Why Python is the Best Programming Language for Beginners
Python is one of the most popular programming languages in the world, and for good reason. With its easy-to-learn syntax and powerful capabilities, Python has become the go-to programming language for beginners and experts alike. In this article, we will explore why Python is the best programming language for beginners, and how Native Assignment Help can help you get started with this powerful tool.
Easy-to-Learn Syntax - One of the main reasons that Python is the best programming language for beginners is its easy-to-learn syntax. Unlike other programming languages, Python uses a simple and intuitive syntax that is easy to understand, even for those with no prior programming experience. This makes it an ideal choice for beginners who want to start learning programming without feeling overwhelmed by complex code.
Versatility - Another reason that Python is a great choice for beginners is its versatility. Python can be used for a wide range of applications, including web development, data analysis, artificial intelligence, and more. This means that regardless of what your interests are, Python can be tailored to meet your specific needs.
Large Community and Resources - Python has one of the largest and most active programming communities in the world. This means that there are countless resources available to help you learn Python, including online courses, forums, and tutorials. Additionally, the large community of Python developers means that there are always new libraries and tools being created, which can help simplify programming tasks and make learning Python even easier.
In-Demand Skill - Python is one of the most in-demand programming languages in the world, with many companies looking for Python developers to help build and maintain their applications. This means that learning Python can be a valuable skill to have, both for personal and professional development.
Interactive Interpreter - Python also has an interactive interpreter, which allows beginners to experiment with code and see the results in real-time. This can be a valuable tool for learning programming, as it allows you to quickly test and modify your code without having to compile it first.
Open-Source and Free - Python is an open-source language, which means that it is freely available for anyone to use and modify. This makes it an ideal choice for beginners who want to learn programming without having to invest a lot of money in software. Additionally, the open-source nature of Python means that there are always new libraries and tools being created, which can help simplify programming tasks and make learning Python even easier.
Native Assignment Help and Python - Native Assignment Help offers a wide range of resources and services to help you learn Python and become a proficient programmer. Their team of experts can help you get started with Python, offering guidance and support every step of the way. They offer online courses, tutorials, and forums where you can interact with other Python learners and get feedback on your code.
Conclusion
In conclusion, Python assignment help for beginners because of its easy-to-learn syntax, versatility, large community and resources, in-demand skill, interactive interpreter, and open-source nature. With Native Assignment Help, learning Python has never been easier or more accessible. Whether you are just starting out or looking to take your programming skills to the next level, Python is a powerful tool that can help you achieve your goals.
While its more common in wealthier private schools, children can choose to take a nonhuman language. In recent years some forms of elvish are slowly being introduced into public education as an elective and most students can choose to take nonhuman history if they wish to learn more about other creatures beyond The Fae Wars.
However, mixed schools have shown that a surprising number of children will pick up on each others languages and learn them that way. This has caused quite a few calls home when a student uses a bit of slang that a teacher is not familiar with and is assumed to be something insulting (this- rather interestingly- only seems to be the case in a half of the situations). In some cases children, especially younger ones, have no idea they are learning a different language at all.
Some schools with a student mentor program find putting two different races together leads to the older teaching the younger their language for easier communication. A desertion piece by Dr. Lightfoot called ‘Why Your Children Talk The Way They Do’ goes further in depth on the subject of shared languages amongst children and teens.
When asked why the children started learning a nonhuman language the answers ranged from ‘to communicate more fluidly’ to ‘enjoying the sound of it’.
a/n: a little appetiser until i‘m done with the current fic! can contain grammatical errors since english is not my first language
down bad !enjin loves being needed by you, despite saying he wouldn’t want a needy partner.
When it‘s raining and you don’t have an umbrella?
He‘s right behind you, his umbrella tilted exactly so you‘re covered from the water dripping down.
You‘re cold and forgot to bring your jacket?
Poof! Before you could shiver once more, Enjin‘s comically large coat was already on your shoulders, wrapping you in his warmth and scent.
You’re getting assigned on a mission with someone from a different team?
Miraculously, Enjin is better suited to accompany you.
In all his odds, he was the one truly needy when it comes to your presence.
as previously mentioned, down bad!enjin shows his affection in public not by direct words, but by his actions, as well as always handling situations to benefit your and the others safety
down bad!enjin respects your boundaries and expects the same respect back. When it comes to secrets and personal information, no one understood it better than him.
down bad!enjin knows he can get reckless and is ready to put others above himself. According to this, he‘d need someone who shows him he can’t give in his stupidity so easily, yet shows him that he also is a person, that he matters as much as everyone else he tries to protect
down bad!enjin never directly tells you „i trust you.“, still, you could feel it. In quiet moments, when you‘re sitting on a roof, legs dangling from the edge and the smoke of his cigarette is occupying your senses.
„You know, you seem pretty lonely for someone who wants to connect everyone.“ You didn’t look at him as you said it. It wasn’t meant as an attack either, more like an astute observation.
And he knew that.
„Nothing gets past your sharp pretty little eyes, huh?“ He chuckled but the short pause after your statement informed you there was more to it.
You finally turn your head into his direction. His long fingers were holding his cigarette close to his mouth and brought it back down to exhale.
You sigh.
„I just don’t want your dumbass to believe it’s all on you to help them. I know there’s something about Rudo, that I don’t know too.“
He halts in his action.
„You are not the only one in this team, got it?“
He mirrors your deep look, eyes roaming your face until the corner of his mouth twitch.
„You‘re really hot when you’re getting serious.“
„God, you’re insufferable.“
„Yeah, yeah.“ He pauses again. „But I got you, don’t I?“
The way he considers your opinions and advices were already enough for you.
down bad!enjin tries to play cool most of the time, keeping up his usual bold swagger, but if you do run a more strict program then he’ll do as he’s told. A sexy woman can be intimidating as hell and he’s not someone who says no to that.
down bad!enjin is a distant admirer. He already stated, he needs a patient and forgiving soul, so when he slowly realised he had it gone for you, he stopped himself.
He doesn’t rush you. It was never his intention. He himself simply needed that slow paced flow as well, so he watched you from afar and keeps his feelings as protected as he could.
down bad!enjin is a sucker for you when he sees you‘re teaching the kiddos something with that tender and educational tone in your voice. Most likely he will chime in and tell you to teach him about, whatever it is, you just talked about.
And if you straight up tell him no and to move his lazy ass back to work, he will definitely pout.
down bad!enjin would surely try and ask Semiu about you and miserably fail. Her only reaction will also be to tell him to touch grass trash and do what he‘s putting off - cleaning.
down bad!enjin braids your hair when he sees you‘re about to do so yourself. When you ask where he learned such skills, he simply says it’s not that hard, but not without thanking Riyo internally for forcing him to braid hers.
down bad!enjin doubles down his smoking habit or tries not to smoke near you if you ever stated to get headaches from heavy smells. Even if you mentioned it once.
down bad! enjin nearly chokes when even the most romantically dense person, Rudo, asks him why all his 3 active braincells leave his body when he’s looking at you.
„You‘re imagining things, kid. Told ya not to take your mask off too long in the zone.“
„But why did you stick your cigarette into your nose while looking at her then?“ Rudo deadpans.„Otherwise you look damn stupid to me.“
„Hey, watch how you talk to your elders.“
„She‘s way to good for you anyway.“
„Now hold on-„
Enjin is a fictional character, originating from the anime series „Gachiakuta“. All rights reserved for Kei Urana. This is solely fan fiction, not canon!
I dream you betwitched me into bed / And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane -Sylvia Plath
|| smut MDNI 18+, omegaverse, a/o/b dynamics, rut, heat, a/o/b outbreak au, werewolf!joel, government control, angst, big scary joel, but actually he's a softie, hopelessromantic!reader, jaded!joel, bad communication and mixed signals, heavy prose sry, lotus position, some monsterfucking, prone bone, mating, pinv, fingering, knotting, biting, breeding ||
a/n: always and forever inspired by both @netherfeildren & @corazondebeskar-reads. The universe in this fic is inspired by their a/o/b outbreak fics which still stand as two of my favorites.
wc: 17.6k whewwwyyy
“It’ll happen when you least expect it!”
What a load of state-issued bullshit. And always printed on pamphlets with those glossy couples holding hands in a meadow or shoved in your face at school assemblies and doctor’s offices. As if romance was a civic duty.
Though, you supposed it was now. Ever since the birth rate had sunk so low—first in the country then across the world—that evolution, desperation, whatever you wanted to call it, had bent the human gene pool until people came out stamped with new instincts, wired to reproduce like animals.
They called it an outbreak, some invisible hand steering evolution into a corner. Alphas, omegas, betas—new designations, new rules. And when the government saw the numbers, they did what governments do. They took control, dressed it up, and made it sound like butterflies and rainbows, like destiny would just fall into your lap. “Love” became the new national project.
That’s how they’d always pitched it, anyway. The stories of finding your true love through fate coded glands and scents. The moment it hit your nose, you’d ‘just know!’ Your entire nervous system alight with the need to reproduce—that only happiness in living was to find your other half, your mate, to make pups for the government to label and distinguish. But biology had its own kind of tyranny over the mind too, something that couldn’t be controlled as easily. Because scents were messy and subjective. Suppressants failed more often than they worked, lab trials often skewed. And, in truth, it was dangerous too. Heats weren’t tender or romantic, but hard, brutal things. Days of pain and fever that left omegas restless and simpering, begging for relief, stripped down to something soft and humiliating. Ruts were the other side of it, angry and territorial, alphas wound tight with aggression until their temper snapped and their hunger came out sharp. Together, it was volatile, dangerous, nothing you’d want turned loose in polite society.
But still, FEDRA had clenched its hand around it anyway, twisting the language, rewriting the setting. They built the whole thing into a system, one that could be measured, filed, and controlled.
You still had the letters to prove it. Three of them, all from FEDRA, stacked and half-opened on the table where you dropped your mail. Their corners were curled and coffee-stained from use as coasters, but the words inside were always the same in their polite, firm, and chokingly bureaucratic ways. “Unmated Omega citizens of age between twenty-five to thirty-one are required to report for compatibility testing.” “Unpaired subjects are required to participate in the Partner Allocation Program for their own safety and well-being.”.
Safety and well-being. What a joke. What they meant was: You failed to find someone and now you’re a liability.
You’d managed just fine without their help. Sure, your heats were rough, but they were yours. You handled them in the privacy of your own bed, sweat-slick and aching, fingers buried inside yourself while the fever rolled through you until the world blurred. Days of hunger and pain, yes—but survival all the same. You didn’t need some stranger assigned by the government to climb inside your body in the name of population recovery.
And yet… the idea of a perfectly curated mate…
You needed to stop fantasizing about it by now. You had to. You thought you might go crazy. Maybe you were going crazy. Because, in truth, the thought of finding an alpha that would love you and care for you had infiltrated every second of your waking hour. You’d tried to resist, tried to starve it out of yourself. No more hoping someone would notice you in line at the gas station, no more swiping through strangers online or dreamily wondering if the person behind the register at the store was your soulmate and they just didn’t realize it yet. It felt like a sickness wired into your brain, a hunger that wouldn’t quit. Other people seemed to know when to stop, seemed able to push their plates away and say they’d had enough, try different avenues or settle with a beta they enjoyed the company of. But you never felt…satiated by any of that. You knew there was something more for you. You wanted it so badly it rotted inside you. And when you tried therapy, you hadn’t learned a thing. Because even the therapist was mated and talked about how amazing it would be when the day would come. That the wait would be worth it in the end. You’d left after the second session.
And the cruel thought that lingered in the quietest hours was that maybe, one morning, you’d just wake up to find your hormones had thrown in the towel, your body converting you into a beta as punishment for being so stupidly, achingly alone. Welp—couldn’t find anyone to knot you? Congratulations, welcome to the neutral zone.
And honestly, would it even be so bad? Your friends were betas. Solid, dependable people. Their lives weren’t any worse for it. Sometimes you even envied them with their steadiness, the way they weren’t ruled by the fickle roulette wheel of scent and heat and being breeding stock for humanity.
But envy never erased the one thing you’d always wanted. You weren’t ambitious by any means, at least not in the way other people were—the ones who worked their lives away to get to the top, sustained by promotions and financial portfolios and all those glittering markers of success. Because even if the outbreak had changed the gene pool, life had remained mostly the same for people. Lives went on. And still, the only thing you had ever cared about, from the moment you could name it, was love. Stupid, stupid love. And the thought of it made you sick to your stomach, queasy and restless, as if some tide were rolling inside you.
But you were done with that. You had to be. Sooner or later you had to come to your senses. If therapy couldn’t cure you, if your willpower refused, you had to take action. You were desperate to quit the daydreams that made your heart swell and ache and hurt.
So tonight, under the harsh fluorescent glow of the pharmacy lights, you stood at the counter, sliding over your insurance card. When you walked away, the orange bottle felt like a brick in the bottom of the little white bag. Heavy, inevitable, final.
You hardly noticed how bright the sidewalks seemed once you stepped outside, bathed in pale wash from the moon overhead. You weren’t sure whether to hurry home or drag your feet, but you kept walking, your thoughts circling the first dose waiting for you. Blockers. One pill and maybe you could finally be free of this tender wound. Turn off these hormones that made you crave and want like the needy little creature you were. The thought made your stomach turn, but then again, everything did these days.
You wondered if someone nearby had lit a fire. This time of year, plenty of people did as the leaves began to fall with the turn of autumn, where houses tucked into the narrow yards sat at the edge of the city where they pressed up against the riverbank. The air carried the smell of woodsmoke and pine and the damp breath of the river, something sharp threaded through it, like whiskey or brandy burning faintly in your nose. It made your stomach clench, heat curling low as your mouth watered, your senses alive for it. You slowed, searching for the source, but every house was shut tight.
Warm yellow light spilled from their windows, glassy reflections rippling against the black skin of the water. Dogs barked from behind fences, children argued with tired parents about bedtime routines. The neighborhood was settling, folding itself into the quiet of the evening. But the scent hung stubbornly in the air, richer, heavy enough to press against your tongue.
As you followed the riverbank, the sidewalk gave way to cracks of neglect, weeds forcing their way through as the neat grid of town dissolved into the rougher edge of your neighborhood. The houses thinned, the dark pressed closer, and then the street broke open into a stretch of woods. The scent struck you full force there, thicker, headier, cloying at the back of your throat until you almost gagged. It tangled with the damp musk of earth and leaves, but something sharper rode beneath it, metallic and copper-sweet.
Your pulse kicked hard.
Just ahead, in a break between the trees, something moved. Half shadowed in the dark of the forest, half bathed in the pale spotlight of the moon, you saw a creature there.
And he was enormous.
Black fur so dark it seemed to drink the moonlight, rippled over his frame, the sheen shifting into deep brown where it caught on the pale glow spilling through the trees overhead. He crouched low, balanced on his haunches like a shadow coiled to spring, the air around him vibrating with restrained violence. He had paused his mastications on whatever lay behind him, dead at his feet, too hidden behind his monstrous body to see. Like he smelled you too, heard the twigs snap under your footing as you stood and watched, frozen. And as he turned to look at you, his snout curled back in a snarl, jowls slick with saliva, jagged teeth flashing wet as his chest heaved.
And his eyes, full of muddled colors you couldn’t quite name, fixed on you. You could see the twitch of his nose, hear the rough, greedy pull of air as he took in your scent. And beneath the smell of damp earth of his fur, his scent rolled over you in waves: that heavy musk of cedar smoke, the faint sting of whiskey you recalled from your walk, sharper in your nose now. You wondered if that was his poison, if he drank himself senseless when he woke from nights like this. The ones that left him feral and bloodied.
Because there was blood.
You smelled it too, an iron rich copper that sharpened over the rest. It darkened the fur around his muzzle, tacky and wet where it clung to his jaw. Fresh from whatever lay behind him. Your stomach dropped with the idea that it might not be deer or some kind of game. The thought landed sharp—what if he had eaten someone? Would he eat you, too?
There weren’t many alphas like him left. Ones that would turn into a creature of night when the moon bloomed full. They were rare, most of them killed off in the first waves of the outbreak, hunted down before people even understood what the world was turning into. And if one was found after, they were dragged off by the government and locked away when their first moon waned—kept for testing, for containment, for “safety”. Some even volunteered for it once they realized what they were, too afraid of themselves to risk what they might do. There were stories. Enough that had been told of the wolf that would come, the person inside disappearing, No memory, no reason, no control. Just animal and instinct.
And hunger.
You could not move. Your body held its own counsel, muscles locked, lungs refusing to draw too much attention, as if stillness might convince the predator you were merely part of the path you walked, that you could disappear into the trees. You tried to read him and found nothing human to catch on, only the prickle along your skin that said you were being measured.
The strangest thing, and only later would you be able to pinpoint the feeling as you’d think back on that night, was the feeling of insurmountable want. Hot and low, molten as if a furnace door had swung open inside you, a slow thrum that tapped along your spine and gathered in your throat until you had to wet your lips. You thought it was the sheer terror, the adrenaline. It felt tingly and wrong, and yet… you wondered. The black of his fur and the burn of his eyes and the curiosity of how coarse that pelt would be beneath your palm tickled the back of your mind. Fear ran beside it, not weaker, just… different, a second current braided into the first, and the two of them turned you into something bright and stupid.
It felt like forever, to stand there under his gaze, but it couldn’t have been more than a handful of seconds— minutes at most. The silence, rented by breath and the pulsing of your heart was stretched wide between you, weighted with the question of what came next. Would he let the shroud of instinct overtake him now, or would his humanity slip through, letting you live?
You licked your lips without thinking, caught between terror and hunger, between life and whatever this was becoming. And just as your pulse began to skyrocket with the will to live, as your feet began to shift ever so slightly— ready to turn, to flee—
He lunged.
Joel
There was a heaviness to him as he woke.
Every inch of him ached as though he’d been dragged through the nine circles of hell and spat back out again. His bones throbbed, his muscles burned, even his skin felt raw, regrown and stretched too tight over something that wasn’t meant to be contained. He lay there for a long while as he gained his consciousness, his humanness, and he realized he was naked and sprawled across the old leather couch, the familiar stains of water damage above him on the ceiling. He was in his living room. The cool surface of the couch pressed into the ridges of his spine before he finally let out a groan that rattled low in his chest, sitting up.
At least he had made it home this time.
The change was always both curse and reprieve. Joel could admit there was something in it he clung to, a silence he never found anywhere else, a forgetting of all the endless hours spent pacing in his own head. For one night a month, his memories didn’t claw at him, his worries didn’t fester, and the grinding guilt that gnawed at his gut seemed to vanish. But morning always came, and with it the cruel blankness. Not knowing what he had done, not remembering where he had been. It made his stomach turn more than any nightmare could. He told himself he had learned to live with it, and twenty years of hiding forced that sort of resignation, but some mornings it rose like bile regardless. This morning was no different. The heavy fullness of his belly made him nauseous as the thought struck. Maybe he had eaten something he shouldn’t have. Someone’s pet. A goddamn cat allowed to roam outside, a dog left out after midnight. He hated seeing them out in the dark in his waking, normal nights, hated knowing what could happen on the full moon, but people didn’t know better. He always turned on the news the next morning of his shift, hoping, praying, he didn’t do anything worse.
Joel dragged the heel of his hand over his eyes and sat forward, his joints crackling like firewood, his shoulders tight as if someone had hammered him into the wrong shape. And as he pressed a button on the remote, pointing to the small box television in the corner, he froze.
There was a smell.
It wasn’t the sharp tang of blood or the musky sweat of himself. It was something sweeter, something that clung to him, pressed against the back of his tongue. Vanilla and lilac, delicate and yet heavy enough to make his cock stir half hard against his thigh. He stilled, nostrils flaring, the strangeness of it settling into him in a way that made the hair rise on the back of his neck. This wasn’t spring, when he sometimes woke coated in pollen, burrs sticking to his skin, flowers bruised into his shoulders from rolling through the underbrush. This wasn’t the lingering damp of the river either, the smell of earth clinging to him. No, this was something else entirely. Something new.
He stood, slow and stiff, rubbing at the thick line of his beard as he shifted his weight off the couch. Scratches ran across his chest, bruises scattered over his ribs, but nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to explain the sweetness that clung stubbornly to him as he moved through the house. And then he realized the scent grew stronger as he reached the hallway, seeping through the small crack beneath the bedroom door, that uneven gap in the floorboards he had been telling himself he would fix for months.
He paused there, hand resting against the knob, his body tight with the sudden thought that something could be waiting on the other side. The air was thick with it, saturating his lungs, stirring something restless in the pit of his stomach. He turned the handle at last, careful, silent, and pushed the door open just enough to see inside.
There was a girl in his bed.
You were stretched across his sheets, one leg drawn up, knee planted beside you, arms folded beneath your cheek like you’d been posed there. Peaceful. Picture-perfect. Like you belonged.
He had no idea who you were, or how you got into his bed.
Joel stood just inside the doorway, stomach tight, arms crossed over his chest like maybe if he held himself still enough, some explanation might come. Something to make sense of why you were here, why the room smelled like a bouquet of sweat and lilac, why your pants were discarded on the floor like you’d peeled them off mid-dream.
Through the red veil of what was left of last night, he could find only flashes. He remembered trees. The silvered shape of their limbs against the sky. His own shadow stretching in ways it wasn’t meant to, bones rearranged beneath his skin, heart pounding with a rhythm older than thought. He’d been in the woods. That much he knew. He remembered scent before sound, instinct before memory. He could…he could remember the smell. It was you, then. That clicked enough to piece together, that he’d found you during his shift. And god, the smell of you. Thick and heady, it had invaded him. Coated the back of his tongue and sunk down into the part of him he’d long forgotten, long let go of any hope of finding. And it was here now, that same scent pressing against the walls of this room, pulled from the heat of your skin and settled into the linen.
He swallowed hard, mouth dry, and felt the ache behind his eyes grow sharper.
His gaze dropped again, against his better judgment, drawn to the long line of your thigh where the sheet had slipped back, to the strip of lace that clung to the curve of you in a way that felt too intimate for his prying eyes. It didn’t cover very much, and could feel the reaction begin to rise in him, uninvited and pulsing. A scalding low in his gut that made him clench his jaw and tear his eyes away. Some creature behind its cage, yearning to take and devour.
There were too many possibilities of how you’d ended up here, vulnerable and unbeknownst to his searching gaze. Too many blanks his brain refused to fill. The wolf had done something, or maybe nothing at all. Maybe you’d found him. Maybe you’d followed. Joel wondered if you had walked straight into the mouth of a monster and lain down.
He didn’t know why you were here. But he suddenly, assuredly, made up his mind. When you woke, he’d send you on your way. Because a man like him—an alpha like him—unpredictable, dangerous, selfish, cruel… he was not the one for you.
After tearing his eyes from your peaceful body across his sheets, he crossed the room, jaw clenched tight, his bare feet whispering across the wood. The bathroom door was open and waiting, frame still warped from the last time he’d slammed it. He stepped inside and closed it behind him. He needed a shower. A long, cold shower.
You
You woke with a molten star in your belly.
A slow burning ember of a planet being formed inside you, it made your limbs feel heavy, your eye lids lazy, your mouth parched for more than just drink. As you turned into the sheets, the sunlight beginning to pour in from somewhere high and warm, a sound reached your ears—water, running steady from just beyond the wall. Some sort of talking in the next room, pointedly and animated, almost like a television. Blinking your eyes awake, you were suddenly very, very aware that you did not make it all the way home last night.
The bed beneath you was lumpy, but forgiving. The sheets were thin, rough washed cotton with the faintest scent of woodsmoke in the fibers. The walls were wooden slats, long and narrow, stained with age as if you were in a cabin.
You could’ve melted into it, if not for the smell.
That woodsmoke and pine and earthy sweat and…whiskey. Some kind of spice, like cinnamon or oak or something that aged in a barrel for a decade before being ready to consume.
And as your brain began to form coherent thought, the star still burning low in your belly, that hum of a shower—yes, that’s what it was—had gone quiet. And soon, the door was opening, steam billowing, and before you was a man.
A devastatingly—terrifying—beautiful man.
And as he emerged into the room, skin dappled with pearls of water and a towel low around his hips, his hair was a dark mess from his hands working through it under the water. His eyes locked onto you, and for a moment neither of you moved. He didn’t speak.
But… you recognized those eyes, had no reason to fear now, because the man in the doorway was your wolf.
No, no, not yours. Not yours. Just: The Wolf.
And your body responded without permission and without thought. A soft, involuntary purring began in your chest, barely audible but bone deep. A sound you didn’t think to make. Something soothing, submissive in nature. You curled further into the sheets and clutched them against your chest, a sudden shyness crossing your mind.
He moved.
Crossed the room without looking at you again, barefoot, quiet, his back broad and wet and scarred. You mewled—soft, confused, aching—as he passed, and his shoulders tensed, but he didn’t turn to you. He opened a drawer, pulled something out of it, and disappeared back into the bathroom.
You blinked. What a strange man.
You looked around and saw your pants strewn far away on the floor as if pulled off in the night. You scrambled to grab them, the cotton clinging as you yanked them over your hips and perched on the edge of the bed, arms drawn around yourself like a child trying to pretend you weren’t still trembling.
When he emerged again, he was dressed. A black tee clung to his chest, soft and damp in places. Gray sweatpants rode low on his hips, worn at the drawstring. His hair was still wet, pushed back like he’d tried and failed to tame it. And his eyes found you again.
Darker than before, focused. Not angry, though. Somehow you knew that.
You swallowed and tried to sit up straighter. “Who are you?” The words came out thin, your voice like a thread pulled too tight. You sounded softer than you wanted to, smaller than you meant.
He didn’t answer right away.
The muscles in his jaw worked as something in his chest moved, slow and low, a sound that wasn’t speech. A kind of hum. A rumble. Not threatening. If anything, it was… soothing. Like the sound a large animal makes when it’s trying to calm a frightened pup. You didn’t recognize it with your mind—but your body did.
Your shoulders softened. The tension in your belly didn’t go away, but it uncoiled a little. You weren’t cold anymore. You weren’t exactly warm, either, but almost held in something. The space between you vibrated with it. That sound, that tether.
He saw the shift in you almost immediately. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, voice rough, unused. “It ain’t safe.”
You watched him, head tilted just slightly. That hum still echoed in you, like it had settled in your chest cavity. “I found you,” you said, not entirely sure if it was true. But it felt true. “You didn’t hurt me.”
He let out a slow breath, “Don’t mean I couldn’t.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
There was heat curling through you now, more than just the remnants of sleep or the residual burn of adrenaline. It was deeper, hormonal, almost chemical. You could feel your blood thickening with it, the pulse between your legs starting to ache, slow and low and shameful. It spread through you as your thighs pressed together, the ache between them unmistakable. You hoped he wouldn’t notice.
His eyes flicked down once, just for a second, then away again, jaw tightening like he’d tasted something bitter.
“You need to go.” he said.
Your glare cut into him, defiance sparking even through your shame. “You brought me here,” you snapped, words like a curse spat from your throat. “You attacked me, and you brought me here.”
His whole body shifted, a sudden pivot as if he couldn’t hold still under the weight of you. “Exactly why you can’t stay. I told you, it ain’t safe. Now get goin’.”
You pushed yourself up, folding your arms tight across your chest. He towered over you, massive and immovable, every inch the animal he swore he was. But you refused to shrink from him.
The air between you crackled, tense and charged until a sudden burst of sound cut through it.
“Breaking news! Spotted only last night!”
The voice carried sharp and urgent from the next room. Both your heads turned toward it, the tinny television static a reminder of a world outside this little standoff.
You moved first, brushing past him, and his body followed, heavy footsteps at your back. The small living room flickered blue with the glow of the old TV. On the screen, bold letters shouted across the bottom: ALPHA SIGHTING NEAR THE RIVER.
“Just last night, witnesses report seeing a wolf by the Lenape River past downtown Bucks, running rampant in the neighborhood.” the announcer was booming, “if you see something, say something. Contact FEDRA at this number if you have any ideas of who this monster could be.”
At that word, monster, you turned toward him. The man who had dragged you from the woods in claws and fur, who now stood in the blue glow of the television with his chest rising and falling too quickly, shoulders straining as though the word had been aimed like a blade straight into him. Something inside you shifted. To your surprise it wasn’t fear or the terror you should have felt standing in the same room as a creature who could shed his humanity beneath the moon, but something stronger, stranger. Worry.
“Are you okay—” The words left you before you could stop them, your hand lifting toward his arm. His chest was rising and falling too quickly, shoulders tight as if the walls were closing in.
“You need to go. Now.”
“But they just said—they’re going to come after you!” Panic broke into your voice. His hands clamped onto your shoulders, spinning you, pushing you toward the door with rough insistence.
“And you smell like me.”
The words pooled low in your stomach, heat blooming and oh, oh god his hands were so big and thick on the caps of your shoulders. You opened your mouth, but he shoved harder, urgency overtaking everything.
“Get out,” he growled, “go shower, scrub it off. Get the smell of me off you, omega. Don’t come back.”
“Hey!” You struggled in his grip, your voice cracking between defiance and something you didn’t want to name. His size swallowed you whole as he pushed you out the door without even breaking a sweat. But his eyes, when you turned and caught them, weren’t only hard, but there was something frayed behind them, something you couldn’t put your finger on at the time.
Grief, you’d realize one day.
Joel
FEDRA had been scoping the area again.
And Joel knew they would be. With that newscaster blasting his secret all across town, he knew they’d be here any minute. Not to his home, not yet at least. They hadn’t figured out who it was, but they would eventually. A lone alpha in the woods, living in a half collapsed cabin like the feral thing...he was couldn’t stay invisible forever. It was only a matter of time before the pieces pointed true.
By the time he’d kicked that little omega out of his house, he felt awful for it, yes, but there wasn’t much room for guilt when survival was closing in on him from every direction. He’d dwell on it later, when the world went quiet again. For now, he told himself the distance was for her sake, though the memory of her smell and the way her eyes watched him at the door stayed fixed behind his lids longer than he wanted to admit.
He went out not long after, walking the trails that circled the land, the same ones he always did after the wolf receded and his skin stopped burning. The forest felt different now—thinner somehow, less forgiving. He could trace where he’d been in the dark, what the animal had done, by smell alone. He found the carcass of a deer by the river and covered it with loose soil, murmuring something like a prayer for the thing, wherever its soul lay now.
As the day went on, he caught himself looking toward the road she’d taken when she left. The sky was silver with an incoming storm, the trees black against it. He told himself he was just making sure she’d made it home as he followed her scent, to be sure that soldiers hadn’t found her. Before the rain would take it from him. But even as he saw the lights go on in the little house, small in its cottage-like stature, its sweet sage green curtains in the windows, he kept watching. Even when no sound or signs of other life made themselves known from inside. But once the lights went out in the dead of night and the rain started to fall, he returned home.
He wasn’t sure what made him come again the next evening, but he stayed longer. Sat beneath the tree line until the crickets quieted and the air stayed heavy with the storm. A faint light burned behind your window again, a lamp or candle maybe, and once he thought he saw your shadow move across the curtain. He told himself he was only here to keep an eye on things. Just in case. That was all.
By the third day, he thought he should know better. He’d told himself again and again, it was only to make sure you were all right, that FEDRA hadn’t found you, that this was caution, nothing more, but that lie had worn itself out. He was still there all the same, crouched in the brush just beyond the tree line, eyes fixed on the little house that hadn’t made a sound since you’d gone inside. He told himself that if he just saw you move, even once, he could go home, but every hour that passed without a flicker of light or the shadow of your figure behind the curtain kept him rooted where he was, tense and waiting.
It was then he caught something on the wind.
The air coming off the house had changed. It carried something sharp now, something chemical and wrong, cutting through the clean damp of the woods and the faint musk of wet soil. Even from where he stood, he could smell you, but it wasn’t the same; what had been soft and alive had turned sterile, bitter, like bleach or toner, like pouring antiseptic over a bed of flowers. The animal part of him bristled before the rest of him understood. His shoulders drew tight, breath catching low in his chest as recognition clicked into place.
Blockers.
The wolf inside him stirred, the hackles of its neck rising at it pressed against his ribs as if it meant to climb out, restless and hungry, agitated by the loss of something that wasn’t his. It didn’t understand the concept of safety or distance or restraint—it only knew that what had once belonged to its senses was gone, buried under something false. The sound that left him wasn’t quite human, a rough exhale that felt like a growl breaking through the cracks of his chest. His teeth ached, his pulse staggered. The trees around him seemed to tremble with the threat of what lay within them.
He tried to quiet it, soothe it’s waxing and waning for freedom. Tried to remind himself that this was what he’d told you to do: to get out, to rid yourself of his scent. But this…this wasn’t what he meant. But who was he, some stranger you didn’t even know, to expect anything else?
He stayed there longer than he should have, kneeling in the undergrowth with the rest of the world turning, pressing down around him, the hum of insects carrying on without a care for the war in his chest as the air clung heavy with the stinging, foreign smell. He should’ve turned back toward his cabin, should’ve put distance between himself and the thing clawing at his chest, but he didn’t.
He kept staring at your dark window, waiting for any sign of movement, for proof that you were still breathing in there.
You
You’d taken the blockers the second you’d gotten home.
Not even ten minutes after he’d kicked you out. You didn’t think about it; you just tore open the bottle and swallowed two dry, the bitter little pills catching in your throat like sand. If he’d wanted nothing to do with you, fine. You’d make sure your body got the message.
The first few hours were fine. You cleaned the apartment—half just to move, half to burn him out of your head. The sky began to gray outside as you did your dishes, laundry, scrubbing the counter until your hands stung. But the longer the day went on, the worse you started to feel. It came in waves: the ache in your stomach, the pounding in your temples, the sweat beading along your hairline even though the window was cracked open.
Maybe it was his stench still on you. The thought came quickly and unwelcome. That heavy, smoky scent clinging to your skin, caught in your hair, curling inside your lungs until it made your stomach roll. “You smell like me,” the man had said, eyes hard. “Go shower. Scrub it off.” Fine. You would. You stripped and stood under the scalding water until it turned lukewarm, scrubbing until your skin burned, until you couldn’t smell him anymore. Erase his smell. Erase his memory. Stupid wolf. Maybe that was all this was—your body reacting to the way he’d touched you, the way he’d looked at you before he’d thrown you out.
You would never call the authorities on him. You weren’t that kind of person. You wonder if he knew that, if you should’ve told him. Did he throw you out thinking you’d show up hours later with a gang of FEDRA agents pounding on his door? Was he still there? Had he made a run for it?
You didn’t care, you told yourself stubbornly. Stupid wolf. He could do what he wanted, it didn’t matter to you.
By evening, you were curled up on the couch, a blanket wrapped around you, alternating between too cold and too hot. You told yourself it was a flu, some stupid food poisoning. Maybe stress. Everything was caused by stressed, anyway. You just needed to sleep it off.
The next morning didn’t bring any relief, though. You woke clammy, mouth dry, every muscle sore like you’d been running in your sleep. The cramps started mid-morning, deep and mean, dragging up from your gut and wringing low in your belly. You hunched over the sink, breathing through them, cursing yourself for ever touching those pills. Still, you refused to connect it. He hadn’t made you sick, not really. You just felt off, that’s all.
You tried to keep doing normal things. Took another shower, sitting on the floor of the tub this time and letting the hot water open your lungs. You tried to eat a mug of soup that went cold before you ever touched it. You watched the rain outside the crack in your curtains blur into the same gray lines for hours, lit a few candles. But every sound hurt: the hum of the fridge, the drip of the faucet, even your heartbeat sounded too loud.
By day three, you stopped pretending you were fine. You moved like you were underwater, head heavy, vision slow to focus, feverish but shivering. When you caught sight of yourself in the mirror, you looked worse than you felt—eyes glassy, skin pallid, dark circles underlining everything you didn’t want to admit.
That bastard had to have done something to you. The thought came sharp, stupid, but you fisted your thoughts to it anyway. The snarling, bullish, mean alpha with the rough hands and rougher stare. Maybe he’d passed something on when he’d grabbed you. Maybe it was his scent still stuck on your skin that made your body rebel.
You drank water. Took another round of blockers, even though your hands were trembling when you did it. Told yourself you just needed rest.
But rest didn’t help. You kept sweating through your shirt, heart racing. Dreams came hot and confusing when you’d close your eyes just to try and nap. You’d wake with your sheets twisted and your thighs slick, shame rolling through you in slow, nauseating waves.
By the time your next work shift came around, you looked like hell and felt worse. But rent didn’t wait for pity, and you weren’t going to call out over some mystery illness. You threw on clean clothes, tied your hair back, and told yourself it’d pass.
But it was brutal.
The air was thick with espresso and burnt milk that first morning of your shift, and instead of comforting, it only made your head pound harder. Every hiss of the steamer grated at your nerves, every clink of mugs rattled in your skull. Your body felt dragged out, sore in ways you couldn’t quite place, like you hadn’t slept, though truthfully maybe you’d slept too much.
The café itself was warm as ever, with its wood counters and brass fixtures, the smell of beans and sugar syrups hanging in the air. Usually that mix of roasted coffee, cinnamon, and vanilla felt cozy, but today there was something sour cutting through it. A sharp, acidic tang that reminded you of bleach. It stuck in your nose no matter how you tried to ignore it.
Ellie came up beside you with another ticket, the sleeve of her hoodie brushing yours. You took a whiff, testing your senses. But she smelled like she always did: fresh-cut grass, parchment, a tart bite of apple. Something youthful and clean, bright against the heaviness of the room. She handed you the order slip with a look that said she smelled something too, though she didn’t say anything.
“Two cold brews with sweet cream,” she muttered, exhaling like she’d been holding her breath. Then she turned to the register with her easy voice, “How can I help you?”
“Just coffee, black.”
The voice hit you like a strike of flint—familiar and heavy with its drawl. You looked before you thought better of it.
He was there. Broad shoulders, steady as ever, handing Ellie a bill but watching you. His eyes locked on yours, steady and unflinching, and your stomach dropped. The bleach sting in the air sharpened, and you could see it made your wolf’s face twitch where he stood.
Agh, you needed to stop using that term. Your. He was a stranger, after all. Even if days ago he’d seemed like there was a promise of something, it had been pushed out the front door with you.
He moved from the counter and made his way to the end of the bar near you, while you finished drinks for the girls in front of him. His eyes never moved.
“You smell awful,” he said when you finally reached for a paper cup and the customers walked away.
You grimaced at him, your lip curling. “Screw you too.”
“What’d you do?” His tone wasn’t casual, though he tried to make it sound like it was. “You took blockers, didn’t you?”
“That’s none of your business.” You poured his coffee.
“They ain’t doin’ much. Can smell you out the damn door.”
Your mouth twisted. “Are you always this charming, or am I just a lucky girl?”
He sighed, flattening his palms on the counter between you. “Blockers ain’t workin’ ‘cause you were already startin’—” he looked around, lowering his voice, “that’s your heat fightin’ back. And it’s probably because of me.”
Your chest tightened with a burning fury as you shoved the coffee cup at him and escaped the counter, pushed through the double doors into the back storage room, and pretended to rummage for more cups and sugar. It was dimmer back here, the shelves rising around you like walls, and the headache eased just enough for you to breathe.
The doors creaked open behind you.
“Go away.” you spat, but it came out more like a desperate croak.
“I was rude,” he said gently. His voice was quieter now, nearly coaxing with how it purred. Your stomach churned for it. “Shouldn’t have thrown ya out. Shouldn’t’ve talked to ya like that, ‘neither. I’m sorry.”
You crossed your arms, leaning your back against the shelves to face him. The bleach tang was fading, replaced by something heavier as he stepped in towards you. The shelves creaked softly as he braced a hand against them, leaning in until he eclipsed the light from the ceiling. His scent rolled over you then, heady and thick, cutting through the astringent: woodsmoke and cedar, honey and something darker, like earth after rain, that barrel aged whiskey note to him. Your lungs betrayed you, drawing it in greedily.
His nose brushed your cheek, and God help you, you let him. It traced up to your ear where your gland throbbed. He breathed in, low, and the sound rumbled out of him, more purr than growl.
“I’m sorry I did this all wrong,” he said, his voice deep, sounding thick and animal. “But your heat belongs to me. It’s because of me. It’s mine to take.”
“No,” you whispered, weak, hands fisting in his shirt, willing yourself to push him back, but you couldn’t. Everything about your actions was betraying you, “You were so mean. I don’t want you.” Lie, lie, lie.
“Let me make it up to you, then. Such a pretty thing don’t deserve that,” he murmured, and the words sank down your spine, tingling through each vertebrae, body giving way to your mind with the smallest arch toward him. His voice was rough but low, coaxing, like he knew every nerve in you was already tuned to hear him. “I’m sorry I was a nasty old man. Shoulda started differently, hm?”
Your throat worked around a nod, a whimper slipping before you could stop it when his lips brushed your neck. The antiseptic tang that had been suffocating you all morning vanished in an instant, swept aside by the weight of his scent. Smoke and cedar, sweetened at the edges. He was everywhere—his chest brushing yours, his breath warm on your skin, the gentle prodding of his nose against your gland behind your ear.
And then he did something that made you want to scream. His lips pulled back, and…and his teeth, blunt and wet, pressed against the tender spot, not biting, only pressing against you, a bullish growl rumbling out of him as he inhaled. And god damn you, you answered with a sound that broke halfway between a whine and a keen, something desperate and shameful.
And then he pulled back, cold air rushing in where he’d been, sharp and sterile, and you despised it. You couldn’t stand the way you instantly wanted to lean forward again, to close that space.
“I’ll come get you from work. Tomorrow.”
“You—you what?” The words wavered, your headache flaring as you squeezed your eyes shut.
“Poor thing.” His hand came up, calloused fingers tilting your chin. You let him, even as every human instinct told you not to. “Feels awful, don’t it? Don’t take no more of them blockers, and I’ll come get you tomorrow.”
So close, his eyes right there in front of yours, the scrape of his thumb against your skin, the sheer size of him blotting out everything else—you wanted to claw at him for it, wanted to crawl inside it, wanted him gone. It was unbearable, the way your body leaned one way while your head screamed the other. All you could do was nod.
And as he started going towards the doors, you remembered yourself, calling out to him, “Wha–what was your name?”
He turned to you, light from the open doors casting him in stark contrast to the room, a sad little grin spreading across his face.
“Joel.”
Joel
He kept his word. It was one of the few things left of his humanness that still meant something, something he could stand by when he’d let everything else in him turn animal. So the next day, late in the afternoon, he was there, standing in the coffee shop, hands in his front pockets as if he belonged anywhere near civilization anymore.
And just when he thought he’d have to order something and pretend to be a random customer while he waited for you to show, you came out from the back, pulling off that hat with the shop’s logo. Your hair was flat under it, pushing your fingers through the strands with a sigh of relief of a day done. You didn’t see him at first as you hung it up along with your apron, but your eyes eventually flitted up, catching him.
They narrowed.
So you hadn’t believed him when he said he’d come.
“Hi,” he said, quietly, trying not to sound like a stray dog in a nice shop that held one of his favorite smells. Coffee had always been his favorite thing—the taste, the smell, the feeling. The ground beans and nutmeg and spices that always accompanied the fall filling the air swelled in his nose. Well, it was his favorite smell. Because now, a day off your blockers, you smelled heavenly to him. That changing of seasons, of warm vanilla and yet sweet and clean of lilac. Something new there, too. Soft and velvety that made his nostrils flare, greedy for it.
“Well? On with it.” you said sternly as you approached. You were mad, he'd known you would be. It still didn't make him feel any better. Your brows furrowing over those pretty eyes, clearer now without the sickness or daze of blockers. Clear enough to take him as he was, a mean, jaded old alpha. One that should’ve known better than to ever make you think he didn’t want you.
He couldn’t keep you. He told himself again and again. He couldn’t. But you deserved to understand, at least. He could give you that. Because you already knew more about him than anyone had in decades, and he’d always been so careful too. But you’d found him or he’d found you, he still couldn’t quite remember that part. And you’d slept in his bed—in the sheets he hadn’t changed because he was too much of a coward to get rid of your sweet smell, especially after you’d doused it with that astringent for days. He’d go home and breathe you in like a fool, push his face into the pillow where your head had been, feel his body react like it didn’t belong to him anymore. He’d rutted against the sheets once—only the one time—and hated himself for it after. That animal part of him had liked it too much. Liked you too much.
He left that beast at home now, he had to be under control now, because he needed to make you understand.
“What do you mean?” he asked, shaking his head, remembering you'd said something.
“You don’t have to tell me not to tell anyone what I saw,” you said. “I’m not gonna snitch you out, or tell FEDRA. I wouldn't do that.”
“That’s not…” his eyes narrowed, checking the surroundings for eavesdroppers, but the late afternoon had kept everyone locked in their last hours of work, your fellow barista in the back to restock. And when he looked back at you, he tried to study you. There was something strange going on, the way you bristled but leaned in, the way you clenched your fists but let your tongue dart out to lick your bottom lip, “That ain’t what this is.”
“Oh? So what? You’ll take my hand and we’ll go skipping into the meadow like some happy ever after?”
You were being a brat. If it didn’t get so under his skin so bad he might’ve laughed.
“Would you just walk with me, dammit? What is the matter with you?”
You stepped past him, muttering something about needing air, and pushed through the door.
He followed, the little bell above it giving a halfhearted ring as he stepped out into the street. The sky was still bright above, a crystal clear blue, for once.
You were walking fast, arms crossed tight, the soles of your shoes tapping sharp against the pavement. He caught up in a few long strides, his boots heavy beside your lighter steps.
“Look—” he said when you’d stayed silent for another block, “I’m sorry—”
“You already said that yesterday.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you—you have to understand—”
Your arms seemed to tighten around yourself, chin tipping up as you muttered, “M’not upset.”
Yeah, and he didn’t turn under the full moon every month. Okay.
He sighed, shaking his head. “Would you let me walk you home?” he said finally after a few steps, “Let me explain.”
“I don’t need you to explain why you turn into a fucking wolf every month, Joel, I got the basics down in Biology 101.”
“Keep your voice down.” he seethed, teeth bared.
“Or what?”
“Jesus, girl, I’m tryna make things right and you’re bein’—” He scoffed through his teeth, looking away, jaw tight enough to ache.
You shot him a look and stopped in your tracks, the midday hour throwing your face into brightness against the sunlight, glowing in your hair. Your hands dropped at your sides, balled into fists as you stepped closer. “Listen,” you said, and he felt the heat rolling off your skin, the pulse of your body too close to his. You were so damn small compared to him, but when you glared up at him like that, with your curled nose and your furrowed brow and those pretty eyes, you didn’t look scared. You looked furious, and it made him swallow hard.
“I don’t need anything from you,” you said. “So if you’re planning on just skipping town now, just get it done and over with.”
You stood there, seething, and he was breathing deep just to keep from matching your fire. The two of you toe to toe by the edge of the river now, having walked a few blocks in silence and spite. The water below caught the baby blue of the sky, rippling in silver, the sound of wind starting to hum through the reeds.
Something passed between you then, too heavy for air, too alive for language. His throat worked around the taste of it.
“Let me walk you home,” he said again, quieter this time.
You didn’t answer right away, only stared up at him, the wind catching your hair, lifting it across your face. Your breathing had evened out, but he could still feel the pulse of you from where he stood.
He waited. He didn’t want to push, or move, he only stood as if waiting for a verdict.
Finally, you exhaled, shaking your head, but your voice was smaller when you said, “Fine.”
He only nodded once and fell into step beside you again, the two of you walking the river path in silence.
You
He was so strange, this man.
Days ago he was pushing you out his front door like you were nothing, like you hadn’t just shared something that felt bigger than either of you, his smell lingering as it followed you home, even when you’d scrubbed until you stung.
And then he showed up at the coffee shop.
Stupid wolf. Playing with your mind like this. You’d always been too sensitive for things like this, like him—too soft, too hungry for meaning where maybe there wasn’t any. You told yourself it wasn’t your fault, not really. The world had made you lonely, biology had made you desperate, foolish. But God, you wanted him anyway. Wanted him too much, maybe.
But you couldn’t have him. Wouldn’t. Not if he didn’t want you back. You weren’t going to do that to yourself again.
“Do you…like making coffee?”
It took you a second to realize he was talking to you. You blinked, looking down at the grass beneath you. You didn’t even remember sitting here, in the little clearing along the trees where the woods opened into meadow. But somehow you were. The sunlight caught the soft fuzz on your arms, your skin warm and a little damp, your heart thudding lazily against your ribs.
He sat beside you, elbows resting on his knees, quiet. You could feel the size of him even when he wasn’t touching you. That quiet, immovable stillness of him, so different than most alphas you’d come across. Joel, he’d said. His name was Joel. You thought it was such a nice name, old-fashioned and solid, the kind of name that felt like home when you said it in your head.
You nodded.
“It was good coffee,” he said softly. Was he trying to get to know you or something? Why? Why drag this on any longer? He was going to leave, you were going to go home and be sick for days again. Not because of blockers this time, but of a broken heart. You’d done this before, fallen too fast just from idealizations, romanticized strangers in the street. It just happened that this man…he’d been different, hadn’t he?
You nodded again, pulling blades of grass from the dirt. You weren't sure what else to do, but then, a thought struck you suddenly, that prickle of worry flitting across your mind.
“Did anyone show up for you?” you asked, quietly, remembering. Your brows furrowed together, but you still didn’t want to look at him any more. It hurt your chest, your stomach twisting with the pain of what would come tomorrow.
You saw in your periphery, his head tilt, so much like his animal self, before a realization must’ve struck him of your meaning, “No, no one came.”
“Why?”
“I clean my tracks well.”
You looked up at him now, eyes narrowing. “But…?”
He drew in a slow breath, almost a sigh. “But I can’t stay for long before they figure it out.”
You studied him, the deep lines at the corners of his mouth, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet yours when he said it. There was something in the air now, heavy and fragile.
“How many lives have you lived?”
You didn’t mean for it to come out that way. It was a silly question, and you knew it, maybe too sentimental, something a romantic might ask in a different world. But he didn’t laugh at your simplicity, your honesty. He just looked at you like he was deciding whether to answer at all.
“Too many,” he said.
“What was your favorite?”
He looked lost, suddenly puzzled. And then, all expression dying from his face as he looked away from you, a frown deepened his features. As if a mask had formed, he turned formal and cold, beautiful, yes, he really was beautiful, but it was like watching his mind go far, far away from here.
“I’m sorry,” you said softly, “I didn’t mean—”
He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before taking a slow, uneven breath.
“I had a daughter.”
“Had?” you asked quietly, your heart was in your throat. You wondered briefly, the last time he’d spoken these words to anyone.
He nodded, opening his eyes again to look at you. And the mask was gone, no longer vacant or cold—but full of something deeper. Pain simmered there, unspoken but poured in from memory, flooding the quiet spaces of his mind. You could see it, all of it, written in the way he looked at you.
“She was my favorite part.”
“What…” you knew you shouldn’t ask, “...what happened?”
He sighed, letting his head fall, and you couldn’t help it, the need to reach out too great. Your hand came up to cup the bowl of his skull, petting the soft hair there—you’d wondered what he’d feel like against you, your fingers in his hair like this. It was softer than you’d imagined, warm from the sun. You could feel his breath slow under your touch, feel the pulse at his neck like a quiet, hidden heartbeat. Your stomach churned again with the way his smell filled your lungs this close, the gland at your wrist throbbed with the nearness of his at the neck, the two of them so close it made your body hum.
You felt so warm. The sun, the smell of him, the ember of something turning in your gut.
He reached up, pausing your petting, and your throat closed with the thought of rejection, again, he didn’t want you, stop trying to make him want you. He made it clear from the first time you’d met him, in his human form, that he’d never wanted you. You were meant to be alone, and he wanted to be alone.
Two lonely strangers meeting, resisting, wanting. It was an odd thing, a paradoxical torture, really.
As if reading your mind, as if feeling the way your heart was severing, he took your hand down from his neck, holding your wrist for a long moment. His skin was rough with callouses, hairy over the back of his knuckles, and so goddamn warm. Everything was so warm suddenly. His thumb brushed over the gland there, a soft spongy strip of skin that flushed with pheromones at his touch, oh you really wish he’d stop that. If this was all going to end, he really needed to stop.
Joel
“You have’ta understand,” he said, shaking his head, the words catching low in his throat, “this ain’t about want.”
Joel closed his eyes, he couldn’t speak it if he was looking at you. You, with your big, glazed eyes and warm cheeks, the way he could see the fever starting in you, “I have to be alone. For safety, for other’s…”
He couldn’t answer you, of what happened to her, he hadn’t spoken of her in such a long time. And the past still lived vividly behind his eyelids like a soreness. Blonde hair in the dirt, blood soaking through his shirt, God, the blo—
“Joel,” you said, hushed, your hand suddenly on his chest. So gentle, delicate little fingers against the thick expanse of him. He opened his eyes, saw your furrowed brow, your little frown. He didn’t want to make you like this. Couldn’t stand himself making you like this.
“It’s okay,” you whispered, “I understand.”
“You understand?”
“Yes, I think so.”
He swallowed, your hand not moving from him.
“I’m sorry,” you said after a while, when he didn’t speak, “it must be so lonely.”
The word snagged like a shot in the ribs. Lonely. He almost laughed because it sounded too juvenile, so small for what it was. Loneliness had been his country for years. He’d built walls out of it, carved roads through it, learned how to move inside it as a man who’d made peace with the dark. But you saying it now, soft and sad and meant for him, made it feel raw again, open, like he was bleeding from a wound long scarred over.
“I’m lonely, too.” you added quietly, letting your hands finally fall from him. He fought the urge to grab them back. You weren’t looking at him anymore though, eyes downcast in the grass at your knees, “I was…I was thinking of going to FEDRA.”
Joel bristled.
“To join their matchmaking program, to be paired with someone. Anyone. It’s been so lonely.”
He thought his shoulders would drop in relief at your intended meaning. Not going to FEDRA to turn him in, to tell them about the big scary monster that lived in the woods. No, you were going to turn yourself in. To find…someone else. Another alpha. Better suited to you. Who would take you, knot you, mate you.
The wolf in him thrashed against the cage of his ribs at the thought.
“I’m sorry,” he said instead. It was all he could say. He wasn’t sure what for, or why he was saying it now. He quietly hoped it would make up for all of it, though.
“For what?” you asked.
“Being rude.” he decided on.
You smiled faintly, the corners of your mouth twitching, and his heart swelled at the sight. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen you smile yet, and it was so, so pretty. “Okay. Apology accepted.”
Joel couldn’t help but grin back a little, a foreign feeling in his cheeks, with a little huff of laughter through his nose. He felt your fingers drag along his knuckles where he knelt in the grass.
“I know you said… you don’t want—” a tsk’ of his tongue and you changed course, “that you can’t have…anyone. But…I don’t know.” you shook your head again with thought, eyes still denying him, a thin sheen of sweat now at your forehead, oh, you smelled so damn good now. He could feel it in the back of his throat, could taste it almost, and every part of him screamed to move, to step closer, to breathe you in until the ache in his chest finally broke. He must get up or leave or force his feet to move away.
But he couldn’t, wouldn’t.
“I don’t think it would be so bad. To be with you.” you finished.
Joel pulled his hand from your light touch, wrenching away, “It would be. Don’t you see? Look at me.”
You didn’t.
“Look at me, omega.”
Your eyes, oh god, your eyes, they were glassy with fever, your scent filling his lungs—vanilla, spring and summer and cunt, and he was really done for if he stayed even another moment. But you had to know, he had to tell you.
“I need you to listen to me.” he began, breathing in a calming breath, willing the slam of his heart to quell, to soothe the beast that wanted to take your sweet, wide eyes and warm velvet keep and pin you to the ground and fill you there. It was all coming on too quickly, he thought he’d have time to explain himself. He had to explain himself.
“I am selfish, I am not a man worth wantin’. I would ruin you, your life. Always on the run, coverin’ tracks, lookin’ over your shoulder. It ain’t a life I want for anyone, let alone you. And if…” he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, willing the memory of her from his mind, of the blood in her hair, the dirt, the night air, and then looked at you, hard and serious as he continued. “If we were to have children, they’d never be safe from me. You’d never be safe. When it happens…I ain’t the one behind the wheel anymore. I don’t remember anything and it…goddammit, it terrifies me. What he’d do. He don’t know you, he barely even knows me.”
“But you did.”
Your voice was shaky, yes, fevered now, he watched the bob of your throat as you went on, “You knew me, Joel. Even as a…wolf, you never hurt me. Even when I didn’t know you, you knew me.” your hand now folds over his, warm and soft where his is calloused and hard in the dirt, “I trust you.”
“Don’t.”
You tilted your head, “What’s the matter, Joel?” whispering, you went on, “You don’t think you deserve anything good, is that it?”
His brow furrowed, gaze turning away. His body wouldn’t fucking listen. He wanted to get up, to run from this, from you, from that unbearable way you looked at him like you saw through all the grime and guilt. A dog with its tail tucked. That's what he was, caught and seen for what he was.
But then you moved. Bent yourself in half, hands pressing to your stomach, a soft sound breaking from your throat that made every muscle in him lock up. A moan, quiet but crooning, and his hand was on you before he could think, palm running up the curve of your back.
“Are you oka—?”
“I feel funny, Joel,” you mewled, the sound high and broken, and it did something to him that terrified him because it was instinct, pure and simple, “Everything hurts.”
Christ above. He should leave. He should get up and run and not look back. But suddenly he felt more himself than ever before, every part lit up in response to that word. Hurting.
And the instinct was as old as his bones rose within him. An alpha soothes and omega in distress—he must soothe and touch and reassure. When the scent turned sharp and pained, his body moved on its own.
“You’re hurtin’, baby?” he heard himself say, voice gone low, rough at the edges, completely unknown to him. “S’okay, s’okay,” he murmured, his hand rubbing up and down your back in slow circles, the sound that followed not quite words, a soft rumble from deep in his chest meant to calm, meant to tell you that you were safe.
You looked up at him through your lashes, lips parted, panting, eyes glassy. “What’s it like?”
He froze. “What?”
“I’ve never… been with an alpha.”
His throat went dry, “I…we can’t…I can’t, honey, please—”
“Joel,” you cried out gently, as if knowing, knowing what your desperate little cries would do to him, "...alpha."
This was not going to plan. He was so far gone from himself, and yet utterly more himself than he’d ever felt in his entire existence. The way you said his name, the smell of your cunt and panting breath thickening the air until it was all he could breathe. The heat of your back seeping through his palm. The beast paced under his skin was awake now, snarling, drooling at the edge of his restraint.
“It’s so good,” he heard himself whisper, his voice slurred, too honest to be mistaken for anything but animal.
You moaned at the sound, eyes flicking to his mouth, and he felt that look like a pulse through his whole body.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“We need to get you home,” he forced himself to say, clearing his throat, trying to clear his goddamn head too.
“No!” you gasped, sitting up straighter, and so fast he reached out to steady you, his hands catching your shoulders. But you were already climbing into him, moving before he could think—legs sliding around his waist, your chest pressed to his, his boots braced in the dirt.
No, no, no. He couldn’t be this close. But he didn’t move. His arms found your back, his hands spread flat between your shoulder blades, holding you there like he’d been made to. His nose went to your neck, to the soft skin just below your jaw, and before he knew it he was breathing you in as you blabbered above him, rutting your hips against his belly.
Don’t take me home, don’t leave me alone, please, please.
“Okay, okay,” he heard himself whisper, nuzzling into your skin. “You’d let me take you here, huh? Out in the woods, for everyone to see?” His voice was quiet, nearly a growl. Hee was done for, he knew it. “That what you want, baby?”
“Oh, yes,” you moaned, delirious now, he could tell. The moment your lips touched his gland behind his ear, he was screaming inside. His eyes went wide, mouth open as he felt your tongue trace it light and curious, and he almost lost himself right there.
“Jesus,” he gasped. Your fingers buried in his hair, tugging until he looked up at you. You leaned down, licked the edge of his lip, and his breath came out shaky, a sound too close to a whine.
And then you kissed him.
Soft at first, and then increasingly hungry and messy, the wet smacking sound of lips and tongue filling the air. Your mouth opened around his, your tongue slipping against his, and his brain went white. You tasted so sweet, like everything he shouldn’t have, better than he imagined. He groaned into it, a deep sound vibrating up from his chest, your whimpers melting into it, your hips grinding down against his lap.
You were so close, breasts pressed against his chest, your little cunt so fucking close now. It was only a few layers, so warm, he could nearly feel how you drooled slick for him. It would be so easy, easy as breathing, to let himself have you here for the world and God to see.
“You have to know—fuck—please, I have to tell you—” he gasped. But you kept mouthing at his open mouth, suckling his lips, licking between words, until his hand came up behind your neck. If this was happening, because he sure wasn’t going to be able to stop himself if this continued, he needed to tell you. He fisted his hand through your hair and scruffed you, pulling your face back. You went pliant, panting deeply, eyes on him but gone, dreamy and glossy.
“My rut—it ain’t like a normal alpha,” he shook his head as you moaned, jutting your hips against his, the heat of you bleeding through the layers. “Listen to me, little one. Listen. I need you to listen, baby, okay?”
You nodded. He needed to be gentle, was all. Needed to heed his instincts.
His fingers softened through your hair, petting you slowly, trying to calm the tremor running through your body. He could feel the damp heat of your skin against his palm, the way your breath shuddered every time he touched you. His hands slid down, finding the small of your back, pressing your center against his lap, your hands spread flat on his chest where his heart pounded hard enough that you could probably feel it.
You were so fucking pretty. Hair tangled, lips parted, eyes glazed and soft, pupils wide and drowning every trace of color he’d memorized. You looked wrecked and fevered, and still, you looked at him like he was something worth wanting. That was it. Yes, he was done. He couldn’t fight this anymore. He could feel it all bleeding out of him, replaced by the kind of need that felt as natural as the wind against his cheek.
“When I get into a rut, sweetheart…” He had to stop and breathe, the words catching in his throat as your hips shifted against his. “It can—sometimes I change. Or I start to.”
Your eyes went a little wide.
Good, you finally were afraid of him.
“Not always,” he went on, voice low, barely holding steady, he must soothe, “it ain’t always a full change, and sometimes I can stop it. But with—” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “with an omega, I don’t know if I’ll be able to.”
“Okay,” you whispered, cheeks aflame.
“Okay?” he repeated, tilting his head, a half-smile that lightly tugged at the corner of his mouth at your simple answer, your naivety. You smiled gently back as he reached up to brush the damp hair from your forehead, fingers lingering there, “If I change—if I turn into…if the big guy comes out, I need you to stay calm, okay? Don’t fight me or run. It’ll only make it worse.”
You nodded, “What…can I do?”
“Nothin’,” he said softly. “It’ll be okay.” He caught a stray tear that began to bead at your eye with his thumb, rubbed it away, then brought the dampness to his lips before he realized what he was doing. “Such a sweet little omega,” he murmured, almost to himself. “So fuckin’ pretty, too.”
You keened at that, a soft sound fluttering through you as you tilted your head back down to catch his lips with yours.
You
Eventually, he forced himself to his feet, you still clinging to him. He walked a few paces like that, your arms looped around his neck, your legs tangled around his hips. For a while he didn’t seem to mind it—having you pressed to him like something he needed to keep safe. But then, little by little, he eased you down, letting you walk beside him.
Your hand never left him. Always reaching, always touching. His arm, his shoulder, your fingers brushing his sleeve, afraid he’d disappear if you didn’t keep him tethered. His skin was so warm it almost scalded you. Every breath of him was heat.
You felt like something new—like the world had cracked open just to make room for this one impossible thing. It burned and hurt and bloomed all at once.
He took you to his cabin now, opened the door for you slowly and gently. His hand stayed at your back the whole time, steadying you as you stepped inside. The space was dim and quiet, the air heavy with the smell of wood and smoke—and him. You froze for a second, realizing your own scent still lived here too, faint but unmistakable. You hadn’t been erased.
“Make yourself comfortable, baby,” he murmured, voice thick against your ear. “I’m gonna fix us something to eat.”
“Eat?” you echoed, frowning a little, the word feeling foreign now.
“Yeah. Eat.” His hand brushed your arm as he moved past you toward the kitchen. “Go on. Lay down. Rest a minute, whatever you want.”
You stood there a long while, watching him move around the space like a memory come back to life. Then, drawn by something small and helpless in you, you drifted down the short hall to the bedroom.
You couldn’t help it, your nose led you. You climbed into the bed, pressing your face into the pillows where his scent was strongest, warm and smoky and familiar. And…there, faint beneath it, was yours. Lingering, just barely. He hadn’t washed you away.
You pulled the blanket back, smoothed it down, then fluffed the pillows, your hands moving without thought. You rearranged, touched, tucked. It was a little delirious, silly even, but you let your instincts take over as you made your little nest.
And when you looked up again, he was there, the smell of chicken and potatoes and a gravy with some sort of green all heaped onto a plate for you while he watched from the doorway.
“Come on,” he said softly, ticking his head back behind him, “Made somethin’ for you.”
You did, following him out to the little dining table that only had one chair, and he hefted you up onto his lap, feeding you little bites, your lips closing around the fork in his hand, sometimes fed with just his fingers, tasting the salt of his skin. He made you take big sips of water too, your throat parched for more than drink though. You weren’t really hungry either, your stomach fluttering with need instead, a low ache deep in your core already slick and aching for him.
You made a small sound against his throat when you felt how hard he was beneath you, thick and pulsing, and your body rocked before you could stop it. He groaned low and rough, the sound tearing out of him.
The fork clattered onto the table when the plate was empty. His hand found your throat, thumb brushing up your jaw as he turned your face toward him. “What’re you tryin’ to do to me?”
You keened, leaning into his chest, letting your legs spread across his knees.
“If we do this,” he murmured, his voice almost a growl, “you won’t ever fuck anyone else. Do you understand, little omega?”
Ohhh, that word in his mouth, so filthy. Your eyes rolled back, hips undulating against his thick pressing of his lap.
“Answer me,” he said again, rougher now. “Or are you too far gone to think of anything but my cock?”
“I understand,” you gasped. “Please, alpha—please.”
He groaned, catching your mouth in an open, wet kiss, breath shared. “Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, “let me see—let me see you.”
His hands slid down, slow, peeling your pants away. You kicked them off haphazardly, trembling and dizzy with want.
“Oh, look at that,” he rasped, tugging your panties down to your thighs. Slick clung between the cotton and your skin, stringing in threads that caught the light. “All this for me, huh?”
Your mind moved sluggishly, everything molten in your veins, every pulse a thread of fire. Vision blurred with the relief of his fingers spreading you open, finally, finally touching you as he parted you for his gaze. With the last threshold of fabric gone from it, his chin hooked over your shoulder, beard scratching against your skin as he looked.
He touched you then, slowly at first, two fingers gliding over your center, flat and sure, tracing every soft place as if he needed to know it all by touch. Your head dropped back against his shoulder, his breath filling the space beside your ear. He kissed the curve where your neck met your shoulder, breathing deep, greedy, like he could scent the need coming off you. Beneath you, his lap was solid heat, the strain of him pressing up against you with every shift of your hips.
“Hurts, Joel, please…” you crooned, voice cracking under the plea.
“Oh, baby, I know. I know. How’s this? What about this?” His voice broke into a low murmur as he slid a finger in, curling it up, cupping your mound as pet the walls of your slick heat. Your mouth opened around a gasp, breath ragged and thin.
“I know,” he whispered again, over and over, breath heavy against your ear. “Feels good, don’t it?”
“More,” you murmured. “More, more, more…” You turned your head toward him, lips brushing his beard as your back arched, chest pushing into his touch. He shoved your shirt up, tearing it off when it wouldn’t stay, your bra dragged down until your breast spilled free into his palm. You cried out when he grabbed it hard, kneading, jostling, his hand too big, too eager.
“Perfect,” he growled, voice rough and unrecognizable. “Perfect little thing.”
Your spine bowed nearly to pain when he pushed a second finger in, twisting them just right to make you cry out again. Then a third, slow and deep, his hand slick and obscene between your thighs. You were unraveling, breaking apart in his lap, his breath wild against your skin. Your first orgasm came with bursts of ecstasy that lasted only a moment, gushing around his fingers.
“Yeah, yes, that’s it,” he rasped into your ear, teeth catching your lobe. “That’s it, good girl. Gonna make it feel so good.”
But it didn’t feel good—not entirely. Or maybe it did, but the pleasure only sharpened the ache burning inside you, twisting it higher until it was unbearable. Your hands clawed weakly at your own throat, sobs beginning to shake through your chest.
Joel continued petting your cunt, but gently now, pulling his fingers from you until he circled his arms around you, pulling you in close, “Okay, hush now. It’s alright. You’re in your heat now, baby, it’s okay—I got you.”
“Joel,” you sobbed, voice cracking as tears streaked down your cheeks. Everything felt too hot: your skin, the sounds, the steady thrum beneath your skin. Your vision swam as his voice coaxed softly in your ear.
“C’mon, honey, we’ll get you in the bed, c’mon now,” he cooed. Lifting you easily, he turned you in his arms as he stood. Your slick soaked through his shirt, riding up until your cunt was pressed to the soft trail of hair leading below his jeans, and you couldn’t help but push your hips hard against the tickle of it. He sat down on the bed, bracing himself against the pillows, stripping off his shirt and pushing his pants away while keeping you in his lap, your body trembling against his chest.
You rolled your hips against him, desperate, chasing any friction that would ease the ache.
“Hey, hey,” he said softly, brushing your hair from your face, tilting your chin so you’d look at him.
You blinked up, dazed by how beautiful he looked, how impossibly lucky you felt to have such a pretty alpha.
He smiled as if he could see all the thoughts across your delirious face.
“You still with me, little baby?” he asked, kissing your top lip, pulling it into his mouth. You kissed him back, greedier and greedier, both of your mouths parting wider with every pass until your lips were slick, your chin wet where his tongue chased the corner of your mouth. You could taste salt, skin, the faint mint of breath; his beard scraping your chin as he kissed you deeper, until it felt like he was trying to drink the sound of your moans out of you.
And you could feel him—his cock, hot and heavy between you. You shifted down, rutting yourself along him, coating him in your slick until he groaned, a sound so deep it made your stomach tighten painfully. You wanted to hear it again and again and again.
Then his hands gripped you, rougher now, his mouth devouring yours with wet, hungry sounds. You whimpered, clutching at him as he fisted himself, guiding his tip to your entrance. The moment he notched just the head, that first push of warmth and stretch, you arched, trembling at the feeling of him. Both of you broke the kiss only to gasp, mouths agape, lips brushing, tasting the shared air as he eased you down slowly.
He sat upright against the pillows, belly to belly, your chest dragging against his as you sank lower, nipples catching in the dark tufts of his chest. The slide was endless, thick and overwhelming, until you were seated fully, his thighs flush to your ass, his cock buried deep inside you.
“Fuck,” he groaned, voice rough with awe, his hands locked at your hips to steady you, to hold. They slid to your back, palms broad and firm, guiding you closer until your chests were pressed together, “She’s squeezin’ me so tight, huh?”
You moaned breathlessly, eager for more more more, because everything was still so painfully needy inside of you, burning and hungry despite how good he felt stretching you. You started moving, just a slow roll of your hips, testing the give of him, and god he felt so damn good like this, so close, so warm, thick and pulsing inside. His breath broke at the shift of your body, a sound somewhere between a growl and a plea.
“Yeah,” he murmured against your throat, voice thick with arousal as his tongue flattened to lick your salty skin. “That’s it. Just like that. Pretty little omega takin’ cock so good.”
He leaned in more, mouth finding your shoulder, kissing up to where your gland throbbed beneath the skin, that sacred spot no one was ever meant to touch. The moment his tongue licked over it, your body went white hot. A helpless, keening sound left your throat as he suckled, slow and deep, drawing at the pheromones there, inhaling the scent of your climbing state. It wasn’t a bite, but the feeling of the light graze of his teeth sent a lightning jolt through you all the same, your cunt clenching down tighter, every instinct clawing toward him. Your hips rode faster, not able to help yourself.
“Alpha, alpha, please—” you mewled, wanting more, wanting, more than anything, to feel his teeth sink into you—and your nubby nails clawed into his wide breadth of shoulders, hot to the touch, a fire blazing just beneath his skin. The wet slap of skin over your whining and his grunts sending your eyes rolling.
“Stop, stop, don’t,” he rasped, the words coming out broken, strained, as if something deeper inside him was tearing loose as he unlatched his lips from our skin. And in your haze of misery and ecstasy and pure bliss, your vision swam, but you could see him.
And he was…changing.
His face, once so human, began to twist and shudder, his body tensing like it might split apart from within. More dark hair pushed through his skin, coarse and wild, his jaw lengthening, teeth flashing for a moment in the light from the window. His hands gripped at your waist, fingers curling, nails hardening to sharp edges that caught and pricked at your hips. Each sound he made was rougher than the last, more beastial, until you could barely tell if he was groaning in agony or pleasure.
You held on tighter, your body trembling against him, your own heartbeat stuttering at the sight. It felt wrong and beautiful at once, terrifying in its rawness, this man unmade before you.
“Joel—Joel—” you said, still connected, so close, his sounds more and more deep and snarling and angry, even through the pleasure. But how could it be? There was no moon, no reason for the wolf to come. He said something earlier, when you were seeping into your most saturated state, something about… about…
His neck arched back, muscles straining, bones shifting under the surface of his skin, the motion almost too much to look at. You caught his face in your hands, forcing his head down until his eyes met yours, wild and flickering with rage, all the while still that forest green and river blue, the yellow of the animal within. Holding him there, you were trembling, panting, trying to stay rooted in this moment even as your body burned around him, your cunt clenching in waves as he pulsed inside you, deep and thick and steady, like your bodies were made to answer one another. You swallowed down the sounds threatening to pour from your throat, that helpless litany of moans and whimpers, tried to find your way back through the haze of need and heat and fear, tried to be here, with him, with Joel, even as the wildness in him began to rise.
“It’s okay, I’m here, Joel, I’m here, you’re here, with me. Stay here, Joel. Listen to my voice.”
You cradled his face in your palms, thumbs brushing across the damp heat of his cheeks, his sweat slick against your skin. Beneath your hands you could feel it still, the cracking and grinding of his bones, but they were bending back into place, the hair and beast retreating slowly beneath his skin like a tide drawing away from the shore.
His whole body trembled, heat rolling off him in waves, and for a moment it felt like the room itself had lost gravity, like the air was holding its breath. Then, he exhaled. A long, shuddering breath that left him heavy and slack beneath you. The tremors in his chest eased. His hands, still curled tight at your hips, softened back into something human. His face lowered into the crook of your neck, and you felt the weight of him return all at once—flesh and bone and man again.
“That’s it,” you cooed, pressing your lips to the corner of his, the tickle of his mustache pearled with sweat on his upper lip.
He gathered you close then, still trembling, still hot, his nose tracing along your jaw, humming. You felt the brush of his lips there, reverent and unsteady, and a single shiver ran the length of your spine.
“You smell so good,” he whispered, human in its softness now, kissing your chin, your lips gently, shivering and sweaty. You held him closer, letting your face fall into his neck, rolling your hips more with a whimpering.
“I got you, little omega,” he said gently, holding you close, no more space between you, his cock still buried and full of heat inside, “S’just us now.”
Your body trembled around him, legs wrapped tight, chasing the feeling of friction again. Your cunt puffy and slick and full as his breath came heavier, harder, until he was groaning again, his hips thrusting up up up into you with the rocking of your hips.
“Oh! Ah—Joel,” you whispered, overwhelmed and feeling him in your tummy. He only answered in a purring hum, teeth nipping at your skin now, hands gripped hard at your hips once again, hauling you down onto him over and over.
“Alpha,” you mewled, helpless. It was as if he’d come back alive, completely human but animal in his instincts. Maybe it was the way your body gripped around him, the scent of your slick heavy in the air, or maybe it was just how you knew that word would affect him. You felt it in the tension that suddenly returned to his grip, in the way his breath caught sharp at your throat. His body had steadied, but his rut hadn’t passed—it had only been quelled by his will, now human in its need.
“I know, baby,” he panted, voice cracking with its eagerness. “You feel that? Hmmm?” hips slapping into you, his back pushing further into the pillows, pulling you closer onto him and grinding upward at the end of each thrust. “Gonna fill this sweet pussy, stretch her open, knot you right on my cock where you belong.”
His fingers bruised your waist as he drove up into you again, again, again.
“How’s that sound, pretty girl?” he murmured in your ear as you moaned. “Gonna take all of it for me?”
“Yes,” you cried, high and desperate, animal yourself, needy, instinctual. “Please, please, I want it—”
“Yeah,” he grunted, mouth open, panting. “I know, I know, gonna make it feel so good, baby. Take my knot.”
He slammed up one last time as his cock swelled thick inside you, pressure blooming sudden and perfect, locking you down on him, sealing every inch between you. You gasped, feeling him pulse as his spend shot into you, your body arching, clenching, held wide around the thick, throbbing heat of him.
“That’s it,” he groaned, voice rasping into your ear. “There you go. That’s it, baby. I got you. You’re so fuckin’ full now, ain’t ya?”
You could barely breathe.
“Want you to come on my knot,” he said, almost soothing now, but still panting, voice thick and dark and low. “You’ll feel better, promise. There won’t be no more hurt, just this. Just me inside you.”
You whimpered, trying to grind down but finding yourself stuck in place.
“Good girl, sweet girl,” he whispered, chuffing in gentle amusement, “I got you,” his hand slid between your bodies, sitting the both of you back up, his thumb dipping into the flood of slick you made for him, circling your clit, pushing and pressing until your legs were shaking around him, “There you are, c’mon now, be a good little girl and come for me. Come on my knot,”
The sound of your mewls filled the room, matched by his own ragged breath. The tension coiled tighter and tighter until it broke, your body shaking against his, all sound spilling out of you as he held you through it, whispering to you, your name, calling you a good little omega. His arms clenched back around you, holding you down as your climax tore through, soaking him, pulsing against him, moaning and shuddering as you gave yourself up to it. You broke apart in his arms, crying out, your body clenching down impossibly tight around the swollen knot keeping you together.
When it passed, you let your cheek fall onto his shoulder, his chest was rising and falling fast beneath yours, but he was quiet now. The beast in him stilled. No more teeth or snarling, just the wet warmth of your bodies, drenched in sweat and the nectar of you, every inch of you felt locked together.
You stayed like that for a long time, every inch of your body felt sated, split wide open and remade around him. His knot remained swollen, seated deep, keeping you in a hold that felt almost holy as the room turned gold with the evening spilling its honeyed light through the windows. It caught on your sweat drenched skin, warming the curve of his beard lined jaw, the shine of your shoulder. Outside, the world was still with the night slowly creeping in. And inside, only the sound of breath. Yours and his, slowed and matched.
He was petting your head like you were a fragile thing, soft and gentle, fingers carding sweetly through your hair. The pads of his fingertips dragged lightly against your scalp, the two of you purring in your bliss.
Your eyes blinked open against the warm slope of his throat.
“Can I feel?” you whispered.
“Hm?” he hummed, softly, gravely.
You turned your face up toward him, your cheek still pressed to the sweaty heat of his skin. “The knot.”
He stilled for a moment, as if the question took a moment to compute in his foggy brain. Then he shifted, large hand slipping beneath your smaller one, lifting it gently from his shoulder. You didn’t move, just watched as he guided it between you, slow and careful, sitting you up.
Your hands descended to the place where your bodies met. You could feel the heat of it before you touched it, wet and swollen and impossibly thick where he filled you.
He wrapped his hand around yours, guiding your fingers to where he stretched you. “Just there,” he murmured. “Most of it’s still inside.”
Your fingertips brushed the swollen ridge where he was seated deep. It was hot, firm. A strange, thick shape, different than the rest of him. Not smooth, but ridged and tight, sensitive to the touch. You could feel the pulse of blood still moving through it, feel the fullness of it stretching you open.
Your voice came out quieter than before. “What does it do?”
He huffed a soft breath, the closest thing to a laugh, the corner of his mouth curling as he looked at you. “Thought you took Biology 101.”
You chuffed back, nose wrinkling faintly, your touch still exploring. The knot was firm but not unyielding, your walls held taut around it.
“It keeps me inside,” he said finally. His voice had gone soft again. “Keeps everything where it needs to be. My spend. All of me. Makes sure it takes.”
You sighed dreamily, your body curling closer as you laid your head back to his shoulder. “Oh,” you whispered. And then, a hum. “I like that.”
He turned his head to kiss your nose, your cheekbone, the shell of your ear. You shuddered against the feeling of his lips on you, blissful in your state. Finally, that ember that burned every month, was soothed. And yet…
“Joel?” you murmured.
His lips paused at your temple. “What is it, baby?”
Your voice turned small. “I want to run away with you.”
His body went rigid beneath yours. A long silence stretched between you before your brain began to tingle with worry.
“I want to stay here,” you said, softer still. “Like this, just like this. Forever.”
You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, your breath warming the sweat damp skin there.
“Don’t say that,” he said, brokenly. “Baby, don’t say that kind of thing to me. You know…you know what I am, we can’t…I can’t.”
You pulled back just far enough to look at him. His face was flushed, damp, his hazel eyes darkened and stormy. Like the woods after rain. His lips parted around breath that came too fast, like it hurt to breathe at all.
“But I mean it,” you said. “I don’t care what happens. I don’t care who comes looking. I don’t care about anything but this.” Your fingers lifted to his face, brushing his cheek, his thick beard at his jaw. “I want you.”
He made a warning rumble, a deep sound from somewhere in his chest as his hips jerked slightly beneath you. His knot throbbed. You felt his body tense again, that wildness stirring beneath the surface. He was fighting it.
“Joel,” you breathed.
You kissed him before he could say anything. Deep and open, no hesitation anymore. He kissed you back as if his restraint pained him, his mouth wet and urgent, his hands sliding up your back, clutching you like you might disappear. One hand tangled hard in your hair, gripping, guiding, grounding.
“Bite me,” you whispered against his mouth, “Please,” begging, voice thick and trembling. “Joel. Bite me.”
He pulled back, his hand tightening in your hair as he stayed silent.
But your hand cupped his cheek, thumb stroking just beneath his eye. “Please.”
He was shaking his head before the words even left you, the tremor in his jaw betraying how close he was to losing what was left of his restraint.
“I have nothing else,” you said, softer now. “No one else. All I’ve ever wanted is for someone to see me as I am. To love me as I am. And you… Joel, you showed me more than I even knew how to want.”
You pushed your hands into his hair, tugging at the nape, both of you mirrors of one another in more ways than one. Your loneliness, your need, your bodies.
“Please,” he begged. What was he pleading for? For you to stop asking? For you to make him do it? You weren’t sure. You only blinked at him, your chest tightening.
His fingers twitched against your scalp like he wanted to pull you closer but couldn’t justify it. His body was still beneath you, thick and locked inside you, his knot stretched wide in your cunt, and yet the air between you suddenly felt distant.
“Joel—” you asked.
“I can’t claim you.”
The silence that followed was sharp in your ears, a painful ringing behind your heartbeat, and you didn’t understand what he was saying because your body was still clinging to him like you were meant to, because your blood was still singing with it, because your scent had already changed and the fire in your belly had already gone still and calm in the shape of him.
“Cant? Or won’t?” you asked, your voice so soft it barely survived the space between you.
He turned his head, eyes low, jaw clenched so tight the muscle there jumped with tension.
You felt the pain in your stomach before you knew the feeling of it, the way your blood was rushing cold now, heart thundering against you. You saw his nostrils flare, his eyes suddenly darting back to your face, searching you.
“No,” he said, suddenly urgent, his hand cupping the back of your neck gentler now, thumb brushing soothingly behind your ear. “No, baby, don’t do that. You’re okay. You’re safe. I got you.”
You swallowed hard, blinking fast.
“So all of this is for nothing?” you whispered, the panic blooming behind your ribs now. “You take me. You fuck me, knot me, you say all these things—and I feel it, Joel, and I know you do too—and you’re gonna try to tell me it means nothing?”
His face crumpled, something inside him cracking open.
“It means everything,” he choked out.
He dragged in a breath that shook through his chest. “I ain’t ever wanted anything this bad, and it scares the hell outta me.”
You felt the tension in him, the way he held himself as if one more inch of movement would undo the last thread of restraint he had left. For a heartbeat you thought he might pull away. Instead, to your heart's relief, he bowed forward, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath coming uneven, hot and ragged.
Your hands found his jaw, the coarse rasp of beard biting your palms. His knot, swollen and fierce moments ago, began to ease, the pressure softening between you until you could both breathe again.
For a long time neither of you spoke. You just listened to the slow, broken rhythm of his lungs filling and emptying, the quiet thud of his heart under your chest. When he finally moved, it was only to guide you down beside him, pulling himself out of your clenching entrance, his arm still around you, his body curved close, your spin to his chest.
“I want this,” he said after a while, voice barely above a whisper in your ear. “Want you. Want somethin’ good, for once. I’m just—” he exhaled, the sound almost a sigh, “—I don’t…I don’t know how to do it with…with him.”
You turned toward him, eyes wet but steady. “You won’t lose yourself,” you said. “I trust you. I trust the wolf, I want to be with you.”
Your body remained warm, so warm, the ember settled but still burning bright, like a star made anew in you, still demanding more of him. You couldn’t help the way you wanted to be close to him, and he let you. His thick arm winding around your body, both of you warm as you pushed your bottom up against him. The ache quelled in the feeling of new safety, of him giving in to his most natural needs and instincts. He breathed you in as he nuzzled against you, his nose dragging slow along your ear, his mouth grazing that searing gland just behind your jaw before opening his mouth against it, breath hot, lips trembling. There was a sound in his throat, something unformed and low, half growl and moan, like the beast still stirred in his chest, caught between wanting and ruin.
His hand slid over your stomach, callused and large, fingers pressing into the softness of your belly before dipping down. Not teasing or slow, but needing. His breath hitched when he felt how hot you still were, how slick, how your thighs opened up easily for him, your body responding while your brain went slack again.
He turned you over, reverent in how he moved you to his liking, his chest pushing into your back as he slid his cock back into your velvet clutch, thick and hard, pressing you down into the mattress with the weight of his body, a gasp tearing from your throat that tipped into a cry as his mouth closed over your neck, hot, open, and shaking—before his teeth sank into your flesh.
Your brain splintered at the feeling. The overwhelming surge of being claimed, his groan deep and animal as he fucked into you again, harder now, each thrust sealing the two of you tighter. His tongue lapped at your neck, as if he could soothe even while claiming, and your body gave out beneath him, boneless and burning, undone, finally and completely satiated. You felt the swell of him, the edge of something even deeper, and then he was spilling inside you again, just from the taste of you surrendered, the heat of your skin, the knowledge that he’d finally taken you as his.
And as he unlatched from you, his mouth warm against your skin as he licked and soothed the tender punctures, purring low in his chest, he stayed pressed to your back as he nuzzled, kissed and licked, his breath a balm where he’d marked you.
And as you purred along, soft and sated, your heat quieted, your womb at last content, you heard him chanting between each breath, each kiss.
Eren mistakenly took his new lab partner for being quiet, only to discover she was so much more than that.
⟡ content: eren jaeger x female reader, college au, mutual pining, fluffy and smutty af, explicit language, explicit sexual content, alcohol, reader discretion advised. 18+
⟡ word count: ~13k
⟡ rewritten and reposted for my new blog | read on ao3
It was the honest-to-God truth when Eren said he wasn’t trying to catch feelings for anyone. But then you came along. Unexpectedly, inexplicably, but surprisingly, not all at once.
You were harmless enough—nothing more than his quiet lab partner in anatomy. Truth be told, he didn’t know what to think of you, other than your tendency to keep to yourself. On the rare occasion you spoke up, you kept your words brief, always pertinent to whatever assignment was at hand. But more days than not, you’d only address Eren with a cursory nod, just when he’d take his seat beside you. Sometimes you couldn’t even bother to look up from your textbook to acknowledge him properly.
So, Eren treated you the same. He brought the bare minimum to your conversations. One-word answers. A specific grunt for ‘yes,’ and another for ‘no’—each you had to learn on your own. Between lecture and lab and studying, Eren often wondered if the semester would go by faster if he had a lab partner who wasn’t such a drag. At the very least, it’d be nice to have one that would talk to him.
He couldn’t help but wonder why you were, for lack of a better word, like that. Cold. Standoffish. Withdrawn. He had a few theories in mind—only because lectures were that boring—the most probable being that you were just shy. That would make the most sense, wouldn’t it?
Perhaps you were the type of student who took her classes way too seriously. He guessed you to be in your third year, like him. Maybe you were trying to get into a competitive graduate program. Or maybe you just really liked anatomy. Eren supposed that’d make sense. You seemed to like the textbook an awful lot, always reading far too closely in the way nerds do in cartoons. But there were other times when it was almost as if you were avoiding looking him in the eye.
There were days—usually when Eren was feeling particularly disgruntled—that your quietness irked him. He knew it was irrational to care so much, but damn it, why were you like that? And all the time, too. You must be stuck up. What else could he blame your perpetually cold shoulder on? He wasn’t proud of it, but sometimes he believed you were a bitch. Simple as that.
Eren’s theories could go on and on, but none of them were true. Well, you didn’t think you were a bitch. No, the reason behind your reserved attitude was much more straightforward than that.
You had a stupid crush on Eren.
A girlish, twirling-your-hair-around-your-finger crush. The kind that made your stomach somehow feel both hollow and full, and had you gushing to your roommate even though you knew you’d never act on any of this.
You’d felt this way since last semester, in another class you had together. You didn’t think Eren remembered that; you still weren’t sure he even knew of your existence until your professor partnered up the two of you.
God. Thinking about that day made you prickle with anxiety all over again. When it happened, you swore you were going to die. Like, actually keel over from a heart attack in the middle of class and die.
You liked to think there was another universe out there in which you’d feel thrilled to have such forced proximity to your crush. Maybe he’d even give you his number to text him about homework, and in that other universe, you’d be absolutely giddy over it.
But that was not the case, because in this universe, anatomy was far from your strong suit. Very, very far.
You drove yourself mad over all the ways you’d inevitably embarrass yourself in front of Eren, lab after lab. It terrified you, even to the point where you wouldn’t dare ask a question out of fear of sounding dumb. So you made do with what you had, pressed on without asking him to repeat himself, and scribbled down what little you could manage.
It was despicable. Truly despicable, and you knew it, and still you pretended like Eren wasn’t there because that felt easier. Even if it meant you started seeing your grade slip.
You hoped to keep that—and your crush—a secret from him, but one day, he got a little too nosy for your liking.
The professor handed back your lab report face down, like always. You knew professors did that for everyone, no matter the grade, but you couldn’t help but feel it was done specifically for you.
You didn’t want to, but you forced yourself to peel back the corner and take a peek. Unsurprisingly, a lousy grade met you on the other side. Again.
For someone wanting to hide their score, you weren’t as careful as you should have been when sliding the paper into your folder. Eren leaned back in his seat, just far enough to steal a glimpse over your shoulder. For research, obviously. If you liked anatomy so much, then you must be pretty good at the subject. That would fit in well with your stuffy attitude, wouldn’t it?
But what Eren saw surprised him, especially when he considered his own soaring grade. On his chuckle, he let slip, “Wow. Are you even writing anything down?”
You startled, slamming your folder shut. “Huh?”
You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. He was, but it didn’t come across nearly as lighthearted as he hoped. Eren often let his thoughts spew into words he shouldn’t say, but you didn’t know about that nasty habit of his. All you were thinking was shit, shit, shit. He had finally figured out that you had no clue what you were doing.
Eren saw the panic as it spread across your face. He cracked a small smile at you, perhaps for the first time, as if it would help. Still, his eyebrows furrowed with a sort of pity he couldn’t hold back.
“The lab.” He pointed to the crumpled paper, half in the folder, half poking out. You tucked it away entirely to hide the grade for the rest of eternity. “We do them together every week. How are you screwing them up that badly?”
What kind of question was that? You gave him a hard frown and regretted thinking he’d be anything more than curt toward you. Even with the pity brows, you weren’t feeling much sympathy from him.
You replied with a blank stare, imagining how horribly this moment would torment you the second your head hit your pillow tonight—and for all nights to come, probably.
You only snapped out of it when you heard his chair drag against the tile. He sighed, a little too loudly to consider it natural, and started packing his things into his book bag.
“Look,” Eren started to say. He glanced up at you once he’d zipped his bag shut, and it made you flighty. “You don’t have to be stuck with a shitty grade. There’s still time left in the semester. I bet I can help.”
His voice was flat, and you didn’t care for his delivery much, but beneath that, there was a glint of sincerity. You weren’t sure where it came from, and frankly, neither did Eren. He regretted being so thoughtless with his words. It was hard not to after seeing the way your face—always so stoic he’d think you were made of marble—turned so sullen. He didn’t like how it made him feel, less so knowing you could pull such a visceral reaction from him.
“You still have my number, yeah?” Eren asked.
You nodded. You did, in fact, still have his phone number, scratched into the first page of your notebook. He wrote it down after your first class together, just like you hoped he would. You decided not to do anything with it. You didn’t even save it to your phone to prevent any possibility of a stupid, drunken text.
“Good,” he said. “We can meet up sometime to study together.”
“Okay, yeah. Thanks,” you said, quietly at first, but your confidence grew with each word when you realized this might not have to go down as one of your top ten most humiliating memories.
“Sure.” Eren stood and swung his bag over his shoulder. He smiled at you again, real this time, big enough to make your stomach flop. “I can’t let my lab partner flunk out on me.”
So, that was where it began—‘it’ referring to you and Eren occasionally studying together. Nothing more. Definitely not the fun sort of studying—you know, like having him study your anatomy rather than the pictures in his textbook. Oh, well. You could still dream.
It took about two study sessions before you didn’t feel you were on the edge of your seat around Eren. As lame as it sounded, he made you incredibly nervous—much more nervous than you felt around him in class, and you didn’t even think that was possible.
Just like in class, you tried your very hardest to keep your eyes on your text. But as shameful as it was to admit, you occasionally snuck a glance. Only when you were certain he wouldn’t notice, because if he did, you knew you’d turn into a pile of goo before you could even look away.
You’d catch him while he was jotting something down because you liked how he looked when he was pensive. His dark brows would sit low over his eyes, and his bottom lip would jut out ever so slightly. And sometimes, only when he was completely stumped, he’d run his fingers through his hair in thought. You liked that a lot, too.
By the time midterms had come and gone, you were seeing Eren more and more—at least twice a week outside of class, maybe a third time if you had a lab report due. By then, it was impossible to let your heart continue to flutter every time you looked him in the eyes. Otherwise, it was bound to give out.
What you wanted to be study dates (emphasis on ‘dates’) quickly became what felt like tutoring lessons—and just to be clear, you were not the tutor. After Eren convinced you his willingness to help was genuine, you didn’t worry as much about sounding dumb. He never seemed bothered when he had to explain a topic, even if you went overboard with the questions.
Though he did like to poke fun at you for your frequent mix-ups and mispronunciations. But you made sure to never let him live down spelling ‘brain’ as ‘brian.’
“It was one time,” he’d always complain back.
After being scolded one too many times for goofing off in the library, you had to make do with other spots around campus, like in a cafe or even out on the green. Other times, especially as the weather began to cool, you’d meet Eren at his place, just a five-minute jaunt from campus.
He lived in a house with three other boys: Armin, Jean, and Connie. You found Jean and Connie to be nice enough based on the handful of conversations you had with them. Despite that, Eren blamed them for the reason you didn’t study at his house often, accusing them of being too distracting to think straight. You didn’t necessarily agree, but hey, you weren’t the one who had to live with them.
Eren would never tell you this—hell, he couldn’t think of a single person he’d say this aloud to—but the real reason he didn’t like to study at his place was Armin.
Eren’s blonde best friend for the last ten years. His roommate, whom you would describe as cute as a button and sharp as a tack. Armin knew much more about anatomy than you and Eren (maybe even combined) and liked to join in when he was bored, answering the questions that Eren couldn’t.
Eren couldn’t pinpoint exactly why this bothered him so much. He always knew Armin was smarter than him; that had never been a problem before. Now, it bothered him to no end. But rather than deal with it head-on, Eren decided studying at your apartment was the better solution. Your roommate, Hitch, was tolerable enough.
It was around finals week when it happened. A healthy dose of reality, served as a smack straight across your face. A reminder that you still had a big fat crush on Eren. When your frequent study dates became less of a one-on-one thing and more like a group hangout.
You were cordial, something between classmates and acquaintances, with the few classmates sitting near you. One girl, Mina, said that she, Thomas, and Samuel planned to get together to prepare for the upcoming exam. She insisted that you and Eren should join.
You didn’t respond right away. You couldn’t, not with the way your heart sank into your stomach when Eren answered for you.
“She needs all the help she can get,” Eren replied with a playful pat on your shoulder. He was only joking, but you wished he didn’t sound so eager. You especially wished his hand, so innocently placed on your back, didn’t make your cheeks burn.
You did your best to get over it quickly. It was hard to stay bitter at people you got along with, so much so that you’d accomplish more chatting than studying. Luckily for the rest of you, Eren and Thomas knew enough to help you skate by.
But when Eren started texting in the new group chat more than he’d text you, you couldn’t ignore the sting. It felt as though you’d let your chances with him slip by because next semester he wouldn’t be your lab partner anymore. He might not even talk to you again; he’d have no reason to.
You left the final exam feeling okay at best. You walked out with your head down, not paying attention as Mina caught up from behind. She invited you to come by her apartment that Friday—something about your classmates getting together to celebrate the end of Anatomy pop quizzes. You didn’t give it a second thought when you agreed.
You were at the get-together for maybe an hour, maybe longer, when someone was drunk enough to suggest a game of Never Have I Ever. You’d just thrown away your second beer and felt just adventurous enough to play.
Mina’s living room was too small for hosting, but most of your places were. That didn’t stop her from decorating for the holiday season. With everyone crowded around, the strings of lights cast a colorful but warm glow against everyone’s faces. In the center of the ragged circle, some people sat on the floor, some on the sofa, was an old beer. According to Samuel, it was left out overnight chugging it would serve as punishment for putting the last of your fingers down.
You didn’t know it then, but that beer had your name written all over it.
You sat on the floor, legs folded to your chest, with your hand growing tired in the air. Only your index finger remained standing when Mina shouted it was her turn.
“Never have I ever had a body count higher than five,” she announced.
A few people put a finger down, but you knew it didn’t matter. You dropped your forehead to your knees in defeat and let your hand slump to your side. Everyone was laughing, hounding you to drink the beer, when you whined, “Do I have to?”
If you hadn’t been so busy downing that lukewarm can, pouting as you went—if your audience wasn’t so loud as they heckled you, maybe you would have noticed how Eren went quiet. How a firm crease formed between his brows the longer he watched.
Eren didn’t know what he was feeling. Something sour. Something like the feeling he got when he saw you laugh with Armin. It made him not want to look at you because the sight alone made his stomach tight, but he couldn’t stop.
Your body count didn’t offend him. After all, he had to put a finger down for the same reason. Though he had to admit, you surprised him (it was always the quiet ones, wasn’t it?) but that wasn’t new. The more he learned about you, the more he realized his assumptions about you couldn’t have been more wrong—especially the ones about you being a bitch and good at anatomy.
Eren studied you from across the cramped room. Your nose crinkled, giggles spilling from you as you tried, for the second time, to finish the beer. He’d heard your laugh before. Many times, actually. But tonight, he found the sound captivatingly warm. Like a moth drawn to a flame, he felt his chest flutter.
His thoughts drifted further and further, recklessly so, until he found himself wondering if you’d crinkle your nose just the same if he made you come.
Right then, he could see you underneath him. Naked. Your face twisted in pleasure, brows pinched cutely as your teeth dipped into your swollen bottom lip. He swore he could feel your thighs under his palms, soft and giving beneath them as he pulled down your—
It was so wrong of him. Wrong to be in a room full of people and pretend as if you were the only two people to exist.
That swarming in his gut grew hotter. He took another sip of his beer as if it would dull the burn.
Eren doubted himself into a downward spiral. Almost like a hangnail, he picked and picked at the thought until he created an open wound of his own making. What was so wrong with him that you weren’t interested?
He could deny naming the sick feeling as much as he wanted, but Eren knew what it was: insecurity. Jealous of people he didn’t even know, for no other reason than he had the chance to be with you in the ways he so desperately craved, to where he felt doubled over sick.
He felt fucking pathetic for it.
Eren didn’t stay at the party long after that. You left just before midnight and didn’t think of that game, or Eren, for the rest of the weekend. And on Monday, you were up bright and early to check your final grade for anatomy. By some miracle, you passed the class.
It was well into winter break when you saw Eren again. You bumped into him at a house party, when there was about a week left until classes started and everyone was trickling back to campus to celebrate the new year.
You didn’t expect to see him again this soon, but then again, you weren’t so sure you’d ever see him again. Anatomy class was the glue that held you together. You wished you could say you had more confidence in your budding friendship, in Eren, but he hadn’t talked to you since Mina’s party. You thought he at least felt some sort of stake in knowing if you passed the class.
You told yourself it was better off this way, considering you nearly failed your lab because of him. Well, technically speaking, you passed because of him, but you wouldn’t have been in this mess in the first place if he wasn’t your lab partner.
All that bullshit for a silly crush.
You stumbled into Eren toward the end of the night, when parties start feeling spacey and liminal, between night and day. A couple of lights were on now, and whoever was in charge of the music had clearly given up long ago. It was all pointing to a not-so-subtle hint to get out.
And you wanted nothing more than to get out. You would have been out of there thirty minutes ago if it weren’t for Hitch. Your loveable, yet self-admittedly ditzy roommate had disappeared into thin air.
By the time you began searching for her, you’d already drunk well past your limit. You were left dizzy, starving, and having poked your head into every room and around every corner. No Hitch, but you did find lots of dry humping.
The last time you saw Hitch, she was one of those dry humpers. She was on top of some guy who you figured was the reason she even wanted to come to this party. You were sure you’d catch his name tomorrow morning.
You were too distracted, too bubbly from the leftover New Year’s champagne to see what was right in front of you—even if he was rather tall, broad, and hard to miss. You didn’t even look twice as you walked past him. He only grabbed your attention after calling your name, but you only felt disappointed that the voice was too deep to belong to Hitch.
You spun around and the floor tilted with you. It took you a step or two to straighten back out, and when you did, your vision settled on Eren.
He gave you a lop-sided smile, serving as nothing more than a hesitant greeting. He only made it more awkward by throwing in a cheeky, “Long time, no see.”
You returned the gesture by offering a chuckle that was only half-forced. The other half was genuine simply because it was easy to impress anyone after a night spent drinking.
And since you had spent the night drinking, you felt all weird when you looked at Eren. It wasn’t that you were upset with him—maybe disappointed, but it wasn’t exactly with him. Eren never owed you his kindness, and going out of his way to help you study was more than you could have asked for. You’d say you were disappointed with what could have been.
But now that he was here, getting shoved closer and closer with every passerby, you didn’t know what to think other than you should have skipped out on that last drink. You hoped you’d feel more put together the next time you saw Eren so you wouldn’t get tangled up in again. You weren’t confident you’d be able to unravel yourself a second time.
Eren took a willing step toward you and recognized the familiar haze of booze in your eyes. He realized you weren’t going to say anything, so he’d have to do the heavy-lifting.
“Were you looking for someone?”
“Hitch,” you said. There was a pause where you weren’t sure he remembered he knew her. “My roommate.”
“I know.”
“We were supposed to get food, but I think she took a guy home,” you told him for no reason in particular. “The last time this happened, I walked in on them doing it on the kitchen counter.”
Eren laughed, harder once your face winced at the memory, a sight seared into your brain, for sure. “You should really consider finding a new roommate.”
“And in the meantime?”
“You come back to my place,” he said, so casually that you were positive you didn’t hear him right. Your face must have given you away, and he tried to brush it off with a shrug. “What’s the big deal? You’ve slept on my couch before.”
He was right. You’d fallen asleep on his couch while studying once. He teased you about it—said you got drool everywhere.
“That’s different,” you sheepishly said. “That was an accident.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the first place,” he teased.
“Maybe you shouldn’t make your flashcards so boring!”
Eren liked his simple flashcards. He preferred them. Not everyone needed to spend more time highlighting and color-coding flashcards than actually studying them.
He tilted his head in a look that said Quit being so stubborn for once but relented. “Fine. Then how about you tell me how to make them look nicer on the way back to my house. I was just about to leave, anyway.”
He took a daring step backward. Then another, until he turned on one foot and headed toward the door. He knew you’d follow him, and so thoughtlessly, you did. You stayed just behind as you meandered through the house and out the front door.
You called out after him, “You don’t really need them now, do you? The class is over.”
“I just thought you might need ‘em.” Eren bounded down the porch steps and tossed a glance over his shoulder, just to catch the look on your face when he said, “Since you’re going to be retaking the class.”
You wished you’d shoved him down the steps, but he was already across the lawn, you trailing him. He walked with longer strides and didn’t seem concerned about whether you could keep up.
“Thanks for that,” you grumbled.
“Anytime.”
It didn’t take long before the two of you were close to campus. You walked along the main drag, lined with various bars and late-night bites that thrived in the college town’s nightlife. The liveliness made it difficult to tell time; it could be ten p.m. or two a.m., and you wouldn’t know the difference. Every bar kept its music loud enough to thrum in your chest, beating perfectly in tempo with each of your steps—those of which were still fighting to keep up with Eren.
He didn’t even bother looking back at you when he asked, “Do you still want to get food?”
“Hm?” You couldn’t hear him over your shuffling along the sidewalk. Your feet had already started aching hours ago, and this certainly wasn’t helping. You really shouldn’t have worn your new shoes without breaking them in.
“You never listen, do you?” Eren didn’t say it with annoyance but with a laugh. “I’m surprised you’ve made it this far.”
“I listen just fine. You just mumble a lot,” you defended. “And for your information, I am not retaking Anatomy. I passed with a C.”
“C plus or C minus?”
“Plus,” you said with inflated, drunken confidence.
“I’ll alert the media,” Eren deadpanned. You stuck your tongue out at him even though he wouldn’t see it. “Now tell me, did you still want to get food or not?”
“I didn’t think it was still an option.”
“‘Course it is.” He finally looked back at you, nearly skipping to keep up with him now, just in time to catch your trip over a sidewalk crack. “I think you could probably use something to eat.”
When you were about to round the corner onto his street, Eren stopped short a few doors down at an unassuming 24-hour diner. You weren’t expecting to stop and sit down but to flag down a street vendor. Though you had to admit, breakfast sounded wonderful.
Eren picked the booth in the back after you were instructed to seat yourselves. The place was small and smelt of pancake batter and stale coffee—just as any diner should at this hour. And stale or not, you knew you needed a few mugs to sober up.
The waitress flipped your ceramic mug upright and filled it to the brim. If it were nine in the morning, steam would pour out, and it would look like a movie. But it was not nine in the morning, and you did not want to know how long this coffee had sat out.
You took it with cream, then dumped some sugar in, too. Reaching for a second packet, you caught Eren staring as you tore it open, his hands folded around his mug.
“Is something the matter?” you asked.
“Want any coffee with your sugar?”
“Ha-ha.” You added the sugar, now out of spite. When you took your first sip, it tasted as bitter as you’d imagined.
Now that you were off your feet, the pain gnawed at you. You wiggled your shoes down, just enough for your heels to slip free from the backs. But it wasn’t enough. You couldn’t bear to keep them for another second—the diner was empty, anyway. Once they were off, your feet pulsed as if they had their own heartbeat.
The waitress took your order before disappearing again, only making rounds to offer a warm-up here or there, which you gladly accepted. Eren didn’t make a peep when you added another packet of sugar this time. During the lapse in conversation, you kept your head low and fiddled with the loose scraps of paper. You didn’t even remember what you were thinking about when Eren eventually spoke.
“You know,” he started to say. You peered up from the wadded paper you’d been rolling between your fingers. He leaned back in the booth and looked out the frosted window with a quiet chuckle. “I thought you hated me when we first met.”
You matched his laugh, yours more disbelieving. “Hated you? I don’t think I knew you well enough to hate you.”
As if he were thinking out loud, he said, “You were always so quiet.”
“Being quiet doesn’t mean you hate someone,” you explained.
His eyes flicked from the window to you. “Then what does it mean?”
It was easier to talk to him when he wasn’t looking directly at you. His gaze felt smothering. You retreated your gaze down to the spool you swirled around your coffee. The soft banging against the ceramic was the only sound between you and Eren because you still didn’t know how to answer him.
“I don’t know,” you said, hoping you would have come up with a more profound answer by now. “It just means you’re quiet, I guess.”
A short stack of pancakes interrupted Eren, slid right between the two of you, decorated with a gooey scoop of butter. Eren only ordered coffee even after you said you’d pay. And once the server dropped off the syrup and scurried away again, Eren was quick to jump back into the conversation, much to your dismay.
“But you’re not quiet, and you’re not shy either,” he said like he’d caught you in a lie. You urged him on with a raised eyebrow. He scoffed. “Don’t give me that. I know that’s not you. I saw you dancing tonight with Hitch.”
Your hand stalled as you reached for the syrup. “You watched me dance?”
His eyes widened, but he played it off well enough when he said, “I mean, yeah. My so-called quiet lab partner actually knows how to dance? It just surprised me, that’s all.”
“If you saw me earlier, why didn’t you come and say hi?”
Strike that. Eren almost played it off. He tensed up, noticeably so, and it took him longer than he would have liked to come up with his pathetic excuse of, “Oh, I think someone grabbed me for a game of beer pong or something. I couldn’t find you after.”
That never happened. Eren knew it, and he was pretty sure you knew it, too. The truth was that Eren didn’t go up and talk to you because he’d spent the last few weeks convincing himself he wasn’t into you.
He went as far as reinstalling his dating apps, all of which he had long sworn off. He naively assumed that if he just went on a date, maybe even brought a girl home, then he would be in the clear; he wouldn’t think of you anymore. Easy-peasy. But by the time dinner was through, Eren could hardly remember a single thing his date had said. He was too busy comparing her to you, even when he didn’t mean to, and felt disappointed every time she laughed because it sounded nothing like yours.
Then he saw you tonight. Of course, he had to see you tonight. And out of everything you could have been doing, you were dancing. Having fun, enjoying yourself. He favored you like that, when you were carefree. You were nothing like the girl he thought he’d met in lecture.
And when he heard your laugh—more remarkable than all the others, like he’d strangely gone deaf to anything and anyone but you—he couldn’t remember why he was trying so hard to stay away from you.
Now you were here, seated across the booth from him, cheeks stuffed with pancakes, and he had no idea what he was supposed to do next. He had spent the entire walk here wrangling with himself, scared that if he had you, even in the most innocent of ways, he wouldn’t be able to get enough.
Eren knew he shouldn’t be thinking like this because—fuck, what if you still didn’t want him in return?
He only lied about beer pong because he couldn’t outrightly confess to needing a drink before talking to you. He was so close to getting away with it, too. If you’d gone for another bite a second earlier, if he’d thought to take a sip of coffee to hide his face, maybe you wouldn’t have spotted the flushed bridge of his nose. So subtle, yet telling enough that you had to bite your inner lip to prevent a smile.
You held your fork before your face, inspecting the pancake as syrup dripped back onto the plate, purposefully flippant about it as you finally said to Eren, “It’s because I had a crush on you.”
“Huh?”
You plopped the pancake into your mouth, chewing so thoughtfully that it nearly killed Eren. After you swallowed, you said, “I had a crush on you. That’s why I was so quiet.”
He didn’t say another word, even with you staring him square in the face, expectant. It obviously flustered him. You laughed softly, just through your nose, then said, “That, and you always got better grades than me. I didn’t want you to think I was dumb.”
Eren didn’t hear the second half of what you said; he was still fixed on the first. “Do you still?”
You knew what he was asking, but you played obtuse. “Still what?”
“Have a crush on me.”
You mulled it over while you went for another bite, eyes on him like he already had the answer. He did. You both did. Still, you let the question hang heavy between you. You weren’t quite ready to lay your cards on the table just yet.
You tossed him a flick of a smile when you answered, “To be determined.”
He nodded once, lips folded in a similar sort of smile. “Got it.”
You were satisfied with that, but Eren wasn’t. He watched while you took another sip of coffee before reaching for another packet of sugar. Before you could dump it in, he shielded your mug with his hand.
“But you better figure out an answer before all that sugar kills you,” he said.
You swatted him away. “Yeah, it’ll definitely be the sugar that kills me and not the keg stand I started the night with.”
“You did a keg stand?”
He said it as if he didn’t believe you. You giggled, “Only because Hitch talked me into it.”
Eren laughed with you despite the shaking of his head. “See, what did I say? You surprise me.”
You had only hobbled a few feet out of the diner before your heels started hurting again. You sucked your teeth in pain, only made worse by another step. You had noted two fresh blisters on your heels when you slid your shoes back on, but you hoped they wouldn’t be a hassle since the walk to Eren’s was short. Now, all you wanted was to still be drunk enough to feel numb.
“Everything okay back there?” Eren asked.
You were behind him again, but not because of his pace.
“Yeah,” you said. Eren thought it unconvincing, and you confirmed his hunch when he noticed you stumbling in the corner of his eye. “It’s my shoes. I’m sorry.”
He stopped walking and turned to you. “Why are you apologizing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just take ‘em off.”
“I’m not just going to walk barefoot.”
“Didn’t say you had to.”
You didn’t seem to understand what he was implying, even less so when he gave you his back and bent slightly at the knee.
He could not be serious right now.
“My house is just a few more blocks away. I’ll carry you.”
Okay. He was actually serious. Eren was about to give you a piggyback ride.
You didn’t intend to laugh, but it was only because this situation was so ridiculous—and partly because of your own anxiety, fizzling at the thought alone.
Eren took it differently, shooting you a comically offended look when he said, “What? You think I can’t carry you?” He straightened tall, shoved his hands into his pockets, and began walking away. “Fine. Suit yourself.”
“Wait!”
You wanted to blame it on your feet or say you didn’t want to slow him down, but you had to be honest with yourself: were you really going to pass up this opportunity?
Eren flashed you a smile over his shoulder. “That’s what I thought.”
You ignored his boasting and began removing your shoes. He took them from you with one hand, then let you hop onto his back. His body didn’t give like you expected, and his arms were sturdy as they looped around your thighs.
You hadn’t had a piggyback ride since you were probably eleven years old, but you could say with certainty that you didn’t remember it feeling like this. Eren’s neck was warm against your arms in the crisp night air. His hands were even hotter; you thought they might sear into the backs of your thighs.
Eren jostled you forward, higher onto his back. He warned, “Hold on tighter, or else you’re gonna fall off.”
You hugged him, your chest pressing into his back. You’d never been this close to him before. His hair, only loosely tied back now, brushed against your face. His cologne was faint—warm like amber, but there was something refreshing that tickled your nose. You drew closer to him, inhaling the scent.
Eren worried you felt the roll of his throat when your breath broke over the nape of his neck. How embarrassing that something as childish as a piggyback ride could send his heart racing. Suddenly, he was back in junior high, and it was his first time holding a girl’s hand.
If this was all he’d have of you tonight, he’d be happy. Delighted. Even if it meant he’d end up waking up with a sore back. He wanted to earn back your crush, even if he wasn’t so sure it ever truly went away.
Eren set you down on his porch and fished for his keys in his back pocket. Once inside, the house was blackout dark. You stilled in the entryway, entirely unaware of your surroundings but listening as Eren walked ahead.
Not a second later, Eren flipped on a light from the other room. It was bright enough to hurt your eyes at first, but at least you could see the floor now.
Eren stood in the doorway to the kitchen. He wore a look of trepidation, staring at you like you were some scared little puppy he’d rescued.
“Can I get you some water?” he asked.
“Sure. Thank you.”
Eren gestured toward the sofa and offered a clunky, “Make yourself at home,” before disappearing around the corner.
You’d hardly made yourself comfortable (if that was even possible in this situation) before he returned. You didn’t even realize how rigid your joints were until you had to uncross your arms and reach for the water bottle Eren handed you.
You wouldn’t call the feeling anxiety. It was more like anticipation. The ‘will they or won’t they?’ moment of the night.
Eren sat on the opposite side of the old couch, and it squeaked beneath his weight. “I imagine you wouldn’t want to sleep on the couch in a house full of guys,” he said as he settled into the cushions. “Take my room, if you want. I’m fine sleeping out here.”
You nearly choked on your water. “I’m not going to take your bed.” You couldn’t, possibly. You didn’t think you’d even seen his room before. “You didn’t even need to go through the trouble of letting me stay the night.”
“Out of all my troubles,” Eren said with a certain warmth to his face, discernible in the lowest of lights, “you staying the night is the least of them.”
You smiled at him.
You smiled at him, and you had not the slightest inclination how deeply it tugged at his heart. The smile was shy, no greater than a curl of the corners of your mouth, yet Eren desired nothing more than to memorize the shape of it underneath his lips.
“Okay,” you finally agreed. You could have ended it there, and you probably should have, but his unreadable gaze had you skittish and rambly. “But, really, if it’s too much—if you want me to go, I can call a—”
“I don’t want you to go.”
You stammered, pretending you had something, anything, to say. Something changed, but you couldn’t say what. There was a shift in energy, a new glint to his eyes—in the look he was giving you.
Maybe it would be more accurate to say that everything had changed.
There wasn’t much air in your voice when you said, “I don’t want to go, either.”
Your admission was barely a whisper. So delicate and saccharine that Eren wasn’t even sure you intended to say it aloud. Your eyes went big and genuine, as if you had revealed some secret you’d been holding onto for who knew how long.
He had the same look on his face, like he barely clung onto what little composure you hadn’t stolen from him yet. You liked seeing him like that—such an unguarded expression on a face that was normally hardened. Eyes soft and electric, all at once. You never thought he’d look at you in such a way, and you didn’t want it to end.
Now or never.
“Eren?”
“Yeah?” His voice sounded just as taken as yours.
Eren knew you as anything but bold, but right then, you were incredibly so. Purring your words when you asked him, “Why are you always so nice to me?”
The distant light from the kitchen cast shadows along the angles of his jaw, highlighting how it tensed. “Am I?”
You nodded. Slowly.
“How so?”
“You know,” you said knowingly. You stretched your leg across the couch, languid, inching closer to him until you had it draped over his lap as if you’d done it a million times before. “You walk me home when I’m drunk. Carry me when my feet hurt.” You nudged your foot beneath his hand, encouraging him to place it atop your leg. “You let me spend the night and even offer me your bed.”
You felt oh so courageous now, but you knew you’d regret the shenanigans the next time you saw Eren on campus. You could already see the smug smile he’d give you from across the hall or from the far side of the green—wherever you’d inevitably run into him next. You would turn into a puddle right on the spot.
But none of that mattered tonight. You heard him stifle the groan at the back of his throat as your foot grazed over the front of his pants, and you needed to hear it again.
“Not to mention,” you retracted your leg, sat back onto your calves, and leaned into him, giggling, “you tutored me in anatomy for an entire semester without complaining once.”
He looked from the hand you’d rested on his leg to your face. You were so close, knees bumping against the side of his thigh. He wanted to keep you there, he thought, as his hand cupped your cheek. You tried your best not to melt into him.
“I think I might have complained once,” Eren said with a smile in his voice. His thumb traced over your skin. “But I can’t help myself. You’re very cute when you’re drunk and when you’re proud after passing a quiz.” He unexpectedly grinned. “And when you hold your textbook too close to your face when you read.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Yes, you do.”
You pulled a face but didn’t argue any further. You couldn’t, not with how close you were to him now, the tips of your noses nearly brushing. He still held your face as he swiped his thumb along your bottom lip. You wetted them, wanting a taste.
Yes, you’d found yourselves here, but neither of you wanted to be the first to crumble the wall you’d spend an entire semester building together. One so tall that there were times you couldn’t see over it.
Eren caressed your face. You moved with him, tilting in until your forehead pressed against his, and you could feel his breath on your lips when you told him, “I think I still have a crush on you.”
“Yeah. I know.” He wasn’t his usual cocky self about it. He sounded soft; he was relieved.
Your hand traveled up his thigh, and you felt the muscles twitch as you went. He wondered if you had any idea what you were doing to him—how insane you’d driven him. You had to.
“So,” you said, long and drawn-out. Your hand palmed over the tent in his jeans. He was hard. Much harder than you’d expect from some harmless flirting. “Are you going to do something about it?”
“Fuck,” Eren muttered under his breath. “C’mere.”
His hand slipped into your hair, fingers curling around the back of your head to pull you to him. What you thought would be a crash of lips was much more affectionate. Instead of kissing you as if he believed he could make up for lost time, he kissed you like he knew he had all the time in the world with you, finally.
Eren’s lips were soft, every movement thoughtful as he coaxed apart your lips. His tongue was hot and licking against your own and made your head spin. You snatched a fistful of his shirt in some vain attempt at grounding yourself, but the longer he made out with you, taking his time with no destination in mind, the more helpless you became.
“Eren.”
It left you in a gasp. A moan he could swallow up before it met the air.
Either he didn’t hear you or he ignored it. He angled your head slightly, exposing your neck for him to explore. He kissed the corner of your mouth and down your jaw until you felt his lips at the hollow below your ear.
“Eren,” you repeated, louder this time, more needily, because he’d begun kissing at your pulse point.
“Hm?” he hummed, unbothered. Oblivious to how desperately turned on you were, how just his teeth skimming the delicate skin of your neck had your thighs clenching.
“That’s why you didn’t want me to leave, right?” you said between heavy breaths. You let your eyes flutter shut as you felt him suck just above your collarbone, where he’d surely leave a bruise.
You rubbed your hand where you could feel his cock straining beneath the zipper of his jeans. When his breathing faltered, you reached to undo the button.
“Because you’ve thought about this before,” you murmured. With his jeans opened, you snuck a hand below his boxers and wrapped your hand around his cock. “Because you were hoping this would happen.” You nuzzled your face into his neck, peppering kisses of your own, noting his quickening pulse as you began stroking him, base to tip. “Because you couldn’t help yourself.”
“Yes,” Eren groaned. He would have tried harder to hold it back, but his patience was already waning as he staved off his urge to rut into your hand.
“I’ve thought about it, too,” you confessed.
That broke him. Before you knew it—before he knew it—he had you pinned between him and the couch.
Your back hit the cushion with another whine from the springs, louder and more obnoxious than the one earlier. When Eren kissed you again, he was no longer taking his time. Because you were right, he couldn’t help himself. Not around you, at least, and not after hearing you wanted him in the same ways he needed you.
It wasn’t long before the couch became too cramped for your liking, limbs slipping and spilling until you thought you might fall onto the floor. Only when your head dangling off the couch forced your lips to separate did you have a minute to catch your breath—or at least try to.
“You said,” you panted, collecting yourself. “You said I could sleep in your room. Maybe you could show it to me now…”
Eren felt hazy, brain short-circuiting for the obvious reason, but your implication was just heavy-handed enough for him to catch on.
“Yeah. Okay.”
He helped you upright, fumbling around one another, climbing the stairs in a clumsy hurry until you were tripping over your own feet because you couldn’t imagine keeping your hands off each other for even a second.
Behind his closed bedroom door, Eren’s hands became reckless as they pawed over your body, anywhere they could. You could feel the desperation, the firmness in his touch that made you weak in the knees and struggle to suppress your whispers. Each tiny sound encouraged him, riling him up further until he had you braced against the wall.
His forearms, planted on either side of you, kept you caged in place, but you would have stayed there for him more than willingly. Forever, if you could. His mouth on yours was commanding enough that he could take you with him wherever he pleased.
You hated yourself for getting more turned on at just the thought.
Taking him by his loose, unzipped jeans, you tugged him close and hooked a leg around his waist. His cock pressed between your legs, and you ground against him because if you didn’t, you swore you might explode. You were only human, after all.
And, God, Eren wanted to give you everything you wanted—everything he had. There was a part of him that wanted to make you wait, maybe even beg for him, but like you, he was also only human.
When he pulled back from your kiss, chest rising and falling with each labored breath, he could only tell you, “Bed.”
With a bobble of your head, you repeated, “Bed,” and separated.
Eren went to turn on his bedside lamp, and you figured it time to shed from your tight clothes. You didn’t think he’d be able to easily get you out of your top. After all, Hitch had to help you into it.
The lamp cast a low, almost orange glow, but it was enough to make you feel keenly aware of his gaze on you as you peeled off your shirt. It bunched as you snaked it over your head, its slinky fabric hugging your body and revealing your bra with a subtle bounce of your tits. Every part of it, of you, was so shamefully sexy. Eren couldn’t get enough.
As you went to take off your jeans, Eren neared you in a step. His hands closed over yours as if to tell you Let me do it. You watched silently as he opened the front of your jeans, his hands curving around your hips and shimmying the fitted denim down your legs. Once they fell and pooled at your ankles, you kicked them aside. All the while, Eren kissed down the crook of your neck, the spot he learned you liked, especially when he sucked there.
Freed from the constraints of your night-out clothes, you pushed back from him and let yourself collapse onto his bed. You sprawled out with a stretch of your back. It felt so wonderful to lie against the billowy comforter, to finally be off your feet. You nestled around, relaxing like you could have lulled off right then—almost.
The little sound you gave, a sweet moan of relief you didn’t even realize you’d let slip, made Eren’s cock twitch before he could even touch you. The sight of you, ready and beneath him, had him overwhelmed, to say the least. He didn’t know where to look—he didn’t even know where to start.
His fingertips, though lightly calloused, felt exceedingly gentle as he trailed them along your bare skin. So softly that if you shut your eyes, you might not even know he was there. He started below the underwire of your bra, then down the length of your stomach. He tickled at your hipbone, and you squirmed so cutely beneath him.
How sensitive.
Eren wanted to say something witty, but the sight of you stirring below him had him spacey and quiet. Even the chuckle he gave was hardly audible, just a huff through his nose.
He only faltered when he reached the band of your underwear. In his fleeting lucidity, he blinked, hard, like it would clear away the fog. He stared down at you as if you’d given him a reason to be suspicious.
Before you could ask what was wrong, he spoke first. “How are you?”
You mirrored his suspicion, eyebrows knitting together. “I’m good. Um, how are you?”
His face scrunched, and you thought he was about to say Not good. It made you nervous. You perched on your elbows, interested, waiting for him. He ran his fingers through his hair, as he always did when he was trying really hard to concentrate.
“We’re a little past exchanging pleasantries, don’t you think?” you teased, mainly because you didn’t know what else you were supposed to say.
“No, that’s not what I meant.” Eren brought his hand to his head as if he could capture his thoughts before they slipped away. “Like, I mean—” Coherency was out of reach, especially with you laid out in front of him, head tilted with curiosity, staring up at him through pretty, heavy lashes. Had they always been that long?
Finally, he blurted out, “Are you still drunk?”
Oh.
You let out the breath of air you were holding. Thinking over your answer, you took an inventory of every feeling in your body, every fiber of your being only wanting him.
“Not really,” you said with a shrug. “Those pancakes were a real lifesaver.”
Eren still looked hesitant. You took his hand in yours and gave a small squeeze, smiling up at him. “I want this. Like, really, really want this.”
That softened him up, and he gave a short laugh. With your assurance, his fingers began their work again, pulling lightly at your underwear. As he played with the fabric, his once-boyish expression turned more brazen as he asked, “Then is it okay if I touch you here?”
His voice was gruff, the timbre of it still ringing in your ears even after he stopped talking.
“Yes,” you murmured, eyes fixed on him, on his fingers. They pushed past your panties despite your hope that he’d take them off entirely.
That single, breathy word gave Eren the go-ahead to crawl over you. He planted one hand into the mattress to hold himself up, the other traced the crease of your thigh teasingly—but it was more like he was teasing himself. You were still propped on your elbows, close enough to Eren that with a tilt of your head, you were kissing him again.
He glided his fingers between you, tracing your entrance but not dipping any further.
“You’re so wet,” he groaned, still playing with you. He’d circle your clit, just until your jaw went slack, then he’d let up. “All for me?”
“Mhm.” You exhaled indulgently when his fingers returned to rubbing your clit. When you lifted your hips, his circles became tighter, quicker, giving you exactly what you needed. You let go then, allowing your wobbly elbows to give out. Eren chased after you, nipping down your neck and leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat.
Eren, Eren, Eren. Thoughts of him, only him consumed you. Consumed by how good he made you feel and every place you wanted him.
And when you cried, “Ah—all for you,” you certainly weren’t thinking about how desperate you sounded for a guy who’d been nothing more than your lab partner until a couple of hours ago.
That made him snap. In one impulsive motion, Eren stood and hooked his fingers around your underwear, tearing them off with ease. Once they were out of his way and lost amongst your other garments, his hand was rightfully back between your legs.
He pumped his middle finger inside you first, curling it just right and putting an arch in your back. You thought he’d be arrogant about it, how he already had you (quite literally) bending to his will, but he was way past that. He was wholly lost in you, every bit of you. Your tiny gasps spilling from your kiss-swollen lips, your bra and how its straps had limply fallen past your shoulder to expose the supple skin of your chest. How pretty your cunt looked taking his finger.
Eren’s pace ignited that delicious, familiar feeling within you. But just as quickly as it began burning in the lowest part of your stomach, you lost it just as fast.
With a frustrated sob, your eyes snapped open to see why he’d so rudely edged you like that.
Eren tore his shirt over his head and threw it aside—another article of clothing you’d have to sort through later. “I wanna go down on you.”
You felt his words hot at the back of your neck—either that, or it was the sight of his deceivingly toned stomach. Or it was the fact that his words didn’t waver as he spoke so freely to you. Whatever it was, you couldn’t decide before Eren started stripping off his jeans. And if you were still unsure why you’d clammed up, the sight of him hard in his boxers–large and threatening to undo you—was most certainly the reason.
You tried your best to look him in the face when you asked, “Don’t you think we should be fast? All of your roommates are home.”
That was the last thing Eren wanted. He wanted to have you, all to himself, for as long as you’d allow.
But that was easy for him to say now; his willpower had already started waning.
“They’re sleeping. Don’t worry about them.” Eren thumbed soothingly against your inner thigh. It made it difficult to say no to him. At least until he cracked a small, devilish smile. “I thought you said you were quiet.”
The daggers you shot him said enough. You had only started to bite back when Eren shut you up. He leaned over you, shrouded you in his warmth—even warmer was his mouth, his tongue, at your neck, running along the silky skin.
Eren sucked at the lobe of your ear, and the airy giggle you gave traveled right to his cock. He kissed your collarbone as he dragged down the cups of your bra. The feeling of his bedroom air against your perked nipples sent goosebumps scattering across your body. His hot tongue quelled the chill, and you rewarded him with a moan—even louder when he took your nipple into his mouth.
You were so, so sensitive. All for him, too. Eren craved to learn every nook on your body he could kiss and every sound you’d make in response. He wanted to discover every last part of you, especially the ones that would have you wrecked.
The kisses continued down your stomach, with him lowering to his knees on the carpet. Taking your legs, one in each hand, he pulled them back to make room to settle between. He placed your thighs on his shoulders and scooted you in close until your bottom half hung off the side of the bed.
Eren palmed over the tops of your thighs and let the flesh mold to his hands. He left kisses there, too, his lips so close to where you wanted him the most.
“Let me taste you.” His voice was a quiet plea. He pressed kiss against your inner thigh, then another, with his eyes fluttering shut like he wanted to savor you. “Please.”
You must have lost your voice somewhere in your throat. You could only nod a response, perhaps a bit too eagerly. Eren gleamed up at you. He clearly wanted to say something but was smart enough not to risk it this time.
He kissed you first, then gave a flat lap of his tongue against you, just a taste. He licked you slowly, and even that was enough to make you suck a breath in through your clenched teeth.
“Spread your legs wider for me.” You did as you were told and swore you felt him grin against you. “Good girl.”
You made a humiliating sound at that. One you didn’t expect, and Eren definitely didn’t expect either. It excited him, knowing how weak you were to his words. His voice. Him.
With you fully on display for him, Eren couldn’t resist burying his face into you. His tongue darted to your clit, each flick another pulse of electricity at the base of your spine.
You raised your hips to meet his mouth. His tongue remained steady, never letting up as he leaned into a rhythm he thought you might like—one that had you lacing your fingers in his hair.
With a little more time, angling and guiding his tongue to just the right spot, you began seeing white behind your eyelids.
“Eren—ah,” you frantically panted, “right there.”
He had his pointed tongue against your clip, licking in tandem with your rocking hips. When your thighs began shaking, he wrapped his arms around them and locked you into place. Even when you swore it was too much, you couldn’t slip away.
Eren continued having you feverishly, filling the bedroom with a mixture of your wispy cries and groans of his own. He was just as desperate for you to come as you felt, worshipping every squeak and squirm he could get from you.
“Eren, I—”
His eyes landed on yours. Not breaking his pace, he replaced his tongue with his thumb. “You want more?”
You swallowed hard and nodded.
“You want my fingers?” His thumb stilled. You mourned the loss only for him to dip his finger inside you.
“Oh, fuck,” you whined. “Yes.”
He used two fingers this time, collecting his spit and your slick before pumping them in and out of you. He leaned in, gave your clit a few kitten licks, and picked up right where he had left off.
You were getting close, so fucking close, and if time could allow for it, you would have stayed in that feeling forever, just shy of becoming entirely undone.
Admittedly, there were many times when you imagined Eren having his way with you, wondering what it’d be like for him to finger and fuck you. But never did you think he’d want you this way, let alone beg for it. And you couldn’t have possibly imagined how the sight would absolutely ruin you.
Eren’s face, flushed in a blossomy pink that spanned his nose and cheeks, shoved between your thighs, devouring you whole as he stretched you with his fingers. You were so wet; he was wet. Soaked, actually, in a mess you might have cared more about if you weren't about to come.
His green eyes, darkened like you’d never seen before, found yours. He moaned. He felt pathetic, unable to stop himself from shoving his boxers down his thighs. He took hold of himself, aching for the slightest bit of relief, because you were quite possibly the hottest thing he’d ever seen. He knew you’d look even better when you were coming on his tongue.
You whimpered when you saw him fisting his cock, nice and fast. He was so hard for you, and you weren’t shy about staring. You were too curious to see how he liked it, watching him fuck his fist with quick breaks to give extra attention to his tip. You thought about how he’d fuck you, how he’d like it then, and it pushed you over the edge.
Your cries came out choppy and strained until they cut out entirely. You sobbed silently, carelessly, rolling your hips over Eren’s tongue and helping his finger dip against that spot over and over again. You wanted to drag out the feeling for as long as you could. By the end, you were trembling, exhausted, and could no longer keep your eyes open.
Eren had to stop pumping himself, or else he would have come from that alone. He sat back on his calves, one of his hands stroking your thigh while his other gently rubbed your clit. His touch was no greater than a feather’s, just to ease you back down. You looked like you needed it, all wrecked, legs limply pulled apart, just like he hoped.
God. He annoyed himself for ever pretending he never wanted you, because you—you were a dream.
And the only thing that could wake him from such a dream was your voice.
“Eren?”
He loved it when you said his name.
You sat up to look at him properly. It felt like there were a ton of bricks on your chest. Eren appeared quite the opposite, entirely unfazed. He had his cheek smushed against your thigh, staring unabashedly at the finger he lazily pushed back inside you. You jolted, still sensitive, still spasming around his finger.
Eren felt mesmerized by the feeling of you sucking him in for more. He didn’t even look up when he replied, “Hm?”
You would have normally found the situation embarrassing, but you were still so touchy from your orgasm that the winding feeling in your stomach had already returned. Coiling tighter and tighter, it begged to snap again.
“I want you to fuck me.”
He loved hearing that even more.
If he were a dog, you’d imagined his ears would have perked up like you said the magic words.
“What was that?” Eren asked, more playfully than you expected. You didn’t like it, especially not when paired with his grin. “I couldn’t hear you. You were mumbling.”
“You heard me the first time.”
He ran his finger down your thigh. “Say it again.”
It tickled. You fussed, “Eren, come on—”
“No, I don’t think that was it. I think you said something else.”
“Just—” You sighed begrudgingly before giving in. “I want you to fuck me. Please fuck me, Eren.”
He positively beamed at you, proud of both you and himself. He reached for his boxers, still hanging mid-thigh, and removed them entirely.
“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”
Eren straightened out and didn’t give you the chance to respond before flipping you onto your stomach. You bounced against the mattress when you landed with loud, conspicuous squeaks accompanying you.
You felt Eren’s hand on your shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. His fingers skated lower, down to your bra before undoing the clasp. When you pushed onto your hands, you felt your bra dangle loosely around your arms.
Eren took you by your hips and raised you to your knees.
“You look so pretty like this,” he said as he stroked himself with one hand, giving a light smack to your ass with his other.
“Eren!” you yelped. “Roommates!”
“I thought I told you not to worry about them,” he said, punctuated with another spank.
You could still feel the print of his hand when you heard rustling behind you. You peered over your shoulder to see Eren tearing open a condom. He rolled it onto his cock, all the while, his eyes kept you, naked and with your ass in the air, pinned to the bed.
He flattened a hand against your lower back, then spread you with the tip of his cock aligned with your entrance.
Eren guided himself inside more slowly than he wanted to, listening to you whimper as you adjusted to his size. It was a bit of a stretch but easy enough for him to push inside, having already prepped you with his fingers and mouth, leaving you aching for him to fill you with more.
Once his pelvis was flush against you, he felt you flutter around him, squeezing his cock so perfectly he thought you must be made for him. A low groan bubbled in his throat, nearly a growl. The sound made your heart skip, right between your lungs, and you clenched to encourage another.
“You’re going to make me come if you keep doing that,” Eren said in a hiss of pleasure.
“Doing what?” you asked innocently. Then you did it again.
Despite the warning, Eren didn’t protest it. Instead, he started thrusting into you leisurely. He was self-indulgent about it, spreading you with his hands so he could admire how well you took his cock.
“God, you feel so fucking good,” he muttered, quiet enough that it was as if he were talking to himself. “So fucking good.”
“Eren.”
The whine in your voice drove him wild.
His hands, large and demanding, gripped your sides. The blunt ends of his nails dug into the fat of them as he pulled you back to meet every snap of his hips. The smacking sound of skin-on-skin bounced off the bedroom walls, but you didn’t complain this time. You only let your head drop between your shoulders, eyes screwing shut as you became lost in the throes of pleasure all over again.
You reached a hand back to grab ahold of him where you could. He didn’t stop fucking you to ask, “What is it?”
He folded over you, hand snaking up your neck and taking hold of your chin. He turned you to look at him, to see what you wanted. But you couldn’t form anything other than wimpy chants of ah, ah, ah, sounding mangled through your squished cheeks.
“Tell me how you want it.”
His words alone made you bite back a moan.
Finally, you managed to say, “Harder.”
Eren smiled, slack-jawed and toothy, and you would have found it irresistible, yet totally ill-fitting, if you’d have seen it. But how else was he supposed to react?
He placed a kiss at the base of your neck, then between your shoulders. It was unexpectedly doting, until you felt his hand curve around your front. Though you knew what was coming, you still squealed when he hoisted you upright with your back sealed against his chest.
Eren held you there, fucking up into you, harder, like you asked of him. Your flimsy bra flopped around your arms with each of his thrusts. He groped at your breast, taking your nipple between his fingers, rolling and pinching at it until you were mewling.
He continued taking you as if you’d always been his, and you let him have you. You let him use you like you only existed for his pleasure, with your head feeling heavy as it lolled back against him.
But you were so much more than that. Eren was determined to make you come again. This time, he wanted to feel it.
“Touch yourself,” Eren breathed, right into your ear. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. “I want to hear you when you come this time.”
Your hand slithered down between your legs. The very tips of your fingers bumped into Eren’s cock as you got yourself off. Legs quivering with the added pressure, you were practically vibrating when you came, your heart pounding in your ears. There was no double he heard you this time around.
It was a challenge to remain upright. You fell from Eren’s hold and landed forcefully on the bed, him toppling right along with you. You were still riding out the aftershocks of your orgasm as he fucked you deep into the mattress; it had your thighs squeezing together so nicely for him.
“I’m—ah, fuck—I’m close,” Eren grunted.
He surprised you by pulling out, but you realized it was only to roll you onto your back. He manhandled you like you weighed nothing, had your arms tossed above your head and pinned in place with a single hand around your wrists. He pushed back inside you, hard and fast, with a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead.
“I need to see you.”
Your stomach flipped at his words as if they were poetry. Fuck. He had you so irrevocably wrapped around his finger, you thought. And perhaps you were merely lovelorn and searching for something that wasn’t there, but you swore he appeared just as ensnared as you.
Your mouth sought out his in a sloppy kiss. It was suckling lips and colliding teeth, smothered grunts and groans as you ground against one another. But you didn’t care. You enjoyed every messy, frantic minute of it.
You wanted to touch him. Wriggling until he released his hold on your wrists, you took his face between your hands. His eyes were moony and heavy-lidded and had you swooning.
“Fuck, Eren—I want you to come,” you gasped.
Easy enough.
He came, hard. As perverted as it may sound, you wished you had a camera. You wanted to remember how his eyes snapped shut and to record every sound. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his hips stuttering, grinding as if he could reach any deeper.
Eren’s breath was hot against your already sweltering skin. It was hard to breathe, especially under his weight, but you wanted to stay there and hold him for a little while longer.
Neither of you spoke. You didn’t realize you’d been grazing your fingers up and down the back of his neck until he lifted off you. He let his gaze linger on your face, one last look, then nudged his nose against yours before getting up.
You laid still, only watching as Eren disposed of the condom. Your legs felt too soft and lazy to move, so you followed him with your eyes instead as he stepped into a pair of sweatpants.
“The invitation to stay the night still stands, right?” you asked. Admittedly, with some sass.
“No, I was actually going to call you an Uber home.” Eren rolled his eyes. “Of course it does. What kind of guy do you take me for?”
You giggled as you finally sat up. “Where’s your bathroom?”
“Down the hallway, last door on the right.” Eren took one look at you, then started digging around in his dresser. He tossed something at you, aiming it at your head by the looks of it. You snatched it just in time; it was one of his t-shirts. “You can wear that.”
You held it by the sleeves and gave it a once over. “Is that weird?”
“It wasn’t until you asked that.”
You pulled the tee over your head and adjusted it as you stood. Your underwear came next, but you felt more hesitant to put back on your jeans.
“They’re sleeping, I promise,” Eren assured as he put on a shirt of his own. “Just be quick.”
“Okay.” You left but poked your head back in to say. “I’m leaving the door cracked so I know which room is yours.”
He laughed. “All right.”
You followed his instructions, trying to be quick about it. You peed, washed your hands, and only stared at the fresh hickey on your collarbone for ten seconds before rushing back down the hallway.
Eren was in bed when he saw the door swing open. “Look at you, Ms. C Plus, not getting lost.”
You made a face at him. “Whatever, Brian.”
Right on cue, he complained, “It was one time.”
For whatever reason, you didn’t join him in bed right away. You felt a bit like a deer in headlights, blinking at Eren. He looked sleepy, his hair unkempt from your fingers. Seeing him like this, with you dressed in his shirt, about to curl up under his sheets—were you supposed to go along with this as if it were normal?
When you finally thought of something to say, Eren cut in first, “Don’t you dare try to take the couch after that.”
That was exactly what you were about to do.
He chuckled, knowing he was right by the stubborn purse of your lips. He lifted the blanket for you—once again, as if this were entirely normal for you to do—and said, “Get over here already. I’m getting cold.”
Eren was extremely difficult to say no to, but you knew that already. You crawled into his bed without contest and let him tuck the comforter over you.
Either his pillows were really soft, or you just felt that exhausted because your eyelids went immediately heavy. Eren reached over you to turn out the light, then let his arm fall on top of you. He hugged your waist and didn’t hesitate to pull you into him.
He nuzzled into the back of your neck, stealing a giggle from you. “Are you always this clingy after sex?”
Eren hummed an affirmative sound, tickling you again. He was most definitely never this clingy after sex. But there was no way he could keep his hands to himself, not with how good you looked in his shirt, barely long enough to cover anything. Maybe his tensions in lending you his shirt weren’t entirely pure—so sue him. You wearing his clothes was a sight he could get used to. One he had a feeling he’d get to see much more often.
Pairing: Leon Kennedy x afab!reader
Synopsis: After surviving the horrors of Raccoon City, Leon S. Kennedy is recruited by the U.S. government to begin training as a special agent. The program is brutal, relentless, built to break even the toughest. You're one of the elite agents assigned to oversee his development. He reports to you, follows your orders but he can’t seem to stop his interest towards you.
Words: 15.6k yikes
Tags: SMUT! Enemies to Lovers (*), Post-RE2/RE4 Leon Kennedy, Flirty Banter, Mutual Pining Power Dynamics, Canon-Typical Violence, Leon is cocky, Boss/Rookie
TW: MDNI! // Smut //Violence // PTSD // Explicit Language // Mention of Past Sexual Harassment // Power Imbalance
A/N: Leon my shayla!! *I don’t know if this is enemies to lovers as I don’t think its long enough to be considered enemies to lovers.
Your alarm screamed through the silence of your dorm room. Same sound. Same time. Three years running. You groaned into your pillow, not out of exhaustion, but out of habit. Discipline was second nature now, groaning was a luxury you allowed yourself for three seconds every morning. No more.
You slammed the snooze button, sat up, and swung your legs over the edge of the bed. The cold floor bit at your feet, grounding you instantly. You stood and moved through your routine like clockwork: a cold shower, a strong coffee, a perfectly ironed uniform buttoned up to regulation.
As you adjusted your collar in the mirror, your mind was already sprinting through the day’s agenda: training schedules, equipment checks, psychological evaluations, field simulations. Another day sharpening steel into something sharper.
After the Raccoon City incident, nothing was the same. Not for the world and definitely not for you.
The memory of that day burned clear: the president himself showing up at your old apartment, flanked by security and gravity. You'd been a sharp FBI agent then, too sharp for your own good, some had said. Your performance record was flawless, your instincts lethal, your conscience still intact.
You remembered your hands shaking slightly as he spoke. He called it an honour. Called you necessary. You didn’t say yes for the honour. You said yes because you knew what it meant if you didn’t. That was nearly three years ago but feels like thirty. The person in the mirror now barely resembled the one who’d answered the door that day. That woman was curious, eager. You were measured. Hardened. Purpose-built.
You didn’t smile anymore unless the outcome required it. You followed the manual like it was scripture. Emotions were distractions. Attachments were liabilities. You didn’t have time for either.
You’d been entrusted with leading the training and development of America’s elite special agents, people chosen to face horrors most couldn’t imagine. Your directives were simple: create agents who wouldn’t crack under pressure. Who wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Who wouldn’t fail.
You had made a promise, to the president, to the country, and to yourself. You would do everything in your power to end the virus. No matter the cost.
You let out a quiet sigh, taking a final look at your reflection in the mirror before stepping out of your private dorm. Life at the training facility never allowed for a true switch-off. The constant hum of responsibility, the weight of every task, was always with you.
As you entered the offices of the department heads, you greeted each one with the same polite words, each delivered with a calm professionalism that had become second nature. There was no room for a smile; your face remained neutral, but your tone never wavered in its sincerity. You couldn’t help but remember your first day in these offices—how every pair of eyes, all male, had turned to scrutinize your every move. Their stares had dissected you, sizing up your appearance, your every step, questioning your place among them. It had been intimidating, to say the least. But you didn’t let it break you. You used their sexist remarks, their condescending looks, as fuel to push yourself even further. Every glance, every whisper, only served to sharpen your resolve.
Finally, you made your way to your office, flicking on the computer and preparing to dive into the mountain of administrative work that awaited you. As soon as you settled into your chair, your administrative assistant walked in, a stack of folders in one hand, a steaming cup of coffee in the other.
“Morning, Agent,” he greeted as he placed the stack of paperwork down carefully, ensuring it didn’t topple over. You raised an eyebrow, casting a glance from the papers to him, your gaze silently asking the question.
“New recruits,” he answered with a small shrug.
You nodded, murmuring a quiet thanks as he left. You’d expected them, recruits arriving in droves after the chaos of Raccoon City. The demand for new agents had surged dramatically, and it was your responsibility to assess each one, to determine where they stood in their training. The urgency of the situation left no room for selectivity. The FBI needed bodies, and they needed them fast. Now that the recruits had arrived, it was just a matter of calling their commanders to bring them in.
With a quiet resolve, you cracked open the first folder.
Three hours slipped by in a blur. Your hand ached from the constant writing, each recruit's profile filling with your meticulous notes. Your jacket was long gone, the top button of your shirt undone as the fatigue of the day slowly began to take its toll. Yet, your movements remained as precise as ever, your face impassive, no hint of the exhaustion you felt inside. There was no room for weakness. You pressed on, repeating the mantra in your mind: your duty was to create agents who would protect this country. You couldn’t afford to falter.
After sending the latest recruit on their way, you stamped their folder, marking the interview complete. The stack of folders was finally beginning to dwindle, and you were almost at the end. Reaching for the next one, you immediately noticed the difference, it felt heavier than the others. A sense of curiosity stirred as you opened it to reveal the recruit's file, complete with a photograph. Your stomach tightened as the name registered: Leon S. Kennedy. The same name that had appeared in the Raccoon City report.
Without hesitation, you picked up the office telephone, dialling the number for the recruit’s sergeant.
“Hello, Sergeant,” you said, your voice cool and controlled. “Please send Leon Kennedy to me.”
As you typed an email on your computer, the sound of two knocks at your door broke your concentration. You quickly snapped your eyes away from the screen, closed your tab, and straightened in your chair.
“Come in,” you called, raising your voice slightly so the person on the other side could hear.
The door creaked open, and there he was. You couldn’t help but feel a momentary surprise at his appearance. Leon Kennedy stood taller than you’d anticipated. His face, youthful yet marked by a certain weight, held a boyish charm, and curiosity gleamed in his blue eyes. But there was something different about them in person. A cloudiness, a heaviness you hadn’t seen in his file photo. You could tell he’d seen things, things that had left their mark on him during the nightmare that was Raccoon City.
You didn’t rise from your chair as he entered.
“Special Agent _____?” His voice was calm, yet there was an edge to it, like he was sizing you up.
“Yes,” you confirmed, meeting his gaze. “Mr. Kennedy.”
“Just call me Leon,” he replied with a smile that barely reached his eyes.
“Please, have a seat, Mr. Kennedy,” you said, your voice firm and unwavering.
He sat across from you, now at eye level, glancing down at his file on your desk. You instinctively closed it. You hadn’t done that with the other recruits, but something about his presence made you want to keep a layer of distance.
You spoke with precision. “I called you in today to discuss your experience with special forces and training.”
Just as you were about to continue, Leon interrupted. “Yeah, the guys in my dorm... they said you were pretty scary.” He added the last part with a casual smile, as if it were no big deal. His comment threw you off balance for a split second.
“Is that an insult, Mr. Kennedy?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, your voice suddenly sharper than before.
Leon realized his mistake and immediately scrambled to recover. He waved his hand dismissively. “No, no, not at all. I didn’t mean it like that.”
You studied him, still taken aback. No other recruit had dared speak so casually with you. His words hung in the air, and you found yourself fighting the odd feeling creeping up your chest.
“You don’t seem scary at all,” he said matter-of-factly. His eyes flickered across your face taking in your appearance.
The simple remark stirred something inside you. An unexpected pang. You mentally willed your heart to quiet down. That wasn’t a reaction you could afford. You straightened in your chair, forcing your voice to take on a more serious tone.
“Mr. Kennedy,” you began, your words deliberate, “you should know by now that you were recruited because of your extraordinary actions during Raccoon City. But you’ll soon find out, I run a very tight ship here. I do not make exceptions for those with more experience. You’re here to protect your fellow citizens, and that’s your primary duty.”
Leon’s expression shifted, the playful smirk fading as he became more serious. He nodded at your words, acknowledging the weight of what you said.
“I understand, Agent ____,” he replied, his tone now more respectful, more focused.
“The training will not be easy,” you continued, leaning forward slightly. “The hours will be long, and the expectations relentless. It will push you further than you’ve ever been pushed before.”
Leon leaned back in his chair, that cocky grin of his making an appearance once more, but there was something behind it, something deeper, a hint of vulnerability he was trying hard to cover up. His eyes, still slightly clouded, met yours with a sharpness.
“So, tight ship, huh?” he said with a half-smirk. “Guess I better start brushing up on my manners, then.”
You didn’t return the smile. “This isn’t a game, Kennedy,” you said, your voice cold, steady. “The lives of your team, your country, depend on your ability to be sharp and disciplined. Any distractions, and you’ll be out before you even have a chance to blink.”
Leon’s smirk faltered for just a moment, but it came back quickly, as if he was trying to push his emotions down with humour. “Guess I’ll have to leave the charm at the door, then,” he said, leaning forward slightly as if trying to gauge your reaction. “But, I’ll admit, you do have a strong presence, Agent. Must be tough running the show around here.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly, lips pressed into a thin line as you locked your gaze with his. You weren’t about to let him throw you off balance.
“Focus on the training, Mr. Kennedy. If you think the work here is hard, just wait until the field operations. You won’t be able to joke your way out of those.”
He chuckled, the sound a little hollow. “Yeah, I’ve been through worse than I can joke about,” he replied, his expression softening just a fraction. “You ever been in a city overrun by zombies? Or maybe watched everything you thought you knew fall apart in front of you?”
The words hung in the air, his usual lightness now replaced with something raw. You could see the shadow of Raccoon City in his eyes, the trauma of that place that he tried so hard to hide behind his confident, almost flirtatious demeanour.
You shifted slightly in your seat, an almost imperceptible shift, as the reality of his words hit you. For a moment, the harshness of the walls you had built cracked open, and you felt the sharp pang of shared experience. It wasn’t the same, but you knew exactly what it felt like to lose control, to watch everything you worked for slip through your fingers.
“I’ve been through my share of hell,” you said, your voice quieter now. “But this isn’t about sharing war stories. This is about making sure you’re ready for the next battle.”
Leon’s gaze softened, and for just a second, he wasn’t the cocky agent standing in front of you. Instead, he looked like a man who had been through something that had scarred him more deeply than any of the physical wounds he might have gotten along the way. His voice was softer now, a little more serious.
“Don’t we all carry scars, Agent?” he said, the words carrying an unspoken weight between you. “Some of us just hide ‘em better than others.”
You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you focused on steadying your breathing, refusing to let his words get to you.
“Well, you’d better make sure your scars don’t get in the way of your training,” you finally said, your tone slipping back into its usual firmness. “I’m not here to coddle you. If anything, this training will break you down and build you back up into someone who can take a bullet, both literally and figuratively.”
Leon sat back in his chair again, that familiar grin creeping back to his lips, though it was less confident now, more resigned, like he didn’t know what to do with the sudden shift in energy between you.
“Break me down, huh?” he said with a half laugh. “Guess I’ll just have to trust you to fix me then.”
You didn’t smile. But your eyes lingered on him a little longer than usual. His words, the layers of defense he was trying to put up, the cocky mask he wore to hide the bruises of Raccoon City - it all felt so familiar.
You’d been where he was, once. A fresh recruit, a little too eager, a little too scared to let anyone in. Maybe, you saw something in him that reminded you of yourself. The drive. The pain. The desire to be more than the trauma that had shaped you.
“Trust is earned, Kennedy,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “And you’ll have to work harder than you think to prove you’re ready for this.”
Leon met your gaze, the smile he wore now a little more genuine, but still carrying that playful edge. “Oh, I’m ready,” he said, his cocky charm making a full return. “But I don’t exactly take orders without asking a few questions.”
You leaned forward, your expression hardening as you matched his gaze. “Keep questioning everything, and you’ll find yourself out of your depth, Kennedy. You don’t get to pick and choose when you follow orders, especially if you want to stay alive.”
He didn’t back down, though. His eyes were locked on you, an almost defiant glint in them. “Survival’s my specialty.”
For a moment, you both just sat there, the air between you thick with tension. Tension that wasn’t just about training, but something else. Something unspoken, yet undeniable.
You cleared your throat, standing up abruptly. As you did, you moved towards the door, holding it open for him with a firm, purposeful gesture. “We’ll see how well you handle your first field simulation. Report here tomorrow at 0600. We’ll start putting that specialty to the test.”
Leon stood up with a fluid grace, raising past your height as he rose, but instead of moving toward the door, he lingered for a moment, standing just a little too close. His eyes met yours once more, his gaze softening but still carrying that faint, playful smirk. For a brief moment, neither of you spoke, the tension thick in the air.
“You’re not gonna make it easy on me, are you?” he said, his voice lower now, a trace of challenge in his tone.
You didn’t step back, standing your ground. “You’ll find out tomorrow, won’t you?”
He chuckled quietly, his smirk still there, though there was something more contemplative behind it now. He finally turned to leave, but as he passed you, he paused just long enough to stand beside you, towering slightly over you. “See you tomorrow, Agent,” he said, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “Don’t be too hard on me.”
With that, he exited, the door clicking softly behind him. You exhaled, the air around you finally seeming to loosen as the weight of the encounter hung in the room long after he was gone. You sighed into your chair before grabbing your phone to call the next recruit in.
A couple of weeks had passed since your first encounter with Leon Kennedy, and in that time, you had been training him and his recruitment group. As expected, Leon was placed into the highest and most intense training unit. You had known that someone with his experience from Raccoon City would need the most advanced level of preparation. What you hadn’t anticipated, however, was how quickly he would excel.
In the field and during drills, he moved with a cool confidence that you couldn’t deny. Time and again, he finished in first place, effortlessly outperforming the others. You would glance down at your clipboard at the end of each session, noting his name at the top of the list once again. It was impressive, there was no denying that. But you never gave him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Every time you raised the bar, every time you added more complications to the training, he sailed through without breaking a sweat.
He never seemed to show stress or falter. While the other recruits grew fatigued and stumbled, Leon maintained an almost unnerving calm. His performance was flawless. It was like he was built for this.
During these sessions, when he finished ahead of the others, you’d often catch him staring at you. You’d be jotting down notes, checking your stopwatch, or watching the recruits carefully when you’d feel the weight of his gaze on you. The others, when they realized you’d caught them staring, would immediately look away, nervous and fidgeting, not meeting your eyes again. But not Leon. No, he just stared back. His intense blue eyes locking onto yours without hesitation, his breath ragged from the exertion.
There was something about the way he looked at you. It wasn’t just the exhaustion of a tough session. It felt deliberate, like he was trying to get under your skin, testing you. You’d hold the gaze for a moment, your heart rate picking up, before you’d break it, pretending to check on the other recruits or jotting something down on your clipboard.
Each time, you’d feel the faintest ripple of something you couldn’t quite place. Leon, of course, would smirk. A quiet laugh often followed, like he had won a small victory. The sound of it was always just enough to send a wave of irritation through you. It was maddening how easy it seemed for him to get a rise out of you without even trying.
It happened more than once that Leon would walk towards you after finishing a drill. You would spot him from the corner of your eye, his movements purposeful. You could feel the pressure building in your chest, your grip on your pen tightening. Every time, you immediately shut him down, avoiding him completely. You’d walk away, your steps deliberate or pretend to be engrossed in something else. Anything to avoid having to engage with him.
Sometimes, before he even reached you, you’d already be walking off, acting busy, and making it clear you had no intention of answering him. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to acknowledge him, it was that you couldn’t afford to. Not with someone like him. Someone who knew exactly what buttons to push to get you to crack.
But Leon didn’t let it go so easily. Each time you’d walk away or pretend not to notice him, he’d step closer, a smirk still playing on his lips. You’d hear his voice just behind you, low and teasing. “You sure you don’t wanna talk? Or are you just too busy pretending I’m not here?” He once said to you.
Leon, of course, didn’t seem bothered by your resistance. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the game more each time, his smirk widening as if he’d already won. The push and pull of it all was starting to get under your skin, and you hated it.
Today’s drill was something a bit more different. You stood in front of the group of recruits, clipboard in hand, the morning sun cutting through the windows and casting a sharp light over the training room. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and anticipation, just the way it should be before a tough exercise.
"Listen up," you said, your voice cutting through the low murmurs of the group. "Today’s drill is going to be one of the most critical exercises you'll face. It simulates a real-life scenario: Protect the Client."
You paused, making sure their attention was on you. Every recruit’s gaze was locked on you now, and you could see the curiosity mixed with the faintest hint of unease. Most of them knew you weren’t just a trainer, you had been in the field, had seen the kinds of threats they were training for. You walked down the line of the recruits.
"I’m going to be your ‘protectee’ today," you continued, your tone steady, not allowing any room for doubt. "Your mission is simple: Keep me safe while hostile elements, those trying to harm or assassinate me, try to breach your perimeter. You’ll have to use the full scope of your training to ensure my safety. Follow the protocols, stay close, and be prepared to make decisions in real-time. If you don’t think quickly, I’ll be in danger, and failure in this scenario means my life. No pressure, right?"
A couple of the recruits exchanged nervous glances, but they held their silence. You could see Leon standing off to the side, his usual cocky demeanour softened, but that didn’t stop his eyes from narrowing with concentration.
"Now," you said, meeting each of their gazes. "Your objective is to protect me at all costs. I’ll be moving through the course, and you’ll need to escort me from point A to point B. Along the way, hostile elements, simulated by your fellow recruits, will attempt to ‘assassinate’ or capture me. You’ll need to stay in close formation with me, ensuring that I’m always under your protection. If any of you let me out of your sight for too long or fail to respond to the threat, it’s game over."
You motioned for the recruits to fall in line as you took your position at the centre of the room. The room was dimly lit, designed to simulate an urban safe house environment. Concrete walls, scattered furniture, and concealed corners created a hostile setting. Tactical drones hovered overhead, simulating gunfire and movement in the shadows, making the air thick with tension. This wasn’t just a training ground, it was meant to feel as real as possible. The recruits were about to face something they’d hopefully never have to in the field.
"You'll each take turns protecting me," you continued, your voice crisp. "I’ll be moving through this environment, and your objective is to keep me alive. You’ll have your weapons and equipment, but remember, this is about ensuring my safety. If you lose sight of me, or fail to keep me out of harm’s way, the mission is a failure. Understand?"
The recruits nodded, eager to show what they were capable of. You glanced at Leon briefly. His usual cocky grin was absent today, replaced by the quiet intensity you had come to expect from him. His eyes flicked between you and the surroundings, already assessing the challenge.
You clicked your stopwatch. "Begin with the first recruit."
The first recruit stepped forward, eager but nervous. He moved too quickly, and within seconds, you found yourself exposed to the simulated threat—a drone shot fired from an unseen corner. The recruit hesitated, then took cover, but his lapse in judgment had already put you at risk.
"Watch your corners!" you called out, a hint of frustration in your tone. "You’re supposed to protect the target, not rush headfirst into danger. Keep me in your line of sight at all times!"
The recruit gave a quick nod, but you could see the sweat already forming on his brow. He tried to adjust, but his movements were erratic. His focus wasn’t on you,he was distracted by the environment around him. A few more simulated shots rang out, and soon enough, the exercise was over for him. He had failed to keep you safe.
“Next,” you said sharply.
By the time it was Leon's turn, most of the recruits had faltered, failing to keep up with the speed and intensity of the exercise. They were too focused on themselves, too distracted by the pressure of the drill.
Leon, however, was different. He slid his weapons into his belt with casual ease, his gaze flicking to you as he smirked. "You know, if you wanted to get me alone, you could’ve just asked," he said, his voice low and teasing.
You didn’t even spare him a glance. Your gaze remained steady, focused, unshaken.
“You better pass this, Kennedy,” you whispered, your tone sharp, a hint of challenge underneath the words.
Leon chuckled, his smirk widening but not giving in to the playful tension. "I’m not here to disappoint," he replied, adjusting his stance as he scanned the area, ready to move. His eyes lingered on you, but you felt no shift in your own attitude, just a quiet, insistent distance.
He followed closely behind you as you entered the course, the room eerily quiet except for the sound of your footsteps and the distant hum of the tactical drones overhead. The first wave of simulated threats began almost immediately, shots rang out, and you instinctively moved forward. But Leon was already there, his hand on your arm, gently but firmly guiding you behind him.
"Get behind me," he said, his voice calm but commanding. "Stay close. I won’t let you out of my sight."
You stepped back, positioning yourself directly behind him. There was something about the way he moved, the fluidity in his motions that set him apart. His movements were sharp, deliberate, but there was also a subtle kind of protection that emanated from him.
As you moved further into the simulation, more shots rang out, and you could feel the air grow thick with tension. The recruits’ mistakes were becoming more apparent—some didn’t check their corners, others faltered, losing focus. You were vulnerable, but Leon kept you shielded.
"Stay low," he murmured, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the noise. He adjusted his position, turning slightly to keep you behind him. "We need to move fast, but we can’t rush it. I’ll cover you."
You felt the subtle shift in his demeanour. He wasn’t joking now. He wasn’t the cocky rookie from before. This was Leon; focused, sharp, and completely committed to getting you through this drill unscathed.
The tension in the air was palpable as you continued to move through the course. A simulated sniper shot sounded from above, and without a second thought, Leon dropped to a knee, pulling you into cover with him. He shielded your body with his own, his back pressed against the wall as he checked the surroundings.
"You're fine," he whispered, eyes scanning the area. "I’ve got you."
His proximity, the warmth of his body so close to yours, sent a ripple of something through you, but you focused on the task at hand, ignoring the feelings that stirred just beneath the surface.
You pushed him back slightly, your discomfort palpable, the proximity doing little but adding to your frustration. "I’m fine," you said firmly, pulling away, your gaze hardening.
Leon didn’t push back. Instead, he stayed crouched, his eyes scanning the area, unflustered. "Move when I say," he continued, his hand steadying you as you prepared to go. "You stick close, you hear me? Don’t wander off, not now."
Your body tensed as his words lingered, the subtle shift in his demeanour irritating you more than you cared to admit. The unspoken tension between you both was palpable, his determination clashing with your need for space, your independence.
The course grew increasingly chaotic as you moved deeper into the simulation. The air was thick with tension, every corner hiding a potential threat. The sounds of gunfire and the buzz of tactical drones overhead blurred together in a steady, unnerving hum.
The recruits faltered, their nerves getting the better of them. Some hesitated, some reacted too slowly. One recruit froze when a simulated gunman appeared from the shadows, giving the enemy an easy shot. Another failed to check a corner properly, nearly walking into an ambush. With every failure, the clock on your safety ticked closer to zero, and your frustration grew.
But Leon? He was different. His movements were fluid, precise, he was a shadow in the chaos. Every time the air cracked with simulated gunfire, Leon was there, his presence a shield. His body seemed to sync with yours as if he’d already anticipated your next move, already planned your escape. His eyes were locked on you, unwavering, every step he took in perfect rhythm with yours.
As you rounded a corner, the sound of a sniper shot echoed from above. It was louder and closer this time.
You didn’t even have time to react before Leon was there. He yanked you into cover behind a stack of concrete blocks, his body pressing against yours in a way that was sharp, deliberate. He didn’t wait for you to protest; he just moved. Shielding you. Protecting you.
The world outside the cover was chaos, but in that moment, Leon was the calm in the storm. His voice was low but unshakeable.
"Stay down, stay quiet," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear.
You glanced up, meeting his gaze for a brief, fleeting second. There was no hint of cockiness in his eyes now, no playful smirk. Just focus, raw and unrelenting. He wasn’t the same Leon who teased you earlier. This was someone entirely different, someone fully committed to seeing you through the end of this drill, no matter the cost.
A new wave of hostile targets appeared in your path, but Leon was already positioning himself between you and the threat, his hands steady as he assessed the situation. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t second guess. His movements were calculated, precise, as he took out one simulated threat after another. The way he moved, so effortlessly between gunfire, his body shielding yours with unwavering certainty, it was almost like he knew exactly where each danger would come from before it even appeared.
"Ready?" he whispered.
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. His proximity, the way his body seemed to shield you at every turn, it was like you were tethered to him, whether you liked it or not. The frustration was still there, a new rookie pushing your buttons.
With a swift motion, Leon led you forward, pushing through tight spaces, navigating corners that the other recruits had floundered at. He didn’t let you wander; didn’t let you fall behind. Every time you moved, he was right there, a steadying force, guiding you through the maze.
The final stretch of the course was ahead, one last obstacle. A simulated ambush. As you rounded the last corner, a wave of attackers emerged from every angle. The course seemed to explode into chaos, gunfire blaring from all sides. You froze, heart racing as you took in the onslaught.
Without missing a beat, Leon pushed you behind a nearby pillar, his body once again shielding yours. He didn’t even flinch as the simulated bullets whizzed past.
"Now," he said, his voice steady, unwavering, as if he were simply waiting for the right moment. "We push through. Stay behind me, and we’re almost out."
You didn’t argue. You didn’t pull away. You just followed.
Leon moved like lightning. He was a blur of motion, blocking and deflecting attacks as you sprinted through the chaos. Every move was calculated, every shot he fired, every piece of cover he took, it was perfect. He was a machine. And for the first time, you realized just how seamlessly he’d slipped into that role. The protectiveness was there, sure, but so was his skill.
With one final push, Leon led you to the last checkpoint. The exercise ended in a sudden silence, the simulated danger evaporating in an instant. You both stood there for a moment, the tension in the air giving way to a heavy, shared breath.
The stillness in the air hung between you both like a moment of suspended disbelief. The sounds of the simulated danger had faded, replaced by the heavy, labored breaths of both you and Leon. The tension from the exercise still lingered, charging the space around you, but it was different now, more intimate, somehow.
You stood there, eyes locked with his, and for a moment, everything around you seemed to fade away. The adrenaline coursing through your veins began to settle, leaving behind a steady pulse in your chest. You’d made it through the chaos, the danger, and you couldn’t help but notice how seamlessly Leon had led you through it all, how effortlessly he moved, how in tune he seemed with you.
His body, still poised and tense from the drill, slowly relaxed. The rigid focus faded, and the cocky glint returned to his eyes. He didn’t smile at first. No, that came after a beat, a slow, knowing smirk that curved his lips, almost like a reward he’d just granted himself.
And then, just like that, the walls between you two seemed to crack, just a little.
"Well," he drawled, his voice low, smooth, and dripping with that familiar cockiness. He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving yours, holding you captive with a look that was both teasing and triumphant. "I guess you owe me an apology, special agent _____."
You stiffened instinctively, your spine straightening, and the words hit you like a challenge. It was too easy to snap back, to throw the usual retort his way, but something in the way he said it, a playful arrogance, held you back. You almost hated it, but you couldn’t push it away.
You tried your best not to roll your eyes at him, but the instinct was there. Instead, you crossed your arms, your expression hardening in an attempt to hold onto the defiance that you always prided yourself on. "Your performance was acceptable, Mr. Kennedy," you said, your tone icy.
Leon’s lips quirked up into a small laugh, shaking his head slightly as he looked down at the ground, clearly amused by your response.
"Acceptable?" he whispered to himself, chuckling under his breath. The sound was both playful and smug, and you could hear the amusement in his voice.
As you both began removing your protective gear, the atmosphere shifted. The adrenaline from the drill still buzzed in the air, but the quiet between you two felt different now. You were focused on unstrapping your vest, your fingers moving quickly, but your gaze flicked over to Leon without thinking.
As Leon slowly removed his vest, the movement was fluid, effortless. His large arms flexed with each motion, the muscles rippling beneath his skin with a slow power that was impossible to ignore. The sweat that glistened across his skin only made them look even more defined, the gleam of exertion adding a sharp contrast to the sharp lines of his physique.
You could feel your eyes involuntarily drifting toward him. The way his biceps bulged slightly as he unstrapped the vest, the muscles of his forearms flexing with the effort. It wasn’t just the physicality; it was the sheer confidence in his movements, the way his body was so perfectly perfected for this.
For a moment, you couldn’t look away. It wasn’t like you wanted to stare, but your mind couldn’t seem to stop. Your gaze locked onto his arms, the strength, the way his chest rose and fell with his breath as he worked, the flicker of muscle beneath his skin. It was like he was made for moments like this.
And just as you realized what you were doing, the colour flooded your face, and you quickly looked away, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
But of course, he had. Leon always noticed.
He was looking at you now, a small, self-assured smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes were a little more playful than before, something dark behind that victorious look. He caught your gaze for just a moment too long, and you knew exactly what was happening.
He’d seen you. No. He’d known you were staring at him. His boss.
His head tilted slightly, a playful glint in his eyes, and the smirk that tugged at his lips said everything. He didn’t need to speak; his look alone told you he knew exactly what you’d been doing.
Your heart skipped a beat, and you fought the instinct to snap back at him. But you couldn’t think of a good response, not without making things worse. You quickly shook your head, trying to shake the moment off, trying to brush it aside like it was nothing.
Without saying another word, you turned on your heel, eager to escape the intensity of the moment, eager to get away from the still-heavy air between you both. The exit was just a few steps away, and you focused on getting there quickly, putting as much distance between you and Leon as you could.
You didn’t notice the way his eyes followed you as you left, didn’t feel the weight of his gaze on your back, the way his smirk grew wider as he watched you walk away.
He’d caught you. And he knew it. And for some reason, that was enough for him to feel like he had just won another round.
The cafeteria buzzed with low chatter, forks scraping metal trays, and the steady hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The scent of overcooked protein and machine coffee lingered in the air. Agents sat in small clusters, fatigued, bruised, laughing too loudly or staring blankly at nothing. The aftermath of another brutal day of training.
You sat alone near the far end of the room, back to the wall, always facing the door. It was habit now. Your tray sat untouched in front of you, half-full with dull, colorless food, forgotten beneath your tablet as your eyes skimmed through performance reports from that afternoon’s drill.
The words blurred slightly, too many variables, too many mistakes, but you kept reading, your thumb tapping rhythmically against the glass screen. The repetition, the structure, the focus, it kept everything else at bay.
Until the air changed.
A chair scraped across the floor near you, slow, deliberate, too loud to be casual. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.
“Still hard at work, Agent?” the voice drawled, drenched in performative familiarity. Older. Gravelly. Laced with the smirk he never earned.
You didn’t bother looking up. You knew that voice. He was one of the older agents, smug in his seniority, bitter over the authority you’d earned. He’d hit on you months ago, sloppy, transparent, and you’d shut him down without hesitation. He hadn’t taken it well.
Now, he dropped his tray down across from you with a dramatic thud, the food sloshing over the sides. You didn’t acknowledge him.
“Gotta say,” he drawled, “watching you bark orders during drills? There’s something real entertaining about seeing those fresh-faced recruits falling over themselves just to impress you.”
You kept your eyes on the tablet, jaw clenched.
“But hey,” he continued, leaning in slightly, “maybe if I’d kissed a little more ass during training, I could’ve gotten a spot on your special detail. Then again—” his eyes flicked over you with a slow, greasy drag, “I doubt you’d mind having someone closer. Maybe under you.”
You froze. There it was. Not even veiled.
You inhaled slowly, lifting your chin to meet his smug, sleazy grin, and that was when a shadow fell over the table.
Leon.
He stood behind the man, posture rigid, his shirt still clinging from the earlier drills, veins visible in his forearms as his fists tightened at his sides. The easy charm he usually displayed was gone.
His jaw was tight. Eyes like frostbite.
“What did you just say?” he asked, voice a low, deadly whisper that sliced through the cafeteria noise.
The man glanced lazily over his shoulder. “Easy, Kennedy. Just some light talk. Thought the lady could take a joke.”
Leon’s fists clenched tighter. His knuckles went white.
“She’s not your joke,” he said, voice like gravel under tension. “Say that again. I dare you.”
A flicker of unease passed over the man’s face, but he laughed it off, lifting a hand in mock surrender. “Relax, hero. Didn’t know you were her guard dog now.”
The air shifted, sharp, electric. Something dangerous simmered beneath Leon’s stillness.
You stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. A few nearby heads turned, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Eyes drifted toward the growing tension.
You didn’t hesitate.
Your voice snapped through the room like a shot.
“Mr. Kennedy. Follow me. This instant.”
Leon didn’t move at first, his eyes locked on the man across from you like he was deciding whether or not to break protocol. But then your voice hit again, firmer. Sharper. Commanding.
“Now.”
That did it.
He finally stepped back, but not before giving the man one last look, a quiet promise of consequence.
You turned and walked briskly toward the hallway, not looking back. The moment you pushed open the door to the empty corridor just outside the mess hall, you spun on your heel, boots planting hard against the tile.
Leon followed, the door shutting behind him.
You didn’t wait.
“What the hell was that?” you demanded, voice low but laced with fury. “You think stepping in helps me?”
Leon’s brows furrowed, confused, still tense. “He said—”
“I heard what he said,” you snapped, cutting him off. “I’ve had men like him crawl around me my entire career. You think you’re the first person who’s ever tried to defend me? You’re not.”
Leon’s fists were still tight, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. “He crossed a line.”
“And I would’ve handled it,” you shot back, stepping closer, eyes locked on his. “But when you jump in like that, in front of everyone, you make it look like I need someone to fight for me. Like I can’t handle a sleazy agent without backup.”
Leon didn’t speak for a second. The tension between you stretched thin, thick with unsaid things, mutual frustration, something just beginning to smoulder.
Then he took a step toward you.
Slow. Measured. Deliberate.
You didn’t move, not out of fear, but principle. You held your ground, spine straight, jaw tight.
He looked down at you, eyes dark and clear, no trace of sarcasm, no cocky smirk to hide behind. Just quiet heat and something heavier underneath.
“I know you can handle yourself,” he said, voice low but firm. “That’s not why I stepped in.”
You raised a brow, arms crossed, waiting.
Leon’s gaze didn’t waver. “But I’ve seen enough men like him to know where that kind of talk leads.”
He paused. Swallowed once. His voice dropped a shade deeper.
“I don’t care if it makes me look reckless, or like I don’t know my place. I’d rather be the guy who gets scolded than the guy who stood there and did nothing.”
You hated how sincere he sounded.
You hated even more that you couldn’t find a response right away.
He stepped back slightly then, just enough to let the pressure ease, but not enough to take away what he’d said.
His eyes still held yours.
“I’m not trying to be your hero,” he said, softer now. “But I’m not gonna be the guy who pretends he didn’t hear it what that piece of shit said.”
The hallway went quiet again, the hum of distant conversation from the mess hall muffled behind the closed door. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly. Somewhere far off, a door slammed. Neither of you moved.
Your pulse thudded in your throat.
And still, Leon waited not for permission. Just for understanding.
Your jaw tightened.
His words hung in the air like smoke, honest, heavy, far too close to something you didn’t want to name. But sincerity didn’t change the reality.
You straightened, spine rigid, eyes cool and unreadable.
“You’re dismissed, Mr. Kennedy.”
Leon didn’t flinch, but something in his expression shifted, a quiet sting behind the eyes. He gave a small, sharp nod.
“Ma’am.”
He turned without another word.
As he passed, his shoulder brushed yours, subtle, firm, not accidental. Not aggressive either. Just enough contact to remind you he’d been there. That he’d stood there.
Then he was gone.
The door swung shut behind him with a soft click.
And you were left alone in the silence, the tension still clinging to the walls, pulsing quietly in the space he’d just occupied.
Just four walls, a desk, two chairs, and the low hum of the fluorescent light above. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and paper, sterile, sharp, and impersonal. The way it was supposed to. You sat behind the desk, back straight, tablet in hand, stylus poised like a weapon. Every movement was precise, professional.
Three-month psychological evaluations. Routine. Every recruit, no exceptions. You’d conducted five already today. Blank stares. Nervous chuckles. A few overshares too personal for a clipboard. Textbook assessments.
This one wasn’t going to be textbook.
It had been a couple of weeks since your last real interaction with Leon Kennedy.
No shouting matches in corridors. No friction during drills. Just a few lingering looks across the training yard and the occasional too-casual comment tossed your way like a lit match, always smirking, always just short of inappropriate.
You’d told yourself that was better. Cleaner. Easier to manage.
Then the door clicked open.
You didn’t look up.
“Agent Kennedy,” you said, voice cool, as though saying his name didn’t pull something taut beneath your skin.
“Agent,” came his reply, smooth, low, and maddeningly unbothered. It was the tone of a man who knew exactly how often you thought about him and wasn’t sorry for it.
He stepped inside with the kind of confidence that wasn’t loud, it coiled. His boots made no more noise than necessary, but every movement was deliberate. He was lean and broad-shouldered in the standard tactical shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms, veins visible beneath tanned skin. His hair was still damp from the shower, falling into his eyes slightly, framing the kind of face that made most people forget what they were doing mid-sentence.
Leon sank into the chair across from you like he owned it, like he was the one running this evaluation and you were just passing through.
You tapped the record button.
“This is the standard three-month psychological assessment. Post-phase one field training,” you recited, voice flat and impersonal. “Answers must be honest and complete. Sit up straight.”
He smiled lazily. “Is that an order, or do you just like bossing me around?”
You didn’t respond. Didn’t look up. Just wrote the timestamp on your tablet.
“Sleep patterns?” you asked, ignoring the way your stylus trembled slightly in your grip.
Leon tilted his head like he was considering whether to answer honestly or to entertain himself.
“Four to six hours,” he said finally. “Broken. Same old dreams. No screaming. Just me, zombies, and the occasional yelling from you.”
You glanced up.
He smiled innocently, eyes gleaming. “Motivational yelling, of course.”
You clicked your stylus with more force than necessary. “Appetite?”
“Healthy,” he said, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, long fingers drumming against the sides. “No weird cravings. Unless you count the one I get every time you look at me like I’m a loaded weapon.”
You paused, stylus mid-air.
He grinned. “Too far?”
You stared at him, expression carefully blank. “Are you going to take this seriously?”
Leon’s gaze didn’t waver. “Are you?”
You felt your composure flicker, a flash of heat at your neck you hoped he didn’t notice. You dropped your eyes back to the screen.
“Any emotional instability? Panic attacks? Difficulty with authority?”
His grin widened, slow and deliberate. “Depends. Are we talking about all kinds of authority, or just the ones who make it really hard to follow orders?”
You didn’t flinch. You refused to.
But your cheeks warmed. He noticed.
Of course he did.
His tone softened just slightly, enough to slip under your skin. “You always deflect with silence?”
You looked up, sharper now. “Leon—”
He cut you off, gently, but with intent.
“Why are you nervous?”
“Excuse me?” you said, the words sharp, clipped, a reflex.
Leon didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned in further, elbows resting casually on his knees, the space between you shrinking by degrees.
“You heard me,” he said, voice lower now, softer around the edges, but no less direct. “Why are you nervous?”
You scoffed, shifting slightly in your chair, pulling your professionalism up like armour.
“I’m not nervous,” you replied, your voice as precise as a scalpel. “I’m doing my job. Something you might want to consider trying sometime.”
Leon didn’t smile.
That threw you more than anything.
He didn’t banter back. Didn’t laugh it off. He just studied you, eyes scanning your face like he was dissecting every micro-expression. Not to win. Not to gloat. But to understand.
“That’s not an answer,” he said after a beat. “That’s deflection.”
You stiffened, stylus tapping once, sharply, against the tablet screen.
“We’re done with that line of questioning,” you said, tone flat. “This is a psychological assessment, not a performance critique.”
Leon’s gaze didn’t waver.
“No. It’s an evaluation,” he said slowly, deliberately. Mental readiness. Emotional regulation. You said it yourself.”
“So, if your hand’s been gripping that pen like a weapon since I walked in, if your voice keeps tightening whenever I joke, if your posture hasn’t shifted in twenty minutes...”
He paused, leaned back slightly, letting the tension almost break. “Tell me, how’s your emotional regulation, Agent?”
Your breath caught in your throat, for half a second. Then you met his eyes dead-on, calm, cold, the way you were trained to be.
“I’m not the one being evaluated.”
Leon’s smile returned but it was faint, thoughtful, something quieter than usual.
“Maybe not officially,” he said. “But you put yourself in this chair, in this role. You think I’m not watching? Every drill. Every decision. Every time you walk past like I don’t exist, but your eyes flick back like they can’t help it.”
Your chest tightened, barely. A muscle in your jaw ticked.
“Enough.”
Leon tilted his head.
“Why does it bother you?” he asked, voice gentler now, lacking any trace of mockery. “That I see it? That I see you?”
You stood abruptly, tablet forgotten on the desk, the sharp screech of your chair legs biting into the silence. “We’re done here, Agent Kennedy. I’m marking you psychologically fit for field continuation.”
He stood too, slower, more composed. But he didn’t head to the door.
Not yet.
The air between you crackled, heavy with tension that wasn’t anger. Not anymore. Something more dangerous.
“You can push everyone else away,” Leon said softly, “but you don’t get to lie to me in the same breath you’re evaluating if I’m stable enough to trust in the field.”
You said nothing. Just stared. Chest rising. Spine straight.
“You’re dismissed,” you said finally, quiet but commanding.
Leon didn’t argue.
But as he passed, his shoulder brushed yours, slow, deliberate. Not the kind of accidental contact you could pretend didn’t happen. It lingered.
Then he stopped.
Right behind you.
You didn’t turn, but you could feel him, the solid weight of his presence, the heat of him just inches away, close enough that your breath hitched before you could stop it.
You stood frozen, heart thudding a little too hard against your ribs.
Leon leaned in, slowly, steadily. Not touching but close enough that you felt his breath skim the side of your neck, warm and intimate as it ghosted over your skin.
He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, in your space, in your silence, like he was daring you to move first.
Then, his voice, low, steady, close enough to feel.
“I’m not the only one who’s scared of what this is,” he murmured. “You’re just the only one pretending it’s not there.”
Then he was gone.
The door shut with a quiet click.
And you didn’t sit back down for a long time.
You woke in a violent jolt.
Sheets tangled, shirt soaked, heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to escape your chest. For a second, you didn’t even know where you were. You could still hear the snarls — feel the blood on your hands, the heat, the wet grind of bone.
But it was just the dark now.
The silence of the dorm.
Your throat was dry, like you’d screamed but never made a sound. You reached for the bottle of water by your bed, hands still trembling. The cold plastic grounded you — barely.
You stared at the ceiling, willing your pulse to settle.
It didn’t.
There’d be no sleep tonight. You knew that rhythm too well.
The corridors were empty at this hour, dimly lit and chilled, the fluorescents above flickering faintly every few seconds. You didn’t bother tying your boots fully. Just enough to keep them on. Your steps echoed in the quiet, clipped and sharp, like your body hadn’t figured out you were no longer in combat.
Your feet took you to the range before you could question the decision.
The moment the door opened, you stopped.
You weren’t alone.
The faint scent of gunpowder hung in the air. One of the farthest lanes was lit, the others dark. A figure stood at the booth, feet braced, arms locked, the sharp report of a shot ringing out just as your eyes adjusted.
The sound didn’t startle you.
The sight did.
Leon.
His shoulders were tense beneath a thin, dark long-sleeve. The fabric clung to his frame, damp with sweat, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His stance was tight, not like he was training, but like he was burning it out. Shot after shot, slow and methodical.
You hovered at the doorway, debating whether to leave before he saw you.
He beat you to it.
Without turning his head, he spoke.
“Can’t sleep either?” The words echoed, low and even, sliding into the silence like they belonged there.
You lingered.
Eventually, you stepped in, the door sliding shut behind you. Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.
“Didn’t think anyone else would be here.”
Leon finally looked over his shoulder.
His expression wasn’t smug or flirty. Not this time. Just tired. Open. Eyes rimmed faintly in red, jaw shadowed with stubble, mouth set in something close to neutral.
“Same nightmare?” he asked, watching you carefully.
You didn’t answer immediately.
You walked to the booth beside his, set your pistol down on the tray, and began loading a magazine. Each motion was practiced. Muscle memory. Something to do with your hands.
“Different city. Same story,” you said. “Too close. Too many.”
He nodded once, turning back to his target. He didn’t fire again.
“It always gets too close,” he murmured. His voice wasn’t bitter. Just honest.
You raised your weapon and fired three rounds. Each one hit the center mass. Not perfect. But tight. Focused.
You exhaled and lowered the gun.
Leon leaned an elbow on the divider between your booths. You didn’t look at him, but you felt his attention shift.
“You always shoot like that when you’re trying to forget something?”
You glanced sideways, arching a brow.
“What makes you think I’m trying to forget?”
“Because that’s what I do,” he said simply. “And you don’t miss unless you’re thinking too hard.”
That made you pause.
You hadn’t missed.
But he was right, your aim had been just a little tight. Like you were forcing it. Not flowing with it.
You cleared your throat. “You shouldn’t be analysing me. I outrank you, remember?”
Leon gave a faint smirk. “Then don’t act so obvious.”
You turned fully to him then, leaning back against the divider, arms crossing over your chest.
“What about you? What brings you here? Couldn’t sleep either, or just miss the sound of bullets before sunrise?”
He looked at his gun for a moment, then holstered it. Slowly. With intent.
“Sometimes I shoot until it drowns the rest out.” His voice dropped just a little. “The noise helps. Makes it feel like I’m still in control.”
You didn’t speak. Just watched him.
He looked different in the dark. Softer. Quieter. Still cut from steel, but the shine had dulled into something more human.
Leon leaned back against the divider now too, standing beside you — not facing you, but not avoiding you either. Close enough that your arms could brush if you weren’t careful.
“You ever talk about it?” he asked, voice gentler than it had any right to be at this hour.
You scoffed. “You ever shut up about it?”
He smiled faintly. Not smug. Just... warm. A rare flicker.
“Touché.”
Another moment passed. You were both quiet, the kind of quiet that came only when both people had run out of lies to tell themselves.
Then, without looking at you, he said:
“You’ve got that look again.”
You frowned. “What look?”
Leon turned his head. Just slightly.
“Like you’re afraid of something that already happened.”
That one hit harder than you expected.
You stared at the booth wall ahead of you, eyes unfocused.
“Aren’t we all?” you whispered.
Leon didn’t say anything for a long beat.
Then, gently, like he didn’t want to push but couldn’t help it:
“You don’t have to carry all of it alone.”
You turned your head. Slowly.
He was already watching you. Not like he was trying to read you, like he already had.
Your throat tightened. Not because he was wrong. Because he wasn’t.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then finally spoke.
“Neither do you.”
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Then Leon shifted, just slightly. Turning toward you. The air between you got heavier, thicker, your bodies close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, even without touching.
He leaned in just a bit, eyes locked on yours.
“Maybe next time,” he said, voice low and sincere, “we stop pretending we don’t see each other.”
You didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
But you didn’t pull away either.
And Leon, he just lingered for one more heartbeat before stepping back. He picked up his pistol again without another word.
You both turned back to the range.
Leon fired again.
The shot hit wide, low and to the left.
You blinked.
The second round followed. Another miss. Not catastrophic, but… not him.
You frowned and tilted your head slightly, watching his stance more carefully now. His feet were steady. Grip was tight. But there was something off, a hesitation, maybe. Tension in the wrong places.
You spoke without thinking.
“You’re pulling.”
Leon lowered the weapon slightly, glancing over at you.
“I’m what?”
“Your trigger pull. You’re jerking it.” You gestured vaguely toward his grip. “And you’re tensing your shoulder before the shot lands. That’s why you’re off-center.”
He raised a brow. “Didn’t realize I was being audited.”
“You’re always being audited.”
Leon smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. There was a flicker of frustration in his expression, quickly masked, but not before you saw it.
You hesitated for only a breath, then stepped closer.
“Here,” you said. “Let me show you.”
Leon turned slightly, surprised. “You offering shooting lessons now?”
“Only because watching you miss is painful.”
He chuckled, just once, but it sounded almost genuine.
You came up behind him, reaching for his arms without hesitation. Your fingers brushed his forearms first, firm, warm, and taut beneath your touch, then guided his elbows inward just slightly. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. He just let you.
Your body hovered close to his back now, your voice low by his ear.
“Relax your grip. You’re holding like it’s going to jump out of your hands.”
“Maybe I like the way you grab my arms,” he murmured, not quite under his breath.
You ignored it. Barely.
Your hands moved to his, adjusting his fingers on the grip, your chest brushing lightly against his back with the motion. The space between you all but disappeared.
He was warm. Solid. Smelled faintly like steel and soap. Your pulse thudded somewhere inconvenient.
“Focus on your breathing,” you said quietly, trying to keep your voice clinical — failing slightly. “In on the raise. Out on the shot.”
He nodded once, eyes fixed on the target now, the tension in his shoulders finally easing under your touch.
You didn’t move away.
You couldn’t.
“Try again,” you said.
He fired.
The bullet struck center mass — clean and sharp.
Leon let out a slow breath, lips twitching slightly. “Must be your coaching.”
You stepped back, just a little. Enough to breathe.
“Or maybe you were just being dramatic so I’d come fix you.”
He looked over his shoulder at you, expression unreadable. “Maybe I needed fixing.”
Leon turned back to the booth, loading another round with ease now. His fingers moved with more control — smoother, more fluid. But he wasn’t paying attention to the target anymore.
He was watching you.
“Still gonna need a few more lessons,” he said, tone lighter, like he was giving you a way out.
You crossed your arms, partly to ground yourself, partly to hide the way your pulse had spiked. The skin along your arms still tingled from how close you’d just been.
“We’ll schedule something,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the bullet-ridden paper downrange. “Preferably not at 3 a.m.”
Leon raised his pistol again and fired without looking — a perfect shot.
“I like this hour,” he said. “It’s quiet. No distractions.”
He looked at you again.
“Except you.”
The words landed softly but stuck hard. You turned slowly to meet his gaze.
For a long, pulsing second, neither of you said anything.
The air between you changed, no longer filled with tension, but potential. Something on the verge of happening. Fragile. Taut.
You didn’t move. Neither did he.
Then, almost at the same time, you both leaned in.
It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t desperate.
It was quiet. Careful. Like you were both finally acknowledging the gravity of what had been building all this time.
Your faces were inches apart. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up to yours. His breath was warm against your cheek. You felt the shift in his posture, his shoulders finally — finally — relax.
He exhaled, like he hadn’t breathed right in days.
Your lips brushed.
Not quite a kiss. Not yet. Just the promise of one.
And that’s when you pulled back.
Quickly. Cleanly.
You took a step away, jaw tightening.
“Shit.”
Leon blinked, confused — caught mid-movement as if his body hadn’t registered that you’d left the moment.
You straightened, already retreating behind a wall of protocol and duty. Your voice came out tight, too fast, too defensive.
“That— That was completely unprofessional. I’m your superior officer. That can’t happen. That shouldn’t have happened.”
He opened his mouth, eyes narrowing — but you didn’t give him a chance.
“Forget it,” you said, already turning on your heel, boots moving fast against the concrete. “That’s an order.”
And just like that, you were gone.
The doors hissed shut behind you.
Leon stood there in the silence, gun still in hand, heart still racing for a reason that had nothing to do with bullets.
The target downrange blurred in his vision, but he didn’t lift his weapon again.
He just stood there.
Alone.
And this time, it was the quiet that distracted him.
The door slid shut behind you with a muted hiss, sealing the room like a vault.
You stood there for a moment, hand still on the panel, heart thudding too loud in your ears.
You couldn’t breathe.
Not properly. Not evenly.
The air in the dorm was stale, too still, like it hadn’t moved since you left. You felt the walls closing in, the silence pressing against your skin, and suddenly standing still wasn’t an option.
You started pacing.
Back and forth. Six strides one way. Six strides back.
Your boots whispered against the tile. The sound of your own movement was the only thing keeping you tethered.
Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest. Not because you were cold — but because something was trying to crack open inside you.
You could still feel him.
Leon’s body heat. The way his voice dropped when he got close. That half-laugh. That half-sigh. The way he leaned in like you were a secret he was finally ready to admit out loud.
And God — the way you leaned back.
You ran a hand through your hair, dragging your fingers down your face with a frustrated groan.
“What the hell were you thinking?” you muttered aloud to no one.
You weren’t someone who made mistakes like that. Not emotional ones. Not with recruits. And definitely not with him.
But it wasn’t just a mistake, was it?
It was the culmination of weeks of tension. Stares across briefing rooms. Arguments laced with heat. All those unspoken almosts that had been quietly building behind every clipped command and sharp retort.
And then tonight.
Your lips had touched. Not fully. Not even enough to call it a kiss. But it had been enough to feel something. Enough to know you wanted more.
And that terrified you.
Because he wasn’t just a man. He was a subordinate. He was a complication.
He was Leon.
Your pacing slowed, but your thoughts didn’t.
You should file a report. You should debrief yourself. You should find the damn HR manual and read every clause until your brain stopped trying to remember the way he smelled.
But you didn’t.
Because even now even as guilt twisted low in your stomach, you didn’t want to regret it. Not really.
You stopped in front of your bunk, hands braced on the frame like it might anchor you. You stared at the floor for a long time.
And finally, in the silence, a whisper of truth slipped out before you could stop it.
“I wanted to kiss him.”
There it was. No uniform. No badge. No chain of command.
You paced again, tighter now, like a coil wound to breaking.
The thoughts were no longer just thoughts. They were shouts. Echoes crashing against each other.
His voice. His closeness. His scent.
That almost-kiss.
And then it hit you, sharp and undeniable. You wanted him. Not just in passing. Not just in secret.
The realisation crashed through your chest like a breach, like something you’d held back for too long had finally slammed its way to the surface. It wasn’t professional. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t safe.
But it was true.
The moment it bloomed inside you, your body moved before your brain could keep up. You spun, crossing the room in three long strides. Your hand reached for the door panel.
You had to find him. Now.
You wrenched the door open—
—and froze.
Leon was standing there.
Fist half-raised, like he’d just been about to knock. His blue eyes wide for a heartbeat, mirroring the same stunned disbelief on your face.
Neither of you spoke.
You didn’t need to.
You were leaving to find him. He had come to find you.
The moment broke like glass under pressure.
You moved at the same time.
There were no words. No caution. No hesitation.
Just a sudden, desperate lunge, bodies colliding like magnets finally allowed to touch. Your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers sliding through his hair as you pulled him down into you. His hands were already on your face , one cupping your jaw, the other at the back of your head, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
Your mouths met in a kiss that wasn’t careful or composed.
It was hungry. Messy. Real.
All the heat, all the tension that had been building for weeks, months, came crashing down in a single breathless moment. You could feel him breathing against your skin, his mouth devouring yours like he’d wanted this just as long. Like he’d needed it.
You gasped softly as his lips pressed deeper, more insistent, not rough, but reverent. Like he was trying to memorise the shape of your mouth, the rhythm of your breath, the taste of your surrender.
His hand slid down to your waist, gripping you like he didn’t trust reality. Like if he didn’t anchor you now, you’d both float away.
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, breath shallow. His thumb still brushed your cheekbone like you were fragile, even after everything you’d just done.
You swallowed hard.
Your back hit the wall next to the door.
Neither of you noticed. Or rather neither of you cared.
Your hands were tangled in his hair, his mouth fevered against yours, and the space between your bodies no longer existed. You were pressed to him, chest to chest, pulse to pulse, the silence of the hallway shattered by the sound of breathless kissing and the quiet thud of urgency.
Leon groaned softly into your mouth, the kind of sound that curled hot in your spine, and suddenly his hands were on your waist, gripping tight.
With a fluid, almost desperate shift, he turned you both, still kissing, still holding you like you might change your mind if he let go for even a second. One arm around your waist, the other braced behind your neck, he walked you backward into the dorm, step by step, not breaking the kiss once.
You barely registered the room returning around you.
Then, with one solid kick, Leon shoved the door shut with his boot, the heavy sound of it slamming home felt final.
Private.
No going back.
The moment the lock clicked, he pinned you against the back of the door, lips trailing to your jaw, your neck, breath hot and reverent.
“I’ve wanted this,” he murmured between kisses, voice hoarse, as his hand slid up your side beneath your shirt, not rushing, just learning. “I’ve wanted you.”
You exhaled sharply, one hand splayed over his chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath your palm. His skin burned. Everything about him did.
“Leon—”
And then he kissed you again, deeper this time, slower, like he wasn’t just trying to make you feel it.
He wanted you to remember it.
Leon’s hands were everywhere, rough yet reverent, as if he couldn’t decide where to touch first, your hips, your waist, the curve of your back. His fingers dug into your skin just enough to leave the ghost of his desperation behind, his breath hot against your neck as he murmured between fevered kisses.
“You have no idea how much I’ve imagined this.”
His voice was rough, strained with need, each word punctuated by the scrape of his teeth against your pulse. You gasped as his hands slid lower, gripping the back of your thighs before he lifted you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The strength in his arms was intoxicating, the way he held you like you weighed nothing, like he’d die before letting you go.
“Touching you… kissing you…”
His lips crashed into yours again, hungry and deep, his tongue sweeping against yours in a rhythm that left you dizzy. One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose more of your throat to his mouth, while the other gripped your ass, grinding you against the hard ridge of his arousal. The friction drew a whimper from your lips, and he growled in response, nipping at your collarbone.
“When I first saw you—so fucking beautiful.”
His words sent a shiver down your spine, his voice dripping with raw desire. His hands were relentless, sliding under your clothes, calloused palms mapping every inch of you as if he was memorising the feel of your skin. The heat between your bodies was unbearable, every shift of his hips stoking the fire lower in your stomach.
You could feel him, all of him, the hard lines of his body pressed against yours, the way his breath hitched when you rolled your hips against his. His grip tightened, fingers digging into your flesh as he carried you toward the nearest surface, his mouth never leaving your skin.
"Tell me you want this," he demanded between kisses, his voice dark and needy. "Tell me you’ve thought about it too."
His words sent a thrill through you, his touch already pushing you toward the edge. And as his lips found yours again, you knew he meant every word.
The moment your back hit the mattress, he pulled away just enough to sit up, his powerful thighs straddling your hips, the heat of him searing even through layers of clothing. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, his muscles taut beneath the fabric of his shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the thick cords of his forearms, arms that had carried you without effort, that could pin you down with terrifying ease.
Leon Kennedy wasn’t just looking at you, he was devouring you with his gaze. His face was a masterpiece of hunger, sharp jaw clenched, lips parted, those piercing blue eyes dark with lust as they raked over your body. A slow, knowing smirk curved his mouth when he saw the way your breath hitched under his scrutiny.
“Come on, Special Agent,” he murmured, his voice rough, dripping with sinful promise. “Do you want this? Do want me?”
His hand, calloused from years of gripping weapons, of fighting, trailed down your cheek with surprising gentleness, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, pressing just enough to make your mouth fall open. You could feel the roughness of his skin, the faint scar along his knuckle, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly, like he was holding back.
Beneath your shirt, his other hand moved with agonising slowness, his fingertips tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your ribs, stopping just beneath the hem. His fingers danced along the sensitive skin there, teasing, taunting, but never pushing further.
He was going to make you say it.
The distance between you was torture. You could feel the hard press of his arousal against your thigh, the way his body tensed with restraint. His smirk deepened at your hesitation, his eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.
"Use your words, Agent," he commanded, voice low, dangerous.
Your face burned, your pulse hammering as his fingers trailed lower, flicking open the top button of your trousers with infuriating precision. His knuckles grazed your stomach, and you shuddered.
Images flashed in your mind. Leon’s mouth on you, his hands gripping your hips, the way he growled when you rolled against him. The ache between your thighs was unbearable.
“Please, Leon,” you finally gasped, arching into his touch. “I want this. So bad.”
His smirk turned feral.
“Good girl.”
The moment the words left your lips, his mouth crashed back onto yours, hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping against yours in a rhythm that left you breathless. His body pressed flush against you, the hard planes of his chest pinning you to the mattress, the heat of him searing through your clothes. You could feel the rapid rise and fall of his ribs, the way his breath came in ragged bursts against your lips, like he’d been holding back for far too long.
His hands, rough and sure, made quick work of your trousers, fingers deftly undoing the remaining buttons before sliding them down your legs with a slow, deliberate drag. His lips followed the path his hands had taken, kissing down your calves, the sensitive hollows of your knees, the soft skin of your inner thighs. Each press of his mouth was deliberate, teasing, his breath fanning over your skin in a way that made you shiver.
When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his fingers tracing the damp fabric of your underwear with agonising lightness. A low, satisfied hum vibrated against your skin as he brushed over your clothed sex, his touch featherlight but maddening.
"Aw, you're so wet for me," he purred, voice thick with dark amusement.
You whimpered, hips lifting instinctively, but he held you down with one broad hand, his grip firm. His gaze flicked up to yours, those blue eyes burning with something predatory, something hungry. The sight of him between your legs, lips parted, pupils blown, his hair slightly mussed from your fingers. It was almost sinful.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down with torturous slowness. The cool air hit your overheated skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his stare as he took you in.
"So pretty," he murmured, voice rough with reverence.
His hands slid back up your thighs, gently urging them apart, spreading you wider for him. The way he looked at you, like he wanted to devour you, sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your stomach.
And then he moved. One hand anchored your hip, the other gripping the inside of your thigh as he leaned in, burying himself between your legs with an open-mouthed kiss to your core.
The first swipe of his tongue was slow, deliberate, dragging through your folds with a filthy sound that made your back arch. His groan vibrated against you, the sensation sending sparks up your spine.
"Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined," he growled, his voice wrecked.
He didn’t tease. Not now.
Leon feasted on you like a man starved, tongue lapping at your entrance before circling your clit with firm, relentless strokes. His free hand slid up your stomach, pushing your shirt higher, fingers skimming the underside of your breast before pinching your nipple through the fabric.
You cried out, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him closer as his mouth worked you over with sinful precision. Every flick of his tongue, every suck at your sensitive flesh, had your thighs trembling around his head.
"That’s it," he muttered against you, his breath hot. "Let me hear you."
His fingers replaced his mouth for just a second, rubbing slow circles over your clit while he kissed up your stomach, his teeth grazing your hip bone.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice rough. "Tell me how bad you want it."
You could barely think, barely breathe, but the words tumbled out anyway, desperate, pleading.
"Leon—please—"
His smirk was wicked as he dipped his head back down.
The moment your plea left your lips, he doubled down, his tongue lashing at your clit in fast, ruthless strokes, his fingers spreading you wider, holding you open for him. His other hand gripped your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh, keeping you pinned beneath his mouth as you writhed.
"Fuck—Leon—!" Your back arched off the bed, your hands fisting in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan against you. The vibration sent a shockwave of pleasure straight to your core, and you whimpered, your hips jerking uncontrollably.
He didn’t let up. If anything, he got meaner, sucking your clit between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue before circling it again, relentless, merciless. His moans spilled freely now, deep and ragged, muffled against your skin as if he couldn’t help himself.
"I know, baby," he growled between strokes, his voice wrecked, dripping with filthy praise. "I know. Let me hear you. Come on, give it to me."
You were so close, every nerve alight, your thighs shaking, your breath coming in sharp, broken gasps. His words, his touch, the way he worshipped you. It was too much.
"I—I’m gonna—!"
"Aw, fuck—you’re so good," he snarled, his fingers tightening on your thigh. "You’re so prefect. Come for me."
And just like that you shattered.
A broken cry tore from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you, white-hot and all-consuming. Leon didn’t slow, didn’t stop, he worked you through it, his tongue coaxing out every last shudder, every aftershock, until you were gasping, oversensitive, your hands weakly pushing at his head.
Only then did he pull back, lips glistening, his chest heaving. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, his expression nothing short of ravenous as he licked his lips.
"Fuck," he breathed, voice rough. "You taste even better than I imagined."
And before you could even recover, he was crawling up your body, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his arousal grinding against your still-throbbing core.
The moment his lips crashed back into yours, you tasted yourself on his tongue, sweet, intoxicating, and a shudder ripped through you. His kiss was filthy, desperate, his teeth catching your bottom lip, his groan vibrating against your mouth as you arched beneath him.
When he pulled away, his eyes were ruined. Dark blue, almost black with need, his lashes low, his expression raw and pleading.
"Can I fuck you?"
His voice was wrecked, rough with desperation, his hips grinding down against yours in slow, torturous circles. The way he looked at you, like he’d die if you said no, like he was already halfway to losing his mind just from the feel of you, sent another bolt of heat straight to your core.
You swore you almost came again just from the way he begged.
A breathless laugh escaped you, your fingers threading through his sweat-damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "Yes, Mr. Kennedy," you teased, your voice trembling.
His answering smile was devastating. Half smirk, half snarl, before he claimed your mouth again, his tongue sliding against yours in a filthy promise of what was to come.
Then the sound of his belt unbuckling. The metallic clink of it hitting the floor. The rough drag of his zipper.
Your breath hitched as he shoved his trousers down just enough, his cock springing free, thick and heavy against your thigh. The heat of him was almost unbearable, the way his hips jerked forward instinctively, his tip dragging through your slick, making you both groan.
Leon’s hands were everywhere gripping your hips, sliding up your waist, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts as he positioned himself. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged, his entire body trembling with restraint.
"Tell me," he growled, his voice wrecked. "Tell me you’re sure."
You arched up, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I’m sure. Fuck me, Leon."
Leon moaned in relief, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated against your skin as he finally sank into you.
It had been so long for both of you that the stretch was almost overwhelming, the heat and pressure of him drawing twin gasps from your lips. He was thick, filling you in the best way, and for a moment, neither of you moved, just breathing, trembling, savouring the sensation of being connected.
"Fuck," Leon hissed under his breath, his forehead dropping to yours, his muscles taut with restraint. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in just enough to leave marks as you adjusted around him. "So fucking tight—Christ—"
You nodded, breathless, and he exhaled sharply before pulling back, just slightly, only to push in again, deeper this time. A broken moan tore from your throat, and Leon echoed it, his voice rough with pleasure.
"You feel so good," he groaned, his hips rolling in slow, deliberate thrusts, each one sending sparks of pleasure curling through your veins. His breath was hot against your lips, his body trembling with the effort of keeping his pace controlled. "Fuck—fuck—just like that—"
His hands were everywhere, rough and possessive, yet achingly tender, like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or ruin you. They slid up your waist, fingers splaying over your ribs, thumbs brushing the soft underside of your breasts in a slow, teasing drag that made your breath hitch. His grip tightened, fingers digging into the curve of your hips as he pulled you harder against him, steadying you as he began to move faster, deeper.
Every thrust was deliberate, punishing in its perfection.
The stretch of him inside you was intoxicating, the way his cock filled you so completely, hitting that sweet, aching spot with every snap of his hips. Your back arched off the bed, a desperate moan tearing from your throat as he angled himself just right, the thick ridge of him dragging against your walls in a way that made your vision blur.
"Fuck—Leon—" you gasped, nails raking down his back, feeling the muscles there flex as he drove into you.
His breath was hot against your neck, ragged and uneven, his lips brushing your skin between muttered curses. "So perfect” he growled, his voice wrecked, strained with the effort of holding back.
His rhythm was relentless, hips moving with a precision that betrayed his training, controlled, calculated, yet utterly feral. The slap of skin against skin, the way his thighs pressed against yours, the way his abs tensed with every thrust, it was too much, and yet you never wanted it to stop.
"Leon—!" you moaned out, nails raking down his shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core.
He growled in response, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more possessive. "You gonna come for me, Agent?" he whispered against your ear, his voice dark and wrecked. His teeth grazed your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine.
You could barely think, barely breathe, just feel, every nerve alight with the pleasure he was giving you. "I'm so close—" you whined, your legs tightening around his waist, urging him deeper.
Leon tutted above you, his smirk audible in his voice. "I know, baby," he murmured, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that had you seeing stars. "I can feel it—fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight—"
Your fingers dug into his biceps, his muscles flexing under your grip as he fucked you with relentless precision. And then his thumb found your clit, rubbing firm, deliberate circles that sent you hurtling toward the edge.
"That’s it," Leon growled, his voice raw with need. "Come on your rookie’s cock—fuck—let me feel it—"
You shattered with a cry, his name spilling from your lips as pleasure exploded through you, white-hot and all-consuming. Leon swore violently above you, his hips stuttering as your walls clenched around him.
"Fuck—fuck—you feel too good—" he groaned, his thrusts growing erratic before he buried himself deep with a final, shuddering groan, his release spilling into you.
You both collapsed onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, chests heaving, skin slick with sweat.
Leon’s weight pressed you into the mattress, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his climax. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your skin as he struggled to steady himself. You could feel his heartbeat, wild, pounding, where his chest met yours, the rhythm slowly easing into something deeper, slower.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. The only sounds were the slowing rhythm of your breaths and the occasional whisper of the sheets shifting as your bodies gradually relaxed. Leon’s weight was still draped over you not oppressive, just solid, grounding. His skin was warm and damp, his forehead resting lightly against your shoulder, breath brushing the curve of your neck. You could feel the faint twitch in his muscles as he came down from the high, his body still echoing the aftershocks of what had passed between you.
The room had gone quiet, but it wasn’t the kind of quiet that felt empty. It was full, filled with the unspoken, with the leftover heat of something that had barely cooled, with the awareness of his body next to yours and everything that meant.
You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer answers. Your hand moved absently across Leon’s back, the ridges of muscle beneath his skin familiar now, comforting in a way that unsettled you more than you wanted to admit. You weren’t someone who let your guard down easily. And yet, with him like this, so close, so exposed, you hadn’t built any walls at all.
Eventually, he shifted beside you, rolling onto his side. His breathing had slowed to something even and controlled, his eyes half-lidded but not asleep. You turned your head, studying him in the dim light, the mess of blonde hair sticking to his temple, the faint sheen of sweat along his jaw, the shadowed contours of someone who had spent his life walking through hell and still came out looking like this.
You opened your mouth, unsure of what you were even going to say, then closed it again. What were the right words for this moment? What would you even call it a mistake? A lapse in judgment? Or something else entirely?
But before you could dwell on it further, a yawn cracked through your chest. A wave of exhaustion pulled at your limbs, heavy and sudden, as if your body had only now been granted permission to rest. You sank back into the pillow, letting your muscles go slack beneath the sheets. Whatever this was, whatever came next, it could wait until morning. That was a problem for a more awake, more armoured version of yourself.
Just as your eyes began to drift shut, you felt it. The weight beside you shifted. Not a subtle stretch or a lazy repositioning, but a purposeful movement. The warmth that had been curled along your side began to fade, replaced by cool air and the quiet rustle of Leon moving away.
Your brow furrowed as your mind tried to catch up. You opened your eyes just in time to see him crouching at the foot of the bed, reaching for his shirt and pants that had been discarded in the tangle of your urgency. His back was to you, shoulders drawn tight, the silence around him suddenly brittle.
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, the sheet slipping just slightly from your chest, not that he was looking. The air between you felt different now, uncertain.
“Leon?”
He paused. The sound of your voice stopped him mid-motion. His hand lingered on his shirt, but he didn’t straighten up immediately. When he finally looked back at you, his expression was unreadable, not cold or distant, just carefully neutral, like he was bracing for something.
“What are you doing?” you asked softly, still groggy, but your voice had an edge you hadn’t meant to put there.
Leon’s eyes flicked from your face to your bare shoulders, then to the sheet you were holding against your chest. His mouth twitched slightly, almost like he was about to smirk, but didn’t quite make it.
“I was gonna let myself out,” he said, his voice low and casual. He stood slowly, shirt still in his hand. “Didn’t think you’d want me to stick around.”
The words hit harder than you’d expected. Not because he was wrong, but because it sounded like he’d already convinced himself this wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Like he thought that’s what you wanted.
You sat up straighter, the tension coiling in your chest now something sharp and uncertain.
“I thought maybe…” you hesitated, then forced yourself to meet his eyes. Your voice came out quieter this time, more hesitant than you liked. “You could stay the night.”
Leon stilled. Completely.
The shift in his posture was subtle, but you saw it, the drop of his shoulders, the way his jaw eased, like he was letting go of a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. His eyes searched your face for a moment, carefully, like he didn’t quite believe you.
“You want me to?” he asked, voice softer now, genuine.
You nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You weren’t sure why it felt so vulnerable to say it, to admit you didn’t want him to leave, but it did. Still, you didn’t take it back.
“Yeah,” you said, quieter still. “I do.”
Leon looked at you for another long beat. And then, slowly, deliberately, he let the shirt slip from his fingers and fall back onto the chair. He crossed the room in a few silent steps, the tension in his body fading with every movement.
He didn’t make a joke. Didn’t flash that cocky smirk or deflect with sarcasm. He just slid into bed beside you, slow and careful, his warmth returning with him as the sheets shifted around your bodies.
You turned into him instinctively, and he welcomed the closeness, his arm curling around your waist. Your head found the space between his shoulder and chest, and you felt his hand, large, warm, steady, rest along the curve of your back.
And in that soft, suspended silence, wrapped in the faint scent of sweat and soap, your heart finally settled. This wasn’t the end. Not even close.
reader doing paige’s braids every game day and paige realising that she might be in love
braid theory (or how to love your rival)
pairing: uconn!paige!dallas wings x usc!reader!seattle storm (draft mentioned)
wc: 2.3k
summary: love wasn’t supposed to survive rivalry, draft boards, or west coast red-eyes—yet somehow it kept finding them anyway, showing up in braids, tunnels, and places no one was looking.
east coast vs west coast. eastbay articles calling it “the matchup of the year” every december. fans arguing in comment sections like they’re getting paid for it.
and tucked under all that noise is the quiet, unspoken routine that neither program knows how to explain:
every time usc flies out for an east trip, you stop at storrs. not for scouting. not for old friends.
for paige.
she pretends it’s casual—“she’s just doing my hair”— like the rest of the team can’t clock the way you sit on that ottoman like it’s your assigned seat, like her shoulders drop two inches the second you touch her.
and you? you’re playing with fire, but it’s fire you started a long time ago. “tilt,” you say, comb in hand. she listens. she always listens. the locker room pretends not to watch.
it’s borderline illegal how good you are at those braids—clean parts, slicked without tension, balanced perfectly so they won’t frizz mid—drive. you grew up doing hair for teammates who had curls that fought back—paige knows it, respects it, treats it like ritual.
after the win, she walks you out to the tunnel, hoodie on, braids still neat. “you staying for the game tomorrow?” casual. deceptively casual.
“nope,” you grin. “we’ve got oregon. don’t want your coach accusing me of espionage.” she rolls her eyes but she’s smiling like she wants to drag you back inside.
that slow realization? it’s hitting her like athletic tape ripping off skin—sharp, sudden, too late to pretend it didn’t happen. because it’s one thing for a teammate to braid your hair.
and another for a rival to fly across the country on an off-day to do it. and when the cameras catch you leaving the uconn tunnel with paige’s hoodie slung over your shoulder? yeah. that’s when the internet gets involved.
first it’s twitter—
“isn’t that USC’s guard?? why is she in STORRS??”
“idk but they looked CLOSE.”
then it’s tiktok edits: slow-mo clips of you fixing a loose braid for paige pregame, layered over doja cat or some melancholic r&b song because gen-z cannot handle normal human interaction.
even usc teammates send you links like: “congrats on ur girlfriend?”you leave them on delivered because what are you supposed to say—it’s not like that, when it very much feels like that.
tourney hits and everything magnifies. uconn rolls through the bracket like a blunt instrument—efficient, calculated, borderline inevitable. usc claws, scrappy as hell, west coast fast.
when you both make the elite eight, everyone holds their breath. espn posters it as a “revenge match.” tiktok calls it “the rivals to lovers arc of the season.”
you try to act normal during media availability. paige does not help. reporter: “thoughts on USC’s guard play?”
paige without hesitation: “they’re elite. some of the best iq in the country.” you stare at the monitor backstage like: girl why would you say that with your whole chest?!
but she’s already walking toward you in warmups, hoodie up, game face on—except her eyes soften the second she reaches you.
“braids,” she says, offering the hair tie from her wrist. it’s reckless. it’s stupid. it’s national-television stupid. but you take it anyway.
your fingers move fast, practiced tension and clean parts, and the cameras see everything—zoomed in, slow motion, posted before halftime.
the top comment: “we’re witnessing a wlw sports dynasty and they’re not even dating yet.”
the game is brutal. west coast pace vs uconn discipline, two totally different languages crashing together on hardwood.
you lose by four. tight, winnable, heartbreaking. your chest burns—not just from the game but from watching paige hit free throws like she doesn’t miss when it matters.
when the buzzer hits, she doesn’t celebrate. she walks straight to you—sweat on her neck, braid half undone from 38 minutes of chaos.
she touches your wrist, breath still loud in her throat.
“you were insane,” she says. “i’ve never—” she stops because the cameras are close now, too close, so you just bump her shoulder and pretend the sharp ache in your ribcage is normal.
postgame locker room is quieter than any funeral. you’re peeling your jersey off when you hear a knock. you don’t need to guess. paige slips in, hair sticking to her cheek, braid frizzed at the ends.
“i’m not supposed to be in here,” she whispers. “me either,” you say, even though it makes no sense at all. she sits beside you on the bench, knee brushing yours. neither of you look at the cameras outside the hallway or the trainers pretending not to listen.
her voice cracks before she realizes it’s happening. “i think i love you.” it drops out of her mouth like she tripped over it and fell face—first into the truth.
you blink once, twice, because it’s surreal hearing it out loud after months of almosts and braids and tunnels and tiktoks doing investigative journalism.
“paige.”
“i know,” she blurts, then laughs—ugly, nervous, real. “i know, it’s dumb. we’re on opposite coasts. we’re rivals. it’s—”
you shut her up by fixing the frayed end of her braid, thumb smoothing along her hairline the way she likes. “it’s not dumb.” offseason tries to break the spell.
usc conditioning. uconn summer league. opposite coast scrimmages. different time zones. but facetime exists, and so do braiding tutorials, and so do cheap red-eyes between lax and boston that you both swear you won’t take and then do anyway.
paige learns how to part cleaner. you learn how to sleep through turbulence. she sends selfies with crooked braids captioned “rate my work pls” and you send voice notes critiquing her technique like you’re judging a cooking show.
and somewhere in all that distance, all that effort, all that ridiculous geographical inconvenience—she realizes the same thing she realized in the tunnel months ago, just deeper, quieter, truer: she was in love before she ever said it.
the rest was just catching up. face-times between study hall and lifts. red-eyes you both swear you won’t take (and both end up on). duffel bags packed with practice jerseys and half-unraveled braids.
and then there’s the jealousy—stupid, unserious, but real in the way that makes your stomach twist. usc picks up a freshman guard who runs your lane and laughs a little too loud at your jokes. she starts asking you to teach her braids before media day.
“ask the equipment manager,” you say, pretending not to see paige’s name light up your phone. on the other coast, uconn has a new trainer who calls paige “buecks” and hands her gatorade like she's auditioning for girlfriend of the year.
azzi catches her glaring from across the gym and nearly chokes on her water bottle. “relax, you don’t even date yet.” paige mutters, “yeah, well, we should.”
media day makes everything worse and better at once.
you go viral again—not because of a quote, but because a photographer catches the USC freshman leaning on your shoulder while you re-braid her ponytail. tiktok screams.
“SHE’S CHEATING ON PAIGE 😭😭😭”
“UCONN GIRL DOWN BAD SOMEONE HELP”
“i’m invested like this is my marriage.”
paige replies to nothing publicly, but uconn’s social team posts a picture of her smirking during shooting drills with the caption:“locked in.”
the comments:
“she’s not talking about basketball.”
“someone check on USC girl.”
NIL deals hit next—because capitalism knows a storyline when it sees one. two separate companies send identical emails to your agents: collab proposal: rivals turned "friends" energy.
neither of you agree. not because you’re against money, but because it’s the first time the world articulates something you still haven’t defined aloud.
then comes senior year. both of you projected first-round wnba. w mocks label it “the rivalry that broke college basketball.” espn anchors joke about needing a relationship timeline graphic.
draft mock boards have you at #3 to seattle. paige at #1 to dallas. different time zones. different systems. different futures. you call her after one of those segments, lying in your dorm staring at the ceiling.
“doesn’t scare you?” you ask. she bites her lip, thinking. “you scare me more.” you laugh, because she means it in the best way. march comes again because the universe likes patterns.
usc and uconn on opposite sides of the bracket—everyone praying for a final that would break the internet. it happens, of course. it always does with you two.
final score: uconn by three. no one remembers the confetti. no one remembers the trophy lift. everyone remembers the handshake line —you grabbing paige’s jersey, pulling her into you for a hug that lasts a beat too long.
her braid already frizzing at the ends from thirty-eight minutes of war. she whispers, low and unguarded, “i want to try. for real.” you nod once, because for once there’s nothing to banter about. draft night feels like fate hanging by threads.
paige goes #1 to dallas. you go #2 to seattle. not the same team, but closer than usc-uconn ever was. closer than a cross-country flight. she finds you backstage, heels off, makeup smudged, heart in your throat.
“we did it,” she says.
“yup,” you grin. “now i get to foul you legally during the season.”
“god, i love you,” she mutters before she even thinks about it. you freeze—not in panic, but in recognition.
“i know,” you say, and say it back just as quietly, “i love you too.” endgame isn’t cinematic. it’s real.
braids done in apartments instead of locker rooms. red-eyes traded for two-hour flights. facetime replaced by keys left on kitchen counters during off-days.
summer league workouts and grocery runs and w games where you guard her full court just to piss her off. the world keeps calling it rivalry.
you finally call it what it is.
love—with clean parts, tight elastics, and enough history to last a whole career.
usc finishes out west with one of their best seasons in a decade. uconn does uconn things—tournament runs, hype videos, the inevitable march noise.
scouts keep arguing over who should go #1 and #2. you pretend you don’t hear it, because that’s not the part that matters.
graduation comes before the draft—caps, gowns, families in bleachers, the two of you trying not to look at each other like you share a secret under your regalia. (which you do.)
draft night is loud. green room lights, media scrums, cameras that know how to hunt for drama.
paige goes #1 to dallas. you go #2 to seattle. the internet combusts for 48 hours straight:
“RIVALRY TO THE LEAGUE LETS GO”
“storm-wings beef incoming”
“someone edit them to runaway baby by bruno mars”
they have no idea. the proposal happens quietly, the way some sacred things should. not vegas. not a beach. not a helicopter over malibu with paparazzi in tow.
just storrs—uconn’s empty practice gym, april still cold enough that breath clouds the air. you’re sitting at center court, legs stretched out, wearing a black hoodie that definitely isn’t yours.
paige paces once, twice, then drops to one knee like she’s at the free throw line. no crowd. no cameras. no announcers.
“i don’t want the rivalry,” she says. “i want the forever part.” you stare because you thought forever was implied, but hearing it out loud makes your ribs go soft.
she holds up a ring—simple, athletic, not gaudy, not performative. something for someone who tapes their fingers and keeps their nails short. you don’t even let her finish the question. you kiss her first, answer after.
“yes,” against her mouth. “i know,” she grins. the wedding is barely a wedding. small guest list. teammates who know how to keep their mouths shut. no media. no brand deals. no photoset sponsorship.
your mom cries. azzi officiates because of course she does. the reception playlist is 80% r&b and 20% songs people pretended weren’t gay growing up.
paige’s hair is immaculate because you did them in the hotel bathroom while she kept saying “babe i’m already marrying you you don’t need to flex,” and you told her the pictures would last forever.
you say vows about love being work. she says vows about love being easy. both are true. soft-launch era is strategic. no wedding announcement. no ring selfie. no “mrs. & mrs.” merch drop. instead: the tiny things.
• paige posts a photo of her coffee table—two mugs, same brand of oat milk
• you go live after seattle practice wearing her old uconn hoodie
• her contract bio quietly changes from “girlfriend of” to “wife of” with no fanfare
• seattle’s equipment manager leaks a clip of you with a ring on your lanyard
• dallas posts a photo dump and the final slide is paige holding a bouquet with absolutely no caption
the comments start playing detective:
“WHO GAVE HER FLOWERS??”
“WHY DOES SHE HAVE A RING???”
“i’m not delusional i’m INVESTED.”
then comes the moment that breaks the dam—tunnel footage after a storm-wings game. you walk up, take paige’s braid in your hand, fix the loose end, kiss her temple once before cameras can blink.
not rivalry. not teasing. not speculation fuel. just domestic.
someone tweets: “i don’t think we were delulu i think they were just married.” and for the first time, neither of you deny it.
