of Leon’s condition was a lot worse than you had thought, and you wouldn’t lie and say it didn’t scare you. But he had been going through this alone, didn't have anyone to speak through his feelings with, he was carrying this burden all on his own. He didn’t have to do that anymore.
The bathroom was dark, the only light coming from the city outside the shower window. The tile is cold on your feet, and you switch on the light and stark white illuminated the room. Both of you squint at the harsh light, eyes slowly adjusting from the contrast of the dimly lit living room.
You let go of Leon’s hand and move to the shower to run the water, getting it hot enough to handle on your skin. You turn around to face him and he’s resting against the sink, head slumped, gaze on the floor. Now you can clearly see him. The scar on the right side of his chest is a lot more noticeable, long and jagged. You now notice smaller, more faded scars littering his torso ranging from thin and long to thick and rugged.
“Job’s not been very kind to me,” Leon muttered, now looking dead on at you. You meet his gaze, cheeks getting slightly warm from being caught staring. You just give a weak smile, and walk towards him.
“I didn’t mean to stare.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, “let me take care of you.” You rest your hands on his shoulders, giving them comforting rubs. Leon just nods weakly, and you slide your hands to hold his as you guide him into the shower.
The room is filled with steam as you let him step in first, standing under the water to wash away the initial sweat on his body. His hands grip on yours a little tighter as the water hits his back, the heat stinging against the fresh scratches. You tighten your grip back for just a second, enough to ground him, before letting go and reaching for the soap.
“Let me know if anything hurts.” You lather the soap in between your hands, the scent of something clean and citrusy cutting through the humid air of the bathroom. You start with his shoulders, your fingers working the soap into his skin. You carefully move across his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles, the ridges of his scars. There’s no ounce of pity in your movements, just care. You stand behind him to work on his back, and you place a gentle kiss on the back of his neck.
“You’re not alone in this, Leon,” your hands move down to his arms, scrubbing over the red bite mark on his bicep, “Anything you tell me won’t scare me away. I’m here for you.” You step around to face him, putting down the soap to grab the bottle of shampoo. His eyes are already looking at you when you look up, blue irises tired. He doesn’t say anything, but from the way he’s looking you know he’s listening. He always listened. You put some shampoo in your hands and lather them together before reaching up to spread it through his hair.
Just as Leon’s clean, you go to grab the soap and begin to clean yourself when he gently grabs your wrist. He takes the soap from you, and guides you to stand under the water.
“Your turn.”
You chuckle, remembering from earlier, and let Leon take care of you. He lathers the soap against your body, the valley between your breasts, down your thighs, and across your back. His fingers are firm over your muscles, working out the knots already beginning to form. You flutter your eyes shut as you feel his fingers massage shampoo and conditioner through your hair, taking in the moment.
Just as quickly as it began you hear the shower shut off, and Leon grabs your hand to guide you out of the shower. You drip on the bathroom floor before Leon wraps a towel around you, then wraps one over himself. You dry off in a comfortable silence, absorbing all the water off of your skin and shaking the towel through your hair so it stops dripping.
You wrap the towel around yourself before taking a step out of the bathroom, “Where can I find some pyjamas, hun? Your room?”
Leon’s towel is wrapped very loosely around his waist, damp hair sticking out from all angles as he nods his head.
“My room’s down there,” he rasps as he points towards the end of the hall, “but you don’t have to-”
“I know. I want to.” You take a step closer to him, acknowledging him. You grab one of his hands, and brush your thumb over the outside of it. He squeezes it back gently, and the two of you head to his bedroom.
Leon’s room was what you had expected. Dark walls and furniture, king sized bed with black, plush sheets. More floor to ceiling windows to the right but with a balcony that overlooked the city. To your left you found his closet, and made your way over there. There wasn’t much clothing, mostly work clothes and athletic wear, but you were able to find some grey sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. You also picked up a pair of briefs for underneath the sweats.
You emerge from the closet, finding Leon standing awkwardly in the middle of the room looking like a lost puppy. You couldn’t understand how he could look so uncomfortable in his own home. You laid his clothes on the bed, and walked up to him carefully not to scare him.
“Can I put these clothes on you?” A slight nod from Leon was the consent you needed to peel away the towel from his hips, dropping it to the floor next to him. You carefully threaded his legs through the briefs and sweats, and pulled the shirt over his head, brushing his hair back into place with your fingers.
“Thank you, y/n.” He whispered, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. You cover it with your own, giving him a warm smile.
“Don’t mention it,” you reach on your tip toes to place a soft kiss on his lips, quick and sweet. You turn back to the closet, in search of something to wear yourself. You sifted through the closet, and landed on an old RPD hoodie. It was oversized for you, but it would work for the night. You threw it over your head, pulling your damp hair from the hood and letting it rest on your shoulders.
You walked back into the bedroom, your hands stuffed in the pockets, “I hope it’s okay if I wear this, probably more comfortable than sleeping in a mini skirt.”
Leon’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, eyes scanning your body, reading the old, faded letters of ‘RACCOON CITY POLICE’ on the front of the hoodie.
“It’s fine,” his gaze drops to the floor, his fingers twitching at his sides, “looks better on you than it ever did on me.”
“I very much doubt that,” you scoff, a sheepish smile forming over your face. Leon pats the bed beside him, voice softening.
“Come here.”
You waste no time sitting next to him, and he pulls you in close. His arm wraps around your shoulders, fingers tracing absent circles on your arm. You rest your hand on his chest, feeling the soft patter of his heart. The city casts long shadows over the room, lights flickering outside the windows.
“I’ve never had anyone stay here before.” Leon whispers in a confession, chin resting on the top of your head. Your head nestles into his chest, taking in the clean smell of his clothes and skin. No scent of whiskey lingers anymore, no vices to hide his true self.
“Thanks for letting me be the first,” you whisper back, kissing the base of his neck. He just holds you closer, a heavy sigh escapes his lips. You let him hold you for as long as he needs to. It feels too normal, cuddled up to Leon like this, in his clothes, smelling like his shampoo. Like it’s always meant to be this way.
You turn your head to look out the window, the city lights still glittering in the night sky. You get up from the bed and walk towards the window, arms crossed over your chest.
“I’ts a pretty view,” you said mostly to yourself, looking down at the still busy streets even at this hour.
“Beautiful.”
Leon’s voice was hoarse in your ear as you felt him come up behind you, chest pressed against your back and head resting on your shoulder. But he wasn’t looking out the window, he was looking down at you. A wide, goofy smile spread across your face as you tilted your head to rest against his. His arms snaked around your waist, pulling you in close.
“Peaceful, huh? Quiet can be good at times,” you mumbled, relaxing into his touch. You could feel his heart pattering again, as if he’s fighting the urge to enjoy the silence. The calm. You turn to face him, arms wrapping around his waist, “I’m proud of you, Leon. Proud of you for opening up to me. That’s a big step.”
“I don’t deserve your pride.”
You sigh, and instead of arguing, you stand on your tip toes to give him a passionate, but caring kiss. Nothing further, just enough to ease his nerves. You pull away, but stay on your tip toes, faces inches apart.
“Too bad. Pride’s just pouring out of me, baby.” For the first time that night, and maybe for the first time in a while, Leon genuinely laughs. He rests his forehead against yours, and pulls you into a tight embrace.
“Alright then.”
You stay like that for a minute, until a yawn escapes your lips. You pull back and rub your eyes with your hand.
“Bed?” Leon inquires.
“Please.” He chuckles, and places his hand on the small of your back to guide you to bed.
You slide under the covers, cool on your skin, but is quickly replaced by the warmth of Leon’s chest. You curl into his side, head resting on his chest, fingers tracing patterns over his heart. One of Leon’s hands slides into your damp hair, nails scratching against your scalp. You hum in content, eyes getting heavy with sleep. With the gentle rhythm of Leon’s breathing, the scratches on your scalp, and the plush bedsheets, it doesn’t take long for you to fall fast asleep.
Leon stays awake a while longer, just watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you sleep peacefully.
He thinks about earlier in the night, how much he tried to push you away at the bar, how many warnings he gave that you completely ignored. And he couldn’t be more grateful that you did. He doesn’t wince as he remembers your time together in college, actually reminiscing about how young and carefree the two of you were. He realizes that the love he had for you so long ago never went away, and all it took was for you to drunkenly stumble into him at that shitty dive bar.
For the first time in years, Leon sleeps through the night.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › bucky moves into your spare room expecting nothing more than four walls and a place to sleep. instead, he finds floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sticky note conversations, late-night takeout, and a girl who always puts herself last.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › roommate!bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › roommates trope, post tfatws, sticky note communication, friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, slow burn, domestic fluff, many many hot dog mentions, anxiety, work stress/burnout, author has mini geek speak moments, anthropology reader, emotional intimacy, quiet romance, self-doubt, mild emotional hurt/comfort, sticky note love language, reader insecurity, loneliness, not beta read we die like men.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 11.3k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › and they were roommates.... oh my god they were roommates
The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.
Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.
He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.
Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.
He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.
“You could stay here for a while,” Sam had said.
“No.”
“You don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.”
“No.”
Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.
“You know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.”
Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Not taking charity.”
“It ain't charity.”
“Feels like it.”
Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.
“I know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.”
Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.
“You won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,” he said. “You'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.”
That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.
Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.
He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.
Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.
The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.
Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.
Then another message.
He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.
What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.
There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.
Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.
He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.
The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.
There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.
The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.
The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.
But it isn't the room that makes him stop.
It's the hallway.
Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.
His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.
It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.
He pulls his phone out.
Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.
The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.
It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.
He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.
That last one almost makes him smile.
He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.
Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.
He never sees you once.
The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.
Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.
There is a sticky note on the fridge.
Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.
He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.
The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.
Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.
Then another on the kitchen counter.
If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.
It's strange, living with someone he has never met.
You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.
The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.
Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.
You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.
Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.
He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.
He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.
The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.
Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, “You look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.”
By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.
“Mustard, onions, no kraut,” the guy says, already reaching for the buns. “And a Coke.”
“You're getting too comfortable,” Bucky tells him.
“You keep showing up, that's on you.”
He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.
The guy asks questions constantly.
You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?
Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.
Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.
Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.
The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.
He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.
He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.
“You can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.”
He stops just inside the doorway.
You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.
For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.
He had built you into something abstract in his head.
Not a real person.
Certainly not a woman.
Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.
Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.
The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.
You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.
“Yeah, well, that's not my problem,” you say into the phone, quieter now. “I sent everything over already.”
Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.
You freeze.
It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.
“Hold on,” you murmur into the phone.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.
There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look… real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.
The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.
You recover first.
“Sorry,” you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “I didn't know you were coming home.”
“Yeah.”Brilliant move.
You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. “Hope that's not dinner.”
He looks down too. “It was the plan.”
You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. “You eat like a divorced dad.”
He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, “I have to call you back,” before hanging up without waiting for an answer.
The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.
“Sorry about that,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “Work call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.”
There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.
“Don't worry about it.”
You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.
“I don't think we've actually been properly introduced.” You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.
“No. I don't think we have.” His hand slips from yours after only a moment. “I'm Bucky.”
“I know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.” You give him a small apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. My job is very… time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”
Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.
“So what do you do?”
“How are you liking the place?”
You stop. He stops.
“Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to go first.
“I was just asking how you're liking the place.” Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. “Have you settled in well?”
“Oh, yeah.” He nods once. “Place is great. Thank you.”
And it is.
He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.
You smile a little at his answer. “Good.”
More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.
“And you? Were gonna say...?”
“Oh.” He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. “I was just wondering what you do... that's so...” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “Time demanding.”
“Oh. Right.” You shift your weight against the windowsill. “I work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.”
He blinks once. “Wow.”
You laugh softly at the look on his face.
“That sounds awesome.”
“It used to be,” you say with a wry little smile. “Now it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.”
He leans back slightly against the doorframe.
“If you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?” he asks. “Nasty commute.”
You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.
“I got this place before I got that job,” you say. “And I liked it.” Then, quieter, “Still like it.”
Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.
“That's actually why I wanted a roommate,” you admit. “I love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...” You shrug one shoulder. “I just don't have the time to do that.”
Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.
“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “I'll... I'll do my best.”
You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.
“I'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,” you say. “Work's been insane.”
“You leave good notes.”
The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.
Your eyebrows lift. “That's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”
You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.
“Sorry,” you say, already answering it. “I have to take this.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.
A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.
The apartment feels different after he meets you.
Not immediately and nothing dramatic.
You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.
But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.
The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.
He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.
You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.
Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.
Soup is still alive. I think.
He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.
Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.
You stop when you see him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.
“Soup still alive?” you ask.
“Barely.”
You drop your bag onto a chair.
“Well.” You glance toward the fridge. “Soup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.”
Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.
After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.
Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.
He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.
Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.
Another day:
Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.
He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.
You had one job.
Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.
Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.
You leave back:
So do I.
He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.
One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.
New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.
He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.
Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.
The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.
I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.
And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.
As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.
Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.
So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.
Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.
The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.
He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.
Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.
You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.
The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.
The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.
This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?
He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.
After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.
You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.
Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.
Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.
The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.
You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.
One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.
You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.
“Rude,” you say.
“You weren't home yet.”
“You could've texted.”
He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.
“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters.
You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.
You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. “You know, normal people usually just call maintenance.”
“Normal people don't have metal arms.”
That makes you laugh. “Fair point.”
Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.
You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.
He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.
You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.
The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.
Thanks for the blanket.
Below it, in smaller handwriting:
That was very disgustingly nice of you.
A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.
He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.
You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.
You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.
He leans against the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”
You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.
“Sometimes.”
“You sure?”
“Not particularly.”
He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You know it's two in the morning, right?”
You glance down at your laptop clock. “Oh.”
“You didn't know?”
“I thought it was maybe midnight.”
He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. “What are you even doing?”
You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.
“I'm… up for a promotion.”
Bucky looks over at you. “What kind?”
“A curator position.”
He leans back against the counter. “At the museum?”
You nod.
“In the anthropology division.” Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. “If I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.”
As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.
“That sounds...” He shakes his head once. “That sounds awesome.”
“It would be.” You smile a little, staring down at your notes. “I mean, it would be everything.”
You glance around at the papers spread across the table. “I've wanted it for years.”
Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.
“But it's probably unrealistic anyway.”
Bucky frowns. “Why?”
You laugh softly to yourself.
“Because you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,” you say. “It's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.”
That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
“It's just wishful thinking,” you say quietly. “Then you die trying.”
He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.
He sets his glass down on the counter. “That sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.”
You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.
“You know that, right?” he says. “The way you talk about it.”
Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.
“I don't know,” you say after a second.
“Yeah, you do.”
The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.
Then you smile. “Thanks, Buck.”
And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.
A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.
It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.
The shelves are uneven in places.
Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.
It feels lived in, it feels like you.
He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.
You actually read all of these?
He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.
He pulls it free.
Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.
He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.
There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.
Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.
The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.
You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.
The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.
I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.
He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.
You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.
He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.
But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.
A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.
Well?
He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.
Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.
The next day:
That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.
He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.
They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.
One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.
A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.
Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:
Thought this looked lonely.
Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.
After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.
You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.
Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.
One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.
“You got me one?”
“You looked tired.”
You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.
The hot dog guy notices eventually.
“Where's the pretty museum girl?” he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.
Bucky frowns. “Who?”
“The roommate you said you have.” The guy grins. “I wanna meet her.”
“No. Not happening.”
The guy laughs. “Oh, so that's what we're doing now.”
Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Mm.”
You take the hot dog from his hand. “You have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.”
He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.
Bucky glances over at the shelf. “You said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.”
You look up from your book. “Yeah.”
“So what was the first?”
You smile immediately.
“There was this used bookstore in Queens,” you say. “I was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.”
He watches your face change as you talk.
“The cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.”
You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.
“I used all the money I had to buy it.”
“And then?”
“And then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.” You laugh softly. “That was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.”
“You found all of them?”
“Almost.” You shake your head. “Never found the last one.”
There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.
In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.
After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.
The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.
Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.
He knows immediately you're going to forget it.
And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.
“I already sent the file,” you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. “No, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterday—”
Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.
“Happy birthday.”
You stop and blink at him.
“Oh,” you say after a second. “Right.”
You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. “I completely forgot.”
Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.
So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.
It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.
He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.
That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.
He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.
The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.
Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.
“You forgot your birthday,” he says.
You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.
“Bucky...” is all you manage.
He gets flustered immediately.
“It's not a big deal,” he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. “I just...” He looks down for a second. “Figured somebody should celebrate you.”
The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.
“You got me a cake?”
“Yeah.”
“With candles?”
He glances at the little crooked row of them.
“That's usually how birthdays work.”
You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.
The candles flicker softly between you.
“You didn't have to do this,” you say quietly.
“I know.”
“But you did anyway. Why?”
He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.
You look down at the cake then back up at him.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I guess I should make a wish.”
You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.
The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.
“And this is... also a thing.”
You blink. “You got me a present?”
“You don't have to sound so surprised.”
You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.
Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.
“The last one,” you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. “The last volume of The Canterbury Tales.”
Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.
You shake your head in disbelief. “Where did you even—”
“Just found it.” He shrugs.
“Bucky.”
“Took a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 so…” he admits.
You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.
"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.
A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.
Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.
“What'd you wish for?” Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.
You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.
“Can't tell you,” you say. “State secrets now.”
He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.
You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.
The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.
Bucky laughs.
“So you've always been weird about books.”
“That's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.”
“Those are different.”
“They're really not.”
You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.
He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.
He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.
By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.
He notices you fighting sleep before you do.
“You're falling asleep.”
“No, I'm not.” You yawn immediately after saying it.
He smiles. “You absolutely are.”
You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.
For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.
You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.
“Buck?” you mumble sleepily.
“I got you.”
You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.
He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.
Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Happy birthday,” he whispers.
As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.
The call comes on a Tuesday.
Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.
You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. “I got an interview.”
He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. “What?”
“For the curator position.” You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. “Next week.”
For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.
“Oh,” you say quietly. “Oh no.”
The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.
You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.
Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.
“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“No,” you say immediately.
He sits down across from you. “What's wrong?”
You stare down at the papers in your lap. “What if I embarrass myself?”
“You won't.”
“What if they ask me something I don't know?”
“You'll know it.”
“What if I freeze?”
“You won't.”
You glare at him a little. “You don't know that.”
He leans back against the couch.
“I know you.”
That quiets you for a second.
Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.
Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.
“I didn't go to the right schools,” you say finally. “I don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified and—”
“They're gonna be lucky if they get you.”
You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.
“You mean that?” you ask softly.
“Yeah.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”
You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.
Then you freeze.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, pulling back immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”
Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.
You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.
When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.
“Okay,” you say softly.
“Okay,” he echoes.
After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.
Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.
Now it just feels like home.
Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.
He fails.
By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.
You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You blink. “No.”
He smiles a little. “You're gonna do great.”
You snort quietly and reach for your mug. “You legally have to say that because you live with me.”
“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it's true.”
That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.
“Still feels like I'm gonna throw up.”
“You'll throw up after,” he says. “Like a professional.”
That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.
“Keys,” you mutter to yourself. “Wallet. Phone. Museum badge—”
“Hey.”
You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.
“It's crooked.”
“Oh.”
His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.
“You got this,” he says.
You nod once then you're gone.
The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.
By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.
He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.
“Hey,” he says carefully from the couch. “How'd it go?”
You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.
“I didn't get it.”
The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.
“Oh.”
You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. “Yeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.”
He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.
But then you shrug one shoulder.
“But...” You look down for a second. “They gave me a raise.”
He blinks, surpised. “Okay.”
“And they're opening a new assistant position to ‘lessen my workload.’”
That takes him a second to process.
“So...” He leans forward a little. “You still got something?”
“I guess.” You look exhausted more than anything. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.”
Bucky nods slowly.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”
Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.
“Come on.”
You look up. “What?”
“Let's go get hot dogs.”
You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.
“Okay.”
The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.
“Uh oh,” he says. “This feels emotional.”
You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.
“Don't encourage him,” he mutters.
“Too late,” the guy says. “I like her.”
Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.
“You had a bad day.”
“So?”
“So let me buy you a hot dog.”
You don't fight him after that.
On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.
It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.
“Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“You ever hear that whole ‘rejection is just redirection' thing?”
He glances over at you. “...No?”
You laugh softly under your breath. “It's just this thing people say.”
“Okay.” He nods once.
“But that's not what I was getting at.”
He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.
“You know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?”
“Yeah?”
Your smile is smaller now.
"I think it just came true.”
He frowns a little. “You… wished to get passed up on the promotion?”
“No,” you say with a breath of laughter. “No.”
You look at him then, really look at him.
“I wished...” Your voice goes quiet. “That I could spend more time with you.”
Everything in him goes still.
The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.
He ducks his head, shaking it a little.
“State secrets, huh?” he teases softly.
You blush immediately. “Shut up.”
But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.
A week later, you come home before sunset.
Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.
“You're home early,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.
“I know. Weird, right?”
He smiles a little. “You get fired?”
“Not yet.” You step farther into the kitchen. “I actually have tomorrow afternoon off.”
“Wow.”
“I know,” you say again. “I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.”
He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.
“Do you wanna come by the museum?”
He looks up. “The museum?”
“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. “I could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.”
He tries to act casual. “Sure.”
But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.
The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.
You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.
Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.
You smile the second you spot him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.
You talk with your hands when you're excited.
You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.
“And this one,” you say, pointing toward an old display case, “people never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.”
Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.
Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.
At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.
“Every museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,” you say.
Bucky looks over at you. “Yours probably happened after a meeting.”
You scoff. “No. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.”
He laughs harder than he should an you grin.
“I'm serious. It was humiliating.”
“You cried over a label?”
“I care deeply about accuracy.”
“You're insane.”
“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at the whale. “But I'm right.”
He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.
The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.
You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.
They're beautiful.
But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.
“I used to come here when I first got the job,” you say softly.
He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.
“I'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.” You smile faintly to yourself. “So I'd come sit in here.”
You lean back a little farther against the bench.
“It helped me remember how small I am.” A pause. “How insignificant everything is.”
You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.
“You're probably the most important thing...” He swallows a little. “To me.”
The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.
You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.
“It's pretty, huh?”
He smiles.
“Yeah...”
But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.
When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.
“What are you gonna do now?”
You blink. “With what?”
“No promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?”
You let out a quiet breath, thinking.
“You know,” you say, “I have no idea.”
You lean your head against his shoulder. “For as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.”
He tilts his head lightly against yours. “What do you want now?”
You look up at him and smile softly.
“You.” Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.”
He laughs and the sound echoes quietly through the stars, you both lean into each other, and suddenly the future doesn't feel so frightening. Because whatever it looks like now, you'll be in it together.
summary: you had worked in the dso for almost a year now doing logistics and communications. you preferred the quiet and being behind a screen. however, sherry believed that working as an assistant for leon would benefit not only you, but him too.
so you were now assigned as leon s. kennedy's assistant.
both of you had your own problems, and it was only a matter of time until either one of you was going to crash.
"you'll be fine, trust me. he's not scary at all." sherry said, filing through papers, her eyes scanning each one.
you paced back and forth, pushing your hair out of your face and then rubbing your necklace between your fingers.
"you've known him for so long- i've only heard of him like he's a myth!" you exclaimed, stopping in your circles and staring at sherry with a desperacy.
"you're perfect for the job." her gaze was taken from the files and onto you, her eyes full of certainty.
you wiped your clammy palms on your pencil skirt. this unbearable dread had been planted in your chest, you should've called in sick this morning to escape this fate. you felt yourself grow smaller, if that was even possible, because in your mind - it was.
"sherry, i'm not- i'm not sure i can even do this-" you took a deep breath in. you did not write out those positive affirmation post-it-notes and stick them to your mirror for nothing. you nodded, "it's fine. i can do this."
"there we go." sherry chuckled a little, the corners of her rosy lips curving upwards. she placed her hand firmly on your shoulder. "this is major for you. don't let this opportunity pass you by."
"yes, sher- ma'am."
sherry let out another laugh, rubbing her thumb slightly on your shoulder before letting go and placing a pile of folders in your hands.
"you'll need these. now, take a deep breath and go in that office. you've got this," sherry assured, a bright encouragement shined from her smile.
the files anchored you down and you paused mid-walk over. you turn your head over your shoulder, like a child seeking her mother's approval.
sherry mouthed "go" at you with a proud grin stretched on her face.
this was easy for her. it was far away from easy for you.
at the end of the corridor was a dark grey door, with the name 'leon s. kennedy' engraved into a golden platter. you weren't used to feeling important. sure, you worked at the dso, but you were used to blending into the shadows - drawing attention to yourself was the last thing you wanted to do.
and working for leon s. kennedy was going to attract the attention you hated.
you pushed the heavy door open with your back, your heart pounding out of your chest. it was just a person. just a guy. just some man. don't be afraid of a man, don't let him intimidate you. you were going to be his assistant, you had to get to know him. just be sociable for the next... however many hours.
the grey, february light filtered through the windows, and the cold air conditioning made the office into what could be mistaken as a freezer. there was a dying plant on one shelf, a long rifle held on another. a coat hanger held a navy blue scarf and various leather jackets. a framed photo reflected the light, and two figures could be made out - it seemed to be him and sherry, fairly recent.
the broad figure looked up from his paperwork to raise an eyebrow at the woman who just clumsily stepped into his office with a pile of files in her hand.
"who are you?" his deep, oddly soothing voice drew you from your observations. his eyes fell to the folders you were holding, "need help?"
now, you were observing him.
his hay-like hair fell around his face, a few greys woven within his chestnut brown. his eyes were sharp and pale, as if they were clear and contrasted against the dark frame of his eyelashes. his face was tight with frustration and exhaustion, evident in the deep crease in his eyebrow.
your stomach dropped into your ass.
"y/n. i mean miss l/n. the new- your new assistant." you stuttered through your sentences as if they were obstacles. god nothing looked better than dying in a hole. first impressions were everything, according to your mother, and you had already humiliated yourself.
"ah, yes. sherry said," he replied, standing up from his seat, his expression softening, but you were too terrified to even look him in the eye - actually your eyes found the floor to be incredibly interesting.
"i have your folders, sir- sherry sent me here with them. i can sort them out if you'd like," you began, rushing over to his desk and sorting through them already, your fingers frantically flicking through them all. maybe if you moved fast enough, he wouldn't notice your inability to deal with words.
"it's okay. it seems like they're sorted already." he said, his voice thinning as he watched your fingers maneuver rapidly through paper.
"yes sir, color-coded." you managed a small smile towards him. nothing was safer than color coding.
"just call me leon. i'm not assessing your usefulness in the first five minutes of our meeting, you know." he joked, placing his steady fingers on top of your fiddling ones, "you can breathe."
"sorry." you mumbled, stepping back to behind his desk.
"nervous?"
"no." you said, too quickly. you bit your lip, "is it that obvious?"
"you'll be fine." a smile tugged on his lips, "how about coffee to relax nerves?" he asked, his head tilting to the side.
you paused to try to understand how coffee could relax nerves but you agreed anyway. following him outside his office, you saw sherry give a small thumbs up among the labyrinth of desks and sea of workers. you exchanged with her an unsure crooked smile and she winked at you. traitor.
"sir- leon. the break room is down there-" your hand awkwardly pointed behind you.
"let's try the new coffee shop down the road. seems nicer in my opinion. if sherry told me you were starting today i would've..." he started to mumble to himself about welcoming you properly and that no one tells him anything around here.
you followed him quietly out of security and out of the dso building. the harsh cold nipped at your nose, making your ears sting. you tried to keep up with leon as you buttoned your coat up, the two of you walking along the pavement. all the trees were beginning to bloom again, green leaves attempting to free themselves from their cocoons. you liked this time of the year, the evenings becoming lighter - you could drive home in the sunset, the golden light blindingly bright, the warm caress of the sun rays brought you an abundance of happiness. but that is of course, only when you finished on time.
"you worked as an assistant before or..?" he started, noting how quiet your footsteps were, despite you wearing heels.
"yea, just for a little while when, uhm, sarah was off." you replied, fiddling with the button on your blazer.
"how did that go?"
"i did well. good enough." you answered, observing the way he placed himself on the outside of the pavement.
"heard that you did better than sarah herself." he huffed, catching your eyes as he looked down at you.
"i did not, she- i just reorganised a few things." you stuttered, a heat crawling up your neck.
"not what i heard." he shook his head, amused by your stubborness.
"well." you weren't sure what to say. "thank you?"
he laughed a little, "you're welcome."
he outstretched his arm to open the door to the coffee shop for you. the warmth of the shop made you sigh, your stiff fingers absorbing the heat.
"how can i help you today?" the cashier questioned, an eager smile on her face. you turned to leon who was already looking at you.
"order what you want, it's on me." he said, his hand on your shoulder, nudging you out of the way of passing customers.
giving him the faintest hint of a smile, you placed your order.
"name?" the cashier asked, seemingly patient.
"uh, y/n." you replied.
"could you repeat that again?"
you repeated yourself, a blush creeping onto your cheeks. she stared back at you blankly.
leon said your name louder, the cashier nodded and typed into the till. internally, you had smashed your head against the counter.
leon ordered his drink, his adam's apple protruding and his grey stubble coated his jaw, making you wonder how old he was. you noticed how his hair looked blonder under the warm light of the morning, and how the scowl on his face had softened into a smile. he felt your stare, and his eyes flicked back to you as he spoke to the cashier about some tab. caught, you snapped your head back the floor, because you forgot about how interesting floors can get.
you two waited by the window, sat on the stools.
"so, sherry taught you everything then?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.
you nodded enthusiastically, "she's a great teacher."
"i'm sure you were a great student."
your face was on fire and you hoped that your entire face was not red.
your name is called, thank god, and leon goes to pick up the two cups, placing the smaller one in your hand.
"you live nearby?"
"yeah, just one of the villages nearby. only forty minutes." you mumbled, "it's nice. and quiet. i like it there."
"quiet's good. you don't get that around here." he nodded slightly.
the two of you continued talking, a few awkward silences, but as the two of you navigated through the conversations, you two got used to how the other works. you found out that leon drank his coffee black, no sugar; said the corniest jokes that somehow made you laugh anyway; collected leather jackets.
"if you're working with me, we need rules." he announced, tapping the table with his fingers.
you gulped.
"first rule. don't call me sir. it makes me feel old." he spoke with a gentleness. you noticed the way he addressed other co-workers as you walked out the building, it seemed like he reserved a softness towards you.
you nodded and trialled his name, "leon."
"there we go." he exhaled from his nose, watching you take a sip of your coffee. your face contorts briefly into a disgusted expression and he tried to hide the smirk that was playing on his lips.
"second rule. we don't ever come back here again, this coffee was shit." he finalised.
you nodded, "agreed."
"perfect." he placed his coffee cup down and the two of you left the place hastily.
you made it back to his office, settling behind your new desk. leon ran you through the things he needed you to cover over the next few weeks. as you were sat at your desk, leon hunched over you, clicking on your mouse to show you the right reports he needed you to work on. his chest awfully close to your face, was he always this close and personal? maybe it was something to ask sherry. or not. probably not. his concentrated face, eyebrows furrowed and lips pinched, completely disappeared when he noticed you were looking at him.
it was weird sharing an office with only one other person, you could hear every move that leon made, his typing, him clicking his pen on and off, his sighing, the way his seat creaked as he sat back and him unscrewing his hidden whiskey flask. you pretended you didn't notice.
when the office was empty, your phone flashed, the words 'mom' shone brightly across the screen.
your heart rate accelerated.
leon finished up in the break room, making an americano to power him through his last few hours of work. he preferred working late, he hated going home and having too much time to think. as he made his way back to the office, he heard your voice. he paused for a second, not wanting to barge in. but there was no one else in the room, just you, your face illuminated by your phone screen.
"yes mom, i think so. i've actually been promoted to being an assistant of a well-known agent." you said, a chuffed smile on your face, nodding, "mhm, yeah i think it's going well. yes he is nice to me, he got me coffee too."
you continued as you spun around in your chair, "yes i know this is a big opportunity. i'm taking it seriously."
he could suddenly hear the other end of the call.
"you know your brother never needed this much time to prove himself, he was leading operations at your age." your mom said through the phone, her voice containing a thousand icicles.
leon watched the way your smile was gradually erased from your face.
"yes mom- i know, i'm trying my best." you assured her, digging your teeth into your bottom lip. your posture had completely crumpled.
"are you working late tonight?" your mom asked sternly.
"mhm."
"good. dedication is what will separate you from the rest. this is important." she replied, every word she spoke placed another weight on your back.
"i know. i- i better get back to work." you just wanted this call to end. it was foolish to think she was going to acknowledge your hard work. it was never well done, it was always do better.
"okay. call us this weekend, your father would like to know how things are going, this is important to him too you know."
"yes mom. bye mom." you ended the call with a sigh, chucking your phone back into your bag.
you didn't realise how badly your hand was shaking until you gripped your wrist with your other hand. fuck.
get your shit together.
leon walked into the office, like he didn't hear the tense call. you exchanged smiles with him and the both of you returned to your computers.
ignoring the waiting whiskey flask and ignoring the pressuring voices of your parents.
edit: here is part 2
note: lemme know what you guys think, i don't know if i made their dynamic too boring... i think i made the reader more awkward than shy. again, i'm open to suggestions. part 2 is going to be pure cheesy office romance <3 but ofc with underlying issues, ya girl loves some angst. um sorry if some bits don't make sense im a bit drunk rn.. if u need something to look forward to... there will be VERY MUCH lots of praises within the smut of this series... teehee.
You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs)
Masterlist (Completed)
PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader
SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.
NOTES: The one shot I planned to write turned into a full-blown series, who's surprised? The tag list for this fic is CLOSED. the banners belong to @/uzmacchiato
gn reader, hair is described as fluffy, has scars of unspecified origin
fluff & slight hurt/comfort, semi early relationship
wc: 1.4k
continuing this idea properly!
Sylus taps his fingers in a rhythm on his car's center console, staring out his front window at your apartment complex. This shouldn't feel intimidating. He's been to your place before. He's a mob boss. He's knowingly walked into rooms filled with armed men and felt less nervous than he does now.
It's just that this is his first time visiting so casually. He had come over before to pick you up for dates, but you always cleaned the place beforehand and dressed up in a cute outfit for him. He's never seen you without a pre-prepared layer of polish over your behavior and appearance. He's never seen you bare, never seen your apartment messy, never seen you sleepy-eyed and groggy in the mornings, or dozing off on soft nights.
He's elated at the prospect of seeing your more vulnerable self, of course. He just doesn't want to react in the wrong way and spook you. It's rare for you to let someone close to you like this, and just the slightest hint of unease or discomfort in your expression could undo him.
He has been meticulous about minding your boundaries and taking things slowly, moving in accordance with your comfort level and gradually building your trust in him. He longs to be your safe person, someone you know you can rely on after being burned so many times before. The last thing he wants is to push things too far and feel you slip through his fingers like sand.
Sylus takes in a deep breath and exhales in a sigh, sitting up straight and gathering his things. You just finished battling a brutal stretch of short deadlines and accepted his offer of coming to see you with your favorite takeout for a movie night. You told him about your exhausted state and let him know you were too drained to clean or dress up, and he assured you he didn't mind. You're probably hungry and waiting for him, and he can't just keep sitting in his car all day.
He gives himself one last moment to steel himself and regain his composure, then opens the car door and climbs out with the food, his movements smooth and graceful in a way that almost seems unfeasible with his long limbs. His heart pounds harder than he'd like to admit as he walks into the elevator, nervously cracking the knuckles of his free hand as he waits the agonizing thirty seconds it takes to reach your floor.
The elevator opens with a quiet ding, and before he realizes it, he's already at your front door. He's here, there's no going back. No more hesitation. He knocks a firm rhythm onto the metal, and feels his heart rate spike when you answer from inside.
"Be right there!"
He hears your socked feet padding towards the door, and-
There you are. You're clad in one of his t-shirts, which practically swallows your frame, leaving just a hint of your pajama shorts underneath. You're showing more skin than usual, granting Sylus clearer insight into the shape of your form. Your hair is fluffy and a bit mussed-up, and he can see the bags that had developed under your eyes over the past weeks of work. You look so soft like this.
And your scars. The ones you had mentioned prior, the marks that are always concealed under fabric, kept hidden away from even your close friends. You've chosen to leave them out in the open air, to allow him to see your closely guarded secret, rolling over and showing him your soft underbelly in hopes of receiving acceptance and finding solace in sharing this part of you with someone else.
Sylus can feel a subtle blush blooming on his cheeks, and he just barely maintains his steady voice and composure as he leans against your doorframe. It takes great restraint to keep himself from stepping forward and pulling you tightly into his embrace, ensuring that you know that you're his, all his. It's hard to tease you when all the words jumble up in his head and threaten to escape his lips in the form of desperate confessions.
"Long time no see, kitten. Did you miss me while you were holed up in that little office of yours?"
"Maybe," you huff in response, pretending to be unaffected. But you perk back up when you smell the food, looking up at him like a hopeful puppy. "Come in?" you ask, gently grasping his wrist and tugging him forward.
"Of course." He responds as smoothly as he can, following you inside and closing the door behind him, toeing off his shoes neatly.
It's seeing your space that undoes the final knot holding back his pining. It's a bit messy, but everywhere in the clutter, he can see you. The snacks you leave by the TV for easy access, the jackets folded over chairs, the rumpled comforter on your bed, the books and trinkets and little notes left out, even the few dirty dishes and socks that just missed the laundry basket. Just being able to view your home like this feels as though you're entrusting him with a little piece of your soul.
His words have the slightest wobble when he speaks up again, deep tenderness swirling in his eyes when they meet yours.
"Sweetheart... may I hold you?"
All you need to do is nod, allowing Sylus to pull you tightly into his embrace. It's a little rougher than usual, more desperate, more constrictive, but you welcome the extra affection. He exhales shakily, his breath brushing your hair as he nearly envelops your smaller form with his own. His hands feel so large against your back, clutching you tight, fingers solid against your ribcage, as if you could slip from his grasp at any moment.
He presses soft kisses to your neck, lavishing you with his overflowing adoration, your proximity flooding his senses with an amount of fondness he hadn't thought possible.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers, the tremble in his hands betraying his desire to say so much more. He pulls away for a moment only to hold your forearm delicately with one hand, gently kissing his way up the scarred skin. His eyes meet your wide ones, and he soothes the thumb of his free hand over your heated cheek. "Promise me... you'll let me see you like this more often?"
When you nod, he notices the tears gathering in your eyes and bubbling over to drip down your cheeks. Cooing at you softly, he releases your arm in order to hold your face in both of his hands, tenderly kissing away the fragile, bittersweet little droplets until a smile returns to your face.
"I could never possibly express how much I adore you," he murmurs, staring deeply into your eyes. "So, please... allow me to pamper you tonight?"
"Yes," you respond, your smile mirroring his own. Upon receiving your approval, Sylus laughs softly, allowing you to wrap your arms around his neck before he lifts you in a tight hug, his lips pressed against yours.
When the two of you reluctantly part, Sylus kisses both of your cheeks, your nose, then your forehead, before meeting your gaze again. "Now, how about we take care of a certain kitten's hunger?"
---
The two of you end the night with full bellies and warm hearts after eating comfort food and sharing some of your favorite movies.
You dozed off on the couch, and Sylus just barely manages to coax you into brushing your teeth and heading to bed. Just as he pulls away to return to the couch, he feels two smaller hands grabbing one of his own. Pausing, he turns back to face you, and is met with the biggest puppy eyes you've ever given him.
"Stay? Please?" you beg, and Sylus doesn't have the heart to say no. He climbs into bed alongside you, already wearing pajamas he had brought with him just in case. The sleepy, happy hum you grant him as you snuggle close and melt into his chest is enough to make his heart thrum with fondness.
He rubs his hand up and down your back in the way that he learned relaxes you best, and you're fast asleep in no time, legs entangled with his own. Your face relaxed in sleep is adorable, a pure, genuine sign of your trust in him, and Sylus already knows this is a memory he'll treasure for as long as he lives.
pairing: leon kennedy x reader
summary: you're snowed in with your long-time boyfriend, leon kennedy.
genre: fluff (so domestic.)
The heavy snowfall starts sometime before dawn.
You only realize it when the apartment feels brighter than usual, the light shining through the curtains instead of the dull gray of winter mornings. You bury yourself deeper beneath the blankets, warm and heavy with sleep, and listen. The city is quieter than ever. No chatter from people walking on sidewalks, no impatient horns from drivers, no rumble from the bus that usually passes your window.
Silence, and the warmth of the body beside you.
Your boyfriend Leon sleeps on his side, one arm curved loosely around your waist as if he fell asleep making sure you were still there. Even after all these years, he still has this habit. You’ve woken up to it more times than you can count, like he is reassuring himself that this life is real, you’re still here, and you’re real.
You tilt your head back slightly to look at him.
He looks younger when he sleeps. Looks closer to the reflection of the man you’ve met many moons ago. The lines at the corners of his eyes look less harsh. The permanent crease between his brows fades. His hair, more silver than it was when you first met him, falls across his forehead in a way that reminds you of the old photos you had to fight to keep. He argued that he didn’t want any memories of his time in Raccoon City, but you knew he occasionally pulled it out of the closet to reflect. To have living proof of who he was before.
You shift carefully, turning in his hold so you can face him. His arm tightens instinctively, pulling you closer until your chest brushes his. His eyes flash open a millisecond later, proof of his years of training.
He blinks once, then relaxes when he recognizes you.
“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
“It’s snowing,” you excitedly whisper back, like a little kid on Christmas.
With a small quirk of his lips at your morning greeting, he glances past you toward the window. “Explains the quiet.”
You joke, “I think we’re buried.”
He studies your face instead of the weather. “You planning on going anywhere?”
“Not unless you’re taking me.”
He huffs softly, something between a laugh and a sigh, and brushes his thumb along your side beneath the hem of your sleep shirt. “Pretty sure we’re snowed in.”
You let yourself relax into that. Snowed in. No missions, no briefings, and no phone calls that pull him away for days, even weeks. Just your apartment, this bed, and the man who has given so much of his life to the world that sometimes you feel protective of the pieces that belong only to you.
“Guess you’re stuck with me,” you grin widely.
His mouth curves back, warm. “Been stuck with you for years.”
You kiss him then, slow and loving. His hand slides up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, holding you close. He kisses like someone who has learned to savor these little moments, who understands how fragile peace can be, because he is. The idea of spending the whole day inside with him makes you buzz with excitement.
You eventually convince him to get up with the promise of coffee. Yours milky and sweet, his dark and bitter. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you pad into the kitchen, wrapping one of his old hoodies around yourself. It swallows you whole, sleeves long enough to cover your hands, the fabric soft from years of wear and wash.
Leon watches you from the doorway, arms folded loosely over his broad chest. A slight quirk of his lips.
“That’s mine,” he says, though there is no real accusation in his voice.
You scoff, “Leon, you never wear this.”
“I was planning to.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Really? When?”
He pauses at that. “Eventually.”
You laugh and turn back to the coffee maker. The kitchen smells like fresh grounds and vanilla from the candles you burned the night before. You glance out the window above the sink and see that the street is nearly invisible under the snow. Cars looked like little rounded clouds of white. The sidewalk has disappeared entirely.
“We really aren’t going anywhere,” you deadpan.
He steps up behind you and rests his hands on your hips. He leans down, pressing his face briefly into your hair. “Good.”
The response lands harder than you expect.
You know what snow means to most people: a small inconvenience, canceled plans, cabin fever. For Leon, it means more. An excuse to turn off his phone and ignore the cruel, demanding world beyond these four, loving walls.
Despite this, you quirk an eyebrow in a teasing manner. You turn in his arms and wrap your hands around his waist. “You okay with that mister?”
He studies you for a moment, blue eyes bright. “I’ve had worse places to be stuck.”
You smile, a bit sad knowing the truth behind his joking words. “That’s not what I asked.”
His hand cups the back of your neck. “Yeah. I’m okay with it.”
You hand over his coffee, a mug with a grumpy cat on it that you got for him as a joke for Christmas. Your own ginger cat mug in hand, you settle onto the couch with a thick blanket thrown over both of you. The radiator hums in the background. Snow continues its slow descent outside the living room windows.
You rest your head against his shoulder, and he shifts so you fit more comfortably against him, his arm draped over you like it belongs there, because it does.
“Remember the first time we saw snow together?” you ask.
He hums thoughtfully. “Vacation in Colorado.”
“You complained the whole time.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did. Said it made you twitchy.”
He brushes his fingers absentmindedly along your arm. “Visibility was crap. Roads were worse.”
“You were pacing like a caged animal. You showed you can’t stay still at all.”
He shrugged. “Creature of habit. And you were twenty three and thought it was romantic.”
“It was romantic,” you insist. “We were stuck in a cabin with snow. You made me hot chocolate.”
He snorts softly. “You made the hot chocolate.”
“Because you almost burned the milk.”
“I was distracted.”
“By what?”
His hand slides up your arm and curls around your shoulder. “You.”
Heat blooms warm under your skin, even after all this time.
You tilt your head back to look at him. “You were thirty three then.”
“And you were relentless.”
You grin. “You liked that.”
He leans down and kisses your forehead. “Yeah. I did.”
The age difference felt bigger back then. You remember the way he hesitated, the distance he tried to maintain at first. You were so certain of what you wanted, but he was so convinced you deserved someone lighter, someone younger and untouched by the kind of darkness he carried.
It took time for him to believe that you understood what you were choosing. To believe that he was someone worthy of this love. (Little did he know, he was the only person you wanted to love.)
Now, years later, the gap feels less like distance and more like something that was natural. He is grounded and firm, you are lively and beaming. He lived through enough to know what matters, you have grown into someone who can stand beside him without flinching.
Snow piles higher outside.
You spend the morning lazily. Coffee turns into breakfast, which turns into you attempting to make pancakes while Leon hovers nearby, offering unnecessary advice and quips.
“You’re flipping too early,” he says.
“You’re hovering.”
“You’re going to ruin it.”
“You’re banned from the kitchen.” You scowl, pointing the spatula towards him as a warning.
He laughs, a real laugh that fills the small space and makes your chest ache with affection. Regardless of being the object of his affections for years, you still consider a laugh and smile as a win in your books. You flip the pancake successfully and hold up the spatula triumphantly.
“See? Perfect.”
He steps closer, sliding his arms around your waist from behind. “I never doubted you.”
“You literally doubted me. Like five seconds ago.”
He presses a kiss to the side of your neck. “Nuh-uh, never.”
After eating breakfast, you drag him to the window to look at the storm in full daylight. The world is nearly unrecognizable. Snow clings to the fire escapes and piles along the rooftops.
“It’s kind of beautiful,” you say.
He stands behind you, chin resting lightly on your shoulder. “It is.”
“Enjoy it while you can,” you grin, “you’re going out there to shovel once it’s all over.”
He makes a small sound of amusement. “You think I’m going out there?”
“I’m ordering you to. Now you gotta, I know you can’t resist. It’s the government agent in you.”
He scoffs, but nods knowing you’re completely right.
“Good.” you say, satisfied.
The afternoon is spent entirely indulgent. You two are snuggled on the couch. You lean and grab the remote, clicking through the movie titles on the screen. He lets you choose, he doesn’t have as strong of an opinion on movies as you.
You choose a recent release, knowing you two wouldn’t pay attention the whole time. His arm is wrapped securely around you as always.
Halfway through the movie, you feel his breathing even out.
“Are you asleep?” you ask softly.
“No,” he murmurs.
“You are.”
“I’m resting my eyes.”
You smile and turn to run your fingers through his hair. He tilts his head slightly into your touch, a subtle lean that tells you he is more tired than he lets on. You internally giggle at the fact that he resembles a cat.
“You can nap,” you say.
“I don’t nap.”
“You’re literally napping.”
He exhales slowly, then finally admits, “Stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He hums, satisfied. Leon places his head on your shoulder, drifts off properly this time.
You sit there, petting his hair with the quiet glow of the television, and let yourself enjoy the moment. This is the part no one else has the privilege to see. Not the renowned, acclaimed government agent. Not the legend who always pulls off difficult, impossible missions. Not the version of Leon Kennedy the world knows.
This is the man who falls asleep on the couch during a movie because he feels safe enough to close his eyes.
Eventually, you get bored. You wiggle yourself free from his hold and reach over to get the remote to turn off the screen. You grab another blanket and drape it over him carefully. He stirs, blinking up at you in confusion.
“You left,” he says.
“I was gone for ten seconds.”
He catches your wrist gently before you can pull away. “Come here.”
You climb back onto the couch, this time straddling his lap, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. His hands settle on your thighs automatically.
“Better,” he murmurs.
You brush your fingers along his jaw, feeling the roughness of stubble there. “You looked peaceful.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I like it.”
He studies you for a long moment, something thoughtful passing through his eyes. “You deserve more of this.”
“Of what?”
“Calm. Stability. Normal.”
You lean down and kiss him slowly, letting your lips linger. “This is normal. This is all I want, Leon.”
He exhales against your mouth, and his hands slide up to your waist, holding you closer.
Snow keeps falling.
By early evening, the apartment feels like its own little world. You light candles in the living room, the warm glow reflecting off the windows and mingling with the white outside. You cook dinner together, moving around each other in the small kitchen with practiced ease.
He chops vegetables. You stir the sauce. He reaches past you for a spice and brushes his fingers along your hip deliberately.
“Accident,” he says.
“Sure.” He grins at you, and you can’t help but smile back.
You nudge him with your elbow. “You’re in a good mood.”
“I’m home.”
“You’re always home.”
He looks at you like that is not entirely true. You know it’s not entirely true.
You step closer, wrapping your arms around him and pressing your forehead to his chest. “I love you.”
His arms engulf you back. “I love you.”
Dinner tastes better than usual, maybe because you made it together. You eat slowly, talking about small things. A book you started recently, a story from his early days that he has never told you before, his upcoming mission to the Midwest at some hotel.
When you finish, you wash the dishes while he dries them. He flicks water at you once, earning a scandalized look.
“Really?” you say.
He grins, boyish in a way that still surprises you. “What? Gotta make our own entertainment somehow.”
You flick water back at him, and he laughs when it hits his shirt.
Later, you curl up in bed again, the storm still raging outside. The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. You lie on top of him, fingers tracing idle patterns over his chest.
“Do you ever think about it?” you whisper.
“About what?”
“Growing older.”
He gives you a look. “I am older.”
“You know what I mean.”
He considers. “Yeah. I think about it.”
“Does it scare you?”
His hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head. “Only in one way.”
You lift your gaze to his.
“I want as much time as I can get,” he says. “With you.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. You shift closer until there is no space left between your faces.
“You have it,” you whisper.
He kisses you slowly, deeply, like he is memorizing the shape of your mouth.
Outside, the world is buried in white. Inside, you are wrapped in warmth and the certainty of a love that has already survived so much.
The snow can keep falling. You wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
in honor of re9 and in honor of the freaking snow.
i love leon kennedy im sorry im going through the leon phase rn.
Synopsis: Rural Spain was the last place you expected to see Leon Kennedy. He isn’t the rookie you left in Raccoon City, he’s colder, sharper, and harder to walk away from a second time.
Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Mission-Driven Angst
Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Injury Recovery
Words: 12k
The corn stalks whip at your arms and face, their sharp edges leaving stinging trails across your skin. Every breath burns, the damp air heavy with the stench of earth and rot. Spain has been unkind since the moment your boots touched its soil. The villages are hollowed-out shells, the people nothing more than puppets for something far darker.
You press forward anyway. Orders are orders: infiltrate, gather intel, eliminate Ramon Salazar if the opportunity presents itself. Simple words on paper, but the reality is blood, paranoia, and the gnawing weight of isolation.
The cornfield feels endless, each rustle too loud, every shifting shadow a threat waiting to pounce. When you finally break free, it’s almost worse, an open stretch of dirt path leading to ancient stone buildings, their walls cracked and leaning like tired old bones. The silence here is suffocating, pressing against your ears until even your own heartbeat sounds like a beacon.
You sink low, pressing yourself against the jagged stone. The air is thicker here, heavy with the faint metallic tang of blood, though you can’t tell if it’s yours or someone else’s.
Movement.
Two villagers shuffle across the path ahead, their steps uneven, their bodies jerking like marionettes strung up by invisible hands. Their eyes are hollow, not vacant, but filled with something worse: obedience to the parasite that puppeteers them.
Your grip tightens on the knife. Guns are loud, and sound travels too well in these narrow streets. So you stalk. One breath, one step, one strike. The blade slides beneath the first villager’s ribs, silencing him with nothing more than a guttural choke before you lower him soundlessly to the dirt. The second turns too late. A flash of steel, a hot spray against your cheek, and he crumples at your feet.
You wipe the blade against your thigh, though the gesture feels pointless, no amount of cleaning will ever wash this country off your skin.
For a moment, there’s stillness again. You force yourself to breathe, to listen. Every nerve screams at you to move, to stay ahead before the bodies are found. You dart deeper into the cluster of stone buildings, boots splashing through puddles of stagnant rainwater.
You pull out your map, a flimsy, blood-stained, rain-warped scrap that looks as exhausted as you feel. The edges are torn, entire corners missing, but it’s enough to remind you how close you are to the castle. Too close. The thought of what waits inside coils like ice in your stomach.
You fold it back with trembling fingers and shove it deep into your pocket. A pause, just long enough to reload: the metallic clack of a magazine sliding home, the satisfying click of a safety checked, the careful assembly of makeshift first aid sprays from herbs you’ve hoarded like treasure. It’s a ritual, something you can control in a place where nothing else bends to your will.
And then you hear it.
Not the shuffle of infected villagers. Not the frantic, mindless scurrying of rats. But slow, measured footsteps. Deliberate. Predatory.
The sound echoes down the narrow stone alley, steady as a heartbeat that isn’t yours.
Your breath lodges in your throat.
You raise your gun, two hands locked around the grip, every muscle strung tight. The footsteps approach, deliberate, calculated, a hunter’s rhythm. You flatten against the cobblestone wall, boots sinking into the soft hay to mask your movements, heart rattling in your ribs.
The glint of steel, a gun muzzle, slides into view around the corner. Training kicks in before thought does.
You lash out, boot connecting hard with the stranger’s wrist. A grunt echoes sharp in the alley as their weapon skitters across the stones, vanishing into shadow.
You don’t hesitate. The knife is in your hand, the weight familiar, steadying. But before you can press the advantage, there’s an answering rasp of steel leaving leather. Another blade.
Then they’re on you.
The first clash is violent, steel strikes steel, ringing in your ears. You push forward, slashing high toward their ribs, but they twist, catching your wrist and shoving you back against the wall. Your shoulder slams stone, teeth clenching against the impact. You duck low, kicking out at their knee, but they shift just in time, answering with a downward slash that you barely deflect with the flat of your blade. Sparks spit into the dark.
You twist your arm free and shove upward, forcing them back a step. You feint left, then pivot right, blade carving for their abdomen, but they spin with you, wrist locking yours in midair. For a moment your arms are tangled, blades trembling inches from skin, muscles straining as neither of you gives ground.
They shove you off, swift and brutal. You stumble, roll, and come up crouched, knife raised underhand. They match the stance. Exactly.
Another surge, they slash for your throat, you duck beneath and drive a knee toward their gut, but they catch it with their thigh, twisting you around, knife arcing for your back. You catch the wrist, drop low, and wrench free, spinning to face them again. The rhythm is relentless, slash, block, counter, strike, until it’s less a fight than a mirror, every move reflected, anticipated.
Your lungs burn, sweat stings your eyes. Boots scrape against wet stone, blades whisper and shriek as they collide. You drive forward with a furious shove, twisting your knife up toward their jaw. At the same instant, they hook your wrist, dragging you down, knife pressing into the hollow of your throat.
Stalemate.
You’ve got your blade jammed hard against their neck, close enough you can feel the faint tremor of their pulse. But the exact same pressure bites into your skin, their knife nestled under your jaw. Neither of you dares move.
Breath mingles in the scant inches between you.
Your knife wavers. Breath tangles in your throat as the stranger’s face sharpens in the moonlight.
And then you see them.
Eyes you know. Eyes you trusted when the world was ending. Blue, once bright as firelight against the dark, now dulled, hardened into steel.
It should feel like salvation. Instead, it feels like betrayal.
The rookie who smiled at you through the ash of Raccoon City is gone. What stares back at you now is a weapon shaped like him, colder, sharper, stripped of everything that once made him human.
Your lips stumble over his name, breaking on it like a wound:
“…Leon?”
For a flicker, his grip hesitates, and you almost believe. Almost.
Leon.
It’s him, but not.
Your memory betrays you with flashes of Raccoon City: the boyish rookie in a too-clean uniform, hair falling messily into eyes that were still warm despite the nightmare closing in. He’d smiled then, even in the dark, offering steady words that made the terror feel bearable. His hands had trembled, but his heart had never faltered. That Leon carried a softness, a stubborn hope that survival meant more than just killing your way through the night.
The man in front of you now is nothing like that.
His uniform is gone, replaced by worn tactical gear that hugs his frame like armor. The hair you remember, once loose, almost boyish, is longer now, deliberately pushed back, streaked with dirt and sweat. His jaw is sharper, set with a constant tension, like he hasn’t allowed himself rest in years.
But it’s his eyes that steal the air from your lungs.
They were blue before, but softer, touched by something human, alive. These eyes are steel. Cold. The kind you’ve only seen in men who’ve buried too many ghosts to count. He looks at you not like a friend, not even like an ally, but like a threat he’s calculating how to eliminate.
There’s no tremor in his grip, no hesitation in the blade pressed against your throat. Only precision. Only control.
And yet, in that tiny flicker of recognition, the smallest crack ripples across the mask.
For just a heartbeat, you see him. The boy in Raccoon City. The one who saved you, the one who smiled.
Then it’s gone.
Leon doesn’t flinch when you breathe his name. He doesn’t soften, doesn’t loosen the knife pressing against your throat. If anything, the blade digs a fraction deeper, just enough to remind you he’s in control.
His jaw tightens. The lines around his mouth and eyes are harsher now, carved deep by years of battles you weren’t there to see. He studies you like you’re a puzzle, like he’s weighing whether you’re real, or just another trick this cursed country has thrown at him.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and gravel-edged, nothing like the earnest rookie who once stumbled through fire with you.
“...You shouldn’t be here.”
The words are flat, stripped of warmth, but beneath them, barely there, almost lost, you catch the faintest tremor. Recognition.
He exhales hard through his nose, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to drag a wall back into place before you can see past it.
“What are you doing here?” His words cut like the edge at your throat, sharp, demanding, designed to keep you on the defensive.
You swallow, the press of his blade cold against your skin, but you don’t back down. His gaze pins you in place, blue eyes unrelenting, scouring every flicker of your expression as if the truth is something he can drag out of you by force.
The Leon you knew would have said your name with relief. This Leon spits the question like an accusation.
His grip tightens on the hilt, knuckles white, voice low and strained:
“Tell me. Now.”
But that tremor is still there, buried under the command, a crack in his armor. He’s not just asking. He’s pleading in his own way, desperate to understand why fate has dragged you back into his line of fire.
For a heartbeat, the silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid.
Your pulse hammers in your throat, just beneath the blade, but you force your chin up anyway. If he expects you to cower, he’s forgotten who you are.
“I could ask you the same thing,” you snap, though your voice wavers at the edges. “I didn’t exactly plan to run into you in the middle of this hell.”
His eyes narrow further, searching, testing. You push against the silence, refusing to let him see how much the coldness stings.
“I’m here on orders,” you bite out, each word steadier than you feel. “Ramon Salazar. That’s my mission. That’s what I’m doing here.”
For a second, something shifts in his expression, a shadow of concern. But it vanishes as quickly as it comes.
“And don’t look at me like I’m some liability.” Your grip tightens on your knife, pressing harder into his neck, matching his pressure exactly. “I’ve survived just as much as you have, Leon. Don’t you dare pretend otherwise.”
The words hang between you, trembling with anger and something deeper, something you can’t swallow down.
For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moves. The knives glint in the moonlight, pressed to skin, breaths ragged in the narrow silence.
Then Leon exhales, a sharp, frustrated sound. His wrist shifts, knife lowering an inch, then another, until the cold bite against your throat is gone.
But his shoulders don’t relax.
They’re rigid, drawn tight like bowstrings. His stance remains squared, ready. Every muscle in him screams restraint, like lowering the weapon cost him more than plunging it into you ever would have.
He takes half a step back, blue eyes locked on yours, and his own knife hovers low at his side. Not sheathed, not away, just not aimed at your life anymore.
The stiffness in his jaw doesn’t soften, his mouth a hard, thin line. You can see the fight in him, not against you, but against himself. Against whatever cracks are splitting open at the sight of you here, real, alive.
Finally, his voice scrapes out, quieter but no less rough:
“You don’t belong in this place.”
Your grip tightens on your knife, and your reply is out before you can stop yourself.
“You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do,” you snap, sharp as broken glass. The words cut the silence between you, brittle with defiance.
Leon doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression stays unreadable, a mask chiseled into stone. Only his eyes shift, narrowing slightly as if weighing whether it’s worth arguing with you.
“Where are you headed?” he finally deadpans, voice flat as the steel in his hand.
You hesitate, then tug the battered map from your pocket, unfolding the ruined creases with stiff fingers. You jab a finger toward the crude drawing of the looming structure dominating the area.
“The castle.”
For a second, something flickers across his face, surprise, then calculation. He studies the map, then you, his jaw working.
“That’s where the president’s daughter is,” he says at last, tone clipped but carrying a weight you can’t ignore. His eyes harden, colder than the night air. “That’s my mission.”
The tension between you lingers, but it bends into something else, necessity. For a moment, the knives, the bitterness, the years don’t matter. Survival does.
You fold the map back into your pocket, meeting his stare. “Then we’re headed in the same direction.”
Leon doesn’t agree with words. He just exhales through his nose, shoulders still tense, and steps past you, scanning the shadows as if every corner hides another fight.
But he doesn’t tell you to leave again. He doesn’t stop you from following.
And in this place, in this nightmare, that’s as close to agreement as you’ll ever get.
The air between you is thick with everything unsaid as you fall into step behind him. Leon moves like a shadow, every stride purposeful, weapon angled low but ready. He scans every corner, every rooftop, every crack in the walls, like he expects the night itself to reach out and drag him under.
You match his pace, boots crunching against gravel and wet hay, the map’s weight heavy in your pocket. Neither of you speaks at first. The silence is suffocating, but you refuse to be the one to break it. Not when his words still burn, you don’t belong here.
The streets coil and twist, narrow alleys bleeding into wider paths lined with skeletal trees. The villagers are quieter here, their presence more of a shadow at the edges than a direct threat. The quiet is almost worse.
Your eyes keep pulling to him despite yourself.
The Leon you knew in Raccoon City was green but brave, his movements uncertain yet fueled by sheer determination. Now, every motion is precise, stripped of hesitation. He’s efficient in a way that makes your chest ache; it’s the efficiency of someone who’s learned survival by losing too much.
There’s a faint scar at his jaw you don’t remember, another slicing through the brow above his left eye. His hair, longer now, clings damply to his forehead when the wind shifts. The light from the moon catches on the line of his profile, and for a moment you almost see him as he was back then, until he turns, and his eyes slice right through you, cold and unrelenting.
You look away, heart hammering.
“Stay close,” he mutters finally, voice low, rough. The command is automatic, but there’s a flicker of something else buried deep in it.
You almost laugh, bitter. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he adjusts the strap of his holster and presses on, shoulders stiff, as though keeping you at arm’s length is the only thing holding him together.
The silence falls again, heavier than before. And yet, for all his words, for all the coldness in his tone, Leon doesn’t leave you behind. He doesn’t tell you to turn back. He lets you walk at his side.
And in the dark, ruined streets of Spain, that fragile allowance feels like a confession all its own.
The silence breaks not with words, but with guttural cries tearing through the night. Villagers emerge from the shadows, eyes glowing with unnatural fury, the shuffle of boots on stone punctuated by the metallic rasp of sickles dragged along walls. They pour in from both ends of the alley, sealing you inside a kill box.
Leon’s head snaps up, gaze cutting sharp as he counts the enemies. He doesn’t waste time speaking, he just shifts, sliding instinctively until his back brushes yours. His weight grounds you, the familiar anchor in chaos.
It’s automatic. Seamless. Like Raccoon City all over again.
The first villager lunges. You don’t think, you just fire, the muzzle flash lights the alley as the man crumples into the dirt. Behind you, Leon pivots at the same instant, his handgun barking once, then twice, each bullet placed with surgical precision. The stench of blood and gunpowder thickens, filling your lungs.
A roar to your right, an axe cleaves downward. You duck, twisting beneath the swing, knife flashing up as you drive the blade into the attacker’s ribs. Hot blood sprays your arm. Before you can finish the kill, Leon’s elbow cracks back against another villager’s face, bone crunching wetly. His boot brushes yours as he plants it forward and kicks the man hard enough to send him crashing into the wall. Not a stumble. Not a misstep. Just rhythm.
Another surge, a pitchfork aimed for your chest. You twist aside, parrying with the edge of your knife, and slash down the attacker’s arm until the weapon clatters away. Before you can strike again, a bullet whistles past your shoulder, straight into their skull. The body drops at your feet.
“Reloading,” you bark, slamming a fresh magazine home.
“I’ve got it.” His answer is clipped, but solid, steady as bedrock at your back.
You trust it.
They come faster now. You move together, pivoting in unison, a seamless machine of survival. When you duck, Leon rises. When you thrust forward, he covers your flank. A villager swings wild at your side, Leon catches the wrist mid-air, twists, and shoves the blade back into the man’s chest. Another charges you head-on, you roll beneath their swing, slice the tendon at their knee, and Leon is already there above you, finishing with a brutal downward stab.
Back to back, you spin as one.
He kicks low at an enemy’s shin; you catch the stagger with a slash across the throat. You leap up the wall for leverage, boot pushing off stone to drive your knife down into a skull; Leon drops into a crouch beneath you, sweeping another enemy’s legs out before finishing them with a clean, merciless shot.
Your shoulders knock once, twice, in the chaos, not from clumsiness, but from sheer synchronicity, the kind that comes from surviving hell together once before. Every strike, every pivot, every kill feels like muscle memory burned into your bones.
For a moment, it feels like nothing’s changed. Like you’re back in that cursed city, rookies drowning in fire and blood, clinging to each other just to see the sunrise.
But then the last villager collapses, body folding into silence on the wet stone.
The night quiets.
You’re both breathing hard, blades dripping, sweat sticking your clothes to your skin. Back pressed to back, you hold the stance a moment longer, chests heaving in sync, hearts thundering against one another through armour and cloth.
Leon is the first to move. He steps forward, breaking the connection as if the closeness itself is more dangerous than the horde you just cut down. He reloads with mechanical precision, holstering his knife without a word. His shoulders stay rigid, his face unreadable, his silence a wall as high as the castle looming in the distance.
As if he can erase what just happened, the rhythm, the trust, the way your bodies still fit together perfectly.
But you can feel it thrumming in your veins, humming in your bones. The rhythm of him. The way the world seemed to make sense with him at your back.
And you hate how much you miss it.
Leon breaks the silence first, his voice low, clipped, almost like he’s annoyed with himself for speaking at all.
“I see your aim improved,” he mutters, sliding a fresh magazine into his handgun with a practiced snap.
Your lips twitch, not quite a smile, more a grimace. You refuse to let him have the last word.
“I see your footwork improved,” you shoot back, flicking blood from your blade before sliding it into its sheath. “You don’t stumble around like a rookie anymore.”
He glances at you sidelong, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth before it hardens again, vanishing as quickly as it came.
“Guess some of us had to grow up,” he says, voice flat, carrying more weight than the words themselves.
The air thickens again, that brief flicker of old rhythm buried under the heaviness of who he is now, and who you used to be to him.
The words hang between you, sharp and bitter. Guess some of us had to grow up.
You let out a dry laugh, though it’s softer, more fragile than you intend. “Yeah… you definitely grew up. Just not in the way I thought you would.”
Leon doesn’t answer immediately. He reloads with deliberate care, the metallic click of the magazine louder than his silence. His shoulders are still stiff, like the weight of his own words is pressing down on them.
“Raccoon City feels like a lifetime ago,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the bloodied stones under your boots. “Back then, you still had hope. You still looked at people like they were worth saving.”
His jaw works, but he keeps his gaze ahead, scanning the shadows. “Hope gets you killed.”
You take a step closer, unable to stop yourself. “No. Losing it does.”
That makes him glance at you, just a flick of his eyes, sharp and electric. For a moment, you swear you see it: the younger man beneath the hardened exterior, the rookie who smiled at you even when the city burned. But then he looks away again, wall slamming back into place.
“Don’t romanticize the past,” he mutters. “We survived. That’s all that matters.”
“Is it?” you press, voice low, dangerously close to cracking. “Because standing here with you… it feels like the man I knew didn’t survive at all.”
His lips part, like he wants to argue, but nothing comes out. His silence is heavier than any fight.
For a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged breaths and the distant croak of night insects in the fields. And though he doesn’t say it, you can feel it in the space between you.
“We have to rest,” Leon says at last, voice clipped, flat. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, his eyes are already scanning the broken stone courtyard around you, weighing shadows, corners, exits. “If we push any further tonight, we’ll be dead before we reach the castle.”
You shake your head immediately, sharp, defiant. “There’s no time. You know that as well as I do.”
His jaw flexes, that telltale tension twitching along the muscle. “I’m not asking.”
“Good. Because I’m not listening.” You shove past him, boots crunching on gravel. “Rest if you want, Leon. I’ll go on my own.”
The words taste bitter, and maybe you hope he’ll let you go, call your bluff. But he doesn’t.
Because the second you step forward, his hand closes around your wrist. Hard.
You freeze. His grip is iron, not the desperate hold of someone begging you to stay, but the unyielding restraint of a man who’s lived too long on the edge of survival to let anyone slip out of his control.
“Don’t,” he says. Just that one word, low, cold, cutting.
You twist, trying to yank free, but his fingers only dig tighter, tendons standing out stark beneath his skin. You can feel the heat of his palm, the tremor buried under the strength. He’s steady, always steady, but something in that grip betrays him.
“Let go,” you hiss, glaring up at him. “I don’t need you.”
His eyes finally meet yours, and the look in them nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. Blue, burning, but not warm, not anymore. There’s no rookie softness left, no spark of hope. Just a storm, sharp and unrelenting.
“You think I don’t know that?” His voice scrapes raw, a whisper dragged through glass. “You’ve survived plenty without me.” His grip tightens until your pulse hammers against his palm. “But you’re not walking into that castle alone.”
Your breath falters. The words should feel protective. They don’t. They feel like chains.
“Why?” you bite back. “Because it’s your mission? Because I’ll get in your way?”
His expression flickers, something cracks, quick and sharp, before he slams it back into place.
But not fast enough.
His mouth parts, voice low, rough, dragged up from somewhere he’s kept locked down for years.
“Please, ______. Just do this for me.”
The word doesn’t sound right in his mouth. It scrapes out jagged, raw, like he’s forgotten how to ask for anything instead of ordering it. And it’s not the word of a soldier, not even the warning of a man trying to command control, it’s a fracture. A plea.
The word rattles inside you long after it leaves his mouth. Please. You hate how it lingers, how it pulls at something you thought you’d buried.
You don’t answer. You can’t.
Instead, the two of you move through the courtyard in brittle silence until an old, half-collapsed stone house looms out of the dark. Its roof sags inward, moss and rot clinging to the broken beams, but the walls are still standing, enough to pass for shelter.
Leon stops at the threshold, weapon raised, scanning every corner with that precise, mechanical rhythm of his. He doesn’t even breathe wrong as he checks the shattered windows, the leaning doorframe, the piles of debris that could hide more than rats.
While he sweeps the perimeter, you slip inside, boots crunching over broken glass. The air is stale, heavy with mildew and old wood. In the corner, a chair leans drunkenly against the wall, one leg splintered. You drag it across the warped floorboards anyway, jamming it under the cracked door handle until the wood creaks against the strain.
It won’t hold much, but it feels like doing something. Like control.
When you turn back, Leon is there in the doorway, watching. His eyes flick from the chair to you, unreadable, and then he steps past, pulling the door shut until the chair groans under the weight.
No words of approval. No reassurance. Just silence.
He moves to the far side of the room, crouching to sweep dust and old straw into a small, clear space. Every motion is efficient, practiced, ritual more than rest. He sets his knife down within easy reach, back against the wall, gaze locked on the single cracked window as though daring the night itself to try him.
The silence presses down, thick enough to choke on.
You sink onto a beam near the blocked door, arms braced on your knees. The shadows stretch long between you, broken only by the pale sliver of moonlight cutting through the cracks in the boards.
For a long time, neither of you speaks.
Then, without looking away from the window, Leon mutters, voice low and flat but carrying something heavy beneath it:
“You can take the first watch. I’ll cover after.”
The words are practical, stripped down to survival, but you hear what he doesn’t say: I don’t trust myself to sleep while you’re awake. Not yet.
Your throat tightens. You should argue. Should tell him you don’t need his approval, his permission, his please. But all you can do is stare at the scarred line of his profile in the dim light, and wonder how the same man can feel both like home and like a stranger all at once.
You don’t answer him. Not with words.
Instead, you reach into your pack, fingers brushing past the bruised herbs and warped map until they close around your flask of water. The metal is cold against your palm, condensation slicking your fingers as you pull it free.
You cross the room in slow, deliberate steps. He doesn’t look at you at first, still watching the window, jaw set, posture coiled like a trap. But when you hold the canteen out, his eyes flick to yours, blue cutting through the shadows.
For a heartbeat, he just stares at it. At you. Like he can’t decide whether to accept, or whether taking even this would be a weakness he can’t afford.
“Go on,” you murmur, softer than you mean to. “You look like hell.”
His mouth tightens, but after a moment he takes it, fingers brushing against yours as he does. The contact is brief, fleeting, but it burns, heat sparking where his hand touches yours, lingering even after he pulls back.
He unscrews the cap with quiet efficiency, gulps once, twice. His throat works as he swallows, and for some reason you can’t tear your eyes away from the motion. He drinks just enough to take the edge off before screwing the cap back on, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove.
When he passes the flask back, you notice it immediately: he’s angled it so the mouthpiece never touched his lips directly. Even here, even now, he’s keeping distance, building walls with small, thoughtless habits.
But his voice, low, gruff, gravel-edged, betrays him.
“Thanks.”
The word is almost nothing. A ghost of gratitude. But hearing it from him feels heavier than any knife, because it’s too raw, too human, too much like the Leon you used to know bleeding through the cracks.
You clutch the canteen tighter than you need to, sinking back toward the chair wedged against the door. The silence thickens again, heavier now, thick with things you’ll never say.
Across the room, Leon adjusts his grip on the knife at his side, gaze still fixed on the window. But his shoulders are taut, his breathing just a fraction too shallow.
At some point, exhaustion drags you under despite yourself. Your head tips against the wall, breath evening out, the steady rhythm of Leon’s silence lulling you into uneasy half-sleep.
But it doesn’t last.
A sound cuts through the dark, sharp, low, and pained. A hiss, bitten back between clenched teeth.
Your eyes snap open.
The room is still swallowed in shadow, but a strip of moonlight cuts across the floorboards, spilling over Leon where he sits near the window. He’s hunched forward, one hand locked in a tight fist on his thigh, the other dragging a filthy scrap of cloth across his stomach.
And that’s when you see it.
His shirt is pushed up just enough to expose the wound, a jagged, raw slice cutting deep into the muscle of his abdomen, seeping dark red even as he presses the cloth harder, too hard. The grit in the fabric scrapes the injury, and his jaw is locked so tight you’re surprised his teeth don’t crack.
You’re on your feet before you can think. The weight of your pack crashes against your shoulder as you grab it and drop hard to your knees beside him.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Your voice comes out sharp, rough, cracking around the edges.
His head jerks toward you, blue eyes flashing under the dim light. He doesn’t answer immediately, just glares, as if your sudden nearness is more dangerous than the bleeding hole in his gut.
You don’t give him the chance to push you away. You rip the bag open, hands already sifting through the crushed herbs, bandages, the last precious supplies you’ve hoarded.
“You should’ve told me the second you were hit,” you snap, voice trembling as you yank out a roll of gauze. “You think bleeding out quietly in some rotting house is noble? That hiding it makes you strong?”
He exhales sharply through his nose, gaze dropping back to the wound as if he can will it shut by ignoring you. His knuckles are white where his fist still grips his thigh.
“I’ve had worse,” he mutters, voice low, frayed with pain but stripped of complaint.
The words light a fire in your chest.
“That doesn’t make it better, Leon!” You tear the filthy cloth from his hand, tossing it aside. The wound is worse up close, ragged, angry, like whatever cut him had been meant to gut, not just wound. The sight twists your stomach, but you steady your hands anyway.
He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t move. Just sits rigid, jaw clenched, as you press clean bandage against torn flesh.
But his silence — that stubborn, suffocating silence — feels louder than any scream.
Your fingers work with steady precision, even though your chest is tight with fury and fear. You thread the needle, sterilize it in the brief flame of a match, then lean in close.
“This is going to hurt,” you mutter.
Leon doesn’t reply. Just braces his fist harder against his thigh and sets his jaw like stone.
The first stitch pierces flesh, and his body jolts despite him trying to hold still. A low hiss escapes through his teeth.
You glance up at him, rolling your eyes. “Oh, please. You’ve been stabbed, shot, mauled by god-knows-what, and you’re going to complain about this?”
“I’m not complaining,” he grits out. “Just… reacting.”
“Uh-huh.” You pull the thread taut, tying it off before moving to the next. “For the record, you were a pretty good medic back in Raccoon City. Remember? Patching people up in that busted squad car like you actually knew what you were doing.”
For the first time tonight, the edge in his expression softens — barely, but enough that you notice. His eyes flick toward you, something almost like memory sparking behind the steel.
“You were the one who stopped me from stitching that officer’s arm shut without anesthetic,” he murmurs, voice low, roughened by more than pain. “Said I’d do more damage than good.”
You smirk faintly, concentrating on sliding the needle through another torn edge of skin. “Well, I was right.”
“Yeah.” His lips twitch, not quite a smile, more a ghost of one. “You usually were.”
The words settle between you, warmer than they should be.
You finish the last stitch, snip the thread, and reach for the small tin of antiseptic cream. Scooping some onto your fingers, you press it gently along the wound.
Leon hisses again, breath shuddering out as his hand fists tighter on his thigh.
“Oh, quit being dramatic,” you chide softly, though your tone is lighter now, almost fond.
When you glance up, he’s watching you, not the wound, not your hands, but you. His eyes aren’t steel in that moment. They’re tired, bruised with years of weight, but softened at the edges by something you can’t quite name.
You clear your throat, looking back down as you smooth the cream over the last raw edge. “Feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it? Raccoon City.”
Leon exhales through his nose, leaning back against the wall, gaze distant. “Sometimes it feels like yesterday. Other times… like it happened to someone else.”
You sit back on your heels, hands still trembling faintly from the work. “It happened to both of us. No one else would understand.”
His eyes flick to you again, and this time the silence between you doesn’t feel like a wall. It feels like a thread — fragile, thin, but tying you both to something that mattered.
For a moment, the ruined house, the wound, the mission — all of it fades. There’s only the memory of fire and ash, of two rookies stumbling through hell and keeping each other alive when no one else could.
And for the first time since you saw him in Spain, sitting here beside him doesn’t feel like standing next to a stranger.
You finish tying off the last bit of gauze and sit back, exhaling slowly. Your hands are still trembling, though you try to hide it by wiping the needle clean, tucking the supplies away.
Leon leans against the wall, breathing steadier now. His shirt is still loose around the stitched wound, but the bleeding has stopped. The moonlight slips across his face, softening the edges just enough to make him look younger, almost like the man you remember.
He’s quiet for a long time. Too long. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy, searching, and you almost wish he’d stay silent.
Then, softly, so softly you almost don’t catch it. He says:
“Do you remember that night? After we made it out of the station… before we went our separate ways?”
Your chest tightens. You know exactly what he means. The burned-out rooftop, the silence between the sirens, the strange fragile hope that maybe you’d both live to see morning.
The words leave your mouth harsher than you intend, cutting through the quiet like glass.
“No. I don’t.”
You don’t wait to see his face, don’t let yourself look at the way those blue eyes must flicker when the words hit. You push to your feet, crossing the creaking floorboards with quick, sharp steps.
Your pack drops beside the blocked door with a dull thud, and you lower yourself onto the makeshift bedding without another glance at him. Turning your back feels like armor, the only defense you have left.
The silence that follows is thick, suffocating.
For a moment, you almost expect him to argue. To push. To force the memory back into the open where you can’t escape it. But he doesn’t.
Behind you, there’s only the sound of his breathing, rough and uneven, and the faint rustle of fabric as he pulls his shirt down over the fresh stitches.
Then nothing.
You stare into the dark, fists tight in the thin blanket, heart pounding like you’ve just survived another fight.
You told yourself the words would protect you, that denying him would make it easier, but all they do is echo, hollow and jagged, until you almost believe them yourself.
Across the room, Leon shifts once against the wall. His voice doesn’t follow.
And maybe that’s worse.
Because in the silence, you know he remembers. You know he still carries it, even if you’ve tried to bury it.
And no matter how tightly you shut your eyes, you can still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your back, steady, unrelenting, like a wound you don’t have the strength to stitch shut.
You wake to the pale light of dawn bleeding through the cracked boards, gray and cold. The night has left your body stiff, your clothes damp with the chill that clings to this rotting country.
The chair still holds against the door, though the wood has splintered under the strain. You push yourself upright slowly, every muscle tight with the weight of memory.
Leon is already awake. Of course he is.
He sits where you left him, back against the wall, knife in hand, gaze fixed on the window as if he never closed his eyes. The fresh bandages at his stomach are stained through, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. His expression is unreadable, jaw set, eyes colder than the morning air.
You almost wish he’d look at you. Almost. But he doesn’t.
You start gathering your gear in silence, shoving herbs and rags back into your pack with sharp, unnecessary force. The sound fills the room, brittle and ugly, but it’s better than the suffocating quiet between you.
When you sling the strap over your shoulder, Leon finally speaks.
“Castle’s two miles east.” His tone is clipped, flat, businesslike. Not even a trace of last night’s softness remains. “If we move now, we’ll make it before sundown.”
You nod once, not trusting your voice, and shove the chair aside from the door. It scrapes across the floorboards with a shriek, breaking the fragile stillness.
Leon stands, holstering his weapon, movements precise, efficient, the mask firmly back in place. He doesn’t look at you when he passes, just pushes the door open and steps into the weak daylight.
For a moment, you stand in the ruin of the house alone, staring at the space he left behind, the air still heavy with what neither of you said.
The road east winds through damp fields and half-collapsed walls, the silence between you louder than the crunch of boots on gravel. Leon walks a half-step ahead, scanning every shadow with that clinical precision of his, and you let him, partly because it’s easier than trying to match his rhythm, partly because you’re still stinging from the way you cut him off.
When the ruined outline of a fork in the road comes into view, you stop. One path angles up into the hills, the other dips low through the remains of a village.
“We should take the high ground,” you say, breaking the silence at last. Your voice comes out sharper than you intended. “Less chance of an ambush if we can see what’s coming.”
Leon doesn’t slow, doesn’t even glance back. “It’ll expose us. The village has cover.”
“Cover that can hide twenty villagers waiting to tear us apart,” you snap, moving to block his step. “High ground means visibility.”
“High ground means open sky and nowhere to run if we’re spotted.” He stops then, blue eyes locking onto yours. Cold, controlled. “Trust me. We go through the village.”
The words sting more than they should. Trust me.
You fold your arms, glaring back. “Funny. You used to actually listen before deciding what’s best.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking. “Listening got people killed. I won’t make that mistake again.”
It lands like a blade to the gut. He’s not talking about the mission anymore, and you know it.
For a heartbeat, the silence thickens between you, both of you refusing to break eye contact.
Finally you huff, stepping aside with a sharp shake of your head. “Fine. But when we’re knee-deep in blood because you couldn’t handle being wrong, don’t expect me to say I told you so.”
Leon exhales through his nose, moving past you with that same soldier’s stride. His boots crunch over gravel, shoulders squared, mask nailed firmly back into place. But just before he overtakes you, his voice slips out — low, almost too quiet, but cutting all the same:
“Some things never change.”
You stop dead. Your head snaps toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t slow, doesn’t look back. “You always have to be right. Always have to argue.” His tone is flat, practiced, but there’s an edge underneath, sharp and bitter, meant to wound. “Even when it puts you in more danger than it saves you from.”
Your stomach twists, heat rushing to your face. “You think I argue for the fun of it?” Your voice rises, sharper now. “I argue because I know what I’m doing. Because I don’t just blindly follow orders.”
You stalk a step closer, closing the space between you, refusing to be dismissed. “Not everyone can live their life marching to someone else’s command, Leon.”
That makes him stop. His boots grind against the gravel as he halts mid-stride. Slowly, he turns, blue eyes narrowing, fire sparking beneath the ice.
“And how’s that worked out for you?” he asks, voice razor-sharp. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s examining a flaw under a microscope. “Running off on your own. Shutting people out. Pretending you don’t need anyone. Tell me—” he steps closer, his shadow almost brushing yours now, “—is that really what’s kept you alive all this time? Or has it just kept you alone?”
The words hit like a blow to the gut. For a moment, you can’t breathe. Rage and hurt knot together in your chest until it feels like your ribs might crack.
“Better alone,” you fire back, voice shaking but unrelenting, “than shackled to someone who thinks they know what’s best for me.”
Leon’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding, muscle ticking hard in his cheek. His shadow swallows yours as he steps closer again, the space between you taut and sparking.
“You think that’s what this is? Me trying to control you?” His voice drops low, rough, dangerous in a way that’s not about combat, about truth. “I’m trying to keep you alive. Because like it or not—” his hand twitches at his side, as if he wants to reach for you but doesn’t — “that still matters to me.”
The admission hangs there, raw despite the venom it’s wrapped in.
You scoff, shaking your head hard, as if the motion itself will keep his words from digging deeper. “No, what matters to you is control. Keeping everything neat, ordered, safe. You’d rather suffocate the people around you than admit you can’t save them.”
His eyes flash, a sharp crack in the steel mask. He leans in, voice biting. “And you’d rather push everyone away than admit you want someone to fight for you.”
That slices deep. Your breath stutters, your chest aching, but you snap back before he can see the crack in your armor.
“Don’t put this on me,” you hiss, fists curling tight at your sides. “You’re the one who chose this life. You let them turn you into a weapon and now you expect me to just—what? Follow behind you? Fall in line like I’m one of your missions?”
Leon’s nostrils flare as he exhales sharply, the sound almost a laugh, bitter and hollow. “God, you think you know me so well.” His voice scrapes low, dangerous. “You think because you saw me in Raccoon City — the rookie, the idiot kid in a clean uniform — that you know the man I am now?”
Your heart twists. You take a step closer, eyes locked with his. “I don’t think. I know. And that’s what scares you.”
For a moment, the two of you just stand there, too close, the air between you trembling with everything unsaid. His breath brushes yours, shallow and sharp, his blue eyes burning, storming.
Neither of you steps back. Neither of you looks away.
The air between you feels scorched, every word still hanging, sharp and unfinished. Your chest heaves, blood hot in your veins, but you’ve run out of words. Or maybe you’ve just run out of the strength to keep flinging them at each other.
Leon doesn’t say anything else either. His jaw is tight, lips pressed into a hard line, blue eyes dark with things he won’t let spill. For a heartbeat you think he might push again, might twist the knife deeper. But instead he just exhales through his nose, sharp, controlled, and turns back toward the road.
Silence swallows what’s left.
You fall into step behind him, boots crunching over gravel, every sound too loud in the quiet. The fork in the road closes behind you, but the sting of the argument clings like smoke. Neither of you looks at the other. Neither of you dares to break the stillness again.
The path to the castle forks at a broken courtyard, where the grass is long dead and the stones are slick with damp moss. The fortress looms above you both, black towers jagged against the gray sky, windows like hollow eyes staring down. The air is heavy, thick with the stench of mildew and rot, every breath like swallowing earth.
You stop at the fork. One way spirals west, where the stones are older, crumbling into themselves, Salazar’s domain. The other arches east toward the looming main gates, where Ashley Graham is rumored to be held.
It feels like a line carved through more than stone.
“This is where we part ways,” you say at last. Your voice is flat, clipped, though you can feel the tremor pressing at the back of your throat. You keep your eyes forward, fixed on the path ahead. If you look at him, you’ll break.
Leon doesn’t answer right away. You hear the faint scrape of leather as his hand flexes at his side, like he’s fighting to still it. When he speaks, his tone is as cold and steady as the castle walls, “Yeah. Guess it is.”
The words cut sharper than any goodbye.
You force yourself to shift the strap of your pack higher on your shoulder, something to do with your hands. “I’ll find Salazar. End this parasite at the root.” You say it like it’s just orders. Like it’s easy.
He nods once, eyes narrowing on the opposite path. “Ashley’s my mission.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it, as if keeping his gaze away makes the split less real.
The silence between you thickens, pressing heavy against your ribs. For a moment you both just stand there, side by side but already divided.
You can’t help yourself, you glance at him. The blue eyes that once felt like safety now look like frozen steel. His face is set in that hard, unreadable mask he’s perfected, but you catch it, the flicker, the almost. The tension in his jaw, the way his throat works like words are crawling up it, desperate to be spoken.
He swallows them down.
“Don’t slow me down,” you say, harsher than you intend. You mean it to sound sharp, dismissive, but it comes out cracked at the edges, a weak shield against the truth clawing at your chest.
Leon finally looks at you then, just long enough for your heart to stumble. His eyes are tired, bruised with too many ghosts, but beneath the steel there’s something buried, something he won’t let rise.
“Stay alive.” His voice is low, rough, stripped bare of everything except the command. But underneath it, buried so deep you almost miss it, is the plea he refuses to let surface.
The words hang there, heavy, final.
You nod once. Nothing more.
Then you turn. Your boots scrape against the stones as you step onto your path, the castle swallowing you into shadow.
Behind you, Leon stands rooted for a moment longer, eyes locked on the place where you vanished. His hand flexes once at his side, then fists tight, the knuckles white.
The words burn in his chest, don’t go. Not again. I can’t lose you too. They crawl up his throat, scrape against his teeth, aching to break free.
But he forces them down.
When he finally turns toward his own path, his face is stone again, his steps as measured and precise as ever. A soldier. A survivor. Nothing more.
The courtyard empties, leaving only the echo of two sets of footsteps fading into opposite halls.
And though the castle swallows you whole, the silence you leave behind follows him like a ghost, louder than any scream.
The castle doors groan open behind you as you stagger out into the courtyard, the night air crashing over your skin like ice water.
You brace yourself against the stone archway for a moment, catching your breath. Every inhale rattles, your ribs tight, your chest burning from smoke and exertion. Your leg throbs with every step, not broken, but twisted, strained in the fight. The dull ache sharpens when you shift your weight, forcing you into a limp.
Salazar is dead.
The thought should feel like victory. It doesn’t.
The battle replays in shards behind your eyes, the grotesque contortion of his body, the way the parasite twisted him until he was nothing human anymore, the screaming collapse of the chamber as your last shot found its mark. You’d expected triumph. All you feel is the sour tang of bile in your throat and the echo of his shriek still rattling your bones.
The night air doesn’t wash the blood away. It clings, sticky on your arms, caked along your thigh where the wound had split open. Your pack is lighter now, herbs and ammo spent, the map little more than tattered scraps.
You drag yourself down the stairs into the moonlit courtyard. The grass here crunches brittle underfoot, the earth dead long before your fight ended it.
The silence is unbearable.
You lean against a crumbling pillar, pressing a trembling hand against your thigh where the pain stings sharpest. Each pulse is a reminder that you made it out, barely. The kind of survival that doesn’t feel like winning.
The cold seeps into your bones as you stare back at the looming silhouette of the castle. Its towers rise jagged into the night, black against the stars, its windows burning faint with torchlight.
You tell yourself it’s over. Mission complete. Orders fulfilled.
But the words feel empty.
Because all you can think of is the other path, the one that led east, where Leon disappeared into the dark.
You don’t know if he’s alive. You don’t know if you’ll ever see him again.
The ache in your leg is sharp, but the ache in your chest is worse.
The island path is narrow, carved from stone and dirt, the sea clawing at the cliffs far below. Every step sends a dull ache shooting up your leg, each movement heavier than the last. The taste of smoke still lingers at the back of your throat, and every bruise across your ribs throbs in rhythm with your heartbeat.
You keep walking. One foot. Then the other. The promise of extraction, of leaving this cursed land behind, dangles just far enough ahead to keep you moving.
Until it hits you.
The memory.
You’re both bruised and bloodied, bodies aching from hours of running and fighting, lungs burning from smoke that thickens the air. Behind you, the city groans with death, fires chewing through buildings, smoke rising in black, suffocating plumes that blot out the stars. Sirens wail somewhere distant, half-swallowed by the roar of collapse.
You stumble against a wall, sucking in a ragged breath, and he’s there, Leon, younger, rawer, his uniform torn and stained but still somehow clinging to the crisp edges of what it once was. His face is smeared with soot and blood, a fresh cut along his cheekbone, but his eyes…
God, his eyes are still alive. Bright. Unshaken.
Despite everything, he looks at you with a steadiness that anchors you to the ground. A rookie, barely trained, standing in hell with you, and somehow still carrying hope.
He closes the distance, one hand bracing against the wall near your shoulder, the other hovering uncertainly before pressing gently against your side where blood has seeped through your shirt. His touch is clumsy but careful, his brows knit tight with worry.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice rough from smoke but threaded with so much concern it nearly undoes you.
You huff a laugh, sharp and brittle, because the truth is obvious, neither of you is okay. “No,” you rasp, shaking your head. “Pretty sure I’m falling apart.”
For a second he just stares, startled, then a crooked grin tugs at his mouth despite the ash and blood caked there. The expression looks absurd in this place, this nightmare, but it’s real.
“Well,” he says, breathless, trying to match your tone, “guess we’re in the same boat then.”
You bark out another laugh, short and pained, leaning heavier into the wall. “Some first day on the job, huh?”
Leon lets out a low, disbelieving chuckle, running a bloody hand through hair that keeps falling into his eyes. “Yeah. Not exactly what I signed up for.” His smile falters, then steadies again as his gaze locks with yours. “But… at least I didn’t end up facing it alone.”
And there it is. The steadiness in him, raw and foolish and unbroken, a warmth that cuts through the smoke and flames more than the fire ever could.
But then his expression shifts. The grin fades, the boyish spark in his eyes hardening into something sharper, almost frantic. His voice cuts in, rough with blunt desperation:
“Come with me.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, confusion breaking through the exhaustion. “What?”
He leans closer, smoke curling between you, his hand still braced against the wall near your shoulder. There’s no hesitation now, no careful rookie second-guessing himself. His voice drops, urgent, insistent.
“Come with me — join the government.” His words tumble out fast, like if he doesn’t say them now he never will. “We can work together, you and me. We could actually do something. Put an end to this before it happens again.”
The desperation in him is naked, almost jarring, but it’s real. He believes it. His jaw is set, his blue eyes blazing in a way that pins you in place, that makes it sound less like a suggestion and more like a plea.
“You’ve seen what I’ve seen,” he pushes, breath ragged, chest heaving with smoke and exhaustion. “We survived this together.
You swallow hard, throat tight, staring into his desperate, pleading eyes. Every fiber in you aches to say yes, the words press against your teeth, raw and almost painful in how badly they want to break free.
But you know you can’t.
“Leon…” your voice cracks, barely audible over the roar of fire behind you. You force the words out anyway, each one cutting like glass. “I can’t.”
His face falters, just a flicker, but enough to gut you. The firelight licks across his features, carving the sharp planes of his jaw, the cut on his cheek, the tremor in his mouth as if he’s biting down on all the things he wants to say.
“Why not?” His voice comes rough, breaking with frustration, with the rawness of someone too young to understand that sometimes survival isn’t enough to bind two people forever. “We could do this. Together. Don’t you see that?”
You shake your head, harder this time, though your chest feels like it’s splitting open.
“You’d become sick of me,” you whisper, forcing the words past the knot in your throat. “Day after day, mission after mission. You’d start to see all the cracks, all the things that don’t fit. And one day, you’d—”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Leon cuts in, firm, desperate, the words tripping out like a promise he doesn’t know how to stop making. His blue eyes blaze against the firelight, unwavering.
“You’d grow to hate me,” you push, voice shaking, trying to drive the knife in deep enough that he’ll finally let go.
“No.” His reply is sharp, immediate, the rookie’s stubbornness sharpened into something like defiance. He takes half a step closer, close enough that the smoke curls between you both. “I could never hate you.”
The way he says it almost undoes you. Not as a reassurance, not even as an argument, but as a truth, carved raw out of his chest, stripped of every layer of hesitation.
You bite down hard, teeth clenching, because if you let yourself believe it, if you let yourself want it, you’ll never be able to walk away.
The realization settles into his face all at once, dimming that stubborn fire in his eyes. His lips part, trembling faintly, before he forces the words out, quiet, uneven, like he already knows the answer.
“I’m never going to see you again… am I?”
The plea in his voice cuts deeper than any blade, but you can’t bring yourself to lie. Your throat locks, burning with everything you want to say but can’t. Because you know the truth — and so does he.
You can’t say no. You can’t say yes. You can’t say I’m sorry.
So you say nothing.
The silence is worse than any refusal.
His jaw tightens, his eyes flicking away, blinking against the smoke curling through the street. His hand lifts, just for a second, like he might reach for you, but it falls before it closes the distance.
“I thought…” His voice cracks, just once, before he steadies it. “…I thought maybe after everything, you’d—” He swallows hard, snapping the words off like he’s biting through glass. “Doesn’t matter.”
You want to tell him it does. That it always will. But you can’t.
So you just stand there, frozen, the roar of fire closing in around you while the one person who’s ever truly seen you stares at you like you’ve already become a ghost.
He looks back at you one last time. Blue eyes, raw and burning, searching for something he’ll never hear from you. Then he exhales sharply through his nose, shoulders stiffening, and the mask begins to fall, the first bricks of the wall that, years later, will become unbreakable.
When he finally turns away, it feels like the city itself collapses in his wake.
The memory collapses in on itself, flames and smoke giving way to the crash of waves against jagged rock. You stumble mid-step, boots skidding on the narrow path, your hand shooting out to catch the rough stone wall before you fall.
Your chest heaves. The night air bites sharp, but it does nothing to steady you.
You didn’t even notice the tear until it slid down your cheek, warm against the cold wind. You swipe it away with the back of your hand, quick, angry, like denying it will make it vanish, but the ache it leaves behind is worse than the sting in your leg.
It hits you all at once, the memory you’ve buried for years, the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes when you walked away. It slams into you like a truck, merciless, unstoppable, dragging up everything you’ve tried to forget.
You squeeze your eyes shut, breath ragged. You survived the castle. You killed Salazar. You’re walking off this cursed island alive.
And yet, somehow, this feels like the moment that breaks you.
Your hand shakes as you dig into your pack, fingers closing around the cracked satellite phone. The screen flickers weakly to life, the signal barely cutting through the static. You bring it to your ear, voice rough as you force out the words for pickup coordinates.
But before you can finish, another voice slices through the silence.
“Going so soon?”
You freeze.
The phone nearly slips from your grip as you whip around, heart slamming into your ribs.
He’s there.
Leon. Standing a few paces back on the jagged stone path, framed by the pale wash of moonlight. His tactical gear is torn, streaked with blood and dirt, but he’s upright. Alive. The steel blue eyes you’ve seen in nightmares and memories fix on you now, steady despite the exhaustion etched into his face.
For a heartbeat, you can’t move. The sight of him feels impossible, surreal, like conjuring a ghost.
“Leon…” The name breaks out of you on a breath, cracked and fragile, like saying it will make him vanish.
But he doesn’t vanish. He’s real. Solid. Safe.
Your throat tightens as the phone slips lower in your hand, forgotten. Every ache, every bruise, every buried memory crashes down on you all at once.
You’d convinced yourself you’d never see him again. That the last thing you’d carry was that look in his eyes as you walked away in Raccoon City.
The wind off the sea cuts cold against your skin, but you barely feel it. The only thing you register is the weight of his stare, unwavering, pulling you apart piece by piece.
Then his eyes shift lower to the tear you hadn’t even realized was still clinging to your cheek.
For an instant, neither of you moves. The silence between you is taut, as fragile as glass.
His shoulders drop. Just slightly, but enough. The rigid soldier’s frame, always squared, always braced for impact, eases as though someone has stolen the fight from him. It’s not relief, not exactly. It’s something deeper. Something heavier.
It’s the look of a man who’s been carrying armor so long that the sight of your tears cracks it without warning.
Your chest tightens. You want to speak, to force words through the knot in your throat, but nothing comes. Your voice has abandoned you.
Leon swallows hard, his jaw clenching once before he exhales. That breath carries years of silence, years of ghosts, years of everything he never said. His hand twitches at his side, not quite reaching for you, not quite steady, like he’s fighting himself even now.
For the first time since you saw him in Spain, his eyes don’t look like steel. They look human. Haunted.
The silence stretches until it’s unbearable, pressing against your ribs like a vice. The crash of waves below becomes the only sound, relentless, echoing the pounding of your heartbeat.
Then, finally, Leon speaks.
“I told myself…” His voice is low, gravel-scraped, almost unrecognizable. He stares past you for half a second, like pulling the words out costs him more than any wound. Then his gaze locks back onto yours, sharp and unwavering. “If I ever saw you again…” His throat works, the next words rasping out like a confession torn from his chest. “…I wouldn’t let you go.”
Your breath hitches. The words hit too deep, sinking past every wall you’ve tried to keep standing. Your chest aches, a sharp, hollow ache, like his vow has cracked something you didn’t realize was still breakable.
Leon doesn’t blink. His eyes are fixed on you, not the cold steel you saw in Spain, not the soldier’s mask he’s worn for years, but something stripped bare. Human. Raw.
“Do you know what it’s like,” he continues, voice rough, heavy with something he’s held back for too long, “carrying that thought? Through every mission, every night that doesn’t end? Thinking I’d already lost you, and knowing it was my fault for letting you walk away?”
The words tumble out, sharper now, as if he’s afraid if he doesn’t say them now, he never will.
Your throat burns, but you can’t answer. You can’t even breathe.
He draws in a ragged breath, shoulders heaving. His hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles blanching, nails biting into skin like it’s the only way to ground himself.
“I tried to bury it,” he admits, voice breaking for just a second. “Tried to be what they needed me to be the soldier, the weapon, the man who could shut it all out. But it never worked.” His eyes flicker, haunted. “Because every time I closed my eyes, I remembered. Raccoon City. The fire. The blood. And you.”
Your heart stutters. His voice is low but relentless, every word a blade carving you open.
“I remembered the way you looked at me when the city was burning. The way you walked away when I asked you to stay.” He swallows, hard, jaw clenched as though the memory still tastes like ash in his mouth. “I carried that with me, every damn day. Every time I thought I couldn’t keep going, I saw you leaving. And it cut deeper than any bullet ever could.”
You shake your head faintly, desperate to stop him, desperate to keep yourself from breaking under the weight of what he’s saying. “Leon…”
But he doesn’t stop. He can’t.
“I wouldn’t let it happen again.” His voice sharpens, intensity cutting through exhaustion, a vow forced out through clenched teeth. “Not this time. If I saw you again, I wouldn’t—” His breath catches, chest heaving, as though the words themselves wound him. “I couldn’t let you slip away.”
The air between you feels electric, vibrating with everything unsaid, everything lost and clawing to the surface. His eyes burn into yours, unflinching, stripped of every layer of discipline and armor. What’s left is raw need, a vow made in the ashes of Raccoon City, carried like shrapnel in his chest for years.
And standing in the moonlight, you realize he isn’t just speaking about now. He’s confessing the promise that’s haunted him since the night you left him behind.
A vow he never stopped keeping, even when you weren’t there to hear it.
The vow hangs there between you, jagged and heavy, too sharp to ignore. The waves crash against the cliffs below, the spray rising in bursts of white mist, but you barely hear it. All you can hear is his voice, the rawness of it, the way the words cut open the silence like they’d been clawing at his throat for years.
Your lips part, but nothing comes at first. The knot in your chest tightens until it’s almost unbearable, your breath catching like you’ve been struck.
“Leon…” His name slips out again, this time softer, breaking at the edges. You shake your head, eyes burning. “You can’t say things like that to me.”
His jaw tightens, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s the truth.”
You bite down hard, trembling, fighting the war in your chest. “And what do you want me to do with that truth? Pretend the years didn’t happen? Pretend we didn’t—” Your voice falters, catches, then steadies with a shaky breath. “You don’t understand what it did to me. Walking away from you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
His eyes flicker, widening just slightly, like your words gut him more than any bullet. But still, he holds.
“I thought if I stayed, I’d ruin you,” you force out, words spilling now, sharp and aching. “That one day you’d see every crack in me and realize I was never enough. That you’d hate me for it. That’s why I left.”
For a moment, the only sound is the wind tearing at the cliffs, whipping your hair into your face.
Leon shakes his head slowly, blue eyes burning. “I told you then, and I’ll tell you now — I could never hate you.” His voice drops, rough with something that feels close to breaking. “I don’t care how many cracks there are. I don’t care how much hell we’ve seen. You were the only thing that ever felt real in all of this.”
The words tear through every wall you’ve tried to hold, every excuse, every fear. Your breath stumbles out of you in a sound you don’t recognize, half a sob, half a laugh. It feels fragile, jagged, like you’re breaking apart and being stitched together in the same moment.
“Leon…” You press a trembling hand over your mouth for a second before letting it fall, the words slipping free in a rush you can’t hold back. “You always say things like this… things that make it impossible for me not to fall in love with you. Over and over again.”
The confession leaves you trembling, but lighter too, like it was tearing itself out whether you wanted it to or not. Your chest aches with it, the truth burning as it hangs between you, raw and unguarded.
For a heartbeat, Leon just stares, every line of his face tight with shock, with the weight of what you’ve just given him. Then his shoulders sag, his lips parting in a breath that sounds almost broken, as though he’s been waiting years to hear it and never thought he would.
For a heartbeat, Leon doesn’t move. He just stares at you, blue eyes wide and unguarded, your confession echoing in the space between you like it’s the only thing keeping the world from falling apart.
Then something in him breaks.
He steps forward, boots crunching against the gravel, closing the space in two sharp strides. His hand comes up first, tentative, almost trembling, before it settles against your jaw, his thumb brushing away the tear track on your cheek. The warmth of his touch is enough to undo you all over again.
“God…” he breathes, voice rough, low, almost reverent. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that?”
You can’t answer. You don’t need to. Because in the next breath, he leans in, closing the final inches.
The kiss is not soft, it’s desperate, aching, years of ghosts and silence finally giving way. His lips crash against yours with a force that speaks of everything he’s swallowed down, every vow unspoken, every moment of regret. You grip at his vest with shaking hands, dragging him closer, afraid that if you let go even for a second he’ll disappear back into smoke and memory.
He tastes like salt and iron, like sweat and blood and the sea air, but beneath it all is something achingly familiar. Something you thought you’d lost in the fire of Raccoon City.
Leon groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your mouth, one hand sliding back into your hair while the other anchors hard against your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers again.
When you finally break for breath, your foreheads press together, both of you panting, trembling. His eyes search yours in the pale moonlight, still haunted, still scarred, but softer now, cracked open.
“You’re not walking away this time,” he whispers, the words a vow pressed against your lips.
And for the first time in years, you don’t want to.
-:- double v penetration -:- creampie -:- afab reader -:- Zayne also getting railed in the bonus scene at the end
INTENDED FOR 18+ READERS ONLY. MINORS DNI
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆ ˚❆. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁𖥔 ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡⋆ ˚⋆｡°
You weren’t entirely sure what you walked in on, but the self-satisfied smirk on Sylus’s face and the mad blush on Zayne’s made you quite suspicious. Even more-so was the way Sylus lounged casually on the sofa, arm thrown across the back and leaning towards Zayne. Your gaze darted between the two, but you didn’t give voice to your thoughts- not yet anyway.
The clatter of your keys on the small table just inside your door was the only sound in the space for a beat. You’d expected Sylus to be there- you wanted to go over some files with him about a protocore deal- but Zayne was a surprise. And really, Zayne looked just as surprised as you. His cute little awkward eyelash fluttering was paired with him clearing his throat as he abruptly stood.
“Right, well,” he said, clearly awkward about having been caught doing…something. You just weren’t fully sure on what, but you had an inkling. “I’ll just be on my way. It was good talking to you.”
His words were rushed, strained as he said his goodbyes to Sylus and shuffled quickly towards the door. But you didn’t let him get too far. You weren’t sure what prompted you to reach out and grab him by the wrist. Maybe it was the way he refused to meet your gaze, the way his blush disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. No matter, he turned at your grasp, clearly startled.
You squinted slightly, an amused smile playing at the corners of your mouth. Were his lips…puffier than normal? Or were you imagining things? Your free hand came up, thumb brushing his lower lip. His breath stuttered, eyes widening. Yeah, definitely swollen. And dare you say…thoroughly kissed?
Your eyes darted over to Sylus, who still wore that lopsided smirk of his, even while he lifted his glass in a mock toast before bringing it to his lips. Then you turned your attention back to Zayne, leaning up into him to taste him. The tip of your tongue flicked over his lower lip as you slanted your mouth across his. The sweet notes paired with the tartness of citrus you tasted there were a perfect match for the drink Sylus had in his hand. He never could resist a good gin fizz, and he’d gotten far too comfortable in your kitchen. Not that you were complaining, anyway.
You didn’t miss the way Zayne chased your retreat, leaning into you before finally breaking from you. He blinked rapidly, huffing out a shaky breath. The corner of your mouth ticked up into a smile.
“Having fun indulging yourself, Sylus?” Your question was directed at him, but your mischievous gaze remained on Zayne. Sylus chuckled, finally standing and striding towards you. He came to a stop beside you, gently taking Zayne’s chin in hand and turning his face. Then he leaned in, teasing Zayne’s lips with his own before releasing him with a chuckle.
“Our dear doctor seemed like he needed a distraction, and I was more than happy to oblige.”
Sylus moved behind you to slide his hands against your abdomen, up under your shirt, while his lips trailed along your neck. Zayne watched him, wide-eyed with his breath held. You leaned back against Sylus’s bulk, a soft sigh falling from you as his hands cupped your breasts.
“Won’t you stay, Zayne?” You asked, placing a hand on his arm, heat coursing through the skin to skin contact. A moment of hesitation as he warred with indecision, but eventually he gave in with a small nod. Then he stepped towards you, lifting a tentative hand to brush a strand of hair from your face. With a smile, you leaned up into him again, slanting your mouth over his while Sylus’s lips roamed the expanse of your neck, both of their hands now caressing your body.
Zayne took a crumb of control, stepping into your embrace and coaxing your mouth open, plunging his tongue in to dance with yours. His arms circled you, hands smoothing up the expanse of your back and unclasping your bra with skillful precision. Together, he and Sylus lifted your shirt over your head and slid your bra down your arms. Bared to them from the waist up, they explored your body with greedy mouths and grasping hands. Zayne scraped his teeth against your neck, those biting kisses blazing a trail downward until he took up a nipple, giving your breasts the same treatment as your neck- teeth and tongue. You leaned back against Sylus with a contented sigh, your head falling against his chest.
Sylus’s arms wrapped around you again, unbuttoning your pants with ease and diving beneath the hem of your underwear. With the constricted space- given how large his hands were and how tight your pants were- he teased your clit with small circles. Zayne aided him by hooking his thumbs into the hem, tugging your pants and underwear down in one swift motion.
You were bared to them fully now, and you pouted that they were still fully clothed. So you worked to rectify that by tugging Zayne’s shirt from where it was tucked into his trousers. Sylus helped you quickly unbutton it and shove it down his shoulders. Then you turned in Sylus’s arms, and did the same for him. Zayne’s mouth traveled along your shoulders, teeth stinging every so often. Sylus took his turn to tangle his tongue with yours while your hands worked at his belt. But then he stilled your hands before you could get too far, chuckling into your mouth at your eagerness that turned into a grumbling pout.
“Patience, kitten,” he says, chuckling again when you level him with a pouting glare. “Why don’t we make ourselves comfortable.”
His suggestion took flight in your head, and then you were tugging both him and Zayne towards your room. They both followed obediently, and you adored the pretty blush that decorated the last remnants of Zayne’s composure.
Once in the room, you pulled Zayne in front of you again and crushed your mouth against his. He met your fervor, falling further and further into the allure of both you and Sylus. You walked him back until the backs of his knees met the bed. Sylus helped you to make quick work of his trousers before you were crawling over him on the bed. He continued shuffling back until his head met your pillows and you straddled his hips, just below where he stood at attention. Sylus was slower in his prowling, coming to a rest between Zayne’s knees and letting his hands and lips roam your body.
You took hold of Zayne’s cock, using both hands to hold him, tease him, stroke him root to tip. You watched as his eyes fluttered closed, a sharp exhale that ended in a whimper escaping him. You watched pleasure dance across his face, felt his fingers dig into your thigh, heard his barely restrained sounds. Paired with Sylus’s touch, it was all a beautiful assault on your senses that sent shivers through you and heat pooling in your core.
Sylus’s hands were suddenly on the underside of your thighs, lifting you. You held Zayne’s cock in place until Sylus notched you over him, lowering you slowly until you were fully impaled. All the while, you kept your eyes locked on Zayne’s, until his clenched shut with the cascading bliss spreading on his face. You rode him with slow methodical rolls of your hips, spurred on by Sylus’s vocal encouragement behind you.
You leaned back into Sylus’s embrace, feeling the length of him press against your back. His hands smoothed down your abdomen, deft fingers finding your clit and circling it as you ground against Zayne with every downward plunge. Zayne’s hands dug into your hips, meeting you with an upward thrust of his own. Sylus’s teeth scraped the shell of your ear, a growl rumbling through his chest.
And then Sylus was crowding you, chest pressing into your back until you had no choice but to rest your body atop Zayne fully. You slanted your mouth over Zayne’s, though it was him that plunged his tongue into your mouth. His arms came up to circle around your lower back, using the leverage to thrust hard into you with breathless moans. His eyes darted over your shoulder, locking with Sylus’s.
You could feel Sylus pressing into you from behind, and you were preparing yourself for him to fill a different place. But then his cock notched against where Zayne was buried in you and…and
Oh. OH. Fuck.
“Relax, kitten,” he huffed against your ear, bent low over your back. Zayne already filled you, but Sylus tested the stretch of your cunt by pushing in inch by inch. The pain was acute, yet it mingled with pleasure as Sylus’s cock firmly pressed Zayne’s into that spot inside you. With head dropping to the crook of Zayne’s neck, you couldn’t help the low moan that escaped you. Nails digging into his flesh, Zayne trailed his mouth up and down your neck in an effort to help you relax. And it worked- Sylus sunk into you fully and gave pause so you could get accustomed to the paired invasion. The pain was quickly overridden by the pleasure, and you gave your nodded consent for them to continue.
They began to piston in and out of you in a rhythmic pattern, where one would thrust, the other would retreat. Their moans surrounded you, deep guttural sounds being dragged from their chests that rumbled through you front to back. With every forward thrust, with every strike of their cocks deep in you, the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter. Your voice rang out with theirs, incomprehensible words falling from you as your mind turned to mush. Hands roamed and gripped at your body aimlessly, mouths created rapidly darkening marks against your skin as each of them latched on and sucked hard.
Breathing quickly turned ragged and they fell out of their patterned thrusts as everyone crept closer and closer to the edge. Sylus took Zayne’s hands, pinning them by the wrists on either side of his head in a hard grip that gave him even greater leverage for his thrusts. Zayne clenched his eyes closed, a whimper erupting from him as he jerked his hips to slam into you. His breathing shuddered, mingling with Sylus’s over your shoulder.
Your mouth latched onto Zayne’s thundering pulse, dragging up a mark that you knew would be able to be seen if the collar of his shirt shifted just right. The thought of that claiming mark being seen by someone at his workplace sent a thrill through you. All the while, Sylus slanted his mouth over Zayne’s. You watched them out of the corner of your eye, pleasure pulsing through you at seeing Sylus coax Zayne open to him with a moan. Their tongues danced and tangled, breathless whimpers and moans shared between them as they took pleasure in your willing body. Zayne threw his head back into the pillows, a loud moan wrenching from him.
“Come for us, Zayne,” you whimpered into his ear. His trembling body stilled, his chest heaving with breaths as he desperately tried to hold it back. But he couldn’t escape the continued thrusts from Sylus, his punishing pace grinding his cock against Zayne’s deep in you. With a throaty cry, Zayne arched off the bed. Sylus moved his hands from Zayne’s wrists, instead intertwining his fingers with Zayne’s so that he had something to forcefully grip while the pleasure wracked his shuddering body.
“Good boy,” Sylus growled, before turning his attention to you. “Fuck, come with me, kitten.”
“S-Sy,” you manage to whimper before cascading flutters pulsed through you. The combination of Zayne’s cock twitching and your release rhythmically pressing him against Sylus also sent him over the edge.
“Fuck, good girl,” Sylus moaned, his head falling against your shoulder. Shuddering jerks from both Sylus and Zayne filled you while your body milked them for every last drop. Gasping breaths filled the room as each of you tried to come down from the high of the shared release. You slumped against Zayne, giving soft kisses wherever you could reach without having to move too much. Sylus trailed tender kisses down your spine, slipping from you with a groan.
He gathered you in his arms, lifting you easily from Zayne, and carried you to the bathroom. After a beat, Zayne joined you while Sylus started the shower. Together they cleaned you up, trading reverent touches and kisses with you and each other. Exhaustion tugged at you and you leaned heavily on them as they all but juggled you between them.
Once you were dried, they took no time tucking you beneath the blankets in the center of your bed, crawling in on either side of you. You realized Zayne’s delay was probably from making sure you had fresh sheets to curl against them on.
Their combined warmth, soft caresses grazing your skin, and the fatigue of the day worked to lull you to sleep faster than you expected.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆ ˚❆. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁𖥔 ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡⋆ ˚⋆｡°
Morning light filtered brightly through your window, casting a net of warmth across your bed. You reveled in it, laying quite naked, curled on your side atop your bedspread to absorb the rays. You were glad it was your day off.
The soft muffled gasp let you know that you still played host to two beautiful men, assuming they must also have the day off. You kept your eyes closed, though, enjoying the soft, gasping moans drowning out the sounds of their kisses behind you. It was harder to keep your eyes closed when you felt the weight on the bed shift, when you felt joint weight cage you.
“You don’t need to hold back,” chuckled Sylus from above you. “She’s been awake for a while.”
You feigned a pout, popping open your eyes. “Why’d you have to ruin my fun?”
You twisted your upper body so you half lay on your back, and took in the sight of Zane over you and Sylus at his back. Zayne was the source of the bed’s trembling, as he struggled to contain the sounds that escaped him.
He was on his knees, hands planted on either side of you. A pretty flush cascaded from his cheeks down to his chest. His sharp intakes of breath were released as whimpers, still desperately trying to hide how much he was enjoying what Sylus was doing to him. Your eyes met Sylus’s over Zayne’s shoulder, and he gave you his signature lopsided grin, thrusting forward pointedly with his eyes drifting closed. His arms were wrapped firmly around Zayne’s torso, holding him in place for every plunge of his cock. Zayne’s stood hot and hard, the tip dribbling evidence of the pleasure he took from Sylus’s attentions.
You shifted, bringing a leg around so that they rested between your thighs. Zayne released a guttural groan at seeing you spread under him, though he made no move to take you outside of Sylus’s hold on him. You trailed your hand down your body, watching as his lust-filled gaze zeroed in on the motion. Your fingers reached the apex of your thighs, circling the sensitive bud there. His cock twitched at the sight, hovering just above your pelvis, his pre-cum dripping a pool onto you. You let slip his name, lacing a teasing moan with it.
“F-fuck,” he whined, letting his head fall forward as Sylus rolled his hips in a slow, methodical rhythm. Zayne was so clearly close to the edge, the crown of his cock an angry shade of red. But Sylus wouldn’t let him cum just yet, stopping his movements until Zayne fell back just enough. He’d been edging Zayne in hopes that you’d wake and help him finish the good doctor off.
Who were you to deny your best friend pleasure.
You tilted your hips upward, sliding your folds along the shaft of Zayne’s cock with a smirk to Sylus. He chuckled, hand circling the root of Zayne to guide him into you. Zayne let out shuddered breaths, moans erupting from him as he sunk into you. He nearly collapsed atop you, his hips jerking against you with the force of the pleasure that wracked him.
His composure cracked a little more with every thrust, until he was slamming into you relentlessly. Each retreat impaled himself further on Sylus, as well, who let out a grunting moan each time he dug into Zayne. He nuzzled his face against the slope of Zayne’s neck, muttering praises into his ear. The snap of Zayne’s hips increased in tempo, his breath turning ragged as he pushed himself closer and closer to the edge. You could feel pleasure coiling deep in you, ready to explode and shatter you with it.
And then everything came crashing down all at once. Your back arched off the bed with a harsh cry just as Zayne pushed into you as deep as he could go. His climax perfectly synched with your own, the pulsing twitch of his cock dancing with the flutter of your walls. And even Sylus, with his own guttural cry, pulled from Zayne and spent himself against the underside of Zayne’s cock, his cum dribbling down to spread on the seam where Zayne was buried in you.
Holding himself up on his forearms, Zayne dipped his head to kiss you. It was slow, unhurried, the way his mouth melded against yours. Sylus let himself fall to the side, dragging in great breaths to calm his thundering pulse. You reached out, caressing Sylus’s cheek and he nuzzled into your touch with a soft chuckle.
Zayne boldly leaned over and offered the same kind of kiss to Sylus as he’d just given you. You smiled at how comfortable he’d gotten with Sylus, something giddy rising in you at your two most trusted friends sharing themselves with each other.
All too soon, though, the bliss shared between the three of you was broken when Zayne’s phone went off and he dashed around to stuff himself back into his clothing. He paused briefly to kiss you on the cheek, giving Sylus a smile and a nod, before rushing out to go home and shower before returning to the hospital.
“We should keep a change of clothes here for him,” mused Sylus as the door swung shut. “I’ll bring some with my own next time.”
TL;DR: Leon insists his cock needs to receive a proper treatment before vasectomy.
WC: 6k
CW&TW: 18+ MDNI ♡ Explicit language ♡ No proofread ♡ No use of Y/N ♡ Unprotected p-in-v ♡ Creampie ♡ Fluff ♡ AIN'T GONNA BE TELLING MUCH SO NOT TO SPOIL LOL that's just your usual smut get to reading NOW
A/N: what's up what's up what's upppppppppp!!!!!11! tehehhehe can y'all believe ts been sitting in my docs for like i dunno how much and then i just speedran the rest of it in like 2 evenings lmao
~ ♡ ~
All those years of evolution—and yet the uterus didn’t develop an immunity to sperm cells. That. That right here is the bane of Leon's existence.
Mind you he’s married. And as soon as you tie the knot, it’s getting even more frustrating. Because now you actually care about the lady your swimmers will knock up.
Having to spend an extra ten seconds to roll a condom on while the tightest hole in the world flutters around nothing right in front of his eyes? He couldn’t think of anything more cruel.
It’s like suffocating your own cock willingly. Strangling it with gummy walls of slick vagina is a whole different thing. A whole different thing from throttling his poor rock of a shaft with thick ass rubber.
These labels claiming that those are extra thin, rimmed and lubed? A big, fat lie.
Well of course, making babies is cool. When you already have three of them though, you do realize that it’s time to let your poor wife’s womb rest.
Not her pussy, thought. Always tight and wet.
And the way it pulses when Leon slips out… Never takes more than two seconds to start spitting out his cum.
Viscous pearly white seed, oozing out of stretched-out, erratically dwindling hole not in globes, but ropes.
Leon was ready to pierce every condom on Earth just to keep seeing this view until the doomsday and then some.
So. Six years of marriage made you two try every contraceptive on the list.
Condoms? You could open a goddamn pharmacy with how many boxes you owned. Or get paid to write reviews online. (Leon, in fact, did that back in the days.)
Morning after? Every time you ran to the drugstore to grab a blister pack, the pharmacist lady always started to fix condoms displayed nearby, obviously not trying to make any hint. Just a “hey girl, did you know those actually exist? You should try sometime!” type of fix.
Birth control? You used manual sheet as a blanket until those pills fucked up your hormones.
Period tracking? Top naivety, but been there too.
Intrauterine? You had to change it thrice.
Female condoms? Thirty minutes after inserting it, you itched like you had all STDs that one could have.
Now the thing is, all your three kids’ code names could be “Broken Condom”, “Failed IUD” and “Expired Plan B”.
You made Leon do a spermogram test at the clinic after you birthed Expired Plan B, also known as Zoe.
Turned out you just are highly fertile.
Then, on a wine Wednesday, your best friend joked about how it’d be more logical to shorten the thread than to sew up the eye of the needle, nine magnificent letters spawned in your head.
Vasectomy.
Sad thing is that tutorial on how to suggest that to a man didn’t spawn in your head as well.
But Leon was actually the first one to propose that. For some reason, that made you feel warm inside. Ain’t he just the sweetest?
That’s how you ended up wherever you ended up, trying to fold goddamn laundry in peace.
“Come on. That will be my consolation prize.” Leon mumbles to your neck, trailing his nose up and down the column.
You groan. “Pick another one. Can’t you wait just two more days?”
“It’ll be different. My cock will never be the same. So I think he deserves a good sendoff.” He declares nonchalantly, the cotton crotch of his sweatpants pressing against your butt.
You can’t help but both scoff and snort at the same time. “Oh, indeed. Because your cock is a goddamn emeritus. It deserves an appropriate sendoff before you go to shower, before you fall asleep, before you leave to write reports… Yeah, definitely. Can’t do anything without a decent sendoff. I’m startin’ to think you’re doing everything with your cock since you care about it so much.”
You feel, don’t see the way Leon sulks into your neck—because that was a real harsh roast, after all. You almost start to feel bad. Almost.
“Women...” He grumbles under his nose.
You arch an eyebrow. “Didn’t quite catch that?”
“...I said you’re the smartest woman I’ve ever got an honour to speak to. Can I fuck you now?” Leon rasps, grazing the lobe of your ear; his voice almost an impatient whine at this point.
“I understand that you can’t live without adrenaline rush, but can I not get involved?” You roll your eyes, placing an umpteenth shirt on top of the laundry pile.
Now he whines out loud, nuzzling behind your ear. “Pretty please. The prettiest pretty please. Come on, you’re still takin’ those anti-pregnancy thingys. Nothing happened that time when we both were drunk in May—when we didn’t use anything at all. And now you’re on real nice sperm-blocking.”
“Birth control,” you correct, surpassing a hysterical wheeze.
Leon remains adamant. “...Swimmers-murdering. Whatever. You get the drill.”
Technically, he is right. There have been a certain amount of times when going raw had zero consequences.
Being completely honest, not like you would have minded consequences.
…
…Must’ve been the wind.
Leon cups your waist from the back, squeezing the dips between your sides, not giving up. “Just oooone little creampie.”
‘Little’, you scoff internally. With how much he busts, you’d think his balls never have been anything but blue for years.
You never understood his obsession with coming inside—until one day you two decided to get freaky on camera. When you saw it from his point of view, you felt a flicker of understanding for a millisecond. Like… his tip drooling with precum is just as hot as that.
“Fiiiine”, is all that you have time to mutter before Leon takes off like a man possessed to lock the bedroom door.
Next second you feel yourself up in the air, and let out a surprised squeak as he throws you on the neat bedsheets.
“The laundry!” You protest, watching his knees trample what you so carefully folded five minutes prior.
Leon does not even look backwards, just shoves the pile of clothes to the floor with a deft movement of a leg.
“The boner,” he counterattacks, one hand moving to undo the ties on the waistband of his slacks.
You look up mock-offendedly. “No foreplay?”
“Oh, I had enough of foreplay watchin’ your ass all fat and bent-over. Made me wanna just stick it in right then and there,” Leon grunts.
“Well I am drier than Sahara though,” you raise one eyebrow, corners of the mouth twitching in a smirk.
Obviously you are not. Grey sweatpants could never equal dry pussy. But that itty bitty lie works just enough to become Leon’s undoing.
He stops fumbling with his pants, bracing himself above you on steady, sinewy arms; his voice a low whisper as his blue orbs focus on yours. “Gonna turn you into Atlantic, then.”
Any possible answer you could have gets swallowed by his demanding mouth. When Leon’s like this, he does not kiss—he sucks the goddamn soul out of you.
His tongue does not ask for entrance—it makes it. You feel him practically devouring your mouth, nudging every ridge and corner, and you’re not quite sure whose string of saliva connects you two as he pulls away.
“Usually women get wet during first base with me already,” Leon declares proudly, panting above you.
You just grin unabashedly. “That’s real impressive coming from someone who gets hard before first base and comes in the middle of sec—”
“Now that’s just gonna get your mouth fucked.” He doesn’t let you finish, nibbling on your bottom lip.
You chuckle daringly. “Blowjob over creampie? I knew the government would definitely clone you at some point and I'd be the one who’s able to spot the difference.”
Leon smirks—which makes you grow even wetter—and his pointer finger hooks under the strap of your tanktop. “You make dirty talk sound so lame. But I know how slutty you can be when you really want to.”
You let him drag the fabric down your body with a matching grin, one sleeve quickly coming off your shoulder and the second soon coming suit, exposing your plain black bra. “Are you calling me a slut?”
Leon’s calloused palms squeeze your tits through the fabric, enjoying the way they fit just right. For a solid minute he’s so enticed by your boobs he forgets he has to answer you.
“Y’know me. No shaming here, I love women. But…” Leon trails off, freeing one of your breasts to circle an already pebbled nipple. “...I love slutty women even more.”
You let out a quiet moan, and he probably aches to hear a louder one because Leon twists your nipple next moment, all the while his free hand exposes the other breast.
“All those years of marriage… and I can’t choose which one of ‘em I like more.” He grins as he cups your tits and rubs two weighty mounds of flesh together, enjoying the way your nipples become hard peaks just from the feel of his fingers on your chest.
“It would be quite specific to have a favourite boob, don’t you think?” You attempt to scoff and bite your lip to not give him the pleasure of hearing you whimper.
Leon barks out a laugh, slapping one of your tits lightly. “You’re just keen on rainin’ on my parade, huh? Such a stubborn ass you are. Oh, right, about that…”
With least effort, he gently flips you onto your stomach, making you squeak indignantly as he settles his knees on each side of you. Next thing you know, he deftly unclasps your bra and finally slips your bra off your body.
“You could’ve just, you know, asked me to turn, no?” You huff, looking behind your shoulder at his smug stubbled face.
“Nah. I’m a… DIY type of guy,” Leon murmurs to your ear, his hands sliding down your body in a soft caress and his kisses trailing down the slope of your neck, his bristle scraping your skin.
You arch towards him involuntarily, egging him on.
“There you go,” he pants somewhere behind your ear. “Lemme see how much you crave it.”
You're eager to show him—even though sudden act of fucking wasn't even your initiative—so that's why your ass, that's situated right under his crotch, rubs agasinst his rock–hard bulge, feeling the heat of his cock through the fabric of his bottoms.
Leon groans; his cock twitches, sensitive with arousal, while his hips push forward reflexively. Then, with a short but informative “fuck it”, your rear receives a sonorous smack.
By the rustling of fabric behind you, you suppose he undoes his pants. You turn your head backwards, perching your chin up on your shoulder.
“I don’t like this position,” you complain, albeit half–heartedly. “Can’t even kiss and stuff.”
He doesn’t even raise his eyes, just slides his sweatpants down his thighs and so on—and suddenly you don’t mind breaking your neck, because it’s gonna be so worth it. “That just means we’ll have to go on round two purely for your enjoyment. This one’s gon’ be for mine, next is yours…” He smirks, locking his eyes with yours. “And the next one’s for us both.”
Boy math, you assume. As a girl, you do approve. Even if you’ll have to tolerate him hitting it from the back while probably being face–planted to the sheets.
Your eyes land at the distinct tent in his briefs. Then they land at the damp patch on the cotton, and your gusset gets provided with a damp patch of its own.
Well damn.
Leon’s hands suddenly slide your top down your lower body, making you squirm from the surprise. He then attempts to slip your shirts off with the same haste, without even thinking to look for the ties on the front. With the force he has, it’s a wonder they don’t fucking rip.
He grunts when your bottoms don’t come off immediately. “Are you wearing clothes from the single women’s section again?”
You let out a questioning hum, genuinely having no idea what the actual heck that is supposed to mean.
“Y’know. Like shirts with buttons, dresses without zippers, shorts with a shit ton of buttons… Because no way in hell a married woman wants to torture her spouse with all that. Except for you, apparently.” Leon explains it like it’s something that they teach you at school, never leaving his attempts with tugging your shorts off.
At the umpteenth try, he succeeds. Ties eventually come looser, and he drags the shorts down your hips, then shins, then ankles.
You don’t even try to object.
With nothing between him and your panties, you swear he barely fights the urge to rub his palms together in anticipation. Instead, his palm pats the inside of one of your knees. “Bend.”
Deciding to be cheeky, you bend only one knee just for the hell of it.
Needless to mention that it gets your ass smacked and the other knee bended manually.
“You suck at picking sex positions.” You notice dryly as Leon’s palms stroke your butt–cheeks appreciatively, squeezing and enjoying the way your underwear wedges in between mounds of taut flesh.
“And you suck my cock four times a week,” Leon fires back nonchalantly, unable to help but smack your ass, sound loud and ringing and just so obscene.
You huff, because that genuinely was a fair retort, but like hell you'll let him know. “And who set that system up?”
He chuckles. “You'll live.”
With that being said, your panties go MIA. Leon tosses the damp piece of fabric somewhere on the floor, and you sigh with realization of having to do even more laundry now. A small sacrifice, you suppose.
Meanwhile he stares at your bare pussy, mesmerized by it like it's the Eighth Wonder of the World.
And, well, he's never shy to let you know.
“This right here is the prettiest thing ever.” Leon croons, sliding a finger down your slit. “Makes a man allergic to porn with just a glimpse."
You bite your lip as your clit swells inappropriately fast for a woman who's been married for six years. “Weird way… to compliment a woman.”
He leans down unabashedly and presses a kiss right to the cusp of your cunt, and you gasp just as unabashedly. “Made that pussy weep nonetheless."
You almost dry out immediately at this jargon.
"Cringe." You huff, trying to keep your breathing even.
Leon lets out a warm, velvety laugh, circling your quivering opening and spreading the wetness here.
“Wet.” He counterattacks and pushes a thick finger inside.
You arch from the sudden intrusion, letting out a lewd moan, pride be damned. You bury your face in the sheets while your walls clench like crazy, making Leon groan.
His finger suddenly disappears, and the emptiness feels way worse.
Before you can mewl, you feel his hot, wet tongue licking a stripe down your slit, meanwhile two fingers slide inside you in one fluid motion. You wiggle your hips desperately, fisting the sheets.
You feel Leon’s hot breath right above your clit and his digits plugged deep enough to make you feel awfully full. He scissors them, spreading your insides wide and ready to take him later, and your ankles start banging the mattress.
“That good?” He smirks, raising a smug eyebrow.
You have no idea, you think but don’t say out loud, obviously. Like hell you will. At least that’s what you think before he smacks your ass with a vulgar smile.
“Thought so,” Leon chuckles when you finally let out a whimper. His smugness makes you wanna both throttle him and yell ‘yes daddy’ at top of your lungs.
With his fingers still inside of you, he trails kisses up and down your rump. You think that technically, if your middle school gymnastics classes will really pay off, you could do a handstand and strangle Leon with your thighs alone.
But you decide to desist from violence, at least for now. Not when he stretches your cunt so deliciously good.
Your pussy squelches sloppily, wet and needy, and you’re ready to straightaway beg for his cock when he goes three fingers in.
“Just put it in already," you hiss, hoping it doesn’t sound as desperate as you mean it.
Your bastard of a husband chuckles, raising an eyebrow, “Is that right? See, it was your idea, not mine.”
And does not waste any time.
It’s even hotter that you can’t see him and have no idea the fuck he’s up to. His palm presses on your head, faceplanting you to the sheets. You let out a loud huff of protest that gets ignored so mercilessly. Then your pride gets the best of you, but no matter how hard you try to remain unbothered, though, your empty hole too eagerly shows its readiness as it clenches, drooling slick with every flutter.
“I’ll be damned,” Leon drawls, sliding his boxers down to his knees (not like you’d see that, of course). “What a faucet you got right between your legs.”
…His dirty talk can’t get any worse, you think. You love this man. You really do. Even when he’s being cringey. He’s going to shut up now and just impale you on his cock, so you’ll stop thinking at all. Right now he’s just going to fuck you silently (mostly) and you won’t have to pretend that this dirty talk actually isn’t the most trashy thing man ever said to y—
“Well, I ain’t no plumber, but sure do know a thing or two about how to fix a leaky pussy,” his lips twitch in a greasy smirk; you hear the way his breath hitches when he cups his hard shaft. “Got quite a spanner here.”
You make a mental note to google ‘how to tell your husband that he’s absolutely hopeless at talking dirty’ after he—or his cock at this matter—is done making you remember why you still settle for his corny ass.
Leon fists his aching cock a few times, your cunt squelching at the schlickschlick sound it makes. He groans unabashedly, his cock twitching in his grip as he slaps the reddened head at your asscheek. You feel the wetness spreading on the patch of skin, making it shiny with pre that the slit of his cockhead spits out indefatigably.
You hear Leon stroke his shaft a few more times, counting every squelch that his palm makes when spreading precum all over the length, to keep yourself sane. You start to feel restless, a coil in your lower stomach getting too tight to stay still, and pulsations in your clit making you curl your toes.
Then Leon splits you open.
His cock plunges inside, the pearlescent sheen of your arousal surrounding your seam making a wet noise as he slams inside. You cry out loud enough to outvoice his rattling groan while he settles balls-deep inside of your vagina, just a bit shy of your cervix.
Leon pants, his neck lolling back and eyes squeezing shut. “Like… a fucking… vice.”
He really wants to give you some time to adjust, but the throb in his dick gets borderline unbearable. Leon pulls out until just the tip remains stealthed in you, enjoying the ‘o’ the cusp of your cunt forms desperately trying to keep gripping his dick.
“She won’t let me go, baby. Wants me all to herself. To keep me nice… and warm,” he croaks out, circling your stretched opening with his thumb. “Fuck, I’m gonna bust so hard that not a fucking morning-after gonna help.”
Your fists grasp the sheets, scrunching up the cotton fabric; pussy clenching even harder under his attention. Your cunt feels just as sensitive as your clit that swells to the point where you feel like all the blood in your body got there.
With a grunt, Leon pushes his hips forward, his cock making itself welcome in your scorching hot, suffocating channel once again as it contracts around him. His heavy balls land against your ass with a distinct slap of skin hitting against skin and he moans once again, hand pushing down on your head with gentle pressure.
He’s just two frictions in and you both feel like exploding.
“Fuck… yeah, baby, squeezing me so tight. Just… perfect…” Leon rasps, working himself in and out of you, finally finding a rhythmic pace.
Your cunt shrinks around him obediently, and you can’t help but arch as he presses against the spot that’s basically portal to heaven. Your back dips downwards, ass raising up in the air as you squeeze wrinkly sheets.
Leon’s cock quivers inside of you.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he groans slamming into you, his hand smacking your ass suddenly. “God, made to be taken from the back…”
You arch even further at his praise, feeling just as sexy as he called you. Leon pounds into you, his thrusts never faltering, the head of his cock bumping into the neck of your womb occasionally, fucking the shrieks out of your mouth.
One of his hands tangles in your hair, grabbing them in a loose makeshift ponytail, a good half of strands escaping his wavery grip, but neither of you seemed to care. Leon tugs on your hair, letting out grunts and pants accompanied by the lewd sounds of skin meeting skin, making your back go as low as your flexibility allows you—those few years gymnastics indeed do pay off, you think.
Seemingly, he notices that your ability to think is still present because one of his big palms slides down your sagging body to cup a heavy breast. Your shiver at the touch, your skin flushed hot and clammy yet sudden goosebumps making you feel chilly. Leon still moves his hips dexterously as he traces the dusty areola of your pebbled nipple while second hand raises to pinch and twitch another stiff peak. You moan, loud and eager, your breasts responsive to his attention as he leans over and plants a few kisses on the nape of your neck.
Leon chivalrously ignores the sounds of your pussy queefing, his lips stretching in a grin. Not like you could control or got shy because of it, yet it still was quite an odd thing to address, so none of you did usually. But by the way he’s smirking, you would think not like he minds your cunt speaking up for itself.
He keeps playing with your boobs and fucking you into oblivion. You honestly think that that would be enough to make you come in a few minutes—your whole body feels like one big nerve, even your cervix feels sensitive.
But Leon’s free shaky hand already makes its way to your clit, and you’re not gonna complain at all. You’re almost embarrassed from the fact how swollen your clitoris is, peeking under its hood like a fucking showoff. Your slick drips down your thighs, your ass glistening with all the liquid your coupling produced.
His thumb draws tight circles on your bundle and you twist your neck to catch a look of his concentrated face as he rubs you, beads of sweat dripping down his temples, dirty blond hairs sticking to his forehead. His hooded ocean-blues rise to meet your eyes, and you can’t help but tighten around his dick at the way he gazes at you—hazy, unfocused and absolutely feral.
Leon groans once more, his finger speeding up on your nub all the while his cock keeps pistoning and pistoning and pistoning. The sweet sensation spreads through your body, your stomach filling with warmth.
Your pussy keeps grasping him, gummy walls milking him for all its worth, and Leon’s tightening balls start to churn, urging him to dump a fucking nut.
“Oh fuck…” He groans low in the throat, both arms sliding to wrap around your middle. “Gonna come… gonna come inside of you and to hell with it.”
If fifteen minutes later you would think twice, now you don’t give a fuck. What’s the worst that could happen, right?
His dick presses to your front wall, thumb flicks your clit just the way you need it and you feel so close, both to orgasm and passing out.
“Yeah…” All that you’re able to cry out, watching the way the headboard slams as Leon ruts in and out.
Leon’s palm flies to your ass again, giving a few generous, echoing smacks, and you clench around him. He knows your body like it’s his own; knows how a good little spanking makes you tighter than a goddamn pocket pussy. Just enough to make him erupt.
Being on verge, he desperately wants you to get there at the same time as him. Whenever you came first, it felt like a personal offence. And it’s been too perfect so far to ruin in the very finale.
Leon bends down, his scorching hot breath behind your ear as his lips catch on the lobe, “Yeah, that’s right. You’re gonna let me come right deep inside of you, baby? You want it?” His fingers speed up on your nub enough to match the intensity of his thrusts, double pressure making your thighs shake with impending release. “Oh, you want it alright. That slutty pussy clings to me for dear life. Drain me empty, baby.”
That pretty much does it for you.
The tension in your lower stomach reaches its limit, your cunt convulsing desperately as your clit gets so sensitive it’s almost painful, and you let go, with everything that’s in you. Your lips part in a ragged moan, legs jiggling, and if it wasn’t for Leon holding you tight, you’d probably fall forward straight on to your face. By the way his grip on you tightens reflexively, you know he’s getting there, too.
“Fuck… c-coming.” He warns none in particular, as if you don’t know all the telltale signs of his building release.
He goes in, out, then in and then out, tempo frantic and desperate, until he finally bottoms out to finally empty his achingly full balls. His head falls on your back when Leon moans and shoots rope after milky rope to your depths, painting your insides white.
Still lost in the daze, his lips press a few sloppy kisses to your spine as his hold on you finally lets loose. You can’t wait to turn around and see and kiss him properly, but he needs to pull out for that.
With a grunt, Leon finally straightens, his face contorting in discomfort as he grasps his shaft to get it out of your cunt delicately, a hiss escaping his lips. Your stretched out hole remains gaping for a little while before it starts oozing his seed. Leon all but moves his face close enough to gawk with the curiosity of an explorer.
“Holy shit,” he breathes out, watching the way his sticky, pearly spunk drips down your opening straight to freshly washed goddamned sheets. “That’s so fucking hot. Oh hell, you’re gonna get me hard again.”
You glare at him over your shoulder, recovered enough to feel the usual wifely annoyance. “Grab a damn towel, Kennedy!”
Leon’s eyebrows shoot up, not expecting you to demand towel out of all things first thing after a romp that good.
“Yes, ma’am.” He salutes, sliding out of bed to do as you said.
Good thing he doesn’t see you grin.
Gotta keep a dude on his toes, right?
~ ♡ ~
Staring at two red lines on a stick that you’ve seen too many times to tell anyone, you feel surprised at the fact that you feel surprised. Like yeah, what a miracle to get knocked up a few weeks after going raw.
You felt happy. You loved kids—loved making them, loved carrying them, loved raising them. Childbirth has been kind to you so far, so has been Leon’s paycheck.
So why the fuck not reproduce?
That pleasant, warm dizziness spreads through your whole body. Another baby with a man you love. That must be the closing one, though, because anything above four is… well, extreme. Even for you. Four you could manage. Four is good. Yeah. Even.
Maybe it’s gonna be another girl this time. You loved your two sons dearly, but you knew your youngest daughter must be feeling lonely and attacked, dealing with two elder brothers. But if it’s a boy, that’s gonna be sweet too. A little guy, being doted on. You could picture your Thanksgivings and Christmases in a decade—chaotic, loud, the best kind of a mayhem a family-oriented woman could ever wish for.
You walk out of the ensuite, your mind filled with colorful matching outfits for your girls or a little tricycle you would get for your little boy. Whether it’s scarped knees or stolen makeup, you’d be happy. And you’re sexist to think that’s a sexist thing to say—in your family, it was your boys who were keen on stealing your makeup, and your daughter who kept on scraping her knees regularly. Go figure. Gender stereotypes, your ass.
You decide not to bother with any prelude, so you just tap Leon’s shoulder and shove a test in his hands. Leon looks up from his spot on the bed, one hand still busy with his phone, and as soon as he switches focus to the object in his other palm, his eyes go wide. In fact, too wide for someone who’s been adamant to creampie you.
His vasectomy recovery was going exceptionally well, by the way. So well he was up and at ‘em (you) a few days earlier than expected.
Leon raises his eyes to meet yours, his gaze surprised but joyful. “But… what about that pill you took right after?”
You let out a felicitous laugh. “Congratulations, hubby. We’re expecting a codename Early Ovulation.”
~ ♡ ~
Usually Leon hates his occupation as it is, but today he hates it a hundred of thousands times more. Being stuck at a hotel at the other end of the world was not on his ‘My Pregnant Wife Gets a Gender Reveal Ultrasound Today’ bingo card. Furthermore, goddamn time zones were no joke. Twelve fucking hours in between you.
He misses his children, his house, his bed, his wife… And your cooking, obviously. Because after days of eating greasy burgers, a man really goes craving a home cooked meal. But you’re pregnant, and even if he was starving, he would prefer ordering takeout for the whole family than making you cook. Cooking for five is no joke. Your job now must be eating for two.
He misses your belly. Your huge, round belly. Just a bit shy of being five months along, you already looked weirdly… inflated. Of course he wouldn’t use that word to your face, but he really was concerned about the fact. Doctors just shrugged, saying that the baby must be a big tyke. As long as you were healthy and comfortable, Leon didn’t care about the sizes and stuff. You had three natural births like a champ, so maybe a cesarean for a bigger baby would be a good idea. But that’s all on your ob-gyn.
Leon jolts at the sound of his phone buzzing on the nightstand. He accepts the call within a second, running a hand through his messy, dirty hair—motel bathrooms were just… not it.
“Finally, baby. I was goin’ crazy here. What did the doc say? Little jumbo doing alright in here?”
You do not answer for a solid five seconds. Leon’s hand raises to clutch his chest, right where the heart seemed to make its way out of his body.
“Baby? Baby, what, what is it? Something wrong? Where are you? Baby, if anything, you know me, I’ll drop everything, just… you’re scaring me as fuck, baby.” He babbles as his mind jumps to the worst conclusions. There’s… no way. You’re healthy, you don’t smoke nor drink, not even caffeine now that you’re in quite a predicament… you two were keeping everything low, you have been resting, never bending down…
Leon’s hand itches with the urge to book airplane tickets.
Luckily, you beat him to it.
“Babe… there’s… there’s three of them.”
He blinks. Once. Twice.
“...T-three?” He croaks out, his voice coming out more like a ridiculously high squeak.
You exhale to the phone speaker.
“Yeah… w-wait, let me…” You look down to the papers the ultrasound technician with a Cheshire cat smile handed you, clearing your throat before reciting. “Spontaneous trizygotic triplets.”
Leon’s ass plops down onto the creaky bed. “Triplets.”
He stares out of the window into the dusk before letting out a hysterical laugh.
“Nah, they must be pranking you, baby. No way in hell…”
“They were… snuggled in a really weird way. It’s almost impossible to tell any earlier. I was just getting diagnosed with all kinds of pregnancy complications while… the two of them were just… hiding somewhere in the uterus.” You mumble, still too shocked to realize that you are speaking about yourself, that you’re the one who’s gonna deliver and deal with spontaneous fucking trizygotic triplets.
“Sneaky little shits,” Leon squeezes out, feeling as bewildered as you are. “How do we know which ones of them were hiding so they’re the last in the diaper change queue?”
Immediately forgetting your previous confusion, you let out a hearty laugh. That’s your husband. Not pissing his pants, not clutching his pearls. Straight to the business. Very reasonable punitive measure.
“I… no idea. But we’ll figure something out. Such brazenness can’t be devoid of consequences.” You smile, tracing absent circles on top of your swollen belly. “How… how do you feel?”
Leon’s face softens—not like you could see it, but not like you don’t know your spouse, either. “I’m not gonna lie or play hero, baby. Six kids… that’s gonna be a wild fucking rodeo. But it’s fully on me. I insisted on shagging. Should’ve thought about it. It’s just… you never suppose that you're gonna be the one who gets multiples, you know? I thought: one baby we could handle. But… it’s not even the amount that weirds me out. I’m worried about you, baby. Kids are blessings. Gotta work hard, gonna get a bigger house, fetch you a new mom car… the least I could do.”
When he quiets down, all the worry leaves your body completely, making you remember why you shouldn’t panic in this situation, not while being married to this man.
“I… I mean, the pregnancy has been going so well. I bet they wouldn’t even fuss over me if they didn’t know multiples are involved. Heightened risks, all that shit…” You purse your lips with pregnancy stubbornness. “You risk your life like it’s a walk in the park. About time we even the score. Not like we could do anything about it now, anyway.”
Leon huffs, shaking his head. “You’re a champ, baby. Always have been, always will be. I wish I could have been here… with you. Can’t think about you being all alone out there.”
Your heart squeezes at the sound of guilt in his warm voice. “I’m… managing, I swear. I sent the kids to my mom’s. “
He laughs. “It’s not about you running the house, dummy. It’s about you dealing with this shit ton of information on your own while I keep being a lapdog.”
“I’m not on my own,” you snort, patting your bump. “Carrying a company everywhere I go. Now I’m gonna go grab bagels ‘cause I’ve been craving them, and I’m gonna ask for a table for four.”
Now he downright cackles, and you feel yourself smiling at the sound of him being carefree. “You go, baby. Enjoy your big, populous tableful.”
“Oh, my womb is populous alright. A goddamn five star resort.” You scoff, getting up from the perinatal centre’s bench with a steadying hand on your lower back. “Are you going to bed? It’s like, almost midnight where you are.”
Leon smiles. “Well, it's midday for you. So I think bed can wait. Just chatter me to sleep, baby. I swear, tonight can’t get any better.”
At that you smirk. “Can’t it?”
Leon arches an eyebrow, but before he can ask what are you on, a message notification pops up on his screen. He taps at the messenger icon, swiping straight to a chat with you.
Then blood rushes straight to his cock, making it twitch in his slacks.
You always love sending him selfies when he’s away. He loves getting pictures from you, too. But that must be the best goddamn one he ever received.
Your body, in all its naked glory, with your heavy, creamy breasts, engorged nipples of the perfect dusty brown colour, hanging above your vast belly that makes it hard to see the contours of your bare pussy hiding lower beneath it.
“Took this one before my appointment,” you clarify casually.
All Leon lets out is a desperate groan, his hand moving to unbutton his pants.
Summary : Bucky helps you navigate your parents during the holidays.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) / Reader is the adopted daughter of Valentina Allegra de Fontaine and Everett Ross.
Warnings/tags : Flangst, sneaking around with Bucky, mentioned age gap (reader is mid-late twenties, Bucky is biologically probably mid-late 30s while chronologically in his 100s of course), cursing, sex, fwb to lovers, divorced parents, childhood emotional trauma, It’s mentioned that you work for Nick Fury in SABER as a researcher. Set right after Thunderbolts. (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 11.6k
Note : I’ve never wrapped my head around how Val and Ross used to be married in the MCU, so this is my way to sort of canonise it in my head. Also, I’m in my flangst era. Enjoy!
You really shouldn’t be here.
You told yourself that every single time you slipped into the watchtower after hours, a badge clipped to your jacket, pretending you were just popping by for a wholesome evening of “mother–daughter bonding.”
Bonding.
Right.
If standing in the shooting range under fluorescent lights while Valentina Allegra de Fontaine corrected your posture for the twelfth exhausting time counted as bonding, then maybe you were just stupid for not appreciating it. Because of course, her version of quality time involved recoil, ear protection, and a hint of military disappointment
“Relax your elbow,” she’d bark. “No—really relax it.”
“Mom, I’m SABER,” you reminded, mildly annoyed, “I know what I’m doing.”
“That grouping is sloppy, sweetheart,” she’d ignore you. “You won’t hit anything center mass like that,” she’d say; even though you’ve hit four in a row— but apparently, the bullets weren't central enough.
She wasn’t cruel, at least not deliberately. She never raised her voice, never mocked you, never snapped. She just… assessed you constantly.
You were measured, critiqued, and treated. And maybe that was how she showed love. She was trying, and you wanted to give her credit for that, you really did.
Because it wasn’t fair, was it? She could’ve stayed distant. She could’ve just let you live your own life without a care after you moved out.
Instead she was putting in the effort. It was late, clumsy, wrapped in the wrong paper, but effort nonetheless.
But no amount of good intentions could change how suffocating it felt.
It felt like she was flipping through an outdated parenting manual and trying every tactic she’d skipped the first time. And you — her fully grown adopted daughter, who had been working for Nick Fury for a little over four years now— were suddenly expected to pretend it was normal.
But it wasn’t normal.
It was never going to be normal.
Not after years of watching her marriage to Everett Ross crumble around you like wet plaster. Not after hearing arguments through thin apartment walls. Not after being shuttled back and forth from her place to his place like a failed experiment they were too ashamed to abandon.
Because that’s what you were to them, once upon a time: A Hail Mary.
Valentina Allegra de Fontaine and Everett Ross got married young. And everything fell apart quickly.
So… they had a stupid fucking thought: Let’s adopt. It’ll fix everything.
It didn’t.
And now here she was, offering you extra magazines and asking if you wanted to grab dinner afterward, as if dinner could undo the twenty years of hearing them shout at each other.
That night had been worse than usual.
You’ve been there for hours. Literal hours of hearing the same sentence circling your head like a vulture.
“I could be so proud of you, if only—“
If only you visited more often.
If only you’d helped in the field.
If only you weren’t so much like your father.
If only. If only. If only.
You reached a point where the word made your skin crawl.
By the time she dismissed you with a smile and a new set of “things to work on,” you felt hollowed out.
You were over it.
Completely, entirely, fucking over it.
Your ears were still ringing from gunfire, your palms smelled faintly of oil, and the pit in your stomach throbbed with the familiar cocktail of guilt and resentment that always followed an evening with her.
You wanted to love her. You wanted to forgive her. You wanted to meet her halfway in this sudden urge she had to mend things.
But you were tired of being the one who had to bend.
And so you ended up where you always did when Val pushed too hard, tried too much, expected too many versions of you that you didn’t have the energy to perform.
You ended up in Bucky Barnes’ bed.
—
It started one Friday morning.
You remembered because everything about that day had been inconvenient.
Val had texted you — “Come to the tower. I want you to meet the team,” right as you got off from work at the SABER space station. Fury, well meaning of a boss as he was, had been particularly difficult to work with, and now your mother?
Besides, you knew what her text really meant: Come be paraded around so I can pretend I’m a good mother who didn’t miss half your childhood.
You walked into the briefing room to find six of the most intimidating people on the eastern seaboard turning to look at you all at once.
Yelena raised an eyebrow. Ava gave a polite nod. John Walker assessed you like a threat assessment worksheet. Alexei grinned like an uncle you never asked for, while Bob Reynolds waved.
And then there was Bucky Barnes.
He was leaning against the wall, metal arm reflecting the overhead light.
When your eyes met his, his posture straightened a little. Yours did too.
He watched you with this startling intensity that was neither threatening nor cold, but… aware. Like he’d been caught off guard and didn’t know how to hide it.
Val’s hand landed on your shoulder, her voice a little too bright for your liking. “This is my daughter.”
And Bucky’s reaction was the only one that mattered.
His eyes flicked from Val to you in empathy in a way that made your stomach twist.
He nodded once.
That day, you sat across from him during the briefing, pretending to listen to Val talk about protocols while his eyes kept drifting to you like static electricity — always by accident, never accidental.
And when the meeting ended, Bucky stepped aside to let you pass through the doorway first, perhaps an old habit, but as you went past, his voice dipped low enough to sink under your skin. “Welcome to the tower,” he said.
—
You and Bucky didn’t talk again until a week later, after another long evening.
It was a round of “mother–daughter bonding” that left you convinced that your mother thought perfection was a substitute for affection. Val had left you there, halfway through critiquing your stance one more time, saying something about “seeing improvement tomorrow.”
You were left gripping the cold metal of the gun, shoulders tight, ears ringing, heart too loud in the silence. You worked as a researcher in a space station, goddammit! You needed serviceable aim, you didn’t need to be perfect. What did you need it for anyway? Did she think the alien tech you were running diagnostics on was gonna challenge you to a duel?
And then Bucky showed up.
He just… appeared by the doorway for a second, eyes scanning you like he was trying to measure the weight of thoughts in your mind by the kilogram. Then he walked over.
“Can I?” he asked, gesturing to the gun.
You hesitated, because why would a legendary assassin care about your not-perfect aim? But something about the tilt of his head, the gentleness in his voice, made you nod.
He stood beside you, careful not to crowd you, his metal hand surprisingly gentle as he held your arm and guided your grip. “Relax your shoulders. Like this,” he said, adjusting your arms just slightly. You could feel the warmth of his body near you, his solidity against the slight flinch in your muscles. “That’s good. You’re doing great.”
It was the first time anyone had taught you without critique. Without
expectation. Without making you feel like a failure. He didn’t rush.
He didn’t sigh in disappointment. He just… was patiently helping you find the rhythm you’d been missing under your mother’s pressure.
When you finally hit the target squarely, he gave you a small, almost shy smile. “There. See? Not so bad.”
It was stupid, really, but it felt like the first time someone had genuinely believed in you in years. And you noticed, maybe for the first time, that his belief wasn’t conditional. He didn’t want perfection.
—
From that day on, he became a habit you could not quit.
Every time you visited the tower, he found ways to pull you aside. Sometimes it was the range, sometimes it was a corner of the training room, sometimes it was just leaning against the wall while you vented about Fury and work, about all the ways you felt you’d failed. And Bucky never judged and always listened.
He often offered kind words, careful touches, a hand on your shoulder, a brush of fingers along your spine.
You found wanting to stay in the tower longer than necessary, just for another minute of being around him. You began to anticipate his smile when you entered a room, his half-smirk that said he was already five steps ahead, thinking about how to make you feel safe without saying it out loud.
And gradually, imperceptibly, you started trusting him with more than just your shooting. You told him things you never told your parents. You laughed at his dry humor. You let him make you coffee in the mornings.
Val could never have understood. She just thought you were starting to like her more, and that was why you were spending more and more time near her.
—
It wasn’t until a few weeks later that anything actually happened.
And it happened when you were seeking refuge on the balcony of the watchtower — if “refuge” meant staring out over New York like you were debating whether letting gravity take you would solve your problems. The night air was cold enough to bite through your clothes, the city buzzing below like it didn’t care that your mother had just done a lobotomy on your life during a dinner reservation.
The glass door slid open.
Bucky came to stand beside you, his shoulder almost touching yours, leaving just enough space for you to choose whether to close it.
“What happened?” he asked, because of course he knew something was wrong.
You let out a small, humorless laugh. “Mom happened.”
His teeth ground into each other. “Yeah,” he chuckled. “She tends to.”
A gust of wind lifted the ends of your hair as the city roared beneath you. Neither of you spoke for a while.
He tapped a finger absently against the railing, metal on metal. Though not the same arm, it was a reminder of who he used to be, and who he was trying so hard not to be anymore.
When he finally looked over at you, he tilted his head. “You want to talk about it?” he asked.
“No.” You didn’t mean for the word to sound like a punch, but it did.
His eyes flicked down, then back up to your face.
“Alright,” he said. “No talking. We can just… stand here and freeze together.” It was meant to ease the tension, and it almost worked.
You stared ahead, voice barely audible. “It’s just how it is.”
He didn’t accept that. He knew better.
“It shouldn’t be,” he said.
You looked down at your hands. “Can we not do this right now?”
He always seemed to know when you needed space and when you needed someone to take the space away from you. And right now, he knew you’d probably benefit from letting some steam out before it boiled over.
“C’mon,” He turned his head, fixing you with a stare that was way too honest, for your liking. “Is this how you talk to your favourite avenger? Or did Yelena dethrone me already? I saw you two sparring yesterday. What, were you bonding over your mutual ‘my mom might be a sociopath’ trauma?”
“Jealous?” You asked, trying to distract from the point.
He didn’t deny it. “I’ve survived the Winter Soldier Program,” he shrugged, “I think I can survive being a little jealous.”
The corner of your mouth tugged up, only barely. But he noticed.
His eyes softened. “There it is…”
“What?” you asked.
“A smile,” he said. “I like those.”
Your chest tightened. You looked away before his stare could settle too deep.
“C’mon,” he asked. “What’s going on in your head?”
“Nothing,” you lied automatically.
“You forget that I’m a human lie detector.”
You sighed. “Buck…”
He leaned just slightly closer. “Yeah?”
“Bucky.” It was more of a warning this time.
The sound he made might’ve been a laugh. “You calling me that doesn’t make me forget you’re dodging the question.”
“Shut up.” Your said. The pressure in your chest swelled until it had to go somewhere, anywhere. “Please?”
“Make me.”
You snapped your head toward him, incredulous. And before you could stop yourself, you said, “And how do you want me to do that, huh? Kiss you?”
It didn’t even feel like you said it. It felt like the words jumped off a cliff and dragged you with them.
Your stomach dropped.
“I didn’t— I didn’t mean—” you stammered. “I’m sorry.”
He blinked once. Twice. Then, after fully processing the words that stumbled out of your mouth, he said, “Don’t be.”
“I shouldn’t say things like that,” you shook your head, cheeks heating rapidly. “It was a mistake.”
His head tilted, eyes narrowing like he could see straight through every lie you’d ever swallowed. “So what if you said you wanted to kiss me?” His voice dipped into a dare. “Is that so bad?”
“…Is it?” you whispered, heart beating out of your chest.
He moved just a fraction closer, close enough that the metal of his arm brushed your sleeve. Close enough that you could hear him breathe.
“From where I’m standing,” he said, “you’ve got a lot of anger built up. A lot of… tension. Gotta put it somewhere, right?”
You huffed a bitter laugh. “You volunteering?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation.
Oh.
Oh.
Immediately, a thousand reasons to walk away flashed through your mind.
Your mother, who would skin you alive for even thinking about touching him. Your father, who was incredibly over-bearing sometimes, hated all your past relationships, would probably drop dead if he knew what you were thinking about Bucky Barnes right now.
There were lines you weren’t supposed to cross.
But then, you were reminded of why you liked him so much.
You were reminded of the way he looked at you like you weren’t a disappointment. The way he listened. The way he relaxed around you like you were the one thing that didn’t scare him.
And—god, your next thought was an embarrassing one to have for a full-grown woman to have, but the little rebellious voice in your chest whispered: Mom and dad would hate this. They’d hate what he makes you feel.
And you loved that.
That voice was feral and hungry and tired of being the one in the crossfire.
So you didn’t think. You didn’t rationalize.
You just grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him.
For half a heartbeat, Bucky didn’t move.
His whole body tensed up, like he wasn’t sure you had actually chosen to do this stupid, irrational thing with him.
Then he made a sound. It was ragged, almost a growl.
His hands came up, vibranium fingers framing your face, cupping the back of your neck, sliding into your hair with desperation. He kissed you back harder, deeper, as if pleasing you was a mission he could not compromise.
His mouth was hungry, teeth brushing your bottom lip. You gasped against his mouth, fingers gripping the leather of his jacket, pulling him closer.
That tiny gap between you? Gone.
He stepped forward, guiding you back gently until your spine found the balcony wall. He didn’t pin you. He just wanted to feel you.
His lips trailed the corner of your mouth, breath catching against your cheek.
After a short detour to the sensitive spot under your ears, he returned to your lips, open mouthed, heated, a little frantic.
His metal hand splayed against your hip, grinding and possessive in the gentlest possible way, as he was terrified he’d break you if you gripped too hard.
Your fingers slid up his chest, and he shuddered at the contact, but didn’t stop kissing you. If anything, it fueled him.
He broke from your mouth just long enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath shaking against your lips.
“You have no idea…” he whispered, voice rough with want and disbelief, “how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
You swallowed, dizzy. “Then do it again.”
A dark smile curved his mouth, but it didn’t look smug. Rather, he looked… relieved.
His thumb brushed your lower lip as he whispered, “if you say so, sweetheart.”
He kissed you again, harder — hands exploring your waist, your back, your waistband.
What happened next wasn’t really something memory could neatly organize.
One moment, you were pinned between Bucky Barnes and the night air, his mouth stealing every breath you tried to take. The next, his hands were sliding down your arms, gripping your waist, and he was saying “come here” in that voice that made rational thought disappear.
You barely remember walking to Bucky’s room. You only remembered his fingers wrapped around your waist, guiding you down the dim hallway like he didn’t trust his voice to ask you to stay.
As he shut his bedroom door, you felt fingers splayed over your lower back, cold enough to make you gasp, and he used that sharp breath to push his tongue into your mouth, tasting every bit of you he could get. His human hand came up to your jaw, thumb stroking once, the only gentle thing about him right now, before he tilted your head, deepening the kiss until it was all desperation and teeth.
You dragged your nails up the back of his neck and he shuddered, tightening his grip until you could feel every heartbeat pounding through him. “God, you taste—”
He cut himself off with another kiss, harsher this time. His body pressed you to the nearest wall of his bedroom, his thigh slipping between yours, lifting you up just enough that you had to cling to his shoulders.
“Bucky—” It was barely a whisper.
“This okay?” he asked as he toyed with the hem of your shirt, forehead pressed to yours, breathing like he’d run miles.
You nodded. You barely managed to breathe “yes.”
That was all he needed.
He tugged your shirt up, fingers sliding under the hem like he already owned the right to touch you.
Fabric fell away in pieces — buttons tugged open, zippers undone, clothes sliding down skin that suddenly felt too exposed and too alive. Every time his metal hand skimmed bare skin, you arched, and every time you arched, he cursed darkly against your collarbone.
He pulled back to throw you in bed, he took a second to look with his grey eyes. “Beautiful,” he said.
By the time your back hit his mattress, both of you were half-dressed and fully undone. His body hovered over yours, breath shaking as he pressed his forehead to your chest, grounding himself for one suspended moment.
“You know,” he said, “we really shouldn’t do this. It would really make my job difficult.”
Your heat pooled as his hand trailed down your side, fingers tracing every curve like he was memorizing territory he planned to revisit thoroughly.
“You want to stop, huh?” You teased, before gasping, feeling his tongue slide down your body and finally reaching to have a proper taste of you.
“Mmm… Fuck no,” he mumbled against you, sending shock through your body.
“T-thought s-so,” you said, throwing your head back, holding in a moan as your fingers slid into his hair to tug.
And that was how you ended up sleeping with Bucky in the first place.
You were frustrated. Wound tight from your mother’s relentless expectations. Your own anger was threatening to spill over. And he was… the release you didn’t even know you’d been craving.
So you let it happen. You let him take you in every way that words and restraint had denied you all night.
And when it was over, when your body finally went slack in his arms, the tension that had been coiled so tightly inside you for weeks finally unraveled.
You were exhausted, satisfied, and yet still alive, tangled up with the one person who made letting go feel like safety instead of risk.
—
It wasn’t a one time thing, either.
It got bolder.
Once, when you sat in during a mission briefing, you sat a bit too close together. His thigh brushed yours under the table, and that bastard was doing it on purpose. His metal fingers traced the inside of your knee and your breath caught before you could hide it. He smirked, like he loved the way you struggled not to react.
Later, he caught you by the arm in the hallway.
He didn’t say anything, but just gave you that said mine without actually saying it.
Your back hit the wall and he kissed you like he needed the taste of you to breathe. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming, coaxing, making your knees weaken until his hands had to keep you standing. Your fingers curled into his shirt, dragging him closer, as if you could pull him under your skin if you tried hard enough.
“We’re gonna get caught,” you warned.
He ignored you as his lips trailed down your cheekbones to your throat, open-mouthed, sucking softly until you gasped his name, a sound he swallowed proudly with another kiss. His flesh hand slid beneath your shirt, exploring every new inch of skin you gave him. The cool metal of his other hand followed, and the contrast made you shiver, it made the super soldier you wanted so badly inside you again, laugh.
“Sensitive,” he observed.
You dragged him into the closest closet.
You locked the door, and didn’t bother with the light.
Clothes fell away, tossed, dropped, discarded without care for where anything landed. His mouth found every angle of you like he was learning a language he already loved speaking. You clung to his shoulders, his back, his hair, anything to keep your balance as the world narrowed to just him.
He groaned when your nails scraped down his spine. His forehead pressed to yours, noses touching, his voice low enough to vibrate through your ribs. “You drive me insane.”
You kissed him.
As always, heat built fast.
And when you finally came undone together, he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder and whispered against your hair, “We’re doing that again.”
He was right.
You did.
Again.
And again.
And again.
In your guest bed.
In his.
The shower.
A locked utility room outside the gym when you really shouldn’t have.
Every time was like discovering the same secret in a new way, and fuck did the heat never wore off.
And the way he looked at you afterward, like he wasn’t supposed to like this as much as he did, made it even sweeter.
Sneaking around with you wasn’t just fun for him.
It was addictive.
—
You’d barely been back on Earth for six hours.
Fury had you sent up to the station for a two week long research trip, and now you were bone-tired, skin buzzing with reentry anxiety, and the last thing you wanted was to be under your mom’s microscope again.
But of course, she had asked if you wanted to have lunch together at the tower. She even said you should stay for a couple of nights. For some stupid reason, you said “yes.”
Of course, it went badly.
Of course, she didn’t even notice that it went badly.
And suddenly you were here, shoving your newly unpacked clothes back into a duffel bag like you could outrun the part of you that was still a kid caught between two people who never learned how to love each other without destroying the house around them.
“Fuck,” you swore to yourself, “why— fuck! Why does it always have to end this fucking way?”
You felt a tear run down your cheek. Caught off guard, you quickly wiped it before it got too bad.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
Knock knock knock, you heard.
And then the door opened.
Bucky didn’t ask permission to enter, not when a month ago, you told him to just come in whenever.
“Wow,” he started lazily, trying to tease, trying to be normal. He leaned against a wall and raised an eyebrow when he noticed you were… packing? Why the hell were you packing? “Two weeks in space and you leave without saying hello?”
You swallowed, and tried to smile. Though it wilted before it even formed.
“Hi,” you managed, “Happy now?”
He frowned, smirk dropping away like a mask sliding off.
He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “Not really,” he admitted.
You forced your gaze away and fixed it on the zipper of your bag, getting blurry because your eyes were stinging.
“I’m… not in the mood tonight,” you said. It came out too defensive. “So you can leave.”
“You think that’s why I’m here?” He stopped mid-step. “You think I just wanted to get you into bed?”
You said nothing, cheeks burning in shame.
“I heard you just got in. And I missed you.” His eyes flickered to the backpack again. “And… now I’m trying to figure out why you’re already running off.”
Your throat closed, and you physically couldn’t answer him. “Val get in your head again?” He asked.
You nodded once, barely.
“I’m going home,” you whispered, fingers tightening around the bag strap like you needed it to anchor you.
He didn’t argue, didn’t sigh, didn’t roll his eyes like you half expected.
Bucky just stepped into your space, and it made you feel safe. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll drive you.”
Your breath left your lungs in a broken exhale.
You let go of the strap, and your hand found his chest instead, without thinking. Like your body trusted him even when your mind was drowning. “Thanks, Bucky.”
—
The drive was near-silent.
City lights smeared across the windshield in blurry streaks, and the hum of the engine filled your eardrums. Bucky didn’t push, didn’t ask what Val said this time or why you were running again.
He just drove.
Every so often he glanced your way. It was just a quick check, making sure you were still present. You weren’t sure you were.
He didn’t know where your place was, he’d never visited before, so you pointed at intersections, guiding him through familiar streets.
Turn here.
Next left.
Right at the light.
When he finally pulled up in front of your apartment building, he put the car in park but didn’t shut it off right away. His hand eased off the gear shift reluctantly, like part of him wasn’t ready to let the moment end. You looked at the dashboard, not him.
“Thanks,” you said.
He nodded once, tapping his metal arm on the wheel like he wanted to say something but refused to.
You pushed the door open, stepping out into the night air. He waited, engine still running, headlights painting the gloom. He thought you were leaving. And maybe you were supposed to.
But then, you paused, and turned back to him.
“Do you… wanna come in?” Your voice wavered.
His head lifted, eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice rough. He didn’t want to invade, didn’t want to push.
You shook your head, wrapped your arms around yourself like you were cold.
“I just…” You blinked quickly, tears threatening to spill again. “I really don’t wanna be alone right now.”
Bucky stared for half a heartbeat. It was the first time you had been properly vulnerable. It was the first time he’d ever heard you ask him to stay.
He turned off the engine and pocketed the keys, climbing out without a word.
—
Inside, he paused in the entryway, surprised.
He’d expected some sort of sterile chaos. Maybe half-assembled alien circuitry on every surface or dangerous gizmos beeping in corners. Maybe a scorched couch cushion or two.
But no.
Your space was warm, with earthy lighting and a deep green couch with a knitted blanket tossed over the arm. You had shelves crowded with books, astrophysics textbooks beside romance novels, interstellar anatomy wedged next to classic fairytales. You even had a record player in the corner, with a lot of old records.
It smelled like vanilla and faintly floral. It smelled of you.
“Tea?” you asked, already heading toward the kitchen.
“Only if it’s not too much,” he said quietly.
“Of course not,” you murmured, filling the kettle.
While the water heated, he drifted into your living room, hands in his pockets, taking you in through the things you surrounded yourself with.
He spotted a small gallery wall behind the couch, and the photos on it.
There was one of you as a kid on Everett Ross’ shoulders at a carnival, cotton candy smeared on your cheek. One with him and you in a middle school science fair.
Weaved in between them were photos of you and Val. One was of a younger you in a fancy dress, with Val’s hand on your shoulder. Another was you and Val, with matching holiday sweaters and cups of mulled wine in your hands.
There were so many photos of you with one of your parents, but not a single one of all three of you.
Bucky’s chest tightened.
You reappeared with two mugs and handed him one.
“Thanks,” he said, cradling the cup.
You stood beside him, staring at the wall as if seeing it through his eyes for the first time.
“Do you still have photos of your family?” you asked, not looking directly at him. “From… before?”
Bucky took a deep breath.
“Not really,” he admitted. “Most of it’s gone. Or… I don’t remember enough to know what I’d be looking for.”
He looked at the photos again, then at you.
“Oh,” you breathed.
“But…” he said, “I was lucky enough to remember that ma and pa used to dance together in the kitchen while Becca and I played outside.”
You found yourself smiling, imagining little Bucky and his sister having a good example on what love was supposed to look like.
—
Eventually, you sat down on the couch, mostly because standing there with all those memories staring back felt unbearable. Bucky followed without asking, settling beside you but leaving a small space in between like he didn’t want to crowd you.
The silence was… comfortable enough.
But your tea sat untouched in your hands. Your leg bounced once… twice… then stopped only when you forced it.
Bucky noticed everything.
“You don’t have to talk,” he said finally.
You nodded.
You tried to breathe. And then, without warning, your throat closed up. Your chest squeezed and that awful burning feeling built up behind your eyes.
You put the mug down before your shaking hands could drop it.
“It was stupid,” you whispered, voice cracking.
“I’ll let you know if it is,” Bucky said. “So far you’re in the clear.”
You huffed out something that might have been a laugh if it didn’t hurt so much.
“I mentioned dad to mom,” you said, staring at your fingers curled in your lap. “And it… spiraled.”
Bucky didn’t interrupt. Slowly, he just put a hand on yours, rubbing soothing circles on your human palm with his vibranium thumb.
“I used to think,” you said, fingers curling around his, “that once I turned eighteen, once I could make my own choices… everything would just magically get better.”
Bucky’s brows softened. “Did it?”
You laughed under your breath. “Oh yeah. Totally. Now instead of them arguing over who’s better for me… they argue over who fucked me up the least.” You let out a breathy, bitter exhale. “They actually said that once. Right in front of me. Like I wasn’t even there.”
Bucky looked down, inching ever closer to you.
“It’s always been like that,” you admitted. “Even when I was little.”
You stared into the tea like the memories were swirling at the bottom.
“I remember this one day… I was maybe nine? I’d gotten sick at school. I had a fever, threw up on the bus, it was a total disaster.” You tried to smile, but it didn’t work. “My teacher called my parents. They both showed up.”
You closed your eyes, picturing it clearly.
“They… started fighting in the nurse’s office. yelling about whose fault it was I’d gotten sick. Who was failing as a parent.” Your voice turned small. “I just wanted them to hold my hand and tell me I wasn’t in trouble.”
Bucky let out a slow breath, like he needed to regulate the anger for your sake.
“And now?” You shook your head, wiping the corner of your eye with your sleeve. “Every holiday, every event… It's always a negotiation. Whose turn it is. Who I ‘belong’ to that week, like I’m still on a damn custody schedule.”
Bucky leaned in just slightly.
“And they care about me. I know they do,” you said, voice cracking around the words. “They give everything they can. I never went without. But… I… I—”
“It must’ve hurt anyway,” Bucky finished, helping you where you couldn’t speak.
You nodded, tears slipping before you could stop them.
“I’m exhausted, Bucky,” you breathed out, letting your head fall on his shoulder and burying it there, “It is exhausting being the only thing they still have in common.”
He put his arm around your waist, humming into your hair.
“You wanna hear something messed up?” you whispered.
“Hm?”
“Once… I overheard them saying they thought adopting me would fix things,” you started, “but it made things worse. I made things worse.”
Bucky took a deep breath. “You didn’t.”
How could he say that with such conviction, such finality? Because all your life, you’ve told yourself that if you hadn't been there… maybe they’d have split a long time ago and found better lives. Maybe they wouldn’t hate each other this much.
“I was the common denominator,” you choked out.
Bucky didn’t move for a long moment.
Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he was looking at you like a fault line right before it split open.
Then he lifted your hand, and pressed it gently against his chest, right over his heartbeat.
“Hey,” he said, “look at me.”
You tried, but your eyes were burning too much.
So he shifted closer until his forehead rested against your temple, the warmth of him easing some small tremor in your shoulders.
“You were never the problem,” he said.
You swallowed, throat tight. As his hand tightened around yours.
“And you didn’t deserve to grow up in the crossfire.”
Bucky’s thumb brushed your knuckles, reminding you what it felt like to be held. You swallowed hard and looked down at your intertwined hands.
“I just… I wish—” You said. “I wish I had better role models. I wish I knew how growing up with functional parents felt like. Hell, I wish I knew what romantic love looked like.”
For a second, he just looked at you.
“Yes,” he breathed out. “You do.”
“What?”
“You’re looking at it,” Bucky said. “Right now.”
You blinked at him.
Oh.
Oh.
“Bucky…”
“You don’t have to say it back,” he leaned in just enough that his forehead almost touched yours. “I just want you to know that I do.”
Your heart skipped a beat
“I… I do too,” you whispered. “But I.. fuck, why is it so hard to say it?”
Bucky’s smile was tender in a way that made your ribs hurt.
“You don’t have to say it,” he reassured. “You can show it.”
“How?” you whispered, almost embarrassed.
“You already have,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with the back of his human fingers.
You looked up at him, confused.
“When you stitched me up after that mission in Berlin,” he said, remembering the memory. “You were so mad at me for getting hurt. You kept saying ‘why do you never duck on time.’”
A watery laugh escaped you.
“And every time you text me during your research trips? ‘Did you eat?’ ‘Did you sleep?’ ‘Don’t forget water.’” He nudged your knee with his. “Doll, no one does that for me.”
Your throat tightened painfully at the nickname.
“And when I ranted about The Hobbit movies for three straight hours? When I wouldn’t shut up about how the dwarves were mischaracterized—” he smiled, genuinely amused, “you just let me go on and on and on”
“I did,” you whispered, a ghost of a laugh forming at the edges.
“You did,” he chuckled. You didn’t realize you were crying again until one of your tears landed on the back of his hand.
Instinctively, Bucky wrapped his arms around you. He held you like he’d been built for it. Like your shaking didn’t scare him. Like he had all the time in the world.
He tucked his chin on top of your head and rocked you gently, whispering you couldn’t quite make out.
Eventually, your tears slowed. Your breathing evened. But you didn’t pull away.
“Stay,” you whispered into his shirt, voice small. “Please?”
“I’ll stay tomorrow, too,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “If you need me to.”
You sniffed, lifting your face. “Mom said you all have a briefing scheduled in the morning.”
“Well ” Bucky said with dramatic solemnity, brushing your tears with his thumb, “I’m about to send the tower group chat a message telling everyone I’m violently puking everywhere with some rare super soldier plague.”
A tiny laugh burst out of you.
Bucky grinned, triumphant.
“There it is,” he whispered, “God, I love that sound.”
You hid your face in his chest again, flustered.
“C’mon,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Let’s get you to bed.”
He didn’t mean it in a filthy way this time.
He meant rest.
He meant safety.
—
You woke up with an arm wrapped around your waist, a breath brushing the curve of your neck.
Bucky.
You smiled into your pillow without meaning to.
His finger stroked in, lazy circles against your hip under the blanket, as if he wasn’t awake but his body had already decided it wasn’t letting go of you. His metal arm was tucked beneath your pillow, supporting both your head and his own like he’d done this a thousand times.
You shifted slightly, and he instinctively tightened his hold on you, pulling you closer with a sleepy half-groan.
“Mmornin’,” he mumbled into your hair.
Your heart melted. “Morning,” you whispered back. “I didn’t snore, right?”
“You absolutely did,” he teased, “Like a chainsaw.”
You shoved his arm, flustered and laughing, and he kissed your shoulder, all apology and affection.
You were about to turn around fully when—
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
You didn’t answer. Not yet. You were still praying it was a hallucination.
Then, the knock happened again. “Hey, kid. It’s me.”
Your bloodstream turned to ice.
“Oh my god,” you mouthed silently.
Bucky blinked at your tone, “Who is it?”
“My dad.”
“Oh,” Bucky whispered, suddenly very awake. “I haven’t seen your dad in a while.”
“I’m sorry,” you hissed. “I wasn’t even aware you two have met before?!”
He blinked. “Everett Ross led the search for the Winter Soldier when I was framed for the UN bombing. I… think I might’ve beat him up when the soldier was triggered that day.”
You stared at him.
Right.
Right.
That happened.
You buried your face in your hands. “Bucky, oh my god.”
You heard another knock. “I brought breakfast.” He said.
Of course he did.
Of course he brought breakfast on the morning Bucky Barnes slept in your bed for the first time.
“My dad hates all my boyfriends growing up,” you whispered, frantically, getting out of bed. “He’s… protective. Very, very protective.”
Bucky’s eyebrows lifted, a grin tugging at his mouth even in this moment. “Boyfriend, huh?”
“Bucky,” you sighed, trying to pull him up. “Not now.”
He snorted, amused. “But you said it.”
“He’s actually going to kill me,” you muttered. “And then he’s going to kill you.”
Bucky shrugged, stretching like a smug cat. “I’ll survive.”
“He has a gun, Bucky!”
“So do I.”
“That does not help!”
Another knock. “You awake, kid?”
You panicked a pure, unfiltered panic.
“Get in the closet,” you hissed.
“What—why—?”
“GET. IN. THE. CLOSET.”
Bucky opened his mouth to protest but your face must’ve been wild enough because he shut it again, swung his legs out of bed, and shuffled toward your closet, rubbing a hand over his sleepy face.
“You know,” he whispered as he stepped inside, “I don’t mind saying hi to Ross.”
“Shut up,” you hissed, pushing him fully inside and closing the door.
He said something like “worth it” under his breath, quiet enough that you weren’t sure if you were meant to hear it.
You inhaled sharply and tried not to look like a person who had just shoved a super soldier into a closet.
Your heart hammered against your ribs as you opened the bedroom door and headed for the living room.
You flattened your hair, straightened your shirt and tried to wipe the panic off your face.
Then, you opened the door with a smile that felt stapled onto your face.
“Hi,” you squeaked.
Everett Ross stood there holding a white paper bag and a smoothie cup carrier. He smiled a smile that tried too hard. The smile that said I’m sorry I don’t know how to parent but I’m doing my best in the only way I know how.
“Morning, kid,” he said, lifting the bag. “Brought you something.”
You stepped aside to let him in, heart trying to break out of your chest.
“Donuts,” your dad said, placing the bag on your counter. “Strawberry-filled kind. And the mango smoothie you like.”
Of course he remembered.
He always remembered the little things, even if he bulldozed over the big ones.
“Thanks, Dad,” you said, trying to sound normal. “That’s… sweet.”
He nodded, looking around as if expecting something to jump out at him. Then again, he always looked like that. “You look tired,” he said. “You okay?”
You nodded way too fast.
“So…” you said, crossing your arms in what you hoped looked casual. “What are you doing here?”
Your dad scratched the back of his neck. “Well, Val— your mom said you left the tower last night without telling her.” He sighed. “You know how she gets.”
Yeah.
You did.
“So,” he continued, “she asked me to check on you.”
Must be very worried if she had to call your dad for a favour.
“I’m fine,” you said quickly. “Totally fine. Thanks for breakfast but you—” you pointed toward the door. And laughed nervously. “—should probably go. The CIA always needs something from you, right?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to kick me out?”
“No! “Yes!” You said, just spewing out words at this point. “I mean, I have things to do.”
“Uh huh.”
Your father gave you that look that he used to both ask you if you smoked a cigarette at sixteen and to interrogate the war criminals he captured.
“So,” he said, clearing his throat, “are you still coming to mine for the holiday dinner?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
He hesitated, before saying, “Will your boyfriend be coming?”
You froze so quickly you could’ve sworn you nearly dislocated something.
“What?”
“Your boyfriend,” he repeated, pointing toward the front door. “Those men’s boots. Size eleven, I’m guessing. Pretty worn. Not yours. Belong to him?”
You wanted to scream.
You forced a laugh that sounded like a dying water pipe. “Oh— those? Yep. Boyfriend.”
Stupid. Why did you admit it?
“Is he here?” He squinted around the place.
“No, no,” you lied, “He’s not— he just left them. Here. Accidentally.”
Your father stared at you.
You stared back.
“Right.” He hummed. “Bring him.”
You nearly choked. “What?”
“Bring him to dinner,” he repeated. “If he’s important enough to leave shoes here, he’s important enough to meet me.”
Your brain was short-circuiting. “Yessir.”
Your dad smiled, clearly satisfied that he had exerted maximum chaos at his daughter.
Then he pulled you into a hug, awkward but earnest.
You stiffened, then slowly melted into it.
“Love you, kid.”
“You too, Dad,” you whispered.
He squeezed your shoulder one more time, then walked out the door.
The second the door clicked shut behind your dad, you didn’t move. You just stood there in your silent apartment, staring at the doorknob, half expecting for it to explode.
Then you heard a thud.
Followed by a voice from inside your bedroom, “Is he gone?”
You squeezed your eyes shut. “Get out of there.”
The bedroom door opened like Bucky expected the special to be waiting with a battering ram.
He stepped out, hair flattened on one side from sleeping, shirt wrinkled, equal parts amused and horrified.
“I heard everything,” he said immediately.
You groaned into your hands. “I know you did.”
Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, trying hard not to laugh. “So I am your boyfriend.”
You paced, nerves buzzing through you like electricity. “Oh my god, he wants you to come to dinner. Holiday dinner. With my family— oh my god.”
Bucky caught your wrist gently on your next frantic lap across the room. “Hey,” he said.
You blinked at him, wide-eyed and spiraling.
“It’s okay.” He reassured.
“It is NOT okay!”
“It kinda is,” he said with a shrug. “My name was cleared, remember?”
You stared.
“This is not about your record,” you whispered, heart pounding. “This is about my dad thinking I’m dating someone and the someone being YOU and you beating the shit out of him once—”
“To be fair,” Bucky cut in, raising a finger, “I was brainwashed that day.”
“I know but, Bucky, my dad interrogated the people I dated in high school, all through college, and even grad school. He made my prom date cry.”
He tried to look serious. But he cracked into a full smile.
“You’re really nervous about this,” he said, stepping closer.
“No shit!”
He cupped your cheek gently with his flesh hand. “Sweets,” he said. “we’re gonna be fine.”
Your breath stalled.
“You’re not scared?” you whispered forgetting for a second of who you’re talking to. Forgetting that his parents were not like yours.
He leaned down and kissed your forehead.
“I’m only scared of losing you,” he whispered against your skin. “Your dad? He’s nothing.”
Your heart thudded painfully.
You wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your face in his chest as he held you close.
“We’ll be fine.” Bucky said into your hair, “You will be fine. And I’ll be right there.”
—
The holiday dinner was in two weeks.
You said you would tell your dad before then.
You swore you would tell your dad.
You promised Bucky two whole weeks of advance notice so Everett Ross wouldn’t drop dead when he found out the man he once hunted across half a continent was now dating his only child.
“I’m gonna tell him,” you’d said, with the shaky determination of someone preparing to jump out of a plane, while Bucky lay on your bed watching you with amused fondness. “I’m gonna tell dad. Like… today. Yes. I’m telling him today.”
Bucky nodded patiently. “Sure.”
“I mean it,” you said, pointing at him like you were making a binding contract.
“Okay.”
“I swear I’m going to do it.”
You didn’t.
—
Two days later, you typed out a text:
Hey dad, can we talk about something kinda important?
You stared at it.
Your soul left your body.
Closed the messages app.
Opened it again.
Re-typed it.
Deleted it.
Bucky watched you from your couch, flipping through a cookbook like he did it every day.
“You okay?” he asked without looking up.
“Fine,” you squeaked.
He hummed. “You didn’t send it, did you?”
“I panicked.”
He set the cookbook down and tugged you into his lap. “You’ll get there,” he murmured against your shoulder. “One step at a time.”
—
The week after, you decided calling would be easier.
You paced your kitchen with the phone to your ear, hyperventilating before he even picked up.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey, kid! Everything okay?”
“No, yes! I mean, kinda— Um, Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I,” you started “I’ll see you next week, bye!”
You told Bucky you were definitely going to tell your dad tomorrow.
He kissed your forehead and said, “Sure, doll.”
You scowled. “Don’t say that like you don’t believe me.”
“I believe you,” he said cheerfully.
He did not believe you.
—
The day before the dinner, you were lying on your bed, face-down, screaming into a pillow.
This was how Bucky found you.
He sat beside you, rubbing your back in slow circles.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You screamed louder.
“That’s a no,” he murmured.
You flipped your head toward him, “I don’t think I can tell him.”
“I know.”
“I WANT to.”
“I know that too.”
“I open my mouth and nothing comes out! I’m going to die! He’s going to die! He’s going to show up at dinner and see you and have a heart attack and die and it’ll be my fault—”
Bucky gently put a hand over your mouth.
“Hey,” he said calmly. “It’s fine.”
You blinked up at him, muffled under his palm and groaning into his hand.
He removed it, brushed hair from your face, and leaned down to kiss your forehead.
“You don’t have to tell him early,” he whispered. “I’ll be there tomorrow. With you. No matter what.”
You melted into the sheets with a helpless little noise.
—
You stood on your father’s porch, clutching a box of cookies like it was a bomb you were being forced to defuse.
Today was the day.
You were here early, and Bucky was gonna get here after you.
You both agreed to that because he was seeing Sam and Joaquin first, but also you’d have an extra thirty minutes to tell your dad and connect every dot you had failed to warn him about.
You knocked.
The door swung open.
“Hey, kid.” Everett Ross smiled warmly. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
“He—he’ll be here in thirty minutes,” you blurted, stepping inside.
And you froze.
No.
No, no, no, no.
Because sitting on the sofa, arms crossed, legs crossed, perfectly composed in a way that screamed, I am trying very hard to behave, was Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.
Your mother.
Your divorced, can’t-be-in-the-same-zip-code-with-your father-without-yelling mother.
“Mom?” you squeaked.
She gave you a polite smile. A painfully civilized, strained, diplomatic smile usually reserved for world leaders she despised. “We weren’t expecting you so early.”
You stared between them. “What is—why—how are you here—?”
Your mom tucked a stray strand behind her hair, her movements elegant and suspiciously deliberate. “We know how you feel about holidays,” she said, a hint of warmth in her tone. “And we want things to be easier for you this year.”
Your dad nodded stiffly, hands in his pockets.
He was smiling, but the vein in his forehead was doing a lot of heavy lifting. “We figured we could be civil. For one night.”
“Civil,” you repeated, feeling faint.
“Yes,” Val said with a gracious nod that was one twitch away from combusting. “Perfectly civil.”
Your dad nodded again. “Civil.”
The air between them was cold, a détente barely held together with duct tape and an NDA.
“But you two hate each other,” you whispered.
“Sweetie, we don’t hate each other,” your mother said airily.
“We strongly dislike each other,” your father corrected.
Val smiled without showing teeth. “We have… differences.”
Your dad snorted. “You tried to steal intelligence off my laptop in 2016.”
“You—“
“Please,” you cut in, hands raised. “Please don’t do this.”
“Sorry,” Your dad cleared his throat.
Val’s voice gentled genuinely. “It’s the first time you’re bringing a boyfriend to a holiday dinner.”
She gave your dad a pointed look. “We figured we should both be here.”
Fuck.
You should give them credit for trying. It was awkward and painful, but they were doing it for you.
Your chest tightened.
“I… appreciate it,” you managed.
Your dad sighed, “We just want you to have a good on this year.”
Oh god.
Oh this was bad.
This was catastrophic.
Because it just dawned on you that you had thirty minutes to tell them Bucky Barnes — the super soldier your father absolutely had a thick CIA dossier on, and your mother actually worked with him the New Avengers Watchtower — was about to walk through that door with a casserole and a hopeful smile.
You felt your knees wobble.
Your mother narrowed her eyes, analyzing your face like she was scanning a barcode.
“You look… ill.”
“I-I’m fine.”
You were not fine.
Your father tilted his head. “You sure? You look like you’re about to throw up.”
You swallowed. “I’m okay.”
Valentina stood. “You are a terrible liar, sweetheart.”
You took a deep breath.
This was it.
This was your moment.
If you didn’t tell them now— Bucky would walk in.
“I need to tell you something.”
Both of them turned toward you.
Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, mouth going dry as you tried again.
“I… I need to tell you something important before my— before, um—”
And that’s when there was a knock at the door.
Your parents both turned toward the sound. Your boyfriend was early.
Before you could protest, your dad pulled the door open.
And there he was.
Bucky.
Standing on the porch with a casserole in one hand and a bouquet of grocery-store flowers in the other, wearing that navy sweater you loved on him.
His smile was interrupted the second he saw who else was in the room.
Your father blinked at him.
Your mother stared at him like she was scanning biometric intel.
You stared at the ceiling, praying for divine intervention.
“Uh… hey,” Bucky said.
You wished the earth would open and consume you.
“Bucky?” Val gracefully from the sofa like a queen standing to address an intruder.
“Val,” he said. “Hi.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing here? Isn’t the Tower having game night tonight?”
Your father turned toward you, like a man staring down a classified nuclear threat.
Val suddenly turned back to you. “What is he doing here?”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
Bucky cleared his throat and stepped inside. “I’m…” He glanced at you.
Your dad’s stare was burning a hole through your skull.
“...here for dinner,” Bucky finished.
For a second, all you heard was silence.
Everett looked between you and Bucky like he’d been hit with a stun grenade. You could almost hear the pieces refusing to fall into place. “Why would you invite him?”
You closed your eyes for half a second. “Dad, I was… going to tell you—”
Your mother cut in, finally realizing the implications of all this. “Oh my god.”
She looked at Bucky. Then at you. Then at the flowers in his hand. Then back at him.
“Oh my god,” she repeated, louder this time.
Your father blinked. “What?”
Val slowly exhaled. “Everett… they’re dating.”
Your dad choked on absolutely nothing. Bucky lifted the flowers helplessly. “Yep.”
Your mother folded her arms. “You and I work together. You talk to me every day. And you never thought to say, ‘By the way, Val, I’m seeing your daughter?”
“What?!” Your father said, a little bit of a delayed response, but that was understandable.
You snapped, “I tried to tell you!”
“When?” your father demanded.
You threw your hands up. “Every day for the last two weeks and every time my brain shut down, so this is as far as I got!”
They all stared at you.
Bucky moved to your side immediately, gently brushing his arm against yours in quiet support.
Your dad’s eyes narrowed.
Your mom’s eyes narrowed even more.
And you stood there, in the middle of the battlefield known as your dad’s living room, wishing a meteor would strike the house and save you from this conversation.
“Let’s have dinner,” you suggested, “shall we?”
Dinner was going to be… interesting.
—
The table was set. Everett had somehow managed to make the place look “festive,” which mostly meant he’d cleared the non-existent clutter and added a single, slightly sad centerpiece. Valentina had brought her own contribution, a perfect homemade tart that looked like it belonged in a five-star magazine.
Bucky sat across from you, calm as ever, hands folded neatly in front of him. You squeezed his hand under the table.
Everett glared at him across the mashed potatoes. “So… chronologically… you’re what? Seventy, eighty years older than her?”
You rolled your eyes internally.
Bucky lifted a hand. “If it helps, I was in cryo most of that time.”
Your mother cut in, “And yet, here you are, sharing my daughter’s holiday dinner.”
Everett leaned back, folding his arms like he was preparing to interrogate a foreign spy. “Do you have any idea the kind of stress you’re causing me right now?”
“I’m aware of the risk,” Bucky said evenly, calm as the eye of a hurricane. “And I’ll do everything I can to minimize it.”
You groaned softly into your napkin. Too calm. Way too calm.
Valentina, still scrutinizing. “How long exactly have you two been… sneaking around the tower?”
You panicked and answered too quickly. “A couple months.”
“Right.” She said. Her tone made it clear she’d filed that under will verify later.
“A couple months?” Everett asked incredulously, “Don’t you think I should have been the first to know?”
You debated saying, well, we’ve technically only been dating for a couple of weeks. The ‘couple of months' was when we started sleeping together— but decided against it. It would’ve made everything a whole lot worse.
Bucky reached for your hand under the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “She just needed time.”
Your dad’s fist clenched, clearly on the verge of another lecture, but he paused, realizing arguing wouldn’t help.
You wanted to crawl under the table. Or yell. Or do anything besides watch your boyfriend sit there while your father’s face went through the full spectrum of disbelief, suspicion, and awe.
Bucky caught your eye and gave you a tiny shrug, like, see? I’ve got this. You can breathe.
And somehow, against all odds, you did.
—
The dinner had been surprisingly okay.
Your dad started relaxing when Bucky brought up a conversation about the Wakandans. After all, they both owed them a debt difficult to repay. Occasionally, Bucky would add a war-story anecdote that made Everett blink in disbelief. Somehow, your dad seemed to forget that Bucky was the Winter Soldier. It was a small miracle.
Meanwhile, your mom and Bucky had bonded over a completely different front: Alexei and the common room fridge.
“Who eats this much borscht?” Val had demanded, rolling her eyes at Bucky.
“I told the team we need to put a lock on the freezer,” Bucky said, shaking his head.
“Finally,” Val said, eyes narrowing with approval. “Someone who gets it.”
It was almost normal. Almost domestic. And every time, Bucky gave you a reassuring smile.
An hour later, dinner was done, dessert was finished, and you managed to be okay in this very awkward company.
But your parents were nothing if not a ticking time bomb, and your time was running out.
So when you thought to yourself, maybe this can actually work. Maybe my parents won’t implode tonight, you should’ve known you were wrong.
Because, on the topic of your and Bucky's relationship, your mother decided to hijack the conversation, “Well, at least I didn't marry someone who can’t tell the difference between good leadership and blind stubbornness.”
Everett’s fork froze. “Oh, we’re doing this.”
“Oh, we are definitely doing this,” Val said with a smile too perfect to be friendly.
“It’s funny,” Everett snapped, “because I remember someone— someone who will remain nameless— refusing to compromise on anything unless she had final say.”
“I compromised plenty,” Val scoffed. “You were simply wrong most of the time.”
“You drove every relationship into the ground after ours!”
“I can’t help it if I have standards.”
“You don’t have standards. You have a checklist!”
“That checklist kept this country alive—”
And then it spiraled, and you stopped listening.
You felt your chest tighten. It grew into a full squeeze, like invisible fingers were curling around your ribs.
Your heartbeat skipped a couple beats, trying to punch through your sternum. Your fork slipped from your fingers.
You knew this feeling. You hated this feeling. The childhood-memory kind, the helplessness of listening to them tear each other apart.
The way your brain wanted out, out, OUT.
You stood abruptly, your chair scraping the floor too loudly.
“I- I need some air,” you said, voice cracking on the last word, but they didn’t hear you.
They were too busy dissecting the corpse of their marriage.
Bucky did, though.
“Excuse me,” he said, following you out the back door.
—
“You okay?” he said as he reached you, closing the door as you sat in your dad’s back garden.
You shook your head quickly. “I just… I can’t… I just need—”
“It’s okay,” he whispered, sitting down cross-legged next to you.
You sucked in a breath a bit too fast. Then another, and another, as your chest kept tightening.
Bucky gently put an arm on your thigh. “Hey, hey, look at me,” he said.
You tried, but your vision was blurry.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, taking a slow, exaggerated breath so you could mirror him. “In… and out. Just like that.”
You followed him. Or tried to.
You choked on a small sound. Maybe it was frustration, embarrassment, panic, or everything at once.
Bucky cupped your cheek lightly, thumb brushing once.
“Look at me,” he repeated. “Right here. I’m right here.”
You stared at the vibranium fingers against your skin, the familiarity of them.
Your breath softened, even if only a little.
“Good,” he whispered. “Just like that. You’re doing perfect.”
You leaned until your forehead rested against his chest, your fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.
Bucky’s arms wrapped around you instantly, creating a protective wall around you.
“I hate it,” you whispered, “I always feel like I’m— like I’m ten years old again and I can’t— I can’t do anything—”
“I know,” he murmured. “But you’re not alone this time.”
You closed your eyes.
And he just held you there.
—
Inside, they didn’t even notice you were gone at first.
Their argument had ricocheted from snide comments to old wounds to blame that neither of them could die. It was a familiar, poisonous territory. After all, they knew every sharp edge, every weak spot. They knew how to hurt each other, but they didn’t know how to stop.
It wasn’t until Val reached for her water, your glass, actually, and saw it untouched that she paused.
The chair beside hers was empty.
Everett glanced up, frowning, when he saw nothing.
He turned instinctively toward the entry hall, expecting to hear you in the bathroom or grabbing a jacket.
Nothing.
“Everett,” Val said, striding towards the back window, looking out. “Come here.”
Everett followed her stare to the large window above the dining table.
Outside, snow had begun to fall.
And there you were, sitting on a step with your face buried in Bucky Barnes’ chest, body trembling. His arms circled you completely, holding you as if he’d been made, rebuilt, reborn for that purpose alone.
His chin rested atop your head. Her eyes followed the rise and fall of your shoulders, the way Bucky’s hand moved up and down your back in a rhythm meant to steady breathing.
Your shoulders shook again, letting out a small sob. They couldn’t hear it through the glass, but they could see in the way your fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt. They could see the way Bucky leaned down when you did, absorbing the shock of whatever broke inside you.
For a long beat, Everett didn’t breathe.
Because he remembered that from your childhood… How small you used to look when your heart was too big for your body, how you’d hide your face so no one would see you show any kind of weakness.
“I…” Everett’s voice cracked before he could stop it. “I can’t remember the last time I saw her cry.”
Valentina didn’t look away from the window. “She was thirteen.”
“What?”
“That’s the last time she let either of us see her cry.” Val breathed out, putting an arm around herself as snow collected on your hair.
Bucky brushed it away. He tilted your chin, checking your face, your breathing, showing affection with gentleness that neither of your parents had ever mastered.
Everett’s stomach twisted. Had she been carrying all of this alone? All these years? Had they been so wrapped in their own storms that they never noticed the way she braced herself around them?
Valentina’s expression had changed. Not softer. No, softness was not in her nature. But … it was clearer to her now. It should’ve clicked into place a long time ago.
Bucky tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. You leaned into his touch.
You had never leaned on either of them like that.
Everett felt a mix of shame, regret, and something dangerously close to grief in his heart.
He glanced at Valentina. For once, she wasn’t masking anything.
Outside, Bucky kissed the top of your head.
Everett’s hands curled on the back window sills.
They had both had led operations, survived wars of politics and real weapons alike.
But they had failed at the simplest thing— making their daughter feel safe enough to fall apart.
And now someone else was doing it effortlessly.
“See?” Valentina finally broke the silence. “He’s not so bad.”
Everett let out a breath of eyes, fixed on the snow gathering around you and Bucky like a blanket.
This was love.
And this time… They weren’t going to get in the way of it.
He turned back, grabbing a chess board from a cabinet. “For old time’s sake?”
Val chuckled for the first time that night. “For old time’s sake.”
—
When you and Bucky stepped back into the house thirty minutes later, brushing snow from your hair and clothes, the last thing you expected to see was… Chess.
Your parents were playing chess.
Like they used to do when you were very young.
Your father was hunched forward, your mother leaning back with that calm she only used during missions or high-stakes negotiations.
The board sat between them, one final move having just been played.
And both of their kings were tipped.
A draw. A truce made physical.
They weren’t ever going to fully mend the wounds. But they were visibly trying.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Bucky blinked too, like he was genuinely unsure if he’d stepped into an alternate universe.
You swallowed. “What… happened?”
Your mom was the first to speak. She rested her fingertips on the edge of the board. “We came to an agreement.” Val’s voice was measured. But her eyes kept flickering to the snow still caught in your lashes. “Not a reunion. God forbid. But a ceasefire.”
Everett nodded stiffly. “We… we will be better.”
They were.
You could see it in the way your dad sat, shoulders lower than usual. In how your mom’s posture, though still poised, wasn’t bristling. In the fact that they’d played a whole game, something they hadn’t done together since before the divorce.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was an effort they finally realized they owed you.
“I…” You let out a deep breath, trying to keep it together. “I hope it’s okay if we head out now.”
Your mother stood, smoothing her blouse. “Bucky,” she said with a small nod, “I’ll see you on Monday.”
Bucky gave a polite half-bow, hand still warm on the small of your back.
Your father rose too, slower than your mother, watching Bucky like he was trying to peace with it.
Everett stepped closer, hand braced on the doorway, looking Bucky up and down with that old interrogator’s eye.
“Don’t make me regret this,” he said quietly.
“I won’t,” Bucky answered.
You slipped your shoes on, heart still sore but lighter than it had been all night.
Bucky opened the door for you, brushing a final snowflake from your cheek.
Before you stepped out, you glanced back.
Your parents stood side by side as uneasy allies.
And as Bucky’s hand found yours in the cold, you realized it was enough.
—
Bucky started the engine, the hum filling the car. Outside, snow still fell, settling in little white patches on the windshield.
He glanced at you, a careful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Where do you wanna go?” he asked. “We could go to yours and call it a night. Or you could stay over at the tower, catch the end of game night with the team. Or—”
You cut him off before he could finish, pressing your lips to his in the middle of the car. It wasn’t hurried or frantic, not that time.
“I… love you,” you murmured against his mouth.
You’d never said them aloud before, not to anyone. Not even in thought fully— until now.
Bucky froze for a heartbeat, just long enough to let the words sink into him. Then his hands tightened gently around yours on the console as if letting go wasn't an option. “I love you, too,” he said.
For the first time in your life, you didn’t even have to question whether he really meant it.
-end.
Extra Note : Just a little bit of personal lore, I was lucky enough to have wonderful parents, but I grew up with my dad trying to mend my grandparent's relationship, and I watched just how much it took out of him, especially during holidays. So if you're struggling during the holidays for whatever reason, please know that you're not alone and my inbox can always be a place to vent if you need to <3
No One Knows the Trouble, Honey, That We've Been Through: Masterlist
Logan Howlett/ Wolverine x Mutant!FemReader
Rating: Explicit 18+ (Minors DNI!!!)
Total Word Count: 19.5k
Summary: You're an X-Man... well, you used to be. You left years ago, and in the aftermath of an attack on X-Mansion, Charles has asked you back to help repair the damage to the estate. An easy job for an earthmover like yourself. Still, after years away from your old home, you feel like a stranger again. So much has changed and you're not sure where you fit in anymore. The newest X-Men member isn't helping your mood either.
You're not sure where they found Logan, and you're still trying to figure out what to think of him. The mans barely said anything to you. He's not the typical stray Charles would take in, but then again, neither were you when he brought you here.
Completed!
Warnings listed in each chapter
All Chapters marked with * indicate explicit content
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3*
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READ ON AO3
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Logan Masterlist
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