“Thirsty?” You raise an eyebrow as he gulps down his fourth glass of water. Leon shrugs, and his throat bobs as he seems to swallow repeatedly.

“I know what you’re thinking, babe, but I’m fine. Really.”

“Uh huh,” you reach out with the back of your hand. His forehead is radiating heat. His hairline is even a little damp. “You’re burning up.”

“It’s summer.”

“It’s not even halfway through April, Leon,” you stand and go for the bathroom. You call a command over his shoulder. “Stay.”

“I’m not a dog.” He grumbles when you return with an arm full of supplies. You leave briefly to fill another glass of water for him, with a side of two ibuprofen tablets.

“You’re sick as one,” you cross your arms as he takes them like a moody teenager. You wait for him to swallow before uncapping the thermometer. “Open.”

“Bossy.” He does what you say anyway. 

“Good boy.” If the thermometer wasn’t in his mouth, and he didn’t have a thousand pounds worth of fatigue on his muscles, he’d be grinning and tackling you to get you back for that. Instead, he stays put and waits for his temperature to be taken. His acceptance is hesitant, but it’s beginning to settle as you put your foot down. He knows better than to fight you when you’ve got your mind set on something; never mind something that has to do with his well being. God forbid you get your hands on any of the BOWs that have tried to kill him. He’s not sure anything could stop you.

You dab the cool washcloth you’d thrown over your shoulder on his forehead. His eyelids flutter shut at the relief and you can’t help the smug smile on your face.

“Not sick, my ass,” Leon pinches your hip in retaliation. The thermometer beeps. 99.8. You sigh. “You’re ridiculous. How long have you been feeling sick? Since Thursday?”

“...Yeah,” he finally admits. He looks like he’s been caught stealing. “How’d you know?”

“You stopped kissing me more than twice a day,” you say, like it's obvious. It is to you. Every habit he has is ingrained in your mind. At home, Leon's predictable. He likes his routine. You assume he's trying to make up for when his employment will inevitably throw a wrench into it. “And you also took two naps on Friday. And a couple other things.”

“My stealth’s not as good as I—,” he stops short with a scrunched nose. A sneeze explodes once, twice. You hand him a tissue, another one of the supplies you’d laid out on the coffee table, and he murmurs a thanks. Something guilty crosses his expression as he looks back at you. The tip of his nose has started to redden, and he looks much like a little kid in a Kleenex commercial. Unfortunately, it’s very cute. “I hope I don’t get you sick.”

“I’ll be alright,” you press a kiss to his clammy forehead and follow it with another press of the cool cloth. “You can repay the favor then, hm?” His smile is small, but his crows feet deepen just enough from it in a devastatingly handsome expression. “Even when you’re sick you’re hot, you bastard.” That really makes him smile big, and a laugh erupts from his chest. It quickly turns into a cough.

“Can you—” He glances behind you as if he’s trying to prevent himself from asking for help. “Do we have cough drops?”

“It’s okay to ask for help, old man,” you tease and reach for the packet. You even unwrap it for him. He watches you like you’re an artist and your medium is doing the simplest things to make his life easier. Not a second thought or a single question. He considers that maybe you’re something otherworldly. All for simply handing him an unwrapped cough drop. “Especially if you’re not feeling well, baby. Just because I’ll find out eventually, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t rather know the second you feel off. You’d do the same for me, so let me do it for you.”

“Next time,” he murmurs, pressing a hand to your cheek. It’s not quite clammy, but is warmer than usual. “Swear.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” you lean in to kiss him, but he yanks his head away like you’re a hot stove. You narrow your eyes. “C’mon, you’ve been kissing me all week. If I’m going to catch something, I would have already. I don’t care.” You take his cheeks in your hands and hold firm. He runs a thumb over your forearm and stops arguing. It’s a short kiss; Leon’s congested sinuses don’t have much room to breathe for a longer one. “Hm. Honey," it’s an observation of the taste of the cough drop lingering on his lips, something that's an absent-minded thought. The right corner of his mouth quirks upwards like it always does before a smartass joke.

“Yes, sweetheart?” You sigh. It's a loving exhale.

“You really never stop, do you?”

“Well, normally, you're begging me not to stop—”

“Alright, enough of you. I'll start dinner and leave you to your wiseass commentary," you cut him off before he starts coughing from making himself laugh. Another kiss finds the top of his head as you head to the kitchen. You don’t ask; you know what Leon likes the rare times when he’s under the weather. Homemade chicken noodle soup with lots of veggies to replenish his vitamins. And some toasted garlic and rosemary brioche on the side. He doesn’t care if it’s some recipe you found on the internet a long time ago; to him, it’s your soup. Prepared by your gentle hands, served to him with a kiss while he shrinks into the couch in a fever.

You’re nearly done by the time Leon hobbles over to you from his tomb of tissues and medicine on the couch. His arms find their way around your waist and he squeezes you. He kisses the crown of your head like he always does, and tucks his face into your neck. You can barely understand the words as they fall against your skin. He’s a touch warmer than usual, but not as concerning as before.

“Thank you,” another kiss lands on the curve of your shoulder and collarbone. First on the fabric of his shirt that you’ve stolen, then he pulls the collar aside to expose bare skin. He adorns this with a kiss as well. “Love your soup.”

“I know,” him saying it aloud still makes you feel warm, and you spin in his hold to look at him. His hair is limp, not plush and styled like it normally is. You push the strands hanging in his face away, out of his tired eyes. The cold has fully set in now, and he looks pretty damn miserable. His shoulders sagging and the crease long set in his brow deepened. “How you feeling, baby?” He sniffs and tilts his head, a small movement but a token of the way he softens when you call him a pet name. It’s something like a cat pushing its eager head into a palm.

“Better now that I’m looking at you,” he rasps, raw from the soreness. He clears his throat aimlessly. “But still crap.” Your chest aches just a little. Even if it means taking care of him, a Leon who isn’t feeling like himself breaks your heart. You try to cheer him up, tucking more of his hair behind his ears. His gaze is fixed on you, gentle and sticky sweet.

“I can’t fix everything, can I?”

“You get pretty close,” he shrugs. Your cracked heart flutters. Leon glances over you at the pot. “I’m pretty sure that soup makes up for the fraction you lack, so you’re not missin’ anything, sweetheart.”

“Flirt.”

“It’s the truth,” he clears his throat again, and it stirs another coughing fit. You rub his back while he works through it. It’s not wet, just dry and irritated from his sore throat. He looks back at you once it subsides, almost sheepish. As if being sick is an embarrassing affair. He’s really all gas. You suppose you’re something like his emergency brake. And even if you know as much, it’s still something that truly stuns you every time he pushes himself too much. And then, like clockwork, his next sentence is another rev of his rattling engine. 

“You need help?” 

You nearly laugh. He’s a walking bucket of snot and coughs and he’s trying to help with dinner.

“Yeah,” you take his shoulders and push him to the dining room. He lets you sit him in a chair, amusement across his features at your bossiness. “You can start by resting, Leon. Just sit there and look pretty, I’ll get you a bowl. Bread’s almost done toasting.”

“I’m not sure I’m entirely prepared for the looking pretty part,” his eyes track you as you move around the kitchen, preparing two bowls. “I think you’ve got that covered.”

You clutch at your chest, the shock of finding an entire person standing behind you making your skin feel like it teleported 1cm to the left without you.

“You weren’t hearing me,” he says by way of an apology. You snatch the earbud back.

“That’s the POINT.”

“You said that info was on a thumb drive?”

“I said it will be,” you say, frazzled. “I’ve got like twenty balls in the air right now, Leon. Don’t break my concentration.”

“Can I help with anything?”

“Respect the status,” you snap, referring to the Do Not Disturb designation that he had bypassed by showing up in person.

Your tone echoes back in your ears and you shut your eyes, sighing and rubbing at a spot on your forehead. You can feel a monumental headache building, but that’s no reason to be nasty. Leon’s under the same tight deadlines.

“Sorry.”

“I get it,” he says, picking up the empty wrapper from your breakfast bar and transferring it to your trash can. There’s a deep scratch on his arm, gummy and raw, held shut with butterfly closures.

“I’ll have it ready by EOD,” you say, pronouncing the acronym like it’s a word. Ee-odd. It’s an olive branch poking up through the hellfire: an inside joke between the two of you. The corner of his mouth stretches into that half-smile.

“Roger, Earworm.”

The bastard thinks it’s a funny nickname: always the voice in my ear. And it is funny, because it was never mean-spirited. Some of the other field operatives get borderline malicious with their interpersonal nicknames.

You toss a balled-up paper at him; he twists and it bounces off his hip.

“So fuck off, Toothskin.”

When you’d first thrown that one back at him you’d won one of his genuine laughs, the kind you only got when you really surprised him. Always making it by the skin of your teeth.

A trainee had said once that your nicknames sounded mean, that they made you sound like unhygienic trolls or rotted goblins. They’d suggested something like Angel and Lucky instead, because it was sentimentally the same thing and positivity would strengthen your team dynamic.

Three guesses if they’d ever completed the program.

You’d never told Leon about that lunch room conversation. You didn’t need to watch him die laughing.

In your cubicle, his smile stretches a little wider, then he glances at his watch. Cursing under his breath, he leaves at an urgent clip. You’re already facing your computer again with your stolen earbud crammed back in.

The silent ticking of the clock remains deafening.

You love the sounds of coming home after a long day, but tonight it all sounds especially serene.

The thump of your shoes, kicked off carelessly in the foyer.

The shf of stiff fabric shed from your tired body, the blissful whisper of well-worn, downy-soft pajamas slipping over your skin.

The delicate clink of a wineglass; the full-throated cascade of a generous pour.

You take a heavy sip and lean against your kitchen island, closing your eyes and releasing a long breath. God. Trapped at your desk all day and then six hundred interceptions when you were finally allowed to leave? You felt like a fucking running back making a mad dash for the endzone. The night air had never tasted so sweet, once you'd finally made it through the doors.

Your oven makes a series of quiet clicks, coming back up to temperature. Even if dinner’s just thawed leftovers, again, you’d set yourself up for something fresh, too, because you fucking deserve it. You’re already starting to smell it. You take another sip of wine and smile.

And then you remember. It strikes you like a horrible bolt of lightning.

At the same time, your phone starts ringing on the countertop.

Incoming Call Toothskin

“Fuck!”

You want to throw your wineglass. How the fuck did you forget? > Answer

“Fuck, Leon, I’m so sorry, I completely fucked it–“

“Hey, whoa,” he says, but you’re still talking.

"It’s in my fucking bag, I was on my way to drop it off and I got–“

He says your name; you barely hear it.

“Fuck! I can’t believe I just fucking walked out– I’ll come drop it off, okay? I can– I’ll just … shit, the fucking oven–"

"HEY," he says, raising his voice. "I’m already in the car. What’s your location?"

When Leon knocks at your door, you swing it open and then hurry back into the house like a reverse doorbell-ditch. He blinks, hand still raised in a frozen knock.

“Just come in!” You shout over the beeping of the kitchen timer.

Leon steps inside and closes the door softly behind himself, looking around.

You hadn’t turned on any lights in the front hall; the kitchen sits as a literal light at the end of the tunnel. Leon clocks your tumbled shoes under your hanging coats, the splay of your keys on the side table where you’d tossed them. Ready to be fucking done with the day. Despite the dark, the front hall is cozy. Your coats hold whispers of your perfume. There’s a hint of clean laundry and an undercurrent of something more complex, almost earthy; the house smells lived in. By you.

It also, overwhelmingly, smells like fresh bread.

You’re setting the steaming, crackling loaf on a cooling rack and slapping the oven gloves off of your hands when Leon wanders into the light of your kitchen.

"I didn’t know you baked,” he says, eyes on the dark golden crust, split open where you’d scored the dough.

"Not really mission-critical information," you say, and pull open your work bag that you’ve hauled onto the kitchen island. Digging around, you find the thumb drive, but it’s tumbled into the bottom next to another thumb drive that looks identical.

Neither are labeled.

"Of fucking course," you mutter, pulling out your laptop with jerky, frustrated motions. It clacks against the countertop; you stab the power button to boot it up. “What’s ten more hours, right?”

Leon doesn’t respond. He’s assessing: you, first and foremost, strung out and self-disparaging; the kitchen, dishes in the sink, scattered messes all over; the fridge door, covered in novelty magnets and a dry-erase calendar; the corkboard on the wall.

His attention snags.

Among photos and receipts and postcards (two are from him, brought back from some vibrantly unpleasant mission locations, as a joke), incongruously, there’s a large champagne-gold envelope with a broken wax seal, clearly torn open with some violence.

It’s stabbed into the corkboard with a paring knife.

You toss one of the thumb drives back into your bag and shove the correct one towards Leon across the kitchen island.

"Bingo," you say, then catch what he’s looking at. He gestures to it.

“Jury duty?”

You know he clocks your dark expression before you 180 into something that matches his jesting tone.

“Yeah the circuit court jumped on the discounted stationary when Party City closed.”

“You hate weddings that much?”

“It’s my fucking ex,” you say venomously, picking up your wine glass. “I almost have half a mind to show up just to congratulate him on the brass cojones. Maybe give him a swift kick in them.”

“Sounds like you should.”

“He’d get too much satisfaction from my missing plus-one,” you mutter. “Like aw, your job couldn’t make it tonight? Dickknuckle,” you add under your breath.

Leon’s watching you, a faint crease between his brows.

“What?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he starts, and your brow creases. “Do you want a plus-one?”

You chuff a laugh, but he doesn’t smile, so you drop yours.

“What, like you know a guy?”

“No. Like I am a guy.”

Your eyebrows lift.

“You want to attend my ex’s wedding.”

“If it means mission success in the swift-kick department, sure,” he says. You narrow your eyes.

“You don’t even know the guy.”

He glances at the stabbed envelope on the corkboard. The blade is lodged; you'd used some force.

“I trust your judgement.”

You cross your arms, searching for a teasing twinkle in his eye, a telltale twitch of his mouth, but he’s just gazing back at you levelly.

“You’re serious,” you realize.

“Always am.”

“Please,” you scoff, but you uncross your arms and reach for your bread knife, throwing him a sidelong glance. Considering. “I’ll think about it.”

He picks up the thumb drive, tosses it in the air and catches it.

“Do that,” he says. “I’ll let myself out.”

“Wait,” you call after him, and he backs up to lean through the kitchen doorway. Wordlessly, you hold out a thick, steaming slice of the fresh bread. “For the trouble.”

He takes it.

He’s halfway to the front door when you hear him groan loud, almost obscene.

“Fuck that’s good.”

The front door closes.

His voice echoes in your ears for a while. Your cheeks are only pink from the heat of the kitchen; you turn and shut the oven off.

Earworm The mission, should you choose to accept it:

A photo loads into the text thread and Leon taps it open.

It’s the wedding invite. There’s a narrow slit bisecting the date, the same width as a paring knife blade.

He skims the details.

Mid-July. Out of state. Outdoors, in a nature preserve. Strictly formal, but no black or white dress.

He eyes the font, the thick textured paper with raw, ripped edges, the embossed leaf detailing.

It’s a vegan menu, isn’t it, he texts back.

Earworm Pescetarian

He snorts. Another text drops in from you.

Earworm You can plant the invite. Grows forget-me-nots

Of course it does.

Earworm Thought about wearing white but they might have me shot

There’s strength in numbers.

Earworm Enabler

Is this not Operation Rock The Boat?

Earworm Can’t rock it if we’re kicked out. Game plan is malicious compliance

… you’re putting me in a dress, aren’t you.

Earworm Hmm. Tempting.

There’s a fucking chandelier in the fitting room.

Under the sparkling, crystalline light, surrounded by three floor-to-ceiling mirrors, you take in your chosen battle dress from every angle.

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” you say out loud.

“You’re done already?” Leon’s voice is muffled, closed in another cubicle across the wide, thin carpet.

“It’s a slip dress,” you call back. “Not many fastenings to tangle with.”

It’s an avocado green slip dress, silky and alluring, with thin shoulder straps and a scoopy cowl neck. It’s definitely your shade. It highlights your freckles and your eyes; it shows off your arms, your collarbones, your neck. What it doesn’t reveal, it hints at, like a prize behind a curtain.

You turn again to admire the back. It’s a lot of cake to be bringing to someone else’s wedding, but he invited it.

You step out into the main space. There are more chandeliers overhead and a mirrored sort of apse at the end of the carpeted runway.

You can hear clothing rustling behind the door of the fitting room directly across from you.

“Sure you can manage all those buttons?”

The door opens and Leon’s there, looking down to fix the lay of his lapels.

“Not quite my kryptonite, but thank–“

He looks up and forgets what he's saying. Forgets where he's going, too. He stands frozen outside his fitting room, just staring at you.

That’s okay; you’re staring at him, too.

The last time you’d seen him in a suit, you were behind a desk watching a grainy, quarter-screen, black-and-white camera feed. That had had very little impact.

This? This has impact. It’s punched your stomach into a somersault.

This suit is camel-brown, the dress shirt a pastel green. The cut of the suit accentuates his broad shoulders, his tight waist; the pants make his legs look longer. The shirt brings out the green in his grey eyes, makes his skin – his lips – look a little pinker.

You were already well aware of how handsome he is, in a rugged, untouchable, dangerous Special Agent sort of way. But he’s standing here in the suit that you picked to compliment your dress and you can’t remember anyone looking more fucking attractive ever in your entire life.

And the way he always carries himself with that self-assuredness, like nothing could ever bowl him over?

He’s staring at you, and he’s looking a little bowled over.

The moment is gone just as quickly as it arrived. He pushes his hand through his hair and the unflappable Leon is back.

“Don’t you clean up nice.”

You shut your mouth with a click.

“Speak for yourself,” you say, heading for the mirrors at the end of the runway. He follows you, standing just behind your shoulder.

The two of you are a fucking one-two knockout. You look so good together, you can’t face it for more than a few blinding seconds before your chest starts feeling tight.

You sit down heavily on one of the velvet chairs between fitting room doors and manage not to put your head in your hands. Leon looks down at himself, smoothing a hand over the buttons of his suit.

“You don’t like it.”

"No, it’s fucking perfect," you bite out.

"What’s wrong?"

"This whole thing is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous." You're short on breath. You can feel panic rising, tight bands around your lungs. You do put your head in your hands, clutching at your hair to stop the tremble in your fingers.

"Hey," he says, crouching down in front of you. "Where’s this coming from?"

"Why am I dragging you into this? I don’t care about him or what he thinks! I don’t care!"

"I volunteered," Leon reminds you.

"Why?"

He does the facial equivalent of a shrug.

"No bioweapons? Open bar? You tell me.”

You unclench your fists from your hair and sit back to look at him, your head against the wall. He meets your gaze, calm and even.

He’s so fucking beautiful. You can’t let on about the gymnastics routine your stomach’s doing.

“If his brother's there, don't rule out bioweapons,” you say.

“Mm. BO?”

You shake your head. “GI.”

“Noted. Book of matches for a quick escape.”

You close your eyes, huffing a little laugh through your nose.

“We’re not locked into anything,” he tells you quietly. “You’re calling the shots.”

“Mm,” you acknowledge, and take a deep breath. “Just another mission.”

“With free dinner.”

Something lands on your knee and you open your eyes; it’s Leon’s hand, palm-up. A question. An offering.

You give him a pained look.

“It’s pescetarian.”

“Could be a red herring.”

Your gaze goes wooden. He raises his eyebrows, innocent.

“Ugh, I hate you,” you say, but clap your hand into his waiting palm. He hauls you to your feet. And he’s not done.

"A bait-and-switch?"

"Stop," you groan, shoving him towards his fitting room.

"A shell game.”

"Ignoring you!" The door to your fitting room shuts and you start wriggling out of the dress.

You almost rip it when Leon yells FISH from across the way and you fall into helpless laughter.

Toothskin Have you checked the registry?

I’m liking the 200-year-old sourdough starter

Toothskin Old yeast… what milestone anniversary is that?

200th. Keep up

And then the day arrives.

Leon puts the Porsche in park and you both sit back, observing the battlefield.

The nature preserve vista stretches vast beyond the front bumper, all dappled sunlight and swaying greens with scatters of bright, energetic color. The sky is a vibrant blue and dotted with cotton-puff clouds, the birds are singing, and there’s enough of a breeze to prevent stagnant air without upsetting meticulous hairstyles. It’s a perfect day in a gorgeous setting.

You’re clutching the invite, unawares, and the heat and moisture from your hands has warped the textured paper. Leon glances down and gently tugs it from your grasp.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m just… trying to remember the last time I saw him.”

“On the Save the Date.”

“Heard him, then. I’m trying to remember what he said to me.”

“Do you think he remembers?”

“No.”

“Blank slate, then,” Leon says, glancing in the rearview. Guests are meandering towards the gap in the low, rustic wooden fence, trickling into the sanctuary. “What are your boundaries?”

“What?”

“As your date. We covered our story; what’s your stance on PDA?”

“Oh.” You wave it off. “I don’t expect you to do anything.”

He scoffs, incredulous. “We’re at a wedding, as a couple, and you look like that,” he says, indicating your whole look with a pointed raise of his eyebrows. “You want people to think you’re dating a eunuch?”

You stare at him like you’re going to fire something back, but there’s nothing in the chamber. He’s disarmed you. Maybe fried your circuitry a little.

“Here,” he prompts, and holds his hand out over the gear shift. “Do you like holding hands with a partner?”

You can’t be this flustered. He’s just gathering intel for the undercover operation. This is tactical.

You take his hand, feigning nothing but mild agreement while your traitorous pulse picks up.

“Sure, it’s fine.”

He adjusts, lacing your fingers together, watching your face.

“Still fine?”

“Still fine.” His palm is warm and rough, callouses at the base of every finger from intensive strength training. His thumb lightly strokes your hand.

“If I touch your back?”

You tamp down a shiver, keeping your voice neutral.

“Fine, from the waist up.”

“Your hair?”

“Why my hair?”

He gently frees his hand, brushes his fingers over your ear like he’s fixing a windblown lock.

“Okay, yeah, that’s fine.”

He traces his thumb from your temple down to your jaw, delineating the side of your face.

“Is this okay to kiss?”

Despite the car still running and the AC blowing, your skin is hot and buzzing and you’re feeling that tight panic start to threaten your lungs again. It’s too close and intimate in here. You swat his hand away.

“Look, I know you’re good at reading a room, okay? So I’ll trust you. Just don’t fucking grope me in front of the bride’s grandma and I think we’ll be fine.”

“Killjoy.”

You sharpen on him. He just blinks at you owlishly, unthreatened.

You poke him in the side, where you know he’s sensitive. He clamps his arm down and jerks away.

“Alright, roger! No show for grandma!”

It pokes you back, right in the funny bone. You collapse into laughter, forehead pressed into his shoulder, and the bands around your chest loosen.

When you recover, he’s still smiling quietly, smug. You give him a shove, then double check your makeup in the visor mirror.

“Alright, let’s go, before all the worst seats are taken.”

The ceremony is gorgeous.

The altar stands under the strong, reaching branches of an ancient oak, in a serene forest clearing bordered by flickering tea lights in pristine mason jars. The bride looks Barbie-perfect in her flawless bright white dress, and the groom – your ex – is practically glowing himself. She’s probably got him on a juice detox, yoga regimen and seventeen-step skincare routine. But it’s working.

They look beautiful together, and hopelessly in love.

Your hands have knotted in your lap and your jaw is clenched tight.

You’re not jealous.

Well. You’re not jealous of her for who she’s marrying. You might be jealous of… everything else.

Something touches your wrist. It’s Leon, and just the warmth of his fingers on your skin dissolves your acidity.

Your hands unknot as Leon slips his fingers in with yours, his palm a warm and comfortable weight. You hook your free hand loose at his elbow, hugging his arm, and he leans in to press a kiss to your temple, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lean into it.

At the end of the ceremony, the freshly-minted husband and wife make a bottleneck that guests have to pass through on their way to the reception tent. You’re in line, wondering when ‘congratulations’ will stop sounding like a real word.

There are only seven people in line ahead of you. You’re breathing even, because you’re not anxious. You’re fine.

“Should I tell him he’s got a seed in his hair?” Leon’s speaking low right next to your ear, his eyes on the man in front of you in line. You refocus; it’s the type of seed that travels on the wind with a bit of fluff, like a dandelion. The guy’s hair is dark enough that it’s not hard to spot.

You turn your head to speak in Leon’s ear.

“No. Ten he’ll never notice.”

He smirks.

“Fifteen his wife won’t, either.”

Five people ahead of you.

“Bad bet, she’s hardly looked at him since they stood up. Twenty it’s a random stranger that tells him.”

“Bad bet, you’re a random stranger,” he says, his breath tickling your ear.

Three people ahead of you. You’re biting back a smile.

“Damn.”

Leon’s hand hasn’t left your waist.

“You came!”

Your ex lights up when he sees you next in line, and you’re even more surprised when he goes in for the hug. Leon feels you move towards it on rote and lets you go; the hug is light and short-lived. Your ex’s frame seems smaller than you remember, but maybe that’s because you’ve had Leon glued to your hip. He’s taller than your ex, maybe all in the swoop of his bronze hair, but he’s definitely… bigger.

“God, you look incredible,” your ex is saying, but there’s no depth or heat to it. It sounds just like it would if you were two former friends that hadn’t seen each other in almost a decade, and that hits you… strangely. You were lovers, for fuck’s sake, you were together for more than three years! Why did he invite you here if it wasn’t to gloat? To rub all this in your face? You hadn’t separated on good terms, but there isn’t a shred of animosity you’re getting from him right now. He truly just seems happy to see you.

And, annoyingly, that comes as a relief even while it stumbles you. It’s like you were holding the end of a wire at tension only to find it wasn’t attached to anything. You can’t help but feel a little childish about it, but in your defense, the wedding invite completely out of the blue? That was a crazy thoughtless move. How many other exes had been invited today, and how many had shown? How many other invites were still stabbed into a corkboard somewhere?

So maybe you’ve stretched your legs for nothing. His cojones aren’t brass, he’s just kinda dumb. And you know what? Good for him.

You return to Leon’s bubble and his hand is right back at your waist, casually possessive. You wind your arm around his back while you enthuse – and it is genuine – how stunning and happy the bride and groom look together. Your ex pulls his new wife close and kisses the side of her face, then gestures to Leon.

“And who’s your lucky gentleman?”

Leon lets you introduce him – you're calling the shots – shaking hands before settling in against you again, and you can feel his attention’s on you. You can see them seeing something on his face and you look up at him.

Your tummy backflips.

His eyes are so soft and fond, looking between yours. There’s a shade of something that looks like pride, too, and you wonder if he can feel that the fight’s left your body.

He kisses your forehead, then offers the bride and groom another congrats and beautiful ceremony and we’ll see you inside, opening your exit. You walk out together from the shade of the forest, into the July sun, and the light breeze greets you smelling sweet and hot and floral.

When you’re out of earshot, he speaks.

“What’s our sitrep?”

You sigh, defeated.

“You wanna go, don’t you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You signed on for violence.”

“Maybe at first.” The two of you have to break to walk apart on an uneven stretch of path, so he takes your hand instead. “We leave now, what’re the optics?”

“A shellfish allergy.”

“Weak,” he heckles. He’s right. Leaving now would look suspicious.

You tug his hand, grimly indicating the reception tent when he meets your gaze.

“That’s the hot zone. Last chance to run.”

He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, tightens the lace of your fingers together.

“I don’t give up that easy.”

“How did you two meet?”

Of course, as soon as the seat beside Leon vacates one ass, this one drops into it. You remember her from Thanksgivings and Christmases with your ex’s family, and here she is again with that ominous glint in her eye, wine glass already in hand. You grip Leon’s thigh under the table in warning.

“Hi, Auntie.”

“Hello, dear. You’re looking so well," she says, scrunching her nose condescendingly. "So how’d you dupe this one?”

Leon straightens from his casual lean, facing her better while resting his arm over the back of your chair.

“Aren’t we charming.”

Wine Aunt sets her chin in her hand, one eyebrow cocked as she looks Leon up and down, indiscreet. He’d abandoned his suit jacket a while ago, sleeves rolled up his arms, tie stuffed into his pocket so he could unbutton his collar a little. He does look fucking delicious, but you want to scoop out her slimy eyes for ogling him like that.

“Mmm. Certainly,” she purrs at him. So she’s forfeited her tongue, now, too.

You see Leon give her a subtly disgusted up-down in return before he turns his full attention to you instead.

“Met you at work,” he says to you, and you’re obsessed with the way he’s effectively answering Wine Aunt while also cutting her out of the conversation. He glances up at your hair, brushes it back from your forehead. “It was just your voice at first, lots of phone calls. And then I got to meet you.”

Your tummy’s not just fluttering, it’s kicking you. He’s too good at sounding like this, warm and fond and genuine. It’s starting to pinch behind your ribs.

It’s just a show. You’re playing in it, too.

Wine Aunt’s bringing her glass to her lips, muttering something like isn’t that sweet, expression fully soured. You can see she’s turned away, scanning the tables for her next victim, and your quiet smile at Leon grows a sharpened edge of victory. Then she leaves without another word and you have to bite back a full grin.

“Did she really just try to come on to me?”

“She’s notorious.”

“Mm. I thought about saying we met at an AA meeting, but she wouldn't know anything about that.”

Your eyes sparkle with dark delight. “Leon Kennedy. You are here for violence.”

You both jump when the speakers give a sudden feedback screech, the DJ raising his arm in apology before checking the microphone again. He announces it’s time for the speeches, and Leon exchanges a harrowed glance with you before grabbing both your empty drinks glasses.

“Same again?”

“Stronger.”

You haven’t been to a single wedding where the speeches didn’t set your teeth on edge.

Tonight might be the worst yet. You’re glad, at least, that there’s a literal spotlight somewhere else in the tent, leaving your table in heavy shadow. Both you and Leon look like you're on trial awaiting a heavy verdict rather than listening to weepy, heartfelt sentiments and weak jokes that rarely land.

Your fingers draw aimless lines up and down your drink glass, smearing through the condensation. Your eyes are on Leon’s back; he’s hunched forward, elbows on the table.

You listen to different iterations of the same gist, hear the same buzzwords, over and over.

Proud. Deserve. Love. Peace. Safety. Long life. Happiness. Together.

They all land like darts, piercing you.

Halfway through the father of the bride’s speech, Leon gets up, unreadable. He sets his hand on your back and leans down, his voice low and even.

“I’ll be right back.”

It’s calm, casual. Normal.

The giveaway is when his whiskey goes with him, and the direction he heads.

Not for the bathroom. Not for the bar.

The exit.

The reception tent is set up next to a huge, beautifully manicured garden courtyard, all high shrubs and fragrant bushes and bursting clusters of flowers lining stone paths that stretch and curve and cross over each other, a loose labyrinth. In the middle of it all stands a large stone fountain, its cascade a gentle burble rather than a showy spray, its wide pool full of blooming lilypads and the white and orange flicker of koi fish. Above it is a massive circular pergola, a slat-wooded ring dripping with cafe lights and vining flowers like a great wild halo.

The loudspeakers in the tent become just a shapeless thrum once you’re past the first wall of shrubs, and the summer chorus of crickets and frogs work to drown it out entirely. The sun’s almost down; fireflies are flashing and flickering in the dense foliage as you navigate the paths, heading for the sound of water.

And that’s exactly where you find him.

Leon’s sitting on the edge of the stone pool, head down, whiskey glass hanging from loose fingers. For a moment you just stand quietly and watch him breathe.

“Hey.”

He looks up; straightens and clears his throat, casually sipping at his drink.

“Hey,” he echoes.

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him, moving in closer. His eyes reflect the cafe lights like little stars as he looks up to meet your approach. There’s a subtle tightness to his expression, a shadow lurking, but if you didn’t know him like you do, you’d never recognize it. He’s too well trained.

“Do what?”

“Hide.”

He doesn’t deny it. He lowers his gaze and downs the last of his drink.

“You’re missing the speeches,” he says instead.

“Chad has the microphone."

He huffs a humorless laugh through his nose. A breeze meanders through the gardens, stirring through his hair. Not really thinking about it, you trace one finger lightly across his forehead, back over his ear, his hair falling softly back into place. He meets your eyes but your gaze is distant.

The both of you have sacrificed so much, willingly or otherwise, for your line of work. That’s why it’s not you at the sweetheart table tonight, and why it probably never will be. You’ve learned how to ignore the empty spaces, to close them off within yourselves so you can keep moving forward, because you can both see the bigger picture and your places within it.

What you do creates space for happy endings, fights to maintain that space. Tries, every day, to broaden it.

You know you’ve both long given up on the idea that the fight will ever be over. After two decades, it’s inescapable: there will always be something lurking in the shadows, growing in labs, lying in wait. The only way this will end for you is in death; as long as you’re alive, you have to keep going. That’s your lifelong commitment.

You can train yourself to endure the emptiness all you want. It’s still fucking lonely.

But if today has proven anything to you, it’s that you’re not alone. For once, you’re not by yourself behind a desk in some dark safehouse while Leon's out who-knows-where, running with Death on his heels. For the first time, he’s here, he’s right in front of you, you can touch him, comfort him the way you’ve always wished you could, hearing him breathe brokenly down the comms on particularly difficult missions.

And what missions weren’t difficult?

“Thank you for being here,” you tell him quietly, distantly. You card his hair back over his ear, still busy in your own head, just liking how it feels. His hair is soft, and his strands of silver look like threads of gold in the warm, soft lighting.

His hand, resting on his own thigh, brushes your leg through the silky fall of your skirt. You’re standing between his legs at the edge of a bubbling fountain, playing with his hair while fireflies dance in the fragrant summer air around you.

Your fingers hesitate, starting to curl like a dying vine near his temple as the awareness sets in. But before you can draw your hand away, he dips his head to brush your fingers against his hair again.

Don’t go.

His eyes close and his head sways back when you comb both of your hands into his hair, nails scratching lightly along his scalp. His hands are settled on your legs now, just leaning there, still rested on his own thighs. His shoulders are loose, tension drained, and his lips are parted.

It’s such a show of trust that it almost overwhelms you. Not only are you blocking sightlines but his head is in your hands, and despite the nooks and shadows of the courtyard all around you, he's got his eyes closed. This is more surrendered than you’ve ever seen him.

You know he’s lethal, body honed not just to handle weapons, but into a weapon itself. He can snap a spine with the heel of his palm. He can crush a skull with his foot, send a body absolutely sailing with the strength of his legs.

But he’s also been one of the kindest, gentlest people you know. He cracks stupid jokes when he knows you’re wound up, but only after checking in with you. He looks at you with such adoration. He touches you with respect and care.

Is all of it really just for the role?

His lashes are a thick, dark sweep over the tops of his cheeks. You run your thumb over his eyebrow, lightly down the bridge of his nose, and he opens his eyes. You can see the green in his irises as he studies you; the dark halo of blue that rings them.

“I like this better," he tells you.

"What?"

He touches his ear, miming an earpiece, then sets his hands on your hips, light. Easily moved or brushed away. You do neither.

Your heart thumps a little faster. This touch is not waist-up.

This isn’t the role.

You lean down, speaking directly against the shell of his ear.

“Don't get used to it, Kennedy.”

You’ve barely finished saying his name before he’s turned his head and caught your lips in a kiss.

You draw back a little, startled, your lips buzzing. His eyes are half-lidded looking up at you, unapologetic.

“No one’s watching,” you check.

“I know.” He looks down at your lips.

Your hands skim his jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin.

“This was never about aiding in my revenge, was it.”

He shakes his head. His thumbs are stroking your hipbones through the silk of your dress.

"I just wanted this," he admits.

Suspended within the summer song of crickets and frogs, under whispering leaves and beside softly burbling water, you lean down and kiss him. His hands slide up to your waist, mouth so tender on yours, kissing you back while the fireflies wink and dance around you.

You’re not alone.

On AO3

Arthur Morgan's got a bad habit.

He stops in every other day, asking for you and only you.

Nevermind that he comes in fresh as a daisy from the last, barely a speck of dirt on him to warrant a washing.

He still comes.

Takes his clothes off real neat. Folds them and sets them aside. Takes extra care sinking into the tub while he waits, careful not to get any water on your seat.

Nobody takes care of him better than you do. He figures he ought to do the same.

Entering the room, mid-speech with one of the other girls, the sight of him stops you dead. Sends warmth fluttering through your chest, cheeks burning something awful.

You heard tell of a man who resembled him wandering around these parts again. Didn't think it'd be the man himself come to see you.

"M-Mr. Morgan," you stammer softly in greeting, shutting the door quietly behind you.

"Miss," he says after a moment, unable to meet your gaze.

His fingers tighten around the tub's edges, tips of his ears going pink.

You smile to yourself, reaching for the jar of rose petals you keep in case he comes by.

"Good for the skin," you say every time he asks. Really, you'll take just about any excuse to pamper the man.

Sprinkling a couple in, you watch his eyes follow them as they drift about.

"I brought you somethin'," he says, just as you settle in behind him.

"Again?" you ask softly, already pouring water over his hair, careful of his eyes.

Last week was peppermints—the kind you loved as a girl.

The week before that were some wildflowers he picked not far from the edge of town. They were a bit wilted, damn near crushed to death, but you were flattered nonetheless.

Bringing the soap bar to his head, you work it into a lather, scrubbing in gentle circles. "You ought'a stop bein' so sweet to me. The girls are gettin' all manner of jealous."

His head tilts back onto your lap, getting suds on the front of your dress. You find you don't mind it one bit.

"Don't care none," he mutters, eyes shutting as your fingers massage his scalp. "Only want you."

You duck your head, a bashful smile turning up your lips.

"Go on, then, tell me," you murmur, staring down at him. "What'd you bring this time."

He looks at you, dries his hand on the towel draped over the edge of the basin, and reaches for his things. Without a word, he pulls out a delicate ribbon in that shade of cream you love so much.

You gasp, eyes going wide. "Like the one I—"

"Lost," he finishes, grunting in acknowledgment. "Yeah, I know."

You swallow, drop your head once more, fixing your gaze stubbornly on the porcelain.

"You— I mean, that's real thoughtful of you..."

And just before the audacity can leave you, you utter a quiet—

"Thank you, Arthur."

Any thoughts you might've had about addressing him by his first name leave you entirely.

One look at those cheeks of his—beaming the prettiest shade of red as he rubs at the scruff of his jaw—and you're gone before you can think better of it.

You bring your lips to his temple, fingers stalling where they run along his nape. "Now, just you relax. Lemme take care of you."

He sits still as can be, the tension easing itself from his muscles with every pass of the washcloth.

While you're busy cleaning his legs, scrubbing gently at his skin, your arm grazes something—hard, heavy, and hot like fire between them.

He goes stiff as a board, brows drawn tight as he looks away from you.

"Sorry," he says quiet, gruff, shifting in the water like he's committed a grave sin worth apologizing for.

"It ain't a problem," you mumble, staring blankly at the bubbles in the water as his hands go white-knuckled where they grip the edges.

Your gaze finds his face, a sheepish look on it you'd kiss right off if given half the chance. "Oh, Arthur. Won't you look at me?"

"Ain't right of me," he says then. "Takin' advantage of the kindness you've shown me."

"That ain't what you're doin' now, is it?" you chide softly, a quiet exhalation leaving your chest as you cup his cheek, turn that handsome face toward you.

You're fussing over him—you know it. Can tell by the way you brush the wet hair clean from his face, thumbing away a stray droplet of water before it can careen down his forehead.

"Been an awful long while, ain't it? That why?" you ask curiously, voice soft with understanding. Gentle as you run your hand comfortingly along the length of his arm.

He glances at you then, searches that serene expression of yours, those eyes filled with an adoration he's too cowardly to give name to.

"...Yeah," he says finally, swallowing with an effort, jaw working. "Been some time."

It takes you a moment to gather the words—to get them right on the tip of your tongue before they spill out in a blur.

"I don't mind," you murmur, reassurance lacing every syllable. "If that's what you're wantin'. Ain't no trouble at all."

He looks at you with something akin to disbelief and an affection so severe, it sinks right down to the heart of you.

"I ain't earned that kinda treatment," he says then, shaking his head like it sits heavy on his shoulders.

"I wanna," you say in reassurance, resting your hand over his heart. It thuds a quick rhythm against your palm, his own coming up to lace your fingers with a hesitation that makes your face warm.

"Alright," he relents, eyes fixing onto you.

You smile, bring your joined hands to your lips and press a tender kiss to his knuckles, still scarred from whatever fight he must've been in last.

Your opposite one slips into the water, taking him between your fingers, not making a fuss of it.

It's just comfort.

Something to cure him of his stresses and that air of melancholy he carries about himself.

You tell yourself that's all it is, and he tells himself he ain't attached to the way you touch him—the way you move your wrist just so and give him pleasure like he's never known, the way you card through the soapy tresses of his hair and let him doze off with his head on your lap most days.

You know better. So does he.

He groans real quiet, head tipping back just enough to show the effect your grip has on him, the length of him throbbing steadily between your fingers, growing impossibly harder still.

"Show me what to do," you murmur, voice a sweet lilt in his ear. "Show me how to take care of you."

He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, letting it out slowly as he allows his eyes to shut and yield to the feeling, to your words looping themselves around him, driving him damn near out of his mind.

"Jesus, woman," he mumbles to himself.

But his hand moves to cover yours, tightening your hold around him with a careful squeeze of his fingers, helping you stroke him in long, slow drags that have his hips bucking.

Water splashes, creeping ever closer to the edge of the tub, threatening to spill over.

But you don't stop him. You wouldn't dare.

Instead, you stare, all kinds of mesmerized that a man like Arthur Morgan could be reduced to this—overflowing with desire, eager for the slightest touch that doesn't result in pain or hurt.

"That alright?" you ask quietly, peppering gentle kisses down his neck, lifting your head to meet his gaze.

He stares at you then, breathing rough, chest rising and falling with the effort it takes him.

"C'mere."

His fingers curl loose around your nape, drawing you in close to press a kiss to your lips.

You smile against his mouth, at him eagerly taking all he can when he kisses you harder, tongue dragging against yours like he's starved for it.

He tries to coax you over, onto his lap. With a quiet laugh, you pull the hem of your dress away just before it can touch the water.

"Gonna get my dress all soaked," you say, drying your hands to undo the buttons down the front.

He looks away, averts his gaze as the fabric goes slack against your form. You sigh, head tilting, eyes soft as can be.

"Don't gotta look away," you assure him, reaching out to turn his head toward you. "Don't mind you watchin' none."

His jaw tightens, reaching for you the moment your undergarments fall away. Before he can pull you onto him and into the tub, you reach for the ribbon.

He watches as you loop it around your neck—once, twice—tying it off with a delicate bow that reaches down your collarbone.

You nearly slip, a startled squeal bubbling out of you as you settle in the warm water, thighs either side of him.

"Easy now. Atta girl," he says, reaching out to steady you. You hardly fit, him all but filling out the basin beneath you.

Still, you manage—hands on his shoulders as he lines himself up with your entrance, his at your waist rubbing in slow, lingering sweeps up your sides.

"How's it look?" you ask softly.

He stares at you like he's got heaven in his arms.

"Real nice, darlin'. Prettiest thing I ever did see."

He arches up just enough for you to feel him, the head of him pushing inside making a shiver run up your spine.

"You're alright," he murmurs, fingers splaying wide along your back as he guides you down. "That's it."

It doesn't take long before he's got his face tucked in your neck, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along your skin, his beard scraping as he goes.

His breathing grows ragged, hold on your hips tightening despite himself.

All the while, you whisper encouragements in his ear, letting his name tumble from your lips like a prayer.

A timid little moan escapes you when he sinks into you proper, striking something sweet enough to pull a shudder clean through you, toes curling tight against the porcelain.

His rhythm starts slipping, growing more and more unsteady with every thrust. Your fingers slip into his damp hair, nails scratching lightly.

"Arthur?" you whisper.

"Mm," he hums, a low, gravelly sound that has your thighs trying their best to clench around him.

He notices the change in your breathing, the way they've gone shallow and uneven, his hand slipping between you to give you the attention you need.

"C'mon. Lemme have you," he says, his eyes gone storm-dark.

The moment his fingers find what you need, circling just there with a firm pressure, you're coming apart around him.

It feels like lightning singeing you from the inside out, burning you up entirely, sending your pulse crazy where it thrums beneath your skin.

His own breath catches hard as his release finds him, his forehead dropping against your breast, a deep groan knocked loose from him.

You feel the moment his body goes taut, a shiver wracking through him at the sheer intensity of it.

He goes heavy beneath you, all at once, sinking further into the tub like the effort stole every little bit of strength right out of him.

"You okay?" he asks, his touch gentler now, more careful than it's ever been.

"Yeah," you whisper, dropping kisses to the top of his head before resting your weight on him, your cheek to his chest. "You?"

He huffs a laugh, hand running along your spine.

"Sweetheart," he says, voice wrecked. "Ain't been this good in a long time."

You beam, lifting your head to meet his gaze.

"Say you'll come back tomorrow," you murmur, hopeful eyes searching his face for an answer.

He brushes your hair back, idly winds a strand around his finger.

"I'll come back," he promises. "Maybe not tomorrow, but..."

His hand rises to cup your cheek, thumb running tenderly along it. "I will. Don't you worry."

You believe him. Not one bit of you doubts it.

He doesn't do things half-way, doesn't say things he doesn't mean. That knowledge alone brings you a comfort second only to being in his arms, just like this.

After all, if there was only ever one man you'd happily spend all of the hot water in Valentine on, you know without a doubt it'd be Arthur Morgan.

Him and his gifts, his sweet words, and the way he holds you like you're worth more than anything in the whole goddamn world.

Seems you've both got a bad habit.

Arthur’s heavy footsteps radiate through the dingy photography studio in Saint Denis. The door creaks closed behind him, and darkness slowly shrouds his tall figure. The studio looks like a ghost town in New Austin instead of the bustling city it sits in. 

Camera resting in his hand, Arthur looks around the dusty studio for any sign of life; all he wants is to get his photos developed because he cannot do it himself. He didn’t understand how the film got full so fast. Usually he could go two months or more without having to get it developed. There was an egret atop a gator floating through the swamp, and he wanted a photo of it. He clicked the camera, and nothing happened. 

He had a sneaking suspicion you had taken photos on it; not that he cared, but he wished you would tell him when you used the last of the film. The photos you took on his camera were usually of the gang members, him, or random animals. 

A clattering comes deep within the studio that pulls him from his thoughts. Fast footsteps approach the front of the building, and a short man appears from the darker part of the building. “My bad sir!” He stumbles behind the counter, “What can I help you with today?”

Arthur takes a few steps forward, lifting the small camera up, and places it on the counter. “Can you develop the photos for me?” Sliding the camera towards the man, Arthur clears his throat. 

“Sure thing.” Grabbing the camera, the man looks to Arthur, “This will take a little while, so make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back out in a bit.” 

Arthur quirks an eyebrow at the man as he hurries to the back in the same manner he came up in. Turning, he sees three chairs, all with arms, lined up against the wall. A sigh falls from his mouth, and he makes his way over to them. 

Creaking under his weight, the chair accommodates him and the guns hanging low on his hips. Crossing his feet, Arthur relaxes slightly into the cushioned chair as he waits for the man. 

Fast footsteps make their way to the front startling Arthur slightly. He may have nodded off for a minute while waiting for the man to come back. Pushing up, Arthur shifts his shoulders to stretch from sitting for some time.

The man places the camera and a stack of photos wrapped in paper on the counter by the register. “Four dollars please,” the man mumbles. Fishing the money from his pocket, Arthur hands the man the money, who will not look at him now. 

Sliding the camera and bundle towards Arthur, the man looks up for a second then back down. “A little heads up would have been nice before I started processing those.” Arthur notices the man’s cheeks are flushed darker than they were when he initially saw him.  

Arthur’s forehead creases with confusion as he grabs the two items from the counter. “Uh, okay?” He slides the two into his satchel, “Thank you.”

The man nods his head curtly, and rushes back to the darkness of the studio. Shaking his head, Arthur was thoroughly confused what he meant by that. Grasping the door knob, Arthur pulls it open, and the sun blinds him momentarily as he had been in a dark building for an extended period of time. 

Mounting his horse, Arthur was still racking his brain as what the man could have possibly meant by giving him ‘a little heads up;’ this isn’t the first time had gotten photos developed at this studio before. 

The ride to Shady Belle was uneventful thankfully. With some quick hello’s and good night’s to the ladies, he makes his way inside the house. Trudging up the stairs to his room, he closes the door behind him shutting some of the sounds of members inside the house. He didn’t know where you were, but he figured you were off doing something. You were just like him, you like to go off on your own, and then make your way back to camp. 

Shedding his guns, he settles onto the small bed. He fishes the tied bundle of photos from his satchel. The paper crinkles as he discards it next to him on the bed, and he begins looking through them. 

The first three were pictures he had taken at a little cabin by the Kamassa River in Bayou NWA of a fox eating a bird, a gator head peering out of the water, and a spider orchid on a tree. The next picture was one you had taken of Abigail and John sitting on a log together having an intimate moment for once. Her head was resting on John’s shoulder, and his hand rested on her knee as they looked towards Jack playing. 

Arthur was still throughly confused what the man had meant because these all seem pretty normal pictures to him. Mindlessly looking through the photos, he sees a couple more landscape photos that he had taken at Bolger Glade. 

The next photo caught his attention; it was one you had taken. He shifts against the metal headboard of the bed as he looks down at the tin photograph of you. You were wearing your “special” corset top that was hardly ever worn. It was a blue color that complemented your skin beautifully. White lace frills the top boarder barely cresting the corset touching the swell of your breast pushing up from the bodice, and small, intricate flowers embroidered on the boning channels. Both of your arms were holding the camera up, and just the bottom of your chin was in the picture. He didn’t have to see your face to know this was you. 

Placing the photo down, he looks at the next picture. You were lying on plush grass, still in the corset, hair sprawled underneath you, but this time your right hand was grazing your breast ever so lightly. The corset was pushing your breasts up to begin with, and as you lie on the ground they press up even more. This time your mouth was in the picture opened just enough that if he were there he would have pressed his thumb into your mouth. 

His hips shift on an accord of their own as he looks at the picture. This. This is what the man had meant. You had taken his camera and took these photos without him knowing. Arthur’s hand goes down to adjust himself and clears his throat like he is some teenaged boy getting caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing. 

Arthur’s eyes widen at the next photo. Your corset is off, but your left arm is covering your breasts in a teasing manner. 

Sliding to the next, your right breast is entirely exposed as your left hand gropes your left breast. The humidity in the air has your skin glistening slightly under the rays of sun filtering through the canopy of the swamp you were taking pictures in. 

Arthur can’t believe his eyes. He gave his camera over to a man, unbeknownst to Arthur and the stranger, that you had taken these pictures. It irritates him because he would have never let some man see these. 

The next your right nipple peeks between your pointer and middle finger as your hardened left nipple is exposed completely; your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth. 

His hips shift again as he is starting to grow hard under the dark denim. 

Just when he didn’t think you could surprise him anymore, the next photo reveals that your bottom half is just as bear as the top half. Dense trees surround you in the background. The photo shows that you were lying on the ground naked with your knees bent, feet flat on the ground, and your legs were spread open. You had taken it as if you were taking any ol’ picture. The camera was pressed to your face, and your navel was showing. It was essentially a point of view that you have when Arthur is between your legs doing whatever he pleased, using this mouth or cock on you, except it was just you there. 

His jaw clenches as he looks at the next photo. Your hand was dipped between your thighs. This photo was taken in the same manner as the last. These were making his mind run wild. He still cannot believe that the photographer did not come in sooner to tell him. Arthur was half tempted to go back to the studio and give that man a piece of his mind, and fist. Whatever came first. 

He looks down at himself and finds that he is pressing up more against his jeans. His hands betrays his brain, and he palms himself through the rough denim covering himself. A deep groan catches in his throat as he relieves some of the building pressure. Oh fuck it he thinks. Setting the remaining photos down next to him, he fumbles with this belt and buttons of his pants. 

Lifting his hips slightly, Arthur pushes his jeans down to this thighs. His cock bounces as he settles back. The tip is red and leaking precum from the photos you had taken with him unaware of. Spitting in his hand, he grabs ahold of himself, and strokes himself a few times. Thumb swiping over his leaking tip, a moan slips from deep within. 

Head falling back, Arthur thinks of those pictures he has seen already: your beautiful body, mouth-watering breasts, and the ghost of what would drive a man crazy between your thighs. Another moan makes its way from his throat as he pumps himself thinking about your wet cunt. He can feel your velvety walls clenching around his cock as he fucks you; the feeling is heavenly that he can imagine stroking himself. 

His other hand reaches back down to grab the remaining photos as he continues to fuck himself. 

The sound that comes from his mouth cannot be stopped when he sees the next photo; his hand falters from stroking himself as he looks wide-eyed down at it. It was of your glistening cunt. Your legs were spread wide open, and your fingers are spreading yourself open even wider. He could tell you were leaned up against a tree now, supporting the upper half of your body, as you took pictures of what he would consider to be your most intimate part that only he should be able to see. 

Arthur’s jaw tenses as he continues to work himself as he goes to the next picture. His eyes roll to the back of his head when he sees the next picture. Two of your fingers were buried knuckle deep in your pussy. He could tell you were curling your fingers inside you just the way you have shown him before how you like. 

He can feel the pressure building deep in his pelvis, his dripping tip is so sensitive as he stokes himself, brushing his tip occasionally. It was taking quite a bit to bite the moans back. 

The next photograph your fingers are pressing your swollen clit. Your fingers are coated in your wetness from just being inside yourself, and he can see just how fucking soaked you were from fingering yourself. 

He notices that there are only two picture left. Your face is all that is in this one. Eyes scrunched, mouth open as you are crying out in pleasure. Arthur can’t hold it much longer. Why hadn’t he ever thought of taking pictures of you like this before? 

A deep, rough moan spills from his lips as cum spills from his tip. He keeps fucking himself, coating his cum over himself, as he looks at the last picture. You were looking into the camera with innocent eyes as your fingers were inside your mouth. Your tongue was sliding on the side of your finger, licking your wetness, as you took the last picture. 

“Goddamn it,” he mumbles looking down at the mess he made. Pictures are scattered on the bed as he thew them down as he took care of himself. His cum was painted across his thighs, hand, and cock. 

Reaching over, he grabbed a handkerchief that he kept nearby in case he needed it, and began to clean himself up. Normally he was wiping his cum off of you, but today it was different.

There were so many thoughts racing through his head right now: he wanted to kill the man in Saint Denis for seeing these picture, he couldn’t believe you took these pictures, he couldn’t get over that he came from looking at pictures of you, and why hadn’t he ever taken pictures of you while he fucked you?

Leon was just finishing up his latest report, typing away on his computer at his desk when Lieutenant Marvin Branagh entered the office.

“Rookie?”

“Yes, Sir?” Leon looked up from the screen, watching his superior walking over to him.

“You ready with that report?” Marvin asked, his gaze dropping to the opened file on Leon's desk.

“A few more minutes, then I am all done,” Leon explained, eager to finish that report as quickly as he could. Not only because he wanted to do a good job, but also because he knew you were waiting for him at home. It was past 10pm already, and he was the last one in his office, yet again.

Luckily, you had been very understanding for him and his job, never once complaining or blaming him for not having enough time for you.

Your relationship was different from the ones he had before. It felt more mature, more like something real. Something that’s gonna last. Or at least that’s what he hoped for.

As if reading his mind, Marvin’s gaze wandered over to the photograph of you and Leon that had been sitting on his desk for a while now. One of his friends had taken the photo after a night out together. You two were smiling at the camera like two lovesick idiots, so innocent, adorable, and almost cheesily cute. It wasn’t perfect, and maybe that was why it was one of Leon’s favorite pictures of the both of you.

“Is that your girlfriend?” He asked.

Leon smiled proudly. “Yeah. That’s my girlfriend. Been together for six months now."

Marvin raised an eyebrow. “The same time you started your job here?” He asked, a slight grin on his lips.

Leon laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s right. I guess I can call myself lucky,” he remarked, remembering the first time he’d met you.

It was after one very late shift at the RPD. Everything was closed down already, except for a small 24/7 diner in the city. A diner you would later officially refer to as “our diner”.

He was still wearing his uniform, completely worn out and exhausted from work. He just wanted to grab a quick dinner and then call it a night.

As fate would have it, you happened to be there as well, sipping on a cup of coffee in the middle of the night. You looked just as exhausted as him and still managed to give him a smile. A smile that would completely knock the breath out of his lungs, as well as making him go weak at the knees.

Normally he wasn’t the type to just hit on someone, especially not when still wearing his uniform, but he decided to give it a try.

It turned out you were into him as well, and yes, maybe him wearing the uniform did help a little, as you would later tell him. What started out as a few innocent dates with lots of laughter turned into a real relationship with deep feelings and trust.

Well, the rest was history.

“Alright. Finish the report and then you can go. It’s Friday evening, and I don’t want to keep you away from your girl,” Marvin chuckled, patting Leon on the shoulder before walking off. “Besides, I want to go home too. My wife and I want to watch the game together,” he laughed before closing the door behind him.

Leon smiled happily, looking one last time at the photograph before finishing the report.

Meanwhile, you were already at home in your shared apartment. It was small and cozy, perfect for the two of you. You were changing into something comfortable, throwing your work clothes into the laundry basket.

It was Friday evening, which meant it was pizza night. A little tradition you and Leon had established after you both agreed that none of you wanted to cook after the busy week.

"Babe, I’m home!” You heard Leon call from the hallway.

“Coming!” You called back, slipping into your shirt before running off to your boyfriend.

When he spotted you, his face instantly lit up, an adorable flush of redness covering his cheeks and neck. His soft hair was a little disheveled but in the cutest way, and you had to contain yourself from immediately running your hands through it. As much as you loved seeing him in his uniform, you almost preferred him like that. With just a simple shirt and jeans but still so breathtakingly good-looking.

“Hey, baby," he said softly, pulling you into his arms.

“Hey” You smiled as you cuddled up to him, inhaling his comforting scent. “You smell so so good,” you mumbled into his shirt.

You could feel the low rumble of his laugh vibrating through you, your head still on his chest. “Freshly showered just for you. Didn’t want to scare you off with the police station smell,” he teased.

You raised your head slightly to get a better look at him. “Would’ve cuddled you anyway,” you grinned.

“That’s what I hoped for." He leaned in for a gentle kiss, cupping your face in his hands. You returned his soft kisses, melting into his touch and holding onto his shirt. Making out with him always felt like something between sweet and spicy. You never knew in which direction it would lead.

After a few more moments of your lips dancing against each other, he pulled back slightly, looking down at you.

“I have a small surprise for you,” he noted.

“Oh?” You looked up at him, curiosity sparking in your eyes.

Surprises had become another tradition in your relationship. The two of you loved surprising the other with little gifts or acts of service in general, no matter how big or small. It had taken on a life of its own, you could say.

You followed his gaze and spotted a box of brownies sitting on the console table.

“Are those-“ You approached the small box, eyeing the delicious and moist-looking chocolate brownies waiting on the inside. “The chocolate brownies from ourdiner?” You asked excitedly.

He chuckled. “Yup. I preordered them during lunch break and picked them up after my shift. I thought that might be a good dessert for later." He smiled.

You gasped, a little choked up from this thoughtful and utterly sweet gesture. "Leon…thank you! That is so sweet of you!” You said, wrapping your arms around him again.

“No need to thank me,” he said with a soft expression on his face.

You gazed at him for a few seconds, grateful for this wonderful human being who had slipped into your life.

“You’re so gorgeous,” you whispered.

“Gorgeous?” He asked, the redness on his flushed skin deepening. A sheepish smile crossed his features as he scratched the back of his neck. A gesture he often did when he was getting a little flustered.

“Yes, you are,” you giggled, peppering his face with kisses, before taking his hand and guiding him to the kitchen, along with the brownies. You started rummaging through the kitchen drawers, looking for the delivery menu from your favorite pizza place.

“I am sorry for being so late again,” Leon mumbled, eyeing your movements.

“I told you, you really don’t need to be sorry. "I understand, Leon,” you smiled softly, looking back at him. He was always so worried about not being there enough for you, when in reality he had been nothing but a picture-perfect boyfriend to you.

Leon was four years your junior, which made him the youngest boyfriend you’d ever had. Initially, you’d believed that you needed someone older, someone with more experience, but over the years you’d come to the conclusion that this wasn’t the case. Men will be men, no matter the age. In the end, it always came down to what mattered the most: personality.

“I would still like to make it up to you,” he said, appearing behind you and putting his arms around your waist, his face nuzzling into your neck.

“Well, maybe I have an idea on how you could make it up to me,” you teased him, biting your lip slightly, which immediately got him flustered. You could hear it in the way he was taking in a deep breath, as if he were trying to build up the courage to act on it.

It was adorable to you how easy it was to get him worked up, even though he tried to hide it, of course. But there was one factor he couldn’t hide.

His hardening member pressed against your backside, fueling the excitement in your body that had started to build. He started kissing you along your neck, his hands wandering higher up to the curve of your breast. “Oh yeah?” He asked in a hushed voice.

He was needy. Very needy, but that didn’t bother you in the slightest. Having someone by your side who worshipped the ground you walked on, as well as your body, sure felt flattering and exciting.

Sex with Leon always felt new and refreshing, and what he lacked in experience, he made up for with attentiveness and care.

Your pleasure was always his top priority, so it wasn’t uncommon for you to talk a lot during sex. He always wanted to ask what you liked, what you needed, and what brought you the most pleasure, and you kind of enjoyed exploring new things together.

“I thought you wanted to order pizza," you whispered, eyes closed as his hands continued their exploration of your body. One hand was fondling your breast; the other was now on your ass, while his mouth was still busy caressing the warm skin on your neck.

“Right now, I want my beautiful girlfriend,” he mumbled, his voice muffled from kissing you. “Besides, you were the one who started it,” he continued.

You held back a chuckle. “It was just one sentence."

“Enough for me,” he said, groaning when you started pressing your ass onto his crotch. You slowly started grinding against his erection and let your head fall back against his chest. His fingers went under your shirt to get better access to your soft skin, toying with the lace fabric of your bra.

With one finger he slipped underneath, brushing over your nipples, which hardened under his touch.

“Leon,” you breathed, tilting your head slightly so you could kiss him.

“I’ve been thinking about you the whole day. Couldn’t get you out of my head,” he muttered between kisses, his touches slowly becoming more desperate as he groped your breasts.

“Oh yeah?” You asked with a hint of teasing in your voice. You wanted to hear more, so much more.

“Yeah. Had to even excuse myself to the bathroom,” he admitted, rubbing himself against your ass to get a little more friction. He could already feel a small, wet patch forming inside his boxers, clear evidence of how pent up he was.

You looked up at him. “Did you-“

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head as if you’d asked the most disturbing question in existence. “No, I just needed a few minutes to cool down. Also, I didn’t really want the others to see my boner,” he chuckled.

Your innocent boyfriend, getting a hard-on just from thinking of you? You were sure this man was an angel sent from heaven.

“Well, I am sure I could help you out with that,” you hinted, slowly turning around so you were facing him.

His usually bright eyes turned a little darker at your words, his dick already throbbing for you.

“And how would you do that?” He asked. If you concentrated, you could hear the slight shiver in his voice.

Slowly, you let your hand drift along his upper body, feeling the muscles tense under his shirt. You stopped at the growing bulge and started palming him through his jeans.

"Mhm." He hummed, holding himself back from turning into a moaning mess from just one simple touch. He couldn’t deny, though, how much he loved it when you played with his cock.

“I could suck you off, do it with my hands, ride you, let you fuck me into the mattress,” you listed in a low, seductive voice, your hands still palming him.

He blinked a few times, gathering his breath. He clearly couldn’t concentrate anymore.

“Fuck, yes please…I-I mean sounds good to me,” he stammered, looking down. He was practically hypnotized by the way your hands worked their magic on him.

“Take me to the bedroom then,” you giggled.

He didn’t need to be told twice. While still making out, you made your way to the bedroom. The first few pieces of clothes were hastily taken off and scattered through your apartment while still kissing each other every chance you got.

Once you reached the small and dimly lit room, you gently pushed Leon towards the bed, making him sit down on the edge.

With your eyes still fixated on him, you slowly knelt down between his legs, now only dressed in your bra and panties. He looked at you like he couldn’t believe his eyes, his mouth slightly agape. You’d done that so many times before, but he would never get tired of this sight.

“You are amazing,” he murmured, letting his gaze wander over your breasts that were hugged perfectly by the sheer lace.

You remembered him getting it for you after a shopping trip together. You’d joked about trying on lingerie, and to your surprise, he was instantly hooked and practically dragged you to the next store. Initially, you’d thought he would be shy about it but it turned out he wasn’t anymore. With every new set you’d tried on, he looked more and more like a kid waiting to open their birthday presents.

You smiled at the memory, starting to trace your fingertips along his abs, seeing them tense the lower your fingers wandered.

Maybe it was just you being utterly and completely in love with him, but you were convinced this was the most handsome man you’d seen in your life.

Teasingly slow, you helped him out of his boxers, letting his rock-hard member spring free, right against his stomach.

You placed a kiss on the tip, smiling when you felt him twitch under your lips.

“Babe…”

“Hm?” You looked up with innocent eyes, watching his strained expression.

“Don’t tease me too much,” he muttered pleadingly.

“Mhm” You slowly leaned a little forward, licking a long stripe along his shaft, from bottom to the top. “Better?” You asked.

He groaned in frustration, and before he could state another complaint, you finally wrapped your lips around him and started bobbing your head up and down in a slow manner. You didn’t apply too much pressure just yet, letting him adjust to the feeling. One hand was placed on his thigh, while the other stroked the rest of his length that you didn’t fit in your mouth. Not yet.

“Fuck….babe…t-that… that feels so good,” he moaned, letting his head fall back. He was so worked up already from the beginning that it was getting increasingly difficult to keep himself from cumming in your mouth right then and there.

He placed one of his hands behind him on the bed for support, while the other tangled in your hair lovingly, guiding your movements just gently.

You swirled your tongue around his tip, continuing with your movements. Drool was already spilling from your mouth, making a mess on both you and him, but you knew how much he enjoyed it. The messier the better. His words. Not yours.

“You look so so good like that,” he praised as you looked up at him, mouth still full with his throbbing cock.

“Ahh…fuck” He whined whenever you were taking him extra deep, a skill he'd appreciated every time. He remembered the first time you'd done it, it had felt like his head was about to explode. And he'd gladly accepted his fate if that meant enjoying this feeling one last time.

“Holy shit…yes” He watched you through lidded eyes as you kept sucking him off, your cheeks hollowing out for a more intense feeling.

His thighs tensed, toes curling, as he felt the familiar tension returning to his abdomen.

You'd gotten to know the signs when he was close, so before you went any further, you decided to slow down a little to let him breathe.

“That is…god…amazing,” he stuttered, stroking through your hair while looking down at you lovingly.

You smiled at the compliment and licked your lips, tasting the lingering flavor of him.

“Anything for you,” you hushed, stroking over his thighs. “How about…I go on top tonight?” you asked after a few more moments.

You had tried out various positions before, but something about riding him while seeing his overwhelmed and blissed-out expression drove you completely wild.

He looked pleasently surprised at your bluntness, blinking a few times.

“Yeah, please! I'd love that,” he nodded eagerly. “But…I want to take care of you first, please,” he added in a quieter voice.

He loved going down on you, not only for your pleasure but for his own as well. He had to admit, hearing you screaming out his name, writhing in pleasure from his tongue, gave him an extra boost of confidence.

Also, if you'd started riding him now, he would have finished within 10 seconds, and he didn't want to risk that. Not tonight.

“Only if you want to,” you said, but you knew his answer already.

“I always want to taste you,” he said, gently helping you up and onto the bed. You felt yourself getting aroused at his words, growing undeniably wet by the minute. 

He helped you out of the rest of your clothes, admiring your bare body.

“You look so beautiful….wow.” The last words were coming out merely as a whisper. He had seen you naked many times before, but he'd never get bored of that view in front of him.

His hands started playing eagerly with your tits, massaging the soft flesh until he replaced one hand with his mouth.

He eagerly sucked on your already hardened nipples, groaning while doing so, while his other hand kept fondling your breast.

“Leon….yes,” you sighed, arching your back to give him better access.

His cock immediately twitched upon hearing his name falling from your lips. He mumbled something in between, which you couldn’t really tell with his mouth being stuffed full. By the way his erection was pressing against your thigh, you were sure it must have been something positive.

Once you lay down, he reached for your legs, opening them carefully to expose your glistening folds to him. He took a few seconds, looking in awe at your wet pussy, before burying his face between your thighs.

The first few times he'd gone down on you, he'd tried to do everything. His movements were everywhere, trying to lick, kiss, and finger all at once, at the same time.

It wasn’t bad per se, not at all, but it was a little eager. Maybe a little bit too eager even. He just didn’t know how to use his skilled tongue just yet. After directing him a little and explaining how you liked it better, he became a total pro, though, leaving you breathless every time. Just like now.

“You taste so so good,” he mumbled between licks, gripping onto your thighs to keep them open.

His flattened out tongue licked long stripes over your cunt, giving you the maximum amount of pleasure.

He occasionally looked up to your face, still licking over your wetness, trying to gauge your reactions. He wanted to study you, see what brought you the biggest pleasure.

Your clit pulsated with every lick, and the more pressure he applied, the wetter you became.

“Is that okay?” He asked, looking up from between your thighs with glistening lips.

“Yes, Leon. It’s perfect…please keep going,” you whispered, holding onto his soft hair, tangling your hands in it.

He smiled as you gently pressed him down again to where you needed him most, and he happily complied.

After a while he suddenly started sucking on your clit, causing a sudden and intense amount of pleasure spreading throughout your whole body.

You moaned, gripping his hair tighter, hips bucking against his mouth as he simultaneously started licking your clit.

“Leon oh god-“ Your climax was quickly approaching, making you feel like you were about to enter another dimension.

He alternated with the pressure of his hot tongue against you, all the while keeping a constant level of suction on your clit until your walls started to clench around nothing. You cried out in pleasure, feeling your orgasm washing over you.

Leon groaned against you, his cock throbbing in need as he heard your moans and whimpers. He licked you through your high, keeping a firm grip on your thighs as you rode against his face. The taste of your arousal sent another jolt of pleasure right to his cock, which was begging for more attention.

He watched as you came down from your orgasm, placing a few kisses along your inner thighs.

“Where did that come from?” You asked, breathing heavily, as you looked down at him still lying between your thighs. He was smiling proudly, like he just won the award for best oral-performing boyfriend. You were sure he’d never done it like that before, and you’d never mentioned the sucking part either.

“Well…” He grinned. “Maybe I read a thing or two,” he admitted sheepishly, looking at you.

“Read something?” You asked.

“After our conversations…I wanted to improve and try something out,” he explained.

You imagined your adorable, innocent-looking boyfriend reading through steamy articles about how to please a woman right, maybe with flushed cheeks even. He was just the best and most thoughtful boyfriend you'd ever had; you were sure of it.

“That was perfect, Leon. Whatever you read, it was great,” you chuckled, taking a few more moments before you got up again and kissed him on the lips. “You’re the best,” you whispered, causing him to smile.

“Now how about my idea….the riding,” you teased with a grin, pushing him down gently.

“Fuck yes…please ride my cock,” he sighed, taking your hands in his to help you straddle him.

You slowly let yourself sink down onto his length, taking your time so you could both adjust.

You sighed, closing your eyes at the pleasant sensation of him stretching you out and filling you completely. Every now and then you were sure you could feel him twitch inside you.

His hands drifted to your hips, gripping them tightly with his eyes closed and brows furrowed.

„You are so tight around me….f-fuck,“ he said shakingly, trying to catch a breath in between.

“Mhm. And you’re so big,” you whispered. Just as you were about to start moving, he stopped you with his hands still on your hips, fingers digging in your skin.

“Can you wait for a minute?" he breathed. “P-please. I don't wanna cum too soon,” he stammered, looking up at you with pleading eyes.

“It's okay,” you said, smiling softly, placing your hands on his warm chest and feeling the rapid heartbeat under your fingers and palms.

His gaze drifted down your body—your neck, breasts, and stomach—and ended right at the point where you two were connected.

“It's just that…you're so beautiful and hot and you do all the right things and you feel so goddamn tight around my cock. So w-warm,” he rambled without taking a breath.

You blushed at his loving words and leaned down to kiss him again.

“I love you, Leon,” you mumbled against his lips, hands still braced on his chest.

“I love you too. So much” He groaned when he felt you starting to roll your hips against him. You continued with slow, teasing movements until you switched to actually bouncing on his shaft up and down.

Mesmerized, he looked at you and the way your tits were bouncing with every movement you made. Once you saw his fixated gaze, you took his hands and placed them on your breasts.

“Touch me, Leon,” you urged him gently, to which he instantly complied. He toyed with your soft breasts, brushing over your nipples as you continued riding him.

“Yes, please keep going fuck-“ He felt his cock becoming harder, if that was even possible at that point. At least to him, it felt like it.

You started to increase your pace, hands still on his chest and eyes locked on his face. His cock glided deliciously against your walls, massaging you and hitting just the right spot. Your clit was still so sensitive from your prior orgasm that it felt heavenly whenever it brushed against his pelvis.

The room was filled with the sounds of grunting and moaning and the wet sounds of your wet cunt riding his cock.

“Leon, you feel so good. God…yes,” you moaned, closing your eyes shut as you fucked him faster.

You decided that if he got to try something new, you would too. With every time you bounced on him, you started tensing your pelvic muscles at the same time, causing you to become even tighter around him.

He opened his eyes. “How did you do that?” He asked, completely flabbergasted.

“Wait…that?” you teased, tensing your inner muscles again. His cock twitched, feeling like you were milking him.

He took in a sharp breath, looking at you with glossy eyes.

“That stays my secret,” you winked, doing it again while continuing to ride him. You silently thanked yourself for keeping up with your pelvic floor exercises.

“Fuck fuck fuck…..oh god….” he cursed under his breath as his fingers pressed into your skin while you rode him faster. His hips bucked up to meet your thrusts until you found a perfect rhythm together.

You cried out as he hit your sweet spot again, making it impossible for you to focus on anything else.

“I think I’m gonna cum…I can’t last much longer,” he said through gritted teeth, breathing heavily.

You nodded quickly. “It’s okay, don’t hold back”

“No, I want you to cum again first,” he muttered. If you were in a different situation, you’d surely went for an “aww” but that seemed inappropriate, so you just kept on riding him, moaning his name over and over again.

You watched as he put his fingers on your clit again, rubbing tight circles on you, and within a few more moments, you felt your second orgasm wash over you. Your walls fluttered around his member uncontrollably, and with that you took him over the edge with you.

“Fuck fuck fuck-“ Was all he managed to say as he came, spilling everything he had to offer inside you. You kept moving in sync, helping the other to ride out your highs.

“Mhm, Leon, please, yes,” you moaned, still moving up and down to prolong your orgasm.

After a few more moments, your movements became slower and slower until you stilled, his cock still inside you.

The both of you stayed like that for a while, catching your breath and just staring into each other’s eyes.

“That was amazing. As always,” he mumbled with a satisfied and pleasant expression on his face.

“It really was,” you nodded with a smile, gently stroking over his hot and damp skin on his chest.

“I feel like…you’ll be the death of me someday,” he grinned. “But in a good way!”

You laughed. “Oh yeah? Well, I am working on it." You winked as you got off him. He whimpered when you did so, already missing your tightness and warmth around him.

He extended one arm out, inviting you to snuggle up to him. The aftercare and the cuddling with him were just as good as the sex was. You already knew how caring and protective he was, but he made sure to prove it to you every single time.

Gently, he kissed your cheek and searched for your eyes.

“Did you enjoy it?” He asked hopefully. “Because I really did,” he added in a quieter voice, as if he weren't sure if he should really ask it.

You giggled and turned yourself to the side so you could really see his face. “It was wonderful, Leon. I loved everything about it,” you said encouragingly, laying your head on his chest. “You’re really good in bed,” you added with a smile.

“Ah, not as good as you are,” he said with flushed cheeks.

“That’s not a competition. It’s about how well we match and communicate, not about who has more experience,” you said softly, brushing a few hair strands out of his face.

“That’s true, I suppose." He smiled, brushing his hands gently along your back.

You stayed like that for a while, cuddling and enjoying the quiet, until you heard Leon's stomach grumbling.

You chuckled. “I guess we should order the pizza now, hm?”

“Yes, now I am really hungry,” he laughed quietly. “I will order for us, and you can already hop in the shower. I will join you then." 

“Mhm, sounds perfect." You nodded, slowly getting up from the bed.

“You want the usual?” He asked as he made his way to the bedroom door.

“Yes!” You said, slipping into the bathroom that was attached to your bedroom.

“Anything else?” He called after you.

“Only you!”

He chuckled as he heard your joyous response, staying like that for a few seconds and reminiscing on your shared intimacy. You were his world, and he would do anything to keep you happy and safe; he was sure of that.

Final Note: I hope you enjoyed it! As always, feedback is very much appreciated and means the world to me! No matter if its comments, likes, reblogs. I appreciate the support so much. 💗

My Leon Kennedy masterlist can be found: here

If you want to be tagged in future stories, feel free to reach out to me here or in the comments (I have one for Leon and one for Carlos. You can also be added to both ofc 😊)

Also: if you want to, you can always slide in my inbox and have a chat with me 🫶🏻

Leon was not foreign to the concept of stitches and so you were sure there would be no complications this time as well. Lo and behold, 'I was bored so I went to the camp' which led to your current predicament.  “Says the lady currently driving a needle through my skin,” he muttered with a strained groan, finally leaning back against the operating chair.  "You were the one who denied local anaesthesia. If you want I could still-" You were cut off by him almost immediately. "I don't need local ana-thing for 5 stitches" He said as if you had offended him by even suggesting it. Men. "Then don't move again. I mean it." Sternly, this time.  "You got it doc." Keeping his word, he stopped moving, the only sign that he was not under an anaesthetic being the faces he was making every time the needle went through. The stitching, being superficial, was done relatively fast. You moved away and discarded your gloves.  "I'm writing you up on a strict recovery leave for the next two weeks" , you said flatly as you reached for the clipboard resting on the counter nearby. Leon’s head snapped up so fast you almost feared he had torn another stitch. "Oh, come on, doc, don't do this to me. Hell, I'm pretty sure you're not even allowed to do that."

“Doctor’s authority overrides field assignment if an operative is deemed medically unfit for active duty,” you recited. “Would you like me to continue, or have you memorised this lecture too?”

Leon stared at you for a long second before letting out a quiet sigh through his nose.

“That’s low.”

“What’s low is reopening your stitches because you got bored.” Moving to your desk and sitting down, you picked up his file.

“In my defence, it wasn’t entirely my fault.”

You finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “You voluntarily went to a training camp two days after abdominal sutures.” “They needed me there!” He replied quick on his feet.  "You told me you went because you were bored." Another flat look. A beat of silence "Well, I was bored and they needed help with the rookies." "Leon, we are not arguing about this. You need rest. As your doctor its my responsibility to make sure you stay in good health and shape" You set the clipboard down on the desk with a sharp tap, turning back to face him.

He slumped back onto the operating chair with a groan. "Fine. You're the boss. I'll sit at home and do nothing. Rot basically. Cause that's what u want me to do. Rot." "Leon." "No no. Do as you please. Don't let my misery bother you." "Agent Kennedy."

That finally got his attention.

Barely.

He dragged a hand down his face before peering at you through brown-blond strands falling over tired blue eyes. “You know, people usually buy me dinner before threatening my entire lifestyle.”

You crossed your arms. “People usually don't reopen stitches out of boredom.”  A soft smile took home on his face all the while looking like he was seconds away from falling asleep. Cute. Adorable even. The small voice in your head even urged you to run ur fingers through his hair. How unprofessional, you scolded yourself mentally.   “You’re exhausted,” you said, gentler this time.

“I’m functioning.”

“You were limping when you came in.”

“Hey now you're just being dramatic.”  How stubborn can someone possibly be, level Leon Scott Kennedy. You exhaled slowly through your nose, fighting the urge to smile. Fighting and losing, apparently, because his eyes narrowed the second he caught it.

“There it is,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“That thing.”

You frowned. “Very descriptive.”

“The smile.” He gestured vaguely toward your face. “You try not to do it around me.”

Your heartbeat performed an unhelpful little backflip.

“That is objectively untrue.” Quick to defend yourself and only receiving a "mmhmm" from his end. "FYI, I'm very professional, I do not laugh and giggle with any of the government agents I'm assigned to. Ever." You said trying to gain some of the ground back for it to all be yeeted out the window when leon dramatically clutches his chest. "Agents. There are multiple? You're telling me I'm not the only one?"  You roll your eyes and get up to wash the tools you used. Distracting. Or at least trying your best to distract yourself. That was until Leon spoke up again. "I think you tolerate me quite professionally.” His voice dipped lower, softer around the edges. “I think the smiling part’s separate.” And thank god you were'nt facing him cause he would have totally caught onto how warm that sentence just made you. "You're avoiding the real topic." You said trying to go back to medical leaves. "You're deflecting." God did he ever stop, or was he on a mission to break his poor doctor's composure today? Nope. Not today.

"You need sleep." You said placing the washed stuff back where it belongs "Cruel" Came a quick reply "And at least two weeks off duty." "Crueler."

With that, you turned back only to see him staring at the ceiling as if he had been sentenced to death. You cleared your throat and sat back down at your desk, flipping through his file in an attempt to regain some level of professionalism. “Your vitals are stable for now. But if those stitches reopen again, you’ll need another full closure.”

“Sounds romantic.” You chose to ignore that one.

“You’ll need to come back in a week so I can remove the stitches.”

“A whole week without seeing me?” he mused. “How tragic.”

“You say that like you don’t appear here every three business days.”

“That’s unfair.” To which I replied, "hardly," before standing up and making my way to his other reports to add them into the file as well. Another silence settled between you. 

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that made you aware of stupid things.

Like the fact Leon’s voice always sounded rougher when he was tired.

Or how he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking.

Or how unfairly good-looking someone had no business being while half-drugged on painkillers. You could feel his gaze lingering again. It made concentrating nearly impossible.

“Why do you do that?” he asked suddenly.

You looked up. “Do what?”

“Act like you don’t like me.”

You nearly dropped the clipboard.

“I never said I didn’t like you.”

“You don’t have to.” His smile turned faintly crooked. “You get all professional whenever things stop being about medical stuff.”

“That is generally how being a doctor works.”

“Mm. See? There it is again.”

You set the clipboard down with perhaps slightly more force than necessary. “You are reading too much into things.”

“Occupational hazard.”

Before you could respond, Leon shifted forward in the chair with a quiet grunt. Immediately, your expression sharpened. “What did I just say about moving?”

“I dropped my phone!” You are quick to pick it up and hand it to him. And as if on cue, it rang loudly in his hand.

Leon glanced at the screen and groaned dramatically. “Great. Hunnigan.”

“Answer it.”

“She’s gonna yell at me.”

“You deserve it.”

He narrowed his eyes at you before answering anyway. “Hey.”

You busied yourself backl with his file while he spoke.

Or rather, while he got scolded.

“Yes, I’m at medical.”

Pause.

“No, I’m fine.”

Longer pause.

“I said I’m fine.”

You heard a faint muffled voice and had to fight down a smile.

Leon pointed accusingly toward you while talking into the phone. “See? This is workplace bullying. You and her. You both are teaming up against me.”

You snorted quietly.

Apparently, that was audible enough because Hunnigan’s voice sharpened through the receiver.

Leon sighed heavily. “Okay, okay. Yes ma’am.”

Another pause.

Then his expression shifted slightly.

Subtler.

Softer.

His eyes flicked toward you briefly before he looked away again.

“...No,” he said after a moment. “Not yet.”

Your brows furrowed slightly.

Not yet?

Hunnigan must have said something else because Leon suddenly rubbed his face with his free hand.

“You are literally making this worse.”

Now you were curious.

Very curious.

A beat later, he hung up and tossed the phone onto his lap.

You crossed your arms. “Problems?” "Aren't there always?...You know what I've realised, doc?" I looked at him, confused, "What have you realised?"

“I like being here.”

You blinked. “In medical?”

“In your office.”

Your heart stumbled traitorously. Was he smooth-talking right now?

“That might genuinely be the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”

“I’m serious.”

You looked at him carefully.

He looked exhausted still. Pale under the fluorescent lights. Hair falling into tired eyes. Stubbornness practically radiated off him in waves.

But underneath all of that was something else.

Ease. Like this was one of the few places where he could unclench for a minute.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

The rain outside had softened into a steady rhythm against the windows. Somewhere farther down the hall, footsteps passed and faded again. 

Leon Kennedy looked unfairly pretty while exhausted. "So...I've got a question for you", Leon spoke up, breaking the quiet. "Sure. What is it?" You noticed the slight shift in posture. The hesitation. The way his gaze flicked away for half a second before returning to yours. “I was wondering...” He cleared his throat lightly. “If maybe you’d want to get dinner sometime.”

Your brain stopped functioning.

Completely.

You stared at him.

Leon immediately grimaced. “Wow. That bad, huh?”

“What?”

“The silence. Usually not a great sign.”

“No, I just…” You blinked rapidly. “You’re asking me out?”

"Well, I was trying to.” A faint flush touched the tips of his ears. “Kinda crashing and burning now.”

“You’re serious?” you said.

You folded your arms again mostly to hide the fact your hands suddenly had nowhere sensible to go. “Agent Kennedy, are you aware that there are probably regulations about this?”

“Probably.”

“And you didn’t even hesitate?”

“I hesitated for like six months.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “Six months!?”

“Listen,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m not exactly great at this anymore.”

The honesty in that statement hit unexpectedly hard.

Not self-pitying.

Just truthful.

Careful.

Like someone testing whether the ground beneath them would hold.

“You could’ve asked someone else,” you pointed out softly.

He looked at you for a long moment.

Then, quieter than before, “Didn’t want someone else.”

The room went still. Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far in the distance.

Leon leaned back again, clearly deciding he’d already embarrassed himself enough for one evening. “Anyway. You can say no. I figured I’d ask before you banished me to house arrest.”

"Wh-I...well..uhh." Words and thoughts had completely escaped you because this was genuinely the last thing you thought would happen. "Hey its ok, you know? It's fine. I'm a big boy, I can take rejections."

You shook your head, trying desperately to ignore the stupid fluttering in your chest. “Leon.”

His expression softened slightly at the sound of his name. “I’m serious” he said quietly.

"Well...You are going to recover first." And upon hearing that, he visibly perked up. As if you had just given a golden retriever its favourite treat. And god did the sudden, wide-eyed hopefulness look adorable on him. "...and after?" He asked carefully

You tried to maintain professionalism.

You truly did. But the small smile found your face anyways. "After...maybe dinner."

Leon stared for exactly one second before visibly relaxing with a smile as he looked at you.

“There it is again,” he said softly.

You frowned slightly. “What?”

“That smile.” +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A/n: First leon fic!! Not sure how I feel about it tho. Did you guys like it? ❥𝖨𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽!!

“I got you a coffee,” you offered, your short little pencil skirt riding up your thighs as you chased after your boss through the lobby of his fancy office building in the center of the city. 

“Thanks,” he grinned at you, grabbing it just to place all the papers he’d been holding in your hands instead, pushing even more on top while you awkwardly opened and shut your mouth to stop yourself from saying anything. 

He took a small sip, scrunched his nose up while Toji struggled not to scoff out loud from where he was pretending to read a magazine in the corner next to the other waiting clients, all of them eagerly hoping to meet with the not-so-great Satoru Gojo.

“It’s not sweet enough,” Gojo criticized, masking his attitude with playfulness, acting like a child while you apologized to him as if you’d done something wrong by thinking of him. 

He wasn’t listening. Just kept moving towards the elevators, pulling his phone from his pockets to make a phone call to some other prick, probably. 

You scrambled behind him, folders stacked up in your arms, the coffee cup precariously balanced on top of the pile. 

God, what kind of fucking loser didn't carry his own stuff? 

His pretty little assistant he used more like a pack mule. 

It didn’t take long to find out your name. 

From there, everything else was easy. 

Finding out where you lived was as simple as following you from your car to your shitty little apartment, poorly paid and scraping by while your boss lived in his luxury penthouse on the opposite side of the city. Figuring out what foods you liked from what you spent too long looking at in the grocery store before you sighed and tossed a bag of rice in your cart instead. Snapping photos of you from afar like a fucking secret admirer through your window once you got back home, time stamped and saved to a special folder on his laptop, watching you shed your coat and clothes, trading them in for t-shirts and pajama pants. 

Toji wasn’t a stalker though.

Of course not. 

He was just doing what he was paid for. 

And what easier way was there to get to Gojo than through his cute, clueless assistant? 

You weren’t even aware when he trailed behind you on the street, head trained forward, always in a rush, scampering from place to place without stopping. Running errands for a man who couldn’t care less about you.

And in this city, you might be the only person as alone as him. 

Toji couldn’t put his finger on when studying you had become less of a chore and more of a habit. Day four? Week two?

Watching and waiting for the right time to approach? 

For all his expertise, his ability to move through the world unseen, unnoticed, it worked against him for once when you ran straight into him trying to leave your usual coffee shop, turning when he hadn’t expected it and smacking into his chest at full speed.

The coffee – something cold and sugary and sweet – splashed over both of you, your white shirt soaked through to see a pale pink bra underneath, your face flushing for the wrong reasons as you immediately started rattling off apologies.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” you muttered, trying to use the few napkins you grabbed to dab at his t-shirt, rubbing uselessly despite the fabric already being black. “I wasn’t paying attention, and-” 

“S’fine,” he grunted, yanking one from his hand to wipe off your shirt instead. 

You didn’t stop him. 

Just froze, standing completely still as he dragged the napkin over your chest while it heaved, listening to you suck in a sharp breath. 

When was the last time you’d even been intimate with a man if him cleaning your shirt had you practically pressing your thighs together in that prissy skirt of yours? 

Admittedly, there was a distinct disgust churning in him at the image of you being intimate with someone else, despite how quickly he rejected it.

It wasn't like you were more than a mark to Toji.

He squinted, eyes narrowing as his attention shifted to your face just to find you openly gawking at his broad chest, lips still parted mid-apology. 

“Oh, um, thanks,” you practically squeaked, looking up at all with big, surprised eyes.  

“Whatever,” he tch-ed, digging out his last ten dollar bill from his wallet and holding it out despite the urge to just toss it at you to see what you’d do. 

You shook your head, oblivious to the fact he was well-aware just how strapped to cash you really were, biting your bottom lip. “I can’t, I mean, that was really my fault, and-” 

“Don’t make me put it in your purse, doll,” he huffed at you, even if he almost said bra. Tempted to tuck it in, wondering if you’d let him. 

Did you even have it in you to stand up for yourself? 

How the hell did a pretty thing like you survive so long on your own like this? 

“A-are you sure?” You stuttered, glancing back over him again. 

His pride took a fucking hit at your uncertainty. 

Did he seriously look like he couldn’t spare a ten dollar bill? Was it the sweatpants? 

He showered this morning, bothered to spritz on cologne when he usually couldn’t give a shit. Toji ran his fingers through his hair, jaw locking as his eyes narrowed.

“You got a pen?” He grumbled, wagering that you definitely did. Maybe he hadn’t seen the inside of your purse, but he’d been watching you long enough to know what its contents were. 

In a not creepy way. 

“Yes?” You blinked, somehow cuter when you were confused. 

Still though, you were obedient, anticipating him asking for it and just digging it out from your bag to hand to him. The tip of it had been bitten, another little hint of how nervous you were by nature. 

He took it from you, his calloused fingers brushing against your much softer ones, a jolt of electricity traveling up his arm at the simple touch, the soft way your breath paused. You had to feel it too. 

Toji scribbled his number down. 

His personal cell. 

You were beaming before he even finished writing the last number, standing up straighter, sticking your chest out more. 

“I’ll buy you a new shirt,” he grunted, giving you the pen before the dollar, holding it out over your head, your stare flickering from his face to the money. “Text me.” 

He wanted you to reach for it. 

To chase him. 

But three more days passed – and he hadn’t heard a peep. 

Toji knew what you were up to, tracking you instead of his target, taking notes on everything you did instead of texting him. You stared at your phone at home though, left the dollar bill sitting on your kitchen counter, running your fingers over his writing as if you weren’t sure what to do. 

He supposed he’d have to help you figure it out then. 

Especially considering Shiu was starting to get on his ass about getting the job done. 

Because that was what this was supposed to be about – a means to an end. 

Faking a name tag was easy. Digging up the old utility overalls he’d seen some of the other maintenance workers wear at your office, the sort of position no one ever paid any mind to until they were needed for something. He didn't get much sleep, trading in his night shift watching you go to sleep for snooping around your office. And in the morning, after going back to his car to put on some cologne, he walked back in through the lobby like he was supposed to be there, not even getting courtesy nods from your coworkers. 

Toji had memorized your schedule. 

So he knew to be in the third floor break room at ten, pretending to fix something in the ceiling when you walked in to make a cup of coffee. 

For yourself this time. 

He was climbing down from the ladder he stole from a storage closet when you sighed and started cleaning up the mess the last person had left by the coffee machine. You didn’t notice, didn’t even turn until you went to grab a mug from the shelf, frowning when you realized they had all been moved to the top shelf. 

A nice touch, in his opinion.  

Setting everything up to be the one to take care of it for you, stepping behind you, close enough for you to feel his chest on your back as he reached up to get it for you. 

“Here,” he grumbled, and you slowly spun around to face him. 

Stuck between his sturdy body and the cold counter, frozen in surprise at him being here. He wondered if you’d be scared, suspicious. 

It was funny to watch you get so flustered instead, completely frazzled as you tried to find the words to say. 

“Um, you, uh, work here?” You finally managed, and he just raised a brow, the scar over his mouth twitching as he gestured towards the name tag on his belt. 

You blushed again, your attention drifting to something else by it, the bulge he hadn't meant to be sporting. 

“Mhm,” he hummed, a low drawl that made you smile at him. 

It was sunny. You were. Bright, not bitter. Absolutely unaware that the world revolved around you. 

“Sorry,” you apologized, even though you had no actual reason to. Maybe for not messaging him back. Maybe for stealing glances at his dick. 

He paused, a weird strained feeling taking over his chest, constricting his lungs when you tilted your head to the side. 

“I haven’t seen you around before,” you added, holding your breath. 

“I’ve seen you,” he shrugged, and your entire face practically lit up at the idea someone had been paying attention to you. 

You swallowed hard, trying to stifle it. To keep it contained, to make yourself smaller in front of him, like he wouldn’t like you if you weren’t soft-spoken. 

“Do you think you could take a look at the phones in my office? Well, Mr. Gojo’s,” you corrected yourself, toying with your fingers before cringing. “Only if you're available, of course. I put in a ticket but-”

“Sure,” he grunted. 

As long as the actual maintenance guy didn’t come, you’d never know the difference. After all, that was why he’d broken in last night. Disconnecting the phones himself, creating a couple issues with a few of the computers in the sales team downstairs that the real department would be too busy to handle any of your problems. If you ever pieced together he didn’t actually work there, it wouldn’t be until long after he was gone.

He'd prefer it if you never knew any better. 

And Shiu never said he couldn’t have some fun first. 

He followed you back to your office, not hiding his stare, enjoying how you were already squirming, nervously shifting and looking over your shoulder at him every few feet. 

“You didn’t have to do it now,” you mumbled, embarrassed, but he shrugged. 

Rolling his shoulders back to remind you how broad they were, catching the flash of you biting your lip before you faced forward again. 

Everything about you was far more fucking adorable than it had any right to be. 

Toji had never really gotten the appeal of stuffed animals. He never had any when he was a kid. No softness, no warmth, nothing small and sweet to hug. But you reminded him of one.

Or maybe that was just the urge to pick you up and squeeze you hard. 

“What’s wrong with ‘em?” He gruffly asked, gesturing ahead as you hit the button for the elevator to take you both to the top floor. 

“They just ring, and um, nothing happens,” you tried to explain, smoothing down your skirt self-consciously. 

He nodded, like he knew what the problem could be, and he did, actually. Because he caused it. 

The elevator doors opened, thankfully empty. There was something annoying about the idea of sharing you – even for a minute. 

Toji told himself that you were just less irritating than other people. That it had nothing to do with you in particular, just how disgusting the rest of the world was. 

But he was still observing how you pushed the button, how quickly you went back to fiddling with your fingers and picking at your cuticles. Clasping your hands in front of you, maybe just remembering the fact you forgot your coffee back in the break room. Left it by the pot you brewed, your lip gloss staining the rim from the single sip you'd taken and the drink inside growing cold. 

Did you confess? 

Admit you wanted to go back and grab it? 

Nope. 

He knew you wouldn’t. All that meant was another excuse to go back and get it for you himself, maybe make you a fresh one to cement his spot in your good graces, to get your guard down. 

The elevator dinged, opening up to wooden floors and soft lighting. Wall art he had briefly contemplated stealing the night before, although he skipped since it’d be a bitch to sell. 

Besides, he’d have more than enough money to cover anything he wanted to buy soon enough. 

“Um, the phone’s over here,” you shyly said, leading him over to your desk. 

Toji nodded, a low grunt of acknowledgement leaving his throat while he pretended to work on it, messing around with cables. 

You were watching him, taking your seat and clicking away on your keyboard despite your eyes constantly flickering over to his. 

He pretended he didn’t notice. Setting his jaw in a firm line while he unplugged stuff just to put it in different outlets. He considered tapping the lines, just to listen in to whatever you were saying during the day, but then he'd have to justify that expense to Shiu, and he really didn’t fucking feel like getting a lecture. 

His handler would tell him just to take out the target already. Stop wasting his time getting close to a liability. 

But of all the risks Toji had taken, you were the easiest one of all.

Would you let him find an excuse to get under your desk? Maybe catch a peek at whatever pair of panties you picked out today? 

Your personal phone rang – and you were scrambling to pick it up and answer. 

“Hello?” Your voice lilted up, all pure and sweet, and Toji immediately loathed whoever you were addressing. 

It wasn’t anything he could control, just instinctual irritation, a cheese grater to his patience watching you sit up straighter in your chair while you listened to whoever was on the other end. 

“Of course, sir,” you chirped. He had to stop himself from snapping the cord he was holding when he caught how you were subtly twirling your hair. Glancing down at your lap and sucking in a sharp breath before you mumbled, “Sorry, Satoru.” 

Toji had to look down to make sure he didn't somehow electrocute himself when the edges of his vision tinged with red, annoyance rolling into a tight ball of anger. The hard kind that couldn't crack, just rolled around in the pit of his stomach, demanding something be done about it. 

“Okay, see you in thirty.” You smiled. A soft one, biting it back before plastering a practiced expression of professionalism, probably remembering Toji was still here. 

He scowled at the realization Gojo coming back meant he should probably skip bringing you that coffee. Didn't want to risk running into him too soon. 

You hung up, and he shoved the last cord back in the correct place. 

“Try now,” he growled, picking the phone up from the receiver and passing it to you.

You took it from him, your fingertips brushing against his again, all gentle as you cradled it between your shoulder and ear, nails clicking on the keypad. Relief flooded your face when it worked, looking up at him like you were thankful. 

Gratitude wasn't something Toji knew how to receive. 

He was used to the exchange of cash, of cold demands that ended in death. Your warmth was alien. 

What had a guy like Satoru Gojo ever done to deserve it? 

Was this jealousy? Bitter and begging to be addressed, his skin itching at imagining the man getting your company all day long, having you at his beck and call. 

Whatever it was, Toji was going to fucking squash it. 

“Thank you, it was really nice of you-”

“What are you doing after work?” He interrupted before you could finish rambling, making all the reasons why you were easy to take advantage of excruciatingly obvious. You were too sweet. Too nice. Acting like he was a saint for fixing your phone, unaware he was the sinner who broke it to begin with. Who'd break your boss too, the second he got the chance. 

“Um, nothing?” You blinked. Your lips were still parted, but you didn't say anything. 

“Wanna grab drinks?” He grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. Toji wanted to lean across the desk, put his palm flat on top of your useless papers and peek at your cleavage, but you were the sort that scared easily. 

The confusion on your face was cute. 

“Like, as coworkers?” You were clueless. “Are other people coming or-” 

Did you seriously fucking think you were just getting left out of some after work hangout? 

“Like a date,” he clarified, struggling not to contain his urge to bend you over your desk and show you just how not-platonic his interest was. 

“With me?” 

You were gawking, but there was an unmistakable air of giddiness to your face, a grin you couldn't suppress even under all that shock. 

“Did I stutter, doll?” Toji gruffly said, walking around your desk until your eye level was at his mid-riff. Your hand tightened around the armrest, slowly dragging your stare up like you could see the truth in his face. 

“Um, sure,” you nodded, still unsure of how serious he was. “If you want to.” 

“I want you,” he easily shrugged, making his point clear. 

He wasn't delicate. Wouldn't skirt around shit like your Satoru did. Being blunt was the only way to get it through that pretty skull of yours anyway. 

“I'll be waiting for you out front at six.” That was when you usually scampered out anyway, frazzled and exhausted from handling a man child's chores all day. 

“Okay,” you spoke softly, betraying your feelings by covering your mouth with your hands, hiding a smile behind them. 

He turned to leave, but he kept his eyes on you all the way to the elevator. 

You watched him too. He might have a job to do. 

Toji was just going to fuck you first. 

Was this how it felt to have a crush? 

Well, one that wasn’t hopeless and unattainable? 

You’d been wasting years wishing Satoru noticed you. And in a matter of days, someone else had snuck up on you. A spilled coffee. A phone number. And now, a date. 

When was the last time you'd even been on one? 

You frowned at your reflection in the mirror, fingers working to undo another button of your shirt and hike up your skirt a little higher. Half of you was disappointed that he hadn't asked you out on a different night, or given you enough time to go home and get changed into something a little more sexy and less like you just stepped out of an investor meeting. 

But the rest of you was just glad he wanted to go out with you at all. 

You tried to tell yourself you had less time to overthink this way. That you wouldn't be distracted for days until the date, waiting for him to cancel. 

But when you walked out of the building at six, leaving a sticky note for Satoru whenever he stepped out of his office letting him know you couldn’t stay late tonight, Toji was true to his word, waiting for you in a beat-up black car. 

It wasn’t sleek, wasn’t shiny and freshly glossed like Satoru’s, but it looked fast. His window was rolled down, his arm resting on it while his defined jaw unclenched at the sight of you standing there and staring. 

“You comin’?” 

Was it wrong to hope he’d make sure you did by the end of the night? 

You scampered over, glancing around to see a few of your coworkers looking your way before you pulled open the passenger door and climbed in. His eyes raked over you, that white scar that ran across the corner of his lips twitching up as he smirked. 

He was broader than Satoru, stockier. All muscles, all man. 

His dark hair was shaggy, not carefully styled, his sturdy fingers running through it as he measured you the same way you measured him. He must’ve gone home and changed, in a dark shirt that clung to his chest, made you take note of his biceps bulging underneath his sleeves, probably big enough to make them burst if he strained hard enough. Wearing jeans, no name tag hanging on his belt now. 

But you already memorized his name. 

Toji. 

It had been on the forefront of your thoughts all day, right there with the rest of his words. He saw you. He wanted you. 

Invited you out like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. 

You were so distracted by, well, everything about him that you forgot to buckle your seatbelt until he stretched across the center console and did it for you. There was something kinda funny about a gruff guy like him taking care of something so small like that for you, grunting under his breath as it clicked into place. 

Maybe just an excuse to be close to you, to touch you again. 

You didn’t mind. 

His attention was nice. 

You didn’t know what to say though, awkwardly glancing between him and outside the window, wondering what a typical conversation looked like on a first date. 

“So, um, do you like your job?” You heard yourself ask, almost immediately wishing you hadn’t just from his soft scoff, the subtle arch of his thin brow while he pulled out onto the road. 

“It pays the bills,” he shrugged, and you tried to nod sympathetically. You were about to spout out something polite, but then he opened his mouth to talk again, giving you that dangerous bit of side eye that made your heart skip a beat. “But it ain’t so bad. Gotta meet you because of it, didn’t I, doll?” 

And there it was again.

Doll. 

Satoru sometimes called you sweetheart, but that didn’t send a shiver down your spine, didn’t have that low rumble to it that gave you goosebumps. When he said it like that, you wouldn’t really mind being a pretty toy for him to play with. 

“Y-yeah,” you stammered, blushing hard as you tried to swallow your anxieties. 

You were overworked. Exhausted. Barely making it by on caffeine and four hours of sleep most days. But you were here. In a hot guy’s car being flirted with on the way to a bar. 

He briefly looked at you before turning back to face the road, but you could see the satisfaction in the crook of his smile. 

“Relax a little, baby,” he hummed, reaching over – and for a second, you thought he was going to grab your thigh. You hadn’t realized it was hope until he just turned up the radio instead. But with a second flash of that scar and that smirk, you were smiling back at him. “We’re gonna have fun tonight." 

It still took two glasses of wine for you to start to unwind, a pleasant buzz floating around in your chest, coloring your world in warm hues as he leaned in next to you, his barstool dragged close enough for his muscled thigh to be constantly brushing against yours. A massive palm casually resting on your side, pulling you in every time someone got into what could be considered your personal space. 

He didn’t talk about himself. 

Or that much, really. 

He’d ask a few questions, then let you ramble. Sometimes, his expression would shift, his harsh and blunt edges softening when you talked about the future, about how you wanted to quit someday, find a job that wouldn’t burn you out. But it hardened a few times too, scowling when you mentioned Satoru, glaring when a drunk guy bumped into you. 

And yeah, you got it. Your boss was a bit of an…acquired taste. 

It didn’t surprise you that he managed to piss off one of his employees, especially when you spent most of your days cleaning up the messes he made. 

“When did you start?” You cleared your throat, trying to change the subject back to him. To get to know him properly. To be the best date you could be – or at least good enough that he might want to take you home. 

“A while ago,” he shrugged, another vague answer as he polished off the last of his whiskey. 

He didn’t even seem buzzed. 

“I feel like an idiot for not noticing you there before,” you admitted, tugging down the hem of your skirt self-consciously, shyly looking up to meet his open stare. 

“S’fine,” he grunted, unbothered. 

You didn’t know what to make of him past the fact he was ridiculously attractive. 

Toji was abrasive. The rough side of the sponge scraping up your silverware, the hard counter edge you bumped into when you weren't expecting it, the sharp rock that sliced open the soles of your feet when you forgot to wear shoes outside. But being around him left you hoping to get cut by him. Fingers crossed that he’d be interested enough to peel you apart and stay long enough to stitch you back together – even if it was sloppy.

After being surrounded by people who only ever plastered on fake smiles and feigned politeness, he felt like the first breath of fresh air you had in forever. Something raw and real in a world full of plastic. 

He wasn’t polished. Wasn’t perfect. 

But you’d never been either. And you were tired of pretending and playing along. 

You took another long sip of your wine, the last drop lingering on your tongue as you pushed your empty glass forward too. 

He chuckled, almost appreciatively. Snagging the drinks menu and sliding it back over to you, letting his fingers linger on top of it like he wanted to remind you how large they were. 

“Pick your poison.” 

“I think I should probably get a water,” you murmured, a little worried he might think that was lame. 

He ordered you one anyway though, chuckling when you wiped away the ring of condensation from the counter after they took your glass away.

“Don’t wanna get drunk with me?” He taunted, butterflies in your stomach fluttering when he cocked his head to the side. “I’m hurt.” 

He wasn’t, not really. But you got the feeling he liked teasing you. 

“I just don’t wanna think this was all a dream tomorrow,” you laughed, forcing it to sound lighter than it really was. You really just refused to let yourself get so wasted that you might black out an entire date or embarrass yourself in front of him. 

His eyes narrowed, like he was the one that couldn’t discern if you were being serious. 

“You callin’ me dreamy?” He dryly mocked, and that pretty jaw of his clenched, like it was a joke.

“I mean, it’s just kind of hard to believe a guy like you wants to go out with someone like me,” you murmured, offering a small smile to the bartender when he pushed a glass of water over to you. 

“A guy like me?” He challenged, and you cringed at your ability to stick your foot in your mouth. You didn’t know if you actually offended him, if that was even possible, but you slipped your hand over his.  

“Y’know,” you drawled, tracing your fingertips over his veins, holding your breath. “Attractive and-”

He snorted.  

“So what does that make you?” He raised a question you’d never really been able to answer. There were labels you assigned yourself, but all those really amounted to was what roles you played for other people. 

Lately, all you felt like was Satoru’s assistant. 

Barely your own person. 

“I dunno,” you shrugged. “Just me?” 

“I like you,” he easily said.

“You don’t know me,” you pointed back out, bringing your water glass up to your lips to take a sip. Maybe he thought you were pretty. Maybe you’d caught his eye. But there was a difference in that and knowing what your favorite-

“You stay late even when you’re exhausted. You think of everyone else when no one gives a shit. Show up with coffee and pastries for other people when you can barely afford to pay for your parking pass. You never take your lunch break-” He was listing facts like he was bored, proving his point with the overhead lights glittering back in his green eyes. You almost choked on your water, and he slipped his hand out from your other one to drag his thumb over your lips. 

It felt scandalous. Like he was just waiting to commit some grave sin with how slowly he brushed it over your bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to make you wonder what his mouth would feel like, how his taste would compare to his touch. 

But then he let go, dropped his hand down just to make you miss it. 

“You kinda sound like a stalker,” you giggled, unable to stop yourself from grinning at being seen. 

There was some faint alarm bell you knew should be ringing, but your head had been emptied out to make room for more thoughts of him. 

He chuckled, and your chest tightened. 

“What’d you think I was giving you my number for?” He sarcastically asked, dark eyes narrowing under the dim lighting as he brought his own glass up to his lips. 

You stifled another smile. “To pay for my shirt?”

“I was thinkin’ about getting you out of it.”

Toji was shameless. 

And every flirt, every searing gaze of his that stuck to your skin and stoked that fire in your stomach? You were falling for it. For him. 

Would you be a whore for sleeping with him on the first date? 

Maybe, but you couldn’t bring yourself to believe it mattered. 

You were about to suggest maybe returning to your apartment, but your phone started vibrating, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your disappointment. 

“Hold on one second?” You nervously asked, and he nodded.

“Sure,” he barked, all gravelly, not helping the simmering heat still burning under your skin. You pulled your phone out, glancing around the bar for some semi-quiet spot to take the call. 

You settled on a hallway that led to the bathrooms, heels clicking on the floor as you hurried over, grateful that Toji had chosen a hole-in-the-wall sort of place, one that wasn’t packed with people to navigate through. 

“Hello?” Your voice waivered, face flushing at the mental image of what your boss was probably doing on the other end. Scowling down at the note you left him? 

“The hell are you?” Satoru whined on the other end, apparently not happy at your absence. 

“I’m on a date,” you whispered back into the speaker, just for him to scoff back. The sound of it, even tinny and crackling through the line, fucking stung. 

As if it was actually so absurd that you could be with someone. 

“I need you here,” he huffed. “We’re supposed to be preparing for tomorrow’s meetings.”

You tapped your foot, glancing back to the end of the hallway, picturing Toji sitting on the stool waiting for you. 

“I already prepared all your slideshows. Anything you need should already be labeled and on your desk,” you muttered, doing your best to still sound professional. Collected. Calm. Put-together instead of just a weak-willed pushover. 

Toji wasn’t wrong. You spent all your time thinking of Satoru when he really couldn’t care less. You were just convenient to him. That was what he paid you to be. 

“I can’t find it,” he grumbled. Lied. 

“I also emailed everything to you,” you added, and he didn’t bother to hide his whine of annoyance. 

Irritated that you had a life outside of him. That your existence wasn’t solely devoted to making his easier. 

“Who are you even ditching me for?” Satoru was pouting. You could hear it in his voice.

“If you really must know, he works in the maintenance department and-” 

He laughed at you. 

“Leave that loser.” 

Was that what he thought? That the best you could get was a fucking loser?

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Satoru.” You hung up on him. Slipped your phone back in your purse, looking up just to see Toji leaning against the wall across from you. 

Startled, you stepped back, blinking and trying to figure out how someone as big and broad as him managed to sneak up on you.

“He botherin’ you?” Toji grunted, gesturing towards your purse.

“No, um, just work stuff,” you lied. 

You didn’t want to tell him the CEO of the company basically called him a loser. It felt mean, and you were worried he’d somehow think you shared the same impression. 

“Yeah?” He angled his head down to look at you, and his proximity made your pulse race, wild thumps roaring in your head as he took two steps closer. 

“I hung up on him,” you admitted, even though he hadn’t asked. Feeling bold just by being with him, as if you were already getting away with something. 

“You wanna give me all that attention instead, baby?” His voice was deep, a gruff purr that had you nodding. 

Your obedience earned a pleased hum. 

And even better, a kiss. 

The kind that knocked the air from your lungs, his calloused hands cupping your face as he claimed your lips for himself. You kissed him back just as hard, craning your neck up into it, tethering your fingers through his dark locks while you sucked on his lower lip. 

He tasted like whiskey. But his lips were soft enough to make you overlook the feeling that came with wondering if this was a mistake. 

If Satoru would fire you for wanting to get fucked instead of running back to fuss over him. 

Toji wasn’t the sort of guy who’d let you linger on silly worries though. No, his canines were already tugging at you, nipping at the spots you’d bitten out of stress, one of his rough palms travelling down your body, settling on your waist to pull you flush against his hard body. 

You wanted to touch him. 

To pull off his shirt and trace your fingers over all his muscles, map them out and drag your tongue over them. His was busy, already in your mouth, muffling your surprised gasp when his grip on your side suddenly squeezed tight. 

“Fuck,” he groaned into your mouth, an intangible thread in your stomach pulling taut at the sound. 

He dragged you back inside the bathroom, the employee one, like he wanted the thrill of fucking you in public with less of a risk of being walked in on. 

It was sleazy.

But the exhilaration of his hand now on your hip, the way his fingers dug in and wrinkled your skirt as he pulled you through the door, your back being pushed against the cold sink as his mouth latched onto your throat next, it outweighed any rational thought your brain could conjure up. 

You wanted him. 

The world could wait. 

This was more real than anything else your reality had to offer. His tongue licking a clean line up from your collarbone to your jaw, going back to leave messy hickies, claiming you as his. For tonight, at least. 

Hopefully longer. 

But you kept that thought to yourself, only letting small whines escape as his hand ventured under your skirt, toying with your panties underneath, slipping two fingers underneath it, testing how much the band could give. 

You didn’t want to scare him off. Push him away before he'd even put his dick inside you. 

He seemed like he specialized in one-night-stands. Like he was used to getting who he wanted when he wanted. And really, you were just so fucking sick of being single. 

Of being lonely. 

The hand that had still been on your face moved back, suddenly cradling the back of your neck, squeezing enough to make your head tilt back and give him easy access to more of you. 

There was a vulnerability to it, letting him sink his teeth into your throat, marking you up enough that the bruises would bleed through your concealer tomorrow.

But then Toji was tearing your panties off, easily rolling the flimsy fabric that you truthfully paid too much for, shoving what was left of it in his pocket before prying your thighs apart. 

You spread them further, your lungs freezing half-full of air as you watched him drag his eyeline down to your exposed cunt, already embarrassingly wet after just a couple hours spent in his company. 

He hiked your skirt higher, appreciatively admiring it, clicking his tongue as he shoved a thick finger inside you. Clearly, he’d taken note of how much you noticed them. 

You were gasping before he even made it down to the knuckle. Eyes widening, your hands immediately shifting to claw at his shoulder blades for some stability when you tried to contain your reaction. 

But Toji wasn’t going to let that slide. Refused to let you hide every lewd reflex – shoving another finger inside to join the first just to force out a strangled moan at the feeling of him stretching you open. 

Scissoring you at a tempo that bordered on lethal, only pausing his onslaught of kisses to watch your face when you said his name, all pitchy, almost pathetic. Putty for him with just a couple fingers. 

“Ya’ like that, pretty?” He grumbled, fraying with impatience, already itching to add another – or maybe trade his fingers out for something bigger. 

“Mm, mhm,” you murmured, nodding as you reclined your head back, the cold edge of the counter digging into your skin as he pulled you closer to him just to make you jolt again at the next pump of his fingers. 

“You wanna tell me why you’re runnin’ from me then, doll?” He dared, his eyes dark, his lips pulled into a thin line as you shook your head the other way. 

The intensity he came with was a double-edged sword. Drawing you in one second and threatening to spear you the next. Chasing the high of being fucked full just to run from the burn, the stretch, the pleasure when he pushed you right on the edge of a cliff the next. Finding yourself teetering a tightrope you never meant to walk on. 

“S’too-” You sounded slurred, even though the only thing you really felt drunk on was him. 

“Hm?” He waited for you to finish, stalling his next thrust with his fingers buried deep enough to reach a spot that was a little too sensitive, knowingly swirling against it while you squirmed. 

You were a wreck and he hadn’t even managed to make you cum yet. 

The too much that had been about to leave your lips replaced with a desperate plea for more. 

Your skin was hot, sweat sticking to your brows as he dug his fingers deeper, felt the sinful way you squeezed them, panting as tears started to form in the corners of your eyes. 

There was no running. Being spread and stuffed on a bathroom sink by a handsome man who might as well be a stranger, fingers poking and prodding at all your sensitive spots, readjusting his hand so his thumb could rub over your clit.

“Thought you had something to say?” He wryly mocked, and you were pretty positive you’d forgotten everything except his name. 

“T-Toji,” you whined, body stuck, all your muscles wound too tightly, hips arching up to meet his hand.

He kissed you again, harder, rougher. Crashing into you like a tidal wave, dragging you under, lost between him and the pleasure, being tossed around with each thrust of his fingers. Climaxing without even meaning to, not even a conscious choice, just being pulled into the motions as he massaged rough circles over your needy bud. 

And then you were sucking in air, his fingers pulling back out with a filthy pop! before he brought it up to his mouth and took a taste. Sucking on them and groaning at the second-hand flavor of you on his tongue. 

“Do you wanna come back to my place?” 

You should’ve known making you cum once wouldn’t satisfy him. 

Or twice. 

He had you up against the wall of his shower, your face pressed against the cool tile as his hips smacked against your ass, pounding into it as he continued to leave more hickies. 

“That’s it, pretty,” he grunted, his thick cock throbbing inside you, swollen tip nudging and grinding against your cervix like he owned it. Dragging himself along your walls, making sure you felt every vein, every ridge, warm water pelting both your bodies. “Look how good you're takin’ me.” 

His hand ran over the curve of your ass, softly patting it. It wasn’t a spank, but you wanted it to be. 

You shivered as he bottomed back out, leaning against him, mostly held up by him by now. “M-more.” 

“Greedy fucking girl,” he chuckled, but his voice was raspy too, running his hand back over your ass. “You want me to spank you?” 

You nodded, embarrassed to admit it. 

“Say it,” he groaned, and you squeaked. Surprised at the sudden stall of his cock, feeling yourself squeezing and squirming for him to keep going. 

“Please?” 

His hand came down, leaving a harsh smack that made you clench around him more, a moan escaping that echoed in the cramped space. 

Toji rubbed back over it, his fingers still damp, murmuring something low you couldn't make out under the shower running. But then he was back to thrusting, faster now, like he wasn't finished imprinting the shape of him into you. 

It was all moans, all skin-on-skin, lewd sounds and heavy pumps, his strokes only getting sloppier when his hand slipped over your clit. Intent on making you cum for him again, his jaw clenched when you tensed up. Planting kisses up your throat, teeth marking you with an unspoken mine when you shuddered and finished, white splotching across your vision as your limbs threatened to go limp. 

Toji pulled out, finishing on your back just for the water to wash his cum away. Down the drain with the soap suds. 

He whispered your name into your neck, soft lips tracing back over the mess of hickies he'd left. You were in a haze, brain foggy and chest still full even after your cunt was empty again, leaning against him when he cleaned you up. 

You never would’ve guessed he used the same brand of shampoo or conditioner as you. It was funny how many products you mutually had. Even the hand soap was a familiar bottle, new too, hardly used. 

He dried you off with a patchy towel, wrapping it around you and shutting off the shower. Pulling you back to his bed, half-made navy blankets in a mostly-barren room. The lamp by his bed was crooked, but there wasn't all that much personal stuff laying around. No posters decorating his wall. 

Nothing else to learn about him from his possessions. 

“Tired?” He grumbled, tossing you a t-shirt of his. 

“Mhm,” you yawned, dropping the towel to pull it over your head. No panties, but you figured you didn't really need any to sleep in anyway. 

You still felt nervous getting into his bed, waiting for him to get in with you. He hesitated, staring at you strangely before he grabbed a pair of boxers from the top drawer of his nightstand and pulled them up his thick thighs. 

Toji got in next to you, stiff, awkward, before holding out his arm, like he was waiting for you to snuggle up beside him. 

Maybe he wasn't as much of a man whore as you initially thought. 

He was acting new to this, holding his breath when you scooted closer, laying your head on his arm. 

You wondered if he’d ever been soft before. If he was capable of it.  

Even now, you were left with the vague impression this…tenderness wasn’t exactly that. An impression. A mask, maybe, something he wasn't used to wearing.  

But the afterglow was warm. Wrapped in the heat his body radiated, his strong arms sheltering you from the rest of the world as you sighed in contentment, resting on his bicep as you looked up at him. 

Your phone started buzzing inside your purse on the floor, and you didn’t need to look to know who it was. 

“Sometimes I wish he’d just fucking disappear,” you mumbled, sighing as you tried to push off his chest to answer it. 

“Stay,” he growled, grabbing your waist to keep you in place. 

You pressed your palm flat against him, pushing your lips together in a pout. “I have to answer him.” 

Or he’d throw a fit and make tomorrow hell for you. 

Toji begrudgingly let you get up, glaring when you bent over to fish your phone from your bag, his scar twitching down as he frowned. “You ever think you’d be better off if he dropped dead?” 

You laughed, staring at the name on the screen as you shrugged.

“All the time.” 

You were trouble. 

Fucking you was supposed to make it easier. Satisfy the stupid urges he’d been plagued with since he saw your face. Since he heard your voice and felt your fingers on his skin. 

Instead, it sealed his fate. 

Yours too. 

Because laying in bed the morning after, watching the subtle rise-and-fall of your chest, finding himself tracing shapes on your skin for the excuse to keep touching you, a fuzzy feeling he couldn’t snuff out was suffocating him. 

Smothered in the scent of soap and sex and your sweet perfume. Sniffing the shampoo in your hair, sighing at the way his heart beat faster every time you tossed and turned. 

How long had it been since he slept next to someone? 

Shared more than a fast fuck? A quick make-out session that never made him feel anything? 

He snuck out of bed first, readjusting your head to rest on the pillow and pulling up his blanket to cover you before he caught himself. 

What the hell was he doing? 

You weren’t his girlfriend. 

But maybe you could be. If he played his cards correctly. 

And really, was there anything better than making a bet he knew he’d win?

He found his phone in his jeans, a few missed calls from Shiu waiting. He deleted them. Walked out into the kitchen, opening the door to his mostly-empty fridge, staring at the eggs in there, the few cans of energy drinks, before moving to the pantry. There wasn’t much there either. Rice. Ramen. 

Stuff for a single guy who didn’t give a shit about taking care of himself. 

“What’re you doing?” You yawned behind him, all sleepy and sweet, and he glanced back over his shoulder to see you walking over, clutching his blanket to your chest.

“Lookin’ for something to make you breakfast,” he grunted, folding his arms across his chest. 

You giggled, like it was fucking cute. 

“Got any coffee?” 

He made it a week of pretending to be a normal guy in a normal relationship before the fractures started forming. 

Donning his fake uniform and driving you to work and to your place, narrowly avoiding being spotted by your boss and undermining all those pesky security systems to set up for what he was really planning. Using a couple of his contacts to get his hands on something that couldn’t be traced back to him. Moving all the pieces into place while playing boyfriend. 

He might’ve dragged it out longer – went another few days, pushed back Gojo’s death date again – but Shiu wouldn’t shut up. 

Toji was supposed to be waiting for you outside, wishing for a cigarette and reading your message that your boss was making you help him with one last thing then you’d be down to get lunch with him when his own handler called. 

“The hell is taking so long?” Shiu scoffed over the phone, almost as annoyed as he felt. 

“Covering our fuckin’ asses,” he growled back. 

There was no way he was risking his fucking neck this time. He wasn’t going to jail for this shit – and he sure as hell wasn't going to let you either. 

“The client expects this done-” 

“I’m handling it,” Toji interrupted him, a gruff growl from the back of his throat.

He had the stuff with him, everything he needed to make you his – and send Satoru Gojo to an early grave. 

“Take care of it.” 

Shiu hung up on him. 

The soles of his boots were heavy on the ground, tapping his foot as he checked the time again. Two more minutes, and he'd call you. The seconds tended to drag by without you there. 

He heard your voice, faint, still far away, but he turned anyway. 

You were walking out the main doors of the building, Gojo walking close behind you, his brows drawn tightly together, scolding you. He grabbed your wrist, but you shrugged him off, Toji’s blood boiling at how handsy that asshole was, touching something that didn't belong to him. 

All the stares of people passing by, coworkers or not, shifted towards the two of you. 

Your sad little pout, your chest puffed out and trying to stand straight, while he glared at you. 

“Maybe I should just fire you,” Gojo scoffed at you, and you flinched. Toji could feel the vein in his forehead throbbing, fist clenching while you did your best to bite your tongue. 

But then you surprised him – and Gojo – by beginning to speak up, “I’m-” 

“You’re replaceable.” 

Your face crumpled at how sharply he cut you off. Struggling not to cry, to hold yourself together while he turned on his heel and stormed back inside. Other people pretended to not be eavesdropping, avoiding eye contact when you walked away. Head hanging low, rubbing your eyes, barely paying attention to where you were going until he caught you. 

You didn't even say anything when Toji pulled you in for a hug, squeezing you against him as you automatically hid your face in his chest. 

He was shit at comforting people. Had never really known what to say. How to make anyone feel better. 

But you didn't seem to mind, a few muffled sobs snuffed out when your mouth was pressed against his broad muscles.

“H-he said he’s gonna-” You tried to choke out, but Toji just softly patted your head.

“Don't worry about him,” he grunted. 

He wouldn't be alive long enough to actually fire you. 

Toji didn't say that though. He let you cry in his car, listened to you vent about your latest argument, wiped away some of your tears with the calloused pad of his thumb. 

And when your break ended, and you were supposed to go back to finish off your shift, he walked back in with you. Made up some excuse about putting off taking care of the next maintenance ticket, like he hadn't already disabled all the cameras in the building earlier. 

Usually, he preferred a bullet and brute force. Didn't see the point in a delicate touch and careful preparations. But he'd make an exception for you. 

This one time. 

“I think I'm gonna make him some coffee,” you murmured, still sniffling as you grabbed the stuff you needed for it. 

Like it would be a truce instead of a death sentence. 

You didn't know any better. Just scurried around the break room, not noticing when he poured a little packet of powder into the cup the moment your back was turned. 

“You’re too good for him.” 

You glanced back at Toji, smiling even though it didn't reach his eyes. Not really believing it, but still appreciating the sentiment. 

“You're probably the one person that thinks that.”

You picked up the cup of coffee, pouring a ridiculous amount of sugar in, enough to cover the slightly bitter powder. You even snagged a can of whipped cream from the fridge, swirling it on top as if your efforts would be appreciated. 

Two birds. One stone. 

Or really, two fools and one cup of coffee. That was all it'd take for you to be his and both your problems to be solved. 

And if it didn't?

Well, his gun was still tucked inside the band of his jeans. 

“Are you sure you're not going to get in trouble?” 

Toji had gotten on the elevator with you, his hand still slung too low on your waist to be purely polite, brow arched up at your concern for him slacking off. 

“Just wanna make sure you're alright,” he grumbled, huffing and looking back at the buttons lit-up on the elevator. 

You weren't really sure what he was to you. 

A boyfriend? A lover? 

But you didn't mind. His proximity was nice. His presence in your life was welcome. 

Even if it was causing problems with Gojo – who had made it clear he couldn't stand sharing your attention at all. Hated you having a life. 

You weren't delusional enough to think maybe he'd change his mind if he met Toji. 

But your fingers were still unsteady as the elevator dinged and let you off on the top floor. 

Gojo was sitting at your desk, legs propped up and feet on your paperwork. He was pretty as always, white hair tousled, one of those sharp brows of his casually raised as he glanced between you and Toji. “Is this seriously the guy?”

He laughed like it was an insult. Ignoring your frown when you walked over to hand him his coffee. He took it though, bringing it up to his mouth but not before scoffing again. 

“Satoru,” you hissed out his name, a low warning that he was rolling his eyes at.

He took a long drink, whipped cream sticking above his lips like a mustache before his face paled. The next few seconds slowed, crawling by as you watched him drop the mug, ceramic shards shattering as he choked. 

You were staring, your brain refusing to process what you were seeing, Toji’s voice registering behind you but the words not making any sense. 

What the hell was happening?

Somewhere, the vague thought hit you that something was seriously wrong, that Satoru was dying, but nothing would connect, your body refusing to respond to even the notion of it.

Your mouth fell open, but your scream was muffled by Toji’s hand. Knees buckling, just for him to catch you in his arm, one arm wrapped around your midsection to hold you up. 

“Hey, hey, I'm here,” he gruffly muttered, and you clung to that. 

“W-we need to call someone,” you stammered, your panicked gasps turning into hyperventilating. This was bad. Really, really fucking bad. 

“It’s okay,” he soothed in your ears, turning around so you couldn't see Satoru anymore. Wouldn't have to look when-

You couldn't even finish the thought. 

“Just breathe, baby.”

“I-I can't.” You were trying, but no air would enter your lungs, throat constricting more with each attempt. 

Toji paused, his palm pressing harder against your back before he stiffened. 

“We need to go.”

You let him lead you back out, his hand on your spine still guiding you forward. One step, and another. Focusing on the rhythm in them, the pattern of the elevator carpet, a crack in the sidewalk, whatever was beneath your feet to stop the image of Satoru from flashing in your head. 

Was he dead? What could even cause it? An allergic reaction? Poison? 

Oh God no. 

He led you back to his car. 

Toji had parked it further down the street than usual, opening the door for you to get in and buckling you in again. It didn't feel quite as romantic as the first time.

“Where are we going?” You asked, voice cracking as you forced the words out. All you really wanted was to sleep, to go somewhere that you didn't have to think anymore.

“Don't worry about it, doll,” he casually said, shutting the door behind him and walking around to the driver’s seat. 

“Is he-” 

You couldn't get the question out, and he didn’t answer.

“The cops are gonna think-” You started, only just starting to swallow the bitter pill that you were screwed. 

“They’ll frame you for it,” he scoffed, and you recoiled. Surprised at yourself for forgetting what you already knew about the man in front of you. 

He wouldn't sugarcoat it. 

Make fake promises to you that this would be fine. 

“But I-”

“Do you want to spend the rest of your fuckin’ life behind bars?” He growled, and you hated how much of a point he had. 

You shook your head, fingers trembling as he stilled them with his own. 

Gojo had a lot of enemies. Any one of them would be happy to let you take the fall. 

All you'd done was give Gojo a fucking cup of coffee – and now he was dead.

“There’s cameras,” you murmured, ones that would catch you running away from the scene of the crime. 

“They've been down half the day,” Toji grumbled, and you had no idea if that was even a relief. 

Your feelings were all jumbled, guilt, horror, disgust, regret, even affection and adoration tangled up in there with Toji trying so hard to keep you safe. 

You stared at him, still shaking, and he leaned across to spare you a heated kiss. Grounding you here with him, his calloused palm caressing your cheek as his pretty eyes narrowed. 

“I'll protect you.” 

Toji meant it.

The motel was shitty, far enough from the city you dozed off on the drive, but there weren’t any cameras. No one to watch him carry you from his car and no one to care after he tossed enough cash to cover a room at the strung-out receptionist. 

You woke up still in shock. Reeling from what you’d seen – or rather what you’d done. 

“Someone’s gonna come-”

“No one’s gonna find you, baby,” he promised, and it was one he intended to keep. 

You curled up on the bed, and he crawled in next to you, letting you bury your face in his chest to muffle the faint sounds of crying. Stroking your hair at first, eventually untucking your shirt from your skirt to trace soothing patterns over the bare skin of your back. Maybe you were scared right now, that was natural.

The first kill was always the hardest. 

Once you were somewhere safe, once you knew he wasn’t going anywhere, you’d relax. After the news cycle covering your former employer’s death died off, and the investigation went cold, you'd realize that you wouldn't get caught. 

And if you adjusted better than he hoped, maybe you could be his assistant. 

Or if not, maybe he could leave this life behind. Find something more stable. Part-time work, or something he could do from home to spend more time with you.

You fell back asleep on him, lashes fluttering as he ran over his next steps. 

He'd gotten rid of both your cells and tossed your wallet on the drive, slipping the sim cards out and destroying them when he got gas and paid in cash. Someone had probably found the body by now. He'd need to switch cars to pick up the payment from the drop off point, but that wouldn't be a problem. 

There was a payphone outside, one he could see from the window. He'd call Shiu from it in a few minutes, let you dream on him for a bit longer. 

The pay for this would be enough for fake passports, to buy some place off grid – and install a state of the art security system. To keep intruders or officers investigating out. 

And more importantly, keep you inside. 

There was nothing better than a bonus for a job well done - especially one as pretty as you.