welcome

Your composure slumps even lower. “I’m locked out.”

The polished leather of his boots shifts. "Locked out," he repeats, “from your own house?”

“Lost my keys,” you explain, sounding as pathetic as you feel. You can feel his gaze tracking the line of your neck, kissing the field of goosebumps blooming across your skin. Leaving the house in nothing but a slip of silk suddenly seems like the worst decision of your life.

"I see," he says. "You don’t have a spare key under one of your plants?”

Your nose wrinkles in a small, self-deprecating scrunch as you glance up at him.

“Wouldn’t that be too obvious?”

“Obvious is often better than shivering in the dark.” His eyes sweep gently over your collarbone, noticing the way the thin straps of your dress dig slightly into your skin as you hunch over. “How long have you been sitting out in the cold?”

“Long enough to lose feeling in my toes.”

He frowns at the way you’ve wrapped your arms around yourself. Fragile little thing. “Come on.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to let you freeze to death on your own porch," he says, extending a hand towards you. "And I’m certainly not going to watch you turn blue from across the street while I have a perfectly good spare room.”

You stare at his large hand, contemplating whether stepping into the lair of the neighborhood’s most eligible (and most intimidating) bachelor is actually a safer bet than hypothermia.

Is it a good idea? Probably not. But the alternative is another hour of trembling in a thin slip while the wind bites harshly at your skin.

So you reach up, and under the disguise of a curiosity on what lies beyond his walls, you let his hand engulf your smaller one. His skin is a shock of warmth against your frozen fingers, and he pulls you up with an effortless strength that makes you feel momentarily weightless.

“Just for tonight,” you mumble, trying to reclaim a shred of your dignity as you wobble on your numb feet. You pointedly ignore the sharp pain in your heels as you find your balance. “I’ll call the locksmith first thing in the morning.”

“There’s no rush.” He lets go of your hand, palm sliding from your fingers to the small of your back. “The locksmith can wait until you’ve actually had a few hours of sleep.”

“I look that bad, huh?”

“Bad isn’t the word I’d use. Tired, maybe.” He gives you a once-over, looking a little bashful. “Still unfairly pretty.”

You let out a shaky breath, your legs feeling like lead as you navigate the curb. “You’re just being a good neighbor. You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying. The dress looks good on you.”

You look down at the soft material that clings to your damp skin, feeling suddenly very exposed. “Thanks.” Unconsciously, you find yourself leaning a fraction closer to him, seeking his body heat. “But it’s doing a terrible job of keeping me alive right now.”

And unconsciously, his palm skims around the curve of your waist. “Inclined to agree, unfortunately.”

“It was aesthetics over survival, felt like a fair trade for a celebration.”

“Yeah? What was the occasion?”

You let the silence linger a little longer before slowly answering, “My birthday.”

There’s a slight, reflexive squeeze of his hand on your waist. "Today's your birthday?"

“Yesterday, technically,” you correct him, noting that the hour has long since bled past midnight. "But yes."

"Well, happy birthday."

"Mhm."

He stops just inches from his front door, turns his head to peer down at you. You notice his brows pulling together in an observant line. "Don't sound too happy about it."

You let out a long sigh, letting your weight slump against the cold wood of the doorframe. The exhaustion is finally winning. “Birthdays are depressing,” you hum, tilting your head back to meet his eyes. “Another year of expectations you didn’t meet, another reminder that the clock is ticking. Don't you find them a bit… grim?”

He looks at you for a long beat before shaking his head, a single lock of silver falling across his left eye. "No. Not really," he says, turning the heavy brass handle and pushing the door inward. "But I’ve already had fifty-one of them to get used to the idea."

“So what you’re saying is I have to wait another twenty years to finally stop feeling like the world is ending?”

He catches your gaze, his expression softening into something dangerously close to a smile. “I’m saying that by the time you hit fifty, you realize the expectations were the only thing making it grim."

"That doesn't sound encouraging," you note as the house’s heating begins to thaw your frozen skin. "Twenty years is a long time to spend being disappointed."

His lips twitch. "It's not about the wait. It's about the perspective," he explains, guiding you further into the amber warmth of the foyer. "And you’re far too young to be this cynical."

"I wouldn't call myself young anymore."

"Fifty-one minus twenty. That makes you… what? Thirty-one?"

You try not to flinch, but a small, involuntary wince escapes you at the overestimation. "Thirty, actually."

"That’s still fairly young."

You throw him a dubious look. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepen. "It’s young," he insists, kicking off his shoes. You follow suit. Then he reaches out, catches your elbow, and guides you toward the living room where a long couch waits for you in the shadows.

His space is exactly as you’d imagined, steeped in warm masculine tones of deep walnut and charcoal. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There’s the scent of old paper, expensive tobacco, and something clean like rain-washed cedar.

You also catch a faint, woody sting of bourbon, which you expected, but as you sink into the couch, you're surprised to notice a lone glass of red wine sitting on the coffee table.

"You drink wine?" You ask. "Never pegged you as a wine kind of guy."

He reaches for a heavy throw blanket draped over the back of an armchair and drapes it over your shoulder. "What do you peg me for?”

“Straight bourbon,” you admit, huddling into the wool. “Neat. Probably a double."

“I do have my few shares of bourbon.”

“Then I rest my case.”

He tilts his head in contemplation. "I suppose I've earned that reputation."

"You've earned a lot of reputation in this neighborhood."

“Don’t think I want to hear the half of it. Would you like a glass?"

You ponder if it’s a wise move. You’d spent the last four hours drowning in cocktails that were far too sweet, and the fuzzy warmth in your chest is a precarious balance against the exhaustion. Adding a glass of wine to the mix might be the final nudge your brain needs to completely shut down.

But as you look at him, standing tall and massive against the backdrop of his endless books with the fluorescent light tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the idea of a quiet glass of wine with your hot neighbor suddenly feels much more appealing than any of the neon shots you’d endured at the bar.

"I probably shouldn't… but it is my birthday.”

“Not trying to pressure you.”

“Not pressured. I’m actually curious what kind of wine a fifty-one year old bachelor drinks.”

“So I’ll take that as a yes?”

“Take it as a hell yeah.”

He disappears into what you think is a kitchen, and your bravado disappears along with him, replaced by a sudden spike of nerves. Now that he isn't standing directly over you, the reality of the situation settles over you like a heavy blanket draped over your frame.

You’re sitting on the couch of a man who is as intimidating as he is handsome, and you’re about to spend the first hours of your thirty-year drinking expensive wine in his lair.

The rug tickles your bare feet as you nervously tuck them under your thighs, trying to make yourself as small as possible in the vastness of his cushions.

“Here,” he announces himself again, and you notice that he’s pushed the long sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, revealing forearms that are corded with muscles and mapped with a faint dusting of hair.

You try not to blatantly stare at the prominent veins tracing down to his wrists as you reach out to take the glass from him. “What is it?”

“A Stag’s Leap Cabernet Sauvignon,” he says, settling into the opposite end of the long couch. He drapes one arm over the back, turns his body toward you. “From Napa. This one’s got a bit of ripeness to it. Black cherry, maybe a touch of vanilla.”

You hum, bringing the glass a little closer.

“Gets better with age too,” he continues, eyes lifting to yours. Then with the faintest hint of a smile, “Though it'd be perfect for the occasion.”

You can’t stop the flutter in your belly.

“That’s very sweet of you.”

“It does have a touch of sweetness if you let it sit.”

“No, I mean you, Leon.” You finally gather the nerve to meet his gaze, and find yourself tracing the tiny, crystalline specks of silver that radiate from his blue orbs. “Trying to make me feel better, offering me shelter when I was half-frozen on my doorstep.”

The air in the room seems to shift the moment his name leaves your lips. His shoulders visibly drop an inch. “Yeah, well, you’d do the same.”

You would. Although, as you look at the unshakable size of him, you could never imagine a man like him sitting pathetically out in the cold, mourning a nonexistent tragedy while spiraling over a birthday. Still, you’d have opened your door for him in a heartbeat, even if he weren't half-frozen—maybe especially if he weren't.

And you’re not sure what to make of that.

It’s a thought that feels a little too dangerous to hold onto while sitting this close to him, and you find yourself suddenly, helplessly distracted by the sharp curve of his lower lip.

“Here’s to saving Neighbors in Distress, then,” you offer absentmindedly.

He reaches out for his own glass on the coffee table. Hones his eyes on you with a sincerity that feels tangible as the room falls to the quiet space between his gaze and your breath. The silver specks in his irises seem to ignite in the low light, pinning you to his cushions.

“And to aging like fine wine,” he adds.

A soft burst of laughter bubbles out of you. “That is so corny.” Then angle your head to the side. “And such an old saying.”

“I’m half a century, what did you expect?”

There’s no trace of forced humor in his voice, and that lack of irony makes his delivery even more amusing. The smile on your face lingers as a warm pulse in your cheeks. It blooms as a genuine spark of comfort in your chest, prints over the rim of your glass as you take a sip.

“Wow,” you say appreciatively. “That’s really good wine.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“It’s also incredibly dangerous, I think I need to pace myself,” you admit, placing your glass on the coffee table. “Thirty is supposed to be the age of moderation, isn't it?”

“According to who?”

“Everyone,” you answer, a little too quickly. “Social media, podcasts, people who suddenly start playing padel and structured routines.”

“I think moderation is something people reach for when they’re trying to feel safe,” he observes, rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers. “Less risk. Fewer surprises.”

You smile faintly, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s… reality catching up?”

His gaze shifts, catching that subtle change in you. “You don’t sound convinced.”

You shrug. “I just thought by now things would feel more... settled. Or clear.” Your fingers trace the intricate, frayed embroidery at the edge of the blanket around you. “Instead it kind of feels like I’m aging out of things without ever really being part of them in the first place.”

“Aging out of what?”

You let out a small breath, almost embarrassed to say it out loud. “Being… wanted, I guess.” A quick, self-conscious laugh follows. “Or at least effortlessly so. Like there’s a point where you stop turning heads and start blending in, and you don’t even realize when the moment of being undesirable happens.”

“You really think that’s already happened to you?”

You don’t answer right away, and that probably answers enough. His glass meets the table with a soft thud. “That’s a dangerous assumption.”

“More dangerous than the wine?”

“Much. Because it’s wrong.”

You’re not sure whether to laugh it off or deny it outright.

“Desirability isn’t about being the loudest thing in the room,” he continues. “Or the youngest. It’s not about catching everyone’s attention for five seconds.”

“Then what is it about?”

The room exhales into silence. The lone lamp spills a muted glow, its light stretching into uneven shadows that breathe along the walls while somewhere deeper in the house, a clock ticks softly as each second threads itself through the sudden quiet.

“Presence,” his voice finally settles into the stillness. “About knowing yourself well enough that when someone does notice you, they don’t forget it.”

“And you think that just… gets better?”

“I know it does.”

The certainty in his voice makes your chest tighten. You look down, suddenly aware of your bare shoulders under the blanket, the thin fabric of your dress, the way you’d felt so exposed stepping into his house.

He leans forward then, just enough to close some of the distance, the sheer presence of his broad frame grounding in a way that makes it harder to retreat into your own thoughts.

“Look at me,” he urges softly.

Hesitation flickers through your posture before you finally lift your chin. There’s a quiet warmth in his gaze, something unguarded that softens the harder edges of him that turns all his intensity into something almost unbearably kind.

“You're worried about becoming invisible, but I can tell you right now, there is not a single thing about you that is easy to look away from."

Your breath shatters in your throat as he reaches out. His hand is large, the skin calloused, but his touch is incredibly light as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Caresses your cheekbone with a thumb.

“So no,” he adds, quieter but no less certain, “I don’t think you’re becoming less desirable.”

If you weren't sure what would finally wreck you on this milestone birthday, what would be the thing to finally break the surface of your spiraling thoughts—you are now, and it’s the magnetic pull of wanting to kiss a man twenty-one years your senior.

But age is just a number, isn't it? Leon has obviously made it clear that he doesn’t view the passage of time as a problem, and looking at the way his eyes are currently tracing the shape of your mouth, you’re starting to believe him.

The gap between your ages feels like an invitation to a level of intensity you weren't prepared for at twenty-nine.

“You really think so?”

“Sweetheart, you’re the most desirable thing I’ve had the privilege of seeing in my entire life.”

You can’t believe you’ve resisted his charm for so long.

You’ve imagined similar scenarios, of course. Living right across to a man who carries himself with so much lethal grace made it entirely impossible not to.

The men you’ve dated in your twenties were mostly just boys still trying to figure themselves out. You were used to clumsy hands and rushed fumbling, to guys who barely knew how to hold a conversation.

Leon is different. Maybe it’s his age. Confidence, agility—it’s obvious he doesn't possess the frantic energy of a younger man, instead moving with an authority that commands your attention without him even having to try. As a result, countless lonely nights were spent of you lying awake wondering what it would actually feel like to have his solid weight pressing you down.

Not that you would ever dare to admit that to anyone. No, thinking it in the privacy of your own mind is already embarrassing enough.

Although the gratification of having him kissing you obliterates any sense of shame. And the way his hands are exploring every corner of your curves proves that he’s spent just as much time agonizing over the exact same thoughts.

You’re uncertain when the blanket fell off your shoulders, but you can feel the rough friction of his palms everywhere. Your arms, your knees, your thighs. You’re aware of him bunching the skirt of your dress upward until it’s gathered at your waist.

You also sense a slight desperation in his touch. A monumental inkling of need bleeding through a composure that suggests he’s been holding himself back for so long, and it is as staggering as the deceptive softness of his lips to realize the sheer force of his hunger.

It isn’t until your lips are swollen and stinging and wet from the relentless pressure of his that you finally fill your lungs with air.

And to your chagrin, he momentarily pulls away. “Maybe we should slow down.”

“Why?” you whine, a little pout hanging on your puckered lips. “Thought I was desirable.”

“You are,” he grunts. His nose grazes the high curve of your cheek. “Believe me, you are.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

He levels with your concerned gaze. “Don’t want you waking up thinking this was a mistake.”

Yeah, right. As if a few sugary cocktails could be the sole reason of a desire this potent.

Sure, there’s a sweet haze effectively numbing your usual inhibitions, but alcohol didn't carve the hollow ache in your chest every time you watched him pull into his driveway. Nor did it plant the heat that pooled in your belly whenever he caught your eye over the property line—more times than you could admit, less than what you truly craved.

In retrospect, the tension had always been there. Unconsciously. Even if you were stone-cold sober you would still be here.

The morning light couldn't possibly undo the rightness of finally having him in your vicinity.

You reach a palm towards his face. “The only mistake," you whisper, soft words against the rough scrape of his jaw, "would be making me wait another second."

He’s quiet for a moment, but your pretty eyes tip whatever restraint he’s holding onto. Has him tracing the supple skin of your breast with a newfound zeal.

“You sure?”

“Why don’t you take off my dress and find out?”

You feel his amusement radiate against your skin. “Glad your confidence is back.” Then he hooks a finger under the thin silk of your dress, slides the strap down your shoulder. “Because you are beautiful.”

The cool air hits your skin. Two sensitive peaks beg for his attention.

“So goddamn beautiful. Look at these tits.”

There’s amusement laced in your smile. “Also didn’t peg you with such an abrasive vocabulary.”

“Politeness won’t cover what I want to do to you right now.”

Soft strands of hair thread between your fingers as his mouth wraps around a nipple.

Plays with it eagerly, lapping around in circles with agonizing precision before drawing it back as if trying to make the sensitive point swell even larger in his mouth. Repeats the motion far longer than you anticipated, searing a path that sends a rush of hot blood to your core until every atom of your being is vibrating.

You’re convinced the room is spinning as he gives the same attention to your other breast, painting your areola with a slickness that is as heavy as the dampness between your thighs.

He seems to sense the change in your breathing, lets a hand travel down your hip before draping one of your legs over his lap. Bends your other knee, fingers hooking into the crook of your leg to draw you apart.

“Keep them open for me.”

You nod limply. He kisses the side of your throat.

“Undesirable,” he tuts, large hand moving to the wet patch on your panties to map the exact shape of your arousal through the silk. “Do you realize how ridiculous that is?”

You try to form a response, to make some self-deprecating excuse about the depressive weight of your birthday or the slow decay of your youth, but the air simply vanishes from your lungs. The pressure he applies over you sends an electric shockwave of sensation through your nervous system.

He watches the words die on your lips. Watches the way your hips hitch upward. Observes the shallow rhythm of your chest with every rhythmic circle he rubs into your aching little clit.

His mouth ticks up into a smile that softens the weathered lines of his devastatingly handsome face.

“Should I show you myself then?”

“Show…” The supple grain of the couch bites into your shoulder blades as your toes curl into the material. “…what?”

His fingers slip under your flimsy lace. “Exactly how desirable you are.”

“Ahh—” Your hazy mind goes into an absolute sensory overload. One second the room is a blur of amber light and red wine, the next heartbeat you are violently aware of the viscous heat of your own arousal as he gathers it on his fingertips. “Leon—”

He sweeps upward, smearing that glistening moisture across the swollen outer folds and pressing it deep into the delicate flesh of your labia, and you are acutely aware of the aching bead of your clit trapped beneath the abrasive swirl of his fingers, feeling it throb in perfect synchronization with your racing heart.

Leon feels it too. The sharp rhythm of his breathing stutters as he watches you squirm.

“Gorgeous girl.” The blunt tip of his middle finger presses against your slick opening, testing the tight ring of muscle before slowly sinking in. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

“Le…on… oh!”

The addition of a second finger pulls a high keening from your throat.

Two fingers and you feel impossibly full. You can barely fathom the weight of taking his actual cock, and your walls pulsate at the thought. He groans, pulls his hand back almost to the entrance before driving his knuckles deep inside you again.

In and out, back and forth, turning your entire world into a blur of pleasure and the heady scent of him. Incredibly, unapologetically male.

The only thing consuming your mind right now, rightfully so. The pleasure-induced haze that clouds your brain parts just enough for you to breathe in his musk, to watch the absolute concentration on his face as he dedicates himself to your pleasure. At the quiet lines carved beside his eyes. The faint crease at the corner of his mouth. The hard flex of his chiseled jaw, dusted with fine hints of gray.

Maybe aging isn’t so bad after all. You’re suddenly grateful for every single year that carved him into the man who’s currently dismantling you with his bare hands.

Because you feel it. The ongoing swell of an orgasm gathering at the base of your spine. Your breath fractures into a wordless sob and Leon feels your undoing the second it begins. Helps you through it. Massages the deep, aching knot of tension inside your cunt, using the volume of your own wetness to press the base of his palm against your puffy clit.

Your mouth opens wide to gulp in air but all that comes out is a groan that shocks your bones.

Legs parted instinctively wide, it is one of the strongest orgasms you have experienced in a very long time. You’d argue it might be the strongest one ever, but the thought of cumming onto his cock seemed like the only thing that could possibly top the rank.

Your satiated limbs melt into the cushions as he kisses the sweat dripping down your hairline. “Lift your arms up for me.”

You obey wordlessly, and he starts to undress you. Slips off the once delicate lace down the length of your legs. You’re still drifting in a post-orgasmic haze, but your focus snaps back the second he peels his shirt over his head. The flex of his thick biceps and broad shoulders completely rewires your sluggish brain that you find yourself leaning forward as he makes quick work of his pants.

And then it’s genuinely hard to believe that the Leon Kennedy—intimidating, sweet Leon who lives right across your house—is sitting spread out with a raging hard-on that demands your attention.

Which, obviously, you give to him without needing to be asked. The second your fingers fully encircle and squeeze his impressive size, his head falls back against the couch, exposing the strained column of his neck.

You also give your attention to the erratic pulse at his throat. Pressing your lips against a scattering of sun-faded freckles beneath his jaw, swallowing the deep vibration of another groan.

Leon, you’ve come to realize, is not ashamed of being loud. A delightful knowledge that this formidable man is perfectly willing to let his voice gravel with each motion along his shaft. You experimentally tighten your grip and drag a thumb across the weeping slit of his cock, and feel your heart swell with giddiness the moment he comes to cradle your cheeks and groans straight into your mouth.

The power you hold over him is intoxicating. Addicting. Very, very dangerous. Whatever excuse you initially gave yourself about tonight as a symptom of being touch-deprived and horny on your birthday is rapidly dissolving. You can already see yourself easily basking in the undivided attention he's so far given you.

Granted, it is nearly impossible to worry about the long-term consequences when he’s panting directly into your open mouth, failing bid to keep his control intact.

You decide to offer him some grace, slowly loosening your grip. Let your nails graze the soft hair at his base, trace the dark trail up the firm ridge of his stomach until your hand settles on the hard plane of his chest.

He pulls back and pins your hand over his heart. “We should move to the bedroom.”

The heat of his skin is too comforting for you to even consider the effort of standing up.

“Why?”

“Condoms," he huffs. "Don't have any on me."

Your nose curls. It really is hard to worry about the long-term consequences when all you can think about is the desperate need to feel him raw. Surprising, considering safe sex is a practice you've always adhered to.

But Leon really does have a habit of pulling completely new things out of you. Effortlessly dismantles your depressed thoughts, unravels your usual guarded boundaries, and is now rewiring your entire view on intimacy.

There’s a tiny lull of silence before you gather the courage to ask, “How much can I trust you without using one?”

His heartbeat kicks under your palm, and you watch as his brows draw together before the harsh lines on his face soften. “As much as you’re willing to give.” His thumb drags over the back of your hand. “You sure ‘bout that?”

It surprises you how easy the words slip past your lips, devoid of the usual overthinking that has haunted this day so far.

For the first time in a long time, the air in your lungs feels clear.

“I want you to go without,” you confirm.

“C’mere.”

He tugs you closer and sits you right on top of his lap, back firmly flushed against his chest.

“Lift your hips a little.”

You brace your hands against his thick thighs, let him guide the blunt tip of his cock right to your slick hole. The keening sound you make vibrates in the room as gravity slowly takes over, allowing your wet muscles to swallow the first few inches of him.

It doesn’t hurt, but it isn’t any less intense. He fills you with a burning heat.

“Ah—ngh… Leon…”

“Breathe,” he drawls. You feel his lips on the crook of your neck, gooseflesh rising up when you feel the tip of his tongue. “A little more, yeah?”

Your head bobs in a nod. Lungs expanding, lungs deflating—diaphragm relaxed. You count to three and let your body melt against his chest.

It takes him a full minute, filled with soft whines that rumble in the back of your throat and little strokes coming from his hips. Your eyes are unfocused when he gives a final jerk, feeling the coarseness of his hair grind against the slope of your ass.

“Oh, fuck.”

“So fucking warm,” he grunts, pulling open your thighs wide across his lap, knees hooked over his sides with your bare feet dangling in the air. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” you slur. There’s no pain to speak of but the strain of him pressing against your sensitive flesh. “Just… full.”

At least, full is the only word your overstimulated brain can offer.

No amount of previous longing could have prepared you for the way his pulse drums in tandem with your own, thudding so violently against your internal nerves. Perfectly snug inside you, as if your very anatomy is fundamentally shifting—melting, molding. Making room to seamlessly map every thick ridge of his shape until there's no space left between your bodies.

But sitting perfectly still is its own kind of torture. The throb in your cunt is spiraling into a desperate itch, and simply having him seated to the hilt is no longer enough.

Friction is what you seek, and friction is what you ask, rolling your hips in a needy grind, doing your best to wiggle against his lap just to coax out even a fraction.

"Christ." The sound he makes vibrates through your entire back, dragged out with sluggish words you have trouble making sense. "...embarrassing this old man.”

You tilt your head back in confusion, try to parse his meaning through the thick haze of pleasure.

“Won’t last long tonight," he explains, slowly rolling his hips that draws another groan. “Not even a good ten minutes.”

A giggle interrupts your keening whine. You let your head fall to the side, resting your temple against the sweaty curve of his throat.

“It’s okay... you can fuck me again in the morning.”

The breathless laugh he wheezes sounds partly wicked.

“You’re goddamn right I will. Take you in my bed.” He drags his hips backward. “The shower.” Then languidly thrusts forward. “Even the kitchen.”

He takes the full weight of your breasts in eager hands.

“Fuck you in the back of my car like rabid teenagers.”

You choke on a moan and reach behind, fingers finding the damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Don’t think our bones can handle the lack of legroom.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”

You feebly smile at the confidence in his voice.

Somehow, you don’t doubt him. Anyone with a conscious mind would agree that Leon is a man of absolute competence. You might not know the secret he keeps behind closed doors, or the full depth of his life, but you know the way he commands the space he occupies. And you'd expect nothing less from him when the space he's currently residing in is yours.

Physically, sure. He's sheathed impossibly deep within your cunt.

Metaphorically, too, when he’s been threading in your thoughts with a steady persistence. Lingers between looks, between breaths. Settles deep into the unspoken gaps of your everyday life, anticipating your needs long before you do by offering things without excess.

A roof over your head. A glass of wine in your hand without expectation. Heartfelt words that reach you even when you hadn’t realized you needed to hear them.

You wonder if you asked for more for the sake of your own comfort, he would give that too.

For your pleasure, at least. The stretch of him fucking you in slow ceremony is already delicious as it is, but a fierce hunger still gnaws at your neglected clit. You try to guide the hand on your right tit down to the slope of your stomach, drawing it directly toward the spot where your bodies meet.

Fortunately, Leon is more than happy to oblige.

“Right here?"

You nod silently, let your body do the talking. And talking it does in a language of erratic breaths and arching hips. Pliant to his touch, yet greedy for his fingertips. The sheer volume of slick, overheated syrup that instantly coats his skin has him inhaling sharply.

"Fucking drenched,” he grunts, feeling the rigid length of his cock disappear completely between your glistening folds. "Gonna eat this pussy next time."

Crude and abrasive. You like this version of him. So much so that your internal muscles respond before your voice can, milking him with a series of desperate clenches that has his jaw locking tight.

“Next time, sweetheart,” he promises, rubbing circles over the hard knot of your clit. “Taste how sweet this pussy is.”

That seems to do it. Your entire frame tenses, toes curling in anticipation of the sensation climbing up in your leg. Even breathing seems like a secondary concern, a distant chore your lungs are struggling to remember how to perform when you’ve succumbed so completely to the intensity.

"That’s it. You gon' give me another?”

You hiccup through a frantic chorus of “Fuckfuckfuckfuck” and wail helplessly.

“Go on. Let me feel it."

“Shit,” you heave, right before you shatter, squeezing your eyes shut.

You collapse with a satisfied smile, reveling in the ecstasy seeping deep into your bones. But that quiet hum is cut abruptly short when his hands suddenly hook under the backs of your knees, hoisting your legs up and peeling you open.

Starts fucking you for the sake of his pleasure.

You find no mercy in his rhythm, pistoning force that has your breasts bouncing with every jarring strike. Limbs shaking, bones rattling. The room shuddering with echoes of wet, heavy slaps.

It’s nothing you can’t take when you seem to be enjoying it yourself. You realize, staring down at the clotted, white fluid foaming around his cock, that you would gladly give him anything he so much as looked at. He’s already given you plenty of attention that you’ll let him take whatever he needs in the name of gratitude.

A token of appreciation, if you will. A thank you for being the perfect neighbor—the perfect man, capable of melting your resolve with kind gestures before proceeding to rearrange your guts.

Although thinking this is solely for his benefit seems foolish when he's ruining you oh-so-good. Fast and precise, hitting right where you love it, touching exactly where you're tight. 

A harsh jerk of his cock has you blubbering incoherent words, "HolyfuckLe—Leon!"

You're answered with a row of grunts, of squelching noises that increase the more he thrusts in. You feel like a carved pretzel as he pins your legs to your chest, locking you firmly in place. Drilling hard, erratic, pushing all the strength he possesses into your pliant body.

There’s a hot tension in your lower belly. The muscles slacken in your neck—throat closing in as your mouth opens in a scream that doesn't quite make it through.

The silence punched out of you is finally rewarded.

Your third orgasm is gut-wrenching when it happens. It twists your insides, wringing you dry. You’re a mess of tears and drool and Leon makes sure you aren't left completely empty. With two final strong thrusts, he pumps a flood deep into your cunt in exchange for every drop of liquid he’s drained from your pores.

Overstimulated and exhausted, you slowly let your heartbeat settle. So does Leon. His breath tickles the crook of your neck, and there’s a thick, gravelly edge in his voice as he drawls, “I should’ve pulled out.”

Not exactly regret, but an acknowledgment of his complete loss of control. Not that you particularly care.

Lifting a lazy hand, you gently stroke the corded muscle of his arm, soothing down the dusting of silvered hair.

“You don't see me complaining," you whisper, voice utterly sated.

“Yeah? Let me see you.”

The smell of sex is so pungent and sweet as he slips you off his thighs. Lays you gently on the empty space of the couch beside him. Parts your legs for the many times tonight, and marvels at the sight of his cum making its way down to your puckered hole.

He spreads your spent, swollen folds with his thumb. “Gorgeous girl.”

You offer him a tired smile.

Surprisingly, you do believe him.

In a physical sense, yes, that’s true. The way he’s imprinted himself inside your body is proof enough of exactly how fiercely he desires you. But the weight of his words carries a gravity that pulls at something far deeper than your skin. Past the pulse at your throat and the ache in your thighs, settling heavy in the hollow of your chest.

Society has a way of making you feel like you’re meant to diminish with time. Expected to survive in barren soil, pouring yourself out while trying to bloom from roots that wouldn't even bother to water you. Grown accustomed to a slow drought from an environment that convinced you were fading out of focus as the years ticked by.

The way he looks at you defies that logic. The blue in his eyes suggests time has only made your harvest sweeter.

Any insecurities you harbored evaporate under the pads of his fingers as he maps the rise of your belly. All the self-criticism and nagging fear of becoming invisible dissolve the same way he smoothly glides through the valley of your breasts.

The frantic noise of the world goes completely silent when he palms your cheek. His body is hot atop yours, and his gaze holds genuine comfort of being truly, unconditionally seen.

For the first time tonight, you discern the affection decorating his eyes.

And it’s certainly not for the last.

His smile is warm and tender as his breath kisses your lips. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

When you first got the call from your realtor, and you finagled your way out of your twelve month lease, you made a very detailed, very organized plan to move. You purchased the boxes, the storage containers, the tape, and the packing peanuts, and made a list of what items were going where, planning to label each one with a strip of blue painter’s tape and a thick sharpie. You made it through two of your kitchen cabinets, gingerly wrapping each dish and mug, branding the side of each box with the details of its contents. Then, you gave up  and decided that if the stuff ends up in a box, it’s a win. That’s how you got here, carrying loads of junk into your new home, without any idea where to put them. 

You justified your laziness by thinking it will be like opening presents on Christmas morning. 

He chuckles, the sound deep and baritone. “Just through here, then?” He nudges the box like it weighs nothing, gesturing to the front door, propped open by a plastic storage container filled to the brim with random household articles. You really should have labeled them. 

“I’m (Y/N), by the way.” 

“Nice to meet you, (Y/N),” he says, scanning the empty living room, eyes trickling down from the bare walls to the polished hardwood planks. “Where would you like me to put this?” 

“On the floor is fine…with the other hundred boxes,” you say, pointing to the sea of beige cardboard littering the otherwise sparse floor. “You never realize just how much crap you have until it’s time to move.”

He doesn’t respond to your comment, just stares past you, through the open front door. 

“How much is left in the truck?” 

Your old place was by no means big, just a two-bedroom you shared with an old college friend, but in the last year, you had taken up a penchant for antique shopping, fueled by the home improvement channel and your new Pinterest account. In planning and saving up for this next step, you started collecting pieces for your new home, having to rent an external unit to store it all in because you ran out of square footage in your apartment. 

Crazy enough, you didn’t think to pick up any actual furniture, just decorations that go on top of furniture.

“Nothing crazy. Just a bunch of boxes. My old place was already furnished when I got it so I don’t have any big pieces to move.” 

He nods, placing his hands on his hips, taking a look around the space. The house beside his hadn’t been on the market for very long, and with the charm it holds in its historic walls, he knew it would get snatched up quickly. He expected a newly married couple or a small family to move in, maybe even a single guy with a dog. Not…you. 

Your new home was one of the smaller houses in the neighborhood: a one-story cottage with whitewashed wood siding and a pillared front porch with a bench swing. It was cozy and within your price range. You don’t care that it is completely smurfed by the other homes that sprawl up and down the avenue, especially Leon’s old colonial next door. It’s tiny and perfect and yours. No more roommates. No more bad landlords. 

“I’ll help you bring the rest inside.” 

“No, you don’t have to do that, Leon. There’s not that much left, I swear. I can do it. Thank you, though.”  

The man shakes his head, dismissing your bashful refusal of his assistance, and grins. “Come on, show me what I’m up against.” 

“Fine. If you insist.” 

“I insist.”

He follows you out to the moving truck parked in your driveway, the metal wall at the back slid all the way up to reveal a cab nearly full of boxes. You bite your lip as Leon’s eyes grow wide. 

How much crap did this chick have, he thinks to himself. 

“Not that much left, huh?” 

The buttery afternoon slowly simmered into night before you knew it, and you and Leon had unloaded the entirety of the boxes left in the truck, until your living room resembled the back room of a post office, cardboard stacked from floor to ceiling. 

Leon was sitting on one of the larger boxes, his legs stretched out before him, dark wash denim clinging to thick quads. His shoulders are sunken, previously impeccable posture now faltering. The man is probably worn out. You know you are. 

“I should really treat you to a drink or something,” you say, sliding your hands into the back pockets of your cutoffs. “Thank you for helping, I really appreciate it.” 

He nods one and the corner of his mouth twitches as he presses himself up to standing. “You’re welcome. Is it just you?” 

“Yep, just me.” 

“ It would have taken twice as long if not longer if you did all that by yourself. Aren't you glad you let me help?” 

“Yes, I’m glad I let you help. Thank you again.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

As he moves toward the door, your eyes can’t help but fall across his wide back, the shoulders so large they almost seem inhuman, more like the concoction of a sculpture chiseling the ideal man into marble. Your chest tightens and you feel an impending flush threatening to rise to your cheeks.

“I owe you a drink,” you say, taking a few steps in his tracks toward the door, not totally ready for him to leave you alone in your home yet. You’ve never lived on your own before, and as excited and ready as you thought you were, the reality that you will be by yourself once Leon shuts that door is a little daunting. 

Over one of those massive shoulders, Leon steals a glance at you. He tries to keep his eyes locked on yours, not wanting to come across as the pervy, old neighbor who stares at your body, but fuck, if he doesn’t want to, especially when it is so visible to him. 

You seem so kind, so genuine. So eager. 

“I said don’t mention it.” 

There’s a little more heat to his voice as he shuts down your proposal. “Oh, okay. Sure,” is all you’re able to muster. 

He stalls by the door, giving you a moment to think about what to say next, if anything at all. That moment is cut short by Leon’s voice, taking over the conversation for you.

"Do you have a security system?" He asks, turning around to study your face as your head tilts to the side. "Like an alarm, or a camera you could put on your front door?" 

"No, but I have pepper spray in my purse."  

He shakes his head as a deep huff is pushed from his chest. You watch it rise and fall, the taut muscles stretching the fabric pulled tight over them. 

"What? It’s a safe neighborhood,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. 

“You should get one.”

“I wouldn’t know how to install it if I did.” 

“I’ll do it.”

September

The last time you saw Leon was last month, when he came over to set up the security alarm, a little speck of metal that he drilled into the threshold that chirps every time you open the door. A sensor connected to a keypad installed on the wall beside the frame. He told you to pick out a four-digit code that you had to enter into it every night to activate the alarm, every morning to deactivate. 

“(MM/YY).” You told him your birthday, the month and year, and he made a face, nose crinkling, eyes narrowed. He told you to pick another one, not tell him, and enter it into the keypad. He looked away when you did.

His car wasn’t in his driveway when you woke up this morning. You would assume he went to work, like you were getting ready to do, but you saw him load it up with a black duffel bag last night. It wasn’t like you were looking out for him, necessarily. It just so happens that your living room window looks out to his driveway, and while you were folding your laundry, eyes unfocused on the television playing in front of you, you heard a card door open. Right after that is when you saw him, a dark figure chopped up by the wooden slats of the blinds, putting a bag into the backseat of his SUV. He slammed the door shut and sulked back into his house. 

His car didn’t return for days after that. 

But when it did, wheels turning over gravel, you peered through that same window, and studied the figure behind the tinted driver’s side window as it stalled long after the ignition cut out, just waiting and waiting. He tipped his neck back until his head hit the headrest, the shadowy silhouette of his profile stagnant as he waited and waited.

Your eyes flicker to the kitchen counter, where a batch of freshly baked cookies rests beneath a glass cloche. Hands moving without any conscious direction, you place the cookies in a plastic container, slip into your sandals, and make a break for the front door. As it closes behind you, Leon’s car door slams shut, the two sounds creating a symphony loud enough to alert you of one another’s presence. 

“Hi there,” he says with a wave. You hold up the container of cookies, stepping toward his house, an old Georgian. 

“A thank-you. For helping me…stay safe, I guess.” 

“It hasn’t been giving you any trouble, has it?” 

As you draw closer to him, still standing by his car door, bag in hand, you notice the exhaustion awash across his face. Lines seem deeper. The purple moons under his eyes have darkened. 

“No sir.”

The look on your face. Those words coming from your mouth. Leon’s jaw tenses as he looks down at you, wearing cotton pajama shorts and a ratty t-shirt, holding a box of treats.  

“Thank you, again, really. It’s made me feel a lot better about living alone.” 

“Anytime. I’ll–uh–see you around.” He flashes you a quick smile, taking the tupperware from the hands that offered them, and turns around to walk toward his front door. 

October

The doorbell rang twice and your stupid hairdryer was too damn loud in your ear for you to have heard it. It was only when you switched it off that the lingering echo of the twinkling sound bounced off the hallway walls and into your ears. 

Leon? 

It’s not always Leon. Sometimes it’s the mailman, asking for a signature. Other times, it’s a salesperson asking if you’re interested in a new air conditioning unit. But you always, always hope it’s Leon. 

Freshly-showered body clad in nothing but a haphazardly tied robe, you pad down the hall and into the living room, opening the front door just in time to see Leon’s black SUV pull out of his driveway and head down the road, passing right in front of your house. You barely have time to raise your arm, let alone wave your hand at him. 

The tupperware container you gave him the cookies in, now empty and clean, rests on your doormat. Stuck to it, a note with a smiling doodle and Leon’s name in black ink. 

November

For the past two months, you and Leon found yourselves talking more. Sometimes, in the warmth of your own home. Other times, standing in his driveway or yours, until he bitches about his back or his knee and the two of you move to your front porch, sitting on the swing or the steps.

He would ask about your job, your friends, your family, and you would happily tell him stories about college and your crazy, old roommate who you still keep in touch with, and silly reiterations of your younger brother’s shenanigans. He still lives at home, not yet graduated from high school, and takes every opportunity to drive your parents crazy. 

“He sounds like a handful,” Leon confesses with a laugh. Gosh, you love his laugh, it’s addictive. If you could, you would bottle it up and huff it to get high. That along with his scent. What a rush you would get if you could grind it into a powder and snort it up your nose. 

Good grief.

“He is. They’re counting down the days until he moves out for his first year of school. Geez,” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose at the thought of Ethan going off to college. Does he even know how to turn on the dishwasher? “I can’t believe he’ll be a freshman in college. I worry about him. The kid is such a mess.” 

“He’ll be fine. If he’s anything like his…like you, I’m sure he’ll be fine. You seem to have a good head on your shoulders.” 

“Ha,” you huff, flattered. The two of you are sitting on the brick step of his stoop, feet flat on the blacktop driveway. It’s warm outside, even for a late autumn afternoon in the DMV. Seventy degrees and still bright. Sunlight wanes, the butterball dipping behind near-naked trees. 

It casts you in a glow that Leon cannot deny. You’re breathtaking, practically disheveled from a hectic day in the office. Your hair tousled, makeup nearly worn off, lips swollen from constant torture at the hands of your two front teeth. Strands billow down the back of your jacket as you lean to place your folded arms over bent knees, hugging yourself. He wishes he was the one with his arms around your legs. He could hit himself for letting that thought slip past the guard in his mind that guns down any inappropriate thought about his young neighbor. He’s distracted, eyelids heavy from weeks of interrupted sleep, body sore from eighty hours of back-breaking work. 

“You seem to know a lot about me,” you say, your soft voice luring Leon back into the conversation, away from his mental self-flaggelation. “But I don't know that much about you.”

“Really?” He scoffs. “I’m an open book.” 

That’s funny. “No you’re not,” you quip back and he nods beneath the fair assessment. 

“So, can I ask you a question?” 

“Shoot.”

“What do you do for work?” 

It’s a simple enough question, right?

“Why that question?” 

“I don’t know. You said you travel for work a lot and you always seem…” What’s the word you’re searching for? Different? Sad? Burdened? “...distracted when you come back.”

He hates that you’ve noticed that. “I work for the government. Security work.” 

“Are you a spy or something?” 

He chuckles, his baritone laugh filling the car and you with a warm buzz. “No, nothing like that. I work for the DSO.” 

“Never heard of it.” 

Good. That’s good. 

“Like I said, security work.” 

“Do you like it?” 

Does he like it? What a loaded question spoken in so few words. He wishes you had asked him his favorite color instead. He had a much simpler, cut-and-dry response to give.

“No. Sometimes.” 

“No? Sometimes?” You parrot him in the hope that he will hear the duplicity in his words and will elaborate further. 

“I can’t give you a straight answer to that, I’m sorry. You’ll just have to believe me when I say that it’s complicated.” He sucks in a breath, then leans back to recline on his palms. The dark blue quarter-zip he’s sporting looks as though it’s just one size too small and the seams might rip beneath the tension of his bulging muscles. “I like saving lives,” he continues. “That’s why I got into this mess in the first place. But it’s tough work and it hasn’t left me with much room to do anything else with my life.” 

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know.” He does know. “Having a family, hobbies, traveling.” 

“Really? I feel like you’re always gone somewhere.” 

“I should have clarified. Traveling, not for work purposes.” 

“If you could go anywhere–not for work–where would you go?” 

He takes a moment to really ponder your question. “I wouldn’t want to go anywhere I’ve had to go for work, that’s for sure.” Your eyebrows crease as you look up at him. You make a mental note to research what exactly employees of the DSO do when you get back home. “How about Japan? Or Greece? I think I’d like Greece. All those blue and white buildings overlooking the Mediterranean.” 

“I’ve always wanted to go to Greece, too,” you squeak, face aglow. “You’ll have to let me tag along when you go.” 

January

“He’s taking you to a ballet?” 

“Yep,” you chirp into the receiver, placing the phone between your cheek and your shoulder so your two hands are free to hold up the dresses to your frame. Option one is a strong contender, a black tea-length fit-and-flare with an Old Hollywood silhouette à la Audrey Hepburn that shows off your waist. Option two is a bit edgier. Strapless with a square neckline that doesn’t give too much away, the red satin clings to your waist, your hips, all the way down to your calves. The only con is you can barely walk in it, the skirt is so restricted, straight as a pencil. But it looks great. 

Standing in front of the mirror in just your bra and panties as a blank slate, you hold up the first option against your body. It’s pretty and conservative. The shiny taffeta can easily be paired with your mother’s strand of pearls and a pair of kitten heels. But option two is sexy. It’s provocative. 

Would Jackson like it? He seems so reserved and straightlaced, you think it might scare him off. 

But he is a man…

“I didn’t know people still went to those,” Diana huffs on the other end. Poor thing thinks guys only take girls out to sports bars and football games. She needs to get out of your hometown. “Is he old?”

“People do still go to those, especially in D.C. The company here is incredible, or so I’ve heard.” 

“The company? He’s got you talking like an old person. Wait. Is he old?” 

You giggle. “No, he’s my age.”

“Is he rich?” 

“Who?”

“The man who’s taking you out on a date, tonight. Who else would we be talking about?”

“Oh, right, duh. Um, getting there. He’s still just a junior associate at the firm. His parents are, though. They have, like, two houses.” 

“Ah,” she clicks her tongue. “That’ll do it. Well, in that case, you have my approval.” 

“Heads or tails?” You ask, changing the subject, heads being option one. 

“Eenie meenie–”

“Just pick one,” you groan. 

“Okay, fine. Tails.” 

Of course the dress Diane psychically picked is the more daring of the two. 

“Okay, thanks for picking out a dress for me. I’ll send you a pic when I’m all dressed up.” 

“Wait, I didn’t know that’s what I was choosing for you. I want to see the options. Not fair.”

“Perfectly fair, that’s kind of the point of flipping a coin. Plus, I don’t have time. He’s picking me up in T-minus…” you glance at the glowing alarm clock on your bedside table. “Ten minutes.” 

She groans dramatically. “Okay, fine, but I want to see the fit and you’ll have to tell me all the details after, okay? And I mean all the details, you hear me? Not the PG version either. Got it? Got it?” 

“Yes, yes, yes. Photo and details. Copy that. Now, I really do have to go.” 

The two of you spit out rushed “goodbyes” and “I love you’s” and you hang up the call and throw option one onto your bed, shimmying option two’s hanger straps off the wooden arms of the hanger, and toss that aside too. 

It takes you a minute to shimmy into the unforgiving satin, but once you do, you begin the fight with the zipper. You get the tiny metal piece pulled all the way up your hips and half-way up your spine until it begins to rub a blister on the pads of your fingers and you feel yourself start to sweat. 

And the doorbell rings. Ten minutes before he’s supposed to get here and he’s already at the door. 

You hiss out a swear, slide into the heels you bought especially for the occasion, and grab the clutch that barely holds your phone and a tube of lipstick. 

Swinging the door open, you whole-heartedly expect to see Jackson standing, a bouquet of flowers in tow, with the big, toothy grin he always wears warming up his face. 

“You’re ear—” 

It’s not your date, but your next door neighbor. Leon stands on your front porch, hands in the front pockets of his dark jeans, sporting the orthopedic sneakers he always has on, along with a sweet grin that slowly melts off his face once he sees you. 

He can’t control it. His jaw went completely slack when he saw you standing in the doorway, illuminated by the dim backlight of the glowing kitchen behind you. You’re wearing a dress that is far too flattering, looking like a Barbie doll behind the plastic sheen of a display case. 

“Oh, Leon,” you say, not expecting to see him on your doorstep. “Hi. What are you doing here?” 

He was there to ask you to go out to dinner with him, but it looks like someone already beat him to the chase. You certainly aren’t wearing a dress like that to lounge around in your living room. You didn’t spend all that time tying up your hair just to get pizza with a friend. 

“I–uh–came by to–uh–”

“Oh wait, hold that thought. Do you mind zipping me up all the way? I can’t reach.” You turn around and put your hands on your hips, not giving him time to refuse. 

He wants to say “no”. A sick, jealous part of him wants to refuse having any part in readying you for another man, helping you into a dress he would never get the chance to take off. But, the hero in him wants to save the day, to come to your rescue. 

“Going out?” He asks shortly, the timbre of his voice reaching a new low as he steps toward you. The top half of the dress is open, revealing a soft swatch of skin beneath the gaping fabric. With the grip of a man whose job description is to be dexterous with small, moving parts like the ribbed safety of a handgun or the inner walls of a rifle, he locates the coated metal of the zipper. As he pulls it upward, the knuckle of his pointer finger grazes the warmth of your back, the patch just across your spine. He pretends not to notice the bumps that rise across your skin, and you pretend not to feel the heat stirring in your lower belly. 

How can the feather-light touch of a man you hardly know bring on such a strong physical reaction? You feel as if your limbs might turn to jelly, your heart being so fast you can hear it reverberating against the cavern of your ear canal. 

“Thank you,” you squeak, turning around so Leon can take in the sight of you once more. 

“Anytime.” 

“I’m sorry I interrupted before. Did you say you needed something?” 

“No.” He doesn’t even bother to spin a lie or make up an excuse, just wanting to get out before your date shows up and he has to come face-to-face with the man who will reflect all of his own shortcomings. He’s probably your age, still sprite and wide-eyed like you. Enthusiastic with a lust for life Leon lost a long time ago. “Have fun tonight. You look great.” 

That’s all he says before he dips out of your door and you don’t see him for weeks.

March

“What in the world are you doing out there? It’s raining cats and dogs.” His voice is nearly shouting, carried across the few feet of grass between the sides of your homes, through the wet slosh of the downpour, and onto your porch. 

You shudder, wholly unsure if it was from the giggle in your throat or the shiver creeping up across your skin. Either way, you’re practically buzzing, watching as Leon peers down at you from beneath the cover of his own porch. The concern on his face is borderline amusing. He’s looking at you from beneath furrowed brows, frowning with such worry as though you’re caught in the crossfire of a battlefield, not curled up, taking refuge from a thunderstorm. 

“I like the sound of the rain,” you lie. “Just came out—to hear it—better.” Your teeth are chattering, and you didn’t realize just how cold you were until you needed to muster up enough warmth to oil up your pipes. 

Before you know it, you hear footsteps sinking into the soggy grass of your front yard. Leon has walked over, in the rain, to your front porch. He was tired of yelling through the downpour, and decided it wasn’t going to let up any time soon so why wait? Plus your well-being is worth getting drenched. 

Blonde strands, streaked with gray, cling to his temples, and with them are raindrops that trail down the skin there. 

“You’re completely soaked.” 

You blush only because you imagine him saying that under different circumstances. His hand down your pants, for example. 

He’s right. Your dress is drenched through, the thin chiffon clinging to your goose-pimpled skin, sopping wet and—you look down at the black fabric molded to your thighs—incredibly sheer. If only you could dip into your house and grab your robe. 

“And you’re shivering.” He holds out two open palms for you to take. You do, and he pulls you up to meet him, realizing how close he brought you to his own face, and he takes a step back, not sure he could control himself if he was so close to you. 

Maybe having you farther away was a mistake, because now he can see the entirety of your body, clad in what he assumes was once a flowy dress, now completely soaked through and clinging to your every dip and curve. He can tell that you’re not wearing a bra, maybe one without much padding…or any underwear? No, you’re definitely wearing underwear because he sees the outline of the fabric jutting beneath your dress. It must be very thin, however, because it doesn’t do much to hide the outline of your—

Stop, Leon, he says internally. Do not look at her…there.

“Was the date so bad you had to wash it off in the rain?” He asks to distract himself, clearing his throat. It’s a futile attempt because the idea of you having dinner with another man does little to calm his nerves. The boy picked you up earlier, gave you his elbow as he walked you down from your front porch to his car, a sporty BMW. The kid held the door open as you sunk down into the seat, and he made sure the skirt of your dress was out of the way before he gently shut you inside. 

He knows you went on a date. That means he saw you with Jackson, either when he picked you up, when the sky was still clear of the rumbling clouds that made an appearance during dinner. Or when he dropped you off, sheets of rain already tumbling down, when he spun you around in his arms and kissed you in the middle of the torrential deluge. At that moment, you thought it was romantic. Kissing the boy you like as the rain soaked you both, tangled in a wet embrace. It was romantic. Jackson was romantic. But he sure as hell wasn’t Leon, who saw the bookends of your night out on the town with another man. Now the memory makes your stomach sour. 

“No, nothing like that,” you say with a sigh, holding up the small beaded clutch in your hand for him to see. “I changed out my purse for tonight, and forgot my keys in my other bag like an idiot.” You shake your head again. “Didn’t forget three different tubes of lipgloss though. Priorities, I guess.” 

You even open up the lips of the bag to show Leon your collection of shimmering makeup products. He doesn’t quite know what he’s looking at but he chuckles anyway because you find it amusing. It snaps to a close and you place it under your arm. An arm glistening with crystal droplets. 

Damp strands that once fell loose from your low bun now stick to your temples. One thick clump worms its way to the corner of your mouth. You use the tip of your tongue to push it away in an obscenely childish maneuver. What are you going to do next? Rub your runny nose with your sleeve? As much as you want to chide yourself for such a grossly immature act, Leon finds it utterly endearing. He doesn’t comment on it, though, compliment or not, because he sees the look in your eyes as you realize what you did and the immediate flush of your cheeks that followed. He’d rather not cause you any further embarrassment. 

“You didn’t want to call your boyfriend?” 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you answer quickly, chomping at the bit to shut down Leon’s accusation. 

“Ah.” He looks past you to the doormat shedding scratchy fibers onto the terracotta tiles beneath it. Then to the potted plants on either side of the door, the dry leaves soaking up the mist that the wind thrusts at them. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare key hidden somewhere, would you?”

“No,” you say, and he looks at you before shaking his head in disappointment. “But I gave one to my friend when I moved in. I called her thirty minutes ago and she said she’ll be by in the next hour or two when she gets off work.” 

“So you just plan on waiting out here?”

“I guess,” you say, uncommitted to an answer. 

He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Come on, you can dry off at my place.” 

Your arm brushes against his once on the short walk over to his front door, and your skin is still burning when he opens it, letting you in for the first time. 

The space is a lot cozier than you imagined it would be. You’re not sure why, but you pictured Leon living in a more sterile environment, void of warmth and comfort—something utilitarian, shred of all the frills so that only the absolute necessities remain. He seems very Spartan in that way. But this—his home puts all of those prejudiced assumptions to shame, showing you a completely different side of the man. 

Across from the crackling fireplace, there is an overstuffed couch, upholstered in a smooth linen fabric that peeks out beneath a couple blankets thrown haphazardly over the back. It looks inviting and for a moment, the image of you and Leon curled up on the seat cushions flashes across your mind. Your knees are tucked into your chest, his body is turned toward yours, close enough for him to read out and touch your knee. The still is so vivid that you can almost feel the warmth of his palm on your flesh. 

The image disappears, leaving you, once again, to take in the details of the room around you. Tucked into a corner of two tall bookcases, is a brown leather wing-back chair that looks well-loved, worn at the arms and the seat. It stands regally, tucked between the fireplace and a wooden side table that holds a tall lamp and a stack of paperback books. 

“Nice place,” you say sweetly, kicking off your shoes by the door. He smirks down at you, suddenly shorter than the man without your heels on to bolster you up to his height. He’s not spectacularly tall by any means, standing at five-foot-eleven.

“Thanks,” is all he says as he shuts the front door behind you, turning not one but three different locks. The metal of each one clinks. If he were any other man, that might be creepy, but after you heard snippets about his work, the paranoia makes sense. “Let me go get you a towel.” 

Your eyes follow his gaze down to the hem of your dress. It’s dripping. Actual drops fall from the fabric onto the floor, pooling around your bare feet. 

“Oh, Leon, I’m sorry. I’m dripping everywhere.” 

He’s not looking at the puddle now dampening his floor. No, he’s looking at the dress. The one that is so damp, it clings to your thighs. Your pretty, fleshy thighs. Yeah, you’re dripping alright. 

Get a grip, Leon. 

“Do you want to change? I’ll get you some clothes and you can get ready in the guest bedroom. I can even hang up your dress in the shower, so it’ll dry.” 

“Sure,” you oblige, and you follow him up the stairs and down the upstairs hallway, careful not to drip too much onto the polished hardwood. “Your house is really nice. Kind of big for just a single guy.” Why did you say that? You idiot freak. “Sorry, that came out wrong.” 

He just shrugs, stopping you in front of a closed door before taking a few more steps down the hall. “I’ll be back,” he promises, opening the door to what you assume is his bedroom, giving you just a peek into the suite before shutting it behind him. All you were able to see is a headboard and an unmade bed. Crisp, white sheets crumpled across the mattress. A grey comforter sliding off the foot of the bed. He must thrash in his sleep for the dressings to be strewn about like that. Or he’s had someone over. 

You imagine sleeping there with him, your naked bodies tangled together, twisted up in those sheets. His hands roaming your bare flesh, kneading and grabbing your hips as he had his way with you. 

He returns quickly and you avert your gaze from the door, hoping he isn’t a vampire or alien that can read your mind and learns that you’ve been fantasizing about him.

“Here,” he says, holding a stack of folded clothing: black sweatpants and a gray t-shirt. It seems to be his uniform. 

Both of you linger silently in the hallway, just standing opposite of one another. Leon’s hands are in the pockets of his lounge pants, the t-shirt he’s wearing doing all but hiding the muscles of his chest and abdomen, not to mention the veiny biceps outstretched from the sleeves. You’re just standing there, dumb, waiting on him to say something. 

He’s just so handsome, you’re completely caught up in the beauty of his face, his form. Those eyes that stare so intently. The dimple of his chin. The softness of his jaw, marked with stubble that is patchy in some places, gray in most. You want to kiss him there, feel the hair tickling your lips. You need to stop thinking about him in that way. It’s not going to happen. 

“The guest bedroom is behind you.” He cuts his eyes to the side, then immediately back to you, waiting. 

Duh. 

“Oh, right,” you cough up a nervous breath. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll change in here.” You just keep pumping out weightless words to combat the awkwardness of the last few seconds. You hope you weren’t staring or doing anything weird with your face.

“Hand me your dress when you're changed and I can hang it up, like I said.” 

“Yeah, of course,” you repeat, as if it’s the only phrase you know. 

The guest bedroom is small and neat, but relatively unadorned, housing only a queen-sized mattress, two nightstands on either side of the made bed, and a dresser opposing the wooden headboard. In the corner, there is a standing mirror, also wooden, definitely old. 

Your fingers struggle with the zipper, huffing and puffing until you find the right angle and grab onto the miniscule metal tongue with one hand, yanking it down with the other. Sliding the sleeves down your arms, the fabric unglued itself from your body. The tiny bra you were wearing is damp in some spots, but you’d rather not pass that on to Leon for him to hang up in his bathroom, so you keep it on, alongside the lace panties on your hips. With the towel he gave you, you dry off, starting with your neck, shuffling the cloth down to your feet, drying off every inch of skin.

Before redressing, you patter toward the door with your dress in hand and open it just a crack. 

Leon turns around at the sound of the door creaking open, and he approaches to grab the garment from you as you slide it through the opening. He notices the bra strap on your shoulder and behind that, the mirror angled toward the door, giving him a perfectly good view of your bare thighs, and lace-clad cheeks. 

He nearly chokes on air. 

“You okay?” You ask. 

“Yeah,” he nods. “I’ll go hang this up.” he skidattles before you can notice the erection straining the thin pajama pants he’s wearing. 

Back in the guest room, you throw on the t-shirt and pants he provided, pattering to the hallway. 

“Leon?” 

He hears your voice through the bathroom door, busying himself with an empty hanger he grabbed from his closet, sliding the capped sleeves of your dress onto the wood before hanging it on the curtain rod. 

“Fuck,” he hisses to himself, looking down to see how stiff he had gotten. He didn’t think he had it in him anymore, and if it were any other time, he would be pleasantly surprised to see that his body still somewhat functions in that department. But now? He needs it to go away. 

His hand reaches into his pants. He palms the stiff shaft, praying the touch brings him some relief. 

“I’ll just wait in the living room.” Your voice clears as he opens the door half-way through the sentence that comes from those pretty lips. Don’t think about her pretty lips, Leon, he commands himself. 

“Hi,” you chirp as Leon’s bare feet bring him down the stairs and into the living room. You’re standing near the fireplace. 

“Hey. Do you want anything to drink?” He asks, lingering in the portal between the living room and the kitchen, his hand resting on the painted wood frame. “I have water and whiskey, and maybe a beer or two, but that’s about it.”  

There is an unidentifiable tone in his voice that weakens it. He sounds disappointed or ashamed of himself. 

“Water is fine, thank you, Leon.”

You’re such a sweet girl, he thinks before dipping into the kitchen, leaving you to your own devices in his living room. You take the opportunity to give yourself a tour of the space, padding onto a red oriental rug that spans nearly the entirety of the hardwood slats making up the floor. Each vibrant, colored thread is woven into geometric shapes and motifs beneath your bare feet. 

You turn back around to the fireplace. The mantle is dripping with mis-matched frames, each one filled with pictures of Leon of all different ages, of scenic landscapes that portray him as a well-traveled man. 

One photo in particular stands out to you. A younger version of your neighbor in his late twenties, early thirties at most, stands between a girl around the same age and a man with similar features to hers. Their arms are all interwoven behind each other’s backs, all flashing bright, genuine smiles at the camera. He looks less…burdened here.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Leon standing once more in the doorway, watching you intently. His piercing blue eyes scan your body, stopping at the photo in your hands. He smirks when he realizes which picture rests inside the painted wood frame. 

“Those are the Redfields.” Leon’s voice draws closer as he meets you at the fireplace. His footsteps are light, graceful, which is funny considering they belong to a man with such an obscene amount of muscle. A glass of ice water in his hand, he looks again at the frame in yours. “Claire and Chris. I met Claire when I was a rookie cop in Racoon City. She was there when everything went to shit.” He waits to see the look of recognition come across your face, but it never does. God, you are young, he thinks. Sweet summer child, so innocent and unaware of the kinds of horrors he has seen. “Before your time, I guess,” he shuckles deeply. “And that’s Chris, her brother. We go way back.” He points to the brunette man beside him. 

“You look so young in this picture.” It’s just an observation on your part, nothing more, and Leon knows that, but the remark hits him where it hurts. He was probably your age, maybe a little bit older, when that photo was taken. It was captured during a time when he truly thought his life would amount to something, that among the smoke and blood and gunpowder, he would still be able to have it all, despite the job, despite the world he was so hastily thrown into. Oh, how wrong he was. You still get to have what he couldn’t. Maybe you’ll get married one day and have a family. Maybe you’ll get a dog. Maybe, in ten years, you’ll still be living in that house next door and he’ll get to watch you enjoy the life you created for yourself. 

He’s not sure he could stick around and see you build the life he never got to have with someone else. He’d have to move if he even lived long enough to see the day. 

If only he met you then, maybe things could have worked out for him. He shakes that thought out of his head, distracting himself from the idea of being with you by reverting back to the photo. 

“We took a trip up to the mountains one summer with a couple other friends.” 

You nod, still looking at the picture. “You never told me that you were so handsome.” 

He has the same haircut, the same dimple in his chin. He just looks more weathered now, fine lines across his forehead, around his eyes and mouth. Deeper ones cut across the pebbled skin of his neck. He’s still breathtakingly beautiful. 

“Maybe I forgot. That was a long time ago.” 

“Sorry,” you apologize quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re still very handsome.” 

You blush, so pretty and pink beneath the low light. “Sorry,” you repeat. “Was that a weird thing to say?” 

Is she flirting with me, he thinks. No, of course not, he’s too old. She’s just being polite because she thought he had offended him. 

“No, not weird at all.” He smirks and it goes straight to your clit, now throbbing so hard you have to cinch your thighs together to keep yourself from becoming a pile of jelly on the floor. 

You’re not sure how to fill the silence that falls over the room. Leon’s smile falters and he’s just staring down at you, the rise and fall of his chest struggling to keep up with his now labored breath. 

“You know you’re good-looking.” Fuel to the fire. “Not sure why you look so surprised.” 

You’ve caught him off guard. He doesn’t know how to respond to that assessment. 

“Maybe I just haven’t heard it in a while. Not from a beautiful woman like you.” 

Now it’s your turn to be speechless. You regroup, finding your bearings again. You need to sit down before your knees give out and you melt into a puddle of nerves on the floor, staining his run. Stepping over toward the couch, Leon follows you, taking a seat on the cushion at the opposite end of the one you chose to settle on, criss-crossing your legs.

Gosh, he’s so gorgeous. Rugged and weathered, sure, that comes with his age, but gorgeous is still the first word you’d use to describe him. The slight bump at the bridge of his knows. Pretty lips that part slightly whenever you’re in his presence. 

He could say the same thing about you, the absolutely stunning woman who can’t seem to leave him alone no matter how awkward, tense, or avoidant he seems. You’re always there with a smile or an offering of beer or cookies, trying to drag him out of the hole he’s created for himself. 

“Can I ask you a question, Leon?”

“Sure.” 

“Why do you have such a big house if it’s just you living here?” 

You’re not accusing him of anything, you just want to know why a single, older man lives in such a large home all by himself. Heavy-lidded and low, his eyes flicker upward from the comfort of his lap to meet yours. The contact sends a tittering chill down your spine and lightning bolts between your thighs. 

As soon as you think he’s about to answer through parted lips, Leon closes his mouth and chooses a physical response instead of a verbal one. He shrugs the shoulder not dug into the back of the sofa. 

“I bought it a couple years back, thinking I might get married and have a family. Never happened.”

What do you say to that? 

Oh, damn.

Woof, that sucks. 

Sorry for the loss of your imaginary family. 

“You still have time,” is what you settle on instead, instantly regretting it. Leon is obviously not getting any younger, and you might have just stuck the knife in deeper with that comment. He really doesn’t still have time, and he knows it. 

“No,” is all he says, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t. ‘Ts why I’m selling the place.” 

Like a slap to the face. Saliva pools beneath your stupefied tongue as your jaw drops open in awe. 

“What? You’re moving?” 

“Yeah, ‘gonna put it on the market soon. Just need to talk to a realtor.” 

“Wha—where are you going to go? Are you leaving town?” 

“Oh, no,” he chuckles deeply. “I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to. My job is here. I just want to close this chapter and get something smaller, less work to keep up. I don’t need all this space and I’m getting older. I don’t want to have to maintain it all. Plus, someone else will need it more than I do anyway.” Someone else with a family to care for, a dog that can run around in the backyard, children that can fill the rooms with toys and laughter. 

He wanted to have that more than anything. He wanted colorful letter magnets on the fridge, ballet lessons, soccer practices. He wanted to trip over toy cars left out on the floor, and begrudgingly (but not really) play house with dolls. He wanted to be chased around with sticky, syrup-coated fingers and attend school plays. 

Maybe if he was twenty-eight again, just like he was in that photo, and if you were his neighbor, as sweet and willing as you are now, he would have asked you to do it all with him. 

Okay, he’s not leaving town. That knowledge calms your nerves, but the pit in your stomach is still gaping wide like a canyon. 

“I’m going to miss seeing you, though,” he admits quietly, regretting the words as soon as they come out of his mouth, especially when he sees the look on your face beneath them. You’re wearing an expression he can’t quite decipher. Did he frighten you? Did he disgust you by saying such a perverse thing? 

It’s borderline uncomfortable being in Leon’s presence. He’s older and stronger and could easily pounce and have his way with you in a split second. That idea should probably scare you, but no, the discomfort comes from the desire you feel pooling in your belly, the rope you feel pulling you to him as your seat comes unglued from the sofa cushion. You raise yourself slowly so as not to scare him off, and before his reflexes can react and tug him away, you move into his space and plant a kiss on his cheek.

His face is warm and soft under your pursed lips as they linger for a second too long. In those moments, you debate cupping his face, running your fingers through his hair, planting a palm or two on his chest. He backs up an inch, pulling himself from your touch before you can do any of those things. 

“Leon, I’m sorry. Was that too much?” 

He closes his eyes, putting up a hand between the two of you. 

“You–I–we can’t do this, (Y/N).” The words feel like a kick in the face. The flame of embarrassment rises to the apples of your cheeks, lighting them up with a fierce blush. “My job is dangerous. It takes me away all the time, and I rarely know how long I’ll be gone or if I’m coming back. Sometimes, I don’t think I will. It’s part of the reason why I’m selling this place, why I never got to share it with anyone. I’m not going to drag you into that.”

Throat dry and scratchy, you swallow the lump stuck behind your tongue. “You’re not dragging me into anything, Leon.” 

He gives you a weak smile and huffs. “You say that now, kid.” They all do. When the courtship is still in its beginning phases, Leon introduces the woman to his lifestyle, piece by piece, softly bringing up the intricacies of his job. While she’s still entranced by his heroic position or his good looks or the money or the car, she’s all on board. She promises to stay with him, come hell or high water, but once the threads are worn thin and she’s tired of the waiting, the worrying, she leaves. He hasn’t known you for very long, so he trusts that you will be no different. Plus, you’re young and naive. Even if you seemed one-hundred percent confident in what you wanted, Leon doubts he’d believe you enough to open up his heart to destruction again. 

“I mean it–”

“No, stop. Shh,” he says, tilting his head, eyes squinted as he cuts them around the sofa. “Is that your phone vibrating?” 

You almost missed it beneath the ringing in your ears, but sure enough, Cecilia is calling. 

“It’s the friend I have my key to,” is all you have time to say before picking up the phone and answering. The conversation doesn’t last long. She’s parked outside, in your driveway. 

“She’s here to unlock my door.” Your voice trails off into a hum as you stand up and collect your purse from the table behind the sofa. His bright blue eyes look up at you, awash with an expression you can’t quite name. “Can we finish this conversation tomorrow?” 

He nods, bringing himself to standing so he can walk you to the door. Though he led you to believe tomorrow’s planned conversation would be possible, Leon knew he would be long gone to Rio before you woke up. 

That night, when he’s lying in bed, on the second hour of trying to force himself to sleep, Leon thinks about you. He thinks about what you’re doing. He wonders if you’re awake like he is, if you’re thinking about him like he’s thinking about you. Of course, you’re not awake. You’re normal, probably fast asleep for hours by now. Maybe you’re dreaming about him. He wants to dream about you. 

That photo. Why did you have to look at that photo?

He pictures himself at twenty-eight, around your age. His skin, smooth and mostly unscarred, untainted by twenty years of fighting. He isn’t graying. No wrinkles or joint pain. His back doesn’t yell out at him when he bends the wrong way, or lifts something heavy without first laying into his knees. You said he was handsome, so maybe you would have accepted the proposition of a date if he had asked. He would have made a reservation at a fancy restaurant and put on a suit, slicked his hair back so it didn’t flop in your face when he tried to kiss you. Would you have let him kiss you then? Would you let him now? The old, wrinkled, tired version of the boy you saw in that picture?  

Leon knows the answer to that already. You tried to kiss him tonight and he didn’t let you. Why was he so stupid as to not let you kiss him? It’s one of the only things he’s been able to think about when he has a spare moment to himself. The smooth curve of your lips on his. 

He hasn’t gotten hard in a while. He hasn’t tried. But the images his brain is conjuring up right now send a twinge between his thighs and he feels the fabric of his briefs stretch across his growing arousal.

“Stop it,” he berates himself aloud, rolling over to stuff his face in the pillow. He shouldn’t think of you in that way. He has to let you go. 

May

The doorbell rings, and there’s only one person you hope to see on your doorstep. You say a quick prayer that it’s not Jackson, come to try and convince you to take him back after your break-up. It wasn’t messy, per se, but it was your idea, and Jackson isn’t the type of guy who just gives up on things he wants. Hopefully he doesn’t want you badly enough to show up unsolicited at your front door. 

Thankfully, your prayer was answered and then some. Leon is on your front porch, standing with his shoulders rolled back, his hands clasped behind him. 

“Hi,” is all he says when you swing open the door and lay eyes on him. He never fails to steep your breath, whether it’s his face or the mass of muscle that seems to be one flex away from bursting out of his clothing. The way his chest presses against the fabric of his compression shirt is enough to make your vision go blurry. “I’ve been holding your dress hostage, apparently. Totally forgot I had it.” 

Both of those things are technically true. Once the dress had somewhat dried hanging up in his bathroom, the night before he left for South America, Leon had held it in his arms as he tried to go to sleep. He also might have smelled it. A few times.  

After he returned from the mission, he did forget about it, the dress just hanging in his closet to only be remembered when he was looking for that shirt you once said looked good on him. He wanted to wear it when he randomly stopped by your house today, and then, to his surprise, he found the dress and a perfectly good excuse to see you along with it.

He brings an arm forward, a folded square of chiffon in his grasp. Leon’s large hand makes the dress look like a handkerchief. The sight of the thick, blue veins beneath his knuckles makes your knees weak. 

“Oh right,” is all you say, the smile plastered on your face not allowing for any other words to be formed. “Thanks, Leon.” 

He nearly groans when he hears his name so sweet on your lips. A quick clearing of his throat covers it up. “Yeah, of course.” 

“Would you like to come in? I made cookies earlier, if you’d like one.” You open the door slightly, gesturing for him to come inside.

He saunters inside, a large arm brushing past yours as he walks past you. 

“I give you permission to shoot me if I ever say ‘no’ to that invitation.” 

That makes you giggle. Either the goofy quips he constantly pulls out of his pocket are actually funny, or he’s just so ridiculously handsome that anything he says can make you laugh. The latter is probably true. 

He’s just so damn handsome. Is he even real? Maybe you should reach out and touch him just to make sure. 

You grab a plate from the cabinet and serve Leon one of your signature chocolate chip cookies, just shy of fresh from the oven. 

“Seriously, I think you put crack in these, they’re so good.” He takes another bite. You’re both leaning over your kitchen counter, across from one another. 

His wide smile dwindles slightly, but he’s still looking at you with those sharp blue eyes as they flicker to each feature on your face, lingering on your mouth, your cheeks, your eyes. 

“Thank you. Glad to know I’ve perfected the recipe. My grandmother would be very proud.”

June

Leon had been gone for over a month. He left the morning after he returned your dress to you. The one you wore the night you tried to lunge at him and plant your mouth all over his face. The night after he told you things would never work between you both. When he stopped by, he didn’t mention it once, which somehow made it worse. 

You gave him one hour between hearing his car pull into his driveway and stomping across the patch of grass separating your homes to knock on his door. Apparently, that was more than enough time for him to clean up and start drinking. 

“You’re back.” Then, “What happened?” 

He’s fresh from a shower, still somewhat damp and smelling like the soap he uses, citrus and pine. The scent radiates from the warm skin exposed beneath his black v-neck t-shirt: strong, pale arms and a collarbone peppered with hair. He holds himself up with a crooked arm resting on the door frame, displaying a bulging bicep and shallow cuts across his skin. In his other hand, a sweating beer. 

Staying silent, Leon just glares at you before backing out of the doorway to step aside, gesturing for you to enter his home. You kick off your shoes and pad into the living room. He follows sluggishly, catching up with you. 

You hiss when the cold bottle is pressed to the bare flesh of your upper arm, snapping around to see Leon smirking down at you. He just wanted to hear you squeal. He regretted the act as soon as he did it, but your little yelp was gratifying nonetheless. 

“Want a drink?” That’s all he says. You’ve been worried out of your mind for the past month and all he does is ask if you want some alcohol. Truly, you want to be mad at him, but you can’t find the anger under the relief you feel. The sight of him, living and breathing, glides over your skin like a salve. 

“No, thanks. I’m so sorry to intrude.” You look around the living room, eyes immediately finding a gaggle of empty beer bottles at the foot of his chair. “I just–I saw your car in the driveway. I figured you got back from work finally, and thought I’d come by to check up on you.” 

“That’s very sweet of you,” he says, stepping across you to the leather wingback chain in the corner of the living room. He sinks into it, groaning on his way down, stretching out his legs onto the rug. Bare feet splay across the geometric pattern. 

You wait, still only a couple feet from the door where he left you, watching as he does nothing but drink his beer and gaze back at you. 

“So how was it?” You just want to hear his voice. You want to know that he’s alright. A month is a long time for things to go awry, and from what little information you were able to glean about the work the DSO does, you’re sure a month is far too long for him to have gotten away without taking some sort of damage. Whether it’s above or below the surface, you’d like to find out so you can make it better. 

“Fine.” He grunts at you. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You were gone for a long–”

“I’m fine. If you’re going to keep asking silly questions, you can go.” 

His heartless words are like suckerpunch to the gut, leaving your stomach contorting itself into a knot–a raggedy nest made from twine and rags and discarded trash. You’re not even sure which emotion is at the forefront of the battle marching on inside of you. Maybe it’s sorrow for the mean, old man in front of you. Regret for ever putting your lips on him and letting him feel the softness you have for him through your skin. Shame for mentally labeling him as “mean” and “old”, because he truly is neither. Sympathy for a human being who is obviously being worked to death, the life milked out of him by the greedy fist of a vengeful, uncaring government. Maybe it’s a concoction of all those ugly, festering diseases. Or maybe it’s something altogether more primal and unwavering, something that has clawed its way into your skin like a tick, burrowing deeper and deeper until it latches itself to you, its host, and never lets go. 

You might love the man. Why else would a perfectly rational grown woman have worried herself sick over her neighbor who she has spent a collective twenty hours in the presence of?

“What? I wanted to see if you were alright–”

“I said you can go. I don’t need a nurse or some woman hovering over me right now. Just leave me alone.” 

You must love him. Why else would you let yourself be spoken to with such disgust and condescension and still want to kiss and caress and take care of the inductor of the pain now simmering in your chest?

Eyes stinging and tears threatening to fall, you bite your lip to keep the messy emotions at bay, fully confident that a wet tantrum would not help your case. Some woman.

He sees your face fall and sighs deeply, his shoulders drooping. “Shit, I’m sorry, (Y/N). My assignment was shitty and I’m tired and I’ve had too much to drink. I’m sorry. Don’t let me be an ass to you, okay?” He sets his beer down on the table beside him. 

“It’s okay, really. I get it. I should have waited until you settled in–I shouldn’t have–” 

Even though he has already apologized, the tears come anyway, welling up on your lashes, stringing as they drip down your cheeks ruthlessly. He jumps up like the seat is on fire, lunging toward you, tugging your body into his arms. Booze and wood strong on his neck as he pulls you closer, rocking you gently from side to side. 

“Fuck,” he swears with a bite, moving to lock his jaw on the crown of your head. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I don’t feel like myself today.” 

Baby. He just called you ‘baby’. He doesn’t notice, but you do. 

You cry out into his chest, wrapping your arms around his torso, hiccuping. Gosh, you probably look so pathetic and childish right now, sobbing into this man’s shirt, but you can’t help it. 

“I’m just glad you’re alive, Leon. You scared me. You said you might not come back one day, and I was so worried when I didn’t see you for so long.” 

“I know, I’m so sorry. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” 

But he is. He’s moving, and soon at that. One day in the near future, you’ll be separated by a lot more than a patch of grass and a retaining wall that does nothing but help you step into his yard. 

Maybe you can convince him to stay. Maybe your love will convince him that he is worthy of a home, of space, of beauty in his life. That’s why you kiss him, because you think your touch will keep him here. 

His lips are softer than you had imagined, and his mouth tastes like the bitter tang of liquor. The touch riles up a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. 

He pulls away, hands coming up to your upper arms. 

“I’ve had a few drinks.” 

August

“Leon, is that you?” 

You know it is. 

The sound of his sneaker-clad feet–the sound you have practically memorized–cut through the late summer sounds of chirping crickets and heat waves. The hot day melted into a swarthy evening, a bright yellow sun slowly dipping into the horizon, painting the sky with pink and purple clouds. The streetlamps have already turned on, and children have returned from dinner to continue their outdoor activities. A couple of kids from across the street play hopscotch on the sidewalk they painted with chalk earlier. 

“Hey.” He doesn’t say anything more as he takes a seat next to you on the porch swing, the wood creaking beneath the additional weight. It swings back and forth an inch.

“It’s been a while,” you admit, already blushing beneath his gaze. Regret blooms in your chest. You really could have gone without divulging to him that you’ve practically been marking the time he’s been gone like a prisoner counting down the days until his release by scratching chalky lines into the walls of his cell.  

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is low and rough, like he’s been sick or coughing a lot, at least. “I was gone for work.” 

“I assumed so.” 

The two of you share an understanding glance and he smirks at you. It’s a small tug at the corner of his lips, but you feel as though the ground has shifted beneath you. A tectonic shift. 

You’ve gotten used to Leon’s schedule. It’s predictably unpredictable. By now, you know that if you don’t see him for days–or weeks–on end, he’s saving the world from some nasty beast, and you will be at home, on your knees, praying to whichever god will listen that he returns home safely. Sometimes, he tells you. Sometimes, you just have to wait for his car to return by nightfall and if it doesn’t, you know he’s away. 

“Are you okay?” He looks particularly tortured today, shoulders heavy, the bags under his eyes more purple than normal 

He nods. “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

“Where were you this time?” You shouldn’t have even said it, but it just slips out before you can stop yourself, knowing good and well he can rarely divulge details like where he was or what he did.

“Classified,” you both say in unison, and that earns you a chuckle. 

“Right. I know better than to ask.” 

Pivoting on the swing until your back meets the armrest, you bend your knees to bring your legs up to the wooden slats. Leon looks down at your bare feet, slender and soft, your toenails painted a pretty pink color. And then your shins, shiny. Smooth. You have a scar on your right knee, a translucent crescent in the skin just below the cap. 

“I missed you while you were gone. I had to start taking cookies over to the Anderson kids across the street.” 

“Bet they loved that.” 

“Yeah. Not sure their parents did, though. I put a lot of sugar in those things. They were probably bouncing off the walls.” 

He just smiles, flashing a set of imperfect teeth. Crows’ feet deepen, the lines around his mouth crease. You love how real he is, even if he seems damaged or burdened, even if he sometimes only gives you one-word responses, or sulks off when you feel like he’s starting to let you in, he’s real. 

“I want to be straight forward for a sec.” 

He crooks a brow, turning his face toward you, and clears his throat. “Okay.” He says it like it’s a question.

“What are we doing here?” 

A smile appears on his face, and you brace yourself for some joke to come slithering off his tongue. 

“We’re sitting on your porch, talking about you poisoning Mr. and Mrs. Anderson’s kids with sugar.” 

You can tell he thought he’d get a laugh out of you, but you’re sorry to disappoint when your face stays still. 

“I’m serious.” You swing your legs around so you’re sitting up straight, toes grazing the clay tiles beneath you. He swallows, watching you adjust your hips on the wooden slats, the hips not covered nearly enough by your cotton shorts. “You’re so nice to me, and forgive me if I’m wrong and…I don’t know, maybe I’ll seem stupid and immature for saying this, but I thought you wanted something to come from this. I know I did. I–” 

He shuts you up with a kiss. A real one this time. Not on the cheek. Not blurred by the fuzz of liquor or sadness in need of comfort. His hands are on your upper arms, pulling you closer to him. He tastes even better than you imagined. His lips feel better. Everything is better because it’s actually happening. 

Leon Kennedy, your neighbor, the man you have been pining over like a schoolgirl for the past year, is kissing you, finally, and it’s electric. Shocks buzz beneath your skin, butterflies flutter in your low belly. Hot plasma runs through your veins. Nerve endings fire off on all cylinders. 

It’s magic, and as quickly as it happened, it ends. 

“Miss (Y/N)?” 

You and Leon pull away from each other at the sound of Richy Anderson approaching your porch with his little sister in tow not far behind him. One of Leon’s hands falls down until it’s flush to your back as you turn to look at the pair of hooligans. Richy’s shirt is covered in what you hope is chocolate ice cream. Mia’s white-blonde hair is sticking up in all directions, loose from the braid trailing down her back. Oh to be a child drinking up the last days of summer vacation.

“Hi there,” is all you say, a fat smile plastered on your face. 

“The chalk washed off and we don’t know how to draw it again.” 

You glance over at Leon, still touching the small of your back as you lean forward slightly to talk to the kids. His thumb draws circles there, felt through the thin fabric of your tank top. Warmth blossoms in your chest and your stomach wobbles. 

“Sure thing. Do you still have the chalk?”

“Yes ma’am,” Richy says. Mia nods in agreement behind him, the flesh beneath her jaw more pronounced as she tucks her chin into her neck, lips pressed into a pucker like she just took a bite out of a lemon wedge. 

“I’m being summoned,” you say, glancing back at Leon.

He smiles wide, removing his hand from the small of your back to place both palms on his knees. “Look, I have a meeting tomorrow that might run late, but the day after, I’m going to take you out for dinner. How does that sound?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Sounds amazing.” 

With a kiss to your temple, Leon retreats back into his house, leaving you with the Anderson kids as they drag you by the hand to their side of the street, leading you toward a patch of concrete left soaked by a nearby sprinkler. The phantom whisper of your mouth still tingles on his lips as he watches you through his living room window while you play hopscotch with the children, jumping from one sneaker-clad foot to the other, closing your legs then parting them as you make your way down the line of numbers you helped them redraw with chalk. 

The sight makes his heart swell with desire, his chest tighten with fear. For the first time in a while, Leon Kennedy is really, truly afraid. Before, he felt comfortable admiring you from a distance. He would catch himself daydreaming about you when he was stuck in the office, writing reports under buzzing fluorescence. 

He would think about the warmth of the cozy home you made yours with decorative lamps and artwork clung to the walls, the warmth of your smile, your hands. In meetings, when the lights were turned down low and the hum of the projector harmonized with the drone of whoever was presenting, he would let his mind drift to make-believe images of you in his bed next to him or sitting in his chair, on his lap as he read out loud to you from whichever book was first on the rotation. He could conjure up the smell of your hair if he focused hard enough. Jasmine and honeysuckle, like the first day of spring after a dry, decrepit winter. You smelled like the break of dawn and hope and the promise of a rainbow after a storm. 

When on missions, when faced with death and all sorts of rotten things, he would picture your face–a pinprick of beauty amid the tumult and destruction–and it reinvigorated in him the desire to keep pressing forward. Your eyes, your lips, the little bump of your nose, all the light at the end of the dark, lonely tunnel that has been his life. 

But now? Now, he has touched you. Even worse, he has kissed you. He felt the same electricity you did when your mouths finally collided, a testament to the chemistry between you both. He’s tried so hard to ignore it, to distance himself from the feelings that keep scratching their way to the surface, because for things to work out leaves him a lot more vulnerable to hurt than if nothing came of it, than if the kiss meant nothing.

You’ve changed him. Even Sherry had noticed a difference. She had heard him humming in his office one day. It stopped her in the tracks of her clicky high heels, but she didn’t prod or poke at him. She didn’t have to ask. She just knew. Leon was happy. Happier. 

But he was also scared out of his mind. It had happened so many times before. He would find someone, open his heart to them, build with them a trust that they wouldn’t abandon him, even if things got hard. Even if he had to leave for an indefinite amount of time. Even if he got hurt. Even if he retreated so far within himself it was hard to crawl back up to the surface. They would promise him patience, promise him undying affection, long-enduring love. But those promises always ended up broken, shattered, and it would leave him hollow once more. 

That’s why he has given up. That’s why he’s selling his house. That’s why he’s been taking on more missions, fully prepared for one to be his last, waiting for the final blow. That is, before he met you. Now, he’s counting down the days until he can retire. He’d do that for you. They probably won’t let him, not for another ten years, but he’d try. For you. 

Leon thinks about you for the rest of the evening as he scurries around, a newfound pep in his step, as he showers, as he cracks open a chilled beer, as he settles into his chair and opens the next book in his queue. 

He’s barely two pages in when there’s a knock at his door. God, he hopes it’s you. 

“Leon,” you say as he opens the door, letting in a warm swath of air. It smells sweet, or maybe that’s just you. 

“Hi.” Your heart is racing. You can practically hear it thumping in your ears. It only speeds up when you see Leon, shirtless, wearing only a pair of black sweatpants low on his hips. There’s a pair of wiry reading glasses sitting on the straight line of his nose. His hair is damp. 

If you weren’t originally planning on jumping him when he opened the door, you definitely are now. 

He is perfectly sculpted, nothing to hide the peaks and valleys of his abdomen, feathered with a light dusting of hair. Scars run up and down his chest, some translucent, blending into the shimmering paleness of his skin. Others are red and angry, fresh. Your fingertips ache to touch them, to run up and down the vein that bulges beneath the skin of his arm, his broad chest and even broader shoulders. You’ve always been a tactile being, but seeing so much of Leon’s uncharted body has you chomping at the bit to get your hands on him. 

He can see that you’re flustered. Inflamed cheeks. Your hands are shaking. Breath unsteady.

“Hey. Everything alright?” He looks out at the street behind you, eyes surveilling the darkness that had fallen over the neighborhood since he lips had last been on yours. 

He’s so sweet. You’re so horny your skin is itching and your ears are ringing and he’s asking if you’re okay. Fuck, you might actually love the man. No, you’re sure you do. Head over heels type of love. That’s what you feel, all the way from your feet to the top of your head. 

“Yeah, I–I’m okay,” you choke. You’re tweaking like an addict on the side of the road waiting for the next hit. Withdrawal. You’re going through withdrawal. “I just…you kissed me earlier and we didn’t really get to talk about it, and I–I–we didn’t get to finish…I wanna finish–ugh, not like that. Geez, I’m so sorry. I sound like such a pervert, but I…” Leon just smiles down at you, chuckling, amused at the blubbering girl in front of him. “I just want you to kiss me again. Please.” 

Leon has always been good at following orders. He pulls you into the house by your wrist, gently closing the door behind you until it clicks shut. His hands come to cup your cheeks and he presses you against the wall, but he doesn’t make a move yet. He just looks at you. 

“Can I?” 

You open your mouth to speak but no sound comes out, and the only response you’re able to muster is a nod. A very eager nod. With his finger still crooked beneath your chin, Leon pulls your lips up to his and the instant your mouths collide, your world is thrown upside down. It’s a chaste kiss, but it rocked you regardless. When he pulls away, you feel empty, needy for his lips to return to yours.

“I–I want—”

“What is it you want? Just tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you anything,” he promises in a whisper that tickles the sensitive skin at your ear. 

“I want you, Leon, in any way you’ll give yourself to me. I just want you.” Your palm presses against his bare chest, his skin hot to the touch. Fingertips trail down his abdomen, to the waistband of his sweatpants. He grabs your wrist, stopping your hand in its tracks. “I want you to make love to me.” 

Not fuck. Not screw. You want him to make love to you. And suddenly, this seems like less of a hook-up and more of…a promise of something more. He wants something more than taking you up against the wall of his foyer. 

He pulls away, hands retreating from your body. Your hips scream at the sudden withdrawal of his touch. “We should stop. I should take you out on a proper date before we do this.” 

“Leon?” 

He sobers up at his name short and curt on your tongue, looking down at you with wide eyes. 

“Do you know how long I’ve been thinking about this?” You don’t give him time to answer that question, taking his hands in yours, leading them back to your body where they belong. “Since you helped me move in last year. It’s been that long, I am not stopping now. And I don’t want to hear any more bullshit about being too young for you or too happy or innocent. I know what I’m doing.” 

Leon sighs, relenting. It isn’t hard to convince him to take things further with the girl he has been dreaming about…also for a year. “But not here. Let’s go to the bedroom.” He takes your hand in his and guides you toward the stairs, glancing back to take a look at you every couple of steps as if he’s scared you’ll disappear or run away from him. 

His bedroom. 

You pull off your tank top and tug down your shorts, leaving yourself in nothing but a pair of white lace panties and a matching bra. He nearly chokes on air, bringing a cupped hand to his mouth as he takes in the sight of you. The sight of his beautiful, sweet, young neighbor who is standing two steps from bare in front of him—in front of the bed the two of you are about to share.  

With your hair tied up at the nape of your neck, your lacquered lips, the white lingerie hugging your body…you look almost bridal and the thought of you as his wife steals the breath from his lungs. 

“Please take them off,” you say in a low, hushed voice, taking a step back until the backs of your knees meet the edge of the mattress. “I wore them for you, but I want them off now.” 

“You wore these for me?” His eyes are sharp with incredulity. He can’t believe that you wore these for him, that you thought ahead. That you thought about doing this with him and you dressed up for it. That you want him as badly as he wants you. 

“Yes,” you say with a shy nod, taking your lower lip between your teeth. “I changed into them before I came over. I thought you might like them.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, sinking down to his knees right before you without a second thought. For a moment, you worry about his poor joints on the wood planks, but from the very few details he has told you about his job, you’re sure it requires him to go up against bigger enemies than a hard floor. “I do. I really do.”

“Good.”

“Can I taste you?” He looks up into your eyes with such yearning, you could never refuse him. He could ask you to bite your own hand off and you sink your teeth in, eagerly. 

“You don’t have to ask, Leon. Take whatever you want from me. It’s yours to have.” 

He mewls deep in his throat, eyes flickering back down to your panties. His fingers stay drilled into your thighs. Thick, calloused pads dig into your flesh, holding you still as he presses his nose into the drenched crotch of the garment, inhaling the scent of your arousal. A groan reverberates against your clit, sending shock waves through your veins. His lips begin kissing you through the lace. Your name is repeated on his tongue like a holy prayer. 

“Will you lie back for me, baby?” He pats your thighs like a jockey giving a horse a command. You shouldn’t find that as hot as you do, but you’ll have to reschedule that psychoanalysis for another time. “And lift your hips.”

You happily oblige under his command, scooting your seat onto the mattress until you’re in the perfect position for him to guide the scratchy lace underwear down your thighs. The sudden chill of the air conditioned room slaps your wet, bare clit and it makes you shiver. 

“Can I have these?” He asks, holding up the crumpled lump of lace in his fist, sincerity glassy in his eyes. No man has ever asked to keep your panties before. Then again, no other man has been like Leon. “I’ll buy you more.”

“Um, sure,” you reply with a stifled giggle and he just nods, once, with all the seriousness in the world, and stuffs the underwear into the pocket of his sweatpants before flickering his eyes back up at you. 

“Thank you.” He has a ravenous look in his eyes as he stares at the flesh between your legs. “Beautiful,” he murmurs to himself before gazing back up at you. “You’re perfect, you know that? Absolutely perfect.” 

He begins by kissing your clit sweetly, gradually building the tempo, licking and lapping up your wetness like he’s been wandering in the desert for days, starved and thirsty, and you’re a well of water with his name carved into it. The tip of his tongue enters you and it sends your back off the mattress as if you’ve been possessed. You instinctively try to close your legs, but the heels of his palms keep them open.

“Leon,” you whine, digging your fingers in his hair, then working your way down to his clothed shoulders.  

He grins smugly against your pussy, continuing his movements in the same combination and rhythm that elicited that sound from you. If he ever fell deaf, that is the only sound he would miss, that moan and the way you say his name, so sweet and sincere. Like the song of a heavenly being. 

“Don’t stop,” you beg with the most strength you can muster. It still comes out weakly, carried by a hitched breath.

He wouldn’t dream of it. In fact, he is so caught up in the way you feel on his face, your pussy wet and warm on his chin, that he doesn’t think he could stop if the house was burning around him. 

“Leon, I’m so close. Please.” 

You peel yourself off the mattress, pushing up onto your elbows to get a better view at the man between your thighs. His dark blonde hair, streaked with a few strands of sand and salt, flops down his temples as he worships your clit with his tongue, licking and sucking. The sounds coming from below are disgustingly explicit. Your fingers find his hair, pressing his head further into your pussy. He groans beneath the commanding touch, the vibration pushing you closer toward the edge. 

A coil tightens in your belly. The muscles of your abdomen begin to tense and release. The walls of your cunt pulsate, contracting around nothing. 

“I–I’m–fuck.”

The sound of his muffled groans harmonizes with your obscene cries as you huff and puff and yelp through your orgasm. 

He leans back from between your legs, wiping your glistening arousal off his mouth and chin before he jumps up onto the bed, pulling you further onto the mattress on his way to you. 

The next thing you know, his mouth is on yours, the taste of you still pungent on his tongue, sweet and wet. His hand dances down between your bodies to cup your sullied cunt, to grab what he has now branded as his. 

“You want me here?” His eyes flicker down to where his hand has latched onto his cock as he strokes himself to fill stiffness, then glances back up at you. “Tell me if you don’t, and I’ll stop.”

You want him everywhere, but you don’t say that aloud. You don’t say anything, too dumb to speak. 

“Tell me if this is okay.” 

Finding the strength to speak, you finally mumble a confirmation. “Yes, yes, it’s okay, Leon. Please. I want to feel you inside.” You sound so desperate. It’s jarring hearing your own voice bending into such an indecent prayer. 

He lines himself up with your entrance, which is now throbbing in anticipation of the impending stretch, and with your additional permission, this time in the form of a gasping plea, he trusts inside, not wasting another moment of not feeling you around him. Cursing under his breath, he pulls out just an inch before pumping back into you, the sound of your sappy arousal sloshing against him with every slap of his pelvis against yours, is lewd and borderline pornographic against the walls of his bedroom. 

“I’ve wanted this—fuck—for so long, you have no idea,” he growls into the crook of your neck, labored breath hot on your skin. “Ever since you came over to my house that night you got locked—mhm—you got locked out—” Another bellow. “When you kissed me on the cheek.” 

He continues. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you after that. Honestly–mhm–I was thinking about you before that. Fuck.” 

“I know, Leon,” you gasp as he bottoms out, filling you with the complete length of his cock. You didn’t even know he wasn’t fully inside you yet. The stretch is earth-shattering. You fist the sheets beneath you, and when that isn’t enough release, you grab onto Leon’s lats, burying your fingers into the thick planks of muscle there, digging your nails into his skin until they leave half-moon indentations. “I’ve–I’ve been wanting this too. For so, so long.” You’re stuttering, voice cracking each time he thrusts himself inside. 

“Use me, Leon. Use me to feel good. I want you to feel good.” 

He mewls at the sound of every single honeyed word dripping from your tongue, and you mean each one with your whole heart. You want to lighten the burden that weighs down on him in any way you can, whether it’s cookies or company, or your wet pussy squeezing his cock. Anything. You would do anything to make him feel better. 

“So good, baby,” he mumbles in your ear, breath foggy on the skin of your neck. “You’re so good to me, always so good. You take care of me. I don’t deserve you.” 

Tears stream down your cheeks and into your hairline. You almost didn’t realize you were crying at first. You have wanted him since the day you met him, since he lifted that box off your arms and helped you move into your home. You want to do the same for him. You want to take away all the heavy things in his life, or at least help carry them. 

As you wrap your legs tighter around his hips to pull him further into you, he bellows out your name. “I’m not gonna last long at this rate, sweetheart.” His breath is labored. 

“That’s okay, go ahead,” you whisper. Then, “I’m safe. I want you to cum inside me.” 

He retreats just an inch to look into your eyes, and you give him an assuring nod in return. Leon picks up the pace. With a final few thrusts, he reaches his climax, filling you to the brim with the gush of his orgasm, before collapsing on top of you, your name cascading from his lips on the way down.

A sliver of pale moonlight seeps through the windows, reflecting off the sheen of slick sweat coating Leon’s chest as he rolls over. He pants, his chest rising and falling. As he regains his strength, his palm comes up to your thigh, and he looks over at you. The tears you shed earlier have since dried down into sticky patches of salt beneath your eyes and at your temples. Your hair is messy, strands falling into your face. Lips, blushed and plump. 

You roll over at the touch, lying on your side to get a better look at him, locking his palm between your legs. His hair is also messy. Dark blonde strands stick up at the crown of his head, at his temples, anywhere your fingers had mussed it during the act. Funny enough, he almost looks younger. The wrinkles at his forehead, between his brows, the fine lines beneath his eyes. They’re smoother. The whites of his eyes have won the battle against the purple circles beneath them–the bitter crescents born from stress and poor sleep hygiene. 

He looks over at you and grins a big, toothless grin that climbs all the way up to his eyes–eyes that, for the first time since you’ve known him, look completely full of light. 

Leon moves ahead of you with that familiar economy, every step deliberate, shoulders slightly rounded forward as if he's braced against a wind no one else can feel. Years ago, you would have called it tension. Now you know it's simply how he stands when he's ready to protect something.

You.

He lifts one hand without looking back. Two fingers. Hold. You stop immediately, rifle angled down but ready, covering the rear out of habit. Your breathing slows to match his. In the quiet, you can hear it, the faint rasp of fabric as he adjusts his grip, the tiny click of leather at his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes catching red light, and the corner of his mouth tilts.

"Tell me you hear that too," he murmurs.

"Ventilation system struggling to keep up with poor life choices," you whisper back.

His mouth twitches a little more. "Comforting."

"Very."

He turns forward again, advancing with a careful sidestep around a fallen gurney. You follow close, boots landing where his did, stepping into the spaces he clears without thinking. Years of missions have worn this path between you into muscle memory. You could navigate a battlefield blind if he were moving ahead of you.

Sublevel three, quarantine wing. The official report had said that the outbreak was contained. Minimal hostiles. Data retrieval only. You and Leon had both read that and packed extra ammunition.

Something scrapes faintly above you. You both stop again. A wet sound follows, soft but unmistakable, like raw meat dragged across tile. Leon's shoulders go rigid. He tilts his head, listening, then slowly raises his pistol toward the ceiling vent ten feet ahead.

"Don't," you breathe.

Too late. The grate explodes outward in a shower of dust and rusted screws. A shape drops hard onto the floor between you, limbs hitting at angles that don't belong to anything living. The body spasms once, twice, then snaps upright with a sound like tearing cloth. Its eyes are wrong. Its mouth is wrong.

Leon fires twice. The creature barely stutters before lunging. You're already moving. Your rifle cracks, recoil thudding into your shoulder as you pivot left to avoid Leon's line of fire. The rounds chew through rotten muscle, splashing something dark across the wall. The thing keeps coming anyway, a puppet yanked forward by invisible strings.

"Persistent," you mutter.

"Understatement."

It reaches Leon first. He sidesteps, grabs a fistful of its ruined jacket, and uses the momentum to sling it into the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Before it can recover, he drives a knife up under its jaw with brutal precision. The body convulses, fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve, then goes slack. 

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing and the slow drip of something unpleasant onto the tile. Leon exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. He wipes the blade on the creature's shirt before sheathing it, movements efficient, practiced, almost weary.

"You okay?" he asks without turning.

"Fine."

He turns anyway, eyes scanning you head to toe, checking for tears in fabric, blood that isn't yours, the small tells you can't hide from him even if you tried. His gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary.

"Your heart rate's up."

"So is yours."

"Occupational hazard."

You step closer, bump your shoulder lightly against his arm. "You jumped."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I adjusted my stance."

You snort. "Sure you did, hero."

His hand comes up automatically, settling at the small of your back as he guides you past the body. The touch is brief, grounding, gone almost before you register it. He does it all the time now, in doorways, on stairs, whenever the path narrows. Years ago he used to keep that kind of contact locked away behind professionalism. Marriage burned that barrier down to ash.

"Remind me why we didn't retire somewhere with a beach," you say quietly.

"You hate sand."

"I could learn."

"You said that last time. Then you threw a shoe at a seagull."

"It started it."

He huffs, a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "We're not buying a coastal property just so you can wage war on wildlife."

"Coward."

They're soft words, familiar words, the kind that live comfortably between you, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. If you stop talking, the silence fills up with too many ghosts.

Ahead, the corridor splits. One path descends into deeper shadow. The other ends at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL ISOLATION.

Leon studies it, jaw tightening slightly. "That's our best bet for antiviral storage."

"And our worst bet for everything else."

"Probably."

He reaches for the panel. It flickers, unresponsive.

You lean in, shoulder brushing his. "Stand back."

"I am standing back."

"Further."

He sighs but obeys, stepping aside as you pull a compact breaching charge from your pack and set it against the seam. Your hands move quickly, efficiently, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.

"Try not to blow yourself up," he says.

"Try not to worry so loudly."

"I don't worry."

You glance up. "Leon."

"...I worry a normal amount."

You smile despite yourself. "Uh huh."

You trigger the charge and pivot away, grabbing his vest to pull him with you behind the corner. The explosion is sharp, contained, dust puffing into the air like a violent exhale. When the ringing fades, the door hangs crooked on shattered hinges. Leon looks down at where your hand is still gripping his gear. His expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with combat.

"You can let go," he says gently.

You realize you're still holding on and release him, suddenly aware of how solid he feels under your fingers, how warm even through layers of tactical fabric.

"Right," you say, clearing your throat. "Professional."

"Very."

But he brushes your knuckles once before moving past you, so quick it could almost be an accident.

Inside, the medical wing is colder, air conditioning still struggling on backup power. Cabinets hang open, supplies scattered across the floor as if someone had tried to pack in a hurry and failed. A hospital bed sits abandoned in the center of the room, sheets twisted into ropes. You sweep left. Leon sweeps right. The familiar dance resumes. For a few seconds, nothing moves.

Then something thumps weakly from behind the bed. You both pivot, weapons raised. A figure drags itself into view, lab coat smeared dark, face gray with fever. Human. Barely.

"Help," he croaks.

Leon lowers his weapon first, but doesn't relax. "You're infected?"

The man nods frantically, clutching his side. "Bite... hours ago... there's... antivirals... storage fridge... code..."

His hand trembles as he points toward a small sealed unit in the corner.  Hope flickers, fragile and dangerous. You step forward. Leon catches your arm immediately.

"Careful," he murmurs.

"I know."

His grip tightens just a fraction before he lets go, thumb brushing your sleeve as if memorizing the texture.

The man coughs wetly, body shaking. "Please... I don't want to... turn..."

Leon's jaw flexes. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the grim understanding of how this story usually ends. You move past him anyway, crouching by the fridge, fingers already working the manual override. The seal pops with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of vials gleam faintly in the emergency light, liquid clear and precious as water in a desert.

"Jackpot," you whisper.

Behind you, the man makes a sound that isn't quite human.

Leon's voice snaps sharply. "Back."

You turn just in time to see the change sweep across the man's face, muscles locking, eyes clouding over like frost creeping across glass. Too fast. Leon fires once. The body collapses before it can lunge.

Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute. Your hands are still wrapped around the cold vial when Leon steps in close, one hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. He leans his forehead briefly against your temple, a gesture so intimate it almost hurts.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Stay with me."

"I'm here."

"Good."

"Leon," you say, unable to keep the lift out of your voice. "We've got—"

The ceiling tile above the doorway caves in with a thunderous crack. Something drops through in a tangle of limbs and teeth. Leon fires before it even lands.

The room detonates into motion. Another body slams through the door behind it, then another, drawn by noise or scent or whatever twisted instinct drives them now. The first infected hits the floor crawling, jaw snapping, fingers scrabbling for purchase on slick tile.

"Back!" Leon snaps.

You're already moving, grabbing the case and pivoting away from the fridge as gunfire shatters the sterile quiet. Your rifle kicks against your shoulder, rounds punching into torsos that refuse to care. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite and something fouler underneath.

One lunges for your legs. Leon intercepts it, boot driving into its chest hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. He doesn't even look as he fires downward, ending it with clinical precision. 

More are coming. The hallway beyond the ruined door is a writhing mass of shapes pushing over each other, hungry, relentless. The lab equipment rattles as something heavy slams against the wall.

"Too many," you shout.

"Move!"

You sidestep, firing, trying to carve space, trying not to hit Leon as he crosses your line. Your shoulder clips the edge of the bed. The case slips in your grip for half a second.

A larger infected barrels through the doorway, body swollen, movements jerky but powerful. It collides with a rolling cart, sending metal instruments clattering across the floor like thrown knives. Leon pivots to engage, emptying three rounds into its upper chest. The creature staggers backward. Straight into the open refrigerator. Glass explodes.

The sound is high and crystalline, almost delicate beneath the gunfire, like a chandelier being smashed in a ballroom no one will ever dance in again. Vials shatter against metal shelves, against tile, against each other. Clear liquid splashes across the floor, instantly indistinguishable from the spreading mess of everything else. You see it happen in horrible, slow clarity. Hope, reduced to glittering debris.

"Leon!"

He fires again, dropping the brute for good. The body collapses forward, crushing what remains of the storage rack beneath its weight. For one stunned heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then another infected claws over the fallen bulk, and survival yanks you back into motion. You fire. Leon fires. Bodies drop. The noise is deafening, claustrophobic, relentless until at last the hallway falls silent again, littered with unmoving shapes.

Your ears ring. Smoke hangs in the air like a dirty veil. Slowly, cautiously, Leon lowers his weapon. His gaze drifts past the carnage to the refrigerator, to the floor, to the glittering field of broken glass and spilled medication soaking uselessly into grout lines and fabric and things you don't want to identify. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. The man on the bed has gone very still. His eyes stare at the ceiling, clouded over, whatever fragile thread holding him to himself finally snapped in the chaos. A drop of liquid slides off the shelf edge and hits the tile with a soft, final tick.

Leon exhales, long and controlled, like he's forcing the air out through a space too small for it. "...We'll find more," he says quietly.

He steps closer to you, one hand settling on your shoulder, firm and grounding. His thumb moves once, a brief stroke through dust and sweat, as if confirming you're still solid beneath his palm.

"You hurt?" he asks.

You shake your head, throat tight. "No."

"Good."

His hand lingers a moment longer, then drops. He scans the room again, already shifting back into mission mode, but the tension in his jaw has sharpened, lines around his eyes etched deeper by the red emergency light.

"Storage areas are usually clustered," he says. "If there was one unit, there are probably others."

You nod because he needs you to nod. Because forward is the only direction that exists anymore.

Together, you step around the shattered glass and the ruined promise it once held, boots crunching softly with every movement, and head back into the corridor where the dark waits patiently for you to return.

The corridor beyond the lab is narrower, older, the walls traded from clean hospital white to poured concrete stained by decades of leaks and neglect. Emergency lights hum overhead, casting everything in a tired amber glow that feels less like an alarm and more like a dying sunset that forgot to go away. Your boots echo differently here. Hollow. The sound carries too far.

Leon slows without saying anything, adjusting his pace until you're shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. His arm brushes yours with each step, solid and reassuring in a way that feels deliberate without calling attention to itself. After a minute, you realize he's listening to your breathing.

"You know," you say quietly, "most couples go to dinner."

He huffs under his breath. "We tried that."

"You got a call."

"We both got a call."

"I didn't even get to eat my pasta."

"You ordered something with fourteen ingredients I couldn't pronounce."

"That's not a crime."

"It should be."

You bump his shoulder lightly. "You promised dessert."

"I'll buy you dessert."

"You said that last time."

"I meant it last time, too."

His hand comes up automatically, resting on your back as the corridor narrows, guiding you around a fallen chunk of concrete. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.

"When this is over," he adds quietly, "we'll go somewhere that doesn't have reception."

You glance at him. "You're serious."

"Dead serious."

A small smile pulls at your mouth. "You'd last two days."

"I'd last three."

"Two and a half."

He considers it like it's a tactical estimate. "Two and a half."

The next door is heavier than the others, industrial steel with a small wired-glass window clouded by years of grime. A faded placard reads BIO STORAGE B in letters that have peeled into something ghostlike and hard to trust.

Leon raises a hand automatically, stopping you just short of the threshold.

"Hold."

You halt with your boot inches from the seam, rifle angled down but ready. He steps past you, placing himself between you and the door without thinking about it. He always does that. As if the hinge of the world were located somewhere in his spine.

He wipes a sleeve across the glass and peers through, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the dim interior. "Don't see movement," he murmurs. "Shelving units. Containers. Could be clear."

"Could be."

He glances back at you, reading your face the way other people read weather. "You good?"

"Always."

One eyebrow lifts. Not convinced.

You roll your shoulder where your gear has started to dig in, trying to work out the stiffness before it becomes a problem. "Just cramped."

"Switch packs with me."

"I'm fine."

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"It wasn't an order either."

For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet argument unfolding in expressions instead of voices. Married diplomacy in a war zone.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, conceding the point without admitting defeat. His hand comes up instead, settling briefly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing the muscle there in a grounding stroke.

"Tension," he says softly.

"Observation skills of a seasoned agent."

"Comes with the badge."

"You don't even carry a badge."

"Metaphorical badge."

You lean into his touch for half a second before you can stop yourself. He notices. His thumb stills, then presses lightly once more before he lets his hand fall away.

"Stay behind me on entry," he says, voice shifting, professional edges sliding back into place.

"I take left. You take right," you counter automatically.

He gives you a look. You give him one right back.

"...Fine," he mutters at last. "But if I say fall back, you fall back."

"Yes, dear."

His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't 'yes, dear' me in a mission."

"Yes, sir," you salute.

Leon grunts and shakes his head, trying not to smile. You reach past him to test the handle. Locked.

"Stand clear," you say.

He moves aside this time without commentary, covering the door while you pull a compact bypass tool from your vest. The metal is cold against your fingers, humming faintly as it interfaces with the ancient locking mechanism.

For a few seconds, the only sounds are the tool's soft electronic chirp and your breathing. Then the mechanism clicks. You don't open it immediately. Instead, you glance sideways at him. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tiny scar along his jaw, the exhaustion he carries like a shadow that never quite detaches.

"After this," you say quietly, "we're getting that dessert."

He studies you for a long beat, something unspoken passing through his expression. A deep, stubborn refusal to imagine a future where that doesn't happen.

"Yeah," he says at last, voice low and certain. "We are."

Your hand brushes his wrist as you shift your grip on the handle. He turns his palm just enough to catch your fingers, squeezing once, firm and warm. A promise disguised as reflex. Then he releases you, raises his weapon, and nods.

"On you."

You pull the door open. Cold air spills out, stale and chemical, carrying the faint scent of something spoiled long before anyone stopped coming down here. The room beyond is a maze of tall storage racks and plastic containers, shadows pooling thick between them like standing water.

Leon moves through the doorway first, silent, precise, clearing angles with ruthless efficiency. You follow a half-step behind despite earlier negotiations, covering what he can't see, trusting him to do the same.

All you hear is the hum of failing lights. The soft creak of metal settling. The distant, almost inaudible drip of water somewhere in the dark.

Leon lifts two fingers, signaling pause. You freeze. He tilts his head, listening.

"...Thought I heard something," he whispers.

You hold your breath. The room holds its breath too. Then, very softly, something shifts deep between the shelves. A scrape. Leon's posture tightens, every line of him sharpening toward the sound.

"Stay close," he murmurs.

You move in beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him grounding against the cold air of the room.

"Always do," you whisper back.

The air grows colder the farther you go, heavy with the stale tang of chemicals and something faintly organic beneath it, like fruit left too long in a sealed container. Your flashlight beam skims across plastic bins, sealed crates, labels bleached into illegibility. Dust floats in slow spirals each time you move, disturbed ghosts reluctant to settle again.

Leon advances at a measured pace, weapon steady, shoulders tight enough to telegraph that he hasn't liked this room from the moment the door opened. You mirror him, covering the angles between shelving units, eyes darting through the narrow gaps where shadows knit together into something almost solid. Another scrape, closer this time.

A container shifts on a shelf to your left with a soft plastic thud, tipping just enough to rock in place. Your rifle swings toward it automatically.

"Probably just settling," you whisper.

Leon doesn't answer. He takes one careful step forward, angling to get a better view past the rack. The beam of his light cuts across the gap, illuminating stacked boxes, a collapsed cart, nothing that looks immediately threatening.

Your shoulders start to loosen. That's when the hands shoot out of the darkness. They clamp around your calf, iron strong, nails digging through fabric as something drags itself from beneath the lowest shelf with a wet, hungry sound. You don't even have time to shout before you're yanked off balance.

"Leon—!"

He pivots instantly, dropping his aim to avoid hitting you as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The infected is half-crushed, lower body mangled, but its arms work just fine. Its mouth snaps inches from your boot, teeth clacking together with a sound that vibrates up your bones.

You kick, connecting with its face, but it barely registers the impact. Its grip tightens, hauling you closer, closer, jaws opening wide enough to show the slick black of its throat. 

Leon moves. He doesn't fire. Too risky. Instead, he lunges forward, grabbing the back of your vest and hauling you backward with brutal force. The infected comes with you, still latched on, dead weight and fury combined.

"Let go!" he snarls, driving his boot into its shoulder.

Bone cracks. The grip loosens just enough for him to wrench you free, dragging you behind him as he finally gets a clear shot. Two rounds. Point-blank.

The body jerks, collapses, and goes still. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the thunder of your pulse. Leon stays crouched in front of you, one arm braced across your chest like a barricade, gun still trained on the corpse in case it decides death is negotiable.

"Hey," he says, voice low, urgent. "Hey. Look at me."

You blink, vision swimming, lungs finally remembering how to work. "I'm... I'm good."

His eyes scan you anyway, fast and thorough, hands already moving, checking arms, shoulders, gear, the way he always does. Routine. Training. Care disguised as procedure. Then his hand stops at your leg.

The fabric of your pants is torn where the creature grabbed you. Dark spreads through the rip, wet and unmistakable even in the dim light. Leon goes very still. Slowly, carefully, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and tosses it aside. His bare hand is warm when it closes around your ankle, steady but not gentle as he angles your leg into the beam of his flashlight.

You follow his gaze. For a second, your brain refuses to interpret what you're seeing. Just shapes. Color. Shine. Then it resolves. Deep teeth marks on your ankle. Blood wells from the punctures, thick and bright, running down into your boot.

"Oh," you say softly.

Leon doesn't speak. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle jumps along his cheek. His thumb presses near the wound, not enough to hurt, just enough to assess depth, damage, and reality.

"How bad?" you ask, because someone has to.

He inhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying to pull the air all the way down to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore.

"...Through the muscle," he says at last, voice roughened at the edges. "No arterial spray."

You almost laugh. Of course, that's what he notices. Of course, he frames it in survivable terms.

"Good news," you murmur.

His eyes snap to yours, sharp, bright, furious at something that isn't you. "Don't."

The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Silence floods back in, thick as the dust hanging in the air. Carefully, he releases your leg only long enough to tear open a pouch on his vest. Gauze. Compression wrap. His hands move with practiced efficiency, but there's a tremor there now, small and stubborn, like a fault line threatening to split.

"This won't stop it," you say quietly.

"I know."

He presses the gauze down anyway, firm, unyielding, as if pressure alone could force time to behave.

"You didn't get grabbed anywhere else?" he asks without looking up.

"No."

"Scratch? Contact with fluid?"

"No, Leon."

He nods once, wrapping the bandage tight enough to hurt. You don't complain. Pain feels reassuringly human. When he finishes, he doesn't pull away. His hands remain braced on your leg, head bowed slightly, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. From this angle, you can see the faint silver threaded through his hair, the lines carved deeper by worry than age. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his jaw. He freezes.

"Hey," you say softly.

His eyes close for one heartbeat, leaning just slightly into your touch, like a man starving who just found water. Then he opens them again, focus snapping back into place with visible effort.

"We're moving," he says, voice low and absolute. "There will be another storage area. Another lab. Something."

You nod because you believe him. Because you have to. Because you don't want this to be the end. Because you don't want Leon to have to go through that. Because you want your dessert.

He rises first, then offers you his hand. When you take it, he pulls you up carefully, keeping his other hand hovering at your waist in case you falter. You put weight on the leg. It holds, though pain flares hot and sharp.

"Can you walk?" he asks.

"Yeah." A lie. A manageable one.

He doesn't call you on it. Instead, his arm slides around your back, anchoring you against his side as you take your first step. Protective. Supportive. Refusing to let distance exist.

"Stay with me," he murmurs.

Your head rests briefly against his shoulder, just for a second.

"Always," you whisper.

Adrenaline still burns hot in your veins, dulling the edges, convincing your body it can outrun consequences if it just keeps moving. Leon keeps his arm locked around you, pace adjusted to match yours without comment. Not slow enough to feel patronizing, not fast enough to make you stumble. Perfect. Infuriatingly perfect.

"You don't have to babysit," you murmur.

"Good," he says quietly. "Because I'm not."

His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading as if to support more of your weight without making a show of it. The corridor slopes downward. Each step sends a dull shock up your leg, deeper now, heavier, like the pain has roots instead of edges. You grit your teeth and keep going. After a dozen paces, something else creeps in. A warmth. Not the healthy kind. Not exertion. This feels wrong, thick and syrupy, pooling under your skin like fever deciding where to settle. You swallow. Your throat feels dry. Too dry.

"Leon," you start, then stop, because you're not sure what you were going to say.

He glances at you immediately. "What?"

"Nothing. Thought I heard something."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he shifts you a little closer, your hip brushing his with every step now, a steady rhythm of contact that keeps you oriented.

The lights flicker overhead. For a split second, the world tilts. You blink hard, waiting for it to right itself. It does, but not completely. The edges of your vision feel soft, as if someone smeared petroleum jelly across reality.

"Hey," Leon says quietly.

You realize you've slowed. "I'm fine."

He stops anyway.

"No," he says, voice calm and immovable as bedrock. "You're not."

Before you can argue, a shape lurches from a side passage ahead. Its movements are jerky and uneven, its head twitching like a broken marionette. Leon eases you behind him with one hand, weapon already up. He takes it out, waiting a few seconds to make sure it's down. 

When he turns back to you, his focus narrows, shutting out the rest of the world. "Sit," he says.

You shake your head. "We don't have time."

"Sit."

There's no edge in it. No raised volume. Just absolute certainty that this is happening. Your legs decide for you. The moment you stop resisting, they wobble, knees threatening to fold. Leon catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your back, the other under your uninjured leg, guiding you down against the wall with careful control.

The concrete is cold through your gear. It feels strangely good. He crouches in front of you, close enough that your boots nearly touch his knees. Up close, you can see every tiny tension line in his face, every sleepless hour etched into skin that has forgotten what "rested" means.

His bare hand comes up again, settling against your neck, fingers sliding to your pulse point. You shiver.

His brows draw together. "You're burning up."

"Shock," you say weakly.

"You know that's not true."

His thumb presses lightly, counting. You can feel the rhythm under his skin, your heart hammering like it's trying to break out of your chest.

"Too fast," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

A tremor runs through your hands. Small at first, then stronger, fingers twitching against your thigh as if they belong to someone else and forgot to tell you. You curl them into fists, but it doesn't help. Leon notices. He reaches down slowly, deliberately, and wraps his hand around yours. Not restraining. Anchoring. His grip is warm, solid, impossibly steady compared to the jitter under your skin.

"Look at me," he says softly.

You do. Blue eyes. Tired. Fierce. Terrified in a way he would deny under oath.

"We're going to fix this," he says.

"You don't know that."

"Yes," he says, so simply it almost hurts. "I do."

Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, but the edges keep fuzzing out like a badly tuned signal.

"Everything's... weird," you admit. "Like I'm underwater."

His jaw tightens. "Any nausea?"

"No."

"Dizziness?"

"...Maybe."

"Confusion?"

You hesitate.

His expression darkens. "How long?"

"Ten minutes."

He leans forward suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is gentle, deliberate, his eyes closing for a brief moment like he's drawing strength from proximity alone.

"You stay with me," he murmurs. "You hear me? No drifting."

"I'm right here."

His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there. Making sure you don't slip away. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Somewhere far off, metal clatters. A distant echo of something collapsing. The facility settling into deeper ruin. You swallow. Your throat feels raw now, like you've been breathing dry air for hours.

"Leon."

"Yeah."

"If I start to..."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sharp. "Don't."

"You need to be ready."

"I am ready."

"That's not what I mean."

His hand tightens at the back of your neck, just enough to stop you from looking away.

"I'm not leaving you," he says quietly. "Save it."

Your chest aches, and not from the bite. You nod because you don't trust your voice. He studies you another moment, memorizing something only he can see, then exhales slowly and shifts back into motion.

"Okay," he says, tone sharpening into mission focus again. "We move in short intervals. Next sector should have auxiliary storage or research offices. More supplies. Maybe antivirals."

"Maybe," you echo.

He rises, then hesitates, looking down at you like he's recalculating physics.

Without warning, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees.

You blink. "Leon—"

"Save your strength."

"I can walk."

"I know."

And that's the end of the discussion. He lifts you with controlled ease, settling you against his chest. Your head ends up tucked under his chin, close enough to hear his heartbeat, steady and stubborn as a drum calling soldiers back to formation. You don't argue again. Your hand fumbles for his vest, gripping the fabric as another wave of heat rolls through you, deeper this time, almost nauseating in its intensity.

"Still with me?" he murmurs into your hair.

You nod weakly. "Yeah."

"Good."

He adjusts his hold, one hand splayed protectively across your back, and starts down the corridor again, footsteps measured, unhurried, as if he has decided that time itself can wait its turn. The world sways gently with each step. Your eyelids feel heavy.

Leon's voice cuts through the fog, low and insistent. "Stay awake."

"I'm trying."

"Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything."

You think for a long moment, chasing thoughts that scatter like startled birds.

"...Dessert," you mumble finally.

A soft breath leaves him, almost a laugh, almost something else entirely.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

You clutch his vest a little tighter, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.

"Don't let me fall asleep," you whisper.

His arms tighten around you, careful but unyielding.

Leon adjusts his grip as you shift in his arms, not because you're heavy, never that, but because your body no longer anticipates his movement the way it usually does. You used to lean into turns before they happened, tighten your hold when he stepped over debris, and match his rhythm without thinking. Now you lag by half a second behind every motion, like your connection to gravity is buffering. He notices. He notices everything.

Your skin is too hot even through layers of fabric. Heat seeps through his sleeves, through his gloves, into his palms like you're burning from the inside out. Your breath ghosts unevenly against his throat, sometimes shallow, sometimes too deep, like your lungs can't agree on a pattern. Fever, he tells himself. Infection. Not the other thing. Not yet. Your fingers twitch where they clutch his vest, loosening, tightening, loosening again.

"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Still with me?"

A pause. "...Yeah."

The word is slurred at the edges, dragged through molasses. His jaw tightens. He keeps moving.

The corridor stretches ahead in dim amber light, empty except for the occasional smear on the wall or abandoned equipment pushed aside by people who ran out of time. His footsteps are steady, deliberate, conserving energy, minimizing jostling. He's carried wounded before. Teammates. Civilians. Strangers. None of them felt like this. None of them felt like carrying his own heartbeat outside his body.

Your head shifts, cheek pressing against his collarbone. For a moment you go very still, so still that something cold claws down his spine.

"Talk to me," he says, softer now. "You promised."

A long silence. Then, faintly, "Cold."

He stops. A clean halt, like someone pulled a lever inside him. Cold is wrong. You're burning up. He lowers you carefully to one knee without setting you fully down, keeping one arm wrapped around your back so you don't tip sideways. His other hand comes up to your face, bare fingers brushing your cheek. Your skin is blazing. But you're shivering. Small, violent tremors run through you, teeth chattering softly against each other, lashes fluttering as if your body can't decide whether to wake or sleep.

"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Open your eyes."

You do, slowly, unfocused at first. Your pupils look blown wide in the low light, swallowing what little color remains in your irises.

"It's... dark," you mumble.

His chest tightens. The lights are still on.

"I'm right here," he says. "Look at me."

Your gaze drifts, struggles, and finally locks onto his face. Recognition flickers there, fragile but present.

"...Leon."

Relief hits him so hard it almost feels like pain.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, it's me."

Your brow furrows faintly, confusion knitting your expression into something painfully vulnerable.

"You look... tired."

He almost laughs. "Occupational hazard," he says quietly.

Your hand lifts weakly, fingers brushing his jaw as if you're mapping terrain you've walked a thousand times but suddenly don't trust your memory of.

"You should sleep," you whisper.

The tenderness in it is what breaks him a little.

"Soon, sweetheart," he says.

Your hand slips, falling back against your chest. Silence stretches. Your breathing grows uneven again.

Then you say, very softly, "Did we make it home?"

The words land like a physical blow. For a second, he can't answer. His throat closes around something sharp and unmanageable.

Home. Not the facility. Not the mission. Not the outbreak. Home. He swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs.

"Not yet," he says, voice low and steady by sheer force of will. "Working on it."

Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, as if you're looking at something over his shoulder that isn't there.

"...Smells like coffee," you murmur. "Burned it again."

His vision blurs. He blinks hard, refocusing on the concrete wall behind you. You're not smelling coffee. There is no coffee. There hasn't been coffee in hours. Just dust and chemicals and rot. Hallucinations, a cold voice in his mind supplies. Neurological involvement. He hates that voice. 

Your lips curve faintly, a sleepy little smile that belongs in a sunlit kitchen, not here. "You always do that," you mumble. "Say you're watching it, then forget..."

Your head tips sideways, resting against his arm. Your eyelids droop. Panic slices through him, clean and immediate.

"Hey," he says sharply, fingers tightening on your shoulder. "No. Stay with me."

You stir weakly. "...'m tired."

"I know."

"So tired."

His thumb presses against your pulse again. Still fast. Too fast.

"You can sleep when we're home," he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to something rough and urgent.

Your eyes open a sliver.

"...Promise?"

The question is so small it barely exists.

He bows his head until his forehead rests against yours, eyes closing for one heartbeat, he allows himself.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."

He doesn't know if he's promising sleep, survival, or something else entirely. It doesn't matter. Your breathing evens out a little, not better, just slower, drifting toward something that looks dangerously like unconsciousness. Not yet, he thinks fiercely.

He slides one arm under your knees again and lifts you back against his chest, more carefully this time, as if you might come apart if handled too roughly. Your head lolls against his shoulder, then settles in the hollow of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.

"Stay with me," he murmurs into your hair. "Just a little longer."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his vest, not gripping anymore, just resting there like they forgot their job.

"...Love you," you whisper, so faint he almost thinks he imagined it.

He stops breathing. The entire world narrows to the weight in his arms and the fragile thread of sound still hanging in the air. His hold tightens, protective, desperate, careful all at once.

"I know," he says quietly, voice breaking on the edges despite his best effort. "I know."

He presses his cheek briefly against your hair, eyes closing, grounding himself in the reality of you. The heat. The softness. The terrifying fragility. Then he straightens and starts moving again, steps faster now, less cautious, urgency bleeding through the discipline he's clung to since this began. Somewhere ahead, there has to be another lab. Another storage room. Another chance. There has to be. Because the alternative is unthinkable, and Leon Kennedy has built an entire life on refusing to accept those.

"Hang on," he murmurs. "I've got you."

The corridor opens into what used to be a patient ward, rows of metal-framed beds bolted to the floor, privacy curtains hanging in limp, dusty folds like flags after a lost battle. Most of the mattresses are stripped bare, plastic covers cracked with age, but the room is quiet. No movement. No shuffling breath. Just the low electrical hum that seems to haunt every corner of this place.

Leon slows, scanning automatically, mapping exits, sightlines, choke points. Good visibility. Single main entrance. Minimal clutter. Defensible. More importantly, close.

A reinforced door at the far end bears a faded hazard symbol and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled beneath it. The hinges are external. The frame is thicker than standard interior construction. Lab access. Or something close to it.

"Okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "This'll do."

He crosses to the nearest intact bed and lowers you with painstaking care, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other guiding your legs so the injured one doesn't twist. The mattress sighs softly under your weight, springs complaining but holding. For a second, he doesn't let go. Your head rolls slightly to one side, hair falling across your face. Your eyes are half-open, unfocused, lashes trembling like you're dreaming with your eyes still in the world.

"Hey," he says quietly, brushing the hair back with fingers that are gentler than anything else he's done today. "Stay with me."

Your gaze struggles to find him. "...Hi," you whisper.

"Hi," he echoes, voice rough.

Your hand lifts weakly, searching. He catches it immediately, folding his larger one around yours, grounding you with solid pressure.

"Where are we?" you murmur.

"Almost there," he says. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. "I need to check something."

Your fingers twitch in his grip, barely there. "...Don't go far."

His throat tightens.

"I won't," he says. "You'll be able to hear me the whole time." That seems to satisfy something in you. Your eyes drift closed, not fully unconscious, just sliding along the edge of it.

He gently lowers your hand to rest against your stomach, then hesitates. After a moment, he reaches up and unzips his jacket, shrugging it off despite the chill. He drapes it over you, tucking it around your shoulders, creating a cocoon of familiar warmth and scent. Leon rests his palm against your cheek one last time, thumb brushing your skin in a soft arc.

He forces himself to stand. Every instinct screams not to leave you. To pick you up and run until the world ends, the cure appears, or both. But the door at the end of the room waits, silent and stubborn, and something in his gut tells him that whatever hope exists is behind it.

He moves. Slow at first, reluctant steps that keep him within arm's reach, then a little farther, turning back every few seconds to make sure you're still breathing, still there, still you. Halfway across the ward, a shape shifts behind a curtain. Leon's weapon is up before the fabric finishes swaying.

A figure stumbles out, skeletal, skin pulled tight over bone, eyes reflecting dull amber in the emergency light. Its mouth opens in a soundless snarl as it lurches toward the nearest movement. Leon intercepts it before it gets anywhere. Two suppressed shots. One to the chest, one to the head. The body collapses in a boneless heap, momentum carrying it forward until it skids to a stop across the tile.

Another groan answers from somewhere deeper in the room. He pivots, firing again, dropping a second infected as it claws its way over a bedframe. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Three heartbeats of silence. He listens, counting breaths. Nothing else rises. Only then does he glance back. You haven't moved. Relief floods through him so sharply his knees almost unlock.

"Still here," he murmurs under his breath, as if confirming it makes it true.

He reaches the reinforced door and tests the handle. Locked. Of course it is.

Up close, the barricade becomes obvious. Heavy shelving units have been shoved against the interior side, metal edges visible through the narrow seam where the door meets the frame. Whoever sealed this room meant to keep something out. Or in.

Leon leans closer, ear to the cold steel. Nothing. No breathing. No scratching. No shifting weight. He steps back and scans the frame. Electronic panel. Dead. Manual override slot intact. Hope stirs, cautious and unwelcome.

He glances over his shoulder again. From here, he can still see you on the bed, small beneath his jacket, chest rising and falling in shallow motions that make his own lungs ache in sympathy.

"Almost there," he says quietly, whether to you or himself, he doesn't know.

From a pouch on his belt, he pulls a compact breaching tool, the metal catching the light as he slots it into the override housing. The device hums softly, vibration traveling up his wrist.

Behind him, the ward remains still.

Then your voice drifts across the room, thin and fragile. "...Leon?"

He spins instantly. Your head has turned toward him, eyes open again, unfocused but searching, panic flickering in the small movement of your hands against his jacket.

"I'm here," he calls, already crossing back toward you. "Right here."

You stare at him as if trying to memorize his face before it disappears. "...Too many," you whisper. "They're everywhere."

"There's nothing here," he says gently. "You're safe."

Your head sinks back into the thin pillow. Consciousness slips away from you like water through open fingers. Leon stays there a second longer than he should, watching your chest rise, fall, rise again. Then he stands and turns back to the barricaded door, something steely settling over him, heavier than anger, sharper than fear.

The tool in his hand whines as it bites into the locking mechanism, sparks spitting in brief, angry bursts. Metal protests. Screws shear. The smell of hot circuitry fills the air.

"Hold on," he murmurs, not looking back this time because he won't stop if he does. "I'm getting us in."

Behind him, the bed creaks softly as you shift in fevered sleep. Ahead, the door shudders as the final bolt gives way. Leon shoves the door inward, the weight of it grinding against the barricade until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through sideways. Inside, a toppled shelving unit leans against the opposite wall, confirming what he already suspected. Whoever sealed this room did it from within and didn't plan on leaving.

The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sterile in that artificial way that smells faintly of alcohol wipes and plastic, like illness reduced to a controlled environment.

Emergency lights glow a sickly green, illuminating rows of lab benches, overturned stools, racks of glassware frozen mid-experiment. Papers lie scattered across the floor, curling at the edges. A monitor flickers weakly on one station, casting a pulsing rectangle of pale light that feels almost alive in the otherwise stagnant room.

Leon clears the space in seconds, weapon sweeping corners, checking behind doors, under desks, anywhere something could hide. Nothing lunges. Nothing breathes. Just abandonment, sudden and absolute, like the people who worked here evaporated mid-sentence.

He lowers the gun a fraction, chest rising and falling a little too fast to be purely tactical.

"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough in the quiet. "Okay."

He moves to the nearest workstation, scanning labels, cabinets, drawers. Chemical reagents. Disposable supplies. Data drives. Everything except what he needs. Another bench. Same story. He opens a refrigerated unit. Empty trays. Frost buildup. Power too low to maintain temperature.

His pulse hammers harder.

Not here. Not here. Not here.

"Come on," he mutters, rifling through containers faster now, less methodical, more desperate. Glass clinks sharply as he shoves aside vials of things that don't matter, powders with long names, syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Nothing labeled antiviral. Nothing labeled serum. Nothing labeled hope. A cold weight settles in his stomach.

He moves to the flickering computer, fingers flying across the keys, waking it from whatever half-dead state it's been trapped in. The screen brightens sluggishly, revealing a login prompt already bypassed, system hanging on by a thread.

"Don't do this to me," he whispers.

Folders populate slowly. Research logs. Incident reports. Containment protocols. He scans titles with ruthless speed, opening anything that looks remotely relevant, eyes burning as line after line of technical jargon scrolls past.

Mutation rates. Transmission vectors. Failure rates. 

Failure rates.

His jaw tightens.

A crash echoes faintly from the ward beyond the door. His head snaps toward the sound. Silence follows. He waits three seconds. Five. Ten. No approach. No impact against the door. No dragging footsteps. Still there, he tells himself. She's still there.

He turns back to the screen, forcing his focus to narrow again. A document catches his eye.

ANTIVIRAL DISPERSION PROTOCOL – EMERGENCY USE

He opens it. Paragraphs of dense instructions spill across the display. Stabilization procedures. Delivery methods. Storage warnings. STORAGE LOCATION: SECURE BIOCONTAINMENT VAULT B-2. His stomach drops. Not here.

Coordinates blink uselessly on the screen, pointing deeper into the facility, farther than he wants to think about, farther than you may be able to survive the trip.

Something inside him finally gives. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, shoulders bowing as if someone just added fifty pounds to his back.

"Damn it," he breathes.

The word fractures on the way out, barely more than air. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping toward his clenched fists, fighting the surge of helpless fury that threatens to tear through discipline, training, every wall he's built over years of surviving the unsurvivable. Not enough time. Not enough distance. Not enough anything.

Out in the ward, you lie alone on a metal bed, burning up, slipping further away with every second he spends standing here empty-handed. His chest tightens until breathing feels optional.

For one dangerous moment, he imagines walking back out there, picking you up, and never stopping. No cure. No mission. Just distance and denial. Just the selfish hope that if he runs fast enough, the virus won't catch you.

He exhales sharply, dragging himself back from the edge. Running never saved anyone.

"Think," he mutters hoarsely. "Think."

His gaze drifts across the lab again, slower this time, less frantic, searching for patterns instead of miracles. That's when he notices it. A sealed medical kit is mounted on the wall near the exit. Standard emergency issue. Bright white casing. Untouched, pristine compared to the chaos everywhere else. Too pristine. He crosses the room and pops it open. Bandages. Burn gel. Basic trauma supplies. Nothing else.

His shoulders slump. Then his eyes catch a thin seam along the back panel, almost invisible unless you're looking directly at it. Not part of the original design. Too clean. Too deliberate. He taps it with his knuckle. Hollow. Hope flares, sharp and painful.

He wedges a knife into the seam and pries. The panel resists for a second, then snaps free with a brittle crack, revealing a narrow cavity hidden behind the kit.

Inside rests a single reinforced container, matte gray and no bigger than a paperback book, sealed with a biometric latch long since disabled. Not government-issue, but research-grade. Whoever put this here didn't have the chance to get it.

Leon's hands shake as he pulls it free. The lid pops open. Nestled in foam are two glass syringes pre-loaded with clear liquid, labels printed in blocky lab script:

ANTIVIRAL SERUM — FINALIZED STRAIN

For a second, he just stares, brain refusing to trust what his eyes are telling it. Air leaves his lungs in a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to a sob strangled before it can exist.

"Okay," he whispers, voice breaking anyway. "Okay. We're good. We're... we're good."

He presses his forehead briefly against the cool plastic case, eyes squeezing shut, letting the relief hit him in one violent wave before he can stop it. Shoulders shake once, twice, a tremor he doesn't bother to control because no one is here to see it. No one except the person who needs him most. He straightens abruptly, wiping a hand across his face, composure snapping back into place like a mask he's worn too long to misplace.

"Hang on," he says, already moving for the door, clutching the case like it's made of glass and prayers. "I'm coming back."

Your skin is still hot. That's the first thing he registers when his palm cups your cheek. Heat floods into his hand, fever-bright, but there's a wrongness to it now, a brittle quality, like warmth without life behind it.

"Hey," he says softly. "I'm back."

No response. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, unmoving. Your mouth is slightly open, breath slipping in shallow threads that barely stir the hair at your temple. The shivering from before has stopped. Your body lies too still beneath his jacket, as if it finally decided movement was optional.

A cold spike of terror drives straight through his chest.

"Hey." Louder this time, but still gentle, still careful, as if volume alone might break you. "Come on. Open your eyes for me."

Nothing. He slides his hand to your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point. It's there. Fast. Thready. Irregular in a way that makes his own heartbeat stumble trying to match it.

"Okay," he breathes, more to himself than to you. "We're okay."

His other hand trembles as he fumbles the case open, snapping it back with a soft plastic crack. The syringes gleam under the emergency lights, their clear liquid looking impossibly calm compared to the storm in his chest. He sets the case on the bed beside you, movements deliberate, controlled, forcing precision where panic wants chaos.

"You're gonna hate this part," he murmurs, fingers working to clear space at your collar, tugging fabric aside so he can reach skin. "But you can yell at me later. I'm counting on it."

Your head lolls slightly with the movement. No protest. No reflexive tension. He swallows hard.

"Hey," he says again, softer now, thumb brushing your jaw in a slow arc. "Stay with me, okay? You don't get to check out early. We still owe each other dessert."

His voice catches on the last word. He pushes through it.

"Remember that place downtown? The one with the ridiculous chocolate cake you said was worth the calories?" A shaky breath. "I figure we'll go there."

He presses his forehead briefly against yours, eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second.

"You hear me? We've got plans."

Your breathing hitches faintly, a tiny irregular stutter that might be a coincidence or might be something else. He latches onto it anyway, desperate for anything that looks like a connection.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Right there. Stay with me."

He lifts the syringe, checks it automatically, habit stronger than fear. No air bubbles. Fluid clear. Needle steady despite the tremor in his hand.

"Okay," he whispers. "Here we go."

He slides his arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough to support you against his chest, cradling you there so the injection won't jostle too much. Your head falls against him, cheek resting over his heart, breath warm and frighteningly faint through the fabric of his shirt.

"You're doing great," he says softly, even though you're doing nothing at all. "Almost there."

The needle presses into your skin.

He hesitates.

Not because he doubts the serum. Because once this is done, there's nothing left to do but wait, and waiting is the one thing he has never learned to survive gracefully.

"Don't be mad," he murmurs. "I'm not giving you a choice."

He depresses the plunger slowly, watching the liquid disappear into you, as if he can track hope molecule by molecule. His other arm tightens around your back, holding you upright, holding you together.

"All right," he says, voice barely above a breath. "You did good. See? Easy."

He withdraws the needle and sets it aside with mechanical care, as if any sudden movement might undo what he's just done. Then he just holds you.

Seconds crawl past, each one stretching thin as wire. Nothing happens. Your breathing remains shallow. Your pulse, when he checks again, is still fast, still erratic. His chest starts to feel tight, air coming harder, like the room has quietly stolen oxygen while he wasn't looking.

"Okay," he says hoarsely. "Sometimes these things take a minute."

He shifts you slightly, thumb stroking your arm in absent circles, the same motion he uses when you're half asleep on long flights or bad nights. Comfort muscle memory kicks in even when the situation is far beyond comfort.

"You're not allowed to do this," he whispers. "You hear me? Not now. Not like this."

Your hand slips from where it rested against his vest, sliding down between you, fingers loose and unresponsive. He grabs it instantly, folding it back into his palm, pressing it against his chest.

"Come back," he says, the words fraying at the edges.

Another long stretch of nothing. Fear blooms, cold and suffocating, filling every hollow place in him. Too late, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Too slow. Too far gone.

He shakes his head sharply, jaw clenching.

"No," he mutters. "No, you don't get to do that."

He bows over you, pressing his forehead to your hair, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in like oxygen.

"You promised," he says roughly. "You don't break your promises."

Your pulse stutters under his fingers. He freezes.

There it is again. A strange hitch, a pause that stretches too long, then a sudden rush, as if your heart forgot the rhythm and is trying to find it again. His own heart stops in sympathetic terror.

"Come on," he whispers. "Come on..."

Your body jerks. A sharp, involuntary spasm that arches you slightly against him before you go slack again. Leon sucks in a breath, half panic, half hope colliding in his chest.

"That's it," he says urgently. "That's something. That's good. Keep going."

Your brow creases faintly, expression tightening as if pain is finally breaking through the fog. A weak sound escapes you, barely audible, more exhale than voice. His grip on you tightens, careful but fierce.

"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. You're okay."

Your breathing changes, deepening suddenly, as if you're pulling in air like someone surfacing from underwater. It catches, stutters, then comes again, stronger this time, dragging oxygen into lungs that finally seem interested in using it.

"There you go," he breathes, voice shaking openly now. "That's it. Stay with me."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his chest. He presses his cheek against your hair, eyes closing, holding you like you might still vanish if he loosens his grip.

"I've got you," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you."

He keeps you cradled against his chest, one arm locked around your back, the other braced across your shoulders, hand splayed as if shielding you from something that no longer exists. His cheek rests against your hair, breath uneven, dragging in through his nose, out through parted lips like he's relearning how to do it.

Your pulse is stronger now beneath his fingers. Still fast, still fragile, but steady enough to count. Steady enough to believe in. Only then does the tension start to bleed out of him. It comes all at once.

His shoulders shudder. Not violently, just a small, contained tremor that he tries to swallow down and can't. A sound escapes him, rough and broken, something halfway between a breath and a sob he never intended to make. He tightens his hold instinctively, pressing his face into your hair as if hiding there makes it less real.

"Okay," he whispers hoarsely. "Okay... you're okay."

Warmth hits your scalp. At first, your fogged mind can't place it. Wetness. A second drop follows, sliding along your temple before disappearing into your hair.

Leon doesn't notice. Or he does and can't stop. He bows over you, forehead pressed to the crown of your head, shoulders shaking in small, uneven pulses he's trying desperately to keep silent. Years of training, years of surviving, years of holding everything inside, finally cracking under the simple fact that you are still here.

"I've got you," he murmurs, voice wrecked, words stumbling over each other. "I've got you, I've got you..."

Your fingers twitch. This time, the movement is stronger, a weak curl against his shirt, fabric bunching slightly in your grasp. The sensation filters through layers of fog, heat, exhaustion, and the lingering echo of pain. Consciousness creeps back in like dawn through heavy curtains.

Your throat burns. Your body feels impossibly heavy, as if gravity doubled while you were away. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-level fatigue that sleep alone could never fix.

Sound reaches you first. A heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Close enough to be yours, except it isn't. Breath above you, hitching, uneven. Fabric shifting faintly with each inhale.

Someone is holding you. You force your eyes open.

The world swims into view in slow, watery shapes. A blurred patch of green light. A shadow that resolves into the curve of a shoulder. Blond strands of hair brushing your cheek.

Leon.

He doesn't notice you're awake yet. His face is buried against your head, one hand cupping the back of your skull with fierce gentleness, thumb moving in tiny, repetitive strokes like he's soothing a nightmare that hasn't ended for him yet.

Your voice comes out as a rasp. "Leon...?"

He freezes. Absolute stillness, like a statue suddenly unsure whether it's allowed to move. Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red. Not just glassy, not just tired, but openly, unmistakably wet. Tracks of tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, catching the light as he blinks hard, as if blinking might erase evidence before you can register it.

For a second, he just stares at you, something raw and disbelieving cracking across his face, like he expected this moment and still isn't sure it's real.

"You're..." His voice fails. He clears his throat roughly. "Hey."

You try to smile. It feels wobbly, incomplete. "Hi."

Relief hits him so visibly it's almost painful to watch. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him like someone cut the strings holding him upright.

"Hey," he repeats, softer this time, thumb coming up to brush your cheek in a careful sweep, as if confirming you're solid. "You're back."

"Was I... gone?"

His jaw tightens. "Not allowed."

You attempt a small laugh. It comes out as a weak breath. His hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers resting over your pulse again, counting, grounding, refusing to trust his eyes alone.

"You scared me," he says quietly.

Your gaze drops to his chest, to the wrinkled fabric where you must have been gripping him earlier. "Sorry."

His head snaps slightly. "Don't."

The word is sharp, then softens immediately.

"Don't apologize," he adds, voice rough. "Just... don't."

You nod faintly. Even that feels like work.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there in his arms, breathing the same air, sharing the same small pocket of reality after hours of separation that happened without distance. Then you notice how tightly he's still holding you.

"Leon," you murmur, "I can't breathe."

He releases you instantly, horror flashing across his face. "Sorry. Sorry."

He shifts his grip, supporting you more carefully, one arm still behind your shoulders but no longer crushing you to him. His other hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as if he can't quite stop touching you.

"You're okay?" he asks, scanning your face like he's looking for cracks. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Vision?"

"Everything hurts."

He exhales, something that might be relief ghosting through the pain in his expression. "I'll take it."

Your eyes drift past him, taking in the ward, the beds, the dim light. Memory trickles back in jagged pieces. Teeth. Heat. Falling. Darkness.

"...You found it," you whisper.

He nods once. "Yeah, told you we would.

Your mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You did."

You study him more closely now, the red around his eyes, the dampness he hasn't fully wiped away, the way he keeps blinking as if his vision is unreliable.

"You were crying," you say softly.

Immediate denial rises to his lips. You can see it form. Then he looks at you. And whatever excuse he was about to give dissolves.

"...Yeah," he admits, voice low. "Maybe a little."

A tear slips free anyway, tracking down before he can stop it. He doesn't bother hiding it this time. Doesn't look away. Just lets it exist.

"You weren't waking up," he says, as if that explains everything. It does.

Your chest aches in a different way now. You lift your hand slowly, muscles protesting, and touch his face. Your thumb brushes the damp track on his cheek, wiping it away with clumsy tenderness.

"I'm here," you whisper.

He leans into your hand without thinking, eyes closing briefly, relief and exhaustion and something deeper collapsing together inside him.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."

He covers your hand with his, pressing it lightly to his skin as if anchoring himself. After a moment, his gaze sharpens again, mission awareness bleeding back in. 

"We need to move," he says gently. "Facility's not stable, and we don't know how long before more of them wander in."

You nod, though the idea of standing feels ambitious at best. He notices the hesitation immediately.

"Hey," he says softly. "I've got you."

He shifts, sliding one arm behind your back again, the other under your knees, lifting you with the same careful strength as before, only this time you help a little, arms coming up weakly around his neck. Your head settles against his shoulder.

"Still getting dessert?" you murmur against his collar.

A real smile breaks through at last, small but bright as sunrise after a storm.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

He turns toward the exit, steps steady, protective hold unyielding but gentle now that he knows you're truly there.

Three days later, the world smells like coffee and clean laundry instead of antiseptic and decay.

Sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, laying soft gold across the rumpled bedspread and the tangle of blankets around your legs. The air is warm, carrying the faint hum of city life from outside, tires on pavement, a distant horn, someone laughing somewhere far below.

Leon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, watching with that quiet intensity he hasn't quite learned to turn off yet. He looks cleaner than before, shaved, hair damp as if he showered quickly and came right back, but the exhaustion still clings to him in the set of his shoulders.

"You're staring," you murmur.

"Monitoring," he corrects.

"You blink?"

"Sometimes."

You huff a small laugh, the motion tugging at sore muscles that remind you exactly how recently everything went wrong. His gaze sharpens instantly, concern flaring before you even realize you winced.

"I'm okay," you assure him.

He searches your face a moment longer, then nods, not convinced but willing to accept it for now.

"You hungry?" he asks.

"Always."

He disappears into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a plate of pancakes that look slightly uneven but deeply sincere. You eat, he watches, tension slowly unwinding from him with each bite you take.

When you finish, you lean back, warm and heavy with food, eyelids drooping in content exhaustion.

"So when is our dessert date?" you ask softly.

Leon goes still. Then he stands without a word and leaves the room again.

You hear the soft thud of the door opening, the faint clink of something ceramic, the careful movements of someone handling something fragile. When he returns, he's holding a small white bakery box tied with a thin ribbon, the bow slightly crooked as if it had to survive transport in a large, impatient hand. He sets it on the bedside table with surprising delicacy.

"I didn't make this," he says gruffly. "Figured we've both suffered enough."

Suspicion and curiosity spark together. You pull the ribbon loose, lifting the lid. Inside sits a slice of decadent chocolate cake, glossy frosting catching the sunlight, layers dark, dense, and unapologetically indulgent.

Your chest tightens.

"You remembered," you whisper.

He shrugs, looking suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. "You seemed pretty sure it was worth surviving for."

You lift the cake plate slightly and notice something tucked beneath the ribbon, partially hidden against the cardboard.

An envelope. Your fingers hesitate, then slide it free. Leon doesn't look at you. He's staring out the window now, jaw set, shoulders a little too rigid, like he's bracing for impact.

Inside the envelope are two plane tickets. Beach destination. Departure in two weeks. Round trip. Vacation time from work. A hotel confirmation tucked behind them.

For a long moment, you can't speak.

"You said somewhere boring," he mutters quietly, still not turning around. "Figured that would be perfect."

"Leon..."

He finally looks back, expression carefully neutral, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something that says this mattered more than he wants to admit.

"You don't have to go," he adds quickly. "If you're not up for travel yet, we can postpone, or cancel, or—"

You set the tickets down and reach for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing right at the edge of the bed, close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.

"Thank you," you say softly.

Not just for the vacation. Not just for the cake. He understands anyway. His face softens, tension draining into something warm and quiet and deeply relieved.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Anytime."

You pick up the fork, take a small bite of cake, then hold it out to him. He leans in, accepting it, eyes never leaving yours. For a second, neither of you pulls back, the space between you charged with something gentler than urgency, heavier than simple affection.

"Worth it?" he asks.

You nod. "Absolutely."

You set the plate aside, your hand finding his again, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, protective, like he did in the hallway, only now there's no fear behind it. You both crave this closeness after it was almost ripped away just days before. 

You tug lightly, coaxing him down to sit beside you on the bed. He goes without resistance, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically, careful of lingering soreness. Your other hand lifts, brushing his cheek where faint redness still lingers if you look closely enough.

"I love you," you whisper.

His eyes close briefly, leaning into your touch in a way he never would in public. Just here, just now, where it's safe to be human.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you too."

Leon leans in first. The kiss is slow, gentle, nothing desperate or urgent, just warm lips and shared breath and the simple reassurance of contact. He stills for half a heartbeat, like he's afraid you might break, then melts into it, one hand cupping the back of your head. When you pull back, his forehead follows yours, resting lightly against it, eyes still closed.

"Careful," he murmurs. "Doctor said no overexertion."

You smile. "Pretty sure that wasn't what they meant."

"Still."

His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder, fitting there like it always has. His chin settles lightly against your hair, breath warm, steady.

Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time slows to match the rhythm of two people who fought hard for the right to sit in a quiet room and eat cake.

"Two weeks," you murmur.

"Yeah."

"You think you can handle boring?"

He huffs softly. "I'll manage."

You laugh, the sound light and real and alive. His chest rises under your cheek, its vibration grounding you in the best possible way. For a long moment, neither of you says anything else. You just sit there, sunlight warming your skin, fingers loosely entwined, the promise of salt air and quiet days waiting ahead like a horizon you can finally see. Sharing cake, and kisses, and being alive, and together in your home.

Dividers by @uzmacchiato <3

His head tilts towards you, shaggy hair shifting as his gaze travels over you with interest. You stare back at him blankly, brows furrowing when you take in the scruffy stubble covering his jaw and the weathered look to his skin. He had to be at least twice your age, but even you could admit the man was stupidly handsome. You’re only left with more questions than you started with as you continue to stare at him, feeling bewildered. The flex of his gloved fingers catch in your periphery, distracting you as you glance down to find him piecing together a disassembled gun with practiced ease, the parts set out neatly on your desk. 

His voice is gruff when he speaks. “You’re younger than I expected.”

“You… were expecting me?” you ask, irritation seeping into your voice, patience growing thin. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man’s brows raise at your blunt question, fingers still moving deftly, his eyes flickering with mirth. 

“You know, the FBI promised me a warm welcome,” he says, the chair swiveling as he turns to face you fully. “Can’t exactly say you’re delivering on that promise.”

“Yeah well, I didn’t make any promises,” you retort, giving him a tight smile, watching as he leans forward, sliding his newly assembled gun back into its holster. “Besides, you still haven’t answered my question.”

He sighs, leaning forward, his arm outstretched as he offers you his hand. “Leon–”

He’s interrupted by the Unit Chief calling out your name. Your eyes narrow when you see the case file in his hands, glancing back at Leon before you leave him, stepping inside the Unit Chief’s office, the door clicking shut behind you.

“We’ve got two new bodies,” he says, handing you the case file. “Unsub’s been crossing jurisdictions and the local police department is… well, concerned to say the least. Think you can handle it?”

You nod, flicking through the pages, nose scrunching when you see the images of the crime scene – each more grisly than the last. Mutilated bodies, blood smeared across the walls, messily carved symbols etched into the wooden door of the victims’ home.

“Seems ritualistic,” you murmur, reading through the reports. You glance up at him, clutching the case file to your chest protectively. “You’re letting me take this alone? I’m flattered.”

“Ah,” the Unit Chief shakes his head, nodding towards Leon. “Not exactly.”

“What?” you scoff, looking at Leon who gives you a smile and waves through the glass. You glare at him, yanking the blinds shut. “The old man?” you hiss, “he’ll only slow me down.”

The Unit Chief sighs, taking a seat in his chair. “That man is Leon Kennedy. DSO. It’s only a precaution. He’s more experienced than any team we could put together and after what happened with Agent Ashcroft, the FBI is trying to be more… mindful.”

“Ashcroft?” you echo, remembering the Rhodes Hill incident. “That’s– that’s because they sent an analyst into the field of all things. She must’ve been terrified. I’m a field agent, I can handle myself.”

“Agent Kennedy took an interest in the case,” he replies, hands clasping together. “If there’s bioterrorism involved, he’ll be useful. If there isn’t, use him as an idea board. The Unit Chief peers up at you, his expression stern. “My decision is final.”

Your jaw works irritatedly before you huff out a heavy breath, nodding reluctantly. “Yes, sir.”

Despite your sour mood and the urge to slam the door shut, you carefully close it, making your way back to Leon. You drag a spare chair towards your desk, sinking down onto it. Leon shakes his head when you offer him the case file.

“I’ve already read it.”

“Huh,” you stare at him, lips pursing while your eyes squint in recognition. “Leon Scott Kennedy,” you drawl, jabbing your finger at him, “you’re the Raccoon City cop. I’ve heard stories about you. Shouldn’t you be…” you gesture to him pointedly, “retired?”

“Ouch,” Leon says, his hand moving to press against his chest as he feigns being hurt. “You really don’t want me here, do you?”

“All I know is that you’re some big-shot DSO agent that I don’t need on my case, Leon,” you shoot back, flipping open the file to read the autopsy reports more thoroughly.

“The first case you’ve ever been in charge of,” Leon muses, his leather gloves creaking softly as he picks up a stray pen, putting it back into its place. “I’m impressed. Not everyone gets to be a lead on a case like this. Then again, you’re pretty good at this kinda thing.”

Was he buttering you up? He had to be. You don’t bother looking up as you mark a few things of interest off on the report.

“Thank you,” you murmur, scrawling a few notes down on a notepad before you pause, head turning to find him watching you carefully. “How did you know that?” you ask, a hint of suspicion in your voice, “we’ve never met before.”

Leon shifts, grunting softly as he tries to get more comfortable in your chair. “I took the liberty of reading your file,” he replies flippantly, his expression darkening as he tries to work the chair’s jammed lever. “Fuckin’ chair… how do you sit in this all day?”

“I don’t sit all day!” you snap, “and you read my file? I don’t care if you have the fucking clearance, you can’t just–” 

You’re interrupted by a loud snap, teeth gritting together when you realize he’s pushed the lever too hard – or perhaps, underestimated his own strength – the lever cleanly detached and now clutched in Leon’s gloved hand. 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he murmurs, setting the lever down on your desk, patting it awkwardly. “I’ll buy you a new chair.”

You have half a mind to reach over and strangle him. You even consider doing it, until he grumbles under his breath and shrugs off that jacket of his, your murderous intent forgotten as soon as you catch sight of his thick biceps. With those things, Leon could probably strangle you and have no problem doing it. 

The sheer size of him renders you incapable of tearing your gaze away, your stare settled firmly on his shoulders, arms and chest – every part of him unfairly thick and muscular – his skin-tight shirt leaving you barely conscious of the way your throat was beginning to dry up. 

Your newly broken chair creaks once more under Leon’s weight, the sound piercing through the haze of your shameless staring. You blink uncertainly, taking another lingering peek at his biceps while he’s too busy trying to get comfortable. 

“We’d better get going,” you announce, grabbing the file before standing up abruptly. “The local PD is probably waiting for us.”

“We can take my car,” Leon says as he follows you into the elevator.

“I’m not in the habit of getting into cars with strange men,” you say testily, pressing a button before turning to face him. 

“And I’m not in the habit of babysitting FBI agents,” Leon drawls, leaning against the wall of the elevator, his arms crossing over his chest. 

The movement makes his shirt stretch tighter if anything, the fabric clinging to his broad forearms stubbornly, his watch glinting softly in the lighting. Your head tilts, eyes narrowing with irritation when you register his insult. 

“No one asked you to babysit,” you say, shaking your head. “I have a gun,” you take it out of the holster attached to your hip, pointing it at him, “and I’m smart. I’ll have this case wrapped up in a day or two, so stay the fuck outta my way.”

A smile pulls at his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he lifts his hands in mock-surrender. The amusement in his eyes makes him look a little younger, your heart fluttering with delight for a moment before you tamp it down violently. 

When the elevator comes to a stop, Leon takes your bag before you can protest, his gloved fingers brushing yours briefly. You step after him, brows raising with begrudging respect when you see his car. Big-shot DSO agent, your mind supplies as he puts your bag into the backseat, gesturing for you to get in. You sigh heavily, opening your mouth to argue but Leon’s already disappeared inside his car, the engine rumbling to life. Muttering a curse under your breath, you get in his car, pulling the door shut firmly. 

–

“What do you mean there’s only one room available?”

“What’s there to understand?” Leon asks, dangling the singular key in front of your face. “Rooms are all booked out. They’re celebrating some special harvest festival according to the receptionist.”

“Harvest festival?” you echo, peering up at him. “You gotta be fucking kidding me. That’s like the perfect cover for our unsub.”

“I would help,” he murmurs, nudging your shoulder gently to get you to step aside, “but you wanted me to, what was it?” you roll your eyes when he snaps his fingers, pretending to think. “Ah yes, stay the fuck outta your way.”

You snatch the key hanging from Leon’s finger, ignoring his aggrieved sigh as you push past him and stomp back down the stairs to the reception, ready to demand another room. All the receptionist does is give you an apologetic smile and offer you a discount. You swallow your pride as you trudge back up the stairs, doing your best to avoid Leon’s eyes when you find him leaning beside the room’s door, his brows raising amusedly.

“I don’t want to hear it,” you mutter, slotting the key into the lock.

Leon shrugs non-committally. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

The door is heavy as you push it open, Leon’s hand moving to keep it open for you as you step inside. You fumble in the darkness for the light switch at the same time Leon does, his strong, calloused fingers brushing over yours. It’s enough to have an unwanted shiver running down your spine, warmth blooming in your chest and a flush settling high on your cheeks despite your stubborn annoyance with him. 

“Fuck me.”

You follow his gaze when he swears, taking in the lit room. There’s a shitty couch in one corner, a tiny area with a coffee machine and table, and… a bed. 

“Okay,” you say slowly, staring at the one, pitiful bed you had been afforded. “Great! So I think you should go and chew out the receptionist.”

“I’m not doing that,” Leon scoffs, bending down to take off his boots, his gun clattering against the table as he sets it down. “I can take the couch.”

You look back at the couch, brows furrowing. “That’s really nice of you and all, Leon,” you begin, stepping further inside the small room, “but I don’t think you’re exactly going to fit.”

“You care about me or something?” he drawls, looking over at you with a smile as he opens his duffle bag to pull out a towel and a set of clothes. 

“Get over yourself. I’m just worried about your…” you gesture towards him vaguely, “potentially geriatric bones.”

Leon chokes on a laugh, his brows shooting up. “Geriatric? I’m 49. My bones are in perfect working order.”

“Right, nevermind. You did break my chair.”

“I did you a favor,” he retorts, slinging the towel around the back of his neck. “It was a hunk of junk.”

“It was in perfect working condition!” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Do you always defend inanimate objects with such passion?” Leon muses, stepping closer until he’s only a few inches away, head cocking to the side.

“When they’re close to my heart, yes.”

“A chair is close to your heart?”

You decide to double down. “Yes, Leon.”

“Huh,” he nods slowly, clicking his tongue. “You got attachment issues?”

“Did my file not tell you that?” you smile up at him snarkily.

Leon grins, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I skipped over your psych eval.”

He turns, disappearing into the bathroom. You glare at the door and huff out a sigh, removing your shoes before grabbing the case file and flopping down on the bed tiredly. You flick through the pages absentmindedly, settling on the symbols carved onto the door. You hadn’t seen anything remotely like it before and the database search you’d done earlier in the car had come up empty. 

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, glancing towards the bathroom.

You’d exhausted all your options save for one. A reluctant groan leaves you as you stand, approaching the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Hey, Leon?” you call out when you hear the spray of water come to a stop. “I… might have been a little difficult earlier,” your voice sounds strained, “but if you could maybe take another look at the file, then I would… you know, probably appreciate it or whatever.” You swallow, face twisting with discomfort. “Please?”

Leon laughs, the rich, deep sound seeping through the crevices. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he says, sounding entirely too entertained by your attempt to ask him for help. “I’ll take a look for you.”

You frown at the door, jolting when it swings open suddenly. A few wisps of steam escape, and you blink owlishly, finding yourself face-to-face with his bare chest. It’s hard to keep your gaze from wandering over his exposed skin, a light dusting of hair covering his chest coupled with a few scars. A strange, gurgling noise escapes you when he shifts back to grab his towel, his broad, muscled back now visible to you. You sway, moving to grip the doorframe, knees feeling weak. 

“You okay?” Leon murmurs, glancing over at you as he ruffles his damp hair, brows furrowing.

“Yes!”

Your voice is shrill, pitching up awkwardly until you clear your throat and give him an equally awkward smile. 

“Perfectly fine,” you clarify, this time sounding breathless as you try and fail to not look down, inhaling sharply when you see his defined abdomen and the dark, coarse hair below his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants.

“It’s just that you look…” you trail off, fingers itching to reach out and squeeze and touch. Hot. Attractive. Fuckable. Really fucking fuckable for a 49-year-old man. “Like shit,” you settle on, the words tumbling out of you in a strained manner as you force yourself to meet his eyes. “You– you look like shit, Leon.” You pat his shoulder jerkily. “Unfortunately.”

“Right, sure,” he says, his head tilting as he stares down at you, unconvinced. “You really know how to flatter a man.”

“I’m charming like that,” you say, hands clasping behind your back. 

Leon hums, and you stare back up at him, gaze flitting away for one moment to get a glimpse of his left hand. No ring. Perfect. You pinch yourself as soon as the thought comes.

“You gonna let me out?”

“What?”

When Leon gestures towards you, you realize you’re still standing in front of him, blocking the way out. You move to the side sheepishly, pushing the case file into his chest quickly before locking yourself in the bathroom.

You let out an embarrassed groan once you’re in the shower, burying your face into your hands. What the fuck was wrong with you? There was no way that all it took was some dorky, attractive, older man to have you feeling out of sorts. A dull ache flares between your thighs at the thought of Leon, fingers sneaking past your folds to rub at your traitorously swollen clit. It doesn’t take much, just the image of his body pressed against yours, his arms wrapped around you, mouth pressed against your ear while he grunts–

You cum with a muffled whine. Scrubbing the rest of your mortification off of your skin with soap, you dry off, slipping into a pair of sleep shorts and a hoodie. You pad out of the bathroom to find Leon sitting at the table – thankfully with a shirt on – a few containers of food littered across its surface while he’s hunched over his laptop.

“Hey,” he greets when he sees you, gaze travelling over you briefly before turning his laptop towards you. “I had a look. Your guy might be part of a cult,” Leon brings up another image, showing it to you, “they’re not the exact same, but similar enough. Might be worth looking into.”

“Cult? That’s fun,” you murmur, dropping into the chair beside him, watching as he runs his hair through his hair. “Thank you for taking a look, and the food.”

His brows raise. “Those might be the most sincere words to come out of you today.”

“Shut up,” you say, although a small smile pulls at your lips.

Dinner is quick as you both make a plan for tomorrow – visit the local PD, check out the crime scene and investigate a few related areas of interest. Leon settles down on the couch soon after, adjusting his pillow a few times before grunting as he tries to get comfortable. You were right, he doesn’t fit. He looks so awfully crammed, knees bent and back hunched at an awkward angle that even you feel bad about it.

“Leon,” you say exasperatedly, “we can both fit on the bed. That can’t be good for your back.”

“This is fine,” he replies stubbornly, shifting onto his back uncomfortably, arm hanging off the edge. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

“I can’t deal with you complaining about your back tomorrow,” you say, gesturing towards the bed. You lay down, squirming to the side to make space. “See? You can have the other side.”

“You sure your boyfriend won’t mind?”

“What?” you ask confusedly, sitting up on your elbows. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Leon grunts as he gets to his feet, dropping down onto the bed without further protests. It’s a tight fit, but you both manage, a sliver of space left between your bodies. You stare up at the ceiling, lips pursing, feeling antsy. 

“Did you…” you glance over at him, feeling entirely too bold for your own good, “did you ask because you were interested?”

He stares back, brows raising. “Interested in what?”

“In what?” you repeat irritably, “are you seriously playing dumb?”

Leon smiles back at you, shrugging lazily. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Maybe if you clarified what it was you wanted from me–”

“I don’t want anything from you!” you sputter, flushing hot. The bed creaks as you flop onto your side, facing away from him. “You’re old and weird and infuriating and–”

“I feel like you’re avoiding my better qualities.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, I know you want to, baby.”

It’s a miracle your neck doesn’t snap with how fast you turn to look at him. 

“May I remind you that this,” you gesture between your bodies wildly, “is a professional relationship?”

“Yeah?” Leon murmurs, raising his brows, “is that why you got off in the shower? Rubbed one out to make yourself feel better ‘bout liking me?” He looks unfazed when your jaw slackens, tapping the wall behind his head. “Thin walls.”

“That is none of your business.” You lean closer, eyes narrowing in an attempt to hide your growing embarrassment. “HR is going to have a fucking field day with you.”

You flop back onto your side, trying to put some distance between you, but there’s such a little space on the bed that you end up half-dangling over the edge. Leon doesn’t say anything, the silence between you thick and stretching on uncomfortably until you sit up, turning to face him.

He stares back at you, the bed creaking softly as he shifts, folding an arm under his head. His shirt stretches tight, thick bicep flexed and the sight is enough to make you lose your last nerve. 

Your hand cups his jaw, head dipping to press a kiss to his lips. It’s meant to be quick, fleeting, to get whatever the fuck you have bottled up inside of you. Leon doesn’t seem to agree as he returns your kiss roughly, stubble scratching against your skin, his hand moving to cup the back of your head, blocking your escape.

“Where’re you going?” he murmurs, lips brushing over yours.

“This–” you whine softly when he kisses the underside of your jaw, fingers tightening into his shirt. “This is a bad idea.”

“I happen to be full of those.”

“You’re so fucking corny,” you groan, mouth dropping open as he trails kisses along your jaw lazily.

His lips are soft, calloused fingers massaging your scalp whilst an arm slides around your waist to pull you into his side. Another whine escapes you, head tipping towards him as his hand wanders under the hem of your hoodie, hot skin drifting over your waist and higher, his thumb grazing the curve of your breast.

“And you’re a fucking brat,” Leon says, watching your expressions closely as you whine and pant, pulling him towards you for another kiss, arms wrapping around his neck tightly. 

He groans into your mouth, lips slotting over yours feverishly, his hand squeezing at the back of your neck. You squirm, throwing your leg over his hip, mewling when he licks into your mouth. Leon’s a good kisser, you think dazedly as his tongue strokes against yours in a filthy motion that has heat blistering in your stomach. His hand moves, circling around the front of your throat, squeezing gently.

You blink up at him hazily when he pulls away, lips slick with spit and pupils blown out. A smile spreads across your lips as you arch into him, hands sliding up over his strong forearm, fingers wrapping around his wrist.

“You can squeeze harder,” you whisper, pressing his fingers into your skin harder, gasping when he grants your request, eyes rolling back as the pressure around your throat constricts.

“That’s a little fucked up, baby,” Leon breathes out, watching as you writhe and suck in a ragged breath, his brows furrowing. 

His brows raise when you glare at him, leaning over you to let his nose nudge against yours, kissing you gently before he tightens his grip a little more, drawing out a choked noise from you. There’s a heady fog settling over your mind the more he keeps you from barely breathing, something slow and syrupy creeping into the crevices of your brain as he presses a kiss to your cheek. He’s letting go before long though, brushing the pad of his thumb over your lips roughly. 

“I can handle it,” you mumble hoarsely, head tipping as he massages your throat, huffing out a breath when he laughs against your cheek.

“Yeah?” Leon rasps, his gaze darkening when you suck his thumb into your mouth, tongue swirling around the digit needily, head lifting as you feign bobbing your head. “What, you want me to put you in your place or something? Is that what you need?”

The idea is appealing. You’ve been strung tight for months, between work and the never-ending cases that were stacking up on your desk, you hadn’t exactly gotten much time to yourself, to wind-down from the constant wear and tear brought about by the commitments demanded from you by the FBI.

“Maybe,” you say slowly, looking away. “I don’t know. I guess I just want some… attention or whatever.”

“From me?” Leon says, his fingers sliding over your jaw to guide your gaze back to him. “Your way of asking for attention is acting bratty?”

“I don’t know!” you sputter, pushing at his chest, feeling shy. 

“Oh, that’s cute,” he coos, smiling down at you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll give you all the attention you fuckin’ need.”

You squeak when he moves suddenly, sitting up before he’s dragging you towards him, maneuvering you until you're bent over his lap. A whimper is punched out of you when he squeezes the fat of your ass through your shorts, lashes fluttering when each consecutive grope grows rougher until it stings lightly.

“Guess if you’re into choking, you should be into something like this,” Leon murmurs thoughtfully, squeezing your ass greedily. “‘s been a while since I’ve done this with someone.”

“Since you’ve– ah– groped someone?” you ask, hips wiggling when his touches disappear, ass lifting involuntarily to chase after his touch.

“Kissed, touched,” he sucks in a sharp breath, “groped… fucked.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, brows raising curiously. “Can you still get it up?”

A sharp yelp escapes you when his hand comes down on your ass, hard and punishing. It stings, the pain spreading out over your ass unforgivingly. You try and glare at him but his hand is coming down again, landing another heavy spank to your other ass cheek. 

“It was just a question!” you protest, squeaking when he spanks you again and again, eyes squeezing shut as the red-hot pain spreads over your ass, the ache in your pussy beginning to burrow deeper.

“I know,” Leon murmurs, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. “Do you want me to stop?”

You pout into the sheets, voice quiet. “No.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, tapping your hip. You lift them, letting him tug your shorts down, mewling softly when he squeezes your ass, his fingers dipping past your panties, stretching them before letting them snap back against your skin.

“Cute panties,” he says, his hand rubbing over your stinging ass, fingers sneaking between your thighs, brushing over the drenched, ruined fabric. “Too bad you’ve made them all messy, baby. So fucking wet for me. You like my hand on your ass?”

“Yes,” you grumble, glaring at the wall. “Stop asking stupid questions, you jerk.”

You jolt when he spanks you, letting out an agitated breath when his hand palms over ass before coming down again in several repeated motions. A whimper escapes you when pleasure bleeds through your body, teeth sinking into your lower lip when the pace of Leon’s slaps quicken. It hurts but feels so good all the same, your thighs trying to squeeze together with how uncomfortably wet your pussy is becoming.

“Don’t– fuck! Don’t stop,” you mewl, arching your back, tears prickling at your eyes. “Leon– please ah–”

“Please?” Leon echoes, “look at that, you’re back to being polite. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You whine in agreement, nodding dazedly as you look back at him, unfocused eyes finding his lopsided smile, heart fluttering in your chest. You reach back for him, hand fighting his shirt, lips parting, eyes slipping shut when he leans towards you, head dropping to kiss you deeply, his fingers squeezing at your ass gently.

“You gonna stop being a brat? Hm? You wanna be my good girl, baby?” Leon rasps against your lips, stealing another soft kiss, his hands still palming at the blistering flesh of your ass, squeezing every now and again to force a pitiful whine out of you. He clicks his tongue when you slur, nose nudging against yours gently. “I asked you a question, sweetheart. Use your words for me.”

“Yes,” you manage out, pushing your ass back into his greedy, awaiting palm, a few stray tears dripping down your cheeks. “‘m gonna be– nghh– ‘m gonna be your good girl, Leon.”

“Yeah?” he breathes out, voice sounding rough as his thumb strokes over your cheek, wiping away the tears. “My sweet, pretty girl.”

“It– it hurts,” you babble, jerking in his lap when he rains an unsuspecting slap down onto your ass, teary eyes rolling back when his fingers slip between your thighs suddenly, rubbing at your swollen, aching clit through the dampened fabric of your panties. “Leon– ah fuck!”

“I know it does,” he soothes, pressing harder against your clit until your legs kick up, “but you asked for this, baby. Remember? You came up to me all pretty and said you wanted attention.”

“Stop being mean,” you hiccup, leaning into his palm when he offers it to you, nuzzling into the warm, rough skin.

“Mean?” Leon whispers, “‘m taking care of you, sweetheart.” He hums as he wipes away the saliva beading at the corner of your mouth, spreading it over your lips before his thumb presses down more firmly, a grunt of satisfaction leaving him when your lips part obediently. “There you go,” he breathes out, “suck on my thumb while I play with this needy, little pussy, baby.”

You whine, fingers clinging to his wrist as you suck lazily, tongue swirling around his thumb. His fingers rub against your wet panties, drawing out a soft mewl from you as he pets your clothed pussy.

“You can take them off,” you mumble around his thumb, biting gently before sucking again, happy to have your mouth occupied. “Want you to touch me.”

“I kinda like ‘em on,” Leon murmurs, his fingers grabbing at your thighs before they move, slipping past the waistband. “Besides, I can touch you like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut when his fingers glide through your sticky, puffy folds, breath hitching while Leon groans when he feels your wet pussy. His fingers are thicker than yours, slipping over the soft skin before the calloused pads find your clit. Your thighs twitch, toes curling when he starts to rub your clit using slow, measured circles.

“Is this how you do it?” he asks, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Did you play with your clit til you came in the shower?”

“Mhm,” you nod, peering up at him, lashes fluttering. You lap at his thumb, tongue flicking against the tip playfully, letting him watch. 

“Fuck,” Leon rumbles, his thumb brushing over your bottom teeth before rubbing against your tongue. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, sweetheart. Look at you.”

You smile, lips wrapping back around his thumb soon after, eyes rolling back when his fingers leave your clit to play with your fluttering hole. A long whine leaves you when he circles your hole teasingly, the tip of a finger pressing in briefly before he draws them back out to rub at your clit.

“Put ‘em in,” you mewl, hips beginning to roll against his hand, one of your hands squirming underneath you to try and move his wrist. “Leon,” you grumble, pulling his thumb out of your mouth when he tries to press against your tongue again. “Put ‘em in.”

“What happened to being polite?” he muses, dipping his finger in again and then pulling it out. 

“If you put ‘em in, I’ll be polite,” you reply, blinking up at him sweetly, a smug smile on your face.

Leon laughs, watching as your mouth drops open when he finally inches one finger inside of your clenching pussy, beginning to slowly fuck it in and out of you.

“Go on then,” he coaxes, “beg all pretty for me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”

“P– nghh– please fuck me with your fingers,” you whimper, fingers moving to rub at your throbbing clit. “Please, Leon? Want– fuck– want another finger.”

He doesn’t make you beg any further, sinking another finger into you. You shove your face into the sheets, hips wiggling back to meet the thrust of his fingers, your fingers quickening their pace against your clit. 

“Taking me so good,” Leon murmurs, using his other hand to spread you open. You flush, feeling entirely too exposed as he stares down at your pussy stretching around his fingers. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy just sucking my fingers in.”

Your walls flutter around his fingers at that, hand reaching out for him blindly, fingers managing to curl into his shirt. You yank him down, mumbling something incoherent around his lips before dragging him down further, lips pressing against his. You moan into his mouth when he starts thrusting his fingers in and out of you harder, curling them just right. 

“Leon,” you pant against his mouth, biting his lower lip before tugging it. Leon groans, his fingers scissoring before you moan again, lapping at his lips. His eyes roll back when your lips find his neck, head tipping to bare more of it to you until you manage to move, crawling up onto his lap, his fingers slipping out of you momentarily.

His back hits the bed when you push at his chest, his fingers finding your pussy again, thumb rubbing at your clit while his fingers sink back inside. You shove your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in with a mewl, pawing at his firm chest as you let your hips drop, fucking yourself on his fingers.

“You gonna do that on my cock?” Leon moans, his fingers tangling in your hair when you kiss his neck feverishly, teeth scraping against his throat, the action enough to draw a hoarse growl from him. “Gonna ride my cock like you’re riding my fingers, gorgeous?”

“Yeah,” you murmur against his neck, latching onto his skin and sucking, all with the intent of leaving a mark of your own, like he had done on your ass. “Wanna– ahhh– wanna ride your cock, Leon.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, an arm clamping around your waist to hold you flush against him, his thumb pressing against your clit harder, the lewd noises of your pussy growing louder with every snap of his wrist. “You’re gonna drive me fucking insane.”

You smile against his throat, kissing the underside of his jaw when his throat bobs uncertainly.

“We haven’t even fucked yet,” you whisper, fingers slipping into his hair, pulling at the strands to make him expose his neck further, drawing out a pretty whine from his lips. “Think you can handle me?”

Your smile fades when his fingers pull out of you suddenly, a sharp yelp leaving you when he grabs your hips and manhandles you onto your stomach, the fabric of your panties tearing loudly as he rips them off of you and pulls your ass into the air. 

“Those were comfy!” you protest, glaring at him. “Leon?” you jolt when he slaps your ass hard, pulling your asscheeks apart. “Leon, wait– ah fuck!”

You squeal when he buries his face between your thighs, lurching forward unsteadily on your knees, hands grabbing out for the pillows. He’s ruthless, tongue gliding through your warm folds, drinking down your slick with a rough growl, his hands squeezing at your hips, tugging you back onto his mouth when you try and squirm away. The stubble on his cheeks and jaw isn’t helping, scratching against your skin deliciously as he nips and spits onto your cunt.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he snaps lowly, biting punishingly into your thigh when you try kicking at his chest. “Huh?”

“I didn’t–” your leg jerks when Leon bites the back of your thigh, fingers curling into the pillows tightly when he bites the fat of your ass soon after, tongue laving over the bite.

“You didn’t what?” Leon asks, thumb finding your swollen bud, his tongue drifting over the inner crease of your thigh, barely shy of your aching pussy. “You didn’t mean it, is that it, baby?” he drawls, wet fingers rubbing over your pussy. 

“Yes!” you choke out, hand slapping against the pillow when he sucks your clit into his mouth lazily, his nose pressing into your pussy, rough hands massaging your ass. “I– nghhhh– I didn’t mean it, Leon.”

“Oh, I think you did,” he sighs heavily, feigning disappointment. He clicks his tongue condescendingly. “I thought you were being my sweet girl, but turns out you’ve just got one hell of a mean streak. Just can’t help being a bit bratty, can you, pretty baby?”

“I’m not a brat,” you wail, shoving your face into the pillows the same time he presses his face into your pussy.

You don’t think anyone’s touched you like this before, let alone used their mouth like this. Leon’s strong, his hands clamping down onto you to keep you in place as he flicks his tongue over your clit, teeth scraping over the sensitive bud. You drool messily, whimpering and whining as he laps at your cunt, his tongue prodding against your hole.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, glancing behind you, eyes wide to find Leon looking at you hungrily, his gaze dark and feral. You swallow nervously, thighs twitching when he kisses the curve of your ass. “Leon, Leon– oh fuck!”

A squeal escapes you when he presses his tongue into your clenching cunt, eyes squeezing shut so tightly that you feel dizzy, hips pressing back needily to meet the movements of his tongue. He fucks it into you, head tilting as he holds you against his mouth, a hand moving under your hoodie to stroke over the length of your back. 

You arch, mewling, hips swaying dazedly as he caresses your pussy with his tongue. A soft, ragged moan leaves you when his mouth moves, returning to your clit, toes curling when he presses his fingers back into you.

“You sound so pretty falling apart on my tongue,” Leon murmurs, rubbing his tongue over your clit with a groan, his fingers crooking inside of you. “You gonna cum, baby? Pretty pussy’s clenching around my fingers.”

“Nghhh–” you slur into the pillows, trying and failing to keep your eyes open, your lids drooping shut when his fingers press against that spot inside of you, his fingers rubbing over it with just the right amount of pressure. 

His stubble brushes against the backs of your thighs, lips soft as he trails hot kisses all over your skin. Your hips jerk when he fucks his fingers into you harder and faster, the pressure in your lower stomach growing greater. When his mouth latches back onto you, you moan loudly, knees beginning to buckle.

“Fuck! ‘m gonna cum– ‘m gonna fucking cum, Leon,” you whine, hugging the pillow to your chest, a sharp breath of air leaving you.

“Cum then, sweetheart,” he whispers, “be a good girl and cum for me.”

You cry out when he sucks harder on your clit, his face pressing harder into you, nose buried into your pussy. Leon groans loudly, the vibration shooting up through you, making your pussy clench around his fingers tightly. Your body trembles, knees giving out finally when his tongue flicks at your clit, another moan tearing its way out of your throat as you cum.

“That’s it,” Leon snarls, managing to hold you up despite your arms feeling rubber. “Cum just like that. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You whimper, still twitching as he laps at your cunt gently, tongue sweeping over your folds as he slurps down your slick, his thumb rubbing against your clit to draw out the final waves of your orgasm while his fingers slow their pace inside of you before pulling out completely.

Leon’s body is hot when he hovers above you, his hands brushing away the sweaty hair clinging to your skin, head dipping to press soft kisses to your cheek, his stubble oddly soothing as it rubs along your skin.

“You okay?” he asks softly, hands drifting down over your back, squeezing your waist soothingly, hands petting at your still reddened and slightly bruised ass. “I guess I’ve been a little pent up.”

“A little?” you murmur, fingers sliding into his hair when he kisses your neck. “I think you’re more than a little pent up, Leon.”

He grunts in agreement, dropping another kiss to your neck before laying down on his back, letting out a heavy breath. 

“I haven’t exactly had time to relax,” he sighs, “too many fucking responsibilities ever since Raccoon City.”

You hum, sitting up, arms still a little wobbly. Leon watches you, his eyes tracking your every movement. You smile at him, eyes twinkling, fingers hooking into the hem of your hoodie before you pull it up over your head, tossing it to the side. He sucks in a sharp breath when he sees your breasts, hand reaching out before he pauses mid-reach. You take his hand, pulling it toward your breast, smile growing wider when he squeezes.

“Are my tits helping you relax?” you ask innocently, hands landing on his chest as you swing a leg over his hip, straddling him.

“Guess so,” Leon says, his other hand joining the fray, squeezing your untouched breast. “Pretty fuckin’ tits, sweetheart.”

Your eyes flutter shut as you let him play with your tits, distracted momentarily by the way his fingers move – pinching and tugging, thumb sweeping over your hardened nipples. It’s when you shift on his lap that you become aware of how hard his cock is, hips rolling against the clothed length.

“To answer your question,” he murmurs, tracing the curve of your breast, gently cupping one in his hand, thumb stroking over the soft flesh. “I can, in fact, still get it up.”

You snort, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles out of you. Leon grins back, his head tilting as he peers up at you, hands sliding down over your sides to grab your waist.

“I didn’t doubt you for a second,” you breathe out, voice laced with amusement, your hands beginning to pull at his shirt. He helps you, lifting his arms so that you’re able to pull it up over his head easily. “You do look pretty good for a 49-year-old.”

You lean forward, kissing him gently before you trail kisses down his neck and over his chest, lips brushing over his thick pecs. Leon sighs, his eyes slipping shut, a hand cupping the back of your head as you continue to lay his skin with kisses. You kiss his scars tentatively, squirming lower to kiss his abdomen, tongue darting out to trace the defined ridges of his abdomen.

“You tryna make me cum?” Leon rasps, half-lidded eyes watching you as you bite at his side playfully.

“That is a priority, yes,” you say, following the trail of coarse hair that lies under his navel and the thick bulge laying further down.

His hands in your hair tighten when you nuzzle into his sweatpants, nose brushing against the fabric. When you breathe in, you can smell him, all heady and musky and arousal is seeping into your bones once more, mouth sucking at his clothed cock.

“As much fuck– I would like that,” he grumbles, hips bucking when you mouth at him again, spit dampening his sweatpants, “I’ll cum if you put your mouth on me, baby.”

“Just one suck,” you mumble stubbornly, pulling his sweatpants and boxers down. 

Your eyes widen when his cock bobs heavily, struggling with its own weight. You swallow, blinking dazedly as you take in the length and the thickness and the heavy balls that sit underneath. The tip is flushed angrily, darkened and dripping with globs of pre-cum that don’t seem to stop, his cock twitching when you lean towards it slowly.

“It’s big,” you whisper, glancing up at Leon before your eyes find his cock again, pussy beginning to throb as you imagine the stretch. “Really fucking big. You’re– you’re that hard for me?”

Leon grunts, his hand wrapping around his cock, giving it a quick pump. “Yeah, just for you, sweet girl.” He pumps it again, holding his cock towards you. “You said you wanted a taste, go ‘head, pretty baby.”

You don’t need any further invitation, licking your lips hungrily, tongue lolling out. You drag your tongue along the hot length of his cock, feeling the smooth skin and saltiness of his pre-cum. Leon groans, his hips bucking again, another glob of pre-cum dribbling out. You lean forward just in time, catching it on your tongue before your lips wrap around his thick cock.

“Fuck– fuck, baby,” Leon moans, twitching underneath you as you bob your head, beginning to suck. “Your mouth– hah– fuckkk.”

You peer up at him, eyes glittering as you let your tongue swirl around the head before you pull off, pressing a wet, sticky kiss to the tip of his cock. 

“Don’t do that,” he mutters hoarsely, shaking his head, “don’t fucking kiss my cock like you’re fucking in love with it.”

You do it again, brows raising when his cock twitches, looking over to find his hand clenched into the sheets, knuckles nearly white. 

“I think you like it,” you tease, moving to wrap your hand around his cock, stroking it slowly. “And… I think your cock likes it too.”

“Fuck me,” he growls, head tipping back when you take his cock back into your mouth, sucking and slurping lewdly. He groans and grunts through it, eyes peeling open to watch you swallow around his cock, your pupils blown wide with lust.

When his head lolls to the side, you take your chance, head dipping before he can stop you to suck one of his balls into your mouth. He tastes so dizzyingly nice, spit beginning to leak from the corners of your mouth. Leon’s cock kicks and you land one last kiss to the tip before he’s pulling you up towards him, muffling your whine with a messy kiss.

“Wanna ride it,” you mumble against his lips, worming closer, breasts squishing up against his firm chest.

Leon doesn’t answer, too busy tipping your head up by your chin to kiss you again, stealing your breath. You paw at his chest, fingers finally latching onto his thick biceps. Squeezing, you moan into his mouth when his tongue strokes against yours, arms wrapping around his neck as he pulls back up onto his lap. 

Your hips roll, bare pussy gliding along the length of his cock, the tip catching on your newly swollen clit, making you twitch. He refuses to let up with the kisses, groaning into your mouth when you pull at his hair, feverishly swallowing up every little noise that bleeds from your throat.

“Yeah?” he breathes out finally, head tipping back for a moment as he catches his breath, calloused hands squeezing at your hips. “You wanna bounce on it? Hm? This needy pussy of yours need a fat cock to keep it happy, baby?”

“Mhm,” you nod, biting your lip, arousal blistering over your skin, lust beginning to cloud your thoughts once more. You press closer, lips brushing against his ear as though telling him a secret. “It needs your fat cock, Leon.”

“C’mere,” he mutters roughly, moving you up onto your knees, hand grasping the base of his cock to hold it steady for you. “Sink down on it, sweetheart.”

You shift, lowering yourself slowly, letting out a muffled gasp when you start to take his cock, the head of it already beginning to stretch out your pussy as it bullies its way past your entrance.

“‘s just so fucking thick,” you moan softly, peering up at him.

Leon hums, his thumb stroking over your lower lip while his other hand strokes over your hip soothingly.

“You got it, baby,” he smiles, dropping a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You took my fingers and my mouth so fucking good. Only got a few inches left, yeah?”

Your brows furrow as you bite your lip harder, gasping when you finally take all of him, pussy fluttering around his cock wildly in an attempt to adjust to his sheer size. You feel so full, so much so that you think you can feel him in your stomach.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” Leon whispers, his arms wrapping around your waist as he leans against the headboard of the bed. “Take what you need from me, sweetheart. ‘s all yours.”

“Leon,” you mewl, dragging out the syllables of his name, whimpering against his mouth when he kisses your cheek. “I… I can’t,” you say, flushing hot, “it’s too big, I don’t–”

“Good girls don’t give up,” he breathes out, hands moving to squeeze at your waist, “not to mention you were so headstrong earlier. Where’s that attitude now, baby?”

“You fucked it outta me,” you retort poutily, shoving your face into the crook of his neck. 

“And to think you said I was old and weird– shit, baby–”

You relish in the loud, guttural groan he lets out when the walls of your pussy squeeze around him. Nuzzling closer, you kiss the spot under his ear before your hips move, rocking and rolling in a lazy rhythm as you get used to his size. 

“I’m not giving up,” you murmur, glancing up at him as he watches you, head tipping back when his hand moves up over your breasts, slipping between them to wrap around your throat. 

“Atta girl.”

Leon squeezes and you moan, grabbing his wrist as your knees dig into the bedding, hips beginning to rise and fall. He pulls you into a sloppy kiss, growling into your mouth, panting as his tongue slips over yours messily, his thumb prying your mouth open. You pant, tongue lolling out as you ride his cock, the bed creaking from your motions as you fuck yourself on his cock needily.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” Leon rasps, watching you with dark eyes, his hair messy and hanging over one side of his face. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, sweetheart.”

You smile at him dopily, breath slowing when his hand tightens, starting to cut off your intake of oxygen. His nose nudges against yours, breath hot as he kisses you, lips working against yours eagerly until his grip loosens, letting you suck in a breath.

“You trust me that much?” Leon asks, smiling back at you with a feral look in his eyes when your hand wraps around his throat. “You think that’s a good idea, sweetheart? You wanna choke me out while you ride my cock?”

“Oh, you can take it,” you whisper, tightening your grip. Your movements don’t slow, thighs smacking against his as you bounce on his lap, your hand landing on his shoulder for leverage as you drop yourself down on his cock harder, setting a firmer rhythm. “Heard you– ahh– kicked ass back at Rhodes Hill.”

He grins, eyes glinting, a ragged noise leaving him when you pant into his mouth, licking at his lips. 

“Yeah, I still hah– got it,” Leon muses, hands squeezing at your ass. 

Your brows furrow when his grip tightens, a moan punched out of you when he grips your hips starting to lift you, using you as he fucks you on his cock. 

“That’s it,” he drawls, controlling the rhythm and you, his forehead pressing against yours as he jerks you up and down his thick, throbbing cock. “Take my fat fuckin’ cock, baby. Cute, little pussy’s just swallowing me up.”

You whimper, hand sliding to cup the nape of his neck, your bodies moving together as his cock carves its way through your pussy, nestling against that spot before it glides out and drives back in. His chest is pressed against yours, firm muscle pressed against your soft breasts, the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing along your clit. 

“Harder,” you whisper, eyes finding his, hips starting to sway back to meet his thrusts when he plants his feet into the bed, knees bending as he fucks his cock up into you. “Want it– nghh– harder, Leon.”

“That might strain my joints, baby,” he says softly, smiling up at you when you huff out an annoyed breath. “What? You were concerned about my bones.”

“Fuck your bones,” you groan, pushing at his chest, squirming off of his lap onto your hands and knees, ass swaying up into the air. You look back at him over your shoulder, hand worming between your thighs to spread yourself open for him, wet, dripping pussy all on display for him. “‘m so empty,” you whisper, voice lilting. “Fill me up?” You bat your lashes, “please?”

Leon mutters a low curse, his chest heaving as he rises up onto his knees, using your ankle to pull you toward him, his hand stroking his cock with uneven motions, knuckles tightening when he sees the slick webbing between your puffy folds and clinging to your thighs.

You’re half-expecting some witty remark, but all Leon does is brush a rough kiss to your shoulder, grunting into your ear before he’s notching the head of his cock against your aching pussy and driving his cock into you.

“Too– fuck! Too fast!” you squeal when he starts thrusting hard and fast, the bed beginning to rock with every snap of his hips.

“But you said you were empty,” Leon rumbles into your ear, “‘m just filling up this needy, pretty fucking cunt for you, sweetheart. So stop squirming,” his hand clamps down on your hips, “and fucking take it.”

You wail into the room, thrashing under him when his hips smack into your ass, balls slapping against your throbbing clit, the lewd noises echoing through the small space. He draws moan after moan out of you, his cock pounding into your pussy unforgivingly. You think you can feel it in your throat, his fat cock sliding through your gripping, fluttering walls. 

Leon’s body is draping over your back, his mouth settling right next to your ear as he grunts and groans. Your toes curl, back arching when he pushes down on the small of your back, his breathing ragged as he grinds his impossibly thick cock into you.

“Fuck,” you mewl, spying his flexed bicep near your head, drool pooling into your mouth. Your head tilts as the muscle bulges, all inhibitions lost when you follow the line of his arm to stare hazily at his veiny forearm. You lean towards his bicep, teeth sinking into the thick muscle with a moan.

Leon’s breath hitches, his hips stuttering for a moment when he realizes you’ve bit him before his thrusts start up again, his hot, heavy cock pounding back into your needy pussy. You lick his bicep, tongue laving over his warm skin, eyes rolling back when his arm moves, wrapping around your throat, his bicep pressed up against the side of your neck.

“You keep– fuck– staring at my arms, sweetheart,” Leon rasps, grinning against your cheek when you let out a choked moan, his breath cut off by a low moan of his own. “Is this what you need? A strong arm wrapped around your throat, fat cock pounding into your needy cunt and sweet, little kisses?” He punctuates his question by kissing your temple.

“I– nghhh– need you,” you whine, feeling dazed as he drops his weight onto you a little more, enough so that you can feel every inch of him against your back. 

You can’t really do anything but take it, his skin slapping against yours and breath rough in your ear. When his fingers move, finding your clit to rub the swollen bud, you whimper, clutching the sheets, nails raking against the fabric as the string of pleasure draws tighter.

“‘m gonna cum,” you say hoarsely, cunt clenching around his cock desperately. “Leon– Leon, Leon, Leon!”

“‘m right here, baby,” Leon whispers, kissing your cheek, “taking my cock so well. Doing so– fuck– good for me, yeah? Cum whenever you want, sweet girl, I’ve got you.”

Your body jerks when his fingers rub against your clit faster, a ragged scream erupting from you as you cum violently. Leon swears, his grip on you faltering, the arm on your throat drawing away as you twitch on his cock, grasping at the sheets, at the pillows until Leon offers you his hand.

Your fingers lace together with his and you squeeze tightly, gasping uncontrollably until his mouth finds yours, capturing your lips in a kiss. You whimper into his mouth, knees weak and thighs tired, your death-grip on his hand loosening when he soothes you with soft kisses. Your pussy clenches and Leon groans into your mouth, his hips jerking forward unevenly.

“‘m gonna cum too, pretty baby,” he grunts, fingers pushing at your ass gently, hips beginning to pull away. “Greedy, little pussy’s clenching around me too tight, I can’t–”

“Inside,” you mumble, letting your hips sway back tiredly, trying to swallow down the length of his cock. “Cum inside.”

“That’s– shittt– a bad idea, baby,” Leon groans, his head dropping forward to rest against your shoulder as his hips rock into you, pace stuttering.

You can feel his cock throb and twitch, a soft mewl escaping you. “You said you were full of bad ideas.”

Leon lets out a startled laugh, his breath coming out in short, choppy bursts. “I did– hahhh– I did say that. Take my cum then, sweetheart, gonna flood this perfect fuckin’ cunt with cum.”

He grips your hips, thrusting forward with a hard drive of his cock. Leon swears under his breath, his hips jerking into your ass as he cums, cock kicking and throbbing as hot, thick cum floods your pussy.

You let out a contented noise when he moans into your ear, low and guttural, the sound making you feel warm. His softening cock slips out after a few moments and Leon pulls himself away from you, the bed protesting under the weight of you both. You curl up into his side, head dropping over his chest, eyes drooping when you feel the steady beat of his heart.

Leon’s hand settles on your head, stroking over your hair lazily as he pants, chest rising and falling.

“Do you feel relaxed?” you murmur, peering up at him with a sleepy smile.

“I feel fucked out,” Leon mutters, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek, rubbing at the spot of drool that had pooled at the corner of your mouth. “You did a number on me, sweetheart.”

“I aim to please.”

He laughs, hauling you closer and you smile, kissing the underside of his jaw. “You went above and beyond, I can tell you that much.”

You snort, arms wrapping around his neck. “Am I gonna get that in writing?”

“I’ll think about it,” Leon murmurs, his fingers slipping under your chin to tip your head, lips pressing against yours. You hum into the kiss, fingers tangling in his soft hair, a quiet noise leaving you as he squeezes your ass.

When Leon pulls away, you chase after his lips, eyes fluttering shut when he returns your kiss just as eagerly, your thigh hooking over his hip, brows furrowing when you feel his cock against your thigh.

You look down, cheeks flushing when you find his spent cock beginning to harden, the fat length bobbing gently as it fills out.

“Already?” you murmur, sighing softly when he leaves stubbly kisses along your jaw.

“What can I say?” Leon whispers, his hips bucking when your hand wraps around his hardening cock. “You uh… bring out the best in me, I guess.”

You raise your brows, unable to stop the wide smile that spreads across your face. “Your best attribute is your cock? That’s a little disappointing.”

He grins, groaning when you kiss his pec. 

“You didn’t seem to think it was disappointing when I fucked you with it.”

“It is nice,” you acquiesce, head tipping back as he leans into you, trailing hot kisses down your neck, his hips beginning to rock lazily, meeting the strokes of your hand.

“I do have other nice, non-sexual attributes,” Leon says, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb stroking over your skin gently. There’s a light flush settled on his cheeks and he clears his throat, sucking in a soft breath when you squeeze his cock. “Maybe you’d like to find out sometime?”

Your smile softens, affection beginning to creep in through the cracks of your ribs. Leaning forward, you kiss him gently.

You should’ve known something was up when he specifically bought only two first-class tickets to Las Vegas and your flight was at midnight. He’d insisted the two of you sneak out of the Kyoto Jujutsu Tech compound where you’d stayed for the duration of his visit to the Gojo clan, and hadn’t bothered to inform Shoko or Utahime or Yaga.

And so, again, you reiterate firmly and resolutely: none of this is your fault.

Your predicament—standing in a parking lot behind a Denny’s at nine in the night with a small fire going in a trash can nearby—is entirely, absolutely, positively Gojo Satoru’s fault.

“I want a divorce,” you tell him.

“We’ve been married for forty-seven minutes.”

“Forty-seven minutes too long.”

“You’re burning our wedding certificate!” Satoru says. “How are we supposed to file for divorce if there’s no proof we even got married?”

“I’ll figure it out,” you say, poking at the certificate with a stick you found on the ground. The corner of it curls and blackens satisfyingly. “I’m very resourceful.”

“You’re committing a crime is what you’re doing,” he says.

“You committed a crime first.”

“Getting married isn’t a crime—”

“Fraud is.”

Satoru opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, at a loss for words. This is a rare and precious occurrence—Gojo Satoru, speechless! You would be savouring it more if you weren’t currently a married woman in a Denny’s parking lot in Las Vegas at eleven o’clock in the night.

Satoru had told you it was a vacation. He’d shown up at your room in the Kyoto compound at half-past ten with a bag tucked under his arm and said, simply, “Come on. We’re leaving.”

“Leaving where?” you’d asked.

“Somewhere that isn’t here,” was his cryptic reply.

You’d been in Kyoto for six days. Six days of watching Satoru navigate the Gojo clan and their elders with their careful smiles and careful words. Nearly a week of watching something tight and unhappy lodge itself behind Satoru’s eyes while he pretended, convincingly, that everything was fine. You knew he wasn’t; you’d watched him perfect his act for years, after all.

So, you went. You told yourself it was because you’d never been to Las Vegas. This, at least, is true.

You’d grabbed your bag and followed him out through a side entrance of the compound at nine forty-five, and you didn’t inform any of your friends or superiors. Because of this, your phone has been periodically buzzing in your pocket for the last several hours and you’ve been ignoring it, which is a problem that is also, for the record, Satoru’s fault.

The flight was actually wonderful. First-class seats entailed warm socks and warm food and a window seat, because Satoru had graciously sat by the aisle. When you were flying over the Pacific, he’d fallen asleep with his head tipped back and his sunglasses still on. He looked younger when he was sleeping, you’d thought. More like the version of him you’d met when you were both too young and foolish to understand what being a sorcerer actually meant.

After you landed, Satoru took you to a casino and then to a fancy place for lunch, and then to another two casinos—if he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into a gambling addict soon—and then he took you to a chapel on the Strip with fake flowers zip-tied to the pews and an officiant named Francis who had red hair and smelled like cigarettes and convenience store chewing gum.

Francis had cried a little during the vows, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Satoru had found this enormously gratifying. You, however, had been in something of a dissociative state.

“It’s not fraud,” Satoru says now, in the parking lot, watching you cremate your marriage certificate. “We did actually get married. Francis witnessed it. There are photos.”

“There are photos?”

“Francis had a camera.”

“What?”

“I think it’s just something he keeps on him professionally.”

You stare at him. He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. His sunglasses are still on. His suit jacket is open, and his tie, which had been done up neatly for the ceremony (clearly he’d planned far enough ahead to wear a nice tie) is now loosened and slightly crooked. The cheap gold ring on his finger—wrong hand; he’d fumbled it in the moment and jammed it on before either of you could correct it—catches the light from the parking lot fluorescents.

“That’s it!” you say, snapping your fingers at him. “That’s our proof to file for divorce! Take me back to the wedding chapel, Satoru.”

“No way,” he says. “I’m taking you to dinner first. We need to commemorate our first night of being married.”

“We’re behind a Denny’s,” you point out.

“I know,” Satoru says. “Denny’s is a perfectly acceptable dining establishment, but I meant somewhere nice. There’s a steakhouse on the Strip that has a three-month waitlist.”

“Then we can’t go there.”

“I called ahead.”

You gape at him. “Three months ago?”

“No,” he says. “I called ahead on the plane. You were asleep.”

“I wasn’t asleep for that long—”

“Yeah, you were asleep for, like, four hours. You even snored a little.”

“I did not—that’s not the point! The point is, you planned this. You planned all of it, the chapel, the restaurant, the—” You gesture at the ring on his finger, the ring on yours, the dying fire in the trash can—“everything.”

“Not everything. I didn’t plan for you to burn our wedding certificate in a fit of rage.”

“That’s your fault by proximity.”

“That’s not a legal standard.”

“I’m making it one.”

Satoru smiles, quick and bright. You have a long and storied history of making Gojo Satoru laugh when he isn’t expecting to, and it used to feel like winning something. It still does, if you’re being honest.

“Come on,” Satoru says, nodding towards the street. “Dinner first, Francis later. We can get the photos after and then you can file for divorce. I won’t stop you.”

“You’d better not,” you say.

“I said I won’t.” He holds his hands up, the picture of innocence. “I’m a man of my word.”

“You’re really not.”

“I’m a man of some of my word,” he amends.

The steakhouse is situated on the upper floor of one of the larger casinos on the Strip, lined with dark wood and low, hushed lighting. You are seated by a window. The Strip sprawls below you in every direction, extravagant and relentless, all that light going nowhere at tremendous speed.

“Were you really that confident I’d say yes?” you ask once the menus have been set in front of you.

“I was… hopeful,” Satoru says. It’s not a word you can recall him ever applying to himself before, in all the years you’ve known him; it sounds odd. You pick up your own menu and look at it without reading it.

What you’ve learnt about Satoru and what most people tend to miss is that underneath all the grinning and grandstanding and carelessness, there is someone who wants things very badly and has learned not to show it. You’ve known this for years. You’ve watched him want things, and watched him bury it under layers of grandiosity until it’s almost invisible. Almost.

“The elders have been at it for two years,” he says finally, without looking up from the menu. “The meetings, the candidates. They’re all very suitable women from very respectable families. Good for the clan’s interests.”

“You never told me it’d been going on for that long.”

“Didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“Satoru—”

“It’s fine. It’s just—” He sets the menu down and looks out at the Strip, all that light below. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life performing for someone who sees me as a resource. I do enough of that already. I knew it was going to happen eventually and that they were going to stop asking and start insisting. So. Vegas.”

“Vegas,” you echo.

“You were the obvious answer,” he says matter-of-factly. “You already know what you’re getting into with me. You don’t have any illusions. You—you’re my best friend. There isn’t anyone I’d rather be stuck with.”

“Stuck with,” you repeat. “Incredibly romantic.”

“I said what I said.”

The waiter arrives and Satoru orders for the two of you. You look down at the ring on your finger and think about how it came from the little rotating display by the chapel door, five dollars American. It fits almost perfectly except for being on the wrong hand.

“Er. You fumbled the ring,” you say.

“I was nervous,” he says.

Gojo Satoru, nervous. Gojo Satoru, who treats most of human experience as something happening at a slight remove, who has never, to your knowledge, shown up to anything in his life uncertain of the outcome—nervous!

“Were you,” you say.

“Briefly,” Satoru says, with great dignity. “It passed.”

“Of course.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Of course.”

The fountains in front of the Bellagio are in the middle of their routine, water arcing up in great pale columns against the dark. The light from them moves across the window in slow, repeating patterns. Satoru’s eyes catch the shifting light. You swallow hard.

“We’re not arguing about the divorce, by the way,” you tell him.

“We’ll see.”

“Satoru.”

“We’ll see,” he says again pleasantly. You’re going to say something else, something firm and unambiguous, but he’s already put his cutlery down and is walking out, and you’re already following.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #2 – BREAKING AND ENTERING.

The supposed 24/7 active wedding chapel has a sign tacked onto the front door when you arrive later, which reads, Under maintenance. We apologise for the inconvenience!

“Fuck,” you groan.

“Language,” Satoru says. “Maintenance at midnight. Huh. That’s strange.”

“That’s what I’m focusing on right now, yes, thank you.”

You press your face briefly against the chapel door’s small window. The lights inside are off. Through the glass you can just make out the shape of the pews, the flowers zip-tied to their ends, and the little altar at the front where Francis had stood several hours ago and wept openly into his handkerchief. How are you supposed to get the photographs of your husband—you are using that word provisionally under extreme protest—looking at you like you’re the only fixed point in the room?

“He might live here,” Satoru says.

“Francis?”

“Some of these places have a back apartment for the officiant. We could knock.”

“We’re not knocking on a man’s door at midnight,” you say.

“It’s nearly one.”

“That makes it worse!” You step back from the door and look at the sign again. There’s a narrow alley running along the left side of the chapel, squeezed between the chapel building and the 24-hour tattoo parlour next door. You only notice it because Satoru’s already walking towards it. “What are you doing?”

“Recon,” Satoru says. “Just looking.”

He disappears around the corner. You stand on the pavement with your hands on your hips before deciding to follow him. The alley is cramped and smells stale. There’s a dumpster and a stack of plastic chairs leaning against the chapel wall. Satoru stands with his hands in his pockets, looking upward with his head tilted back.

“No,” you say.

“There’s a window.”

“I see that.”

“It’s open!”

It appears to be a casement window on the chapel’s ground floor, propped out at an angle, about eight feet off the ground and just wide enough for a person to fit through.

“That could be a bathroom window,” you say. “We’d be breaking and entering.”

“The window’s already open,” Satoru says. “Technically we’d just be entering. The photos Francis took are currently somewhere in that chapel developing in a back room, unattended.”

“If we get arrested,” you say, “I’m blaming you entirely.”

“Obviously.”

“I will give a statement to the police and it will contain your full name and a detailed account of everything that’s happened tonight, starting with the chapel and working backwards to Kyoto.”

“Sure. Boost or be boosted?” Satoru asks, turning to the chairs. “I’d say I’ll boost you, but I want it to be on record that I think you’d make a better lookout.”

“I’m not being a lookout.”

“You just said—”

“I’m coming with you.”

He pauses, glancing at you, his expression softening just a little bit. Warm and amused—gone before you can fix it in place.

“Obviously,” he says, smiling, and starts stacking chairs.

The window is, in fact, not a bathroom window. It opens into a small storage room at the back of the chapel, with folding tables against one wall, boxes of artificial flowers stacked against the other, and a mop in a bucket in the corner. Through a door on the far side, you can see the chapel proper. The dripping you can hear means the maintenance situation is a ceiling problem, probably towards the front.

“There’s a whole back operation,” Satoru says, impressed.

“We need to find the darkroom,” you whisper.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because we’re trespassing.”

“Right, yes,” he says, lowering his voice. “The darkroom will need ventilation, so it’s probably towards the back.”

“How do you know anything about darkrooms?” you ask.

“I went through a photography phase in my second year of middle school. It was a whole thing.” He opens the storage room door and peers through into the chapel. “All clear.”

You follow him through. The chapel at night, empty and dim, is a different place entirely from what it was several hours ago. Smaller, somehow. Without Francis and the lights, it’s just a room with cheap flowers and worn carpet.

“Back room’s through here,” Satoru says softly; he’s already at the door behind the altar. You cross the chapel quickly, not looking at the pews or the aisle, not doing anything so foolish as standing in the dark and sentimentalising about a five-dollar ring and a laminated vow card.

The back room is small and smells sharply of chemicals—developer and fixer, mostly. There’s a red safelight along the wall that Francis has left running, bathing everything in a dim glow. A long workbench runs along one wall, and on it, clipped to a line strung above the bench, are your photographs.

Four of them, hanging in a row, damp and gleaming slightly under the monochromatic light. Even from across the room, you can make out the chapel and the altar. Neither of you says anything for a moment, until Satoru walks to the bench and stands in front of the photographs. You make your way and stand beside him.

The first one is mid-ceremony. You’re both facing Francis, and you can see Satoru in profile—head tilted, shoulders set. The second one is the ring exchange; you can see immediately why it’s blurry. You’d both been laughing, actually, you remember that now, because Satoru had fumbled the ring and said something under his breath, and you’d bitten down on a laugh and not entirely succeeded. Francis had captured exactly that, the two of you with your heads slightly bent towards each other.

In the third one, Francis had asked you to face each other for a photo, and while you’re looking at the camera, Satoru’s looking at you. You look—Francis had said surprised, and yes, there is that, but there’s also something else, something you would rather not name.

Satoru is looking at you the way he was looking at you in the chapel, the way he’s been looking at you in these odd unguarded moments all evening.

“We look like idiots,” Satoru says.

“Francis was right,” you say. “We both look surprised.”

“Were you?” he asks.

“Yes. Were you?”

“No,” he says, then adds quietly, “Maybe. About—about other things.”

In the fourth photograph, you are outside the chapel, looking at the ring on your hand, and Satoru is looking at you looking at the ring. Francis had captured the angle so cleanly that you can see Satoru’s full expression, soft in a way his face almost never is in front of other people, private. You realise you’re holding your breath.

“We should take them,” Satoru says.

“We can’t just take them,” you say. “They’re developing.”

“They look pretty developed to me.”

“Satoru, they’re damp—”

“They’ll dry.” He’s already carefully unclipping the first photograph from the line. “Francis has the negatives. He can print more.”

“You don’t know that Francis has the negatives, and besides, we’re stealing from him.”

“We’re borrowing from Francis.” Satoru holds the first photograph carefully by its edge and looks at it in the red light before setting it down on the workbench. “Hand me something to put these in. There should be a folder or an envelope on the bench somewhere.”

There’s a paper envelope at the end of the bench, brown and flat. You pick it up and hold it open. Satoru slides the photographs in one by one.

“We need to leave Francis a note,” you say, “and money. For the printing. For—everything.”

“How much do you think midnight darkroom theft runs these days?”

“What?”

“I’m asking genuinely.”

“A lot,” you say. “Leave a lot.”

You find a notepad on the workbench next to a jar of pens. Francis, you write. We’re sorry for the unauthorised visit. We needed the photos tonight, so please print yourself copies. Enclosed is payment for the developing, the breaking-in, the trouble, and your time. Thank you for everything. It was a beautiful ceremony.

You fold the note and put it on the workbench. Satoru takes his wallet out, removes a quantity of cash that makes your eyebrows go up, and weighs it down with the jar of pens.

You go back through the chapel and through the storage room and back out the window into the alley. Satoru drops down behind you and lands easily on the ground. The night air is warm, and the Strip is still brightly lit not thirty feet away. You hold the envelope against your chest. The photographs inside are still slightly damp.

“For the record,” you say, “this is also your fault.”

“The chapel was closed,” Satoru says reasonably. “I didn’t plan that part. Plus, we have the photos, so. Seems like it worked out.”

You look at him with his loosened tie and ruffled hair and think, He’s going to be completely insufferable about this for years. You are going to have to hear about the Vegas chapel break-in for the rest of your natural life and possibly longer.

“Come on,” you say. “You said the hotel’s three blocks away.”

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #3 – VANDALISM.

There is only one bed. It’s not, on its own, an unusual situation. You’ve shared sleeping arrangements with Satoru before—field missions and overnight calls that left two sorcerers and one room. You’d use a pillow wall, most of the time.

The difference is that you are currently married to him.

“You booked a room with one bed?” you ask.

“They may have assumed, given that I made the reservation under a recently married couple’s names, that we would want,” Satoru says, gesturing at the bed, “the one bed.”

The bed in question is enormous, dressed in white linen and piled with decorative pillows. There’s a bowl of strawberries on the bedside table. The whole room smells faintly of roses.

“Did you request the honeymoon setup?” you say.

“The woman on the phone seemed very enthusiastic about it.”

“That’s not an answer!” You look around the room, hands on your hips. “Well, there’s a couch. You can use that.”

It’s one of those small, decorative couches present in hotel rooms to fill a corner, hold throw pillows, and look tasteful in photographs, but not to sleep on.

“I’m not going to sleep on it, but noted,” Satoru says, striding towards the minibar, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the back of the chair by the window. “Whiskey or gin?”

“Whiskey,” you say. “We can put a pillow wall down the middle.”

“We’re married,” he says, crossing the room with two small bottles. He sits down on the other side of the bed. “It seems a bit prudish.”

You take the whiskey from him and twist the cap off. Satoru has his own bottle balanced between both hands, still unopened, and he’s looking out the window at the city below. You’ve spent enough years watching him, but it doesn’t seem to change anything; the flutter in your heart remains the same, as does the contentment you feel in your chest.

“I want to see them again,” you announce.

Satoru looks at you. “The photos?”

You reach for the envelope on the nightstand and slide the pictures out carefully, holding them by the edges. They’re drying, stiffening slightly. You hold them in your lap and he leans in slightly.

“You should’ve warned me,” you say quietly.

“About which part?”

“All of it.” You tap the third photograph’s edge, gently. “This.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “If I’d warned you, you’d have said no.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” he says, not unkindly. “You’d have thought about it too long and decided it was too complicated, and then you’d have spent months being strange about it, and then we’d have gone back to normal, and—” He stops, turning the bottle in his hands. “…I didn’t want to go back to normal.”

“It’s still a bad idea,” you mumble.

“Probably,” he agrees. His hand shifts on the duvet between you, the tip of his little finger coming to rest against the back of yours. “Hasn’t stopped being true, though. Whatever it is. You know what I mean.”

You do. That’s the problem: you’ve always known what he means, even when he’s being deliberately oblique about it. You’ve known him too long and too well for any of it to not make sense anymore. Which means, you understand now, that you’ve also known you’re in love with him for longer than you thought.

You look at the fourth photograph—Satoru, standing outside the chapel, watching you look at the ring on your hand.

“You could’ve just said something,” you tell him. “At any point. Like a normal person.”

“I took you to Las Vegas and married you,” he says. “That’s me saying something directly.”

His hand turns over and covers yours, warm and assuaging, and whatever reservations you’d been carefully maintaining for years simply crumble.

You close the remaining distance. Satoru’s free hand comes up to your face before you’ve fully moved, which means he was thinking about it too—has been thinking about it, probably, for longer than tonight, longer than Vegas—and he’s kissing you.

He kisses you decisively. There’s a certainty to it that shouldn’t surprise you—this is Satoru, who does nothing halfway—but it does, a little. But what surprises you more is how easy it is. How it doesn’t feel like a change in anything so much as a long-overdue acknowledgement of something that’s been there all along.

When you pull back, his forehead drops to yours. His sunglasses are still pushed up on his head, and you reach up and take them off without asking. He lets you.

“Hi,” Satoru says.

“You’re still wearing your sunglasses indoors at midnight,” you chide.

“I said hi.”

“Hi,” you say.

He smiles; it reaches his eyes. “So,” he starts.

“Do not say ‘I told you so.’”

“I wasn’t going to. Probably.”

“Insufferable,” you say, and kiss him again, which is both a rebuke and a surrender but mostly just because you want to. He makes a sound against your mouth that might be a laugh, and his arms come around you properly this time.

The decorative pillows go first. There are seven of them, and they go in ones and twos without either of you paying much attention—one knocked off when his arm comes around you properly, two more when you shift closer, the rest sliding off the edge in a soft succession of thuds. One of the small whiskey bottles, empty now, rolls off the mattress and lands on the carpet. You don’t notice any of it; you’re somewhat preoccupied by Satoru taking your face in his hands and tilting it and kissing you until you forget what you were arguing about.

You suspect that he’s thought about this for a long time, the same way you have.

“You’re thinking,” Satoru says against your mouth.

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can tell. You get this little—” He pulls back just enough to look at you, and traces something between your brows with one finger. “Here.”

You stare at him. “I hate that you know that.”

“No, you don’t,” he says. He’s right, and you hate that too, so you tell him so by pulling him back down by the front of his shirt.

He lets you tug at him willingly—more than willingly, with an enthusiasm that sends you back against the pillows and makes you laugh, briefly, before his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, and the laugh turns into a gasp. His hands are at your waist, warm through the fabric.

His tie joins the pillows on the floor; you get the knot loose while he’s working on the matter of your buttons. His shirt is untucked and you run your hands on his waist, his ribs, the warm plane of his stomach. Satoru groans against the side of your neck, and you shiver. He tosses your shirt aside, too, and his eyes darken when his gaze lands on your chest. He takes his time with your nipples, rolling them around with his thumbs, before taking one of them in his mouth.

He moves lower, pressing kisses to the underside of your breasts, moving down to your navel. When he reaches the waistband of your jeans, he looks up, pupils blown wide and asks, “May I?”

“Yes, yes, please.” You nod frantically, helping him pull your jeans and panties off when he unbuttons it. You’re already wet and needy.

“You’re so beautiful,” Satoru says, gazing up at you before littering kisses on your inner thighs, so close to where you want him. 

“Satoru, please,” you say. “I need you.”

He blows on your wet core, making you shiver. “Need me to what?”

“I need you to, hah, just—”

Satoru latches onto your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the bud. You moan, your hands flying to his hair and gripping the silver-white strands. He alternates between quick flicks and long, broad strokes, keeping your folds spread apart with two fingers while his other hand traces patterns along the underside of your thigh.

“Fuck, fuck—” You curse when his tongue moves in a circle right around your clenching hole. Satoru doesn’t stop. If anything, the sound of your voice breaking, the way you curse his name, only spurs him on. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He’s always known how to push your buttons. But this is different; this isn’t a playful tease during a mission.

He dives back in, his tongue flattening out to lap at you with broad, wet strokes that cover everything from your clit down to your opening. You arch your back, your hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, trying to press yourself harder against his mouth.

“Satoru… please, I’m—”

“You’re what?” he mumbles against your skin. He doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding two fingers deep inside you. You let out a strangled cry, your toes curling. His fingers are thick and warm, and he curls them, hooking them upward to find that sensitive spot that makes your vision blur. His thumb remains locked into your clit, rubbing circles on the engorged bud.

The sensation is overwhelming. It’s too much and yet not nearly enough. You can feel the tension building in your lower belly, a tight, simmering coil that winds tighter and tighter with every second.

“Right there,” you moan, your fingers knotting into his hair. “Right there, Satoru, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

Your breath comes out in short, jagged gasps, your chest heaving. Just as you are about to orgasm, Satoru stops. He doesn’t just slow down; he pulls his fingers out of you with a sudden, wet pop and removes his mouth from your heat entirely. You freeze, your eyes snapping open. “Satoru, what the hell—”

He’s hovering over you, braced on his elbows, his hair messy and falling over his forehead. A slow, smug smile spreads across his lips, though his breathing is just as heavy as yours.

“Not yet,” he whispers.

“I hate you,” you groan, your hips twitching involuntarily, searching for the friction he just stole from you. “I actually hate you so much.”

“Liars don’t get to come,” Satoru teases, though his hand reaches down to gently stroke the skin of your inner thigh. 

He shifts, moving upward to kiss you. He tastes like you, and you moan into his mouth, before he pulls away just an inch, his gaze dropping to your drenched core. “I want to feel you,” he murmurs. “I want to feel how tight you are around me.”

Satoru slides backward, just enough to strip off his trousers and underwear in one hurried motion. His cock springs out, thick and flushed. Your mouth waters simply looking at it, while he pumps it once, twice, thumb circling the tip. He doesn’t lie back down. Instead, he sits up, leaning his back against the headboard of the enormous bed, his legs spread wide. He reaches out, grabbing your waist with those large, strong hands and pulling you forward until you are hovering over him.

“Ride me?” he asks.

The need for friction, for fullness, for him overrides any lingering frustration. You shift your weight, guiding his cock to your entrance. As you slowly lower yourself down, the feeling of his cock filling you, stretching you open, sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you. You let out a long, shuddering moan as you sink down completely, inch by inch, your pelvis flushing against his. Satoru lets out a choked sound, his head hitting the headboard with a thud, his eyes screwing shut.

“Fuck,” he moans. “You’re—you’re so tight. I can’t—”

“Shut up,” you whisper, though there’s no heat in it.

You begin to move, a slow, grinding rotation of your hips. You watch his face—the way his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, the way he looks at you with warmth and wonder. You quicken your movements, bouncing on his cock. Satoru’s hands move from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, helping you ride him. He thrusts upwards, tilting his hips and dragging his cock against your walls.

“Look at me,” he groans. You look down, your eyes locking onto his. “I love you,” he says.

You feel the coil in your belly snap. Your orgasm washes over you as you clench around his cock, milking him. Satoru moans, his back arching off the bed as he thrusts upwards one last time. “I’m going to come,” he says. “Let me—”

You slide off his cock and he comes, his release spurting onto his stomach, a little bit on your thighs. You collapse against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you into the crook of his neck.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. Eventually, Satoru shifts slightly, kissing the top of your head.

“So,” he whispers. “Shower?”

You lift your head slightly, looking at him with tired, happy eyes. “Already?” you say with faux innocence. “I thought you’d want to fuck me on that stupid couch first.”

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #4 – EMBEZZLEMENT.

Hopefully Satoru didn’t mind you swiping his credit card from his wallet while he was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face while the other was stretched out beside him. You’d wriggled out of his grasp carefully, pressing a gentle, barely-there kiss to the tip of his nose, before digging through his jacket’s pockets for his wallet and pulling out his black card.

It’s for a good purpose, you console yourself, hurrying through the streets of Las Vegas with a jewellery shop’s location pulled up on your phone. 

Las Vegas in the early morning is a different city entirely from the one that had swallowed you whole last night. It’s not quiet, exactly—it’s never quiet, you suspect—but it’s quieter, the frenetic energy of the Strip mellowed into something slower. The crowds have thinned, at least.

You walk with your hands in your pockets, Satoru’s black card tucked safely between two fingers. The morning air is warm and dry, and the sky above the glow of the Strip is beginning to lighten from black to the deep bruised blue that comes just before dawn.

The jewellery shop is three blocks from the hotel, according to your phone. It’s a small, well-lit place that stays open through the night, catering to those Las Vegas visitors who find themselves in need of jewellery at unusual hours, which you now understand is a larger demographic than you’d previously considered.

You walk and think about the rings. The ones currently on your fingers are not adequate. They’re soft metal, the gold already slightly scuffed from one night of existence, and they’ll tarnish in a week. You’d noticed this morning, while Satoru was still asleep: the way your rings sat a little loose, the way it had already lost some of its shine. It’s more of a placeholder than anything else.

The thought of replacing them had arrived while you’d lain in Satoru’s arms, listening to him breathe and looking at the ring.

You aren’t scared, though you’d expected to be. You’d expected to wake up this morning with the full weight of what’s happened landing on you like a dropped beam, and to spend the subsequent hours dealing with the considerable wreckage of your own panic. It seemed like a reasonable response to having been married to your best friend in Las Vegas by a crying man named Francis and then having the matter become rather more settled than a marriage certificate alone would suggest.

But when you’d woken up with Satoru’s arm around you and the photographs on the nightstand, what you’d felt was something almost irritatingly simple: you’d felt like yourself.

The jewellery shop is small and bright, jewellery arranged in lit display cases along the walls, a pudgy man behind the counter. He looks up when you come in, takes in the look of you—your clothes from last night, slightly slept-in, your hair not fully combed—and nods pleasantly.

“Morning,” he says. “What are you looking for?”

“Wedding rings,” you say. “Two of them, please. Something that’ll last for a long time.”

He nods again. “Do you know the other person’s size?”

You think about Satoru’s hands—the ring sliding onto his finger in the chapel, his hand covering yours on the duvet last night, the warmth of his arm around this morning. “I can estimate,” you say.

He shows you to a case along the left wall. The rings inside are simple, for the most part—plain bands in gold and silver and white gold, some with small details, most without. You find two plain bands in white gold, clean-lined and unornamented, substantial enough to last. 

“These,” you tell the man behind the counter.

He nods. You produce Satoru’s black card and spend a figure that makes you wince slightly but not reconsider, because the point isn’t the cost and you’re sure Satoru will agree with you about this when he wakes up and finds both you and his credit card gone. You leave the ship with the rings in a small white box and stand on the pavement outside for a moment in the warming air.

You pull your phone out and type in the search bar, Chapel of Eternal Love, and punch in the number attached. 

“Hello, Chapel of Eternal Love, Francis speaking—”

“Francis,” you say, smiling. “I have a favour to ask.”

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #5 – MARRIAGE.

Francis, it turns out, is delighted. He’d gone quiet for a moment when you explained what you were asking, and then said, Give me an hour, and hung up before you could confirm the details. 

You make your way back to the hotel with your ring box in your pocket and the morning brightening steadily around you. The casino lobbies you pass are still going—slot machines, a scattering of determined gamblers, staff moving between stations—but the Strip itself is relatively peaceful, the night’s crowd entirely dissolved and the day’s not yet arrived. You have the pavement to yourself. It’s a strange and pleasant feeling, Las Vegas in the interstitial hour.

Satoru is awake when you get back, sitting up in bed with his hair in complete disarray and the duvet bunched around his waist. When you open the door he looks at you blankly.

“Morning,” you say.

“My credit card,” he says.

“Is fine.” You cross the room and hold it out. He takes it without looking at it, still watching you. “I needed it for a purchase.”

“What kind of purchase requires you to leave the hotel room at—” he glances at the clock on the nightstand—“six forty-seven in the morning?”

“The important kind.” You sit down on the edge of the bed and take the white box out of your pocket, setting it on the duvet between you.

Satoru picks the box up and opens it, and doesn’t say anything at all, which is the loudest thing Gojo Satoru can do. “You stole my credit card,” he says finally, “to buy us wedding rings.”

“I borrowed it,” you say. “To replace the ones we got from a spinning display rack for five dollars each.”

“I liked those rings.”

“They were tarnishing,” you say. “There’s more, by the way.”

You tell him about Francis. He looks surprised at first, and then warm, so utterly warm when he tugs you closer to him and kisses you again, and again, and once more for good measure. Satoru closes the ring box and holds it in both hands, the way he’d held the whiskey bottle last night before he’d covered your hand with his. 

“I thought you wanted a divorce last night, and now you’ve stolen my credit card and called Francis.”

“Yep.”

He looks at you for a long moment. The morning light filters through the curtains and he looks extraordinarily, unfairly beautiful, even just woken up.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” Satoru sets the ring box on the nightstand, next to the photographs. “Okay.”

Francis has decorated the chapel when you arrive. You’re not entirely sure when he found the time—it’s been barely two hours since your phone call—but the maintenance issue has apparently been resolved, because the lights are on when you arrive. The door is unlocked; when you step inside you find that Francis has replaced the zip-tied artificial flowers on the pews with fresh ones, white and small. There are candles lit along the windowsills. The worn carpet, in the warm light, looks less worn somehow, or perhaps you’re simply disposed to see it differently today.

Francis himself is standing at the altar in a clean shirt, his red hair combed and his camera in his hands. “You came back,” he says.

“We came back,” you confirm.

Francis looks at the two of you—Satoru in a fresh shirt with his tie done up neatly again, you in the best thing you could assemble from your bag on short notice—and grins. “The rings, did you—”

You produce the white box.

“Right,” Francis says. “Right, yes. Let’s—shall we?”

Here is what you think about, standing at the altar of the Chapel of Eternal Love for the second time in less than twenty-four hours:

You think about the first time, yesterday, and how you’d stood here in something close to a dissociative state, your brain running through the situation at high speed. You think about the parking lot behind the Denny’s and the small fire in the trash can. You’d meant it when you said you wanted a divorce, though you realise now that you were frightened of what being married to your best friend entailed.

Satoru had let you burn it, too. He hadn’t argued because he’d known you’d come around. Not from arrogance, but because he knew you, the same way you knew him, all the way down to the things you didn’t say aloud.

You think about the darkroom, the four photographs drying on the line in the red light. Climbing back out through the chapel window into the warm Las Vegas night and holding the envelope against your chest, the photographs still damp inside it. You think about the rings in the spinning display by the door—you can still see them from where you’re standing, the little rack with the remaining rings. They were the beginning, it turns out.

You turn to look back at Satoru. He’s smiling at you.

Francis clears his throat gently. “Shall we begin?”

The vows are the same ones from the laminated card. Francis offers alternatives—he has a small binder with options—but Satoru shrugs, so you use the same ones. When Francis gets to the rings you open the white box yourself. You take Satoru’s ring out and hold it; he holds out his right hand out of habit before catching himself and switching to his left, and you both laugh helplessly. Francis gulps and pulls out his handkerchief. You put the ring on the correct hand this time.

Satoru takes yours from the box and looks up at you—there’s that expression, the one from the photographs, the one you have a name for now. He slides the ring onto the correct finger and holds your hand for a moment after.

Francis is fully crying now. He dabs at his eyes without embarrassment and beams at the two of you over his handkerchief with radiant approval.

“I’ve never had anyone come back,” he tells you. “In twelve years, you’re the first.”

“We forgot something the first time,” you say.

Francis tucks his handkerchief away and straightens up. Smiling, he announces, “You may now kiss,” and so you do.

⟢ 

"Where the fuck is my notebook." Gojo muttered, searching his backpack twice. Then he looked in his locker, his gym bag, under the bench, even. His eyebrows furrowed until a groan left his lips.

It wasn't like it magically grew a pair of legs, but he still looked behind the vending machine as well. Just to be extra sure. 

"This cannot be happening.." The last he needed was losing the one journal he actually used and the one that had his homework in it, especially not after a long night of practice that had his limbs feeling like spaghetti noodles. He just wanted to go home and drool into his pillow, sleeping off into another world.

"Looking for something?" Suguru chimed in, watching as his friend pulled out everything from inside his locker. His soccer uniform dropped onto the floor but Gojo was too exhausted to even care.

He shot a scowl towards the pierced boy. "My notebook man.. I lost it."

Gojo tried to recall where he had last used it. But there was no hope with how fried his brain was. He dropped his body dramatically onto the bench with a whine that sounded like it had come from a child.

"I have Monday's assignment in there."

"For what class?" Suguru slipped on his shirt over his body, closing his locker shut before turning to Satoru. "Biochemistry.." That’s when the memory hit him straight in the face.

He had left the notebook in his class, on the desk he sat in right next to the window.

Gojo immediately stood up, causing his head to feel dizzy, grabbing his bag to place on his broad shoulder. "Gotta go, see ya." He gave his friend a quick harsh pat on his back, rushing towards the door.

How could he be so dumb to leave it behind?

He has been so focused on his upcoming winter game that he was in a rush to get to practice on time.

You’re late three times to practice? You’re out. 

The walk to his science class was a blur. Dodging small talk from other teammates and the cold weather practically freezing his balls off.

By the time he reached his biochem room, the hallway was eerily quiet as he slipped into the classroom.

There it was, sitting right there on his desk.

He could almost cry tears of joy.

Gojo let out a breath of relief, retrieving back the journal full of doodles and important notes. But most importantly, a poorly drawn portrait of his professor as a disgruntled frog that would definitely get him in trouble if said professor got his hands on it.

He clutched it close to his chest dramatically.

The door clicked quietly behind him. He was about to head towards his car that was parked in front of the field when a sudden sound floated down the hallway, reaching his ears.

It was music.

Well, a piano.

That's what it was.

The notes were as delicate as the raindrops that were hitting the window.

His head tilted to the side, following where the tunes were coming from in between the crack of the door.

Gojo knew he should have just gone home and attempted to get more than four hours of sleep for once, but the sound had him entranced like a siren call.

And that's when he saw you for the first time.

You looked so focused, eyes locked on the keys under your pretty fingers. You haven’t noticed him yet, peeking through the crack of the door like a creep.

Gojo held himself closer, steadying his body on the door, trying to get a good look at you. Maybe he could make out your face if he leaned in just a bit closer. But he only managed to fall, causing the door to open wide and for you to freeze.

Your fingers hovered over the piano, eyes blown wide completely startled.

"Oh my gosh- I am so sorry!" he exclaimed, pushing himself off the ground, wincing at the feeling of a now forming bruise on his knee. He was tripping over his words, trying to explain why he was even peeking in the first place, but he fell silent when you approached him. 

You had to be an angel with the way you were staring up at him. "Are you alright?" your voice was even better. It was so gentle.

'Angels play the piano.. I had no idea' gojo thought. 

"Uhhhhh, yeah. yeah, I'm alright." He answered quietly, eyes drawn to your lips. "You play really beautifully"

"Oh, thank you."

"Yup!" With that, he rushed out the door, face blushed to the max and heart beating faster than it does when he's out on the field. 'Holy fuck, who was that beauty?' His hand felt light.

Way too light. 

 He looked down just to see that he had forgotten his notebook, again. 

Gojo would rather dig a hole and die in it than go back and face you after his sudden departure. 

Your footsteps clicked on the floor, tilting your head to see gojo standing there, contemplating if he should turn around or not. "Hi again, you forgot this.." 

You lifted up his journal. 

"R-right, I forgot about that." He let out a nervous chuckle, reaching behind him doing a little grabby motion with his hand, back still turned towards you.

You were confused by his behavior but didn't question it, gently placing the book in his hand.

"Thank you." The flushed boy squeaked out. 

You bit back a smile, watching as he tried to discreetly sneak a look at you over his shoulder. 

"No problem!" you chirped, turning around to walk back into the music room. He let out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding, body now turned to fully face your figure as you walked away. 

"... Wow." he whispered. 

⟢ 

"And then she smiled up at me, like the prettiest smile I have ever seen. I'm not even joking that girl is heaven sent. I regret not running after her because oh my god, Suguru- Suguru are you even listening to me?" 

"I’ma keep it a buck, fuck no." Suguru grumbled, scrolling on his phone which was far more interesting than the summarization Gojo has been giving him for the past two hours. 

"You're an ass." Gojo grumbled, flopping on his belly on his bed, messing up his navy blue covers. "Let me see if she has instagram.. wait fuck, I dunno her name."

"Wait, you have a crush on a girl whose name you do not know?" The black haired boy stared away from the screen, looking up at his enamored best friend. 

"Well like I was saying, she slipped from my fingers last night. I was too shocked from her ethereal face to even process anything" 

"Then I don't fucking know what to tell ya, just leave me the hell alone."

Gojo hummed. "Whatever." he swung his feet in the air, twirling around his hair as he thought back to you. His friend gave him a look of disgust because never in his 15 years of being friends with Satoru had he ever seen him in love. 

It freaked him out. 

⟢

Gojo brought the ice pack to his cheek, mumbling a curse under his breath. The daydreamer was knocked out of his pondering when the soccer ball hit him straight in the cheek bone, smacking him hard enough to bruise. 

He received a quick scolding from his coach on how he needed to get his head out of his ass and start playing harder now that the final game was closing in.

One second he was imagining you and your sweet smile and the other he was on the ground. He physically couldn't stop thinking back at you and the events of last night. Gojo threw away the bag with the now melted ice in a nearby trash can, slowly making his way to the music room.

'please be there, please be there, please please please!'

And then..

"Thank you god..." he whispered at the sight of you. 

You were walking so peacefully, flipping the pages full of music in your hands, trying to pick which song to practice tonight. A stupid smile grew on Gojo's face. You had on a simple but cute white blouse and a brown skirt, the typical outfit you'd expect a pianist to wear.

You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, too focused to notice the 6 foot boy practically stalking you in the dark. He did a little inner cheer, beaming with happiness after you finally looked up, making eye contact with him.

"Oh, hello." You greeted him sweetly. "You're the guy who face planted yesterday, right?"

He froze, embarrassed. 

"Yea.. I'm Satoru." He held the door open for you, watching as you entered before closing the door behind him. He flashed you his dorky but genuine smile but quickly regretted it. 'Why the hell did I do that? What's wrong with me?' Any negative thoughts disappeared the second you giggled, making his brain short-circuit.

"I'm y/n."

He gave himself a pat on the back at achieving your name. "y/n, huh?" He tested it out himself, looking around to prevent himself from ogling you.

"So um, last night, I didn't get to listen to you finish playing that song."

You grabbed the back of your skirt, sitting down on the piano chair, patting the fabric down so it didn't stick up awkwardly.

"The one I was doing before you so rudely interrupted me?" Your focus shifted back onto him, scooting on the piano seat to make room for him.

He was surprised at the offer, but quickly acted on it. The muscular boy happily sat down next to his new crush.

"I can play it again if you'd like. It was love me by Elvis Presley."  You positioned your fingers on their assigned keys, glancing at Satoru. 

The simple eye contact drove him crazy. Gojo could feel the back of his neck heating up but shook it off as you began to play. 

Your fingers glided around the keyboard out of pure memory. It made him hold his breath so he wouldn't miss hearing a second. His eyes weren't set on your hands but on your face, fully focused. It was enough for his heart to run wild. Not like it wasn’t already. 

You ended the song with one final push on the keyboard, looking up at him and the stupid smile that was plastered on his face. 

"That was good.. really good" 

"I know." You grinned. He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as his tongue darted out to lick his slightly chapped lips. 

"Do you play?" 

Gojo hummed. "Nah. I’d like to, but I’m too busy with soccer." 

"You play soccer?" You asked curiously. 

"Yeah, you couldn't tell from my sweat?"

"I thought you just had a bad sweating problem."

Gojo let out a groan. "that's fuckin' embarrassing." He dragged a hand down his face. 

a snort escaped you unknowingly, making him turn to look at you again, forcing you to bring your hand up to cover your mouth in embarrassment. "Sorry." 

"For what?"

He did not care. like at all. 

"Um.. nothing. So, is listening to me play the piano all you came back for?" 

The hand that previously rubbed his face now made its way to the back of his neck, nervously rubbing it.

"Sort of, I came back mostly because I wanted to get to know you. I've never seen you before and I just.. I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me sometime." His own words surprised him. That is not at all the reason he showed up. 

A faint blush attacked your cheeks. "Really?" Your voice softened even more.

"Yeah, really."

You were hesitant, but eventually nodded. "I'd really like that." 

But he was thankful his mouth spoke involuntarily. “Yeah? Great, that’s great..”  

⟢

Gojo gently closed the door behind him, letting out a tired sigh. His hands were covering the bottom half of his face, not being able to process the fact that he asked you out, and you said yes. 

He began walking to his dorm, ready to tell Suguru what happened. His hands were shaky, opening up his phone to stare at the new contact on his list. Yours. He clicked on the edit button, replacing the number with your name. 

“Suguru!” Gojo yelled after entering his room. “Bro bro bro,” he smacked the exposed back of his friend, to which Suguru responded by smacking it away. “I did it, I asked her out and I got her number.” 

Suguru grunted. “So?”

Gojo rolled his eyes. “Dude, can you at least pretend to be proud of me? Fuck you so negative for?”

Suguru placed his phone down, shifting to lay against his elbow to face gojo. “Just confused and weirded out that you’re serious about a girl. You’re always sleeping around so yeah, it’s fucking weird that you’re suddenly Mr. Lover Boy.” 

Gojo’s eyebrows furrowed. "Oh, I'm sorry if it's so "strange" for you to acknowledge that I can actually feel love."

He felt hurt at the fact that he was seen as incapable of feeling such strong sentiments towards someone. Yes, it was right that he used to stick his dick in every girl that would give him bedroom eyes in the past just for fun, but he's calmed down. And right now, he even more so now that you have entered his life, and he doesn't expect you to leave anytime soon.

"Your parents won't like it if they find out you're getting distracted."

Gojo's parents have this stupid belief that if a woman were to appear in his schedule, it would mess up his future. Soccer has been his top priority since grade school, having games every other month and practices every day for hours. Even when he tried explaining that he no longer enjoyed the sport, he got shamed.

"You have talent, son." His father would remind him.

But Gojo didn't want to kick around a ball.

He never wanted to. 

He wanted to push his fingers down the keys of the piano, just like you did. He wanted to learn how to read music and to perform on big stages that didn't consist of roaring crowds cheering when a goal was scored, but a quiet audience that appreciated the art he was creating.

That was a dream that he cherished for years, keeping it a secret from everyone, especially from his un-supportive family. If they found out he would rather play an instrument rather than play a sport? He’d be a huge disappointment.” 

"They don't have to know." Gojo shot back.

"They'll find out eventually. Just don't waste your time with her, we both know how batshit crazy your family is."

"I'm fucking aware and I don't need to hear it from you right now."

Suguru was sitting properly now, scowling up at the now agitated boy. He knew he was being an ass, but he was just looking out for gojo. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

"You clearly do if you're actually considering going out with her."

"I'm not considering, I am going out with her."

It was a back and forth argument that seemed as if it had no end.

"Whatever, you better not come crying to me when they hear about this. You already know what I will say."

I told you so. 

Gojo was already making his way to his room, shutting the door loudly. He hated getting reminded of his parents. Even in college when he thought he'd finally get away from them, they still continue to haunt him.

He fell over his bed, taking off his shirt and bringing the covers up to cover his torso. He took deep breaths, scrolling on his phone before opening up your contact again.

His fingers began moving.

Satoru 

'Hellooo. Me, you, cafe tomorrow?'

He held his breath, awaiting your response. 

You replied shortly after, which he was thankful for.

You

'Hi! Yes sounds yum! what time?'

Skipping practice shouldn't harm him. He hasn’t missed any yet, so it’d be his first strike. If it meant sacrificing it for you, he would do it.

'Does 3 work for you?'

'Mhmmm, I have to be back before 8 tho!'

He chuckled. Did you have a curfew at 20 years old?

'Alright, noted. See you then.'

'Okay goodnight ! <3'

Oh my god. 

You sent a heart and you said goodnight.

That clearly meant something right? You are interested in him, you sent a heart. He bit his inner cheek to prevent a stupid giggle from slipping out. He hearted your message, exiting the app.

From outside his door, he could hear Suguru turn on the tv, probably to play some video game of his. Gojo sighed, standing up to go join him despite the previous argument. He was still his best buddy at the end of the day.

"Make room." He murmured, pushing the black haired boy's feet off the couch to make space for him to sit on.

Suguru handed him the second controller without a question, splitting the screen into two. They played in silence until the sun fully set and the moon rose. 

⟢ 

You patted down your blouse, turning to your side to stare at yourself in the mirror. Is this too little for a first date? Or was it too much? No boy has ever asked you out, not because you were unattractive, far from that actually, but because you always kept to yourself.

Many saw you as boring, shy, timid, unapproachable. But Gojo saw past that.

You did a little spin for yourself, showing off your pretty outfit. This should be good.

Gojo on the other hand was panicking as well. 

He didn't know if he should just throw on another of his polo shirts or a sweater. He had his clothes spread out on his bed to make it easier for him to choose.

He settled on a brown patterned sweater with his white shirt underneath and his usual black jeans. 

After receiving the message that you were ready, he rushed out the door, bringing the car’s engine to life. 

Gojo went over potential lines, like the hopeless romantic he had grown to be.

"Looking as gorgeous as ever." No, way too soon to say that. "Nice rack." No no, definitely not that. Shit, should he have gotten you flowers? Wait, he doesn't know which you prefer. He should first figure that out and then get you some. You looked like a tulip girl, or maybe roses? 

His nose scrunched up. Did he put on cologne today? Did he stink? what if you thought he smelt bad. 

What about his hair? Did it look greasy? He took a double shower today, shaved his entire body, just in case. 

All negative thoughts left his head once he reached your house. You were standing out there waiting for him, looking around cutely with your hair blowing around a bit from the winter wind.

He clenched his jaw close, not wanting it to fall open.

Your eyes landed on his car, face brightening. You gave him a little wave, adjusting the strap of your purse on your shoulder as you made your way down the street to him.

Gojo came back to earth, jumping out of his seat to go over to the passengers side, opening the door. "You're so pretty." he complimented, watching you sit down.

"Thank you!" You happily chirped.

He walked over to his side once again, typing out the location of the cafe on the console, previously where your address was written.

You both began with small talk. How your classes were going, why you even chose the university, all of that. 

“So, why soccer?” You asked. 

“Well, like I said, my parents wanted me to do something impressive, y'know? I’ve been playing since I was like five. It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

“I highly doubt that.” 

Your words made his cheeks warm up.

“Why piano?” He forced himself to speak, praying you hadn't noticed the way his hands were gripping the steering wheel. 

You hummed in thought. “I don’t know actually. I’ve always liked music and I thought the piano was cool, so I just stuck to it. I tried out guitar before but piano was easier for me.” 

Gojo listened intently, almost as if your words were the most important things to ever exist. 

“I play for the school from time to time.” 

"Is that so? I'll go and support you if you promise to come to my game."

You nodded. "Deal! I'll even wear your jersey."

Fuck. he'd like that. a lot.

"Noted." A breathy chuckle left him.

Your destination wasn't far, but traffic made it seem as if it was. "Think we're here." He looked around, parking the car just as the generated voice set on the map spoke out.

'You have arrived.'

⟢

The date went well, really well.

You even went as far as holding hands as the two of you made your way into the heart of the town center, admiring the Christmas decorations they had set up, laughing at the way they made The Grinch appear. 

“Hold on, stand over there let me take a picture!” He pointed over at the cardboard cutout of the character with a silhouette of a person with a hole cut out where the face should be, allowing people to place their head in. 

You smiled after posing. 

The phone’s camera snapped, taking a couple of pictures. 

‘Gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous.’ Gojo grinned, showing you the captures he had taken to you once you made your way back to him. 

“Let’s take one together!” You offered. 

His heart beat overtook the holiday music playing, beating loud as hell as you got closer to him for the picture. He gulped, shyly wrapping his arm around your shoulder, forcing himself to look at the camera and not you. 

But eventually the day came to an end, and with your curfew hour approaching, he drove you home.

"Hey so um, I was wondering if we could do this again soon?" He internally cringed at how desperate he sounded.

"Of course. I mean, obviously."

Satoru bit back a smile, knowing it was no use with the way his face was shifting to a soft pink color.

He pulled up to your now familiar house, watching you gather your things, unbuckling your seatbelt.

He quickly scrambled out of his seat, rushing over to your side to open the door. You chuckled at how hard he tried, but you appreciated it.

"Thank you."

You both stood in front of each other, the silence heavy. He leaned in, wanting to close the small distance in between you two, but the sound of your neighbor's dog barking snapped him back into reality.

He cleared his throat, taking a small step back. "So um, I'll see you."

"Yeah, see you." You took a couple of steps before turning back around. “I had a lot of fun today, Satoru.”

You reached up on your toes, pecking his cheek gently. A gasp broke from Gojo before hearing the soft clack of your heels disappear with every step you took up to your front door, turning around one last time to wave goodbye at him.

Gojo's hand slowly made its way to touch the area where you had kissed him.

There's no doubt.

He was in love.

Gojo made his way into his dorm room, locking it behind him. 

He threw his sweater onto a chair, leaving him in his undershirt, making his way to the couch, plopping down on it. His forearm laid over his forehead thinking back to you and how well your date went.

He smiled softly, clearly satisfied.

Suguru heard the door close, indicating his friend had come home. He went out to greet him but the view of him laying on the couch, eyes closed but smile intact, his face shifted. He knew gojo was in too deep.

And he knew that sooner or later, shit would go down.

⟢ 

"No no.. that one's an eight note." You pointed at the music sheets in front of you.

"It deadass looks like a sixteenth note." He argued.

"No it doesn't!"

"This is way too complicated.." Gojo groaned, resting his head on his hand all while he averted his gaze from the papers to your pretty face.

He admired you, hand already reaching to fix a strand of hair, thumb lingering on your cheek.

"Satoru focus.." You whined, clearly distressed that your date couldn't understand the difference between two notes.

"Can't. You're too pretty."

His lips grazed yours for just a second, and in that second alone he was able to tell that one kiss wasn't going to be enough.

Your hands placed themselves on his shoulders, previously on the piano seat, returning the sweet short pecks he kept initiating.

His hands went behind your back, bringing your body closer to his.

"Quarter note.. treple clef-" He mumbled against your lips.

"Treble clef." You corrected him.

"Whatever."

After four successful dates, Gojo finally got what, or who, he wanted. You. He finally got you. 

And he was the happiest bastard on earth. 

“Want to go to the mall, baby?” He said against your lips, tugging at your lower lip. 

“Mmm, yeah okay!” You chirped before wincing at his biting. “Ouch! Toru!” 

He grinned, licking at where he bit. “Sorry. I just love these pretty lips so much.” 

“Yeah yeah..” You rolled your eyes, laughing at the sudden tickle attack he declared against your tummy, poking at the sides. 

“Let’s get going.” 

⟢

The shoes were put on display so any shoppers could get a brief glance at it before deciding if it was worth buying or not. You stared at them for a while. They were a pretty pair of Mary Jane's. Low heeled but had some chunk put into the platform part and they had a strap that wrapped around the ankle. The bow in the middle of it was small but it added so much to the design.

You always asked your mom for a pair whenever you went out with her and your sister. She always dismissed it, saying they were too expensive. But here they are, only $40.99. Your gaze turned to look at the big poster they had plastered on the window. a new month's deal. 'Buy one get one 50% off!'

Gojo approached you holding a bag full of pizza bits and a single large cup of lemonade intended for the both of you to share from Weltzels pretzels. He took the sight of you looking at a pair of shoes so intently, almost like you were debating buying them.

"Do you like those?" He asked, offering you the small warm bag of food before he took a sip of the drink in his hand. You happily accepted the treats before shrugging. "Not sure."

He hummed. "You've been staring at them for a while now."

"They just remind me of a pair I used to want when I was a kid. But they were always "too expensive" so my mom never got them for me. But she was always willing to drop a grand on bags she would never even use." You saw at the corner of your eyes Gojo reaching to grab a piece of the pizza from the bag.

He didn't say anything for a while, just staring at the shoes as well as he chewed on his pizza bit. Then, he turned and walked off into the store, leaving you standing confused. Your eyes followed as he talked to an employee, pointing at the pair of shoes displayed on the window. Specifically, the pair you wanted. The clerk nodded before disappearing behind the door that read 'workers only!'

"Um, baby?" You whispered out, following him inside the store to where Gojo was standing, still sipping onto his comically large drink.

"Uh hey what are you doing?" You asked once you reached him. He glanced back at you, reaching to grab another piece from inside the bag. "Checking if they have those shoes in your size."

You mumbled his name awkwardly as you shifted the now empty bag in your hands because that biggie ate them all. He took a bite from the treat before feeding it to you. "Shh, I'm working."

The worker returned with a box in his hand. "Size seven?" Gojo nodded, taking the box in his hands, gesturing for you to sit down on the seats provided by the store. "Hey you don't have to.."

"I know," he interrupted. "I want to."

He got down on one knee, placing the cup he was previously sipping on next to you. His hands moved to open up the shoe box, carefully taking out the pair of black mary janes. "Give me your foot" he patted his knee. "Here."

"I can put them on myself.."

"I want to, love." He said sternly, forcing your foot to rest on his knee. "I'm going to stain your pants-" you mumbled embarrassed. He squeezed your calf before slipping off the shoes you were wearing right now, grabbing the shoe, carefully putting it on your right foot. "Not too loose or tight?"

You shook your head. "No.. they're.. they're perfect." He hummed, his skilled fingers adjusted the strap on your ankle handling you like you were the most valuable thing to him. He looked up at you, his expression softened the second your eyes met. "Just like you." Your eyes widened the second he said that, blush overtaking your face.

You tried saying something but nothing came out. Not like you could with the way your throat was drying up. I mean, your boyfriend of what, a month (?) was offering to buy you these expensive shoes out of nowhere. You reached for the cup of lemonade next to you as he worked on your left foot, only to realize he already finished the drink as well.

Is this the type of greed they talk about in the bible?

"Stand up." he ordered in which you complied. You looked down at the fresh pair on your feet, walking around a bit to test them out.

"You like 'em?" he asked again. You turned to him, walking to be right next to him. "Yeah, I like them. A lot"

He hummed in acknowledgment. "Well, go and look for another pair. They have the bogo discount anyway, so might as well take advantage of it." He stood up, brushing his jeans from the small stain you left behind.

"No.. no that's too much! This is more than enough! Besides, you shouldn't be spending so much on me, you already paid for dinner today-"

"Baby, seriously. I don't care if I drop a grand on you, you can make it up to me by allowing me to kiss you numb. Go get another pair." He looked around the store before his eyes landed on a pair of converse. "Get some converse, your black ones are all beat up."

"I like them that way." You argued as you took off the shiny shoes before replacing them with said beat up converse. "Well I don't. makes you look like a sad homeless lady. I want my girl to have pretty clothes to match her pretty face."

You sighed, feeling your heart warm up.

"I'm not throwing these converse away. They hold too many memories."

His hand reached for yours. "Yeah no, we can burn them ceremonially later." He brought your hand up to his face, kissing your knuckles one by one with his pink tinted lips.

He was so entranced by your face, he failed to notice the pair of eyes staring you both down. 

⟢ 

“Hey baby!” You coo’ed into the phone, hearing your boyfriend's tired grunts from the other side. 

“Morning my pretty girl.” He yawned, dragging a hand over his face. 

“It’s four toru, did you just wake up?” 

Gojo carefully sat up, watching his bedsheets pool down at his lap, exposing his bare chest. His nipples hardened at the cold air, and he didn’t have to be fully awake to know that he was hard.

Rock hard. 

Your voice wasn’t helping out at all. 

“Just calling to ask if you’d like to come watch me perform later?” 

Your question snapped him from his horny ass thoughts. “What? Baby, you’re having a show later? Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” 

Usually, he knew when you had piano practices and performances. 

“I just.. didn’t know if you wanted to sit down for two hours.” 

Gojo sighed, not liking the way you even considered thinking he could be bored from watching you do what you love. 

“If it meant watching my girl play, I’d gladly sit down for more than a couple hours. I can sit for decades.” 

“Toru..” 

“I’ll be there. When did you say it was again?” He rubbed at his eyes, feeling his crusties fall down. 

“Today at seven.” 

He froze for a split second, remembering he had practice. It had completely slipped from his mind.

“Seven..” He repeated softly to himself. Practice was at five, and it lasted two hours and a half. 

He had gotten in trouble from ditching last time so he could take you out. ‘Three strikes, you’re out.’ But it would only be his second. He could handle another scolding from his coach. His voice was already echoing through his mind. 

The pause rushed to fill it. “It’s okay if you can’t. I know I’m asking last minute, it was just-” 

“I’ll be there,” he cut in. 

“Are you sure-” 

“Positive. I'm positive sweetheart.” His voice was firmer now. 

“Wait, don’t you have practice today?” You faintly remembered him telling you a couple days back how his schedule had changed from practice going from every even day to every odd day. 

“Yeah, but you really think I need it? I’m as ready as ever” 

“Toru..”

“Seriously baby, I’ll be there for you.” His eyes shifted back down to his raging boner. “..Can you come over before you go over to set up your piano though?” 

“Oh, yeah, is something wrong?” 

“... Just need you.” 

Gojo wasn’t a virgin, far from that actually. but with the way his body was warming up and heart beating a thousand miles an hour, he could be mistaken as one.

He waited patiently for you to arrive at his dorm. 

Fuck. 

Would your panties be pink? Or would they be black. 

Or better yet, blue? 

“Yo.” Geto knocked at Gojo’s door, despite it already being cracked open. “I’m heading out now to go to practice. You coming?” 

“Uh, yeah. I just need to do something quick then I’ll make my way over.” 

“Don’t miss again. The coach will be on your ass like last time.” He chuckled, waving bye at the white haired boy. 

Gojo bit the inside of his cheek, laying back on his arms, deep in his thoughts as always. You were worth it. 

That’s not a question.

⟢

“Oh my god, fuck. Yes baby, fuck!” Gojo closed his eyes, panting like a damn dog on a sunny day. 

The way your puffy folds were stretched over him only encouraged him to go faster and harder, hitting your cervix at a perfect angle. 

“Pretty fucking pussy, you’re so goddamn pretty, look at you.”

Your performance dress was sitting on the ground while your panties were ripped in the middle, right at your entrance. 

“Toru!”

You whimpered, hiding your face in his pillow. "Don't hide yourself from me, baby. wanna see ya.”

The headboard was hitting against the wall with a thud and Gojo could only pray that the other students staying at the dorms couldn’t hear them.  

He buried himself deeper into your cunt, bottoming out. 

“You’re too big…” you squealed, gripping onto the now wet bedsheets. 

“I know. And you’re too tight.” 

His hand shifted to grope your ass, fondling the plush meat, hips not stopping or slowing. 

Your breathless pleas were like music to his ears. 

“My pretty girlfriend.. mmm aren’t you so pretty?” he praised. The veins in his arms were more evident now. One was appearing on his forehead in concentration, trying to figure out the best way to make you cum. 

You were a virgin after all. 

Profanities spilled from both your lips, feeling yourself clench harder around him. A ring of pre was forming just at the base of his cock, like a damn tattoo. 

“Babe! T-think I’m close!”

He grunted lowly. “Don’t cum just yet.” The squelches have now turned sloppier, and louder, and hotter. 

His white bangs were sticking to his forehead no thanks to the thin layer of sweat that had formed. 

“Not done with you yet.” 

His hands placed themselves both on your hips, thick fingertips rubbing you lovingly before flipping you over without slipping out. 

He wasted no time smacking at your cunt, watching your wetness fly into the air with each spank. 

“Satoru…!” You felt lightheaded in the best way possible. Your drool dripped down your chin, watching him thrust in and out. The hair that trailed down his belly button to join his pubes just made you tighten onto his aching cock even more. 

How could your boyfriend be this beautiful? 

Gojo hesitated, pulling you closer to his hips, latching a hand lightly to your neck. 

“Is this okay?” 

You nodded feeling him squeeze it. 

The sounds of your breathy moans, messy cunt along with the smack of his balls that hit your ass with every thrust had you both in a trance.

So much so that you didn’t seem to notice the door shutting and the sudden appearance of Geto who was frozen in his place, looking absolutely mortified. 

“What the fuck.” 

His voice broke through your needy whines. “Satoru!” This time his voice sounded harsher, angrier. 

Gojo’s movements came to a halt, keeping his grip on your waist. His body covered you, blocking you from his friends' view. But he knew for a fact that Geto already had in mind who was in the bed with him. 

You quickly brought the sheets to your chest in an attempt to cover yourself.  

“... Ever heard of knocking?” Gojo mumbled. 

“The door was fucking open. I could see you from the kitchen.” Geto did not advance from his spot on the doorframe. “Don’t tell me you actually got with her.”

Gojo hasn't told him about the two of you yet. Or anyone really. 

You never questioned it, thinking he’d want to take it slow before he introduced you to his friends let alone family. You had just started dating a couple weeks back. But the way his friend said it ‘don’t tell me you actually got with her.’ left a bad taste in your mouth. 

What did he mean by that? 

“Geto, seriously get out of the room.” 

“Your parents are going to kill you Satoru,” He was more animated now, hands waving in the air angrily. His own thoughts didn’t let him process the way Gojo used his last name on him. “Aren’t you supposed to be at practice right now? What the hell are you doing man-”

“I said get out!” You’ve never heard Gojo’s voice beam like that. 

Ever.  

It got across though. Geto slammed the door shut, storming off. 

Gojo sighed, staring at the wall before averting his gaze down to you, smiling softly. “Guess the moment is over, huh?” 

Your fingers twitched on his shoulders, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “Why’d he say that?” 

His eyebrows furrowed, face shifting to one of concern at your shaky voice. 

“Hey hey, baby, it’s okay shh..” 

His softening cock slipped out of you with a small pop, arms circling around you to bring you into a hug. 

“My family.. Is an ass. A big fucking ass. They’re strict with me, especially my love life. They think they know what’s best for me but fuck, no they dont. I know what’s right for me and that’s you, love. It’s you.” 

His lips grazed at your cheek, pecking lightly. 

“It’s been you since I laid eyes on you.” 

⟢

His words looped over and over in your head as you mentally prepared yourself for your upcoming performance. 

From behind the curtain, you peeked out to see him sitting in his designated seat, head tilted down at his digital camera, adjusting the settings, waiting for you to come out so he could preserve the moment forever. 

Your teeth sank into the inside of your cheek, now becoming a new habit of yours, pacing back into the backstage area. 

If you've practiced the song multiple times, you shouldn’t be nervous. 

Right?

Wrong. 

Because the problem wasn’t the notes or the tempo, it was that you’d chosen this song with him in mind. 

“Want to watch La La Land?” Satoru mumbled earlier that month, scratching the back of his neck while the other lazily clicked away at the remote control. 

“Sure!” You tossed the blanket over your bodies,  snuggling close to his warm bare chest. “How are you not cold?” You pressed your cheek against him. 

“Hm?” His eyes landed on you after pressing ‘play’. “I am cold. I just want to show off my amazing muscles to my amazing girl.” 

“Weirdo.” 

Neither of you have watched the film before. but somehow ended up falling in love with it. You with the music, and him with the storyline. 

“I hope we never end up like them.” His voice was a whisper, silently wrapping his arms tight around you.

“Toru-”

“Never, ever leaving you, baby. Fuck soccer and you know what, fuck piano too. Don’t leave me.” 

You heard your name be called out, indicating you were next. 

You quickly patted down your skirt with trembling hands, stepping in front  of the mirror to make sure your hair, makeup, posture, everything was perfect.

The stage manager gave you a nod and you finally stepped out. 

His eyes landed on you immediately, smiling lovingly up at you. You could feel your chest tighten as you sat at the piano, fingers already hovering over the keys. 

From the distance, you could hear the sound of something clicking, his camera. 

You inhaled before pushing down your fingers, allowing the melody to unfold. You’d discreetly look over at him, seeing how he stared at you so preciously. 

By the final note, your hands had stopped shaking. 

The room erupted in applause, the loudest coming from Satoru. You bowed, eyes never leaving him even when you stepped offstage, rushing towards him. 

“Satoru!” 

He didn’t let another word come out of you, automatically cupping your cheeks, pressing his lips against yours. 

“Such a cruel girl.” He pecked again. “You picked that song on purpose didn’t ya?”

You giggled. “Maybe.” 

His thumb rubbed under your eye gently. 

“You did amazing, sweetheart.” 

⟢

Satoru has come to notice that the only way you were able to practice piano was using the school’s. 

And with Christmas approaching, he figured it’d only be appropriate if he got you one of your own. 

His hands covered your eyes, leading you carefully to the living room where your present was. 

“Alright, 3..2..1.” 

His hands fell allowing you to see. you blinked, eyes adjusting to the bright lights on the tree.

Your jaw dropped. 

In front of you was none other than a console piano. It wasn’t like the one in the music room where you practiced in and the only place you knew that had the instrument available for use, but regardless it was beautiful. 

And completely yours. 

“You like it?” He asked, rubbing your back. You nodded excitedly. “Of course I do! Thank you!” Your face was as bright as the Christmas lights, beaming at the new piano that sat in your living room. 

“I'm glad..” he whispered, letting go of you so you could look at it closer. 

You squealed, slightly jumping up and down at it. he groaned at the recoil of your ass which was visible under your plaid skirt. 

“It's so gorgeous!” your fingers pushed down on the keys. 

“Just like you.” 

“So cheesy” You said before bursting into laughter as his hands found your stomach, tickling you. You braced yourself on the piano's surface. That's when you felt it. 

His very prominent boner that was straining his pants. 

Gojo noticed that you noticed. 

A smirk appeared on that stupid face of his. “How about we check how sturdy this sucker is.” He placed a hand on your gift. 

Gojo’s hips snapped forward with a ruthless pace, each thrust making you hit against the brand new instrument and begin to rattle with all his strength.

His breath was coming out in short pants, chest pressed up against your back, pinning you harder against the surface of the piano. You whispered out his name like a prayer, every sound you made reached his ears and that only seemed to push him even further.

“So goddamn beautiful.” He praised.

At some point, words became too difficult for you to say, resulting in you answering with only moans and whimpers. gojo’s fingers were digging into your hips, leaving crescent like marks on them. He kept pounding into you harshly, tip already brushing against a sweet spot inside you.

“Right there!” You begged along with a loud mewl.

Your skirt was bunched up in his hands, almost tearing the fabric apart as he felt himself grow closer. 

“Here?” he began going deeper, watching you fall apart. The bounce of your ass was not helping, especially with the way it slapped against his thighs. His lower lip was in between his teeth, letting out grunts of his own spill. 

You were both thankful your parents weren’t home. He wouldn’t want to ruin the image they had of him this quickly. Of the perfect guy for their daughter already fucking her numb over her christmas present. 

“Think m’cummin!” You sobbed out, reaching behind you to grab his waist for support. He coo’ed softly, hand leaving your skirt to hold your hand in his. “Me too baby, let’s finish together alright? I'm cumming inside you. no way am i able to pull out this tight fuckin pussy.”

You nodded. 

“Please fill me up!” Gojo grinned once he heard that. “If ya say so darling.” 

Your legs gave up on you at the feeling of his warm seed filling you to the brim. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, mouth open with sounds still coming out as your orgasm hit you as well. 

“Good girl baby.” His arms were wrapped around your waist, pecking your temple lovingly. “Stay with me..” 

You both stayed in that position, dick still twitching inside you before softening, forcing him to slip out with a loud squelch that made you cringe. 

“M’guessing you loved your gift?” He reached down for your panties, sliding them back on you but not before watching his semen ooze out of your cunt along with yours. He fought the urge to stick his tongue in you to clean the mess up, but he could tell you were already overstimulated, so he decided to eat you out some other time. 

And by that I mean in a few hours. 

“Yeah.. thank you.. so much..” You whimpered at the sting on your ass after he slapped it. Gojo quickly zipped his pants back up, pushing his hair back with a pant. 

“Of course my love. you better play me every song you know on it.” 

“Will do..” you smiled weakly up at him. 

“I'm gonna go get ya water, cmon sit down on the couch sweetheart.” 

You did as he said, carefully sitting down. The feeling of his cum sticking to your panties just made you clench your thighs. 

Why did he have to be so sexy? 

You stared back at your piano, admiring it. You were already thinking of all the songs you would play from sunrise to sunset. 

Gojo walked back to the living room holding a glass of water, handing it over. 

“My final game is coming up.. So I have lots of practice to do. Hope the piano keeps you occupied while I’m away.” His arm wrapped over your shoulder, bringing you closer. 

“Mmmm that’s right.” 

“Wanna head over to a restaurant, baby?” He never hesitated in asking you, and he urged you to never be afraid in asking him for whatever you desired. 

“I’d really love that.” 

“Good good, let’s get going then.” He stood up, offering his hand to you. 

“Uh, no way am I going out to eat like this.” 

His eyebrow twitched in confusion. “Like what?” 

You motioned downstairs, lifting your skirt to show off the wet mess. 

Gojo laughed, smacking your thigh lightly. “No no, you gotta head out like that.”

“Absolutely not!” 

⟢

The dinner consisted of nothing but him staring at you.

“Babe, eat.” You urged.

“Can’t, the view is too nice.” 

After eating out, you both settled in heading over to his place. 

His laugh quieted down as he pulled into the parking lot, seeing two familiar snow colored haired people. He could feel his heart sink and blood boil. 

“Stay here darling.” He ordered you, squeezing your thigh. You mumbled a soft ‘ok’, attempting to look behind you out the window to see what was going on.

He got out of the vehicle, walking around to where the people he wanted to see the least were standing. His mother was biting her nails anxiously like a mad woman. His father had his arms crossed over his chest, a serious look displayed on his face. 

Then there was Suguru. looking as guilty as ever.

And it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on. 

“Is that the girl?” His mother asked. She had never expected her son to be going out with a girl instead of sticking to his schedule. How dare he? “Is that your little girlfriend?” Her voice rose up. 

“What did we say about relationships?” his father reminded him. 

But all gojo could think about was the fact that they found out because of the tan boy standing not far away. 

“Are you fucking kidding me.” He stared at the one person he thought he could trust. His hands shot out to grab Suguru's shirt collar. 

“You told them?!” He was practically screaming in his face. But Suguru kept looking unbothered, as if he didn’t practically ruin Gojo’s life right now. 

“Son, calm down.” Gojo's father said sternly. 

“No, no how the hell am I supposed to calm down. You all keep getting in the way of my life. My life!” He was at the point of crying tears out of frustration. 

“She is just a girl, Satoru.” His mother said. “She woo’ed you with a few tunes so what, it’s not going to bring money into the family, is it? You need to find yourself a good woman. But right now, your focus is on your career. Not a girlfriend, and especially not her.” 

“You are no longer the one to decide what you think is best for me. I love her, mom. I don't care what you think, just know that I am not listening to anything you say.” 

That shut his mom up real quick, shooting him a death glare, one that would have 6 year old Gojo in tears by now. But he kept his head high. 

“Satoru, you have to understand that we want what’s best for you.” 

“No,” He interrupted, turning to look at his father now. “You want what’s best for you.”

He then turned his head towards Suguru, whose eyes were set on his shoes, knowing he completely lost his best friend's trust. It's not like he had a choice either but to tell the truth. His and Gojo's family were close, and he knew that if he were to lie to Gojos parents when they asked him why the coach had informed them that their son was on the verge of being kicked from the team, the families would have even more conflicts. 

Gojo wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but instead he walked right past the new stranger. 

“Can you hear me out for a second.” Geto caught up to him, ignoring the putrid sobs coming from Mrs. Gojo. “Satoru.” he called out. 

“Look man, did you really expect me to lie when they came to the dorm, worried sick that you missed two practices? What was I supposed to say?” 

“Tell them I was sick, that an emergency came up, I don’t know but you could’ve come up with a shitty excuse.” 

“Just for them to find out I didn't tell the truth and have our families fight over me being a liar?!” 

Gojo was breathing heavily, eyebrows furrowed and jaw set tight. but his face fell as soon as he remembered you were still in the car. 

He shook his head. “They can stay the fuck out of my life. And so can you.” 

Geto froze at that. “You don’t mean that.” 

“Trust me, I mean every bit.” The air around them felt heavy. “You chose them over me.”

“Gojo, the families-“ 

“You're just a damn puppet. Same as I was, but I learned to stop playing the role. Do you think they actually see you as their son? They see you as an accomplishment.”

He rushed down the stairs, approaching his car where you were still in, head hung low nervously as you played with the skin around your fingernails, clearly worried. His parents were standing outside the building, shooting dirty looks towards your way. 

“I'm driving you home.” Gojo said after entering the car, closing the door shut and clicking his seatbelt on. “Mind if I stay with you for a bit, baby?”

His eyes met yours. 

“… Did they want us to break up?” You asked quietly, scared to hear his response. 

He immediately grabbed your hand in his to reassure you. “You know I would never ever do that. You're everything to me no matter what they think or say, I'm not letting things end between us. Got it?” 

You hesitated, not wanting his parents to hate their only son because he chose you over them. “But what if they’re right? What if you can do better?” 

You heard. 

Of course you heard. Not like they were being quiet. 

His hold tightened. “Don't you start with that.” That's the last thing he said as he drove to yours, address no longer needed on the ups no thanks to the amount of times he’s been over. 

You worried over what his family would think of him now. 

Would they hate him because of you? 

⟢

The bed felt surprisingly cold.

Your boyfriend's back was turned towards you and even though his back muscles were on full display, you couldn’t ogle without having something eating you up from the inside. 

“Toru.. baby can we talk about earlier?”

“Love, if you’re going to tell me that they’re right I swear to god-”

“No,” You sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it down to the small of his back. “I just.. I feel like we shouldn’t wait until morning to discuss it.” 

Begrudgingly, Satoru turned around, meeting eyes with you. “I will never ever break up with you because my family thinks they know what is best for me. I cut them off on the spot. They’ve got no say in what I do with my life nor with the woman I love. I told you once and I’ll tell you again. I love you, okay?”

Your heart warmed and you felt your worriness ease. “I love you too.” 

“I’ve been wanting to get rid of them for a long ass time anyways.” He yawned, throwing an arm around your waist. “Just finally got a good excuse to do so.” 

Your lips met in a small but sweet peck. 

“Now let’s go to sleep.. Big game tomorrow.” 

⟢

Suguru seems to not have caught on to the fact that his former best friend no longer wanted to be a part of his life anymore. 

“Satoru, seriously let’s talk.” He begged like a desperate ex. 

The white haired boy only rolled his eyes in response, walking past him to reach his locker. “I don’t need you messing with my head before the game. Told you to stay the fuck away from me and I meant it.” 

He quickly tugged off his shirt and replaced it with his white and teal jersey before slamming his locker shut and turning to walk out. Suguru’s hand placed itself on Satoru’s chest only to get pushed off almost immediately. 

Satoru walked out, hearing the sound of the crowd cheering. He looked around until he spotted you sitting not too far from the front. 

He smiled stupidly at himself knowing he was right where he wanted to be. 

⟢

You stared at him like he grew three heads. 

“Uhh yeah babe, I think I remember our whole love story. I was there.” 

“Okay well yes but I’m retelling it because.. Because..” Satrou groaned, looking off to the side where two waitresses were standing, nodding at them. 

Before you could look towards the direction he was staring at, a familiar song started playing. 

Love me. 

The same one you played for him all those years ago. 

“Oh, hey-” 

“Shhh..” He brought a finger up to your lips before standing up. Satoru reached into his pocket pulling out a small black box. “Baby.. light of my life.” 

Your eyes watered, already knowing where this was going. 

He got down on one knee. 

Satoru peers over at you as you get pushed hard, while he’s running practice as Sukuna had a ton of marketing shit to do for the team, he ran a lot of that – he ran a lot of everything for the team, really. He figured he’d probably come for his nephew’s first day on the rink though. Yuuji slams a puck hard and Satoru grins all proud, peeking at you again.

 "Your timing is off in the second half,” he hears, frowning at just how harsh she seems to be – not that Sukuna wasn’t with them, but she seems even more of a hard ass. “You're losing energy fast, we'll need to increase your conditioning.”

“I am a little tired…” You admit softly, a little out of breath and shaky. “I didn’t get breakfast because I woke up late.

“Unnaceptable, you need to up your caloric intake – and that combo spin at the end? You’re not hitting that right either. Run it again and then you can eat, after you improve these moves."

You feel embarrassed suddenly, your eyes catch Satoru – seeing his reassuring little smile.

“Go eat first then if you’re that distracted,” her words cut your thoughts off once more, you blush a bit and not, skating past Satoru with a little smile.

He feels his goddamn heart race, just from your little smile – all tired and exhausted. He wishes you were tired from riding his cock, rather than your cute little self just smoking and drinking for the first time. He knows he's completely and utterly fucked, obsessed with the one woman he absolutely shouldn't want.

“You like her?” Satoru realizes he’s staring at you when Yuuji brings it up, clearing his throat now.

“What makes you say that?”

“Can’t take your eyes off her,” Yuuji gets a little serious then, peering over at Satoru. “My sister, she's never even dated anyone, and she’s really, really sweet.”

“I… I know that,” he murmurs, feeling Yuuji’s eyes looking at him very curiously. “I do really like her, yeah, but fuck don’t tell your uncle.”

“I mean I won’t though it’s obvious – but… as much as I admire your hockey playing, she’s my sister and I always look out for her,” Satoru nods then, a hand on Yuuji’s shoulder.

“I have no intention of hurting her – I want to get to know her,” he peeks over where you’re eating, he almost says good girl out loud. “You’ve heard about me then, huh?”

“Just that you’re quite a partier – which Choso is too, but… not when it comes to women,” Yuuji’s blushing a bit, Satoru’s lips quirk up. “If it ever got serious and you hurt her, I would not be much better than my uncle.”

How devoted your family is to you truly just makes Satoru even more intrigued about you in so many ways. “I get it, promise it’s not my intent.”

“Good, I think I really like you, so,” Satoru grins. “I just am protective.”

“Isn’t she your big sis?”

“Still…” Satoru can’t help but smile more at just how cute you are when you wave at him, peering at your phone and blushing for his eyes.

You – oh um… thank you? I… you can’t just text this in the middle of the day!

Good girl – was he trying to mess with you?

By the end of the grueling session, every muscle in your body is fucking tense, you feel it not just more because of how relentless she is, but also the lack of sleep is kicking your ass. She’s had you repeat your triple axel combination until your legs felt like pure jello, before she saw you were so damn exhausted she relented and called it for a day.

You glide slowly toward the rink's exit, practically counting the moments until you can collapse in your bed. You're about to step off when suddenly Satoru Gojo is right there, crouching down and kneeling in front of you, making you lose any good sense, those eyes looking at you underneath his snowy lashes.

“Hi,” he says softly, reaching down with practiced movements, slipping on the pretty pink skates guards before you can even process what's happening, your brain all sluggish.

“Hi,” you whisper back, biting your lip nervously. “You got these for me?”

“They were just right here,” he helps you over and you almost collapse, making him look at you with concern, his hands steadying your waist, the warmth seeping in over your glittery outfit, your heart hammers in your chest. "Don't want you breaking an ankle before our date."

You blush furiously at the mention of the date. “I’m excited for it.”

“So am I,” it takes a lot not to kiss you, to act casual in front of everyone, clearing his throat and smiling at you now. "You look exhausted – come on, let's get these off you."

He's got you sitting on a nearby bench, kneeling again and ruining your psyche, his hand brushing your calf, burning your skin and sending signals to your body, nipples pressing up, breath catching in your throat. “Satoru, you don’t have to do all this.”

“You’re exhausted,” he says softly, long, elegant fingers working deftly at the laces of your skates. When he removes the first skate, you sigh in relief, but his expression changes when he looks at your ankle. “Shit…”

“Shit what?” Your eyes are already drifting, Satoru takes off your other one and sighs.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, his fingers gently tracing the skin, you feel it then – it’s aching. "Your ankle is all swollen."

You look down to see he's right – both your ankles are in fact, you grimace just a bit when he sits next to you, tugging your legs in his lap, making you blush like crazy at the feeling, but he’s looking with concern. "They're fine – ah!”

"No, they're not. She’s working you too hard.”

“She’s not, really, mnh,” Satoru gently massages the swollen area, you can't suppress the little soft sigh of pleasure that mixes with the pain, and the utter desire at him in your proximity.

“Not really?” He asks, leaning in closer, the two of you are on a far bench hidden from view just a bit, but when he’s that close you panic. Someone could see you both see your hand on his chest as he massages your sore little ankles, studying you with devastating blue eyes. “You sure?”

“I’m sure, you’re making it better…” You whisper, he sighs at just how goddamn pretty you are, unable to stop himself from pressing a soft kiss to your lips, drinking in your sigh. “Satoru…”

“Fuck,” he’s kissing you again, your hand entangled in his locks – it’s reckless, foolish, but you can’t stop. "Let me take care of you tonight." His whisper against your swollen lips almost ends you.

“Tonight? Take care of me?” He sighs, gently massaging your aching calf with one hand, his other cupping your face.

“I’ll make sure to massage every pretty inch of your body,” he says, voice husky, your eyes dilate and you give him this look, the sort of look that has him wanting to do the most filthy fucking things. “Want me too?”

Before you can respond, a huge ass fucking shadow falls over you both, and you look up with wide eyes. "What the fuck are you doing!?"

You both freeze, turning to see Sukuna standing there, his huge arms crossed over his chest.

“I thought you weren’t coming to-”

“So you’ve got your hands on my niece? No,” he smacks Satoru in the back of the head, making him glare.

“I was just-”

"Just leaving," Sukuna cuts him off again, his eyes narrowing over at you, bright fucking red. "Now."

“No,” Sukuna scoffs, raising his brows. 

“No!?”

“No, look at her, she’s fucking hurting,” Satoru says firmly, his hands not leaving despite the imminent threat of your big ass uncle.

Sukuna's gaze drops to your ankles, he sighs now, brows drawing together.

“She’s all swollen from one day with this new trainer? Isn't that ridiculous?”

“Are you all right?” Sukuna asks quietly, you nod and Satoru backs off. Uncle Sukuna kneels down on the ground and peers at your ankles, fingers touching your ankles gingerly.

“It’s nothing…” Satoru and Sukuna both give you a look.

“Really?” Satoru scoffs and you nod again.

“Really! I'm good!”

“Hate to fucking agree with this idiot-”

“Excuse me!?” Satoru cuts him off, but Sukuna ignores him. 

“It’s not nothing though,” he continues on as he stands up, and scowls at Satoru. “You making her feel better looked like you were kissing her, clearly my eyes are seeing shit wrong?”

“So wrong!” You barely hold back your laughter, Satoru stands and eases your ankles off his lap, looking at you and taking your hand, kissing it, earning your giggle. “Look how gentlemanly I am.”

“Sure, and I’m a fucking pretty figure skater,” Satoru snorts and winks down at you, when Sukuna catches sight of your trainer. “Hey!”

“Uncle Kuna!”

“No,” he looks at you scowling – but then his expression softens a bit. “I clearly need to have a conversation with her. Gojo, get fucking gone.”

Satoru reluctantly leaves, but not before he's peeking back at you, his lips curving into a smile before he walks out of the rink.

You sigh as he catches the trainer – she’s all cute and tiny on the exterior for as fucking mean as she was, even her fuzzy little hat is a complete distraction. “Yes? I’m going to be late if I don’t head out now.”

“As much as you’re getting paid you can wait,” he crosses his big ass arms and looks down at her – she mimics the motion, raising a brow. “Where do you get off running her till she’s injured, huh?”

“Do you not want her to be a pro skater?”

Sukuna cannot answer as you watch, your coach Sienna is just about the meanest little thing you’ve ever seen, she rivals your big ass uncle even though he’s a foot and half taller than her. 

“Your name is Yena or some shit, right?”

She scoffs at him. “Not for you, it’s not – you’re giving me some fucking nickname?”

“Yena,” he continues, making her glare even more, you can barely conceal your giggle behind your hand as you watch her stomp right up to him. “I’ll call ya that, or a little brat.”

“Me, a brat?” She starts laughing – she’s genuinely insane if you’re being honest. “Listen here you conceited, pink haired fuck.”

“Did you just poke me!?” She stabs his chest with her finger again.

“I sure did!”

“Tch, pink haired-”

“I’ll make her climb Mt Everest if I need to,” she cuts him right off. "I'll do whatever I have to do to get her to that level. If I have to have her work all day and night I will. Isn’t that why you hired me?”

“You’re being fucking harsh on her, why is she hurting like that?” Sukuna bends down and Sienna scowls and grabs a little chair nearby, standing so she’s at his height – Sukuna himself snorts in laughter, even you can’t help but giggle just a bit at the sight before you. “Seriously?”

“Yes I’m tired of hurting my fucking neck,” she has no issue going face to face with him. “Jolly fucking giant.”

That’s when you see something flicker, a blush on your uncle’s cheeks.

Does Uncle Sukuna like someone?

“You hired me, so I’ll train her how I see fit. There will be no coddling her,” Sukuna raises a brow at her.

“I’m not coddling-”

“Yes you are, and I won’t deal with that shit,” she tugs her hat on and he snorts at her.

“Dumb lil fuckin’ hat.”

She turns and glares daggers at the giant man. “Excuse me!?”

“Looks fucking stupid, tch,” he glares down at her. “Take it easier on her, I swear to god.”

“Oh sure, I’ll take it easy so she won’t be ready. Is that what you want? Is that how you train those boys?”

“Fuck off,” Sukuna turns and she hops off the chair like a little psycho, yanking him right back to look at her again, Sukuna pauses just a bit.

Not often your uncle meets his match.

“You hired me and I’ll do my job, I’ll have her trained to win,” she sighs now, peeking over at you. “She needs to eat and take care of herself, that’s not on me – and that’s why her stamina is shit. I push her because she needs it.”

Sukuna stands there a moment – maybe he gets enamored with her, maybe irritated, it’s hard to tell with your uncle – but he ends up turning back around. “I’ll work on her having energy, but you need to calm down. She has months until the competition.”

“I won’t calm down,” Sukuna scowls over his shoulder at her, his hands clenched into fists. “But I will make sure she wins without getting injured.”

“Right,” he stomps on over to you now, bending down and snatching your ass up suddenly.

“Uncle Kuna-”

“Nope,” Sukuna picks you up in his arms, like it’s nothing – of course it was, Sukuna was enormous, but he hasn’t carried you since you were like a teenager with an ankle injury.

“I can walk!”

“Yeah well,” he grunts in annoyance as he carries you outside to his car, the chill of the air making you shiver just a bit. “I’ll take care of you.”

“I’m all right, promise,” he ignores you of course.

“Seatbelt.”

“Yeah,” you snap it on, wincing at just how bad your ankles are throbbing, Sukuna looks with concern before he starts the car.  “Was she right?”

“What?”

“Coddling me,” you mumble, sighing now and looking at him as he starts to drive. “You and Yuuji, even Choso, always protect me.”

“That has not got shit to do with skating,” you fiddle a bit with the hem of your skirt. “I am fine with her being hard on you for training, it just seemed excessive.”

“I almost think…”

“What, brat?”

“You find her hot.”

“Excuse me?” You’re giggling, Sukuna’s brows lower as he comes to a red light, looking right at you. “You really wanna piss me off lately, huh? Sneaking out to parties, talking shit.”

“Not at all, I just…” You trail off a bit, sighing. “I think you’d be cute together.”

“Me and her!? She’s psychotic, did you see her just climbing fucking chairs?”

“Do you think she’s cute?”

“Ugh,” he doesn’t say shit, answering your question, truly. “The matter at hand is, she needs to calm down on the way she’s pushing you. So, tomorrow you won’t be training.”

“But-”

“No buts,” he cuts you off quickly, making you pout. “No puppy dog eyes either, kid. There will be no training tomorrow. I’ll have Yuuji snitch on you.”

“He’d never!”

Sukuna smirks. “Oh wouldn’t he?”

You roll your eyes now, sinking against the leather of his passenger seat. “Only if you bribe him.”

“Who’s to say I won’t?”

“Ugh!”

“Listen,” Sukuna sighs loudly, as if he’s thoroughly exhausted. “There is to be no practice tomorrow, and you need to start eating enough – especially at the level you’re training at.”

“I will, promise. I just forget.”

“You can’t forget, it’ll have you sloppy.”

You cross your arms, he snorts at you. All sweet but you were indeed a little bit of a brat with your uncle. “Ugh, you sound like her too.”

“What!?” You sigh louder this time. “One more sigh, brat.”

“What will you do, ground me?”

“Yep.” You both laugh then, but Uncle Kuna is serious in just a few more minutes. “Oh, by relaxing? That doesn’t mean kissing Satoru.”

You feel the heat rush across your cheeks. “I wasn’t… I mean…”

“You suck at lying,” you can’t lie to him for shit, really. “I’m saying this because I love you, for no other reason. All right?”

“Satoru seems sweet, though.”

He laughs then, throwing his head back, making you glare. “I’m sorry, but sweet isn’t the word for him.”

“He’s caring, okay?”

He pauses then, thumb tapping on the steering wheel as the other raps along his thigh. “I am not gonna say he isn’t caring, or that he’s horrible. What I am saying is that he isn’t into serious relationships, and you’re a good kid. All right?”

“Right,” you do understand what he means, you’ve heard from Satoru himself he’s never really had a relationship. “I will take tomorrow off, then.”

“Good.”

*****

The next day, you did as your uncle demanded and took a complete rest – well, for some of the day you did. Your ankles were still tender from your trainer Sienna – or as Uncle Sukuna calls her ‘Yena’. You can’t help but find the way her short ass goes against him fucking hilarious, you giggle just thinking about it even as you are wrapped in compression bandages, carefully undoing them and seeing the swelling has gone down significantly.

“Much better,” you murmur, stepping off the bed with your feet on the soft carpet of your room.

Living with Sukuna and Yuuji after being alone in a dorm for some time was a bit of an adjustment, they were damn near the spitting image of each other and acted the same half the time. You felt just a little out of place at times – Sukuna was bold, Yuuji was outgoing, but you? The shy one.

 The day off was a relief in a way from the new level of grueling training that your very aggressive little trainer was giving you – you damn near hear it in her pretty accent ‘i’ll make you climb mt everest’ in your fucking nightmares. You’d woken up about to do a triple axel just from the amount of trauma she put you through.

But you sort of love that – you want to be pushed to do your best.

Then your later dreams as you napped? Well they were all Satoru Gojo – his touch, the way he kissed your lips, how his hands gripped your waist. It was all rushing through your mind, swirling until you were completely dizzy. How could you not want to know more about him, especially when you see his text.

Satoru – hey sweets, we’re on for tonight, yeah?

You – yes, I am getting ready!

You’re just a little frantic as you get dressed, throwing on this outfit and that, tossing them on the bed just to grab another, you’re limping just a bit still, frowning as you peer in the mirror. You want to look perfect tonight, but you tended not to go many places unless it was related to figure skating and some sort of event Uncle Sukuna dragged you to.

Boy would he be mad when he came back and you weren’t here.

That was a problem for later though – right now you were brushing your hair out in the mirror, trying to find the perfect shade to go with your pretty black dress. The one you settled on snatched in at your waist, bared just enough of your thighs, a necklace nestled in the hollow of your throat, right between your collarbones, a little silver one that was your moms.

You touch it for a moment, it’s not that you were very close to the parents you lost – they were aggressive with pushing you into this, and mostly ignored anything you actually wanted to pursue. Thinking of writing? No way. Wanna do art? No. They knew where the scholarships, brand deals and money to be had, and that included pulling you out of school.

It’s not that you resent them, either, it’s just…

You don’t know how you feel, if you dwell upon it too long. Although Sukuna pushed you to do your best, he overwhelmingly cared and didn’t push you until you completely broke. You can say the same for Yuuji, how hard they pushed him into his sports and academics, in his case keeping him in school was the best, which created some distance between you both for a time.

You can’t imagine how hard it was for Sukuna at one time to have you, Choso and Yuuji under the same roof, along with any other family members that would swing by and just crash. The look on Sukuna’s face when he’d stumble upon a room full of his nephews and their friends was priceless. You suppose having just one niece was a good thing for him.

You know why he’s protective, but the draw of Satoru pulls you closer every moment you’re near him, every time you see his pretty blue eyes and that soft, lazy little smile that lights up his face. You can’t act like there’s nothing between you both, even if you were nervous about it.

How much of the rumors were true?

Would Satoru snort coke off those girls after your dinner?

Could you even be upset with him if he did?

You swathe on your lipstick and sigh, putting it up with a quiet click, hand trembling just a little bit. You decide on a pretty nude shade after swiping your lips clean so many times they were all red, puffy and swollen. Three mascara shades until you gave up and started over, you don’t even want to admit how many ways you styled your hair in front of your little vanity.

It’s not until he texts you that he’s there that you finally calm down and smooth that dress down the delicate lines and curves of your body, trying to balance a bit with the heels when your ankles hurt a bit. You rush out and see him leaning against the car, smiling at you.

“You’re driving?” You ask softly, his eyes dart down your body behind round shades, he exhales as he gets a look at you.

“Shit,” you blush all cute, as Satoru takes your hand and spins you around, a little whistle having even your ears turning pink. “Just… god, look at you.”

“Oh, Satoru,” you murmur those words softly – all nervous underneath the avid attention he’s laying on you. You feel your thighs pressing together without thinking, especially when he tugs your body against his chest, huge arms wrapping around your waist and making you feel so small near him. “Thank you.”

“You got this pretty just for me?” He asks softly, fingertips brushing across the line of your jaw delicately.

“I did,” you fiddle a bit with his collar, blushing even more at his proximity, at the heat of his body against yours. “You look so handsome, too.”

“Mhm,” it’s hard for Satoru to focus with his heart hammering behind his ribs, his cock is leaking just hugging you to him – and he knows he needs to take this shit slow. He knows the last thing you need is him having you ride his cock in his mercedes benz – though fuck he loves that idea.

You’re looking up at him with your pretty, glittering eyes underneath your lashes, he can feel the warmth of your skin radiating against him. Satoru sighs, tilting your chin up, lips he’s gotten to kiss twice now – but that hardly seems enough. He truly needs so much time with you, time he’s not sure either of you can get without being caught.

“You like my dress, hmm?” You tease him softly, his fingers graze the hem of it, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“I like you in this dress,” he corrects softly, hand sliding up the curve of your hip. “God, the things I wanna say.”

“Say them,” you look intoxicated then, pupils dilating just so – until the black swallows up your iris.

“Oh, think you can handle it, sweetheart?” He teases, lips quirking up just a bit, you nod and he laughs. “You’ll blush all over.”

“No! Tell me,” you pout all cute, Satoru sighs now, leaning low and turning you so your hands and tits are pressing against the car. “Ah!”

“I was thinking to myself,” he murmurs, behind you now so that the curve of your ass is against those strong thighs, one of his hands is braced on one side of your head, the other – just gliding up your hip, tugging you closer against his hard body. “Hmm, was thinkin’ how I’d love to lift up this pretty little dress and fuck into you, ruin your panties so that they’re just soaked with my cum drippin’ down them.”

“Oh… I…” You can’t handle it, he was right, but you want to hear it, even as it makes you so nervous – you’re needy for it, for more. Looking back and knowing the danger you’re in getting involved with the Satoru Gojo – but there isn’t a red flag in sight for you.

No, all of them are just utterly green.

Nothing Sukuna says or what the press reports is going to stop you from looking into those pretty blue eyes, you’re trembling right in his hold. He exhales and nuzzles your neck, lips pressing a teasing little kiss right there. “I’m trying really hard to hold back here, you’re just a good girl, aren’t you? I love that about you.”

“N-not that good,” your response has him chuckling, hand still splayed over where you’re heated up. “I did smoke weed, you know.”

“You’re so fucking adorable,” he chuckles and eases his hold a bit, cupping your face thoughtfully for a moment.

You are adorable.

Satoru simultaneously wants to ruin you and make sure you stay so damn sweet, the thought of hurting you with who he was has him hesitating just a bit – normally he’d have no issue having a ‘date’ suck him off on the drive. Have no problem touching her all he wanted, and the next day?

Back to normal.

But what sort of normal were you, really? When everything about you has him so fucked up? He can try to explain it away all he wants – but even as he was practicing today it was just about all he could do to not stare longingly on the other side of the ice, where he was just so used to you being there.

 “I’d take my time with you,” he says softly now, sighing as he drinks in your soft little moan. “Savor every pretty inch of your body.”

“W-would you?” Your attempt at teasing is so precious he laughs softly, you feel how eager he is pressing right against the small of your back.

“Would you like me kissing every inch?”

Of course you would – but your heart races in a different way then, wondering just how many girls get that from Satoru. It’s all just so very new, he senses your hesitation and pulls back, turning you to face him and frowning.

“Is it too much? I should-”

“No, no,” you lean up and kiss him again, earning his lashes fluttering shut as he leans down and returns it. “Just nervous.”

“Don’t be, it’ll be fun,” Satoru leans over and opens the door, smiling all pretty at you as the sun sets and casts a million shades across the two of you.. “Ya ready, sweetheart?”

“Mhm!” 

It’s not a very long drive to where Satoru wants to take you, and sitting in the passenger seat as his hand rests on your thigh? It makes it hard to focus on any reason why you shouldn’t go full, head on into Satoru – it makes what you’ve been warned about sort of just fade to the background, since it really was perfect being right next to him.

When the two of you get there he’s holding the door open for you, sounds of gasps and giggles echo, making you both pause, when you see it – girls sitting in a nearby car and gasping out. “That’s Gojo!”

“Shit,” he mumbles, he’d been so excited about this date he didn’t even plan for this possibility. He shields you and smiles at them. “Hi there.”

“Oh my god!” They’re all giggling as you stand behind him curiously, his broad shoulders blocking any of your view. “It really is Gojo! Who are you with!?”

Another couple of people walk by and start whispering, your hands rest on his back over the expensive material of his dress shirt, trembling ever so slightly.

“Hah – just having dinner with a friend,” you hear it then – someone behind you snapping a picture.

Click.

Satoru turns at the sound, revealing just a bit of your much shorter frame, when the girls start freaking out. The Satoru Gojo, on a date? Was he taken or did this mean he was available? The headlines go so insane he gets a text update on his phone with the damn photo in moments, grimacing as he stares at it.

The light turns green, and the cars speed off, leaving you both in a strange quiet for a few moments. “Satoru… they…”

He wraps his arms around you, holding you firmly against his chest, like that could potentially keep you hidden away.

"Fuck," Satoru softly curses under his breath, running a hand through his slicked back hair, his jaw tightening visibly, a little blue vein running underneath that pale skin. "I'm sorry. I thought we'd be fine here, shit."

"It's okay," you say softly, though it wasn't – the thought of your uncle, of the headlines, made your stomach clench up with nerves.

"No," he sighs now, brushing your hair back. “I should have thought about this more, it’s not like it’s ever been an issue to be seen with someone.”

“Right…” You don’t like the idea of Satoru with anyone.

You know that’s toxic, too.

But it was just a simple fact – you don’t like the thoughts of him kissing someone, of going on dates, of doing more, his fingers against their skin, his lips on their necks, things you should not think of. You barely know him, so the feelings are so shocking you can’t compartmentalize them all.

"Hey,” he tilts your chin up, not realizing where your mind is – he thinks you’re upset about the picture. “Just let them get their shot, it looks like we ran into each other at best.”

“It’s fine, um you said you’re used to this?”

“Don’t they snap pics of you?” Satoru raises a brow.

“Not really, usually people don’t recognize me right away… I am a bit new to competitive skating.”

“I’d notice you anywhere,” his words are vulnerable, they’re sweet, you swallow down a million emotions as he holds you close. “Of course I would.”

“Satoru you’re so sweet,” he chuckles a bit, the breeze blowing his snowy hair around his head, blue eyes glittering with the golden hour of the sun hitting behind his head, a halo washing around him. Angelic, Satoru looks.

“Am I?” He leans down and brushes his lips against the shell of your ear, your hands come to grip his dress shirt, the material soft underneath your touch. “Mnh… do you think I taste sweet?”

“Do I think…” You press your lips to his neck, and Satoru’s not sure anyone has ever utterly ruined him like you do in that moment – the simple little press of your lips has him fucking aching. His pulse races right where your tongue laps out, flicking just a bit and earning his soft moan. “You do taste sweet.”

“God,” you’re so sexy but you have utterly no clue about it, maddening for him when he eases back. “I already know you taste sweet.”

His insinuation has you burning, you can’t help but cover your face up at his soft laugh. “You’re teasing me!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he takes your hand in his now, running his thumb gently over your knuckles. “The rest of the night is just for us, no cameras, okay?”

You nod eagerly, hand snug in his – practically swallowing yours. “Just us.”

*****

The restaurant Satoru brought to you was pretty, intimate and exclusive – it had these private rooms separated out, the one he chose was cozy and beautiful. You’re achingly close to him, sitting back on the plush seat, looking at the candles in the center of the table casting a warm, flickering glow on Satoru’s face, painting his sharp features so perfect.

The jut of his chin, the shadow underneath his lips, he’s so fucking pretty your heart is racing in your chest. His arm wraps around you as the two of you sit at the table, he sips his sweet, fruity cocktail as you take a sip of your blush wine. You’re so close to him you can feel him everywhere.

"Comfy, sweetheart?" his voice is a low little hum that ruins you, his fingertips slipping up and down your spine, where your dress is just a bit bare, dipping to reveal your lower back to him.

You just nod – words are escaping you, with your throat suddenly tight, heart hammering so loudly you can hear the blood rushing to your ears.

Satoru’s proximity was dizzying – and there were no crowds, no cameras, just the two of you sitting so close, without the slight effects of the smoke and drink from the other night. No, it’s just you and Satoru.

“Very,” you answer softly, he takes the chopsticks and pops a piece of sushi in the dip, slipping a piece of it in your mouth. “Yum!”

“It’s so good, right?” He’s all adorable as he grins, eating a piece as well, chewing it thoughtfully. “Can I ask about you? Like… know more or…”

“Of course!” You say it so eagerly you have to take a moment, taking a shaky little breath. “I mean, of course. Just because I can be shy doesn’t mean I don’t want to share with you.”

“Good,” he brushes a lock of your hair back, smiling in that devastatingly pretty way only Satoru Gojo can. “Your parents, is it okay to ask about them?”

“Oh…”

“Is it too much?” His brows draw together.

“No, not at all! Just um… I don’t know how to really say much about them,” you fiddle with a button on his shirt nervously. “They passed away."

Satoru's face immediately softens, his arm around you tightening just slightly. "I thought maybe that was the case, I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's okay," you manage a little smile at him. "It was a long time ago. And… I wouldn’t say we were close, is that terrible?”

“God no,” he laughs without humor, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head a bit. “If anyone understands not being close to their parents, it’s me. I wouldn’t judge you.”

You exhale in relief, saying words you’ve never really spoken out loud – even to Uncle Sukuna, it’s not like he didn’t know, but you both just didn’t address that shit.

"They loved the idea of having a champion skater, and like the moment I showed any talent, that's all I was. Their little project.”

“I get that too.” Your heart hurts then.

“Satoru, you-”

“No please, I wanna know about you, shy little figure skater,” he tries to tease to lighten the mood, smiling at you as he sips his drink. “Go ahead and tell me.”

“I don’t wanna get too into it all – typical parents in this sort of sport, I guess? My childhood wasn't having fun, or making friends, doing sleepovers…they took me out of school to have me practice more. Strict diets, coaches who were more brutal than Coach Sienna could ever be.”

“More brutal than her? She’s scary,” Satoru shivers in fear and you laugh a bit, easing that tension. “She literally terrifies me, I don’t know how someone so small can have even Toji backing away in fear.”

“She’s definitely feisty, isn’t she?” Your lips twitch with amusement, sipping your wine and feeling the heat flush to your cheeks. “She seems to care, though. I like that about her – I’m hoping tomorrow will be better with that.”

“Sukuna was very defensive,” he admits softly. “He clearly loves you.”

“He does, he is really who has had the most influence over me, since our parents died he’s been so amazing. He’s hard on me in his own way, sure, but he’s proud of me… they weren’t.”

Satoru frowns at that.

“I don’t wanna talk too much of them, I want to get to know you too,” your hand rests on his thigh now, letting him fork a bite of food into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as you assess him. “Your parents are harsh too, you say?”

“Being a Gojo comes with a fuck ton of expectations,” his body tenses at the mere mention, making your heart just break for him. “Too much but I’ve always been a perfectionist myself, so I suppose I make them as proud as I need to. But the shit feels so fake.”

“I get that, I do…”

“Feel like I’m just an object for them to get whatever advancement they want, they get to brag about me to their dumb, stuck up friends,” he sighs. “I shouldn’t have brought any of it up.”

“What? No, I like talking to you,” he exhales, his hand releasing the tight grip it had on your waist. “A lot, actually. I don’t open up easily, but with you…”

“It’s easy?” He answers, you nod, catching your lower lip with your teeth as you set the wine glass down. “Maybe I’m easy for you.”

“Satoru…” You almost can’t take him then, his little laugh as if he’s all innocent and sweet, you frown a bit then, drawing his curious look.

"Are you still thinking about the camera?" he murmurs, his voice a husky whisper against your ear. “Did it bother you, sweets?”

You shake your head. “No, it doesn’t… it’s not on my mind right now.”

"Good," he says softly, his huge hand is moving up your thigh, resting there right above your knee, the warmth and roughness of it seeping in. “What are you thinking of right now?”

You take a breath. “You.”

Your simple answer is too much for him.

“Me?”

Years of having that hockey stick in his hands, callouses from working out relentlessly, as well as Satoru clearly taking care of himself – that part of him was rough, unpolished. A symbol of just how much hard work he put in, and the way it rests over the satin of your dress is possessive, maddening. How you want him to possess you truly, to own you in ways you haven’t thought of.

“Want a secret?” He asks then, but his face is serious, not teasing. You swallow nervously, nodding. "I've been thinking about this since I saw you on the ice."

“Thinking of… dinner with me?” He laughs softly, his snowy lashes lowering as he drinks you right in.

“Thinking of touching you,” his words destroy you as his hand slides higher, underneath the hem of your dress, his calloused fingers tracing patterns on your sensitive inner thigh. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, goosebumps rising everywhere his fingers hit. “Of kissing you, tasting you, hah - feeling you.”

“Since you saw me?” You can hardly believe such words, but when he looks at you like that? You’re aching, you’re shifting in that seat as he makes every one of your five senses come alive, heightening. 

That pressure begins to build deep inside you, right in your core – the new feeling that you’ve only felt with him so far, so sweet your thighs have to press together, as his fingers ghost over the edge of your panties, touching the lacy elastic as you bite down on your lip.

“Yeah, since I saw you spinnin’ all fuckin’ pretty,” Satoru says – hushed against your lips, the breath ghosting them. His blue eyes are dark with desire, drinking in your every reaction. He wants to picture this moment forever, not knowing just how long he’ll get to be around his pretty figure skater. “Perfect little ice skater, so perfect.”

Hah – his pretty skater – was he really already thinking like that?

‘Mine’ – the word rings in his head, over and over.

Satoru is one to share, actually – whether it was with Suguru or it was with other women, but the thought of ever fucking share you makes him furious, unable to think at all of ever seeing you near someone. Even Suguru brushing your hair back last night had him all on edge – where exactly did that leave him?

Satoru teases you over your panties, eyes locked as he gauges your every reaction – the way your brows draw together, how you’re damn near whining out, pressing your thighs closed. He moans as you trap his hand, his fingers tracing the damp fabric, feeling just how ready you were for him.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans those words out softly, the sound of his husky voice was a direct hit to your cunt, already gushing and leaking down so that it gathers like dew on his fingertips. "Is all this for me, sweetheart?"

You can't speak – you'd never felt anything like this, the need for more.

“Say it,” he whispers, his other hand reaching to entangle in your hair, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as his fingers press that damn material right in between your puffy lips. “Say it f’me.”

“It’s all for you, Satoru,” he moans now, kissing you desperately, still slipping his fingers over that cotton gusset of your panties, dragging every pretty sigh out of your throat. “All you – mnh!”

“Good girl,” oh great – you’re fucked now, aren’t you? “Want me to make your pretty pussy cum this time? Doesn’t she deserve it?”

All you can do is nod – a jerky little motion that was all the permission he needed, long fingers pushing the ruined fabric aside, revealing your heated cunt to the cool air of the restaurant. You’ve never been touched like this, not bare with your slick dribbling right down his fingertips.

“God,” he moans softly as his fingers find you, sliding through your slick folds, those gossamer strands coating his digits. Your hips jerk in response at the direct contact, he circles your clit slowly once he finds it – with deliberate precision. “There it is.”

“There’s my… you…” Your lashes flutter, building this sweet pressure inside you. "Satoru, I... I don't know..."

"Shhh, I've got you," he murmurs, eyes locking with yours. “Have you not even touched yourself, baby?” You shake your head, swallowing nervously as he pulls back just a bit. “Do you want me to tell you what I’m touching?”

“Yes please, just know it feels good,” your words are damn near mumbles, he exhales, that breath tickling your ear, swirling his finger again as your clit twitches against his touch. “S’good I…”

“That’s your clit, sweetheart,” you’ve heard of that – kind of. You’ve never really touched yourself to know where and what things are, but when he’s circling it that maddening way, you can’t help but admit it.

“I tried to touch myself that night,” he moans at that, pulling back, his cheeks flushed this pretty pink. “It was a f-failed attempt.”

“You were that needy?” He asks then, earning your jerky nod, your little hand wrapping that narrow wrist, feeling his muscles and tendons tense as he runs faster circles. “So needy you tried to touch your cute little pussy?”

“Mhm,” you’re drunk off Satoru Gojo – star hockey player – then, so drunk off him you can’t remember who you are and who you’re with. “Please…”

“Please what? Use your words f’me,” he whispers softly, taking his fingertip and dipping it lower, watching your every reaction hungrily. “Be a good girl.”

“More, need more,” Satoru dips one long, skilled finger slid inside you ever so slowly. Your hips jerk up against his hand, whining out with your lashes fluttering shut at the sensation.

“You’re so tight, fuck,” he knew you would be, but to have that gripping his finger like this? Slick heat, so wet he can fucking hear it. “Loosen up a bit, I won’t hurt you, okay?”

You swallow nervously and nod, spreading your thighs that had been clamped right down on Satoru’s hand, letting him ease that finger out with a messy pop, slipping in easier, burying it to the knuckle. Your eyes catch his, lidded and dazed as he moves in and out of those gummy walls, gathering all the slick and spreading it right around your puffy lips.

“Perfect, there you go,” he whispers, curling up and finding that spongy spot in your anterior wall, making you jolt, damn near drooling. He smirks just a bit, leaning close, kissing your sighs and drinking them down his throat.

“Mnh,” you can’t answer – not when Satoru Gojo’s fingers begin to move, achingly fucking slow, this gentle stretch that has your cunt soaking his entire hand, down to his wrist – the cuff of that sleeve, the silver of his rolex. “Satoru!”

“That’s it,” he moans just watching you, his cock so hard it hurts, holding your head with his huge hand so it’s cradled, as the other sets a deep rhythm that makes you fucking dizzy. “Your body is so responsive to me, isn’t it?”

You nod, already dizzy when his thumb slides over and continues its work on your clit, two fingers now easing in your cunt. “Ah!”

“Can you take two inside this tiny lil cunt, baby?” He asks, desperate for more from you – but perfectly content if this was all he ever got. To touch you, to watch your precious little face and the fucked out expression dancing across it. “There you go, look at that. You’re takin’ them like you’re made to.”

You cling to Satoru and arch your hips, chasing that pressure – you’d normally be embarrassed at your body, but how could you be for the way it reacts to Satoru’s touch – that perfect, relentless pressure that’s building so deep in your core. His stretch burns your tiny little hole just perfectly – this mix of pain and need growing as you lean up for his lips to touch yours once more.

“Please, more,” your whisper sends him, he’s desperate now as he tugs a hand and pulls at your hair, you cry out and he pauses, but you shake your head. “Like it… like it, please.”

Satoru dies just a bit at your sweet little admission, innocent almost that you like your hair pulled, his hand tugging at it again, creating that painfully sweet pleasure that he can watch dance on your face. “You like that, sweets? Me pulling your hair?”

“Y-yes,” your nod is jerky as he kisses you once more – it’s hungry, messy, all tongues and teeth and breathless gasps between you both. You were lost, so dizzy and high off him, off every feeling of him against you.

"You're so fucking pretty like this," he says desperately against your lips, his voice all hoarse and breaking in the middle, the Satoru Gojo losing his composure when touching a girl. Touching you. “Love my fingers stretching you out?”

“Yes,” your answer is more firm this time, rocking your hips to grind even more against that hand, tears pricking your eyes when he tugs at your hair again. “Love it, please, please…”

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he whispers. “You need to cum, don’t you?”

Your nod is his answer, he can feel how tense you are getting, how she clamps down so tight on his digits, his thumb pressing even harder on that lil jumping clit.

“Then let go for me, sweetheart. I want to feel you cum," you whine out, barely holding in the sounds – you can’t even remember you’re in a restaurant on a day you’re supposed to be resting.

That you’re instead getting fingered by one of the only men your uncle has ever warned you about, the player who clearly knows how to touch a girl – but you can’t stop yourself, not from the desire you feel, the way you need him. Need more, of every touch, every look, every brush of his lips on yours.

“Cum for me.” His words mix with a deep thrust of his fingers, pushing until you shatter. You’ve never felt anything like it – white hot stars behind your eyelids, that blinding, overwhelming pleasure that crashes over you. Your inner walls clench tightly and just spasm around his fingers in rhythmic pulses, drool spilling from the damn corner of your mouth.

“Ngh,” is all you manage to let escape as you shake, and he holds you there, even as your walls are milking those fingers. You hardly compose yourself, feeling yourself get oversensitive, trembling. “Satoru!”

“Mhm, I know,” he whispers, easing his hold of your hair, fingers slowing down their movements, baby blues lit up as they study you. “You did so good.”

“I did?” You are already damn near sleepy from his touch.

“So good for me, do you think you could give me another?” He’s almost about to cum from touching you, from looking right at you as the pleasure clearly washes over your pretty face.

“I d-don’t know I… ah!” He doesn't stop his fingers – merely slows them down, gliding them in with embarrassing ease despite how thick they are. “Sensitive!”

“I know baby,” he’s so goddamn lost in it, wanting to make sure that he draws out every last tremble from your body, gives you so much pleasure you squirt for him – you already damn near pushed his fingers out, the slick dripping right down between your thighs. “So goddamn pretty, don’t you deserve it? To cum as much as you want?”

“You’re insane,” he chuckles just a bit, your hand clings to his shoulder, manicured nails pressing against it, every touch you’re hyper aware of. “One more, ha! Mngh...”

He grins. “Good girl.”

“You know that messes with me you – ah!” He barely catches your wanton, pornographic little moan, kissing you and curving his fingers up and down until you are a mess, your mind completely blank – blissful, the second time you cum, your body is even more sensitive when he pulls back ever so slightly off your clit.

“You’re so messy,” he teases with a whisper as he breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as you both struggle to catch your breath.

“Me, messy?” He smirks, slowly withdrawing his hand, and you watch – fucked out already when he pulls his fingers back. You see the sheer amount of dripping wetness caught by the candlelight and gasp out.

“Very messy,” he brings his glistening fingers to his lips and licks them clean, his eyes never leaving yours as he ruins what’s left of your goddamn brain, pink tongue lapping along even the side of his wrist, as he moans softly. “Fuck it’s sweet.”

You’re a blushing, flustered mess when Satoru sucks you clean off them, moaning as his mouth goes all the way down to the knuckle, pulling back with a messy pop. “Satoru!”

“What, you taste so good,” you’re covering your face, whimpering as the aftershocks rock your body. “Wanna taste?”

“Myself?” You ask, almost incredulously, peeking between your fingers and seeing the flush of his own cheeks.

“Yeah, yourself,” he reaches down and you whine out at the touch, just a slide of his fingertips down your slit, gathering the mess you’ve created and holding it towards your lips. “Open.”

You easily do what he asks – you want him to tell you to do anything and everything, the way he’s so pleased when you do – want to be good for him, as he dips his fingers in your open, eager mouth.

“Suck.”

You wrap your lips around his glossy fingers, sucking yourself off him, tongue swirling and tasting your own juices on your tastebuds. He groans at it, pulling those fingers back, saliva dripping from them. Your glazed over eyes look right into his when he kisses your cunt off you, his hand sliding down the nape of your neck, the curve of your spine.

“God what do you do to me,” you can’t answer, not with your nipples pressing up, begging for his mouth, your back arching as his touch leaves goosebumps all over.

“Satoru should I…” You trail off and touch him over that bulge he damn near hisses as he grips your wrist – your thighs are all sticky from him, panties soaked and shoved to one side.

“Fuck I can’t take that right now,” he almost busts from you touching him over his pants, instead pinning your hand, until you giggle. Gojo glares. “You’re laughing so cruelly right now!”

“Me, cruel?” You run your hand experimentally – somehow adorable even as you’re actively trying to make him cum in his pants.

“I’ll show you next time, yeah?” He’s not about to bust in his pants in front of you – why do you have that goddamn effect?

The night at the party he’d almost done it with you on his lap – now it’s even worse, now that he had his fingers where his cock wants to be buried. “You want another date?”

“Do I want another date,” he rolls his eyes and you giggle now. “You are a little bit of a brat.”

“No!”

“Mhm,” he gently takes your hand off his bulge, pressing a kiss to it.

“You say you’re no gentleman, why do that, then?”

“It just suits you for some reason,” he says, in lieu of sounding utterly silly to say anything more. “You like it?”

“Yes,” he grins all cute, gently adjusting your panties and putting them right back over your heated cunt, sighing as he presses kisses up your jaw, soothing circles run across your cheeks. “Love it.”

“Love my fingers inside you?” You nod and he chuckles, feeling the heat radiate off your skin. “We are in so much trouble when we get back.”

“So much,” you admit, giggling now. “Worth it.”

“Very much worth it.”

*****

You didn’t ask Satoru ‘what you two were’ even after the heated kiss in his sports car, where he was kissing down your breasts and hardly stopped himself from going even further. You play it over and over in your head as you walk into the house, Yuuji is there grabbing a drink from the fridge when you walk in, eyeing you curiously.

“You were not supposed to be out,” he mumbles, looking at your dress. “Where were you?”

“I was um… out?” Yuuji leans closer now.

“With Gojo!?”

“What, no!?”

“Yeah you were – he likes you,” you’re shoving at him as he makes kissy sounds like the annoying brother he can be, hushing him with a hand to your mouth.

“Shh! You’ll make Uncle-”

“Ah nice of you to get home,” you curse as you turn and see your uncle leaning in the doorway, his brow raised at you. “Where were you?”

“Out?”

“Hah, out – instead of resting he had you going on some date?” You curse now, shutting your eyes when he pulls up his phone. “Looks awfully familiar, doesn’t it?”

“It was just dinner, okay? We didn’t…” You trail off as you see another picture, of Satoru with some other girl in a side by side, you walk closer and snatch the phone out of his hands. “What’s this?”

“It’s you in the news – you mean the other girl? Some skater he dated a few weeks ago, apparently he’s ‘single’ and ‘looking’ again according to this dumb shit,” you can’t help but eye him kissing another girl in what looks like a nightclub.

Well, he didn’t even know you, but seeing it still burned a bit.

Why are you already so foolish? But how can you not feel too much – it’s who you’ve always been.

“I don’t want your reputation hurt,” Sukuna’s voice softens now, his fingertips brushing back a lock of your now messy hair that Satoru had tried to fix. “He will be fine, he’s some notorious playboy Gojo heir. You’re still relatively new to this amount of attention, and you’re not one to end up in headlines.”

“I get it, okay? I would need to be more careful…”

“You don’t wanna know his ‘girl of the month’ posts anymore than I wanna see them pop up on my phone,” he sighs and snatches it back up. “Like even my phone wants to annoy the fuck outta me.”

“Uncle Sukuna-”

“Go to your room.”

You gasp, Yuuji is chuckling, earning your glare over your shoulder. “You can’t send me to my room!”

“Yep, sure can,” he turns you away and pushes you towards the stairs, you try to stand firm but he’s fucking huge. “To your room for the rest of the night.”

“Ugh!”

“Yeah, yeah,” you rush up the stairs and leave him rolling his eyes. “God kids are fucking hard.”

“Yeah, aren’t they?” Sukuna glares at his nephew.

“You go to your fucking room too!”

“What!? I-”

“Now, brat,” Yuuji sulks and leaves, Sukuna almost goes and physically kills Gojo for putting what was a clear hickey on his niece’s neck – but he’ll save that shit for the ring tomorrow.

He also can’t help but pull up his phone and start to do a little more research on that russian trainer – that psycho, short ass little brat that had such audacity.

He pulls up her IG and pauses, seeing just how cute she looks, even taking shots of vodka in that dumb fucking hat, she also looks pretty as fuck yelling at the skaters – candid shots of her screaming like a little psycho and waving her arms around. Who would put that on their IG but a psycho!?

Sukuna will not admit the fact that he brings those photos of Sienna to his bed – nor will he ever admit just what he does to those photos all night.

*****

“Get on form, right now,” Sienna yells at you the next morning, your mind is still whirling with what happened with Satoru – you catch sight of him when he comes in to practice and he smiles at you, until he sees Sienna and looks scared himself. “I’m talking here, hello!?”

You blink and see her clicking her heels, crossing her arms – you also catch sight of your uncle almost drooling over her too. “Coach, ya gonna shoot your shot?”

“What!?” Sukuna screams loud enough at Toji that everyone can hear.

“She’s pretty hot – especially in that psychotic, hit you with a car way,” Sukuna scowls so deeply even Toji backs off, the team snickering.

Sienna probably would hit Sukuna with a car, but he wasn’t going to admit shit for today, instead yelling right at Satoru. “Get on the fucking ice, what are you retired already, Gojo?”

Shit. He looks at you – and you look at him across the rink, knowing today was going to be rough – you, with your russian psycho of an instructor. Satoru – with a Sukuna that wants to actively kill him, but also the two of you can’t stop thinking about it – last night. You can’t help but wonder to yourself, even mid spin – what did it mean to Satoru, the touching, the kissing?

Did it mean more to you than him?

Your eyes catch his later on, he tries to give you an easy grin like Sukuna isn’t brutal right now with his punishment. But even while literally dying, Satoru can’t help but think how badly he wants to kiss you again, touch you again, maddening that he can’t just stay next to you.

He’s never felt anything like you, and his worst fear?

To fuck this up.

Suguru Geto. Built like a bear, broad enough to block the doorway, his strong frame draped in a scuffed indigo racing jacket that looks permanently fused to him. Hie flips through a case file with the kind of casual detachment that comes from too many years doing this job. You've heard he's been here the longest, and from the way the others glance at him, shoving their own files to him, you can tell it's true.

The fourth new face nearly barrels into the table, gaze glued to his phone. He looks up just in time to scowl, as though it's everyone else's fault he wasn't looking where he was going.

Floppy sandy-blonde hair falls over the man's amber eyes, messy enough to look intentional. Dark roots peek through at the top, while moss-green tips dye the ends in a streak of rebellion. That Prada suit is a slim, toned fit and you know it costs more than your car insurance.

You don't need a file to place Naoya Zen'in. One could argue he only scored this job thanks to his father, who sits pretty high on the federal chain, pulling strings. But apparently, he isn't exactly dead weight. For what he lacks in tact and brawn, he makes up for in sheer agility.

That, and his reputation of being an utter jerk.

"I see you people way too much," Geto is grumbling, though his arm is already stretching around Kento to snag a glazed doughnut. He shoves the doughy confectionary into his mouth, smacking his lips shamelessly, as he muffles around sticky crumbs, "How is it we're already being assigned another case? We only just flew back in yesterday."

"The beauty of this is that it's a gift that keeps on giving," Sukuna's voice rumbles like gravel as he drains the last of his mug, "Sick fucks always findin' new ways to hurt each other." He slams the empty mug down the table, tattoos flashing like black cuffs around his wrists. His russet eyes flick up, catching your stare.

You grimace, pretending to admire the lead pencil in your hand, as though you were looking at literally anything else.

Sukuna rolls his eyes, "And lookie here, we've got fresh blood." He jerks a thick finger in your direction, "Department approved a new transfer since Kashimo ditches us for whatever adrenaline-junkie bullshit he does now."

"Probably bungee-jumping into a volcano," Naoya mutters, not bothering to lift his eyes from his phone.

A round of quiet nods and murmurs of ascent follow, resigned as you gather this must track for the famed, impulsive Hajime Kashimo.

"That, and the fucker kept tryin' to take my job," Sukuna growls, but his sharp eyes swing back to you, "So, kid. Tell us where you crawled out of."

You shift, suddenly wishing you'd spent a little more time preparing a decent show-and-tell, "I – uh, spent some time after the academy in Cyber. Worked cases involving data trafficking, predictive algorithms, behavioural mapping and —"

The doors bang open as a ridiculously tall man blows in, alongside a rush of cold air, balancing a pastry bag and an oversized coffee, as though he's walked through a hurricane. His tie is loose, white hair windswept, and his glasses are a little askew.

"Sorry, sorry — I'm late," the man blurts, breezing in like a hurricane with a coffee cup in one hand and a pastry bag in the other. He cuts across the room in long, careless strides, clapping Kento on the shoulder as he passes, "Don't start without me."

"Oh, no, your majesty," Sukuna mutters, voice dripping with snide disdain, "We were all waiting for you to grace us with your presence. What, fifteen minutes late? Wouldn't want our little genius missing the fun."

The man flushes mid-step under Sukuna's glare, shoulders stiff, "Look, man — "

Sukuna raises a thick brow.

"Uh, I mean, sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Won't happen again, sir."

"Get your ass in a chair."

Geto presses a hand valiantly to his chest, and it takes all your Herculean effort to not stare at the counter of his sculpted chest beneath his top. But the man is as solemn as a priest, "He won't do it again, boss. Nope. I'll personally buy him an alarm clock."

Shoko snorts into her ocean-blue turtleneck, tugging it tighter around her throat, "He doesn't need you to suck up for him."

"Welcome to the team," Naoya finally drags his amber eyes away from his glaring phone screen, pinning you with an exhausted stare, and once again, that look that blamed all of his displeasure on others, "Not too late to hand in your two weeks' notice."

God. You should have read that case file one more time. Should've done a single ounce more of snooping into your new team. Then, maybe, just maybe, you would have been more prepared.

If you had just bothered to read the last and final page on the current members of the Behavioural Analysis Unit, you would have picked up on this.

Gojo Satoru.

He's sinking into a wheeled chair, flipping through a file and shuffling stacks of crisp paper. Loose navy cardigan over crisp slacks, and a cream button-down, with sleeves rolled to his elbows. White hair a little too long, falling into his glacial blue eyes, hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses that look devastating on him now.

The last time you saw him was, when? High school?

He had been a mess back then, composed of crumpled Lord of the Rings hoodies from Hot Topic and a ramble of babble that everyone attributed to him being, well, an absolute nerd.

Gojo Satoru, the valedictorian. The boy genius with a scraggly bowl cut and round, prescription sunglasses. The guy who could speak a dozen languages, and pass an exam without cracking open his book once. Eidetic memory, and all that.

But he had always been a bit of a social pariah. If he wasn't alone, mumbling over textbooks in the library, he was probably exchanging Pokémon cards with some friend of his, like the bumbling, dark-haired Ijichi.

And now? Well, it's an ironic choice of words considering your line of work, but he looks criminal. Still a nerd, but in that hot way that Pinterest girls swooned over. Tall, broader than you remembered, sharp-jawed and somehow pulling off a cardigan better than you right now.

Your mouth is already open before you can stop yourself, "When the hell did you get so hot?"

Gojo's head lifts quickly, blinking at you like you're an anomaly in a code that he was clueless about. No recognition, no faint spark of memory in those jewel-toned eyes. He adjusts his glasses, pink lips quirking, "I'm sorry, have we met?"

Every cell in your body goes into system shutdown. Somewhere in your periphery, Kento's face flattens, as though he's embarrassed to have spent time in your presence. Across the table, Shoko slips a twenty into Geto's waiting hand. You catch Naoya sliding in a crisp fifty with the same bitter grace as tossing meat to a dog.

You cough, cheeks puffing as you scramble for rapid damage control, "I mean, wow. When the hell did it get so hot in here? I'm sweltering. Are you guys hot? Because I'm hot. Like, wow, summer's already here? Global warning, am I right?"

"It's the middle of winter," Sukuna throws you a look of mild disgust, as though you're contagious with a brand of idiocy he wants to avoid.

"Phewwww." You wipe your brow theatrically, refusing to die in utter shame, "Must be just me then. Because I'm boiling in here."

Naoya leans back, eyes dragging over you with lazy, bored curiosity, lips curling just enough to flash his fangs, "You do know all BAU agents have to pass a psych eval, right? You didn't bribe the assessor?"

Shoko perks up suddenly, leaning forward with the first glimmer of interest in her doe-copper eyes, "Could be medical. Hyperthyroidism, maybe. Or pheochromocytoma. Seen an endocrinologist lately?"

"Uh..." You falter, because Gojo is frowning at you with real concern over his puzzled face, "I'll get it checked out. Thanks."

You hear Sukuna grunt something about 'fuckin' idiots' before he's already sliding individual files towards everyone. His huge hand click the pointer, and the wall-mounted screen flickers to life.

"Remember our mystery case from last year?"

"Flat-top weirdo who set people on fire?" Geto frowns, pushing your file towards you, from where Sukuna tossed them onto the middle of the table. You murmur a quick thanks, careful not to meet Gojo's eyes, the gaze boring into you from across the table, suddenly quite stern.

"The unsub was found not long after. Jogo, wasn't it?" Kento murmurs.

Naoya wags a finger towards the screen, "Then there was that freak with the bio-warfare. Something about flowers and shit?"

"Hanami. Also caught. Do you even pay attention to what we do?"

Naoya just shrugs, golden hair fluttering as he tilts his head with little regard for Kento's disapproving stare.

"Eyes up here," Sukuna warns, his tone like barbed wife. He clicks, and the next slide makes your stomach lurch. You'd braced yourself for crime scenes photos, comes with the job, obviously.

But nothing quite prepares you for the patchwork grotesque on the screen. Stiff sheets of human skin, stitched together with light blue-grey thread in patterns so deliberate it makes your chest crawl.

You swallow hard, throat tight as you hold onto your breakfast. But the others? Entirely unfazed.

"Yeah, that's the telltale M.O, it's poppin' up more and more," Sukuna shoves his hands into the pockets of his charcoal-grey denim.

"Oh man, yeah," Shoko says, leaning back in her hair as though this is a casual conversation about the weather, "That case has been open for months, I thought the unsub had stopped acting, and we had to put the investigation on hold?"

"Nah." Sukuna sums it up eloquently, "This is from two days ago. Something's triggered the killings again." He drops the pointer, tossing it onto the table with a thunk! Your boss jerks his chin towards the far side of the table, "But I'll let boy genius tell you more."

Every head swivels towards Gojo Satoru, except for yours. You keep your eyes firmly trained on the stacks of paper in front of you, the coordinate grid maps of where the unsub had previously struck last year.

Gojo's pushing his glasses up the bridge of his hawkish nose with one long finger. The glow of the projector washes his pale skin in sterile blue, catching on the sharp edge of his jaw. For half a second, the thinnest sliver in time, you could swear he looks at you, watches for your attention.

"Okay, so — " He claps his hands together once, quick and sharp, and you swear the sound reverberates through your bones, "Our unsub. Male, mid-twenties to mid-thirties. We could assume he's highly organised, almost meticulous with what he does, but impulsive to a fault. He does what pleases him, and gambles on what he thinks will give him a thrill."

"Like Kashimo," Shoko mutters, rolling a strand of flat, chestnut hair between her fingers once more.

Geto shakes his head solemly, "True that."

"The victims are skinned postmortem. And we've consistently found that pale blue thread is used to stitch pieces together. The shade of blue is consistent, almost ritualistic. The nylon fibres were analysed in the lab, and our unsub uses the same brand. It's cheap, easy to get at specific convenience stores so we can track his location as a path."

"You gettin' this?" Sukuna peers over at you, startling you out of your mild reverie. You fumble for the nearest Sharpie, already creating crosses over the past locations, wincing at the sound of the marker squeaking across paper.

"And like I said earlier, his stitches really are meticulous. Cross-stitch, blanket stitch, whip stitch. It's like he's experimenting with technique. I doubt it's random."

"Who spends time learning this shit?" Naoya mutters, reclining in his chair, but straightening up once Sukuna levels a shark-like flat look at him.

"Shut up, you wouldn't know a running stitch from a running nose," Gojo scowls, firing back without missing a beat, and he's pacing now. Voice picking up speed, words tumbling like dominos, "Locations? Spread across three prefectures, but always within walking distance of either a fabric store, or get this, cinemas? Something personal, perhaps?"

"Last time, agents found notes he had left behind, a manifesto?" Kento wonders out loud, dark eyes narrowed as he peers at the illuminated screen.

"Yeah, but it was nothing useful," Shoko shrugs, before pointing to Gojo, "Sorry, hang on. I'll get back to you. But there were no fingerprints left, not a speck of DNA to trace. And most of his ramblings made no sense, something about 'Idle Transfiguration' and his motivations, like humans hating and fearing each other."

"Like that's anything new," Sukuna grumbles, "Most people are like that."

"You're an optimist, boss," Geto notes, broad shoulders rippling beneath his jacket, "Anything about victimology?"

Gojo pushes his glasses up once more, glancing at you briefly. You loathe the feeling that pushes against your ribcage, and force your buzzing mind to actually focus on his words, "See, this is an anomaly. For someone so driven and focused on what he considers his craft, his victims seem to be chosen at random. Complexion and – uh, texture seem irrelevant. So, he's not really chasing consistency for his patchwork."

"But you guys caught him on your radar last year? You didn't find patterns?" You ponder, and while you know none would believe your words, you could swear that Gojo flinches at your voice. Ugh.

But the white-haired man gnaws his lower lips, "Yeah, yes. Patterns, yes. He disappeared for weeks, sometimes months, then resurfaced. That's typical cooling off period in disorganised killers, but this is the one part of his behaviour that doesn't seem as impulsive. He seems to hunt deliberately after mass public events. Tragedies, natural accidents, moments where there's a lot of negative public sentiment in the air. Like that's his time to source the right..." Gojo snaps his fingers, suddenly grinning, "Like sourcing the right fabric."

Naoya pulls a face, idly picking at a raw cuticle, "That's disgusting."

"Yeah, don't you love our job?" Gojo pushes his sleeves up, revealing toned forearms, dusted with light hair. He's clicking to the next map overlay, a string of red pins dot the screen, matching the marks you've made on the map in front of you.

"Notice the clusters. Each crime scene radiates outwards from a central hub. That hub? Abandoned textile factory in the south quadrant. It's a line of vast sewer tunnels, and I'd guess that's where our unsub probably feels safest returning to?"

Gojo coughs into his fist, finally lowering himself into his chair, as though he's just remembered that oxygen exists, "So. Yeah, that's – uh. That's what we're dealing with."

"Yeah, I knew all that," Sukuna snickers, slapping his thighs as he stands, "But now — "

"What?!" Gojo's head snaps up, scandalised.

"I knew, 'course I read the profile. You think I don't do my job? Just wanted you to get it out of your system, so maybe you'd get the chattering out of the way and I'd get five blessed minutes of silence at least."

Gojo mutters something under his breath that is absolutely not HR safe, folding his arms sullenly over his cardigan. Geto reaches over to pat his sulking friends shoulder in slow sympathy, "There, there. You'll always be my favourite profiler."

Shoko rolls her eyes skywards, sharing a long suffering look with Kento.

"Anyway," Sukuna grumbles, "We've got enough agents to stake out the predicted strike zone. We'll be in the field, but I want two of you pulled back a little, car surveillance, eyes on any movement in the surrounded abandoned area."

"I'll do it," Geto offers smoothly, putting his palm up. But the reaction is immediate and violent.

"No way." "Impossible." "You better not even fuckin' think about it." "Not after Kenjaku-gate."

You frown, brows furrowing, "I'm sorry. Kenjaku-gate? This was some...incident?

"Don't," Geto warns sharply, stuffing another helping of glazed dougnut into his mouth.

"Please do," Shoko encourages, propping her chin upon her fist with wicked interest.

Naoya leans in, and you're struck by his immense resemblance to a hyena, "Yeah. There was this guy, Kenjaku. His whole M.O was identity fraud, always swapping bodies, new disguises, different lives. Shit got real sticky, he even wore Geto once."

You wonder if you heard that correctly, glancing at Geto, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, "Wore? As in — ?"

"Right," Naoya continues gleefully, "So for a hot minute, everyone thought he was guilty of all these weird crimes. Big mess, and the higher-ups in the government had to get involved. They were foaming at the mouth and all."

"Mhm," Sukuna huffs, leaning back in his chair, and jerking a thumb towards Geto, who was currently scowling daggers at no-one in particular, "He's been cleared now and all, but that bastard caused a lot of problems. Nearly sank the team."

Your eyes flick to Kento, who hasn't said a word, but who looks far more strung. You mouth, something personal?

The golden-haired man hesitates, then gives the barest nod, Don't ask. Something about his twin brother.

You file that away, stunned. You frankly can't picture your new boss having friends, let alone a brother. But before you can prod, Sukuna's sharp eyes cut back to you like a blade.

"Well, how about this then?" His voice is slow, dripping with challenge, "I'll send ya' out there. You and boyband wonder, hmm?"

"Me?" You freeze, sudden heat climbing your neck.

But Gojo, mid-sip of coffee, sputters, "Boyband? Man, what the fuck?" He runs a nervous hand through his hair, pushing it up self-consciously.

"Shiny teeth, tragic wardrobe, zero substance?" Naoya offers with venomous glee.

"I have so much substace," Gojo sinks further into his cardigan, "Like, layers. Onions-level."

"Enough," Sukuna cuts through Gojo's muttering like a blade, voice sharp, and the casual chatter dies instantly. "I'm not your fuckin' babysitter. So, let's focus before I do lose what little patience I have left."

Gojo winces, lips quirking into an awkward grimace, but Sukuna ignores him and taps the case file with a thick finger, "We've got fresh dumpsites with consistent signatures. Stitching patterns, the pale blue thread. Most recent was two days ago, meaning we've got a live unsub working fast. That puts us on the clock."

You feel Gojo's eyes flick to you again, quick and unreadable, and your stomach twists. He still hasn't said anything. Not a flicker of recognition. Not even a hey, long time no see. Just nothing.

It pisses you off more than it should, irritation welling up in your throat.

"Fine," you blurt, before your brain can catch up, "I'll do it. Stakeout. Whatever you need."