hi queen can i request a daryl fic where the girls in the quarry group in season 1 doesnt seem to understand how can daryl and reader be together since he is always grumpy over something and has quite the temper, while reader is very gentle and sweet? but they soon end up noticing that daryl gives her princess treatment🤭 and even with his temper (towards the others ofc) he is actually a good boyfriend?
Scary Dog Privileges
You and Daryl fell in love long before the world met its end, though it seems no matter what you both do, the people you're making camp with can't grasp the concept of you, all frilly and sweet, and Daryl, all temper and rage, finding love together.
A/N: Hello, dear! Thank you so sm for requesting this fic! S1-S2 Daryl is so special to me, since I fell head over heels for his grumpy attitude almost immediately (so immediately MY MOM called me out on it, embarassing I know). I hope I did your request justice! Thank you for being so patient. I know this fic took some time to get out.
CW: 5k words, Established relationship pre-outbreak between Daryl and the reader, reader is an official sunshine! girly and Daryl spoils her rotten but won't admit it, the reader stays behind to help with basics at camp (i.e cooking, cleaning, mending), the reader gets Daryl out of his shell in more ways than you think (wink wonk), Outercourse between a male and female, brief mentions of pregnancy and wanting to avoid it, Daryl being kind of inexperienced and the reader guiding him briefly, Daryl being a grumbly little ball of anger but a softie for the reader, Carol teasing Daryl (besties), written with a plus sized! reader in mind (as always, chubby girls rise up), Petnames (sugar, doll, baby).
The fish aren’t biting today and you're two minutes away from crashing the actual fuck out. You sigh, tugging your borrowed flannel tighter around your shoulders as the wind kicks up, sending ripples across the quarry’s murky water.
Behind you, Carol hums something tuneless while scrubbing a shirt against the washboard, the rhythm steady as a heartbeat. "You’d think after all this time," she says, not looking up, "You'd be better at tellin’ when the fish are just plain stubborn. S’ not your fault, sweetheart."
You smile at her kindness, but it’s half-hearted. Your fingers fiddle with the frayed hem of Daryl’s shirt, the one he’d shrugged off onto shoulders this morning before heading into the woods, muttering about rabbit tracks he'd seen the day before. It still smells like him: sweat, gunpowder, and something stubbornly alive beneath it all.
Andrea tosses a pebble into the water, watching it sink. "How’s it you can stand him, anyway?" The question’s casual, but her eyes flick to you with real curiosity. "Man’s got a temper like a hornet’s nest."
Your cheeks flush pink, fingers tightening around the damp fabric in your hands. "Who, Daryl? Well… He’s not- " you start, then stop, unsure how to explain the Daryl that only you get to see, the one who tucks wildflowers behind your ear when he thinks no one’s looking, the one who builds little makeshift shelves in your tent out of scavenged wood and duct tape for the seashells you keep finding at the quarry.
They'll never understand him.
Carol’s lips quirk as she wrings out a pair of pants. "Oh, I know that look," she says, softer now. "Same one Ed used to give me when we were just kids, ‘fore he decided bein’ mean was easier than lovin’." The words hang heavy between you, the ghost of her bruises left unmentioned. Your heart breaks into pieces for her.
Andrea scoffs, tossing another pebble. "Still don’t get it. Guy snaps at Shane for breathing too loud, but you?" She gestures at the way you’re practically swimming in Daryl’s shirt, the sleeves rolled up almost six times. "He lets you steal his clothes like you're some kinda…"
"Pet," Carol supplies, grinning when you duck your head to try and hide the pink flush crawling up to your pierced ears.
"M’ not his pet," you grumble, but your ears burn hotter when Carol laughs, soft, knowing. The laundry flutters between your fingers, wet and shapeless, and you focus on folding it just to have something to do with your anxious, shaking hands.
"He brings me coffee," you say suddenly as if it's an epiphany, voice small against the quarry’s echo. "Every morning. Even when we’re low. He- uh- he remembers how I like it." Three sugars, no cream, because before the world ended, the corner diner always got it wrong and Daryl would watch you grimace through each bitter sip like a stubborn mule until he'd reach for the sugar packets and fix it himself.
Andrea’s pebble-throwing pauses. "Huh."
Carol’s hands still in the soapy water. "The man ever tell you why?"
You shake your head, pressing the folded shirt to your chest like a temporary shield. "Don’t gotta say it." The words come out quiet, barely louder than the water lapping at the rocks. "He shows me every damn day."
Carol’s eyes soften, but Andrea leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Yeah? How’s that?"
You bite your lip, tracing the stitching on Daryl’s sleeve where it’s come loose. "Last week," you start, voice gaining strength, "he came back from a hunt with his jacket torn up. Blood all over the sleeve." Andrea raises an eyebrow, but you rush on. "Not his. Walkers’. But he- " A laugh bubbles up, unexpected. "He still took it off before comin’ into the tent ‘cause he knows I don’t like the smell. Hung it on a tree branch like some kinda..."
"Gentleman," Carol finishes, grinning when you nod.
The conversation drifts away after that, dissolving into the quiet rhythm of washing and folding, but the warmth of Daryl’s secret kindness lingers under your ribs like a second heartbeat. By the time the sun dips low, casting long shadows across the quarry, you’ve retreated to your tent, the one tucked farther from the group, half-hidden by a thicket of pine. Inside, it’s a nest of mismatched blankets, scavenged trinkets, and the faint, stubborn scent of Daryl’s musk clinging to the fabric walls. You sit cross-legged on your shared rumpled sleeping bag, idly tracing the stitching of his shirt where it’s come loose at the shoulder, when the tent flap rustles, evening light filtering in briefly.
Daryl ducks inside, his silhouette backlit by the dying sun. He’s got a rabbit slung over one shoulder, its fur matted with dried blood, and a paper-wrapped bundle tucked under his arm. “Ain’t much,” he grunts, tossing the bundle into your lap. It’s warm, cornbread, probably scavenged from some abandoned pantry, and still faintly soft. “Figured you’d forget to eat.”
You unfold the paper carefully, revealing a hunk of cornbread, slightly crumbled at the edges. “You remembered,” you whisper in awe, because it’s Tuesday, and before the world ended, Tuesdays were cornbread nights at the diner down the road from your apartment. Daryl just shrugs, but his ears go pink as he busies himself with skinning the rabbit, his knife flashing in the dim light.
He works in silence, the only sound the steady rasp of blade against hide, until he pauses, glancing at you sideways. “Ain’t like you to hide out here, doll,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “Lori’s got that stew goin’ you like. Carol’s been askin’ after you.”
You pick at the cornbread crumbs in your lap, avoiding his gaze. “Wasn’t in the mood for company,” you murmur, but the lie tastes bitter on your tongue. Daryl’s knife stills mid-stroke, his brow furrowing as he studies you, really studies you, the way he does when he’s tracking something through the underbrush.
“Bullshit,” he says bluntly, wiping his hands on his jeans before scooting closer. The rabbit carcass lies forgotten as he nudges your knee with his own. “Spit it out.”
Your throat tightens. “They were talkin’ about you today,” you admit, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. “Andrea said she didn’t get how I could stand your temper. Carol called me your pet.”
Daryl’s nostrils flare, but it’s not anger that flashes across his face, it’s something raw and vulnerable, like a wounded animal caught in a trap. “They ain’t exactly wrong,” he mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck where the sun’s burned it pink. “Know I ain’t easy.”
"You're easy with me," you say softly, reaching out to trace the sunburned curve of his neck before you can stop yourself. Daryl goes still under your touch, his breath hitching like you've pressed against a bruise. "That's all that matters to me.”
His jaw works silently for a moment before he exhales through his nose, rough and ragged. "Still." The word comes out ground between his teeth. "Don't like 'em talkin' 'bout you like that. Like you're less than me, like I control you." The knife in his hand twitches, blade catching the fading light.
You catch his wrist before he can start skinning again, your thumb brushing the pulse point beneath his leather wristband. "They don't know, honey," you croon. "How you bring me coffee. How you built those little fucked up shelves for my shells." Your voice drops to a whisper, the tent walls suddenly too thin. "How you kiss me like I'm something precious even after all this time together."
Daryl's pupils blow wide, the knife slipping from his fingers to thud against the sleeping bag. "Christ, woman,” he breathes, and then his large hands are framing your face, calloused thumbs sweeping over your cheekbones like he's trying to memorize the shape of you. "Ain't never had nothin' half as good as you, you know that," he says, voice cracking on the last word.
His forehead presses against yours, the heat of his skin seeping into you like sunlight through leaves. You can smell the sweat and pine sap clinging to him, the metallic tang of walker blood still lingering under his nails. But when his lips brush yours, hesitant, almost reverent, it’s all you can focus on.
"You’re doin’ it again," you murmur against his mouth, fingers curling into the frayed edges of his vest.
"Doin’ what?" he grumbles, but his hands are already sliding down to grip your hips, tugging you flush against him.
"Talkin’ like you don’t deserve me. You know I hate when you do that." You nip at his bottom lip, grinning when he growls and kisses you harder, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a desperation that makes your toes curl.
Daryl pulls back just enough to glare at you, his breath hot against your lips. "Ain't talkin' like that…" he mutters, but his hands betray him, sliding up under the stolen flannel to trace the dip of your waist. "Just statin' the facts, sugar."
You arch into his touch, biting back a whimper when his calloused thumbs brush the underside of your breasts. "Your facts are stupid," you whine, and he snorts, dragging his mouth down your neck just to hear you gasp. The stubble on his chin rasps against your skin, the sensation sending sparks down your spine.
The cornbread lies forgotten as Daryl maneuvers you onto your back, his body a solid weight between your thighs. He braces himself on one elbow, the other hand still roaming under your shirt like he’s mapping new territory. "Always so damn soft, it drives me crazy," he practically coos against your collarbone, his voice rough with something that isn’t quite disbelief but close enough to make your chest ache.
You hitch a plush leg over his hip, grinding against the hard line of his cock straining against his jeans. Daryl groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "Quit that," he grits out, but his hips jerk forward anyway, betraying him, seeking friction.
Daryl’s breath hitches when you rock against him again, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises. “Told you- fuckin’ hell woman- quit it,” he growls, but his body betrays him, pressing you deeper into the nest of blankets as his cock twitches against your thigh. You whine, arching up to chase the heat of him, but he pins you down with a rough hand splayed across your stomach.
“Ain’t got no condoms, y'know that,” he grumbles, voice thick with frustration. His nose brushes yours tenderly, close enough you can taste the stale coffee on his breath. “Can’t risk it. Not now. Not when things are like this.”
You squirm under his grip, fingers clawing at his vest. “Don’t need ‘em for what I want,” you pant, tipping your head back when his teeth graze your pulse point. “S’ called outercourse- just- just rub against me, c’mon- ”
Daryl freezes, brow furrowed. The confusion on his face is almost comical, like you’ve just suggested they start selling ice cream in hell. “The fuck’s outercourse?”
You giggle at the bewildered look on his face, cheeks flushing as you reach between your bodies to unbutton his jeans with trembling fingers. "Like this," you murmur, guiding his hand down to the damp heat between your thighs. His breath hitches when your fingers wrap around his cock, hot and heavy in your palm, as you drag him through the slickness gathering there. "Just- just move against me, okay? Can't get pregnant like this."
Daryl makes a strangled noise low in his throat, hips jerking forward instinctively. "Fuck, sugar," he rasps, forehead dropping to yours as you guide him between your thighs, the head of his cock catching against your clit with each shallow thrust. "This- shit- this legal?"
You snort, dragging your nails down his sweat-damp back. "Pretty sure the law ain't exactly a priority anymore, babe."
Daryl groans, hips stuttering as he grinds against you, the rough fabric of his jeans rasping against your inner thighs. "Fuckin' little smartass," he grits out, but there's no heat in it, just that rough, desperate edge that makes your stomach flip. His calloused fingers dig into the swell of your hips as he finds a rhythm, each thrust dragging his cock against your puffy clit in a way that has you biting your lip to keep from crying out and embarrassing both of you in front of the whole camp.
"Quiet, gotta be quiet, baby," he breathes against your ear, nipping at the lobe. "Whole damn camp's gonna hear you."
You whimper, arching into him as his teeth sink into the soft skin of your shoulder, just hard enough to sting. "Daryl- "
Your breath comes in ragged gasps, fingers twisting in Daryl's vest as he moves against you with rough, desperate strokes. Every drag of his cock against your clit sends sparks up your spine, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly. "Daryl," you whimper again, louder this time, and he clamps a hand gently over your mouth with a muttered curse, his hips never slowing.
"Told you- quiet," he growls, but his voice cracks halfway through, his pupils blown wide with want. His other hand slips between your bodies, calloused fingers finding your swollen, slick clit with unerring accuracy. The dual stimulation makes your thighs shake, a broken moan muffled against his palm.
Daryl watches you unravel beneath him with something like reverence, his breath hot against your cheek. "That's it," he croons, thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless circles. "Gonna make you come so damn pretty for me."
You writhe under him, the pressure building unbearably fast, almost overwhelmingly fast. The tent walls feel paper-thin at this point, every rustle of fabric deafening as Daryl's thrusts grow more erratic, his rhythm faltering. His forehead drops to yours, sweat dripping from his temple onto your flushed skin. "Close," he grits out, his voice raw. "Fuck- so close- "
You clench around nothing miserably as Daryl’s fingers work you closer to the edge, your thighs trembling where they bracket his hips. "Please, Daryl- baby-" you whine against his palm, the words muffled but ridiculously needy. His answering groan is ragged, his hips stuttering as he grinds against you with renewed urgency. The head of his cock catches your clit on every thrust, the friction just shy of too much, until it isn't, until pleasure crests like a wave and crashes over you in a shuddering rush.
Daryl’s hand tightens over your mouth as your back arches off the sleeping bag, your cry swallowed by his calloused palm. He watches you with dark, hooded eyes, his breath coming in sharp pants against your temple. "Fuck," he rasps, his hips jerking erratically. "Just- just like that, sugar- " His voice cracks as his own release hits him, his body going rigid above you before he collapses with a muffled grunt, his forehead pressing into the curve of your shoulder.
For a long moment, the only sound is your mingled breathing, harsh and uneven in the quiet of the tent. Daryl’s hand slides from your mouth to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had escaped. "Ain’t never seen nothin’ prettier," he rasps, voice rough with something that makes your chest ache.
You huff a giggle, still boneless beneath him, and nudge his shoulder with your nose. "Even with your hand smotherin’ me?"
Daryl snorts, rolling off you with a grunt, his body still thrumming with leftover heat. He reaches for the discarded flannel beside the sleeping bag, wiping hastily at the mess between your thighs before tossing it into the corner. "Woulda been louder without it," he teases, but there's no bite to it, just that gruff tenderness that still makes your stomach flutter.
You stretch lazily, the muscles in your legs pleasantly sore, and catch him staring at the chubby curve of your hip where his shirt has ridden up. His gaze flickers away when you notice, but not fast enough to hide the way his throat bobs. "What?" you tease, poking his ribs.
"Nothin'." He catches your wrist, pressing your palm flat against his hairy chest where his heartbeat thrums rabbit-quick beneath warm skin. His fingers twine with yours, callouses rough against your knuckles. "Just... you."
The simplicity of it punches the air from your lungs. You squeeze his hand, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. "Daryl Dixon, what a poet you are," you giggle, half-joking to mask the way your voice wavers.
Daryl scowls at your teasing, but his fingers tighten around yours,.anchoring, possessive. “Ain’t poetic,” he grumbles, rolling onto his side to face you. The fading light catches the scar above his eyebrow and you trace it without thinking, and he stills under your touch, his breath hitching like it’s the first time you’ve ever touched him.
“You are, though,” you murmur, and his brow furrows deeper. “In your own way.” You press a kiss to the scar, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. “Like when you patched my Chuck Taylors with duct tape ‘cause you knew they were my favorite.”
Daryl’s ears go pink. He swats halfheartedly at your shoulder. “Shut up, Christ almighty.” But his voice lacks its usual bite, softened by the way his thumb strokes circles into your palm. The silence stretches, comfortable, until his stomach growls loudly enough to startle a laugh out of you.
“Forgot about the cornbread,” you admit sheepishly, reaching for the crumpled paper packet. It’s cold now, the edges brittle, but Daryl snatches it from your hands before you can take a bite.
Daryl scowls at the stale cornbread like it's personally offended him, then shoves half into his mouth in one bite. Crumbs stick to his stubble as he chews, glaring at the tent wall like it’s hiding answers. You giggle, reaching up to brush them away, but he catches your wrist, turning your palm to press a kiss to the center. The gesture’s so sudden, so un-Daryl-like, your breath catches.
"Still tastes like shit," he laughs against your skin, but his lips curve just enough to betray him.
You wiggle your fingers free to poke his ribs again. "Hmmm, maybe. But I know you scavenged it from that gas station pantry just ‘cause you remembered it’s Tuesday.
Though he doesn't deny it outright.
His scowl deepens, but his hands betray him again, tugging you closer until you’re sprawled half on top of him. The rabbit carcass lies forgotten by the tent flap, its blood seeping into the dirt. Daryl’s fingers trace idle patterns down your spine, rough enough to raise goosebumps. "Ain’t like I got a damn calendar, jus’ knew you needed dinner," he grumbles, pink flushing his face.
His fingers pause mid-stroke when he feels the tremor run through you, not from cold, but from the way his blunt honesty still surprises you sometimes. The way he remembers things no one else would. Your nose presses into the hollow of his throat, breathing in sweat and gunpowder and something stubbornly Daryl. "You're fulla shit, babe," you murmur, but your lips curve against his skin when his chest rumbles with a sound too soft to be a laugh.
The cornbread crumbs itch where they’ve scattered between your bare thighs, sticking to the sweat still drying on your skin. Daryl’s fingers pause their lazy tracing of your spine to pluck one away, flicking it into the dark corner of the tent with a grunt. “Messy girl,” he mutters, but there’s no real insult behind it. He'd never and you know it.
You nuzzle deeper into the crook of his neck, smiling when his stubble scratches your forehead. “Your fault,” you murmur, dragging a fingertip through the trail of crumbs on his chest. “Shoulda let me eat it proper.”
Daryl huffs, catching your wandering hand in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, calluses catching on the delicate skin there. “Ain’t my fault you got distracted,” he says, but his voice dips low, roughened at the edges in a way that sends warmth pooling low in your belly again.
Outside, the campfire crackles, voices drifting on the wind, Shane’s booming laugh, Carol’s quiet murmur. The sounds feel distant, muffled by the thick canvas of your tent and the steady thump of Daryl’s heartbeat beneath your ear. You press closer, inhaling the scent of him, pine resin and gun oil, the metallic tang of the rabbit’s blood still clinging to his vest where it’s discarded beside the sleeping bag.
Daryl’s fingers tighten around yours as the campfire voices grow louder, Shane’s boisterous storytelling punctuated by Glenn’s nervous laughter. You feel the tension coil in Daryl’s shoulders beneath your cheek, his breath hitching like he’s bracing for impact. “Ignore ‘em, it's just me and you here,” you coo, pressing a kiss to the jut of his collarbone. His grunt is noncommittal, but his thumb strokes your wrist in silent thanks for the knowing comfort.
The tent flap rustles suddenly, not from wind, but from the deliberate shuffle of feet outside. “Y’all decent?” Carol’s voice is amused, muffled through the canvas. Daryl stiffens, his grip on you tightening possessively. You bite back a laugh at the way his ears flush crimson.
“No,” he barks, but you’re already wriggling free, scrambling for his discarded angel vest to cover yourself. Daryl snatches it back with a growl, shoving it into your chest again. “Wear it proper,” he practically commands, pointedly avoiding your eyes as he yanks his jeans up over his pale hips.
You button the vest with fumbling fingers just as Carol’s head pokes through the flap. Her eyes dart between Daryl’s disheveled hair and your swollen pink lips, her smirk widening. “Dinner’s ready,” she says, too innocently. “Brought y’all bowls since you were... occupied.”
Daryl's arm snakes around your waist like a steel band, yanking you back against his chest with a growl that vibrates through your shoulder blades. "We're good, thanks," he barks at Carol, his free hand snatching the offered bowls with more force than necessary. The stew sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
Carol's smirk doesn't falter. She lingers just a heartbeat too long, eyes flicking to the scattered cornbread crumbs and the way Daryl's vest hangs open on you, barely covering your thighs. "Mmhm," she hums, dragging the sound out like taffy before ducking back out. The tent flap falls shut with a whisper of canvas, but not before you catch her muttering, "Lovebirds."
You bury your face in Daryl's shoulder to muffle the giggle threatening to escape. His grip tightens. "Ain't funny," he grumbles, but his lips brush your temple in contradiction, lingering just long enough to make your toes curl.
The stew smells rich, rabbit, judging by the gamey scent, but Daryl sets both bowls aside without tasting them. Instead, his fingers find the loose threads at the shoulder of his vest where you've been worrying at them all week. "Gotta fix this," he mutters, more to himself than you, his calloused thumb rubbing circles over the frayed fabric.
Daryl's fingers still on the loose threads, his brow furrowing in that way it does when he's turning something over in his head. You watch the familiar crease form between his eyebrows, the one you've traced with your fingertips more times than you can count. Without thinking, you reach up to smooth it away, and his gaze snaps to yours, startled, like he'd forgotten you were there.
"Quit fussin' on me, woman," he groans, but he leans into your touch anyway, his stubble rasping against your palm. His hand drops to your knee, thumb brushing the sensitive skin just above where his vest ends. The contrast makes you shiver, rough hands touching you so softly it aches.
Outside, Shane's voice rises above the others, followed by a burst of laughter that sounds horrifically forced. Daryl's fingers twitch against your thigh, his jaw tightening. "What a fuckin’ asshole," he mutters under his breath, but there's no real heat behind it, just exhaustion, the kind that settles deep in his bones after too many days with too little sleep.
You catch his hand, pressing a kiss to his scarred knuckles. "Eat," you prompt gently, nodding toward the forgotten stew. "Before it gets cold."
Daryl scowls at the bowls like they've personally insulted him, but his stomach growls loud enough to make you snort. He mutters something about "damn traitorous guts" before snatching up the nearest bowl, shoving a spoonful into his mouth with all the grace of a starving wolf. Steam curls around his lips as he chews, his brow furrowing deeper with each bite.
"Carol put rosemary in it," he grumbles around a mouthful, nose wrinkling. "Tastes like a hotel's fuckin' potpourri."
You giggle, stealing his spoon for a taste. The herbs are overwhelming, definitely Carol's doing, her attempt at "civilizing" camp meals, but beneath it, you can still taste the careful balance of salt Daryl always insists on when he cooks game. "You seasoned it," you accuse, licking the spoon clean.
Daryl's ears flush pink. He swipes the utensil back with more force than necessary. "Ain't my fault she ruins good meat, was tryin’ to fix it," he grumbles, but his shoulders relax incrementally as he eats, the tension bleeding out of him with each spoonful.
The stew bowl scrapes against the tent floor as Daryl sets it aside, half-finished. His fingers find the curve of your knee again, where his vest rides up, tracing idle circles that raise goosebumps. Outside, the campfire laughter swells, Glenn's nervous giggle, Shane's annoying booming voice, but Daryl's touch anchors you, rough and sure.
hi!! i was wondering if you could write a post re4 remake Leon S. Kennedy x reader oneshot with angst + comfort?
basically, leon is having a really bad nightmare and he's tossing and turning in his sleep, clearly distressed. it wakes up the reader, and she tries to gently wake him up, talking to him and shaking him a little but it's not working.
then when she touches him, he suddenly reacts like he's still in the dream. he flips her over and pins her down, thinking she's a threat, and ends up putting his hand around her throat. like enough to cut off her breathing for a few seconds.
she manages to snap him out of it, and the second he realizes it's her, he immediately lets go and backs off. he's horrified and disgusted with himself and genuinely shaken up that he could've hurt her.
even though y/n isn't upset and understands it was just a trauma response, leon refuses to sleep next to her again because he's scared it'll happen again.
id love it if the ending is comfort-heavy, where y/n reassures him, maybe gently argues with him, and eventually convinces (or even bribes lol) him to come back to bed, showing him she trusts him and isn't afraid.
Safe and Sound
After Leon returns from his mission to save Ashley in Spain, something is... off with him, to say the least. He keeps disappearing in the middle of the night and can't quite seem to get any rest, no matter how relaxed you get him, not to mention the whiskey he's been drinking. The tension breaks when he wakes up from a nightmare and almost attacks you in the process. Getting him to be vulnerable again with you may be more difficult than saving the President's daughter.
A/N: Hello, dear! Thank you for requesting this fic. I know it's taken a bit to get out, and I appreciate the patience. I work full-time and am a full-time student, so requests take time. I really tried to dive into Leon's PTSD in this fic, because I feel like RE4 and RE9 didn't do it justice. I hope that you like it!
CW: 6k words, Established relationship between Leon and the reader (married), Graphic descriptions of Panic attacks, PTSD, nightmares, Graphic descriptions of Leon attacking the reader (not hurting them) when waking from nightmares, Graphic descriptions of mental health struggles and medication for it, Brief mentions of drinking and alcoholism, ANGST (baby's first hurt/comfort fic), Reader being the best wifey they can be, Hurt/Comfort GALOR, Lovey-dovey discussions of marriage vows, Tooth-rotting fluff and acceptance, the terrifying ordeal of being known, Petnames (sweetheart, baby, honey).
Leon's hands are shaking like a fucking leaf. That's the first thing you notice when he walks through the door two weeks late, duffel bag slung over his shoulder like he's just returning from basic training instead of whatever classified hellhole they'd sent him to this time. His grip is steady when he pulls you into a hug so tight your ribs protest, his palms dry and warm against the back of your neck. But his eyes, those damn blue eyes, keep flickering to every shadow in your apartment's hallway like something might lunge at him from behind the coat rack.
"Missed you, sweetie," he croons, exhausted, into your hair, and you can feel the way his chest hitches just once before he locks it down. He smells like airplane seats and gun oil, the familiar scent undercut by something acrid you can't place. Sweat, maybe, but not the kind from a gym. The kind that comes from running like your life depends on it.
You make him shower while you order his favorite takeout, extra spicy, the kind that makes his nose go pink and scrunch up like a little bunny, and when he emerges in sweatpants with his hair damp, you pretend not to notice how he checks the locks on the windows twice. The apartment feels smaller with him in it, like the walls are holding their breath.
Dinner is quiet in a way that makes your fork clink too loudly against your plate. Leon eats methodically, nodding when you tell him about your coworker's new puppy, humming when you mention the leaky faucet you finally fixed. But his knee jitters under the table, and when a car backfires outside, his chopsticks freeze halfway to his mouth for three whole seconds before he forces a smile and asks if you've been watering his little succulent on the bedroom’s windowsill. You’d gotten it for him as a gag gift last year for Valentine’s day.
___
The nightmares start on the third night. You wake to the sound of thrashing sheets and Leon's choked-off gasp, his body coiled tight as a spring in the dark. When you reach for him, his hand snaps out faster than you can blink, your wrist caught in a grip that'll leave bruises tomorrow. For one terrible second, his eyes are wild and unseeing, his other hand already halfway to where his sidearm should be on the nightstand (if you hadn't quietly moved it to the hall closet two days ago). Then he blinks, and his entire body recoils like he's been burned. "Jesus- fuck- " He releases you so fast you hear his shoulder pop. You’re sure his neck has whiplash.
You don't say anything when he spends the rest of the night on the couch. Don't mention the muffled clink of glass against glass at 3 am, or how his coffee smells suspiciously like whiskey the next morning. Instead, you slide the aspirin across the breakfast counter along with his favorite mug, the stupid one with "World's Okayest Husband" in peeling letters, and let your fingers linger against his just a second too long. His knuckles are split. You don't ask.
By the time week two of the bed divorce rolls around, the circles under his eyes could pass for fucking bruises. You catch him staring at your shared bed like it's wired with explosives, his hands flexing at his sides. When you finally snap during a particularly infuriating argument about whether he's "just tired" or "coming down with something," your voice cracks in a way that makes him flinch. "Leon S. Kennedy," you say, gripping his face between your palms, thumbs pressing into those ridiculous cheekbones, "you wrecked our coffee table last night trying to strangle a pillow. This isn't just a fucking cold, you can’t just shake this off."
His breath hitches, a wet, ugly sound, and suddenly he's folding into you like a marionette with its strings cut, forehead pressed to your collarbone. "I keep seeing it," he rasps, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to hurt. "Not just Spain. All of it. Every goddamn…" He cuts himself off with a shudder, and you realize with dawning horror that he's not just talking about missions. The way his shoulders tense tells you he's back there, in Raccoon City, where he was barely more than a kid with a handgun and a dead partner trying to save the world.
You maneuver him onto the couch, his body stiff and uncooperative until you straddle his lap, deliberately pressing your softness against him. "Look at me," you croon, carding your fingers through his hair, the way he likes, just shy of too rough, until his gaze focuses blearily on your face. "What color are my eyes, honey?"
"_____" Leon rasps, his voice scraped raw from too many nights of stifled screams. His fingers twitch against your hips, like he's afraid to hold on but terrified to let go. “What color is the couch?” you ask him. “Uh- it’s- blue, blue like the ocean,” Leon rasps out. “Perfect. What things can you smell right now?” you croon gently, urging him to ground himself.
You don't move when his hands finally slide around your waist after going through all the grounding techniques your therapist taught you so long ago, his thumbs pressing into the softness there with a reverence that makes your throat tight. "Leon," you start, but he shakes his head against you, his nose dragging along the curve of your neck.
"Don't," he mutters, and you can feel the heat of his blush against your skin. "I know what you're gonna say. That I shouldn't- that you're too much," His grip tightens almost imperceptibly. "Fuck, sweetheart, you gotta know I love this. Love you. All of you." His voice cracks on the last word, and you realize with a jolt that he's not just talking about your body, he's talking about you, about the way you're still here despite the bruises and the broken furniture and the bourbon-breath mornings.
The next morning, you wake to the unfamiliar weight of Leon's arm slung over your waist, his face buried in the mess of your curls. For one disorienting second, you think you're dreaming, then his fingers flex against your stomach, and you feel the dampness where his eyelashes have stuck to the back of your neck. "You cried?" you ask, without thinking, and immediately want to kick yourself.
Leon doesn't tense like you expect. Instead, his exhale ghosts warm across your shoulder blade, his fingers splaying wider against your stomach like he's mapping the terrain. "Yeah," he admits, voice thick with something that isn't shame. "Dreamt you were gone. Woke up and found you all curled up right here, all...warm." His palm slides up to rest over your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your sleepshirt. "Felt like a fuckin’ idiot."
You twist carefully in his hold until you're facing him, his arm still hooked low around your back. His eyes are puffy, the blue almost gray in the morning light filtering through your terrible curtains. There's stubble smudged along his jaw, darker than his sleep-mussed hair. Beautiful, even like this, especially like this, when he's too exhausted to hide. "You're not an idiot, you’re my husband," you say, brushing your knuckles along his cheekbone. He leans into the touch like a cat, eyelids fluttering.
The fridge hums in the kitchen. A car honks three stories down. Leon's breathing evens out against your palm.
You wait until he's halfway through his third cup of coffee, properly caffeinated, not the whiskey-laced sludge from last week, before broaching the subject. "So," you start, tracing the rim of your own mug, "Dr. Chen called in my refill yesterday." Leon makes a noncommittal noise around his toast, but his shoulders stiffen just enough that you notice. You press on before you lose your nerve. "She, uh. Asked if you'd thought about maybe...talking to someone. Or trying something."
Leon's chewing slows. He sets the toast down with exaggerated care, like it's made of glass. "Something," he repeats flatly, and you can see the exact moment his brain catches up. his nostrils flare, his fingers twitching toward his coffee like he needs the burn. "You mean pills."
"Not just pills," you say quickly, reaching across the table to curl your fingers around his wrist. His pulse thrums wild under your fingertips. "Therapy. Sleep aids. Whatever helps." You squeeze gently, thumb brushing the jagged scar along his inner arm, a souvenir from Spain he still won't explain. "It helped me, remember?”
"Yeah." He cuts you off with a jerky nod, jaw working. You can practically see the memories flickering behind his eyes, your own bad nights, the panic attacks that used to leave you gasping on the bathroom floor. His thumb strokes your knuckles absently, like he's reassuring himself you're still here. "Just...not yet, okay?" His voice drops to something raw and private, his free hand rubbing at his sternum like it aches. "Need to…I gotta get my head straight first."
You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper. The Leon Kennedy Special: later, not now, I'll handle it. But the way his shoulders hunch tells you this isn't macho bullshit, he's genuinely afraid. Of what, you're not sure. Losing control, maybe. Or worse: admitting he needs control in the first place.
So you pivot. "Okay," you murmur, tracing the veins on the back of his hand. "But will you at least let me hold you while you sleep tonight? Properly? No couch, no- " You gesture vaguely toward the hall closet where his gun lives now. His cheeks flush pink.
Leon exhales through his nose, long and slow. His fingers twist to lace through yours, squeezing tight. "Yeah," he mutters, ducking his head so his bangs shadow his face. "Might- might elbow you or some shit, though."
You grin, squeezing back. "I'll survive. Used to sharing a bed with a human tornado." You don't mention the three times you've woken up wedged against the wall because he starfishes in his sleep. Or the morning he had practically smothered you with his biceps curled around you. You wouldn’t trade Leon cuddles for the world.
"You know I'm not just your wife, right?" The words slip out while you're scraping congealed takeout into the trash, Leon's silhouette hunched over the sink as he scrubs at a pan with military precision. His shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly, the way they do when he's caught off guard by tenderness. You bump your hip against his, sending soap suds sloshing over his wrists. "I'm also the idiot who watched you eat an entire jalapeño on a dare and then held your hair back while you puked in a Denny's parking lot. Best friends remember these things, baby."
Leon's snort is muffled by the running water, but you catch the way his knuckles whiten around the sponge. "That was one time," he grumbles, embarrassed, but there's a warmth under the grumble that wasn't there yesterday. You press your advantage, sidling closer until your arm brushes his, your hip nudging his thigh.
"And who else would've put up with your 'experimental phase' where you tried to grow a mustache?" You flick a soap bubble at his nose, grinning when he wrinkles it instinctively. "Face it, babe. You're stuck with me. Elbows, nightmares, questionable facial hair choices, the whole package."
The pan clatters into the drying rack. Leon turns abruptly, water dripping from his wrists onto your socks as he cages you against the counter. His eyes dart over your face like he's searching for something, doubt, maybe, or pity. What he finds makes his breath stutter. "Even when I'm like this?" he asks, voice scraped raw. His thumb brushes the fading bruise on your wrist, feather-light.
You catch his thumb between your fingers before he can pull away, pressing his palm flat against your sternum where your heartbeat thrums wild and steady. "Especially when you're like this," you say, and watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard. "Remember sophomore year? When I'd make you check my dorm door lock fourteen times before I could sleep?" Leon's mouth twitches at the memory, how you'd curl into his side like a spooked animal, whispering “one more time, please” until he'd sigh dramatically and rattle the handle again just to watch you relax.
His forehead drops to yours with a quiet thunk. "You weren't crazy," he mumbles, breath warm against your lips. "Just scared, sweetie. I knew that."
"And you're not crazy either," you whisper back, digging your nails lightly into his wrist when he tries to turn away. "You're just scared too, Leon. There's a difference." His pulse jumps under your fingertips, rabbit-quick and fragile, and for a dizzying second, you're both twenty again, tangled in twin dorm beds with the lights on because the dark felt like dying.
Leon makes a wounded noise low in his throat, his free hand fisting in the back of your sleepshirt. "Not the same," he grits out, but he's trembling now, his knees bumping yours like he's subconsciously trying to steady himself. "You didn't- " He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, his nose brushing yours.
You kiss him on the nose, just a quick press of your lips to the bridge where his freckles hide, and cradle his face before he can finish that sentence. His stubble rasps against your palms, the warmth of his flush bleeding into your skin. "It is the same," you say, firm enough to make his eyelashes flicker. "Different monsters under the bed, same scared kids trying to outrun them." Leon's breath hitches, his throat working under your thumbs. You can see the protest forming behind his teeth, but I should be stronger, but I was trained for this, so you dig your fingers into his hair and tilt his head back until the kitchen light washes out the shadows under his eyes. "Listen to me, you beautiful disaster. Fear doesn't care about rank or training. It just is."
Leon's grip on your shirt tightens, his knuckles pressing into the small of your back. For a heart-stopping second, you think he's going to shake you off, then his shoulders slump, his forehead thudding against yours again with a wet exhale. "Fuck," he mutters, voice cracking around the edges. "When did you get so smart?" His attempt at levity falls flat when his breath hitches on the last word, his nose bumping yours in a way that's more nuzzle than accident.
You hum, tracing the shell of his ear with your pinky. "Since I married an idiot who thinks PTSD has a fucking badge requirement." The jab lands softer than you intended, your thumb swiping away the dampness at his temple before he can flinch from it. Leon huffs a laugh that's mostly air, his fingers flexing against your spine like he's counting vertebrae to steady himself.
The refrigerator clicks on with a buzz, flooding the kitchen with its arrhythmic hum. Leon's breath evens out by degrees, his chest rising and falling against yours in something almost like sync. You don't mention the way his pulse still rabbits under your fingertips, or how his left knee keeps twitching against yours, tiny tremors he can't control. Instead, you slide your hands down to his shoulders, squeezing the knotted muscle there until he groans. "C'mon, baby," you murmur, nudging him toward the hallway. "Let's get you horizontal before you pass out on my nice, clean floor."
Leon lets you steer him toward the bedroom with the pliant exhaustion of a man who's forgotten how to rest. His gait is all wrong, that trained, precise stride gone loose and uneven, like his knees might buckle if he thinks too hard about walking. You pretend not to notice when he pauses at the threshold, his fingers brushing the doorframe like he's checking for tripwires.
The sheets are cool when you guide him down, smelling faintly of lavender from the detergent you switched to last month, something soft and uncomplicated, nothing like the antiseptic sting of government-issue soap. You’d hoped it would give Leon some sort of comfort. Leon inhales sharply when his back hits the mattress, his spine rigid for three heartbeats before he sinks into the pillows. "S'nice," he mumbles into the fabric, already slurring. You press a palm between his shoulder blades, feeling the knots there unravel under your touch.
"Still with me, Lee?" you coo, working your thumbs along the ridge of his trapezius. Leon grunts something unintelligible, his face half-buried in your oversized duvet. His hair fans out against the pillowcase, golden under the afternoon light filtering through the blinds. You count the freckles along his hairline, one, two, three, faint as pencil marks, until his breathing deepens.
It happens slowly: the tension bleeding from his shoulders, his fingers uncurling from their fists. You watch the moment sleep takes him, his eyelashes fluttering once, twice, before settling against his cheeks. The shadows under his eyes look softer like this, less like bruises and more like smudged charcoal. Beautiful, even in exhaustion.
___
Leon's scream wakes you at 3:17 AM, not the usual choked gasp, but a full-bodied scream that sends your heart jackhammering against your ribs. You're moving before you're fully awake, your body remembering these nocturnal emergencies better than your brain. His thrashing limbs catch you in the sternum as you reach for him, knocking the air from your lungs in a wheeze. "Leon- baby- "
His forearm catches you across the throat as he bucks upright, instinctive, panicked, and for one dizzying second, the room tilts sideways. You claw at his wrist, gasping around the pressure, and the sound snaps him back like a rubber band. Leon recoils so fast he nearly tumbles off the mattress, his back hitting the headboard with a dull thud. "Jesus- fuck- " His hands flutter around your face, trembling now, fingertips ghosting over the tender skin of your neck without touching. "Did I?"
You catch his wrists before he can spiral, pressing his palms flat against your collarbones where he can feel your pulse hammering. "I'm okay," you rasp, swallowing around the ache. His breath hitches wetly, eyes darting between your throat and his own hands like they might morph into weapons. "See? Still breathing." You force a grin, nudging his knee with yours. "Though if you wanted me to stop snoring, there are nicer ways to ask."
Leon makes a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. His whole body shakes, not the controlled tremors from earlier, but full-body quakes that rattle his teeth. "Dreamt you were- " He cuts himself off with a violent shudder, fingers flexing against your skin. "They had you on a fucking table, and I was too late- "
You hitch forward onto your knees, bracketing his thighs with yours, and press your lips to the crown of his head. His hair smells like sweat and lavender, the scent gone sharp with panic. "I'm right here," you coo against his scalp, carding your fingers through the damp strands at his nape. "Not a scratch on me. Well." You tilt his chin up with your thumb, guiding his gaze to the faint red mark blooming across your throat. "Maybe one scratch."
Leon's fingers hover over the mark on your throat, barely touching, just the ghost of his calloused fingertips tracing the edges like he's afraid you'll dissolve under his hands. His breath comes in short, jagged bursts, and you can see the exact moment his brain catches up with his body: pupils dilating, throat working as he swallows hard enough to hurt. "Fuck," he rasps, voice shredded. "Fuck, I’m so sorry- I didn’t-”.
You catch his hand before he can pull away, pressing his palm flat against the side of your neck where your pulse thrums steady and alive. "Count with me, yeah? Like before but a little different," you murmur, matching your breathing to the slow rise and fall of his chest. "One, two- that's it, sweetheart- three..." His fingers twitch against your skin, but he follows your lead, inhaling sharply through his nose on four. By seven, his shoulders start to loosen; by ten, his forehead drops to yours with a shuddering exhale.
The clock on the nightstand ticks loudly in the quiet. Somewhere outside, a dog barks. Leon's knee jostles against yours, unintentional, just another tremor he can't control, but he doesn't flinch away this time. "They used to make us do this in training," he mutters against your lips, breath warm and damp. "Box breathing. For- for panic. Didn't think it actually worked." His thumb brushes your jaw, tentative. "Guess I was wrong."
"You're wrong a lot," you tease lightly, bumping his nose with yours. The joke lands softly, and Leon huffs something that might be a laugh if it weren't so wrecked. His fingers trail down to your collarbone, tracing the dip there like he's memorizing it.
His fingers linger at the hollow of your throat, pressing just enough to feel your pulse jump. "Still alive," you whisper, and Leon makes a noise like he's been gutted, his forehead pressing harder against yours. You can taste the salt of his sweat, feel the uneven stutter of his breathing as it syncs with yours. The room smells like laundry soap and fear, the sheets tangled around your ankles where he'd kicked them off in his thrashing.
Outside, a car alarm starts wailing three floors down. Leon's shoulders tense automatically, his head snapping toward the window before he catches himself. You see the exact moment he forces his muscles to unlock, the way his jaw works, the deliberate exhale through his nose. His fingers flex against your collarbone, grounding himself in your warmth. "Sorry," he mutters, thumb brushing the spot where his forearm had caught your throat. "Didn't mean to- "
"You didn't," you interrupt, catching his wrist before he can retreat. His skin is clammy under your fingers, the scars along his knuckles stark in the dim light from the streetlamp outside. You press his palm back to your chest, over your heart. "See? Still beating. Still all yours."
Leon's breath hitches. His fingers curl slightly, not quite gripping, just resting there like he's afraid you'll vanish if he holds on too tight. The dog outside barks again, and this time he doesn't flinch. Progress.
The morning light paints Leon's bruises in shades of honey when you wake, his eyelashes casting shadows down his cheeks, his split knuckles glowing pink where they rest against your hip. He's curled around you like a question mark, his knees tucked behind yours, his breath warm and even against the nape of your neck. You count the freckles on his forearm where it's slung over your waist, each one a tiny victory.
The first thing you notice is the light, real morning light, not the pale predawn gray that usually accompanies Leon's gasping wake-ups. It slants across the rumpled sheets in warm stripes, catching the dust motes drifting lazily above Leon's sleeping form. His face is slack for once, the perpetual tension between his brows smoothed away. You count his breaths, slow, even, against your collarbone where his nose is tucked.
Six hours and twenty-three minutes. The digital clock on the nightstand blinks the proof at you in smug red numbers.
Leon stirs when you shift to face him, his nose wrinkling adorably as he gropes blindly for your waist. "Mmph, baby?" His voice is thick with sleep, the arm slung over your hips tightening possessively. "S'early."
"It's nine-thirty," you whisper, barely containing your grin. His lashes flutter against his cheeks, no dark circles today, and you can't help yourself. You press your lips to the delicate skin beneath his left eye, then the right, then the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow. Leon makes a noise halfway between a groan and a purr, his hand flexing against the softness of your hip.
"Sweetheart," he grumbles, but there's no heat in it, just sleepy bewilderment as you kiss the bridge of his nose, the apple of each cheek, the stubborn set of his jaw. His stubble rasps against your lips, warm with sleep and sunlight. "What're you- "
"Six hours," you interrupt, cupping his face between your palms. His eyes blink open, clearer than you've seen them in weeks, the blue almost vibrant against the white sheets. "You slept for six whole hours, Leon. No nightmares. No waking up screaming." Your thumbs brush the hollows beneath his eyes, marveling at the lack of shadows. "I'm so fucking proud of you."
Leon's breath catches. His fingers dig into your waist, flexing like he's checking you're real. "That's- " His voice cracks. He clears his throat, but when he speaks again, it's still rough. "That's not...it's just sleep."
You kiss his forehead, lingering there until you feel some of the tension leave his shoulders. "It's everything," you murmur against his skin. His pulse jumps under your lips. "You're healing, baby. Let me be proud of you."
His hands slide up your back, pressing you closer until there's no space left between you. The morning light catches in his hair, turning the strands gold where they fan across the pillow. You kiss each eyelid, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth. Leon exhales shakily when you reach his scarred knuckles, pressing your lips to each ridge of damaged skin.
"Stop," he mutters, but his fingers curl around yours instead of pushing you away. His cheeks are pink. "It's not- I didn't do anything."
"You survived," you say simply, resting your forehead against his. His breath fans across your lips, warm and familiar. "That's always worth celebrating."
Leon's fingers trace idle patterns on your bare shoulder, following the curve of your collarbone like he's mapping new territory. The morning light turns his eyelashes to gold filaments when he blinks, his expression unreadable. "Been thinking," he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep. His thumb brushes the dip above your clavicle. "About Dr. Chen, about what you said."
Your breath catches mid-exhale. Not because it's unexpected, but because Leon said it first, without prompting, without that defensive set to his jaw. You school your face carefully neutral, resisting the urge to squeeze him in triumph. "Yeah?" you prompt softly, threading your fingers through the hair at his nape. His pulse jumps under your fingertips.
Leon's exhale ghosts across your lips. "Not- not right this second," he clarifies, brows knitting together. His fingers flex against your skin, warm and slightly damp. "But maybe. Eventually." The admission comes out halting, each word measured like he's testing their weight. "If you think it'd help, like it helped you."
You press your forehead to his, swallowing the lump in your throat. His lashes flutter against your cheeks, his breath uneven. "I think you're already helping yourself, but when you’re ready, maybe some meds will help you too," you murmur. The truth of it blooms in your chest, the way he let you hold him last night without tensing, how he counted breaths with you instead of locking himself in the shower.
Leon's fingers twitch against your waistband, his thumb tracing the stretch marks there with a reverence that still makes your stomach flip. "You’re the best wife, y’know that, right?" he croons into the space between your shoulder blades, the words slurred with sleep but weighted with something deeper. You feel his lips press against the knob of your spine, lingering like he's trying to imprint the shape of you into his skin. The morning light catches on the silvered scar along his bicep as he tightens his hold, pulling you flush against him with a quiet sigh.
You turn in his arms, slow, giving him time to adjust, and find his eyes already fixed on you. There's a rawness there you haven't seen since college, when he'd show up at your dorm at 3 am still smelling of cordite and sweat, shaking too hard to light his own cigarette. His throat works as he swallows, his gaze darting between your eyes and mouth like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he blinks. "Hey," you whisper, brushing his bangs back where they've stuck to his forehead. His hair is damp at the temples, the scent of lavender and salt clinging to him.
Leon exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing against the small of your back. "Hey yourself," he rasps, voice scraped raw from disuse. His thumb finds the dimple above your hip, rubbing circles there like he's soothing himself as much as you. The sunlight catches the stubble along his jaw, turning the blond strands amber where they press into your palm. You watch his Adam's apple bob as he struggles with the next words, his pulse jumping under your fingertips.
"Remember our vows?" you murmur when the silence stretches too long. Leon blinks, his eyelashes casting spidery shadows across his cheekbones. You trace the shell of his ear with your pinky, feeling him shiver. "The 'for better or worse' part? This is exactly what that meant, Leon."
His breath stutters against your collarbone. "Thought that was about- I dunno. Dirty dishes. Mortgage payments. Watering plants." His attempt at humor falls flat when his voice cracks on the last word. His fingers tighten convulsively around your waistband, knuckles pressing into soft flesh like he's reassuring himself you're solid.
You press your palm over his racing heart. "Nope. This right here? The midnight wake-up calls, the bad days when you can't look at yourself in the mirror- " Leon flinches, but you barrel on, digging your nails lightly into his chest- "That's the 'worse' we signed up for, sweetheart. And I'd do it again. Every damn time."
Leon makes a wounded noise low in his throat, his forehead dropping to your sternum. His hair tickles your chin, smelling faintly of sweat and the cheap shampoo he insists is "just as good" as your fancy stuff. You feel his lips move against your skin before the sound comes: "You deserve better."
"Bullshit," you say, and the word cracks through the quiet bedroom like a gunshot. Leon flinches, actually flinches, but you grab his face before he can pull away, forcing him to look at you. His eyelashes are damp, clumped together in spikes that make your chest ache. "There is no better, Leon. There's just you, the same idiot who proposed to me in a diner bathroom because he couldn't wait one more second." His breath hitches when you swipe your thumbs under his eyes, catching the moisture there. "The same man who practically cried when I first told you I loved you, sweetheart.'"
Leon makes a wounded noise, his fingers flexing against your waist. "That's- that's different," he mutters, but there's no conviction in it. His pulse jumps under your fingertips, rapid and fragile.
You press your forehead to his, close enough that your bangs tangle together. "It's not," you insist, voice dropping to a whisper. "That's the whole point, baby. You don't get to cherry-pick which parts of you I love. It's all you, the nightmares and the dumb diner proposals, the panic attacks and the way you sing off-key in the shower."
His laugh is wet and broken, puffing against your lips. "Fuckin' hypocrite," he rasps. "You hate when I sing."
Leon's laugh dissolves into something ragged against your collarbone, his fingers tightening in the fabric of your sleep shirt. You feel the exact moment his breathing hitches, not from panic this time, but something quieter, more vulnerable. His nose presses into the hollow of your throat, damp and warm. "You're a terrible liar though," he murmurs, voice thick. "I know deep down you love my singing."
You snort, threading your fingers through his sleep-mussed hair. The morning light catches the silver strands at his temples, the ones he pretends not to notice. "I love you, Leon," you correct, squeezing the nape of his neck. "There's a difference."
His breath ghosts across your skin in a shaky exhale. For a long moment, he doesn't speak, just holds onto you like you're the only solid thing in a world that's spent years trying to shake him apart. When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are red-rimmed but clear, the blue nearly translucent in the sunlight. "Six hours," he repeats, like he's testing the shape of the words. His thumb brushes the curve of your hip, tentative. "That's... something, right?"
You press your lips to his forehead, lingering there until you feel some of the tension leave his shoulders. "It's everything," you murmur against his skin.
Can I request Carlos x reader in a different AU (cuz I think the receptionist AU is already perfect) where they are friends that closer and closer and they both have feelings for each other, but don't tell each other. On Carlos's birthday, the reader throws him a surprise birthday party at her house where she's set the whole room up with candle lights and flowers for dinner (with no one else, just the two of them) and gives him a gift, but Carlos says: " you're the best gift of my life" and then you can continue with some tooth rotting fluff and makeout/spicy time🥰💗
I Wanna' Ruin Our Friendship (We Should be More than Friends)
You're Carlos's best friend (and caffeine dealer). He's been coming to your cafe for almost a year, and he's grown on you. In fact, he's grown on you a little... too much. It isn't until Carlos has to leave for an overseas mission that you realize just how much you're in love with your best friend.
A/N: Hello, love! I JUMPED when I saw this request because this type of meet-cute is literally what I beg God for every night (I'm a barista and baker, oop job reveal). I hope that you're okay with some liberties I took with this request. I really wanted to do a Barista AU! for Carlos since the one I did for Leon did so well. Also, peep my axolotl plushie mentioned at the end of this fic, haha. I honestly think this may take the spot as my favorite written fic to date. I am so proud of the s*x scenes and how I managed to keep the plushie shenanigans silly but not cringey (at least I think so).
CW: 11k words (OOP), Carlos and the reader are close friends, YEARNING, so much yearning for each other, Barista! reader, takes place in the canon RE3 universe, Friends to lovers, Vaginal protected sex, fingering, reader being shy around dirty talk and Carlos thinking it's adorable, the desecration of an axolotl plushie, heavy makeout sessions, love confessions, adults actually communicating about their feelings, detailed discussions of relationships and expectations (listen to me readers, if he doesn't do this for you he's not the one), Carlos being DOWN BAD for reader, Butchering of the Portuguese language (I apologize again, please forgive me), Petnames (Querida, Bebe, Gatinha, Bebezinha, Honey, Baby, Fofura), Silly Carlos, written with a plus-sized reader in mind (as always and forever).
The bank statement glares accusingly from the countertop, its numbers blurring into a mess of overdraft fees and coffee-stained receipts. You flip it over, deciding ignorance is bliss, at least until tomorrow’s tips come in.
The bell above the café door jingles, and you don’t even have to look up. "Late again, Oliveira," you call out, (though the smile on your face is barely concealed) already reaching for the espresso machine.
Carlos slouches into his usual seat at the counter, rubbing a hand over his face. "Got held up filing report shit, m’ brain is melting," he whines, like that explains anything. You barely know anything about his job. At this point, you're sure it's for your own safety. The black UBCS jacket he always wears is zipped halfway, revealing the edge of a tactical vest underneath. You’ve learned not to ask. God, do you want to though.
"You’re lucky I like you," you chuckle, rolling your eyes fondly, sliding his usual- a double shot with a splash of cream, no sugar- across the counter. His fingers brush yours as he takes it, and you pretend not to notice the way your stomach flips.
Carlos takes a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours over the rim of the cup. You busy yourself wiping down the already-clean counter, just to have something to do with your anxious hands. "So," he says after a beat, "you working tomorrow?"
You shrug, flicking the rag over an invisible coffee ring. "Same as always. Open to close. You know my schedule."
He hums, tapping his fingers against the ceramic. The café is dead quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional drip of the faucet you’ve been meaning to fix. Outside, the streetlights flicker on, casting long shadows across the empty tables. You let yourself enjoy the silence and his presence.
"You ever get tired of this place? Cause' I'm so fuckin' tired of Umbrella," he ponders, probably thinking his thoughts out loud more than asking you.
You pause, the damp rag still pressed against the counter. "Tired of it?" The question feels heavier than it should. "I mean, yeah. Sometimes." You glance at the clock, twenty minutes past closing, and you haven't even started counting the register. "But it pays the bills. Mostly."
Carlos smiles lazily, swirling the dregs of his coffee. "Mostly? You've never mentioned that,” he echoes in concern, like he knows exactly how much your bank account is screaming.
The silence stretches. You should kick him out. You should. Hell, you should've kicked him out the first night he stayed till closing, but it's been months and you can't deny how ecstatic you feel when his curls pop through the door. Instead, you sigh and toss the rag into the sink. "You're stalling, Carlos. What's really up? C'mon, it's me."
He exhales sharply through his nose, suddenly fascinated by his empty cup. "Fine, yeah it is something else. Fuckin’ hate how well you know me. Got assigned a long-term op tomorrow. Won't be back for a while."
Your fingers freeze mid-wipe against the counter. The microfiber rag slips from your grip, landing with a wet slap against the stainless steel. "How long is 'a while'?" you ask, voice steadier than you feel.
Carlos rotates the empty cup between his palms, avoiding your gaze. "Six weeks. Maybe eight." The ceramic clinks softly against the counter as he sets it down. "Depends how it goes."
You swallow hard, busying yourself with stacking sugar packets into a too-neat pyramid just to keep your hands from shaking. The silence between you stretches thin enough to snap. "You gonna tell me where you're going this time?"
"Can't, m’ sorry, you know I want to," he says, and the word hangs there, sharp as a blade. Then his shoulders slump, and he reaches across the counter to flick the edge of your nametag, the one he swears is crooked every damn day. "Wish I could, querida."
Sweetheart.
Your fingers hover over the sugar packets, the pyramid collapsing under the slightest tremor in your hands. On a normal day, the nickname would make you blush up to your ears. Today, it just barely softens the blow of him leaving. The words six weeks echo in your skull like a countdown. "You couldn’t have led with this?" you say, forcing a laugh that cracks halfway through.
Carlos leans forward, elbows on the counter, close enough that you catch the faded scent of gun oil and his stupid citrus cologne. "Would’ve ruined my dramatic entrance," he tries, but the joke falls flat. His thumb grazes your wrist, briefly, and accidentally, and you both freeze like you’ve touched a live wire.
The faucet drips. Plink. Plink. You should say something. Instead, you blurt, "I’ll save your seat."
His brows lift. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you say, softer than you mean to. The word hangs between you, fragile as the sugar packets you’re still clutching. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow. Carlos’s fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you again, but he shoves them into his jacket pockets instead.
"Good, that's- uh- good," he fumbles, too quickly. His eyes dart to the clock, twenty-five minutes past closing now, and he exhales sharply through his nose. "Shit, didn't realize how late it got. I should- " He jerks his chin toward the door, already half out of his seat.
You nod, though now, you're desperate to keep him here, to wrap your hands around his wrist and beg him to stay just five more minutes. Instead, you wipe your palms on your apron and force a smile. "Don’t get shot out there, Oliveira."
Carlos barks a laugh, rough around the edges. "No promises." He hesitates at the door, one hand on the handle. The streetlight outside paints his profile in gold. "Hey," he says, glancing back, "you ever take a day off?"
You blink owlishly, fingers tightening around the sugar packets. "What?"
Carlos shifts his weight, the toe of his boot scuffing against the floor. "You're always working, gatinha," he says, like it's obvious. "You ever take a day off? Like, ever?"
Kitten.
"Uh." You crumple the sugar packet in your fist without meaning to. "Sometimes? Why?"
Carlos shakes his head, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the doorframe. "Nothing," he says, too casually. "Just wondering." The lie sits between you like a third person at the counter. He pushes off the doorframe with one shoulder, already halfway out into the night. "I'll see you when I get back, yeah?"
The bell jingles again, too loud in the empty café, and then he’s gone. You stand there, staring at the door like it might swing back open. The crumpled sugar packet falls from your fingers.
The sugar packet hits the counter with a sound like a gunshot. Six weeks. Six weeks of counting the register alone, of wiping down tables without anyone to distract you with stupid jokes, of prepping his usual order just in case he walks in, even though you know he won’t. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes until colors burst behind your lids to stop tears from forming in your eyes.
The café feels too big without him.
—
Days blur into weeks. You memorize the rhythm of the espresso machine’s hiss, the exact number of steps from the counter to the fridge, the way the clock’s second hand stutters at the 42-second mark. Regulars ask where that handsome Brazilian is, and you shrug like it doesn’t gut you every time. "Business trip," you say, and change the subject.
Then…
The café door slams open with a force that sends the bell overhead into a frenzied jingle, one loud enough to startle you into nearly dropping the mug you’re polishing. Your head snaps up just in time to see Carlos Oliveira stumble inside like a hurricane in human form, his boots scuffing against the tile. His jacket’s zipped all the way up this time, hiding the tactical vest, but the dark circles under his eyes tell their own story. He looks exhausted. He looks alive. Oh thank God.
Your fingers tighten around the mug. "Six weeks and three days," you say, voice steadier than your hands. "You’re late."
Carlos grins, slow and crooked, like he’s been practicing it the whole way here. "Meu Deus, you counted?" He slides into his usual seat with a groan, stretching his arms overhead until his knuckles pop. "Miss me that much, querida?"
You don’t dignify that with a response, just turn to the espresso machine like your life depends on it. The familiar hiss of steam fills the silence while Carlos watches, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against the counter. When you slide his usual across the counter- double shot, splash of cream, no sugar like always- his hand brushes yours, deliberate this time.
Carlos exhales sharply as he leans over the counter, fingers tapping against his untouched coffee. "Mission sucked," he grumbles, voice rougher than usual, like he’s been shouting for days. His thumb traces the rim of the cup, avoiding your gaze. "But I kept thinking- ‘God, I miss that shitty café coffee.’ Pathetic, huh?"
You snort, elbowing the sugar shaker toward him, a peace offering. "You’re paying for that shitty coffee, Oliveira." The words come out lighter than you feel; your chest is too tight, like you’ve been holding your breath since he left.
His grin flickers, tired but real. "Worth every cent." He hesitates, then digs into his jacket pocket and slaps a crumpled bill on the counter, way too much for just a coffee. Before you can argue, he adds, "Birthday’s next week. Consider it an advance on my celebratory espresso."
Your fingers freeze mid-reach. "Birthday?" You blink at him, the word lodging somewhere between your ribs. He’s never mentioned it before, not even when you guys hang out outside of the cafe.
The mug slips from your fingers entirely this time, shattering against the counter with a sharp crack that makes Carlos jerk back. "Shit- " You scramble for a towel, but your hands are shaking too much to pick up the ceramic shards. "You never told me your birthday before."
Carlos shrugs, leaning forward to help you gather the pieces gently, his fingers brushing yours every other second like he’s doing it on purpose. "Never stayed in one place long enough for it to matter," he admits, tossing a jagged piece into the trash with more force than necessary. "But figured you’d wanna know. Since you’re my favorite barista and well, you know, my only close friend." His grin is lopsided, but his eyes dart away like he’s nervous, Carlos Oliveira, nervous. The world might as well have flipped upside down.
You swallow hard, clutching the damp towel like a lifeline. "Yeah, well." Your voice cracks. "You’re my only customer who shows up five minutes before closing and stays an hour past and also the only friend I have who cheats religiously at Mario Kart." The words come out softer than you mean them to, and Carlos’s fingers still against the countertop, his knuckles whitening.
The café is too quiet suddenly, the hum of the fridge unbearably loud. Carlos clears his throat, tapping his fingers against his knee, a habit you’ve memorized by now, it's the way he fidgets when he’s trying not to say something stupid. "So," he says finally, dragging the word out like he’s testing it, "you gonna bake me a cake or what, querida?"
The towel slips from your fingers again, landing with a wet plop on the counter and suddenly, you're laughing with him again and everything is alright. "You- " You choke out between giggles. "You remember that?"
Carlos leans back in his stool, arms crossed, chuckling himself, but his knee won’t stop bouncing. "What, you think I don’t listen when you talk?" He flicks a stray sugar packet at you. "You spent twenty minutes last month complaining about your roommate’s burnt birthday cake. Said you’d ‘do it right’ if you ever got the chance." His grin falters for half a second. "This is your chance to shine."
Your face burns hotter than the espresso machine. You’d been rambling, half-asleep at 3 AM after a double shift, while Carlos doodled on a napkin and laughed at your passionate ranting. You hadn’t thought…
The café door jingles, and Mrs. Ferdinand shuffles in for her 4 PM chamomile. You scramble to sweep up the last of the broken mug, heart hammering against your ribs. Carlos watches, silent, until the old lady settles in her corner booth. Then he leans so close his breath ghosts your pierced ear. "So?" he teases. "Do I get a cake or not?"
The sugar shaker slips from your fingers, scattering granules across the counter like spilled sand. You stare at Carlos, glaring at his stupid smirk, and the way his knee keeps bouncing under the counter like a live wire, and something inside you snaps. "Fine," you hiss, grabbing a rag to wipe up the mess with more force than necessary. "But only if you promise not to die before I get the chance to force-feed it to you."
Carlos barks out a laugh that startles Mrs. Kowalski into nearly dropping her teacup. His fingers catch your wrist as you scrub at the sugar, thumb pressing into your pulse point. "Deal," he murmurs, too soft for anyone else to hear. His touch lingers a second too long before he pulls away, leaving your skin buzzing.
The rest of his visit passes in a haze of half-finished sentences and stolen glances. Every time your hands brush while passing sugar packets, every time he leans too close to "help" with the espresso machine when it falters in working for you sends your heart ricocheting against your ribs. By the time the café empties, your apron pockets are stuffed with crumpled napkins where Carlos scribbled his number ("In case you forget, querida") (like you'd ever forget, you both text way to often for you to forget) and a list of his favorite flavors ("Chocolate. But you can surprise me").
___
The second Carlos leaves, with one last lingering smirk and a backward wave, your phone is already out, thumbs flying over the screen as you text your manager to swap shifts. Your hands shake so badly that you hit the wrong keys twice. Six weeks and three days without him, you think, and now suddenly six days isn’t enough time to plan a birthday surprise.
You spend the next three nights elbow-deep in flour, cursing every failed attempt at a chocolate ganache. Your tiny kitchen looks like a bakery exploded, bowls stacked haphazardly in the sink, cocoa powder dusting your forehead, and at least two burnt trial cakes shoved into the trash. Your roommate pokes her head in once, takes one look at the chaos, and wordlessly hands you a glass of wine. "For the love of God," she says, "just buy a cake."
"No," you mutter, whisking furiously. "He remembered. I'm doing this for him no matter what it fucking takes."
The morning of his birthday, your alarm goes off at 5 AM, two hours before your usual shift, and you bolt upright like you’ve been electrocuted. The cake sits boxed on your counter, its chocolate glaze gleaming under the fridge light. You poke it for the fifth time, as if it might spontaneously combust overnight.
By noon, your phone buzzes with a text from Carlos: Missed my usual today. Slacking, querida? You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, fingers hovering over the screen. Swapped shifts, you reply, then add, Don’t die before dinner, because sincerity feels too dangerous. His response is instant: Prometo. You don’t speak Portuguese, but you’ve heard him murmur that word a few times to you before, enough to know what it means.
At 6 PM, you’re pacing your apartment like a caged animal, adjusting the same three candles for the fifteenth time. The dinner you cooked- well, attempted to cook, is keeping warm in the oven, though the chicken looks suspiciously charred at the edges. Your hands won’t stop shaking. What if he hates it? What if he laughs? What if-
Three sharp knocks at the door. You freeze mid-step, heart slamming against your ribs. The knock comes again, louder this time, accompanied by Carlos’s voice: “Querida, you better not be dead in there.”
Your breath catches in your throat as you fumble with the lock, nearly tripping over your own feet in your rush to the door. The moment you swing it open, Carlos stands there, tall, rumpled, and grinning like he knows exactly what he does to your pulse. His dark eyes flicker past you, taking in the flickering candles scattered across every available surface of your tiny apartment, the faint scent of chocolate and (slightly burnt) chicken hanging in the air. His grin falters for a heartbeat.
"Meu Deus," he murmurs, voice softer than you've ever heard it. "You actually- "
"Happy birthday!" you blurt, throwing your arms around his neck before you can second-guess yourself. Carlos staggers back a step, his hands instinctively catching your waist, warm and so solid through the fabric of your sweater. His laugh vibrates against your chest as he squeezes you tighter, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"You little dork," he croons into your skin, but he doesn't let go. His breath is warm against your collarbone, his fingers pressing into your hips like he's memorizing the shape of you. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are suspiciously bright. "You really did all this for me?"
"Of course I did," you mumble, suddenly embarrassed by the sheer amount of candles, now realizing they probably make your apartment look like a shrine. Carlos’s hands linger at your waist, thumbs pressing into the softness there in a way that sends heat crawling up your neck. Before you can overthink it, you grab his wrist and tug him inside. "Come on, dinner’s gonna get cold."
Carlos kicks the door shut behind him, his boots scuffing against your cheap laminate flooring. He follows you like a man in a trance, taking in the mismatched plates you’ve set out, the lopsided cake on the counter with Happy Birthday Carlos scrawled in shaky icing letters. His throat works when he sees the wrapped present next to it, a small box you’d agonized over for days.
"You didn’t have to- " he starts, but you cut him off with a pointed shove toward the table.
"Sit," you order, hands fluttering nervously to your glasses, pushing them up your nose. "Before the chicken turns into charcoal."
Carlos laughs, low and warm, as he collapses into the chair you’ve shoved him toward. His fingers tap against the tabletop, an uneven rhythm you’ve come to recognize as nervous energy. "Smells like you might be too late on that," he teases, but his eyes are soft, tracing the way your hands flutter from your glasses to your sweater sleeves, tugging them over your wrists anxiously.
You duck into the kitchen to pull the chicken from the oven, wincing at the blackened edges. "Shut up," you mutter, but there’s no bite to it. Your chest feels too tight, too full, like you might burst if you look at him for too long.
When you set the plate in front of him, Carlos doesn’t even hesitate. He picks up the fork and stabs a piece of chicken, shoving it into his mouth with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Delicioso," he declares through a full mouth, grinning when you swat at his shoulder.
"Liar, it can't be that good,” you huff, but you’re grinning too, unable to stop yourself.
Carlos swallows the overcooked chicken with an exaggerated gulp, then immediately steals a forkful from your plate. "Hey- " you whine in protest, but he’s already chewing with a smirk, his boot nudging yours under the table.
"You won't share with me on my birthday, of all days, querida?" he teases, kicking your chair leg lightly.
You roll your eyes and shove the rest of your portion onto his plate. "Shut up and eat before I change my mind."
He does, with alarming speed, like he hasn’t eaten in days, but his eyes keep darting to the gift-wrapped box beside the cake. You pretend not to notice, fiddling with your glasses until he finally caves. "Alright," he groans, pushing his empty plate away. "How long are you gonna make me wait?"
You watch his fingers hover over the wrapped box, those rough, scarred hands that handle firearms like extensions of his own body suddenly tentative over cheap birthday paper. "Open it," you urge, voice smaller than you'd like.
Carlos exhales sharply through his nose and tears into the wrapping with surprising delicacy. The second the box lid lifts, his breath catches. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is the stainless steel watch he'd pointed out in a shop window months ago during one of your rare lunch breaks together. The one he'd called "too fancy for a guy like me" before dragging you into a bodega for empanadas instead.
Your fingers twist in your sweater sleeves as he lifts it carefully, turning it over in his hands. "You- " His voice cracks. "Shit. You actually remembered that?"
"I mean, you wouldn't shut up about it for weeks," you mutter, pushing your glasses up your nose. The lie tastes bitter, even if you haven't said it out loud, you'd spent almost your whole paycheck buying it for him. You don't regret it at all.
Carlos stares at the watch like it might vanish if he blinks. The candlelight catches the steel face, casting fractured reflections across his knuckles. His thumb traces the edge of the dial slowly, reverent, before his gaze snaps to yours. "You listened," he says, voice rough like gravel.
Your stomach twists. "I- it might not be the right model. You mentioned wanting one with a moon phase thing, but the sales guy said- "
Carlos moves so fast the chair screeches against the floor. He catches your wrists, pressing the watch between your palms, his fingers wrapping around yours. "Honey," he breathes, forehead nearly touching yours. "This is- " His throat works. "You’re the best gift I could ever ask for. These are just the cherry on top, little bonuses if that."
What?
The words hang between you, fragile as the candle flames trembling in the draft from your shitty AC unit. Your pulse thunders where his thumbs press into your wrists. "What do you mean?" you whisper.
Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, his grip tightening around your hands like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. The watch presses into your palms, cool metal warming between your skin. "I mean," he starts, voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it, "that I don’t just see you as my best friend." The admission hangs in the air, sharp and sudden, like a bullet casing hitting the floor.
Your breath catches. The apartment feels too small suddenly, the candlelight too bright, the space between you charged with something you’ve been too afraid to name. Carlos’s eyes flicker over your face, searching, hesitant, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks unsure. "Say something," he begs, thumb brushing your pulse point. "Por favor, i'm going crazy here."
You don’t think. You surge forward, chair screeching back as you crash into him, hands fisting in his jacket to pull him closer. Carlos stumbles a step before catching you, his laugh vibrating against your lips as you kiss him, hard, desperate, like you’ve been waiting years instead of weeks. His hands slide up your back, pressing you flush against him, and you can feel the rapid hammer of his heart through the fabric of his shirt.
When you finally pull back, gasping, Carlos’s grin is crooked, his lips swollen. "Finally," he breathes, forehead resting against yours. "I thought I’d have to wait another six weeks for that."
The watch clatters to the floor, forgotten, as Carlos’s hands slide up to cradle your face. His palms are rough against your cheeks, but his touch is unbearably gentle, like you’re something precious. "Say it again, please, bebe," he coos against your mouth, his breath warm with the taste of chocolate cake and burnt chicken.
You laugh, shaky and breathless, fingers tightening in the fabric of his jacket. "Happy birthday?"
Carlos groans, nipping at your lower lip. "Not what I meant and you know it, brat." His thumbs trace the apples of your cheeks, smudging your glasses askew. "Tell me you feel it too."
The vulnerability in his voice unravels you. You press closer, nose bumping against his, and whisper, "I’ve wanted this so long it’s fucking embarrassing."
Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, half laugh, half disbelief, before pressing his forehead to yours. His fingers tremble slightly where they cradle your face, rough calluses catching on the delicate skin behind your ears. "You- " His voice cracks. "Caralho. Say that again, please, I need to hear it again."
Fuck.
You bite your lip, suddenly aware of every point where his body presses against yours, the heat of his palms framing your jaw, the solid weight of his thigh between yours where you’ve practically climbed into his lap. "I’ve been crazy about you," you murmur, fingers tightening in the fabric of his jacket, "since the day you walked in here complaining about our ‘shitty espresso’ and then ordered it every damn day for a month."
Carlos barks a laugh, breath hot against your lips. "Mentira." But his grip tightens, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s no space left between you at all. "You hated me that first week. I just know it."
Liar.
You grin, nipping at his lower lip. "Hated how hot I thought you were," you admit sheepishly, and the confession sends a shudder through him, like you’ve unraveled some tightly coiled wire in his chest. His hands slide down to your waist, fingers pressing into the softness there with a reverence that makes your breath hitch.
Carlos exhales sharply, his breath warm and uneven against your neck, before suddenly lifting you clear off the floor. You yelp as he maneuvers you both toward the couch, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His laughter rumbles against your sternum when your glasses nearly topple off mid-stride. "Cuidado," he croons, catching them with one hand before they can fall, his fingers lingering at your temple.
Careful.
The couch cushions dip under your combined weight as Carlos settles over you, his knees bracketing your hips. His hands find yours, threading your fingers together as he presses them into the cushions above your head. The position stretches your sweater taut across your chest, and you watch his gaze drag downward, hungrily, before snapping back to your face. "Christ," he breathes, "you have no idea how long I’ve wanted…" His voice breaks when you roll your hips up against him, the friction drawing a ragged groan from his throat.
"Tell me, please," you demand, arching into him. His grip tightens around your wrists, pinning you more firmly.
Carlos ducks his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Months, it's been months," he admits, voice rough. "Watching you bite your lip while you steam milk. The way you push your glasses up when you’re frustrated." His teeth graze your earlobe, and you gasp. "Drove me insane. I wanted to fuckin' eat you."
His mouth crashes into yours before you can respond, swallowing your gasp as his hips roll against you in a slow, deliberate grind that knocks the air from your lungs. The watch lies forgotten on the floor, the candles flicker in the draft, and all you can think is Carlos, his weight, his warmth, the way his teeth catch your lower lip like he’s savoring the taste of you.
"You- " you manage between kisses, fingers twisting in his hair, "made me wait for six weeks- "
Carlos groans, dragging his lips down your throat, nipping at the pulse point hammering beneath your skin. "Tease," he dramatically accuses, voice rough. His hands slide under your hoodie, an old thing with your cafe's logo on it, calloused palms skimming your ribs, and you arch into the touch with a whimper. "You knew. You knew and you- " His thumb brushes the underside of your breast, and the words dissolve into a shudder.
You laugh, breathless, tangling your fingers in the collar of his jacket to yank him closer. "You were the one- hah- showing up five minutes before closing every night," you whine as his mouth finds the hollow of your collarbone, suckling.
His jacket hits the floor with a muffled thump, Carlos shrugging it off without breaking contact, his lips never leaving your skin. You gasp as his teeth scrape your collarbone, fingers scrambling at the hem of his shirt. "Off," you demand, voice ragged. "Now."
Carlos laughs against your throat, almost in disbelief this is actually happening, but obeys, yanking the fabric over his head in one fluid motion. The sight of him bare above you steals your breath: the broad planes of his chest, the scars mapping his torso like constellations you want to trace with your tongue. His skin is warm under your palms, his heartbeat wild against your fingertips.
Carlos lifts you like you weigh nothing, like he’s been imagining this exact motion for months, the way his hands slot under your thighs, the hitch of your breath when he hoists you up against his chest. You yelp, scrambling to loop your arms around his neck as he strides across your tiny apartment, kicking open your bedroom door with his boot. "Wait- " you start, but the protest dies in your throat when he freezes in the doorway, his grip slackening just enough for you to slide down his body until your feet hit the floor softly.
For a beat, there’s only silence, Carlos staring at your bedroom like he’s just walked into a crime scene. Then he bursts out laughing, shoulders shaking, one hand braced against the doorframe like he might collapse. "What the fuck?" he wheezes, gesturing wildly at the explosion of pink bedding, the mountain of plushies piled against your pillows. "This is where you sleep, bebe?"
Carlos presses his forehead against the doorframe, shoulders still shaking with laughter. "Querida," he gasps, wiping at his eyes, "you sleep like a child." He gestures wildly at the pile of plushies, a menagerie of pastel horrors that take up half the bed. "Are these witnesses? What kind of sick joke is this?"
You cross your arms, pushing your glasses up your nose with more force than necessary. "They're emotional support," you huff, but your voice cracks halfway through when Carlos steps closer, his bare chest brushing against your folded arms. His grin softens as his fingers trail over the nearest plushie, a ridiculous pink axolotl with cross-eyes.
"Fofo," he thinks out loud, thumb brushing the stuffed animal's stitched smile. Then his expression shifts, something darker flickering behind his eyes as his gaze drags from the plushie to you. "Jesus, I can't fuck you with them watching. I'd traumatize them."
Heat floods your face so fast you're surprised your glasses don't fog up. Carlos doesn't wait for a response, he just strides into the room with sudden purpose, grabbing the axolotl by its floppy gills. He turns it carefully, positioning it to face the wall with absurd reverence before patting its head. "Desculpe, amiguinho," he mutters solemnly, and your giggle bursts out before you can stop it.
Sorry, friend.
Carlos shoots you a look over his shoulder, half exasperation, half fondness, before methodically working his way through the pile. A unicorn with a glitter mane gets spun toward your dresser; a squishmallow octopus is tucked under your pillow like it's being put to bed. By the time he reaches the giant stuffed sloth draped over your headboard, you're wheezing into your hands, shoulders shaking.
"Bebe," Carlos whines, wrestling the sloth's limp arms into a position where it can't "see" the bed. "This is torture, a sick joke." But his lips twitch when you collapse onto the mattress in a fit of laughter, your curls fanning out across the pink sheets.
Carlos pauses mid-plushie adjustment, his eyes raking over you, the way your hoodie has ridden up, the flush spreading down your chest. His throat works. "Porra," he breathes, abandoning the remaining stuffed animals to kneel over you on the bed. His palms land on either side of your head, caging you in. "You're adorable," he coos, leaning down until his lips brush yours. "And I'm about to ruin you."
Shit.
The shift is instantaneous, his mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and hunger, his hands sliding under your sweater to map the softness of your waist. You arch into him with a whimper, fingers scrambling at his belt buckle. Carlos groans against your lips when your nails scrape his abdomen, his hips grinding down in a slow, filthy roll that punches the air from your lungs.
The belt buckle clatters to the floor, followed by the sharp zip of Carlos’s pants, and suddenly there’s nothing left between you but the thin barrier of your leggings and his boxers. His groan vibrates against your throat when you roll your hips up, the friction drawing a ragged curse from his lips. "Caralho," he hisses, dragging his teeth down your neck. "You’ve been killing me all evening. No more.”
Fuck.
You gasp as his hands slide under your hoodie, pushing the fabric up until it bunches under your arms. His palms are rough against your stomach, tracing the softness there with a reverence that makes your breath stutter. When his thumb brushes the wire edge of your bra, you arch off the mattress with a whimper, fingers tangling in his hair.
Carlos pulls back just enough to drag your hoodie over your head, tossing it somewhere near the exiled plushies. His gaze burns as it rakes over you, the swell of your breasts above the cups of your bra, the way your stomach rises and falls with each ragged breath. "Deus," he murmurs, voice thick. "You’re perfecta." The words land like a punch to your ribs, unraveling the knot of insecurity you’ve carried for years.
You fumble with the clasp of your bra, but Carlos catches your wrists, pressing them back into the mattress. "Let me, I've got it," he rasps, and the hunger in his voice sends heat pooling low in your belly. His fingers trace the strap along your shoulder, featherlight, before unhooking it with practiced ease. The fabric slides away, and Carlos exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for this exact moment.
Carlos doesn’t move for a heartbeat, just stares, his pupils blown wide, lips parted like he’s forgotten how to breathe. His fingers hover above your bare skin, trembling slightly before finally skimming down your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist with a touch so light it’s maddening. “My girl…” he whispers, voice wrecked. “All soft and beautiful…”
You squirm under his gaze, suddenly self-conscious, but Carlos catches your hips, pressing you firmly into the mattress. “Don’t,” he orders, thumbs rubbing circles into the softness of your stomach. “Don’t hide from me.” His mouth follows the path of his hands, nipping at your ribs, laving his tongue over the swell of your breasts, teasingly, until you’re arching off the bed with a pathetic whine.
The last of his clothes hit the floor in a frenzy of tangled fabric, and then he’s pressing against you, skin to skin, his body a solid weight that steals the air from your lungs. His erection drags against your thigh, hot and insistent, and you gasp, digging your nails into his shoulders. “Carlos- please- ”
“I’ve got you, don’ worry, I won't make you wait,” he croons against your collarbone, one hand sliding down to hook under your knee, hitching your leg higher around his waist. His other hand ghosts over the waistband of your leggings, fingers dipping beneath just enough to tease. “Are you sure?” he asks, voice rough, his breath hot against your throat. “Tell me you’re sure.”
Your fingers curl into the sheets, breath hitching as Carlos hovers above you, his dark eyes searching yours. His thumb traces your lower lip, slow, and deliberate, before he exhales sharply and pulls back slightly. "Wait," he murmurs, voice rough. "Before we- " His throat works. "Fuck, I don’t want this to ruin what we have."
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. You freeze beneath him, pulse stuttering. "What?"
Carlos drags a hand through his hair, his expression torn. "I love being your best friend," he admits, fingers skimming your jaw. "Love our stupid café talks, how you roll your eyes at my shitty jokes, how you actually listen when I ramble about mission logistics you don’t even understand." His thumb brushes your cheekbone, achingly tender. "But, God, I want you like this too. More than just a friend. And if that fucks everything up- I'd- "
You catch his wrist, pressing his palm flat against your racing heart. "Carlos," you whisper, "do you honestly think I’d let you into my bed if I didn’t want this to change everything?"
He exhales sharply, forehead dropping to yours. "Honey, you don’t know how many nights I’ve laid awake terrified of wrecking this." His grip tightens on your hip. "You’re my person. Like- If I lose you- "
"You won’t." You tilt your chin up, capturing his lips in a slow, deliberate kiss—softer than before, pouring every ounce of certainty into it. When you pull back, his pupils are blown wide, his breath uneven. "We’re too damn stubborn to ruin this."
Carlos laughs, a rough, relieved sound, before suddenly flipping you onto your back with a growl. "Prove it," he challenges, nipping at your earlobe. His hands slide down to peel off your leggings, fingers tracing the waistband edges of your panties with deliberate slowness. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this, want you," you gasp as his mouth finds the sensitive spot behind your knee. His teeth graze your inner thigh, and you arch off the mattress with a whimper. "Carlos- baby- please,"
Carlos doesn't make you wait. His fingers hook into the lace of your panties, dragging them down your thighs with a roughness that makes your breath catch. The moment they hit the floor, his mouth crashes into yours again, hungrier now, his tongue sliding against yours with a filthy desperation that sends heat spiraling through your veins. You arch against him, gasping into the kiss as his hands slide up your bare thighs, fingers pressing into the softness there like he's memorizing every inch, every stretch mark.
"Christ, you're dripping," he groans against your lips, his thumb brushing through your folds in a teasing stroke that makes you jerk against him. "How long?" His voice is rough, wrecked, his breath hot against your cheek as his fingers explore you with agonizing slowness. "How long have you been this desperate for me, querida?"
"Weeks," you admit on a whimper, hips rolling against his hand shamelessly. "Every time- oh god- every time you leaned over the counter to steal a sip of my coffee, I thought about pouncing on you," The words dissolve into a gasp as his fingers curl inside you, his thumb circling your puffy clit with filthy precision.
Carlos curses under his breath, his forehead dropping to yours as he watches you unravel beneath his touch. His fingers move with a practiced rhythm, dragging moans from your throat with each thrust. "Holy shit," he breathes, lips brushing yours. "Should've done this months ago then."
You gasp as his thumb presses harder against your clit, the pressure just shy of painful. Your hips buck against his hand, chasing the sweet friction, but Carlos pulls back slightly, grinning at the frustrated whine that tears from your throat. "Tão bonita," he murmurs, voice rough. "Wanna see you come apart for me first."
Good girl.
The words send a shudder through you, your fingers digging into his shoulders. "Carlos- "
He nips at your earlobe, his breath hot. "Say my name like that again," he orders, fingers crooking inside you just right. "Again, bebe."
The dominating tone he's taken on makes your brain want to melt out of your ears.
"Carlos," you whine, the syllables cracking as his fingers thrust deeper, his palm grinding against your swollen clit with each movement. Your hips jerk uncontrollably, your thighs trembling around his wrist. His name spills from your lips like a prayer, broken, and desperate, and his answering hum vibrates against your throat where he's biting kisses into your pulse.
"Again, say it again, c'mon bebe," he demands, voice ragged. His free hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat to his punishing teeth.
You sob his name this time, the sound ripped from your chest as pleasure coils tight in your belly. Carlos curses in Portuguese, his rhythm faltering for just a second, like the sound of his name on your lips is unraveling him too. Then his thumb presses harder, circling your clit in tight, insistent circles that have your vision whiting out at the edges.
"That's it, look at how well you listen to me," he praises, against your collarbone, his breath scalding. "Cum for me, honey, let me feel it. Wanna' see you cream alllll over my fingers."
“Carlossss, don't- hah- that's so filthy,” you whine out, embarrassment making your cheeks tinted red. Carlos's resounding chuckle is fond, but does little to cure your bashfulness.
“Awee, bebe, don't be shy,” Carlos croons, practically giggling at you and your flushed state.
Your back arches off the mattress with a broken cry while he watches with fond amusement, fingers scrabbling at Carlos’s shoulders as your orgasm crashes through you like a scorching tidal wave. His fingers don’t stop, they're fucking relentless, coaxing every last shudder from your body until you’re gasping, oversensitive, sticky thighs clamping around his wrist in a feeble attempt to push him away. Carlos chuckles darkly against your throat, the vibration sending aftershocks rippling through you, but finally, mercifully, he slows his movements, easing you down with featherlight strokes that make you whimper needily and claw at his thick arm.
“Look at you, Fofura,” he coos, lifting his glistening fingers to his mouth with deliberate slowness. His tongue flicks out, tasting you, and your stomach clenches at the filthy sight.
Cutie.
You groan, covering your face with your hands, but Carlos catches your wrists, laughing at your shyness, pinning them above your head. His hips slot between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your slick heat in a way that makes you both gasp. “Don’t hide,” he orders, voice rough. “I want to see you.” His thumb brushes your lower lip, smudging it with the taste of yourself. “All of you.”
Carlos pulls back just enough to scan the floor for his discarded vest, his movements sharp with urgency, until his bare foot catches on the axolotl's floppy tail. He stumbles sideways with a startled "Fuck!", nearly face-planting into the unicorn plushie still glaring judgmentally from the corner. Your giggles burst out before you can stop them, muffled behind your hands as Carlos glares at the stuffed animals like they've personally betrayed him.
"This," he growls, kicking the axolotl aside with more force than necessary, "is why grown adults shouldn't sleep with fucking sea creatures." The plushie hits the wall with a sad flop, and you dissolve into another fit of laughter, clutching your stomach. Carlos pauses mid-step to glare at you, his flushed chest rising with each ragged breath, but his lips twitch when you wheeze, "They're- they're witnesses, remember babe?"
His vest finally located (half-buried under the sloth's limp arms), Carlos yanks it toward him, sending a stray condom packet fluttering to the floor like some absurd mating ritual. He swipes it up with a grumble, but the effect is ruined when he trips again- this time on your discarded leggings- and barely catches himself on the edge of the bed. "Porra!" he hisses, knee smacking the floorboards.
You're laughing so hard tears leak from the corners of your eyes, your glasses askew. Carlos freezes, the condom clutched in his fist, and stares at you like you've grown a second head. Then, slowly, he crawls back onto the bed, his movements predatory despite the baby pink sheets beneath him. "You think this is funny? This place is a fucking occupational hazard, babe," he murmurs, dragging his teeth along your inner thigh, his canines catching on your cellulite.
You should be embarrassed, yeah, but the only thought on repeat in your mind is that you never want him to stop calling you babe.
The laughter dies in your throat when his tongue replaces his teeth, laving a slow stripe up your sensitive skin. Your hips jerk involuntarily, a whimper escaping your lips as Carlos grins against your thigh, all sharp canines and wicked intent. "Not laughing now, are you? Huh?” he taunts, nipping at the soft flesh just above your knee.
You gasp when his fingers trace your folds again- too soon, you're still oversensitive, but Carlos ignores your weak attempt to push him away, his thumb circling your clit with featherlight pressure that makes your toes curl. "Carlos- sensitive-" you warn, voice cracking, but he just hums against your skin, his breath hot and uneven.
The condom wrapper crinkles as he tears it open one-handed, his other hand still working between your thighs with devastating precision. You barely have time to process the sound of the wrapper tearing before he's pressing into you, slow as your fucking sloth plushie, his breath hitching when you clench around him. "Caralho," he groans, forehead dropping to yours. "You feel-fuck- so warm-"
You arch against him, nails scraping down his back as he bottoms out with a ragged gasp. For a moment, neither of you moves, just breathing each other's air, foreheads pressed together, the only sound the squeak of your bedsprings and the distant hum of the city outside. Then Carlos rolls his hips experimentally, and the breath stutters in your lungs.
Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, his hands shaking where they grip your thighs. "Too much?" he checks in, voice wrecked, but you shake your head frantically, hips canting up to meet his next slow thrust. The stretch burns in the best way, your body adjusting to him with every drag of his hips, every ragged breath that ghosts across your lips. He curses under his breath when you clench around him, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise. "Honey, you're gonna kill me. M’ gonna fucking die tonight."
You laugh- breathless, and giddy at his dramatic behavior- tilting your head back as he finds a rhythm that has your toes curling into the sheets. Carlos doesn't rush, doesn't fuck you with the same desperation he kissed you with earlier. Instead, he moves like he's memorizing you, every hitch of your breath, every stuttered moan when his hips roll just right. His hips hit yours hard, but steady. Enough to make you feel bone on bone when his hips meet yours and its fucking delicious. His thumb finds your clit again, circling in time with his thrusts the best he can and you sob, arching off the mattress as pleasure coils tight in your belly.
"Look at me," he demands, voice desperate, and when your eyes flutter open, his gaze burns hotter than the candles still flickering in the other room. There's something unbearably tender in the way his free hand brushes your curls back from your forehead, his thumb tracing your cheekbone like you're something precious. "Tão linda," he murmurs, lips brushing yours with each gasped word. "My querida. Mine."
So beautiful. My sweetheart.
The possessive note in his voice sends a shudder through you, your fingers tightening in his hair as his pace stutters. Carlos lets out a groan that trails off into a whimper (though he'd never admit it), forehead dropping to yours as his thrusts grow sloppier and quicker, his breath coming in ragged pants against your lips. "Gonna- fuck- holy shit honey-" His voice cracks, irking up in tone, his hips jerking erratically as he chases his own release.
Carlos’ hips stutter against yours, his rhythm fracturing as he gasps into the curve of your neck, hot, open-mouthed whines that raise goosebumps across your skin. You feel the exact moment he loses control, his fingers spasming against your thigh, his groan vibrating through your chest where he’s pressed against you. His hips jerk once, twice, before he buries himself deep with a ragged cry, his forehead dropping to your collarbone as he shudders through his release.
For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your mingled breathing, harsh and uneven, and the distant drip of a faucet in your bathroom. Carlos’ weight presses you into the mattress, his sweat-slick skin sticking to yours, but you don’t mind. You trace idle patterns tenderly across his shoulder blades, smiling sappily when he shivers at the touch.
He lifts his head eventually, his dark eyes hazy with satisfaction and affection, his lips swollen from your kisses. "Christ, that was- " he starts and stops to swallow, his throat dry and voice rough. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, smudging away a tear you hadn’t realized had escaped. "Tão perfeita."
So perfect.
You laugh breathlessly, pushing his damp curls off his forehead. "You’re heavy," you complain halfheartedly, but he just grins, rolling his hips lazily against yours- still buried inside you- and drawing a whimper from your throat. The feeling of his cock's tip hitting your already-battered and bruised cervix is way too overstimulating.
Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, still half-laughing as he eases off you, careful despite the way your legs cling to his waist like you’re afraid he’ll vanish. His fingers brush your inner thigh as he pulls away, the touch lingering just long enough to make you shiver. "Heavy, yeah," he teases, voice raspy with exhaustion and something warmer. "But worth it, não?"
You flick his forehead, grinning when he catches your wrist and presses a kiss to your palm. His lips are chapped, his stubble rough against your skin, and the tenderness of the gesture punches through your chest like a bullet.
The condom disposal is…less romantic. Carlos makes a face as he ties it off, muttering something in Portuguese you can't make out, before chucking it toward the trash can… missing spectacularly. It lands on the axolotl’s head like some sort of deranged party hat. You both stare for a beat before dissolving into laughter, Carlos collapsing back onto the bed beside you with an embarrassed groan that shakes the mattress.
His arm slings over your waist, tugging you against his side like he’s afraid you’ll float away. You nestle into the heat of him, your curls sticking to his tan sweat-damp chest, and he hums, fingers tracing idle circles on your hip. "Doesn't matter," he thinks out loud, voice thick with sleep. "Best birthday ever. No notes."
“For real? No notes?” You giggle, tracing silly doodles on his chest.
“Yeah, for reals, bebe. No notes.”
Carlos’ heartbeat thrums steady beneath your ear as you both fall into content silence, his fingers still tangled lazily in your curls as moonlight spills across the tangled sheets. You nuzzle closer, pressing a kiss to the scar just above his left nipple, the one he’d shrugged off as a “minor scrape” when you’d asked about it months ago over lukewarm café con leche.
“Carlos?” you murmur, voice thick with sleep. His thumb strokes your cheekbone in response, a silent I’m listening. “You know how much I love you, right?”
His breath hitches. The hand in your hair stills. For three agonizing seconds, the only sound is the distant hum of your refrigerator kicking on. Then, he answers. Softly, disbelieving- “You love me?”
You lift your head just enough to see his face, the way his dark eyes shimmer in the low light, the vulnerable part of his lips. The sight punches through your ribs like a fist. Grinning, you press another kiss to his chest, right over his racing heart. “Yes, obviously, you dork.”
Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, his grip tightening around you like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve. His laugh is wet, unsteady. “Porra,” he rasps, dragging a hand down his face. “Say it again. Please, wanna' hear it again.”
You prop yourself up on one elbow, studying the way moonlight catches on his lashes, damp now, clumped together. The raw wonder in his expression makes your own throat tighten. “I love you,” you whisper, brushing your thumb beneath his eye. It comes away damp. “Even when you cry on my good sheets.”
Carlos barks a laugh, swatting at your hand halfheartedly. “Idiota,” he mutters, but he’s grinning as he tugs you back down, your body slotting against his like two puzzle pieces. His lips find your forehead, before he murmurs against your skin, “Eu te amo, Bebezinha.”
Baby girl.
You hum happily, tucking your face into the crook of his neck where his pulse thrums steady and alive. His fingers resume their lazy path through your curls, occasionally pausing to trace the shell of your ear or the slope of your shoulder. The silence stretches, comfortable and thick, until…
Carlos shifts suddenly, rolling onto his side to face you, his expression uncharacteristically serious despite the way his thumb keeps brushing your bare hipbone. "Hey," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and something heavier. "We should- uh-" He scrubs a hand down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose. "We should talk about- " His fingers flex against your skin. "Us."
Your stomach drops. "Oh god," you blurt, scrambling upright so fast your glasses slide crooked. "You're having regrets." The words taste like ash. "It's okay if- "
Carlos grabs your wrist, yanking you back down with enough force to make the bedframe creak. "No, nononono," he cuts you off quickly, his grip tightening when you try to pull away. His other hand cups your cheek, forcing you to meet his gaze. "I don't regret shit. But tomorrow- " His throat works. "Tomorrow I go back to work. I just want to know what tomorrow looks like. For us. Y'know?”
Your fingers curl into the sheets instinctively at his words- tomorrow I go back to work- the reality of his job slamming into you like a freight train. You'd almost forgotten, wrapped up in the warmth of him, the way his hands traced your skin like he was memorizing you. But now it’s all you can think about, the missions, the danger, the way he'd sometimes come into the café with fresh bruises he refused to explain.
Carlos must see it on your face, the sudden tension in your jaw, the way your breath hitches, because his thumb brushes your lower lip, gentle but insistent. "Hey," he croons, voice softer now. "Look at me." When you do, his dark eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes your chest ache. "I always come back."
You swallow hard, forcing a nod, but your fingers find his wrist, the one with the watch you'd given him, and squeeze. "I know," you whisper. "But…” Your throat works. "You don't have to do it alone anymore."
Carlos stills above you, his brow furrowing. "What? What do you mean?"
"You let me throw you a birthday party," you point out, tracing the edge of his watch strap. "Let me bake you a cake, cook dinner, buy you shit- " Your voice cracks. "But you won't let me help you. Not really." His pulse jumps beneath your fingertips. "You don't have to let me fight your battles, Carlos. Just...let me hold you after. Maybe be there for you when it gets too heavy."
His breath stutters. For a long moment, he just stares at you, eyes wide, lips parted, like you've handed him something fragile and priceless. Then, slowly, he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. "You already do," he admits, voice rough. "Every time you make my coffee too sweet. Every time you fix my vest buttons when I'm too damn tired." His fingers tangle in your curls, tugging gently. "Every time you look at me like I'm worth something."
Your laugh is wet, shaky. "Because you are."
Carlos exhales sharply, his grip tightening. "I'm not used to this," he murmurs against your lips. "Having someone who sees me. Who gets me." His kiss is slow, aching,.less hunger now, more devotion. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheekbone, smudging away a tear you hadn't realized had escaped. "But I'm learning, and I want to learn with you."
Carlos’ fingers trail down your spine, slow and deliberate, as if tracing the path of your vertebrae is the most important thing he’s ever done. The weight of his confession lingers between you. You nuzzle closer, pressing your lips to the scar just above his heart, and feel his breath catch beneath your touch. “You’re staring, what is it?” you murmur against his skin, smiling when his chest rumbles with a quiet laugh.
“Can’t help it,” he admits sheepishly, his voice rough with sleep and something softer. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, smudging away the last traces of tears. “Never thought I’d get this.” His fingers tighten in your curls, just slightly, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his grasp. “You.”
You tilt your head up, catching his lips in a slow, lingering kiss. When you pull back, his dark eyes are hazy with something that makes your stomach flip. “Get used to it,” you whisper, grinning when he groans and drops his forehead to yours.
“Wait, does that mean I have to share you with twenty fucking plushies now?” Carlos grumbles, but there’s no real heat in it, just the same playful exasperation he uses when you correct his coffee order for the third time. His fingers trail down your side, pausing to flick the axolotl’s tail where it’s still dangling off the bed. “Am I a father now? Is that what’s happening?”
“Yes, a father of twenty. Obviously.” You deadpan, and Carlos lets out a full-bodied laugh. Your eyes crinkle at the edges, smiling.
Carlos’ breath is warm against your collarbone when he stops laughing, the heat sending goosebumps rippling across your skin. “Merda,” he murmurs, nudging the axolotl farther away with his foot. “Can’t believe my first time with you was auditioned by a goddamn stuffed animal.” His fingers trace lazy patterns down your thigh, pausing to pinch the soft flesh there, just hard enough to make you yelp. “And you, you little brat,” he adds, voice dropping into that low, teasing growl that makes your stomach flip, “laughed at me.”
You bite your lip to stifle another giggle, failing miserably when Carlos scowls and gestures toward the unicorn still glaring from the corner. “That one judged me,” he accuses, pointing an accusing finger. “I saw it.”
Your laughter dissolves into breathless wheezing, your forehead dropping against his shoulder as your body shakes. Carlos watches you with exaggerated indignation for exactly three seconds before cracking, his grin wide and unguarded, the dimple in his left cheek popping in a way you’ve only seen a handful of times. The sight punches the air from your lungs.
Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, his laughter still vibrating against your cheek where it's pressed to his shoulder. His fingers skim up your spine, tracing lazy patterns between your shoulder blades before tangling in your curls again, like he can't stop touching you now that he's allowed. "You're adorable," he murmurs, voice thick with something warm and syrupy. "Even when you're laughing at my extreme humiliation."
You tilt your head up, grinning when his thumb brushes a stray tear from your cheek. "Your extreme humiliation?" you parrot, pressing a kiss to the base of his throat. "The axolotl didn't even blink at you. He doesn't even have thoughts."
Carlos groans, rolling onto his back and dragging you with him, your body slotting against his like two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. His palm settles on the small of your back, fingers splayed wide over your skin like he's mapping the curve of you. "Next time," he mutters, nipping at your earlobe, "no audience."
"Next time," you murmur, tracing the scar on Carlos' ribcage with your fingertip, "we'll do this at your place." His breath hitches when your nail drags lightly over the raised tissue. "I'm not abandoning my plushie army just because you're scared of a few audience members."
Carlos barks out a laugh that shakes the bedframe, his fingers tightening in your curls. "Meu Deus, you're never letting that go, are you?" His thumb brushes your cheekbone, calloused but gentle. "Fine. But- " His grin turns wicked as he rolls you beneath him in one smooth motion, his hips slotting between your thighs with practiced ease. "You'll have to deal with my collection."
You blink up at him, your hands pausing on his shoulders before you ecstatically ask: “You have plushies, too?"
Carlos’ grin sharpens, his teeth flashing in the dim light as he leans down until his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Não, bebe,” he grins wolfishly, the words curling hot against your skin. His hips grind down deliberately, drawing a whimper from your throat. “Not that kind of collection.”
The implication hits you like a punch to the gut. Your face burns so fast you’re half-convinced your glasses fog up. “Oh,” you squeak, fingers tightening in his hair. The mental image of Carlos- your Carlos, with his stupidly perfect curls and infuriating smirk- picking out toys with that same focused intensity he uses when adjusting his vest straps sends heat pooling low in your belly.
Carlos laughs at your expression, nipping at your earlobe. “Sim, querida,” he teases, dragging his tongue along your pulse point. “You should see your face.” His hand slides down your side, pausing to squeeze your hip. “I’ll show you sometime. Figure out which ones you like best.” The promise in his voice makes your thighs clench involuntarily.
Carlos exhales through his nose, long and slow, as he rolls onto his side, his back pressing warm against your chest. His fingers twitch where they're tangled loosely with yours, calloused thumbs brushing your knuckles in lazy, absent circles. The weight of him molds perfectly against you, solid and real, his breathing already deepening into something softer at the edges. You press your lips to the nape of his neck, grinning when he shivers.
"Sleep," you murmur, tightening your arm around his waist. The scent of him, gun oil and coffee and something uniquely Carlos, fills your lungs like a balm. "I've got you. I'll be here when you wake up, sleepyhead."
He hums, noncommittal, and drowsy, but doesn't protest when you card your fingers through his curls, scratching gently at his scalp the way you've found he likes. Outside, the city hums with life still, but here, in the tangle of your sheets, it's just the two of you and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
Carlos' grip on your hand slackens gradually, his muscles going heavy with sleep. You watch the way moonlight catches on the curve of his shoulder, the dip of his spine, the faint scars mapping his skin like a constellation only you're allowed to trace. The axolotl stares accusingly from the floor- still crowned with its absurd condom hat- and you bite your lip to stifle a laugh, careful not to jostle Carlos.
His nose scrunches when you press a kiss to the knob of his spine, a tiny, unconscious reaction that makes your chest ache. Carlos shifts against you, his breathing deepening, fingers flexing once around yours before going lax. The moonlight catches on his lashes, casting delicate shadows across his cheeks as his features soften in sleep. You study the way his lips part slightly, the faint snore already building in his throat, the sound ridiculously endearing for someone who usually moves through the world like a stormfront.
The city sounds fade into white noise outside your window, replaced by the rhythmic creak of your bedsprings as Carlos settles deeper into the mattress. His thigh brushes yours beneath the sheets, and you resist the urge to tangle your legs with his, not wanting to disturb him. Instead, you trace the shell of his ear with your fingertip, smiling when he sighs and nuzzles into the pillow contentedly.
hii I hope you’re doing great. Can I request for Carlos Oliveira where he’s enjoying his baking time with his wife on his birthday. And then they make out and making love on the kitchen counter. Maybe since it’s his birthday, she decided to let him do whatever he wants on the bed.
A Birthday Bonanza
It's been a year of living happily with Carlos and you've finally found your footing working at UBCS. Things seem to be almost perfect... until one night, Carlos admits that no one has cared about his birthday since he left Brazil. Almost a decade and a half ago. You just have to fix that.
A/N: Hi there, love! I kind of took this idea and ran with it. I hope you don't mind, I included it as a prequel to my most recent fic for Carlos. I know you wanted them to be married already, but I feel like this fic fit into the multi-shot timeline and it needed Carlos showing how he struggles with vulnerability too, like the reader in the first fic I posted. I really hope you like it (⋆ˆ ³ ˆ)♥!
CW: 8k words, Alternate Universe in which Carlos and the Reader work at UBCS, Umbrella isn't doing shady shit, Butchering of the Portuguese language (I'm so so sorry), Lovey-Dovey domestic fluff, Unprotected vaginal sex (WRAP IT), Use of a vibrator, plug, and rope on a female, Petnames (cutie, gatinha, querida, honey, baby, bebe), Reader spoiling Carlos in every way, Carlos not quite knowing how to accept unadulterated affection, Actual adult communication of feelings, Non-sexual shower scene, Not perfect aftercare in this one (Carlos passes the fuck out, can't blame him), He makes it up in the shower, Written with a plus-sized reader in mind.
The coffee machine in the Umbrella Corporation's break room makes a sound like a dying animal. You press the button again, harder, as if that might convince it to stop gurgling and actually dispense something drinkable. Behind you, Carlos leans against the counter, grinning like he’s watching the funniest thing in the world.
"You know beating the shit out of it won’t help, right?" His voice is warm, teasing. He reaches past you, close enough that you catch the faint scent of gun oil and your strawberry scented body wash, and smacks the side of the machine with an open palm. Hypocrite. Miraculously, it sputters to life, filling your mug with something that might, generously, be called coffee.
"You’re a menace," you mutter, but you’re smiling too. You love him too much sometimes.
Carlos just laughs, ruffling your hair like you’re some kind of pet. "And you’re so cute when you’re frustrated, bebe."
The coffee tastes like burnt rubber, but you drink it anyway because it's either this or passing out at your desk before lunch. Carlos watches you grimace, his grin widening. "Bad?" he asks, already knowing the answer.
"Worse than yesterday," you admit, setting the mug down with a little more force than necessary. The liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim but doesn't spill. Small victories.
Carlos nudges your shoulder with his. "Hey, at least it's free."
You snort. "Yeah, that's the only good thing about it."
___
The drive home from work is quiet, the hum of your car’s engine and the occasional splash of tires through puddles the only sounds. Lucille, Carlos's beloved bike, is getting a new paint job, so you and Carlos both have been stuck using your old ass Honda Civic. Carlos is… less than pleased but he's been a gentleman.
Carlos has one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh, his thumb absently tracing circles through the fabric of your pants. You’re halfway home when he sighs, a soft, almost imperceptible thing, and says, "You know, I don’t think I’ve ever done anything special for my birthday. Not since I left Brazil."
You turn your head to look at him, but his eyes stay fixed on the road. There’s no bitterness in his voice, just a casual observation, like he’s commenting on the weather. But it sticks in your chest anyway, sharp and sudden. "Never?" you ask, quieter than you mean to.
Carlos shrugs like he hasn't just ripped your heart into two broken pieces. "Umbrella doesn’t exactly throw parties for their disposable soldiers, you know that, honey." He says it with a tender smile, but the words settle heavy in the space between you.
You don’t reply. Instead, you lace your fingers through his, squeezing gently. The rest of the ride is silent, but your mind is already racing, plotting.
The moment Carlos disappears into the shower that night, you’re already pulling up notes on your phone, scribbling half-formed ideas before they slip away. Breakfast in bed, obviously, something with eggs and those little spicy sausages he likes, the ones that make him groan like he’s tasting something sacred. A cake, too, though you’re painfully aware your baking skills are only okay. They're mediocre at best. You chew your lip, scrolling through recipes you’ll absolutely butcher, but the thought of Carlos laughing at your flour-covered disaster makes your chest warm anyway.
By the time he emerges, towel slung low on his hips, you’ve got a rough outline and a rapidly beating heart. He raises an eyebrow at your hunched-over intensity, water dripping from his hair onto your shoulder as he leans over you. "Plotting world domination, querida? Could've let me join." His breath is warm against your ear, and you snap your phone shut too quickly, earning a laugh. "Ah, secrets then?" He nips at your earlobe, playful. "I’ll get them out of you later."
You don’t sleep much that night, too busy mentally cataloging every stray comment he’s ever made about birthdays, the way his grandmother used to make him brigadeiro, how his friends would sneak cheap beer into the barracks. By dawn, you’ve got a plan, and by the time Carlos’ alarm blares, you’re already slipping out of bed, pressing a kiss to his sleep-warm forehead before tiptoeing to the kitchen.
The kitchen tiles are cold under your bare feet as you shuffle toward the fridge, squinting against the harsh overhead light. You’d prepped as much as you could the night before, eggs whisked, sausages thawed, flour measured, but now, in the hazy morning quiet, it feels like too much and not enough all at once. You bite your chapped lip, glancing at the clock. Carlos usually sleeps like the dead after missions, but you know ideally you’ve got maybe an hour before he stirs.
The pan hisses when you drop the sausages in, the scent of sizzling pork fat filling the apartment faster than you’d expected. You flip them carefully, wincing when grease pops onto your wrist. Behind you, the coffee machine, your own, decidedly less possessed than Umbrella’s, gurgles obediently. You’re plating the eggs when a sleepy voice murmurs, “Robbery or surprise?” from the doorway.
Carlos leans against the frame, hair mussed, eyes still heavy with sleep, but smiling like he’s caught you mid-crime. Your face heats. “Surprise,” you say sheepishly, nudging the plate toward him. “Happy birthday, babe.”
He blinks, then laughs, low and warm. “Shit, forgot I even mentioned that.” He pads forward, bare feet silent on the tiles, and hooks a finger under your chin. “You’re gonna spoil me, huh?”
Carlos presses a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead before taking the plate from your hands, his fingers brushing yours in a way that sends a shiver up your spine. “Smells like heaven,” he murmurs, sliding onto one of the rickety kitchen stools. The way he moans around the first bite of sausage, exaggerated, theatrical, so him, makes you laugh despite your nerves. “Fuck, querida, did you sell your soul or something? Because I swear they don't taste this good when I make em’.”
You roll your eyes but your chest tightens with something warm and fond. “Shut up and eat,” you mutter, turning back to the counter to hide your smile. The coffee finishes brewing, and you pour him a mug, adding just a splash of cream the way he likes it. When you slide it toward him, he catches your wrist, tugging you between his knees. His stubble scrapes your cheek as he nuzzles into your neck. “Best birthday ever already,” he mumbles against your skin, and you can feel his grin.
The cake is a disaster. Not immediately, but by the time you’ve wrestled the batter into the pan and Carlos has “helped” by flicking flour at you with a spoon, the kitchen looks like a warzone. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you scrape batter off the edge of the pan with a toothpick. “You’re cute when you’re concentrated,” he says, flicking another pinch of flour at your shoulder. You glare, but it’s impossible to stay mad when he’s grinning like that, boyish and unguarded in a way he so rarely is outside these walls.
“You’re supposed to be helping,” you grumble, wiping your hands on your apron.
Carlos licks a smear of batter off his thumb, his tongue slow and deliberate like he knows exactly what it does to you. "I am helping, bebe," he says, voice dripping with mock innocence. "Quality control." He swipes another glob from the mixing bowl, holding it out to you on his fingertip. When you lean in to take it, he pulls back at the last second, smearing it on your nose instead. His laugh is loud, unapologetic, and you wipe it off with a huff, flicking it back at him. It lands on his collarbone, and he gasps like you've shot him. "Cruel," he declares, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. "On my birthday, no less."
The oven timer dings, saving you from whatever ridiculous retort he was cooking up. The cake looks... questionable when you pull it out, slightly lopsided, one edge darker than the other, but Carlos whistles low and appreciative anyway. "Looks professional enough," he admits, reaching around you to poke at the risen center. You smack his hand away, and he catches your wrist, turning it to press a kiss to your flour-dusted knuckles. "My little chef," he coos, and the endearment makes your stomach do somersaults.
Dinner is marginally more successful, if only because Carlos takes pity on you and mans the grill himself, shirtless under the dim porch light while you chop vegetables inside. Through the window, you catch him flipping burgers with unnecessary flair, hips swaying to the old samba record he'd dug out of his crate of neglected vinyls. When he catches you staring, he winks, tongs clicking in rhythm. The sight settles something warm and syrupy in your chest.
Gifts come after, piled haphazardly on the coffee table between empty plates. Carlos tears into them with the enthusiasm of a kid, which is how you end up with a lapful of shredded wrapping paper and a grinning 6’3’ Brazilian holding up the chain you'd special-ordered, thin, silver, with your initials tucked discreetly into the clasp. He turns it over in his hands like it's something precious, his thumb brushing the engraving before he looks up at you with an expression that makes your stomach flip. "Put it on me," he says, quieter than usual, and you fumble with the clasp behind his neck, your fingers brushing the warm skin there. When you pull back, he catches your hand, pressing your palm to the chain now resting against his collarbone. "Now everyone knows who I belong to," he murmurs, and the way he says it, like it's a privilege to be yours, makes your throat tight.
The last gift is smaller, tucked into a velvet box you'd found at the back of a thrift store. Carlos opens it slowly this time, his teasing smirk fading when he sees the vintage watch inside. It's nothing fancy, just a sturdy old thing with a scratched face and a leather band worn soft with age, but his breath catches anyway. "This is-" He stops, swallowing hard before turning the watch over to reveal the tiny inscription on the back: Para meu coração. For my heart.
"Fuck," he whispers, running his thumb over the words. "How did you even find the time to get this?" You shrug, suddenly shy, but he doesn't wait for an answer, dragging you into a kiss that tastes like chocolate cake and something unbearably tender.
The kiss lingers, slow and syrupy, until Carlos pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your lips. “You’re gonna kill me with all this sweetness, you know that?” His voice is rough, halfway between a laugh and something thicker. Before you can reply, he’s standing, pulling you up with him, your hands still tangled in the front of his shirt. The watch dangles from his fingers, catching the dim living room light as he holds it up. “Put it on me,” he begs, though, this time it doesn't feel like a request.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you buckle the worn leather around his tan wrist, adjusting the clasp until it sits snug against his veiny skin. Carlos watches you, his gaze heavy, his free hand tracing idle patterns along your hip. When you’re done, he turns his wrist, studying the watch with a quiet intensity that makes your chest ache. “Fits perfect,” he says softly, and you know he’s not just talking about the strap of the watch.
The moment the watch clicks into place, Carlos’ grip on your hip tightens, pulling you flush against him. His other hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your curls. “You,” he murmurs, voice roughened with something that isn’t just gratitude, “are fucking dangerous.” His breath ghosts over your lips, warm and sweet with the lingering taste of cake. Then he kisses you, slow and deliberate, his teeth catching your lower lip just enough to make you gasp.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. “Bedroom,” he says, and it’s not a question. You nod, already breathless, and he grins, sharp, almost predatory, before scooping you up in one fluid motion, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. You yelp, clinging to his shoulders as he carries you down the hall, his laughter vibrating against your chest.
Carlos kicks the bedroom door shut with his heel, depositing you onto the mattress with a bounce that makes you squeak. He’s already shrugging out of his shirt, the silver chain glinting against his collarbone in the dim light filtering through the curtains. “You know,” he croons, crawling over you with deliberate slowness, “I think you missed one of my presents.” His grin is all teeth as he hooks a finger under the waistband of your pants, tugging lightly. “Unless this is part of the surprise?”
You swat his hand away, cheeks burning, but Carlos catches your wrist, pinning it gently above your head. “Uh-uh,” he chides, nipping at your jaw. “You said I could do whatever I wanted tonight, earlier.” His free hand trails down your side, fingers slipping beneath your shirt to trace idle circles on your stomach. “And I want you,” he teases, lips brushing your ear. “Every fucking inch.”
The toy chest at the foot of the bed creaks when he reaches for it, rummaging one-handed while keeping you pinned with his hips. You crane your neck to see, but he blocks your view with his shoulder, tossing something onto the pillow beside your head with a sly grin. “Eyes on me, querida,” he purrs, finally releasing your wrist to drag his thumb over your bottom lip. “Unless you’d rather I-”
You grab his face, cutting him off with a kiss that’s more teeth than finesse. Carlos groans into it, his hips grinding down against yours in a way that makes your back arch. “Fuck,” he breathes when you pull back, pupils blown wide. “Yeah. That.”
The first toy Carlos pulls from the chest is a sleek, black vibrator, still in its packaging. He tears it open with his teeth, the plastic crinkling obscenely loud in the quiet room. “Been saving this,” he admits, tossing the wrapper aside before flicking it on. The low buzz makes your stomach tighten. “Wanted to see how loud you’d get. I'm determined to make the whole damn apartment complex hear my name.” His grin is wicked as he drags the vibrating tip down your sternum, pausing just above your waistband. “Guess we’ll find out if I can, tonight.”
You squirm, but his weight pins you effortlessly. The vibrations skim lower, teasing over the fabric of your pants until your hips jerk involuntarily. Carlos laughs, dark and pleased, and leans down to nip at your collarbone. “Patience, querida,” he murmurs against your skin, his free hand working open your button with agonizing slowness. The second the zipper gives, the vibrator slips beneath your waistband, the sudden contact drawing a sharp gasp from your throat. Carlos watches your face intently, his own breath hitching when your back arches off the mattress. “There she is, that's my girl,” he breathes reverently.
The toy disappears as quickly as it appeared, leaving you shuddering and half-undressed. Before you can protest, Carlos rolls off you, rummaging in the chest again. This time, he produces a length of silken rope, the deep red of it stark against his tan hands. “Trust me?” he asks, though the way his thumb strokes your inner wrist tells you he already knows the answer, but you love how he always asks, without fail. You nod anyway, and his smile softens just before he loops the rope around your wrist, tying it off with a practiced knot. The other end gets secured to the headboard, leaving you stretched and exposed, your pulse thrumming under his fingertips.
Carlos takes his time after that, mapping every inch of you with his mouth and hands, pausing only to murmur praise, until you’re writhing against the sheets. The second toy, a ridged plug, cool with lube, slides into you with torturous precision, his fingers working you open around it until you’re begging. “Not yet,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “Wanna’ make you feel every fucking ridge.”
The plug stretches you deliciously, every movement sending jolts of pleasure up your spine as Carlos drags his tongue along your inner thigh. His fingers tease around the base, pressing in just enough to make you whine. "Carlos, baby," you whine, tugging against the rope, but he ignores you, focusing instead on the way your hips jerk when he twists the toy slightly.
"You're so pretty like this," he murmurs, voice rough. His free hand skims up your stomach, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs before palming your breast through your shirt. He thumbs your nipple lazily, watching the way your breath hitches. "All worked up and you're still trying to be good for me, caralho, I'm blessed.”
Fuck.
You squirm, aching for more friction, but Carlos keeps the pace agonizingly slow, his lips trailing higher until they brush against your clothed core. He exhales, warm and deliberate, before hooking his fingers into your waistband and dragging your pants down your hips. The fabric catches at your thighs, leaving you exposed and trembling.
"Fuck," he breathes, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just below your navel. "Look at you," His thumb brushes over your clit, feather-light, and you jerk against the rope with a choked moan. The plug shifts inside you, and your legs tremble, toes curling into the sheets.
Carlos hums against your inner thigh, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. “So sensitive tonight, honey,” he coos, lips dragging lower until his breath ghosts over your slick folds. His tongue flicks out, once, then twice, just enough to tease before he pulls back, leaving you trembling.
“Thought about this all day,” he admits, thumb circling your clit with maddening lightness. “Watching you knead dough with those cute little hands, flour in your hair-” His fingers curl inside you alongside the plug, the stretch making you gasp. “...knew I’d ruin you for it later.”
You arch off the bed, but he pins your hips down with his free hand, laughing when you whine. “Ah-ah,” he chides, twisting the plug just enough to make your thighs shake. “You promised me whatever I wanted, remember?” His thumb presses harder against your clit, the rhythm deliberate. “And I want to take my time. You're okay, you can wait.”
The rope bites into your wrist when you jerk against it, the friction only heightening the ache. Carlos watches the way your chest rises and falls, his own breath uneven. “Fuck,” he mutters, dragging his teeth over your hipbone. “Should’ve tied both hands.” Before you can retort, he leans down and licks a stripe up your cunt, slow and filthy, his tongue flat against your clit until your back bows off the mattress.
He doesn’t let up, alternating between broad strokes and sharp flicks, his fingers working the plug in shallow thrusts. Your thighs tremble, sweat prickling at your temples as pleasure coils tighter in your gut. “Carlos, m’ gonna-” you gasp, but he pulls away immediately, leaving you teetering on the edge.
Your breath comes in ragged gasps, hips jerking uselessly against empty air as Carlos sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His grin is all sharp edges and smug satisfaction, the bastard. "Not yet," he scolds, fingers trailing up your trembling plush thigh. "Gonna make you beg properly first."
The plug twists inside you without warning, his thumb pressing against the base to angle it just right and suddenly you see stars, a choked scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you without permission. Carlos curses, his grip tightening on your hip as your body convulses around the toy. "Fuck, I didn't mean to-" He cuts himself off with a groan when your cunt clenches around nothing, oversensitive and shaking.
His fingers are gentle when they finally slide the plug free, but you still whimper at the loss, the stretch replaced by a dull ache. Carlos shushes you, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh as he works the knot on your wrist loose. The second your arm is free, he's hauling you upright, your back against his chest as his palm splays across your stomach. "Still with me?" he murmurs against your temple, his other hand carding through your sweat-damp curls.
You nod weakly, tilting your head to catch his lips in a sloppy kiss. He hums into it, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth before pulling back to study your face. "Good girl," he praises softly, rolling his hips against your ass so you can feel how hard he still is. "Because I'm not done with you."
The mattress dips under Carlos’ weight as he maneuvers you onto your stomach, his hands rough yet reverent against your hips. His teeth graze your shoulder as he reaches for the toy chest again, the clatter of silicone against wood making your pulse spike. “Still so fucking tight,” he murmurs, dragging his knuckles down your spine. “Think you can take another?”
Before you can answer, his fingers press inside you, two, then three, stretching you with practiced ease. You gasp into the pillow, hips jerking back against his hand, but he tsks, pinning your waist with his free arm. “Greedy,” he chides, curling his fingers just enough to make your toes curl. “But I’ve got something better.”
The toy clicks when he turns it on, the vibrations humming against your thigh as he teases it along your slit. You whimper, pressing your forehead into the sheets, but Carlos just laughs, low and dark. “Uh-uh, gatinha, look at me, c'mon know you can.” He tugs your hair gently, forcing your head up until you’re meeting his gaze in the dim light. His pupils are blown black, lips parted around ragged breaths. “Want you to watch when I fuck you with this.”
Kitten.
The first press of the toy steals your breath, the ridges catching on your inner walls as he works it deeper. Your legs shake, thighs pressing together instinctively, but Carlos wedges his knee between them, forcing you wider. “That’s it,” he coos, thumb circling your puffy clit as the toy pulses inside you. “Take it just like that, don't clench, bebe, just feel it.”
The toy stretches you impossibly wider on each thrust, the vibrations ratcheting up until your vision blurs. Carlos watches your face like it’s the only thing that matters, his free hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “Fuck,” he breathes when your cunt flutters around the toy, his thumb pressing harder against your clit. “You look so good like this, all wrecked for me.”
You choke out his name, fingers twisting in the sheets as the pleasure crests again, sharper this time. Carlos curses, twisting the toy just as your back arches off the bed, the orgasm ripping through you with a violence that leaves you gasping. He doesn’t let up, fucking you through it until you’re sobbing, oversensitive and trembling. You can feel how much you gushed all over your aching thighs.
Only then does he finally pull the toy free, tossing it aside with a wet thud. You collapse onto the mattress, boneless and spent, but Carlos isn’t done. His hands turn you over roughly, his mouth crashing into yours before you can catch your breath. You taste yourself on his tongue, bitter and sweet, as he grinds against your thigh. “Need you,” he practically whines against your lips, fingers fumbling with his belt. “Now.”
You nod, too wrecked to speak, and Carlos doesn’t wait. He sheathes himself in one brutal thrust, the stretch bordering on painful after the toys. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he bottoms out, his groan vibrating against your collarbone. “Fuck, obrigado,” he pants, hips stuttering. “Too much?”
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, shaking your head against the pillow as you adjust to the stretch. "No," you gasp, arching into him. "Just- fuck, please, just move." Carlos groans, low and rough, before dragging almost all the way out and slamming back in, the force knocking a broken moan from your throat.
He sets a brutal pace from the start, each thrust punching the air from your lungs, his hips snapping against yours with a wet slap that echoes in the dim room. The chain around his neck swings wildly, the cool metal brushing your collarbone as he leans over you, one hand braced by your head while the other grips your thigh, hitching it higher. "There?" he grits out, angling deeper, and your answering cry is answer enough.
Carlos curses in Portuguese, his rhythm faltering for a split second before he regains control, fucking into you with renewed intensity. Sweat drips from his temple onto your chest, his breath coming in ragged pants as he watches where you’re joined, his cock glistening with your combined slick, your body taking him so perfectly it makes his jaw clench. "You feel- " He cuts himself off with a groan, his thumb finding your clit again, rubbing rough circles that make your thighs shake.
You reach up, tangling your fingers in his chain, the metal warm from his skin. Carlos’ hips stutter when you tug, his cock twitching inside you. "Tease," he accuses almost dramatically, but his smirk is ruined by the way his breath hitches when you tighten around him. His free hand slides under your back, hauling you up until you’re chest to chest, his mouth slanting over yours in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue.
The change in angle sends sparks up your spine, his cock brushing that sweet spot inside you with every thrust. You break the kiss with a gasp, your forehead dropping to his shoulder as pleasure coils tight in your gut again. Carlos noses at your hair, his breath hot against your ear. "That’s it," he murmurs, his voice wrecked. "Come on, let go for me, know you wanna’ bebe."
His fingers press harder against your clit, the rhythm relentless, and you shatter with a cry, your nails scoring down his back as your orgasm crashes over you. Carlos whimpers, his hips snapping erratically as you clench around him. "Fuck, fuck-" His grip on you tightens, his thrusts growing uneven until he buries himself deep with a broken groan, his cock pulsing inside you as he comes.
Carlos collapses onto you with a groan, his weight pressing you into the sweat-damp sheets. His breath rasps against your neck, his fingers still trembling where they grip your hip. You wince slightly, he's heavy, and your legs are jelly, but the sensation of him still twitching inside you keeps the aftershocks rolling through your body in lazy waves.
He shifts just enough to pull out, flopping onto his back beside you with a satisfied sigh. The silence stretches, broken only by the ragged sounds of your breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator down the hall.
"Christ," Carlos finally mutters, dragging a hand down his face. "That was..." He trails off, turning his head to look at you with an expression that makes your stomach flip, something between awe and exhaustion, his dark eyes soft in the dim light.
You reach out, tracing the chain around his neck with shaky fingers. The metal is warm from his skin, your initials glinting dully against his collarbone. "Happy birthday," you croak, voice hoarse.
Carlos catches your wrist before you can pull away, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. His lips are warm, slightly chapped, and they linger long enough that you feel your heartbeat stutter under them. "Best fucking birthday ever," he murmurs against your skin, his accent thicker with exhaustion. He rolls onto his side, dragging you with him until you're tucked against his chest, his arm heavy around your waist. The watch, your watch, glints in the low light as he cards his fingers through your hair, untangling the curls with lazy patience.
You trace idle patterns on his stomach, the muscles there twitching under your touch. The chain brushes your cheek when he shifts, the metal cool now against your flushed skin. "You're gonna spoil me," he says after a while, voice rough with sleep. "Next year, you'll have to top this."
You snort, pressing your face into his shoulder to hide your smile. "Next year, I'm hiring a clown."
Carlos pinches your hip, laughing when you yelp. "Asshole, you wouldn't, " he mutters, but there's no heat in it. His hand smooths over the spot he pinched, his thumb rubbing absent circles into your skin. The room smells like sex and chocolate cake, the remnants of the evening clinging to the sheets tangled around your legs.
Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers still tracing mindless patterns on your hip. The chain around his neck catches the faint glow of the streetlight outside, casting a thin silver line across his collarbone. “You’re not hiring a clown,” he giggles, but the way his thumb digs into the soft flesh of your waist betrays his amusement.
You wiggle closer, pressing your forehead against his sternum. His heartbeat thrums steady under your lips, slower now but still strong. “What if it’s a sexy clown?” you mumble into his skin, grinning when his chest vibrates with a half-suppressed laugh.
“Still no.” His hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your curls. “Unless it’s you in clown makeup.” The mental image makes you snort, and Carlos pinches your pebbled nipple in retaliation. “Quietinho. I’m trying to be romantic.”
You bite back a laugh, tilting your head to peer up at him. His expression is softer than you expected, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved into something tender. The watch you gave him rests on his wrist, the worn leather strap stark against his tan skin. “You’re terrible at romance,” you lie to him, but your voice cracks halfway through.
The quiet settles over you both like a second skin, sticky with sweat and exhaustion but warm in ways that have nothing to do with body heat. Carlos shifts slightly, his thigh sliding between yours as he tugs the blanket up over your shoulders with a grunt. “Don’t move,” he mumbles into your hair, his breath already slowing. “M’ gonna pass the fuck out.”
You hum in agreement, but your fingers twitch against his ribs, a restless itch to touch, to confirm he’s still here, still real. Carlos catches your hand before you can retreat, pressing your palm flat against his sternum where his heartbeat thrums steady under your fingertips. “Still here, querida, m'okay you can rest,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “Not going anywhere.”
The streetlight outside casts jagged shadows across the ceiling, painting the room in muted gold and deep blue. Somewhere in the apartment, the fridge hums, a sound so mundane it almost feels out of place amidst the wreckage of the evening. Carlos’ chain glints when he turns his head, the metal cool where it brushes your cheek.
“Hey.” His voice is rough, quieter than before. You tilt your chin up to find him watching you with an expression that makes your stomach swoop, something unbearably soft, his thumb tracing the apple of your cheek. “You’re thinking too loud. Today was perfect, honey, really.”
The words hover between you, too quiet, too honest, and you duck your head before he can see your face crumple. Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers tightening in your hair. "Hey, no, no." he coos, tipping your chin up with his knuckle. His thumb swipes under your eye before you even realize it's wet. "What're these tears for?"
You shrug, pressing your cheek into his palm. The watch ticks softly on his wrist, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet. "Just thinking," you mumble. "About how you’ve never had a birthday like this before, breaks my heart."
Carlos goes still for a heartbeat, his fingers flexing against your scalp. Then he lets out a long exhale, dragging you up until you're sprawled across his chest, his arms locking around your back like he's afraid you'll vanish.
The chain digs into your cheek when he shifts, the metal warmed from his skin. You trace the initials engraved on the pendant, yours, wrapped around his neck, and Carlos shivers, his grip tightening. "Got me all sentimental, m’ becoming a softie," he grumbles, but his voice cracks on the last syllable and you can feel the sappy grin on his face.
His breathing evens out first, the slow rise and fall of his chest pressing you deeper into the mattress. You count the seconds between his exhales, the rhythm syncopated by the occasional soft snuffling noise he makes when he’s truly asleep. The chain pooled between you catches moonlight in disjointed glints, a constellation mapped across sweat-slick skin.
You shift just enough to drag the blanket higher over his shoulder, but his arm tightens reflexively around your waist, fingers twitching against the small of your back. “Eu te amo, bebe.” he murmurs sleepily, the Portuguese thick with emotion. His nose presses into your hairline, inhaling deeply like he’s cataloging your scent. You freeze, but he’s already gone slack again, his lips parted against your temple. He always passes out after sex, it's a little hilarious.
The watch ticks on his wrist. You close you eyes.
___
Somewhere around 3:47 AM, according to your old ass alarm clock, you disentangle yourself with practiced care, peeling his arm away inch by inch. Carlos grunts, rolling onto his stomach with a muttered curse, one hand splayed over the space you vacated. The sheet sticks to your thighs when you swing your legs over the edge, the air cool against your oversensitive skin.
The bathroom tiles are cold under your bare feet when you pad inside, wincing as your thighs protest the movement. The mirror is fogged from Carlos’ shower earlier, but you catch your reflection in the patches where the steam has cleared, hair wild, lips swollen, the ghost of his teeth still blooming along your collarbone. You wet a washcloth under lukewarm water, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet apartment.
Carlos appears in the doorway like a specter, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. The chain swings lazily with his movement, catching the dim glow of the nightlight plugged in behind the toilet. “Stealing my post-coil shower time with you?” he rasps, voice thick with sleep.
You jump at his voice, the washcloth dripping onto your toes. "I was just..."
Carlos steps forward before you finish, plucking the cloth from your fingers with a smirk. His hips press against yours as he crowds you toward the shower, the chain swinging between you like a pendulum. "You were just what?" he murmurs, thumb swiping a streak of dried come off your inner thigh. His grin turns wolfish when you shiver. "Thought you'd sneak away without me?"
The shower spray hits your back first, too hot, then adjusted with a twist of his wrist. Carlos pins you against the tile with his body, one hand cradling the base of your skull to keep you from knocking your head. Water sluices down his chest, catching on the chain before pooling at the dip of his hips.
"Meu amor," he coos against your temple, lips grazing the sensitive skin there. His free hand traces idle circles over your stomach, calluses catching on the softness. "You're shaking."
You are. You're exhausted and there's residual pleasure wringing tremors from your muscles. Carlos notices, always notices, and shifts to bear more of your weight against him. His fingers slide lower, massaging the ache from your thighs with a gentleness that contradicts the marks he left hours earlier.
His palm splays across your lower back, pressing you flush against the shower tiles as he ducks his head to nuzzle the junction of your neck. “Minha princesa, you spoil me,” he whispers tenderly, the Portuguese curling thick and syrupy around the words. His lips drag along your damp skin, tasting the hollow behind your ear. “Never had anyone…” He trails off, biting gently at your shoulder instead of finishing.
You tilt your head to give him better access, fingers curling against his forearms where they bracket your hips. The chain dangles between you, swaying with every shift of his body. Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, his breath hot against your spine as he reaches past you for the soap. “Let me, you're sore,” he chides gently, squeezing a dollop of your strawberry scented body wash onto his palm before lathering it between his hands.
His touch is methodical, almost reverent, as he works the suds over your shoulders, kneading the tension from your muscles with calloused thumbs. The soap slides down your arms, his fingers tracing the paths it carves like he’s memorizing the topography of your skin. “Back home,” he starts, then pauses to press a kiss to the knob of your spine. “My mãe used to…” Another pause, his hands slowing. “She'd spoil me, too. Never thought I’d miss someone fussing over me like this.”
The admission hangs between you, vulnerable in a way Carlos rarely allows. You turn in his arms, ignoring the water sluicing into your face, and cradle his jaw. His stubble rasps against your palms, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your throat tighten. “Oh, Carlitos,” you whisper, the nickname slipping out before you can stop it.
Carlos freezes at the nickname, his breath hitching like you’ve pulled a pin from a grenade. Water streams down his face, plastering his lashes into dark spikes, but he doesn’t blink, just stares at you with something raw and unguarded. “Say that again, please,” he begs, hands tightening on your hips hard enough to bruise.
You swallow, thumbs stroking the rough patch of stubble under his lower lip. “Carlitos,” you repeat, softer this time.
Carlos exhales like you’ve punched the air from his lungs, his forehead dropping against yours with a damp thud. The water beats down on his shoulders, steam curling between your bodies as he clutches you tighter. “Meu Deus,” he mutters into your mouth, voice wrecked. “You can’t just- fuck.” His thumbs dig into your hips, anchoring you both as he shakes against you.
He kisses you like he’s starving, all teeth and desperation, his tongue sliding against yours with a groan. The chain presses cold between your collarbones, a sharp contrast to the scalding water and Carlos’ feverish hands mapping your ribs, your waist, the dip of your spine. He breaks away only to gasp, “Say it again,” his lips brushing yours with each word.
“Carlitos,” you whisper, and he shudders, his fingers flexing against your skin. His eyelashes are spiked with water when he pulls back to look at you, his dark eyes glittering with something unbearably tender.
“Nobody’s called me that since…” His voice cracks. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against your palm where you still cradle his jaw. “Since my mãe,” he finishes roughly, like the admission costs him.
The shower spray drums against your shoulders, the steam thickening between you. Carlos exhales sharply through his nose, his thumbs stroking your hip bones in slow, absent circles. “Didn’t think I’d ever-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. When he speaks again, his voice is raw. “Didn’t think anyone would love me like this.”
Your throat tightens. You trace the curve of his lower lip with your thumb, his stubble rasping against your skin. “Like what?”
Carlos huffs a laugh, but it’s wet at the edges. “Like I’m something good,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. “Like I’m worth- ” He gestures vaguely between your bodies, the chain swinging with the motion. “All this. The cake, the fucking watch.” His voice breaks again.
You kiss him before he can finish, slow and lingering, trying to pour everything you can’t say into the press of your lips. Carlos makes a wounded noise against your mouth, his hands sliding up to frame your face like you’re something precious.
Carlos exhales shakily against your lips, his grip on your jaw trembling just slightly, an imperceptible tell if you didn't know the cadence of his body so intimately. The water runs cooler now, sluicing between your pressed torsos, but neither of you moves to adjust it. His thumbs trace the hinge of your jaw, catching on the pulse point there as if to memorize its rhythm.
"Meu coração," he murmurs, the Portuguese rough with emotion. His breath hitches when you press closer, your fingers twisting into the wet curls at the nape of his neck. The chain dangles between you, the metal warmed by skin despite the water.
You don't speak. There's nothing to say that isn't already written in the way his hands slide down to your waist, possessive and reverent all at once, or how his forehead stays pressed to yours like he's afraid you'll vanish if he pulls away. The watch on his wrist ticks steadily, the sound almost lost under the shower's spray.
Carlos finally breaks the silence with a quiet laugh, his nose brushing yours. "You're gonna ruin me," he mutters, but his voice is thick with something unbearably fond. His fingers flex against your hips, thumbs digging into the softness there. "Making me all..." He gestures vaguely again, the motion sending droplets cascading off his forearm.
The shower drips long after the water’s turned off, fat droplets plinking against the porcelain like a metronome counting the seconds Carlos spends staring at you. His thumbs still trace your hips, slower now, as if committing the shape of you to memory.
"You're thinking too loud again," he murmurs, but there’s no bite to it. His voice is soft, frayed at the edges like worn denim. The chain swings between you when he shifts, the pendant catching the faint light from the bathroom’s nightlight.
You reach up, brushing a damp curl off his forehead. His eyelashes are still spiked together, making his gaze seem heavier, darker. "Just wondering if you’ll still want breakfast in bed tomorrow," you tease, aiming for levity.
Carlos’s laugh is a rough, warm thing against your collarbone. He nips at the skin there, not hard enough to mark, just enough to make you shiver. "Idiota," he mutters, but his hands slide up to cradle your ribs, his palms spanning your waist. "Like I could ever say no to being spoiled by you."
Carlos towels you off with the same deliberate care he’d used earlier while frosting his birthday cake, slow, methodical strokes that linger over every dip and curve. The terrycloth rasps against your oversensitive skin, and you bite your lip when his fingers skim the inside of your thigh. “Don’t start what you can’t finish,” you warn, voice still hoarse.
He grins, all white teeth and boyish charm despite the clear exhaustion lining his face. “Who says I can’t finish?” His thumb presses into the softness of your inner thigh, just shy of where you want it. The watch glints when he reaches past you for your sleep shirt, the leather strap darkened by water. “But you’re shaking, querida. And I know you're sore. Just wanna’ hold you and drift off to sleep.”
You yank the shirt over your head, shivering when the fabric clings to damp patches he missed. Carlos makes a wounded noise at the sight, his fingers twitching like he wants to peel it back off. Instead, he wraps the towel around his waist and herds you toward the bedroom, one hand splayed possessively across the small of your back.
The sheets are still damp where you’d soaked through them earlier, but Carlos flops onto the mattress without hesitation, dragging you down beside him. His arm snakes around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest. The chain presses cold between your shoulder blades, a sharp contrast to the furnace-like heat of his skin.
The bedside clock reads 4:23 AM when Carlos’ breathing evens out, his exhales warm against the crown of your head. His arm weighs heavy across your waist, fingers twitching occasionally against your hip like he’s dreaming of holding on tighter. The chain lies cool between your shoulder blades, its engraved pendant digging a small crescent into your skin, a brand you’d gladly wear forever.
You shift carefully, testing his grip. Carlos makes a low noise in his throat, his biceps flexing as he drags you impossibly closer. His lips brush your forehead in a sleep-slowed kiss, the scrape of his stubble familiar as sandpaper. “Não vá, sleep…” he mumbles again, the words slurred with exhaustion. His knee slots between yours, anchoring you in place.
Don't go.
Outside, a garbage truck groans down the street, its hydraulic hiss cutting through the quiet. The sound stirs Carlos enough that his fingers flex against your side, his thumb rubbing absent circles over your ribs. “Okay?” he rasps, voice thick with sleep.
You hum, tracing the scars on his forearm, the raised one from a knife fight in Raccoon City, then, the smoother one from a botched extraction in Singapore. Carlos shivers when your nail catches on a particularly jagged ridge near his elbow. “Tickles, bebe,” he giggles sleepily, but makes no move to pull away.
The garbage truck's rumble fades down the street, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator and Carlos' steady breathing against your temple. His fingers twitch against your ribs, an unconscious pulse, like his body refuses to fully believe you're still there even in sleep. You press closer, inhaling the lingering scent of strawberry soap and the remains of sex sweat clinging to his collarbone. The chain digs into your back, its metal warmed now by your shared heat.
Carlos' knee shifts between yours, the coarse hair on his thigh catching against your sensitive skin. A soft noise escapes you, half protest, half contentment, and his arm tightens instantly in response. "Te Amo," he mumbles sleepily into your hair, the Portuguese slurred with exhaustion. His lips brush your forehead again, clumsy with sleep. You whisper back. "Eu te amo, Carlitos." You feel him smile against the nape of your neck and allow yourself to drift off.
I saw your reblog about chronic illness and GIRL me too, which is why as a potsie I wanted to request a POTS fic with Leon Kennedy because dear lord I know this man would treat us soooooo well. Maybe losing consciousness during a DSO meeting after getting up too fast from the table when reader is presenting something? So reader would be part of Leon's workplace, preferably in an established relationship. (WIFEYYYYYY) Cough cough anyways....🥹🥹 It doesn't have to be just the DSO meeting, it can be multiple occurrences where she's trying hide how bad the flare up has gotten and Leon finally finds out after a particularly bad faint. Sorry to be a bother and I don't wanna unload more work for you but I thought this might be relatable for some of us. 😫😫😫
Thinking about RE9 Husband Leon with a Wife who has POTS...
A/N: Hello, love! I'm so sorry this request took some time. I have been struggling with motivation lately and trying to find the spark again to get multiple fics out in a day. I really hope that I did your request justice and that you enjoy! Also, you are never a bother! Requests literally fuel my inspiration to write. Please pop into my ask box whenever!
CW: 4k words, Hurt/Comfort, YEARNING, Dash of angst (very brief!), Graphic descriptions of Post Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome and it's symptoms, Leon and the reader are in an established marriage, Takes place directly after Leon returns from RE9's mission and is cured, Adults communicating properly (eventually), Domestic tooth-rotting fluff, Leon Porsche cameo, Brief Hunnigan cameo, Petnames (Baby, Hon, Honey, Sweetheart, Sweetie, Babe), SPOILERS FOR RE9, Written with a plus-sized reader in mind (forever and always my fics are for you loves).
The coffee in the DSO breakroom tastes like battery acid today. You swallow it anyway, pushing your glasses up your nose with one finger as you flip through another case file. It’s standard procedure, nothing urgent, just the usual paperwork Leon now insists on organizing in rainbow order because it "makes the day less gray." His return from Raccoon City, cured, has done wonders for his level of whimsy. It seems endless nowadays. You love every second of it.
Across from your desk cubicle, Leon’s leaned back in his chair, phone pressed to his ear, murmuring something about requisition forms. His boots are propped on the desk, scuffed toe nudging a framed photo of the two of you from last year’s holiday party- his grin lopsided, your curls escaping from what was supposed to be an elegant updo. He catches you staring and winks, mouthing love you around the phone receiver like it’s effortless. Oh, the Kennedy charm.
Your vision tunnels for half a second, the fluorescent lights overhead suddenly too bright. You grip the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening as you count silently, until the dizziness recedes. It’s been worse lately, the way your pulse spikes when you stand, the way your fingers tremble holding your pen. But Leon’s finally happy, finally safe, finally here, and you won’t be the thing that dims that.
____
The briefing room is too fucking warm when you file in with the rest of the team. Leon drops into the seat beside you, knee brushing yours under the table like a secret. "You good, hon?" he murmurs, thumb tracing the back of your wrist. His hands are warm. You nod, squeezing his fingers once before letting go.
The briefing drags on- mission updates, logistics, something about Eastern European bioterrorist activity- but the words blur together as your throat tightens. Your skin feels both too hot and too cold, sweat prickling at your temples despite the chill creeping up your spine. You cross your legs, then uncross them quickly (remembering your doctor’s words of warning), shifting in the chair as if movement might anchor you. Leon’s knee presses harder against yours, a silent question. You force a smile, mouthing bathroom before slipping out while the team debates extraction protocols.
The hallway tilts. You stumble into the employee bathroom, locking the stall door behind you just as your knees buckle. Slumping against the wall, you press your forehead to the cool tile and focus on the pattern- white squares, grout lines, anything to keep the room from spinning. Your pulse throbs in your throat, too fast, too loud, like a drumbeat gone wild. The fluorescent light hums above you, flickering once, twice, syncing with the stutter of your breath.
You don’t hear the bathroom door open over the rush of blood in your ears. Then… boots on tile, sharp and purposeful, stopping dead when they reach your stall. "Sweetheart?" Leon’s voice is low, urgent, his palm flat against the door. "Open up f’me." The lock clicks under your trembling fingers before you can protest, and then he’s there, crouching in front of you, his hands framing your face. His thumbs swipe at the sweat on your temples, his breath hitching when he sees the pallor of your skin. "Jesus Christ," he mutters, shrugging out of his jacket to drape it over your shoulders. "How long has this been happening?"
The lie dies on your tongue when he presses a cold paper towel to the back of your neck. You whimper at the sheer relief it brings, leaning into his touch as he counts aloud for you- four in, seven hold, eight out- his voice steady, familiar, the rhythm you’ve clung to since your diagnosis. "Don’t," you mumble when he moves to lift you, but he ignores you, sliding one arm under your knees, the other bracing your back. "Leon, someone will see- "
"Let them." His grip tightens as he carries you through the empty hallway, past the break room where Hunnigan’s coffee cup sits abandoned mid-sip, past the elevators that ding cheerfully as if today is normal. The parking lot asphalt is blistering under the midday sun, but Leon doesn’t falter, adjusting his hold to dig for his keys. His Porsche unlocks with a quiet chirp, the leather seats already warm. "Feet up, gotta get that blood pressure stabilized," he orders, guiding your legs tenderly onto the dashboard before buckling you in.
The Porsche’s engine growls to life beneath you, a familiar vibration that usually soothes your nerves. Today, it feels distant, like white noise behind the cottony thickness in your head. Leon’s hand finds your knee, squeezing once before shifting gears, his grip tight on the wheel. "Keep your eyes open for me, okay, honey?" he murmurs, but the words slip through your fingers like sand. The city blurs past the window- neon signs smearing into streaks of color, the stoplights bleeding red into your half-lidded vision.
You jolt when cold plastic presses against your lips. Leon’s holding a water bottle one-handed, his other arm braced across your chest as the car slows to a stoplight. "Small sips, ‘kay?" he urges softly, and you obey, the water shockingly crisp against your dry throat. He watches you drink like it’s a lifeline, his thumb swiping a drop from your chin. The light turns green. His jaw clenches when you slump against the window, your temple tapping the glass with each turn. "Almost home," he lies- you know the route, know you’re still fifteen minutes out- but the promise is a warm weight in your chest.
____
The garage door groans shut behind you, swallowing the last of the daylight. Leon’s out of the car before the engine quiets, his door slamming as he rounds the hood. You fumble with the seatbelt, fingers clumsy and dazed, but he’s already there, clicking the release, his hands sliding under your arms. "I can walk, babe," you whine in protest, but your legs buckle the second your feet hit concrete. Leon exhales through his nose, a sound that’s equal parts frustration and fear, before hoisting you up against his chest. Your cheek presses into the familiar scent of his shirt, and the comforting smell of gunpowder and that stupidly expensive cologne Hunnigan got him last Christmas fills your senses.
The stairs creak under his weight, each step measured. You focus on the pulse in his neck, the way it jumps when you nuzzle closer. "Should’ve practiced carrying you upstairs more often," he mutters in disdain, but there’s no bite to it, just a roughness that makes your ribs ache. He hates how his body has aged. You adore it. The bedroom curtains are drawn, the dim light softening the edges of the room. He lowers you onto the mattress like you’re made of glass, his palms skimming your sides as if checking for cracks.
The bed dips under Leon’s weight as he sits beside you, his fingers already working to unlace your shoes. The silence between you is thick, but not uncomfortable- just heavy with things unsaid. He peels off your socks one by one, his thumb brushing the arch of your foot in a way that makes your toes curl. “Ice pack or Gatorade first?” he asks, like it’s a menu and not a medical triage. His voice is steady, but his hands betray him, trembling ever so slightly as he sets your shoes aside. He’s scared. He doesn’t want to admit it. You know he won’t.
You open your mouth to protest, but he’s already on his feet, rummaging through the nightstand drawer where he keeps the emergency supplies- bandages, painkillers, the neon orange ice pack you used to mock him for buying for his knees (you’d called him an old man and cackled). The crinkle of the packaging is obnoxiously loud in the quiet room. “Lee,” you start, but he shakes his head, pressing the ice pack to the back of your neck before you can finish. The cold bites, sharp and sudden, and you gasp, arching away from it. His free hand cups your elbow, steadying you. “Too much?” he murmurs, already lifting it an inch.
You shake your head, swallowing hard as the cold seeps into your overheated skin. Leon watches you for a beat, his gaze unreadable, before turning to the mini-fridge tucked under his side of the bed- another relic from his “prepared for anything” phase pre- his return to Raccoon City. The bottle of blue Gatorade clicks open with a hiss. “Small sips,” he repeats, holding it to your lips like you might shatter if he hands it over. The sweetness is cloying and almost enough to make you nauseous, but you drink anyway, your fingers wrapping around his wrist to ground yourself. His pulse jumps under your touch.
When the bottle is half-empty, he sets it aside, his other hand still cradling the ice pack against your neck. His thumb strokes your jawline, slow and deliberate. “You’re shaking still, baby,” he fusses. You hadn’t even noticed. His palm slides down to your chest, pressing lightly over your heart. “And your pulse is still racing.” The words are clinical, but his voice cracks on the last syllable.
Leon exhales through his nose, long and slow, like he’s counting to ten in his head. You recognize the look- the one he gets right before he crashes the fuck out, all sharp edges and forced calm. But his fingers are gentle when they tuck a sweat-damp curl behind your ear. “Talk to me, please,” he says, and it’s not a request even though he forms it as one. It’s the same tone he uses when debriefing rookies after their first firefight: no bullshit, no room for evasion.
You press your lips together, focusing on the condensation sliding down the Gatorade bottle instead of his stare. The ice pack shifts as he adjusts it, his palm now cradling the base of your skull. “It’s not a big deal,” you mutter, but the words sound hollow even to you. Leon’s quiet for a beat, then two, his thumb tracing the hinge of your jaw.
“Bullshit.” The word lands softly, without heat. He leans in until his forehead nearly touches yours, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow. “You’re white as a sheet, your hands won’t stop shaking, and I just carried you up the damn stairs.” His voice drops, rougher now. “That’s a big fuckin’ deal, sweetheart.”
Something in your chest fractures at the nickname. You fumble for his free hand, tangling your fingers with his just to feel the calluses against your skin- proof that he’s here, solid, real. The confession spills out before you can stop it. “I didn’t want to ruin this.” Your voice cracks. “You’re finally okay. You’re here. You’re happy. And I- I-” The sentence strangles itself in your throat.
Leon goes very still. His grip tightens around your fingers. The ice pack slips from his other hand, thudding onto the mattress. “Ruin what?” His voice is low, rough, like gravel under tires. You can’t meet his eyes. Instead, you focus on the way his dog tags press against your collarbone, cool metal warming against your skin.
“This.” You gesture weakly between you, the movement sending a fresh wave of dizziness through you. “You’re happy. After everything- the T-virus, the cure, Grace- you’re home, and you’re safe. I didn’t- ” Your breath hitches. “I didn’t want to be the thing that dragged you back down.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. Leon’s jaw works, his teeth grinding audibly. Then, abruptly, he lets go of your hand- only to frame your face with both palms, forcing you to look at him. His thumbs swipe under your eyes, catching the tears you hadn’t realized were falling.
“Listen to me.” His voice cracks. “Listen. You could never- ” He stops, exhales hard through his nose. When he speaks again, it’s slower, deliberate. “When I was sick, who stayed up with me every night?” His thumb traces your cheekbone. “Who learned how to give IV fluids because the nurses were taking too long?” A weak laugh escapes you at the memory- him scowling as you fumbled with the tubing, muttering about “government-trained incompetence.”
Leon’s grip gentles, his fingers threading into the curls at your temples. “Who held me when the fever dreams got bad?” His voice drops to a whisper, rough with memory. “You think I forgot any of that?”
The question hangs between you, weighted. You blink up at him, your vision blurring with unshed tears. His thumb catches one as it spills over, smearing it across your cheekbone like a confession. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he says, each word measured, deliberate. “You saved me.” His voice breaks on the last word, and something in your chest fractures clean in two.
Leon exhales sharply through his nose, his grip shifting to cradle the back of your head. He leans in until his forehead presses against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “Your illness isn’t different from what mine was,” he murmurs. “It’s just yours. And I’m your husband.” The word- husband- lands like a vow. “Let me carry this with you, sweetie.”
The sob that escapes you is ugly, raw, but Leon doesn’t flinch. He gathers you against his chest, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other tangled in your curls. Your glasses dig into your cheekbone, but you don’t pull away- can’t, not when he’s holding you like you might disappear if he lets go. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry- ” you gasp into his collar, the fabric damp with your tears. His shirt smells like gun oil, and that stupid cologne, and you clutch at it like a lifeline.
“Don’t.” The word is rough, but his hands are gentle as they skim down your back. “Don’t apologize.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering, like he’s memorizing the feel of your hair against his lips. When he pulls back, his eyes are wet. “Just promise me you won’t hide it again.” His thumb traces the curve of your cheek. “Promise me.”
You nod against his chest, your fingers curling into his shirt. The fabric stretches under your grip, but Leon doesn’t pull away; he just tightens his arms around you, his heartbeat steady against your ear. "Promise," you whisper, the word muffled but sincere. His exhale ruffles your hair, long and relieved, like he’s been holding it in for weeks.
The ice pack has melted into a lukewarm blob between you, forgotten. Leon reaches over you to grab it, his bicep brushing your nose as he tosses it onto the nightstand with a wet plop. "Good," he mutters, but there’s no edge to it- just a quiet exhaustion that makes your throat tighten. His fingers trail down your arm, pausing at your wrist to press two fingers against your pulse point. You watch his brow furrow as he counts silently, his lips moving slightly. After a moment, he grunts. "Better."
You expect him to let go, but he doesn’t. Instead, he shifts until he’s lying beside you, one arm tucked under your neck, the other draped over your waist. His knee bumps yours as he settles in, the familiar weight of him grounding you more than any ice pack could. The bed creaks under the shift, and you curl into him instinctively, your forehead pressing into the hollow of his throat. His skin is warm, the scent of his cologne faded but still there, clinging to the collar of his shirt.
"Should’ve told me," he croons into your hair, his breath stirring your curls. It’s not an accusation- just a fact, spoken softly, like he’s reminding himself as much as you. His hand slides up your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades. "Would’ve noticed sooner if you weren’t so damn good at hiding it."
His fingers trace idle patterns along your spine, the touch feather-light but steadying. You can feel the calluses catching on the fabric of your blouse- rough spots from years of gripping firearms, typing reports, holding you. The rhythm of his breathing slows to match yours, his chest rising and falling against yours in perfect sync. "You know what the worst part was?" he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple. "Seeing you flinch every time I touched you lately." His thumb presses into the dip of your lower back, right where the muscle always knots up. "Like you thought I wouldn’t notice. Like I wouldn’t care."
The admission lodges in your throat like glass. You press your face harder into his collarbone, as if you could burrow under his skin and hide there. His heartbeat thrums against your cheek, a metronome keeping time with the tremors still ghosting through your limbs. "I didn’t want you to worry," you mumble into his shirt. The lie tastes bitter, even now.
Leon huffs a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Too late, baby." His palm slides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your curls with deliberate care. "You forget- I’m trained to notice shit." His other hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together and bringing them to his lips. He presses a kiss to your ring finger, his lips brushing against the two rings resting there, then he turns your wrist to trace the delicate blue veins with his lips. The gesture is so absurdly tender it makes your ribs ache. "Your pulse is still too fast," he murmurs against your skin.
You flex your fingers in his grip, testing the strength of his hold. "Maybe you’re just bad at taking vitals." The joke is weak, and it earns you a sharp pinch to your hip. Leon nips at your earlobe in retaliation, his teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp.
The pinch fades into warmth as Leon’s hand smooths over your hipbone, his thumb pressing into the divot there like he’s mapping you. “Smartass,” he chuckles, but there’s no heat in it- just that rough affection that makes your stomach flutter. His lips brush the shell of your ear, lingering long enough for his breath to raise goosebumps along your neck. “You’re lucky I like that about you.”
The bed creaks as he shifts, rolling you gently onto your back without breaking contact. His knee slots between yours, the fabric of his pants rough against your bare skin where your slacks have ridden up. You squint up at him- his hair mussed from your fingers, his collar crooked where you’d grabbed him- and something in your chest clenches at the way his eyes dart over your face, cataloging every flicker of discomfort.
The Gatorade bottle crinkles as Leon grabs it from the nightstand, holding it to your lips one-handed. “Drink,” he orders, but his free hand strokes your cheek when you grimace at the sweetness. “C’mon, just a few more sips f’ me, hon. Then I’ll let you steal my shirt and rest those pretty eyes, okay?”
You swallow obediently, the liquid cool against your throat. Leon watches the bob of your Adam’s apple like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s seen all day, his thumb swiping a stray drop from your chin. The bottle clicks when he sets it aside, his fingers immediately returning to your face, tracing the frames of your glasses. “These bothering you?” he asks, already sliding them off with practiced care.
The absence of your glasses leaves the room blurry, but Leon’s face is close enough that you can still see the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he blinks. He folds the frames with one hand, setting them on the nightstand with a soft clink, then drags his knuckles down your temple like he’s smoothing away the indentations they left. “Better?” he murmurs, and you nod, though the room tilts slightly without the familiar weight on your nose. His palm cups your cheek, calloused and warm. “Good.”
Leon exhales through his nose, slow and measured, before pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is grounding- his skin warm, the faint stubble along his jaw catching on your curls. "You're still shaking," he murmurs, his breath mingling with yours. His hands slide down to your wrists, fingers circling the delicate bones there like he's trying to steady them himself.
You flex your fingers against his grip, testing the tremors. "It'll pass, it always does," you whisper, but the words feel flimsy even as you say them. Leon's jaw tightens, his thumb pressing into your pulse point hard enough that you feel the echo of your own heartbeat against his skin.
Leon’s hands are firm but gentle as he guides you onto your side, his chest pressed flush against your back. One arm tucks beneath your head, the other draping heavily over your waist- anchoring you in place like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve if he doesn’t hold tight enough. His knee nudges between yours, aligning your bodies until every tremor in your limbs transfers directly into his. "There," he croons into the nape of your neck, lips brushing the damp curls there. "Better."
You want to argue- you always do- but the weight of him is a hell of a drug, pulling you under with every steady breath against your spine. His fingers trace idle patterns over your ribcage, counting each flutter of your breath like a sniper counting heartbeats before a shot. "Still racing," he mutters, but his voice is soft now, frayed at the edges with exhaustion. The words vibrate through you, his stubble catching on your shoulder when he nuzzles closer.
Outside, a car alarm wails three streets over. Leon tenses instinctively, his grip tightening for half a second before he forces himself to relax. "Jesus fuckin’ christ," he grumbles, exhaling hot against your skin. "Somebody’s getting their tires slashed tonight." The joke is weak, but you feel the curve of his smile against your shoulder blade. His thumb finds the divot of your hipbone."Quit that, no threatening our neighbors tonight," you giggle, but there’s no heat in it- just the sluggish slur of someone three-quarters gone to sleep.
Leon hums, low and pleased, his palm smoothing up to splay over your sternum. "Feel that?" he whispers. His fingertips tap once, twice against your ribs in time with your slowing heartbeat. "Getting there." The praise is absurd- you’re not a damn puppy- but something in your chest unknots anyway. Sometimes, you feel like a puppy with how receptive you are to his praise. His lips find the hinge of your jaw, lingering long enough that you can feel the shape of his smile. "Knew you could do it, sweetheart."
The sheets rustle as he shifts behind you, his knee slotting more firmly between yours. The fabric is rough against your inner thigh, but the pressure is grounding- one more tether to keep you from floating away into the void of vertigo. His free hand cards through your curls, careful around the tangles, his fingers massaging your scalp with the same focused precision he uses to field-strip his sidearm. "There you go," he coos when your breathing finally evens out. His voice is thick with something you can’t name. "Just like that."
Somewhere in the haze, you register the click of the bedside lamp. The room plunges into darkness, but Leon’s hands remain, one curled around your wrist, the other still tangled in your hair. His breathing evens out against the back of your neck, slow and deep, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
Minutes- or maybe hours- later, you shift slightly, testing the waters. The dizziness has ebbed to a dull throb behind your eyes, but your limbs still feel like they’re made of lead. Leon’s arm tightens reflexively around your waist. “Stay,” he slurs sleepily into your skin, his voice rough with sleep.
You swallow against the lump in your throat. His shirt is damp where your tears soaked through, clinging to your cheek. The scent of gun oil and cologne is stronger now, mingling with the salt on your lips. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, but your voice cracks on the last word.
Leon exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing against your hip. “Damn right you’re not. G’back to sleep, honey,” The words are gruff, but his thumb strokes slow circles over your ribcage, betraying the tenderness beneath the bravado.
hii! can i request for a carlos fluff where reader is sort of in the feels and suddenly asks him if he really loves them and carlos thinks it’s stupid for them to even ask lol :> thank you ❤️
Thinking about Carlos caring for a reader struggling with a Depressive Episode...
A/N: Hello loves! I decided to mash together both of your requests because I felt like it fit the yearning/angsty request. I hope that you both don't mind. I totally understand if you want to hit me with another request and ask for a separate fic. I hope that you both enjoy and that I did your requests justice!
CW: 3k words, established relationship between Carlos and the reader (dating), Graphic descriptions of depression, Graphic descriptions of how depression can affect hygiene and caring for oneself, Carlos helping the reader shower and eat, Non-sexual nudity, Reader struggling with self-deprecation and self-doubt, Carlos being incredibly loving and attentive, Graphic descriptions of nausea, Petnames (Bebe, sweetie, meu amor, meu coracao, my love), Hurt/Comfort, angst (only in the beginning briefly), written with a plus-sized reader in mind.
"You're really gonna make me say it out loud, bebe?" Carlos's voice is warm but strained through the phone, the way it gets when he's trying to laugh off something that's been gnawing at him. "Three days. Three days without a single word. Not even a heart react on my dumb memes. You always heart-react."
You never knew he noticed. It breaks your heart to hear, of all times right now.
Outside your apartment window, a pigeon lands on the fire escape with all the grace of a drunkard stumbling home. You watch it through the gap in your black-out curtains, curled fetal beneath the blankets, phone pressed to your ear with a limp shaky hand. The sheets smell like sweat and unwashed hair. You haven't showered since Friday. It’s Sunday now, and you feel like a wrung out washcloth. You’re disgusted but you just can’t get your limbs to move.
"I know, I- I-" Your voice cracks. It's the first thing you've said aloud in 48 hours. The glass of water on your nightstand has a film of dust on the surface. Your throat feels like it has glass lining it.
Carlos exhales sharply, and you can just imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose through the phone. "Look. I'm not mad. I'm just- fuck. Text me anything, okay? A thumbs up. A period. Just so I know you're not dead in a fuckin’ ditch somewhere." His tone softens. "Sweetie, please."
The line goes dead before you can muster a response. Your phone slips from your fingers, landing face down on your mattress with a dull thud. The pigeon outside cocks its head at you, one beady eye like it’s judging your silence through the glass. You pull your thick comforter over your head, but the weight of Carlos’s worry follows you into the dark. You’d hoped it wouldn’t.
___
You don’t hear the key turn in the lock. Don’t register the footsteps until the bedroom door creaks open. The mountain of blankets lift away from your face, and suddenly Carlos is there- kneeling beside the bed, his calloused hands hovering over you like he’s afraid to touch. His olive-green Henley is wrinkled, like he’s been sleeping in it. “Oh, my love,” he whispers, voice thick. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, coming away wet.
The shower water is too hot, but you don’t have the energy to adjust it. Carlos kneels outside the tub where you sit, letting the shower stream sluice over your body, rolling up his sleeves past his forearms. He works shampoo through your tangled curls with the same focused care he gives to folding his uniform. “You’re doing so well, bebe, look at you, better now, yeah?” he coos, filling the silence, when you lean into his touch. The praise burns worse than the water.
Dressed in Carlos’s borrowed sweats- they drown you- you sit cross-legged on the kitchen counter while he fries garlic in olive oil. The rhythmic tack-tack-tack of his knife against the cutting board steadies your breathing, gives you something to focus on. He tosses in diced sweet potatoes without glancing at the recipe scrawled on the takeout menu on the cabinet above your stovetop. “Almost done, querida,” he promises, nudging a forkful of steaming feijoada toward your lips. Your hands shake too badly to hold the utensil. Fucking hell.
Sweetheart.
The fork clatters against the plate when your fingers betray you again. Carlos catches it before it hits the floor, his reflexes sharp even in domestic moments. He doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t scold. Just presses his forehead briefly to yours- a silent I’ve got you- before scooping up another bite. “Open f’me,” he murmurs, and you do, the rich flavors bursting across your tongue like a revelation. You hadn’t realized how empty your stomach felt until now.
“There you go.” His thumb swipes a stray grain of rice from your bottom lip, lingering just a heartbeat too long. The kitchen smells like caramelized onions and the bergamot soap he uses, something clean and bright cutting through the fog that’s been clinging to you. You watch his throat work as he swallows, the stubble along his tan jaw catching the golden light from your candle warming lamp hidden in the corner of the living room. “Think you can manage half the bowl? Just half, meu coração. Then we’ll be done, okay?”
My heart.
You nod, though the idea of more food makes your stomach lurch. But Carlos beams like you’ve handed him the moon, and suddenly the nausea feels worth it. He feeds you methodically, alternating between bites of stew and sips of coconut water (his “gym” secret for pro-hydration), his fingers steady against your chin when you waver. Between mouthfuls, he tells you about Jill’s latest disastrous attempt at baking (“God, the smoke alarms- ”) and the stray kitten that’s been loitering around the UBCS HQ he’s been feeding. His voice is a lifeline, pulling you back into the world one mundane detail at a time.
Later, with the dishes soaking in the sink and your medication swallowed (Carlos counting the pills in your palm like a sacrament), he bundles you onto the couch beneath a mountain of blankets he dug out from your closet, clean one’s, he insisted. You curl into his side, your damp hair soaking through his shirt. His heartbeat thrums against your ear, a metronome keeping time with the rain that’s started tapping against the windows. “Look at you,” he murmurs into your crown, lips moving against your curls. “Being so brave. Even when you don’t feel like it.”
Carlos’s fingers trace idle patterns along your shoulder, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of his sweatshirt. Outside, the rain picks up, turning from a tap to a drum against the glass. You focus on the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you, counting breaths like they’re something precious. His heartbeat hasn’t faltered once, not even when your fingers twisted in his shirt like you were afraid he’d vanish if you let go.
“You still awake, sweetie?” His voice is rough with exhaustion but soft, so soft, like he’s handling something fragile. You nod against his collarbone, but the movement is sluggish, your eyelids heavy. His chuckle vibrates through you. “Sleepy?” You hum in response, too tired to form words. “Good. You deserve the rest.” His hand moves to your hair, carefully detangling a damp curl with his fingers.
The silence stretches, comfortable and thick, until you swallow hard and force the words out. “You don’t… mind?” It comes out smaller than you meant, cracked at the edges. “When I’m like this? How could you love me like this, Carlos? How?” You gesture vaguely at yourself, at the mess of you, the dark raccoon-esqe circles under your eyes, the way your glasses, dirty and smudged, sit crooked on your nose, the tremor in your hands that hasn’t quite faded.
You look like a textbook mess.
Carlos goes very still. Then, with deliberate gentleness, he tilts your chin up until you’re forced to meet his eyes. There’s no pity there, just something fierce and unwavering, the same look he gets when he’s proving a point. “Listen to me,” he says, and the intensity in his voice pins you in place. “I love you. Every version of you. The one who laughs at my stupid jokes and the one who forgets to eat for two days. The one who texts me heart emojis at 3 AM and the one who can’t get out of bed.” His thumb brushes your cheekbone, catching a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. “I love you, especially like this. Because this is when you need me most.”
His words settle into your ribs like sunlight through stained glass, warm and fractured and impossibly bright. You press your face into his chest, inhaling the scent of his detergent and bergamot, letting it anchor you. Carlos’s arms tighten around you, his palm smoothing down your spine in slow, deliberate strokes. The blankets press you both into the couch, a pleasant heaviness that makes the world feel smaller, safer.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he murmurs into your hair, lips grazing the crown of your head. His fingers trace the ridge of your shoulder blade through the fabric, mapping the tension there. “Tell me.”
You shake your head slightly in disbelief, but he catches your chin again, tilting your face up. His dark eyes are liquid in the dim light, the gold flecks catching the glow from the streetlamp outside. The stubble along his jaw is rough against your fingertips when you finally reach up to touch him, as if to prove he’s real. “I don’t know how to…” You swallow, your voice fraying. “How to thank you for this. How to just… let you see me like this.”
Carlos’s expression does something complicated- softness and exasperation and something unbearably fond all at once. “Idiota,” he breathes, but it’s soaked in so much tenderness it doesn’t sting. “You don’t thank me for loving you. That’s like thanking the sky for being blue.” His thumb swipes under your eye, catching another stray tear. “Just let me be here.That’s all I want.”
____
You wake to the scent of coffee and the low hum of Carlos’s voice. For a disorienting moment, you think it’s morning, until you register the lavender-gray light of dusk through the curtains. The blankets are tucked securely around your shoulders, the weight of them pressing you into the couch like a grounding hand. Blinking blearily, you turn your head to find Carlos perched on the coffee table, phone pressed to his ear, his free hand braced on your knee like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
"Sim, I'll be there tomorrow," Carlos murmurs into the phone, his thumb rubbing absent circles against your kneecap through the blanket. His gaze flicks to you the moment he notices you stirring, his entire body pivoting toward you like a flower tracking the sun. "Não, she's- " He hesitates, his eyes scanning your face, and something shifts in his expression. "Tá tudo bem. I'll call you later."
The phone hits the coffee table with a soft clatter. His palm settles warm and solid against your cheek before you can fully blink the sleep from your eyes. "Hey," he breathes, the word expanding in the quiet between you, swollen with relief. His thumb traces the arch of your eyebrow, careful not to dislodge your glasses. "You were out for almost two hours. How do you feel?"
Your mouth tastes like cotton and stale coconut water, but the crushing weight behind your sternum has loosened slightly. You manage a small shrug, your fingers curling into the blanket. Carlos's mouth twitches, that barely-there smile he gets when you give him anything to work with.
"Hungry?" he asks, already shifting to stand. You catch his wrist before he can pull away, your grip weaker than you'd like. His pulse jumps under your fingertips.
Carlos freezes mid-motion, his wrist warm under your trembling fingers. For a heartbeat, he just stares at your hand curled around his, your knuckles pale against his tanned skin. Then he exhales through his nose- a quiet, shuddering thing- and sinks back onto the coffee table with deliberate slowness. The wood creaks under his weight. "Okay," he croons, turning his hand palm-up to lace his fingers through yours. "Okay, querida. M’ right here."
His thumb traces the delicate bones of your wrist, following the path of a vein you can see pulsing too close to the surface. Outside, the rain has eased into a steady patter against the fire escape, syncopated with the dripping faucet in the kitchen. The scent of coffee mingles with the bergamot clinging to Carlos's skin, something bright and alive cutting through the stale air. You focus on that- on the warmth of his palm pressed to yours- until your breathing steadies.
"You don't have to talk," he says when the silence stretches thin. His voice is rough at the edges, worn from pretending he wasn't terrified when he found you curled in bed like a discarded sweater. "But I need you to drink some more. Can you do that for me?" His dark eyes flick to the half-empty coconut water abandoned on the coffee table, its condensation rings overlapping like tree rings. "Just a few sips. Then I'll shut up about it."
You nod before you can think better of it, and something in Carlos's expression fractures, before he schools it into careful neutrality. He reaches for the bottle with his free hand, never letting go of yours, and twists the cap off with his teeth. The sound makes your stomach flip oddly.
Carlos presses the bottle into your hands, wrapping your fingers around it when they tremble. "Easy," he murmurs, guiding it to your lips. The first sip is shockingly cold, jolting through you like a live wire. You cough, liquid dripping down your chin- but Carlos is already there, swiping it away with the cuff of his sleeve. "There you go. Slowly." His fingers stay curled around yours as you drink, bearing the weight when your grip falters.
When you lower the bottle, your throat clicks audibly. Carlos's gaze darts to your Adam's apple like he can see the words lodged there. His thumb rubs circles into the back of your hand- a silent take your time. The refrigerator hums to life in the kitchen, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet. You watch a drop of water slide down the bottle's side, tracing a path through the condensation.
"You're shaking less," Carlos observes softly. His tone is deliberately light, but his grip tightens imperceptibly. "That's good. Real good." He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, putting himself at eye level with you slumped on the couch. The position strains the seams of his Henley across his shoulders. "Think you can eat something more? Just a little."
You start to shake your head, but the motion makes the room tilt alarmingly. Carlos's hands fly up to cradle your face, his palms rough against your cheeks. "Merda- okay, okay. Just breathe." His thumbs stroke your temples, slow and steady. "In through your nose. That's it. Like when we trained for the range, remember?"
The memory surfaces: Carlos behind you at the shooting range, his chest pressed to your back, guiding your hands steady on the Glock. "Breathe," he'd murmured against your ear, the scent of gunpowder clinging to his shirt. "Just like that, bebe. You've got this." You exhale sharply now, the phantom weight of the firearm in your hands replaced by the damp bottle still clutched between your fingers.
Carlos watches you carefully, his gaze tracking the minute shifts in your expression like a sniper studying terrain. When your breathing evens out, he leans back slightly, though his hands remain cupped around yours, the bottle sandwiched between your palms. "Better?" he asks, and you nod, swallowing against the dryness in your throat. His smile is small but triumphant, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Good. Now- " He eases the bottle from your grip, setting it aside with a soft clink. "-let's try this."
Before you can protest, he's sliding off the coffee table and onto the couch beside you, his thigh pressing warm against yours through the blanket. His arm drapes over your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side. You go willingly, your head lolling against his collarbone. The position is familiar, reminding you of Saturday mornings with his sketchbook propped on your knees, late nights watching sitcoms with his fingers carding through your hair, but now it feels like a lifeline.
Carlos exhales slowly, his breath stirring your curls where they’re pressed against his neck. His fingers trace idle patterns along your arm through the blanket- up, down, up again- like he’s counting your breaths. The rain has softened to a murmur against the windows, the kind of sound that makes you want to burrow deeper into the warmth of him. You almost do, until your stomach gives a treacherous lurch.
“Shh,” he coos before you can apologize, his palm flattening against your sternum as if he can hold the nausea at bay by sheer will. “Easy, meu amor. Just breathe through it. It’ll pass. Let the food settle, yeah?” His other hand finds yours beneath the blanket, lacing your fingers together and squeezing gently. You focus on the calluses along his knuckles, the way his thumb rubs slow circles into your palm. The world narrows to this: the weight of his hand, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.
Its so hard to find Luis Serra fics and I read yours multiple times.
I was wondering if i could request a resident evil where Luis is alive and in the future helping Leon out in RE 9 but he gets distracted by his wife wearing his lab coat. Thanks
Thinking about Luis helping Leon find a cure for the T-Virus in RE9...
A/N: Hello, love! Thank you so, so much for requesting Luis. I love him so much, but no one ever seems to like him as much as Carlos or Leon. I actually have another two fics lined up for him. I've been dabbling in working on, hoping someone would show interest in content for him. If you have more requests for Luis, please send them in when requests reopen!
CW: 2k words, Established relationship between the reader and Luis (married), AU in which Luis survives RE4 and Leon get's him a job at the DSO, Luis is helping Leon find a cure for T-Virus, Takes place right before RE9 would take place, Spanish petnames galor (I'm not gonna list them all out we all know Luis goes crazy with that shit and I will always write him like that), Domestic fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF.
"Mi amor, you’re still awake?" Luis’s voice carries from the doorway, half-amused, half-concerned, as he toes off his shoes with a tired sigh. The lab coat draped over the couch arm catches his eye first, his spare one, the one he keeps by the door at home for emergencies, before he spots you, curled under it like a makeshift blanket, glasses askew on your nose, hair spilling over the cushions.
The apartment smells like overcooked pasta and faint citrus from the half-finished mojito abandoned on the coffee table. You’d promised yourself you’d stay up until he got home, but the clock on the wall reads 2:17 AM, and the documentary you’d put on for background noise had long since given way to static. Luis crosses the room in three strides, kneels beside the couch, and brushes his thumb over your cheekbone. "Dios, you’re gonna give me a heart attack one day," he coos fondly, but there’s no real scolding in it, just warmth.
You blink awake, disoriented, then light up like a firework the second your brain registers him. "Luis!" The name bursts out of you, giddy, as you fling your arms around his neck. He laughs, catching you, his stubble scratching your temple as he presses a kiss there, then another to the bridge of your nose, then your forehead, relentless. "You’re home, you’re home- how’s Leon? Did you- ?"
"Shh, shh," he soothes, but he’s grinning, cupping your face in his hands like you’re something precious. "Leon’s holding on. Stubborn bastard." His thumbs swipe under your glasses, wiping away sleep crust, and you wrinkle your nose at him. "But you- mi vida, mi estrella- you should’ve gone to bed."
My life, my light.
You don’t answer, too busy mapping the exhaustion on his face, the dark crescents under his eyes, the way his shoulders slump forward like gravity’s doubled. The lab coat slips off your shoulders as you sit up, and Luis’s gaze drops to it, then back to you, his smirk lazy but bright. "Stealing my clothes now, cariño? Should I be flattered or concerned?"
Sweetheart.
"Both," you mumble, fingers already plucking at the wrinkled fabric of his dress shirt. "You smell like antiseptic and coffee." His laugh is a rough, tired thing, but he leans into your touch when you push his hair back from his forehead. "When was the last time you ate? Actually ate, not just- " you gesture vaguely at the empty energy drink cans littering his lab reports on the kitchen counter "Energy drinks and ashy protein bars."
Luis opens his mouth, then closes it when you narrow your eyes. "...Lunch?" he tries, and you groan, shoving at his chest. He catches your wrist, presses a kiss to your palm. "Ay, don’t look at me like that. You know how it gets when we’re close to a breakthrough."
"You’re worse than Leon," you grumble, but you’re already swinging your legs off the couch, tugging him toward the kitchen. He follows, compliant, his fingers laced with yours. The fridge light paints his face in stark relief as you rummage for the Tupperware you’d packed hours ago, arroz con pollo, his favorite, now cold but still edible. Luis makes a noise behind you, something soft and wounded.
You’d wanted to surprise him.
"You made this?" Luis's voice cracks as he watches you pop the Tupperware into the microwave, his fingers tightening around yours. The hum of the appliance fills the silence between you, the faint scent of garlic and saffron beginning to seep into the air. His thumb traces circles over your knuckles, a silent thank you, a silent “I’m here” even if his body is still halfway to the lab in his head.
You don’t answer, just press a Gatorade into his other hand, the one not currently clinging to you, as if you might vanish. "Drink. Now, babe," you order, nudging the bottle toward his lips until he obeys, the corners of his mouth quirking up around the rim. The microwave beeps, and you turn to grab the food, but Luis catches your waist and spins you back toward him. His nose brushes yours, his breath warm and sweet from the drink. "Te quiero," he coos, the words soft against your lips before he kisses you properly, slow and lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth all over again despite years of marriage.
I love you.
The first bite of food is a revelation. Luis moans, shameless, his eyes fluttering shut as he chews. "Dios, I forgot what real food tastes like," he mumbles around the fork, already reaching for another bite. You snort, stealing a piece of chicken from his container just to watch him pout. "You’re lucky I love you," you grumble, but there’s no heat in it, just the same fond exasperation that’s been there since the first time you dragged him out of his lab to eat proper food.
The kitchen is too small for two people, really, but neither of you moves. Luis eats like a man starved, and you lean against the counter beside him, your hip brushing his, your fingers carding through his thick, wavy hair just to feel him sigh into the touch. His free hand finds your thigh, thumb rubbing absent circles through the fabric of his stolen lab coat. "You’re gonna crash soon," you murmur when his eyelids start to droop, his head lolling toward your shoulder. "Bed?”
Luis shakes his head stubbornly, even as his body betrays him, his shoulders sagging forward, the fork wobbling slightly in his grip. "Can't," he mumbles around another mouthful of arroz con pollo. "Need to review the latest viral sequences before- " A yawn cracks his jaw mid-sentence, and you press your lips together to keep from giggling.
"Before you faceplant into your microscope?" you finish for him, plucking the fork from his slack fingers. He blinks at you, slow and owlish behind his smudged glasses. "Luis. You've been awake for thirty-six hours. That’s a new record, honey."
"Thirty-eight," he corrects automatically, then winces when you pinch his side. "Ay, okay, okay, yeah, bedtime." He lets you tug him upright, his arms looping around your waist as he stumbles into you. His nose bumps against your temple, his breath warm and uneven against your curls. "But you're coming with me," he murmurs, half-plea, half-command.
You don't argue. The bedroom is dark, the sheets cool when you tumble into them, and Luis collapses beside you with a groan. He's asleep before his head hits the pillow, his arm slung heavily across your stomach, his face smushed into the crook of your neck. You card your fingers through his hair, still slightly stiff with curl gel, and listen to his breathing even out.
The quiet settles over you both like a second blanket, broken only by Luis’s slow, even breaths against your collarbone. His fingers twitch against your hip, some residual instinct from surviving Spain, before stilling again. You press a kiss to the top of his head, his hair smelling faintly of disinfectant and his own stupidly expensive cologne. The clock on the nightstand reads 3:02 AM, but you’re wide awake now, your brain buzzing with the leftover energy of seeing him home safe.
____
Morning comes too soon. The sunlight filters through the curtains, painting stripes across Luis’s back as he stirs with a groan. He blinks up at you, bleary-eyed and disoriented, before his face crumples into something unbearably soft. “You stayed,” he rasps, his voice rough with sleep. His thumb brushes your cheek, like he’s checking you’re real. “Thought I dreamed you.”
You huff a laugh against his palm, your fingers curling around his wrist to keep him there. "Where else would I go, idiot? I’m your wife." The morning light catches the gold in his eyes, the exhaustion still lingering but softened by sleep. His stubble scratches your fingertips as you trace the line of his jaw, memorizing the way his breath hitches when your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth.
Luis exhales through his nose, a half-laugh, half-sigh that ruffles your bangs. His fingers trail down your arm, pausing to fiddle with the cuff of his stolen lab coat still draped over your shoulders. "You look ridiculous in this," he murmurs, but his voice is thick with something that makes your ribs ache. He tugs at the collar, pulling you closer until your foreheads bump. "Like some mad scientist's beautiful assistant."
"You are a mad scientist," you remind him, but he's already rolling you onto your back, his weight a comfortable anchor as he noses along your jaw. His stubble rasps against your skin, his breath hot where it ghosts over your pulse. "Luis- "
"Fuck the lab today," he growls against your throat, and the vehemence in his voice surprises you both. He freezes, then pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his own wide and startled behind his crooked glasses. "I mean- not fuck it, obviously, but- " He huffs, frustrated, and collapses onto his elbows beside you, his forehead pressing into your shoulder. "Dios, I can't even insult my own workplace properly anymore."
You bite your lip to keep from laughing, but your shoulders shake anyway. Luis lifts his head just to glare at you, but there's no heat in it, just exhaustion and fondness and the lingering panic of a man who'd almost lost too much already. His fingers find yours on the mattress, threading together tightly. "I need this to work," he says quietly, his thumb pressing into the hollow of your palm. "For Leon. For everyone."
The admission hangs between you, raw and unguarded, the first time he’s said it out loud since Leon collapsed at the DSO three days ago. Luis’s fingers tremble against yours, and you squeeze back, hard enough to ground him. “I know,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his knuckles. The taste of antiseptic lingers on his skin. “But you can’t save him if you’re dead on your feet.”
Luis makes a noise low in his throat, half-protest, half-surrender, before rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. The morning light catches the silver streaking his temples, the lines around his eyes deeper than they were a month ago. “I had the sequence right there, y’know?” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “But the viral load in his bloodstream, it’s adapting faster than we can…”
“Hey.” You straddle his hips, your knees bracketing his waist, and press your palms to his cheeks until he meets your gaze. His stubble rasps against your skin. “You’re the smartest person I know. If anyone can outthink this thing, it’s you.” His breath hitches when you lean down, your curls curtaining his face, and brush your nose against his. “But even geniuses need showers. And coffee. And maybe a break from smelling like a Petri dish.”
He huffs a laugh, his hands settling on your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles through the fabric of his stolen lab coat. “You’re a menace, honey,” he murmurs, but he’s already tilting his chin up to catch your lips in a lazy kiss. His mouth is warm, still sleep-soft, and you can taste the lingering salt of last night’s arroz con pollo. God, you missed him.
omgg hii i saw that your requests are open, can you please do a fic with daryl where merle just arrived at the prison and he is a bit shocked to know that his baby brother has a girlfriend, and when he tries to talk with her daryl goes on protective mode because he know how his brother can be but reader is very sweet and actually tries to get along with merle? daryl is amused and cant help to fall more in love with reader because he know she is just doing that bc merle is his brother (but he keep an eye on them bc merle is still merle
I Can't Help Falling in Love with You
You met Daryl a few weeks after the world ended, fleeing Atlanta. At the time, his brother was missing and everyone was convinced he was dead... except Daryl, who happens to be right. When Merle gets brought back to the prison you expect a charming reunion. What you're met with... well, it's not what you expected.
A/N: Hi there love! I hope I did this request justice. I took some liberties with assuming that you may want this fic to be more fluffy than smutty. I hope that's okay! Thank you so much for requesting and I hope you enjoy ╰(⸝⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝⸝)╯.
CW: 6k words, takes place in S4 prison era, No mention of the Governor, Merle being a pretentious flirty asshole, Daryl being extremely protective but knowing his girl can handle it (A MAN A MAN A MAN A MAN), Petnames (sugar, sweet thing, pretty girl, woman), Daryl struggling with vulnerability, The reader helps him come out of his shell emotionally, Lovey-dovey fluff, Heavy petting makeout sesh (Sign me TF up), No sex, Brief mentions of Carol, Rick and a few other main protagonists but they're not important.
"The hell you think you're doin', Merle?" Daryl's voice cuts through the humid prison yard like a blade, low and rough-edged. You freeze mid-step, half-turned toward the supply shed with your fingers twitching near the knife at your belt.
Merle Dixon leers at you from his perch on an overturned crate, his metal hand glinting in the afternoon sun. "Just bein' friendly to our little supply-runner here, baby brother. Ain't no crime in askin' a pretty thing if she's tired of carryin’ all that weight alone." His grin is all teeth as he stretches his arms behind his head, the picture of lazy arrogance. You exhale through your nose, forcing your shoulders to relax.
It's been like this for almost 2 weeks now. Ever since Daryl returned to the prison with Merle, Merle has been harassing you nonstop with his advances. You can tell Daryl's reaching his limit… and honestly? So are you. Though you're much better at not showing it.
You don’t flinch when Merle winks, you’ve gotten good at swallowing discomfort like bitter medicine, but your grip tightens on the strap of your pack. "I'm good," you say, voice steadier than you feel. "Always manage. I'm much stronger than I look."
Daryl watches you from the shadow of the guard tower, crossbow slung loose in one hand. There's something warm in the way his eyes linger, not the possessive burn of his brother’s gaze, but something quieter, like he’s memorizing the way you square your shoulders under Merle’s nonsense. It's more fond than objectifying.
Daryl pushes off from the guard tower wall, boots kicking up dust as he strides toward you both. The way he moves, like he's got all the time in the world, makes Merle's grin falter. "She said she's good," Daryl drawls, stopping just close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. A silent thing, that touch. A claim without words. "Ain't gotta ask twice. She knows what she can handle."
Merle barks a laugh, rolling his shoulders like he's shaking off a joke. "Christ, brother, you got her on a leash or somethin'?" His eyes flick to you, that same predatory amusement curling at the corners of his mouth. You feel Daryl shift beside you, the heat of him pressing closer, not crowding, just there. Solid.
"Maybe… but you ain't gotta be a dick about it," Daryl mutters under his breath, thumb rubbing absent circles against the strap of his crossbow. His voice is low, almost lazy, but there's steel underneath. You bite back a smile, focusing instead on adjusting the weight of your pack. The fabric is damp where it presses against your spine, the Georgia heat relentless even in the shade.
"Just makin’ conversation," Merle says, stretching his arms overhead with an exaggerated groan. "Ain't my fault you got yourself a girl with manners." His grin turns sharp when you glance up. "Most folks'd at least say 'thank you' when a man offers to help."
You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, counting silently. Three seconds. Two. "Thank you," you say, voice even. Polite. The kind of sweet that makes Daryl huff a quiet laugh beside you. Merle's eyebrows lift, but you're already turning, nudging Daryl's elbow with your own. "Gotta unload this before Carol starts rationin’ my dinner."
Daryl falls into step beside you without a word, his shoulder brushing yours every few strides like he's checking you're still there. The weight of Merle's stare prickles between your shoulder blades, but you don't turn around, you just adjust your grip on the pack straps and keep walking.
"You handled that real good," Daryl murmurs tenderly after a beat. His fingers skim the small of your back, feather-light, just enough to make your breath catch. "Like watchin' a cat ignore a barkin' dog." You snort, and the corner of his mouth ticks up. Small victories.
The supply shed smells like dust and dried herbs, the shelves crammed with salvaged cans and neatly folded fabric. You shrug off your pack with a relieved sigh, rolling your shoulders as Daryl props his crossbow against the wall. "I'm not ignoring him, you know," you correct, pulling out cans of vegetables with careful fingers. "Just picking my battles."
Daryl hums, taking the cans from you to stack on the shelf. His hands are rough when they brush against yours, callouses catching on your skin in a way that makes your pulse skip. "Merle ain't a battle," he says, quieter now. "He's just noise. Don't let it get to ya." There's something fond in his voice when he says it, something that makes your chest ache.
Daryl's fingers linger near yours as you pass him another can, his thumb brushing your knuckles like he's testing the warmth of your skin. You pretend not to notice the way his pupils dilate when you glance up, just long enough to catch the flicker of something hungry in his gaze before he looks away, clearing his throat. The silence between you stretches, comfortable and thick like honey.
"You ever think about leavin'?" you ask suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. The moment they hit the air, you regret it, too heavy, too raw, but Daryl just pauses, a can of peaches suspended in his grip. His brow furrows, but not in anger. More like he's turning the question over in his head, examining it from all sides.
"Where the hell'd that come from?" he asks finally, voice rougher than usual. He sets the can down with deliberate care, like he's afraid it might shatter.
You shrug, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "Just wondering," you lie. The truth sits too close to the surface, how sometimes, when Merle's laughter echoes a little too loud or Rick's decisions weigh too heavy, you imagine walking until the prison walls shrink to nothing behind you. But you'd never go without him. Never.
Daryl exhales through his nose, slow and measured, like he’s turning your words over in his head. The shed is quiet except for the distant hum of voices from the yard and the rustle of fabric as he shifts closer. His knee brushes yours where you’re both crouched by the shelves, and the contact sends a jolt up your thigh. "Ain’t nowhere to go, sugar," he says finally, voice low. His fingers tap against the can in his hand, a restless rhythm that betrays more than his calm tone. "Nothin’ out there but more of the same shit."
You bite the inside of your cheek, watching his profile. The late afternoon light slants through the cracked shed door, painting the sharp angle of his jaw in gold. There’s a scar there, just under his ear, one you’ve traced with your fingertips in the dark but never asked about. "Yeah," you murmur, because arguing feels pointless when he’s right. The world beyond the fences isn’t kind. But it’s not the walkers that make your chest tighten, it’s the way Merle’s presence seems to coil around Daryl like a second shadow, pulling him back into habits you’d watched him slowly unlearn.
Daryl’s hand settles over yours suddenly, warm and rough. "Look at me," he says, and you do. His eyes are dark, earnest in a way that makes your breath hitch. "Ain’t leavin’ you. Ever." The words land heavy between your ribs, settling into the hollow spaces like they’ve been waiting to fit there. You nod, throat tight, and his thumb strokes the back of your hand once before he lets go.
The moment splinters when the shed door creaks open, flooding the space with harsh sunlight. Merle’s silhouette fills the doorway, his grin sharp as a blade. "Christ, brother, you two gonna come up for air or what?" He leans against the frame, metal arm glinting. "Got better things to do than listen to you whisper sweet nothings all damn day."
Daryl doesn’t rise to Merle’s bait, he just exhales through his nose and reaches for another can, his movements deliberately slow. But you see the way his jaw tenses, the muscle flexing under stubble. You straighten, brushing dust off your knees, and catch the way Merle’s eyes flicker between you two like he’s piecing together a puzzle.
"Got somethin’ to say?" Daryl mutters, not looking up from the shelf. The question hangs in the air, weighted with the kind of quiet challenge that makes Merle’s grin widen.
"Just noticin’ how domestic y’all get," Merle drawls, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind him. The shed feels smaller with him in it, the air thicker. He picks up a jar of pickled something, turning it in his hands like he’s judging its worth. "Never figured you for the settlin’-down type, baby brother."
You press your lips together, resisting the urge to bristle. Instead, you focus on organizing the last of the supplies, lining up cans with military precision. Daryl’s knee brushes yours again, like a silent reassurance, before he stands, stretching with a grunt. "Ain’t your business what we are," he says, simple as that.
Merle chuckles, the sound grating like rusted metal, and sets the jar back down with a clink. "Everythin's my business when it comes to family," he says, dragging a finger through the dust on the shelf before wiping it on his jeans. His gaze lingers on you a second too long, and you press your palms flat against your thighs to keep from fidgeting. Daryl shifts slightly, blocking Merle’s line of sight with his body, casual as breathing, but deliberate.
"You done?" Daryl asks, voice flat. The words aren’t sharp, but there’s a finality to them that makes Merle’s smirk falter for half a heartbeat.
Merle shrugs, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off an itch. "Just sayin’," he mutters, but he doesn’t push further. Instead, he jerks his chin toward the yard. "Rick wants us for somethin’. Fence line’s weak on the east side."
Daryl nods, but he doesn’t move until you’ve finished stacking the last can. His fingers brush the small of your back as he passes, just a whisper of contact, there and gone, and the heat of it lingers even after he’s shouldered past Merle into the sunlight. You follow, blinking against the sudden glare, and catch the way Daryl’s shoulders tense when Merle slings an arm around his neck like it’s old times.
Merle’s laughter carries across the yard as he leans into Daryl’s space, his voice pitched low with some joke you don’t catch. You linger a few steps behind, pretending to adjust the strap of your pack while you watch Daryl’s shoulders stiffen under Merle’s touch. The way his fingers twitch at his sides, not quite fists, but close, tells you everything.
Rick’s already at the east fence when you catch up, his hands braced on the chain links as he peers into the treeline. The late afternoon sun turns the grass gold where it’s trampled underfoot, and the air hums with cicadas. Daryl peels away from Merle without a word, coming to stand beside you like a compass finding north. His elbow bumps yours, deliberate, and you exhale a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
"Got a weak spot here," Rick says, tapping a section of fence where the metal bows inward. His shirt’s damp with sweat, sticking to his spine. "Couldn’t hold against a herd if they came at it right."
Merle snorts, kicking at the dirt. "Ain’t nothin’ a little elbow grease won’t fix." His gaze slides to you, slow and assessing. "Unless y’all’d rather stand around talkin’ about it."
Daryl’s fingers twitch at his side, his jaw working like he’s chewing on words too sharp to spit out. You step forward before he can, your boot scuffing against the gravel as you crouch beside the fence. The metal is warm under your fingertips, the links groaning faintly when you test their give. "Needs reinforcement," you say, voice steady. "Could scavenge some sheet metal from the auto shop next run."
Rick nods, rubbing the back of his neck. "That’d work." His eyes flick to Merle, then away just as quick, like he’s avoiding the challenge in Merle’s smirk.
Merle leans against the fence, making it shudder. "Or we could quit babysittin’ weak spots and just thin out the herd," he says, jerking his chin toward the treeline where shadows shift between the trunks. His metal fingers tap against the chain links, a discordant rhythm. "Ain’t rocket science."
Daryl’s boot crunches on gravel as he shifts closer to you, his shoulder a solid line against yours. "We ain’t stupid, either," he mutters, low enough that only you catch it. The warmth of his breath ghosts over your ear, and you press your lips together to hide a smile.
The tension in the air thickens as Merle pushes off the fence with a scoff, his boots kicking up dust. "Christ, y’all act like we’re buildin’ a damn fortress," he mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it, just the usual rough edges. You straighten up, dusting your palms on your thighs, and catch the way Daryl’s gaze lingers on Merle’s back, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
Rick exhales, rubbing his temple like he’s fighting off a headache. "We’ll handle it tomorrow," he says, voice tired but firm. "Daryl, take a team to the auto shop at first light." Daryl nods, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he steps past you to examine the fence line closer. The contact is fleeting, but it sends a quiet thrill up your spine.
Merle watches the exchange with a grin that’s all teeth. "Real cute," he drawls, nudging Daryl’s shoulder with his own. "Didn’t know you had it in you, baby brother." Daryl doesn’t rise to it, just shoulders past him with a grunt, but you see the way his jaw tightens, like he’s biting back words that’d only egg Merle on further.
You fall into step beside Daryl as the group disperses, the setting sun painting the prison yard in long shadows. The air smells of dry grass and sweat, the cicadas humming louder as evening settles in. Daryl’s quiet beside you, his boots scuffing against the gravel in a rhythm you’ve come to recognize as him turning something over in his head.
Merle's laughter follows you both, grating against your nerves like sandpaper. You focus on the warmth of Daryl's arm brushing yours as you walk, the solid presence of him keeping you grounded. The prison walls loom ahead, their shadows stretching long across the yard where Carol tends to a pot over the fire. The smell of simmering beans mixes with the evening air, something almost comforting beneath the tension still clinging to your shoulders.
"You thinkin' too hard," Daryl murmurs, nudging your elbow with his. His voice is rough but soft, just for you. The way his thumb hooks into his belt loop is casual, but you know him well enough to see the tightness in his knuckles. "He ain't worth it."
You hum, noncommittal, and kick a pebble out of your path. "Maybe." The word hangs between you, half-formed. You want to say more, about how Merle’s presence feels like a lit fuse, how sometimes you catch Daryl slipping back into old habits when his brother’s around, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you bump his shoulder lightly, offering a small smile when he glances down at you fondly.
Daryl’s expression softens, just for a second. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. The way his fingers skim the small of your back as he steers you toward the fire says enough. Carol looks up as you approach, her smile warm but tired. "Saved you both some," she says, nodding toward the pot. "Figured you’d be hungry after hauling supplies all afternoon."
The firelight flickers across Daryl’s face as he accepts the bowl Carol hands him, his calloused fingers brushing hers for half a second before he passes it to you. "Eat, ya need the energy after that run today," he murmurs, voice low enough that only you catch the rough edge of concern beneath it. You take the bowl with a quiet thanks, your fingers lingering against his just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin. The beans are bland, salt’s been rationed for weeks, but the heat of them settles something in your chest.
Merle’s voice cuts through the quiet from across the fire, sharp with amusement. "Damn, brother, you gonna feed her too?" He sprawls on an upturned crate, his metal arm glinting in the firelight as he gestures with a half-empty bottle. "Never figured you for the nursemaid type."
Daryl doesn’t look up from his food, but you see the way his jaw flexes under stubble. "Shut up, Merle," he mutters, the words more habit than bite. You press your knee against his under the makeshift table, a silent show of affection, and feel him exhale through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction.
Carol’s gaze flicks between you all, her hands busy folding a torn shirt into neat squares. The fire pops, sending sparks spiraling into the dark. "East fence holding?" she asks, voice carefully neutral. You nod, swallowing a mouthful of beans.
The fire crackles between you all, its glow painting Merle’s smirk in flickering orange. He tips the bottle back, throat working as he swallows, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Ain’t no fun in bein’ subtle, is there?" he muses, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees. His eyes glint when they land on you, too sharp, too knowing. "Bet you like that about him, though. Straight shooter, my baby brother."
You press your lips together, focusing on the warmth of the bowl in your hands. Daryl’s knee presses harder against yours under the table, a silent anchor. “Don't talk about her like that," Daryl says, voice low. He doesn’t look up from his food, but his fingers tighten around his fork.
Merle laughs, the sound rough as gravel. "Just trynta’ make conversation." He gestures with the bottle again, sloshing liquid near the rim. "Hell, might as well get to know the woman my brother’s- "
"Merle." Rick’s voice cuts through the night, steady and final. He’s standing at the edge of the firelight, his shadow stretching long across the dirt. "We got shifts to figure out for tomorrow." His gaze flicks to you, then away, polite, but firm. "Daryl’s team leaves at dawn. You’re on perimeter tonight."
Merle rolls his shoulders back with an exaggerated sigh, but he doesn’t argue, just tips the bottle toward Rick in a mock salute before pushing to his feet. The crate creaks under his weight as he stands, his shadow stretching grotesque and long across the dirt. "Ain’t no rest for the wicked," he drawls, flashing a grin at no one in particular before sauntering off toward the guard tower. You watch him go, the knot between your shoulders loosening by degrees as his footsteps fade into the dark.
Daryl exhales through his nose beside you, setting his empty bowl down with a quiet clink. His fingers drum once against the tabletop, a restless, anxious, habit you’ve come to recognize, before he turns his head to catch your eye. "Gotta check the traps ‘fore full dark, comin’?" he asks, voice low. It’s not quite an invitation, but the tilt of his chin toward the tree line is an invitation all the same.
You nod, scraping the last of your beans with your fork before standing. The firelight paints Daryl’s profile in gold as he rises beside you, the line of his shoulders relaxed for the first time since Merle’s arrival. Carol takes your bowl with a knowing smile, her fingers brushing yours briefly. "Be careful out there," she murmurs, and you offer her a small, grateful nod before falling into step beside Daryl.
The prison yard is quieter now, the chatter of the group fading behind you as you head toward the gate. The guards nod at Daryl, a silent acknowledgment of respect, and swing the chain link open just enough for you both to slip through. The woods beyond are thick with shadows, the last dregs of sunset filtering through the leaves in slanted ribbons of orange. Daryl’s crossbow is a familiar weight in his hands as he leads the way, his steps sure even in the dim light.
The first trap is empty, its jaws snapped shut on nothing but damp leaves. Daryl crouches beside it, running a finger along the rusted metal with a quiet grunt. "Walker got here first," he murmurs, nudging a trampled patch of grass with his boot. The earth is churned up, reeking of decay and old blood. You kneel beside him, your shoulder brushing his as you peer into the undergrowth. A scrap of fabric clings to a bramble , dark, frayed, unmistakably walker.
Daryl’s breath ghosts warm against your temple when he leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "They’re gettin’ smarter." The words send a chill down your spine, but his hand finds the small of your back, steadying. His thumb rubs a slow circle through your shirt, callouses catching on the fabric. "Ain’t nothin’ we can’t handle… hopefully," he adds, and the quiet uncertainty in his voice makes your pulse rattle.
The second trap is deeper in the trees, hidden beneath a tangle of honeysuckle. This one’s sprung too, but the catch is fresh.
The second trap's metal jaws clamp down on a rabbit's hind leg, its fur matted with blood where the rusted teeth bite deep. The animal's chest heaves in panicked bursts, eyes wide and glassy in the fading light. You kneel beside it, hands hovering, not quite touching, as Daryl crouches opposite you, his knife already drawn. His movements are quick but gentle, one calloused hand steadying the rabbit's trembling body while the other slides the blade across its throat in one clean stroke. The rabbit goes still, its final breath sighing out between you like a secret.
Daryl wipes his knife on his jeans before offering the carcass to you, his fingers brushing yours as you take it. The warmth of the body is startling against your palms, the fur softer than you expected. "Good eatin'," he murmurs, nodding toward your pack. You tuck the rabbit away carefully, the weight of it settling against your spine as you stand. Daryl's hand finds the small of your back again, guiding you around a patch of brambles as you head toward the third trap. His touch lingers even after the thorns are past, thumb pressing just above your belt loop like he's checking you're still there.
The woods grow darker as you walk, the last of the sunset bleeding into indigo between the trees. Somewhere to your left, a twig snaps, too deliberate to be the wind. Daryl's grip tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against his side as he raises his crossbow in one fluid motion. The silence between you stretches taut, your breath mingling in the scant inches between your faces. After a long moment, he exhales through his nose and lowers the weapon, but he doesn't let go. "Ain't nothin'," he mutters, though his eyes keep scanning the shadows. His pulse jumps under your palm where your hand has somehow found its way to his chest.
The third trap is untouched, its mechanism pristine beneath a layer of leaf litter. Daryl resets it with practiced fingers, his brow furrowed in concentration. You watch the way his hands work, the same hands that can snap a walker's neck with one twist, now gentle as he adjusts the trigger mechanism. When he glances up and catches you staring, the corner of his mouth ticks up. "Like what you see, sweet thing?" he teases, voice low enough that the trees swallow it whole. Your face heats, but you don't look away. There's something heady about this version of Daryl, the one that exists outside the prison walls, where Merle's laughter can't reach.
The rabbit shifts in your pack as you walk, its weight a reminder of life amidst all this death. Daryl’s fingers trail down your arm until they catch yours, threading through them with a roughness that sends a shiver up your wrist. He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes once, a silent stay close, before letting go to push aside a low-hanging branch for you. The leaves brush your shoulder as you pass, damp with evening dew.
You’re nearly back to the fence line when Daryl stops dead, his bootheel digging into the dirt. His hand flies out, palm pressing flat against your stomach to halt you mid-step. You freeze, breath catching, as his other hand raises the crossbow toward the treeline. The shadows there shift, not with wind, but with something deliberate. Something alive.
Daryl’s voice is barely a breath against your ear. “Don’t move.” His chest brushes your back, solid as the earth beneath your feet. The undergrowth rustles again, closer this time, and then…
A raccoon waddles into view, its masked face twitching as it sniffs the air. You bite your lip to stifle a laugh, feeling Daryl’s tension dissolve behind you with a quiet huff. “Damn varmint,” he mutters, lowering his crossbow. His fingers skim your hip as he steps around you, like he can’t quite stop touching you now that you’re alone.
"Let's head back," you murmur, nudging Daryl's elbow with your own. The woods feel suddenly too open, the shadows too watchful. "Got enough for tonight." You pat your pack where the rabbit lies nestled against your spine, proof that not everything out here is teeth and hunger.
Daryl nods, his gaze flickering once more to the treeline before he turns toward the prison. His hand finds the small of your back again, guiding you through the underbrush with silent certainty. The fence looms ahead, its chain links glinting under the guard tower's floodlights. Someone whistles two short notes before the gate creaks open just wide enough for you both to slip through.
Your shared cell is at the end of the block, tucked away from the others. The mattress sags in the middle, its springs groaning as you sit to unlace your boots. Daryl props his crossbow against the wall with a quiet thunk, then drags his fingers through his hair, dislodging a leaf that had clung there since the woods. You watch it flutter to the concrete floor, oddly charmed by this small, domestic thing.
"Ain't never seen nobody handle Merle like you do," Daryl says suddenly, voice rough in the quiet. He's standing by the barred window, backlit by moonlight, his shoulders tense like he's bracing for something. "Just… so patient. Even when he's bein' a damn nuisance."
You pause, one boot halfway off, and tilt your head to study his profile. The moonlight cuts sharp angles across his face, catching the scar under his ear, the one you adore to trace but never ask about. "He's your brother," you say simply, shrugging out of your other boot. The words hang between you, softer than you intended.
Daryl exhales through his nose, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. He turns then, the mattress dipping as he sits beside you. His fingers brush your knee, calloused and warm, before curling into a loose fist against his thigh. "Don't mean you gotta be nice to him." His voice drops, gruff with something that makes your chest tighten. "Love that about you, though. How you see the good in folks even when they're showin' you their worst."
The admission lands heavy between your ribs. You swallow, suddenly aware of how close he is, the heat of his thigh pressed against yours, the way his breath hitches when you turn toward him. "It isn't about good or bad," you murmur, reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. Your fingertips linger on his scar, feather-light. "Just know he matters to you."
Daryl's hand covers yours suddenly, pressing your palm flat against his cheek. His stubble scratches your skin, rough and familiar. "Christ, woman," he mutters, voice thick. His other arm snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against him until you're straddling his lap. The springs groan in protest, but neither of you care.
His kiss is hungry, all teeth and desperation, like he's trying to fuse you together. You arch into him, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt as his hands map the notches of your spine. When you pull back to breathe, his lips chase yours, catching the corner of your mouth in a nip that makes you gasp. "Daryl- "
"Know I ain't easy," he rasps against your jaw, his breath hot as he mouths down your throat. His teeth graze your pulse point, the threat of a mark making your stomach clench. "Know Merle makes every damn thing harder." His hands slide under your shirt, palms scorching against the small of your back. "But you stay. Keep lookin' at me like… like I'm everythin’," He cuts himself off with a groan when you roll your hips against his.
The cell is too small, the air too thick, but you don't care. Not when Daryl's hands are shaking where they grip your waist, not when his pupils are blown so wide they swallow the blue. You kiss him again, slow this time, pouring every unsaid thing into the press of your lips. His sigh vibrates through your chest, his fingers flexing against your skin like he's memorizing the shape of you.
You pull back just enough to cup Daryl’s face between your palms, thumbs brushing the rough stubble along his jaw. His breath hitches when you press your forehead to his, noses bumping in the dark. "Love you," you coo, the words so quiet they’re almost swallowed by the hum of the prison at night. But you feel the way his whole body goes rigid beneath you, his grip on your waist tightening like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. "Love you so damn much, Daryl Dixon."
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move, hell, he doesn’t even breathe. Then his hands slide up your spine, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades as he drags you closer. His exhale trembles against your lips. "Ain’t…" He stops, swallows hard. The words come out fractured, rough as gravel. "You know I ain't never been good with this shit." His thumb brushes the dip of your waist, hesitant. "But you, Christ, woman. You make it easy."
You kiss him again, slow and lingering, until his shoulders slump under your hands. When you break away, his eyes are dark with something raw, something vulnerable you’ve only caught glimpses of before up until now. "Say it again," he rasps, voice wrecked. His fingers flex against your back, like he’s bracing for impact. "Please."
"Love you," you coo again, dragging your nails lightly through the hair at his nape. His shudder is visceral, his hips jerking up into yours. "Love how you hum when you’re fixin’ your bolts. Love how you get all quiet when you’re thinking hard." You nip at his bottom lip, grinning when he practically whimpers. "Love that you still get flustered when I catch you staring."
Daryl’s breath comes ragged, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. "Damn fool," he croons, but his voice cracks halfway through. He presses his forehead to yours, his next words so quiet you feel them more than hear them. "Love you too. So damn much it, that it- " He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your plush hip, almost reverently over the stretch marks. "Ain’t never had nothin’ like this. Scares the hell outta me."
The admission hangs between you, fragile as the moonlight slanting across the floor. You cradle his face, thumbs brushing the scar under his ear, the one he never talks about. "Got you," you murmur. "I'm not going anywhere. Not without you.”
He makes a sound low in his throat, half protest, half surrender, before surging up to capture your mouth. This kiss is different, it's slower, deeper, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. When he finally pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen from your teeth. "Know you ain’t," he breathes. "Just… never thought I’d get to keep somethin’ this good."
The mattress groans as he rolls you onto your back, his body a solid weight between your thighs. His hands roam your sides like he’s relearning you, callouses catching on fabric, fingertips tracing the curve of your ribcage. "Love how you can handle yourself out there, even without me.” He mutters against your collarbone, his breath hot through your shirt. "Love that you’re stubborn as hell." His teeth graze your pulse point, making you gasp. "Love that you ain’t scared of me."
You want to continue this, but your body betrays you as you yawn against Daryl's collarbone, your lips dragging lazily along the stubble of his jaw. The day's exhaustion settles heavy in your bones, but the warmth of him beneath you keeps you from drifting off just yet. His chuckle rumbles through your chest when your next kiss lands clumsily at the, your nose bumping his cheek in the dark. "M'awake," you mumble, even as your eyelids flutter shut without permission.
Daryl's fingers card through your curls, scratching lightly at your scalp in that way that always makes you melt. "Sure you are, sugar," he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. His palm slides down to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing the sensitive spot behind your ear. "Sleep. Got you."
You hum in protest, but your body betrays you, sinking deeper into the mattress and the solid heat of him. Daryl shifts beneath you, his arm tightening around your waist as he rolls carefully onto his side, tucking you against his chest like something precious. The springs protest faintly, but his breath is warm and steady against your temple, his heartbeat a slow drum beneath your ear.
"Ain't goin' nowhere," he whispers into the crown of your head, his lips grazing your bangs. His calloused hand slides under your shirt, splaying wide across the small of your back, anchoring you together. "Promise."
Outside, the prison creaks with night sounds, distant voices on watch, the occasional scuff of boots on concrete. But here, in the cocoon of your shared cell, there's just the rustle of Daryl's breath and the way his fingers trace idle patterns along your spine.
