Older Mentor!Leon Kennedy x DSO Agent!Reader Slowburn 🪻🌻🥀
❌18+ MDNI❌
Summary: You are in the deepest pits of the hell that is the friendzone. He's your co-worker, your mentor, 13 years older, and, to top it all off, you met when you were a teenager. Nothing could ever change the fact that Leon Kennedy saw you as a kid—not even your one-sided feelings you've had for him for nearly a decade... Or so it seems.
CW: Leon is 38 and reader is 25. They've met when she was 16, so do with that what you will. I obviously do not condone any of what happens in my fiction to be imitated IRL by anyone, but just to make it clear as a heads up: Leon has never felt any romantic attraction to reader while she was a minor (or even many years after that).
Note: Angst, fluff, and eventual smut. This is a slowburn and we're gonna make them work for it y'all. Also this is very RE core when it comes to stereotypical sci-fi action horror.
[“Grandpa?” Leon scoffs in mock offense as he takes the weapon, reloading it with a nonchalant precision that only comes with fifteen or so odd years of experience.
“Well, you insist on still calling me ‘kid,’ so, I shall retaliate. Just so you can feel how annoying it gets.”
“Yeah, except I’m not a grandpa. You, on the other hand, are a kid,” he smirks—way too smug—and then proceeds to walk past you...]
"Roost, Raven One here. I’m at the specified location. Come in.”
“...”
“Roost, this is Raven One. Over.”
“...”
“Roost? …Shit.”
The radio clicks when you turn it off, useless now that you’ve concluded there was truly no signal.
‘No wonder she couldn't reach him’, you think to yourself, readjusting your shoulder harness one more time before continuing to advance through the dark hallways of the underground facility. Some kind of abandoned military base from the time of God knows which war—your brain is too fried to try and figure it out.
It’s been a long day. Your cat woke you up way too early to feed him, you burned your toast for breakfast, missed your metro stop, and then proceeded to have the longest most tedious day of filing reports and answering emails. That was the life of a DSO agent outside of trauma-inducing missions: even more trauma in the form of clunky keyboards and multicolored paper clips.
But right before you were ready to call it a day and finally head home to enjoy some takeout and pass out on the couch, dear old Hunnigan came in with an emergency request—well, more like an order—telling you you need to join your favorite person in the world on his tedious mission after he’d gone MIA.
Leon S. Kennedy.
The one person you’re sure you’d sacrifice just about anything for just to keep around. Your DSO partner, your colleague, your mentor, your friend.
Hunnigan was breaking protocol—Leon wasn't gone for nearly long enough to deploy another agent to get him, and if he was, a team would be sent out rather than a lone person. But she had a hunch that things went to shit, and when Hunnigan has a hunch, you listen.
Especially when it’s about him. You don't take risks when it comes to him.
When you later arrived at the location of the last ping of his whereabouts, geared up with weapons you’re not cleared to take out, you were surprised to find two familiar faces who were coincidentally deployed to the same facility by a different group: the BSAA.
“Jill? Is that you?” you had asked confused when light caught the silhouette of Jill Valentine surrounded by still-warm bodies of fallen guards, blood staining her clothes. You would've been scared shitless if you didn't know and trust her already.
Jill’s eyes widened in surprise as she called out your name, “did Leon manage to call you?”
“No, but Hunnigan said he’s gone MIA and sent me to his last ping. I’m not exactly here on official terms… What are you doing here? What’s going on?”
“Well, look who joined the party,” a voice rang out behind Jill as Chris Redfield came in through a metal door.
“Chris? I take it you two are on a mission? What happened to Leon? Where is he?” you fired up questions as you already started to feel worry settle in your veins.
“He was supposed to go after Adams—the one responsible for this clusterfuck of BOW hell—while we were supposed to take out the incubating tanks. But that was hours ago and he’s made no contact since. Signal seems to be jammed around here,” Chris replied grimly, all traces of humor gone from his tone.
“We couldn't get through to reach the lab yet with all the bullshit we’ve encountered in this place, but destroying those tanks is still the priority if we don't want things to get even worse,” Jill added with an almost apologetic tone before placing a comforting hand on your shoulder, “hey… I’m sure he’s fine, he won't be taken down that easy. But since you're here to find him, just promise you won't do anything too reckless. And find us as soon as you can, I’m begging.”
Your jaw clenched in determination as you nodded, “I’ll meet you as soon as I’m able to locate him. You stay safe too.”
“Start with the west wing through that hallway. We haven't cleared that area yet and I’d guess that's where you’d find him,” Chris gestured to the corridor on your left, and that is all you needed to hear before you left them to go on your search.
You recall Chris's directions and Jill's reassurances as you keep the grip on your gun steady. Walking with quick, measured, steps you try to keep yourself from being detected by roaming guards. Lucky for you they are few and far between, probably thanks to the two agents giving them a hard time and keeping them busy.
You search through the west wing, going through door after door, and ,after subduing a standing guard near a set of double doors silently, you find what looks like prison cells.
Ah. Typical.
As you shine your flashlight through each cell, heart racing from adrenaline, you find yourself hoping—praying—that if you do find him here, he’s somehow still okay.
And the universe delivers, because when the LED’s beam reveals a familiar silhouette in the far end cell, you hear yourself let out a sigh of relief at the sight of him, all limbs attached, and breathing. Bound, gagged, and unconscious on the floor, but breathing.
You direct the light’s direction upwards to see the hinges more clearly and notice bulky rusted door pins. It’s a wonder he’s being kept in such an old place, it means all you have to do is jam away those pins and get the door to unhinge, you’ll just have to use some brutal force and hope no one’s nearby to hear it.
With your trusted knife and more than a little elbow grease, you manage to complete the task, but not without scraping your arm on the rusty door in the process. You’ll have to get a tetanus shot. Again.
The ruckus of the metal gate being pushed and prodded somehow did not wake Leon who’s still unconscious when you come to crouch beside him, removing the cloth gagging him. Your heart aches at the sight of the bruises on his cheeks, and even more so when you lift his eyelids to find pinpoint pupils, a sign of opioid sedation.
You don't waste anymore time. You take out the naloxone from the small medical pouch stripped to your hip, and you hastily bring it to his left nostril and press the plunger, releasing the mist into his airways. “Come on, Leon…” you plead.
A second later, his body jerks when he takes in a sharp gasp, eyes flying open as he’s jolted back into consciousness.
Gently grabbing his head to steady him, you speak softly to his confused state, “hey, hey, it’s me. You’re okay. I’m here.”
It takes him a minute before your words and his surroundings register, blinking rapidly as his breathing evens out.
“What the hell are you doing here, kid?” he asks in a gruff tone as he sits up with a grunt.
You sigh. Because of course that's the first thing he asks.
“I’m here to save your ass, you know, like the capable agent and colleague I am?” you huff before circling around him to cut off the restraints on his wrists.
“You’re not supposed to be here. Did Ingrid send you?”
“Yes, because you’ve been MIA for hours, and clearly she was right to send me. You were overdosing."
Leon tsks stubbornly, “Chris and Jill are here, they would've gotten me out eventually. You didn't have to come.”
You stand up with another huff after freeing him and cross your arms as you look down at him with an exasperated look, “you know a thank you would be nice.”
“It’s not that I’m not grateful, it's that I know you probably broke protocol to get here and put yourself in danger. But fine. Thanks, kiddo.”
You purse your lips and look away, feeling the familiar frustration rising whenever he insists on treating you like some kind of fragile, clueless child. You hate that he still sees you the same as he did nine years ago when you first met. You were sixteen, a powerless teenager—a kid—and he has continued treating you like one nearly a decade later.
Noticing your scowling expression, Leon softens his tone when he extends a hand with a warm smile, “help me up?”
Rolling your eyes, you take his gloved hand in yours and pull him up to a standing position. However, you both quickly realize that may have been too soon post overdose reversal when he stumbles into you and your back hits the wall with his weight pressing on your body.
“Shit… Are you okay?” you ask worried, trying to deliberately ignore the way your heart skips a beat at the proximity, your hands reflexively moving to his biceps to help support him.
Leon’s breath tickles your neck before he pulls back enough to look down at you, one hand on the wall, the other on your shoulder, “yeah, sorry, just need a minute.”
You’re unable to maintain eye contact, feeling like your heart might stop, or you might do something stupid like look down at his lips and lean in for a kiss—
Get it together.
Leon catches your fleeting gaze, a ghost of an amused smile on his face when he squeezes your shoulder, “I am okay,” he murmurs reassuringly.
“I know."
Your answer is curt, even if you do relax a little bit at his reassurance. You know why he is reassuring you. He thinks you're nervous because you're worried for him—which you are—but you're mostly nervous because you've been in love with him since the day he saved you.
There isn't a day that passes by when you don't remember it. That afternoon, when you came home from high school, expecting to find your depressed dad lounging on the couch with a drink like he always did, everything changed when you instead heard groaning noises coming from the upper floor.
You had walked up the stairs with careful footsteps, calling out to your father with a shaky voice and your mind running a thousand miles a minute trying to figure out what the noise was. Nothing would have prepared you to find his standing corpse in the corner.
Unbeknownst to you, your father had turned into a cannibalistic monster after he didn't take the medication that kept his transformation at bay for the previous six years. Since he kept you in the dark about his military work and what he’d endured in Penamstan, you had no idea you’d ever come home to this one day.
It happened so fast, but you remember every second. One moment he was standing there, all gurgling noises and rotting flesh, and the next he lunged after you as soon as you called out a weak ‘dad?’
You never ran as fast as you did that day, your untrained legs carrying you through the house and back down the stairs, tripping on the last step with a thud but quickly scrambling back up for the front door and yanking it open.
He had been right on your tail, way too fast for something that’s supposed to be dead. You recall how your life flashed before your eyes—literally—when he grabbed the back of your hoodie as you got out on the front porch, pulling you for what you could have only guessed would be a generous bite to your neck.
That’s when a bullet whizzed past your head and hit him right between the eyes, sending your zombified father sprawling on the floor—actually dead this time.
And then, you looked up and your eyes met his.
Leon.
It was spring 2006, Leon was investigating the ex Mad Dogs unit members after deducing Jason was about to execute a bioterrorist attack. He thought questioning them would give him more information about Jason and his infection with a possibly mutated T-Virus.
Leon had quickly come to find out all the men of the defunct unit were dead by suicide, except for Jason and your father. So when he came to your home that day to talk to the latter, he came prepared to deal with the worst.
Unfortunately, his intuition proved to be right when just as he parked his car by the driveway and stepped out, a screaming girl came running out into the front yard with an infected closing in her.
Leon’s limbs moved on pure muscle memory when he withdrew his gun and shot the zombie right in the head, and then watched with a tense jaw as its blood splattered on the pavement, brains spilling on the floor.
That was the first time he felt grateful to having lost his parents as a kid. Because as harrowing as hearing the gunshots of the men that took their lives that night through the thin walls of his bedroom was, he’d still prefer that to having them turn into zombies who try to eat him, and then watch as they get put down like rabid dogs.
When you had fallen to your knees in sheer shock and horror, Leon did not hesitate to crouch by your side to tell you ‘you’re gonna be okay’. He couldn't help offering some kind of reassurance, even if he was aware of how hollow the words sounded to a girl who’d just lost her father in the most gruesome of ways possible.
But you believed him as you met his ice blues, his eyes so full of care you had no choice but to cling to his every word, and continued to do so ever since.
Another squeeze to your shoulder brings you back to the present moment, still leaning on the wall with him leaning on you.
“Don’t tell me I’m too heavy for you,” he quirks an eyebrow with a playful smile.
“Damn right, you’re too freaking heavy,” you respond in a grumble, poking his side—still not meeting his eyes.
“That means I need to train your ass some more, then. We can't have you slacking off, rookie,” he flicks your forehead with the hand that was on the wall.
You immediately scoff and shove him—carefully—off you, “I’m not a rookie anymore!”
Leon chuckles, swaying lightly before he finally regains a steady balance on his feet, “you’ll always be a rookie to me.”
“Yeah, you’ve made that clear enough,” you grumble under your breath before handing him a spare handgun, “come on, grandpa, we need to find Jill and Chris.”
“Grandpa?” Leon scoffs in mock offense as he takes the weapon, reloading it with a nonchalant precision that only comes with fifteen or so odd years of experience.
“Well, you insist on still calling me ‘kid,’ so, I shall retaliate. Just so you can feel how annoying it gets.”
“Yeah, except I’m not a grandpa. You, on the other hand, are a kid,” he smirks—way too smug—and then proceeds to walk past you, gun held firmly as he prepares to lead the way.
CHAPTER 2: touch
PAIRING: ghost!leon x fbiagent!reader
SYNOPSIS: When an overworked FBI analyst like you gets aggressively blindsided by a rogue box of data in a dimly lit archive room, you expect a splitting headache, not a face-to-face confrontation with a ghost. Standing over you is Leon S. Kennedy, a renowned agent who has been legally dead for five years and who is now trapped as an invisible phantom in the cold halls of the bureau. He had long since accepted his silent, numb eternity, but all of that calm acceptance goes right out the window the moment you open your eyes, point a finger, and thoroughly panic him by looking right at him, where the boundaries between the living and the dead begin to blur under the warm glow of forbidden feelings.
CONTENT WARNINGS: MDNI, afab!reader, spoilers for re6, post re6 leon, slight age difference (reader is in her mid 20s and the story takes place in 2018, 5 years after the events of re6 but leon is a ghost, so take that how you will lol), minor physical injury / blunt force trauma, depictions of isolation and loneliness, existential dread/numbness, grief and death, angst, lots of teasing from leon (sorry), leon calls you sweetheart, smut, soft dom leon, fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie, oral (f receiving), slight temperature play, praise kink, porn with too much plot, aftercare, unestablished relationship, complicated feelings
WORD COUNT: 32.7K
AUTHOR'S NOTE: i definitely had a lot of fun with this chapter! i do apologize if the ghost mechanics are a bit weird! the next chapter may take a bit longer as I try to build a better structure of where I want the direction of the story to go. currently, the ending i had planned is a sad one, but i could make an alternative ending if that is something you guys want, so let me know! i can definitely do two endings to this story
MASTERLIST
CHAPTER 1: ghost in archives
To those who work in any sort of job, whether it be in corporate, the service industry, or any colored collared job, the one thing that many never look forward to is the alarm in the morning that annoyingly pulls you away from any dream world your consciousness has taken you to the night prior. The phone that sat on your nightstand buzzes, and if the ringing alone from the ringtone you had set for your alarm wasn’t enough to wake you up, the pure vibration from it was already annoying enough to get you to reluctantly stir from your slumber.
You turn to the side so that you face your nightstand, and your hand reaches out mindlessly to feel for the phone. You groan as the ringing continues, and finally, the tip of your finger finds the charging cord attached to your phone. Tracing it up to where your phone sat, you reach for it and bring it to your face, peeking one eye open to see where your hand was on your phone.
You shut off the alarm with a definitive tap of your thumb, plunging your bedroom back into a blissful, silent dimness. For a few agonizing seconds, you considered simply staring at the ceiling and letting the morning pass you by. Your body felt heavy, still deeply anchored to the warmth of the mattress, and your eyelids felt lined with lead. The reality of your job at the Bureau, the impending mountain of paperwork, the redacted files, and the grueling desk hours all loomed over you like a dark cloud.
With a long, dramatic groan into your pillow, you finally forced your body to move. You threw the heavy duvet off your legs, instantly shivering as the cool morning air of your apartment hit your bare skin.
Sitting up on the edge of the bed, you paused for a moment just to let your brain catch up with your body. Your hair was a wild, bird's-nest disaster, completely disheveled from a night of restless tossing and turning, and your oversized t-shirt hung loosely off one shoulder. Dragging your feet, you slipped back into your plush slippers and walked toward your bedroom door, opening it the rest of the way to head toward the bathroom directly across the hall. You were essentially a zombie, your eyes half-closed and your shoulders slumped as you practically dragged your feet across the flooring.
Meanwhile, out in the living room, the peace of the morning had been shattered in a much more violent fashion.
Leon had actually managed to drift off. He hadn't expected to, since ghosts didn't need sleep, and for five years, his consciousness had remained permanently hyper-vigilant. But wrapped in the quiet comfort of your apartment, resting his head against the plush pillow with the soft aroma of vanilla in the air, his spectral form had settled into a deep, heavy state of rest.
Until your phone alarm went off.
Even through the cracked door, the sudden, sharp blare of your digital ringtone cut through the silence like a gunshot. Leon’s survival instincts, which had been hardwired into his soul through years of surviving bioterrorist hellscapes, had flared instantly. He bolted upright on the couch, his bright blue eyes wide and glowing with adrenaline, his ghostly hands subconsciously reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.
"What the—" he muttered, his deep voice thick and gravelly with sleep.
He blinked against the soft daylight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling window, his chest rising and falling in a rapid, phantom panic attack before he realized there was no threat. There was no ambush. It was just a standard, civilian morning.
As his heart rate settled, he heard the soft, dragging sound of footsteps. Turning his head, he watched through the hallway threshold as you emerged from your bedroom.
The sight immediately melted the last of his tactical tension, a soft, surprised look crossing his face. He had seen you as a sharp, guarded investigator, and he had seen you as a panicked, apologetic host, but he had never seen you like this. You were a complete, adorable mess. Your bedhead was definitely a sight to see, with strands of hair sticking up wildly in every direction, and your eyes were barely open as you blindly navigated the tiny distance to the bathroom door, completely oblivious to his existence in your half-awake state.
A low, rumbling chuckle escaped Leon’s throat, the sound rich with a sudden, overwhelming fondness. He leaned his shoulder against the back of the couch, watching you disappear into the bathroom with a lazy, amused smirk tracing his lips.
"Good morning to you too, sweetheart," he murmured softly to himself, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as the sound of rushing water started up from behind the bathroom door. Seeing you so completely unshielded and human in your own space was quickly becoming his favorite part of the day.
You locked yourself away in the sanctuary of the bathroom, relying entirely on muscle memory to get you through your standard morning routine. You squeezed toothpaste onto your brush, mechanically scrubbing away the lingering sleep while staring blankly at the mirror. Next came a splash of ice-cold water to the face, a sharp, freezing jolt that finally forced your eyes to open fully and knocked the remaining cobwebs from your brain. Snatching a comb, you did your absolute best to tame the wild, gravity-defying bird's nest of your bedhead, smoothing it down until you at least looked presentable enough to face the world.
With a deep, cleansing breath, you unlocked the door and stepped back out into the short hallway. Your mind was already drifting toward your standard workday checklist, which consisted of grabbing the keys off the console, making coffee, and surviving the commute.
You rounded the corner past the kitchen island, heading straight toward the living room.
And then you froze.
Leon was sitting there. He had shifted from his panicked stance and was now lounging back against the cushions, his long legs stretched out casually, one arm draped over the back of your couch. Under the soft morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling window, the faint, otherworldly blue luminescence outlining his sharp jawline and broad shoulders practically glowed.
Your heart skipped a violent beat, a sudden gasp catching in your throat as your brain short-circuited. For one terrifying second, your survival instincts screamed intruder.
But then, the sheer weight of reality crashed into you, hitting you like a physical wave. The fourth-floor archive room. The falling box. The frantic drive home. The deeply emotional conversation on the couch under the amber lamp. It hadn't been a hyper-vivid, exhaustion-induced fever dream. You hadn't lost your mind.
There was quite literally an impossibly handsome ghost living in your apartment.
Leon watched the realization play out across your face in real-time, your eyes widening and your mouth parting in a small 'O' of shock. A slow, highly amused smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, his bright blue eyes crinkling with pure delight.
"Morning, sunshine," he drawled, his deep, gravelly voice carrying that effortless, rhythmic charm that made your pulse do a frantic little dance. He tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over your freshly combed hair and oversized t-shirt. "Glad to see you survived the involuntary stress test of waking up. For a second there, I thought I was going to have to remind you who I am all over again."
A hot, sudden flush of embarrassment crept up your neck, breaking you out of your trance. You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your chest as you walked past the threshold and into the kitchen area.
"I knew who you were," you grumbled defensively, though your voice lacked any real bite. You stepped behind the kitchen island, reaching for the coffee maker. "My brain just takes a business day and a half to process existential anomalies before 7:00 AM."
Leon let out a rich, rumbling chuckle that vibrated pleasantly through the open space. He didn't stay on the couch; instead, his weightless form fluidly rose, drifting over the back of the cushions to hover just a few feet away from the kitchen island. He rested his spectral forearms against the opposite side of the counter, leaning in slightly as he watched you scoop coffee grounds into the machine.
"Fair enough," he teased, his gaze tracking your movements with an attentive, warm focus that felt entirely too heavy for this early in the morning. "Though I have to admit, I'm a little disappointed. You tamed the hair. It had a lot of character five minutes ago."
You nearly dropped the coffee scoop, your eyes snapping up to meet him. "You saw that?"
"Oh, absolutely," Leon countered smoothly, his smirk widening into a devastating, boyish grin. "You dragged your feet over to the bathroom, looking like you’d just wrestled a typhoon and lost. It was adorable, sweetheart. Truly."
Your face burned a bright, furious crimson as you quickly turned your back to him, pretending to be deeply invested in pouring water into the coffee reservoir. You grabbed a skillet from the cabinet, trying to mask your racing heart behind the sudden, clattering noise of preparing breakfast.
"You're a menace, Kennedy," you muttered, trying to sound stern but failing as a small, helpless smile tugged at your own lips.
"Just keeping you on your toes, Agent," he murmured back, his voice dropping into a softer, lower register that felt incredibly close, wrapping around you like a warm blanket in the quiet morning air.
The soft, rhythmic click of the igniter filled the room until a ring of blue flame flickered to life. From the fridge, you pulled out a carton of eggs and a tub of butter, grabbing a slice of bread from the counter. The kitchen quickly filled with the comforting, domestic sounds of a normal morning, the rich, nutty aroma of brewing coffee, the gentle sizzle of butter melting in the pan, and the scraping of a spatula.
As the whites of the egg began to curl and whiten in the heat, you looked up, the spatula hovering over the pan. Curiosity, sharp and analytical, nudged at your brain.
"Hey, Leon?" you asked softly, glancing from the sizzling egg back to his translucent form.
"Yeah?" He tilted his head, his blue eyes capturing the morning light.
"Have you... I mean, since you became a ghost... have you ever tried eating anything?" You frowned slightly, trying to visualize it. "Can you even do that? Or does it just... pass right through you?"
Leon let out a soft, amused breath, leaning his chin into his hand. "Honestly? I have. Ghost mechanics are weird, sweetheart. I don't entirely know how the science works… Well, if there is any science to it, but I can technically ingest things. It doesn't just fall through my chest and land on the floor, if that's what you're picturing."
You paused, dropping a slice of bread into the toaster. "Really? Then what happens to it?"
"It just... disappears," Leon said, waving a hand vaguely in the air with a helpless smirk. "The second it passes my lips, it’s like it dissolves into vapor. I don't get full, I don't get hungry, and I don't really taste it the way I used to. It's more like a phantom memory of the texture. I tried stealing a fry off a junior agent's plate in the breakroom a few years ago just to see what would happen. It vanished, he got confused, and I realized I couldn't even enjoy the salt. Total waste of a fry."
A delighted laugh bubbled out of your chest. The mental image of a legendary, highly trained government weapon covertly stealing french fries as an invisible entity was entirely too much to handle.
"A total waste, huh?" you teased, your eyes crinkling with amusement.
You looked down at the skillet, then back up at him, a sudden, playful spark of curiosity lighting up your face. Without a word, you reached into the carton, grabbed a second egg, and cracked it right into the pan. You pushed down the lever on the toaster again, adding a second slice of bread.
Leon raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. "What are you doing?"
"An experiment," you declared solemnly, though your lips were twitching. "You said you haven't tried it in a while. Maybe your ghost tastebuds have evolved. Besides, I need to see this firsthand."
"You're making a ghost breakfast?" Leon chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated pleasantly in the space between you. "I'm honored, sweetheart. Truly."
A few minutes later, you slid an egg and a piece of toast onto your own plate, and plated one up for Leon as well, pushing the plate across the kitchen island, right in front of him.
"Alright, Kennedy. Show me how it works," you said, leaning your elbows on the counter, resting your chin in your hands as you watched him with rapt attention.
Leon stared at the plate, then up at you, completely amused by your sheer fascination. "Alright, sweetheart, prepare to be amazed."
He reached out. Because he was actively focusing, his translucent fingers managed to wrap around the piece of toast, lifting it from the plate. It looked entirely surreal, a solid piece of bread floating in mid-air, held by a hand you could faintly see through. He took a small bite.
You leaned in closer, your eyes wide.
The second the piece of toast entered his mouth, it didn't drop down his throat. There was no chewing, no swallowing. It literally dissolved into a faint, microscopic wisp of vapor that vanished into his spectral form within a fraction of a second. The rest of the toast remained perfectly intact in his hand.
"Holy god of ghost physics…," you whispered, completely fascinated. "It literally just... Poofed."
"Told you," Leon said, a triumphant, devastatingly handsome grin breaking across his face as he set the rest of the toast down. He looked at you, his blue eyes softening with an unmistakable, quiet fondness that completely bypassed his usual playful defenses. "Still no taste, unfortunately. But I have to admit... having someone actually make it for me? That part feels pretty damn good."
Your heart did a sudden, chaotic flip against your ribs, the playful atmosphere instantly shifting into something thick, warm, and entirely too romantic for a Thursday morning. You quickly looked down at your own plate, taking a sudden interest in your eggs to hide the massive smile spreading across your face.
Leon took his time with the rest of the meal, methodically reducing the fried egg and toast into microscopic wisps of disappearing vapor. He didn't need the fuel, and his phantom senses still couldn't register the buttery, rich flavor of the yolk, but as he watched you enjoy your own breakfast across the counter, a completely different kind of fullness bloomed behind his ribs.
For five long years, he had been a cosmic afterthought, a non-entity drifting through a world that had moved on without him. Food had just been a cruel reminder of what he could no longer touch. But this morning, it wasn't about the taste. It was about the fact that someone had intentionally cracked an extra egg for him. Someone had toasted a piece of bread, plated it, and pushed it across a clean kitchen counter just to watch him smile. The simple, beautifully mundane act of being cooked for did something to his spectral chest that he couldn't scientifically explain. It made him feel heavy in the best way possible. It made him feel like a man again, anchored to a home, rather than a vapor floating in the dark.
He set the empty saucer down, a quiet, intensely soft expression smoothing out the sharp lines of his face. "You know, for an involuntary experiment, you're a pretty damn good chef."
"Don't get used to it, Kennedy," you teased, hopping off your barstool and gathering the plates. "The ghost catering service has a strictly limited menu."
The kitchen quickly filled with the comforting, domestic sounds of your morning wrap-up with the rush of warm tap water, the gentle sudsing of a sponge, and the soft, rhythmic clink of ceramic as you set the dishes in the rack to dry. Leon didn't move from his spot by the island. He leaned his weightless hips against the edge of the counter, his bright blue eyes tracking your movements with a lazy, content focus.
"Alright," you said, wiping your damp hands on a dish towel and tossing it onto the counter. "Give me ten minutes to look like a functioning member of the federal government instead of a couch potato."
Leon offered a slow, mock-salute with his translucent hand, his trademark smirk returning. "Take your time, Agent. I’ll just stay here and look hauntingly handsome."
"Emphasize on the hauntingly," you shot back over your shoulder, laughing as you hurried down the short hallway into your bedroom.
You closed the door to change, shedding the oversized t-shirt and loose sweatpants for your sharp, structured work attire. Stepping in front of the vanity mirror, you zipped your slacks, smoothed down the collar of your button-up shirt, and checked your hairline. The pink mark from last night's rogue box was still slightly visible, but a little bit of concealer did the trick. You clipped your hair back, took a deep breath, and opened the door, officially transitioning back into professional mode.
You stepped into the entryway, audibly running through your mandatory mental checklist.
"Keys?" You snatched the ring off the console table, the metal jangling loudly in the quiet space.
"Check," Leon’s deep voice answered from the living room threshold. He was already waiting for you, leaning casually against the wall with his hands shoved into his pockets, his glowing blue frame contrasting beautifully with the morning sunlight streaming through the windows.
"Work bag?" You slung the heavy leather strap over your shoulder, adjusting your blazer.
"Check," he murmured, his eyes sweeping over your uniform with an attentive, appreciative glint. "Suits you, by the way. Very professional."
"Flattery won't get you out of your ghost duties," you teased, reaching for your waistband. "ID badge?" You clipped the laminated Bureau credentials to your hip, checking your photo.
"Check," Leon drawled, tilting his head as he drifted a few inches closer, his gaze locked onto yours. "And what about your classified, supernatural stowaway? Did you double-check his paperwork?"
You looked up, a genuine, breathless smile breaking across your face as you met his bright eyes. Your heart did a sudden, cinematic flutter against your ribs, completely shattering the rigid reality of the workday ahead. Yesterday morning, you were just an overworked analyst dreading the daily grind. Today, you were walking out the door with a renowned agent by your side, a dead one on top of that.
"I think he's accounted for," you whispered playfully, your hand resting on the doorknob. "Just promise me you won't make faces at the director if we pass him in the hall."
Leon let out a rich, rumbling chuckle, stepping right up next to you, his translucent shoulder hovering just a hair's breadth from yours. "No promises, sweetheart. Let's go to work."
—
Entering the office building, the main lobby was humming with activity, a sharp contrast to the eerie, cavernous silence of the night prior. Agents in tailored suits, tech division staff clutching coffee cups, and security personnel created a bustling sea of movement. You spotted a few familiar faces near the elevators and offered them polite, practiced smiles and quick nods as you navigated your way toward the electronic badge readers.
Behind you, Leon followed suit. Because of the heavy volume of morning commuters, the lobby was a minefield of oblivious foot traffic. People walked straight through his translucent frame, entirely unaware that they were stepping through someone who once walked the very halls they did. Every time a hurried junior analyst or a frantic legal clerk passed through his chest, Leon would lightly dodge, throwing his hands up in mock offense or executing a dramatic, weightless sidestep to clear the way. The sight was incredibly endearing and more than a little funny, making you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing out loud in front of the front-desk guards.
Luckily, you were prepared. Before you had even turned off the ignition in the parking garage, you had slipped a single wireless earbud into your right ear, exactly as the two of you had planned last night. If you needed to talk to your supernatural shadow, passersby would just assume you were on an early morning briefing call rather than casually conversing with thin air.
"You know, a little heads-up would have been nice," Leon’s deep voice suddenly rumbled directly into your free ear with an earbud, rich with playful irritation. "That guy just walked through my left lung. I'm pretty sure his hot latte left a phantom burn."
You pressed your badge against the electronic reader, waiting for the familiar, high-pitched beep and the green flash of the light before pushing through the turnstile.
"Oh, stop whining, Kennedy," you murmured under your breath, keeping your gaze fixed straight ahead as if you were listening to a highly serious legal deposition. "You're a lethal government weapon. I'm sure you can survive a run-in with a tech-support intern."
"It's a matter of professional dignity, sweetheart," Leon drawled back. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him glide effortlessly past the security turnstile without scanning a thing, a smug grin plastered across his face. "Besides, I used to be the one commanding the room. Now I'm getting aggressively t-boned by a guy carrying a box of glazed donuts."
"Did he at least leave a phantom donut behind?" you teased, stepping into an open elevator cab and spinning around to face the doors.
Leon glided into the elevator right after you, occupying the small space in the back corner. As three other agents piled into the car, pressing the buttons for their respective floors, Leon shifted closer to you. The elevator cab was packed to maximum capacity, a claustrophobic cage of starch-stiff suits and heavy briefcases. As the last two agents squeezed inside, forcing everyone to shuffle backward, you found yourself pushed entirely into the back corner.
Because the living occupants couldn't see or touch Leon, they backed right through him, oblivious to who they were compressing against. But Leon didn't let himself simply dissolve into the crowd. Instead, he intentionally solidified his presence right where you were pinned, pressing his broad, translucent frame flush against your front to act as a protective barrier between you and the suffocating crush of the morning commuters.
Suddenly, you were completely trapped between the cold metal wall of the elevator and the ethereal, breathtaking expanse of Leon's chest. Even without true physical mass, the sheer proximity of his glowing blue frame sent a dizzying, thrilling spike of warmth straight to your core. He was so close you could trace the familiar lines of his toned body under his top… So close that his bright blue eyes seemed to capture every bit of ambient light in the small space.
He leaned down slightly, his jaw brushing past your free ear without the earbud, his deep voice dropping into an incredibly low, gravelly whisper that vibrated right through your bones.
"No donut," he drawled, a wicked, boyish amusement dancing in his eyes. "But if the Director gets in this elevator, I'm definitely hovering right over his shoulder. Give him a little haunting to jumpstart his morning."
You quickly looked down, your face burning a brilliant crimson as a helpless, radiant smile tugged at your lips. You tried to focus intently on your shoes, desperately trying to ignore the chaotic, frantic hammering of your heart against your ribs.
Then, the elevator lurched hard as it began its ascent.
Up at the front of the elevator, an agent shifted their weight abruptly to adjust a heavy box of files. The sudden movement triggered a domino effect in the tightly packed car, causing the crowd to surge backward. The unexpected weight of the person in front of you shoved against your shoulder, knocking your feet out from under you in the cramped space. With your work bag catching on your arm, you completely lost your balance, your heel slipping as you started to tumble sideways.
Before your brain could even process the fall, Leon reacted with the fast tactical instincts of a man who spent his life surviving the impossible.
His weightless hands shot forward, locking firmly around your waist. The moment his fingers met your hips, that strange, impossible magic of your connection flared to life. As to the rest of the world, he was nothing but air, but to you, his grip was entirely solid, unyielding, and powerful. With an effortless tug, he braced his core and hauled you back upright, anchoring your body securely against his chest until your feet found their footing on the elevator floor.
The crowd settled, completely oblivious to the near-catastrophe in the back corner, but your entire world had narrowed down to the phantom agent holding you together.
"Whoa—I've got you, sweetheart," Leon murmured, his voice losing every trace of its previous teasing edge, replaced by a sudden, fierce protectiveness. His hands lingered on your waist for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, his thumbs brushing against the fabric of your blazer with a reverence that stole the remaining breath from your lungs.
You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the strap of your work bag as you looked up, your eyes locking onto his. The raw intensity in his gaze was staggering, a beautiful, cinematic heat stretching between your souls in the absolute silence of your shared bubble.
Slowly, as he realized you were safe, the tight lines of his face relaxed, and that devastating, heartachingly handsome smirk crept back onto his lips. He leaned in just an inch closer, his eyes shimmering with a quiet, undeniable fondness.
"Careful, Agent," he teased softly into your ear, his breath a phantom warmth against your skin. "I know I’m hard to resist, but you don’t have to literally fall for me in front of the logistics division."
Your heart did a violent, spectacular flip, and you had to bite your lip to keep from letting out a breathless laugh as the elevator chime echoed, announcing your arrival at the fourth floor.
The packed crowd inside the elevator cab slowly began to thin out as the doors slid open on the fourth floor, people pooling away from the exit to allow the analysts and investigators to filter out. Once a clear path was made through the sea of dark suits, you stepped out of the suffocatingly close space, taking a deep, quiet breath of the cooler hallway air to settle your racing pulse. You walked down the familiar carpeted corridors of the Bureau, navigating the massive layout of uniform grey cubicles toward your own desk, with Leon floating effortlessly just a half-step behind you.
"Don't you dare scare anyone this early in the morning," you murmured, keeping your voice exceptionally low, barely moving your lips as your eyes remained fixed straight ahead. You adjusted the heavy strap of your work bag, treating the hallway like a tightrope.
Leon merely let out a low, amused huff, “Please, sweetheart. Give me a little credit. I’m a professional shadow. I only terrify people when the paperwork gets truly unbearable.”
As your specific cubicle came into view, you entered the small, fabric-walled enclosure and finally unslung your heavy leather bag, letting it settle onto your desk chair with a dull thud. You went right into your routine, trying to force your brain into strict, professional work mode to distract from the surreal reality of your new living situation. You organized your desk space, taking out your notebook, a couple of pens, and a tablet, laying them out in precise, orderly lines before you headed down the hall to the coffee room.
"Morning, Agent."
The cheerful, steady voice belonged to Daniel, your cubicle neighbor. He was currently settling into his own identical workspace just across the low, fabric-lined partition that divided your desks.
"Morning," you greeted back, forcing a polite, standard-issue coworker smile onto your face as you looked up.
“Morning, Danny-boy,” Leon chimed in smoothly. He didn't just stand there; instead, he fluidly crossed his arms and leaned his weightless hips right against the edge of your desk, invading your personal space with an effortless, casual grace. Of course, there was absolutely no response from Daniel. Your neighbor simply unbuttoned his suit jacket and hung it over the back of his chair, completely oblivious to the glowing DSO agent, the same one you and he were speaking of the day prior, practically hovering over his mousepad.
"Hey, any luck down in the archive closet last night?" Daniel asked, leaning back in his mesh chair and gesturing vaguely toward the eastern wing of the floor. "I saw your name on the late-night sign-out sheet when I logged off. Did you actually find what you were looking for in that dusty nightmare, or was it a total bust?"
Your hand paused over the cover of your notebook for a fraction of a second, your fingers tensing against the cardboard. You certainly hadn't found a standard paper trail, but you had found a ghost who was currently occupying your workspace.
"Oh, yeah. I found what I needed," you said, forcing your voice to stay entirely casual, even-toned, and unbothered. "Just a few old, misplaced files regarding the regional case backlog. I’m probably just going to slowly look through them over the span of the week so I can write up the summary report."
Thankfully, the heavy layer of concealer you had carefully applied in your bathroom mirror was doing its job perfectly, so Daniel didn't even blink at your forehead, entirely oblivious to the fact that a heavy cardboard box had aggressively blindsided you just the night prior.
“Oh, she found a treasure trove, Daniel,” Leon interrupted, his deep voice dripping with wicked, playful sarcasm. He shifted away from your desk, his translucent form gliding effortlessly through the fabric partition to stand directly in Daniel’s line of sight. “A highly classified, devastatingly handsome anomaly, to be exact. Though she did take a quick nap on the floor, courtesy of a storage box first. You should ask her about her highly rigorous stress test.”
You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you were surprised it didn't draw blood. Keeping your face completely stoic, you forced yourself to maintain steady eye contact with Daniel, even as Leon stepped directly into the space between your neighbor and his computer monitors.
Leon began pulling the most ridiculous, exaggerated faces which were not limited to crossing his eyes, sticking his tongue out, and mimicking Daniel’s exact, straight-laced, stiff-necked posture right in front of the man's face. It was a completely absurd, cinematic sight as a deadly government weapon that had survived global bio-crises, behaving like a chaotic toddler just to get a rise out of you. Your vision blurred slightly as you tried desperately to hold your composure, your knuckles turning white against the edge of your desk partition.
"That's good," Daniel nodded, entirely unaware that a phantom hand was currently hovering two inches from his nose, giving him a playful, weightless flick. "The Director has been breathing down our necks about the backlog from last quarter. If you need any help sorting through the older field reports or cross-referencing the dates, just let me know. I've got some free time before lunch."
“Yeah, let us know, Daniel,” Leon added, suddenly leaning his upper body completely over the cubicle wall. He brought his face inches from yours, his bright blue eyes dancing with pure, unfiltered mischief as he invaded your vision. “I can give you a firsthand report on how terribly boring your filing system is. Also, please tell him his tie is crooked. It’s physically hurting my eyes. Is that a clip-on? It looks like a clip-on.”
A tiny, choked sound nearly escaped your throat, a hybrid of a gasp and a laugh. You quickly disguised it as a quick, awkward cough, raising a fist to cover your mouth while shooting Leon a sharp, burning glare that you hoped Daniel would interpret as standard, pre-caffeine morning fatigue.
"Thanks, Daniel, I really appreciate it," you managed to squeak out, your voice remarkably steady considering the internal panic. "I think I've got a decent handle on the layout for now. I'm just going to go grab some coffee before I dive into the actual nightmare of reports."
"Smart move. Get a cup for me if the pot is fresh," Daniel joked, turning his attention back to his dual monitors, his face passing right through the edge of Leon's translucent sleeve.
The second Daniel looked away, you let out a long, silent breath, your shoulders dropping significantly as you snatched your mug from the desk. You turned around only to find Leon grinning victoriously at you, his chest shaking with silent, triumphant laughter.
"You are a menace," you hissed under your breath, spinning on your heel to march toward the breakroom.
“Hey, I told you,” Leon’s voice echoed warmly as his weightless frame glided right alongside your pace down the row of cubicles. “I have a duty to keep things entertaining around here. You're doing great, Agent. Your poker face needs a little bit of work, but I'll give you an A for effort.”
You rolled your eyes at him playfully, a soft huff escaping your nose as the two of you made your way down the quiet corridor toward the breakroom. Walking into the communal kitchen area, the atmosphere was exactly what you’d expect on any given Thursday morning. A couple of agents from the financial crimes division were huddled around the small dining table, silently chewing on their bagels while scanning the news on their tablets, entirely trapped in their own early morning zones.
But this time, you weren’t alone. You were accompanied by a lethal, five-year-old ghost story who was currently tailing you like a shadow, his glowing blue frame casting invisible ripples through the fluorescent-lit room.
You made your way straight to the counter where the coffee pot sat. A quick glance at the digital display confirmed it was freshly brewed, a rich, dark stream having just finished dripping into the glass carafe. The robust, earthy aroma filled the room, bringing a small, genuine smile to your face. You pour some into your mug, the steam rising up and warming your face. Remembering your promise to Daniel, you snatched a disposable paper cup from the stack, filling it up just as high. You grabbed a couple of individual sugar packets and a few half-and-half creamers from the spinning organizer, dropping them into your blazer pocket so he could adjust the sweetness to his own liking.
Turning back to your own mug, you added your usual morning fixings, adjusting it exactly the way you always did to jumpstart your brain for a long day of work.
Behind you, the heavy, rhythmic thud of polished dress shoes echoed against the linoleum floor. You didn't even have to turn around to know who it was. The sharp, overwhelming scent of expensive, suffocating cologne announced him before he even spoke a word.
Collins.
He was a senior investigator on the floor, notorious for his complete lack of a sense of humor and his agonizingly long-winded lectures about Bureau protocol. But more importantly, he was the guy currently acting as the entire floor's favorite joke. Ever since Wednesday morning, when he recounted how the fourth-floor archive room claimed a phantom had attacked him, he had been on a warpath to prove his sanity.
Leon, who had been lazily leaning against the vending machine, instantly perked up the second Collins stepped through the threshold. His bright blue eyes locked onto the senior investigator, a highly dangerous, devious smirk slowly spreading across his handsome face as he remembered the glorious moment he had shifted a thirty-pound box just to watch Collins jump out of his skin. He looked from Collins back to you, his eyebrows dancing in a silent, chaotic challenge.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Leon’s deep voice purred directly into your mind, wrapping around your senses with effortless clarity.
His spectral voice echoed right in your ear, rich with pure, unadulterated mischief, “Look who it is. My favorite customer was from Tuesday night. Please tell me I have permission to cause a little harmless workplace chaos. I think he’s finally recovered his dignity, and frankly, it doesn't suit him.”
You shot him a fierce, panicked glare, your eyes widening in a silent plea for mercy as you held your mug tight. You shook your head just a fraction of an inch, desperately trying to signal him to stand down before he made you burst out laughing and got you fired.
But Leon S. Kennedy didn't survive Raccoon City and global bio-terrorism by backing down from a challenge.
“Too late, Agent,” he whispered with a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated pleasantly against your consciousness.
Before you could even utter a breath of mental protest, he was already moving, his translucent form gliding effortlessly across the linoleum straight toward the unsuspecting, rigid senior investigator who was currently waiting for the secondary microwave to beep.
Collins was frowning at his plastic container of oatmeal, completely oblivious to the fact that the very same "ghost" from Tuesday night was now circling him like a shark. Leon glided right up behind him, peering over Collins' shoulder with a face of mock gravity, studying the oatmeal as if it were a highly classified bio-weapon dossier.
“You know, for a guy who takes himself this seriously, his breakfast choices are incredibly depressing,” Leon commented casually to you, tilting his head. “No wonder he’s so uptight. Hey, look closely.”
You desperately tried to focus on pouring the creamer into your own mug, but your eyes kept darting toward the microwave.
Leon braced his core, focusing his spectral willpower onto the physical world just enough to make an impact. He didn't move a thirty-pound box this time. Instead, he reached out a single translucent finger and lightly tapped the plastic clip on Collins' badge, which was attached to his breast pocket.
The badge flicked upward with a sharp snap.
Collins froze instantly, his entire body going rigid as a board. His eyes widened, darting down to his chest where the badge was still slightly swinging. The poor man looked like he had just heard a gunshot. He violently spun around, looking left and right, his hand instinctively flying to his hip where his holster sat.
"Who did that?!" Collins demanded, his voice cracking slightly as he glared at the financial crimes agents by the table, who just stared back at him like he had lost his mind.
Right in front of him, Leon was standing with his arms crossed, throwing his head back in a silent, ecstatic laugh, his chest shaking with pure joy at the man's sheer, unadulterated panic. He leaned right in next to Collins' ear, whispering, “Told you I’d hide your stapler next, Collins. Consider this a warning shot.”
You bit your lip so hard it went completely numb, forcing a cough to hide the breathless, choked laugh that threatened to explode from your chest. You quickly snatched up your mug and Daniel's paper cup, determined to flee the scene before Collins noticed your burning red face.
—
You managed to slip out of the breakroom before Collins could fully process his swinging badge, though you had to press your lips into a tight line the entire way down the hall to keep from bursting into a full, breathless laugh. Leon glided right at your shoulder, looking immensely proud of his morning’s work, his deep, silent chuckle vibrating in the back of your mind.
When you returned to your cubicle, you slid Daniel’s coffee onto his desk with a quiet, "Here you go. Cream and sugar are in the tray."
"You're a lifesaver," Daniel mumbled, already half-buried in an Excel sheet.
You gave him a quick nod and stepped into your own space, your demeanor shifting instantly as you settled into your chair. The lighthearted morning banter faded away, replaced by the heavy, familiar weight of Operation: Broken Mirror. You pulled a stack of physical, manila-folder archives out of your locked bottom drawer, the very files you had braved the fourth-floor storage room for the night before. After five years as an analyst, you knew the digital PDF versions were always the first to be scrubbed, sanitized, and stripped of context by the higher-ups.
You cracked open the thickest folder, the musty scent of old paper and fading ink rising into the cool air of your cubicle.
Leon’s playful smirk vanished the moment his eyes fell on the stamped header at the top of the page:
Lanshiang, China - 2013 // Task Force Report // Maximum Classification
The casual distance he usually maintained evaporated. His weightless form drifted around the back of your chair, his presence hovering directly over your right shoulder. He leaned down, his broad chest aligning just an inch behind your back, his head tilting close to yours so he could read the text alongside you.
Even though he was entirely composed of energy and air, the sheer, sudden proximity of him sent a fierce shiver down your spine. You could clearly see the faint, ethereal blue outline of his sharp jawline out of the corner of your eye. The space inside your small cubicle suddenly felt incredibly small, thick with a quiet, undeniable tension that made your pulse hitch.
"Look at the third paragraph," Leon murmured softly. His voice echoed directly into your consciousness, low and gravelly, so close that it felt like a physical breath brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. "The digital brief claims the local militia in the Poisawan slums was just a random anti-government uprising. But look at what the original field notes say."
You focused your eyes on the page, your pen hovering over your legal pad. You noticed that while the online PDFs had entire blocks completely blacked out, this original paper copy had only been lightly censored with a thin marker. If you held the page up to the harsh fluorescent light of the cubicle, you could make out the words underneath.
"It says the militia was actively organized by Neo-Umbrella," you whispered, barely moving your lips, tracking the words with the tip of your finger. "They weren't rioting for political reasons. They were intentionally infected with a pathogen called the C-Virus to create a massive, localized distraction."
"Exactly," Leon confirmed, his spectral form shifting slightly closer. As he reached out to point at a specific line on the page, his translucent hand casually brushed against yours.
A sudden, sharp jolt of warmth snapped across your skin. It wasn't the cold numbness you expected from a ghost because of the terrifyingly intense connection growing between you. His touch felt remarkably solid for a split second; it was a heavy, lingering pressure that sent a wave of heat straight to your core. Your breath hitched, your fingers trembling slightly against the paper. You looked up, your eyes locking onto his gaze just inches away. There was a sudden, heavy silence between you, a cinematic heat stretching between the living analyst and the weary ghost, before Leon softly cleared his throat and nodded toward the file, silently urging you back to the safety of the data.
"The distraction was meant to cover up their primary doomsday project," Leon explained, his tone turning clinical, though his eyes lingered on your face for a fraction of a second longer. "A global pandemic. My partner, Helena, and I were tracing Derek Simmons, the National Security Advisor at the time, straight into Lanshiang. He was working with a shadow cabal known as 'The Family' to orchestrate the entire outbreak."
You jotted down the names Simmons and The Family on your pad, your analytical mind quickly connecting the historic data to your modern smuggling pipeline.
"According to the public files, Simmons was killed, Neo-Umbrella was completely dismantled, and the C-Virus was suppressed using an Anti-C vaccine engineered from the blood of a man named Jake Muller," you murmured, cross-referencing your notes. "But if the virus were entirely eradicated, it makes no logical sense why my modern black-market investigations keep pulling up fragmented samples of it. Look at these customs raids from last month.”
You pull up multiple tabs on one of your monitors to show Leon the reports of the raids that were conducted and information and pictures of the samples of the vials that contain samples of the C-Virus: “These glass vials containing trace amounts of the exact same pathogen."
Leon leaned lower, his shoulder pressing lightly against yours as he studied the reports on your screen, then back down to your desk, which had modern portrait photographs you had spread out across the desk.
"Because it wasn't fully eradicated," Leon stated grimly, the lines of his face hardening as the dark memories resurfaced. "The Anti-C vaccine worked, but it had a zero-percent survival rate for anyone who had already fully mutated. It saved the uninfected, but it couldn't wipe out the genetic data. When Simmons died, he didn't just burn up. He was injected with an elite, enhanced strain of the virus…. Something engineered by a geneticist named Carla Radames using the old t-Veronica and G-Virus strains."
You looked up at him, fascinated by the sheer, terrifying complexity of the bio-weapon. "An enhanced strain?"
"Yeah. It allowed him to mutate back and forth into monstrous shapes without his cellular structure collapsing," Leon said, a bitter, humorless smile touching his lips. "And when the crisis ended, 'The Family' recovered its mutated corpse. They didn't bury him out of respect, sweetheart. They harvested his remains. They preserved the genetic blueprint of the enhanced C-Virus."
A cold dread settled deep in your stomach as the missing pieces of Operation: Broken Mirror finally began to click into a horrific, coherent picture.
"The structural firewalls," you whispered, your eyes widening as you looked at the complex financial labyrinth on your monitor. "The independent couriers, the anonymous forums, the shell companies that vanish overnight... It’s not a messy collection of small-time, independent criminals. Someone with massive infrastructure has been systematically cultivating Simmons' remaining genetic data and selling it off in fragmented, unviable pieces to rogue scientists across the globe."
"And they're making an absolute fortune doing it," Leon added, his blue eyes shimmering with a fierce, dangerous intensity. "But they ran into a problem. An undercover agent stationed in Hong Kong got too close to their marine transit network eight months ago. Right before he went dark, he managed to transmit those two lines to your database: Lanshiang, China. 2013."
You leaned back in your chair, your shoulder brushing fully against Leon's chest as you stared at the paper file. The official Bureau stance was that Lanshiang was a closed case. Simmons was dead. Neo-Umbrella was gone.
But looking at the raw evidence, and feeling the solid, protective presence of the agent hovering right behind you, you knew the terrifying truth. The historical matter wasn't settled at all. The U.S. government hadn't closed the case to protect the public… They had buried it to cover up the fact that a massive, wealthy shadow organization within their own borders was still actively profiting off the world's most dangerous biological weapon. And five years ago, when Leon S. Kennedy had tried to look too closely at the truth... they had made sure he became a ghost.
The revelation settled over you like a physical weight, cold and suffocating. You kept your gaze locked onto the manila folder, your eyes tracing the faded ink of the Lanshiang report without actually seeing the words anymore.
You didn't dare say it out loud. You couldn't. To utter a theory that massive, that treasonous, inside the very walls of an FBI field office would be a death sentence for your career, and maybe for you, too. Besides, it was still just a theory. A terrifyingly plausible, completely logical truth that fits every missing puzzle piece perfectly, but a theory nonetheless. You needed proof. Hard, undeniable, digital, or physical proof.
But God, the realization hit you like a punch to the ribs.
You looked down at your hands, resting flat against the desk. They were trembling slightly. You had spent years working late nights, drinking stale breakroom coffee, and sacrificing a normal life because you genuinely believed you were one of the good guys. You believed the Bureau stood between the public and the monsters of the world, even if they had their flaws in many other aspects of operation. But looking at this file, feeling the phantom warmth of Leon's chest pressing against your back, the ugly truth lay itself bare. The agency you wore a badge for wasn't just failing to catch the suppliers; they were actively obscuring the path to them.
They hadn't assigned you Operation: Broken Mirror to stop the pandemic. They had assigned it to you because you were a thorough, quiet analyst who would map out the small-time buyers and intercept the fragmented samples, keeping the contamination contained without ever looking high enough to see who was pulling the strings. Your literal job description was to chop off the outer branches while leaving the poisoned root completely untouched.
Going beyond that... digging into the shadow cabal that weaponized the government's own oversight... That wasn't your job. It was a line no sensible analyst would ever cross.
But as you stared at the paper, a quiet, fierce resolve began to burn away the initial shock. You weren't doing this for the Bureau anymore. You were doing this for the man hovering over your shoulder. Leon had given his entire life to protecting people, only to be betrayed, erased, and left to wander these halls as a forgotten spirit. He deserved justice. He deserved to have his name mean something again, even if you were the only living soul who knew the truth.
A heavy silence stretched between you, the air thick with a raw, unspoken emotion. Leon seemed to sense the sudden downward spiral of your thoughts. The spectral weight behind you shifted, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw his expression soften from his usual hardened, tactical mask into something deeply human, weary, and remarkably gentle.
He didn't know exactly what you were thinking, but he knew the toll this realization took on an idealist. He had been there himself, decades ago, when he first discovered what Raccoon City really was.
Slowly, his translucent hand moved, hovering just a fraction of an inch above yours on the desk. He didn't close the gap, knowing that the sudden jolt of energy might startle you, but the proximity alone cast a comforting, steady heat over your fingers.
"Hey," he murmured softly, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated directly behind your ear. "Don't let the weight of it crush you. I know exactly where your head is right now. It’s an ugly picture when the mirror finally cracks, isn't it?"
You forced your breathing to steady, squeezing your eyes shut for a brief second before opening them and staring straight ahead at your monitor. You didn’t want to say anything that may be out of the blue that didn’t sound like a conversation you typically have on a phone call or a meeting out loud with Daniel sitting just a few yards away, but you took a slow, deliberate breath, letting your shoulder lean back just a fraction of an inch more against his spectral chest, a silent sign of solidarity. A silent promise.
I’m going to find them, Leon, you thought fiercely, hoping whatever tether connected your minds could carry the weight of it. I’ll follow the samples like they want. But I’m not stopping there.
Leon’s presence seemed to expand, a protective barrier closing out the low hum of the office fluorescent lights and the distant sound of Daniel tapping away at his keyboard. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of his lips.
"Alright," Leon said quietly, his tone shifting back to the steady, reliable rhythm of a man who had survived a dozen hells. "If we’re going to find the people supplying these vials, we have to look at the money trail. The Bureau thinks they’re buying these C-Virus fragments with standard cryptocurrency, but 'The Family' doesn't use public blockchains. Look back at the customs raid from last month. Let's see how those buyers actually paid for the cargo."
"Copy," you whispered under your breath, a tiny, teasing smirk finally breaking through the heavy tension wrapping around your chest.
It was a field command you had picked up during your few rare excursions outside the office walls, those long, exhausting trips where you were deployed to document the aftermath of major operations, stepping over yellow tape and photographing evidence in the wake of the primary field agents. Hearing the crisp, tactical jargon over the comms had always made you feel a little detached as an analyst, but saying it now, directly to a past operative like Leon? It felt right. It felt like a declaration that you were in this fight together.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Leon’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, a soft, genuinely amused chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Copy? Look at you, getting fluent in the lingo," he murmured, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
Your fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard, cutting through the heavy atmosphere as you pulled up the financial audit reports from last month's customs raids. You bypassed the surface-level ledgers that the Bureau’s automated system generated and dug straight into the raw, unredacted banking data.
As you traced the currency flow, your brow furrowed. "You weren't kidding," you muttered, leaning closer to the monitor.
The transactions were masked behind a dizzying labyrinth of ghost servers and shell corporations, but the real dead-end came at the routing numbers. They were completely fabricated; they were ghost strings designed to look like legitimate European institutions that simply didn't exist when you pinged their databases. The money vanished into a black hole.
But as your eyes scanned the shipping manifests paired with those ghost transactions, a clear, rhythmic pattern began to emerge from the chaos.
"They aren't just sporadic, desperate deals," you murmured, your analytical brain locking into place. "Look at the timestamps, Leon. This cargo is moving on a strict, bi-monthly schedule. At least twice a month, like clockwork."
Your mouse hovered over the most recent delivery log, and your breath caught. The destination wasn't some far-flung international black market.
"The next drop is happening right here on the East Coast," you whispered, tracking the GPS coordinates on the manifest. "A private, industrial port in a city just two hours away. And according to the bi-monthly timeline... the next exchange is scheduled for this weekend."
Leon leaned in so close that your hair slightly shifted from the kinetic energy of his movement. His eyes narrowed as he memorized the terminal number and the name of the shipping vessel. "A local port means localized distribution. If they're moving live pathogens that close to a major metropolitan area, they're getting confident. Or sloppy."
A sudden, reckless spark of adrenaline flared in your chest. This was your chance. You couldn't expose the entire shadow government from behind a desk in a cubicle, but you could catch the suppliers in the act. If you could physically get to that port, intercept the exchange, and secure a physical sample or a piece of local hardware before the Bureau's clean-up crews arrived to sanitize the scene... you’d have the undeniable proof you needed.
"I need to get out there," you thought fiercely, the decision hardening inside you before you could talk yourself out of it.
You clicked open the Bureau's internal portal and brought up a blank Form 202, which was a Field Operations Request. If you played your cards right, you could frame it strictly within the boundaries of Operation: Broken Mirror. You could tell your superior and director that you picked up a localized anomaly in the shipping data and needed a temporary field clearance to conduct a preliminary, on-site physical audit of the port's digital logbooks. They thought you were a compliant, thorough paper-pusher, so they'd likely grant the routine clearance without a second thought, completely unaware that you intended to go way beyond checking a few barcodes.
You began typing out the request, your fingers steady as you drafted the formal justification.
Beside you, Leon’s expression grew intensely serious, a heavy mix of protective instinct and grim pride darkening his features. "Going out into the field after a live bio-weapon isn't a joke," he warned softly, his voice dropping into that commanding, gravelly tone he used when a mission turned lethal. "It’s messy, it’s unpredictable, and if those suppliers realize someone is watching, they won't hesitate to pull a trigger. Are you ready for what happens if this goes sideways?"
You didn't look back at him, keeping your eyes locked onto the glowing screen as you hit Submit on the clearance request, but you let out a slow, resolute breath that carried all the unspoken weight of what you were willing to risk for him.
"I'm ready," you whispered.
You finally turned your head, breaking your gaze from the monitor to look directly into his bright blue eyes. A small, tentative but entirely real smile touched your lips. "Besides, I'm not exactly going out there blind anymore. I’ve got a seasoned DSO agent by my side. Even if you're a ghost... You can be my guide."
Leon’s breath caught in his spectral chest. For a moment, the hardened tactical mask he had worn for decades completely slipped, leaving behind an expression of profound, quiet awe. To hear you place that kind of unyielding trust in him, not as a historical footnote, not as a haunting inconvenience, but as a partner, it anchored him to the living world more than any spell or science ever could.
Slowly, the surprise melted away, replaced by a devastatingly handsome, deeply fond smirk. He leaned down, his face hovering just inches from yours, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sent a thrilling, electric heat straight to your core.
“Copy that, Agent,” his deep voice rumbled directly into your mind, thick with a fierce, protective warmth that made your heart skip a spectacular beat. “If we’re doing this, then I’m not letting anything happen to you. Consider me your personal eye in the sky. Now, let’s see how fast your director signs off on that paperwork.”
—
The steady, mechanical hum of the office began to shift as the clock crept past 5:00 PM. Around your small cubicle, the collective exhale of the fourth floor was almost audible as analysts and investigators began packing up their briefcases, shutting down their monitors, and pooling toward the elevators to escape for the weekend.
You, however, remained firmly glued to your desk.
The last several hours had passed in a blur of focused intensity. Outwardly, you looked like a model employee deeply engrossed in a standard data-entry backlog. Inwardly, your world has become a private, high-stakes tactical briefing. You and Leon had spent the entire afternoon quietly mapping out the logistics of the East Coast port facility, logging vessel schedules, and cross-referencing security guard rotations.
But mostly, Leon had been teaching.
With his weightless form casually draped over the top of your cubicle partition, looking entirely too relaxed for a dead guy, he had spent the last two hours running you through essential field pointers. His deep voice, echoing directly into your mind with absolute clarity, had stripped away the rigid, sterilized theories of your textbooks and replaced them with the raw, brutal reality of survival. He taught you how to read the shadows of an open shipyard, how to blend into the background of a bustling industrial terminal, and how to spot a counter-surveillance team by the subtle, unnatural way they checked their mirrors.
“When you're on a cold floor like a shipping dock, your eyes are your life insurance,” Leon murmured, his bright blue eyes fixed on you with an intense, unwavering focus that made your chest tighten in the best possible way. “You don’t look at people; you look at their hands. You don’t watch the perimeter; you watch the exits. And if things go south, you don’t think about the protocol—you think about the nearest piece of solid steel you can put between yourself and a muzzle flash.”
You jotted down a quick, disguised shorthand note in your ledger, a small smile playing at the edge of your lips. "Understood, coach," you whispered under your breath, pretending to clear your throat as Daniel walked past your desk to say his goodbyes.
Once the footsteps faded and the floor fell into a quiet, after-hours hush, Leon fluidly shifted, sliding down the partition to sit cross-legged on the edge of your desk. He leaned forward, resting his translucent forearms on his knees, his face suddenly dropping into a deeply amused, slightly challenging expression.
“Alright, Agent. We’ve covered the mental tracking,” he drawled, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “But let’s talk about the physical side. If a supplier catches you poking around a container and decides to make it personal, what exactly am I working with here? How are your combat skills?”
You leaned back in your squeaking office chair, crossing your arms defensively as a sudden flush of heat warmed your cheeks. "Hey, I'll have you know I survived Quantico. I am a fully certified federal agent."
Leon raised a skeptical, perfectly sculpted eyebrow, his blue eyes shimmering with pure, unfiltered mischief. “Quantico, huh? The legendary Basic Field Training Course. Twenty weeks of intensive residential fun in Virginia. Break it down for me, sweetheart. How did the analytical track handle the pressure?”
"I handled it just fine, thank you," you shot back playfully, leaning your elbows on the desk and lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "We spent a massive portion of our time in the classroom doing academics and intelligence tradecraft. I passed both of my comprehensive legal exams on constitutional law and rules of evidence without breaking a sweat. I can draft a flawless search warrant in my sleep."
“Fascinating,” Leon teased, leaning in just an inch closer, his face hovering tantalizingly near yours. “So if a bio-terrorist attacks you, you’re going to read them their rights and slap them with a beautifully formatted subpoena?”
"Shut up," you muttered, a breathless laugh escaping your throat as your heart did a sudden, chaotic flutter against your ribs. The sheer, effortless comfort that had bloomed between the two of you over the course of a single day was staggering. The initial fear and shock of his existence had completely evaporated, replaced by a warm, intoxicating domesticity that felt entirely too natural. When he leaned in like that, his glowing blue frame casting a subtle, thrilling heat over your senses, it took every ounce of your analytical willpower to remember how to breathe.
"We did practical exercises too," you defended, trying to regain your composure. "We spent weeks operating inside Hogan’s Alley. I ran the mock town, dealt with the professional role-players, built case files, conducted surveillance, and made tactical arrests. I even survived the Moot Court testimony."
Leon chuckled, a rich, rumbling sound that resonated deep within your chest. “Hogan’s Alley is a good controlled environment. But what about the operational skills? The heavy lifting?”
"I spent over a hundred hours at the firing range, Kennedy," you said, tossing your head back with a tiny, triumphant smirk. "I qualified on the Bureau-issued handguns, the shotguns, and the carbine rifles. And I did the defensive driving courses, the high-speed pursuits, evasive maneuvers, the whole nine yards."
Leon’s smirk widened into a slow, intensely attractive grin. He tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over your structured blazer and the sharp line of your collarbone before locking back onto your eyes with a lazy, heavy focus that felt incredibly intimate in the quiet, empty office.
“And the defensive tactics?” he asked softly, his voice dropping into a lower, slightly gravelly register that made your pulse do a frantic little dance. “Hand-to-hand combat? The grappling, the boxing, the weapon retention? How did you do on the Physical Fitness Test right before graduation?”
You opened your mouth to answer, but the words momentarily caught in your throat under the sheer weight of his gaze. You swallowed hard, shifting slightly in your chair.
"Well..." you mumbled, your confidence suddenly turning into a self-deprecating chuckle. "Let's just say I met the baseline. I did my maximum sit-ups in a minute, survived the 300-meter sprint without collapsing, hit the required number of continuous push-ups, and dragged myself across the finish line for the timed 1.5-mile run. I passed… Barely.... I’m an analyst, Leon. My brain is my primary weapon. I’m built for spreadsheets, not a twelve-round boxing match with a J'avo."
Leon let out a soft, incredibly fond laugh, his expression melting into something so deeply tender it made your lungs ache. He reached his translucent hand out across the desk, hovering his fingers just a fraction of a millimeter above yours. The proximity alone casts a heavy, comforting warmth over your skin, a silent, electric current linking your souls.
“Hey. Meeting the baseline at Quantico is still a hell of an achievement, sweetheart,” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that completely bypassed his usual playful defenses. “And you’re right. Your brain is brilliant. The way you mapped out this entire pipeline from a mountain of redacted garbage is incredible. Don't worry about the heavy lifting. Like I said... you've got a seasoned agent by your side now. If anyone tries to put their hands on you, I’ll show you exactly how a DSO operative breaks a wrist, even from the passenger seat.”
Your heart thudded violently against your ribs, a radiant, helpless smile spreading across your face. The subtle, flirtatious edge to his voice was intoxicating, sending a thrilling shiver straight down your spine. You were completely trapped in his orbit, the empty cubicles around you fading into absolute nothingness.
Ping.
The sudden, sharp electronic chime of your computer inbox shattered the silence, pulling you abruptly out of the trance.
You jumped slightly, your eyes snapping back to the dual monitors. You clicked open the blinking notification at the bottom of the screen, your breath catching in your throat as the official text populated the window.
FROM: Office of the Director
SUBJECT: Form 202 - Field Operations Request
STATUS: APPROVED
MESSAGE: Request for temporary field clearance and localized digital audit at Sector 4 Industrial Port Facility is hereby granted, effective immediately for 7 days. Maintain standard operational boundaries. Report all physical discrepancies directly to leadership.
You stared at the screen, the reality of the situation suddenly washing over you. The paperwork was signed. The clearance was real. This weekend, you were leaving the safety of your desk behind.
Leon leaned over your shoulder, his eyes scanning the approved mandate before a sharp, confident smirk returned to his handsome face.
“Well, look at that,” he whispered directly into your ear, his breath a phantom, thrilling warmth against your skin. “Pack your bags, Agent. We’re going to the field.”
—
The drive back to your apartment had been a quiet, meditative blur. The Thursday evening traffic crawled along the asphalt arteries of the city, a sea of glowing red taillights that usually would have frayed your nerves after a long week. But tonight, you had barely noticed the delay. You had simply focused on the road; the cabin of your sedan had been filled with nothing but the comfortable, low hum of the engine and the quiet, occasional observations from the passenger seat. Leon had spent the ride simply watching the city pass by, his profile illuminated by the rhythmic flash of streetlights, looking content just to watch the world move.
Now, back within the safe, secluded walls of your apartment, the stifling veneer of the federal bureaucracy could finally be shed.
You had gone straight to your bedroom to wash away the day, peeling off the restrictive, stiff layers of your work blazer and slacks. After a long, hot shower that eased the tight knots in your shoulders, you changed into an oversized, worn-in grey sweatshirt and a pair of soft fleece shorts. Your hair, still slightly damp at the ends, fell loosely around your shoulders, the pieces of hair framing a face that looked significantly less guarded than it had a few hours ago.
Stepping into the living room, you found Leon exactly where you expected him to be. He was waiting by the couch, but he wasn’t lounging on the armrest or hovering mid-air this time. He was already sitting down on the plush cushions, his broad shoulders relaxed against the backrest.
When you approached, you didn't choose the opposite side of the sofa like you had the night prior. Without a single word, you walked over and sank into the cushions right next to him.
The distance between you had shrunk drastically. Your thigh was resting just a scant fraction of an inch away from his leg. Because of the impossible, magnetic tether pulling your souls together, you could feel the distinct, heavy radiation of his presence, which provided a profound, comforting warmth that seemed to seep right through the fabric of your sweatshirt. It wasn’t a physical heat, since he is cold to the touch as a ghost, but rather a deep, emotional resonance that settled over your nervous system like a heavy blanket, instantly grounding you.
You leaned your head back against the cushion, letting out a long, slow sigh as you stared up at the ceiling. "I think my brain is officially fried," you murmured into the quiet room. "Three weeks of digging through data, and today felt like a marathon."
Leon shifted slightly, turning his head to look down at you. In the dim, ambient glow of your living room lamp, his translucent features looked remarkably soft, the sharp, hardened lines of his jaw and brow relaxed into an expression of pure tranquility.
“You survived,” his deep voice rumbled, echoing softly within the quiet chambers of your mind. “And you walked out with an approved field clearance. I’d say that’s a win for the analytical division.”
You let out a soft, breathless chuckle, turning your head on the cushion so you were looking right back at him. Up close, the sheer depth of his blue eyes was dizzying. Internally, your heart was doing that familiar, erratic flutter, a sweet, aching tension tightening in your chest. You were hyper-aware of how close you were sitting, hyper-aware of the fact that twenty-four hours ago, he was just a ghost story, and now, he was the only person in the world who truly saw you.
"I still can't believe I used a field command," you admitted, a small, self-deprecating smile touching your lips as the embarrassment of that moment finally caught up to you. "I must have sounded ridiculous to a guy who actually ran black ops."
“Hey, I told you, I liked it,” Leon murmured, a slow, incredibly gentle smile spreading across his face. He shifted his arm, resting it along the back of the couch behind your shoulders. He didn't actually touch you, but the weightless boundary of his sleeve was close enough that the static energy of his presence tickled the hairs at the nape of your neck. “It showed intent. You were locked in. Honestly... watching you work today? It brought back a lot of things I thought I’d completely buried.”
"Like what?" you asked softly, your voice dropping into a quiet, intimate register.
Leon looked away for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the dark windows where the city lights twinkled in the distance. He let out a soft, phantom breath, a wistful, contemplative shadow crossing his features.
“I’ve been drifting through those hallways for five years,” he explained quietly, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly hum. “When you're a ghost, time doesn't really move the same way. Days bleed into months, and after a while, you start to forget the rhythm of being alive. You forget what it feels like to have a destination. To have a morning routine. I’d completely forgotten what it felt like to actually go to work normally.”
He paused, a faint, humorless chuckle vibrating behind his ribs. “Don’t get me wrong. There are plenty of things I definitely do not miss. I don't miss the stale, burnt coffee from the DSO office’s breakroom. I don't miss the stifling, passive-aggressive emails from HR. And I absolutely, under no circumstances, miss the mountains of agonizing paperwork I used to have to fill out after a mission. If I never see a post-operation budget ledger again, it’ll be too soon.”
You laughed quietly, the sound rich and warm in the small apartment. "So you're saying you didn't miss the bureaucracy?"
“Not even a little bit,” Leon agreed, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked back down at you. But then, the teasing glint in his eyes softened, replaced by a raw, heavy sincerity that made your breath catch. “But experiencing it with you today... watching you cross-reference those files, seeing the way your mind works when you're chasing a lead... It made it all completely enjoyable. I spent my whole career dreading office days. But today? Today was the most fun I've had in five years. I actually looked forward to seeing what you'd do next.”
Your heart swelled, a sudden, powerful wave of emotion rushing through you. You kept the feelings tightly locked inside, too nervous to let them show on your face, but internally, you were reeling. To know that your mundane, ordinary workspace had given a legendary hero a sense of purpose again was entirely overwhelming.
You wanted so badly to reach out. Your eyes darted down to his hand, which was resting on his knee just inches from your own fingers. The urge to close the gap, to feel that strange, solid spark of his energy against your skin again, was a physical ache in your chest. You didn't do it—too afraid to break the fragile, perfect safety of the moment—but you allowed your body to relax completely, leaning just a fraction of an inch closer until the warmth of his spectral frame felt like a protective shield against the rest of the world.
"I'm glad I could make the paperwork exciting for you, Kennedy," you whispered playfully, your eyes locked onto his.
“You make a lot of things exciting, sweetheart,” Leon countered softly, his voice sliding into that low, flirtatious register that always sent a delicious thrill straight down your spine. He leaned his head down slightly, his bright blue eyes holding yours captive in the dim light. There was a thick, heavy heat building between you on the couch, an unspoken, electric pull that had nothing to do with the case or the Bureau. It was just the two of you, tucked away from the world, learning how to be close.
He let out a soft, contented sigh, the tight lines of his broad shoulders relaxing completely as he settled deeper into the cushions next to you. “Tomorrow, we worry about the logistics of the port… Tomorrow, I will teach you how to handle a live extraction. But tonight... let’s just sit here for a while. Tell me more about those terrible legal exams at Quantico.”
A radiant, helpless smile broke across your face. You shifted slightly, pulling your knees up onto the couch so you were completely facing him, your shoulder resting securely against his as the quiet, comforting rhythm of his voice filled your mind, carrying the two of you deep into Thursday night.
"You really want to hear about code annotations and administrative law?" you teased softly, looking up at him through your eyelashes.
“Sweetheart, after five years of listening to fluorescent lights buzz, I would gladly listen to you read a refrigerator manual,” Leon murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners with that heartaching warmth.
As the conversation flowed into the late hours, a sudden realization hit you, bringing a wave of profound relief. You glanced down at the illuminated screen of your phone to double-check the calendar. "Oh, wait. It’s Thursday."
Leon tilted his head, watching the tension drain from your shoulders. “And that means?”
"That means tomorrow is Friday, and my division has a mandatory work-from-home policy on Fridays," you explained, a genuine grin spreading across your face. "I don't have to go back to that building tomorrow. I just have to log in to my laptop, answer a few emails, and clear my desk for the weekend."
Leon let out a rich, rumbling chuckle that vibrated right through your bones. “No morning elevator crushes? No dodging hot lattes from tech interns? Sounds like a luxury.”
"Exactly. Which means..." You tapped your fingers against your knee, an idea rapidly forming in your mind. You pulled up your apartment building’s resident app, clicking over to the community amenity tracker. "We have the perfect window. My building has a private resident gym on the second floor. According to the daily traffic logs on the app, it completely empties out after the morning rush. By 10:00 AM, everyone is either at their offices or working locked away in their units. We’ll have the whole place to ourselves."
You looked up, your eyes locking onto his. "You were asking about my baseline combat skills earlier. Tomorrow, after I finish my morning check-ins, you can take me to the gym. You can give me a real physical walkthrough. A warm-up. Just in case I actually need to pull out any tactical skills if things go sideways this weekend."
The playful, teasing look on Leon’s face slowly shifted. The casual, relaxed posture he held on the couch grew subtly more rigid, his broad shoulders straightening as the professional operative within him instinctively took over.
Internally, a complex storm of emotions flared behind his bright blue eyes. A part of him, a dormant, locked-away part that had been starved for five long years, he felt a sudden, electric spark of pure adrenaline. The mere prospect of action, of a mission, of planning a live extraction and analyzing a hostile perimeter, made his spectral heart race with a familiar, intoxicating rush. It was the thrill of the hunt, the reason he had survived for so long. For the first time in half a decade, he wasn't just a passive observer of life; he was a participant. He was a protector again.
But right alongside that fierce excitement came a heavy, suffocating wave of anxiety.
His eyes swept over you, taking in your cozy, oversized sweatshirt, your soft hair, and the gentle, innocent vulnerability of your features. You were a brilliant analyst, yes. You were sharp, intuitive, and brave enough to defy a shadow government for him. But you weren't a hardened combatant. You hadn't seen the horrors he had seen. You hadn't watched partners die in the mud, and you hadn't faced the unfathomable, brutal ruthlessness of the organizations that traded in viral samples. The thought of a live pathogen being moved on a cold, dark shipping dock just two hours away made his protective instincts flare to a near-deafening pitch.
If anything happened to you because he encouraged you to chase his ghost... He would never forgive himself.
He leaned down a bit closer, his face coming so near that the ethereal blue light of his frame cast a soft glow over your skin. The flirtatious smirk was gone, replaced by a raw, heavy intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.
“A training session, huh?” he murmured, his deep voice dropping into a low, fiercely protective register that resonated straight to your core. “Alright. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. I’m not going to give you a light cardio workout, sweetheart. If you’re stepping onto that dock this weekend, I need to know exactly how you move. I need to make sure your muscle memory is locked in.”
He paused, his gaze dropping to your hands before locking back onto your eyes with a weight that felt entirely physical.
“I’ll admit... A part of me is itching to get out there. It feels good to have a target again,” he confessed softly, the raw honesty in his voice laid bare in the quiet room. “But you need to understand something. I’ve lost a lot of people in my life to weapons like the C-Virus. A lot of good agents who thought they were ready. I’m going to be hard on you tomorrow. Not because I doubt you, but because I’m going to ensure, with everything that I am, that you walk off that port completely safe. Do you trust me?”
A powerful, emotional ache bloomed in your chest at his words. The sheer, unyielding scale of his protectiveness wrapped around you, making you feel safer than you ever had in your entire life. You didn't flinch from the intensity in his eyes. Instead, you leaned an inch closer, your back pressing fully into his arm that rests behind you on the head of the couch.
"With my life, Leon," you whispered honestly.
A soft, breathless sigh escaped him, the fierce tension in his jaw melting into a look of profound, quiet reverence. He didn't move away, letting his spectral presence envelop you completely on the couch, the silent promise of partnership anchoring the two of you together as the night finally settled into a deep, peaceful quiet.
You pulled your gaze away from his, your face feeling incredibly warm as the gravity of your words hung in the quiet space between you. To break the sudden, overwhelming intensity of the moment, you reached over the arm of the couch and grabbed the soft throw blanket you had left out for him the night prior. Unfolding it, you shook it out and draped it across your lap, naturally pulling it over his legs too—even if he couldn't technically feel the chill of the room, the domestic gesture felt entirely right.
Reaching for the remote on the coffee table, you clicked the TV on, flipping to a random streaming channel just to get some ambient background noise into the apartment. A crime procedural show started playing, the low hum of dialogue and dramatic television scores filling the silence.
As you settled back against the couch cushions, your body instinctively sought out the comfort you had just found. With your knees still tucked securely against your chest, you leaned back, letting your shoulder and the back of your head rest fully against the broad, steady boundary of his arm draped behind you.
The moment you leaned into him, a heavy, almost suffocating wave of awareness crashed over the small space between you.
You had meant the gesture to be comforting, but now that the immediate adrenaline of discussing the mission had passed, the physical reality of your positioning set in. You were practically tucked into his side. Because he had solidified his presence to brace you, the sensation of his upper arm pressing against your shoulder blade was intoxicatingly real. He was massive compared to you, his chest broad and his frame imposing, completely eclipsing your smaller frame against the cushions.
Underneath the shared blanket, you could feel the distinct, magnetic vibration of his leg resting a mere hair’s breadth from yours. Your mind, usually so disciplined and analytical, was completely derailed. You found your eyes tracking the sharp, rugged slope of his jaw, the way the dim blue light of his form caught the casual mess of his hair, and the distinct, powerful shape of his shoulders. A sudden, unbidden thought flashed through your mind, a vivid, entirely inappropriate wonder of what it would feel like if he were completely flesh and blood right now, if those heavy, capable hands on his knees actually reached down to pull you onto his lap. Your chest tightened, your breath hitching as a sharp, tingling pull of desire bloomed deep in your stomach.
Leon wasn't faring any better.
The moment you leaned back against his arm, his entire frame caught a sudden, electric jolt. He kept his eyes glued to the television screen, but he wasn't processing a single frame of the show. All he could focus on was the soft, delicate weight of you resting against him. He could see the gentle rise and fall of your chest beneath your oversized sweatshirt, the faint scent of your shampoo from the shower drifting up into his phantom senses, and the absolute, unbothered comfort in your posture.
For five years, he had been a weapon without a hand to hold it, a soldier with nothing left to guard. But having you this close, wrapped in a blanket with him in the dark, stirred a fierce, primal hunger that he hadn't felt in a lifetime. His eyes covertly darted down to your lips, dark thoughts clouding his mind. He wanted to shift his arm, to slide his hand down the slope of your shoulder and cup your face, to lean down and find out if the impossible magic of your bond would let him taste you. The sheer, torturous frustration of his spectral existence flared up, mixed with a deeply possessive, primal urge to anchor you to him completely before you ever set foot onto that dangerous dock.
He swallowed hard, his jaw tight as he forced his gaze back to the TV screen, though his fingers twitched against his knee.
"You, uh..." Leon cleared his throat, his voice dropping into an incredibly low, gravelly pitch that vibrated right through the cushion and directly into your spine. "You think the detective is going to figure out the blood splatter pattern, or should we call it in for them?"
You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, your fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket as you tried to suppress the chaotic hammering of your heart. You didn't move away from his arm. In fact, you let yourself sink just a fraction of an inch deeper into his warmth, your eyes fixed on the screen while your entire universe remained centered entirely on him.
"I think they're doing a terrible job," you whispered, your voice slightly strained from the thick, dizzying tension in the air. "They clearly didn't look at the routing numbers."
Leon let out a soft, low chuckle that sounded entirely too close to your ear, the deep rumble of it sending a spectacular, delicious shiver straight down your arms. "Yeah. Amateurs," he murmured softly.
Neither of you looked at each other, both completely aware of the heavy, intoxicating pull stretching between you under the cover of the flickering television light, the silence of the apartment growing thicker and sweeter by the second.
You stared intently at the television screen, where the fictional detectives were currently arguing over a fingerprint lift, but your brain was running a completely different, wildly unscientific simulation.
Now that your shoulder was pressed firmly against Leon’s arm and his leg was practically touching yours under the blanket, your hyper-analytical mind did what it always did when faced with a brand-new anomaly: it started calculating the logistics. Except this time, the logistics were so profoundly, deeply inappropriate that you felt a sudden spike of panic.
You began to ponder the sheer physics of your situation. Could a ghost even... Well… Fuck?
Your mind spun out of control, throwing up questions that absolutely no FBI manual or Quantico training seminar could ever prepare you for. To the rest of the world, Leon was nothing but air, but to you, he had mass. He felt cool, almost chilly to the touch on the outside, yet every time he solidified his presence near you, it sparked a roaring, intense heat deep within your chest. So, if your connection could make his hands solid enough to haul you upright in a crowded elevator, what did that mean for the rest of him?
Your eyes darted down toward the blanket for a fraction of a second before you violently forced your gaze back to the TV. Is it even anatomically possible for a ghost to get an erection?
The thought hit your brain like a freight train, and a sudden, violent wave of heat rushed straight to your face. You bit the inside of your cheek so hard it hurt, your knuckles locking white as you gripped the edge of the throw blanket. You prayed to whatever higher power was listening that ghosts didn't have telepathic powers, because if he could see inside your head right now, you would have to pack your bags and move to a different hemisphere immediately.
You tried desperately to maintain a completely blank, professional face. You were a federal analyst. You dealt with cold, hard data. You do not sit on a couch on a Thursday night, wondering about the spectral anatomy of a renowned black-ops operative, especially not when technically he would be considered your senior by his status, even if he were alive.
But the imagery was already there, vivid and entirely unbidden. How would it even feel? Would it feel like that heavy, electric static warmth that currently tickles your skin, or would it be completely, breathtakingly solid? Your chest felt incredibly tight, your breathing shallow as a deeply localized, furious blush crept up your neck, painting your cheeks a brilliant, undeniable crimson. You were practically radiating heat, the sheer embarrassment and dark curiosity turning you into a walking radiator.
Leon, who had been trying his absolute best to focus on the crime show, suddenly caught the drastic shift in your temperature. He didn't even have to look at you to feel the sudden wave of heat coming off your skin, or the way your breathing had gone from a steady rhythm to a short, frantic hitch.
He slowly turned his head, his bright blue eyes dropping down to study your face. When he saw the rich, vibrant pink dusting your cheeks and the way you were staring at the television with a rigid, near-comical intensity, as if your life depended on the dialogue, a slow, knowing amusement began to curve his lips.
"Hey," Leon murmured softly, his deep voice dropping into a teasing, gravelly rumble right beside your ear. "You alright over there, sweetheart? You look like you're about to combust. If the air conditioning is broken, you can just say so… Though it is the fall and not that hot around this time of year."
Your heart did a violent flip against your ribs, and you had to squeeze your eyes shut for a brief second to force the scandalous thoughts out of your mind before looking up at him.
You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes trained forward as you managed a tight, squeaky nod. "Fine. Just... a little warm, yeah. The building's radiator must be acting up."
"Right. The radiator," Leon murmured.
He didn't push it, turning his face back toward the television screen. But outwardly cool as he seemed, Leon was currently fighting a desperate, losing battle inside his own head. If you had even the slightest inkling of what was running through his mind right now, you wouldn't just be blushing, you'd probably jump right off the couch.
His thoughts were entirely, unrepentantly impure.
The moment you had leaned your head back against his arm, letting your smaller frame sink completely into his side, a severe jolt had gone straight through his system. For five years, he had been completely numb. He had forgotten the basic, human sensory details of proximity, the way a woman's weight felt shifting against a cushion, the delicate scent of clean skin and shampoo, the soft friction of cotton clothes. But with you, it wasn't just abstract phantom logic. You were warm. Unbelievably, beautifully warm.
And right now, that warmth was seeping straight through his translucent frame, bleeding directly into his core.
He didn't want to move his arm. In fact, he had to actively restrain himself from tightening his grip, from sliding his hand down the curve of your shoulder and hauling you flush against his chest just to absorb more of it. He wanted to bury his face in the crook of your neck, to feel the frantic, fluttering pulse he could see beating against your skin, and to find out if his hands would feel solid if he slid them underneath that oversized sweatshirt of yours.
The realization hit him like a physical blow… He hadn't thought about a woman like this in a lifetime.
As a ghost, his desires had been stripped down to the barest, most basic psychological survival needs, which consisted of the hunger for a voice, a glance, and a simple acknowledgment that he existed. The primal, raw sexual appetite of the man he used to be had long since gone dormant, locked away in the dark. But sitting here with you under a shared blanket, the sheer proximity was violently dragging those instincts back to the surface.
Then, he felt it. A sudden, undeniable pooling of heavy, throbbing heat trailing sharply down south.
Leon froze, his entire body locking up in a state of sheer, unadulterated shock. His blue eyes widened slightly as he stared blankly at the TV. No way, he thought, a sudden spike of internal panic flaring through him. That shouldn't even be anatomically possible. He was a spirit, a manifestation of energy bound to a case file. He didn't have blood flow. He didn't have a pulse. And yet, the impossible bond of your connection was defying every law of the supernatural universe. The hard, heavy ache growing beneath his waistband was entirely, shockingly real.
He let out a slow, silent breath through his nose, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle ticked. He adjusted his legs under the blanket, shifting slightly to try to conceal the sudden, highly inappropriate predicament he had found himself in.
He was a renowned DSO operative. He had kept his composure while staring down mutated monsters, corrupt dictators, and collapsing buildings. He could handle a little sudden friction on a Thursday night. But as he covertly glanced down at the top of your head, watching the way your hair caught the light of the screen, he knew he was completely lying to himself. He was in deep trouble, and the weekend hadn't even started yet.
"Yeah," Leon cleared his throat again, his voice dropping into a register so thick, low, and gravelly it was practically a growl. "Must be... a really strong radiator."
The silence that followed was heavy, thick with an unspoken friction that seemed to dry the very air in the room. On the television, the crime show had faded into a commercial break, the flashing colorful lights illuminating the quiet apartment in rhythmic waves, but neither of you was watching anymore.
You could feel the sudden, rigid tension in the arm resting behind your head. Leon’s entire posture had turned stone-still, his jaw clamped tightly shut as he stared straight ahead. It wasn't the relaxed, casual stance of the ghost who had been teasing you all afternoon; it was the hyper-focused, coiled stillness of a man trying desperately to keep himself under control.
The heat radiating between you beneath the shared blanket was getting unbearable, blurring the lines of logic your analytical brain usually clung to. You knew it was crazy. You knew the parameters of this reality were completely off the charts. You were 26, a living, breathing analyst with a career and a future ahead of you. Leon was a piece of history, a man who had technically lived to 41 but had been frozen in this spectral, 36-year-old prime for five years. He was a ghost. A phantom tied to a case file.
But right now, looking at the sharp, rugged edge of his jaw and feeling the massive, protective weight of his presence, none of those numbers mattered. The age gap, the line between life and death—it all felt completely trivial compared to the agonizing pull dragging you toward him.
And yet, a sharp spike of hesitation pierced through the fog of your desire. We only met last night, your internal voice reminded you, trying to claw its way back to rationality. It was insane to feel this intensely, this quickly, for a spirit you had only known for a little over twenty-four hours.
Your mind frantically cataloged every single interaction you had shared with him since he materialized in your living room. From that very first, heart-stopping moment he appeared out of thin air, there had been an undeniable, magnetic gravity between you. It was there when he playfully lounged on your office cubicle partition today, completely invisible to the rest of the world while pushing your buttons. It was there in the crowded elevator when he solidified his presence just enough to steady you against the crushing morning rush. Every look, every low-timbered tease, every brush of his spectral energy had been building a silent, cumulative pressure. You had been caught in his orbit from the second your eyes lay on his in the closet, and no matter how much your logical mind screamed that this was moving too fast, your body and soul were already miles ahead.
Leon was fighting an identical battle, his internal timeline feeling just as warped and dangerously fast. He knew the logistics. He knew he had just arrived in your life last night, a literal specter from a dark past disrupting your neat, organized world. By all accounts of his old training, he should be keeping his distance, maintaining the professional boundary of a partner on a case.
But five years of absolute sensory deprivation had made him weak against a force as bright as you. From the moment you had looked him in the eye last night after the panic had settled within you, you were face to face with a literal ghost, not with horror, but with fierce determination to help him. Since then, he had been sliding down a frictionless slope. Every time he teased you today, watched you work, or felt your stubborn resilience, the tether anchoring him to you grew thicker and more terrifyingly real. He didn't just want to protect you anymore; he wanted to possess you, and the sheer speed of that realization was making his protective instincts war violently with his primal desires.
Slowly, deliberately, you turned your head on the cushion, breaking the safety of the television screen to look up at him. "Leon," you whispered.
The sound of his name split the quiet room like a lightning strike.
Leon’s head turned instantly, his bright blue eyes locking onto yours. The gaze he leveled at you was dark, heavy, and completely stripped of his usual playful defense mechanisms. He saw the rich blush still painting your cheeks, saw the slight, inviting tremble of your lips, and the sheer, unadulterated desire pooling in your eyes.
A deep, troubled shadow crossed his features. He didn't move away, but his fingers twitched against his knee, the internal battle raging behind his eyes entirely transparent.
"Sweetheart," Leon said, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly register that was so thick it sent a violent shiver straight down your spine. He didn't look at you like an elite agent right now; instead, he looked at you like a man who had been starving in the dark for five years, suddenly staring at the sun. "You need to be careful. If you keep looking at me like that, I'm... I'm having a real hard time remembering my manners."
"I don't care about manners," you breathed, the confession slipping out before you could stop it. You shifted on the cushions, uncurling your legs from your chest and turning fully toward him, the blanket pooling around your hips.
"Right now, every second since last night feels like an eternity," he confessed, his voice dropping into a fierce, raw whisper. "I spent five years in a vacuum, sweetheart. Then I wake up in your apartment, and you're treating me like a human being. You're fighting for me. Every time you look at me, every time you laugh at one of my terrible jokes... it feels like I'm being dragged back to life by my throat. I know it's fast. I know it's crazy. But I am down so incredibly bad, and I don't know how to slow this car down."
Your heart did a violent, spectacular flip in your chest at his honesty. The sheer vulnerability of his words stripped away the last of your hesitation, the lingering fear of the quick timeline melting into the background light of the television.
"I don't want to slow it down either," you whispered back, the admission final, locking the two of you into the inevitable crash.
Leon’s breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound breaking from his chest. The teasing, confident agent who had spent the afternoon lounging on your office partition vanished, replaced by a man looking down at his own hands with a profound, agonizing hesitation. The space between you on the cushions suddenly felt tightly coiled, heavy with a historical weight that neither of you had explicitly named until now.
Behind his quiet exterior, a violent storm was tearing through him. Every single instinct he possessed as a man was screaming at him to close the distance, to pull you against him and drown in the intoxicating, vibrant warmth you were offering so freely. He craved it—God, he craved you with a terrifying, primal hunger that scared him to his core. For five years, he had been a ghost, a hollow echo trapped in the freezing void of isolation, but looking at you right now, the dormant, passionate fire of the man he used to be was roaring back to life. He wanted to feel the soft friction of your skin, to hear your breath hitch because of him, to find out if the impossible magic of your bond could bridge the gap between life and death completely.
But a crushing weight was holding him back, wrapping around his throat like iron.
It wasn't just the fact that he was dead. It was the devastating reality of who he was compared to who you were. He looked at your bright, beautiful face, young, brilliant, with a whole lifetime of possibilities stretching out ahead of you. You had a future. You had a career, a heartbeat, a life to live in the sun. And what was he? He was a 36-year-old phantom whose memories were stained with blood, ash, and betrayals. He was a weapon that had finally shattered. The protective instinct that defined Leon S. Kennedy was turning inward, weaponizing his own guilt against him. He was terrified that by reaching out, by letting his selfish desires win, he would taint your innocence. He didn't want to become a parasite, draining your vitality just so he could feel alive again. He didn't want to anchor you to a graveyard.
He swallowed hard, the internal battle raging behind his eyes entirely transparent as he forced himself to look back up, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle ticked fiercely beneath his stubble. The angst in his chest bled through the cracks of his composure, raw and bleeding, yet the desperate pull of your proximity kept him completely anchored to your side.
"Look at me," he murmured, his voice laced with a raw, emotional ache that seemed to vibrate directly through the fabric of the couch. "Look at what I am. I’m 36 years of scar tissue and bad decisions, and I don't even have a heartbeat anymore. You're 26, you're alive, and you have your whole life ahead of you. I shouldn't be... I shouldn't be wanting to drag you into the dark with me."
"You're not dragging me anywhere," you countered fiercely, your eyes burning into his, refusing to let him retreat into his usual protective isolation. "You're the only warm thing in this entire building, Leon. Ghost or not. Please."
As you stared up at him, your heart ached with a profound, consuming intensity that completely drowned out his logical protests. You could see the immense weight of the universe he carried on his broad shoulders. You saw the deep, weathered tiredness that had carved itself into the fine lines around his bright blue eyes and the tense set of his jaw, the physical manifestations of a lifetime spent fighting losing battles for a world that ultimately betrayed him. To the rest of history, he was a hardened agent, a cold myth frozen in time. But to you, he was just Leon. A man who had given everything until he had nothing left but the crushing, absolute silence of these apartment walls.
And you didn't care about his ghosts. You didn't care about the blood on his hands, the decades between your ages, or the impossible boundary separating the living from the dead.
Looking at the tragic, beautiful contour of his face, a fierce, maternal, and fiercely protective instinct flared within your chest alongside the heat of your desire. You didn't want to run from his darkness; you wanted to pull him entirely into your light. You wanted so desperately to wrap your arms around his massive frame, to pull him down against your chest and hold him so tightly that the five years of freezing, hollow isolation would finally melt away. You wanted to lean up and gently kiss every single one of those tired lines on his face, to trace the rugged edge of his jaw with your lips, and remind him of what it felt like to be cherished. He had spent his entire existence protecting everyone else, discarding his own humanity in the process. He deserved to be held. He deserved to feel the profound, unyielding warmth of another soul, the exact warmth he had been starved of for far too long.
You leaned an inch closer, your knees shifting beneath the heavy throw blanket as you tilted your chin up, completely baring your throat and your heart to him in the dim, flickering light of the television.
"I don't care about the dark, Leon," you whispered, your voice a soft, trembling vow that shattered the final remains of the quiet room. "Let me show you."
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle ticked fiercely beneath his stubble. When he opened them, the blue was darker, stripped of all the safe, ironic distance he used to shield himself. He didn't close the gap between your lips yet; instead, he leaned down just enough that his face hovered a mere inch from yours, forcing you to look at the sheer, terrifying intensity of his focus.
"You don't know what you're asking for," he whispered, his breath a phantom, tingling current that brushed against your mouth, mocking you with its lack of physical heat while sending a violent spike of adrenaline through your veins. "There is no manual for this, sweetheart. If I touch you—if I let myself actually take what I want right now—I don't know how to do it halfway. I don't know how to be a casual distraction."
The guilt in his voice was thick, a heavy layer of old grief and a sudden, terrifying possessiveness that he was actively trying to crush for your sake. He was trying to give you an exit, trying to be the disciplined professional, but his broad shoulders were already leaning over yours, his massive frame completely blocking out the flickering, colorful light of the television. He was casting you in his private, electric shadow, and your body was responding to the trap with a desperate, hammering pulse.
"I don't want a manual," you breathed, your knees shifting beneath the blanket as you angled yourself completely toward him, your throat tight with a desire that felt entirely reckless. "And I don't want an exit, Leon. Stop trying to protect me from yourself."
"I've spent five years being nothing," he rasped, his eyes dropping to your mouth, tracking the slight, inviting tremble of your lower lip with a hunger that was borderline dangerous. He raised a hand, his large, calloused fingers hovering just half an inch from your jawline, the static energy radiating from his palm making the small hairs on your neck stand on end. "Just a whisper in a hallway. And now you come along, looking at me like I'm still a man, treating me like a human being... It's making me selfish. If I let myself feel how soft you are, I'm never going to want to let you go back to that desk."
The air between your lips was dizzying, thick with an intoxicating friction as you both danced around the terrifying reality of what was happening. Neither of you was asking what this meant for tomorrow, or how a living agent and a dead operative could ever find a baseline that didn't end in heartbreak. You were just two people trapped in a room, entirely consumed by a quiet, mounting panic of want.
"Then don't let me go," you challenged softly, your voice dropping into a quiet, breathless plea.
That was the absolute breaking point. The final, fragile thread of his legendary restraint snapped entirely.
"God help me," Leon growled, the last of his hesitation melting away into pure, unbridled instinct.
He finally pressed his palm firmly against your jawline. The contact was explosive. A sharp jolt of static heat erupted where his skin met yours, turning entirely, breathtakingly solid beneath his touch. His hand was large, his fingers rough from a lifetime of holding weapons, but the way he cupped your cheek was so unbelievably tender it made a whimpering sigh escape your throat. His thumb stroked over your cheekbone, his palm cool against your burning skin, yet sending a wave of absolute fire straight down to your core.
Leon let out a low, primal groan at the feeling of your skin against his, his fingers tangling into the damp strands of your hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head up to meet him. "You are so beautiful," he rasped, his face descending, his eyes darkening to a dangerous, midnight blue. "So beautiful, sweetheart. I'm done being good."
You reached up, your hands instinctively flying to his chest, your fingers bunching into the fabric of his dark shirt, shocked by how firm and real his muscles felt beneath your palms. You pulled him down, closing the final, agonizing inch between you.
When his lips finally met yours, the universe outside the apartment completely dissolved. It wasn't a soft, ghostly brush because of the sheer intensity of your shared desire. The kiss was heavy, deep, and fiercely demanding. His mouth slid over yours with a practiced, devastating hunger, his lips parting yours with a low rumble that vibrated directly into your chest. The cool, electric rush of his energy mixed with the roaring, desperate heat of your body, creating a dizzying, intoxicating friction that left you completely breathless as he pulled you closer into his solid, unyielding embrace.
That last thread of his restraint didn't just snap; it disintegrated entirely.
With a low, ragged growl that vibrated from deep within his chest, Leon reached out. His large, calloused hands slid under the shared blanket, locking securely around your waist. The sheer strength in his grip was breathtakingly solid, anchoring you completely as he effortlessly lifted you up and pulled you straight onto his lap. Your legs naturally draped over his thighs, your knees tucking into his sides as your hips pressed flush against his broad, firm lap.
The heat between you flared instantly into a roaring blaze.
Leon didn't waste a single second. His hands, hungry and desperate after five years of hollow numbness, began to slide hungrily over your body. His palms traced the soft, smooth curves of your waist, dipping into the narrow contour of your lower back before expanding over the flare of your hips. Every dip, every soft line of your body beneath the oversized sweatshirt was a revelation to him. He squeezed your waist tightly, his large fingers molding to your skin through the fabric, pulling you so close that there wasn't a single inch of space left between you.
His mouth chased onto yours hungrily, completely abandoning the hesitant caution from before.
The kiss was heavy, deep, and utterly intoxicating. To Leon, your soft lips felt like a miracle. For five agonizingly long, freezing years, he had tasted nothing but static air and absolute silence. But now? The rich, sweet taste of you, warm, living, and entirely yielding to him, was driving him completely out of his mind. He drank you in like a dying man stumbling upon an oasis, his tongue sliding against yours with a practiced, devastating hunger that left you completely dazed. Every soft gasp you let out against his mouth only fueled the fire, making him groan into the kiss as his lips fiercely chased more and more of your taste, completely intoxicated by the sheer reality of you.
You whimpered into his mouth, your senses spinning in a dizzying blur of electric static and roaring heat. Your left hand flew to his broad shoulder, your palm flat against his firm, unyielding muscle, feeling the rhythmic, desperate hitch of his chest as he held you. Your other hand shot up, your fingers tangling desperately into the messy, soft strands of his hair at the back of his neck, pulling him down even closer to ensure he couldn't pull away.
Leon’s lips softened for a fraction of a second, shifting from a fierce, demanding hunger into a kiss that was deeply, achingly tender. It was a silent, desperate confession of how much he needed this, how much he needed you. He cradled your jawline with his thumb, his lips sliding over yours with a slow, heavy pressure that made your entire core ache with a furious, throbbing desire, the flickering light of the television completely forgotten as you both drowned in each other's touch.
Your mind was completely shattered under the sheer, tactile onslaught of his presence; nothing in your 26 years of life could have prepared you for the reality of being held by him.
To you, it felt like the laws of physics were rewriting themselves just to accommodate the desperate intensity of your connection. Beneath your thighs, his lap was entirely solid, a broad and unyielding foundation that felt safer than any fortress you had ever known. You were completely enveloped by him, drowning in the heavy, electric static of his energy. He felt cool against your skin, but the internal heat he ignited inside you was a roaring, beautiful fire that melted away every shred of your carefully constructed discipline.
You felt one of his massive, calloused hands slide up the side of your torso, the rough texture of his palm dragging over the soft fabric of your oversized sweater. He mapped out the curve of your ribs with a reverent, heavy pressure, his touch firm enough to leave you breathless. But it was his other hand that truly made you come undone. Because you were wearing soft loungewear shorts, the skin of your thighs was completely exposed, and Leon’s large fingers slid down to wrap around the soft flesh of your upper leg. He squeezed, his fingers sinking into your warmth with a possessive, grounding grip that made a jolt of pure, liquid desire shoot straight to your core.
At the same time, his older, scarred hand came up to cradle your face. His thumb stroked over your burning cheekbone with an agonizing, heartbreaking tenderness, holding you as if you were the most fragile, precious thing he had ever laid eyes on.
You completely melted against him. The sheer emotional weight of his touch, the raw, desperate worship from a man who had been starved of affection for a lifetime, all overwhelmed your senses. A soft, breathless whimper broke from your throat, followed by a quiet, uncontrolled moan as his thumb brushed the sensitive skin beneath your ear.
The sound echoed in the quiet, dim living room, and a sudden flash of self-consciousness flared in your chest. You instinctively tried to pull back, your lips parting from his as you ducked your head, trying to swallow the embarrassing noises. Your face burned with a fresh, deeper flush. You were an adult, a professional, you weren't supposed to be making such raw, needy sounds.
But Leon wouldn't let you hide.
His hand on your face tightened gently, his thumb anchoring your jaw to keep you close. He didn't let you turn away. Instead, he leaned down, his forehead resting gently against yours as his bright blue eyes locked onto your face with an intensity that was dizzying. His breathing was ragged, a rough, gravelly sound that vibrated directly against your lips.
"Hey," Leon murmured, his voice dropping into a register so low, thick, and devastatingly tender it made your heart ache. "Look at me, sweetheart. Don't."
He kissed the corner of your mouth, a soft, slow brush of his lips that felt like a quiet plea. "You're so good for me," he rasped against your skin, his thumb wiping away a stray tear of sheer sensory overload from your eyelid. "So beautiful. God, you have no idea what you do to me."
He slid his hand down to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling back into your dark hair to gently tilt your head back up. His blue eyes swirled with a dark, heavy affection that completely laid his soul bare.
"Don't hide those sounds from me," he whispered, his gravelly voice thick with a fierce, protective warmth that anchored you entirely to his frame. "I've been in the dark for years, listening to nothing. Hearing you... Knowing I'm making you feel like this? It's the only real thing I have. Let me hear you, baby…"
The raw honesty of his words shattered whatever defenses you had left. The vulnerability in his expression, the sheer, profound gratitude of a man being brought back to life by your touch, was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
You let out a shaky, emotional breath, your fingers tightening convulsively in his hair as you pulled his face back down to yours. When your mouths met again, the kiss deepened into something deeply sacred, a soft yet fiercely hungry exploration. You opened up to him completely, your soft whimpers spilling directly into his mouth as your tongues tangled in a slow, intoxicating rhythm. He drank in every sound you made, groaning low in his chest as he held you tightly in his unyielding embrace, the two of you completely anchored together in a universe that existed only on that couch.
“My room… please,” you managed to whimper out between his relentless attacks on your mouth. He was leaving you utterly breathless, barely granting you a single second to catch your breath before his lips would claim yours all over again, desperate and consuming.
Without a word, driven by the sheer, unadulterated need to stay connected to you, Leon reacted. His large hands trailed smoothly down the backside of your thighs, his grip firm and secure against your bare skin. Swiftly, and with that effortless, terrifying strength you were quickly growing used to, he lifted you up into his arms. Your legs instinctively wrapped tightly around his waist, locking you against his broad torso as he stood up from the couch.
Even as he moved, he didn’t break the connection. He kept his mouth pressed fiercely against yours, carrying you down the short, shadowed hallway of your apartment by memory alone. He navigated the turn into your bedroom with a soldier's spatial awareness, his heavy form casting a massive, protective silhouette in the doorway.
Stepping into the room, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The ambient, chaotic glow of the living room television was replaced by the warm, dim amber of your bedside lamp. It cast long, soft shadows across the walls, making the secluded space feel infinitely more intimate, like a sanctuary tucked away from the rest of the world.
Leon walked over to the side of the mattress and carefully leaned down. With the utmost gentleness, a stark, heartbreaking contrast to the raw power vibrating through his frame as he lay you down onto the bed.
As your back sank into the soft mattress, he finally, slowly pulled his mouth away from yours. The sudden separation of his lips from yours felt like a cold shock, a tiny whimper escaping your throat at the loss.
Leon propped himself up on his forearms, hovering directly over you, his massive chest completely eclipsing your view of the ceiling. In the soft lamp lighting, he looked completely breathtaking. The warm amber glow caught the messy, golden-brown strands of his hair falling into his eyes, and the intense, midnight blue of his gaze swirled with a possessiveness that was entirely intoxicating.
He stayed perfectly still for a long moment, his chest heaving with a ragged, heavy breath as his eyes slowly swept over your face, committing the sight of you to memory.
You were a beautiful, chaotic mess beneath him. Your lips were slightly swollen, a deep, flushed crimson from how deeply and hungrily he had been kissing you. Your hair was delightfully disheveled, fanning out across the soft pillowcase. Your face was painted with an obvious, radiant blush that crept all the way down the exposed skin of your neck, your breathing just as shallow and frantic as his.
A slow, profoundly soft look crossed Leon's rugged features; the hardened edge of his face was completely melting away into the vulnerability of a man entirely in love. He leaned down just a fraction of an inch, his thumb reaching out to gently trace the contour of your lower, swollen lip.
"Look at you," Leon muttered, his voice dropping into a thick, gravelly register that was barely more than a rough whisper in the quiet room. "Look what I did to you, sweetheart. You are so beautiful like this. Completely ruined for me."
He leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your burning cheekbone, his breath a warm, tingling current against your skin. "So perfect. You have no idea how long I've dreamed of having someone look at me the way you're looking at me right now. You're too good for me, sweetheart... Way too good."
He was settled heavily between your legs. Even with his forearms propping his massive upper body up to keep from completely crushing you, the solid, undeniable weight of his lower half was pressed firmly against yours, his hips locked you down against the mattress.
Driven by the torturous, throbbing ache building deep in your core, you shifted. You wiggled just slightly beneath him, an instinctive, desperate attempt to create any sort of friction you could to ease and tend to the roaring arousal pooling between your legs. Your hips brushed against his, and the sudden, electric spark of contact made your toes curl into the sheets.
Leon noticed the tiny, restless movement instantly. He froze for a fraction of a second, his entire body tightening over yours as a heavy, primal surge of satisfaction rippled through his frame. He found the sheer, unbridled need in your body incredibly endearing. A low, rich chuckle vibrated deep in his chest, a sound so thick and dark it sent a thrill straight down your spine. He leaned down, pressing a row of soft, lingering kisses along your jawline, his stubble scraping delightfully against your sensitive skin.
“Please… Leon…,” you pleaded, your voice breaking into a breathless, desperate whimper. You threw your head back slightly, sinking deeper into the pillow so that he could get better access to the smooth expanse of your neck.
Immediately, Leon was on it. He didn't need to be told twice. He buried his face in the crook of your shoulder, his lips trailing a path of fire across your skin. He left a chaotic mix of bruising kisses and soft, deliberate bites here and there, precisely marking the sensitive spot right where your neck met your shoulder. Every time his teeth grazed your skin, a sharp gasp left your mouth, your fingers tightening convulsively around the hard muscles of his upper arms.
The hand that wasn’t propping his weight up began to move, trailing slowly up from your bare thigh. His large, rough palm glided over the soft fleece of your shorts before reaching the hem of your oversized sweater. He paused there, his fingers hooking into the fabric.
With a heavy, ragged breath, he broke away from your neck, lifting his head to look down at you. His bright blue eyes were dark, blown out with a dangerous, intoxicating hunger, yet they held a profound reverence that made your lungs lock up.
“Can I…?” he asked softly. His voice was a rough, gravelly murmur, completely stripped of all his usual agent bravado. He was asking for your permission, needing to ensure you were entirely with him in this lawless, uncharted territory.
Your chest heaved as you looked up into his beautiful, tortured face. You couldn't even form words if you tried, so you simply nodded, your eyes locked onto his in absolute, unyielding approval. The moment you consented, Leon’s gaze darkened to midnight. His hand slid fluidly beneath the hem of your sweater, his broad palm making direct contact with the bare, sensitive skin of your stomach.
His skin was cool; it was cold to the touch compared to the feverish heat radiating from your body, and the sudden, stark contrast made you jolt violently against the mattress. A soft, high-pitched squeal escaped your throat at the delicious shock of it.
But the sound was instantly absorbed by Leon. He swooped down, his lips finding their way back onto yours with a sudden, fierce, demanding hunger. He caught your cry directly in his mouth, tongue sliding deep past your lips to claim you all over again, while his hand traveled higher up your torso, mapping the soft curve of your ribs and erasing the chill with the roaring fire of your shared desire.
Moving his hand higher, his broad palm glided over the smooth expanse of your ribs until his knuckles gently met the underside of your breast. He froze right there, his fingers curling slightly, not daring to fully shift his hand up onto the soft weight. Even consumed by the roaring hunger driving him crazy, the protective, deeply respectful soldier in him refused to force a single boundary. He wanted to make sure anything and everything he was going to do was completely, undeniably alright with you.
Feeling exactly where his hand had stalled beneath the heavy fleece of your sweater, your own hand came up over the outside of the fabric. You felt for the distinct, firm outline of his large hand beneath the cotton, locking your fingers over his. Slowly, deliberately, you guided his palm upward, pressing his calloused hand directly over your breast, letting him know with absolute certainty that it was okay to touch you in any way he wanted to…
“Please touch me, Leon…” you assured him between breathy, fractured kisses, your heart hammering wildly against his palm.
That was all the reassurance he needed. Leon pulled back from your mouth with a sharp, ragged inhale, his eyes dropping to the hem of your top. Sensing his intent, you sat up slightly on the mattress, your hands coming up to help him pull the oversized sweater up and over your head. He threw it blindly into the shadows of the room.
As you settled back onto the pillows, your hair fell in a beautiful, disheveled manner around you. Leon stayed perfectly still, his breath catching completely in his throat. Because you had gone straight into your loungewear after your shower, you hadn't worn a bra. You were entirely topless in front of him, your skin flushed a delicate, radiant pink under the warm, amber glow of the bedside lamp.
Leon took a heavy, silent second just to admire the staggering beauty in front of him. His midnight blue eyes swirled with a mixture of raw, possessive heat and a profound, quiet reverence that made you feel completely worshipped. To him, you looked like an absolute masterpiece, your soft curves and vulnerable posture anchoring him to the living world more than any case file ever could.
"God, sweetheart..." he rasped, his gravelly voice thick with awe as his gaze tracked the slow, frantic rise and fall of your chest. "You are absolutely perfect."
Unable to tolerate a single layer of separation between your skin and his any longer, Leon backed off his knees slightly. His large hands flew to the buttons of his own dark shirt. With an impatient, fiercely focused energy, he stripped off his clothes, pulling the shirt over his broad shoulders and unbuckling his belt, pulling it off his pants, discarding them somewhere onto the floor without a second thought. He didn't care where they landed.
When he loomed back over you, completely bare to the waist, the sight of him made your breath hitch. His chest was massive, a rugged expanse of hard-earned muscle and distinct, silvered battle scars that told the tragic story of his past. But in the dim, intimate lighting of your bedroom, those old wounds didn't look frightening; they just looked human. The impossible, electric warmth of his bare torso hovered inches from yours, the sheer, raw proximity of his naked skin sending a thrill of pure, lawless anticipation straight down to your core.
Seeing Leon with nothing but his pants on, his bare body completely exposed to you, left you utterly breathless. He was so beautifully sculpted, his broad shoulders tapering down to a lean, rigid waist, every muscle honed by a lifetime of survival. It wasn't fair. The sheer, devastating sight of him only made the heavy, throbbing heat at your core so much more unbearable.
Pushing yourself up off your pillow once more, you couldn't stay apart from him for another second. You leaned forward, pressing your bare chest directly against his. The contact was an absolute shockwave of sensation, the cool, electric static of his skin meeting the feverish, burning heat of yours.
Slowly, hesitantly, you lifted a hand, your fingers tracing the pale, jagged line of a silvered scar cutting across his ribs. You leaned in closer, your breath hitching as you pressed a soft, lingering kiss right against the marred skin.
Leon froze entirely. His whole body went rigid, his breath hitching in a sharp, fractured gasp that rattled deep within his chest.
For a man who had spent his entire life being treated like an unbreakable weapon, being handled with such tenderness and care was completely disarming. He was used to his scars being examined by medical staff, or ignored in the dark, or weaponized against him as reminders of his failures. No one had ever looked at the map of his trauma and treated it like something sacred.
You didn't stop at just one. You slid your hand up to the hard contour of his shoulder, tracing another faded mark from a long-forgotten mission, before pressing another soft, adoring kiss there.
"I want to kiss every single one of them," you whispered against his skin, your voice trembling with a raw, emotional intensity that shook him to his very core. "I want to take care of you, Leon. All your ghosts, all your worries... let me carry them for tonight. You don't have to be anyone else or anything for anyone… just you…"
The words shattered him. The unyielding restraint of Leon didn't just break; instead, it completely dissolved into the warm, amber light of your bedroom. He was down so incredibly bad for you, completely defenseless against the overwhelming tide of your affection.
A low, shaky groan escaped his throat, a sound thick with a raw, emotional ache he couldn't possibly conceal anymore. The rigid, coiled tension in his muscles completely melted under your touch. He collapsed forward slightly, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his forehead resting heavily against your shoulder as he let himself sink entirely into your warmth. He felt practically heavy in your arms, anchoring himself to your living, breathing frame as if you were the only thing keeping him from drifting away into the dark.
"Sweetheart..." Leon rasped, his voice breaking, rough and heavily strained as his large hands came up to wrap around your waist, pulling you so close that your hearts might as well have been beating as one. He squeezed you, his fingers digging into your hips with a desperate, possessive reverence. "God... you're killing me. You have no idea what you're doing to me."
He lifted his head, his midnight-blue eyes in the darker setting of your room, swirled with a fierce, intoxicating mix of desire and profound gratitude. He looked at you like you were his salvation, his large, calloused hand coming up to cup your jaw with a trembling tenderness. He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a slow, achingly deep kiss that tasted like a quiet surrender.
The slow, achingly deep kiss lingered between you, a heavy and quiet surrender that seemed to suspend time itself within the amber-lit sanctuary of your bedroom. The boundaries of reality had completely blurred; there was only the frantic, rhythmic hammering of your heart against your ribs and the solid, intoxicating weight of Leon pressed over you.
Reluctantly, Leon pulled his mouth away from yours, though he didn't go far. His breathing was a ragged, shallow rhythm against your skin as he looked down at you, his eyes darker than midnight, brimming with a fierce and desperate need. He could feel the residual warmth of your lips where you had kissed his scars, a phantom heat that was sinking deeper and deeper into his soul, making him ache for a closeness that went far beyond the physical.
Slowly, deliberately, he shifted his weight, his large hands sliding up from your waist to gently grasp your shoulders. With a quiet, reverent pressure, he guided you back down onto the soft sheets, your head sinking into the plush pillow. You looked up at him, your bare skin flushed a delicate, radiant pink under the lamp's glow, completely exposed and completely trusting under his gaze.
"My turn," Leon rasped, his voice dropping into a thick, gravelly murmur that sent a spectacular shiver rushing down your spine. "Let me look at you. Let me feel you."
He loomed over you, a massive shadow of hard-earned muscle, completely eclipsing the rest of the world. He wanted to learn from you. He wanted to memorize the soft contours, the subtle dips, and the breathtaking warmth of your body as if it were a sacred text, engraving every detail into his memory so deeply that even death could never erase it.
Leaning down, he buried his face in the sensitive crook of your neck, his lips pressing a slow, heavy kiss against your skin. You let out a quiet, trembling whimper, your hands instinctively flying to his broad shoulders, your fingers digging into the firm muscle to hold him close. Leon let out a low groan at the sound, a primal vibration that you felt directly against your pulse point. He began to trail his mouth downward, his kisses turning hotter, more demanding as he mapped the elegant slope of your collarbone.
As his lips chased the taste of your skin, the hand that wasn’t supporting his weight slid down the expanse of your stomach, his rough, calloused palm a delicious, thrilling contrast against your softness. His fingers traveled higher, tracing the curve of your ribs until his hand securely cupped the underside of one breast. He didn't hesitate this time as his fingers squeezed gently, massaging the soft flesh with a heavy, possessive rhythm that made your breath hitch violently.
A ragged, breathless moan escaped your lips, echoing softly in the quiet room. The sound was raw, filled with an unadulterated longing that drove Leon completely out of his mind. He caught the sound with a low, answering rumble in his chest, his mouth migrating from your collarbone down to the soft, aching slope of your other breast.
The atmosphere in the room turned thick and heavily intoxicating, charged with a profound, lawless lust that was beautifully tangled with emotion. You were entirely consumed by the static, electric energy radiating from him, melting beneath a touch that felt both incredibly tender and fiercely hungry. Your back arched slightly off the mattress, your hips subtly shifting against his in a silent, desperate plea for the friction you couldn't quite reach yet.
Leon’s tongue flicked against your skin, tracing a slow, agonizing path toward your peak, making you gasp out his name into the dim light. He wanted to remember the exact sweetness of you on his tongue, to drown out the five years of freezing, hollow silence with the beautiful, chaotic symphony of your soft sighs and whimpers. Every touch was an anchor, and every sound you made was a vow, locking the two of you together in a deep, intoxicating rhythm where the line between the living and the dead simply ceased to exist.
Leon’s mouth closed over the aching peak of your breast, his tongue swirling against your skin in a slow, wet rhythm that made your entire body shudder. A high, fractured gasp left your throat, your fingers tightening convulsively into the golden-brown strands of his hair, pulling him closer as he licked and suckled against you. He was relentless, his hunger entirely unchained now, drinking in the sweet taste of you as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
While his lips and tongue worshiped one side, his other hand kept up its heavy, possessive massage on your other breast. His thumb brushed over the sensitive skin with an agonizing, slow friction that had you weeping into the quiet room.
Then, slowly, deliberately, that large, calloused hand began to creep downward.
His palm glided over the tight contour of your ribs, tracing the dip of your waist before his fingers hooked firmly into the elastic waistband of your sweat shorts. At the exact same moment, the torturous ache between his own legs became too much to bear. Driven by pure, unadulterated instinct, Leon shifted his weight, his broad hips pressing down to grind slowly, heavily against your core.
The friction was electric. Through the thin fabric of your shorts, you could feel the unmistakable, massive ridge of his arousal. It was thick, throbbing, and shockingly hard underneath his pants. A loud, desperate whimper broke from your lips as your back arched completely off the mattress. The sheer reality of his desire, the impossible, solid heat of him pressing right where you needed it most, sent a wave of liquid fire straight down your spine.
Leon let out a low, ragged groan against your skin at the contact, his chest heaving as he fought to keep from losing his mind completely. He broke away from your breast, lifting his head so he could look down at you. His face was flushed, his jaw clenched hard, and his blue eyes were completely blown out with a dark, primal lust that made you tremble.
His hand remained hooked in your waistband, the static energy radiating from his fingers making your skin tingle.
"Sweetheart," Leon rasped, his voice dropping into a register so thick and gravelly it was practically a plea. He didn't just want to take, even now, down this bad; he needed to know you were completely with him. "Can I take these off? I need to see all of you."
You were so dazed, your mind so thoroughly melted by the sensation of him grinding against you, that you could only manage a frantic, desperate nod against the pillow.
But Leon stayed still, his gaze burning into yours, demanding more than just a silent gesture. "I need to hear it, baby," he murmured, his thumb rubbing a comforting, heavy circle against your hip. "Tell me it's okay."
Shyly, your voice trembling with a mixture of raw vulnerability and overwhelming desire, you forced the word past your swollen lips. "Yes... Please, Leon."
The verbal approval snapped the final thread of his control.
"God, you're so good for me… Good girl," he whispered fiercely.
Slowly, reverently, his large hands gripped the elastic, dragging your sweat shorts down past your hips in one smooth, deliberate motion, taking your underwear along with them. He slid them down the length of your thighs and over your knees, tossing the fabric somewhere on the floor of the bedroom. When he loomed back up, settling his thighs between yours, you were left completely bare under his heavy, worshipful gaze, the warm amber light painting every soft curve of your body just for him.
Under the unyielding intensity of his gaze, a sudden, overwhelming wave of vulnerability washed over you. The raw reality of being completely bare beneath him, with the warm amber light exposing every soft curve and flushed inch of your skin, suddenly felt incredibly loud in the quiet room. Instinctively, a defensive reflex took over; your elbows tucked in as you crossed your arms over your chest, and your knees began to tremble, shifting inward to close your legs and shield yourself from his piercing blue eyes.
But Leon wouldn't let you retreat into the safety of your shell.
Before your thighs could snap shut, his large, calloused hand slid down the smooth line of your inner thigh to wrap firmly around the curve of your knee. With a gentle but entirely unyielding pressure, he held your legs apart, anchoring your lower half in place and completely blocking your attempt to hide from him. His touch was an absolute shockwave, a violent, thrilling jolt of static heat that rippled straight up your legs, leaving you entirely open, exposed, and vulnerable under his shadow.
Leon’s breath hitched completely, a sharp, ragged sound rattling in his chest as his gaze traveled downward. In the dim, golden glow of the lamp, his eyes locked onto the glistening wetness of your core. You were weeping for him, your body practically aching for any shred of touch or attention, and the sight of how thoroughly undone you were for him drove him completely out of his mind. A deep, primal growl rumbled in the back of his throat, the muscles in his broad shoulders flexing as his jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked fiercely beneath his stubble.
He leaned forward, shifting his massive weight so his bare torso hovered just inches above yours, the intoxicating scent of him, leather, rain, and pure, electric energy, enveloping you entirely. His other hand came up, large and heavy, to gently but firmly pry your crossed arms away from your chest. He didn't use force, but the sheer, commanding presence of his touch made you give in instantly. He slid his fingers down to lock with yours, pinning your wrists softly to the mattress beside your head, spreading you wide for his eyes.
"Hey," Leon murmured, his gravelly voice dropping into a register so thick, low, and devastatingly tender it made your heart ache. "Look at me, sweetheart. Don't hide from me. Please."
Your eyes locked onto his, your chest heaving with shallow, frantic breaths as you looked up into the swirling midnight blue of his gaze. The safe, playful agent from the afternoon was entirely gone; this was a man laid completely bare by his own desperate need.
"I want to see everything," he whispered fiercely, his thumb beginning to caress the ultra-sensitive skin of your inner knee, tracing slow, heavy circles that made your core throb in a desperate rhythm. "Baby... Let me have this. Let me commit every single inch of your beautiful body to my memory, so no matter what happens, I never have to be in the freezing cold again."
The raw, aching honesty of his words completely shattered the last remains of your embarrassment. His words weren't just compliments; they were a worship, a confession of how much power you held over him. He looked at you like you were his salvation, his eyes tracing the soft slope of your stomach, the curve of your hips, and the wet, glistening heat between your thighs with an expression of absolute reverence.
"You are so stunning, baby," he rasped, his face descending into the crook of your neck. His lips brushed against the sensitive skin just beneath your ear, his warm, tingling breath sending waves of goosebumps cascading down your spine. "So perfect. Look at how wet you are for me... look at how much you want me. You're driving me absolutely crazy, sweetheart. I can feel you trembling."
His heavy, low praises and the deep, possessive rumble of his voice acted like a direct match to a fuse. The lingering shyness melted into pure, liquid heat, replaced by a desperate, throbbing surge of lust that turned your core into a roaring furnace. You let out a soft, broken groan, your head rolling back into the pillow, your hips instinctively hitching upward against the mattress as his words pushed your arousal over the absolute edge, leaving you shaking and entirely at his mercy.
His free hand traveled down once more, leaving a trail of agonizingly slow, lingering touches along your inner thigh. His eyes tracked the path of his large, scarred hand, watching the stark contrast of his rough, calloused palm against the sensitive skin of your leg.
The closer his fingers got to the center of your heat, the more your mind completely unraveled. Unable to take the torturous tease any longer, your hips buckled blindly off the mattress, a desperate, instinctive tilt of your pelvis reaching up in a silent plea for his hand to finally close the distance and touch your aching core.
Leon let out a low, rough growl of approval at your compliance, his fingers sliding fluidly into the slick, dripping heat pooling between your thighs. Slowly, deliberately, he gathered the slick, his two fingers gliding upward to spread the slick heat entirely across your sensitive clit and the opening of your core.
The direct, heavy friction made your entire body short-circuit. You let out a loud, unbridled moan, throwing your head back into the pillow as a wave of pure, unfiltered bliss crashed over your senses. Your fingers tangled desperately in the bedsheets, your toes curling as he used your own slickness to massage the throbbing center of your pleasure with an expert, agonizingly perfect pressure.
Leon paused for a fraction of a second, his head snapping up to look at you. His breathing was incredibly ragged, his chest heaving as he drank in the beautiful, chaotic sight of you completely undone beneath him. He watched the tight arch of your back, the deep flush on your chest, and the needy, breathless sounds tearing from your throat, hoarding them like a man who had finally found water in a desert.
"Let me taste you, baby..." he whispered, his rough voice cracking with a raw, desperate reverence that made your heart flip.
Without waiting a single second, Leon shifted his weight, his massive frame sliding down the length of your body. He pressed hot, wet kisses down the center of your chest, trailing his mouth along the soft slope of your ribs and down to the trembling expanse of your stomach. Every brush of his lips sent a violent shiver through your core, your lower half twitching in frantic anticipation as he moved lower and lower.
Finally, his broad shoulders parted your thighs completely, and he landed right between your knees, hovering directly above your weeping core. He propped himself up on his hands, his head tilting up just enough so that his eyes, blown out with a dark, consuming, and lawless hunger, were locked entirely on your face, waiting for the exact moment his tongue would bring you to life.
You let out a desperate, broken plea, the words tumbling past your lips as a breathless command for him to finally continue. You couldn't handle the agonizing distance for another second.
Leon didn't hesitate. With a smooth, practiced shift of his massive weight, he hooked your legs up, draping your thighs over his broad shoulders. His powerful arms came around your legs, one hand locking securely behind your thigh to hold you completely open and anchored in place under his gaze. His other hand traveled forward, his large, calloused fingers finding the throbbing center of your pleasure and beginning to rub heavy, deliberate circles over your clit.
Then, Leon leaned down, and his tongue finally licked upward against your weeping core.
A loud, unbridled moan tore from your throat, your back arching violently off the mattress. The sensation was an absolute shock to your system. Because his spectral body was naturally cool, the sudden, cold contact of his tongue meeting your feverish, burning heat created a sharp, electric contrast. A violent, delicious shiver rippled straight down your spine, your toes curling tightly as the temperature play sent a jolt of pure, liquid adrenaline straight to your core. It was a freezing fire, an impossible sensation that made your head roll back against the pillow in sheer, unadulterated bliss.
Leon groaned low in his chest against your skin, the vibration of his voice sending a thrilling pulse through your sensitive flesh. He lifted his head just a fraction of an inch, his midnight-blue eyes burning into your face to watch your reaction. Seeing your eyelids flutter, your lips part in a needy gasp, and the deep flush spreading down your throat only fueled his hunger.
"God, you're so hot, baby," he rasped, his voice a gravelly whisper in the quiet room. "Look at what you're doing to me."
He buried his face back into your warmth, completely devouring you. His tongue swirled and lapped against your slick opening in long, heavy strokes, drinking you in greedily while his fingers maintained that relentless, torturous rhythm on your clit. He was eating you alive, mapping out every sensitive fold with a fierce, ravenous devotion, using the cold edge of his touch to drive the feverish heat of your arousal to an absolute, maddening peak.
One of your hands shot down desperately, your fingers tangling into the soft, messy strands of his hair, gripping tight as if to anchor yourself against the tidal wave of sensation. Leon didn't care in the slightest as the sudden tug only seemed to fuel him, driving him to go down on you like a starved man finally given a taste of life. He lapped at your core with a relentless, heavy devotion, his cool tongue moving over your burning, oversensitized skin in deep, soaking strokes.
Your other hand shot upward, your fingers clawing at the fabric of your pillow for any shred of support as your back arched completely off the mattress. You felt like you were flying apart, the electric, freezing-hot friction of his mouth threatening to snap your remaining sanity. You tried to shift, to twist away from the sheer intensity of it, but Leon's effortless strength kept you perfectly in place. His powerful arms locked your thighs against his broad shoulders, anchoring your lower half firmly against his mouth so you couldn't escape a single second of the pleasure.
Soon, he shifted his angle, pressing closer until his lips parted and he slipped his thick, flat tongue directly inside your weeping pussy.
The sudden, deep invasion made your entire body short-circuit. You felt a tight, heavy pit instantly forming in your lower abdomen, that delicious, agonizing ache that signaled you were rapidly approaching the point of no return. The impossible contrast of his cool, smooth tongue moving inside your feverish, tight walls was too much to bear.
"Leon... Leon!" you cried out, your voice breaking into raw, loud moans of his name that echoed through the quiet room.
You whimpered, your head thrashing against the pillow as he began to mimic a slow, rhythmically deep thrusting motion with his tongue, simultaneously using his thumb to ruthlessly pressure your throbbing clit. You were completely, utterly ruined beneath him, stripped of all control and reduced to a shaking, desperate mess as he relentlessly drove you closer and closer to the edge of a shattering climax.
“Let go on my mouth, baby… please…” Leon pleaded against your skin, his gravelly voice muffled and vibrating directly into your slickest folds.
The desperate command was the absolute end of your restraint. Your hips buckled violently, lifting entirely off the mattress as the tight, heavy pit in your lower abdomen suddenly ruptured into a shattering, blinding climax. You fell apart completely, your body tightening around his tongue in fierce, rhythmic spasms that flooded his mouth with your heat.
At this point, Leon could have been suffocating beneath the sheer, desperate pressure of your thighs locking against his face, but he didn't care in the slightest. He was already a dead man, a ghost anchored to this world by nothing but the raw intensity of your connection. If it were possible, he would have gladly remained trapped between your legs forever, drowning in the taste of your surrender.
Instead of backing off to let you breathe, your release only drove his hunger into overdrive. He stayed locked against you, his powerful arms keeping your legs securely draped over his shoulders as he continued to ruthlessly lick and suckle through your orgasm. He swallowed every drop of the sweet, slick heat pouring out of you, his cool tongue lapping against your overly sensitive pussy with a heavy, possessive rhythm that turned your final moans into high, breathless screams of pure bliss.
You were completely ruined, your hands shaking in his hair as he devoured your release, anchoring you to the bed until the very last tremor rippled through your body.
“T-too much, Leon—” you whined, your voice breaking into a high, breathless sob as he continued to lap at your throbbing heat. Your release had left you painfully, exquisitely oversensitive, and every slick swipe of his cool tongue felt like an electric shock straight to your nervous system. Your legs shook violently against his broad shoulders, your fingers weakly tugging at his hair to pull him away from the agonizing pleasure.
Leon finally took mercy on you, slowly pulling his mouth away from your dripping core. He slid his body upward, the heavy, solid weight of his torso settling back between your trembling thighs. He hovered over you for a long moment, his chest heaving as he watched your breasts rise and fall in frantic, shallow pants. His blue eyes were dark, completely blown out with an unholy mix of pride and raw hunger as he drank in the sight of you catching your breath from the high.
Leaning down, he captured your lips in a deep, wet kiss, deliberately letting you taste the sweet, intoxicating trace of your own release on his tongue. You let out a soft, dazed whimper into his mouth, your hands migrating up to grip his sculpted biceps for balance.
As he kissed you, his large hand glided down your side, his palm rubbing soft, grounding circles over the curve of your hip before dipping lower. His long fingers brushed against your sensitive clit, gathering the rich slickness coating your skin, and slowly... he pressed the pad of his finger against your opening, testing your compliance before sliding one thick digit entirely inside you.
“So tight, baby… relax for me, can you? My good girl… so good for me,” he cooed roughly against your ear, his gravelly whisper vibrating through your entire body as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your flushed cheekbone.
You let out a low, strained groan at the sudden invasion. It had been a long time since you had done anything with anyone, and the sheer thickness and coldness of just one of his fingers felt massive, enough to tear you completely apart. His finger felt so much longer and broader than your own, stretching your tight walls and hitting a deep, heavy ache in your lower abdomen that made your hips instinctively twitch.
You whimpered, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders as you forced your muscles to uncoil, slowly relaxing around him under the soothing weight of his praise.
Leon noticed the exact moment you gave in to him. A dark, satisfied rumble started in his chest as he began to slowly pump his finger in and out of your tight warmth. The slick friction of his movement created a series of loud, incredibly lewd squelching sounds in the quiet room—a vivid, acoustic reminder of exactly how thoroughly ruined you were for him.
“So wet for me, baby… you’re sucking my finger in so well, look at that…” he murmured, his eyes dropping down to where his hand was rhythmically disappearing inside you, watching your slick flesh clamp desperately around his finger with every slow, deliberate stroke.
His eyes were entirely on you, his pupils so completely dilated that the brilliant blue of his irises was reduced to a thin, sharp ring of electric color. He looked at you with a consuming, single-minded focus, tracking every hitch of your chest, every desperate flutter of your eyelashes, and the way your lips remained parted, breath rushing past them in needy, fractured gasps. There was no room for anything else in his universe right now; he was fully submerged in the intoxicating reality of your body reacting to his.
Slowly, deliberately, he pressed the tip of a second finger against your oversensitized opening. You let out a warning whimper, your hands tightening instinctively on his broad shoulders, but Leon just cooed low in his chest, a soothing, deep vibration meant to unlock your tension. With a steady, practiced ease, he slid the second digit inside, scissoring you open for him, stretching your tight walls to accommodate the thick, unyielding length of his fingers.
You groaned out loud in pure, unadulterated pleasure. The sensation of him opening you up, stretching you so thoroughly while the spectral, electric chill of his skin sent waves of goosebumps rippling through your core, was almost too much to process. The lewd, wet sounds between your legs grew louder, heavier, echoing in the quiet bedroom as he began to pace his movements, curling his fingers slightly to hook against your most sensitive, aching spots.
The atmosphere in the room had shifted into something incredibly thick, heavily charged, and dangerously lustful. Every breath felt weighted; the very air was saturated with the scent of your shared arousal and the raw, electric static humming off Leon’s bare skin.
As he continued to pump his fingers inside you with a heavy, rhythmic focus, his lower half shifted, and the obvious, massive tent in Leon's pants pressed firmly against the outside of your thigh. It was completely unbearable now. The thick, throbbing length of him was rigid, straining desperately against the fabric of his trousers, radiating a heavy, demanding heat that told you exactly how close he was to breaking. He was completely at your mercy, driven to the absolute brink of his sanity by the tight, wet vice of your body clamping around his fingers, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped violently in his cheek as he fought to keep himself from losing control completely.
“Please, I need you, Leon… inside me, please… need your cock…” You whined out in utter desperation, the last of your filters completely burning away in the heat of the moment.
His fingers felt incredibly good, stretching you so perfectly, but you wanted to be greedy. You wanted more from him; you wanted the unyielding reality of him completely filling the empty ache between your thighs.
Leon let out a low, rough chuckle against your skin, the dark sound vibrating with a heavy, possessive pride. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his fingers away from your wet core. The sudden loss of contact left you feeling instantly cold and empty, a sharp whine escaping your lips as your hips instinctively hitched upward to chase his hand.
"Patience, baby," he murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper.
He pulled back, his powerful frame shifting as he slid off the edge of the mattress. Standing beside the bed in the warm, amber glow of the lamp, his eyes never left yours as his hands flew to his waist. You watched, your breath catching in your throat, as he unzipped his pants and dragged them down along with his briefs, kicking the clothing carelessly into the shadows.
When he stepped back into the light, he was completely bare, walking back toward the bed with a slow, confident stride. His hard-on was now in full view, and you found yourself completely taken aback by the sheer size of him. A sudden spike of nervous anticipation hit you, your eyes widening slightly as your mind tried to process how you were going to take all of him.
Leon caught that cute, overwhelmed expression on your face, and a soft, incredibly tender chuckle rumbled in his chest. The dangerous, ravenous look in his eyes softened into something deeply protective, though the dark pool of lust remained.
"Don't worry, sweetheart... I'll take care of you," he murmured, his voice thick with an absolute, unwavering devotion.
He climbed back onto the mattress, his massive, sculpted weight settling right back between your trembling thighs. The raw, electric proximity of his bare skin made your core throb instantly. Reaching up, he cupped your jawline, his thumb rubbing your cheek lovingly to soothe the nervous tension in your shoulders, grounding you completely before he took you to the edge.
Leon leaned forward, his massive frame shifting as he propped himself up with one arm right next to your head. The sheer proximity of him was overwhelming, a heavy, protective wall of muscle completely eclipsing the rest of the bedroom. Your own arm on that same side came up instinctively, your fingers wrapping around his thick bicep, bracing yourself against his solid weight as your eyes locked entirely onto his.
The air between you was thick with an agonizingly sweet tension. Leon looked down at you, his midnight-blue eyes soft, swirling with a profound, quiet reverence that made your throat tighten. Even with his hard-on straining desperately between your thighs, his ultimate focus was entirely on your comfort, his protective instincts overriding the primal hunger clawing at his chest.
"Hey," Leon murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that brushed against your skin. He paused, his large hand coming up to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. "Is this okay? Still with me, sweetheart?"
You could only nod, your chest heaving in shallow, rapid breaths as the raw reality of the moment settled over you.
Leon didn't move yet. He needed more than a nod; he needed to be absolutely certain he wasn't pushing you too fast. "Are you sure you want to continue, baby?" he asked, his tone dropping into a deeply tender, serious register. His thumb stroked your cheekbone, grounding you. "We can stop right here if you need to. Just tell me. I mean it."
The utter selflessness of his words, especially when you could feel just how hard he was pressing against your thigh, completely shattered any lingering hesitation. You didn't want him to stop. You wanted to be filled by him, to anchor his spectral soul to your living warmth.
"No... don't stop. Keep going, Leon," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. To assure him, you tilted your head up slightly, pressing a quick, soft kiss against his lips, a sweet, lingering vow of your total trust in him.
Leon let out a low, shaky breath against your mouth, his eyes darkening with a fierce, intoxicating gratitude. "God, you're so perfect, baby…" he breathed.
Slowly, deliberately, he shifted his weight, his lower half moving directly between your open, trembling thighs. He reached down between your bodies, his large, scarred hand closing around his length, guiding the thick, rigid length of himself downward. He pressed the smooth tip against your wet, glistening entrance, slowly smearing it against your sensitive folds, coating the crown in the hot aftermath of your climax that had been mixed with some of his own spit.
The sheer, raw proximity of his bare cock right at your opening made your pussy throb violently, a desperate whimper escaping your throat.
Leon looked back up, his eyes locking directly onto yours, wanting to read every expression on your face as he took the final step. Holding your gaze, he began to slowly, carefully ease the tip of his cock into your tight, weeping core.
As the thick width of him began to part your walls, your face instinctively frowned, a soft gasp tearing from your lips. It was a complex, overwhelming sensation, the slight, stinging burn of being stretched open after so much time, beautifully tangled with the unnatural, spectral coldness of his body. The electric chill of his skin meeting your feverish, burning heat sent a violent shockwave straight up your spine, making your hips subtly tense beneath him.
The moment your breath hitched, Leon stopped completely. He froze, keeping just the tip inside you, refusing to push a single millimeter further until he knew you were adjusting.
"I know, I know... just breathe for me, baby," Leon cooed softly, his voice an incredibly tender whisper in your ear. He leaned down, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss against your flushed cheek, then another along your jawline, distracting you with his mouth. "You're so tight, sweetheart. Just relax for me. Let me in…"
Your fingers dug deeper into the hard muscle of his arm, your heart hammering against your ribs as you focused on his voice. The comforting weight of his body and the soft, adoring words he muttered against your skin acted like a balm to the slight ache. Slowly, deliberately, you let out a long, shaky breath, allowing your thighs to loosen and your tight walls to uncoil, melting around the cold, thick invasion of his presence.
Leon felt the exact moment you relaxed for him, a low, rumbling groan of absolute bliss vibrating deep within his chest. He looked back down at you, his features softened with an overwhelming amount of affection and desire. "That's it, my good girl," he whispered reverently, his lips brushing against yours as he prepared to slowly slide the rest of his length inside you. "So good for me..."
Once he had bottomed out completely inside you, Leon let out a low, gravelly grunt, a deep sound of pure, unadulterated relief that seemed to shake his entire frame. The thick, unyielding length of his cock filled you to the absolute brim, stretching your tight walls so thoroughly that your breath caught in your throat, your fingers tightening convulsively into the hard muscle of his back.
He didn't move. Despite the agonizing, demanding throb of his arousal, Leon stayed completely still inside you, anchoring his hips down to give your body time to adjust to the massive, stretching fullness. Slowly, his upper body collapsed forward, and he melted into the crook of your neck, his heavy forehead resting against your shoulder as his ragged breaths fanned across your skin.
He buried his face into your skin, inhaling sharply, taking in your scent, the sweet, familiar fragrance of your soap mixed with the intoxicating, musky heat of your shared arousal. To a man who had been a literal phantom, a frozen piece of history lost in a sensory vacuum for five long years, the radiating, feverish warmth of your body was an absolute miracle. It made him feel completely, undeniably grounded. Through the tight, pulsing vice of your pussy clamping around him, he wasn't a ghost anymore; he was alive, anchored to the earth by the living, breathing woman beneath him.
"God, you feel so good," Leon rasped against your skin, his voice cracking with a raw, emotional vulnerability that sent a violent shiver down your spine. "So warm. Wrap your legs around me, baby. Hold onto me."
You did exactly as he asked. Your trembling thighs lifted, your legs wrapping securely around his broad waist, locking him flush against your pelvis. Your arms came up to hold him tight, your fingers tracing the hard ridges of his spine, offering him the same silent, fierce assurance he was giving you. You wanted him to know that you were right here, that you weren't going anywhere, and that you wanted every single bit of him.
For a long, tender moment, the two of you just held each other in the amber light of the bedroom, your hearts beating a frantic, synchronized rhythm against each other’s chests. The initial sting of his size completely dissolved, replaced by a deep, pulsing ache that demanded movement.
"I'm gonna move, sweetheart," Leon whispered reverently, lifting his head just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. "Tell me if it's too much."
"Don't stop," you whined softly, your hips subtly twitching beneath him in a silent plea. "Leon, please... move."
The tender restraint in the room instantly cracked, the tone shifting rapidly into something intensely sensual, dark, and heavily charged with pure, unadulterated lust. Leon let out a low growl, and with a slow, deliberate pull, he withdrew his length until he was almost entirely out before plunging back in, burying himself deep within your weeping heat.
The sensation was absolutely intoxicating. Because of his spectral nature, the contrast between the feverish, burning heat of your tight walls and the smooth, electric chill of his cock created an unfamiliar feeling of friction, yet it felt so good. Every time he slid out, the cool air hit your oversensitized flesh, only for his thick, rigid length to plunge back in, bringing a wave of liquid fire that made your head thrash against the pillow.
The wet, lewd squelching sounds of his rhythmic thrusts filled the quiet bedroom, a loud, acoustic testament to how soaked you were for him. Leon began to pick up the pace, his thrusts losing their initial caution as the overwhelming tide of lust took complete control. He was driving into you with a heavy, possessive rhythm, his hips slamming against yours with a bruising, desperate hunger.
"Look at you... " You're taking all of me so well, baby," Leon groaned, his pupils completely blown out as he watched the breathless, ruined expressions crossing your face. He reached down, his large hand finding your throbbing clit and ruthlessly applying pressure with his thumb with every downward stroke of his hips.
The dual sensation of his thick cock stretching you from the inside and his calloused thumb frictioning you on the outside pushed you completely over the edge of sanity. You let out loud, unbridled moans, your voice echoing in the room as you got utterly lost in him. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, your back arching wildly off the mattress as he ruthlessly devoured your mouth, catching your breathless screams into a wet, deeply possessive kiss. There were no boundaries anymore, no logical parameters, no line between life and death, as there was only the wild, chaotic symphony of your bodies colliding in a desperate, beautiful attempt to consume one another entirely.
The rhythmic, friction-filled heat between your thighs was reaching a breaking point as Leon’s pace widened, his thrusts turning deeper, longer, and utterly relentless. His eyes had darkened into a shade so intense they were practically black, completely consumed by an unholy, lawless lust. The tender caution from before had burned away entirely, leaving behind a raw, primitive hunger that hung heavy in the air. The bedroom itself felt stiflingly hot, the atmosphere thick with the intoxicating, musky scent of your shared arousal and the static, electric energy radiating off his bare skin.
Every time his thick, unyielding length bottomed out inside you, a high, fractured sound was ripped from your chest.
"Ah—ngh! Leon... Leon!" you wailed out loud, your voice echoing in the quiet room as your head thrashed against the pillow. Your toes curled tightly, your fingers clawing at the bedsheets as the friction of his smooth, spectral chill sliding against your burning, feverish walls sent sharp jolts of liquid fire straight to your brain.
Leon let out a low, guttural grunt in response, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped violently beneath his stubble. The breathless, ruined sounds you were making were driving him completely insane. His words lost all restraint, turning deeply sensual, dark, and raw as he leaned down to whisper right against your ear.
"You like that, don't you, baby? God, look at how loud you're screaming my name," he rasped, his gravelly voice dropping into a dirty, possessive murmur that sent a violent shiver down your spine. "Tell me how good it feels. Tell me how much you need me to ruin you."
His talk acted like a direct match to gasoline. Hearing this rugged, typically stoic man completely undone, speaking to you with such unbridled desire, made your core throb with a renewed, desperate intensity. You let out a broken, pathetic whine, your hips instinctively bucking upward against his to chase the heavy, bruising friction. "F-feels so good—ah! Please, harder... harder..."
Leon groaned fiercely at your compliance, a low, primal rumble vibrating in his chest. Needing to take you even further, he suddenly pulled his upper body back up, his powerful arms sliding under your knees. He gripped the smooth, soft backside of your thighs and pushed them forward, folding your body slightly and pinning your knees closer to your chest.
The adjustment completely changed the angle. As he lunged forward again, his cock plunged in at a devastating slant, driving much deeper into your tight, wet pussy than he had before, hitting a deep, electric spot that made your entire vision go white.
"Oh my god! Ah—ah—ngh!" you moaned out, your back arching violently off the mattress as your tight walls clamped around him in a desperate, suffocating vice.
Leon didn't stop. From his elevated position, his gaze dropped down, locking entirely on the raw, beautiful sight of where your bodies were violently connecting. In the warm, amber light of the lamp, he watched the glistening wetness of your open core tightly swallow him down, coating the entire length of his cock in a heavy layer of your clear, dripping slickness with every relentless stroke. The lewd, wet, splashing sounds echoing between your legs were incredibly loud, an undeniable testament to how thoroughly soaked you were for him.
"Look at you, baby... look at you," Leon praised, his voice a dark, rough growl of pure, unadulterated lust as he stared down at your dripping heat. "You're soaking my cock... you're drowning me in it, sweetheart. You're so wet, it's making so much noise for me. You're stretching so perfectly around me."
The dirty, heavy praises, combined with the impossible, deep stretch of his angled thrusts, pushed you completely over the absolute edge of sanity. A tight, heavy knot formed instantly in your lower abdomen, a roaring furnace of pleasure that rapidly built up toward your second climax. You were completely helpless, entirely ruined under his weight.
From his view, Leon drank in every single micro-expression of your undoing. He watched your eyelids flutter shut, your lips part in a high, trembling whine, and the deep, beautiful flush spreading across your chest and throat.
And from your dazed, blurred view looking up at him, Leon looked like an absolute god of hunger. His golden-brown bangs hung down in messy, sweat-dampened strands around his face, framing features that were sharp, tense, and utterly consumed by desire. He didn't look away from you for even a fraction of a second, his eyes locked onto yours with a terrifying, beautiful intensity as he continuously, ruthlessly pounded into you, using his effortless strength to hold you folded open as he drove you straight into a shattering, blinding explosion of release.
"That's it, cum for me, baby... let it go," Leon rasped, his voice a gravelly, commanding whisper that cut straight through the haze of your pleasure. He didn't slow down for a single fraction of a second. Even as the first violent tremor of your second climax ripped through your core, his hips kept up their heavy, bruising rhythm, continuously thrusting deep into your tight, pulsing warmth.
Your walls clamped around him in fierce, desperate spasms, flooding him with a fresh wave of your hot release. You were coating the entire thick, rigid length of his cock with your release, the frictionless heat between your thighs creating a loud, incredibly lewd splashing sound that filled the entire room.
You were so utterly overstimulated, your nervous system completely short-circuiting from the relentless, deep friction of his smooth, spectral chill. Every single stroke felt like a shock straight to your spine, pushing you past the brink of sanity, and yet Leon was still going, ruthlessly riding the wave of your orgasm. Your head thrashed wildly against the pillow, your fingers weakly clawing at his shoulders as you tried to process the pure, overwhelming fullness of him.
"S-so... full... ah! L-Leon... so much—ngh!" you whined out in sheer desperation, completely lost for words, your analytical mind reduced to nothing but raw, fractured syllables. You couldn't even form a coherent sentence, your voice breaking into breathless, needy whimpers as he continued to pound into your oversensitized flesh.
Suddenly, a shocking gasp left your lips as you felt an abrupt, freezing emptiness. Leon pulled his length completely out of you, the sudden lack of contact leaving your dripping core twitching and weeping in the cool air.
Before your dazed mind could even form the question to ask him why he stopped, you felt his large, calloused hands grip your waist. With a surge of his effortless, terrifying strength, Leon flipped you around on the mattress as if you weighed absolutely nothing. In one smooth, dizzying motion, you found yourself pressed face down against the sheets, the soft fabric cool against your flushed front.
Leon didn't give you a single second to recover. His massive hands locked onto the curves of your hips, his fingers digging possessively into your skin as he pulled your lower half upward. He arched your back, forcing you into a vulnerable position with your face down, ass-up , completely exposing your trembling, wet core to his dark, hungry gaze.
Standing over you, his bare thighs framing your hips, Leon didn't hesitate. He guided the heavy, dripping crown of his cock right back against your opening, which was still pulsing and slick from your recent release, and with one heavy, merciless lunge, he reentered you completely from behind.
"G—God… Fuck!"
A loud, unbridled shriek of pure, scandalous pleasure was ripped from your throat, your muffled face burying into the pillow as he bottomed out inside you at this new, impossibly deep angle. The thickness of him stretched your walls to an absolute breaking point, the sudden, fierce re-entry sending a violent shockwave straight to your heat. It was incredibly raw and completely lewd as your hips were pinned firmly in his iron grip, completely at the mercy of his heavy, dominant thrusts as he began to ruthlessly drive into you from behind, the loud, wet slaps of his pelvis colliding against your backside echoing through the quiet bedroom.
The sheer filth of the bedroom was completely intoxicating now, the air thick, hot, and heavy with the scent of raw, lawless lust. Pinned face-down against the mattress, your hips held in a brutal, iron grip by his massive hands, you were completely at the mercy of Leon’s relentless, punishing pace. He was driving into you from behind with a terrifying, primal rhythm, his pelvis slamming heavily against your backside with loud, wet, echoing slaps that filled the quiet room.
"Ah—ah—ngh! Leon…!”you screamed into the sheets, your voice sounding completely ruined, broken down into nothing but breathless, needy wails.
At this angle, his cock was burying itself deeper than humanly possible, ruthlessly reaming out your pussy. Every single downward lunge hit a deep, electric spot that made your entire body shiver violently, your internal walls clamping around him in tight, desperate spasms that were slicked entirely with the heavy torrents of your own release. The lewd, squelching sounds of him plunging in and out of your soaked flesh were incredibly loud, an acoustic sin that told him exactly how thoroughly ruined you were for him.
Leon was reaching his own high now, the tight, suffocating vice of your body pushing him straight to the absolute brink of his sanity. His veins were pumping with pure adrenaline, his chest heaving as his jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked fiercely. As his climax began to build up, his words turned completely explicit, his gravelly voice dropping into a low, commanding growl right above your ear.
"You want it, baby? Want me to fill you up?" Leon rasped, his breath hot and tingling against your oversensitized skin as he gave a particularly deep, bruising thrust that made your hips buckle. "Want me to stuff you completely full, baby? Tell me."
You let out a loud, pathetic whimper, your fingers clawing desperately at the bedsheets, your mind too thoroughly melted by the friction of his smooth, spectral chill to form a single coherent thought. You could only let out a breathless, desperate gasp. "L-Leon—ah! Please—"
"Use your words, my good girl," he commanded heavily, his large fingers digging deeper into the flesh of your hips, anchoring you in place as he continuously, ruthlessly pounded into you without a single shred of mercy. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do to this tight, wet little pussy of yours. I need to hear it."
Driven entirely mad by the agonizing fullness and the sheer, wicked weight of his words, you forced the words past your trembling lips, screaming your surrender into the mattress. "Fill me—ah! Stuff me, Leon… I want it inside me, please!"
A dark, triumphant growl erupted from the depths of his chest, the final thread of his control snapping entirely at your verbal submission.
"Yes... yes... keep saying my name... you're mine... all mine, baby," Leon groaned out, his voice a lawless, gravelly rumble as he picked up the pace to a terrifying, blinding speed. He was pounding into you with everything he had, his broad shoulders flexing in the amber light as he ruthlessly used your body for his own pleasure, drinking in the loud, wet, scandalous sounds of your bodies colliding. "You're my good girl... fucking taking all of me, stretching so perfect for me, god, you're so tight, baby, you're milking me so fucking well..."
You were completely lost in a blinding haze of pure bliss, your vision going white as his filthy, possessive praises pushed you into a chaotic, drifting high. You couldn't think, you couldn't breathe,you could only feel the impossible, massive ridge of his arousal ruthlessly driving into you, claiming every single inch of your warmth as he prepared to completely lose his mind and stuff you full of his own desperate release.
The relentless, punishing rhythm of his hips didn’t slacken for even a fraction of a second, driving his thick, rigid length into your thoroughly wrecked core with a primal, lawless focus. Leon’s gravelly voice remained a constant, wicked murmur against the shell of your ear, his words turning into a stream of pure, unadulterated filth that completely dismantled whatever remained of your sanity.
"Look at how you're taking it, baby... so fucking deep," he growled, his hands anchoring your hips with a bruising, possessive intensity as he ruthlessly reamed you out from behind. "You're squeezing my cock so tight... you're trying to drain me, aren't you, sweetheart? You want every single drop."
The sheer, wicked weight of his dirty talk, combined with the impossible, deep slant of his thrusts, acted like a direct current to your nervous system. Your internal walls, already raw and incredibly overstimulated, began to tighten in violent, rhythmic tremors once more. A sudden, blinding wave of heat erupted in your lower abdomen, and you let out a high, broken shriek into the mattress as you crashed into your third climax.
Your desperate sounds continue to be pulled from your lungs as your body short-circuits entirely, as your tight walls clamped around him in an agonizingly sweet, suffocating vice.
Your fierce, pulsing release was the absolute end of his restraint. Leon let out a loud, guttural roar of pure, animalistic surrender, his chest heaving as the tight, milking contractions of your core snapped his final thread of control. He gave one last, deep, desperate lunge, burying himself to the absolute root inside you, and finally finished off too.
As he completely emptied himself into you, a shocking sensation rippled through your body. Though his body had been defined by a striking, electric chill throughout the entire encounter, the feeling of his release filling you up was surprisingly, beautifully warm. It was a sudden, thick rush of heat that flooded your sensitive, aching depths, creating a stark, breathtaking contrast against his cool skin that made your toes curl, and your eyelids flutter heavily.
Leon stayed completely still inside you for a long, heavy moment. His powerful frame was entirely draped over your back, his chest rising and falling in violent, ragged pants against your shoulder blade. A low, exhausted groan rumbled deep within his chest, a sound of total, blissful defeat as he held his hips firmly pinned against your backside, letting the last of his pulsing release coat your internal walls.
Slowly, reluctantly, he began to shift his weight. He let out another rough sigh as he carefully pulled his length completely out of you. The sudden, freezing emptiness made your core twitch in a lingering spasm.
Without the support of his iron grip holding your hips up, your knees gave out completely. You collapsed onto the mattress, your limbs heavy and completely spent. With a weak, involuntary whimper, you rolled over onto your side, curling your knees slightly toward your chest as you lay there, utterly ruined. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath from the high, and your cheek pressed against the cool fabric of the pillow.
Leon didn't move away immediately. Still hovering on his knees beside your hips, his eyes, slowly returning from the dark, lawless void of lust, dropped down to trace the lines of your body. In the soft, amber glow of the lamp, he watched as a thick, milky trail of his own release began to slowly drip out of your open, weeping entrance, glistening against the flush of your inner thighs. The sight alone was incredibly, outrageously lewd, the vivid, physical mark of exactly how thoroughly he had possessed you, how deeply he had stuffed you full of his need. A dark, fiercely satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, a muscle in his jaw finally relaxing as his heavy breathing began to even out.
As the frantic adrenaline of the encounter fully simmered down, the atmosphere in the room underwent a profound, beautiful shift. The lawless, ravenous ghost from moments ago vanished completely, replaced by a version of Leon that was so attentive. His protective instincts roared back to life, his gaze softening into an expression of such profound, tender devotion it was almost overwhelming.
Seeing your eyelids flutter, barely able to stay open as the exhausting weight of three climaxes pulled you under, Leon leaned down. He pressed a soft, lingering, incredibly gentle kiss against your flushed cheekbone.
"Stay right there, baby," he murmured, his gravelly voice dropping into a thick, comforting whisper that brushed like velvet against your skin. "Don't worry about a thing. I've got you."
You let out a faint, dazed hum, your eyes already seconds away from closing completely. Your mind was a soft, drifting cloud of bliss, your muscles feeling like lead as you yielded entirely to his care.
Leon slid off the bed, his bare feet making no sound against the floor. He walked into your bathroom, the soft glow of the light filtering through the door as he grabbed a clean, soft towel and ran it under the faucet, ensuring the water was perfectly warm.
When he returned to the bedside, he knelt down beside you with an almost sacred gentleness. He began to wipe you up, using the warm, damp cloth to carefully clean the sticky, glistening moisture from your inner thighs and your sensitive, aching core. He was incredibly meticulous, his hand moving with a light, feather-soft touch to ensure he didn't aggravate your overstimulated skin. Every stroke of the towel was an assurance, a silent apology for how ruthlessly he had treated you just minutes before. Once you were clean, he quickly and efficiently wiped himself down, tossing the towel aside.
Climbing back onto the mattress, Leon settled himself beside you. With an effortless, practiced ease that made you feel completely safe, he slipped his arms under your waist and shoulders, shifting your heavy body into a far more comfortable position in the center of the bed. He guided your head to rest gently on the plush pillow before reaching down to grab the heavy comforter.
With a smooth, sweeping motion, he pulled the covers all the way up over the two of you, instantly sealing in the radiating, feverish warmth of your bodies and shutting out the cool night air.
Leon immediately shifted closer, his large frame bracketing yours from behind. He slid one thick, powerful arm underneath your neck, letting you use his bicep as a pillow, while his other arm came around your waist, his large palm resting flat against your stomach, pulling you flush against his chest. Even through the fabric of the sheets, the contrast of his cool, solid front against your burning, relaxed back felt incredibly grounding.
By then, your eyes were completely shut. The soothing, repetitive rhythm of his steady heartbeat against your shoulder blades was the ultimate lullaby, and you were already drifting deep into a peaceful, unbroken sleep.
Leon, however, remained wide awake. He had no desire to close his eyes just yet. Holding you tight against his chest, he rested his chin lightly on the top of your head, his midnight-blue eyes completely soft as he just admired your features in the quiet, golden light. He watched the peaceful rise and fall of your chest, the soft, relaxed curve of your parted lips, and the lingering, beautiful flush on your cheeks. He traced the shape of your face with his gaze, hoarding the sight of you like a man who had finally found his home after a lifetime in the dark, entirely content to just hold you in the quiet warmth until the morning came.
He stayed awake a while longer, the quiet ticking of the clock on the nightstand the only sound breaking the silence of the room. You had already completely drifted off to sleep, your body heavy and totally relaxed as you held onto him, your small hand resting loosely against his chest.
The radiating, feverish warmth of your body was something he had yearned for during those five long, agonizing years in the dark. It was a tangible, beautiful heat that he would gladly fight a whole lifetime to protect. But as the frantic adrenaline of their passion fully faded, leaving only the soft, amber glow of the lamp and the steady rise and fall of your chest, a familiar, cold ache began to creep back into the hollow of his chest.
Holding you flush against his frame, Leon couldn't help but wonder what any of this even meant now.
He was a ghost. A phantom tied to this earth by a violent end and an unresolved past. While the sheer force of his desire and your undeniable connection allowed him to feel solid, to hold you, and to fill you up with a surprising, temporary warmth, the harsh reality of his existence never truly vanished. He was an anomaly. A spirit anchored to a world he no longer truly belonged to.
Worse than the mystery of his current state was the terrifying uncertainty of the future. He could stay a ghost forever, trapped in this liminal space, or he might just... disappear. He didn't know if one day he would simply cease to exist, fading out of the world entirely without a single trace or warning. All ghosts went somewhere eventually; the universe didn't let things out of place remain that way forever.
As his hand gently smoothed over your hair, tracing the soft strands damp with sweat, a heavy wave of guilt washed over him. The thought of leaving you absolutely devastated his soul. He was pulling you so deep into his world, letting you fall for a man who didn't even have a heartbeat, and if the day ever came when he vanished into thin air, he would be leaving you behind to mourn a phantom. He knew that solving the case, uncovering the dark, buried truth of how and why he died, was the ultimate goal. But a dark, terrifying instinct warned him that the truth would come with a steep price. When the mystery was finally unraveled, the anchor holding him to this earth would shatter, and he would disappear from your life forever.
Leon’s jaw clenched tightly, a fierce, suffocating grief rising in his throat as he looked down at your peaceful, sleeping face. You looked so innocent, so entirely safe, wrapped in his arms, trusting him completely with your body and your heart. The thought of being the source of your eventual heartbreak cut him deeper than any blade ever could.
But as he looked at the soft curve of your lips and felt the steady, trusting rhythm of your breathing against his skin, the agonizing doubt in his mind began to solidify into a fierce, unwavering resolve.
Whatever time he had left, whether it was a few days, a few months, or a fleeting echo of a second, he promised himself he would use every single breath to keep you safe. He would help you in any way he could, pouring his spectral strength into being your shield. He wouldn't let anything or anyone hurt you. If he was destined to fade into the freezing cold of the after, he would make damn sure that while he was here, you were wrapped in the absolute safety of his shadow.
Leaning down, Leon pressed one final, agonizingly tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering against your warm skin as if trying to imprint the sensation directly onto his soul.
"I've got you, baby," he whispered into the quiet dark, his voice a barely audible, fractured promise as he pulled you just a fraction closer against his chest, holding onto his salvation for as long as the universe would allow.
DIVIDERS' CREDIT: @uzmacchiato
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much ado about nothing chapter 8 - plug!eren x reader - 18+!!!
DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. minors and ageless blogs, please do not read below the cut.
um. hi. i am so nervous about posting this i could die, not because anything too significant happens, but it's been so long. this is not a super action-y chapter, but it's necessary, so bare with me. there's a good bit between the lines, so if anything's confusing, hit up my ask box or just hit me up to chat bc i love this story. we're getting close to the end, but i am .... sad about it. i love this eren. i love much ado. without further theatrics from me.... enjoy!!!!! <3
specific cws: swearing, mentions of drug use, alcohol, mentions of sex
want to catch up? series masterlist here<3
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“Love is like a child, That longs for everything it can come by.” - The Two Gentlemen of Verona by William Shakespeare (Act III, Scene 1)
“It’s about time you got up! I got bagels from– oh, hey,” Historia falters when she catches sight of you and Eren, finally having made your first appearance for the day even though it’s well past 10:00.
“You again?” Ymir says with a snicker, walking past Historia with the aforementioned bagels swinging beside her legs with every step.
“Ymir!” Historia hisses, shooting you an apologetic look. Your face warms, knowing exactly what you look like right now: hair a mess, bruises covering your neck and chest, and the telltale sheen of guilt practically glowing in a halo around your head. Eren’s not much better off; there are angry red scratches down his entire back under his hoodie, and his eyes are hooded and heavy with that satisfied, I just got laid glimmer to them. He looks good like this, you think, sluggish and weighted down with the work he’d put in on your body all night and all morning. Cocky and satiated.
“Where are the bagels from?” You peek into the bag that Ymir dropped on the counter, shaking yourself out of your private admiration and sidestepping the obvious elephant in the room in favor of filling your grumbling stomach.
“That place on Melrose, but I only got three…” Historia looks sheepishly to Eren in apology.
“He’s on his way out,” you answer for him. Eren nods affirmatively, shuffling over to the doorway where his enormous sneakers are thrown alongside a small collection of yours and Historia’s shoes.
“Leaving so soon?” Ymir’s eyebrows raise in uncharacteristic interest, looking between you and Eren, who don’t seem able to truly meet each other’s eyes.
“Busy,” Eren grunts, slipping his shoes on, “I’ll see you–”
“Tuesday, right?” You say around a mouthful of bagel, still not quite meeting his gaze.
“Tuesday,” Eren looks to the sky like he’s mentally penciling you in to his schedule, nodding after a moment, “got it.”
“Merry Christmas!” You call out as he makes his exit, throwing a hand up in acknowledgement and farewell. A few heavy seconds of silence pass, the only sound in the room being the noisy smacking of the cream cheese bagel that you’re practically inhaling as Historia stares at you.
“That was…awkward,” Historia starts cautiously. You frown at her.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never seen two people that just fucked look less like they want to be in the same room,” Ymir says from the couch, punctuating her statement with a sharp laugh, “I mean, is it that awkward when you have sex?”
“It wasn’t awkward,” you cross your arms defensively, narrowing your eyes, “we’re just…casual.”
“Eren looked sort of tense,” Historia adds thoughtfully, a little line of worry appearing between her eyebrows.
“I’m sure his family’s been talking to him a bunch with the holidays coming up. Maybe that’s it, I wouldn’t know,” you shrug, not meeting Historia’s gaze. You can almost feel her smug, understanding nodding, seeing right through you.
“So you’re still not talking, then.”
“Of course we talk. You just watched us talk.”
“Not like you used to,” Historia counters, crossing her arms.
“So?” You scoff, letting your annoyance erupt in the form of tearing your bagel into little bite-sized pieces. Historia’s right, she’s right way too often for you to live with.
“You liked him. A lot. And he liked you. What happened?”
“You never told us,” Ymir echoes from the couch, “the last thing you told me at least was that you and Sasha went to Scout’s, Eren practically fought Floch, you slept with him for some reason after that, and the next thing we know, he’s here every morning.”
“Not every morning,” you mumble, rolling your eyes petulantly.
“That doesn’t matter,” Historia says impatiently, waving Ymir off, “it’s been weeks of…I don’t even know what to call it– this weird, awkward no-talking just-fucking thing. What happened?”
“We made up,” you shrug, staring at her blankly, “we’re fuck buddies. It’s not something that needs to be, like, picked apart and analyzed.”
“It absolutely does,” Historia argues, “you went from making goo-goo eyes at each other and staying up all night hogging the couch to what may the be the weirdest fuck-buddy relationship I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“It’s not weird,” you groan, throwing your hands over your eyes in exasperation.
“Is it Breeze?”
“What?” you hiss, pulling your hands from your face to narrow your eyes at Ymir, “what would this have to do with her?”
“I heard she’s staying for awhile, just moved into those snazzy new apartments across from the farmer’s market.” Ymir is either unaware of or unphased by your immediate aggression. She delivers her statement matter-of-factly, twirling one of her many rings idly. Her nonchalance makes you prickle, and Historia notices.
“Is it Breeze?” Historia asks, watching your reaction carefully. “Are she and Eren talking again? Or is he with you?”
“I don’t know what Eren does in his free time,” you roll your eyes, “much less if he’s got anything going on with Breeze right now. It’s not my business.”
“Granted, I don’t see how he could even find the time to deal with Breeze with how often he’s over here,” Ymir scoffs.
“Don’t you two have packing to do?” you ask in a desperate attempt to change the conversation topic. Luckily, Ymir takes the bait.
“We finally finished,” she shoots Historia a meaningful glance, “but our flight doesn’t leave for another four hours, so we don’t need to head to the airport until noon.”
Great. Your patience has already worn thin with the both of them for the day, and just as you’re formulating a plan to bid them goodbye and drag your exhausted body into a shower, Historia jumps ahead of you with yet another question that you don’t necessarily want to answer.
“Have you heard from your mom?”
“Bits and pieces,” you answer, twiddling the hem of your t-shirt between your fingers, “she and Tom are in Costa Rica right now.”
“No invite?” Ymir questions wryly, cocking an eyebrow. Historia shoots her a reprimanding glare, but Ymir’s callous humor is exactly what you need at the moment.
“Of course not,” you say with a chuckle, shrugging, “but she sent me some sweet pictures. They’re cute together.”
“I think Tom is my favorite of the recent boyfriends,” Historia concedes with a small smile.
“He’s definitely better than that asshole from Dubai, that’s for sure.” Ymir nods affirmatively, the unspoken voice of reason in relation to your mother’s dating life.
A few minutes of idle chit chat later, you’re able to excuse yourself to shower, ducking behind the curtain and into the steaming, nonjudgmental spray of water. Your theory these days is that turning the water up to an unbearable heat may scald the weight of everything on your mind off of your shoulders. It hasn’t worked yet, but you’ll keep trying.
Christmas isn’t your favorite season by any means, not since your parents’ divorce. It’s a solitary season for you, one for contemplation and baking. You don’t not enjoy spending Christmas’ alone; after so many years, you’ve started your own little traditions, and while you know the concept of someone spending Christmas alone is objectively sad, you’ve grown to prefer your own company over that of your mother and her boyfriend of the year. She’ll send you her American Express information along with a text to “Go crazy! Anything your little heart desires!” and you’ll spend Christmas Eve playing Santa for yourself, watching movies, and stuffing your face with whatever sugary treat you decide to throw together.
Okay, maybe it is a little sad, but it’s your tradition.
Ymir and Historia leave for the airport, and unsurprisingly, Historia begs you to catch a flight to come with them because “No one should be alone on Christmas!”. You only falter when Ymir begrudgingly extends an invitation, the first year in the three you’ve known them that she’s done so. Ymir shrugs and blushes when you and Historia stare at her in disbelief, claiming it’s because you seem like you have a lot on your mind. She’s not wrong, but you wave them off to Ymir’s parents’ anyway, assuring them you’ll Facetime on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, just to check in.
You don’t consider Historia’s offer until you’ve curled up under a blanket, the fifth or sixth mind-numbing, standard Christmas movie you’d selected not quite doing the trick of silencing your thoughts. You open your phone, pull up your recent texts; maybe reaching out to someone for some lazy, technology-driven conversation will do the trick.
First is Historia, per usual, sending you a barrage of selfies of her and Ymir’s family playing a board game. Even in your melancholy state, the sight of Ymir with her mouth stretched comically wide around a plastic game piece, scowling through her ridiculous expression, makes you snort to yourself.
Second is your mother, sending you an update about her and Tom’s dinner reservation getting canceled amidst short-staffing at the resort restaurant. You roll your eyes at that one; for your mother, the end of the world will surely present itself as a minor inconvenience at a five-star establishment.
Third is Sasha, checking in amidst the holiday season. She tells you that Hitch loved the little self-care package that she put together as a thoughtful, but casual Christmas gift. You text your congratulations back to her, feeling an unfair pang of envy hitting you.
Fourth is…oh, god, you shouldn’t have let yourself get this far. Eren. He’s still saved in your phone as “Eren 10 Shadows User Jaeger”; instead of making you giggle, his idiotic, self-placed contact name only makes a hollow thud ring through the confines of your empty chest. Feeling a bit like twisting the knife, you start scrolling through your texts, frowning at how short and unsubstantial each message is.
> Outside.
> tonight? 10ish?
> Be there in 10.
> i can venmo you for the doordash
> Don’t worry ab it.
The most painful part of all of it is, if you scroll just a bit further, back into the crisper autumn months, the messages aren’t so dry. In fact, in hindsight, Eren seems smitten with you. The messages still give you butterflies.
> Are you in your office was gonna pick up 104 otw to yours but I don’t want it to get cold.:)
> Is developing the six eyes the key to getting you to like me as much as you like Gojo?
> Just did a drop at the library and spied you w your kiddos across the room I didn’t say hey bc I didn’t want you to yell at me (bc youre rude) but you look HOT.
> Got your fav cookie dough to soften the blow for you when we start shibuya arc tonight be there in 10 nerd.
You groan and toss your phone to the other end of the couch, digging the heels of your hands into your eyes. What are you doing? Why can’t you just talk to him, tell him that he’s all you think about, that every time he touches you, you swear that it burns an imprint into your skin?
Because it’s not real, your mind helpfully supplies. Breeze. Luke. Rumors. You’re clearly not over Luke if you drunkenly texted him that night at Paradis, right? Or maybe you’re projecting your old feelings for Luke onto Eren? Is that really something you’re prepared to gamble with?
And if you weren’t mess enough, Eren’s only been the commitment type for one woman in his life; out of the many that you know have rotated in and out, your statistical chance of becoming the second is slim. Not to mention the fact that the only woman he’s ever committed to has just moved in a whopping five minutes down the road from you, and is apparently interested in re-opening doors that you had assumed were closed.
With a huff, you grab your phone from where it's nestled into the cushions and check the time. 11:04pm. Still plenty of time to run down to the bodega and scrounge around for some cookie dough, maybe a cheap bottle of wine.
That’s motivation enough to shake you out of your wallowing state, and after you’ve pulled a pair of slouchy gray sweatpants over your pj shorts and thigh-high socks, you’re shoving your feet into some slippers and shuffling down the street, arms crossed over your chest in a feeble attempt to protect yourself from the biting wind. The shock of the cold numbs you to the bone, a welcome reprieve from the watery, shaky feeling that’s been brewing in your chest all night. You storm through it, noticing your breathing get a little looser with every step, feeling very much like you could stay out here all night, leave all of your problems cooped up in your lonely little apartment.
The bodega’s a certifiable ghost town, as expected. You only have your lucky stars to thank that the owners aren’t religious and are willing to stay open this late the night before Christmas Eve. You give a weak wave to the heavyset man behind the counter, a gesture that he doesn’t return. Figures.
Luckily, with most of the students on campus having left for home days ago, the shelves and refrigerators are still mostly-stocked with everything you’ll need. Item 1: cookie dough. A pack of the Pilsbury reindeer sugar cookies should do nicely; delicious and small enough that eating the entire package won’t depress you too much. Item 2: cheap wine. You round the corner a bit too quickly in your excitement, running headfirst into a tall stranger that you didn’t notice upon entering the store.
“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t–” your voice cuts itself off as the man in question’s irritation slowly slides off of his face. A tentative murmur of your name comes through wind-chapped lips, bloodshot eyes widening in surprise.
“What are you doing here?” Eren’s brow crinkles almost comically, furrowing into a frustrated little divot between his reddened eyes as he tries to make sense of why you’re standing in front of him. “It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Technically not for another forty minutes,” you counter, checking your watch, “and I could ask you the same thing.”
“You know me, not exactly the family type.” Eren shrugs, a bit of the tension melting off of him. And he isn’t wrong; you do know. During the period of yours and Eren’s less-complicated friendship, he had divulged little bits and pieces of his home life, not enough to give you the full picture, but at least enough that you feel like an ass for not realizing why he was spending Christmas alone. Dead mother, asshole father, overbearing stepmom, try-hard brother. You can’t exactly blame him.
He looks heartbreakingly soft; wrapped in one of his classic massive hoodies, hair tucked beneath a cozy beanie, nose and cheeks kissed slightly pink from the cold winter winds. He’s clearly stoned, eyes heavy, muted, and slow-moving as he looks down at you. It’s all you can do to hold yourself back from cupping his face, breathing warmth back into him. Your fingers clutch a little tighter around the cookie dough in your hand, mimicking the swell of emotion that chokes your heart in your chest.
“Right, sorry.”
“That brings us back to square one. What are you doing here?”
The longing for closeness in your heart hasn’t quite outweighed the sadness and awkwardness of the situation, and you opt to deflect again. Unhealthy, but functional. “Buying wine.”
“And cookie dough?” Eren raises an eyebrow at your currently-occupied left hand. “Did you just get dumped by Santa?”
You narrow your eyes at him. “No. It’s my Christmas tradition.”
When Eren’s gaze softens into something thoughtful, green eyes raking painfully over your bundled-up form, you realize you’ve let your guard down. Even that simple statement has bared something to him, given him yet another piece of you to hold– maybe to drop. It sends a nervous chill over you, and you drop your eyes to the floor amidst a pregnant moment of understanding silence.
“Here.”
You flit your gaze back up to Eren’s outstretched hand. He’s holding a bottle of Pinot Grigio– your favorite kind of cheap Pinot Grigio, at that. When you dare to look up at his face, you can’t read it, no surprise there, but if you had to guess? Something like warmth, something like the beginnings of a familiarity you hadn’t realized had been growing.
When you hesitate to take it, a little too long apparently, Eren pulls the bottle back up to his face, squinting at it, and moving it further and closer from his face. With a stuttered chuckle, you realize he’s trying to read the label.
“Is this not the one? I swear I saw it in your fridge–”
“No, that’s it.” You reach up and pull the bottle from him, momentarily shaken out of your stupor. “Where are your glasses? Were you planning on stumbling around the bodega asking the clerk to read all the labels for you?”
“I left ‘em at your house forever ago,” Eren admits, a bashful hand running over the back of his neck, “keep forgetting to grab them on my way out.”
“That’s right.” Your face grows warm at the mention of Eren– the same Eren who’s in front of you, adorably bundled up and cheeks pink with embarrassment– in your home. The things Eren’s been doing in your home as of late.
More like I’m not giving you enough time to grab them, you reflect with a grimace. Eren’s presence in your life has been hot and momentary over the last weeks since your run-in at Scout’s; you’ve made a habit of not keeping him around long enough for conversation, pleasantries, even so much as nabbing those readers out of your nightstand. Even after this short interaction, a vicious stroke of memory reminds you why you’ve kept your distance– Eren’s charming. He’s thoughtful, he’s kind, he’s funny, he’s so careful with you sometimes it makes your fingers shake. And now, with him beginning to turn away from you, giving you a sad and half-hearted goodbye and preparing himself to check out with whatever meager snacks he’s gathered, you don’t think you can keep observing your emotional vigil anymore.
The first flutters of snow have begun to coat the ground and there’s a cold, Christmas wind rattling at the shop windows and you’re holding the bottle of wine to your chest so hard you might be bruising your ribs when you decide to take a chance on him.
“Eren!”
He turns on his heel slowly, as if he’s about to raise his hands and call a truce. His eyes betray nothing but confusion, but if you squint, if you let yourself believe just a bit…you want to believe that he looks a little hopeful.
“Do you…do you want to come over?”
“Right now?” Eren cocks his head in disbelief. It crushes you a little how far out of the realm of possibility it’s become for you to just…want to spend time with him. The blow to your ego and his lack of immediate response nearly bring your newfound courage to its knees, but you push on.
“I can’t eat all of these by myself,” you lie, “and I have better food than that in my pantry.”
Eren eyes the two bags of chips he’s holding in one hand, looks back at you almost like he’s waiting for the punchline. You do your best to smile in a friendly, I-totally-won’t-cry-later-if-you-say-no type of way and snatch another bottle of wine off the shelf.
“I think they’re two-for-one anyway,” you say with an airy chuckle, “no one needs to be alone on Christmas.”
A shaky smile shatters Eren’s hesitant expression, and he cocks an eyebrow, raises his hooded eyes to the sky like he’s thinking it over. “Uh…yeah, I guess I have room in my schedule to keep you company.”
“Oh, get over yourself,” you scoff, the relief viscerally warming you from your growing smile to your fingertips, “and you’re buying after that one.”
“Some fucked up plan you got there,” Eren chuckles to himself, placing your wine and snacks on the counter, “tracking your fuck buddy down at the bodega and guilting him into buying you wine and snacks.”
“Eren,” you hiss, smacking him in retribution, masking the burn of his choice of words with embarrassment. It’s true, you’ve both wordlessly agreed upon it, but the reminder stings. You shoot an apologetic look to the clerk, but he’s entirely apathetic, reciting the total to Eren in a monotone voice. Your unnecessary chagrin only makes Eren giggle harder, earning him an eye roll from you.
The short walk back to your car is filled with some intentional tightrope walking between unnecessary etiquette (Eren insisting upon walking with you to your apartment, saying he’ll grab his car later; you pulling your Venmo app up, trying to assure him that making him pay was a joke) and the banter that you’d established between yourselves upon first meeting, the easy conversation you used to enjoy whenever you liked. Even as you both lull into that familiar rhythm of jokes, stomping through the light dusting of snow side-by-side, you can feel the precariousness of it all. Who’s going to be the first to decide that you’re too close? Who’s going to run away? Who’s going to wish they had run after them?
“Smells nice in here,” Eren remarks, bending down to tug at the laces of his heavy Docs once he’s made it past the threshold of your door.
“It’s about to smell even better.” Suddenly overcome with nervous jitters that Eren’s in your apartment with no part of his mouth on you, you scurry over to the oven to begin preheating it, urgently in need of something to do with your hands.
“Where’s ‘Stor?” Eren ambles along behind you, seemingly far more at ease than you judging by the way he slouches against the counter.
“Ymir’s parents have them come up that way every year.”
“You didn’t want to go?”
“It’s their thing.” You try to disguise the sudden tightness in your voice with a tinny note of disbelief, as if Eren should have inherently known that you elected this lonely Christmas celebration. “Hand me a baking sheet?”
“Where?”
“Down there.”
Your intonation must have carried the desired effect because Eren doesn’t press the matter further, following your instructions and producing a rectangular pan from one of the lower cabinets of your kitchen. You work wordlessly and in tandem with one another. Eren produces two wine glasses when he sees you scrounging around in the drawer for a corkscrew; he begins to scoop healthy dollops of cookie dough from the package with the spoon you hand him as you pour two not-so-healthy glasses of wine for you both. The silence is interrupted by Eren’s poorly-muffled snickers when he watches you take your first sip of wine.
“What?”
“Am I that bad?” Eren directs a playful, but meaningful, glance at your wine glass, a fourth of which you’ve just knocked back in one sip. You feel your cheeks warming, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“Has nothing to do with you. Just…thirsty.”
"Is it awkward? Me being here?"
"I invited you," you say, not quite wanting to acknowledge that, yes, being around him fully-clothed is a little strange. It isn't an unwelcome strangeness, but you're not about to let that little confession fly either.
“We used to be friends,” Eren muses quietly, uncharacteristically outspoken. That makes your eyes widen; you almost wonder if he’s spoken without meaning to.
“We’re still friends,” you murmur against the rim of your glass, taking another large swig. Eren shrugs, very focused on portioning out the cookie dough. “We are.”
“I know.” Something about his voice shatters you, makes your fingers grip around your glass tight enough to break. You can almost see the self-provided rejection flitting across his face; it’s quick, but it’s cold enough to feel.
“Eren–”
“Friends.” Eren’s eyes flit over towards you in a gesture of laying arms down, and his lips tighten in a smile that threatens you to challenge the tentative peace he’s building between you both. The word stings when it hits you, bittersweet and ironic. Another fourth of your wine disappears in a single sip, and you smile back in a way that you hope looks more kind than it feels disparaged.
The cookies are baked, the necessary seating arrangements are settled upon, the glasses are refilled, and soon you’re snuggled up on the right side of your couch, feet stretched into Eren’s lap, practically dozing off to a Christmas romcom. Eren is, surprisingly, enthralled, intensely focused on the television and leaning forward in a way that’s bending your ankles uncomfortably but is too adorable to tell him to stop.
“So he’s not going to chase her?” Eren turns to you, devastated and frowning a bit. You snort into your second glass, finding his furrowed brow and flushed cheeks funnier than the mayhem that’s been building on the screen for the last hour.
“You have to watch!” You kick him meaningfully.
Eren receives your kick like a child, groaning dramatically and shooting you a look cold enough to kill. He throws himself back into the couch, absentmindedly taking one of your sock-covered feet in his massive hands and kneading his thumbs into the arch of your foot. He presses into a particularly tender spot, working a soft groan of appreciation from you; Eren’s lips tighten, and he subtly moves your heels a little further away from his crotch, but he doesn’t stop his ministrations. He rubs firm circles into the sides of your ankles, running a thumb up your leg to the back of your knee, beginning to extend his massage up your leg.
A breathy moan falls from your lips, and though he doesn’t turn to look at you, the corner of Eren’s mouth quirks up.
“Feel good?”
“Mhm,” you hum, eyes fluttering shut. You can hear the rustle of Eren’s hair against the couch as he nods, the movie now long faded away into your peripheral focus.
Just as you’re beginning to truly melt into yourself, scooching just the littlest bit towards Eren so he can start rubbing at your thighs, something glimmers into your consciousness. Eren’s your fuck buddy, he said it himself at the store. The gooey, soft emotion that’s welling in your chest, the thing that’s rendering you spineless and malleable that you don’t dare to name– it’s unseemly. The realization crashes over you like a bucket of ice water, raising goosebumps on the back of your neck and causing your eyes to fly open.
Something sickly and sour curls behind your ribs, darkening the contented little glow that had begun to grow there. You feel sick, you feel sixteen again, you feel like a lamb being fattened up for the slaughter. Eren’s not Prince Charming; he’s your fuck buddy, just like he said. You’d done a thorough job of establishing that dynamic, and you remember that as sweet as everything around you might taste, it’s artificial. He’s here for something.
Eren doesn’t notice the change in your demeanor, the stiffening in your muscles; not until you’re climbing into his lap, at least.
“What are you–”
You cut him off by slotting your lips against his, gripping into his shirt with such a fervor that the self-loathing behind it could be confused for mindless want. Eren hesitantly reciprocates, hands sliding down your waist and landing firmly at your hips, leaving a soft impression in the skin there. You rake your fingers through his hair, kissing him deeper and more frantically, bringing your hands down to tug at the hem of your sweatshirt–
“Hey.” Eren’s quiet voice against your lips freezes you where you are, fingers still twisted in the bottom of your shirt.
“What?”
“What’s all this?” Eren’s hand is against your cheek, brushing a strand of hair out of your eyes. It’s so gentle it nearly burns, scalds against the cold, callous arousal you’ve built up in yourself.
“I don’t understand.” Your voice is weak, all the fire you’ve contrived fizzling out as your words cross the barely-there gap between your mouth and Eren’s. Your hands fall into the space shared between your laps, fingers curling and uncurling to mask the tremble running through them. Your gaze stays fixed on them, monitoring for any visible signs of weakness, unable to glance up to meet Eren. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” Eren murmurs, forehead pressed unwaveringly against yours, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It was nice,” Eren says, a little breathless and disbelieving, “it was nice before.”
“So don’t you want…this?”
“I mean, yes. I always want this,” Eren punctuates his statement with an airy chuckle, rubbing his hands up and down your sides, “but I don’t always need it.”
“I feel like I upset you.” You can’t stop the embarrassed frown from working its way onto your face amidst your confusion. This…this is what you and Eren do. Now that it’s been refused, you don’t know where to put your wandering hands, where to tuck the rush of needing to touch him.
“I’m not upset,” Eren says, still barely audible as he thumbs at your chin, “you made my shitty day a lot less shitty, actually.”
“Why was it shitty?”
“My dad.” Something dark and coarse has infused his voice now, rasping against the warm air between you. Despite the rough tone of his voice, Eren’s moving a hand up and down your back soothingly, tucking your head into the crook of his neck. It works– your body goes slack in his hold, slumping against his chest and nuzzling your nose into his shoulder. “Won’t bore you with the details.”
“Tell me.”
“You don’t want to–”
“I do.” You pull back from where he’s pinned you, bringing your forehead back to rest against his. “Even if I’m just your fuck buddy. You can talk to me.”
Eren sighs, heavy and resigned. Even with your vision blurred by how close you are to him, you can see a wry smile twisting the corner of his mouth. “You’re not my fuck buddy.”
“I know. Friends, right?” You hardly dare to breathe against him, heart thudding viciously in your throat to the point that you worry Eren might hear. It’s not a word that encompasses what you feel for him, the mess you’ve both created between yourselves, but it’s your scapegoat, your fallback. No matter how many times you catch his lingering glance as he leaves you in the morning, no matter how often you delve into a bottle of wine and hover your thumb over his contact, no matter how closely he haunts your every thought. Friends.
The hint of a smile disappears from his face. Eren shakes his head against yours, fingers ghosting along your thigh, up your arm until he lands his hand over yours, curls them together in a loose fist against his chest.
“No.” You aren’t sure that you’ve heard him correctly, how quietly he speaks.
“No?”
“No,” Eren confirms, tightening his grip around your hand, “we’re not friends.”
Your breath catches in your throat at the same time Eren’s eyes flit up to meet yours, doubling down on the little confession he’s breathed into you. You’re powerless to do anything under the weight of your fear, your relief, your confusion. It’s enough for now, the understanding that no, you’re not friends and maybe you’ve never been, hanging between you and making the air a little more palatable.
“Not friends.” A little nod from you draws a shaky exhale from Eren, an answering nod of his own, and it feels like you both have mutually agreed to set whatever’s been building, whatever’s too-hot-to-touch, to the side for the time being. It’s enough.
He holds you, and you let him, despite the growing ache in your hips, the restlessness of your feet as they fall asleep. Eren tells you about his father, the career path he’s still afraid to go down. You tell him about your mother, how the emotional distance between you always manages to somehow be greater than the geographical, how love is her number one priority except when it comes from you. Both of you listen in reverence as you map out your scars for each other, delving into what’s healed and skating carefully over the parts that are still tender.
The couple on-screen reunites with a zoom shot and a dramatic kiss in the Christmas snow. The soaring orchestral number that accompanies their reunification is one that’s just loud enough to cover the sound of you and Eren’s hearts beating in tandem, and the clatter of his phone vibrating repeatedly on the kitchen counter.
much ado about nothing chapter 5 - plug!eren x reader - 18+!!!
DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. minors and ageless blogs, please do not read below the cut.
i have successfully kicked my writer's block to the curb and am ready to pick back up on plug!eren!!!! woohoo!! this is the part of the story where it gets really plot heavy and there's a lot of moving parts, so it's been a fun exercise to write and brainstorm. if anything is confusing or u have any theories/questions PLEASE hit my inbox i'm so down bad for plug eren i could talk about him for days.
get ready to meet a new character who is......not the best lol. this is also the first chapter written in eren's pov :o things are about to get interesting!
still haven't caught up? series masterlist HERE <3
specific cws: mentions of smut but nothing outright, alcohol use, swearing, u know the drill
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“If music be the food of love, play on. / Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, / The appetite may sicken and so die.” - Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare (Act I, Scene 1)
Eren is, admittedly, a romantic person, especially given his occupation. Not romantic in the cheesy, buying-flowers and kissing-in-the-rain sense, but he appreciates the little details of life. He loves autumn, when the leaves catch on fire with the changing of the season. He loves the little crook of a woman’s neck, that slope where it goes from tendon to shoulder to collarbone. He can appreciate a good bourbon; after years of raiding his dad’s stash, he developed a palate for it early on. Eren’s romantic nature leads him to believe in signs. When the universe tells him something, he listens.
The text still sat in his inbox unopened, marinating in its own bizarre, heartbreaking nature.
> heyyyy lover boy! i’m back from austria! missed u, let’s catch up ;)
Eren knows that Breeze knows him, knows him well enough to understand that his three-week radio silence isn’t a no, it’s a maybe. He hates himself for not immediately texting her back and telling her to fuck off, but after his conversation with you, he thinks it might be the universe telling him it’s safe this time, that he won’t end up a shell of himself. Maybe.
You had been firm in your assertion that you and Eren were better off as friends, and as much as he wanted to fight it, Eren respects women. As much as he can when he’s prone to wrenching their jaws open and spitting in their mouths while he’s balls deep inside them, at least. He’s disappointed, but he respects it, and if he’s honest, he likes you.
He likes your sharp humor, likes the way you tend to keep your hair up off of your neck, likes the way your eyes light up when someone gives you an excuse to talk about your studies. He hasn’t been “just friends” with a woman in a long time, but it’s refreshing, an excuse to go grab a coffee and shoot the shit like a normal person instead of lurking in the corner of a frat party handing out pills like a perverse ice cream truck.
The last three weeks of “friends” have been the best Eren’s had in a long time. You’re easy, that’s what he likes about you. He can drop the cold mask he wears so often, giggle over a stupid meme, listen intently as you prattle on about some long-dead 18th-century author that was “so ahead of her time!”, smirk when you chastise him for doodling little hearts and flowers all over your coursework.
Sure, he still steals a glance down your shirt when he can, and he’d never admit it, but he thinks about you late at night. He thinks about you when he’s in the shower, when he’s got himself in his hand, panting and swearing under his breath, but he manages to feel enough guilt over it to still consider you a friend. You’re caring and considerate and easy, wholesome fun, unlike someone that’s made a sudden reappearance into his life.
After that first night, just when he was starting to entertain the thought of promoting you from one night stand to official fuck buddy, the closest thing to commitment Eren allows himself to maintain these days, Breeze swept back into his life, and you hit the brakes on him. While it may not have been the sign he wanted to receive, Eren’s a romantic, and he listens to the universe, especially when it goes so far out of its way to tell him something.
He’s decided to let Breeze stew for a little while longer. Campus will be clearing out for Thanksgiving break soon, along with most of his business, and he’s going to wait until his hands are empty of work and you before answering her. Plus, she had flitted off to Europe after college like their entire relationship had been nothing more than a passing phase; Eren’s owed at least a little bit of pettiness, right?
> paradise ath 1130! see uthere ;)
Eren snorts at your text. Being as uptight as you are about grammar (you’re constantly hounding him about his texting style, and he’s been making them even more incorrect just to hear you berate him), he knows you’re not just texting quickly, you’re drunk.
“Yo, ‘min!” Eren calls into the kitchen, an excited flutter already rising in his chest beneath his hoodie.
“Yeah?” Armin’s head pops around the doorframe, a dab of ketchup on the corner of his mouth.
“Wanna go to Paradise later?”
“The club?” Armin’s nose wrinkles. Connie’s head appears right beside Armin, a wide grin splitting his face.
“Oh, hell yeah,” Connie answers for both of them before Armin has the chance to shoot the idea down, “who’s going?”
“Like you don’t know the answer to that,” Armin scoffs, ducking back into the kitchen with a roll of his eyes.
“I never took her for a ‘club’ type of girl,” Connie adds air-quotes to emphasize his confusion.
Eren mulls that over for a moment; he doesn’t really take you for a club type of girl either, but from the sound of it, Historia and Sasha have already done the job of getting you good and drunk and talking you into a night on the town. Eren’s always wanted to see what you’re like when you’re well and truly fucked up; every time you indulge him with a story from college, he ends up laughing so hard he’s clutching his stomach and gasping for breath.
Supposedly, when you go all out, you drop the mom-friend act and become a little less tame; is this Eren’s opportunity to get an eyeful for himself? He’s not waiting around to find out.
Eren shrugs. “Come help me make these runs and we’ll go. Armin, you’re driving.”
The drop-offs are uneventful, and as soon as Eren steps foot inside the club, his nose scrunches with distaste. Ironically, he’s never been into the partying scene, much preferring a quiet beer at Scout’s or a blunt on the couch to a club. The music’s horribly loud, bass thudding through the fabric of his hoodie and beating against his chest, and as he looks for you, he can barely see through the mass of bodies and the fog machines. You’re here? It’s difficult for Eren to imagine you, in your favorite flannel and those cute little Vans he likes, tucked against the bar throwing back your signature craft beer. As Connie urges him and Armin in the direction of the bar, calling for green tea shots, Eren nearly regrets his decision, until fingernails dig into his shoulder, spinning him on his heels.
“Hey, you.”
Eren blinks stupidly as you grin up at him through thick, black lashes. He’s never even dared to imagine you like you are now, piercing eyes gazing up at him through a heavy dusting of makeup and the shortest, tightest dress Eren’s ever seen hugging every inch of your curves. You look sinful in a way he’s never seen you before, not even when he was holding you tight to him and wrenching out orgasm after orgasm from your body. He gulps.
“Holy shit– hey,” he lets you pull him in for an overexcited hug, bites down on the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the bulge already swelling in his pants.
“I missed you!” You pinch his cheeks, much to Eren’s dismay.
“Just saw you yesterday– quit pinchin’ me. What are you even doing here? Didn’t think this was your scene.” Eren has to actively keep his eyes trained on your face; there’s a little bead of sweat traveling down the expanse of skin between your breasts that’s making his mouth water. Friends, he scoffs in his mind. Are you trying to kill him?
“Well, it’s not, but Sasha says I need to be more fun, and Stor says I need to find a boyfriend.” You gesture around like it’s obvious. Eren cocks an eyebrow, ignoring the inappropriate envy that twists in his stomach at the mention of the word ‘boyfriend’.
Boyfriends never like the guy friends, it’s practically a law of nature. If you’re dating around, it’s only a matter of time before some square in a button-down steals you away from your coffee dates and movie nights with Eren, but he can’t get too caught up in that now, not when you’re looking up at him all dizzy and sexy and bursting at the seams.
“Don’t know if this is the place for that.”
“That’s what I said!” Oh, you’re drunk drunk, all of your movements overexaggerated and shaky. It makes him want to laugh seeing you like this; his little book nerd, trashed and mere inches away from having her ass out at a club. Well, either laugh or drag you into the bathroom to bend you over the sink. He can’t be sure.
“Hey mama!” Connie shouts over at you, handing you a shot. Eren has half a mind to snatch it out of his hand after catching the slurring in your voice, but he’s too late; you throw it back without so much as a shudder, grinning all wide and wet and pretty when you swallow.
“I didn’t think you’d actually show up,” you tell him, pulling him down by his collar so you can speak into his ear. Eren has to bite back a groan at the feel of your hot lips against his ear. Friends, he reminds himself urgently, pushing you back from him but keeping his hands firm on your hips, relishing in the way your flesh gives under his grip.
“You know the rules. You call, I come.”
“That’s what she said,” you snicker, pinching his cheek again.
“Cut that out!”
“Make me.” Oh fuck, Eren’s going to die. He’s going to die if you keep looking at him like that, bottom lip tucked between your teeth and fuck-me eyes on him.
“You’re not being very friendly,” he manages to choke out, trying his hardest to give you a suspicious look through the dizzying wave of images that flash through his brain. You with your mouth full of him. You spread out on his bed, back arched and fingers twisted in his hair. The little “o” your mouth made when you rode him for the first time. Eren wants to smack himself, jump in a cold shower, something. Get a grip, dude.
“Maybe not,” you shrug, eyes darting over to the bar. “Hurry up and grab a drink, I wanna dance.”
“Not much of a dancer,” Eren admits, taking the beer that Connie hands him.
“Don’t worry, I’ll do all the work.”
Eren isn’t sure if he likes or loves the sound of that, powerless against that stupid little dress you’ve got on as you drag him behind you to the mass of bodies he had so disdainfully eyed on his way in. He’s greeted by a loud round of shrieking, one more pinch to the cheek by Historia and a slap on the ass from Sasha. You make a show of teasing him for how pink his face gets, but luckily, your friends are instantly distracted by Armin and Connie’s arrival right behind him. You pull him back down, glossy lips pressed right against his ear.
“I really like this song.” You’re barely audible over the pounding music, but even if Eren hadn’t heard what you said, he’d get the gist from the way you grind against his thigh, slow and sensual. Maybe you are actually trying to kill him.
“Yeah?” He’s breathless, irreparably and embarrassingly caught in the little web you’ve woven.
“Yeah.” You’re moving harder against him now, throwing your arms around his neck and grinding your hips into his. Eren’s only thought is to let his hands fly back to your hips, let you use him like a stripper pole to show off.
He can feel eyes on him, not the eyes of friends, but of other men around him, wondering who the lucky asshole is that’s getting the royal treatment from a girl as hot as you. If he were to be truthful, it’s getting him off, how every eye is on you and, by proxy, him, holding you like a lifeline as you let the beat rock through your body.
So this, this is the party girl you claim to have living deep inside you. This seductive, electric creature moving tantalizing against his body, this is the source of the stories Historia tells him that make you blush? How you could ever be embarrassed of this is beyond him; you’re like a little devil, sent straight from hell just to torture him, and Eren’s mouth is watering.
Song after song goes by, and you don’t let up, don’t let him catch his breath for a moment, moving from facing him to pressing your ass into his crotch and then back again, arms above your head or wrapped around his neck. Eren wishes he was mentally sound enough at the moment to feel ashamed that you can absolutely feel how hard he is through his pants right now, but he’s drunk on you, letting you press into him so insistently he has to tug your dress down for you, letting you drive him so crazy that he’s grateful for the loud music now. He’d die if Connie or Armin could hear the way he’s grunting and groaning low under his breath, powerless underneath you.
Suddenly, as if you haven’t just been riling him up for the last half hour, you back away enough to face him, shaking your empty cup and him and mouthing something that Eren’s still too dizzy to make out.
“Huh?”
“Get me another drink!” you shout over the bass, laughing at him.
Eren nods stupidly, darting away from you before he can grab your jaw, pull your lips to his like he so desperately wants to. Finally out of the throng of bodies, he can feel his head clearing, some semblance of sanity crashing over him. What the fuck has gotten into him? It was just one night, and you’ve kept him at arm’s length ever since, only seeing each other under the guise of coffee, or a beer, or Eren insisting you need to continue your education in the wonders of horror films. You’re drunk, that’s the only explanation; drunk and teasing him like you aren’t going to wake up and throw him right back into the friendzone. He rests both elbows on the bar, shaking his head like he’ll be able to knock some sense into himself if he rattles his brain around a little.
Eren orders your vodka soda and a beer and a shot for himself, something to clear his head and keep his blood pressure manageable. Hopefully, at least.
When he turns around, drinks in hand, that plan flies out the door. There you are, center of the dance floor, hands above your head and hips moving like you’re intentionally trying to make him lose his fucking mind. He tilts his head in interest when a man approaches you, grazes his hands over your hips like he means to start grinding against you. Eren can feel his own hands tightening around the bottle and the plastic cup in his hand, but he holds himself back; he’s got no claim on you, and if you’re willing to entertain the man (who, if you ask Eren, is way below your standards), who is Eren to stop you?
You surprise him in the best way: when the man touches you lightly, you whip around, brows furrowed and a little glitter in your eyes so mean that even Eren nearly flinches. He can’t read your lips in the low light, but he snorts to himself anyway as the man puts his hands up and backs away from you, eyes wide. As if nothing had happened, you spin back on your heel, facing a cackling Sasha with a shrug.
Eren feels a wide, proud smile blooming on his face. As much as he feels an unwarranted protectiveness towards you, he likes watching you get your teeth out and stand up for yourself. Before he can make his way back over to tease you, a voice from his left makes his blood run cold.
“Rennie?!”
Two thin arms are tossed around his neck before Eren can even respond, the familiar scent of vanilla and coconut enveloping him.
“Breeze?” Eren chokes out, too shocked to keep his composure. She pulls away from him and grins, a little diamond glittering from her right canine tooth.
“You didn’t text me back, you tease,” she swats at his chest, snags the vodka soda he’d bought for you right out of his hand, taking a sip. Eren takes the opportunity to swallow hard around the lump in his throat, one last tentative glance towards you before he turns his gaze back to Breeze.
She’s cut her hair, something short and choppy that swings around her ears, and fuck, she’s still just as pretty as he remembers, little freckles on her button nose visible in the darkness of the club.
“Didn’t think you wanted to see me,” Eren shrugs, forcing his face to remain schooled into one of cold apathy. She had left him, like he was nothing to her. He hates her, he realizes, god, he hates her so much it burns in his veins. Breeze cocks her head, frowning.
“Why would you think that?”
“You fucking left me, Breeze, don’t be stupid,” Eren makes a move to steal the drink back from her, but she holds it close enough to her chest that he’d have to practically grope her to take it, and his fingers recoil at the realization.
“Are you double-fisting, or did you buy this for someone special?” She teases, brushing right over Eren’s bristly demeanor. When he doesn’t answer, she raises her eyebrows. “It’s for someone. Well, point her out! Is she cute?”
Breeze turns on her heel, standing on her tiptoes to glance through the crowd. Before he can stop himself, Eren’s grabbing her upper arm, spinning her back to face him with anger blazing in his eyes. When he meets her gaze, her baby blues are alight with mischief, and he knows that no matter which direction he moves, he’s losing whatever little game she has him trapped in. That was the thing about Breeze; Eren was always losing her games.
“Fuck, just…just stop it, Breeze. What are you even doing here?”
“I’m back in town, didn’t you see my text?” Breeze shrugs innocently, sipping your drink.
“Okay, well, welcome back,” Eren deadpans, leaving her question hanging in the air between them. He turns back to the bar to order another cocktail for you, having given up hope of getting the first one back from Breeze, but she’s relentless, has always been that way. She slides up to the bar beside him, smiling demurely up at him.
“I missed you, you know.”
“Wouldn’t have guessed,” Eren scoffs, rolling his eyes. Breeze flinches, but Eren knows her better than that. It’s all an act, it always is.
“I never realized how much I hurt you,” her fingers grazing over his cheek nearly burn with how cold they are in contrast to the heavy, thick air around them, “‘m sorry, Rennie.”
“It’s fine.” Eren hates the way he twitches and nearly leans into her touch when she swipes her fingers over him. How many times has he thought about this, seeing her again after all these years? Everything he’s planned out, everything he’s ever wanted to say is lodged in his throat, a jumble of letters and words so squished out of order that they no longer hold meaning. He doesn’t love her, not anymore, but his body reacts before his brain can stop it, a conditioned response.
“Can we talk about it soon? Maybe over coffee?” Blue eyes blinking up at him earnestly.
“There’s nothing to talk about, Breeze,” Eren rolls his eyes, swallowing thick around the knot in his throat.
“There is,” she insists, “I brought this amazing espresso blend back with me from Florence, and–”
“If I say yes, will you leave me alone for tonight?” Eren can feel the exasperation in his tone, can feel the weight of his mistake weighing on his shoulders. It’s fine, he tells himself, he’ll make up some excuse and get out of it. A long conversation with Breeze about their breakup is the last thing he needs.
“Maybe,” Breeze tucks her lip in between her teeth, a little smile playing at the corner of her mouth, “unless you change your mind.”
“We can talk or whatever another time, but I’m going back to my friends, okay? Go find yours.”
“You’re my friend,” Breeze purrs, one hand stroking over Eren’s bicep, “and I haven’ seen you int–”
“Don’t push it,” Eren nearly growls, scowling down at her. He knows half of the hatred buzzing through his veins is reserved for himself, but he’ll unpack that at home with a blunt, not in the middle of the club with you waiting for him on the dance floor and Breeze staring up at him hungrily.
“Always wound so tight,” Breeze hums, reaching a hand up to squish his cheeks, “but fine. I’ll see you soon.”
She miraculously leaves him there with nothing but a wink, taking your vodka soda with her; Eren’s shoulders slump in relief. Knowing Breeze, it was a wonder she hadn’t tackled him right there. When he turns around for the second time, two drinks in hand, you’re already staring at him. Shit.
You don’t look mad– and why would you be? You’re friends, Eren reminds himself. There’s no reason for you to know who Breeze is; he’s never told you about her, and he never planned on doing so. Eren knows Historia, though, well enough to believe that she told you everything from the godforsaken moment he walked into your apartment that day.
He doesn’t like that look you’ve got, though; again, not mad, but he can see the gears turning behind your eyes. Eren has to practically force himself to walk towards you. Your head’s cocked in confusion, something watery and hesitant glimmering in your eyes through the low lighting. If he didn’t know better, he’d say you almost look hurt, but that wouldn’t be fair, would it? You didn’t want him, you had made that abundantly clear.
“Sorry it took me a while. Long line.” Eren hands you your drink, nearly wincing at how naturally the clearly false statement rolls off his tongue.
“Mhm,” you nod, downing nearly half of your drink in one long slurp. Your movements aren’t fluid and dynamic anymore; you’re stiff as a board, bouncing back and forth on the balls of your feet along to the beat of the song. “I…I actually have to pee, do you mind holding this?”
“Now?” Eren blinks, confused. “I just got your drink.”
You offer him a tight smile. “I wanted to wait ‘til you were back, so you could watch my drink. And so you didn’t think I ran off on you or something.”
“Oh, yeah, go ahead.”
He watches you slink away into the crowd, watches the dozens of eyes follow you, surely wondering what happened to the little firecracker in the middle of the dance floor. Eren knows you get like this sometimes, suddenly pensive and nostalgic, knows that per your own admission, you like to handle it yourself. He hadn’t done this to you, had he?
A firm pinch to his cheek distracts him, pulls him down a foot below his normal standing height. Could everyone just stop pinching his fucking face? “Shit, ow!”
“Was that Breeze?” Historia yells directly into his ear. Eren, six-foot-something of hell on wheels, blushes furiously.
“Dude, was that fucking Breeze, or am I too fucked up?” Connie echoes Historia’s sentiment from over her shoulder, eyes comically wide. Armin’s peering around him, eyes flitting back and forth between Eren, Connie, and Historia as he tries to understand what’s happened.
“Who cares?” Eren snaps at Connie. Historia’s grip on his face loosens, releases entirely. If Eren didn’t like the look that you had given him, he hates the look Historia’s shooting at him right now. All daggers and disappointment. She turns on her heel without another word, making a beeline for the bathroom and dragging Sasha along behind her. Eren doesn’t miss Armin’s eyes either; stripping him to the bone without saying a word.
“Quit looking at me like that,” Eren scoffs, waves a hand in Armin’s direction.
“When did Breeze get back into town?” Armin shouts over the music.
“A few weeks ago,” Eren admits, avoiding Armin’s eyes and looking for a spot at the bar where he can escape the heavy gazes of his friends, run away to drown this conversation in a shot of whiskey.
“Did you–”
“I don’t know, man, you know how she is. She just showed up.” Eren knows he’s being unnecessarily gruff, but in his defense, the last hour or so has been a whirlwind of memory and emotion and lust that he doesn’t have the capacity to deal with.
Armin nods simply, takes a sip of his beer. Eren’s known Armin since they were kids, and he knows Armin can read him like a book. If he had a little less pride, Eren would pull Armin to the side and ask if he can make any sense of what’s going through Eren’s head right now because Eren sure as hell can’t. There’s you, with your skimpy dress and your flirty eyes, grinding on him like you’re going to take him home and fuck him stupid again, like you hadn’t demanded an honest-to-god friendship that Eren happens to very much enjoy. On the other hand, there’s Breeze, flighty and just as much of a ghost as she is a real person, popping back into his life and batting her blue eyes at him like she’d never left.
You’re his friend, and Breeze is his terrible ex. There shouldn’t be a choice here– there isn’t, it’s just the way things are, but Eren feels stuck at a crossroads for some reason.
He finally gets fed up with the music and the bumping of bodies around him and storms off to the bar again, biting back the urge to snap at Connie and Armin who he knows are hot on his heels. Eren’s just looked up from the shot of whiskey burning its way down his throat, acknowledging the dizziness that’s come with his drinks for the night, when he spots you.
You don’t look angry, that’s a small mercy you unwittingly grant him, but you’re cowering. Historia, even being shorter than you, is practically pinning you to the wall outside of the bathroom, shouting at you with her finger in your face. Sasha doesn’t look all too pleased either, arms crossed and a deep scowl written into her features. Eren gets a glimpse of your phone in Historia’s other hand that she’s waving around erratically, and wonders what the hell happens in women’s bathrooms. He’s not exactly sure what prompts it, but he checks his own phone. Nothing.
“Are they fighting?” Connie asks, nose scrunched as he peeks around Eren’s arm.
“Looks like it,” Armin nods, wincing as you try to make a grab for your phone from Historia, resulting in Sasha saving you at the last second from face-planting as Historia holds it out of your reach.
“Should we, like, do something?”
“Absolutely not,” Armin and Eren echo each other, looking at Connie as if he’d just suggested they all walk into oncoming traffic.
Eren watches as Historia grabs you by the wrist and drags you out of the bar, your feeble protests doing nothing to stop her insistent steps. Sasha follows both of you, gently pushing you along by the small of your back and shooting a regretful glance at Connie, mouthing a sorry as you all make your exit. It’s hardly been five minutes before Eren’s phone buzzes.
> had to leave. do you mind paying our tab if i venmo you? it’s under reiss.
Eren bites the inside of his cheek again, not worrying in the slightest about covering the tab, but more so the reason for your abrupt exit.
> yeah i got u everything ok?
> thanks a ton! see u next time.
It’s purposefully avoidant, especially coming from Historia, who never misses a chance to make fun of you good-naturedly. If you had been sick in the bathroom or far too drunk to stay, she would have come out and said it. Eren throws his card down, going to pay the hefty tab you and your friends racked up, but not daring to pay his own. After all of the shit that’s just gone down, he owes himself at least one more drink.
Once he’s signed, he pulls out his phone again, thumb hovering over your text thread, then Breeze’s, then yours again. Mindful of Armin’s prying eye over his shoulder, Eren sighs heftily and shuts his phone off, leaning in to order another shot. The following morning’s approaching quickly, whether he wants it to or not, and he’ll save his fucked-up emotions for the daylight.
much ado about nothing chapter 4 - plug!eren x reader, 18+!!!
DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. minors and ageless blogs, please do not read below the cut.
hiiiii again!! here to update you on our lovely reader and her darling eren. now that they've finally done the deed, where does it leave them? will the one night only rule stand? time to learn a little more about our eren...i hope you guys love it so much, i had to play around a LOT with this one to get everything set up for the next chapter. pay attention because every detail counts!!
want to get caught up? series masterlist here :)
chapter-specific cws: alcohol, swearing, mentions of smut but no actual smut, crying in the club
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“If it proves so, then loving goes by haps; Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.” Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare (Act III, Scene 2)
“I was worried sick! Sick!” Historia cries as you enter your apartment, still wearing Eren’s obnoxious Grill Dad t-shirt. “You never texted me, never told me you were staying over, and…what is that shirt? Ew.”
“It’s what I woke up in. Tragic, I know.” Not a complete lie, if you ignore the part where Eren ripped it off of you immediately upon waking, pulling you into his lap to ride him for the umpteenth time.
“Woke up in? It’s four in the afternoon. Did you forget we have plans with Sasha?”
You nearly smack your forehead– you do have plans, it’s Saturday night, which means you're due at Scout’s. “Shit, yeah, I did forget.”
“Get ready then,” Historia gives you a knowing once-over, “you look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
“Quit flirting with me.”
You drag your tired heap of a body into the shower, wanting nothing more than to lay in your bed for all eternity and kick your feet like a schoolgirl, thinking about last night. You and Eren had stayed up all night. Making burgers on the back porch in your matching t-shirts and underwear had turned into him bending you over the kitchen counter, grading your quizzes had turned into a competition of who could hold out the longest with the other’s head between their legs, the shower had turned into you on your knees, swallowing him down your sore throat. You had talked about everything and nothing until you passed out, wrapped in each other, and woke up only to do the same thing all over again.
Historia is absolutely correct. You do look like you’ve been hit by a truck, and you feel like it too. Your cunt throbs between your legs, fucked raw time and time again, and bruises litter your skin, from your hips to your arms to your collarbones, gifted to you by Eren’s mouth and hands. Your fingers trace absentmindedly along a particularly nasty one on your shoulder, and you shudder.
The hot water feels godsent against your skin until you hear the door creak open. You roll your eyes, brace yourself for the interrogation.
“So?” Historia calls over the water.
“So?”
“Don’t be stupid. How was it?”
“Can it wait for Scout’s? I’m going to have to say it all over again to Sasha, anyway.” You’re playing coy; really, you could talk about your night for hours. How he held you, how all the rumors were true, how cute he looked grilling for you. Hours.
“Fine,” Historia sighs dramatically, “most of it can. At least tell me if the rumors are true or not. I’ve literally been dying to know, and Ymir won’t hypothesize with me.”
You poke your head out through the curtain, grinning like a maniac. “It’s huge.”
“So it was good?” Historia returns your half-crazed smile, only making your own grow.
“So good.”
“Aaah!” Historia squeals, reaching through the curtain to grab your hand excitedly. “I literally have to hear everything. Every. Single. Thing. Hurry up and get ready, Sasha’s off at 5:30.”
You do hurry, flying out the door with wet hair, nothing more than a tinted moisturizer on your face and Historia on your arm, skipping and giggling the whole way to Scout’s like schoolgirls. Sasha greets you with stale peanuts and a round of drinks, something fruity and horrible like most of Sasha’s choices, but you’re too excited to comment on it, settling on your stool with a long sip. Just as you’re about to bring up your night, the details fizzing on your tongue like sweet champagne, Sasha leans over Historia to grin at you.
“Guess who got laid last night?” Sasha crows, pointing her fingers at herself. Historia and you both glance at each other, frowning in confusion.
“Wait, what? Who did you hook up with?” Historia tilts her head.
Sasha bites her lips and wiggles her eyebrows. “Hitch. Didn’t you two meet her at Eren’s? She’s like, so gorgeous.”
“What?” You and Historia shriek simultaneously, drinks forgotten.
“You didn’t even tell us–”
“When did you get her number–”
“She’s a lesb–”
“Okay, okay, chill,” Sasha laughs, holding her hands out in front of her, “I got her number the other day from Connie, and yes, she’s bi. Huge win for the gays, if you ask me.”
“Is it anything? Or just, like, a one-night stand?” You venture, voicing your own concern without realizing it. Sasha swats her hand through the air.
“One night for sure,” she says, “you know me, I’m like a tumbleweed. Just blowing on through, and onto the next.”
You visibly flinch. Just blowing on through, and onto the next. That was what you were doing, right? And Eren, too. You slurp the rest of your fruity drink down, flagging Levi over for a beer more to your taste. Historia’s got a pair of pitying eyes trained on you– fuck, it’s annoying how she can practically read your mind– but you don’t care. Drowning your sorrows before they can begin is a perfectly acceptable option in your mind.
“Um…I know someone else that got laid last night,” Historia ventures, smiling encouragingly at you.
“Finally!” Sasha pumps her fist obnoxiously. “Eren?”
Your face warms. “Yeah.”
“How was it?” Sasha’s practically squealing, ignoring the side eye that the Captain shoots her. “Is it really that big?”
“Um,” you hesitate, suddenly feeling bashful.
“Yes,” Historia’s eyes sparkle, “tell her!”
“Well,” your smile grows a little with her encouragement, “the rumors are true. It’s huge, and he was like–”
“I knew it!” Sasha jeers. Levi walks over, shooting her a glare.
“Be quiet,” you push her lightly, “I was saying, he was like, the best fuck I’ve ever had, hands down. I mean, literally all night and all morning. Oh, and it was so embarrassing, when he was cooking breakfast–”
Sasha interrupts you with a frown. “Breakfast? You slept over?”
You return her knitted-brow expression. “Well, yeah. Is something wrong with that?”
“No, it’s just weird,” Sasha mulls her words over before spilling, “Hitch and I got to gossiping, and he just…well, I don’t want to kill your vibe, but from everything Hitch said, he seems like a one-and-done kind of guy.”
“It’s still just a one night stand. I don’t think it matters all that much that I slept over.” You shrug, ignoring the sinking feeling in your stomach. That was what you had agreed upon with yourself, one and done, and it should be music to your ears that Eren’s to eventually fade out of your life now that you’ve gotten the sex out of the way, but it’s just not relieving you like it should.
“And he made you breakfast?”
“Well, he tried. We sort of got…occupied and burnt everything,” you flush, “but he did make some kickass burgers the night before, so no harm no foul.”
Sasha and Historia exchange a look, one you don’t understand, and one you’re not sure you want to pick apart.
“I mean, knowing Eren, that’s crazy. When he was hooking up with Amy back in the day, he would like, summon her in the middle of the night and call her Uber home before she could even get her panties back on,” Sasha laughs to herself, seemingly unaware of the stunned expression all over your face.
You know his history, and yet it still surprises you that the Eren with the silly t-shirts, the Eren that had insisted on grading your students’ quizzes with a pink glitter pen, the Eren that had debated anime lore with you until the wee hours of the morning was the same Eren that Sasha was describing.
“To be fair, he’s only like that because of Breeze,” Historia points out, “he’s not a total asshole.”
“Breeze?” You ran through the mental list of people you knew that were associated with Eren, but you had never heard a Breeze in the mix. You hated her name already, so manic-pixie-dream-girl that your brain was already doing you the favor of painting a picture of her. Beautiful, artsy, effortlessly cool. Blech.
“His ex,” Sasha explains, “apparently he was so in love with her back in college, like beyond in love, buy-a-ring kind of in love.”
“Okay,” you say slowly, “what does that have to do with anything?”
Sasha raises her eyebrows as if it should have been obvious. “Breeze dumping him is what started his whole ‘womanizer’ thing. Apparently she really did a number on him. Like, that’s why he pumps and dumps like crazy. If I had a dollar for every girl I’ve heard of that cried over Eren, I could afford to tip Levi until he actually liked me.”
What the hell? You can feel your face contort in annoyance, trying to mask the way the idea of Eren just adding you to the notches in his bedpost hurts something small and already wounded deep in your chest, but Historia beats you to the chase.
“Don’t say it like that,” Historia nudges Sasha meaningfully, “you’re going to ruin it for her.”
“I’m not, if you would let me finish. Hitch just told me not to let you get your feelings hurt when he kicked you out, but I guess we don’t have to worry about that. You must have something magic in between your legs.” Sasha pinches your thigh with a crude smile. You swat her away, irritated.
“How would Hitch even know–”
“Okay, be serious here,” Historia cuts you off with an eye roll, “you two were all over each other when we went to Armin’s little pregame. Anyone with eyes would know you two were going to fuck each other silly at some point.”
“It’s not like we went out to a candlelit dinner or anything,” you scoff, “it was literally just sex.”
Sasha offers you a sheepish half-smile. “No, I know I just…I told her about your history with that kind of stuff. She was worried.”
“God, Sasha, why would you do that?” You rub your hands over your face miserably. “That’s so embarrassing. What if she tells Eren and he thinks I’m going to, like, fall all over myself just because we hooked up?”
“It just came up!”
“No point in denying it, especially not after Luke.” Historia looks at you pointedly, knowing the weight that that particular name held. You sort of want to smack her, but you haven’t heard his name in so long that you’re frozen. “But it sounds like it was fun, I think you needed it. A little TLC, if you will.”
Your heart thuds in a way it hasn’t in months, in a way it shouldn’t. “I don’t know what you expect me to say. It was late, it was just easier to fall asleep there, it wasn’t some fucking rom-com.”
“Mhm,” Historia eyes you, sipping her drink. You roll your eyes.
“I’m serious. I was dead after everything was said and done. I didn’t even realize I was asleep until I woke up.” Again, not a complete lie. Not exactly, at least. You decide to omit that Eren had brushed your hair softly with his fingers, pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, whispered a goodnight against your skin, woken you up with his head between your legs and his fingers threaded through yours. Those moments feel better nestled in your consciousness, just for you.
“What, did he wear you out?” Sasha smiles evilly at you. The excitement crops back up in your chest– you realize you haven’t even gotten into half of the antics of the night before.
“Honestly, it was so good that I–” you’re cut off by a familiar weight slinging around your shoulders. Shit.
“Talking about my burgers, right?” Eren’s materialized out of nowhere, smirking at you. Your face burns bright red.
Historia grins wickedly. “Yeah, she was telling us all about your burgers.”
“Stor!” You smack at her, embarrassed.
Eren ignores your chagrin, studying you until a little smile curls his mouth. “You look pretty.”
It’s simple, but it makes your stomach do a backflip. You need to get away from him, get away from what he’s already doing to you, but to your own disappointment, you know you’ll sit firmly on this barstool as long as he stands beside you. “I literally got out of the shower and came straight here.”
“So?” Eren smiles wider, thumbing at your lip. “Pretty.”
“What are you even doing here? Stalking me now?”
“Of course,” Eren shrugs, reaching over the bar to grab his beer from Levi’s ice well, a habit you don’t think you’ll ever get used to, “didn’t get a chance to murder you last night, so I’m here to finish the job.”
You’re confused until Historia pipes up. “Not funny, Jaeger. She wasn’t answering her phone!”
Eren scoffs. “Texting someone to ask if they’ve murdered your friend isn’t really a great game plan if you think she’s getting stabbed to death.”
“You did what?” You turn on your friend, eyes blazing.
“I was just checking,” Historia shrugs, unbothered, “he could be some psycho.”
“He’s not some psycho,” you roll your eyes at her, “haven’t you known each other for like, five years?”
“Are you sure?” Eren leans in, voice low and hot against the shell of your ear just like it had been last night as he pounded into you. The memory makes your chest tighten. “Might do all sorts of awful things to you if you’re not careful.”
“Don’t be a menace,” you muster up enough composure to shove him back away from your face, laughing lightly as if he hadn’t just made you weak in the knees.
“Can’t promise anything,” Eren chuckles, sipping his beer, “Armin and Connie will be here any minute, so it’ll go one of two ways. Either I’m babysitting Connie, or I’m going to make an ass of myself. Guess we’re rolling the dice.”
“You’re not working tonight?”
“Sort of,” Eren shrugs, “just a couple guys coming in, so I actually might have fun for once.”
“For once,” you repeat, letting a wicked smile tug at your lips. “Didn’t have fun last night?”
“I think you know exactly how much fun I had last night,” Eren digs his thumb into the bruise at the junction of your neck and shoulder, like he’d memorized exactly where he’d marked you. God knows he had seen you naked enough times to have the opportunity.
“A-Armin!” You choke out a greeting, relieved to see your mutual friend approaching before you completely lose the remaining self-control you have and tackle Eren in the middle of the bar. “Hi! It’s good to see you.”
“What’s it been, six hours now?” Armin smirks at you knowingly. You nearly cover your face in shame. Eren has an open-door policy with his closest friends, something you discovered this morning when Armin had strolled into the kitchen to find you sitting on the kitchen counter in nothing but a t-shirt and your panties, Eren between your legs and kissing you passionately amidst the smell of burning toast.
“She slept over?” Connie’s approached now, eyebrows raised as if Armin had just suggested that you’d run a marathon this morning. Maybe Sasha’s tidbit of gossip did hold some weight. Something flutters in your stomach, something you need to drown with a long swig of beer. “What, did you buy her flowers, too?”
“Mind your fucking business, dude,” Eren spits at him, unusually terse.
“Minding my business,” Connie holds his hands up defensively, eyes wide.
“Are you always this crabby, or are you just on your period?” you ask Eren, smiling up at him good-naturedly.
“Just don’t want them giving you any shit,” Eren shrugs, points at Historia and Sasha, “you’ve got these two for that.”
“They’ve been working overtime, trust me.” You narrow your eyes at Historia and Sasha, who widen their eyes innocently. Eren’s phone buzzes on the counter; he scowls when he checks it.
“Yo, get a load of this asshole,” he calls to Armin, “not walking with that much on me. Come to the Kappa house. What does this guy think I am, fucking UberEats?”
“He buys a lot, though,” Armin says thoughtfully, pausing in his conversation with Sasha to amble over and take a closer look at Eren’s phone.
“Yeah bro, I wouldn’t be saying ‘no’ to the dude dropping $1,500 every two weeks,” Connie agrees, nodding behind his beer. Eren groans.
“You think I should go?”
“Probably,” Armin smiles regretfully, patting Eren’s back, “but it’s around the corner, won’t even take you ten minutes.”
“I’ll come with you, if you want,” Connie says, noticing that Levi’s pointedly ignoring his efforts to order a drink.
Eren glares at Armin, slides his gaze over to you. “I’m sorry this keeps happening, do you mind? I’ll be back in five.”
“Don’t stress on my account,” you laugh, “get to work, you.”
“Five minutes,” Eren promises, abandoning his drink and heading for the door, muttering and swearing under his breath. That leaves you with Armin, who you can’t help but feel guilty around after the incident earlier today.
“So,” you let a deep breath fill your lungs, looking at Armin sheepishly, “I’m sorry about this morning. Obviously we weren’t expecting company.”
Armin waves you off, chuckling. “Don’t worry about it. Wouldn’t be the first time me or Eren walked in on each other in a compromising position.”
You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? Do tell.”
“My lips are sealed,” Armin mimes locking his mouth with a key, “although…”
“What?”
“I can’t say I’ve walked in on anything quite so…domestic recently,” he grins. You frown, wishing more than anything that everyone would stop playing into this idea that you and Eren had a “thing” going on. Sure, he gave you butterflies and cooked you breakfast and all of the shit that people that had a “thing” together did, but it’s been one night, and you know you need to hold your horses before you drop your glass heart all over the sidewalk again.
“I wasn’t aware that one night stands were so serious these days,” you grumble into your beer. Armin laughs again, rubbing your shoulder.
“I’m just teasing you. Eren’s just…not the type to do breakfast in the morning, so you must be something special.”
You’re only capable of a wavering smile in return, already feeling the raw plucking of your overactive heartstrings in your chest. You knew this would happen if you took a chance on him, knew you were playing with fire, but you couldn’t help yourself, and now it’s biting you in the ass.
With your mind wandering into a terribly nostalgic state, you have half a mind to up and leave, especially when Armin wanders back over to Sasha to continue whatever fervent conversation they were having about Game of Thrones. Historia bringing Luke up sure didn’t help to quell the horrible twisting in your stomach; even hearing his name makes the hair on your arms stand up. You can feel the ghost of a shark tooth necklace dangling over you, digging into the back of your head as a pair of arms wrap around you. A booming laugh, sky-blue eyes…
Historia seems to be able to gather as much based on the look on your face, leaning over and placing a sympathetic hand on your arm.
“Are you okay? You seem…off.”
“I wish you wouldn’t have brought Luke up.” Your words lack the venom you want to unleash, sagging under the weight of your heavy heart. Historia nods understandingly.
“I know. It was so long ago, I didn’t know if it was still bugging you.”
“It’s not bugging me, I just wish that he…” you rub at your eyes, not even entirely sure of what you wish of him. Your admission comes out quiet, wounded. “I wish it had never happened.”
“But that’s why you need to move on,” Historia insists, rubbing your shoulder, “to get over someone, you have to get under someone else. That’s like, the rule of breakups.”
“It wasn’t a breakup, we weren’t even dating.” You feel guilty, in a way, for dragging down the mood. You’d run in here, all sunshine and aching legs, ready for a fun night of recounting every nasty detail of your time with Eren, and you hate how just the thought of Luke can pull you right back between your own bedsheets, curled around a carton of ice cream and surrounded by used tissues.
“Hey,” Historia lowers her voice, “just because he was too stupid to throw a label on it doesn’t mean it wasn’t real, okay?”
“It’s ridiculous that I’m still this hung up on him, though. Like, it’s pathetic.”
“It’s not pathetic, but you’re not giving yourself a chance. You had your little fling with Floch—which again, yuck—and now you need to start opening your heart instead of your legs.”
“Poetic, Stor.”
“You’re not the only one who has a way with words,” Historia grins proudly.
“I just don’t even know where to start,” you admit, feeling a dangerous pressure behind your eyes. Fuck, you aren’t doing this, are you? Crying in Scouts over a guy that hasn’t even spoken to you in six months?
“Eren might be a good place to–”
“No,” you snap, “don’t even start with that, okay? Eren and I just met, and it was a one night thing anyway. Besides, it’s…it’s too soon. I’m just not ready to date again.”
“You are,” Historia insists, “you just don’t want to let go of him yet.”
Jesus, you are doing this. You go to respond and cut yourself off with a sniffle, wiping desperately underneath your eyes to mediate the salty tears threatening to slide down your cheeks.
The master of perfect timing today, Eren appears in the doorway, searching the room and locking his eyes on you. You can see the different emotions flicker across his face: happy to confused to concerned. Damn it. You duck behind Historia, grabbing her purse out of her lap and digging around for tissues.
“What happened?” Eren’s behind you, rubbing a large hand between your shoulder blades. You want to bolt for the bathroom and come back out refreshed as if nothing ever happened, but something tells you Eren won’t be so easily shaken off.
“Eren,” Historia sighs, snatching her purse back from you and finding a pack of tissues quickly, handing you one, “I don’t think this is the best time–”
“It’s fine, it’s nothing,” you dab at your tears, “Historia was just telling me about her…her dead grandma, and I got a little emotional, that’s all.”
Eren cocks an eyebrow at Historia, who’s glaring at you. “Dead grandma, huh?”
“They were very close,” Historia lies effortlessly, giving you a sharp pinch of punishment on your thigh.
“I’m buying a round,” Connie nods determinedly, flagging down Levi, much to the barkeep’s dismay, “no crying over dead grandmas tonight. We’re having fun, damn it.”
Historia pales. “I don’t know if that’s–”
“Tequila,” you cut her off, “thanks.”
Connie nods at you, so unusually solemn that you almost feel bad for your little white lie. “When my grandma died, I was a wreck. I’ve got you.”
“Nana’s not even dead!” Historia whispers urgently in your ear, still shooting daggers at you.
“I panicked!” You whisper-shout back, eyes wide. Historia rolls her eyes and grumbles something, but nods along.
“Tequila again?” Eren makes a face, slipping his arm around your waist– fuck, you really wish he’d stop touching you so casually, as if it wasn’t enough to spark a fire in your core– and reaching over the bar for a new beer.
“Well…grandmas are a very sensitive topic for me, so yes, tequila.” You can’t hide the snark in your voice, but you’re not sure where it’s coming from. Eren frowns, removes his arm from you.
“I was just worried, sorry if I overstepped.”
You throw your shot back, shaking your head at the taste. Your hands scramble around for the lime that you set on the bar, Eren chuckling beside you despite himself. Once you’ve collected yourself, feeling the haze of the liquor hit you like a truck, you face him.
“You didn’t overstep,” you sigh, “I just…you know when a bad memory pops up in your mind, and you can’t really get it out, and then all your feelings just start coming out and you can’t– okay, I sound crazy, but I swear I’m not. Maybe it’s just like, a girl thing or something.”
To your surprise, Eren doesn’t look absolutely horrified at your haywire emotions. He only nods, looking at you thoughtfully. It occurs to you that he’s beginning to realize that you are not, in fact, crying over Historia’s very-much-alive grandmother.
“Actually, yeah, I do understand. It’s the worst.” Something about the earnest tone in his voice soothes you, makes you drop your shoulders from where they’re hunched and tense. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
“Positive. Can we just pretend that I’m not crying at the bar for no reason like a crazy person?”
Eren laughs and nods, mercifully deciding not to press you any further, redirecting your attention to where Connie and Sasha are now pelting each other with peanuts. The night ambles on, jokes are exchanged, more shots are taken, and before you know it, it’s reached near eleven. You check your watch and groan; in a little more than seven hours, you’ll be waking up at what’s seemingly the ass-crack of dawn to make a fresh weekly syllabus for the rising English experts of America. A hefty sigh leaves you as you set your phone down, recline back into Eren’s chest where he’s got both arms tossed around your shoulders.
“What is it?” Eren murmurs, nibbling on your ear. You swallow the swell of arousal rising in your throat; that little voice in the back of your head reminding you of your just one night! rule grows quieter.
“I need to wake up early,” you admit, playing with his fingers, “need to leave.”
“We can leave,” Eren doesn’t move from his position, placing a kiss behind your ear that sends goosebumps running up and down your arms, “‘m ready if you are.”
“Leave alone,” you chuckle, finally breaking free of his grip to spin on your barstool and face him. He’s pouting, a little furrow between his brows and a sad glint to his eyes. You have to consciously stop yourself from pulling his face down to yours, pressing your lips to his.
“Alone?”
“I have work to do in the morning.” You’re nervously chewing on your bottom lip, showing your own dishonesty. In truth, you don’t care what time you have to limp over to the library, but you fucked him just last night. And this morning. And over lunch this afternoon. Are you really so insatiable that you can’t follow your one-night-only rule, have to break your fast this soon?
“Even better,” Eren grins, “wasn’t I helpful last night?”
“No,” you roll your eyes, “not exactly.”
“Guess you’ll have to teach me, then.”
“I…” you trail off, how can you even begin to say “no” to a guy this gorgeous?
“You?” Eren cocks an eyebrow.
“I’m not really looking for anything right now.” Blue eyes. Red lips. The shark tooth necklace. It’s a bad response, too vague and too assuming, but it’s all you can come up with.
“Me neither,” Eren shrugs, something unreadable flickering over his features, “but we have fun together. Doesn’t have to be anything serious.”
"I'm not saying it does," god, you are so bad at this, "casual hookups just aren't the best thing for me."
"If we're going to stick a label on it," Eren muses, swirling the beer in his bottle around, "why not friends? With some...benefits?"
"Are we friends?"
"Are we not?"
You’re about to offer another feeble excuse, ignoring the way your heart cracks a little in your chest, when Eren’s phone buzzes on the bar. His eyes flit over to it, and something strange happens. Eren’s cool confidence slides right off of him, a look of…what? Bewilderment? Panic? Something comes across his face, something shaking and fragile and hurt. He snatches his phone off of the bar, angling it so you can’t see, staring at it intently.
“Eren?” you venture, raising a hand to grab his arm in concern, but thinking better of it, and shrinking away. “You okay?”
Eren blinks at you, like he can’t quite remember who you are. “What?”
“Are you okay? You seem…shaken.”
“Yeah, m’fine,” he shrugs you off, pain glittering behind his eyes.
“But you–”
“Said I’m fine.” Eren’s voice is harsh, close to a bark. You visibly flinch, a frown contorting your face. You don’t know him well, but even you can tell that this isn’t like him.
“Okay,” you say, quiet and wounded. An awkward silence settles between you both; you need to leave, but you’re unsure of how to make your move after that. It doesn’t necessarily seem like he wants your company anymore, but the idea of leaving him there so upset isn’t appealing either.
“You ready?” Historia’s voice, dripping with drunkenness, floats over your shoulder.
“Yeah.” You haven’t taken your eyes off of him, waiting for something, anything that might betray what’s going on in his head. Eren’s still staring at his phone, but when you voice your approval to Historia, he turns.
“Leaving?”
“Guess so.” You throw a thumb over your shoulder to where Sasha’s practically falling out of her barstool, demanding a piggy-back ride home from Connie. Eren sighs, something weighted and hefty.
“Sorry I’m being weird, it’s just–”
“We don’t need to talk about it. I get it.” You force a smile onto your face. Maybe you won’t be sleeping with Eren anytime soon, but against all odds, you already care about him, that damned too-big heart of yours thumping sadly in your chest at the defeated expression on his face.
“C’mere.” Eren tugs you to him, hugging you tighter than he ever has. You feel his lips crushing into the part in your hair, as if you’re something precious to him, something valuable. It makes your knees weak, makes alarm bells ring in your head. “I’ll tell you someday, alright? Just…not now.”
You nod against his chest, a watery, wet feeling gathering behind your ribs. “Okay. Only if you want to.”
When Eren pulls out of the embrace, he’s smiling again, light and breezy as if nothing had happened. “You strike me as a good listener.”
“Guilty as charged.”
"See?" Eren offers a small smile. "Friends."
You're so relieved to see that little smile grace his features that you can't argue the point with him any further. You smile back. "Friends."
“Get home safe, okay?”
"I always do. Stop worrying so much," you swipe playfully at his shoulder. It’s been a dizzying night, but the unwavering stability that Eren’s presence offers still grounds you, eases the butterflies in your stomach.
“Never.” Eren waves you off with a wink, and you collect your friends, heading for the exit. When you toss one last look over your shoulder, expecting to meet his playful gaze, you only find Eren frowning at his phone screen, peeling the label off of his beer bottle. Friends.
much ado about nothing chapter 2 - eren x reader - 18+!!
DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. minors and ageless blogs, please do not read below the cut.
welcome back to the much ado universe for our second installment! this chapter is just a lot more yearning and getting to know everyone in the uni, fleshing out the mysterious eren a little more, but there's a treat at the end ;)
@toxrez was kind enough to make some LOVELY fan art of this chapter, please find it linked here i am so appreciative so go send her some love!!!!
specific cws: tee tiny pinch of smut, drug/alcohol use, swearing, historia plotting on your downfall like the meddlesome best friend she is
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“O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” - Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare (Act II, Scene 2)
A solid week or two passes and…nothing. You chastise yourself for being disappointed at Eren’s radio silence, especially since you hadn’t exactly given him a way to contact you. He knows Historia has your number, but he hasn’t reached out to get it from her. And why should you expect him to? the annoying, self-doubting voice in your head corrects you every time you dare to hope, you’re not exactly his usual type.
It’s true; since your run-in, Historia’s been busy doing reconnaissance on anything Eren-related she can pick up from the rumor mill. His dating history is a near-blank, but his “hoe history” as Historia lovingly dubs it, is colorful, full of rave girls and bar rats and Instagram models. You’d drank enough that night that it was entirely plausible you had imagined the excited sparkle in his eyes as you rambled on about misrepresentations of theme in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He had come to Scout’s to work after all, not on the prowl for a sex-starved literature student who couldn’t hold her tequila.
The fact was, he wasn’t interested, cemented after your night out to Scout’s on Halloween. Historia had gone to the trouble of dolling you up in an appropriately slutty outfit on the premise that It’s like, one of the biggest party nights of the entire year. There’s no way he’s not going to be there. But, the bar had been devoid of intoxicating cologne and green eyes, and you’d gone home empty-handed and far more drunk than you’d intended to.
The surprise comes a few days after.
You’re sharing a cup of tea with Historia as she paints your toenails on the couch, scrolling through your phone absentmindedly and enjoying the pampering. As you're moving your thumb to like Sasha's Instagram post, Historia reaches for her phone suddenly and knocks the nail polish bottle over, spilling it all over your– again, hand-painted coffee table. After four years with her, you can only contrive a semblance of annoyance; you’re surprised the table even lasted this long with no major casualties.
“Stor!” You scramble for the bottle, righting it, but Historia’s typing madly on her phone, muttering under her breath.
“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!”
“What?” You can hardly contain your impatience, trying to quell the hopeful flutter rising in your chest. Historia bites her lip, grins wickedly at you.
“I told you. I told you.”
“Told me what?”
In lieu of an answer, Historia turns her phone to you. You squint to read the texts through the recently-cracked screen.
> Pregame at my place for min’s birthday tn u in?
> for sure! what time?
> 9ish u know the addy?
> yep! we’ll be there.
> See if ur friend wants to come too.
“Your friend?” you scoff, pushing her phone away in painfully feigned disinterest when in reality, your heart is pounding in your throat.
“That’s you,” Historia wiggles her eyebrows meaningfully, as if you weren’t already aware of the fact.
“I resent that,” you say, picking up your phone to continue your mindless scrolling until Historia snatches it from you, fixing you with a pointed look. “What? He can’t even use my name? What a douchebag.”
“That’s just how boys text,” Historia swats your concerns away. You bite back your scathing reminder that Historia has been a loud and proud lesbian since her teenage years and has no idea how “boys text”. Sure, you might be grasping at straws to hate him, resist the temptation rising in your throat, but you’re determined. He humiliated you once, and he won’t get the chance to do it again.
“We’re not going,” you say at the same time as Historia talks over you: “We’re going.” You scowl.
“We have to,” Historia shakes your shoulders, “he was all over you at Scout’s, not to mention that mysterious eight inch claim.”
“He’s had more than a week to reach out, and this is how he decides to do it? Summoning me through you?”
“Maybe he was too shy,” Historia shrugs, returning to painting your last few toes.
“Eren doesn’t strike me as a guy who’s too chicken to ask for a girl’s number, especially after everything you found out from Ymir.” Historia’s girlfriend may have been a bit on the anti-social side, but she somehow knows everyone and everything. Despite her bristly demeanor, Ymir possesses the god-given art of pulling the juiciest gossip out of complete strangers, and it isn’t a talent any of you have let go to waste over the years.
“He might surprise you,” Historia looks up at you through her lashes, “this is all just to get you laid anyway, so don’t think too much into it.”
You bite your lip, allowing her to work on your toes as you slip into thoughtful silence. If you’re honest with yourself, like, really honest, you’re not the best at “just getting laid”. In college, you were always the one stuck on the giving end of a one-sided situationship, and your only solution when it would inevitably fall through was to start anew with an equally terrible guy.
As you’ve leaned into your graduate years, you’ve been able to avoid your past pitfalls, sleeping with guys who are far enough away from your type to avoid heartbreak but cute enough to catch your interest, a category Eren should fall into. Something about him has you trapped, though, the same way you used to be. He makes your head spin, renders your normally pin-sharp thinking null and void, makes you say stupid, stupid things. Things like:
“Okay, fine. But an hour, max.”
You reflect on your stupid mistake as you stand on Eren’s porch with Historia and Ymir, in another cute-but-not-cute-but-not-trying-to-look-not-cute (or, at least, you think that’s the criteria) outfit of Historia’s choice. Historia had insisted on bringing her girlfriend to leave you free to “couple up” with Eren, but you realize all that means is you’re arriving to a party full of strangers as a third wheel. Great.
As Historia knocks, your stomach erupts in a bout of nervous grumbling. Not only have you forgotten to eat, but you haven’t been to a drug dealer’s party since you were probably nineteen. It’s actually quite a cute little house, homey brick with a red door and a well-kept lawn, not the trap den you’ve been envisioning all afternoon. The scene is eerily quiet, no LED lights shining in the windows, the low hum of music at a reasonable volume bumping through the walls. It’s not what you expected, but then again, you’re still on the wrong side of the door.
“Coming!” A voice— a feminine voice— echoes through the inside of the house, and one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen flings open the door. Just fucking great. “Hi, you guys are…?”
“Historia,” Historia chirps, not thrown off in the least. You smile timidly, trying to absorb some of the confidence that rolls off of her as she introduces Ymir and then you. The girl eyes you in particular but not threateningly, a hint of a smile playing on her face.
“Mikasa,” she opens the screen door, letting you inside, “Eren mentioned that you were coming.”
“Really?” Historia’s friendly grin grows devious, and you pinch her arm behind your back. “Ow!”
“You okay?” Mikasa frowns over her shoulder.
“Yeah, just stubbed my toe.” Historia scowls at you.
You round a corner to the source of the music, feeling a little like you’re going to puke, but you’re pleasantly surprised by the scene in front of you. It’s not a rager, and there’s nothing suspicious out except a handful of red solo cups and a couple of expertly-rolled blunts being passed around hand-to-hand.
Armin offers you a small wave from where he’s parked on a loveseat beside a striking, intimidating-looking blonde woman, failing miserably to flirt with her. Mikasa falls into an armchair beside another pretty brunette who’s wearing some sort of work uniform and an apron; her name tag reads Hitch<3. You faintly recognize the guy hitting the bong, his name might be John, and the dude beside him is one of Sasha’s best friends, Connie, who’s been posted on Barstool an impressive four or five times.
Eren comes strolling out of the kitchen with a half-eaten piece of pizza hanging out of his mouth and holding his phone, which he’s squinting at, away from his face like an old man. He looks so ridiculous you almost snort.
“Would you just get some glasses already, dude?” John coughs, waving the smoke out of his face and passing the bong to Connie.
“‘On’t need ‘emph,” Eren’s words are muffled by the pizza as he disproves his point entirely, moving his phone back and forth in the air until it seems he can finally see it. When he finishes his text, he takes notice of you, pulling the pizza out of his mouth with a crooked grin. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you try to come off nonchalant, but it doesn’t work, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.
“This is—“
“I introduced myself while you were stuffing your face,” Mikasa waves him off, leaning in to look at something on her friend’s phone. Eren scowls at her, moving along.
“Hitch,” he points to the name tag girl who offers a friendly wave, “Annie,” the blonde girl beside Armin on the couch, “Armin— well, you know Armin. Jean,” the mullet dude who’s still coughing, “and Connie.”
A chorus of greetings sounds off from around the room.
“Thank god we’ve finally got some more estrogen around here,” Hitch says to your little group, “these guys are insufferable with anything less than an equal ratio.”
Historia laughs, bouncing over to make further conversation and dragging Ymir behind her. You want to throttle her as she situates herself on the leg of the armchair (that’s already squeaking under two people’s weight) because now you’re left alone with Eren, who ducks into the kitchen and returns, holding something out to you.
You recognize the label of the local beer you’d been drinking at Scout’s the night you met, raising your eyebrows in surprise.
“You drink this, right?” Eren squints at the bottle, examining it. “I thought I remembered, but there was a million others at the store that looked just like it.”
“It’s my favorite,” you admit, accepting it from him with a little flutter in your chest. He grins again, toothy and pleased with himself.
“Good. Well, get comfortable, sit wherever, smoke whatever. I’ll be right back,” he holds up his pizza crust meaningfully, and you stifle a laugh. Eren Jaeger, the intimidating drug dealer apparently known around campus for his giant dick, doesn’t eat his pizza crusts. The thought eases your nerves; he may be the gorgeous, bad-news guy you’d flirted with a couple weeks ago, but he’s also a real person.
You follow his instruction, sitting beside Connie, not so close as to give the wrong impression, but close enough to invite a conversation. He offers a friendly hand.
“You’re Sasha’s friend, right?”
“Yeah,” you shake it, “Connie?”
“I’m surprised you remember. I’ve been backpacking through Thailand for the last eight months, thought everyone would’ve forgotten me by now.”
“Backpacking through Thailand?” You’re impressed.
“He’s only bringing it up so he can talk about it some more,” Jean grunts, shooting Connie an annoyed glance.
“I’d love to hear about it,” you say honestly, “I’ve never traveled.”
Connie launches into a detailed story of his flight over, being crammed between two families with crying babies, the different cities he visited, his bout with food poisoning on a twelve hour bus ride on his side trip to Cambodia. He’s funny and energetic, and it soothes you, lets you relax into the couch a little as you listen intently, asking a question here and there. You’re so caught up in his antics you don’t notice Eren sauntering over, plopping down beside you on the couch.
“Are you talking about Thailand again, bro?” Eren groans, wiping a hand over his face. Connie’s face flushes pink as he frowns.
“That’s what I’m saying!” Jean directs his red-eyed glare at Connie.
“Don’t stop him,” you argue, feeling bad as they dogpile on their friend, “I’m listening, Connie.”
Connie smiles gratefully, continuing on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. Eren sighs, resigned to his fate, and settles into his seat to your left, throwing an arm carelessly over the back of the couch, and, coincidentally, around your shoulders. You feel awful because now you’ve lied; you’re not listening to Connie at all, too encapsulated by both the physical and the emotional weight of Eren’s arm around you. No, you reprimand yourself, he’s just getting comfortable. Don’t read into it.
The hour you promised Historia flies by. You’re thoroughly entertained by Jean, Connie, and Eren’s dynamic; Jean seems like a bit of a hothead, bickering with Eren at every opportunity, but Connie balances them out nicely, providing comedic relief at the perfect moments. When you finish your first drink, Eren’s quick to offer you a second and eventually a third, heading off for the kitchen and throwing your one-hour rule right out of the window. One more won’t hurt, you think, especially since you’re actually enjoying yourself. With the lack of distraction, you’re now free to look across the room where Annie, Armin, Historia, Mikasa, and Ymir are all huddled in a circle around a phone. You hear Historia’s drunken giggle and decide to interfere.
“What are you guys doing over there?”
Historia and Ymir exchange an inspired look that makes you sick to your stomach as Eren returns, throwing his arm back over you and peering at the screen in Historia’s hand. “Is that that Truth or Dare app?”
“You know it?” Historia’s eyes sparkle; you can feel it in your bones that’s she’s just concocted a fresh form of torture for you.
“Sort of.” Eren scratches his head, unwitting to the plot you can see unfolding right in front of you.
“Play with us, then!” Historia smiles innocently, beckoning you over. You know better and start to hesitate, but Eren smirks at you.
“What? Too chicken?”
You scowl at him childishly, and turn back to Historia, gesturing to her to bring the game over to the center of the room. You all get re-settled with the new focal point of Ymir’s phone as Historia explains the rules: the phone will pass from player to player, and whoever is holding the phone gets the opportunity to read a truth or a dare prompt to someone in the circle. Simple enough, you think, relieved that Historia won’t have the creative liberty to think of anything humiliating.
“We’re playing the spicy version,” Ymir smirks, “hope you guys don’t mind.”
Fuck. So much for that idea. You try to stay calm under Eren’s arm, praying he doesn’t feel your body tense up.
Historia goes first, daring Connie to reveal his body count. The phone moves to Armin, who has to dare Annie to kiss him on any body part of her choosing, a pink stain erupting on his cheeks when she leans in to peck his nose. The dares progressively get worse until you’re all in stitches laughing at Ymir and Jean tentatively touching tongues, Ymir retching into her hand dramatically afterwards.
“Okay, I’m not that bad,” Jean frowns, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I have an aversion to men,” Ymir hisses, narrowing her eyes. Historia pets her girlfriend’s hair soothingly.
“Down, girl. Go, Armin!”
Armin presses the little rolling dice icon on the screen, and the game chimes as it arrives at its decision. Wide, blue eyes meet yours, and he says your name, asks the question.
“Truth or dare?”
You want to pick truth, take the safe route, but after a couple of drinks and Eren calling you a chicken, you can’t convince yourself to. See, Eren? I can be fun.
“Dare,” you answer confidently. Historia winks at you; you ignore her. Armin reads the screen, the corner of his mouth curling up mischievously.
“It’s daring you to sit on Eren’s lap.”
You blanche. The lap-sitting dare’s already been called several times: Armin himself is reading your dare out from where he’s perched on Hitch’s thighs. But Eren? Surely, Historia rigged it; you look to her in a panic, but her face is simply split into an anticipatory grin. You’re frozen for a beat until Eren shuffles around beside you.
“C’mon then,” Eren grunts, hooking you under the armpits and scooping you up onto his lap, wrapping his arms around your stomach so your ass is pressed firmly into his crotch. You look over your shoulder at him, positive that your eyes are comically wide in surprise; you’ve been able to feel the ripples in his arms through his hoodie all night, but you hadn’t expected him to be so strong. Eren shrugs from behind you, an impish smile on his face. “‘S just a dare. I don’t bite.”
“Don’t believe him,” Mikasa deadpans from across the table, “he’s got rabies.”
That lightens the tension between you, and you exhale an easy laugh, wiggling around on Eren’s lap until you’re comfortable. You hear Eren suck in a sharp breath behind you, low enough that only you catch it.
“You okay? Am I too heavy?”
Eren meets your eyes, almost looking a little startled that you heard him. “No, yeah, m’fine.”
There’s a strain to his voice that wasn’t there before, but you opt to ignore it, hoping you aren’t making him uncomfortable. You have to force yourself to focus on the game and not the heat of his hands sinking through your shirt, unmoving from their station on your hips. The game continues amidst several roaring rounds of laughter: Jean has to “slide his hand up Armin’s thigh suggestively”, Mikasa has to lick Hitch’s neck, Historia has to tell everyone her favorite sex position.
Hitch gets dared to kiss you next, standing and walking to where you sit on Eren, giving you a chaste peck on the lips full of tipsy giggles. Jean, Connie, Eren, and Armin are rendered silent, much to the girls’ amusement.
“Hello?” Mikasa waves a hand in front of Jean’s unblinking eyes; he swats her away irritably. You peek at Eren to see a perverted grin splitting his face; he looks happy as a clam. You pinch his thigh, making him jump.
“Ow! Damn, what was that for?” He rubs his thigh, voice wounded.
“Being a creep,” you say, but the smile twitching at your lips betrays you. Eren’s eyes grow imperceptibly darker, in a private way that feels like it’s just meant for you.
“If you think that’s bad…” he trails off, shaking his head and wrapping his arms against your stomach, snuggling you into his chest. You kick your feet in protest, laughing as you try to shove him off, but Eren’s got you pinned to him, eyebrows raised in amusement at your struggle. He sneaks a hand to your ribcage, digging his fingers in to tickle you. “C’mon, you’re not even trying!”
“Stop, Eren- fuck, that tickles!” You manage to choke out around your furious giggles, worming around in his iron grip.
“Can you lovebirds cut it out?” Jean shoves Eren’s shoulder harshly, nearly knocking you both off the couch. You slide off of his lap, already having fallen halfway off in the struggle, cheeks burning as you come back to the room full of half-strangers and out of the little moment you’ve just had with Eren. You can feel Historia’s eyes burning a smug hole in your forehead. “It’s almost eleven, if we’re going out we need to get moving.”
“Shit, really?” Eren’s still catching his breath, pulling his phone out of his back pocket to check for himself. Sure enough, 10:57 is glaring white on the screen back at him. The past week hits you, and suddenly you’re so tired, unwilling to face Scout’s or wherever they’re planning on going. “Scout’s or Devil’s Paradise? What are you guys in the mood for?”
You feel the permanence of the few drinks you’ve had and the lack of sleep this past week setting in, eyes heavy. “I think I’m probably just going to head home.”
You’re met with a resounding round of protests from the group. Only Eren is there to come to your defense, swinging an arm around you and pulling your ear to his mouth. “Want me to take you?”
He’s only had one beer, safe enough and far preferable to stumbling through the cold streets half-drunk and alone. You nod; you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or the exhaustion, but your eyes flutter, and you lean into his embrace.
“I’ll meet up with you guys later,” Eren says, waving his friends out the door; his tone leaves no room for argument. Ordinarily, you’d be embarrassed at the way he speaks for you, but you’re grateful for it now, legs draped over his while the rest of your party files out.
“Text me when you’re home!” Historia calls, she and Ymir making up the caboose of the line that files out of the door in search of more fun to be had. You’re not worried about missing out, content with the warmth of Eren’s body against yours. Once the door shuts, you two sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Eren scrolling on his phone and you drifting dangerously close to sleep, curled into him.
“Ready?” Eren’s inquisition isn’t pressing; he actually sounds more than happy to let you lay here for the rest of the night, let you take advantage of his status as a personal space heater and cuddle up for the next few hours.
“Ready,” you reluctantly sigh, allowing him to pull you to your feet and out the door. You let him practically carry you, leaning on him heavily until he buckles you into his obnoxious muscle car. Eren starts the engine only for metal music to come blaring out of the speakers.
“Fuck!” Eren jumps, scrambling to turn it down. “Sorry.”
You’re so tired you’re barely phased, laughing sleepily and pulling your knees to your chest, making yourself comfortable in the seat. “S’ok.”
The red LED lights lining the accents of the leather inside soothe you, the movement of the car rocking you softly as he pulls out and onto the street, driving you home. This is far too comfortable for a potential one night stand at best, but you’re too exhausted to care, little tidbits of Elizabethan English literature rocketing around in your tired mind. The car ride is short, your head bobbing against the cool windowpane as you watch the streetlights pass by. When you arrive, Eren places a hand on your knee, warming your skin through your jeans.
“Sure you’re okay?” You don’t miss the note of concern in his tone, smiling to yourself.
“Yeah,” you answer, shaking yourself awake as best you can, “I’m fine. Just tired, s’all.”
Eren looks dubious, searching your face. “You don’t seem like the type of girl to fall asleep at the pregame.”
“It’s school,” you admit, “and work. I’ve gotten like six hours of sleep in two days.”
“Want me to walk you up?”
“You don’t have to.”
“That’s not what I asked.” The authority in his voice isn’t something you’ll soon forget, feeding the flames in your core.
“I’m a big girl, Eren, I’ll be fine. I just have to hop through that door,” you point at the illuminated door in the parking garage, “into the elevator, and then third door on the–”
“Left. I remember,” Eren finishes for you, leaning onto the center console. He’s very close to your face, close enough for you to graze your hand over his cheek, which, you do, curiosity and beer outweighing your common sense. Your eyes are wide open now, studying him. You know you’re staring at his lips, too forward for your relationship as it stands, but you’re tipsy and far beyond tired and you can’t help yourself. In the low lighting of the parking garage, he’s gorgeous, eyes almost glowing.
You’re not sure who leans in, but you feel your lips brush together, tentative and shaky. He leans into you further, pressing his lips fully against yours. His mouth is even hotter than his hands were, searing as he kisses you deeper. You can feel his hand come up to caress your cheek, cupping your face and pulling you closer to him. You hate yourself for it, but a little whimper escapes you, pouring into him. Eren takes advantage of your open lips, swipes his tongue against your teeth, and before you know it, he’s pulling you over the center console to straddle in his lap.
He’s not too rough with you, but he’s insatiable, his hands traveling up your back, one landing on the back of your neck to hold you firmly to him and the other gripping your ass through your jeans, drinking you down like he’s a man starved. You nip at his bottom lip, wide awake now and grateful for the slight tint to his windows. Your hands run through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp, and it earns you a throaty groan from deep inside his chest, making you smile against his lips.
“You sure you don’t want me to walk you up?” Eren murmurs, mouthing at your jaw. The sound of his voice grounds you a little, and you giggle breathlessly as he brushes over a particularly ticklish spot.
“Told you I’m a big girl,” you whisper, “what do I need you for?”
Eren smirks, dark and dangerous. “Might need me to protect you. Who knows? There’s all sorts of awful guys who would love to take advantage of a pretty little thing like you.”
“Is that so?”
“Mhm,” Eren’s half-hooded eyes flick down to your chest and back up to your eyes, making your regretful response twice as difficult to get out.
“I need to go to bed, and you need to go with Armin’s birthday thing,” you sigh, leaning back against the steering wheel. You’re well aware you don’t have the willpower to turn him down to your lips inches away, but it’s late, and you could use the sleep. Not to mention the 8:00 am lecture waiting for you first thing in the morning. “Isn’t he like, your best friend?”
Eren groans dramatically, throwing his head back against the headrest.
“Armin won’t mind, I mean,” he traces a hand up your body, fingers grazing you from hip to chest, “just look at you.”
“What?” You cock your head playfully. Eren rakes his gaze over your body, stopping in a few choice places, something wicked pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Really gonna make me say it?”
You smirk down at him. “Maybe.”
“You’re trouble,” he tackles you again, pulling you into another kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and giggles. Eventually you find the willpower to shove yourself away from him, knocking your spine into the steering wheel with a short honk that makes laughter spill from both of you.
“Okay, really, unless you would also like to wake up at 6:30, I should get going.” You dab at the little tears pricking your eyes, trying to catch your breath. “Plus, you’d be a bad friend if you didn’t head back out for Armin’s birthday.”
“Can’t have that,” Eren agrees, regret flickering over his face. He reaches for his door handle so you can climb out on his side, but he changes his mind, withdrawing his hand and going for his phone instead.
“What is it?”
“Before you go,” Eren slides his phone open, tongue caught between his lips— God, he’s so fucking cute, “lemme get your number.”
You can’t help yourself, crossing your arms over your chest. “Oh, so now you want my number.”
Eren frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Could’ve asked Historia all week.”
An indignant flush rises in his cheeks. “I’m a man. I wanted to ask you myself, in person. Plus…”
The rest of his words taper off into a quiet mumble that you can’t quite catch. “Plus what?”
“I was nervous,” Eren raises his gaze to meet your eyes sheepishly, cheeks now bright red. Your heart thuds in your chest; he really is beautiful, with his long dark lashes and strong nose. You can hardly conceptualize the fact that he’d just kissed you- twice. A teasing smile tugs at your mouth.
“Nervous?”
“‘M not exactly your type, am I?” You can barely hold your laugh in, remembering your own cyclical, self-disparaging thoughts over the last few days.
“Give me that.” You snatch his phone and type your number in, handing it back to him with a smile. “Okay, I really should head up now.”
Eren concedes, throwing his door open for you to clamber off of his lap, stand in the doorway of his car, look down at him. Eren stares at you for a beat, running his eyes up and down your body. You start to step back, bid him goodnight, when he breaks out into a boyish grin, raises a hand to flick two fingers at you in a come-hither motion.
“Get back over here.”
You dissolve into giggles, feeling light as air, leaning back into the car to indulge him in one- no, two, or maybe three more kisses before you’re pushing yourself off of him with a quiet moan. “Eren, I need to go to bed, really, I do.”
“I know,” he sighs, leaning back into his seat. If you dare to look down, you can see where his pants are starting to tent, a thick bulge behind the zipper. You swallow hard; maybe he’ll end up living up to his impressive reputation after all. It takes every ounce of nerve in your body, but you step back from the car and wave meekly.
“Goodnight, Eren.”
“I’ll see you,” Eren smiles, shutting his door. Before you can even make it through the door, your phone buzzes, and you pull it out with a knowing smile.
> nice ass ;) sleep tight
It's so crude it makes you laugh out loud, turning around to see Eren snickering to himself childishly in his car. You toss him your middle finger as a response, only making him laugh harder. You don't hear the roar of his engine until you're already stepping into the elevator. The ride up feels long, exacerbated by your exhaustion, and you lean heavily on the wall, nervous butterflies dancing in your stomach as if you’d just had your first kiss. Your phone buzzes again, and you know who it is before you even unlock the screen.
> make it home safe? it’s ok if u don’t answer bc ur wrapped up in bed with ur boy toy ;)
Historia’s text would have ordinarily annoyed you, but you’re so giddy and love-drunk you giggle to yourself, thumbs trembling as you type back.
> he just dropped me off. he’s heading back to u guys now
> what???? nothing happened?
> i don’t kiss and tell
> aha! so u DID kiss him
> maybe…
Your phone buzzes close to a dozen times after that, but you pocket it, figuring you can just fill Historia in in the morning. You want nothing more than to collapse in your bed, but the lingering taste of Eren on your lips is distracting you. All throughout your skincare and your tooth brushing and your changing clothes, it still feels like his hands are ghosting over your body.
When you finally tuck yourself in, you slither a hand down your body and into your pajama shorts, rubbing mindlessly until you cum with the memory of Eren’s mouth and everything it might be capable of on your mind and his name on your tongue. You feel a lick of hot shame as you throw your shorts into the hamper, but a rush of elation follows it up. Eren wants you just as badly as you want him, and now, you’ve gathered enough evidence to do something about it. One good fuck, you decide, and he’ll be out of your system. Just one.
leon’s love language is painfully obvious. it’s arduous for him to vocalize his love for you but you’ll wake up to your favorite flowers on the dresser, no sign of the culprit though
god forbid he sit or lie down in your house in which case you can’t pry your cat off of him. that’s her bf before he’s yours
leon isn't really one for pet names but there is an occasional 'baby' that he lets escape him when he's feeling especially enamored
it’s a laborious task to get leon to deviate from rigid gender ideals. it’s not a particularly orthodox or traditionalist ideology for him per se as much as it is him believing he needs to bear the brunt of providing
you’d like to have cute screenshots of your text chains but there’s a million results for the phrase “call me” from him in your texts because he’s what’s colloquially known as dogshit at conveying emotion over the sms and would rather hear your voice
no social media warrior. he might make an instagram to like your posts or something but he’s got no particular inclination
got his hands on the record his aunt taught him how to dance to once and holds you real close in his dim lit living room. he’s got a habit of tucking your head in the crook of his neck, you’re not sure if that was also taught. leon thinks dancing with you makes him feel a little normal
his phone wallpaper is you with smudged lipstick next to him with scarlet red lipstick marks littering his face and neck. he’s got a documented smile for once
swears he doesn’t want kids but won’t look at you when you’re holding one. one “how long you guys been together again?” and you know he’s awkwardly akimbo and biting his bottom lip in pure fluster behind you
i have overdue calc homework but this is more important
Summary: A week after your intense argument with Leon, all those late nights overworking yourself, the pressure from your parents, the guilt from hurting Leon over your mistake, and the grief of your brother finally makes you crash. Unfortunately for you, it's when you get stuck in an elevator with your boss, Leon S. Kennedy.
Song: Someone Great - LCD Soundsystem
part 4 of this
Leon S. Kennedy’s office was silent the entire week. He dumped files on your desk, less than usual because he didn’t want to be too mean, but there was an overall lack of warmth in his demeanour towards you. You didn’t care anyway. What were you thinking, having a silly crush on your boss? It was probably the fact that you had to spend pretty much all day with him, just a small crush to keep you sane in this grey building.
It wasn’t the way his stubble messily dragged around his jaw and that leathery smell that followed him everywhere, the scent that made you instantly relax. It wasn’t his salt and pepper hair that floppily hung around his face. It wasn’t the way he made you feel so confident in yourself or the way he made sure you were comfortable in every sense possible.
You began to stutter through your sentences, running into the same obstacles you used to, all over again. For some reason, it felt like you were crumpling and twisting back into yourself, and all the blossoming and growth you made in your time with Kennedy had withered away. Just the same shy, awkward girl you were before. Did your growth become stagnant, or had you reached a peak and now you were rolling back down the hill again? Good things don’t last forever, and you learned that the hard way. You had felt weak and vulnerable for allowing yourself to develop an attachment to Leon and working for him. You hadn’t even notice that you allowed yourself to do such a thing.
“Don’t forget about dinner tonight,” your mother said through your phone that was sitting between your ear and your shoulder as you sorted through the files in the archive room.
“I won’t,” you mumbled, frowning at the labels on the files. Every other week, your parents demanded a Friday night dinner. Sometimes there were guests, sometimes they tried to get you with sons of old business bores, sometimes it was just you and them.
“It’s important you come this time, the girls from my charity are coming over and they’d love to see how much you’ve grown up. Your father’s co-workers are coming too, very important men from his firm,” she told you. You gave up searching for the warmth in her voice, because it had frozen over after the storm of your brother passing away.
“I’ll be there,” you said absentmindedly.
“Yeah. Maybe it’s best you don’t wear that white blouse you were wearing last time. Your father found it rather casual.”
You looked down at your white blouse, and cringed, “I won’t.”
“You can finally say you’re doing something serious with your degree now. Isn’t that great, sweetheart?” she asked, and you found it hard to tell if she was being sardonic.
“I’ve always been doing something serious with my degree, mom.”
“Well, I can’t say it did to me and your father. But this job sounds like real responsibility, something we can actually talk about over dinner,” you heard her ushering her cleaners around in the background.
“Yeah.”
“And don’t be shy. You always had a bad habit of that, ever since you were a young girl.”
“I won’t,” you replied, hoping that she could get the hint to leave you alone with your increasingly monotonous tone.
“Alright then. Try to look presentable. See you tonight honey.”
“Bye mom.”
The call ended. Somehow, she always made you feel like you were sixteen again. Sixteen and stupid.
You stared at the phone for a split second before you shoved it back in your pocket. It was hard to tell whether this splitting headache came from your mother’s voice or the presentation that needed to be finished by tonight.
Bringing back files to the office swiftly, Sherry walked up to you, her eyes lighting up as soon as they landed on you.
“Hey, y/n, I need to talk to you about something,” she pulled you aside, her light blond hair looking white and halo-like under the harsh office lights.
“Yeah?”
“First of all, are you okay? You look… horrible,” she murmured, her eyes worriedly darting around your face.
“Thanks,” you said sarcastically. Understanding sarcasm was a lesson taught by Kennedy.
“I’m being serious.”
“I’m fine. What did you need to talk to me about?” you questioned, suspicious of her beaming grin.
“Well,” she led you out of the office area and into the quiet corridor that led down to the toilets. Her head turned from side to side before she leant her neck towards you, “I’m getting married. And I want you to come to my wedding.”
“Oh my god! Sherry! I- Oh my- I’m so happy for you!” you gasped, squealing quietly, bouncing on your heels.
“Shhh! I want to keep it quiet. It’ll be small. Just a few friends,” she smiled, the two of you giggling like schoolgirls. “Leon is coming too.”
The sound of his name was strange, not the familiar warmth that you used to feel when you heard it. Instead, it was cold and slimy.
“Oh… that’s nice,” you said, discovering your old interest in the floor.
“That’s nice? Did you two fight?” she asked and then paused, “honestly, that makes sense. Leon has been miserable all week.”
“We didn’t fight.”
“Look. I’m not gonna pry, but maybe fix it before the wedding?”
Be a grown up, was basically what she was asking the two of you.
“There’s no fixing needed. We’re fine,” you insisted.
“Alright. I really want, even need, the two of you there so, please,” she begged, holding your hands.
“Of course, Sherry. I would never miss your wedding,” you gave her a reassuring smile, straightening your posture.
You sat back at your desk, the lines of data slowly swirling and dancing around the screen. Head throbbing and uncontrollably shivering, a tense heat burrowed itself in your forehead pulling and twisting. When you wiped your forehead, sweat glided across your hand. It’s just the summer, that’s all. But does the summer make your eyes burn every time you blink, make your body feel unbelievably heavy and make you sway when you walk?
As you stood up, a pounding feeling circled your head, and you grabbed the edge of your desk. You wiped away the hairs that were slicked to your face and drifted your fingers across your desk as you walked over to Leon’s desk, placing your finished report on it.
His pen stopped moving across his paper and he paused before looking up at you. You looked hollow. Your forehead was glistening with sweat and your eyes struggled to focus on him, like you were trying to stay present in the room that was spiralling out of your control.
“You look awful,” He remarked, raising an eyebrow. You just wanted to slap the cocky look off his face, how dare that be the first three words he said to you all week. But you could feel a stone forming in your throat and you internally cursed yourself for being such a big crybaby.
“Full of compliments,” you mumbled, turning around to go back to your desk, stumbling clumsily in your heels.
“You’re sick,” he observed, immediately standing up from his chair. Oh, so he has decided he cares now.
“I’m not,” you denied, having the same tone of a toddler beginning to have a tantrum.
“You are,” he said firmly, a temper beginning to boil.
“It’s just the summer. I’m a bit hot,” you dismissed him with your hand.
“You’re pale and sweaty,” he insisted, “sit.”
“I’m not a dog,” you retorted, your eyebrows furrowing, your breathing becoming uneven and hard to control.
“You’re going home.”
“I am not. You know I have that report and presentation for your mission due in tomorrow,” you told him, stepping forward.
“You’re going home,” he repeated, walking over to you, but you stepped back, swaying. He grabbed your wrist to make sure you didn’t end up on the floor.
“No! Everything is unfinished, I’m going home after they’re finished,” your voice raised, jerking your wrist away from him.
“What is wrong with you? Just take the damn day off,” he shook his head, your stubbornness had him in disbelief.
“I’m not letting the team down!” your voice was raised, feeling the same anger you did in the car park.
“You’re letting me down by coming into my office barely conscious and pretending you’re fine!” he hissed, gesturing towards you.
“I just-“ you stammered, trying to remember everything you needed to complete, “I need five more minutes,”
“What you need is a bed.”
“What I need-,” you were becoming out of breath, “what I need is to finish my work!”
He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. You weren’t warm, you were literally burning. Your flushed cheeks and glassy eyes stared at him, slightly out of place. For a split second, you could feel his breath on your skin.
“That’s it. You’re going home,” he said with a finality and unplugged your computer. He had never been forceful like this before.
You let out something between a whimper and a cry, “I can’t rest unless it’s finished.”
“Jesus, y/n, I’ll do it myself. I’ll do anything for you to be at home and resting right now,” he sighed, his eyes drifting back up at you, the limp wire in his hand, “You are not being very professional right now. Look at you.”
“Oh please, when has this ever been professional?” you scoffed, crossing your arms. Who does he think he is to start lecturing you?
He ignored you.
But he couldn’t ignore the grave of the office goldfish outside the building, he couldn’t ignore the fixed shower head, he couldn’t ignore the anger he felt when he heard your mother on the phone, he couldn’t ignore how hearing your laugh eased something in him, he couldn’t ignore the way he chased after you when he found your resignation letter.
“Elevator. Now,” He demanded, grabbing your bag and then holding your shoulder to keep you upright.
“I don’t need an escort.” You mumbled, bringing your shoulders up to your ears to inch away from his touch.
“You do when you come into my office like this.”
You didn’t respond.
The elevator doors shut.
The two of you stood next to each other, a very clear, clean space between you. He stood there in his navy suit, no tie due to the heat. You stood there in your white blouse and black pencil skirt. His eyes flickered to the necklace that shimmered alongside the beads of sweat that clung to your collarbone. Your eyes flickered to his hands that were tightly clenching onto your bag.
The elevator began to hum, and that weird tickly feeling in your stomach occurred whenever you got in the elevator.
Silence fell.
But of course, Leon Kennedy can never keep his mouth shut.
“I’ll finish your presentation,” he started, shoving his other hand in his pocket.
“No- you won’t understand where I left off,” somehow, you still had enough fumes to argue with him.
“It’s fine. I’ve got this,” he reassured you, softening his tone.
“I’ve got it! I had it but you’re sending me home!” you turned to him sharply, your head spinning in response.
“Because you’re-,” he was going to continue arguing back, but the elevator had enough of your bickering and shook and lights flickered. It wasn’t moving downwards or upwards. This threw you further into your disorientation and your body swayed backwards.
“Woah,” he grabbed your arm, his other hand dropping your bag and instinctively held your waist to steady you.
“Leon-“ you said, your voice thinning as you tried to balance yourself.
“Hey, I’ve got you,” he held you firmly, "the elevator has really chosen the wrong time."
You were fighting a pointless battle. The last time you got home before the sunset was a month ago. You spent your weekends restlessly finishing off other department’s work. The fridge hadn’t seen real substantial food for a while. Your parents just kept demanding and demanding, and you felt as if you were being eaten alive by the two of them. A machine is what you were to them. When you thought you were growing away from the shy, perfection-hungry teen, one mistake detonated the bomb inside of you.
What would your brother think? The way he tore your family apart. Left you all alone. Suddenly you were the one experiencing everything first, without an older brother to guide you through it. He would probably call you an idiot for behaving this way, that you were being silly, that you looked terrible before laughing and giving you a hug which always made you burst out crying.
Your body couldn’t keep up with the rate at which you were abusing it.
Your knees buckled and Leon fell onto his knees, trying to catch you before you hit the floor.
“Told you I wasn’t good enough,” you murmured into his chest, shivering and trembling in his arms. His hand was holding your shoulder, his other hand firm around the backs of your knees.
“You just collapsed and I have to hold you in my damn hands to keep you upright and you’re telling me you’re not good enough?” he lets out a short, breathy laugh, freeing his hand of your leg and moving the hair out of your face.
“I messed it all up,” you said hoarsely, your trembling fingers holding onto his jacket, just to ground yourself.
“Yeah, you did,” he sighed, “you’re scaring the shit out of me.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, “just wanted to earn my place in your office.”
“You earned it the minute you got the job. Quit needing to prove yourself all the damn time,” he whispered back. “You’re killing yourself.”
“I just wanted to be good enough,” you mumbled, half delirious, staring up at him with glassy eyes.
He was there, his eyes darting all over your face as if you were going to shatter at any second.
“You already are. You’ve always been good enough for me, the minute you walked in with those color-coded folders,” he let out another small laugh, his thumb rubbing circles into your shoulder. You squirmed, trying to keep your head up right and your eyelids open.
“Leon,” you croaked, fingers tightening around his collar, “don’t go.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he murmured, his gaze flickering to the closed doors of the elevators and then shooting back to you as if looking away from you for a second could make you disappear alone.
Your eyelids were heavy, succumbing to your utter exhaustion. Leon shook you gently,
“Hey-,”
“Tired,” you barely made out the word as your grip loosened.
“I know,” he said, “but I need you to stay awake until we get out of the elevator.”
“Demanding… so much,”
“Well, you collapsing in an elevator is kind of forcing my hand right now,”
“Are you still mad at me?” you asked, your eyebrows furrowing weakly and then relaxing again, like the small movement required all of your effort, “the car-park argument.”
“That is something for later. All I need you to do right now is to keep looking at me.”
“Still demanding.”
“You’re the one who chose the demanding boss,”
“…..didn’t.”
“Did.” A smirk was tugging on his lips until your eyes began to close again, and it vanished off his face. “Hey- keep arguing with me- just keep talking.”
“Trying…always trying so hard for you,” your words dragged and slurred.
His jaw tightened. He knew you had family problems, but he didn't want to believe that you were pushing yourself to your very limits because of him. You were meant to be safe in his office, in the DSO building and supported. That always eased something in him, knowing you don't have to deal with the physical horrors he faced.
But this wasn't safety. Had he pushed you too hard? Did he make you feel like you had to earn you place every day?
You walked into his office with those stupid folders and your stupid stuttering sentences and he immediately knew you were the best person for the job. You weren't meant to go almost unconscious over it.
“Hey. You’re not ruining yourself to keep up with me. Hell, you’re not even keeping up with me- you’re overqualified for half the bullshit I throw at you.”
“Never feels like it."
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” he grabbed your drifting chin softly, tilting it to face him, “Hey. Eyes up. You promised arguing.”
“Tired,” your voice died out, alongside the flame inside of you. You were left shivering, teeth clattering softly.
“Hey, hey- no, no, no,” he started to shake you again but with more desperation, panic creeping into his voice, “Stay with me y/n. I'm not leaving your side.”
Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused before smiling a little when you saw that familiar face.
“Here,” you slowly lifted your hand and gave him two little taps on the side of his cheek.
“Good, just, keep talking,” he said quickly, “I’m gonna take you to medical, and then drive you home, okay?”
You shifted and squirmed in his grip.
“No- don’t take me home- my parents,” you groaned, feeling like a teenager who was about to get scolded for being out late. You knew your parents were going to publicly execute you for bailing on them on their Friday night dinners.
He shook his head and hesitated for a second.
“Fine. Then I’m taking you back to mine.”
“Unprofessional...” you murmured, your weight sagging against him, your fingers lazily dragging themselves along his stubble, totally delirious. He could feel how hot you were through your clothes.
“So is dying in the elevator.”
“Not dying.”
“You’re doing a pretty good impression right now.”
The elevator jolted back to life, descending with a graceful hum.
note: the climax of the series is here. thank u for all the kind comments, it really encourages me. i'm surprised by how many people love my silly office fic. sorry if the ending was a little sudden for this chapter i realllyy didn't know how to end it. next chapter will be leon taking care of us yaaaayyy. the next chapter will be more fluff, and more leon focused. also im super super tired rn so if theres any grammar mistakes u didnt see them
shy! leon's assistant! reader x re9! leon (part 2 of this)
Summary: You settled into your new position as Leon's assistant, and as the months pass you by, managing reports and schedules becomes much more with Leon. The whole office realises the two of you are inseparable with shared routines and late nights.
Song: Something Stupid - Lola Marsh
Working for Mr Kennedy, or Leon, as he asked you multiple times, was different from any other job you had worked before. It’s not to say you didn’t like it or that you were uncomfortable around him, in fact, it was rather the opposite.
You just never quite knew what to do with yourself around him.
You soon adapted to his way of working, you kept a small notepad and noted down his schedule. He came in at 8.30am and left between the time of 7pm to 11pm. It depended on his mood, what day it was, and the time you wanted to go home. You noticed that he put off his lunch as late as possible, to make the second part of the day seem ‘quicker’; you noticed that he hated digital files and always printed them off; you noticed that he could quickly reel off details from a file that he only read once.
Leon was no stranger to observing either. As he passed your desk, he felt a little embarrassed to see the clean structure of it all, how everything was perfectly lined up – compared to his mess of a desk. He saw how much you would fidget in your seat and how your eyes never left your screen despite this. When he first called your name in the office, it startled you so much he began to knock softly on your desk before speaking to you.
It was a Friday, you had done a full week of working with Leon, the two of you were finishing late – a seemingly running theme for the past few days.
You heel kept slipping out of your shoe as you bounced it up and down, sat cross-legged on your chair. Sorting out Leon’s mission report and ensuring that none of his emails went unread, your fingers clicked at a rapid speed across the keyboard, lines of data reflected in your eyes. You heard Leon’s chair creak as he leaned back, signalling that he was ready to go home. You looked up at the coat hanger, to see your coat and scarf hanging up next to his. The weather was beginning to warm, and you thought about how it was probably time to drop the scarf. The once shrivelled plant on Leon’s shelf had begin to shoot back to life after you began to water it.
“So.” Leon started, taking off his reading glasses.
“So?” You pushed yourself away from your desk slightly, patting non-existent dust off your shoulders. You suddenly became very aware of how hunched over you were and internally begged yourself to not say something stupid in this conversation.
“What did you think?” He asked, watching you make yourself presentable after hours of staring at a screen.
“Think of what?”
“Working with me this week? I hope I wasn’t too scary.” he joked.
You laughed softly and your eyes fell onto the floor, “you weren’t scary. Working with you this week has been… efficient.”
“Efficient?” He raised his eyebrow, nodding slowly.
“Yeah… I don’t have to repeat myself or correct mistakes or anything. Saves a lot of time.” You continued, unsure if you had said too much. You had a bad habit of saying too much or nothing at all, you could never quite grasp the perfect number of words.
“Hm. Don’t usually get someone describing me as a piece of equipment.” He huffed, amused.
“I didn’t mean it negatively,” you said quickly. “I like working with you, Leon.”
“Good. Because this week has been significantly less stressful with you around.” He pushed himself out of his chair and stretched, a little grunt accompanying this.
“Really?”
“You have somehow structured my chaos, and that is impressive.” He sat on your desk and then tapped the top of your monitor before you could say any more, “It’s a Friday. What are you still doing here?”
“Uhm, your reports?” you replied innocently, looking up at him with your hands placed in your lap. Something about you resembled a small mouse to Leon, maybe it was the way you scrambled around him or accidentally squealed when he called your name too loudly.
“You know you can go home and do them next week.”
“You’re here too,” you said, a little bluntly.
He paused and then sighed, standing up, “fair point. C’mon. Let’s go home.”
As you two left the building, your shoulders brushed slightly. Neither of you said anything or adjusted yourselves.
You stopped in your tracks, clutching onto your bag strap.
"Leon," you called out.
"Yes?" He stopped to turn around.
"Thanks for a nice week at the DSO," you gave him a warm smile. He returned it.
"...anytime."
Within the first week of meeting Leon, he planted a seed of affection that began to bloom in your heart.
You no longer needed to look at each other to pass files to one another, neither of you needed to fill a silence because it was comfortable sitting in it together. Neither of you needed to consciously to adapt to how the other worked because it already happened naturally.
The one plant on Leon’s shelf multiplied into many others and you had your own flowers on your own desk. Leon would find you watering them in the morning while he placed the snacks that he bought for you on his way to work on your desk. His tie was all crooked, and without thinking, your hands reached out to fix it, straightening it for him. He blinked at you,
“…thank you.”
The meeting room held many secrets. The two of you always walked to meetings together, and Leon never left the room without you. If either of you adjusted yourselves and there was a brushing of your leg against his – neither of you would move. Once, you were finishing up notes, and Leon was awkwardly hovering around the door, checking his watch, as if there was something physically barricading him from passing through. It was only until you got up and walked through the door that he left the room. The two co-workers watching this laughed.
In the middle of spring, the office goldfish passed away, and Leon found you scooping the corpse up into a plastic cup.
“What are you doing?”
“Jerry passed away,” you mumbled, a hint of sadness in your voice, “he meant so much to me when I started here.”
Leon held back a laugh, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I want to give him a burial.”
“A burial?” he questioned.
“Yes. Flushing him down the toilet is a horrible send off,” you explained, horrified by how anyone with a decent heart could flush a precious thing down a toilet. A fish was a pet too. Imagine flushing your dead cat down the toilet. Cruel, you thought.
“Alright then, let’s give him the funeral he deserves,” Leon confirmed, a little surprised by your loyalty to this fish, but anything to see you happy he supposed.
The two of you spent your lunch digging a hole behind the DSO building with a teaspoon.
“I can’t believe you have me digging a grave for a goldfish behind the DSO,” Leon murmured as he scooped out the last bit of dirt. You laughed a little, placing the goldfish in the freshly dug hole.
“The lengths you go for me won’t be forgotten, Leon,” you teased, patting his back. He turned his head over his shoulder and caught your eyes, and for a brief moment you two were staring at each other. A boyish grin flashed on his face before he stood back, and you said a few words. When the two of you walked to the office, you had some dirt on your cheek, and he brushed it off your flustered face. Clearing his throat, he walked back to his desk like nothing happened.
Co-workers began to notice. It wasn’t uncommon to see the tall man dressed in navy to have you, tagging alongside him with your notepad in your hand.
“Do you know where Kennedy is?” Someone would ask.
“Probably with l/n,” was one of the multiple variations of answers.
“Have you seen l/n?” Another question.
“Yes, she was last with Kennedy in the break room.” Another variation.
“Where’s the two?”
“Gone out to get lunch together.”
You were waiting for the printer to work, and Sherry found you, asking: “Have you seen-“
And then Leon would be there, appearing around the corner with two coffees in his hand. She saw the way a smile stretched across your face as soon as your eyes lay upon him.
“Ah,” Sherry said to herself.
People began to test this theory. Leon would walk out of a room, and someone would ask him where you were, only to be greeted by you, who was only a few paces behind him.
You became much louder, in fact, people could now hear the two of you coming. It was either your laugh that echoed down the hallway or his boyish giggle. You now knew the security and the receptionist, they would welcome and say goodbye to you. You now waved at people and greeted them in the office, your posture had lifted into something bright and beautiful. You were no longer the shadow you had the desire to be; you reflected the light and for once, you didn’t mind it. This courage to call out others' mistakes instead of being complicit in their obliviousness had taken root in you.
One evening, exhaustion had finally won, and you were fast asleep, your face resting against reports. Leon found you, your peaceful face lit by your desk lamp. He laughed slightly and draped his jacket over your shoulders as he returned to his desk, occasionally glancing over to you. You were going to be in for one hell of a lecture about pushing yourself too hard when you woke up.
“You know, you’ve really come out of your shell, y/n,” Sherry stated, as the two of you ate your lunch on a bench in a nearby park.
“You think?” you asked, looking at the cherry blossom trees that filed down the park.
“Mhm. And I think a certain someone has something to do with it,” she hummed, glancing at the blush that crept onto your cheeks.
“No… no,” you denied, immediately knowing who she was implying.
“Deny it all you want, but he has certainly helped you blossom.”
You didn’t respond, but your eyes drifted to the window of your office where Leon was probably working.
“They’re calling you two salt and pepper.” Sherry admitted, taking a bite of her sandwich.
“Why?”
She laughed and then said, “because you two come as a pair.”
“Oh dear,” you huffed, smiling a little.
The inevitable realisation that you had feelings for this man fluttered around you.
It fluttered around him too - intensely.
He could go hours now without thinking about the golden liquid in his flask. Nothing was dying in his office anymore, not when you were around. Despite the natural coming of the spring, his days were lighter and brighter with you in them. Seeing your face after missions, the way you would rush to the medical room after events that would hollow him from the inside, it soothed the mental torment in his mind. Even just the small things you would say, he knew you were a woman of a few words, would assure him. And for once, finally, he felt that someone wasn’t relying on him.
He admired the way you were capable of things yourself, after gruelling years of everything being on his back, there was someone to take the pressure off. He had never felt more ashamed when you caught him tipping whiskey down his throat, even if you never said anything about it, the way you became quiet after just killed him.
Seeing you made him get up in the morning, and if you ever called in sick, extremely rarely, a dread would build in his chest again. His grip around his pen would tighten when he heard you take all the verbal abuse your mother threw at you through your phone. It disgusted him.
“Mmm… I think maybe if you…” you spoke about how he should approach his next mission, you had scooted your desk chair to his desk, your heels flicking back and forth. You leant over to press on his mouse and typed a few words into his keyboard, revealing a new image of some report. You saw an image of the BSAA badge. Your heart sunk a little.
Your leg brushed against his. Neither of you moved. For a second you think he inched his leather derby shoes closer to your black kitten heels. You adjust your legs, so they’re still touching him, but closer. Your head is still glued to your paper, and his eyes are still glued to his screen. A hundred reckless impulses rushed through your brain and everything in you just wanted to press the tip of your shoe against his ankle and rub slow circles around and around, to slip yourself on his lap and feel his rough stubble, to look up and meet his eyes. But you couldn’t, as wanting something and acting on it were very two different things to you. And you always found yourself better at the former.
It was late, 11pm. Leon groaned, pulling himself away from his desk. The absence of your rapid typing did not go unnoticed by him. Strange - you never left before him. Your coat was still hanging up next to his and your desk lamp was still on, so you couldn’t have gone far. He left the office, peeking his head around the corner.
Bang! Bang!
Thuds were heard from around the corner, and Leon followed the noise.
You were crouched on the floor, half of your arm in the vending machine. He cleared his throat and your head snapped towards him, caught red handed. You went bright red.
“It stole my money,” you admitted, pouting slightly.
He chuckled as he saw the stuck chocolate bar leaning against the glass.
“I don’t think fighting it is going to make it want to give it to you.”
You groaned and slid your hand out in defeat. Nothing was working in your favor today. Your shower broke this morning, so you had to resort to drowning yourself in perfume. Your computer locked you out of your account. Your button fell off your coat. Now this.
“I just wanted one thing today,” you mumbled, staring at the purple wrapper through the glass.
“One thing?” he questioned softly, tilting his head.
“Yes.”
“From a vending machine?”
“Yes.”
“Step aside.”
You stepped out of the way.
He gave the machine a firm shake. Didn’t work. He then kicked it in frustration, and it slipped into the basket.
You gasped as you retrieved your chocolate, “my hero!”
“Anything for you,” he smiled back then checked his watch, “you know its eleven, right?”
“I lost track of time. Seems like you did too.” you replied, observing the bags around his eyes. No one ever noticed him staying late.
“C’mon. Let’s go home. You need to rest, you know,” he held your shoulder and led you back into the office.
“Okay salt,” you mumbled, taking a bite from your chocolate bar.
“Salt?”
“People are calling us salt and pepper.” you said, mouth full of chocolate. You passed the chocolate bar to him.
“Why?” he questioned, his eyes flickering to your face and then taking a bite out the bar you passed him.
“Apparently, we come as a pair.”
“And you’re assuming that I’m salt?”
You two continued arguing over who was salt and pepper out of the building, chocolate in your mouths, and the receptionist rolled her eyes.
edit: part 3 is here
note: i hope u guys liked the pure cheesy office romance <3. the next chapter will be quite angsty!
