crazy with a conscience

And growing up overly conscious of error, oppressed verbally, and trained to bear the plights of other people, you turned your nose away from any notion of vulnerability, and any possibility of you taking on your mother's flawed behaviors.

I'd never treat my kid this way, you would tell yourself, holed up in your closet with your face burrowed in your arms, tears streaking down your heated face as your mind replayed the accusations of disrespect and the belittling of your character for expressing opposing opinions. I never want to be like this.

For a while, you think swearing by this oath will work some kind of magic on you, wipe away your genes, and free you of all the memories and experiences you have with overpowering emotion, with your mother.

You think that when you fly the coop, you'll get a clean slate.

But suppression only leads to explosion.

You hide away behind a wall of toughness, as you've long struggled with letting people in, with letting them see the real you for fear of their judgment. Every time anyone has ever managed to peel away at the layers and expose the truth in your unsaid thoughts and your overthinking tendencies, they villainized you.

You've accepted a lot of bullshit in your early years, thanks to the skillful way your mother formed you into a durable doormat for others to stamp their complaints into. Boys guilting you into having sex, expressing insecure possession - declaring you too friendly, uncaring, rude for speaking your mind.

Excessive blame for things outside of your control, lies about secret attraction toward friends, forcing you to drive everywhere, to pay, to be at their beck and call but not to bother them while they're occupied.

Lack of communication. Hours into days without texts. Weaponized incompetence. Never thinking to hold the door, never cleaning you up after sex, gaslighting, lusting, preying.

And they were never like that in the beginning. Always scheming, always putting on a mask to be able to say that they could obtain you, a prize, then letting it drop once you were within their grasp.

Disheartened by betrayal, tolerance worn thinner with each disappointment, the very worst act upon your tender heart. You crumble, you burst, you pour out the years of pent up anguish. Every moment you've held onto when you felt belittled, or ignored, or unseen by those you've trusted rockets from your chest into a spew of heavy, harmful truths that sever the connection between yourself and others.

In moments of unreciprocated action and the antagonization of your pleading words, you step outside of your body to look down upon yourself - you realize that you aren't much different from your mother.

Overexplaining, pleading with someone to hear you though they can not provide the things you need, to understand your pain, to feel the sorrows you feel every day. You've begged for someone to lean on. Someone who can handle knowing you, who can learn about you without tilting his head and saying that your emotions are...

A lot.

But that someone has yet to come.

You recall telling your mother the same thing in your early college years, when you finally worked up the courage to advocate for yourself. To fight back. To create a sense of self separate from hers.

You shiver at the comparison. Kids really are doomed to be their parents from birth. You know, now, that there is no escaping it.

You aren't good with friendships. You're horrible with relationships. You don't trust others with your love, with your whole self. You've only ever truly felt safe within your own mind, where no one else can harm you. Where you can't harm anyone else.

You tell yourself that you don't mind being single. In fact, you're better off. You have more room to develop yourself, to work toward your goals, build upon your career, nurture yourself in a way that you know you can't when you are in love and consequently overextending.

You try to push down the feelings of loneliness that often consume you when you see a happy couple walking by. You ignore the longing, the desire to be seen and loved in such a way by someone other than yourself. You convince yourself that it will never come, so you don't wait for it. You push on and try to forget.

Then, you meet Nanami completely by accident.

You're having a particularly unpleasant day, and after your shift, you decide to treat yourself to a fresh baked pastry to soothe your troubles and consequently destroy the diet you've put yourself on.

You're in front of the line, scanning the assortment of baked goods, and you finally decide on a tea and a chocolate croissant half the size of your head that's been calling your name. The lady behind the counter smiles politely and tells you the total you owe. When you reach for your purse, however, you realize that it is not on your person, but recall that it is lodged under the passenger seat of your car, after you'd tossed it off of you upon leaving work.

Embarrassed and annoyed, you sigh heavily and close your eyes. "I'm so sorry. I - forgot my wallet in my car. I'll be right back to go get it."

Before you can turn to go, someone walks up to the counter beside you. You think, at first, that he is rushing you, so you shoot him a hard glare, but instead, you are met with the side profile of quite a handsome man, tired and softspoken as he interjects.

"No need," he starts, voice formal and low with fatigue. He slots his fingers through his wallet calmly, clad in a grey work suit that brings out the soft yellow color of his blonde, fluffy hair. "I'll cover hers as well as mine."

You freeze, face falling with shock. "Oh god, don't do that," you step toward him again, reaching your hands out as if you can stop him, but he's already handing the lady a couple of bills as he recites to her an order that she seems to be all too accustomed with.

He turns to look down at you with the kindest chocolate eyes. "I assure you. It's not a problem."

"Really, though, my wallet's only a few steps away. I'd hate for you to pay for something I can easily take care of."

"Perhaps, but then you'd have to wait in line all over again. I figure this is more convenient," he explains simply, and you furrow your brows with a blink. The lady behind the counter darts her eyes between the two of you, hesitantly reaching for the money that is still extended toward her, unsure of what the consensus is.

"Sir, please," you chuckle awkwardly. "You're... too kind, but I can pay for myself."

"I insist."

"No, I insist. You don't even know me."

"I hardly think that matters."

"But-"

"Girl, just let the man pay! Damn."

Both of your heads swivel to the older woman behind you, her hand propped on her hip with a sour impatience scribbled onto her wrinkled face. Your brow twitches, and you turn to look up at the stranger beside you and catch the ghosting smile that graces his exhausted, pretty features.

You open your mouth to protest, but then consider the long line behind you, and deflate. "Okay fine." You nod toward the lady at the counter who finally takes the man's money.

She grins, counting the bills then putting them into the register. "We'll have your orders out shortly. Thank you! See you at the end of the week, Nanami!"

You step to the side as the man who paid for you nods into the woman's direction with appreciation and familiarity, before stepping to the side along with you.

The two of you stand next to each other awkwardly, your arms folded over your chest, and you clear your throat. "Thank you," you manage.

The man shakes his head. "Don't. Really. It was my pleasure."

"Still, you didn't have to do that. It's not like I forgot my money at home."

"I was happy to. Regardless." You slim your eyes with skepticism, unsure of his angle. He seems to catch your suspicion with a soft chuckle, as he proceeds to ask, "I take it you don't believe me."

Slightly taken by his forwardness, you stumble to explain. "It's not that I don't believe you, I just don't really get... why?" you shrug, smiling awkwardly with your teeth.

The handsome blonde ponders you thoughtfully. "Does there have to be a reason other than me wanting to?"

"No one ever wants to cover someone else," you wave him off.

"I just did."

Your mouth curves up. "Out of obligation."

"Because I wanted to," he corrects you for the third time.

You press your lips together tightly, and he chuckles something light and unexpected. "Are you laughing at me?" you quirk a brow.

"No."

Your eyes slim. "Liar."

The handsome man shakes his head, a smile line creasing over his warm skin. Tired eyes blink before landing back on you out of the corner of his eye. "Not at all," he says earnestly.

You look away. So does he.

You find yourself unsure of what more to say, so you let more awkward silence fill the small space between you as the cramped bakery grows busier. You tap your foot against the floor as you wait, and the man named Nanami checks his watch multiple times. You're keenly aware of his presence beside you. You try not to let it further bother you.

It shouldn't bother you, but the excited flutter of your heart proves otherwise, though you endeavor to ignore it and brush it off as nerves.

The call of your name soon comes, and your brows furrow as you and the blonde stranger move to grab your order at the same time. With hands outstretched, you find each other's gaze again, and you frown skeptically - Nanami seems to have reached your warmed croissant and hot drink before you.

"I was closer," he offers as he turns to you, tea in one hand and bag in the other. Your brow twitches as you hastily take your order from him. He lets you, his hands falling instinctively to his sides as though to surrender power back into your jurisdiction. "You would have had to push through-"

"I'm aware," you cut him off. "You don't have to go doing everything for me now."

"That wasn't my intention..." the brown eyed man trails off. Suddenly, his name is called behind him, and his head turns slightly at the sound but his eyes remain on you as he fumbles with his thoughts, bearing an indifferent expression. "I'm sorry. I've offended you."

You watch as he grabs his own order, nodding toward the worker with pressed lips of acknowledgement. You look down at your own order in your hands, and back up at him. "No... you haven't. Sorry. It's - just been a long day. Not used to random acts of kindness," you say as an excuse.

The man faces you again, a large loaf now tucked under his arm as his veiny hand clasps his coffee. "I understand."

A lull in the conversation strikes once more when the two of you realize that you have nothing more keeping you within the establishment. "Well, thank you. Again. Really, that was... unnecessarily nice of you."

"You don't need to keep thanking me. It really was nothing."

He walks a few paces behind you as you both go to leave the bustling bakery, and as he lunges from behind to stretch his free arm toward the door, pushing it open from the angle he discovered just above your head, your brows pinch again. And you thank him. Again.

You give him a tight smile before turning over your shoulder to walk to your car, when you hear his steady, polite, subtly hesitant voice.

"Pardon me, but you're very beautiful."

Your heels halt their clicking against the pavement. You freeze, whipping your head over your shoulder with tight muscles and wide eyes. The suited man stands there in the middle of the sidewalk, face blank and eyes honest. He does not try to perform. Does not try to add anything more to the compliment. He simply lets it linger in the air, making himself known to you for fear that he would never see you again.

Your lips part, your breath hitches. You're hardly new to such praises, but the gentleness of his tone when he spoke, the humility in his words, the lack of expectation in his eyes is what frightens you.

You see his lips tighten under your gaze, and he shifts the bread under his arm. "That's all."

"Is that why you paid for my order?" you ask suddenly, cheeks warm and brain stirring with confusion. “Because I’m beautiful.”

Something in him dissipates, as though the tension in his body has eased slightly at your voice. "Partially. I saw you walk in before me. You looked stressed so, I thought I'd try to make you feel better."

"And how would you know if I was stressed or not?"

"Because I'm stressed all the time. I can sense it from a mile away."

There is, once more, no performance behind his words. Just truth in exasperation, in the lidded state of his warm eyes and the lines creasing beneath them. You inhale to speak, but the words get caught in your chest again. You have nothing to bite back with, nothing to scoff at, no excuse to chastise, and you're unsure of how to go forward accordingly.

You swallow hard. "Well, I hope you don't think that buying me something when I don’t even know you is gonna give you some kind of advantage."

"I don't think that," he shakes his head simply. "Like I said before, it was my pleasure. I don't expect anything from you in return."

You raise your brow, unconvinced. "Really?"

"Truly."

Your brows come down and your teeth sink into the inside of your lip. A light smile returns to the stranger's lips, something soft and observant. "Then," you start, drawing your tea close to your chest. "I'll be taking my leave now."

You wait for an outburst, an explosion, for him to go on a tangent about how you haven't even given him the decency of providing a number, or at least for his expression to shift with irritation. But none of which comes. Instead, he just nods simply and goes to walk off as well. "As will I. Have a wonderful day, miss."

Your jaw drops when he walks away, slow, easy, tired strides, and you stand frozen in place, watching the back of his head as he moves away.

You clamp your lips shut and swallow hard, moving to turn around as well, but something in you fights back. You clench your jaw hard and close your eyes before- "Excuse me!" you call out. Now a few yards away, he stops and turns over his shoulder with surprise and curiosity. Your lips crinkle, your skin flushing as passerbyers glance at you, and the blonde's attention is once again yours.

You can't believe you're doing this.

"W-What was your name again?"

He blinks, genuinely surprised that you stopped him to ask. "Kento Nanami."

You nod. “Okay. Good. Goodbye.”

You swiftly turn over your shoulder and leave, and the blonde watches you, shocked, before smiling.

You see Kento a handful of times before you finally give in and give him your number and your full name. You realize that, due to his frequent appearances in your recent life, that he must live within the same vicinity as you. A few hopeful conversations and approaches initiated by the blonde, cautious yet earnest, and a text from your friend is what pushes you to finally give him access to you outside of short interactions in the middle of the cereal aisle.

You're guarded from the beginning, terrified by his generosity, his respectful good morning texts, the way he checks in on how you're doing when he has free time in the day - unprovoked, unpressured, seeking no ulterior motive.

You would stare at the lit phone screen with your chin propped angrily in your palm, fingers thumping against your lips as your glare sharpens on his perfect grammar. You're waiting for the gentleman routine to die away, to fade out, but it remains steady over a week of phone conversation. Still, a week is just a week. Hardly enough time to know someone's true motivations, and you've been with men who have kept up the act for months before finally revealing his hidden, careless identity.

But then, Kento asks you out.

You read the text over and over after having initially dropped your phone and jumped away upon receiving the message.

Kento | I would love to take you to dinner, if you would be willing to let me.

It's a trap, you immediately think. You can't remember the last time you've been on a date, the last time a man actually asked you properly, the last time a man planned something for you without expecting you to jump through hoops to see him. You're prepared to tell him no, or that at the very least you'd think about it, but after leaving him on read for nearly six hours, and another call with your best friend, you accept, as she claims that you would be crazy not to go out with him.

But she can not account for the discomfort that seizes your body when he meets you outside of the nice restaurant he picked, after you insisted on driving separate cars; when he opens the car door for you and stretches his hand inside the vehicle to gingerly take yours in his; when his eyes capture your face and not your body as he tells you that you look absolutely stunning; when he pulls out your chair for you to sit down, having guided you by your hand throughout the twists and turns of the dimly lit space, an air of natural dominance crowding him when he interacts so calmly with the staff.

He does not suffocate conversation with arrogance, but asks you questions about your life, holding your gaze as you speak to show that he is truly listening. When you notice him staring, he apologizes, ducking his head with the intrusion of stifled shyness as he continues to compliment you, your mind, your beauty.

You're out of your depth. Your heart flutters the whole night as your (e/c) hues hold his warm ones, and your skin crawls with something you can't quite name. You don't remember the last time you felt so seen, so prioritized, so catered to. And more than Kento's swiftness to pay without blinking an eye or letting you even see a peep of the bill, and more than his haste to make sure you aren't too hot or cold, that your food is just the way you wanted it, is the manner with which he treats you. As though wining and dining you at some fancy place you always wanted to try is nothing near a chore, but something he feels that you are entitled to, that he is expected to do as a man in pursuit of your heart.

And at the end of the night, after he has offered to walk you back to your car, instead of expecting once more, he asks if he can take you out again.

You look at him with a dumbfounded gaze for a long moment, as you likely have for the majority of the night, and you mindlessly nod, your skepticism warping into fear.

Fear over the fact that this is the first man you've felt a genuine connection with after years of shielding your heart from any possible vulnerability.

You wreck your brain, wondering what this man could possibly want from you. Sex? A mistress? Someone to manipulate? 

The speculations die one by one with each date you have with him, with every fact you learn about his personality and his daily life, about his morals and values, his drive, his grit, his responsibility. Three dates fly by, and he has yet to ask you to join him at his place or to accompany you at yours. He keeps a respectful distance whilst continuing to pursue you, to treat you, to court you as a man should.

You feel yourself actually beginning to like Kento, and that prospect alone is enough for you to disappear for a couple of days after your discovery. You tell him that you've been busy, that you don't have the time you once had to talk on the phone every night or plan your next outing.

Ordinarily, you get away with your habitual isolation, but one rather serious text is enough to tell you that you won't be able to get away with such things with Nanami, especially since he has made his intentions with you very clear - that he plans to be yours.

Kento | Hello, beautiful. I understand you need your space. Please correct me if I'm wrong, but from your tone and distance, I've sensed that you are upset about something. I recall you mentioning that you tend to take steps away when you aren't feeling like yourself. I won't further intrude in honor of your space, but whenever you feel ready, I am here to talk or listen. I sent you something to help take your mind off of whatever is bothering you. I hope you like it.

You open your door to find a bouquet of flowers lying at your doorstep, and a note attached with Kento's name and I'm here written in cursive. Your nose flares and your eyes glaze over as you look down at the thoughtful gift. No one's ever sent you flowers before. Not like this.

And no one's ever noted your habits, ever paid enough attention to you to tell when you're overstimulated or overthinking. You'd mentioned that about yourself one time, and Nanami remembered. And he didn't just remember, but he acknowledged it. He didn't antagonize you for it. He made himself known, and reminded you that you aren't alone. That you don't have to be anymore. That he sees you and wants to continue seeing you in every sense of the word.

Your heart pangs. You like him and you're terrified.

You don't reach out to him until the next morning. You've placed your flowers on the counter for display and lean against the kitchen sink with your phone in hand. Your leg bounces restlessly against the cabinets as you harshly tap on his contact to call. It's the weekend, so he answers rather swiftly.

"Hello?"

"You scare the shit out of me," you bluntly confess into the speaker, voice tight.

The other line is silent for a moment before Nanami's voice, low and thoughtful, comes back in. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to," he apologizes. You click your teeth with a huff of a laugh. "Could you tell me what I've done to make you feel that way?"

You suck in a sharp breath, for there truly is no way to get this man to show any bad side. Your gut trusts him, but your mind screams at you to run, while your heart yearns to feel his arms encase you as he tells you that everything will be alright. You're at odds with yourself.

But you want him so badly.

"You're too nice," you exhale through an anxious laugh, looking longingly over at your flowers.

"...Too nice?"

"Yes. I-It's confusing. You don't need to check in all the time or - or send me flowers-"

"You don't like them?"

"No," you quickly say. You sigh. "I mean... no - yes, I do like them. They're very sweet. T-Thank you. But that's not what I mean. I just mean... like... you're so..."

You stumble over your words, struggling to find the right way to express yourself whilst evading judgment. Your mind frantically searches for the right path and you fumble.

"(Y/n)," Kento calls gently.

"What?" you heave.

"Take your time," he guides. "Just tell me how you feel. It's alright."

You freeze. "...Wha...What?"

"I'm listening, sweetheart. Just take your time to sort it all out," he assures.

Your lips press together in a pout as you stare ahead, wide-eyed, your heart pattering in your chest. Your eyes sting with humiliation, and that hardness around your heart softens as you feel that you will finally be heard, that someone is happy to hear you.

You take in a shaky breath. "Why are you so nice to me?" you whisper.

"I'm happy that you think I’m kind, but I’m not trying to be nice, (Y/n). I've only aimed to be honest. I like you, and I want to be with you someday if you would like that too. I want to treat you the way you deserve to be treated. In all honesty, I haven't done anything very remarkable."

"You haven't-" you stop yourself with another laugh, sniffling slightly. "Kento, what do you mean you haven't done anything remarkable? You - you're so sweet to me all the time. You go out of your way to do things that you don't have to do."

"Like what?"

"Like... planning our dates all the time, or picking me up, or sending me things, or-or listening to what I say-"

"(Y/n), those aren't remarkable things. That's the least I can do for the woman I care about."

"You say that, but you don't get it."

"Perhaps I don't," he agrees. "But I'd love for you to help me understand what you're feeling more."

You trace your finger over the countertop sheepishly, blinking back the tears in your eyes. "Can you come over?"

"Absolutely."

And he does. And the two of you talk for hours, or rather, he listens to you spill your vulnerabilities, your feelings, vent your concerns and frustrations with a trust that you did not realize you had formulated with him. And unlike every guy who brushed you off or told you that you were too demanding or too emotional, Nanami holds your hand, looks you in the eye, tells you he hears you, and means it.

Your bottom lip trembles as the past month or so spent with him flickers through your mind. You can feel the race of your pulse against the blonde's skin, and you frown at yourself. At how giddy he makes you feel. "I know how I get," you say. "When I have feelings for someone, they're not something I take lightly. I'm not casual. I can't pretend not to care, and I don't want to feel like I'm grasping for attention when you finally get me. I don't want to delude myself into thinking that just because you're nice, you can't do what other people have done."

Nanami watches you with a fondness you can't name, silent and steadfast, warm and enticing. His thumb traces over the back of your hand as he sits close to you on the couch, unhurried, patient, present, and grateful to be.

"I can't pretend to know what other men have put you through, or how deeply it continues to impact you. I know you're scared. You have every reason to protect yourself the way you do," he begins. "But I'm not that kind of man. When I say something, I mean it. When I promise something, I have every intention of fulfilling that promise. When I treat you one way, it's not for show. It is how I intend to treat you for as long as you will allow me. I know trust is not something that can be built overnight, but I'm willing to do the work. I want you to feel safe with me. I want to make you happy. I won't try to rush that happiness or that trust. You're entitled to your space when you need it. You owe me nothing. But when you're ready, I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to."

You sink into his words, your walls cracking, your heart surging. Glassy, red eyes search his face for some trick, and you once more come up empty handed. He presses his lips together in that tired, half smile, reminding you that it's okay.

Moved, you lean forward and press your lips to his impulsively, parting shortly after with a soft smack and sad eyes. You go to start apologizing when his palms raise to hold your face and your lips are slowly brought back into his.

Nanami kisses you for the first time like he is holding something precious. He does not attack you, but he savors you, slow and kind like his voice and the way he interacts with the surrounding world. You feel your chest tighten and warm, your skin tingle all over, and your flesh run hot as he holds you to him carefully, politely, gliding warm lips over your own with an appreciation so firm, he can't bear the thought of breaking away.

You part for a moment with heavy eyes, his thumb tracing over the skin of your cheek. Your hands press to his shoulders as you release a hot breath. "Please don't hurt me," you plead against his mouth, surrendering yourself from this point forward.

Nanami cradles you close. "I'll do everything in my power not to."

And even then, his words ring genuine, for Kento is aware that he can not promise such things, that people hurt their loved ones without attempting to all the time. But more importantly, he will work to honor your desires, to remember your triggers and fears, to know you well enough for that not to happen as long as he can control it.

And that, to you, means more than he could even begin to understand.

The two of you take it slow. You don't have sex until after he has asked to be your partner, and when you do, Kento asks for your permission before making any move to touch you further. He sees, feels the anxiety in your eyes and your body language, the fear that sexual intimacy will draw him further away from you, but he stays.

He stays with you while making love to you, holding your gaze, interlacing your fingers, pressing his body flush to yours, eliminating any exposure to the cold, keeping himself present. 

He stays with you after, holding your shivering body against his, murmuring soft praises into your ear and pressing warm kisses to your skin.

And rather than creating a distance, sex brings you inexplicably closer. The passion is thick in Nanami's enamoured eyes every time he sees you, every time he utters your name. After months of chipping away, you mirror his smitten nature, opening yourself up to the affections he always, always provides.

That's what Kento is, a provider, financially, physically, and emotionally. You feel light with him by your side, like the burdens of the world have lifted from your shoulders just long enough for you to breathe and simultaneously enjoy the good that it has to offer.

You never find yourself overexplaining your frustrations, because Kento has already noticed them and taken action to help you through them. 

You never feel as though you are carrying anything alone, because Kento is always there to share the load or take it on himself.

And you never experience a moment in which you feel unloved, because Kento ensures that he spends every second of every day reminding you what you mean to him, showering you with unforced, unconditional ardor.

Forcing your eyes open, you turn around, trying to see if any of the stairs are open. That’s when you see him—a white-haired man who appears to be stuck in… something. His arms are bound behind his back as he’s talking to a black-haired man in front of him.

Blood rushes through your veins, heartbeat in your ears. You don’t hear anything over the dull thump thump thump, but you just know your heels are click clacking on the once-white floors, leaving behind crimson footprints.

You nearly slip a few times, the sticky substance making the already polished floors even harder to navigate, and you nearly wipe out just before you’re standing behind the white-haired man.

“It’s okay, we can get you out of here,” you whisper—or maybe you’re shouting? You’re not sure. All you know is that you’re tug tug tugging on the fleshy things that are keeping him bound in place, to no avail. The eyes on the corner cubes look at you, trying to claw at the fleshy substance, and if it had a mouth, you’re sure it would be laughing at you.

Fingers trembling, you go to see if it has any weak points, fingers skimming over the man’s forearm that’s still restricted, trying—and failing—to see if you can just get your fingers under it. To free him and get the two of you out of here.

You’re aware of the eyes that are on you—too many eyes. Blue, amethyst and those black ones that aren’t human, but you just can’t…. can’t give up now. This man is looking so lost, so you keep trying, whispering under your breath that it will be fine.

And then it’s all black. You’re falling, but also not. Your hair whips around your face and you can feel the way your headband shifts on your head by the sudden draft, but you’re still standing. Completely dark, until it’s not.

Stumbling, you instinctively shoot a hand out to try and keep yourself from falling. Luckily that seems to work, because your hand grazes something… gritty? Huh, a brick wall?

Sight returns to you next. For a second you think this has to be a joke—a prank you weren’t in on. Because your hand is on something round and white and— and…

Oh god, oh god, oh god oh god oh god.

Gagging, you turn slightly to the side, before emptying the contents of your stomach onto the floor. Your hair dangles in front of your face for a second, before you can feel someone pull it away from your face, holding it in a neat ponytail.

You’re still throwing up, but you blindly jab your elbow behind you, the touch scaring you. A warm hand clamps itself over your elbow, preventing it from going any further. “Easy now, that’s it, let it all out.”

A warm voice comes from behind you while the hand is rubbing small, soothing circles on your underarm. It’s a sweet gesture, honestly.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you finally look behind you, and sure enough, you’re met with white hair. Only this time it’s standing up, and a blindfold is placed over his brilliantly blue eyes.

A Kakashi cosplayer. Of course you tried to save a Kakashi cosplayer out of everyone in the crowd. But then again, what else could you have done? Leave the poor guy behind while everyone was getting slaughtered left and right? No, that wouldn’t be right.

When he notices you looking at him, he lets go of your hair, and it gently sways back in place. From the corner of your eye you can see bits and pieces of gunk—whether it’s your own vomit or flesh or even brain matter, you’re not sure, and you honestly do not want to know, either—in the strands of your hair. Fucking fantastic.

Putting his arms in the pockets of his jacket, he walks to the other side of the… room? and goes to sit down. Straight. Onto. The. Skulls.

Another wave of nausea hits you as you turn back around and heave.

The stranger is up in a flash, right behind you as he holds your hair out of your face once more. This time he isn’t touching you, which you’re honestly grateful for.

A few minutes later, he goes to stand on the opposite of the room, leaning back against the wall of skulls that are rattling. That’s right, the whole room is made of white, rattling, human skulls. You go to stand in the middle of the room, not touching anything but the bones you’re standing on, staining them in crimson.

“You should’ve just ran, you know,” the man finally speaks up, having crossed his arms over his chest. There’s a faint sadness to his voice that you don’t want to think about right now, so you just huff and roll your eyes. “I’m serious. I tried to get you out of there, but you kept trying to free me.”

Ah, so he had tried to talk to you. Not that you heard him, though. The blood rushing through your veins alongside your heartbeat in your ears and the confused murmurs of the people made you not be able to hear anything.

“Yeah well, I’m sorry I tried to do something,” your own arms cross over your chest, trying to cover some of your cleavage. “No one could get out, and then I saw you in that… thing, and I couldn’t just not help.”

The man lets out a humorous laugh, shaking his head while he finally slides down the wall, rubbing his hands over his face. “Of course I get stuck in here with a non-sorcerer.”

Wrinkling your nose you look down at your outfit—yet another mistake of the night. You were so focused on the skulls that you had forgotten that there are all sorts of… gunk on you; mostly blood. Your pristine white heels still stained in crimson.

In a flash you’re crouching, trying to wrench the stupid things off without touching anything that isn’t leather or whatever the fuck these cute heels were made of.

When you and your friends made plans to go out for Halloween tonight, you didn’t expect your night to end like this. Well, who would have guessed, anyway. It isn’t a normal occurrence, so you didn’t really think about people being massacred.

The tight body con is sticking to your skin, crinkling as you’re crouched down, and you can vaguely remember your friend telling you that you should put lube on it to keep it nice and shiny. No thank you, you didn’t want to walk around all sticky. Seems like that part didn’t really work, though, cause the crimson substance is sticky on your skin.

Once you get the heels off, you throw them to the far end of the room, not wanting to have them anywhere near you any longer.

It’s when you look down that you notice the second thing—flesh. Stuck in your fishnets. Swallowing down the bile that’s threatening to rise up your throat, you clamp your fingers on one of the pieces before yanking it off.

There’s a slight tearing sound that doesn’t sound like anything fabric, before you throw the piece away again. Your hands shake as your breath gets shaky. Inhale, exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inha—

Two big hands clamp themselves over yours. “It’s okay. Hey, hey, look at me. Here—” he puts your hands over his chest as he takes a biiigg breath in, nodding at you to follow him, which you try to do. “That’s it. Can you do it again for me?”

Slowly, the two of you get your breathing back under control. A few tears have escaped from your eyes as you look up at the man. His blindfold is around his neck now, those bright, blue eyes staring down at you with concern.

“There we go, all better,” he whispers as he keeps looking you over. “Close your eyes.”

“I.. wait, what?” That is not something you expected to hear from the guy, not after he just called you a ‘non-sorcerer’—whatever the fuck that means. You thought Naruto and his friends were Ninja’s, but maybe they’re called sorcerers over there? “C’mon, I’ll clean you up. Just close your eyes.”

Your mouth opens and closes a few times before you finally nod. Heavy pieces of hair graze your cheek, leaving behind a wet substance on your skin, but you don’t try to wipe it away.

There’s the sound of him pulling something out of his pocket before he whispers a ‘I’m going to touch you now’, which he only does when he gets your little ‘okay’ in return. The first touch of a tissue against your cheek makes you jolt, but you keep still.

The stranger wipes your face clean—he even wipes your forehead and chin, which you hadn’t even realised were stained with whatever—before he cleans your hair as best as he can with the tissue. It’s when he balls it up and throws it over to the same corner as where your shoes are that you decide to speak up.

“I’m sorry you got stuck with me,” you mumble, feeling him crouched in front of you as he plucks things out of your fishnets while he wipes away all the blood from your skin with a new, clean tissue. “I don’t think you would’ve wanted to be stuck with someone in a sexy bunny outfit.”

The ears on your head droop a bit at the mention, and you’re glad you can’t see them, because you do not want to see if they also have blood and brain matter all over it. But then again, he didn’t clean them, so surely they aren’t dirty?

“You don’t have to apologise,” he says, still crouched down in front of you, meticulously wiping you clean. “I should’ve known it wasn’t really him.”

That confuses you just a little. Is he talking about the black-haired man that was standing in front of him? Now that you think back on it, it did seem like they were having a conversation of sorts.

Clearing your throat, you shift your weight slightly as he makes his way toward your back, going to wipe away whatever is on your calves. “Still, I’m sure there’s better company to be had.”

He just hums, a sound that barely travels over the rattling of the skulls underneath your feet. Your toes curl in, actually feeling them now that you’re focusing on them. It’s not something you want to focus on, but there’s literally nothing else to think about but that and all the bodies.

The rattling reminds you of mere minutes ago, when the train tracks started to rumble and people thought they could get out. Hope in their voices as they announced the train was coming—coming to save them from being slaughtered.

People were still dropping like flies left and right by unseen forces. Thud. thud. thud. thud. Another body. A head dropping from its neck. Piles upon piles of people who were standing there mere seconds ago—from laughing to annoyance to panic. Laughter turned into screams turned into silence.

You could hear it, the train coming closer and closer, big headlights illuminating the space as people pushed and pushed and ran towards the doors, trying to get in and get out of here. The savior in this horrid, horrid place.

The click clack of your heels turned faster and faster, until you, too, were stood behind people, trying to get onto the train that had just gotten here. People were pushing and shoving, elbows catching ribs, tender skin bruising under the force.

Thud. thud. thud. More and more screams got cut off.

You didn’t dare to look to the sides, just focused on the blonde hair of the girl with angel wings in front of you. It was swaying wildly as she looked around and pushed people out of the way to get closer to the doors, her own heels click click clicking on the tiles.

And then the doors opened with a hiss, the sound that should’ve relieved you, the sound that would’ve meant you guys could get out of there—only that wasn’t the only sound that was made. Weird gurgling noises were made before the first scream ripped itself from someone’s throat.

Countless of… monsters stumbled out of the train—blue, green, purple; all sorts of sickly hues and deformed limbs—biting and clawing at anything and everything they could get their deformed hands on. The biting of the heads, flesh tearing, clothes ripping, the sound of blood spraying out of wounds.

No, no, no, no— shaking your head, you ran back, as far away as possible from the train, from the monsters that poured out of there. The polished tiles that were once white were now covered in a pool of blood, the sound sick to your ears as it muffled the footsteps.

Stepping back, you shake your head. “No— no. no. This can’t be happening—”

Instead of your foot landing on blood-slicked tile, it fell onto leather. A shoe is underneath you, knee pressing into your calf as you stumble back, falling right into the arms of the stranger that was cleaning you up from all the horrors that happened mere minutes ago.

“It’s okay… Nothing to see here. Just me and you,” the man whispers into your ear as he wraps an arm around your shaking body. One hand cards itself through your hair as he whispers how everything is okay now, that there are no more monsters.

Sobs tear themselves from your throat, fat tears cascading down your face as you bury your face into his jacket, dampening the fabric quickly.

Your fingers claw at anything you can reach—his back, his arms, his thighs, your own thighs. The sound of your fishnets ripping has you scream out, fingers clawing at your own ears and eyes. Just get it out, get it out, get out.

Big hands gently take a hold of your fingers, preventing you from hurting yourself any further. They’re soft, big in only a way that makes sense if the person attached to it was also big. “Hey, hey… no hurting yourself. C’mon, let go of your ears.”

You can’t. Can’t get rid of the sounds, the visuals. Flesh tearing, blood splattering and draining from a wound, clothes ripping, limbs popping off like Lego pieces.

It’s on the floor, the ceiling, clothes—on you. It’s on you. There’s blood and gunk and brain matter on you. Fingers twitching, your arms jerk in his hold trying to scrub away the blood . There’s so much of it—your heels once white are now red.

The stranger doesn’t let go of your hand, just holds on a little tighter as he cradles you against his body, still whispering in your ear that everything is fine now. That nothing will hurt you in here, so you have to stop hurting yourself. But how can you? How can you when there’s so much on you.

Blood. There’s so much blood, the copper scent filling your nostrils with each stuttering inhale. It’s dripping down your face, onto your legs, onto your shoes. Drip. Drip. Drip.

“Can you open your eyes for me, please?” the white-haired man’s voice is a little more desperate now, still cradling you against his chest in a way that constricts your hands. Fingers are still clawing at him, no doubt leaving behind angry marks, if not worse. But you can’t focus on that right now. “C’mon, open your eyes. Promise nothing will happen.”

Swallowing, you do. Blinking a few times, your vision is blurry with tears, body still trembling, fingers now digging into his jacket. The first thing you see when your vision clears up is those brilliantly blue eyes, the ones you saw earlier.

Once he sees you look at him, he smiles. Small, a little brittle, but real. It’s there on his glossy lips, directed at you.

“See,” he whispers, arms still holding you tight in case you want to claw your own flesh out once again, gauge it all out, scrub it clean until there’s only tendon and nerves remaining. “Just me. And you.”

Taking is a stuttering breath, you go to look beside you when he quickly grabs your chin and directs your gaze back over to him. “Just focus on me for now, okay?”

And you do, not once looking back from those beautiful shades of blue until your breath finally evens out. Until your heartbeat slows down enough for him to grab a—new—tissue for your face. This time not because there’s blood and gunk on it, but because of the snot and the tears.

You accept the tissue with clammy hands, before you wipe your face, grimacing slightly at the feeling. God, you probably look like a mess—you certainly feel like one. Your gaze drops down a little to his jacket, seeing the way it’s soaked through at a spot, no doubt your doing.

He follows your gaze and chuckles. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse things on my clothes than a bit of tears and snot.”

Well that certainly doesn’t help you, because it immediately makes you think back at the blood and the— shaking your head quickly, you lean back slightly. His grip loosens, but he keeps you on his lap, afraid that making one wrong move will send you over the edge once more.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, voice hoarse with the way you were sobbing and screaming—yes, you were screaming. At one point Gojo thought he would go deaf, but he couldn’t just let go of you with the way you were trying to gauge your own flesh out.

“It’s okay,” he reassures you, hands still on your waist and hip—in a respectful way, of course—as he looks at you. Your gaze finally flits down—half because you’re shy with the way he’s devoting his attention on you, not that he can really do much else here in this hellhole, and half because you just remembered he was cleaning you up.

Sure enough, your skin is entirely clean. The only blood you can see is on a few of the skulls a few meters away where you were stood when you still had your heels on. Following the trail, you see the way you walked, before the stranger puts a hand before your eyes.

“You might not wanna look there. Blood and your stomach’s content,” he meekly says, white bangs falling in front of his eyes slightly.

Right, you threw up because of the vibrating skulls. The entire walls and floor are spanned in them, no other sounds being made apart from your breathing. The sound that triggered the flashback of the train and the people.

“Sorry,” you mumble again—this time without you really knowing what you’re apologising for; the fact that you threw up and he had to hold your hair back, or the fact that he was cleaning you up and you quite literally stumbled into his lap while having a panic attack, or the fact that you got him all scratched up during the episode. Well, whatever, you’ll apologise ten times over if you need to.

“Like I said, not the worst thing that has happened to me,” his smile returns to his face as he finally lets go of your waist, but doesn’t move you from his lap. Shrugging off his jacket, he lays it down on the ground for you, patting it with his hand. “You can sit on this, if you want.”

That’s honestly so sweet—everything he has done so far is incredibly sweet. All the gross things that have happened in the past, what, twenty-ish minutes were all things he didn’t have to do, but did so anyway without a second thought.

Shuffling off his lap, you go to sit onto his jacket, and it’s big enough for you to even stretch your legs a bit. Pulling your knees up, you wrap your arms around them while putting your chin on them. It’s only now that you remember that you’re half-naked.

Your cheeks heat up in an instant, heartbeat going wild behind your ribcage as you pull your knees up further, trying to hide your cleavage from the man’s gaze. Not that he’s looking at you, he’s respectfully looking away, fingers fiddling with each other on his lap as white wisps of hair gently fall over his eyes.

“Were you out with friends?” The question falls from your lips before you can stop it, having to say something to fill the silence. To not think about what just happened on the train platform.

He looks up at that, cerulean gaze lifting up to your bunny ears before they find your eyes. He just looks at you for a second, a beat too long, causing you start squirming in place.

Right, he probably doesn’t wanna be reminded of the fact that his friends could very well be dead.

Luckily—or unluckily—for you, you were the only one who had to catch the train to go back home. All of your friends were still bar-hopping, but you had an early morning and couldn’t afford to go home late tonight.

“No, I got… called into work,” he mumbles, then puts on a smile that stretches thin at the edges. Winking, he pulls his blindfold up, hiding those pretty blues from you once more. In a way, you’re sad that he decides to hide them.

The blue is actually perfect, but you thought Kakashi had a red eye or something like that with markings in it instead of those beautiful blues he’s sporting. Where did he even get those contact lenses from? And why would he go into work with a cosplay on? “Working while in cosplay?”

He raises one, snowy brow at that. It peeks out just over his blindfold. Leaning back onto his elbows, he plays with the fabric a little, pulling it away from his face before he lets it snap back against his skin. “This isn’t a cosplay.”

At that you raise your own eyebrow. If it isn’t a cosplay, then what is it? His hair isn’t gray as far as you can see, but rather stark while. The only people who have white hairs are— “Oh! You’re an albino… then why the blindfold?”

The words slip out before you can even stop them. People might not like it if they get called an albino, after all. Or maybe they do, you’re not sure. All you know is that you put a hand in front of your mouth, clamping it shut.

He laughs at that, a full chested laugh that rings in the space, echoing slightly off the walls. Pearly whites on full display, and gosh, doesn’t he have cute canines! They’re slightly sharp, poking into his bottom lip—not vampire sharp, just natural.

“You know, I don’t think anyone has ever said that to my face before,” he chuckles, swiping away a stray tear that threatens to soil the fabric. Sitting back up, he lets the blindfold fall around his neck again, hair falling down into his face.

And it’s true, in all of his life, people either looked at him as ‘The Strongest’ or ‘The Six Eyes bearer’, and never just as a person. There has always been some sort of strength test as far as he can remember, even from when he was a mere child.

Back at the estate, he was isolated from all the other children, having to train at the bright and early age of three years old, never being able to just play with the other kids.

Of course he had tried sneaking out before, tried to just be normal kid, but his caretakers always found him and drug him back towards the estate, to his room which was plain, for the Six Eyes cannot have his focus wean on silly things such as toys.

When he got to high school, he wasn’t reminded that he was the strongest constantly. No, Geto and Shoko saw him as a normal person—to a point, of course. But that all changed after he defected. The shared laughter turned into silence.

And fuck, hasn’t it been long since someone just looked at him like a person rather than Gojo Satoru, The Strongest sorcerer of the modern world.

An albino. Granted, that’s the first time someone has actually said that, out loud. While white hair was prevalent in the Gojo clan, he was an albino after all. But no one, and he means absolutely no one had said that before, considering they thought the Six Eyes were this pretty blue, but it was actually never confirmed to be.

Maybe being stuck with a non-sorcerer isn’t as bad as he initially thought it would be. Honestly, anything is better than being alone here. The lady in a sexy bunny costume, stuck, with him. It’s laughable, honestly. It’s also definitely something that… thing didn’t account for, judging from the look on his face when the two of you got sucked into the realm.

Looking over at you, he really looks. Not at the costume, but at the person. You still have a mortified expression on your face after calling him an albino, scrambling to undo your mistake of blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

It’s cute, honestly. The slight flush to your face only adds to it, and Gojo can see the way your blood is rushing to your cheeks, further solidifying the fact that you’re utterly embarrassed.

The bunny ears on top of your head shift with each movement, headband thiiiss close to falling from your head until you push it back. It’s the only part of you that didn’t get stained in blood. The white fluff is still completely white. But that little cotton tail however… yeah even thinking back on it, he winces.

Your shoes definitely aren’t faring any better, being thrown to the side the moment you finally took them off. Skulls still painted velvet from where you walked, but he doesn’t mind as much. Blood, he can do. Exorcising curses really isn’t for the weak-stomachs, and if you did have one, you would overcome it sooner than later.

Luckily your body con itself is completely black, but he did have to wipe some off—not that you noticed that part, too busy reliving the past thirty minutes in your mind to completely know what was going on in the meantime.

The little tail couldn’t be saved, but he did try to wipe off most of the blood, the once-white fluff now a more pink-ish color.

You’re still trying to cover yourself, and he wishes he had something other than his jacket to offer. Luckily it isn’t cold here, but he can’t imagine how uncomfortable it is to be stuck with someone you don’t know whilst being half-naked.

God, he really pulled a non-sorcerer into his nonsense. But then again, it’s probably better you’re here rather than outside right now. Here you can’t be attacked—can’t die the gruesome death many, many others have suffered.

A chill runs up his spine. He tried, he really did, but of course he had to be caught off-guard. A brain using his former best-friend’s body as an vessel to catch him off-guard, truly sick and twisted.

You’re scrambling closer to the white-haired man, apologising over and over again until he finally holds up one of his hands. “It’s okay, really. I don’t think anyone has ever connected the dots before.”

That makes you shut up, perched on your knees as you’re leaned forward, eyes still wide but your mouth finally having stopped moving. “I— really?”

“Really,” he confirms, a small smile still gracing his lips as he looks at the wall before his eyes slide back over to you. “People don’t really look at me that way.”

You tilt your head at that, looking him over—like actually just looking. Not thirsting over him, though he can see the way your heart starts to beat a bit faster, not looking at him like he’s the strongest, but just assessing him as a person.

“You have white hair, and white eyelashes. Your eyes are bright blue—which is a common thing in albinism, though people often think they only have red or purple eyes because of the lack of pigment in the eyes, but if they just looked it up they would see people with albinism most often have bright blue eyes—and your skin is slightly on the pink side, almost as if you got sunburnt—did you get sunburnt?”

He wasn’t ready for the assessment, nor the whole explanation behind the eye color in people with albinism. And the way you’re so confident, saying it with your full chest, it just… does something complicated to his heart.

All this time he liked to hide behind sarcastic quips to not show any vulnerability. That has been drilled into him since he was younger, after all. The Six Eyes cannot cry. The Six Eyes is stronger than anyone else, control your emotions. The Six Eyes— Never was it Satoru the toddler. People cared about his status, his symbolism in the sorcerer world, rather than the person who was beneath all of that.

And here you are—a complete stranger—just rambling on about how he’s an albino out of everything. Most of the time when non-sorcerers—both men and women alike—came up to him, it was to tell him how hot or pretty he was, or to just slip their numbers into his hand, trying to be discreet while absolutely failing at it.

But not you, the person he got stuck in this god-forsaken prison with. No, you just see him as he is. An albino person, albeit a pretty one at that.

The two of you talk a bit more about anything and everything, him trying to keep your mind off what just happened on the train platform. The exchange of names is a quick thing, and it sometimes still surprises Gojo that someone doesn’t know his name.

Of course he knows non-sorcerers don’t know his name, but he isn’t around enough of them for him to actually feel that—sure he goes outside and everything, but he doesn’t have the time to just strike up a conversation with whoever he so pleases. He has duties to do with deadlines, and enough people are already pissed at him because of his carefree persona.

He sees the way your eyes flit to the corner where your shoes are, and it’s like everything suddenly slams back into you—the bodies, the screams, the monsters. The chatter immediately dies, smile vanishing from your face as you pull your knees up to your chest.

You’re not sure how much time has passed, but it feels like it has been hours already, and maybe it has. But you’re not sure. Your bag lay somewhere abandoned on the platform, which has your phone and everything in it.

Gojo apparently also doesn’t have a phone with him. Why he doesn’t, you’re not sure, but it’s not something you’re going to ask him, either. So it’s just up to you to guess how long it has been.

The light in the room doesn’t change, even though the two of you have been silent for a while now, so there’s no indicator of the sun setting or rising or anything.

You start picking at your nails, trying not to show how restless you’re becoming, but it’s getting harder and harder the more time slips through your fingers.

The silence grows uncomfortable, the two of you having nothing to talk about. It’s almost as if the words get stolen right from your throat every time you try to voice something, anything so you two aren’t alone in this room. The only sounds right now are the skulls rattling, jaws snapping together as the two of you just breathe.

It’s hard to do that—breathe. The room feels tinier than before. It wasn’t that spacious to begin with, but with each inhale it seems to be closing in on you even further.

Gojo is just lounging back, one arm propped behind his head as the other plays with his blindfold. He occasionally mumbles something to himself, but he doesn’t try to address you even once.

Why on god’s green earth would he just… lie there?! Acting as if any of this is normal. As if it’s normal what happened mere hours ago. …Has it even been hours? It feels like it has, but you’re not sure.

The sound of his blindfold snapping against his skin has you flinching slightly. It’s not something he’s doing on purpose, clearly lost in his own mind, muttering to himself about things you don’t bother to ask, but the snap snap snap makes you slowly inch away from him.

You shift where you’re seated right now, the rough texture of the skulls grates against your skin with each shift. Your toes curl in, trying to not think about the fact that you’re seated on skulls. You’ve been seated on skulls.

They’re everywhere. Underneath you, behind you, in front of you—as far as the eye can see. White, round, gritty, jaws snapping against each other but never actually biting. It’s all you can focus on, how much white there is.

Skulls, Gojo’s hair, the stupid bunny ears that have flopped over, obstructing your view with a patch of fuzzy white hair. White, white, white. The only things that aren’t white are your costume and Gojo’s clothes.

Looking around, it’s all you can see. White skulls snapping together. If it weren’t for the skeleton in the far right corner, you would’ve thought that this was a room full of skulls—hell, at first you thought they were only skulls—but they’re full on skeletons. Stacked so tight together you can’t see them.

But that’s all there is to the room. Skeletons. White as far as the eye can see, except for the two anomalies that are you and Gojo. Blinking you look around again, skulls, skulls and more skulls. No necessities such as water or food.

No water or food.

Shit. The two of you are trapped here in a prison without fuel. Is that… is that why all these skeletons are here? Because they starved to death.

Your mouth suddenly feels parched, swallowing a few times, you try to get rid of the sensation, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse—bile threatening to come up the more times you swallow.

Looking over at Gojo, you note how he’s still now. Finger no longer playing with his own blindfold, nor murmuring to himself. His head is tipped back, arms crossed over his chest.

Does he not realise the situation the two of you are in?

Standing up, you can feel the gritty texture of the skulls through your costume, scraping against your back slightly. It’s not something you’re currently thinking about. No, if anything, you turn around to face the wall, fingers skimming over the skulls, careful not to get bit by them.

Surely this prison can’t be endless. Your fingers skim across the wall of skulls, rattling under the pads of your fingers as you try to find something—anything that confirms your suspicions. Sure, Gojo said there wasn’t anything the two of you could do, but you just refuse to believe that. refuse to believe that someone build a prison that truly had no out.

What the fuck even is this thing. Back outside it was all fleshy with eyes that actually moved, tracking movement every time you pulled on the flesh that was wound tightly around Gojo’s arms, the thing not budging even an inch.

In here, it’s all rattling skulls and skeletons as far as the eye can see. You’re not sure of these skeletons are real skeletons, but to safe your own sanity, you’re just going to pretend like they’re fakes from a Halloween store. Just prop skeletons, nothing to be afraid of.

Trying to take one of the skulls—skeletons, really, but you’re gripping the skull between your fingers—you try to move it, maybe there’s some sort of mechanism like in movies where you have to pull a specific book in a bookshelf to make the hidden passage open up—or in this case, the exit.

The skeleton surprisingly moves, pulling it clean from the wall, as it tumbles over with a crash. The bones scatter on the ground with faint clink clink clinks, and you jump slightly at the sound. Looking over your shoulder, you see Gojo already eyeing you, then the skeleton, then you again. You meekly smile at him before turning back towards the wall. To no one’s surprise here, there’s another skeleton behind the one you just pulled out.

When you try to pull that one out, however, you’re stopped. That one is truly stuck. Yes, it’s still rattling, bones clinking together, but it cannot be moved like the one you just did.

Maybe that’s where you can find the secret passage.

Looking up, you’re suddenly aware of just how tall this room is—it’s dark up top, but you can faintly see where the realm ends.

With a determined huff, you do a few stretches, try to get your muscles nice and loose. You can do this, you can totally climb skeletons to take them down one by one, trying to find the secret passage. Gojo said something about not getting out of this thing any time soon, so why not?

Grabbing onto one of the skulls of the skeleton higher up, you wrench your foot on top of another skull, trying to find balance, before you haul yourself up. You can hear Gojo mumble out a concerned ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ along with him standing up and walking over to you, but you just continue your climb. Another skull grabbed, another meter gained.

It goes well for all of three meters, before one of the skeletons gives way. Unluckily for you, you were holding onto it, and your entire back bends backwards, arms flailing around as you try to grip onto something, to no avail.

Hair whips around as you fall quickly, a small yelp leaving your lips as you close your eyes and brace yourself for impact.

The impact never comes—well it does, but not in the way you thought it would. The skeletons would be hard—possibly breaking under the weight of your fall—and would definitely hurt you, no doubt leaving behind bruises for the next weeks to come. But instead of bone, you get caught by soft, but strong muscles.

A slight grunt leaves Gojo’s lips as he catches you from midair, knees slightly buckling under the weight, but he keeps the two of you upright. Refusing to topple over. Cradling you closer to his chest, he furrows his brows, concern and annoyance clear on his face. “What did you think would happen?”

For a moment you can’t reply, can’t do anything other than just stare into his eyes. Those blues that are beautiful to look at, only this time there’s an emotion swimming in them that hasn’t been here yet. It makes you swallow slightly as you look down, fingers fiddling slightly.

“Just thought there might be a secret passage somewhere,” you mumble out, clearly embarrassed by the fact that you fell, but also because you just… decided to climb a wall full of skeletons without even letting him know.

“And you thought it would be wise to climb the wall of loose skeletons?” Well he doesn’t have to say it like that—like it was a stupid plan to begin with, almost as if he’s scolding you, which he honestly is.

You’re old enough to know better, old enough to know you can’t just scale anything. Even if they weren’t loose, there would be a good chance of falling down, and the two of you can’t have that. What if you broke a bone? Or got a concussion? Or even worse, got a hole in your head and bled to your death?

“Sorry,” There it is again, the same word you’ve been saying on repeat today, though this is the one instance where you should actually apologise. He did not have to catch you, probably needing to hear you whine when you got bruised.

Sighing through his nose, he closes his eyes and tips his head up. After a few seconds, he finally looks down at you again before finally putting you down onto your feet. “Just… don’t bother. I’m telling you, we can’t get out of here.”

With that he goes to sit back down onto the ground, this time pointedly not looking at you. You feel the slight burn in your chest and behind your eyes—you never did well with disappointment, so it doesn’t surprise you when that feeling bubbles up behind your ribcage once more.

“So I’m just supposed to, what, sit here and wait until we get out?” You can feel a vein start to tick on your neck, jaw clenched as you look at him. He’s just… laying there! As if the two of you aren’t trapped in a room full of skeletons that are rattling and vibrating, jaws snapping slightly.

You just can’t believe he’s so carefree about all of this, as if this is a normal occurrence. Like he spends his Friday nights like this, in a room full of bones that ‘can’t be opened’. It absolutely enrages you just how he just doesn’t seem to care.

“I’ve told you, we can’t get out of here from the inside. It’s a prison designed to keep whatever is in it in. Only the person who trapped us can let us out, and considering he isn’t going to do that, we’re going to be here for a while.”

He isn’t even looking at you while he explains this… prison thing to you. And what does he even mean with the fact that there is no door on the inside, that’s just weird. This is real life, not some sort of wizard world.

“Yeah, right. And I’m a wizard who likes to make little cubes that can’t be exited from the inside,” you sarcastically reply, crossing your arms over your chest as you tap one foot on the skull below you.

Seriously, all he’s saying is that this is a magical room that just so happens to trap you guys inside for what seems like forever.

If you had to choose a death, you’d probably much rather be on the outside, where people got decapitated instead of dying of thirst, dehydrated until you’ll just shrivel up and eventually become one of the skeletons yourself. God it will be so slow and painful.

“I know you aren’t a sorcerer. I would’ve known the moment I saw you,” he replies, vaguely tapping his blindfold before he sighs out and lets his head fall back against one of the skeletons he’s leaned against. There is that word again, ‘sorcerer’. He said it when the two of you first got here, but you didn’t think too much of it, but maybe there’s more behind his words than he lets on. “Just… my students will get us out of here.”

“You're a teacher and you expect your students to get you out while hundreds of people die outside? No offense, but how would they have any idea that you're in this—what's the word? magical cube in the first place?”

It just… it just doesn’t make any sense. Does he really think he’s important enough for his students to lay their lives on the line, just to get him out of here? Self-centered much.

Sure, he is sweet, and you have no doubt that he can be sweet towards his students, but this is just ridiculous. Does he really think that his students out of everyone would get you out of here? Why not his own friends, or like, his family or something like that?

Gojo just shrugs at your question, putting his blindfold back on as he doesn’t elaborate any further, which doesn’t help the situation the two of you are in at all.

The argument spirals from there, with you getting more and more agitated while Gojo just stays seated and throws out sarcastic quips. While he isn’t directly being mean back, it does irritate you that he just doesn’t seem to care all that much about the situation the two of you are in.

He keeps going on about the fact that the two of you can’t get out of here and that his students will come up with a plan, but he isn’t really giving out more.

What fucking moron would think their students would go out of their way to save their teacher? Seriously, there is no way he’s that important to the youth that they would risk their lives for him.

At one point he just… stops responding to you. You’re not sure if he’s even looking at you—the blindfold making it hard to see where exactly his gaze is now—but he has his lips tightly sealed. The motherfucker is stonewalling you!

With a huff you go to sit down onto his jacket, crossing your arms over your chest. With an annoyed sigh you try to call out to him a few more times, but he just stays quiet. Rolling your eyes you lay down. Your lids are starting to feel heavy, and you’re not surprised by it even in the slightest.

When you were stood on the platform, it was only eight p.m., but considering the fact that you’ve been in this god forsaken cube prison thing for over what feels like hours already, you aren’t surprised that the sleepiness is hitting you like a train.

No, fuck, not like a train. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will away the thoughts that immediately flood your mind again—green, purple, blue monsters spilling from the train, tearing the flesh—

Shaking your head, you exhale. Okay it doesn’t hit you like a train, but rather like… like a plane, or something heavy hitting. Maybe a car or something—okay enough of that, just… go to sleep.

You peek over your shoulder once more to look at Gojo, but he’s turned away from you slightly. He really isn’t looking at you. Fine by you. You’re just going to sleep, or try to anyway.

You shift on the jacket once again, skulls rattling under it, making your entire body vibrate, just enough to feel it. It’s almost like a mosquito buzzing past every few seconds with its high pitched bzzzz that makes you snap your eyes wide open once you hear it.

Sighing out through your nose, you stretch out a little, your toe sliding of the cool velvet lining of Gojo’s jacket and onto the gritty texture of one of the skulls. It’s not colder by any means, but the difference in textures throws you off slightly.

The longer you try to fall asleep, the more restless you get. Peeking an eye open, you look at Gojo, who’s sitting upright with his arms crossed, biceps bulging in his shirt as his head is leaned back, blindfold back on. You’re not sure how he’s just… asleep like that—like there aren’t tens of skulls rattling both underneath and behind him.

He looks rather peaceful like this, eyes no longer shifting around, looking around the room for an out. No he’s relaxed like this, tension slowly bleeding out from his form, making him sag a bit more than he has let himself ever since the two of you got trapped in here.

Smiling, you turn around again, trying to see if you can sleep on your other side, like that maybe, maybe would help. The moment you do, though, a riiiippp can be heard through the endless space the two of you occupy.

A scream immediately tears itself from your throat, airway getting constricted slightly as your pulse hammers in your ears. The sound reminding you of all that has happened today, and what if something happened to you—you can feel something dig into your toe, straining against it, and you’re almost a hundred percent sure something just tore your toe clean off.

The skulls. The skulls are biting you. They don’t just rattle, why would they just rattle, that doesn’t make sense. They have thrown Gojo in here to let him die—not to just trap him, but to die in this god forsaken prison—the skulls are alive. Oh god, oh god they’re alive. They’re going to eat the two of you, eat you until you’re nothing more than just bones yourselves—

“Hey, hey… it’s okay, nothing happened,” Gojo murmurs, crouched in front of you now. He isn’t touching you, but his blindfold is off as he looks at you with that concerned, cerulean gaze of his, the same eyes that have had that look in them since you got here. “Nothing happened.”

“My toe,” you whimper out, heart still hammering against your chest as you refuse to look down at the damage—at the fact that you can feel something cutting into the flesh. You just cannot handle seeing another injury.

Fat tears are starting to roll down the apples of your cheeks as you take shaky inhales. They don’t fill your lungs completely, having you gasping for air more and more, until you’re completely ventilating. Panic courses through your veins as your hands clamp down onto Gojo’s forearms, whispering about your toe being gone.

Gojo says your name then, in a tone you only hear when a parent is trying to calm their child down. “Nothing happened to your toe. No injury. No blood. Your fishnets ripped, that’s what you heard—what you’re feeling right now is the nylon straining against your skin.”

Shaky pupils find themselves toward your own feet, swallowing the nausea down as you try to confirm what he’s saying. And sure enough, there’s no blood to be seen. No actual injury as you originally thought there was, just your own fishnets pinching your toe.

“Just take them off, that way they can’t be ripped any further,” Gojo says after a while, when he notices your breathing pattern return to normal.

“Huh?” you mumble out, still looking at your toes, wiggling them for good measure—trying to see if everything still works as expected. To see that they’re really still attached to your foot rather than having been cut off.

“The fishnets, take them off. This is the second time they ripped, and you’ve clearly had a flashback both times,” he clarifies, blue eyes still trained on your form with concern.

Swallowing, you give a shaky nod, before you realise you’re still holding onto his forearm—fingers absolutely digging into the flesh, leaving behind angry marks, and you’re pretty sure you punctured the skin on some places.

A gasp leaves your mouth as you quickly retract your hands. Mouth opening to apologise over and over again, Gojo holds a hand up, cutting you off from even thinking of doing such a thing. “It’s fine, really. Just a few marks. This is nothing I haven’t endured before.”

He wont mention the fact that he was on the brink of death once, torso and neck having been slashed open, blood pooling around him as he focused his cursed energy on his neck while he used RCT to regenerate himself. There’s still a faint scar on his chest from it, but no one ever sees it, for good reasons.

Biting on your lip, you just look at him for a little bit. He really isn’t easily startled—not with you throwing up, nor with the blood or now with the fact that you’ve accidentally hurt him.

“Can you turn around?” you finally whisper, because if you have to take the fishnets off, you have to take the entire bunny costume off, which isn’t something you had planned on doing for the night unless it was in your own apartment where you were alone — which is also why you didn’t mind going commando under the costume, choosing to forgo pasties or skin-colored tights. The costume was too high-cut to even consider wearing panties, so that didn’t help, either.

He raises a brow, but quickly does as he’s asked. Back towards you, you just look at him for a few seconds, looking at the way his muscles bulge under his fitted tee, even though he isn’t actively flexing. It’s not something you noticed when he had his jacket on, but then again, you didn’t notice much when he still had it on—too busy freaking out and everything.

“You’re aware I can feel your gaze on me, right?” he teases you without turning around, still staring straight ahead at the skulls on the other side on the room. Heat immediately rushes to your face as you look away from him and down to your own costume.

Standing up, you try to get the stupid thing off, but it’s harder than you expected, taking embarrassingly long for you to get it off to take off the fishnets. When you finally do, you heavy out a sigh as if you’ve done ten hours of manual labour, instead of taking off a costume.

After removing the fishnets, you just stand there for a minute—butt naked, behind a stranger you’ve known for a total of… what, thirteen hours? You’re not sure how much time has passed, but all you know is that it’s weird for you to be in this predicament.

Looking down, you see the costume. Right, you have to get it back on again. Well, shit… Huffing and groaning you put it back on, but you can’t properly get to the zipper that’s on your back—your friend helped you get ready earlier, and now you’re trying to do it alone, hands bent at an awkward angle as you try to find the zipper.

You look to your right, where Gojo is still not looking at you. Fuck it… clearing your throat, you try to get his attention, which you note that you have when he hums under his breath. “Can you… help me zip this up?”

Warmth blooms on your face once again as you hold up the top part of your costume to prevent your breasts from spilling out of the slutty thing. It really isn’t helping that this was your costume of choice for the evening.

Gojo turns around to look at you, one snowy brow raised, but he stands up himself. Fingers warm against your skin, you jolt slightly at the feeling, touch still being a trigger for you as you try to calm yourself damn. Zipping you up, he tugs on the zipper slightly before whispering a “done”.

Clearing your throat, you step back. the two of you awkwardly stand there for a few more seconds before you motion toward the jacket on the floor. “I’m just… gonna try to sleep.”

“Mhmm,” he murmurs as he watches you drop to the floor and roll onto your side—away from him. Gojo goes to sit down, forearms perched on top of his knees which he’s brought to his chest. Luckily it doesn’t take you long to fall asleep this time.

He’s been eyeing you ever since you fell asleep. The twisting and turning didn’t stop, even after sitting just a bit closer to you. Your bare legs brush over the skulls and skeletons

He still feels guilty that all he could offer was a jacket. Sure, it’s a big jacket, bigger than most, and it does act as a sort of blanket for you, but you’re still barely dressed. Halloween night normally is one of the busier nights for sorcerers, the scares and fright of people attracting more and more curses, but this one he didn’t see coming.

While he’s glad you’re in here with him, he also feels like it’s unfair to you that you got dragged into something, a world that you weren’t even supposed to be in, even less of all know of.

Sure, he knows with how many people died that the government couldn’t suppress the fact that there are sorcerers out there in the world, but he does wonder how they’re going to phrase it.

He snaps out of his thoughts when he hears you start to mumble in your sleep. Frantic ‘no’s’ falling from your lips as a small, sheen layer of sweat starts to form on your body. You start to twist and turn even more now, the jacket crinkling under your body, and he wonders if he should wake you up.

Before he can even do that, you wake up with a gasp, eyes wide, as a small scream leaves your lips. Gojo is in front of you in a second, reassuring that it was all a dream—well, that you’re not living in that horrible nightmare right now. He unfortunately can’t help with the fact that whatever you dreamt about really did happen.

So he’s trying to comfort you, your arms wrapped around his waist as you sob into his chest. Fingers clenched into the fabric of his t-shirt. It dampens where you press your face, but he doesn’t even feel it, merely keeping himself busy with trying to calm you down.

The two of you sit there for a long time, long enough for you to have stopped crying, eyes completely red as dried tear tracks streak your face.

He can see the way your blinking is starting to slow down again, but every time your eyes close for more than a second, you jolt upright again, frantically looking around the room.

“Go lay down,” he whispers, looking at the way you’re trembling. Swallowing, you shakily nod, hair and those stupid bunny ears swaying with the motion as you go to lay down. He grabs your hand and puts it around his wrist, pressing your thumb right over his pulse point. “Go on, sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

There’s slight mistrust in your eyes, but you do as he says. Your breathing slows down slightly after a few minutes, thumb digging a bit harder into his wrist as your subconscious slips away from you.

Gojo stays like that, sitting upright while you keep ahold of him in your sleep, small, angry crescents left behind in his skin where you’re unconsciously digging into his skin. While you keep waking up every odd hour or so, it’s definitely better than it was before. Plus, it’s only the first night after something so traumatic happened, so he can’t blame you.

The bags under your eyes are horrible, but at least you got some sleep. Gojo on the other hand, didn’t get in more than an hour of sleep, but he doesn’t mind. If it’s anything he’s good at, it’s going without sleep for days on end. His title as being the Strongest unfortunately also comes with things people don’t even think twice about.

Days are spent in silence, neither of you really saying anything when you’re awake. You’ve let go of him somewhere on day three, his skin all red and angry, but he once again reassured you that everything is okay.

Eventually, after what you think is five days, the two of you get to talking. Surprisingly it’s Gojo who begins the conversation. “Remember what I said about you being a non-sorcerer?”

You turn toward him, your hair all messy from where you kept tossing and turning in your sleep. You’ve carded your fingers through it countless of times, but it keeps that slightly static-y look to it—his jacket, as nice as it is, does not do any wonders to your hair.

“Mhmmm, still don’t know what that means,” you answer, looking him in the eye. He’s removed his blindfold, the fabric hanging around his neck as his bangs fall over his forehead.

“You ever believed in wizards?” What a weird question. Sure, when you were younger you did believe in it, but when you grew up you realised that magic was nowhere to be found in real life. It was like Santa got taken away from you for a second time, honestly.

He continues after he sees you nod your head, going on a whole spiel about how there are these people that are called sorcerers. People with cursed techniques—abilities, essentially—that are fueled by cursed energy—negative emotions that forms into a sort of energy that the sorcerers can use for said abilities.

It’s a ridiculous story, really, and you interrupt him multiple times during it, but you don’t prevent him from talking. And he can see the way you doubt him, eyeing him as if he’s gone insane.

But then again, you are trapped inside a room full of skeletons that are moving. Not only that, from the outside it’s a weird, flesh contraption with eyes on them that follow your every move. So maybe it isn’t as crazy as it actually seems.

Gojo goes into detail about what curses and sorcerers are, and why they exist in the first place. It’s nice in the way that it keeps your mind off everything that has happened the past week.

The conversation lasts days, mainly because you don’t really believe him and keep trying to talk about how cool it would be to actually have powers. Which Gojo sighs at, because he really does have powers!! He just… can’t use them in here.

At one point you’d snorted at him and told him he was just a shitty math wizard—blue and red and hollow purple and Infinity and whatever else kinda math he had to do for his powers to work—which he faked being offended at, only to laugh about later.

You also learned that this prison isn’t specifically made for Gojo, but it has been specifically used to seal him. And in the process, you somehow also got sealed—something he still isn’t sure about how that happened in the first place.

With Gojo being the Strongest and everything, they just wanted him out of the way to enact their plan; whatever that may be.

In the span of a week you’ve learned everything there is to know about curses and sorcerers, sometimes having Gojo re-explain something because you didn’t really understand it or simply because you forgot something.

There’s a whole world out there co-existing with the ‘normal’ one without anyone knowing. It honestly fascinates you a little. And hey, if Gojo made all of that up just to entertain you, kudos to him, because it certainly has you excited.

After getting to know lots about the sorcerer world, you start giving out details of your own life—what type of job you have, where you grew up, hell, you even told him all about your friends.

At the mention of your friends, the two of you fall silent for a bit. You’re not sure if they’re safe or if they had been slaughtered, but you don’t want to dwell on it too much. If they died, you just hope it was a quick and painless death. If they’re still alive, all you can hope is that they didn’t get scarred by the incident too much.

The conversations last, what feels like days on end. Sometimes you keep nodding off, head falling forward slightly as your hair falls in front of your face like a little curtain, before your brain supplies the repressed memories.

You always wake up with a scream, and every time Gojo is right there with you. You’ve also noticed that he doesn’t really sleep himself. Sure, there are times he nods off, but only for an hour or two before he’s awake again.

While you aren’t sure if he also has nightmares like you do, you do know that he doesn’t scream or startle awake like you do. It’s simply like a switch got turned off and on whenever he goes to sleep and wakes up; always sitting upright, arms crossed over his chest as he lets his head fall back against the skulls.

Time in here feels odd in general. The same type of light shines down on you two constantly. There’s no way of knowing if it’s day or night, and Gojo every so helpful decided to tell you that time just doesn’t flow here—whatever the fuck that means—because his Eyes told him that.

Well in a way you’re glad that time doesn’t pass, because it means you don’t starve to death, but it also makes you feel all the more isolated.

Whenever you and Gojo aren’t talking, the silence feels suffocating. The rattling of bones and the snapping of the jaws makes you pick the skin around your fingers—something Gojo has scolded you for because the blood always takes you right back to the train station.

At one point in time, Gojo has told you that you two could just sleep together. When you’d looked at him with this scandalised look in your eyes, he quickly clarified that you two could just hold each other. Not in a sexual way, but because it clearly helps whenever you hold his wrist when you go to sleep.

Yes, that’s something you still do months later. Sure, you and him have gotten closer together to a point of being actual friends—well that’s what you like to believe anyway—but it’s still one thing to hold his wrist at night, and another of him actually holding you.

Eventually you relented, the position awkward at first. You’d tried to sleep, but each inhale and brush of his chest against your back just made you more and more aware of him actually holding you. While, yes, it did kind of calm you down, it absolutely was no help with getting to fall asleep.

Once you did fall asleep however, it was… better. The dreams weren’t as vivid as they once were, dulling to something more manageable. You slept for longer periods on end, not waking up as much during the night. (Was it even considered night?)

It also seemed to help Gojo. While you’re not sure if he always slept, it was clear that he was at least resting more. His breathing evening out while he relaxed slightly.

And with that, time seemed to pass fairly quickly. You’d long since stopped counting, but if you had to make a guesstimate, you’d say it’s been around two years since the two of you had been trapped in this hell-hole.

All you could hope is that it wouldn’t be much longer, because the loneliness—despite being in here with Gojo—had started to get to you a little.

“C’mon, enough sulking around. Why don’t you teach me how to fight?” You nudge Gojo with your toe, the fabric of his jeans soft under your flesh. He’s been sitting there, zoning out for the past few days. The two of you haven’t moved much, and you didn’t really mind, but right now you were bored out of your mind—you have been for the past… year, honestly.

His head lazily lolls to the side, bangs swooping across his forehead as those ceruleans find your form. They’re slightly lidded, hazed over with a boredom you’ve been seeing too much lately.

The two of you have shared a lot of stories… a lot. And it isn’t weird that the two of you eventually also had nothing new to talk about, considering you’ve been stuck in here for years. Curses, childhoods, everything and anything was shared to the point you had even tried to talk about other things, such as mangas, but eventually you even ran out of things to say about those.

A lazy hum slips from his lips, not even bothering to really move. Sure, you didn’t particularly want to train, much less spar with the strongest sorcerer alive—though you’re a hundred percent sure he would go easy on you—but you’d do anything to feel less bored.

Nudging him a little harder, you try to get him to actually reply, make him stand up and teach you how to fight for when the two of you get out of here. “Seriously, what if we have to fight once this realm opens and I just don’t know how to even defend myself?”

“Then I’ll just protect you from whatever’s trying to attack you,” he easily replies, blinking slowly as a yawn escapes from his lips. You’re not sure how long the two of you have been awake for, but you do know it hasn’t been long enough for him to be yawning like that. “I am The Strongest, after all.” He supplies.

“Yeah, well, ‘The Strongest’ is currently stuck in a box, so the least he can do is teach me how to defend myself,” you huff out. Going to stand up, you wipe away invisible dust, feeling the way your skin is indented where you were sat on the skulls.

The velvet of Gojo’s jacket is nice, and it keeps you from actually feeling the gritty material of the bones, but sitting for hours or days on end still makes your flesh almost mold to the shape of the bones.

You can see the way Gojo rolls his eyes at your statement, still not bothering to get up. He’s told you before that you should just meditate and keep your mind empty in order not to go insane. Unluckily for him, you can’t do that sort of stuff for too long on end, because surprise surprise, you still get bored.

It also doesn’t help that you still have nightmares. While it has happened years ago at this point, you still remember what happened on the train platform like it was yesterday, and your heels that lay abandoned in the far corner of the room are an ever present reminder of it.

The red almost hurts to look at, and you quickly snap your gaze away from them. The splatters of blood do not help your mentals whatsoever, so you turn back to the only other (living) person in this room.

Bending at the waist, you grab a hold of Gojo’s arm, trying to haul him up. A grunt leaves your lips as you put all your might in trying to get him up to spar with you, only for him to lay there, boneless. It’s like trying to pick up a toddler who doesn’t wanna be picked up—letting their entire body flop to the floor , not helping you at all.

“Come on you big oaf. Get. Up,” you grunt out as you plant your feet and try to put all your might in trying to get this lazy fuck to stand up.

Said lazy fuck unfortunately isn’t really a lazy fuck. He has been working out ever since the two of you got here. Not every day, but enough for him to build muscle. Before, he filled his tee out pretty nicely, more lean muscle than anything. Now? Now he’s buff, as if he crushes skulls for fun. He doesn’t, and can’t, not here anyway, but he looks like it.

You still remember the first time he dropped to the ground and just started doing pushups. No announcement, no sound, just dropped and started doing them as if it was normal. A few fays later, when his chest was starting to get more muscle and he could do more and more pushups, he started to ask you to sit on his back, give some extra weight. And you had done so.

Shaking away the thought, you pull once more, only for Gojo to give one, firm tug on your own arm. Toppling over, you squeak as you faceplant right in his chest. His arms wrap around your waist as he puts his chin on top of your head. “Or, we can just lay down and sleep.”

“Let go of me,” you wiggle in his grasp, and he tightens it slightly with a stubborn ‘no’. “Seriously, Gojo, we haven’t been awake for long enough to go back to sleep. Why are you so sleepy in the first place, you used to work out all the time.”

Your voice is slightly muffled by the fact that you’re currently pressed into his pecs, lips grazing against his tee with every syllable you utter.

“We’ve been awake long enough to take a nap,” he easily replies, though his voice sounds far away, like he’s thinking about something he isn’t currently voicing. His grip tightens a fraction. “Now stop squirming and close your eyes.”

“Promise me you’ll teach me how to fight after you wake up?” You ask him, finally stilling in his grip. Honestly, you couldn’t even put up a fight even if you wanted to. Sure, Gojo worked out, but you didn’t. You were used as weights for him whenever he needed you to—squats, bicep curls, sitting on his back when he did pushups, etc.

He just hums in reply, tracing small, nonsensical circles on your back. Rolling your eyes, you finally relent. “Fine, but I’m gonna hold you to that promise.”

Luckily you didn’t have to do any convincing when the two of you woke up from your nap. Gojo still had that far-away look in his eyes, but he at least got up.

Now the two of you are standing across from each other, just looking for a bit before he tells you how to adjust your stance properly. When he tells you, he also shows you, sometimes correcting your stance so you have proper form.

“All right, throw a punch at me,” he says, hands still in his pockets as he rocks on the balls of his feet slightly. Okay, just… throw a punch, nothing to be worried about. With a slight jab forward, you try to hit him right in the side, but Gojo only steps to the side, your arm not even grazing him. “Again.”

This continues for a while, you just trying to hit him while he boredly sidesteps all your attempts at hitting him. It’s only when sweat is starting to beat down your neck that he finally tells you to take a break.

Flopping down onto his jacket you let out a long, suffering groan. There’s slight movement beside you, before you can feel Gojo nudge you slightly. “Not bad.”

“Not bad? I didn’t even hit you once!” You turn your head to the side, watching him sit there with a slight smile on his face—the one you haven’t seen in ages.

He just looks at you, really looks. The way you’re sweating because you finally had a work out in… however long the two of you have been here. Little wisps of hair are sticking to your nape and forehead, a small layer of sheen glinting in the weird light that spills onto the two of you.

You noticed when he zoned out for too long, of course you did. The two of you have been stuck here long enough to know little tells from each other.

Just like he knows whenever you feel restless, a small finger twitch alongside the slight furrow in your brow is a dead giveaway. Or when you’re having a nightmare again. It isn’t as bad as it used to be, but he still knows when you’re having a bad dream. Always pulling you closer, stroking your spine whenever you begin to toss and turn next to him. It’s something he found out after a year of being here.

He still had his horrible sleep schedule ingrained in him, only having slept for four to five hours a day for as long as he can remember, so he was awake most of the times you were asleep. Now, he sleeps through the night. Well… whatever you can call the night.

Time doesn’t flow here, so it’s difficult to know just how much time has passed, but he does know that he sometimes wales up after you do, which surprised him when it first happened. You had a small smile on your face as you muttered about him being a sleepyhead.

It felt… nice, honestly. Not having any responsibilities for the first time since he was born. That doesn’t mean he likes it in here, though. As much as he likes your company, he’d much rather be with his family—his students and colleagues.

That’s been something he’s been thinking about lately, and he knows you’ve noticed. His mood has gone down significantly, and you’re trying anything and everything to not get him to think whatever he’s thinking of, but it’s hard not to.

He fucked up when he got captured, like really fucked up. And now his students and colleagues alike have to free him. How ironic, the strongest merely reduced to nothing because he was caught off-guard. Memories of a certain black-haired friend flash through his mind.

While Gojo has shared a lot about himself and his students, there are things he hasn’t shared with you. Such as what happened for him to get captured like this—the real reason why he got captured, not the one he gave you. While it’s true he got caught off-guard, he never told you about Suguru. And maybe it’s better you don’t know.

But it all makes him think, makes him doubt things. Sure, the two of you will get rescued eventually, his students will succeed in that, that much he’s certain of. But will people only get him out of here because he’s the strongest, or also because he’s Gojo Satoru, the man beneath the legend.

He eyes you again. You’re kicking your feet a little while you grumble something at him, poking him in his thigh for emphasis, but you’re not actually mad.

You, maybe the only person who has actually seen him—the real him that he closed off ten years prior. Sure he hasn’t told you everything about his childhood, but he hasn’t done that to anyone. It’s simply not something people needed to know.

If you two had met before this whole incident, would you have come to save him—despite being a non-sorcerer—because he’s Gojo Satoru, or because he’s the Strongest?

With a defeated sigh, he lets his head fall back against the skulls. The rattling of them makes his mind run rampant, but it’s not something he can help. It’s been running amok for these past few days. It’s what you noticed in him when you told him to spar you. Sure, it’s a good idea for you to actually be able to defend yourself, would the two of you ever get out of this prison, but he also knows it’s a distraction tactic.

What he doesn’t expect is for you to so forcefully poke his leg he has to jerk it away with a hiss. You’re pointing to the other side of the room where one of the skeleton lay. “Keiko just told me you didn’t teach me shit, so stop zoning out and get up so you can properly teach me this time.”

Wait what now? Keiko? Who the fuck is Keiko? And why are you acting as if there’s anything here that can talk to you other than him. Maybe the time in this realm has you finally losing your marbles a little. “Keiko?”

“Yes while you were moping around these last few days, I made some friends,” you finally stand up again, walking over to the skeleton you were pointing at. “This is Keiko, she knows martial arts. And she just told me you didn’t do shit, so get your ass up and fight me.”

Right, okay so you have gone crazy. Maybe it’s the lack of water after you worked out. Your brain deprived from the fact that you were sweating and not getting any liquids into your body. But then again, he has worked out here before without a problem.

“Right… Keiko. And who are the rest of your friends?” He slowly asks, because you did say you had multiple of them.

Your face lights up as you quickly go to arrange the skeletons, they rattle in your hold, not quite sitting upright, falling to the side before you put them against the wall with a huff and a pointed finger that says ‘stay right there’.

Once you’ve arranged five skeletons, you turn back to him, hair swaying wildly as you stretch your arms out. “meet your new friends! Keiko, as I've already told you. Then we have Sota. Sota likes to teach ballroom dances, great teacher if you ask me, unlike someone I know—”

You eye him then, lip slightly curled up in mock seriousness. Gojo just rolls his eyes and points to the skeleton next to “Harry”.

“—Right okay, so this is Akari. She makes candles. We should buy some from her, support small businesses and shit.”

He almost snorts at that. Yeah, you’re definitely off your rockers, and this just confirms it, but he lets you continue introducing the last two skeletons to him.

The first one is a doctor, and when he asks you what type of doctor it is, you just throw your hands up and tell him you don’t know because the skeleton refuses to tell you because it would be a HIPPA violation!

That, he does genuinely chuckle at. The sound foreign to his own ears when it slips out from between his lips. He can see the way you pause then, eyes softening at the sound of his laugh. A small smile graces your own lips, eyes crinkling slightly.

After a few moments, you finally point at the last skeleton with a flourish. “And this over here, is Tomoe. She’s a sorcerer whose powers are necromancy!”

“Cursed Technique, first of all. Second of all, that’s not how a technique works. C’mon, Bunny, I tried to teach you this so many times. You can’t just work with the dead if you were to infuse them with cursed energy.”

You huff at that, letting your head fall back with a groan, and Gojo swears you stomp your feet a little like you’re throwing an actual tantrum. “Oh my goooodd, you’re such a buzzkill! Tomoe said she’s a necromancer, so she shall be a necromancer.”

“Well she wasn’t a very good necromancer if she ended up dead,” Gojo sarcastically replies.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you pout at him. “Everyone dies eventually! Just because she worked with the dead doesn’t mean she couldn’t die.”

“Why couldn’t she just be a pediatrician or something?” Gojo asks then, genuinely curious. Why would you choose the skeleton to be a sorcerer out of all things when you have a real one right in front of you? And the Strongest one at that.

“Because she told me she was a sorcerer!” You whine, annoyed that he isn’t just fucking listening to you. “And just so you know, Tomoe doesn’t like you and said they would win in a one v one against you.”

“You’re insane, you know that, right?” Gojo mumbles out as he sees you carefully put all of the skeletons back to where they were laying before.

Turning around, you dust off your hands and walk straight up to him. Putting your hands on your hips, you look down on him. “Insanely funny, thank you very much. You’re just jealous of the fact that I made friends in here other than you.”

“Mhmmm, friends that can’t talk to you while you have a living, breathing one sitting right here,” he rolls his eyes at you. And you smile at that, because he seems almost jealous of the fact that you ‘made friends’. Obviously all of this was just to get him out of that funk he’s been in these past couple of days, and it does seem like it worked, even if only a little bit.

Sitting down next to him, you nudge him with your shoulder. He hums, a sound that comes deep from within his chest. “You doing okay, Satoru?”

It takes him a bit to respond, eyes tracing over the skeletons you just used. They’re neatly arranged, put back together, and it makes his chest a bit tighter. You care so much about menial stuff, and it makes him feel incredibly soft.

“Yeah, just… room is getting to me a little.” He vaguely gestures to the thousands of rattling skulls, not really saying anything. But you hear it loud and clear; he’s feeling lonely, isolated even, and you can’t blame him for feeling that way. It sucks being stuck in this prison for so long, despite the two of you keeping each other company.

Letting your head gently fall onto his shoulder, your fingers find his, giving his hand a slight squeeze. “We’ll get through it, together,” you whisper.

You can feel his shoulder relax a bit. Exhaling through his nose, he gives a small kiss to the crown of your head. “Together.”

He wakes up in a cold sweat, heart racing from the nightmare he just had. His mind is still reeling from it as he sits up, his back pressed against the wall, the rattling of the skulls absolutely not helping him right now.

He can see you sit up from the corner of his eyes, concern etched all over your face as you try and touch his knee. Jerking it away, he puts his hands in his hair, running his fingers through the white locks as his fingers tremble.

You’re calling out to him, he can see your lips move, almost as if it’s in slow motion. Hands kept meticulously to yourself, but still hovering over him. He can hear the way you’re calling out his name, but it comes out all warbled and distorted.

Breath comes harder now, chest heaving up and down as he looks around the room. Skulls blur together until he can’t see them individually anymore. Six Eyes is overloading his senses, even as he squeezes his eyes shut.

Pulling up his knees, he puts his head down between them, fingers still at the back of his hair, almost ripping out the hairs. The oxygen in the room feels thin, as if his lungs aren’t filling correctly.

Inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale. inhale exhale inhale. exhale. inhale inhale exhale inhale. His breath stutters with every intake, chest absolutely quaking as a tear slips from his eyes. His entire body is now trembling—or maybe it’s because of the rattling skulls beneath him.

Gentle fingers cup his jaw, forcing his head up. Your face is blurry, but the concern is right there. “Satoru, what’s going on?”

Opening his mouth to answer, he chokes out a sob. You coo at him to take it easy and that he just needs to focus on his breathing. When you finally utter the words panic attack, he nods his head in agreement.

“Okay… okay, uhh— shit I don’t know! Think about something that makes you happy, maybe?” you’re getting more frantic now. You’ve never seen someone have a panic attack before, so you’re not sure what you should do. The only thing that comes to mind is that people put little bags to their mouths to breathe into, but you guys obviously don’t have that here.

When he shakes his head, pupils shaking as another tear escapes, you swear. Looking around the room, you’re trying to find something, anything for him to help his mind get off this. “Okay, just— try and slow your breathing for me, okay? Here, breathe with me.”

You put one of his hands on your chest as you take a big inhale of breath, trying to get him to at least get some oxygen in his system, but after a few failed attempts, it’s clear that that isn’t going to work.

“Satoru I need you to look at me and give me a clear answer, okay? I need your breathing to calm down, and I read somewhere that if I slapped the person it would shock them out of it—“

“What?” he croaks out, the words not fully comprehending in his mind.

“Yeah… it’s a bit rude but if it helps I’m willing to do it, so tell me if—”

“No slapping, no…” he whimpers, folding in on himself once again. He jolts slightly from where he’s sitting, almost as if he can feel something that isn’t there. Maybe an old memory or something like that, because his breathing starts to get more erratic than before.

“Okay, okay. No slapping, got it. Uhhhh…. fucking why is that the only thing I’ve ever picked up from watching tv. Okay would it help if I just talked to you, maybe that would calm you down? Or I could hold you like you did me—”

Before you can even continue rambling on about the—limited—possibilities, Satoru wraps his arms around you, burying his face into your neck as he hyperventilates. Your hands are laying limp by your sides before you carefully put on into his hair and the other on his back.

“Hey, you’re fine,” you whisper into his ear, carding your fingers through his hair. Going to properly sit, you maneuver the two of you so he can properly cling onto you. “Wanna tell me what brought this on?”

He mumbles something into your collarbone, voice muffled, and you can’t hear exactly what he’s saying. “Sorry, can you say that again?”

“‘Was alone,” he hiccups out, breath still erratic as he whimpers. Your hands stop their movement for a second before they resume their ministrations. He got a panic attack because he had a nightmare that he was alone?

“You’re not alone now, Satoru,” you put your cheek on top of his head. “I’m here y’know.”

You’re not sure how long the two of you sit there for, time flows weird in here anyway, but after a while his breathing finally goes back to normal, a few tears dried on his cheeks as he slowly but surely lets go of you.

Tilting your head down, you look him into the eye. “You okay?” you whisper, almost as if you’re afraid to break the moment and have him have another attack. Luckily he doesn’t, but he does shock you by leaning forward and putting his lips onto yours.

It’s soft in a way you didn’t expect it to be—lips a bit chapped, but nothing unbearable—as he leans in further. You let yourself get lost in it for a second too long, a second that lets you forget all about the rattling skulls and the isolation and the fact that you’ve been here for years already, if you had to guess.

But when his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you finally pull back, lips parted, eyes wide as you look at him. The person you’ve been stuck here with for what seems like an eternity. The one they call the strongest because he has powers that trump everyone else’s.

He’s seen you at your most vulnerable moments, the ones where you woke up screaming and crying. Held you through it all, telling you it’s okay to let it all out, that it’s okay to feel this way after everything that happened.

Now it’s your time to see him at his most vulnerable. His lashes flutter open, little tear droplets still clinging to his white lashes, eyes slightly red as he looks like a kicked puppy. A small breath leaves his kiss-bitten lips, swollen and red, glossy by his own spit.

“Just help me forget… please,” he whimpers out, hands uselessly clenching beside him as he stares you down. “Let me know I’m not just making you up.”

It’s something he did when he was younger—making up friends, playing with them whenever he was alone in his room, having completed the training for the day. There weren’t many things that he owned, just a blanket he got to keep and his bottle of water.

Heart beating out of his chest, like it wants to claw itself out and present itself to you. Present the ugly truth that he’s kept hidden about his childhood—how empty and hollow his heart is. Blood pouring down his fingers as he would give it to you.

Would you caress it, or would you crush it between your dainty fingers? Put your teeth in it and rip a chunk out of it? The same way all of the people in his life have done until now. Stomping, crushing, clawing at his heart until nothing was left.

Would your mouth be stained red as you would put your lips to the organ, pressing feather-light kisses to it, show the care that you have been showing ever since the two of you got stuck here? Or would you sink your teeth in them, make it hurt a little?

The same sort of red that you were covered in when this realm opened. Skin stained in crimson, bathed in the velvety color that was sticking to you.

So he represents it to you—his heart. Vulnerable and still beating despite having been locked up here with you. Will you accept it in your dainty hands, keep it warm for him. Or will you crush it by denying his one wish?

Do you finally see him for the monster he really is? The one that enjoys the fighting, enjoys ripping off the limbs of curses as they pop out of place. Sounds of flesh and curse tearing, the same way flesh tore back on the platform that was stained in red.

He sees the way your eyes look at him—really look, trying to confirm if he’s really asking you what you think he’s asking, seconds bleeding together, just like his bleeding heart trying to thump itself out of his ribcage. He would tear it open for you, show you just how sincere he’s being.

There’s a slight change in the way you look at him, like you’re starting to really see the Gojo Satoru underneath the persona he’s been wearing all his life. The one who’s afraid of the dark, afraid of being alone, even when the room is full of people, the one who can’t let himself cry, because he’s the strongest.

“Is that what you want?” you finally breathe out, biting on your lip slightly as you can’t look away from him. The person who you’ve been stuck with for what seems like an eternity, asking you to help him forget by giving himself all of you.

There’s a slight pang that goes through your heart as you think about it. Snow-white hair falls into his eyes, but he holds your gaze. Bright blue eyes holding your gaze as he shows you him at his most vulnerable—the part he hasn’t shown you in years.

Buried beneath all the layers of faux-confidence and self-assuredness is just a boy who is trying to keep himself together, keep himself sane in this prison that makes you want to cry and scream and lash out.

A shaky nod escapes him, snow-white hair bouncing up and down with the motion, one of the skulls shifting under his grip, fingers white from how hard he’s digging them into the poor thing. For a moment you think it might crack under pressure—his finger, not the skull. You’ve long since found out that the skulls are indestructible.

Blood rushes up your cheeks, spreading warmth over your face and chest as you finally lean forward, softly putting your pillowy lips onto his again. So soft, he almost can’t believe you are touching him again, not helping with the feeling that you’re just some part of his imagination he’s had since he was all but a small boy.

Shifting around, he leans back against the wall of skulls, rattling against his back. The feeling real in a time where everything feels like sand slipping through his fingers, time bleeding out before his mind gives out.

Gripping your hips, he puts you onto his lap. Your weight settles on top of him, thighs bracketing his, skin soft and dimpling under the tight grip he has—all real. Real, real, real. You’re real. The soft hitch of your breath as he presses his mouth further against you is so real. Heart beating out of your chest in an erratic rhythm, also real.

But it’s not enough. Not enough for him to forget his childhood, the one he so desperately wants to forget especially in times like these. Not enough for him to know that you’re real and not just made up, the flesh under his fingers dimples the way it should, feels the way it should, but what if he’s just imagining it.

Digging his nails in further, you gasp out into his mouth, hips jerking on top of him as they pierce the skin. Blood rushing down, reddening the skin. Droplets of red stain his nails, sliding underneath them, burying themselves in the cuticles as a reminder that this is it.

Your own nails dig themselves into his shoulders, not enough to break the skin, but enough to leave behind your own marks.

Tongues clashing in a battle of dominance, he suuucks on it, tasting your saliva. That part that doesn’t belong to him, telling him that it’s enough. Sharp canines find themselves into your bottom lip, pulling on it slightly, biting just a bit too hard, puncturing the skin.

It leaves behind a smear of red on his own lip, which he licks off with a groan. The copper taste filling his mouth, painting him in crimson before he surges forward again, lips melding together in a fight that neither of you know how to stop now that it’s been started.

Messy, that’s what this is. The clash of teeth and tongue, spit and blood mixing together. It’s on your lips and chin, dribbling down it before Gojo leans down and licks it up,leaving behind a pink trail on your skin before he finally dips his head down further.

Pillowy soft lips land onto your neck, kissing and biting the skin as he marks you up. Red blooming under his mouth as he trails it down to your collarbones. Your head falls back, giving him more access, fingers twining into his hair, pulling on it when he nips at your skin again and again.

Leaving behind marks in his wake, he finally looks up at you. The way your pupils are blown out and eyes half-lidded. Blood on your skin, just like when you got here, only this time your own rather than someone elses.

Bringing his thumb up, he smears it all over your lips, watching the way it spreads. It’s messy. It’s beautiful. He can feel his cock jump in its confinements, pressing up against your heat.

Your lips wrap around his digit, muscle swirling around it as you lap the red, sticky substance from his finger. And if that wasn’t enough to get him over the edge, the way you bite on it, making a small pinprick on the pad of his finger, certainly is.

With a growl he flips the two of you around. Your bare shoulders find themselves onto the skulls, hair shaking underneath you in a small halo. The sight of you so… marked does something to him; makes his heart beat a bit faster in his ribcage, almost knocking on it to get out. Blood rushing through his veins as he just stares for a moment.

Finally he leans down, suckling softly on the exposed part of your breast. The parts where your bunny costume doesn’t cover your soft flesh. Marking it up, leaving behind blooming bruises and teeth-indentations in its wake.

He just bites and bites and sucks, until he finally gets to the fabric. Pulling it down with his teeth, one of your breasts spills free, nipple immediately hardening to the air in this god-forsaken place.

“You look beautiful,” he almost groans out, looking at your face twist up in pleasure as he wraps his lips around your hard peak. Swirling his tongue around the bud, he lathers it up in his saliva, leaving behind a small sheen on your skin, before he gently bites into it.

Mewling out, you wrap your legs around his waist, fingers tightening in his hair as your back arches from the uncomfortable skulls beneath you.

When he had asked to forget, you didn’t realise he would absolutely devour you in the process. But you’re not complaining about it even one bit. It’s the first time in forever you felt something different than that ever-present dread that has settled deep in your belly since you first got here.

That feeling has been replaced by warmth shooting through your core, absolutely throbbing around nothing as blue eyes stare up at you, drinking in every reaction he’s pulling out of you.

His lips are red, dried blood starting to crust on his chin as he finds your other nipple. He twists and turns it with his teeth, pulling on the bud before soothing it with a lap of his tongue. The sting leaves you hissing out, but you don’t tell him to stop.

Your hips roll up, brushing against his bulge that’s twitching with need. Your core is hot and heavy, fabric clinging to your folds. There’s a small layer of sweat that’s starting to form on your skin, leaving him with this mix of copper and salt in his mouth.

A small sting on his tongue makes him hiss out, a droplet of sweat entering a small wound he didn’t know he had, before he smiles at the feeling—the feeling of him feeling something, proof that he isn’t fading away.

Cock stirring in his pants, he grinds down onto you. The swell of your breast presses against his cheek as you mewl out, pulling his head down to meet your skin. The flesh soft against the apple of his cheek, hair brushing against your skin as he puts his forehead onto your chest.

“Need you inside of me,” you say—and it’s the first thing you’ve asked from him in what feels like hours. There’s another roll of his hips, bulge catching your clit over the fabric, and it has you positively moaning out. “Please.”

And how can he say no to that? No to the person who makes him feel real, makes him feel seen. He would trust his heart with you, would look at you like you hung the moon with the way you so delicately hold onto it, like a baby bird with a broken wing.

Your hands tug on his hair, pulling him in, the same way he’s sure you would wrap your fingers around his ribs, pulling him in, cradling him against your body. Leaving behind a bloody mess of proof that everything is real.

Would you polish the bones? Make them clean until no blood remains? Crawl inside of him, keep him warm and company wherever he goes. The same warmth that wraps around him as he enters you in a swift movement.

Heart pumping in your hand as you cradle it closer to your chest, the way he’s pumping in and out of you right now.

Licking a broad stripe up his neck, you leave behind marks of your own. Porcelain skin cracking under your teeth, warmth blooming instantly. Pale skin turning red wherever you touch him, bleeding for you in the way his heart bleeds for you.

His lips meld with yours once more. Blood-red against blood-red. It’s something he didn’t know he needed, and it was in front of him all this time. You suck on his tongue, the same way your gummy walls suck him right back in whenever he pulls his hips back.

Clamping down on him, you shatter. A moan bleeds from your lips in the form of his name—not in the way he’s ever heard it before.

He spills inside of you with a stutter of his hips, your name leaving his lips before he kisses you once more. The sound overwhelming to him. Your warmth and his mixing together, until it all bubbles out of you.

There’s a moment where he wants to ask if you’d bleed for him, but he bites his tongue. Bleed you did, the evidence right there; even if it was just for him to forget for a little while—forget about him being Gojo Satoru. Right now he’s just Gojo Satoru, the man whose heart has been bleeding for almost three decades.

His tongue finds your core, lapping up your mixed juices. Red and milky white mixing together until it’s all pink, just like that cotton tail on your tailbone. Would you clean him like this—with your tongue, or would you take a different approach?

Collapsing against the ground, he pulls you onto his chest. A small, nagging voice in the back of his mind tells him he went too far. Marks bloom on your skin bright and fresh, but there’s a small smile gracing your lips.

“You think we have to wait much longer before we get out of here?” you whisper, voice a little hoarse from all the noises he pulled from you. He sighs into your hair, trying not to think about how much longer the two of you will be in this hell-hole. “I have no idea.”

©CursedKisss

Tags: @etheralpanic @yoonsucks @lilithkleia @dollieadored @starsforvia @iinvivible @saniiaa @marisacosm @tojiphoria @yorikae @mousedit @sugurusbadhabit @cactusvolumes @satorusdollie @kcandy-flosz @lilslovesaizawa @secretsofchance @coveexxx @yagirljelliedkiki @pingui0i

It never got any easier, saying goodbye.

Deep down, you'd known it would come. The necrotic rashes on his neck and hands haunted you even when he kept them covered. You'd watched them progress over his skin, seen the way Leon tucked the worry behind his professionally maintained composure and careful assurances that he would be fine. He hadn't wanted you to worry, but how could you not?

The subtle ways in which the effects were taking hold chipped away at both of your confidences, fatigue and a cough like dust in his lungs. Leon, as always, downplayed their severity yet asked for you to keep a distance so as to protect you from it. You'd stopped laughing at the irony after the first day.

Weeks of tests, inconclusive lab results, and Sherry's best attempts at comfort were a blur behind you. A recurring bad dream you couldn't quite remember all the details of. That was until all of it culminated to a body found in some warehouse dock, sporting the same necrotic patches and much, much worse.

You'd refused to see the photos in the report. Refused to look upon the fate of someone that shared your husband's mysterious affliction. The thought of Leon ending up like them horrified you.

Deep down, you'd known it would come. And it did.

The call. The gun safe door unlocking. The packing of the duffel bag. Then the slow, meandering steps down the hall towards the front room, like the familiar weight of the world had settled again onto his shoulders. And now there he stood, facing you with that soft expression that always meant what he was about to say would hurt to hear.

Another investigation.

Another goodbye.

..why did this one feel so final?

When each new one could potentially be the last, the mind's instinct was to seize up, search desperately for the one thing that would mean the most before he walked away. Final words had to have meaning, right? Had to hold more weight than all the others that had come before it?

More weight than that first, innocent admission of love. More than the breathless 'Yes' to his proposal. Even more still than the tearful 'I do' before the priest.

It was debilitating, the feeling of paralysis, of fear. The choking distress of frantically reaching for words that would be, could be, enough.

But those words, you feared, didn't exist. How could they, when after all this time, you had yet to learn any with the weight appropriate enough to satisfy the fear that they'd be the last thing he'd ever hear you say?

Leon understood, could read it in your eyes blurry with tears that you refused to let fall. And maybe he felt it too, that this time was somehow different than all the others before it. But the infuriating and oh-so-wonderful thing about him was that his goodbyes were always what you needed to hear.

He stepped closer, smiling with the barest lift of the corner of his mouth and traced his gloved thumb along your cheek.

"I'll be home for dinner."

No date or time. No indication as to when he might be referring to. Not even an 'I promise.' But the words gently wove around your heart like silken armor, bearing just enough hope in its strands to let you believe that he'd meant them with his whole soul. Leon never lied to you. The fact that he'd told you he would was promise enough. And that had to be enough.

Seconds ticked by. The only sound being your shared coursing breaths, mixing in the space between you, and the tinny ticking of the clock on the wall. Part of you wondered if you should be counting each one, cataloguing the way he stood and smelled and looked one last time before you never could again.

A few more times the fabric of his glove glided along your skin, and Leon's eyes never strayed from the shape of your lips. But the kiss you were so desperate to receive wouldn't come. They hadn't since the rashes first appeared. And a tiny part of you wondered if they never would again.

Perhaps the somber thought had shown through your expression, because he muttered a quiet 'Hey,' and switched to cupping your face instead, holding it tenderly. What you wouldn't give for it to be his skin you felt, rather than the rough texture of the glove.

"Even if I'm late," he went on, voice low and steady in that way meant to calm you, "keep something in the fridge for me, yeah?"

Don't give up on me, you heard underneath it all.

Swallowing past the fatalistic cloud of despair in your chest, you nodded, offering the closest semblance of a smile you could manage at that point. Pitiful, but at least you tried.

Your heart screamed with the desire to say something--anything--as he straightened and his hand fell away. Your lips parted in preparation for the right words to come, but as usual, you grasped uselessly at the intention and found no purchase.

The moment ended, the knob turned. Your heart walked out the door, closing it softly behind him.

The days passed.

Then weeks.

Unhurried. Without purpose.

As if the house were amber, and you were simply suspended in it, waiting for an inevitability that you weren't confident was meant to come.

This weightless drifting was new. You weren't normally like this, no stranger to being left alone while Leon went away for indeterminate amounts of time doing potentially dangerous things. Doubt had never dug itself so deeply as it did now. But this mysterious infection that no one could give answers for ate away at the faith you had in Leon's ability to always come back. This was a problem that couldn't be solved with anything in Leon's repertoire of training.

You didn't make it a habit of imagining what Leon might be up to at any given time while he wasn't home, but the thoughts were harder to resist this time. Where was he now? Was he safe? Had he found anything that could reverse the infection spreading through him?

Did he think of you? Were you on his mind?

It was the not knowing that killed you. The time and space for the endless 'what ifs' to flow freely and mercilessly through your subconsciousness in your loneliness. The unknown that kept you hanging on a knife's edge, like your lungs filled with air but could never release, and the lack of flowing oxygen slowly ate away at you from within.

Sherry Birkin had answers. Possibly. She was one phone call away, on your speed dial in case of absolute emergencies, but you'd never make that call. Never. Knowing, you thought, would just kill you quicker.

So you simply exist, in the time with him gone.

Your limbs followed the muscle memory of what normal looked like, with no thought behind any action or decision. Just...you, puppeting the physical body you occupied.

You ate at appropriate times, slept when the sun set--or, at least, before it rose again for the new day. Cleaned and folded the laundry, washed and put away the dishes, watered the garden out front to stop it from dying off. You maintained the routine as if Leon were still here, because that's what you were supposed to do. Because you'd fall apart if you didn't cling to some purpose to keep going.

You watched tv without ever really seeing the screen, the sound nothing more than an effort to drown out the worst of your festering worries. They so easily crept up in the silence. It was impossible not to think about. The best you could hope for was muffling the noise.

When your friend called, you laughed in all the right places, hummed and nodded when she told you about her day and promised to meet for a coffee knowing all too well, you'd forget.

You made dinner every night, enough for two. Always one of his favorite recipes. You sat at a table of empty chairs, across from a plate that grew cold by the time you finished your own. You packed it into a tupperware container for later, to be reheated and enjoyed by your husband if he...

...

...

...When.

When he came home.

Your plate was empty, now.

It was time to put it away.

That's what the auto-pilot told you, but your limbs had frozen, the joints locked in place.

Instead, you sat in your chair, staring at it with such numb detachment that for once, the ceaseless worry and 'what ifs' on replay in your mind quieted into nothing. You could no longer taste the lingering flavors of the food you'd just eaten, mouth dry and pressed together in a thin line. Your chest felt like static. Despite having the living room's corner lamp turned on, drenching the space in comfortable golden glow, you don't feel any sort of warmth at all.

Across from you, the second plate still sat full of food. Cold, now. Waiting for the man that had told you he'd be home for dinner. Something in you reasoned that if you never stood from the table, if dinner never really ended, one of those miracles you hated relying on would come true and he'd walk right through that door and keep his word.

Because Leon always kept his word to you.

But that was a fantasy conjured up from the growing sense of despair. A hopeful wish and nothing more. Instead, reality sat waiting on the plate, getting colder by the minute.

Do the dishes.

Minutes passed, and you still hadn't moved, eyes glazed over and stinging from staring unblinkingly at a pair of plates on your kitchen table. Leaving the table felt like giving up. You didn't give up, not on him.

22 dinners on your own. 21 leftovers you ate yourself for lunch the following day so it wouldn't go bad. So he'd have something fresh should today, finally, be the day he came home.

Just a few more minutes...

...

...

Get up.

A sigh escaped you, heavy and leaving you empty.

Logic eventually won out over hope. Sadly, hope lost a lot of battles these days...You'd even hovered over Sherry's name in your phone the other night, contemplating the call. Ultimately, you'd still turned the screen off before you could try, but the thought had stuck around longer than was normal.

You'd started wearing his shirts instead of your own wardrobe, something that only happened when on bad days. The scent they carried of him helped, but it could never heal. A band-aid on a bullet wound.

How many more nights of this could you endure?

You reached for your plate and rose from the chair. The scrape of it against the floor nearly covered it, but there it was.

A sound.

So familiar, you could picture it clearly. Your eyes closed, savoring its song.

A pair of keys turning in the front door lock.

You turned, slowly as if doing so too fast would banish the spark of hope that now buzzed beneath your skin. You locked onto the source of the noise, waiting, barely breathing in the several seconds it took for the knob to twist and the door to open behind it.

Leon.

Alive and breathing.

Home.

Looking at you with those eyes in your favorite shade of blue. You could see the exhaustion, the relief, and a mix of other things that were too hard to identify right then and there, but he looked at you in the same way you knew you were looking at him.

He was a little rough around the edges--hair finger-combed and clothing disheveled enough that you could tell he'd come straight from whatever hell hole he'd been trudging through. Relief was a warm salve that thawed the chill from your soul.

The door finally closed with a click. Leon let the duffel bag slip from his shoulders without ceremony, already walking towards you with meandering steps.

The smile you offered him was wide and genuine, knowing it was all you could offer him while his infection was still present. No touching. A boundary you loathed but understood the reasons behind. Leon's only way to try protecting you from what he suffered from.

He glanced at the table behind you, likely spotting the plate of food that was ready and waiting for him. The corner of his mouth lifted briefly. Then his eyes were back on you.

"Welcome ho-"

The rest of your greeting is cut off with a kiss so deep you nearly short-circuited. It didn't even register that he lifted his two uncovered hands and placed them on either side of your face.

Shock came out as a muffled noise against his slow, exploring mouth, brain trying--and failing, spectacularly--to catch up to the moment. Your eyes closed, leaning further into his kiss, slanting your lips to his in a dance only the two of you knew the steps for.

Something shatters on the floor, but you can't be bothered to look, grasping onto his shirt with both hands and pulling him into you. You felt the low rumble of approval in his chest, now pressed against yours as his own fell away from your face and pressed into your back. The other slowly drifted down your side, reacquainting himself with your shape.

There was a renewed vigor to him that felt out of place. The way he kissed you now, savoring the feel of your lips on his like a man starved but wise enough not to gorge himself...well, you hadn't had a greeting this passionate in a long time.

A nagging feeling tried to worm its way through your brain, telling you there was something off about all of this, but for the life of you, you couldn't...

...

He...

...he was kissing you.

Touching you. His ungloved hands had cradled your face.

But his infection...

You manage to pull away just enough to speaking in panting breaths against his lips, confusion furrowing your brow.

"Leon, you're-"

"Cured." He groaned into the space you'd made, voice so devastatingly raw that it made your heart pang with such intense heat you thought you'd melt. And as if he couldn't bear to be parted for even a second, his thumb and forefinger guided your chin back where he wanted you, stealing away any further words with his mouth again.

Cured.

You knew the definition of the word, yes. But the meaning behind it didn't click until Leon's tongue brushed your bottom lip, asking, needing, to be allowed entry.

Another beat. Another brush of his tongue. And then it hit you fully.

Leon was cured.

Your mouth opened to his, a sob or a moan escaping you, as all the anxiety and fear and worry over the past few months dissipated altogether. Here he was, in your arms, to stay. His tongue pushed past, yearning for a taste, and you matched it with equal fervor.

Letting go of his shirt, your arms raised to wrap around his neck. Following your momentum, he lifted you by the back of your legs, wrapping themselves around his waist as he began to walk the two of you out of the kitchen.

"...thought about this the whole drive home." You heard him mutter against your mouth. You huff a breathless chuckle in return.

You're a little surprised when instead of laying you on your back on the bed that had felt so empty all these weeks, Leon moved to sit on the couch only feet away with your legs still straddling him. He continued kissing you, gently but with such passion you felt alight.

"Tired?" You take a guess, being the first to break the kiss this time and letting your lips pepper a trail of kisses towards his jaw. The stubble that had grown in felt rough and wonderful against your own skin.

"Understatement..." He groaned out, practically sinking back into the couch cushion and letting you explore his face to your heart's content.

"How bad?" You probed gently, but he only shook his head, eyes closed. Clearly now was not the time for talking about it, so you dropped it right there.

The fingers holding your waist snuck teasingly under the hem of your shirt--technically his shirt--and lifted an inch or two. You shivered at the brushing touch.

"Let me do the work, love." You offered in a soft voice, knowing he was likely more exhausted than he was letting on. And as if to prove your point, he only nodded, no arguments given.

Your mouth traced the line of his stubbled jaw, then dipped down below to the skin of his neck. Head tilted back, he groaned at the soft little bite your teeth make, just hard enough to sting. You thrilled at the sight of his unmarred skin. The evidence of his improved health sent your heart beating a little faster.

Careful not to dig too deep, your hands reached his shoulders, then slowly your thumbs along his skin through the shirt. His breath stuttered, and you smile. There would be time for a proper massage later, when you were both in bed and you could get the proper leverage on the worst of his tension, but this was a start to readjusting him to home instead of the mission.

"I missed you." Is your soft admission, barely more than a whisper. It's hard to tell if he even heard it.

You spent several minutes mouthing soft kisses at his neck, letting your hands slowly unspool the tight ball of wire that was your husband until the path slowly lead you to his chest. You pressed a palm above his heart, feeling the strong and steady beat of it beneath his shirt. For the first time in weeks, you feel like you can truly breathe again.

Another tug at your hem and you away to drag the shirt up and over your head, tossing it to the floor beside you without preamble. Leon drank in the sight of your bare breasts with a reverence that nearly stole your breath. Something shifted in him, in you. The mood had simmered into something tender, and you let him take you in without rush. After months of not being able to touch one another, revisiting such familiar places on your bodies was something to be cherished and savored.

One hand rose to slowly, gently, graze down the delicate skin of your breast. Soft as a feather, warm like the sun. The levity it brought to your soul was unfathomable.

He traced a path off to the side, down around where the swell of you curved, and then back up the center, straight over your hardened nipple. You shivered in his lap, taking note of the insistent pressing of his cock trapped beneath the confines of his pants beneath you.

"Beautiful..." You heard him whisper in awe. His other hand came up, giving similar attention to your neglected breast as he leaned up off the couch and took the first into the wet heat of his mouth.

His name spilled out in a gasping moan. The flat of his tongue pressed to your nipple and dragged a slow lick upwards, before sucking and swirling at the bud in that way that made you squirm. Your hips pressed down into the seat of his pants, seeking relief for the tremble between your legs.

With a groan, Leon locked you in place with one arm around your lower back and pressed you deeper onto his clothed cock. He gave a slow rut and your eyes fluttered closed, rolling upwards at the pressure. It's then that you recalled your promise to do the work this time, and your hands reached down to pull at the belt securing his pants in place.

The angle is awkward with him holding you down, but he did help a little when your fingers couldn't quite get the damn thing out of its loop. You could feel him chuckle as he lifted his head, lips coming to meet with yours again in a sweet kiss. Together, you manage to get his belt undone, and the button and zipper beneath it are made short work of.

The ache in your cunt intensified as you pulled away to stand up, taking off your pants and underwear as Leon worked to drag his own down past his knees. Lips parted and chest heaving, the look he gave you could have made you collapse in place, so deep was the desire and love swimming in those beautiful blues of his.

You just managed to take one leg out of your pants, the other getting caught on the bottom of your foot before you gave up on it entirely and placed yourself back onto his lap. His cock, needy, thick and throbbing, sat between you as he placed his hands on your waist.

Watching Leon's face carefully, you gently took him in hand. His eyes closed, his brows furrowed upwards, and he let out a stuttering breath. The fingers on your waist squeezed with loving encouragement, and you began a slow stroking motion over the delicate skin, cataloging the way his legs flexed beneath you and his breathing strained with each small twist of your wrist at the base.

You could spend all night just stroking him like this, but that wasn't the point right now. And as if reading your mind, Leon's forehead came to rest against your own, letting out a breathy moan and a strained lift of his hips.

"Baby, please..."

"I've got you." You hushed him softly, thumb brushing across his cheek with as much tenderness as he had when he'd first left you those weeks ago.

With care, you lifted up from his legs and lined him up with your wet center. The both of you seemed to hold your breath, trembling in the moment before you sank back down onto his shaft, enveloping him and filling you so well you could feel the steady beat of your heart down through your cunt. Your moan was near silent, airy and light.

"Fuck..." Leon breathed out, fingers like a vice around your waist, and you couldn't quite tell if he was trying to hold you in place or was actively restraining himself from taking over as the desire clouded over his senses.

Planting your hands on his shoulders, you lifted your hips and descended onto him again, reveling in Leon's second mumbled curse as the glide on the second time was much smoother. Repeating the process and bringing his lips back to yours, you settled in a slow pace riding him.

Your pace never quickened, basking in this moment of heaven. Leon's husky groans and sighs of relief as you worked yourself over him was such sweet music. Your previous fears of him not coming back, of the possibility that you'd never get to have this, to feel him like this again, had you gasping out against his mouth with such a wide range of emotions you nearly cry.

"Leon." They all spill over in a single confession. "I love you."

He groaned at your soft admission, kissing you again like he you were the air he breathed, the sun in his sky, and the very heart beating in his chest. And maybe you were.

Only moments after, he tensed, groaning heavy and hitched against your mouth. His hips twitched once, then twice. The tell-tale sign he'd reached his peak. You were far from yours, the slow pace not doing much to get you anywhere close but tonight wasn't about you. Having him inside of you at all was enough.

You continued to ride him through the orgasm, enjoying the wonderful twitches in his facial expression as the euphoria of having peaked washed over him like a cleansing balm. For now, gone was the remnants of the mission, replaced instead by you and him and home.

Your hips finally slowed when you knew the stimulation would begin to shift from pleasure to painful. Leon's fingers loosened their hold on your waist and smoothed over the placed he'd maybe gripped too tight. You hummed as his fingers smoothed upwards along your spine, soothing and warm against your tacky skin.

Leon pants softly beneath you, foreheads still pressed together. Your eyes finally opened, and he was already looking at you with that tender gaze he saved for just these moments. His hand lifted, smoothing your hair back out of your face so he could more clearly see you before it settled with his thumb stroking your cheek, cradling your chin.

Pulled by whatever string of fate tied the two of you together, you both leaned in and met in the slowest kiss you'd shared all night. For who knew how long, you stayed just like that, his cock gradually softening inside of you and his lips memorizing the way yours pressed to his after months apart.

Eventually, you both ran out of breath, and had to break away, albeit reluctantly. Melting into his chest, you lay your head into the crook of his neck and breathed in his sweaty scent. He planted a kiss to your hairline and rested his cheek against it. The silence was comfortable for a while, both of you soaking in the feeling of home again.

You smiled a little. "You made it for dinner."

"Told you I would."

"Yes, you did." You nodded with a chuckle. "I'll have to reheat it though. It's cold by now."

"Too tired to get up." His chest heaved up and back down with a heavy sigh, before groaning sleepily when it shifted his cock a little out of your dripping heat. "And I like you right where you are."

"Dinner for breakfast then?" You whispered in amusement, and he hummed. "Alright, but the bed is comfier than the couch, you know."

"It's got you in it right now," He countered, working up enough energy to wrap his arms around your back and shift you both so you were lying on your sides on the cushions, face to face, "which means it's all I need."

You felt his lips plant another soft kiss to your forehead, and you wrinkled your nose in mock cringe. "Cheesy."

"You like it." He muttered sleepily, already settling in to pass out. His spend would likely make a mess where it now dripped out of you by morning. Oh well.

“That was stupid,” Leon says, hauling you into him. The words aren’t unkind, but they’re not gentle either. You stumble against him.

“Have I been known to be anything else?” you ask. He grunts. “Besides, I’ve got you to take care of me,”

He doesn’t respond. He finds a quiet spot, a reclusive corner where he can assess the damage. There’s a wicked gash along your side, cutting from near your navel up towards your ribs. It makes your vision tunnel when you finally lay eyes on it. You hadn’t known how bad it was. His fingertips are gentle around the surrounding skin.

“You’re lucky evac is two minutes out,” he says. His voice is hushed, like he’s telling you a secret. Maybe he is.

“Yeah?” you ask, a breathy noise that you’re not certain you could recreate. The sound is deep, rooted in desperation and blood loss. Leon’s eyes flick up at you from where he’s crouched, icy gaze cutting through his lashes. He looks pretty like this, bent low in front of you, looking at you with something you can’t place. It makes you shiver.

“You’re losing blood,” he says. You nod.

“Gonna give me yours?” you tease. Your vision tunnels a bit, and you slump forward. Leon catches you, pulling you flush against him. He smells like sweat and cedar and smoke, something that nearly lulls you into sleep. You hear a distant rumble as the building continues to crumble.

He helps you out of the derelict building. You’re barely even walking, just sort of stumbling beside him as he carries most of your weight, and you feel strangely guilty for making him do all the work. The helicopter’s blades never slow as it touches the ground. Leon helps you into your seat, guiding you gently. He’s soft as he slides the headphones over your ears, even going as far as to smooth a piece of hair out of your eyes. You can hardly keep them open.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs. It feels like a promise. “Can’t have you dying on me, now,”

“That would ruin your whole week,” you say, trying to smile. It’s a weak attempt at a joke, and he knows it. You can see tension make its home under Leon’s skin. It rears its head with every pull of muscle, every furrowed brow.

“We’ll be home soon,” he says. You nod. You’re not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself.

When you do finally land, you’re pulled away from him for medical attention. You fight as best as you can, attempting to sit in on the briefing, but Leon levels you with a gaze you’ve never seen him wear, and you accept defeat. There’s two medics standing idly in the room, and they turn to see you hobble in, eyes widening.

“What the hell happened?” one of them asks. You shrug, sitting down on the bed.

“Caught something sharp,” you say. They lift your shirt, which is in ribbons. A shock of pain rips through you, and you stifle a groan.

They work quickly, giving you a tetanus shot. You wince as the needle sinks beneath your skin. The pain only adds to the rest of it searing through your muscles. Now that you’re sitting, adrenaline having dissipated, everything hurts. The gash oozes blood, which makes you feel dizzy. Your back hurts, your legs hurt, your side hurts. Every time they touch you, you suck in a breath.

Finally, you’re stitched up. They tell you to take it easy for a week, shove pain meds into your hands, and send you out the door. Leon leans against the opposite wall, watching his boots. He looks tired, run down. He’s covered in dirt. Black streaks smear across his cheeks, his biceps. His hair falls like a golden frame over his eyes. You sigh.

He looks up then, watching you. He scans over your body, checking for any lingering injuries the medics managed to miss. You offer him a weak smile.

“No hospital?” he asks, pushing off the wall to meet you where you stand. His steps are heavy, tired. You shake your head. “Good. Let’s get you home,”

You follow him out of the building. It’s winding turns and desolate hallways until fresh air smacks you in the face. You take a deep breath, trying to let the residuals of the mission fall off of you. Leon’s car faces you, a beat up old Buick–he refuses to get anything newer–and it stares at you like it knows something you don’t. You fit easily into the passenger seat, like you were made for it. You lean back against the headrest. You feel suddenly exhausted, like a two ton weight rests in your chest. You just want to sleep. The drive to your apartment isn’t long, and you’re counting down the seconds until you’ll be able to slip into the shower and let the day wash down your back.

Leon helps you upstairs. You try to protest, tell him that the elevator isn’t going to exert you any more than the walk to the building itself, but he refuses to listen. He follows silently behind you until you reach your door. He’s like a shadow as you enter the apartment, still bathed in the darkness of night. You hate to do it, but you turn on the light, flooding the room and making you wince. Leon holds your arm to keep you steady as you toe off your shoes.

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you say, not looking at him. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been hurt,”

He doesn’t say anything for a long, pregnant moment. But then, “I would like it to be the last, preferably,”

You huff a weak laugh, something hoarse and weary. “You and me both, partner,”

He follows you from room to room, picking things up as you drop them. Your right arm is effectively useless because any movement on that side sends shockwaves of pain through your entire body. You sigh heavily, fighting back tears. Leon stands in the threshold of your bathroom, holding your bundle of clothes and hairbrush. He looks at you with something you can’t identify–not quite pity, but something adjacent. He looks so pretty, so collected, even in his dirty state. You clutch your side.

“I can take it from here,” you say, breathless. “I’ll see you in a week,”

Leon stares at you. His fingers fidget with the hem of your sleep shorts. He opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again. Then, “Do you want help?”

You blink at him. You hadn’t considered he’d be willing to help you. You hadn’t thought so far ahead as to know what you’d do to get out of your clothes.

With a breath, you say, “Yes, please,”

He nods wordlessly. Your clothes find their home as a heap on the sink counter. He pats the top of it once as if casting a spell to make them stay put. He turns to you then. He’s broad, forces you to dial in on him. His hands linger at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

You lift your left arm above your head, a silent encouragement to get him to touch you. His hands fall on you like a caress. Gently, he lifts your shirt up. His knuckles brush against your side, making your breathing hitch. He’s not watching you, fully focused on his task, but you can’t look away from him. He looks so focused, like one wrong move would paralyze you. He catches one end of the shirt in your armpit, pulling the other side out so you can slip your arm through. He helps ease your head through the collar, then pulls it off entirely via your other arm. He breathes in heavily through his nose at the expanse of skin he’s revealed. Then he takes a step back. You swallow thickly.

“I need…” you mumble, brain rotting inside your skull. “I can’t reach-”

“I got it,” he says. The words sound broken on his tongue.

You spin for him, presenting the clasp of your bra. You purse your lips when his warm hands make contact with the smooth skin on your back. He makes surprisingly quick work of it. Within seconds, you feel it loosening around your ribs, a small blessing. You breathe out something heady and heavy.

“I’ll be out there if you need anything,” Leon says. He leaves little room for argument by bustling out of the room as quickly as he can. You blink.

The shower water is hot on your skin, but it feels good. You can feel the tension slipping down your shoulders in rivulets. Somehow, you manage to wash yourself one handed, which you feel mildly proud of. The steam loosens you. It’s only when you step out of the water that you remember that you have to put a shirt on.

You struggle for what feels like hours. Every movement pulls on your stitches. You’re near tears when you finally call out for Leon.

“Yeah?” he asks, cracking the bathroom door. You sniffle.

“I can’t…” you say, taking a breath to recollect yourself. “I can’t get my shirt on,”

“I’ll help,” he says. His voice is so soft, so intimate. He enters quietly, staring at anything that isn’t you.

The shirt looks miniscule in his hands. Carefully, almost reverently, he eases the collar over your head. His gaze still lingers just past your shoulder. You frown. You slip your good arm through the sleeve.

Leon finally looks at you. You nod, letting him know it’s okay to put his hands on you. You see the turmoil in his eyes, the need for consent.

“You can touch me,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He nods once.

He grips the hem of the shirt, pulling as far down as the fabric will let him. Then, softly, he helps guide your arm through the sleeve. His fingers brush against you again, just along the curve of your breast, but the touch is electric, crackling with something unsaid. The moment is so intimate, so personal, you could burst into tears. Then the shirt is fully on your body. You wonder if Leon can hear your heart hammering against your chest. If he can, he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“Thanks,” you say, breathless. He nods. “I can handle the rest,”

“You sure?” he asks. There’s no suggestion in his tone, and that almost makes it worse. You breathe heavily through your nose, nodding.

He stands there as you fumble with your hairbrush. Your lips are pursed as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You’re barely halfway through the tangled strands before he stops you.

“Let me help,” he says–no begs. You glance at his reflection. He looks as wrecked as you feel. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, gaze unblinking as he waits for you.

“Okay,” you say softly, voice hollow and breathy as you pass him the hairbrush.

He’s gentle as he works the brush through your hair. His gaze remains focused on the wet strands, but yours is on him. His brow furrows slightly, that bottom lip pulled snugly between his teeth as he pulls on a particularly tough tangle. His eyes look so blue in the yellowing light above the mirror. The care he takes with you is enough to make you sick. His hands are frustratingly warm as they bump against the back of your neck. He never once pulls or yanks, never scrapes the bristles against your skin, never gets frustrated. He works until it is done, unwaveringly, and you didn’t expect anything less. The moment is so soft, so delicate, you’re afraid that something might break when you pull away.

“I think I got it,” he says, soft as a whisper against you. You nod.

“Thank you,” you say. You stay idle for a moment, just watching him. He looks so unsure.

You think, in another lifetime, miles and miles away from here, that you could’ve loved him. He’s funny when he wants to be, charming in a boyish sort of way. You count on him, but he doesn’t let it get to him. He gives because he thinks it a privilege that you let him. You reach up to wipe away some of the dirt still smudged on his face. He stiffens beneath your fingertips, not prepared for such affectionate contact.

He swallows thickly. You remove your hand, and you see him relax just a fraction.

“Do you need any more help?” he asks in an almost broken way. You shake your head. “I’ll see you later, then?”

“Yeah,”

He ducks his chin at you, then shuffles out of the bathroom. You hear the front door open and click shut a moment later, leaving you alone in your apartment.

...

Leon is not sure that he would describe himself as kind or good. But on his drive home, as he thinks about your withered form presented to him in the dim light of your bathroom, looking up at him through your lashes like he was something holy, he starts to think that that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he is kind or good because you kept looking at him like he was all you ever needed. He can still feel your skin against his fingers, sending shivers down his spine. 

He’d frozen up. He knows that he probably looked ridiculous, like a flushed school boy who had just stumbled into the girl’s locker room by accident. Your skin had been so soft. The expanse of flesh he’d discovered beneath your tattered shirt lives in his brain as he shuffles into his apartment. The space is dark and empty. He has very few personal items, unlike you. His space looks abandoned, which he guesses it usually is. He really only uses this place to sleep and eat sometimes. 

He crashes onto his couch, still unshowered and unclean. He just needs a moment, he tells himself. Just one moment, to collect the memories of you like precious items to set on his vacant shelves. The way you shivered against him when he brushed your side, the way you watched him, doe eyed, in the mirror as he brushed your hair, the humidity of the room clinging to you; they all go, framed and perfect, on shelves in his mind. He breathes out, something heavy and soft all at once. 

He’s unfamiliar with this feeling. He doesn’t know how to embrace it, so he decides that he shouldn’t. He’s not sure he deserves something as sweet and gentle as you. You’re better than him, in almost every way. You don’t let the job wear you down, you take pride in what you do. You tease him. The mercy and compassion you give him are foreign in his brain. And he feels so selfish for accepting every last scrap. He eats up the way you look at him, the way you laugh at his weak attempts at jokes, the way you worry after him even with a ten inch gash on your side that very easily could’ve gutted you. He is gluttonous and greedy and selfish. You are consuming him, and he is letting you. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t let you plague him this way. He knows that it could all too soon be ripped away from him, but in this moment, in the dim light cast by the moon streaming through his curtains, he doesn’t care. A shudder rakes through his body, from head to toe. 

It would be all too easy to blame you. He could curse you for whatever spell you’ve cast to make him stupid in this way. But he knows the fault is his and his alone. It’s his fault that he mistakes your casual compassion for anything more. It’s his fault that he devours whatever good comes his way, just to corrupt and blacken it. And he doesn’t want to do that to you. He doesn’t want to see where this will end, even if he has before and knows it as intimately as he knows every other aspect of death and decay.

He tips his head back against the couch. There’s a crack in his popcorn ceiling, cutting through the expanse of white like a vein. 

He knows he’s cut open and bleeding at your feet. He’s wounded in a way that doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t want you to help him. Not because he doesn’t ache to feel your gentle hands smooth over his scarred flesh, working out the evil with every electrifying touch, but because he does, and that would make you the universe’s top priority. 

He is cursed, a bad day after a worse one. And he knows that if he were to let you have him the way he wants, you’d become cursed too. Cursed with him and his aches and pains, his scars and bruises, his anger and resentment. 

When he settles beneath the sheets that night, he dreams of you. He dreams of your soft skin against him, your laughter, your easy smiles. He dreams of the life he could have were it not for his exceedingly awful luck.

He could save you. He could prevent you from ever coming nearer. But that somehow feels like a worse, more torturous ending. And he is nothing if not selfish.

...

The next time you see Leon, it’s nearly a week later. The swelling on your side has gone down and most of the pain has subsided, but it’s still tense and unforgiving, especially so early in the morning. There’s little light coming through the curtains thanks to the steady stream of rain pelting the earth.

His hair is soggy, casting thick shadows over the high points of his face. There’s crystal droplets on the shoulders of his jacket, ones you want to reach out to shake off, but you refrain. He smiles at you, that gentle half smile he only ever wears when he’s half exhausted. 

“Came to check on you,” he says softly, words turned plush on the corners of his lips. You smile.

“Unfortunately, I’ve succumbed to sepsis. You’re seeing a ghost,” you joke. He rolls his eyes and pushes past you into the apartment.

He shakes off like a dog as he hangs his coat on the hook. A few rogue water droplets smatter your face. You take a moment to observe him. The lines of his body are rigid like there’s something pulling him taught. For a moment, you ache to reach out and smooth your palms over his muscles, to help him relieve some of that tension. You wonder if that’s something that would be okay, if he would welcome your touch. There is a line that stands between you, and you’re not sure which side of it you reside on. 

“Anything interesting happen in the week that I’ve been gone?” you ask, leaning against the back of the couch.

Leon hums, pursing his lips as he thinks back on the last few days. “There’s a new coffee machine in the break room,”

You huff a laugh. “Can’t wait to try that baby out,”

Silence stretches thick between you, like a rope that’s been left out in the rain. You watch him move with careful precision, finding where would be the best place to exist within. You wonder why he never seems to relax, even in your space. You wonder if he knows how much you care. Subconsciously, you run the pads of your fingers over your injury. It’s a rough stretch of skin now, bubbled with scar and scab. You frown.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, suddenly standing again to get to your side. He catches your wrist where it hovers near the tear.

You shrug. “Only when I think about it,”

He purses his lips and emits a low hum, giving you a once over. “Have a fever at all?”

You shake your head. He nods, once and curt, before dropping your wrist and stepping away from you. 

“Do you need any help?” Leon asks, avoiding your gaze by scanning around the room. “Any chores that have been neglected? Any errands I can run for you?”

You feel the corner of your mouth tick up in a small smile. Shaking your head, you say, “No, Leon. I’ve been able to manage on my own,”

“I know,” he says. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing on the soft flesh there in thought. Then, soft as a whisper, he says, “I was worried about you,”

You feel your heart catch in your throat. You think back to the way he looked at you that night, like you were broken before him and he couldn’t do anything to fix you. You think about how gentle he was with you, how careful he was like you were bursting at the seams. You see his cheeks turn a tinge of pink as the silence stretches thick between you. You reach out, placing a flat palm against his chest. There’s no sound in the apartment, just the rain outside and your own heavy breathing.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Leon,” you say, just as soft. “I know you’ll always take care of me,”

He swallows, something heavy and unsaid, and nods. “I will,”

It feels like a promise. It feels like a vow.

With an intake of breath, you say, “Anything on our docket?”

Leon purses his lips. “Not on yours,” he says. You frown. “You’re on light duty for a while,”

You twist your face up in a nasty expression, which makes Leon smile a fraction. “I don’t like that,”

“That’s what I figured you’d say,” he says. He moves around you to finally sit down. You’re almost surprised as he gets comfortable on your couch. You move to join him. “I tried to tell Hunnigan you wouldn’t go down easy,”

“I can’t imagine I have much choice,” you say, grumbling. “Did they say for how long?”

Leon shakes his head. “Could be a while,”

You groan.

“Hey,” he says, gently. “You took a hard hit. It’s either office duty or a grave,”

You scowl at him, and he flashes you a smile. “Promise me you won’t get yourself killed while I’m gone,”

He makes a motion over his chest. Cross my heart.

The next week, Leon is shipped out to God knows where. They won’t tell you, probably afraid you’d commandeer a craft to chase after him. You’re checking in with Hunnigan by the hour, who tells you you’re being paranoid. How can you not be? He’s out there, alone, doing something, something dangerous, and you’re stuck writing reports and drinking watered down coffee from the new machine in the break room. He could be hurt, he could be dead, and you would never know the difference. It makes you sick, it makes you scared.

“Separation anxiety?” Sherry asks, taking a seat beside you. You’re staring at a monitor, feeling like your eyes are melting out of your head.

“Shut up,” you retort, making her laugh. “I just worry about him,”

“Y’know, I think I had this exact conversation with him a couple weeks ago,” Sherry says, grinning at you. You scowl at her. “You two act like if you’re not attached at the hip, you’re basically dead,”

“That’s what it feels like,” you murmur. You sigh. “You don’t get it,”

“Maybe not,” Sherry says, shrugging. “But I do know what it’s like to feel,”

You blink at her. “Don’t you have somewhere else to go be annoying?”

Sherry jabs a finger into your side, making you yelp. “Don’t be mean to me just because you’re grumpy,”

You huff.

You are not grumpy.

...

Leon feels half dead on his feet as he trudges up the stairs of your apartment building. He’s been gone almost two weeks, with little to no contact with you. It feels like it’s killing him. He feels like it’s sucking out his will to live. He just wants to see you.

He knocks gently on your door. It’s late, just past midnight, but he knows you’re still awake, always the night owl. You open it a second later, wearing a shirt three sizes too big and an old pair of sweatpants; he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful. You give him a once over, scanning him for injuries, and when you don’t appear to find any, you crash into him. He lets out an oomph as his arms settle around your waist. You smell like home, and he feels his heart crack open a little.

“Worried about you,” you whisper into his shoulder. He holds you a little tighter.

“Not over yet,” he says, and you pull away, squinting at him. He shrugs his jacket off to reveal a nasty cut along his bicep. He smiles sheepishly at you.

You sigh, and it’s like the greatest symphony ever written. “Grab a seat at the table. I’ll patch you up,”

His pain ebbs as he sits. You return to him moments later with a first aid kit and a scowl. Your soft hands against his skin are what keep him tethered to the earth. Pain threatens to eat at his muscles and sinew, to consume him. But you’re gentle, easing through it like a softbed creek, curving over already smooth stones.

“Did you even try to get out of the way?” you murmur. You don’t look at him, but he’s watching you. He sees the twitch at the corner of your mouth as you clean the wound, the pull of your brows in concentration. You look so beautiful like this, like a pink sunrise, a reminder that good is out there.

“Sort of,” he mumbles back. You frown at him. “I didn’t really have time,”

You hum. Once the wound is thoroughly disinfected, you prime the needle for stitches.

“This will hurt,” you say, sinking the steel beneath his flesh. He doesn’t react. You make quick work of the area, making sure to tape over it to protect the stitches. When he’s all patched up, you pat his other arm, saying, “Try to make time so that this doesn’t happen again,”

He nods, watching you. You’re a breath away, inspecting him for any other injuries he may be sequestering. He reaches up hesitantly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He feels giddy at the way your eyes widen.

“Pretty,” he says, so softly he’s not even sure you hear it. He wonders if he’s concealing the deep, desperate love he has for you, or if he’s bearing it all with his gaze. At this point, he’s not sure he cares. 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Kennedy,” you say, smiling at him. “I’m still mad at you,”

Soft as a whisper, he says, “I think I can handle that,”

Without much further thought, Leon closes the gap. You let out a little squeak when his mouth meets yours, but you almost melt into him. He’s so relieved that he could cry. Your hands find purchase along the curve of his jaw, his own grasping at the loose fabric of your shirt. You sigh sweetly into him, coating his nerves in a saccharine so destabilizing he can’t help but return it. When you fall into his lap, parting your lips and winding your arms around him, he’s afraid he’s died and gone to Heaven. And when your tongue finally meets his, he groans, something deep and guttural and unbecoming.

You pull away, a string of saliva hanging from your kiss bitten lips. You rest your forehead against his. His every perception centers on you; your hands on his chest, your nose bumping his as your chest heaves, your smell, the skin of your neck, open and exposed for him. He wants you, needs you like you’re the only thing that can save him. And when you kiss him again, a fire burns anew in his chest. Your hands are everywhere; his arms, his shoulders, his chest, and they find a home winding into his hair. A gentle tug against his scalp has his hands tightening their grip on your hips, begging you to still.

“Leon,” you murmur against his mouth, heady and soft all at once. 

“I’m here,” he says, and he means it. He has never been more present. And then he’s standing, lifting you with him to place you back on the floor. You stare at him, pupils blown wide, gnawing on your bottom lip.

He pulls you flush against him because he can’t help himself. He is nothing if not selfish, nothing if not gluttonous and greedy, and now that you’ve given him this small victory, he wants to see if he can keep winning you. He sees the quiet desperation in the deep color of your eyes, the way you’re watching him with your full, rapt attention.

“You can touch me,” you say, voice low and barely audible. He wants to eat you alive.

He wastes little time after that, mouth crashing against yours with renewed energy. His heart swells in his chest when you cling to him all the same. Your fingers dig into the tops of his shoulders. He taps his fingers once against your thigh, signaling you to jump. He catches you, carries you close against him until you’re laid out against the sheets. He doesn’t stray far, following you into the linen, soft and sweet.

He watches you for a moment, taking it all in. You’re smiling at him, grinning really as he hovers above you. You brush your fingers against his cheek, smoothing away whatever doubt may be lingering. He ducks his head, pressing feather light kisses to the column of your throat, making your breath hitch there. He doesn’t get far, not when you pull his mouth back to yours, grasping at his shirt in an effort to rid him of it. Leon is a compliant man, flashing you a grin as he pulls back to yank it off. He wonders if your cheeks warm like his, if you can hear the hard hammer of his heart in his chest.

...

Leon is all rigid muscle, sinew pulled tight and corded along his arms, the plans of his stomach, his shoulders. You feel almost animalistic, feral. You run flat palms over him, feeling him twitch and tremor under your touch.

“Pretty,” you say, soft as a whisper. He huffs a laugh.

You push him back slightly, only giving yourself enough room to sit forward to pull off your own shirt. You watch him swallow thickly as it gets discarded somewhere across the room. His hands are soft, gentle against the revealed skin as he kisses you again. Feather light touches across your waist, your stomach. Rough and callused palms against your breast, thumb finding your nipple. You arch into him at the contact, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

You’re aching, cut open and bleeding. His hands leave goosebumps and fire in their wake as he lays you back against the sheets, tracing his lips down your torso, stopping at the waistband of your pants. He looks up at you, chest heaving. You nod, a gentle duck of your chin. Your breath catches in your throat as he slowly–painstakingly slowly–tugs your pants down. He lets his hands wander over your exposed thighs, hopefully ignoring your choice of underwear. Light touches against your hips cause them to fall open. You wonder if you look as vulnerable as you feel. He presses the gentlest kisses to the insides of your thighs, head bouncing between them.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, a mumble against your skin. It sends shivers down your spine.

When he presses an open mouth kiss to the apex of your thighs, you think you black out for a second. A breathy gasp echoes off the walls. He tugs your underwear out of the way to flatten his tongue against you. The sound you make is unbecoming, head dropping back against the pillows. He wastes little time, sucking and kissing and licking as he finds his rhythm, finds what you like, what makes you the loudest. He eats you out like it’s a game, like he’s determined to get the highest score. Your vision is nearly white, fingers buried in his hair. When you tug on it a bit, he groans, deep and sultry, sending shocks to your brain. 

Your thighs begin to shake when he pulls your clit between his teeth, a breathy moan escaping you. He locks an arm across your hips to keep you in place. You’re shamelessly grinding against his face, chasing release. You keen high and whiny as he slides two fingers into you.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says, low and heavy. “Make a mess on me,”

He curls his fingers against you. The stretch and tempo and timbre of his voice were nearly enough to send you over the edge, but what does you in is seeing him lean back to watch you, stubble brushing the inside of your thigh. You clench around his fingers as you come, writhing and panting like an animal. You watch him lick his fingers clean before you’re clawing for him, pulling his mouth back up to yours. You groan as you taste yourself on his tongue. Your fingers fumble with the clasp on his belt, fighting to free him of it. You feel him chuckle against you as he reaches down to help you. He pulls away a bit to shuck off his trousers.

Your mouth waters when his cock springs free from his boxers, thick and flushed and dripping. Instinctively you reach for it, but he stalls you, gently grasping your wrist. You frown up at him.

“Won’t last very long,” he says by way of explanation.

“Next time, then,” you say, chest heaving. He grins at you, climbing over you again.

His kisses are addictive, you decide. You’re not sure how you ever went without them. They’re all consuming, send you spinning. You’re flat on your back again, pulling him as close as you can, running your hands down the expanse of his chest. He lines himself up with your entrance, gently pushing himself inside. The stretch is devastating. You break the spell of his kiss to gasp, jaw slack. His chest heaves as he buries himself in you, arms flexing on either side of your head. He stalls once he’s fully seated inside you. You smooth his hair away from his face, thumb swiping against his cheekbone. You feel so full; of him, of want, of love.

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse and heavy. You grin at him.

“Never been better,” you say.

You lock your legs around his waist, begging him to stay close to you. He drops his head, turning into your palm more as he begins to slowly pull out of you. The drag of him against your walls has you keening. He almost pulls out fully before pushing back in, setting a languid pace that has you boneless. One hand smooths up your side, cupping your breast. You pull him back down to you, mouth meeting his in a devastating kiss. He sighs heavy against your lips, a whimper so delicious it has you rolling your hips just to hear it again. He moves to bury his face in your neck, pressing gentle kisses to the skin there.

“So pretty,” he mumbles. You sigh. “Like you were made for me,”

The praise has you scratching your nails lightly down his back, earning you another pretty noise. His thrusts pick up their pace but never lose their softness. He ruts into you like a man consumed, mumbling against your sweat slick skin.

“Dreamed of this,” he says. His hands wander over you, fingertips gentle against your injury. “Dreamed of you. My pretty girl,”

There’s a pressure building in your stomach, a coil wound tight, threatening to burst every time he opens his mouth.

“Yours,” you say. “Always have been,”

His thrusts turn shallow, deep. He says, “Doin’ so good, fuckin’ perfect,”

You clench around him, huffing a breathy moan. “Leon,”

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here,”

His thumb finds your clit, and you’re seeing stars. White hot pleasure radiates throughout your body, threatening to consume you. He picks up the pace, chasing his own release. He thrusts one, two, three more times before he’s groaning in your ear and filling you up. He collapses against you, chest heaving and panting. Your fingers wind into his hair, toying with the ends. Every now and then you feel him press kisses to the column of your throat. 

“Leon,” you whisper. He hums. “I think your stitches split,”

He laughs then, a bright, airy sound that splits your chest open with want. He pulls back to look at you, and you note the way his eyes brim with adoration. You feel suddenly shy.

“You gonna patch me back up?” he asks, soft against you. You grin.

“Yeah,” you say, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “I will,”

𝔉 ─── 他吃这些心中 他发现不纯。First bite ╋━ O1.

The rain had been falling for hours, until the streets were slick mirrors reflecting every light in jagged shards. The smell of wet asphalt and damp earth spilled in the air, mixing with the faint smoke drifting from exhaust. You tugged your coat tighter around your shoulders, shivering, the strap of your bag digging into your hand as you tried to keep your footing on the slippery pavement.

People passed by, faces blurred by hoods, and you focused on your steps, coffee in one hand, papers in the other. The rhythm of the rain was hypnotic, drumming against your umbrella.

You weren’t looking up, focused more on how dirty your newly bought heels were. Your foot slipped on a puddle, bag tilting, and in an instant, you collided with someone. Coffee tipped, hot liquid splashing across a dark coat. You gasped, hands frozen mid air.

"I—I’m so sorry! Oh god, I didn’t mean—" You start to apologize profusely as you looked up.

Your gaze finally takes in the person in front of you. Tall, dark, every line of him precise. The rain plastered hair to his forehead, a few loose strands clinging to the curve of his cheek. His eyes, blue and infinite, caught yours and held them, it was impossible to look away from him. Your chest fluttered, a little panicked, and your thoughts scrambled.

He tilted his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, studying you. There was no hurry in his movement, no agitation, he didn't even flinch when the hot liquid absolutely ruined his clothes. You weren’t sure why your knees were suddenly weak.

"It’s alright, pretty girl." he said, his voice like silk as the faintest hint of a smile touched his rosy lips.

You blinked, words failing you. You didn't even notice the rain had soaked through your sleeves at this point. A short breath escapes your lips before you speak up again. "I can— I have napkins, wait—" you fumbled with your bag, nearly dropping it this time.

He huffed out something that might’ve been a quiet laugh. "You’re gonna make it worse."

"Oh." You paused, hands still halfway inside your bag, then gave a small, embarrassed smile. "Right. Sorry. I— didn't mean to ruin your coat." You looked down quickly, shifting your weight on your feet, suddenly hyperaware.

"I know."

You gave a small, awkward smile, stepping around him. "Okay.. uhm—have a good night!"

"You too."

You walked past him, trying to shake it off, but a few steps later you glanced back, a quick stare, just to check, and he was still there, watching you.

♰

Work next day felt off. Not bad, just strange and stuffy, like when you're forced to go to school with a fever. You kept catching yourself zoning out, staring at nothing, forgetting what you were doing halfway through it. It was stupid, all because of some man you bumped into once.

"Did you even hear what I just said?"

You blinked, turning your head. "What?" Your coworker gave you a look. "Wow— Okay. So no."

"Sorry." you muttered, rubbing your temple. "I didn’t sleep well."

"Clearly."

You exhaled quietly, shifting in your chair, and glancing toward the window without really thinking about it. Across the street, something seems familiar. Him? No, it couldn't be. Or? The figure was just.. standing like they'd been there a while. Your breath stopped as you leaned slightly, trying to get a better look through the glass, but someone passed in front of them, a blur of movement, and when it cleared, they was gone.

You frowned, staring a second longer.

"Okay, now you’re creeping me out." your coworker said. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing—" you said quickly, stepping back. "I just—thought I saw someone."

"Uh-huh."

You rolled your eyes a little, but your gaze drifted back to the window anyway. Nothing. Just rain, people, cars passing by. Still, something sat weird in your chest.

Leon didn’t go home that night.

He walked until the streets thinned out and the noise of the city dulled into distant and useless chatter. The rain kept falling, soaking through his coat, dripping from his hair, but he barely registered it.

What he did register was you, your scent. It clung to his lungs. It sat deep, behind his teeth, in the back of his throat, like he’d already tasted you. It was irritating. He is controlled, calculated, not some lovesick school boy.

He had to feed, there was no doubt about it.

By the time he found someone, the hunger had him impatient. The person didn’t notice him, no one ever really does until it is too late. A hand on their mouth, firm, stopping them mid step. He leaned in, breath stopping for a second as the scent hit him. It was bad, disgusting even. It wasn’t yours.

His grip tightened without thinking, fingers digging in as something ugly twisted in his chest. He lowered his head anyway, forced through it, teeth breaking skin with a wet sound.

Warmth followed. He swallowed in big gulps, slowly, like he was trying to convince himself it was working, that it was dulling his hunger. The taste coated his tongue, thick and cloying. He took more than he needed, not out of hunger anymore, but frustration. When he finally pulled back, blood dripped from the corners of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, staring down for a second at the now unconscious pedestrian.

Leon was... Unimpressed. He licked his lips, dropping the person down on the wet pavement. Leon straightened slowly, exhaling through his nose.

How did this happen? He'd met you just this once, so how did you manage to pull him in so so deeply. Were you a sorceress? You had to be, that was the only logical explanation because he never acts this reckless.

The rain muffles his steps as he walks back into the darkened street. He had to find you again.

♰

The club was loud, music thumping through the floor, colored lights spinning across the walls, heat and bodies pressing in from all sides. You swayed with your friends, trying to laugh, trying to stay present, but your mind kept slipping. It kept drifting back to him.

You blinked, shaking your head as if that would push the memory away. It was just once. You don't even know him. Still, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. His piercing eyes, his honey voice. The image of him hovered behind your eyelids like a stubborn shadow.

One of your friends nudged you. "Babe, you okay?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m fi—ne." you said, forcing a soft smile a little too distracted. You raised your glass to them. You took another sip and let yourself move with the music,

Maybe it was interest, fascination, something you couldn’t place and didn’t want to name, honestly. You weren’t the type to obsess over people. Especially one off strangers.

By the time you left the club, the night had cooled and the streets were wet with the recent rain. You moved fast, shoes clacking against the pavement, trying to shake the alcohol from your mind, trying to focus on anything but him.

Inside your apartment, you kicked off your shoes, quickly got ready for bed and tugged a blanket over your tired body. Everything spun, the room bending around the edges, fuzzy from the drinks and exhaustion.

Your eyes were barely open but you can just about make out shadow in the corner, a dark shape. You blinked. Gosh, you should really stop drinking so much. You drifted toward sleep. The shadow didn’t move, or maybe it did. You couldn’t tell.

The room had gone still. Everything felt too quiet to be real. Leon stood in the corner, just beyond the light.

He listened to your little breaths.

You slept through it. Curled into yourself, face buried in the pillow. The blanket had slipped slightly, exposing the line of your shoulder and your bare thighs in the pale moonlight, skin almost steaming against the cool air.

He watched, unmoved.

His gaze traced the way your lashes rested against your cheeks, the part of your pretty lips, the rise and fall of your chest, so blissfully unaware of the predator keeping watch.

Your scent filled the room. His tongue pressed briefly against his teeth, a restless habit. You shifted in your sleep, brow knitting slowly like something came close to waking you.

He stilled and waited. Thankfully, you didn’t wake.

His eyes dropped, following the movement down to your spread legs, then lifted again to your face. There was something about you. Something that made him want to take and lose control he so carefully kept for decades.

His eyes lingered a second longer before he looked away, if only briefly, like he was testing himself. It didn’t help. He was a weak, weak man. The thought pressed in, unwelcomed but not untrue.

How could a soft, sinless angel like you be the cause of this lunacy he was under?

♰

The store was quiet at this hour. A few people moved through the aisles, carts rolling softly over the linoleum floor, the faint hum of the refrigerators blending into the background with the boring music playing on the overhead speakers.

You pushed your cart slowly down the aisle, tossing in things you barely thought about, more focused on getting it over with than anything else. Milk. Bread. Something quick for tomorrow.

Your mind drifted again. It kept doing that for the past few days. You turned the corner of the aisle and nearly ran into someone.

"Oh—sorry—" you started automatically, stepping back, then you looked up.

What a coincidence. It was him.

Up close again, under the harsh lights instead of rain, and somehow it didn’t make him any less striking. If anything, it made it worse. He was so handsome.

"Oh." you said, a small, surprised laugh slipping out. "I remember you!"

His gaze settled on you, familiar, and that made your chest hurt just a little. "Do you?"

"Yeah.." you nodded, shifting your grip on the cart. "I, uh—spilled coffee all over you?" A faint wince crossed your face. "I hope cleaning your coat wasn’t too much of a hassle or anything."

"It survived." he said.

You huffed a quiet laugh, glancing down for a second before looking back up at him. Big mistake.

His eyes— God. You hadn’t imagined them. If anything, you’d remembered them wrong. They were clearer now, catching the light like precious diamonds.

You blinked, a little slower this time, realizing you’d gone quiet. "Sorry." you said quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "I didn’t expect to run into you again."

"Neither did I."

You shifted your weight, fingers tapping lightly against the cart. "Do you always shop this late, or…?"

"Sometimes."

You smiled a little. "That sounds like a non answer."

The faintest smile touched his lips. "It depends."

"On what?"

"The day." he said, almost absentmindedly.

You blinked, then let out a small laugh. "Right. That makes more sense." A brief silence settled. You glanced at his cart with barely anything in it. "You’re not buying much."

"I don’t need much."

"Must be nice.." you muttered lightly, nudging your own cart with your hip. "I come in for one thing and leave with half the store. I always end up wandering around for no reason."

He watched you for a second longer. "You don’t seem like you mind it."

You tilted your head slightly. "Mind what?"

"Taking your time."

"Ah—" You paused, then gave a quiet huff of amusement. "I guess not."

Your eyes dropped for a second, suddenly a little too aware of the way he was looking at you. "Well—" you said after a moment, nudging your cart slightly, "I should probably let you get back to your very.. minimal shopping."

"Probably."

Neither of you moved right away. You hesitated, then gave him a small smile. "I never got your name."

"Leon."

You repeated it softly. "Leon."

His eyes didn’t leave you. "And you?" You told him your name and he nodded once. He'll commit it to memory, like a brain tattoo.

"Well… it was nice running into you again." you said, fingers tightening slightly on the bar.

"You too."

You stepped around him, moving past, trying to act normal, but your heart was ready to jump out of your chest.

♰

The rain had stopped by morning, but the city still felt like it hadn’t quite woken up yet. Your steps lacked their usual rhythm, like something in you was feeling slightly out of place. Probably the sudden weather changes. Probably.

Over shoulders. Past strangers. Catching on faces that weren’t his. It is ridiculous. You didn’t even know him.

You exhaled quietly, adjusting the strap of your bag as you stepped into a small café tucked between two taller buildings. The bell above the door chimed softly, warm air wrapping around you instantly. Inside it smelled like coffee and sugar.

You ordered something simple, barely paying attention to the words coming out of your own mouth anyway, and moved off to the side to wait. Your fingers tapped lightly against the counter, restless, your thoughts drifting again.

It kept happening. That same feeling, like something just out of reach. You were forgetting something important.

"Caramel latte?" You blinked, stepping forward quickly. "Oh—yeah, sorry."

You took the cup, murmuring a little thanks, and turned. You moved toward one of the small tables by the window, sitting down, setting your drink in front of you. Your eyes dropped to it, watching the faint swirl of the foam heart.

The chair across from you scraped softly against the floor and you looked up, ready to protest that the seat was occupied.

Leon sat across from you.

"Oh—" you blinked, heart picking up a little too fast. "Hi." A shy smile appears on your lips. His gaze settled on you.

"Hey."

You let out a small, nervous laugh, glancing briefly around like you expected someone to point this out, to say something. "You, uh.." you shifted in your seat. "You always sit with strangers, or am I just a lucky girl?"

There’s the faintest flicker of something in his expression. "Just lucky."

You pick up your cup, more for something to do than anything else, taking a small sip. It’s too hot and it burns your tongue, but you barely notice. "Okay.." you say, softer now, a little amused despite yourself. "That’s.. mildly concerning."

"Is it?"

You glance at him over the rim of your cup. "It should be." you murmur.

He doesn’t respond right away. Your fingers tighten slightly around the cup. "You’re staring." you point out. "I know." he replies with no apology.

You swallow, setting the cup down carefully. "And you’re just.. Okay with that?"

A simple yes slips off his tongue.

Something small and strange twists low in your stomach. You look away this time, afraid he'll catch the way your cheeks warm up. You shift slightly in your seat, trying to shake the feeling, forcing a small smile.

"You’re strange." you murmur. Great compliment.

"Yeah."

You glance back up at him. He doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks content? That unsettles you more than anything else.

Leon hadn’t meant to come inside, he told himself he wouldn’t. Watching from across the street should have been enough. It usually is.. Distance makes things easier, makes the heart grow fonder.

"Do you do this often?" he asks after a moment.

You blink. "Do what?"

"Pretend you’re not aware."

Your lips part slightly, then press together. "I’m not pretending.." you say, a little defensive now.

He tilts his head, studying you again.

You look away again, and you don’t miss the way that seems to satisfy him. Just a little. You're adorable when you're flustered.

𝓐 ─── 他吃这些心中 他发现不纯 Aftertaste ╋━ O2.

The faint sound of gurgling echoes through the alley, cars passing by in swift columns, the lights from the building just barely illuminating the gruesome scene.

Leon stands, one hand wrapped around the victims shoulders while one palm keeps their head pressed flush against the cold brick wall.

The crimson liquid cascades in rushed rivers down their neck and off Leon's face, his growls animalistic, eyes closed tightly as he tries to shut out the soft pleads of the slowly dying person in his arms.

He's hungry. So so hungry, but no matter how much he drinks, it's never enough. He's never satiated. When his mind remembers this isn’t you it makes him was to hurl out every last drop of this dirty, dirty blood. He whimpers softly, brows knitting together as he tries to shake the dreadful feeling away. Finally, the prey goes limp in his grasp, sliding slowly on the wall. Leon watches them fall down, down, as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his whole shirt now soaked through with blood.

You sit somewhere behind his canines, persistent, and he just can't spit you out.

How long will you subject him to this torture? How long until you finally break the curse you've put upon him? All he needs is a taste— yes. One small nick, he knows. He licks his lips, picturing you, trying to imagine how sweet your blood would be on his tongue, oh, like heavenly marmalade.

He knows.

His tongue drags slowly over his teeth, like he’s trying to taste something that isn’t there.

The moon is hidden behind thick clouds tonight. He should pay you a visit.

♰

The suffocating dark settles over the city.

You leaned against the balcony railing, phone pressed to your ear, eyes drifting up toward the sky. A few stars peeked through the clouds.

"I’m serious!" your friend was saying. "It’s been all over the news. Like, three people this week alone."

"Yeah, I saw." you murmured, resting your chin lightly against your hand. "It’s weird.. but they said it’s nothing, right?"

"They always say it’s nothing." You can hear them rolling their eyes. You let out a small breath, shifting your weight on your feet. "Okay, but what do you want me to do about it?"

"I don’t know, maybe just— be careful? You walk home alone all the time."

"I’m fine.." you said, a little softer. "It’s not like I’m wandering into dark alleys."

"Still."

You glanced down at the street below. A car passed. Then another. Nothing out of place. "I mean.. it is kinda weird, right?" you admitted after a moment, smiling despite yourself. "Same area, same time of night.."

"Exactly."

You tapped your fingers lightly against the railing. "You think it’s like— what, some serial killer or something?"

"I don’t know, but I don’t like it."

You huffed quietly. "You watch too many crime shows."

"And you don’t take anything seriously enough!"

You smiled a little at that, shaking your head. "I am taking it seriously. I just thinkㅡ I take pretty good care of myself."

"That’s what everyone thinks."

You rolled your eyes, but your gaze drifted back up to the sky anyway. The stars were faint, twinkling beneath the web of clouds. "I’ll be careful." you said after a moment. "Promise."

"You better be." Another small pause before they sigh. "So what are you doing right now?"

"Nothing," you shrug. "Just standing outside.. getting some air."

"At this hour?"

"Couldn’t sleep."

"Mhm."

You frowned slightly. "What?"

"Nothing. You just sound.. off."

"I’m not off." you said quickly, then softer. "Just tired."

"Yeah, you've been tired for the past month."

Your eyes drifted again, down the street, across the buildings. For a second, you thought you saw something. A shape, or someone standing further down, just out of the light.

You squinted slightly, leaning forward a bit.

"Hello? What are you doing?" your friend asked after you were taking too long to reply.

"Nothing—" you said quickly, straightening. "I just.. thought I saw someone."

"See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about."

"It was probably just a person." you said, a little more firmly. "I’m on my balcony, unless that killer can teleport eight stories high, I'd say I'm safe."

Still, you glanced again, but there was no one there now, just the empty street. You exhaled slowly, resting your arms on the railing. "I’m gonna go inside." you said. "It’s getting cold."

"Yeah, do that."

"I’ll text you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay. Be safe."

"I will."

You hung up. For a second, you stayed there, then you turned, stepping back inside, missing the way, far below, something took off just out of view.

♰

The streets were crowded, the midday rush got everyone out of the house. That and the sunny weather.

You walked, weaving through people without really paying attention. Someone brushed past you, muttering a curse under their breath, and you stepped aside without looking up.

Your mind wasn’t fully there. Well.. It hadn’t been, lately. You exhaled quietly, shaking your head a little, like that would fix the murkiness in your brain. You adjusted your grip on your bag again, stepping around a couple standing too close together on the sidewalk.

Trying to avoid them you did walk into someone. "Oh—" you started, instinctively stepping back as your eyes lifted, and there he was again. Your brain lagged for a second too long.

You blinked once, twice. A small breath left you, almost like a laugh. "Okay.. this is actually getting ridiculous."

He gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Ridiculous?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, eyes steady on yours.

And god, he was painfully, impossibly gorgeous. Every line of his face was carved with purpose, the sharp sweep of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way his eyes held something deep in them, the stubble on his chin. You felt it in your chest, a hollowing pull, gravity had shifted and you were suddenly caught in it. Every time you blinked, it was worse, your mind insisted on cataloging him, memorizing him, even though you knew it was useless. He looked like he’d stepped out of a dream you weren’t supposed to remember, and yet here he was, right in front of you.

You swallowed, shifting your weight. "Yeah..I mean— running into the same stranger so many times feels like a scene from a movie or something."

"Is that so bad?" His voice was soft. It wrapped around you, curling into your insides, making it hard to breathe and impossible not to listen.

You blinked, caught off guard. "I— guess not-"

"I think.. It’s a sign I should take you out for a drink." He shrugs. Oh, this motherfucker.

You froze, heart stuttering. Words tangled in your throat for a moment. "I— Uh- A drink? With me..." God, you were a mess, like your brain forgot all its functions all at once. Your heart was hammering in your chest, and you could hear it in your brain

He tilted his head, a faint smile teasing the corners of his mouth. "Yes." he said simply. "With you."

You bit your lip, eyes dropping for a second, cheeks heating. "Oh, uh— Yeah, sure.. Okay." you managed finally, pulse thudding painfully.

"Good. I think we'll both enjoy it. Now—" He clears his throat. "Can I get your number?"

♰

You checked the time on your phone, then slipped it back into your bag. You stood just outside your building, smoothing your dress down again, and again, and again. Deep in your mind, you hope he compliments you on how pretty you look.

Was it stupid that you’d told this stranger where you lived? Yeah. Was it also stupid that you didn’t feel in danger at all when you were next to him? Definitely.

A car pulls up to the curb, a black Porsche, pretty expensive for this neighborhood, but you didn’t pay much thought to it, as you glance away. The engine cut and the door car opened. You looked up and saw Leon get out of the car. God, can this man get even more good looking? And he's filthy rich? Something has to be deathly wrong for him to be single.

He walked towards you slowly. "Hey."

"Hi." you smiled shy, not used to these kinds of things dates, a man picking you up. He stopped a few feet away, holding out his hand slightly toward the car. "Shall we?" He held it open for you without a word. You slid inside, and the soft leather smelled faintly of new car and his clearly expensive cologne.

He got in on the other side, starting the engine. The car glided out onto the street. You looked at him, heart still a little fast. "Thank you for, uh– for picking me up."

Leon hums. "It's a man's job. Plus, I asked you out."

You nod and let your gaze drift to the window as the city passed by, and then back at him. For the first time in the past month you can breathe a little easier.

The car slowed as he pulled up to the restaurant, a low lit place tucked between taller buildings, you'd never choose a place like this, mostly because it looked like one water would cost you 50 bucks.

He killed the engine and reached over to open your door. "After you."

You stepped out, heels clicking softly against the curb, and glanced at him. His hair caught the light, soft and clean, a smile on his lips. You shivered, a gust of wind kissing your bare knees.

"Nice place.." you said a little breathless.

"I thought you’d enjoy it." he replies simply.

You followed him inside, the smell of something roasted and faint wine spices wrapping around you. The hostess greeted him by name and led you to a small table by the window. He pulled the chair out for you, and you caught yourself staring a little too long as you sat down.

You finally sit down, face warm, feeling like an idiot that he's got you acting this way. "You're a real gentleman, you know that?" You laugh.

He gave a faint shrug, a small smile touching his lips. "I just– think it’s the right way to do things." You let out a quiet breath, trying to steady your racing heart. "It’s.. nice. Not everyone does that these days. Especially not guys from my generation.."

He tilted his head slightly, gazing at you. "Some things don’t need to change. Being considerate isn’t complicated."

You nod, feeling a little shy, smoothing your dress down your thighs as you tried to focus. "Yeah.. I mean— um, it makes you feel.. safe. Even if it’s just small gestures."

He leaned back slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Good. That’s kind of the idea."

You laughed softly, glancing at him. "I guess I didn’t expect a date to start like this, like, you know, someone actually caring about little things."

"Why not?" he asked. "Shouldn’t someone care?"

You blinked. "I–I guess not everyone does?" He smiled, just a little this time. "Well, I do."

You bit your lip, glancing down for a second, feeling that strange pull in your chest again. How did he manage to make your brain stumble over its own words whenever he was around?

"You're hard to read." you said, almost embarrassed at yourself. He blinked, then his smile widened. "I like that." he said simply.

You looked up again, meeting his eyes, and the world seemed to shrink a little, the soft clink of cutlery and low sound of conversation fading behind him. "I...I don’t usually—" you started, then swallowed, unsure how to finish the thought. Everything felt too too vivid.

He didn’t rush you, didn’t push for an answer. He just tilted his head, gaze steady. He could wait forever, as long as he could be close to you like this. "Don’t usually what?"

You shook your head slightly, forcing a laugh that felt too quiet. "Talk like this, I guess. On dates, or with.. strangers."

"Strangers." he repeated, almost teasing, but not unkindly. "We’re not strangers anymore."

Your heart did a stupid little flip. "Right.... I mean, yeah."

He leaned back just slightly, hands resting calmly on the table. "So tell me something about yourself."

You hesitated, caught off guard. Real? With him? Your mind scrambled, but you gave a small shrug. "I— read a lot, I guess. Not very exciting."

He lifted an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I think that depends on the story."

You felt your cheeks heat more, and somehow, that little smirk made him seem more approachable, even as he stayed impossibly composed. "Maybe. I-I just like noticing details, little things people miss."

"Like what?" There was that underlying curiosity.

You fumbled for a second, then pointed vaguely toward the table, the light catching on a tiny flaw in the wood. "I don’t know... like this table. The grain. The way the light hits it. Most people wouldn’t care. I think."

"Hm." He nodded slowly, studying your hand. "I like that. Paying attention. Not everything has to be loud and obvious to matter."

Something about that made you smile softly. "And you?" you asked. "What do you do? Or— uh, like to do. Or both.." You want to slap yourself.

He leaned back, thoughtful for a moment. "I handle security. Mostly private work. Some of it is complicated."

You nodded, curious. "Complicated how?"

"People are unpredictable." he said simply. "And sometimes the job requires being patient."

"And hobbies? Things you do just for.. fun?"

Oh, besides drinking blood?

He tilted his head, eyes faintly amused. "I ride. Motorcycles, cars. Anything fast enough to clear my head."

Now that car makes sense.

"Wow... private security and fast cars. So this is definitely not your average night out." He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. "I try not to be predictable." His gaze lingered a moment as his eyes drift down to your plunging décolleté. "Keeps things interesting."

You found yourself distracted by his eyes again. "Yeah.. interesting." you murmured, your fingers brushing against the edge of the table.

The night went on perfectly, Leon thought. Well, he at least tried to think about anything other than having you bent over that table, fucking you from behind while he feasted relentlessly on your blood.

Alas, he's a gentleman, as you said. He is used to keeping his composure, you just make it harder for him, with those bonny lips and those pretty pretty eyes of yours. God, and he could taste how wet you were the whole night, smelled it on you the moment you stepped into his car.

You didn't seem like the greedy, dirty type, but then again.. He wouldn't mind if you were. He wanted to see how filthy you could get.

It was about 12AM when he brought you back home. You slipped inside your apartment, closing the door quietly behind you. You felt giddy like a school girl that got noticed by her crush

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. The way he looked at you tonight, his smile.. Are you really falling for a stranger? Well, partial strangers.

You sank against the pillows, letting your mind wander, cursing at yourself for not having the courage to ask him to stay over.

His voice, his hands. You choked on a cough, curling slightly, letting your thoughts carry you, heart beating faster with every flash of him in your mind.

Eventually, your eyes closed, though sleep felt distant, elusive. You let yourself get lost in the memory of his touch, not that he had touched you yet, but god, you wish he had.

Finally, your hands fumble with the hem of your panties, pulling them down just to your knees. You drag your fingers slowly through your embarrassingly wet folds, imagining it was him, as your head tilts a little to the side, gaze away from the window.

A soft gasp parts from your lips while you slip one digit inside, brows knitting together as your lips stay trapped between your teeth.

Outside, silent on the fire escape, he watched. Ah, so this is what you do in your free time besides reading.

Hidden in shadow, he observed the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your body reacted to your small fingers as they got rougher and faster, in and out of your pussy. He could just about make out the squelch and the quiet slaps as your body arched into the mattress.

You looked so beautiful like this. He wish he could've just walked right in and help you, and after you'd come on his fingers he'd make you do the same on his aching cock.

His fingers pressed against the growing problem in his pants as he leaned closer, drawn in, heart, or whatever replaced it, hammering against his ribs. Hunger. He was hungry again.

Leon licks his lips like he could taste you, watching you shudder as you finally came, fingers digging into the sheets. He lets out a little gasp, watching you chest fall down, then up again, in quick breaths, his eyes suddenly murky with famine.

You were a witch, in fact, you were putting another spell on him just now and he caught you in the act. You had to stop, he had to stop you. Oh, you sly little girl. He didn’t know if he was angry at himself for not just giving in, or at you for being so perverse yet so unaware.

Feed. Feed now.

As he jumps down, he became one with the night, a predator on the prowl for another victim, a witness to his undying savagery.

A fool who let loose his heart, and he now has to chase it back where it belongs.

𝔑 ──── 他吃这些心中 他发现不纯。Nectar ╋━ O3.

You’ve been seeing Leon for a little while now. Not officially, not in the 'we’re dating' sense, but enough to notice the difference he makes in your days. He checks in constantly, texts that make you smile even when you’re tired, little gestures that remind you someone is actually paying attention. He’s kind and attentive without being pushy, quiet without being distant. You catch yourself thinking about him at all times, at work, in line at the grocery store, when your coffee goes cold, when you're out with friends.

You try to be the same for him. Still, you can’t kiss him. You try, sometimes brushing your fingers against his, leaning closer when you laugh, tilting your face when he’s just a little too close. Each time, he stops, like a bird sensing something wrong and flying away when you step too close.

You can’t read him, and that drives you crazy. Maybe he’s old fashioned. Maybe he just doesn’t feel the same way.

But then again, the way he stays and looks at you up and down longer than he should when you say goodbye, the small brush of his hand when he hands you something, the way his eyes never leave yours ever. He’s close, so close, but the line he won’t cross makes your heart genuinely hurt.

For Leon, it’s agony. Every time he looks at you, he wants to close that distance, wants to feel you against him, wants to taste everything you are. But he knows what would happen. One kiss, one touch, and he wouldn’t be able to stop. He would lose control, and that thought terrifies him more than anything else. So he holds back, keeps it just shy of the edge, lets you get close, lets himself enjoy the warmth of your body being near, but never the release he’s craving.

That's all. The constant pull between what you feel and what he allows himself.

The days stretch out with longing and restraint, and the small moments stop to be enough, dark, vile desires plaguing his mind.

But both of you feel it, both of you want it.

For you it's maddening, for him it's intoxicating and painful. And in the back of your mind, you can’t help but wonder if this will last forever, and he can't help but be afraid, because he knows his control can only stretch so long.

Tonight, you’re sitting on your balcony, glass of wine in hand, the city doing its thing quietly below. The air is warmer than usual, summer is near. You’ve had a long day, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. You take a sip, letting the wine burn a little down your throat. Your phone buzzes. It's a message from him.

LEON ♡ | Thinking of you.

You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips. He’s not even trying to be charming. Not that he has to. You lean back, the wine warm in your belly, and close your eyes. The memory of the last time you were together floods in. You bite your lip, exhaling slowly, heart fluttering. You've gotten comfortable with him, around him. Well, at least it's what he says, because apparently, you're not as skittish anymore.

You know it’s ridiculous. You don’t even know him fully, and yet it feels like you’ve known him forever. You’ve caught yourself wanting him in ways that scare you a little, wondering if you’re falling for a little too fast. Perhaps.

Another buzz comes through, snapping you back to reality.

LEON ♡ | I've got you something. I'll come over later.

Your brows furrow, tilting your head as you glance around your apartment, suddenly aware of how quiet it is. Your hand hovers over the phone, debating whether to ask how later is later, or if you should just wait. A small laugh escapes you. Of course, he’s vague, he always is. You shake your head, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, feeling that familiar flutter in your chest again.

LEON ♡ | I need to ask you something also.

Oh. A grin plays on your lips as you type a reply back.

YOU | so u will make me wait until then?? why did u even tell me you know i get curious...

The bubble appears, then stops. It pops back again for a bit before another message gets delivered.

LEON ♡ | :)

You snort. God, this old man.

A minute passes. Then another. You’re halfway through your second glass of wine, trying not to replay the way he looked at you the last time, when your phone buzzes again.

LEON ♡ | On my way.

You drop the glass onto the small table beside you, heart skipping a beat. "Finally" you mutter under your breath as you rush to get ready or at least a bit presentable.

After what feels like ages a knock at the door pulls you out of your thoughts.

You hurry to the door, tugging it open, and there he is, with that stupid, pretty smirk at the corners of his lips. "Hey." he says.

"Hi.." you reply, stepping aside to let him in, trying not to let your nerves show. He glances around, eyes briefly taking in the room, then back at you. "You look beautiful." he says simply.

You feel your cheeks heat. "Thanks... you too." you manage, noticing how fitted his shirt is, how it clings to his shoulders and chest, and, oh, those arms, you could die in them.

He steps closer, unhurried, and sets the small package from his message down on the table. "Thought you might like this." he says, tone soft.

You reach for it. "You really know how to make a girl impatient, huh?" You laugh softly, opening it slowly.

He hums, leaning a little closer. "I like seeing that smile." he says. "You wear it too rarely."

You glance down at the gift, then back at him. "You're a real sugar talker, Leon." You roll your eyes before the wrapping of the gift finally comes undone and you can see it's a book you've been wanting to read for a really long time.

"Oh, Leon.." you smile, holding up the book. "This is so sweet of you, you didn’t have to.."

He tuts, shaking his head. "I had to. You really wanted it. Plus, I get to see you smile like that, so I win tenfold." You hug it to your chest, lost in his eyes for a bit.

"You also said you wanted to talk about something?" You raise an eyebrow, curiosity flickering through the nervous energy in your chest.

"Right." He nods.

"I—" He stops, tilts his head, and that smile that makes you want to punch his lips with yours appears again. "I want you to be... mine. As my girlfriend."

He looks so awkward, you bet he's thinking 'is this how youngins do it?'.

Your fingers tighten on the book, and your mind races, heart hammering painfully in your chest. "Wait— you mean it?"

He nods once, eyes steady on yours. "Yes. If you’ll have me."

You can’t help the laugh that escapes, soft and a little nervous, and the way your heart feels like it’s trying to leap out of your ribcage. "God, Leon, you’re— unbelievable." you murmur. "I— yeah. Yeah, I want that too." continuing softly "I'd love to be your girlfriend."

𝔊 ──── 他吃这些心中 他发现不纯。Grace ╋━ O4.

The place is loud enough to blur everything together, glasses clinking, people talking over each other, music low but constant. You sit across from your friend, drink in hand, barely paying attention.

"...And you're not even listening!" they say, narrowing their eyes at you.

You blink. "I am. I just— okay, I wasn't. Sorry."

They lean forward, studying you. "You're thinking about him." You huff, taking a sip. "Maybe."

"Maybe." they repeat in a mocking high pitched voice. "You've been smiling at your drink for the past five minutes."

You roll your eyes, but the smile doesn’t fully leave. "He's just... he's really sweet, okay? Like— actually sweet. Not fake, not trying too hard so he can get in my pants. He just.. is."

Your friend raises a brow. "Mhm."

"And he remembers things," you continue, a little more animated now. "Like small stuff. Stuff I don't even remember telling him."

"Yeah, that's called being into someone."

You shake your head. "No, it's different." There's a pause. "And he still hasn't fucked you?"

You choke on your drink. "Oh my God."

"I'm serious!" they say, leaning back. "It's been what, almost two months?"

"Not everyone is like that."

"Yeah, but no one is like that." they shoot back. "There's always at least a try."

You sigh, a little defensive now. "He's just... Old fashioned." Your friend snorts. "Old fashioned or he can't get it up?"

You stare at them. "Are you serious right now?"

"I'm asking a valid question."

"He's not—" you cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. "Okay, just because he's older doesn't mean anything."

"Right." They latch onto it instantly. "And how old is he?"

You hesitate. "I—don't know exactly." They blink. "You don't know how old he is?"

You grimace. "It's not like I asked for his ID."

"Oh my god." they mutter, dragging a hand down their face. "You've been seeing this guy for almost two months, you don't know his age, and he hasn't even tried anything with you?"

You groan. "Can you not make it sound like that?"

"I'm just saying, it's weird."

"It's not weird." you insist, though your voice softens a little. "He's just... different. I like that about him." Your friend watches you for a second, expression shifting slightly, it's less teasing now.

"Okay—" they say, quieter. "Jokes aside... just be careful, alright?"

You frown. "What?"

"You don't really know him." they add. "Not properly. And yeah, he sounds great, but people can seem great and still— I don't know. Just... don't get too comfortable too fast."

You exhale slowly, looking down at your drink. "I know.."

There's a small pause and your phone buzzes. You glance at it, and just like that, everything changes. Your posture straightens, your expression softens, and that dumb smile comes back without you even realizing.

Your friend notices immediately. "That's him, isn't it?"

You try to hide it, but it’s useless. "Maybe." They snort. "You're gone."

You ignore them, unlocking your phone.

LEON ♡ | I miss you, darling.

Your lips part slightly, that idiotic look on your face settling in again. "Yeah.." your friend mutters, watching you. "You're completely gone."

YOU | i miss u too <3 ill get home soon, we can talk then

LEON ♡ | Be careful, call me when you're home safely.

LEON ♡ | ❤️

♰

You hadn’t seen him in three days. There were calls, sure, short ones, late at night when you were sleepy and his voice was even quieter than normal, a few messages during the day. Enough to know he was there, but not enough to make the ache go away.

It was stupid, probably. Missing someone you barely knew like this. But he was your boyfriend, so it was only normal.

You were curled up on the couch, TV on more for noise than anything, phone in your hand, scrolling without seeing, when the doorbell rang.

You frowned, glancing at the time. "Who is it.." you muttered, pushing yourself up.

You weren’t expecting anyone. The bell rang again, sharper this time. "Okay, okay!" you called out, walking over and pulling the door open.

A delivery guy stood there, shifting the weight of something large in his arms. Very large. "Package for you, miss?" he said, already looking tired.

You blinked. "That’s— For me?"

He nodded, showing you the name on the delivery, stepping forward carefully, and that’s when you saw it properly.

The massive bouquet if roses, almost spilling out of the wrapping, deep red so dark they looked nearly black. Not the cheap kind either, they were full, perfect, almost unreal.

"Oh my gosh.." you breathed, stepping back to let him inside. "Yeah— yeah, that’s mine."

He handed them over with visible relief, muttered something about a signature, and left just as quickly.

You stood there for a second, the weight of them in your arms, the faint scent filling the space around you. "Jesus.." you whispered, smiling wildly like a child with a new toy. You carried them inside your living room carefully, setting them down on the table, fingers brushing over the velvety petals. They were so soft. Perfect, of course.

You spotted the small card tucked between the stems and pulled it free, your heart already picking up. Your lips curved when you read it.

"Thought these might suit you. You're on my mind, always."

— Leon ♡

You let out a quiet breath, pressing the card lightly against your chest for a second. "Of course you did." you murmured, smiling to yourself.

In the background, the TV droned on, the news anchor’s voice cutting through the quiet. "…authorities have confirmed three more bodies were discovered earlier this evening, bringing the total—"

You barely registered it.

"Residents are advised to remain cautious, especially during late hours–" Your fingers traced the edge of one of the petals, then down, a small uncut thorn pricking at your finger. You hiss as blood droplets bloom. "But no suspects have been identified, though patterns suggest—"

You reached for your phone. The screen lit up in your hand, your reflection faintly visible for a second before his name replaced it.

YOU | youre unbelievable !!!

You typed, a soft laugh leaving you.

YOU | these are insane <3<3<3

LEON ♡ | I'm glad you like them. Pretty roses for a pretty girl.

You glanced back at the roses again, at the way they almost swallowed the table, dark and rich. The TV kept talking, but you didn’t listen.

♰

The alley is quiet. A flickering streetlight hums overhead, casting uneven shadows along the brick walls. Somewhere in the distance, a car passes, tires hissing against wet pavement. Then nothing again.

Leon stands still for a moment. Breathing, or at least, trying to mimic it.

It’s been getting worse. He hasn’t seen you in three days. Not because he didn’t want to, god, he wanted to, but because even your voice over the phone had started to make something in him snap.

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. The scent hits him again. Warm. Alive. Close.

His eyes open instantly. At the far end of the alley, someone stumbles slightly, fumbling with their phone, unaware, distracted. An easy target. Leon is in front of them before they even register movement. A hand over their mouth causes a brief struggle then they still.

Your face flashes in his mind. His grip tightens on their face, sharp nails digging into flesh. The world narrows instantly when he finally sinks his teeth in their shoulder, the bite harsher than ever before. His palm slides down to hold them by the neck, a loud snap echoes as his fingers tightened only slightly.

He pulls back sharply, breath uneven, eyes wide for a split second before they harden again. He drinks more, more, more, and by the time the human is dry of blood they look inhuman, hollow and caved in, neck almost snapped off their body.

Leon growls, angry, so so angry as he kicks at the corpse. It’s not enough. It’s never enough anymore.

Before, he could go weeks, months even. Now? Now he can barely last hours without feeling it clawing at him again. Every hour without you has turned into this. Because of you. It's all your fault, all these innocent people dying.

Leon leans back against the wall, closing his eyes briefly, jaw tight. "I can’t..." he murmurs under his breath.

It's you.

He straightens slowly, chest still rising too fast as he snarls. This ends now.

The knock comes out of nowhere. Not loud, but urgent enough that it makes you pause the movie you were watching. You frown, glancing at the time. It’s late.

"Hello?" you call out, already moving toward the door, a small smile starting to form without you thinking about it. "Probably Leon.." You're all giddy.

Your hand rests on the handle for a second before you pull it open, and then it drops to your side when you see him. "Leon— oh my god.."

You face drops when you see the state he's in.

Leon's standing there, but something is wrong. Your eyes move too fast at first, trying to take everything in at once. His shirt, darkened and clinging in places, his hands, his face — Blood. So much of it. You step forward immediately, panic hitting before anything else. "What happened? A-Are you okay?" Your hands hover near him, unsure where to touch. "Did someone hurt you? Leon, what happened, please talk to me–"

He doesn’t answer, he’s just looking at you. And then it clicks. It’s not soaked through like he’s injured, it’s smeared. Across his mouth, his jaw, his hands. Everywhere. Your voice falters. "Leon, what's going on?"

You look up at him again. His eyes aren’t blue like the early spring sky, they’re dark red. Wrong. You take a small step back before you even realize it. "Leon..." your voice comes out quieter now, confusion slipping into something more aware. "What is this?"

His expression breaks, but it's not anger. He shakes his head quickly, stepping back like he’s the one who needs distance. "Don’t— please."

Your heart stutters. "Leon, you’re scaring me, I want to help but I can't if—"

"I know!" he says immediately, voice cracking, as tears mix with the crimson liquid on his face. He drags a hand over his mouth, smearing the blood more, breathing uneven. "I know, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—"

His sobs grow more uneven as he hold one bloody hand over the door frame. "I didn’t want you to see me like this." he says, words stumbling over each other. "I tried— I stayed away, I thought if I just—"

He stops, like he can’t even finish the sentence. For a second, he just looks at you. "You’re gonna hate me." he says, voice breaking completely.

Your chest hurts, it hurts seeing him like this, even if you don't understand why. "Leon—"

"You are." he insists, shaking his head, more desperate now. "I know you are. I just– I needed to see you before that. Just once."

Your throat feels dry. "Hate you for what? Leon, please!"

He lets out a shaky breath, almost a laugh but not really. "I can’t keep lying to you." he says quietly. "I tried to be careful.." he goes on, voice unsteady, like a kid confessing to misbehaving. "I tried so hard."

You step closer, heart hammering despite the shock, and carefully reach for him. "Come inside." you murmur, your hand brushing his arm. "Let’s just... talk. Whatever it is, we can get through it together."

He flinches, stepping back almost violently, his red, dark eyes flashing. "No!" he snaps, voice sharp and broken. "Do you know what I am? Do you know I could— I could kill you right now?"

Your chest tightens. You don’t answer, and maybe you should close the door, or be afraid, but you can't. You feel sad for him. Deeply, more than you can explain. You want to hold him, to ease whatever pain is twisting him inside.

"Leon.. Just- tell me, please.." You pull him inside slowly, door closing with a gentle thud.

For a long second, he just stares, lips parting, and you see them. Fangs. Sharp and glinting. A chill runs down your spine as you glance around, remembering the news reports, how the bodies were found, the terror in the city, and your voice drops to a whisper. "It was you..?" It finally dawns on you.

Leon doesn’t answer. He looks down, turning slightly, hiding himself from your gaze, silent except for his ragged breaths. Embarrassed of the monster he is.

"Yes.."

He swallows hard, dark eyes glinting like ice "I need.. your blood. Only yours. Nothing else can– stop this restlessness. I—I can’t control it, I can't control myself."

You blink at him, and he's ready for you to scream, call the police, hit him in the head and run for your life, but you don’t pull back. You just let him see that you’re not afraid.

"Then– have it." you whisper, your eyes softening as you look into his teary ones. "Take it. Take whatever you need from me."

His gaze flickers up to yours, searching, desperate. Inside, your mind spins, thinking of what this means, of what he is truly but that thought doesn’t stop you. It doesn’t matter as long as he’s here. As long as he’s okay. You want him to be happy, you want him to feel relief. Is that so wrong?

Leon is looking at you like he's waiting for you to take it back. His hand comes up slowly, almost unsure, brushing against your jaw, leaving traces of red against your skin. "You don't understand—"

"Then show me." You sound firm.

He leans in, pausing just for a second, waiting to see if you’ll stop him, but you don’t. You can't, not when he's looking at you like that.

His lips intertwined with yours, soft and rough at the same time, filled with everything that had been left unsaid. You froze for a moment, the shock of it crashing through you like a tidal wave. But then something snapped inside you, and you kissed him back. All of the restraint, the buried feelings surged to the surface, spilling into that one kiss.

He was so hungry and you could tell how much it hurt him. His lips moved against yours with a desperation that mirrored your own. Leon's hands cupped your face gently, his touch tender despite the blood underneath his sharp fingernails.

This kiss had to say everything words couldn't

But then, just as quickly as it had begun, reality crashed back in. You broke away, gasping for air, your chest heaving. "I’m sorry." he muttered, though he knew the apology wouldn’t fix what he was about to do to you.

Then his hand moves, gripping the back of your neck, claws pressing in that it hurt. You gasp instinctively, but you don’t pull away. Leon lowers his head slightly, letting his fangs show fully, letting himself be exactly what he is in front of you. A hungry, desperate animal wanting for liberation.

Then he moves, sharp. Pain shoots through your whole body as hands search for something to hold on.

And, oh, sweet liberation, as his fangs sink right into your pulse point, breaking your soft flesh, hot blood rushing in and coating his entire mouth. It was just as he imagined it would be, sweet and perfect, like nothing he'd ever tasted in all his centuries alive.

He lets out a shuddered breath, face buried at your neck, eyes closing, and for a beat you hear him whimper as his gulps grow more rapid. More, more, he needs more, needs all of you.

Your head spins, light, heavy, buzzing all at once. Your heart’s hammering, knees weak, and you're thankful he's there to hold you up.

You’re scared, of course you are. And it makes you want it more. Every shudder that runs through him, every desperate dig of his nails, all sends something wild through you, and you're embarrassed, even through all the haze, of how wet you are getting. It’s wrong, it’s dangerous, but it feels so good you can’t even think anymore.

Leon pulls back from your neck for a bit.

He drags you forward, hand still tight at the back of your neck, guiding you across the room. Every step of his is unsteady. "You— bed." he breathes, voice urgent. You stumble slightly.

The bed comes into view, and he shifts, pressing you firmly down onto it. Fingers brush along your jaw, thumb catching at your cheek as his chest hitches, fangs dripping with your candied blood. He doesn’t speak, its more of a rough whisper. "Here."

You sink onto the mattress, the sheets tangled beneath you as he hovers over you, leaning close.

The way he looked, he was quite poetic in his brutality, though smeared and befouled by blood, his sad eyes held more then he was willing to let out. You reach up, fingers brushing his cheek, tracing the streaks of fresh tears.

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like a helpless puppy, his arms bending more and more so that now his face is only inches away from yours.

"I need to fuck you." And oh, that completely does it for you.

His lips move from your mouth, trailing down your neck, leaving a hot trail of kisses in their wake. He nips and bites at your skin, his hands roving freely now, gripping your hips, your waist, your thighs. His touch is rough as he pins you down onto the bed. He can hardly believe what's happening but he knows he has no willpower left to pull away. He craves you, he needs you, and damn the consequences.

Leon grinds his hips against yours, a low groan escaping him as he feels himself get more hard. He pulls away enough to look at your face, to see your flushed cheeks and kiss swollen lips smeared with blood— your blood.

"Damn you for getting under my skin like this.." he mutters, his breath coming in sharp ragged gasps. "What have you done to me?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. His mouth crashes back onto yours, all teeth and tongue and pent up longing. His hands roam lower, gripping the backs of your thighs to hoist them up around his waist. "Should've killed you when I had the chance.." he whispers against your lips, liar, liar, as his bites trail down your throat.

"Oh, god, Leon—" you gasp, head spinning with the room.

Leon growls against your neck, his grip bruising as he grinds against you. Hearing your voice so broken, desperate, it almost undoes him. "Say it again." he demands, his lips skimming your jaw. "Say my name." His hands slide under your ass, holding you closer.

"Leon, p-please.." you let out a shallow breath. "Need you.."

Leon can't think, can barely breathe. You're a goddamn drug, and he's hooked. He's never wanted anyone or anything this badly in his life, and his remaining shred of restraint evaporates like smoke in the wind.

"You have no idea what you've done to me.." he grunts, voice ragged, as he starts undressing you. Leon lets out a shuddering breath as his hands finally find bare skin, his calloused fingers tracing the curve of your waist with a reverence that contradicts the hunger in his eyes. His thumb brushes over your lower lip that's stained crimson.

"Tell me you're mine." he demands his grip tightening on your hip. "Say it."

A little sound comes from you. "Hah— 'm yours Leon, only yours.." you hiss from the pain, eyes hooded. His dark gaze roams over every inch of exposed skin, like a hunter appreciating his prized kill. "You're a piece of art."

His hand moves lower, lower, fingers skimming the edge of your underwear, his thumb rubbing little circles on your inner thigh.

"I've spent months picturing this.." he confesses. "Pictured you, spread out under me like this." He presses his thumb against the fabric, on the wet patch just under you clothed clit. "But reality is so much better."

Leon leans in again, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers dark, filthy, all the things he's imagined doing to you. Every word is sin, painting a vivid picture of just how much pain he'd been in.

Then his mouth trails lower, teeth scraping over your breast before his tongue swirls around a peaked nipple. His hand replaces his thumb, fingers slipping beneath the lace to tease at your pussy.

"You're drenched." he growls, pulling back just enough to watch your face as he drags a finger through your wet folds. "Fuck— Just look at you."

His free hand fists in the sheets beside your head, bicep straining as he fights the urge to plunge his cock inside you right now. Instead, his fingers curl inside you without warning as his mouth closes over your other breast, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His muffled groans that vibrate against your skin say everything. Mine. Mine. Mine.

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing rough circles as his fingers move relentlessly, stretching you with each thrust. He watches your face, memorizing every twitch of your lips, every flutter of your lashes. "I will ruin you." he promises against your skin, his voice wrecked. "I will make sure you never forget who owns this cunt. Your whole body, your soul–"

His fingers crook sharply, there, just to hear you let out more pretty sounds. He licks his lips, teeth finally sinking into your flesh again, now into your clavicle, pain shooting through you, mixing with the pleasure, everything causing you to almost pass out. But his fingers don’t relent, dragging you mercilessly toward the edge before slowing just to hear your breathless cry.

"Look at me." he rasps, grip tightening on your throat as blood drips down onto your breasts. "Look me in the eyes when you come."

His thumb presses harder against your clit, moving it faster as his fingers curl inside again, deeper, until your back arches off the bed. His name spills from your lips just like the blood from your veins, and Leon drinks it in with a groan, his own hips grinding helplessly against the mattress. "Oh my, fuhh—" You squeak, walls pulsing around his drenched digits.

"Yes— Good girl." he praises darkly, finally withdrawing his soaked fingers to lick them clean, eyes locked on yours. "Now..."

He yanks you forward by the hips, flipping you onto your stomach in one rough motion. His palm lands on your ass with a sharp smack before he grips the flesh hard, spreading you wide.

"Let’s see how much more you can take."

His tongue replaces his fingers, dirty, as he licks into you like a man starved. The growl that rips from his chest vibrates against your skin when your hands fist in the sheets, his name choking out between your sobs.

"Mnnh, Leon, 'm sensitive—" you manage through little whines.

Leon hums against you, his tongue circling your sensitive bud hungrily. He loves the way you cry for him, the way you writhe under his touch. "That's it." he murmurs. "I could eat you like this forever."

He flicks his tongue just the way he knows will make you squirm, his fingers still working you from the inside out. It's like he knows your body better than you do. "You taste even better than I imagined."

Leon doesn't relent, his tongue swirling and flicking with precision as he drinks you in. One hand hold your hip while the other works two fingers inside you, scissoring just so as his tongue presses firm against your puffy clit.

"That's it." he coaxes, his voice rough against your pussy. "Give it to me, sweetheart. Let me feel how good I'm making you feel." He quickens his fingers, curling them against that spot.

"Please, please, please—" you whimper, fingers tangled in the sheets. Leon's never seen you this vulnerable, and god, it's the prettiest damn thing.

"Look at me." He growls. "Open your eyes." When you don't respond immediately, eyes clenched shut, he curls his fingers harder, the touch rougher. "I said look. At. Me." As he slaps your ass with each word.

He watches you force your lids up, your gaze meeting his just over your shoulder. "There. Keep them open."

You're a vision, cheeks flushed, lips bloody, eyes glassy with pleasure, your chest heaving with harsh gasps. Leon almost doesn't recognize you.

"There she is." he coos, his fingers still pumping. "My pretty girl. Yeah, that's it.." You shatter again around his fingers, whole body convulsing, his fingers slowing down.

God, he's mean.

He withdraws his fingers, wiping the slick off against the sheets. You're left boneless, trembling and so beautiful.

Leon spins you around again, chest up, climbs up your body, caging you between his arms, his gaze fixed on your face. His eyes are dark, pupils blown. "You look beautiful when you unravel for me." he smiles crooked, boysh almost if it wasn't for his fangs displayed. "Like you were made to fall apart in my hands."

He doesn't waste a second more, his belt buckle clatters to the floor, his pants shoved down just enough before he grips himself, stroking roughly as he looms over you.

Oh, he is clearly not human.

"I know what you need." he tuts, lining himself up at your entrance. His voice is pure gravel, pupils blown wide with need. "I'm sorry if it hurts." His hands grip your hips, lifting them just enough to angle you perfectly. Then he slams into you with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt in a single stroke.

Your eyes widen as the sudden stretch leaves you unable to form any words or thoughts.

The groan that tears from his throat is animalistic. "Damn—" His head drops forward, forehead pressing against yours chest as he sinks his teeth in again, just above your breast.

"L-Leon—" you gasp for air, clawing at the sheets, vision nearly whited.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust. His hips snap back, then drive in again, setting a punishing pace from the start. " 'M sorry." He mumbles as he feasts from you. "So tight 'nd warm.." He sounds delirious.

"Nmh—" Your fingers tangle in his soft hair as you try to stay coherent and awake.

"F-fuck—" His hips snap forward, again and again, each thrust knocking a broken sob from your lips. His hands grip your thighs, nails puncturing the skin in deep gashes, his rhythm ruthless, his control gone.

"You feel, hah, insane— Mngh, shit.." he moans out, sweat dripping down his temple as he fucks into you like he's possessed. "Gonna ruin me— I needed you so, so much." He sobs, pulling fully away from your chest, blood flying outward and splashing onto the bed.

"Leon, 'm gonna, shit~" you throw your head back, eyes rolling as the tip of his cock hits impossibly deep into your cervix.

His hand finds your clit again, rubbing stinging laps just to drag another climax from you, to feel you clench around him like a vice. He's close, so damn close, but he refuses to finish until you do.

Leon's fingers dig into your skin, holding you in place as he fucks into you. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room, mixing with his ragged breathing and your broken sobs, a perfect melody.

His gaze locks onto yours and he looks feral as his thrusts grow rougher. "You take me so f-fucking good." he whines out. He doesn’t slow down, bullying into your gummy walls with desperation that's close to madness.

"This cunt's mine, yeah? You're mine, right?" His hips snap harder, forcing the words out of you, begging for them. "Yours, jus' yours.." You manage to choke out.

"Yeah, you are." Leon groans, his forehead dropping to yours as his rhythm stutters. "I'm gonna fill you up." he warns. "Mark you from the inside. Make s—ure you remember."

"Yes~" you nod desperately, not sure what you're even beginning for. "Please—"

He'll give it to you. He'll give it to you all, so you understand what his wish has been from the first moment he laid his eyes on you. His thrusts turn erratic as he loses himself in the feel of you, so snug, so perfect.

It's too much, he's too much, too big, and yet you're not close enough. No amount of skin to skin could possibly be enough. He wishes to crawl into your heart, between your lungs, and live there.

He licks from your shoulder up to the center of your neck, laying soft kisses there before his fangs cut through your flesh again, causing you to sputter. His hips grow restless as he drinks and drinks and drinks.

"Fuck- fuck—" he chokes out, blood dripping down on your breasts, his hips waver. "Gonna—" The last vestiges of his restraint evaporates.

His release hits him like a freight train. Pleasure burns through him, white hot and consuming, as he spills inside you with a broken groan in thick spurts, his warm release coating your pulsing walls entirely. He clutches you impossibly closer, sucking more blopd out of you, the small whimpers you let out his only indication you're still conscious.

Your gasp is muffled against his shoulder as he feasts deep, the metallic sweetness flooding his senses. It’s intoxicating, better than any high, any liquor, any fleeting pleasure he’s ever chased all these years. His grip on your hair tightens, keeping you pinned as he takes his fill.

"So perfect.." he murmurs raggedly when he finally pulls back, licking a stripe up the column of your throat to seal the wound.

Your eyelids flutter, breath still uneven, body limp beneath his. He smooths a thumb over the fresh bite mark on your throat. "My perfect girl." His body collapses beside yours, muscles still taut with lingering tension as he pulls you against his chest.

He lets his fingers trail over your bare skin, tracing invisible patterns on your arm before resting his chin on your shoulder and inhaling deeply. You smell like sex and him and everything safe and good in the world and he wants to bury his nose in your hair, breathe you in until everything else falls away.

"You're mine now." he hums, the words a possessive yet he says them so sweetly. "Every inch of you, until the day you die."

You shiver as his breath washes over your skin, sending a thrill down your spine. His words sink into your bones, a claim so primal it makes your head spin. You're so dizzy.

Leon's hand slides up your arm, calloused fingers tracing the curve of your shoulder as he nuzzles against your neck. "No one else will ever touch you again." he promises fiercely. "I'll kill the next bastard who even dares to look at you." He holds you closer, your body tucked against him like he's shielding you from the world.

𝔖 ──── 他吃这些心中 他发现不纯。Stain ╋━ O5.

You kneel, brushing away a thin layer of leaves before setting the flowers in your hands carefully on the marble. The late afternoon November air is crisp and it’s getting cold, but you haven’t had the chance to come here the past days, so you stay and talk. It felt stupid the first times you visited, the way your words wouldn’t be able to stop from escaping your mouth, but you had never imagined there would come a day where you could not talk to your best friend about your day. But silence felt worse. It became a habit.

“Bad news is, I overslept today. Good news is, I sold out my strawberry cake again.” You say cheerfully. “You would’ve liked that one. It tastes just like the sweet strawberries from your mother’s garden.”

For a moment, you can almost see it. The two of you sitting on the back steps of his adoptive family’s home, juice staining your fingers, the sun too warm, the world simple and happy.

You sit there for a long time, you always do that when you haven’t been able to visit for a while, talking about everything. How the café has been so busy lately due to the festival. The town filled with people from all parts of the world. The old, rotten tree at the edge of the field that got cut down, the one you fell from. “Remember?” Your throat tightens. Of course he doesn’t remember. He’s dead.

Gravel crunches behind you and you freeze. The cemetery doesn’t get visitors this late and especially not in the Kennedy’s lot.

“Sorry,” a voice says. Low and careful. Familiar in a way that makes something deep in your chest ache before you even understand why. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s okay.” You stand slowly, wiping your hands on your coat, and finally turn to see a stranger. Light brown hair with some stray greys. The lines on his face make you think he’s around your age. Eyes… Your breath catches. No, that’s impossible.

“I’ll go,” he says quickly and turns to walk away, like he regrets saying anything at all, “didn’t realize someone was here.”

You stare at him and your heart starts pounding like it’s trying to break out of your rib cage.

“You-” your voice falters. “Do I know you?”

He freezes, shoulders tight under his leather jacket, and a heavy silence hangs between the both of you. He takes a big breath and tries to relax, exhaling slowly. He doesn’t know what to do, he thinks he should have never come back. You have gone through enough and this was selfish from him. He didn’t expect to meet you here, either. Yet he looks back, then turns around.

“…Have we met before?” you ask, your voice quieter now. You take a step closer, then another, despite unease crawling under your skin. God, those eyes. Wind rustles the leaves above you, dragging the moment out until it feels unbearable.

“Say something,” you demand, and he exhales shakily.

“…Yeah.”

Your stomach drops so suddenly it makes you dizzy, there is a ringing in your ear and the world stops.

No.

No, no, no-

“That’s not funny,” you say, your voice trembling now. “Whatever this is, whoever you are, it’s not funny.”

Something in his expression shifts. The softness doesn’t disappear but it steadies, grounds itself. Like he realizes he’s standing on the edge of something fragile, something that could shatter if he takes the wrong step.

“I know it’s not,” he says quietly.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Then what is this? Some kind of sick joke? You think you can just come here and, what, pretend?” Your voice rises as tears start to pool at the corners of your eyes. “You don’t get to stand there and look like him and-”

“You fell off that tree,” he says suddenly, cutting you mid sentence.

“…What?” You stutter.

“That summer,” he continues, voice low, steady, like he’s choosing every word with care. “At the edge of the field. The branch cracked under you. You tried to pretend it didn’t hurt.”

“That’s-” your voice shakes, your vision blurry, and you take a step back. “People know that story.”

“You cried about ruining summer,” he adds quietly. “So I came over the next day and I told you-” his voice falters, just slightly. “I told you not to cry because we’d eat tons of ice cream instead.”

“…Stop,” you whisper, but your voice doesn’t have any strength behind it. He takes a small step closer but you can’t look at him. Tears start rolling down your face when you notice his hands, full of scars.

“You used to cheat in hide and seek,” he says, softer now. “In the cornfields. You’d move spots when you thought I was getting too close.”

A broken sound escapes your throat.

“I knew every time,” he adds, a faint, sad smile across his face and you hear him sniffle. “I just never said anything because you looked so proud when I couldn’t find you.”

“Stop it,” you choke, tears spilling over before you can stop them. “Stop-”

“You hated high school,” he continues, “and you complained about the arcade machine being broken every time I scored higher than you.”

“STOP!” you scream and slap his face, unable to contain the anger. He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t flinch. “You don’t get to… you don’t get to know that. You don’t get to say those things like they’re yours!”

But they are his, and you know it. You can’t stop the tears. You try to wipe them away with your sleeve as you pace around, but they won’t stop.

“It’s been twenty eight years, Leon.” Your voice is filled with anger and frustration.

“I know.”

“Do you?!” you bark back. “And do you know what that feels like? Do you know what it’s like to bury someone who you can’t even see for the last time? To stand in front of this… this stone and pretend it’s enough?” You face him now, snarling. “You don’t even know how hard it was for me. What it did to me. What it took from me.”

He doesn’t look away, eyes soft and glossy. His hand moves slowly, carefully, and from inside his coat he pulls out an envelope. Old and worn, edges yellowed with time, his old apartment address in your handwriting. Every feeling of yours immortalized on the pages inside of it.

“I know,” he whispers, voice unsteady now, and clears his throat, “if only… shit.”

“Fucking hell, Leon. You knew, and you let me mourn you for twenty eight years.” You try to sound angry, but the way he’s holding that letter like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, brows furrowed and the tears threatening to fall from his eyes make it impossible. He looks broken. Just like you are.

“I couldn’t come back. I couldn’t do anything about it,” his voice hoarse, “they made me disappear, promised me they would keep this place- everyone in my life safe. I couldn’t risk it. If I could keep you safe from the horrors that happen out there…” he stumbles on his words a little bit. “I only read your letter after that. I wanted you to live.”

“I didn’t live,” you whisper. He flinches like you’ve struck him. “I survived. There’s a difference.”

Rain starts to fall. Soft at first, barely there, a mist that settles into your hair, your clothes, the space between you. You take a good look at him, at the exhaustion carved into his face, the weight he carries on his shoulders, the small scars on his face that you can’t recognize from childhood.

“I thought you’d move on,” he admits, the words barely audible under the growing rain, so much he wants to say yet he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. “I thought… you deserved to move on. Find someone normal, someone who could actually be there.”

“Yeah,” you chuckle softly, “that worked out great.”

All of your fight is gone as your chest tightens. All these years, and he still feels the same. He still looks like a sad puppy when he is sad. You reach for his face with your hand, palm cupping his cheek, and he closes his eyes and leans into the touch. To be honest, you thought you were having a dream or hallucinating, but the warmth of his skin against yours grounds you.

“I tried,” you add, quieter now. “At first, I tried to go back to school. Tried to be… anything other than the person who lost you.” You shake your head slightly. “Didn’t work. Everything felt wrong. Empty.”

The rain picks up, heavier now, soaking through your clothes, but neither of you moves.

“I went back home,” you continue. “Everyone was kind. Too kind. Like I was made of glass.” A faint, bitter smile tugs at your lips. “Maybe I was.”

Leon watches you speak, cheek still pressed against the palm of your hand. Baby blue eyes staring into your soul like he’s looking for every single time you hurt because of him. To memorize it and make it up to you somehow. Every trace of anger or pain in you is mostly gone now, the feelings replaced with softness. Leon Kennedy, you’re impossible, you think. You could never stay mad at him, and he has come back to you after nearly three decades.

“I opened the café,” you say. “Remember how we used to talk about that? When we were kids, I baked my first cookies and you said I’d have a place with the best desserts in town and you’d eat everything before I could even sell it.”

A soft laugh escapes his lips, fragile and wet with tears. “Yeah… I remember.”

“I did it,” you say softly. “Opened it years ago.”

“I know,” he says.

You blink.

“…What?”

“There are flowers at the door every morning, right? That was me.”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “No, that’s not- that’s not possible. That’s every day, Leon. Every single day for…”

“Twenty eight years.” He looks unsure, scanning your face for a reaction. “I remember you loved my mother’s garden, you said you’d like a room full of different flowers, so I made sure you had that every morning.”

“Why?” You caress his cheek with your thumb, over a scar that seems like it must have hurt.

“Because I have loved you all this time. All my life.” He says bluntly, eyes fixed on yours.

“…You never said anything.”

“I was scared, didn’t want to lose you if I got it wrong.” He admits, a faint, broken smile touches his lips. “Guess I managed that anyway.”

“You idiot.” You whisper.

“Yeah.” He answers softly, exhaling a breath he was holding, and places a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand on his cheek.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The rain, the years, the distance, the pain… all of it hangs in between you.

“You’re going to get sick,” you mutter, quieter now.

A small breath of laughter leaves him. “So are you.”

You hesitate just for a second, and then-

“…Come home with me,” you say. “You can shower, dry off, eat something. We’re not done talking.”

“No,” he says gently, “we are not.”

You pull your hand away from his face slowly, the absence of contact immediately noticeable. It feels cold for half a second, until his own hand slips into yours.

leon had noticed the shift in your behaviour almost immediately. the first day, you showed up at work an hour late; the coffee he left at your desk cold by the time you’d sat down. in all the years he had known you, he had never see you arrive anywhere less that 15 minutes early. however when he asked you about it, you had brushed it off as ‘bad traffic’ and quickly changed the subject.

the next day, you were jumpy, almost letting out a shriek after nearly bumping into someone at the copy machine, or every time the phone rang. you told him you hadn’t slept well; which was the truth, just not the whole truth.

your newfound insomnia was apparent by the fifth day, the dark circles heavy under your eyes, leon even catching you asleep at your desk on your break. whenever he tried to ask you about it, you dismissed it, quickly shifting the conversation in another direction.

‘desperate times call for desperate measures,’ he thought, as he approached hunnigans desk. she was one of your closest friends; surely she would know what was going on with you.

“hey,” he began, her fingers typing on her keyboard not stopping as she shook her head.

“you’re not getting any information from me, kennedy.”

“how did you know i wasn’t just coming over to say hello?”

“you’ve never once just come over to my desk to say hello,” ingrid rolled her eyes behind her glasses.

“i know you know what’s going on with her,” he sighed.

“i do.”

“so why can’t you tell me?” it's not that he wanted to gossip or go behind your back; he was just genuinely concerned about your wellbeing.

“because she asked me not to.”

“what? why?” he was confused. the two of you had worked many cases together and even gone on missions as partners. leon would consider the two of you to be pretty good friends. what didn’t you want him knowing?

“i don’t know, but i’m respecting her wishes. and if she’s chosen not to tell you, you should respect that too,” ingrid said, her voice softer now.

“did i do something to upset her?” leon asked, trying to think of anything he could’ve done to cause this change in your behaviour. he didn’t mean to make the situation about him, but if he was the cause of your distress, he intended to make things right with you.

“no, leon. she just needs some time to deal with this. i’m sure she’ll tell you when she’s ready,” hunnigan smiled softly at him. she knew he was only asking because he cared about you. “until then, just… be there for her, if she needs something, okay?”

“you got it,” he said, feeling a little defeated, but determined to do his best to cheer you up.

he stopped by the cafeteria on his way to your desk and grabbed you a coffee, which evidently you needed, as your eyes were barely open enough to see him walk up to your desk.

“hey,” he said softly, hoping not to startle you.

“hey,” you smiled up at him, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“brought you something,” he smiled back, handing you the paper cup.

“ugh, you’re my hero,” you said genuinely, your fingers brushing his as you took it. he was suprised at how cold your hands felt, but it was late fall and the weather had begun to shift.

“i asked them to put some cinnamon on top, i know it's your favourite,” he explained, and you smiled again; two minutes at your desk and he had you smiling more than you had in a week.

it made you feel guilty for shutting him out, but you knew if you told him your ex boyfriend had busted out of jail and broken into your apartment, he would freak out. you made some poor choices in your past, and that is where you wanted to leave them; in the past, not at your home asking for money to get out of the country.

“thank you leon,” you set the beverage down on your desk, next to the open file folder you were trying to read. your eyes kept going blurry and mixing up the letter in the words.

“what are you working on today?” he asked, shifting closer to you and leaning one hand on your desk. the smell of his cologne wafted into your nose, something cedar and sweet, but not overbearing. he smelled nice, and the proximity made you feel a little more at ease.

“i don’t think i’ve retained any of the things i’ve read today,” you admitted, glancing at the clock. only an hour left before you could go home; not that you really wanted to go back there.

you often stayed late at the office, as did leon and a few other agents, but this past week, you had been spending as much time there (and as much time away from your apartment) as possible.

“why don’t you take a break? i need to stretch my legs,” he extended a hand to you, and you hesitated.

“don’t you have a file due today?” you asked.

“i’ll get it done,” he assured you, and you took his hand, letting him help you up as you grabbed your coffee before falling into step beside him.

you and leon often took breaks at the same time, but you could tell he had a different motive today, however innocent it was.

“i’m still not ready to talk about it,” you warned him after a few minutes of walking in comfortable silence around the building.

“is that why you think i’m here?”

“isn’t it?” you asked, but there was no hostility in your voice as you looked up at him.

“i’m not that nosy,” he teased. “i won’t push you,” he promised.

“thank you,” you sighed appreciatively.

“i’m always here if you decide you do want to talk about it. whatever it is.”

“thanks leon,” you smiled at him again as you approached your desk, having circled back around to it. “you should go finish that file so you can get out of here.”

“yeah, you’re probably right,” he scratched the back of his neck, like he wanted to say something, but decided against it.

“i’ll see you around,” you said, sitting back down and trying to focus on the case you were working on.

“call me if you need anything,” he offered, and you simply nodded, before watching him walk back to his office.

•

the next few days were similar, with leon stopping by to chat or bring you coffee throughout the day, although you didn’t really have much to say. sometimes he just sat with you quietly, reading over a file on your desk while you worked. it wasn’t anything different than how things had been before the break in, but you could tell he was making an extra effort to be nice to you; and you assumed hunnigan had something to do with that. regardless, you were grateful.

“goodnight leon,” you called from beside your car in the parking garage, having procrastinated leaving the office long enough that you were leaving at the same time for once. leon often stayed hours after most people had gone home.

“goodnight,” he smiled, unlocking his porsche and getting inside.

you let out a long exhale as you sat behind the wheel, before putting your key in the ignition, only to be met with a sputtering sound from the something under the hood. you were no mechanic, but you knew that your car wasn't supposed to make that noise.

“fuck, not now,” you muttered, your head hitting the steering wheel with a frustrated thump. your car wasn’t new, to say the least, but this was the last thing you needed to deal with right now.

when it became clear that the car wasn’t going to start, you took the keys out, throwing them angrily on the floor of in front of the passenger seat. your eyes began to water with tears, your 'i’m totally okay and nothing is wrong' mask slipping off (not that anyone was buying it anyway). you glanced out the window and saw that leon’s car was still there, and you wiped your eyes as if somehow he would be able to see you were crying from across the garage.

defeated, your grabbed the keys off the floor and slung your bag over your shoulder, before stepping out of the car, planning to head to the lobby to wait for a cab.

you heard the sound of leon’s car shutting off and the door opening before he called after you.

“hey, wait up,” he caught up to you, a confused look on his face. “forget something inside?”

“my car died, i was just gonna go out front and get a cab,” you explained, knowing what his response would be before he said it.

“do you want a ride?” he offered, and as much as you didn’t want to take a cab, you shook your head.

“you don’t have to do that leon, it’s okay. you’ve already been so nice to me this week, i can’t ask you for another favour.”

“that’s what friends are for. and you didn’t ask, i offered,” he smiled. “come on, i really don’t mind. i’ll sleep better knowing you made it home okay.”

“okay,” you accepted, turning around and beginning the walk back to his car. “thank you, leon. i really appreciate everything you’ve done for me lately.”

“i’ve barely done anything,” he laughed. “besides, bringing you coffee is the highlight of my day.” you smiled at him, letting him take your bag off your shoulder so he could set it on the backseat, before taking your place in the passenger side of the car.

“you’ll have to give me directions,” he said, as the engine roared to life, fancy lights illuminating the dash as you put your seatbelt on.

•

you grew more and more anxious the closer you got to your apartment, your fingers picking at the skin around your nail nervously with each turn. it definitely wasn’t the best area of town, but you had felt pretty safe living there... at least until recently.

“you can pull up on the right over here, it’s that brick building,” you pointed out the window, trying to hide the way your hand was shaking.

“you live here?” leon asked, trying not to sound like he was judging the place as much as he was, as not to be rude. you made enough money that you could’ve afforded a better place, but your lease wasn’t up for another few months so it would have to do for now.

“yeah, it’s not the ritz, but it does the job,” you laughed awkwardly. you were trying to stall as long as possible before having to go inside, and leon could tell.

“let me walk you inside so i can make sure nothing happens to you,” he offered, turning off the car.

“n- no, that’s okay!” your eyebrows shot up in panic. “really, leon, you’ve already done enough for me, i’m sure you just wanna get home-“

“and you seem like you really don’t want to get home,” he said gently. “does this have anything to do with the thing you won’t tell me about?” he asked, his hand gently finding a place on your knee. you nodded, eyes glued to the floor at your feet.

“i’m trying not to pry, but you can talk to me,” he promised, giving your knee a reassuring squeeze.

“okay, but you have to promise not to get all... overprotective,” you sighed, still not looking at him.

“i do not get-“

“leon, yes you do!” you said with a laugh, and despite the fact that it was at his expense, he was just happy to hear the sound of it again.

“okay, maybe sometimes i can be a little-“

“a lot,” you corrected.

“only when it comes to you,” he argued, and something in the air shifted, like he hadn’t meant to say it. it was true; he was overprotective of you, whether it was on missions, or at the office if people spoke poorly of you or underestimated you, he was the first to defend you.

few things scared him after everything he had seen, but the thought of you getting hurt sure did. he had grown to care about you more than a coworker, more than a partner. maybe more than a friend.

definitely more than a friend.

“just don’t overreact okay?” you asked, and he nodded, thankful that you hadn’t made a big deal of his words. he nodded, waiting you to continue. “my ex boyfriend from college escaped from jail and broke into my apartment,” you admitted, watching his face for a reaction. he seemed to be thinking over his next words carefully, because it took him a minute to reply, his jaw clenching as if he was physically biting his tongue.

“are you okay? did he hurt you?”

“i’m okay, just a little shaken up about it - as you’ve noticed,” you laughed sadly.

“did they catch the guy?” his hand that wasn’t on your knee clenched at his side, knuckles turning white before he relaxed again.

“yeah, they found him a few days ago,” you nodded. “it’s just - now that he's broken out once, who’s to say he won’t do it again, you know? i hear a noise in the night and think it could be him,” you shuddered, and he squeezed your knee again.

“i’m so sorry. no asshole should make you feel like you’re not safe in your own home.”

“thanks leon. i’m sorry i kept it from you, i just didn’t want you to… i don’t know, freak out or anything.”

“i-“ he began. he wanted to kill the guy, but he knew that wasn’t what you needed to hear. that was exactly the kind of reaction that stopped you from telling him sooner in the first place. “i understand. thank you for telling me now.”

“i should head inside,” you said opening your door, letting leon’s hand fall of your knee.

“at least let me walk you to your door.”

you thought about it for a moment, before agreeing. leon got your bag from the backseat and followed you to the front door, which he noticed at least had a security panel, so that was something.

he trailed behind you up the three flights of stairs (the elevator had been broken down for nearly a month now), carrying your bag the whole way with no complaints. you took a deep breath as you rounded the corner of the hallway, his chest tightening as he saw the door to your apartment.

the knob was broken, and there was a hole in the wood nearly 5 inches wide.

“if that from… they haven’t fixed this yet?” he asked.

“if the elevator didn’t clue you in, nothing gets fixed quickly around here. the landlord is eighty and probably can’t remember what he had for dinner the day before,” you brushed it off, although nearly two weeks of living with a door without a lock had caused you a lot of anxiety.

at least you had a gun.

stepping inside, leon’s eyes noticed the window before he noticed any of your decor, or the fact that you hadn’t really tidied up in a while, clothes on the sofa and a takeout container on the table.

not that he would have judged you for it anyway, especially given the circumstances.

the window was broken, the glass nearly completely missing, clear plastic taped over the opening, letting the cold evening air into the apartment. the apartment itself was freezing, explaining why you had been so cold lately.

“i guess he thought that was an exit,” you tried to laugh about it, but it just sounded awkward. “let me take that,” you did your bag off his broad shoulder, placing it on the floor next to the couch.

“you can’t stay here,” he said, the first words he spoke since entering your apartment.

“leon, it’s fine, i-“ you sighed. “thank you for the ride, and for walking me up, but i’ll be okay. i’ll remind the landlord about the door tomorrow. i’ll even right a note so he can’t forget-“

“please,” he places his hands gently on your shoulders. “i’m sure hunnigan would let you stay with-“

“she would, and she already offered, but i said no. really, i'll be fine.”

“please, at least tonight. i’ll come by and fix the door myself tomorrow. i can’t leave you here knowing you’re not safe,” he pleaded, pulling you into a hug. your arms cautiously wrapped around his torso, and you melted into his touch. he was warm. he was safe.

you didn’t know how much you needed that hug until you had it; and now you didn’t want him to ever let go.

“are you secretly a carpenter in your spare time?” you joked, and his body shook lightly as he laughed.

“no, but i’m sure i can manage,” he said, letting you out of his arms. “is that a yes then?” he asked.

“you can fix the door, but it’s late, i don’t want to wake ingrid up now, and i don’t really have anywhere else to go,” you admitted.

“then you can stay with me tonight,” he said, like it was already decided.

“leon, i can’t ask-“

“again, you’re not asking, i offered. i would feel much better knowing you’re safe,” he smiled. “now stop being stubborn and go pack some clothes, and shower if you want. i’ll guard the door.”

you wrapped your arms around him again, fighting the urge to remind him that he could be just as stubborn as you, if not worse.

“thank you leon,” you mumbled into his shirt.

“don’t mention it.”

•

“do you need anything else?” leon asked from the doorway. you shook your head, glancing at the water on the nightstand he had already gotten you (without you asking).

despite you assuring him that you would be fine on the couch he insisted that you take his bed. something about you needing a good nights sleep more than him, considering the week you’d had. you would’ve protested more, but the softness of the navy blue duvet had quickly pulled you in. you were still cold, the chill of your apartment still in your bones as you pulled the blankets up over your legs. you hadn’t noticed him turn the temperature on the thermostat in the hallway up a few degrees for you when he walked by it earlier.

“no leon, you’ve already done more than enough. thank you,” you answered, and he nodded.

“i’ll be right outside if you change your mind,” he promised. you thought about the couch you had seen in the living room, and while it was a nice looking couch, you couldn’t picture someone of leon’s size being able to sleep on it comfortably.

“wait -“ you called after him as he began to shut the door.

“yeah?” he asked, opening it enough to pop his head back into the room.

“are you sure you don’t want to just sleep in here? the bed is big enough for two people.” it was at least a queen size, if not a king. you could probably fit three people if you were really desperate.

“if you’re okay with that-“

“i wouldn’t have asked if i wasn’t,” you laughed softly. “now get over here.”

leon shut the door behind him and walked over to the other side of the bed, taking off his watch and setting it on the nightstand before sliding into bed next to you.

“goodnight leon.”

“goodnight,” he replied, smiling to himself as he turned off the light. you were safe, and that’s what was important.

so why couldn’t he stop thinking about the fact that you were in his bed?

a comfortable silence fell over you as you felt exhaustion settling in, and you pulled the blankets up higher around your body.

“you’re shivering,” leon commented softly.

“sorry,” you replied, actively trying to be still, but he just laughed.

“you don’t have to be sorry. come closer,” he offered, and you heard the blankets rustle as he opened his arms for you.

ignoring all of the reasons if might be a bad idea, your heart sped up in your chest.

your coworker, your friend, who was kind, charming, and just so happened to be stupidly handsome was asking you to cuddle, in his bed?

you’d be stupid to say no.

the human resources department didn’t have to know.

you slid over to his side of the bed, your bodies fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle as you payed your head on his chest, his arms wrapping tightly around you.

“jesus you’re freezing,” he breathed out as you nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

“and you’re really warm. do you keep heaters in those biceps or something?” you both laughed, and you closed your eyes, listening to the sound of his heart beating. he hoped you couldn't tell how it had sped up in reaction to your touch.

“something like that.”

“hmmm,” you hummed happily. “maybe i don’t want you to fix that door after all.”

“oh yeah?” he teased, his eyebrow quirking upwards. maybe it was just to steal his body heat, or maybe you were enjoying this as much as he did. maybe you liked him as much as he liked you. he would never fix that door if it meant he could have you safe and warm in his arms every night.

“thank you leon,” you said for the thousandth time, placing a soft kiss on his cheek before settling your head back against his collarbone.

“anytime,” he said.

•

when you woke up in the morning, there was a heavy arm around your waist, and as you shifted slightly, you heard leon groan softly behind you.

“morning,” he mumbled, his eyes still closed and his voice deeper than normal.

“good morning,” you smiled, looking over your shoulder at him. his blond hair was messy, his lips parted slightly as his breath tickled your shoulder with each exhale.

“what time is it?” he asked, just for his alarm to go off. he hummed in annoyance, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest as he reached over and shut it off. “five more minutes.”

“it’s gonna look really bad if we show up late together,” you laughed as he pulled you tight against his body, and you gave up fighting. there was no way you could escape the bear hug he had you in (not that you wanted to).

“it’s only 6:30 and i hit snooze. we won’t be late,” he assured you, before you heard the sound of his soft snoring. you smiled (which you seemed to not be able to stop doing) as you settled back into bed, letting yourself enjoy a few more minutes of this before you had to go back to reality.

once the alarm went off again, leon turned off the annoying beeping and rubbed his eyes, blankets pooling around his waist as he sat up. he was wearing a tight black t shirt and a pair of grey pyjama bottoms, and he looked both stupidly hot and adorable at the same time as he let out a yawn.

“how did you sleep?” he asked.

“better than i have in a while. thank you again for-“

“stop thanking me so much,” he smiled at you, and you scoffed in mock annoyance.

“stop doing so many nice things for me and i won’t have to.”

“not a chance.”

•

while leon disappeared to take a quick shower, (which you tried not to picture too much in your head), you made each of you a cup of coffee. leon had leant you one of his hoodies to wear, and you sat cross legged on the couch, putting on just enough makeup to look presentable at the office.

leon emerged from the hallway dressed and ready to go, although you didn’t have to leave for another half hour. his hair was brushed neatly, and you found yourself wanting to run your fingers through it to mimic his fluffy behead.

leon could’ve died on the spot, watching you look so at home in his apartment, curled up in his clothes while you got ready. he hoped it wouldn’t be the last time he saw you like this. as you looked up at him smiling at you from the kitchen, you hoped it wouldn’t be either.

“it’s my turn to thank you now i guess,” he said, sipping the coffee you’d made as he sat down next to you.

“it’s the least i could do,” you finished your makeup and put everything back in your bag, before settling back on the couch next to him. your knees were growing stiff from the position you were in, and as if he could read your mind, leon placed your legs across his lap.

“this is really nice,” you admitted, hoping it hadn’t been a burden to him to have you as a houseguest.

“yeah. we should do this again sometime,” he agreed.

“preferably without the traumatic events leading up to it,” you laughed, and his hand found its place on your knee again, his fingertips on your skin this time as you were wearing pyjama shorts.

“preferably,” he said, finishing his coffee. “as beautiful as you look wearing my clothes, you should probably get changed before we head to the office.”

“really? i was thinking i could just go like this, really make a statement,” you joked, trying to hide the blush on your face at the fact that he’d called you beautiful. he pinched your leg, and you leaned closer, kissing him softly on the lips. he seemed surprised at first, but kissed back, hand sliding up ever so slightly higher to rest on your thigh.

“i really should go get dressed,” you whispered.

“yeah, before i decide we’re both calling in sick,” he teased, kissing you again before letting you get up. he watched as you took both your coffee cups and placed them in the sink before disappearing into his room to get dressed, the door closing behind you.

leon let his head fall back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

how was he supposed to focus on at the office all day after that?

•

hunnigan came over to your desk a little while after you’d gotten to work, noticing the change in your mood immediately.

“hey. why was your car here so early? i was worried you pulled an all nighter, but then you weren’t here,” she asked, as you sipped on the coffee leon had gotten you on the way in from the parking garage.

“something in the engine died last night so i got a ride home from leon,” you explained, leaving out some details of the story.

“i’m sorry about your car, but at least you go to ride in the porsche,” she laughed. “you seem a little more chipper this morning. are you doing okay?”

“yeah, i slept okay for once last night. i’m starting to feel a little more like myself,” you smiled.

“i’m glad. you still keeping leon in the dark about what happened?” she asked, sitting down against the top of your desk.

“no, cats out of the bag on that one,” you admitted. you felt better after telling him, nevermind everything that happened after. that’s what had really cheered you up.

“how did he react? did he get all overprotective?” she asked.

“it’s leon, of course he did, but honestly not too bad. i’m glad there’s no more secrets between us,” you said happily. at the end of the day, no matter what was blossoming between you, he was one of your closest friends, and you didn’t like hiding things from him.

“sure, maybe you have no more secrets,” she teased playfully, and your brow furrowed.

“what do you mean?”

“if you ask me, i think he has a secret crush on you,” she whispered, leaning closer so no one overheard.

“ingrid, we’re friends,” you protested, looking up just as leon appeared on the other side of the room, smiling when your eyes met his. you were glad hunnigan didn’t notice, because there was no way she would’ve believed you if she had seen the way you just looked at eachother. “you just like to gossip,” you poked her in the rib, and she laughed, standing up to walk back to her desk.

“That was stupid,” Leon says, hauling you into him. The words aren’t unkind, but they’re not gentle either. You stumble against him.

“Have I been known to be anything else?” you ask. He grunts. “Besides, I’ve got you to take care of me,”

He doesn’t respond. He finds a quiet spot, a reclusive corner where he can assess the damage. There’s a wicked gash along your side, cutting from near your navel up towards your ribs. It makes your vision tunnel when you finally lay eyes on it. You hadn’t known how bad it was. His fingertips are gentle around the surrounding skin.

“You’re lucky evac is two minutes out,” he says. His voice is hushed, like he’s telling you a secret. Maybe he is.

“Yeah?” you ask, a breathy noise that you’re not certain you could recreate. The sound is deep, rooted in desperation and blood loss. Leon’s eyes flick up at you from where he’s crouched, icy gaze cutting through his lashes. He looks pretty like this, bent low in front of you, looking at you with something you can’t place. It makes you shiver.

“You’re losing blood,” he says. You nod.

“Gonna give me yours?” you tease. Your vision tunnels a bit, and you slump forward. Leon catches you, pulling you flush against him. He smells like sweat and cedar and smoke, something that nearly lulls you into sleep. You hear a distant rumble as the building continues to crumble.

He helps you out of the derelict building. You’re barely even walking, just sort of stumbling beside him as he carries most of your weight, and you feel strangely guilty for making him do all the work. The helicopter’s blades never slow as it touches the ground. Leon helps you into your seat, guiding you gently. He’s soft as he slides the headphones over your ears, even going as far as to smooth a piece of hair out of your eyes. You can hardly keep them open.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs. It feels like a promise. “Can’t have you dying on me, now,”

“That would ruin your whole week,” you say, trying to smile. It’s a weak attempt at a joke, and he knows it. You can see tension make its home under Leon’s skin. It rears its head with every pull of muscle, every furrowed brow.

“We’ll be home soon,” he says. You nod. You’re not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself.

When you do finally land, you’re pulled away from him for medical attention. You fight as best as you can, attempting to sit in on the briefing, but Leon levels you with a gaze you’ve never seen him wear, and you accept defeat. There’s two medics standing idly in the room, and they turn to see you hobble in, eyes widening.

“What the hell happened?” one of them asks. You shrug, sitting down on the bed.

“Caught something sharp,” you say. They lift your shirt, which is in ribbons. A shock of pain rips through you, and you stifle a groan.

They work quickly, giving you a tetanus shot. You wince as the needle sinks beneath your skin. The pain only adds to the rest of it searing through your muscles. Now that you’re sitting, adrenaline having dissipated, everything hurts. The gash oozes blood, which makes you feel dizzy. Your back hurts, your legs hurt, your side hurts. Every time they touch you, you suck in a breath.

Finally, you’re stitched up. They tell you to take it easy for a week, shove pain meds into your hands, and send you out the door. Leon leans against the opposite wall, watching his boots. He looks tired, run down. He’s covered in dirt. Black streaks smear across his cheeks, his biceps. His hair falls like a golden frame over his eyes. You sigh.

He looks up then, watching you. He scans over your body, checking for any lingering injuries the medics managed to miss. You offer him a weak smile.

“No hospital?” he asks, pushing off the wall to meet you where you stand. His steps are heavy, tired. You shake your head. “Good. Let’s get you home,”

You follow him out of the building. It’s winding turns and desolate hallways until fresh air smacks you in the face. You take a deep breath, trying to let the residuals of the mission fall off of you. Leon’s car faces you, a beat up old Buick–he refuses to get anything newer–and it stares at you like it knows something you don’t. You fit easily into the passenger seat, like you were made for it. You lean back against the headrest. You feel suddenly exhausted, like a two ton weight rests in your chest. You just want to sleep. The drive to your apartment isn’t long, and you’re counting down the seconds until you’ll be able to slip into the shower and let the day wash down your back.

Leon helps you upstairs. You try to protest, tell him that the elevator isn’t going to exert you any more than the walk to the building itself, but he refuses to listen. He follows silently behind you until you reach your door. He’s like a shadow as you enter the apartment, still bathed in the darkness of night. You hate to do it, but you turn on the light, flooding the room and making you wince. Leon holds your arm to keep you steady as you toe off your shoes.

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you say, not looking at him. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been hurt,”

He doesn’t say anything for a long, pregnant moment. But then, “I would like it to be the last, preferably,”

You huff a weak laugh, something hoarse and weary. “You and me both, partner,”

He follows you from room to room, picking things up as you drop them. Your right arm is effectively useless because any movement on that side sends shockwaves of pain through your entire body. You sigh heavily, fighting back tears. Leon stands in the threshold of your bathroom, holding your bundle of clothes and hairbrush. He looks at you with something you can’t identify–not quite pity, but something adjacent. He looks so pretty, so collected, even in his dirty state. You clutch your side.

“I can take it from here,” you say, breathless. “I’ll see you in a week,”

Leon stares at you. His fingers fidget with the hem of your sleep shorts. He opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again. Then, “Do you want help?”

You blink at him. You hadn’t considered he’d be willing to help you. You hadn’t thought so far ahead as to know what you’d do to get out of your clothes.

With a breath, you say, “Yes, please,”

He nods wordlessly. Your clothes find their home as a heap on the sink counter. He pats the top of it once as if casting a spell to make them stay put. He turns to you then. He’s broad, forces you to dial in on him. His hands linger at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

You lift your left arm above your head, a silent encouragement to get him to touch you. His hands fall on you like a caress. Gently, he lifts your shirt up. His knuckles brush against your side, making your breathing hitch. He’s not watching you, fully focused on his task, but you can’t look away from him. He looks so focused, like one wrong move would paralyze you. He catches one end of the shirt in your armpit, pulling the other side out so you can slip your arm through. He helps ease your head through the collar, then pulls it off entirely via your other arm. He breathes in heavily through his nose at the expanse of skin he’s revealed. Then he takes a step back. You swallow thickly.

“I need…” you mumble, brain rotting inside your skull. “I can’t reach-”

“I got it,” he says. The words sound broken on his tongue.

You spin for him, presenting the clasp of your bra. You purse your lips when his warm hands make contact with the smooth skin on your back. He makes surprisingly quick work of it. Within seconds, you feel it loosening around your ribs, a small blessing. You breathe out something heady and heavy.

“I’ll be out there if you need anything,” Leon says. He leaves little room for argument by bustling out of the room as quickly as he can. You blink.

The shower water is hot on your skin, but it feels good. You can feel the tension slipping down your shoulders in rivulets. Somehow, you manage to wash yourself one handed, which you feel mildly proud of. The steam loosens you. It’s only when you step out of the water that you remember that you have to put a shirt on.

You struggle for what feels like hours. Every movement pulls on your stitches. You’re near tears when you finally call out for Leon.

“Yeah?” he asks, cracking the bathroom door. You sniffle.

“I can’t…” you say, taking a breath to recollect yourself. “I can’t get my shirt on,”

“I’ll help,” he says. His voice is so soft, so intimate. He enters quietly, staring at anything that isn’t you.

The shirt looks miniscule in his hands. Carefully, almost reverently, he eases the collar over your head. His gaze still lingers just past your shoulder. You frown. You slip your good arm through the sleeve.

Leon finally looks at you. You nod, letting him know it’s okay to put his hands on you. You see the turmoil in his eyes, the need for consent.

“You can touch me,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He nods once.

He grips the hem of the shirt, pulling as far down as the fabric will let him. Then, softly, he helps guide your arm through the sleeve. His fingers brush against you again, just along the curve of your breast, but the touch is electric, crackling with something unsaid. The moment is so intimate, so personal, you could burst into tears. Then the shirt is fully on your body. You wonder if Leon can hear your heart hammering against your chest. If he can, he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“Thanks,” you say, breathless. He nods. “I can handle the rest,”

“You sure?” he asks. There’s no suggestion in his tone, and that almost makes it worse. You breathe heavily through your nose, nodding.

He stands there as you fumble with your hairbrush. Your lips are pursed as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You’re barely halfway through the tangled strands before he stops you.

“Let me help,” he says–no begs. You glance at his reflection. He looks as wrecked as you feel. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, gaze unblinking as he waits for you.

“Okay,” you say softly, voice hollow and breathy as you pass him the hairbrush.

He’s gentle as he works the brush through your hair. His gaze remains focused on the wet strands, but yours is on him. His brow furrows slightly, that bottom lip pulled snugly between his teeth as he pulls on a particularly tough tangle. His eyes look so blue in the yellowing light above the mirror. The care he takes with you is enough to make you sick. His hands are frustratingly warm as they bump against the back of your neck. He never once pulls or yanks, never scrapes the bristles against your skin, never gets frustrated. He works until it is done, unwaveringly, and you didn’t expect anything less. The moment is so soft, so delicate, you’re afraid that something might break when you pull away.

“I think I got it,” he says, soft as a whisper against you. You nod.

“Thank you,” you say. You stay idle for a moment, just watching him. He looks so unsure.

You think, in another lifetime, miles and miles away from here, that you could’ve loved him. He’s funny when he wants to be, charming in a boyish sort of way. You count on him, but he doesn’t let it get to him. He gives because he thinks it a privilege that you let him. You reach up to wipe away some of the dirt still smudged on his face. He stiffens beneath your fingertips, not prepared for such affectionate contact.

He swallows thickly. You remove your hand, and you see him relax just a fraction.

“Do you need any more help?” he asks in an almost broken way. You shake your head. “I’ll see you later, then?”

“Yeah,”

He ducks his chin at you, then shuffles out of the bathroom. You hear the front door open and click shut a moment later, leaving you alone in your apartment.

...

Leon is not sure that he would describe himself as kind or good. But on his drive home, as he thinks about your withered form presented to him in the dim light of your bathroom, looking up at him through your lashes like he was something holy, he starts to think that that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he is kind or good because you kept looking at him like he was all you ever needed. He can still feel your skin against his fingers, sending shivers down his spine. 

He’d frozen up. He knows that he probably looked ridiculous, like a flushed school boy who had just stumbled into the girl’s locker room by accident. Your skin had been so soft. The expanse of flesh he’d discovered beneath your tattered shirt lives in his brain as he shuffles into his apartment. The space is dark and empty. He has very few personal items, unlike you. His space looks abandoned, which he guesses it usually is. He really only uses this place to sleep and eat sometimes. 

He crashes onto his couch, still unshowered and unclean. He just needs a moment, he tells himself. Just one moment, to collect the memories of you like precious items to set on his vacant shelves. The way you shivered against him when he brushed your side, the way you watched him, doe eyed, in the mirror as he brushed your hair, the humidity of the room clinging to you; they all go, framed and perfect, on shelves in his mind. He breathes out, something heavy and soft all at once. 

He’s unfamiliar with this feeling. He doesn’t know how to embrace it, so he decides that he shouldn’t. He’s not sure he deserves something as sweet and gentle as you. You’re better than him, in almost every way. You don’t let the job wear you down, you take pride in what you do. You tease him. The mercy and compassion you give him are foreign in his brain. And he feels so selfish for accepting every last scrap. He eats up the way you look at him, the way you laugh at his weak attempts at jokes, the way you worry after him even with a ten inch gash on your side that very easily could’ve gutted you. He is gluttonous and greedy and selfish. You are consuming him, and he is letting you. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t let you plague him this way. He knows that it could all too soon be ripped away from him, but in this moment, in the dim light cast by the moon streaming through his curtains, he doesn’t care. A shudder rakes through his body, from head to toe. 

It would be all too easy to blame you. He could curse you for whatever spell you’ve cast to make him stupid in this way. But he knows the fault is his and his alone. It’s his fault that he mistakes your casual compassion for anything more. It’s his fault that he devours whatever good comes his way, just to corrupt and blacken it. And he doesn’t want to do that to you. He doesn’t want to see where this will end, even if he has before and knows it as intimately as he knows every other aspect of death and decay.

He tips his head back against the couch. There’s a crack in his popcorn ceiling, cutting through the expanse of white like a vein. 

He knows he’s cut open and bleeding at your feet. He’s wounded in a way that doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t want you to help him. Not because he doesn’t ache to feel your gentle hands smooth over his scarred flesh, working out the evil with every electrifying touch, but because he does, and that would make you the universe’s top priority. 

He is cursed, a bad day after a worse one. And he knows that if he were to let you have him the way he wants, you’d become cursed too. Cursed with him and his aches and pains, his scars and bruises, his anger and resentment. 

When he settles beneath the sheets that night, he dreams of you. He dreams of your soft skin against him, your laughter, your easy smiles. He dreams of the life he could have were it not for his exceedingly awful luck.

He could save you. He could prevent you from ever coming nearer. But that somehow feels like a worse, more torturous ending. And he is nothing if not selfish.

...

The next time you see Leon, it’s nearly a week later. The swelling on your side has gone down and most of the pain has subsided, but it’s still tense and unforgiving, especially so early in the morning. There’s little light coming through the curtains thanks to the steady stream of rain pelting the earth.

His hair is soggy, casting thick shadows over the high points of his face. There’s crystal droplets on the shoulders of his jacket, ones you want to reach out to shake off, but you refrain. He smiles at you, that gentle half smile he only ever wears when he’s half exhausted. 

“Came to check on you,” he says softly, words turned plush on the corners of his lips. You smile.

“Unfortunately, I’ve succumbed to sepsis. You’re seeing a ghost,” you joke. He rolls his eyes and pushes past you into the apartment.

He shakes off like a dog as he hangs his coat on the hook. A few rogue water droplets smatter your face. You take a moment to observe him. The lines of his body are rigid like there’s something pulling him taught. For a moment, you ache to reach out and smooth your palms over his muscles, to help him relieve some of that tension. You wonder if that’s something that would be okay, if he would welcome your touch. There is a line that stands between you, and you’re not sure which side of it you reside on. 

“Anything interesting happen in the week that I’ve been gone?” you ask, leaning against the back of the couch.

Leon hums, pursing his lips as he thinks back on the last few days. “There’s a new coffee machine in the break room,”

You huff a laugh. “Can’t wait to try that baby out,”

Silence stretches thick between you, like a rope that’s been left out in the rain. You watch him move with careful precision, finding where would be the best place to exist within. You wonder why he never seems to relax, even in your space. You wonder if he knows how much you care. Subconsciously, you run the pads of your fingers over your injury. It’s a rough stretch of skin now, bubbled with scar and scab. You frown.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, suddenly standing again to get to your side. He catches your wrist where it hovers near the tear.

You shrug. “Only when I think about it,”

He purses his lips and emits a low hum, giving you a once over. “Have a fever at all?”

You shake your head. He nods, once and curt, before dropping your wrist and stepping away from you. 

“Do you need any help?” Leon asks, avoiding your gaze by scanning around the room. “Any chores that have been neglected? Any errands I can run for you?”

You feel the corner of your mouth tick up in a small smile. Shaking your head, you say, “No, Leon. I’ve been able to manage on my own,”

“I know,” he says. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing on the soft flesh there in thought. Then, soft as a whisper, he says, “I was worried about you,”

You feel your heart catch in your throat. You think back to the way he looked at you that night, like you were broken before him and he couldn’t do anything to fix you. You think about how gentle he was with you, how careful he was like you were bursting at the seams. You see his cheeks turn a tinge of pink as the silence stretches thick between you. You reach out, placing a flat palm against his chest. There’s no sound in the apartment, just the rain outside and your own heavy breathing.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Leon,” you say, just as soft. “I know you’ll always take care of me,”

He swallows, something heavy and unsaid, and nods. “I will,”

It feels like a promise. It feels like a vow.

With an intake of breath, you say, “Anything on our docket?”

Leon purses his lips. “Not on yours,” he says. You frown. “You’re on light duty for a while,”

You twist your face up in a nasty expression, which makes Leon smile a fraction. “I don’t like that,”

“That’s what I figured you’d say,” he says. He moves around you to finally sit down. You’re almost surprised as he gets comfortable on your couch. You move to join him. “I tried to tell Hunnigan you wouldn’t go down easy,”

“I can’t imagine I have much choice,” you say, grumbling. “Did they say for how long?”

Leon shakes his head. “Could be a while,”

You groan.

“Hey,” he says, gently. “You took a hard hit. It’s either office duty or a grave,”

You scowl at him, and he flashes you a smile. “Promise me you won’t get yourself killed while I’m gone,”

He makes a motion over his chest. Cross my heart.

The next week, Leon is shipped out to God knows where. They won’t tell you, probably afraid you’d commandeer a craft to chase after him. You’re checking in with Hunnigan by the hour, who tells you you’re being paranoid. How can you not be? He’s out there, alone, doing something, something dangerous, and you’re stuck writing reports and drinking watered down coffee from the new machine in the break room. He could be hurt, he could be dead, and you would never know the difference. It makes you sick, it makes you scared.

“Separation anxiety?” Sherry asks, taking a seat beside you. You’re staring at a monitor, feeling like your eyes are melting out of your head.

“Shut up,” you retort, making her laugh. “I just worry about him,”

“Y’know, I think I had this exact conversation with him a couple weeks ago,” Sherry says, grinning at you. You scowl at her. “You two act like if you’re not attached at the hip, you’re basically dead,”

“That’s what it feels like,” you murmur. You sigh. “You don’t get it,”

“Maybe not,” Sherry says, shrugging. “But I do know what it’s like to feel,”

You blink at her. “Don’t you have somewhere else to go be annoying?”

Sherry jabs a finger into your side, making you yelp. “Don’t be mean to me just because you’re grumpy,”

You huff.

You are not grumpy.

...

Leon feels half dead on his feet as he trudges up the stairs of your apartment building. He’s been gone almost two weeks, with little to no contact with you. It feels like it’s killing him. He feels like it’s sucking out his will to live. He just wants to see you.

He knocks gently on your door. It’s late, just past midnight, but he knows you’re still awake, always the night owl. You open it a second later, wearing a shirt three sizes too big and an old pair of sweatpants; he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful. You give him a once over, scanning him for injuries, and when you don’t appear to find any, you crash into him. He lets out an oomph as his arms settle around your waist. You smell like home, and he feels his heart crack open a little.

“Worried about you,” you whisper into his shoulder. He holds you a little tighter.

“Not over yet,” he says, and you pull away, squinting at him. He shrugs his jacket off to reveal a nasty cut along his bicep. He smiles sheepishly at you.

You sigh, and it’s like the greatest symphony ever written. “Grab a seat at the table. I’ll patch you up,”

His pain ebbs as he sits. You return to him moments later with a first aid kit and a scowl. Your soft hands against his skin are what keep him tethered to the earth. Pain threatens to eat at his muscles and sinew, to consume him. But you’re gentle, easing through it like a softbed creek, curving over already smooth stones.

“Did you even try to get out of the way?” you murmur. You don’t look at him, but he’s watching you. He sees the twitch at the corner of your mouth as you clean the wound, the pull of your brows in concentration. You look so beautiful like this, like a pink sunrise, a reminder that good is out there.

“Sort of,” he mumbles back. You frown at him. “I didn’t really have time,”

You hum. Once the wound is thoroughly disinfected, you prime the needle for stitches.

“This will hurt,” you say, sinking the steel beneath his flesh. He doesn’t react. You make quick work of the area, making sure to tape over it to protect the stitches. When he’s all patched up, you pat his other arm, saying, “Try to make time so that this doesn’t happen again,”

He nods, watching you. You’re a breath away, inspecting him for any other injuries he may be sequestering. He reaches up hesitantly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He feels giddy at the way your eyes widen.

“Pretty,” he says, so softly he’s not even sure you hear it. He wonders if he’s concealing the deep, desperate love he has for you, or if he’s bearing it all with his gaze. At this point, he’s not sure he cares. 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Kennedy,” you say, smiling at him. “I’m still mad at you,”

Soft as a whisper, he says, “I think I can handle that,”

Without much further thought, Leon closes the gap. You let out a little squeak when his mouth meets yours, but you almost melt into him. He’s so relieved that he could cry. Your hands find purchase along the curve of his jaw, his own grasping at the loose fabric of your shirt. You sigh sweetly into him, coating his nerves in a saccharine so destabilizing he can’t help but return it. When you fall into his lap, parting your lips and winding your arms around him, he’s afraid he’s died and gone to Heaven. And when your tongue finally meets his, he groans, something deep and guttural and unbecoming.

You pull away, a string of saliva hanging from your kiss bitten lips. You rest your forehead against his. His every perception centers on you; your hands on his chest, your nose bumping his as your chest heaves, your smell, the skin of your neck, open and exposed for him. He wants you, needs you like you’re the only thing that can save him. And when you kiss him again, a fire burns anew in his chest. Your hands are everywhere; his arms, his shoulders, his chest, and they find a home winding into his hair. A gentle tug against his scalp has his hands tightening their grip on your hips, begging you to still.

“Leon,” you murmur against his mouth, heady and soft all at once. 

“I’m here,” he says, and he means it. He has never been more present. And then he’s standing, lifting you with him to place you back on the floor. You stare at him, pupils blown wide, gnawing on your bottom lip.

He pulls you flush against him because he can’t help himself. He is nothing if not selfish, nothing if not gluttonous and greedy, and now that you’ve given him this small victory, he wants to see if he can keep winning you. He sees the quiet desperation in the deep color of your eyes, the way you’re watching him with your full, rapt attention.

“You can touch me,” you say, voice low and barely audible. He wants to eat you alive.

He wastes little time after that, mouth crashing against yours with renewed energy. His heart swells in his chest when you cling to him all the same. Your fingers dig into the tops of his shoulders. He taps his fingers once against your thigh, signaling you to jump. He catches you, carries you close against him until you’re laid out against the sheets. He doesn’t stray far, following you into the linen, soft and sweet.

He watches you for a moment, taking it all in. You’re smiling at him, grinning really as he hovers above you. You brush your fingers against his cheek, smoothing away whatever doubt may be lingering. He ducks his head, pressing feather light kisses to the column of your throat, making your breath hitch there. He doesn’t get far, not when you pull his mouth back to yours, grasping at his shirt in an effort to rid him of it. Leon is a compliant man, flashing you a grin as he pulls back to yank it off. He wonders if your cheeks warm like his, if you can hear the hard hammer of his heart in his chest.

...

Leon is all rigid muscle, sinew pulled tight and corded along his arms, the plans of his stomach, his shoulders. You feel almost animalistic, feral. You run flat palms over him, feeling him twitch and tremor under your touch.

“Pretty,” you say, soft as a whisper. He huffs a laugh.

You push him back slightly, only giving yourself enough room to sit forward to pull off your own shirt. You watch him swallow thickly as it gets discarded somewhere across the room. His hands are soft, gentle against the revealed skin as he kisses you again. Feather light touches across your waist, your stomach. Rough and callused palms against your breast, thumb finding your nipple. You arch into him at the contact, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

You’re aching, cut open and bleeding. His hands leave goosebumps and fire in their wake as he lays you back against the sheets, tracing his lips down your torso, stopping at the waistband of your pants. He looks up at you, chest heaving. You nod, a gentle duck of your chin. Your breath catches in your throat as he slowly–painstakingly slowly–tugs your pants down. He lets his hands wander over your exposed thighs, hopefully ignoring your choice of underwear. Light touches against your hips cause them to fall open. You wonder if you look as vulnerable as you feel. He presses the gentlest kisses to the insides of your thighs, head bouncing between them.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, a mumble against your skin. It sends shivers down your spine.

When he presses an open mouth kiss to the apex of your thighs, you think you black out for a second. A breathy gasp echoes off the walls. He tugs your underwear out of the way to flatten his tongue against you. The sound you make is unbecoming, head dropping back against the pillows. He wastes little time, sucking and kissing and licking as he finds his rhythm, finds what you like, what makes you the loudest. He eats you out like it’s a game, like he’s determined to get the highest score. Your vision is nearly white, fingers buried in his hair. When you tug on it a bit, he groans, deep and sultry, sending shocks to your brain. 

Your thighs begin to shake when he pulls your clit between his teeth, a breathy moan escaping you. He locks an arm across your hips to keep you in place. You’re shamelessly grinding against his face, chasing release. You keen high and whiny as he slides two fingers into you.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says, low and heavy. “Make a mess on me,”

He curls his fingers against you. The stretch and tempo and timbre of his voice were nearly enough to send you over the edge, but what does you in is seeing him lean back to watch you, stubble brushing the inside of your thigh. You clench around his fingers as you come, writhing and panting like an animal. You watch him lick his fingers clean before you’re clawing for him, pulling his mouth back up to yours. You groan as you taste yourself on his tongue. Your fingers fumble with the clasp on his belt, fighting to free him of it. You feel him chuckle against you as he reaches down to help you. He pulls away a bit to shuck off his trousers.

Your mouth waters when his cock springs free from his boxers, thick and flushed and dripping. Instinctively you reach for it, but he stalls you, gently grasping your wrist. You frown up at him.

“Won’t last very long,” he says by way of explanation.

“Next time, then,” you say, chest heaving. He grins at you, climbing over you again.

His kisses are addictive, you decide. You’re not sure how you ever went without them. They’re all consuming, send you spinning. You’re flat on your back again, pulling him as close as you can, running your hands down the expanse of his chest. He lines himself up with your entrance, gently pushing himself inside. The stretch is devastating. You break the spell of his kiss to gasp, jaw slack. His chest heaves as he buries himself in you, arms flexing on either side of your head. He stalls once he’s fully seated inside you. You smooth his hair away from his face, thumb swiping against his cheekbone. You feel so full; of him, of want, of love.

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse and heavy. You grin at him.

“Never been better,” you say.

You lock your legs around his waist, begging him to stay close to you. He drops his head, turning into your palm more as he begins to slowly pull out of you. The drag of him against your walls has you keening. He almost pulls out fully before pushing back in, setting a languid pace that has you boneless. One hand smooths up your side, cupping your breast. You pull him back down to you, mouth meeting his in a devastating kiss. He sighs heavy against your lips, a whimper so delicious it has you rolling your hips just to hear it again. He moves to bury his face in your neck, pressing gentle kisses to the skin there.

“So pretty,” he mumbles. You sigh. “Like you were made for me,”

The praise has you scratching your nails lightly down his back, earning you another pretty noise. His thrusts pick up their pace but never lose their softness. He ruts into you like a man consumed, mumbling against your sweat slick skin.

“Dreamed of this,” he says. His hands wander over you, fingertips gentle against your injury. “Dreamed of you. My pretty girl,”

There’s a pressure building in your stomach, a coil wound tight, threatening to burst every time he opens his mouth.

“Yours,” you say. “Always have been,”

His thrusts turn shallow, deep. He says, “Doin’ so good, fuckin’ perfect,”

You clench around him, huffing a breathy moan. “Leon,”

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here,”

His thumb finds your clit, and you’re seeing stars. White hot pleasure radiates throughout your body, threatening to consume you. He picks up the pace, chasing his own release. He thrusts one, two, three more times before he’s groaning in your ear and filling you up. He collapses against you, chest heaving and panting. Your fingers wind into his hair, toying with the ends. Every now and then you feel him press kisses to the column of your throat. 

“Leon,” you whisper. He hums. “I think your stitches split,”

He laughs then, a bright, airy sound that splits your chest open with want. He pulls back to look at you, and you note the way his eyes brim with adoration. You feel suddenly shy.

“You gonna patch me back up?” he asks, soft against you. You grin.

“Yeah,” you say, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “I will,”