Cate

It first began when you were heading back from a conference meeting regarding the strengthening of international relations so that specialised agents to have a special visa clearance. In this case, you and your seasoned coworker, Leon, along with a handful of other agents and higher-ups, had flown to London to represent America and the DSO. Unfortunately for you, right before the conference began, you both only had three days to recover. Leon seemed rested enough, but you on the other hand, had not slept a wink.

"Shit, that conference was so tiring. How was it somehow more tiring than running around fighting a bunch of infected in the pouring rain?" You can't help but groan, absentmindedly rubbing the back of your neck.

"More out of higher-ups than actual agents in the room, that's why." Leon gives you a dry chuckle as you both step into the hotel elevator, heading to the floor you were both staying on.

"And yet their backs never kill them." You scoff, walking alongside Leon.

"I don't know if I'm overstepping here, but you look tense. And I noticed you had about five coffees during the conference but you were still dozing off. Have you been having trouble winding down?" Leon asks.

"Is it that obvious?" You sheepishly purse your lips as you approach your hotel room doors that are directly opposite each other.

"Nah, I just… I've been there, that's all. Your body not being able to just shut off and relax, your mind constantly staying vigilant because it still thinks a threat is around the corner… It all sucks." Leon explains.

"Yeah… That's exactly how I feel. The flight didn't help either, the jetlag is so awful. I couldn't even sleep more than an hour last night." You sigh.

"Have you tried anything? Like sleeping medication, stretches, no screens…?" Leon asks.

"Haha. All of it." You give him a short, sarcastic laugh. Before you can continue your conversation, you hear a very large group of women clearly on a bachelorette trip, giggling and drunkenly stumbling towards you both. "Uh, do you wanna continue the conversation inside real quick? I have a feeling we'll get interrupted out here." You offer, turning to Leon.

"If you're comfortable with that, yeah, sure." Leon nods.

"Well, yeah, of course. I mean, we've been on what, three missions together now? Of course I feel comfortable with you, silly." You smile, as Leon steps into your room. Perching yourself on the edge of your bed, Leon takes a seat on the armchair near the vanity, turning it to face you.

"This job doesn't understand the definition of a work-life balance, that's for sure." Leon grumbles, and you nod in agreement.

"Even on days off, I can't remember the last time I did something fun and actually felt relaxed, to be honest." You admit, absentmindedly dangling your legs off the bed.

"Well, what do you do that really - and I mean really helps you relax? For me, I find it kinda meditative to just shut my brain off and work on my car or motorbike." Leon suggests.

"Haha… I don't even know how to pop open my hood. So not cars. Um, I enjoy reading? But I try to read something I'm excited about and my mind just keeps wandering. I like to do some art or listen to music, but it's all the same. I just can't switch my mind off." You sigh.

"Damn, so really nothing at all then? No other hobbies you've wanted to try out, or just anything that really makes your brain turn off?" Leon asks.

"No… Well yes- uhh… No." You hold your tongue, realising that what you were going to say could have been a total HR violation. You also don't want to make your fellow agent and mission partner feel uncomfortable.

"What? What is it?" Leon tilts his head in question, reminding you of a curious dog.

You clear your throat. "Oh, no, don't worry about it."

"Really? You know, if you don't find solutions to properly unwind, it'll eventually eat away at your performance on the job too. Trust me, it sucks." Leon empathises. He really is being genuine, and maybe… Maybe it's fine to admit something a little personal to Leon. You're basically friends - even though he started off as your mentor when you first transferred to the Eastern DSO HQ, you've been on three missions together and you've hung out a handful of times outside of work.

"Well, umm… There has been one time where I could get my mind to shut off. But it's kind of… Weird." Your legs stop dangling for a moment.

"Can't get any weirder than the shit we saw a few days ago."

"Wait, no, I mean like…" Your cheeks begin to feel a little warm.

"Oh… Right. You can be honest with me, it won't make me uncomfortable."

"O-okay, well, the last time I was able to properly wind down and switch my brain off was when I, um… You know. Had an orgasm." The last three words were very quiet, but Leon is an attentive listener.

"Yeah, no judgment from me, it makes perfect sense. But why don't you just do that again?"

"Uh… I can't do it with my own hands. And I've tried so many… Things. But they all seem to break on me pretty fast which gets expensive, or they just don't work that well. So that's why I can't just… Have one." You're usually a pretty clear and confident speaker, but talking about something like this to a coworker - especially a coworker who you think is very attractive and easy to get along with, has you feeling a little shy.

"Yeah, I get it… But surely you go on dates, right? That could lead somewhere and you could get it done that way?" Leon suggests, but you shake your head almost instantly.

"This job is too demanding, I actually don't go on dates. I don't like hookups either. I find it hard to just… Trust a stranger in that way." You respond, when suddenly your mind begins to wander and you find yourself blurting something stupid out. "Well, I trust you." You add.

Suddenly your mind catches up to your mouth, and you want to run over to your window and throw yourself out of it. "Sorry- no, I didn't mean to say that. Ignore me. I'm so sorry. You're a coworker, that was so inappropriate of me." Your babbling apology is slightly muffled as your hand clasps over your mouth.

"You trust me?" Leon asks, cocking his head to the side.

"Well, y-yes! Of course, I mean, we've gone on missions together and we have each others' back and so that means there's a high degree of trust that-" Your tone is at an unnaturally high pitch as you continue to explain yourself at a rapid, directionless pace.

"If you trust me, then I can help you." The tips of Leon's ears are tinged with pink, but he sounds sincere. He really does want to help you relax.

"You… You can? Wait, but that would be super inappropriate of us, we're coworkers." You emphasise the last word of your sentence.

"Well, we don't have to ruin that dynamic. I could just help you, kinda like how I bandage you up when you take a nasty hit." Leon shrugs. You're in slight disbelief that he'd actually offer, but your body is already buzzing with the thought of him helping you reach an orgasm.

"Okay… Well then, what do I do, exactly?" You ask, your front teeth pinching the flesh of your bottom lip for a moment.

"You can just show me how you use your hands first, maybe I can give you some direction." Leon nods.

You can't believe you're doing this, and yet, you're also giddy at the thought. Your fingers gingerly pinch at the hem of your black wool pencil skirt, slowly peeling it up as you sit back on the bed, kicking your heels off. Leon stares at the sight of you with widely blown pupils, crossing an ankle over his knee as he leans forward. Your breath hitches in your throat as you slide your panties down, a thin little line of slick breaking apart as the garment drops to the floor.

Too shy to say a word, you run your middle and index finger between your folds to spread your juices. As you collect enough wetness, you begin to rub slow, little circles on your clit with your fingers. Leon is observing you intently as your fingers quicken by a fraction, and you stifle a moan. "S-sorry, I've never been watched like this before." You whimper, your fingers relentlessly rubbing as you begin to feel warmth pool across your lower body. Suddenly, the heat builds a little too rapidly, and it almost becomes too much in an instant. You remove your fingers suddenly, sighing in frustration. "That's… Pretty much always where I stop. It just doesn't feel right once I start to get close." You explain.

Rising from his chair, Leon approaches you slowly, his pale blue eyes locked on yours. "You okay if I touch you?" He asks.

"Y-yeah, that's fine." You stammer, feeling your heartbeat quicken.

"Hang on, I'll sit underneath you." Leon instructs, as he takes a seat on the edge of your bed facing the mirror, and you settle into his lap. Your back is flush against his chest, and you can feel something poking at your backside. "You're going too fast too quickly and you're not giving yourself enough time to build it up." Leon whispers, his fingers dragging down your folds at a slow pace, the pads of his fingers collecting more wetness from your sopping wet hole.

"Just go nice and slow first, like this…" He instructs, his fingertips slowly but firmly moving up and down, causing you to buck your hips into his hand. "Yeah, and when your body is looking for more, then you can start rubbing." Leon continues, his fingers gently rubbing little slow circles on your clit. "You're not pulling yourself taut either, like this." He uses the index and middle finger on his other hand to spread your pussy apart, exposing your clit as he drags his thumb across it.

"A-ah! Fuck!" You jolt at the sensation, your eyelids fluttering.

"Hey, you wanted to learn, didn't you?" Leon chuckles, gently grabbing your jaw to recentre your gaze on the mirror in front of you. "You need to watch." He adds, spreading your pussy once again as you watch his thumb rub at your clit.

"I didn't know you had this level of perversion in you- shit!" You moan, as Leon sinks his middle and index finger into your pussy.

"I'm the perv? Are you forgetting you're the one who brought it up in the first place?" Leon questions as he begins to pump his fingers inside of you.

"P-point taken…" You breathe out as he curls his fingers upwards, hitting that perfect, sweet spot with the perfect amount of pressure.

"So when you curl your fingers like this, you can hit that spot and feel it every time. It gets intense fast." Leon whispers as his hand moves faster and faster, and you find yourself squirming in his lap as your pussy makes such obscene noises as his fingers plunge back and forth into you.

"O-oh, shit… Wait, please don't stop, please don't stop…" You whimper, your hips moving so frantically that Leon ends up moving his free hand to steady your hips in place. Your body tenses up and your thighs shake, before that known feeling of warmth in your belly arrives, and your body gives in to the first orgasm you've had in quite some time.

"Knew you could do it. Just needed a little help, huh?" Leon mumbles into the crook of your neck as you come down from your high.

Oh, you could easily get addicted to this.

The following evening, you find yourself groaning in frustration, the back of your head hitting your pillow with a soft thud. You're a fast learner, but why was it so difficult to replicate what Leon did for you yesterday? Maybe it was the angle he could get, or maybe it was the size of his hands and the way he could so perfectly reach exactly where you needed them to… Whatever it is, you're getting annoyed that your only avenue of stress relief is unattainable once more.

…And it is exactly what Leon wants. Leon was always unsure of how you saw him, but Leon has harbored feelings for you the moment he was assigned as your mentor when you transferred to his DSO headquarters. You're more than the pretty coworker - you're the one who has saved him countless times, the one who makes just as many corny jokes as he does, and the one who has taken the time to truly get to know him. So when you let it slip that you needed help… Well. Leon was itching to make himself useful, hoping that now you'll finally see him in a different way and lead to something more.

"Hey." You greet Leon with flushed cheeks and dewy lips. He wants to believe he's a respectful man, but when you show up at his hotel door in nothing but a thin grey tank top with your tits so obviously straining through the cotton and such tiny little bed shorts, he has no choice but to sneak just a quick look.

"Hey. You alright?" Leon asks, leaning his forearm on the side of his doorway. Your eyes travel to his large and muscular bicep as it tenses a little with the way he’s leaning. You swallow thickly.

"U-um, no, actually. I… I really tried to do everything you instructed, but it's just not working." You grumble with a little pout. Leon opens his door a little wider as you step inside his room.

"Can't do it on your own?" Leon asks.

"I can't… I don't know what's wrong with me. But you did it for me so perfectly before, so, um…" You stare down at your socks, suddenly feeling like maybe asking your coworker to get you off again is actually in fact, not a great idea.

"Yeah, I'll help you again." He nods. "But we'll do it a little differently." Leon adds as he sits in his armchair.

"Differently?" You ask while you approach him.

"Yeah. I want you to sit down on me, but this time face me and straddle one of my legs." Leon directs you, as you do exactly as he says. As you straddle his sweatpants-clad thigh, you already feel the blunt pressure of his thigh against your core. You get the idea pretty quickly.

"O-oh." You gasp as your thighs tighten a little and you lean further into him. Leon's hands move from his side to gently hold your hips.

"Move, like this." Leon guides your hips with his hands as you follow the pace he's set. It's beyond pleasant; to turn your brain off and let Leon do most of the thinking for you as you chase your own pleasure. It's nice that he takes care of you like this. He’s so nice to you.

"Wait, fuck… This feels really good…" You whimper as your hips buck a little faster.

"Feels good for you?" Leon asks and you nod. "Good." He replies as you grind against him with more pressure. The friction begins to build, but there's just one too many layers. You quickly shove the crotch of your bed shorts to one side, with only the thin layer of your underwear against his clothed leg. Wordlessly, he holds eye contact with you as he flexes his thigh, creating a much more tense and firm surface to grind on. Your jaw falls open as you can't help but let out a breathy moan.

As you continue to grind against him, you can't help but notice how intimate this is - not only in the obvious physical sense, but the psychological sense too. Leon is a good mission partner - he's dependable, kind, and considerate. Maybe doing something like this with a coworker is meant to be inappropriate, but you don't feel a trace of anxiety or unease with him. None of this feels wrong. You simply just trust him to take care of you, and you can let go. You can finally let your mind go numb, even if it's just for a few minutes.

"S-shit, I'm getting close." You rasp, as you lean your body flush against Leon's, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

"S'okay. I've got you." Leon murmurs, one hand travelling to the small of your back as you grind down against him harder.

"Oh, god, I'm-" You can't even finish your sentence; you're too busy trying not to whimper. You're failing miserably.

"Yeah… That's it. Ride it out for me. Just let go." Leon whispers, his breath fanning right against the shell of your ear as you cum all over his thigh, your shaky body slowly stopping to a complete halt as your orgasm subsides.

Peeling your face away from the crook of his neck and beginning to stand up, you feel a wave of embarrassment wash over you, as you notice the large sticky patch of your pussy juice that has created a significantly dark and glistening spot on the front of Leon's grey sweatpants. "Fuck, I'm-" You hold a loosely clenched fist to your mouth, shocked as if it wasn't you who just came all over his leg.

"Don't say you're sorry. I wanted you to." Leon gently cuts your sentence off, giving you a soft, reassuring gaze.

"Oh, thank you… I know it's, uh… Not really a good thing to do, us being coworkers and all. I appreciate you helping me." You purse your lips, but return his expression with a small smile.

You thought maybe after that second time Leon helped you cum, you would finally be able to do it on your own. But when you returned to America, you spent the first two weeks after those encounters with Leon desperately trying to reach a climax by yourself. You were starting to think it was an impossible task, at least when you're at the helm. So that's when you waited for a quiet hour, and asked him for the first time in his office to help you out. It quickly became a routine for you both.

You'd find a quiet hour or purposely stay back to do overtime so the HQ would be practically desolate, just so you can shut the blinds and lock his office door. And Leon knows exactly what you want, pushing his chair out a little and spreading his legs just a little more, letting you straddle his thigh. You'd ride his thigh until you came, all while he's still typing (albeit very slowly) on his laptop at his desk. Sometimes he'd even take a phone call while you're doing it, but you quickly learned not to make any noise, so it only added to the thrill.

After all, what kind of mission partner and coworker would Leon be if he were to deny you the opportunity to increase your performance in the workplace? And of course Leon kept it professional, just like any good coworker should. He'd only hold you at your hips or waist to guide you when you needed it, or hold you just long enough so the wobbling in your knees would subside. He's never done anything more, despite the obvious bulge in his pants - he's never once planted a kiss or touched you in any other way that wouldn't get you to your destination.

You're unsure of what to think about it, although the thought of one day having to cease this arrangement with Leon puts a bitter taste in your mouth. Maybe you're just trying to convince yourself that the bitter taste is because you'd have to find other means to achieving an orgasm, and not because you have intense romantic feelings for him. But you cram that thought in a box and put a tight lid on it, because this last month of Leon helping you 'relieve stress' has been working great for you.

"Shit… I'm gonna cum… Fuck…" You moan, your hips bucking as Leon keeps his thigh flexed and one hand on your hip, letting you grind him until your climax ebbs. With a long exhale, you peel yourself off of him, using your slightly clammy hands to roll the hem of your skirt back down. You begin to turn around, ready to roll the blinds back open and unlock the door, but Leon's hand gently grasps at your wrist.

"Hey, can we talk for a sec?" Leon asks.

"Oh, sure. What's up?" You reply, sounding so awfully casual despite the thin sheen of sweat on your forehead and several hair strands sticking out of place.

"I know this… This arrangement is working for you. But I think it's best we stop." Leon clears his throat as you try to hide your crestfallen expression.

"Oh… Yeah, no. I get it. Completely. It's uh… I know it's not great from a professional viewpoint." Your expression quickly recovers as you smooth down your hair. "And you must be seeing someone else, or at least you will at some point… Right? It'd definitely be inappropriate for me to keeping asking you to help me." You can't help but blurt out.

"Wait, what?" Leon looks at you as if you just grew a second head.

"Huh? What do you mean what?"

"You… Do you really think that's what it is…?" Leon asks in disbelief.

"Well, of course. I know what we're doing isn't exactly professional and would be weird to continue if you began seeing someone, so…" You trail off, giving him a look of confusion.

"I'm not entirely sure I can even follow your thought process. You know I like you, right?" Leon responds, the last six words hitting you like a tonne of bricks. There's a warmth that blooms throughout your chest, and a giddiness in your stomach that you can't quite contain.

"...You like me?"

"I thought that much was obvious. You think I'd just let any woman into my office and grind on me?" Leon chuckles sardonically.

"But we're-"

"-Coworkers? Yeah… You seemed anxious about that bit. So I didn't push it… I thought your brain needed time to catch up." Leon gently interjects.

"Well, okay- wait. Why didn't you say anything before I started this?" You ask him.

"You really think I could say no to you?" Leon gives you a soft gaze as he lets out a small huff of amusement. "I find it very difficult to reject requests from the woman I like. Especially requests when she needs help." He adds.

"I… Oh my god. I suddenly feel really silly." You admit, looking at Leon with a sheepish expression.

"To be fair, I probably should have told you how I felt from the start. But… Do you feel the same way?" Leon asks.

You always thought a relationship formed on the foundation of work was an absolute no-no. There was some kind of unspoken rule in your head that being professional meant there would be no room for love or romance in your line of work, and especially one with a coworker. That rule has been holding you back from admitting to yourself that ever since you walked into the office and Leon was introduced to you as your mentor, you felt an immediate attraction towards him.

That attraction towards Leon didn't wane once you began going on missions together, in fact it's only being strengthened. You're so familiar with each other that you remember things like your coffee orders, the preferred category of gun to use, and where your worst scars are. You realise this entire time that you've been holding back because you're scared of being known so intimately that rejection would cut deeper than any knife could. Maybe it's about time you stop listening to those fears.

"I do. I like you too. I like you a lot, actually." You smile, feeling an invisible weight finally lift from your shoulders.

"Thank god." Leon breathes out a relieved chuckle.

"But now that that's established, let me finally take care of you." You note, gesturing to Leon's very obvious tent in his pants. You notice the red tinge on the tips of Leon's ears and the top of his cheekbones as you sit in his lap once more, your lips hovering mere millimetres against his. He's looking at you with a gaze so soft you think you might just melt right into his arms, like ice cream dropped on scorching hot asphalt. You can't take it any longer; you want to know what his lips feel like against yours. The kiss is initially tender and sweet - his lips are softer than you imagined and once your tongues met, you could taste coffee and the remnants of his spearmint gum. You can't help but let out a moan against his mouth. Leon has been absolutely starving for you, so instead of breaking away, he simply leaned into the kiss even more, greedily swallowing your moans until you both have to come up for air.

"Are you sure you wanna do it here? You know, for our first time I kind of pictured us going out for dinner or something before heading back to my place." Leon asks.

"I'm impatient, but I can wait, if that's what you want. We can do it your way… Or we can do it my way. Fuck here, go on that dinner date, and then fuck some more back at yours." You suggest, planting a kiss on his neck.

"You're killin' me… Okay. Your way." Leon bites his lip, gently tugging the back of your head to tilt your neck towards his mouth. As he plants hot, wet, open-mouthed to kisses your neck, you fiddle with his belt buckle until it unlatches, and you palm his cock through his underwear. He's straining against his underwear, a little damp patch already evident. Freeing his cock from the thin cotton material, you notice his tip is already drooling with precum, a glossy reddish hue.

You don't waste any more time - you've wanted to do this for so long. Your hips sink down against his, the tip of his cock already stretching you out, making you quietly whimper in pleasure until he's fully seated in you, all the way in. "Fuck… You're so tight." He hisses in ecstasy, as you slowly move your hips up and down on him. With the sensitivity from riding his thigh and the level of arousal Leon's feeling just from letting you use him for your own pleasure already has you both reactive to each others' touch.

"O-oh, god… You feel so good…" You let out a choked moan as Leon offers you his thumb to dampen the whimpers and moans coming from your throat. You take it, sucking on it and biting down just a little as your hips move faster. You're both getting closer and closer, when suddenly Leon removes his thumb from your mouth and fucks his hips up into you, snapping them upwards and pounding right into your sopping wet cunt at a pace that feels so precise it's almost mechanical. "Fuuuck, right there… Please don't stop, please don't stop…" You mewl - and he obliges.

"Yeah, that's it… Just let go, baby." Leon whispers. He doesn't stop at all, his tip hammering into that spot that makes your vision turn into a flash of white.

"Shit… G-gonna cum!" You gasp, giving him little warning as your walls instinctively tighten around him, spurring Leon's orgasm on right after yours. With loud breaths and sweaty bodies, you pull each other in for another kiss. "…So. What place did you have in mind for dinner?" You manage to rasp out with a small smile.

MAN I LOVE WRITING FREE USE LEON KENNEDY

The sun outside is blazing hot as you come out of the pool dressing room in your floral cover up, marching into the backyard. Maya hasn't arrived yet, but you're not alone nonetheless since your newly assigned agent is waiting for you right on the shaded patio.

This is already getting old.

He lifts his gaze when you come into view, feeling his eyes trace your form briefly before turning them to the pool. He can't see your own behind your dark sunglasses, the shades helping you put on a mask of confidence. You readjust the thin fabric of your mini dress in self-consciousness, hyper aware of the sheerness that shows a glimpse of your bikini clad body.

This is the kind of feeling you never really had to worry about with the other agents, most of them at least twice your age. But with a younger man, and one you attempted to flirt with at that, you can't help but feel particularly self-aware.

“Aren't you hot in that suit?” you mutter as you walk past him to sit on a lounge chair, crisscrossing your legs.

“Resisting harsh weather is part of the job,” he answers from his spot, his stare now intently focused on the water. Maybe you're not the only one feeling awkward.

“How old are you again?” you ask suddenly in feigned nonchalance.

He chuckles softly, still not looking at you as he answers. “Twenty-seven, ma’am.”

Swallowing down the irritation that flares every time he calls you that, you observe his side profile illuminated by the bright sky. With his pretty, yet masculine features, he looks like someone you would see on a magazine cover rather than with an earpiece. It makes you all the more curious about how he ended up here, especially at his young age.

“So what agency are you under?” you raise an inquisitive brow. “You apparently specialize in BOWs… Which one handles that?”

A small smile etches onto his lips as he turns to you, finally facing you again through the barrier of your shades. “I work under your father. That's all I can say, I’m afraid.”

“Okay,” you nearly scoff. Of course his position has to be confidential and leave you in the dark. It feels so debilitating having your life managed by people who know far more about you than you ever will about them. “But have you ever done this whole bodyguard thing before?” your tone drips in barely concealed judgement.

The question seems to catch him off-guard, a slight air of insecurity flashing across his features. “No,” he answers simply.

A cocky smirk spreads on your cheeks at that, and you lay down on your reclined seat with newfound smugness. “Hm, that's what I thought.”

If he looked unsure before, now his mood has shifted into indignation. “Are you implying my performance isn't satisfactory, ma’am?”

You don't let his stern demeanor destabilize you as you place your hands behind your head in the picture of relaxation. “You hover too much,” you explain matter-of-factly. “And you stare.”

“Pardon?” he sputters, taking a half step closer with a deep frown.

“The Secret Service’s job is to protect as seamlessly as possible. Instead, you're roaming around me while I’m trying to relax by the pool.”

His eyes go comically wide—the first look of real emotion on his face for the first time since you met him. “You—” his words cut-off, clearly flustered by your pointed comment as defensiveness oozes from him. “You were asking me questions and I answered. I wasn't gonna do that from twenty feet away.”

“You were standing close before that,” you retort with a bored expression. “You know, if this is the distance you're keeping while we’re inside the literal White House, then I don't even want to know how overbearing it'll get at campus.”

Silence stretches after your words linger in the hot, humid air. He looks like he wants to say many things, but instead settles on a clipped response. “Fine,” he mutters in clear annoyance, then turns to walk away and give you space.

His brooding nearly makes you laugh. “Great. Now you're sulking.”

The man stops abruptly in his steps, turning to you with a locked jaw and icy eyes nearly reminiscent of your father’s. “With all due respect, ma’am, I don't sulk—I do my job. And in case it wasn't clear, I am forced to be here just as much as you are.”

With that, he turns again, then strides away until he stands by the wall directly under the scorching sun. He then pulls out dark sunglasses as well that he puts on without a word, before clasping his hands at his front in a rigid stance.

It’s only after seeing his blonde hair appear nearly platinum under the blistering heat that you realize the reason he may have stayed close before was to stay in the shade. A sudden sense of guilt creeps inside you, and you consider making amends by inviting him back under the large umbrella, but you feel awkward. One minute berating him and the next wanting to coddle his pouty face—it’s ridiculous.

Before you can make a decision, Maya makes an appearance into the yard, escorted by two agents. She hurries to your side with an excited squeal of your name that you return with a tight hug once you stand up.

“Oh my God, it's so freaking hot today I feel like I’m melting,” she groans as she sets her bag down—one that was undoubtedly thoroughly searched.

“Yeah, and they’re saying it’s one of the coolest summers D.C.’s ever had—it sure as hell doesn't feel like it.”

“It’s the goddamn humidity. I can't stop sweating,” she huffs as she shrugs her top and shorts, slipping out of her sandals in the process. “Thank God for pools. Come on, I can't wait anymore.”

“Alright,” you chuckle at her eagerness, then quickly slip out of your cover up.

Deep inside, you almost hope the agent by the wall appreciates the sight, but the idea is quickly overshadowed by insecurity. The mean voice in your head laughs at your wishful thinking, reminding you that he’s not fond of you and that Maya has a nicer body he’d probably prefer to look at anyway.

A sudden splash of water jolts you out of your thoughts when the brunette dives in the water without waiting, sending a wet dash right onto you.

“Come on, loser! You’re gonna get a heatstroke!”

You shake your head with a grin, then finally move to sink into the blue basin with careful steps down the ladder.

She scoffs at your slow approach. “Please tell me you're allowed to cannonball and it's not some forbidden rule to ensure maximum protection from the evils of muscle cramps?”

“Shut up,” you laugh, splashing her in return. “I’m trying not to get my hair wet.”

“Lame!” she snickers and you both laugh.

Mid giggling, your eyes land on Agent Kennedy again who is still unmoving in his corner. You’d think he’s turned into a statue if not for the sweat beading at his temples. God, you can't even imagine standing in the multiple layers of a suit under the hot sun in the middle of July—the sight of him makes you uncomfortable.

It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that he, along with other staff around the administration, are simply meant to serve you without complaint. Sure, they're here out of their own volition, but it doesn't change the fact there is an inherent unfairness to this man-made hierarchy.

You, raised in privilege by a well-off couple, and them, forced into career choices that put them in uncomfortable positions. It's one of the many reasons why your father’s presidency still tastes sour on your tongue.

By the time the sun starts setting, your palms and soles have pruned from the water. You spent most of the pool hangout chatting with Maya, occasionally playing childish games you're both too old to partake in. And the entire time, Agent Kennedy stayed perfectly still, only shifting his weight from one foot to the other intermittently.

Wrapping yourself in a towel as soon as you're out of the wet surface, you sit on the lounge chair and eye the snacks that have already been laid out for you on the table by staff.

“I’m so hungry,” Maya exclaims across from you, reaching for a croissant with her still damp hand. As she bites into the flaky pastry, she suddenly pauses mid chew when she spots something behind you that has her eyes widening. “Oh, my God, girl… Why the hell does the guy over there look like the one that talked to you at the bar?”

“Oh, you just noticed…” you mutter knowingly, embarrassment flaring in your chest.

“What do you mean? Wait, is it actually him?” she gasps loudly and you gesture for her to quiet down.

“Yes, yes! Just don't be so loud, my God… Apparently he's taking Davis’s position for a while—dad says it's necessary.”

Blinking, she frowns deeper. “I am so confused.”

“Trust me, so am I. He’s like this special agent or something? I don't know, they won't tell me shit.” Frustration seeps from your tone.

“But why was he at the bar? Was he watching you then?”

That makes you pause for a moment. You never got to talk enough to ask him about that, especially with the rude attitude he's been displaying.

“I didn't even ask… He pisses me off.”

Maya laughs, wiggling her eyebrows playfully. “Well, at least he's a sight for sore eyes.”

That makes you groan in annoyance. If only she understood how much he gets on your nerves—no amount of pretty blue eyes are worth the headache. “You wouldn't be saying that if he kept calling you ‘ma’am’ with this annoying, smug little smirk he makes.”

“I don't know,” she tilts her head in contemplation, eyeing him up and down past your shoulder. “I think it's kinda hot for a guy to call me ‘ma’am.’ Like in a ‘he knows his place’ kind of way.”

“Yeah, except I’m the one being put in my place getting babysat by a dude barely older than me.”

She chuckles again, finding amusement in your irritation, before her voice morphs into something more sympathetic. “Poor guy, though. He’s been standing there the whole time, he must be sweating like a pig.”

That once again has that same sense of guilt from earlier tug on your heartstrings, and you finally concede to your inner voice with a grunt.

“Fuck, fine.”

“What? I didn't even say anything,” Maya laughs in confusion.

You ignore her as you twist to look behind you, raising your sunglasses to rest on your crown now that you don't need them anymore. “Kennedy?” you call out in as neutral of a tone as you can muster.

You can’t make out any emotion on his poker face, though you do notice the flush of his cheeks and nose from the sun, the color making him oddly endearing despite his intimidating aura. He walks closer, stopping once he can talk to you without shouting.

“Yes?” His voice is completely detached.

Unsure of what to say, you fiddle with the twisted fringes of the towel draped on your frame like a shy teenager, all traces of smugness gone. “Um, are you hungry?”

“No,” he deadpans.

“Thirsty?”

“Neither.”

“Okay…”

Awkwardness fills the air to a painful degree, but thankfully your best friend is there to save the day as she extends a hand with batting eyelashes. “Mr. Kennedy, is it? I’m Amaya Salem, but you can call me Maya.”

“Pleasure.”

Accepting her handshake with a brief, professional one, the agent goes right back to his usual stance as soon as he can, his back as straight as a board.

Another bout of silence, and you suddenly can't handle the overwhelming discomfort anymore. You stand abruptly to your feet, gathering your things into your arms haphazardly.

“Well, um, we’re gonna go back inside,” you announce without meeting his shaded eyes. “So you can go take a break, right?”

“Affirmative.”

Maya barely holds a snicker at the scene, joining you in collecting her bag, though she does so with much less urgency than you. “See you around, Mr. Kennedy,” she giggles as you pull her away, the agent responding with a single curt nod of his impassive face.

The lock clicks open, slow, heavy footsteps resounding against floorboards as the man makes his way inside the apartment. He shuts the door and lets out a deep sigh, closing his eyes as he leans his weight against the wood.

Leon is a man of stamina. And yet, despite training in fields, fighting bioweapons, and performing tedious drills, he’s coming home utterly exhausted today. Oh, and with a ridiculous tan… All because of you.

He kicks off his shoes and loosens his tie, his mind tired yet still running a thousand miles an hour. It keeps going in loops, replaying the way you so cleverly pointed out his lack of professionalism. It makes him want to bang his head against the wall.

He’s supposed to be good at what he does. He doesn't have anything else going on in his life for him not to be. Training and working have become the center of his days, ever since he was 'offered’ the position of an agent six years ago.

And he is good. Or at least, that's what his stern superiors occasionally let slip whenever he performs particularly well on a mission. He has grown more and more confident in his skills as he got better with every year. That is until you came along with your snarky little mouth and put him in his place. God, he can't stand spoiled, rich kids, and you fit the bill for that exact type.

He opens the fridge with slumped shoulders, his eyes tracing over containers of leftovers and a row of canned soda—no alcohol in sight. He’s usually proud of himself for not keeping any in easy access, forcing himself to go outside whenever the drinking itch arises. But this time he wishes he had a bottle of beer to wind down after an afternoon under the blazing sun. He settles on a ginger ale, bringing the cool can to the sunburned apples of his cheeks with a low groan.

He already hates this assignment. Hell, he doesn't even fully understand why he was picked for it. Sure, he's one of the most experienced people with BOWs—a still very new threat that not even military personnel are familiar with. But playing babysitter for the president’s daughter? That's a recipe for a headache.

Leon is a soldier, a special agent, maybe even a spy when the time calls for it. He’s not a bodyguard, and was never trained to be one. All he ever knew about protecting assets was ensuring their safety during critical extractions. But this is no extraction, this is a full time job the president ordered him into to protect his little princess. One that is already giving him a hard time and he’s barely started.

Shrugging off his jacket and pants to throw them on the armrest of the couch, he slumps onto the cushions in nothing but his button up and boxer briefs. Then, he opens the can with a hiss-crack-pop, bringing it to his lips for a much needed refresher. Unfortunately, his tired mind is still stuck at work even when at home, something he hasn't managed to deal with despite his best efforts. Compartmentalizing is hard when lives are on the line.

‘She’s your highest priority,’ the head of state had said. It made Leon internally wince at the prospects of failing, already dreading the repercussions. The ones involving his career would be bad enough, but it's the guilt that constantly gives him nightmares, ever since that godforsaken September night that forever changed his life. He now has to safeguard you through your fall semester, maybe longer if the president calls for it, and he cannot fuck this up no matter what.

His thoughts drift to you again, recalling that outing at the bar. It had been pure coincidence finding you there, since it was the night before his first shift as Detail Lead. He went for drinks to loosen his nerves over the task he felt unprepared for, only to spot you in that mini dress, giggling at your booth without a care. He wondered how you could act so clueless with a target on your head—it was only during the meeting with the president he figured out you were left in the dark.

Still, you sat next to him, talked to him, flirted, when he could have been someone very dangerous. He is dangerous. He just plays for the good guys. Or at least that's what he tells himself whenever the shame over being the government’s lapdog becomes too crushing. It’s not like he chose this path anyways. If not for the precious life of a little girl, he would have left gun-wielding ways behind for a calmer lifestyle, with lots, and lots of therapy. But he had to protect Sherry, so he’s here now.

Another sip of the ginger drink, and this time it's to cool down wayward thoughts at the memory of your little bikini. Thank God for sunglasses, because he couldn't stop his eyes from roaming over you whenever he let his mind drift. It was like your ass was a goddamn magnet, and the weather only made it worse, making him feel like the heat was frying his head just as hot as the sight of your body.

Leon is not a man who stares. He does not ogle unless in settings where his gawking is welcome. So to have to fight the sweat clinging to his skin as well as the urge to look only made him more irritated. He never even paid much attention to tabloids or articles about you before. Not that you appeared in many with your limited public appearances. But he simply never paused to form an opinion of you prior, and now that has certainly changed.

Stubborn, that one’s for sure, seemingly reckless from that bar outing, and spoiled with the way you acted earlier. Like you owned the place—owned him—telling him how to do his job when he’s nervous shitless about messing up.

He felt put on the spot when you made him out to be some kind of weirdo hovering too close. What made it worse, however, is that he was already feeling like one from the sheer way his mind short circuited at the sight of you in that cover up. Then the feeling got exponentially stronger when you shrugged it off and the sun hit your body just right. Infuriatingly enticing in swimwear—he’s adding that one too.

He has to admit, though, your later attempt at offering food and water was unexpectedly considerate. But in the end, he chalks it up to your friend convincing you to do so, since she seemed a lot more amiable than you. He just wishes you did the same from the start, it would save him the headache of handling your disagreement with his presence. He also remembers how you had mentioned Agent Davis’s demotion in disappointment. He wanted to say he never wanted to take anyone’s place, but how was going to do that in front of the man that gave the order himself?

As he sits half dressed on his sofa, condensation from the ginger ale collecting on his fingers, he suddenly realizes how ridiculous he’s being. For whatever reason, he’s letting you—a college kid, of all people—affect him enough to sour his mood and nearly hurt his feelings. Since when does he get so worked up over an off-handed comment? He was called just about every name under the sun during his training, words should not be affecting him anymore.

Sloppy, pitiful, embarrassing, disappointment… The insults of his now deceased mentor ring in his ears like echoes from the cruel past. But he never held it at heart, not even when Krauser called him a dumbass, which made him internally laugh more than anything. And then, you show up and make a single comment about him hovering, and suddenly his insecurities flare?

Bullshit. He needs to get his head in the game.

No more teasing, no more chitchat—you clearly don't like him, and he's not about to force you to. Whatever attempts he had made at being laid back and friendly clearly backfired when you kept taking them as grade A offenses. But whatever. It’s fine. He doesn't like you either anyways, so it doesn't matter.

From now on, he’ll do his job, be professional, and push through this ridiculous assignment until it's done. Then, he can go back to his lonesome missions and ruthless training and leave babysitting behind. Zombies don't make him question himself like you do.

Next chapter coming soon.

You’ve dealt with your fair share of speed-boosted infected; limbs windmilling, clawing and careening, all bursting energy and no finesse.

These aren’t blisterheads. They have stamina. They’re keeping up.

You twist and shoot one whose fingers are uncomfortably close to swiping the back of Leon’s shirt. The nearby white paneled wall goes bright, splotchy red.

“Intel’s getting a new one ripped if we make it out of this,” you pant, breath dry and ragged in your throat. Your lungs are burning.

“We’re making it out,” Leon tells you. Conclusive, no room for argument. He dodges left, hand once again grazing your arm to pull you with, but you’re already there, a perfect shadow.

This hall is wider, brightly lit with glass cases set in between the wall panels.

You’ve only got eyes on one thing as you run.

EXIT

It’s a final sprint.

You grit your teeth, breath loud in your ears, arms and legs pumping hard, trying to build a gap that allows for a sudden smack into the double doors, a loss of momentum and reversal of motion to slam the barrier closed.

‘Slam’ turns out to be optimistic. It’s a hydraulic close. Glacially fucking slow.

“Fuck! Force it!”

You almost bash heads with Leon, throwing your combined weight against the doors as the calamitous wall of infected catch up, arms reaching through the diminishing gap, scratching and clawing at you.

With a roar of effort, the doors finally give way under pressure and close with a crunch. An arm, hand, and various fingers fall onto the concrete.

“Bar it! Bar it!” Leon’s braced against both doors, his body a wedge, jarred by the furious thumping from the other side.

There are massive pneumatic rod locks on either side of the door. The control panel is dark.

“There’s no power!”

“You’re armed!”

Oh, right.

BANG T-SHUNK

Smoke curls from the barrel of your gun. The blasted hole in the control panel sparks weakly, fizzes, then goes dark.

Leon pushes away from the secured doors, rubbing at his ear. Your head’s ringing like a struck bell and you’d been back at arm’s length, not parallel with the barrel.

“Say something?”

“Something.”

“Yeah, can’t hear shit.”

"You only look like it.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

He’s flipping you off.

You grab it like a pinky promise, linking middle fingers, and he rolls his eyes.

“Alright. Let’s bounce,” you say.

He pulls you back. Urgent, abrupt. It bumps you against him.

“Wait.”

You’re in a greenhouse.

Rows and rows of lush, overgrown plants stretch unfamiliar leaves towards a glass-paneled sky. The walkways between rows are made of industrial metal grating, a stale funk rising from the darkness underneath.

No breeze is stirring the air. The back of your neck starts prickling; your animal brain tugging on your metaphorical hem and pointing.

The plants are rustling lightly.

Leon half-turns his head towards you, keeping his eyes on the jungle ahead.

“What’s the sitrep on the door?”

It’s still thumping against the locks, battered by the relentless undead. You glance at the panel you’d shot, burst and gutted, the wall above it blackened.

“Fucked.”

“Other doors?”

It’s just wall. Wall, and wall, and wall, smooth and inhospitable.

“Negative.”

“How long can you hold your breath?”

“I don’t think that’s the concern.”

You’re playing back the last hallway. White walls broken by glass panels, streaking by as you run. Behind every glass panel, a bright orange suit, thick like leather.

Bite-proof.

“Fuck.”

“So you tried to bypass it underground.”

“So we tried to bypass it underground,” you confirm. You watch the man nod, taking notes. He’s a leftie.

“Good thinking.”

“Yeah, well. Apparently not.”

The metal grating isn’t light. Thankfully, you and Leon aren’t weak.

The daylight sits like oil on top of water, only greasing weakly off of the reflective metal of more walkways below; descending levels disappearing into the dark.

“Oh, good. Can’t see the bottom.”

“Endless possibilities,” Leon says. “Cover me.”

The first level is an eight foot drop. Leon swings his legs into the gap, scoots forward, and eases himself down slowly, like he’s waiting for something to file a violent complaint. When nothing does, he drops onto the walkway, the metal clanging despite his rubber soles.

He shines his flashlight forward.

“Ugh.”

“What?”

“Love what they’ve done with the space.” He pockets the flashlight, reaching up to you. “It’s a charm you have to see in person.”

His hands are firm on your sides, your shirt riding up a little as he supports you down onto the platform with him. He absently fixes your rucked hem as you shine your flashlight into the gloom.

“Ugh,” you agree.

Roots.

Long, white, spidery roots hang from the ceiling in lengthy clumps and bundles, like massive, cobwebby chandeliers.

Leon’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing.

“Hey. Look.”

He steps forward, reaching into the nearest nest of gauzy filaments. He pulls his hand out, fingers curled around a narrow, dark plastic tube.

You come closer with the flashlight.

The dark color is red.

“It’s warm,” Leon adds, horribly.

The tube snakes off into the darkness below. You point your flashlight down and catch a glint off of something flat, circular, and shiny.

Leon’s separating more tubes from the leggy mass of roots. Only the one is red, but the others don’t look any less… organic.

“God. Which way do you think they run?”

He glances at you. “Three guesses.”

“Plants don’t bleed red.”

“Not typically.”

You share a resigned look, then he brushes past you, face set.

You turn to find him making quick work of the stairs down to the lower levels, hand on his gun.

You check your pistol's chamber and follow.

“A line of tanks.”

“Life support tanks, yes. Dozens.”

“Which way were the tubes running?”

“Both ways.”

“So…”

“The tanks were feeding the plants, and the plants were feeding the tanks.”

“Life support, you said. So there were … humans? Inside the tanks?”

“Yeah,” you say, looking away. “Used to be.”

There’s a thick film of slime on the tank, like growing snot. Your flashlight can’t make out anything coherent inside.

Leon shines his flashlight down the row; cylinder after cylinder, standing like a row of human-sized batteries, all mucky with slime and tickled by the trailing ends of roots from the massive bundles overhead.

Somewhere ahead, a steady dripping, echoing. You don’t appreciate the cliche.

“When was the initial outbreak?” Now that you’re on solid ground, your voice seems to suck right into the floor.

“All the lab logs and entries stop around six months ago.”

“So no one’s been down here for half a year.”

“Yeah.”

Leon shares a long look with you, mouth tight. Then, hesitant, he wipes a window through the muck on the nearest tank.

The beam of his flashlight illuminates the chamber. You can see a vague shadow suspended inside, like a bug in rough, raw amber.

He steps back, jaw tight.

“Dare I even ask?”

He shakes his head. “It’ll put you off soup.”

You shine your flashlight upwards; the root balls catch it and glow, high overhead.

“What was so wrong with good ol’ hydroponics?”

“Let’s just get out of here,” Leon says, heading off down the line of tanks.

“Twist my arm.”

“You didn't see it?”

“It was behind one of the tanks. In the dark.”

“You didn't hear it?”

“It was a little noisy at the time,” you say, annoyed.

Third tank from the last, everything goes spectacularly tits up.

Glass shatters outward, slimy and wet as it ricochets off your defensively raised arms. The body in the tank falls forward and swipes for Leon’s legs.

It’s not like the infected you’re used to, desiccated and dry as jerky.

This one is wet. This one is dissolving, skin sloughing from muscle sloughing from bone. Entrails spill from its body cavity, slippery, spreading across the hoary concrete as the disgusting thing writhes for a claim on your partner’s ankle.

Leon stumbles out of reach, gun aiming at the mucky skull. It explodes like a sixpack in a hot car and you’re shouting, ducking behind your arm again—

That’s when the other thing strikes.

Leon shouts in pain and tries to tear free. The pale, rubbery thing keeps hold of his shoulder like an overexcited dog with a rope toy.

“Leon!”

It’s too close to his head and he’s thrashing, you don’t have a clear shot. Something glints in the shadows behind his hip.

The hatchet. He’s already grabbed it.

A roar, a swing, the song of a sharp blade slicing clean through something organic.

The pale thing hits the ground with a sound like a rotting squash, the vine swinging empty into the darkness behind the tanks.

Leon falls to one knee with a grunt, the hatchet clattering onto the concrete.

“Leon! Leon,” you’re touching his back, crouching down with him. He’s breathing hard through his nose, clutching his shoulder. The fabric is darkening under his hand.

“Let me see. Leon.”

You shove his hand clear, unzipping his collar and yanking it aside.

His skin is patterned with circular rows of bleeding dashes. Lots of them.

“What the fuck.”

The pale, rubbery thing lies flaccid on the floor behind Leon. At first glance, it looks like a starfish collapsed on itself.

At second glance, you start to see the teeth, fine and triangular, in diminishing rows like a shark.

Pink with blood.

“Shit. Hey.”

Leon’s still on one knee, head down. You push his hair back, leaving a bloody streak on his skin, and tip his face up. There’s sweat on his forehead.

It takes him a moment to focus on you.

“Tell me what you’re feeling.”

He grunts. His pupils are a little too big, even for the dim lighting, and they’re not reacting right when you pass your flashlight closer.

You’re trying not to panic.

“Can you get up? Can you walk?”

He lets you haul him to his feet but shoves you off when you go to duck under his arm. You don’t take offense; it’s a good sign. He’s steady enough on his own.

“Grab that,” he tells you, voice rough. He’s holding his shoulder again, pointing down at the beheaded plant. You pick it up by the little stem of vine, grab his hatchet, and follow him close, ascending fast while he calls for extraction.

You don’t wait for your debrief to finish writing.

“What did the labs say?”

“They’re still running tests.”

“What did Medical say?”

“They’re still running tests.”

“What, with a potato? Where's the sense of urgency, here?”

“At last report, Mr. Kennedy was stable,” he says, capping his pen.

“He was half delirious coming off that chopper!”

“They’ve determined he’s in no immediate danger.”

“How can they know if they’re still running fucking tests?”

You get your name in an admonishing tone. You stand up, your chair screeching against the floor.

“I wanna see him.”

“He’s in precautionary isolation.”

“I was exposed to the same bullshit he was. I wanna see him.”

“You weren't bitten.”

“What, you think he’s gonna bite me?”

Your debrief just looks back at you, calm and level, his hands folded prim over the closed folder containing your account of the whole goddamn shit-spackled mission.

“He’s in precautionary isolation,” he repeats.

Your teeth grind, a muscle in your jaw jumping.

“Are we done here?”

“Yes. You are free to go.”

Medical stops you at the door. They aren’t fooled by your purposeful stride, your bored but intent expression. They hook your arm and yank you away like it’s goddamn Looney Tunes.

“We were told you might try that.”

Fucking debrief.

So now you’re sitting at home, dialing the Medical desk every fifteen minutes, certain from the complete non-activity of the past four hours that they’ve filtered your number as spam.

Assholes.

You should go to bed. Medical’s kept you both alive thus far, through hell and high water. Leon’s in good hands. Stable. No immediate danger, they said.

You rotate your phone in your hand, over and over. Upside-down, rightside-up. Staring at nothing.

You call the labs.

Some poor idiot actually picks up.

“I-I-I can’t give you that information,” he stammers, when you demand an update on Leon. On the biting plant. On fucking anything.

“I’m his partner! I was ground zero when it happened!”

“I-I can’t verify that over the phone.”

“Then I’m coming in,” you say, prim. You hang up on more panicked stammering, tossing your phone aside on the couch.

You’ve barely made it to your feet when your phone starts ringing.

Incoming Call Leonnedy

You stub your toe on the couch in your scramble to pick up.

“Leon! Are you okay?”

Immediately you can tell he’s not.

“I need help,” he says. Croaks.

Cold sweat breaks on your skin.

“Where are you? What’s wrong?”

“I’m… I can’t…” He gasps.

You’re a whirl of activity. You’re grabbing your wallet, your keys, pulling a jacket on over your pajamas. There’s no fucking time to change.

“Leon, where are you.”

“Home.”

“What?” You stop cold in your mad dashing, gripping the phone too hard. “They sent you home like this?”

“They said I could take care of it.”

“Take care of what? They won’t tell me fucking anything, Leon–“

He groans through clenched teeth and oh boy, Medical’s gonna find out just how creative you can be when it comes to revenge. You shove your feet ungracefully into some shoes and grab for the door handle.

“The venom,” Leon’s panting in your ear, and then he gets to the zinger. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”

You feel it like lightning, a surge throughout your entire body. Your visual of his situation, based on the noises he’s making, takes a dramatic turn.

“Leon.”

“It’s been six goddamn hours,” he grits out.

“Jesus christ, can’t you just–”

“I’ve tried,” he says. “I’m just goddamn edging myself.”

“Did you call Medical? There’s gotta be something they can–”

“Fucking useless,” Leon says, confirming your hypothesis. “They told me to hire an escort.”

“What?”

“I’m not— fuck— fucking doing that.”

You thump your forehead against your front door, your grip on the doorknob tight enough to crush.

“Leon, if you… there’s no shame. They’re professio–”

“No,” he cuts in. “I don’t…” He breaks off, breath hissing through his teeth, and then fails to elaborate.

That’s alright; you’ve got a pressing question.

“Why’d you call me?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. You just have to listen to him breathe like this.

Your vivid imagination is a fucking curse.

"I trust you,” he finally tells you. “I know how this… I don’t have… I trust you.”

You’re partners.

No, you’re coworkers. What he’s asking is… can he ask this? What happens to your partnership in the aftermath? Can you go back to–

“Please,” he breathes in your ear, and tops it with your name.

You wrench the door open.

Before you hang up, he gives you the code for the garage door, and fair warning.

You’re still not prepared.

As partners, you’ve seen each other in various states of undress. Usually partial. Usually because you’re bleeding somehow. Always clinical.

This doesn’t feel like the far end of the same spectrum. This feels like a g-force journey into a different dimension.

Leon’s on his couch, head back, knees wide. Taut like a bowstring.

Completely, stark, buck-ass naked.

His shoulder looks like a bisected watermelon, his skin dewy and pink, dotted with the dark little toothmarks from the venomous plant.

His chest is heaving, his hips restless.

His cock is flushed dark, painfully engorged, thick and pulsing against his stomach. There’s a wet smear on his skin; when his cock lifts, straining, it trails a sticky little string of precum.

“Christ,” you rasp, tossing your jacket aside.

He lifts his head and his eyes can barely focus on you. He looks on the verge of passing out, but he reaches out, reaches for you. You shove a bottle of lube out of the way on the couch cushions and take his outstretched hand.

“I’m here. What do you–“

“Touch,” he pants, barely coherent. “Touch me.”

And here you are in the deep end, no time to brace, no time to breathe. You’re touching him, chamois soft skin, hot and unyielding. His hips jerk on a gasp, a groan dragging from somewhere deep within as he lets his head fall back on the couch.

The hot, swooping sensation in your stomach physically bends you, punches your breath out.

You’ve never handled a dick this hard in your entire life.

You’ve maybe never handled a dick this big in your entire life. He’s long and thick, the head flared, cerise and glistening. You pass your thumb over his slit, smearing through the precum, and his stomach tautens as he pushes up into your hand, his breath rushing out hot, hissing back in. He’s desperate.

He breathes your name. His ass keeps flexing with the helpless motion of his hips and his eyes are closed, forehead knotted.

It’s intense concentration. His world narrowed down, only as wide as the circle of your fist.

Six goddamn hours.

You tighten your grip, trail your other hand up the lightly furred inside of his thigh, teasing his balls before stacking your fists and starting to pump him in a steady rhythm that answers the flex of his body.

His hand lands on your thigh, searing, his fingertips firm on your flesh and pulling. Your knee presses tighter against his leg.

He’s just grappling for a hold on something, for an anchor. His other hand is doing the same thing to the arm of the couch. You just hope he doesn’t move his hand any further to the left on you or he’s gonna find you a little too slippery to hold onto.

Fuck, you’re only goddamn human.

You jerk him faster, his hips starting to meet you in earnest, his body rolling as he chases his disobliging release.

And why couldn’t he get there himself?

What if… what if you can’t get him there, either? You don’t know anything about the venom, they’re still running tests. Maybe this is the result. Maybe he’s just… stuck like this, heightening, exacerbating, until he, what, pops?

What a fucking epitaph that would be.

No, you’re not scripting headstones. That’s not happening.

You start to twist on the upstroke, a flick of the wrist, and Leon moans loud.

“That’s it. Come on, Leon.”

His balls are tightening, drawing up, his forehead beaded with sweat, his mouth open. He’s right on the edge.

“Look at me.”

He opens his eyes, glassy as they are. You make sure he can see you, and then you bend low.

His skin is velvety soft around the firm rounds of his balls. You fit your lips to one of the shapes, touch your tongue to it, tasting the salt of him.

He cries out, thick ropes of cum hitting his chest, his stomach, spurting and spilling down his shaft, smeared by your hand as you milk him through it, relieved.

You can’t stop your breathy laugh, almost lost under his aereous groans. He just keeps going.

“A little pent up?”

He doesn’t quip back. The situation is dire.

His dick gives one last pulse, the final beads of his release dribbling down the head of his cock. You rub it away with your thumb.

There’s a very noticeable issue.

He’s still incredibly hard.

When you meet his eyes, they’re a little clearer. He’s still sunset pink and breathing hard – messy, now, too – but he can track your face better.

“Do you feel any different?”

“Fuck. Barely.”

"What if you're stuck like this?"

“Don't say that," he says. You’re still stroking him, slow, like an afterthought. He drags his hands through his damp hair, hissing when it stretches the scabs on his chewed shoulder.

"It was venom, do you need some sort of antivenom?"

He doesn’t appear to be listening. His hands grip the back of the couch, his hips rolling, cock pushing through your sticky fist.

You grab his hips and force them down.

“Leon.”

He bucks hard against you, bratty.

"You think I know?”

“Don’t give me an attitude.”

“Don’t fuckin tease me,” he snaps, unwisely.

You move fast.

A whump, a gasp, the silence of breath caught in the shadow of a predator.

His breath fans out over your face; slow, tremulous.

“I’m doing you a favor,” you remind him, low, your face inches from his. “I could just leave.”

He’s not moving, trapped under you.

You’re straddling him, your fist tight at the base of his cock.

“What do you say?”

“Fuck.”

“Leon.”

“I love you.”

It rattles you like a gunshot, strikes you and spreads.

It takes your advantage, crumples it up, and throws it in a trash compactor. And then it lights that trash compactor on fire.

“That’s not fair,” you breathe.

“Sorry,” he whispers, and kisses you.

He’s upgraded your permissions. You kiss him back, heated, and let go of your leash.

He breaks from your mouth to gasp when you sit on his hips, his hands catching your waist and gripping.

“Shit.”

“So we’ve learned that I’m not a monk,” you say, a verbal roll of the eyes.

It’s not just a few tepid inches of water in your basement. At this point, your flood’s halfway up the damn walls.

He rocks his hips, rubbing himself against the soaked fabric of your pajama shorts. You keen and pick up the motion on your own.

God, you’re aching.

“You should have said something,” he says, breathless.

“That wasn’t on the invitation.”

“Aren’t you a saint.”

“Yeah. Because when you said ‘I trust you’, I heard ‘take advantage of my compromising situation’.”

“Fair,” he says, then pulls you down to speak in your ear, his scruff a ticklish rasp against your skin. “Fuck me.”

Well don’t you make the perfect pair. He’s hard as granite and you’re wet enough to sink a dinghy.

Taking off your clothes is too much fucking bother. You just shove the wet fabric to the side.

He doesn't watch where you’re taking his cock into your body, the hot, hard length of him sliding in tight past your pussy lips.

He’s watching your face. You don’t know it until you’ve got him in to the hilt, your mouth falling open on a sigh, your forehead smoothing out as you gyrate your hips, a delicious little circle, fully seated on his lap.

"Oh my god, Leon."

He comes.

Your name is somewhere in the long groan sieved through his clenched teeth before his mouth drops open, diced breaths tumbling free as he pulses inside of you, so deep, so hot and thick.

He’s still looking directly at you.

You watch his eyes clear just a little more; sharpening, focusing. Smoke becoming a mist.

“Can I tease you about premature ejaculation.”

“No.” He starts unbuttoning your pajama top. The fabric is wrinkled at your sides where he’d been gripping, almost hard enough to bruise.

“Why, because you’re still hard?” He is, but it’s different. You couldn’t bend steel around him anymore.

“Yeah,” he says simply, and grips your open collar, pulling you down into a kiss.

You arch your back, easing him to just the tip, bottoming him out again, cycling his affected breath through your own lungs. He runs his hands down your chest, grazing your nipples, his tongue reaching into your mouth to taste your sigh.

His hips press up into you, lifting you, a gentle swell. You ride it; start to rock your hips.

The fabric of your shirt whispers down your arms, chased by the skim of Leon’s palms. Goosebumps raise on your skin.

You brace your arms on the back of the couch, riding him faster. He trails his lips down the column of your neck, his scruff a pleasant scratch, his humid breaths printing your skin.

He runs the fan of his fingers over your nipples.

“Leon.”

“Lean back,” he murmurs, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “Let me see you.”

You sit back on his hips, brushing your hands over the caps of his knees. He scratches lightly down the flex of your thighs as you start slapping down on him harder, dropping your head back, gasping.

“Fuck, gorgeous, just like that.”

“God, Leon.”

Your thighs are burning. He starts meeting you, hips snapping, and you look down.

It almost does you in.

Those broad shoulders, that flushed chest. Muscles rolling and bunching under his glistening skin. Hair sticking to his forehead, wet pink lips, blown eyes hooded, watching you, too.

His hands fall to your hips and he growls, fingers bunching in your pajama shorts. Feral. Like he’s going to tear them.

He hooks his arm around your back and surges up, laying you out on the sofa. You whine when he slips out of you, but he’s lifting your hips to yank your shorts and panties down, surprisingly coordinated for the way he’s wound up.

A small part of you expects them to hit the floor with a wet slap. The rest of you is reaching for Leon, impatient, empty.

He brings your knee up, hooks your leg around his hip and pushes back in, one long thrust, his breath a humid narration. You keen, head falling back against the cushions, feeling his lips at your jaw.

He digs his arms under your shoulders, his body rocking you, fluid motions pushing and pulling as he fucks you slow, deep. You grip his back, obsessed with the animal flex of his body.

You can feel every inch of him, stroking your walls. In, out, a steady tide. You arch your back, your stomach pressing to the rippling heat of his abs.

He’s still sticky. You don’t fucking care.

“Score’s two to zero,” he tells you, breath hot against your cheek. “You gonna catch up?”

“I’m not the medical concern.”

He brings your other leg up onto his hip, adjusting. Seeking.

He finds it. You groan loud, raw, and feel him smile against your neck.

“There you are.”

Your jaw hinges open, your vision glazing over as he rubs the head of his cock against the bundle of nerves inside you. He snaps his hips, jolting a gasp out of you, then goes right back to massaging your g-spot.

“You’re not real,” you pant. He nips your skin, sharp.

“River in Egypt, sweetheart.”

You dig your heels into his glutes, pressing in like spurs, urging him faster.

“Come on, cowboy– ah!”

He pushes up onto his hands, skin slapping loud as he starts pounding into you hard and fast. You were already tightening, coil building, and he’s hit your fucking warp drive.

“Fuck, fuck, like that, Leon!”

“Shit, you better hurry,” he says through gritted teeth. His hips are stuttering, rhythm starting to fall apart.

“I told you–“

His thumb circles your clit, just one rotation, and that’s it. The bastard’s got you. Screaming, even.

You come apart beneath him, your foundation shaking, walls clenching around him, wracked by seismic waves. He gasps your name, watching you climax on his dick, then slams in deep and comes with a long, stuttering groan.

The third time, it seems, is the charm.

When his phone starts ringing, you don’t hear it at first. His head is blocking your nearest ear.

“Leon.”

“Mm.”

“Your phone.”

“Mmph.”

You shift like you’re going to try to reach for it yourself, but he’s beautifully heavy on top of you, so you don’t try very hard.

You nuzzle your face into his hair and bring your arms around him instead, closing your eyes. He hums, content.

The ringtone stops, bending to your private moment.

Five seconds later, it starts up again.

“Fuck.”

You grouse when Leon shifts up, but his reach is longer than yours and he doesn’t go far.

“Huh. Medical,” he says.

“Oh,” you say, with mock optimism.

He hits answer, settling back on top of you. You run your hand up and down his back, petting him.

“Kennedy.”

He doesn’t have his volume turned up very high. You get vague shapes of words, spoken quickly, and then Leon’s short responses, felt as much as heard, his voice thrumming through you.

“Yeah. … No. … Don’t need it. … I know. … I know. … No, I’m fine. … Sure. Bye.”

“Fucking useless,” he mutters, his phone clattering onto the coffee table. “Antivenom’s ready.”

You start giggling.

“They want me in for reassessment in the morning.”

It turns into laughter, smothered into his shoulder, and he rolls into the couch crease so he can look at you.

“What?”

“All their overtime hours,” you say. “No match for your partner’s Magical Healing Vagina.”

He laughs, a real one, his hand pulling at your hip to twist you towards him, pressing you against his body. You’re both a fucking mess, and the couch might be a write-off.

It was an emergency.

“Should get you certified,” he says. You make a skeptical noise.

“There’d be a demand.”

His arm tightens around you, minuscule. Almost imperceptible. Might’ve been completely imperceptible, if his arms weren’t so big.

“Mm. We’re sticking to best-kept-secret.”

“How selfish.”

He nuzzles your mouth with his, sharing breath.

“Yeah.”

“Hey,” you mention, to his invading tongue. He retreats and lets you speak. "Did you mean what you said, or was it just self-defense?"

"What I said?"

"Don't be obtuse.”

He brushes his lips against yours, just a snag of soft, moist skin.

"I've never lied to you," he says.

"There's a first time for everything," you say. "You're skirting the question."

He brushes your hair back, studying your face. Content to take forever, it seems.

"If it helps," you say, "I can put you back under duress."

You slide your hand to the front of his hip, laughing when he flinches away.

"Ass," he says, and rolls you onto your back again, dipping to kiss you. "Yeah. I love you."

You stroke his cheek, his stubble rasping against your fingertips. His eyes are completely clear, gaze steady looking back at you.

You don't take forever to say it. The forever you want to take is the one that opens up on the other side of it: four words, a door.

“I love you, too.”

On AO3

Y'all mind if I just give our man a bad good time real quick

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