#buni writes

"Mmm, you smell so good.” Before you pulled back slightly resting your chin on his chest to look into his eyes. You studied his face with a theatrically confused look on your face. “Y’know, you look Like... like...Like my husband. Who I love. Did you know I have the hottest husband in the whole world?"

"You might've mentioned it," he said, trying to hide his smile as he kicked the door shut behind you. "About fifteen times on the drive home."

"Only fifteen?" You frowned, genuinely concerned. "That's not enough. You're so—" You poked his chest emphatically with each word. "Fucking. Hot. Leon."

He caught your hand before you could poke him again, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Let's get you some water, Okay?"

But you had other ideas. Your free hand slid down his torso, and you looked up at him through your lashes. "Or... we could skip the water and get wet in other ways."

"Water first," he said firmly ignoring your lewd suggestion, though his eyes had darkened slightly. He guided you toward the kitchen, keeping one arm around you because you kept veering off course and stumbling over nothing. When you rounded the corner and almost knocked your wedding pictures off the wall, he had enough and bent down, scooping you up to throw you over his shoulder, one hand coming down on your ass with a sharp smack that made you yelp.

"Leon!" you squealed, but you were grinning and laughing as he carried you toward the kitchen. Your hands immediately mischievously slid down his firm back to grab his ass in return, squeezing a handful shamelessly.

"Mrs. Kennedy," Leon said, his voice strained with barely contained laughter. "Please keep your hands to yourself."

"No," you said simply, squeezing again for emphasis. He shook his head before he reached back behind him to gather both of your wrists to hold them captive, he was still grinning as he carried you toward the kitchen. You pouted the whole way there, then immediately perked up when he deposited you onto the counter, standing in-between your legs. "Ooh, I like this." You said wrapping your legs around his waist before he could step away, pulling him close. "No! Stay." you immediately lunged forward, trying to steal a kiss.

"I need to get you water," he said, but he didn't move after that, his hands settling on your thighs.

"Don't care." You cupped his face in both hands, studying him. "Your eyes are so pretty and I love your face." You traced his bottom lip with your thumb. "Everything about you is pretty. How did I get so lucky?"

His expression softened, and he leaned in to kiss your forehead. "I'm the lucky one."

"Don't you know the saying that the wife is always right," you insisted, tightening your legs around him. "You're stuck with me now. Forever. You married me. No takebacks."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured, reaching past you to grab a glass from the cabinet. You took advantage of his proximity to kiss his neck, your hands sliding under his shirt.

Leon caught you by the shoulders, holding you at arm's length. "Water first."

"Kiss first," you counter offered, trying to lean around his hands.

"Water," he repeated not coming down from his initial starting offer, he drove a hard bargain and you couldn't talk him down. You pouted dramatically as he stepped over to the sink, swinging your legs and watching him. Your eyes never left him as he filled the glass, tracking every movement like a cat watching a bird out the window. You made another grab for him wrapping around him like a koala, nipping at his neck as he tried to fill the glass.

"Baby," he said, his voice strained as he filled the glass with water. "You need to drink water."

"I need to drink you," you said, then dissolved into giggles at your own terrible line. "Get it? Because you're a tall glass of—"

"I got it," he said, laughing despite himself. He pressed the glass into your hand. "Drink."

"You're trying to waterboard me," you whined, but you took a sip anyway, never breaking eye contact. The moment you swallowed, you set the glass down and reached for him again. "There. Water. Now kiss."

"More water," he said, fighting back a smile as he pushed the glass back toward you. You took another exaggerated sip, then another, then drained half the glass in one go. "Happy?"

"With you? Always," he said sweetly and you almost melted into a puddle on the counter, he stepped between your legs letting you wrap them around his waist.

You immediately cupped his face, pulling him close. "I love you so much," you breathed, suddenly serious despite the alcohol buzzing through your system. " You're the best thing that ever happened to me, and you're so good to me. Even when I'm being silly."

His expression softened completely, and he leaned his forehead against yours. "You're always a little silly. That's why I love you." he said softly, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.

"Don't be so sweet to me," you said, your voice wobbling, overwhelmed by the alcohol and emotions. "I'll cry."

"Can't help it," he said, kissing the tip of your nose. You pulled him into a messy and enthusiastic kiss, he could taste the sweetness of the coconut and milk and sour tang of pineapple from the Piña colada’s you'd been drinking. He kissed you back just as thoroughly, one hand tangling in your hair while the other gripped your hip.

When you finally broke apart, both of your chests were heaving, breathing hard. You grinned at him, feeling floaty and warm and so, so in love with the man Infront of you, taking such good care of you even though you were making it your mission to make it as difficult as possible. "Take me to bed?"

"To sleep," he clarified stubbornly, though his voice was a little rough after the kiss.

"Sure," you agreed easily, knowing you'd try to change his mind the second you got there. "Whatever you say, handsome."

He shook his head fondly and scooped you up, carrying you toward the bedroom while you peppered his jaw and neck with kisses, your hands never quite managing to stay to yourself. 

The mattress bounced as you flopped onto it, sprawling out like a starfish before you started making sheet angels in the dark navy bed sheets. Leon stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with an exasperated but completely smitten look, he couldn’t even try and hide it.

"Don't move," he said sternly pointing to you like you were a unruly dog, before heading to the bathroom.

"Can't promise anything," you called after him, already rolling onto your side and nearly tumbling off the bed. You caught yourself at the last second, giggling. Your dress was rucked up and bunched around your waist, your whole ass out as you rolled over and mashed your face directly into his pillow, letting a drawn-out moan at his scent. Breathing in the notes of the honey and vanilla of the new detergent you just bought, mixed with his own woodsy shampoo that was still lingering on the fabric. 

He returned with a makeup wipe, sitting on the edge of the mattress. His hand reached up and gently pulled your dress back into place where it had ridden up, his palm coming to rest on your hip, his thumb tracing along your curves.

"Come on, sit up for me," he said softly, his other hand sliding to your back to help you.

You pushed yourself upright with his help, swaying slightly, and when you saw the makeup wipe in his hand your whole face lit up.

"You remembered!" you said, your words slurring together in your excitement. "You're the best husband ever. I hate waking up with crusty makeup. It's so gross and my face feels all—" You made a disgusted noise, scrunching up your nose.

"I know," Leon said, his expression fond. "That's why I'm doing this."

"You're perfect," you sighed, crawling toward him on your hands and knees, aiming to look seductive and enticing but coming off more like Bambi as you overshoot and bumped into his chest. "Oops." You said laughing as you melted into his chest and he took all of your weight holding you up as he went to clean your face.

"Yeah, oops," he said, his arm coming around your waist to hold you up, while bringing the wipe to your face with the other.

The cool, damp cloth touched your cheek, and you immediately started complaining as he wiped your lips off. "Mmhhhnn!"

"Hold still," Leon said, his voice patient as he cupped the back of your head to keep you in place trying to be even more gentle then before. "You'll thank me in the morning."

"I won't," you insisted, even though you knew he was right, squirming as he wiped away your mascara and eyeshadow. "This is cruel and unusual punishment."

"Mm-hmm." He tilted your chin up, carefully cleaning around your eyes. "So cruel. Taking care of my drunk wife." You tried to protest again but he was already moving to your other eye, his touch gentle despite your fussing. When he finally pulled the wipe away, now thoroughly covered in foundation and mascara. Once he was done you puckered your lips expectantly, eyes still closed.

When nothing happened, you cracked one eye open to find him watching you with barely suppressed amusement. Then his hands came up to squish your cheeks together, making your lips pucker even more before he leaned in and gave you the tiniest quickest peck, releasing you.

"That's it?" you demanded sadly. "That's all I get?"

"That's all you get until you're in bed," he said, standing and moving to the dresser. He pulled out one of his old t-shirts, your favorite one to sleep in. You made grabby hands at it, but when he tried to help you out of your dress, you went completely limp. "Can't move. Too drunk. Guess I have to sleep like this."

"Nice try." He maneuvered your arms out of the sleeves despite your best efforts to be as unhelpful as possible, flopping around like a fish out of water. When he finally got the dress off and tried to put the shirt on you, you suddenly had the energy to twist away.

"Wait, I changed my mind. I want the blue one."

"This is the blue one."

"The other blue one."

"You're wearing this one," Leon said firmly, catching you around the waist and wrestling the shirt over your head. You emerged from the neck hole with your hair sticking up in every direction, and he smoothed it down with a fond shake of his head.

The second you were dressed; you threw yourself backward onto the mattress, like a Victorian lady with a fainting spell. You flung one arm over your eyes; the back of your other hand pressed to your forehead.

"My husband doesn't love me anymore. He's so mean. He forces me to drink water and wear shirts to bed. And he won't ravish me like I know he wants to."

Leon couldn't help but laugh, if there was one thing his wife was when she was drunk, it was honest.

"Sooo tragic," you continued, your voice dripping with drama. "Death from no Snu-Snu."

You peeked out from under your arm to watch as he pulled his own shirt off to get ready for bed, and the entire act you had put on crumbled instantly. Your eyes went wide, tracking the movement of fabric up his torso, over his shoulders. You attempted a whistle, what came out was more of a pathetic swoosh of air with no substance. You tried again, pursing your lips with intense concentration. This time nothing came out at all, you looked like you were trying to blow out candles on an invisible birthday cake, your cheeks puffing out uselessly.

"Are you done?" Leon asked in amusement as he watched your increasingly desperate attempts. You tried one final time, producing what one might call a raspberry, and that was apparently his limit. He grabbed the edge of the blanket and yanked, rolling you up in it like a burrito before you could even protest. You let out a muffled "Hey!" as he climbed in behind you and pulled you flush against his bare chest, wrapping both of you in the cocoon of blankets.

"Just go to sleep, baby." he murmured against your hair, his arm curled around your waist.

You wanted to say how much you loved him or how the joke was on him because this was exactly where you wanted to be, but the words were stuck in your throat as your eyelids grew heavy with sleep. The room was soft and fuzzy around the edges of your vision, and his heartbeat was lulling you to sleep, you were so comfortable, so safe, so...

A soft snore escaped you as you finally closed your eyes, tucked safely in Leon’s arms. Leon pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his own eyes drifting closed, a soft smile still on his lips.

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹ reader:

Leon was crouched next to a crying kid sitting at his desk in his chair, feeling like the world's most useless cop. The boy couldn't have been more than five or six, gangly limbs, sharp elbows, and a Pokemon t-shirt two sizes too big and he was wailing. A full-body, hiccupping sob that made his whole frame shake like a leaf in a storm. His face was red and blotchy, eyes swollen, and snot ran down to his upper lip in a glistening trail he kept trying to wipe away with the back of his hand, smearing it across his cheek instead.

Every attempt Leon made only seemed to make it worse. The sticker he'd peeled from the sheet on Sergeant Branagh's desk, a faded "Junior Officer" star that looked like it had seen better days, the edges curling and yellowed, had been met with a look of sadness, like Leon had kicked a puppy. The awkward "hey buddy" he'd tried in what he thought was a soothing voice had triggered a fresh round of tears so loud that Rita had actually stopped mid-phone call to stare, receiver still pressed to her ear, her expression full of pity and secondhand embarrassment for him.

The boy's wails echoed reverberating through the bullpen like the siren on a cruiser, and Leon could feel every eye in the precinct on him. The back of his neck burned, heat crawling up from his collar and spreading across his cheeks. His knees ached from crouching down next to the boy in his chair to seem less intimidating, the stiff fabric of his uniform pants digging into the backs of his thighs. He was only three weeks into this job, still getting used to the work and second-guessing every move he made. Not once in the academy did they teach him how to diffuse this type of bomb, and now he was being defeated by a kindergartner.

He was about to try again, maybe offer his keys to jingle like the kid was a toddler or something, a desperate and humiliating attempt that would have probably made everything worse, when he saw you.

You came through the precinct door with a stack of manila folders threatening to spill from your arms, your ID badge swinging on its lanyard against your chest. He'd seen you around before. You were a paralegal intern, always busy with somewhere to be. You wore your hair pulled back most days, dressed in business casual, you’d been here long enough to stop trying to impress anyone. There was a coffee stain on the cuff of your blouse today, faint but visible if you looked close enough, and Leon had looked, he often found himself looking toward you like his eyes was a compass and you were due North.

You stopped mid-stride, your eyes landing on the sobbing kid, and something shifted in your expression. Your brows drew together in concern, and your mouth pressed into a thin line. Without a word, you pivoted towards your desk that was pushed into a corner of the precinct near the many filing cabinets. The files hit your desk with a loud thump that made Leon flinch. He watched, confused and a little dazed, as you opened your bottom drawer and pulled out a stuffed raccoon, just a little something that they handed out at community events and elementary school visits. It had a little stitched badge on its chest, a slightly crooked smile, and a tail that looked like it had seen better days, the fur matted in places from too many hands.

Then you walked right over, and Leon stepped back instinctively as you dropped to the floor beside the boy. You didn't hesitate or pause to dust off the linoleum and adjust your skirt. You just knelt down, one knee hitting the ground and leaned in close.

"Hey," you said softly, holding the raccoon out in both hands. Your voice was warm and soft like a blanket fresh from the dryer, comforting. "You know what this is?"you said softly, in a kind of maternal tone.

The kid hiccupped, his crying stuttering to a jerky stop as he stared at the toy. His eyes were still wet, lashes clumped together in dark spikes, but he was looking at you now. His bottom lip trembled, but the wail had died down to a shaky, uneven breathing and he was completely focused on your gentle face and soft caring tone.

"This is Officer Bandit," you continued, wiggling the plushie a little so its stubby arms moved up and down, waving to the small child. "He's the bravest raccoon in the whole city. Solves crimes, catches bad guys, the whole deal. But you know what?" You leaned in, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made the boy's eyes go wide. "He gets scared sometimes too."

"...R-really?" the kid whispered back, his voice small hoarse from all the crying.

"Mm-hm." You nodded seriously, your expression solemn, like you were sharing the most important secret in the world. "Especially in big loud places like this, it's a lot, isn’t it? But you know what helps him feel better?"

The boy shook his head, sniffling hard, his nose still running. You gently took your blouse and wiped his face without even thinking about it. 

"When someone holds him tight. Just like this." You smiled softly, and pulled the plushie to your chest, wrapping your arms around it in an exaggerated hug. You even rocked a little, side to side, like you were comforting a real person. "See? Makes him feel safe. You think you can help him feel brave?"

The boy sniffled again, but his hand was already moving. Tentative at first, fingers reaching out to brush the raccoon's worn fur. Then he took it, his small fingers curling into the soft fabric, clutching it to his chest tightly. He squeezed, his knuckles going white, and buried his face in the plushie's fuzzy head.

"There you go. I bet bandit feels so much better, right?," you murmured, and the kid nodded, squeezing the raccoon tighter. He gave it a hug, burying his face in its fuzzy head, and his shoulders, which had been hitching with sobs just moments before, finally started to drop as he calmed down. His breathing evened out, the hitching sobs fading into soft, shaky exhales that shifted the fur on the raccoon.

Leon's heart thumped, hard. His heart tripped over itself and forgotten how to find its rhythm at the sight of you. And then his heart was racing so loud, he swore he could hear it thumping between his ears. He reached up unconsciously to grip at his shirt right In front of his heart willing it to calm down. 

You smiled and reached out, brushing a strand of sweaty hair off the boy's forehead. Your touch was gentle and careful, your fingers barely grazing his skin, and the kid leaned into it, starved for kindness. You didn't flinch or pull away from his searching touch. You sat there, one hand resting lightly on his back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades, your thumb tracing a soothing pattern over his spine.

Leon stood there, still as a statue, and he found he couldn't look away from you and the now calm child. Watching you murmur something else to the boy, your head tilted close to his, your lips moving in soft quiet and reassuring words.

"Hey, I like your shirt," you said, tapping the Pikachu printed across the front. "Is Pikachu your favorite?"

The kid nodded, clutching Officer Bandit a little less desperately now.

"Yeah? How come?" You asked gently and you sounded genuinely interested in what he had to say.

"Cause—'cause he's fast," the boy said, his voice still thick with mucus but he wasn’t crying anymore, which was a miracle in itself. "And he can do Thunderbolt and he's Ash's best friend and—and he's yellow, yellow is my favorite color."

"Oooh, yellow's a good color," you agreed, nodding like this was the most important conversation you'd had all day. "You know what? My favorite is also yellow! Do you know Psyduck."

The kid blinked, surprised and nodded quickly. "...Psyduck"

"Yup." You grinned. "You know why?"

He shook his head.

"'Cause he's silly." And then, without warning, you crossed your eyes and put both hands on your head like you were holding it in pain, doing a spot-on impression of the confused little duck.

The kid giggled a bright, hiccupping giggle that filled the room like a rainbow after a storm, and you laughed with him, your whole face lighting up, Leon's mouth went dry as he watched a smile curl on your lips, your eyes crinkled at the corners.

He swallowed hard, a pit the size of a peach stuck in his throat. His pulse was beating loudly in his ears, drowning out the precinct noise around him.

You glanced up then, catching his eye, and raised an eyebrow. "You good, Kennedy?"

Leon blinked, his brain scrambling to form words. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm—" He cleared his throat, feeling heat crawl up the back of his neck, flooding his face until he was sure he was bright red. "Good. I'm good."

You shrugged, a little smirk tugging at your lips, and turned your attention back to the boy. Leon just stood there like an idiot, rooted to the spot, watching the way your fingers carded through the kid's hair again, so naturally, like you'd done this before. Leon wondered if you had kids and felt a seed of disappointment and sadness grow in his stomach.

You tucked a strand behind his ear and the kids’ eyes fluttered closed for just a second, all the crying finally catching up to him as he suddenly grew tired.

He couldn't stop staring at you as you sat there on the dirty floor in your work clothes without a care and you spoke to the kid like he was just as important as the work on your desk that you abandoned, you made something hard look effortless.

After that day whenever he saw or thought of you his chest felt tight and warm all at once, he'd often find himself looking for you in the break room, hoping to catch a glimpse of you pouring coffee or sorting through files. Your smile stayed the longest, replaying in his head when he was trying to fall asleep every night. He'd spend the next week trying to think of excuses to talk to you, to hear your voice again, to see if you'd smile at him the way you'd smiled at that kid.

It started there, with a crying kid, a stuffed animal and you, looking up at him with eyes that would haunt him every waking moment.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ The precinct smelled like cheap pizza and sugar, a sickly-sweet combination that clung to the air and made Leon's head throb. Dozens of kids swarmed the lobby, their voices a cacophony of shrieks and laughter that bounced off every hard surface. Leon stood near the front desk, arms crossed, watching a group of eight-year-olds chase each other around a display table that held pamphlets about stranger danger and bicycle safety. A awkward and nervous smile on his face, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple despite the October chill that had blown in when the doors opened.

This was worse than any training scenario Raccoon City PD had thrown at him.

The lobby looked like a bomb had gone off, if that bomb was filled with glitter, juice boxes, and about forty screaming children from the local orphanage, community center, and the officers own children. Streamers hung from the ceiling in drooping arcs of blue and red, some already torn and dangling down. There were balloons tied to every available surface, and squeaking every time someone brushed past. Someone had set up a craft table near the far wall that was now covered in a layer of glue, construction paper scraps, and what looked like an entire bottle of glitter that had exploded across the surface like a disco ball.

Leon was trying to look authoritative while a kid in curly little space buns with cat ears tugged insistently on his belt and asked if he had a real gun.

"Uh, yeah, but—hey, don't touch that—" He tried to gently redirect her hand, his voice strained with the effort of trying to wrangle a small child, his fingers hovering uselessly near hers like he was afraid to actually touch her and make things worse.

The girl didn't listen. She was already trying to poke at his radio, her sticky fingers leaving smudges on the black plastic.

"Is it heavy? Can you shoot bad guys? Do you have handcuffs? Can I see them? Do you have a Taser? My dad has a Taser too—"

"Maybe later, okay? How about you go—" Leon gestured vaguely toward the craft table, but the girl just stared at him like he'd suggested she eat broccoli.

"But I wanna see your gun," she insisted, and Leon felt his face heat up as Officer Branagh glanced over from across the room, clearly trying not to laugh as his daughter pestered him.

Then you appeared, out of nowhere, sliding between the desk and the swarm of kids. You moved like water, smooth and unbothered, and the kids seemed to part for you instinctively. You were wearing jeans today, not your usual business slacks or pencil skirt, and a blue Raccoon City PD volunteer t-shirt that had seen better days, the logo faded and cracked across your chest. Your hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame your face, and there was a smudge of purple marker, on your forearm, trailing up toward your elbow like you'd been drawing with the kids earlier.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Junior officers!" you called out, clapping your hands together twice.

The kids froze. Even the ones who'd been mid-sprint screeched to a halt, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, their faces turning toward you with wide-eyed attention.

You crouched down, gathering the kids around you like a storyteller at a campfire, your hands moving as you spoke. "We've got a major situation on our hands," you said, your voice low and serious, like you were briefing a SWAT team before a raid. "There's been a report of a missing cat. Orange tabby. Answers to the name Mr. Whiskers." You paused for dramatic effect, letting the silence stretch, and the kids leaned in, eyes wide, mouths hanging open. "Last seen near the break room."

A collective gasp rippled through the group.

"But here's the thing," you continued, standing up and scanning their faces with a grave expression. "Only the best junior officers can help me find him." You pointed dramatically toward the hallway, your finger jabbing the air. "Think you're up for it?"

The kids erupted in agreement, bouncing on their toes, hands shooting into the air like they were trying to touch the ceiling.

"Me! Me! I can do it!"

"I'm really good at finding stuff!"

"I found my mom's keys once!"

You grinned, and Leon felt something in his chest shift. You stood there, surrounded by chaos, completely in your element, and you looked...you looked happy. Like this was exactly where you were meant to be.

Then your eyes landed on him and your grin widened before you walked over, weaving through the kids with a few pats on heads and "hang on, team, one second" reassurances. When you stopped in front of him, you reached into your pocket and pulled out a plastic junior officer badge, the cheap ones that they had abundance of that they gave out to all the kids earlier, with a safety pin on the back and a shiny gold finish. You pressed it into his palm, your fingers brushing his and Leon's brain short-circuited.

"Officer Kennedy," you said, loud enough for the kids to hear, your voice warm and teasing, and you winked. Actually winked at him, your eye closing in a slow wink that made his stomach flip. "I'm deputizing you. We need all hands on deck for this one."

Leon blinked down at the badge, then at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Wait, I—"

"No time!" You turned back to the kids, clapping your hands again. "Alright, team, Officer Kennedy is joining the search party. Let's move out!"

Before he could protest a gaggle of kids swarmed him, tiny hands grabbing at his uniform and arms, tugging him forward with the force of a small army.

"Come on, Officer Kennedy!"

"We gotta find Mr. Whiskers!"

"He's probably scared!"

And just like that, Leon found himself on his hands and knees, peering under chairs and desks while a gaggle of children shouted directions at him like he was defusing a bomb.

"No, not there! Over there!"

"Check under the desk!"

"I think I saw a tail!"

"Maybe he's in the trash can!"

One little girl with braids tugged on his sleeve, her face scrunched up in concentration, insisting she saw something orange under the desk. Leon crawled over, his knees protesting against the hard floor, the fabric of his pants pulling tight across his thighs. He reached under the desk, his fingers brushing something soft and fuzzy, and pulled out a stuffed tabby cat, clearly planted there ahead of time, its fur slightly dusty, one of its button eyes hanging by a thread.

The kids erupted.

"He found him!"

"Mr. Whiskers!"

"Officer Kennedy saved him!"

"Is he okay?!"

"Can I pet him?!"

They cheered like he'd just solved a murder case, like he was a hero, and Leon couldn't help it, he laughed. Bubbling up from his chest and spilling out, as he held up the stuffed cat, and the kids crowded around, petting it, asking if it was okay, if it was scared, if it needed water.

"I think he's alright," Leon said, grinning his cheeks aching from the stretch of smiling so wide. "Just a little dusty."

"Good job, Officer Kennedy!" a little boy shouted, pumping his fist in the air, and the others joined in, chanting his name like he'd won the Super Bowl. Leon's face flushed, heat crawling up his neck and spreading across his cheeks, but he was still smiling when he looked up at you.

You were across the room, a kid on your hip, another kid hanging off your arm, and you caught his eye. You smiled at him softly, your eyes crinkling at the corners, and Leon felt that thump again. Like his heart stopped and was restarted, Harder this time. He could feel the cup that held all his emotions inside him cracking and every desire he kept deep inside him spilling out faster than he could contain it, flooding his veins with warmth.

"Good work, Officer Kennedy," you called out, your voice carrying over to him through the noise, the tone full of warmth like a hearth place directly into the home if his heart. He suddenly felt like he had to do something with his hands but they felt clumsy, and he didn't know what to do with them.

He managed to give you a nod and a small nervous smile, his throat tight and face flushed.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

As the event was winding down he retreated to the break room, a poor soldier covered in sticky substances and glitter returning from the front lines, pouring himself a cup of coffee that had been sitting on the burner for at least three hours. It tasted like burnt rubber and was bitter and thick like sludge on his tongue, but he didn't care he really needed it after the past few hours. He leaned his back against the counter and closed his eyes, his head tilting back against the cabinet.

After a few mins Leon opened his eyes, and there you were. You had a kid on your hip, one of the orphanage kids, a little boy with a mop of dark curls and chocolate from the raccoon cake pops smeared across his cheek. You were murmuring something soft to him, your free hand brushing his curls back from his forehead as you grabbed a napkin from the counter, your movements gentle and practiced.

Leon watched, frozen, as you wet the napkin under the tap and gently wiped the boy's face. The kid squirmed, giggling, his little hands pushing at yours, his legs kicking against your side.

"Hold still, mister," you said, your voice playful but firm, that same tone you'd used with the other kids all day. "You've got half a chocolate cake pop all over your face."

"Nooo," the boy whined, squirming with the biggest smile on his face. His smile was so innocent and infectious that you couldn’t help but return it, smiling down at the mischievous little kid that refused to have a clean face.

"Yeeesss," you said in a sing song tone playing along with him, dabbing at his cheek with the napkin. "There we go. All clean."

You set the boy down, and he ran off toward the door where one of the chaperones was waiting, to whisk him away. He waved at you over his shoulder, his hand opening and closing in an exaggerated motion.

"Bye-bye!" he called.

"Bye, sweetheart," you said, waving back, your voice the same soft and warm tone you used on all of the children today.

You turned eyes drifting towards Leon and you caught him staring yet again.

"Is there something on my face too?" you asked, raising an eyebrow, your lips quirking into a smirk, your head tilting to the side.

"No! Nothing…." He took a sip of his coffee, trying to look casual like he hadn't just been imagining what it would be like to wake up next to you every morning.

But his brain was spinning and painting pictures he had no business imagining. You, in a kitchen that wasn't the break room, all warm and lived-in, with toys scattered across the floor and crayon drawings stuck to the fridge with magnets. Sunlight streaming through the windows, catching in your hair. A kid, his kid he thought, with his blue eyes and your smile, tugging on your hand, begging for one more story before bed, their voice sweet like cotton candy.

In his imagination you were there, glowing and laughing, the center of it all. The heart of a home. Of your shared home. A hand resting on a rounded belly, your face soft and content, his ring on your finger and his name on your lips.

Leon's grip tightened on his mug, his knuckles going white. He wanted his vision to be true, wanted to build a life with you, brick by brick. A messy and imperfect life, but a life shared with you. More than anything despite it being inappropriate to imagine you like this when you didn’t even know his feelings for you he wanted more than anything to watch you grow round with his child, wanted to feel them kick under his palm, to see you glow with the knowledge that you were growing a life inside you. He wanted to do anything and everything for you. To wake up in the middle of the night and get you whatever weird craving you had, pickles with peanut butter, mango with hot sauce, you name it he would get it. He would be happy to rub your feet when they ached, and hold your hair back if you got sick. He wanted to be there for every single second of it

He would be the happiest man on earth if only he could slide a ring onto your finger and stand in front of everyone they knew and say I do.

Everything hit him all at once like a freight train directly to his chest and he had to look away from you, before you could noticed the way his face had gone completely red, his hands trembling slightly around the mug.

"You okay, Kennedy?" you asked, your voice softer with concern, and he heard you take a step closer.

"Yeah," he said, his voice rough before he cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm good. Just... tired."

You nodded, accepting the answer, and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. "You did good today," you said, glancing at him over your shoulder, your ponytail swinging. "The kids loved you."

Leon's heart started racing as it always seemed to do around you, an uncontrollable reaction to your presence. "Thanks," he managed quietly. "You were... you were great with them."

You shrugged, but your cheeks flushed, just a little, a soft pink spreading across your skin. "I like kids," you said simply, twisting the cap off the water bottle. "They're honest...maybe a little too honest sometimes ."

Leon huffed a laugh. "Yeah. That's one way to put it."

You smiled, and for a moment, the break room felt smaller. He wanted to cross the room. Wanted to cup your face in his hands and kiss you until you were breathless, like he'd imagined a thousand times before in the dark hours of his room when he finally let his thoughts of you run wild. If only he could press you against the counter and bury his face in your neck just to breathe you in.

But he didn't and couldn’t, he just gripped his coffee mug tighter and watched you leave. Tossing the now empty water bottle in the recycling bin, before you gave him one last smile and walked out of the break room, your footsteps fading down the hall. Leon was alone again, staring into his coffee, his mind racing and heart pounding, his whole body aching.

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It was late and the station had emptied out hours ago, the building now quiet except for the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, casting everything in a yellow glow that made Leon's eyes sore.

It was just the two of you in the breakroom, surrounded by stacks of paperwork that never seemed to end. A pocket of calm, a bubble of warmth in the cold, empty precinct. It was mind-numbing work, that made your eyes glaze over and your hand cramp around your pen, but Leon didn't mind. Not when you were there.

You were across the table, pen in hand, scribbling notes on a case file. Your handwriting was neat, precise, each letter carefully formed, and Leon found himself watching the way your wrist moved, the way your fingers gripped the pen with each stroke. He'd given up pretending to work about twenty minutes ago. He was just watching you now, as you chewed on your bottom lip while you were concentrating. Your hair kept falling into your face, pushing it back with the heel of your hand, leaving a smudge of ink on your forehead that you didn't seem to notice.

You were wearing glasses tonight, thin-framed lenses that were perched on the bridge of your nose, and Leon had never realized how much he liked that look until now. You looked beautiful, and it made his fingers itch with the urge to reach across the table and brush that unruly strand of hair behind your ear.

"You ever think about the future?" he asked suddenly.

You looked up, surprised, your pen pausing mid-word. "Like... tomorrow? Or?"

"I…just in general. Like what you hope or dream about for yourself." He leaned back in his chair, the plastic creaking under his weight, and rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. "I don't know. I just... I grew up pretty lonely, you know?" He dropped his hand, staring at the table, at the coffee ring stains and the scratches in the laminate. "After my parents died, it was just me and my focus was on my career. I joined the force because I wanted... A place to belong where I could do good."

You set your pen down, giving him your full attention. Your eyes were soft and full of understanding, watching and listening as Leon was spilling out all the things he'd kept locked away.

"I never knew what I wanted beyond doing some good as a police officer. Never thought about marriage or kids." Leon paused, his eyes shifting toward you, in a quick glance before darting away again. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head as if to dislodge whatever nerves had sunk their claws into him.

"But lately I've been thinking about it," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "Imagining myself with a house. A couple of kids running around, causing trouble..." His lips quirked into a faint, uncertain smile. "Honestly? It doesn't sound too bad." He finally lifted his face, his bright blue eyes meeting yours.

"Is that stupid?" He laughed self-consciously, and rubbed the back of his neck, fingers digging into the tense muscle there. "I mean, I don't even know if I'd be a good dad."

You were quiet for a moment, and Leon's stomach dropped. He'd laid himself bare and now his heart was in your hands. You reached across the table, covering his hand with yours. The contact sent a jolt or electricity racing up his arm and he stared down at your hand on his.

"It's not stupid, Leon." you said softly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles in a slow, soothing motion that made his skin tingle. "You'd be a great dad. You're kind, you care so deeply about people, even strangers, and you work hard at everything you do no matter how difficult it might be. Your kids?" You squeezed his hand gently. "They'd be so lucky to have you."

The words were everything he needed to hear and more and he felt his chest fill with affection as he stared at you, the warmth in your eyes, the sincerity in your voice, the way you were looking at him. A piece Clicked into place like a puzzle he hadn't known was missing.

This wasn't just a crush, attraction, or just lust. No this feeling was a need to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep with you every night.

Leon cleared his throat. "Can I... can I ask you something?"

"Sure," you said, your hand still covering his, your thumb still tracing circles on his skin.

"Would you want to—" He stopped, his courage faltering, his throat tight. Then he forced himself to keep going, forced the words out before he could lose his nerve and talk himself out of it. "I really like you. Would you want to go out sometime? With me. Like, on a date."

Your eyes widened, and for a second, Leon thought he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life. You were going to pull your hand away, tell him you didn't see him that way, that he was a nice guy but—

You smiled brightly as you laughed. "I like you too, Leon." you said, your voice a little breathless, your cheeks flushed pink, the color spreading down your neck and disappearing beneath the collar of your shirt. "Yes, I'd love to go out."

Leon grinned, his whole body flooding with relief and joy, a happiness so bright and overwhelming. "Are- I mean really?"

"Yeah, Leon." You squeezed his hand, your smile widening, your eyes sparkling under the shitty fluorescent lights like they were stars. "I'd really like that."

Leon laughed and ran his free hand through his hair, his grin so wide. "Okay. Okay, good. Great. That's—" He shook his head, still grinning like a kid who'd just been told Christmas was coming early. "That's great."

You laughed too, and the sound wrapped around him like a blanket.

"So," you said, your thumb still tracing circles on his knuckles, sending sparks up his arm, making his skin feel too tight and his face to warm. "When were you thinking?"

"Uh—" Leon's brain scrambled, trying to form coherent thoughts through the haze of happiness and disbelief. "This weekend? Saturday? If you're free?"

"I'm free," you said, and you were looking at him like you'd been waiting for him to ask.

"Okay," he said, his voice rough. "Saturday."

"Saturday," you echoed, and your smile softened. You sat there for a moment, hands still touching across the table. The paperwork was forgotten, It was just the two of you, bathed in the sickly yellow light.

He wanted to lean across the table to pull you close and never let go. Instead he just held your hand, grinning like an idiot, and let himself bask in the warmth of your smile.

"I should probably let you get back to work," you said eventually, your voice soft and reluctant.

"Yeah," Leon said.

Your thumb brushed over his knuckles one more time, and then you slowly pulled your hand away, your fingers trailing across his palm, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Leon's hand felt cold without yours, to keep him warm and he had to fight the urge to reach out to pull you back across the table and keep you there.

You picked up your pen, your cheeks still flushed, a soft smile still at the corners of your lips. you went back to your files, but Leon saw the way your smile lingered and your eyes kept flicking up to meet his.

Leon picked up his own pen, pretending to read the report in front of him, but the words blurred together, meaningless. All he could think about was you. Saturday couldn't come fast enough.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

You'd noticed him on his first day, it was hard not to really. He'd walked into the precinct with his shoulders back and his chin up, trying so hard to appear more confident than he was, but you'd seen the way his eyes had shifted around the room quickly in a way that betrayed his nerves. He was a new rookie, fresh out of the academy, still carrying that fresh untested energy that was obvious in all of them in the beginning.

You'd been at the filing cabinets, sorting through a stack of case files that seemed to multiply every time you turned your back, that all needed to be cross-referenced and filed in the correct order, and you'd watched him shake hands with Sergeant Branagh. He nodded along to whatever speech the sergeant was giving about duty and honor and serving the community, his expression earnest and attentive. He'd tugged at his collar when he thought no one was looking, like the uniform was too tight or the room was suddenly too hot, a nervous tick if you ever saw one.

He was cute, you'd give him that. Tall, with broad shoulders, a young pretty face, with a constellation of moles that dotted along his neck and face, blonde hair that fell just a little too long over his forehead and blue eyes that were startlingly bright and earnest. He was the kind of guy that would've made your college roommate swoon and start planning a wedding after one conversation and you wouldn’t have blamed her.

You'd looked at him with no more than a curious glance before turning back to your files, pushing all of those thoughts away. you had a job to do and you didn't have time to get distracted by every good-looking rookie who walked through the door.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The first couple of weeks, you'd kept your distance. Not because you were cold, no, it wasn't that. You weren't a cold person normally or at least you didn't think you were, but you kept your head down because you were busy. The precinct was always busy, and the paralegal internship was demanding in ways you hadn't fully anticipated when you'd accepted it. So, you worked. Head down, focused, moving between the filing cabinets and the desks upstairs with the energy that discouraged small talk. You didn't linger in the break room or chat with the officers unless it was necessary. You were polite, professional, and you kept to yourself.

But you noticed him, sometimes, when you would stop and look up for a second, pausing to stretch your back or rest your eyes from the endless sea of paperwork, you'd catch glimpses of him. And you noticed that he tried, so hard at everything he did. No matter how small or difficult the task.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

You'd been coming back from upstairs, arms full of manila folders, something your supervisor Elle had thrust into your arms that morning with a bright smile on her face, which was deceptive because despite her cheerful demeanor and clothing, she meant business.

Your desk was pushed in the corner, closest to the door and the filing cabinets, which worked for you. You weren't at your desk too often, anyway, always running from Elle's office upstairs down to here where you would file and do most of your actual work. The setup wasn't too ideal for you but Elle did t have room for you in her office and keeping you here kept you out of the way of the officers who needed space to move.

You could hear the crying through the door, It had carried through the wood and glass like a siren. A high-pitched wail, crying that made something in your chest clench instinctively. You'd stopped in your tracks as you entered the bullpen, your arms still full of folders, eyes scanning the room until you'd found the source.

A little boy, no more than five or six, sitting in a chair by Leon's desk. His face was red and blotchy, tears streaming down his cheeks in fat, glistening tracks, snot running down to his upper lip. He was full-on sobbing, not the fake crocodile tears that your siblings would use on you to make you feel bad for not getting their way. These were real tears, the kind that kids shed when they were truly upset and overwhelmed. His whole body was shaking with it, his small shoulders hitching with each gasping breath, and Leon was crouched next to him, looking completely lost.

You were sure that no one had asked him to help. No one had told him to deal with the kid. The boy's mother had probably stepped away for a moment, and the other officers had conveniently found reasons to be busy elsewhere, but there Leon was, trying anyway like he always was.

You'd watched him pull a sticker from Sergeant Branagh's desk and offer it to the boy with a hesitant smile. Watched the kid look at it like Leon was offering him a live grenade, not a harmless sticker to deputize himself right there on his Pokémon shirt. You watched Leon's face fall, his shoulders slumping just a little, the hope draining from his expression before he tried again, his voice soft and uncertain.

"Hey buddy," he'd said, and the kid had just cried harder, and it felt like someone had reached in and squeezed your heart with a firm, unrelenting grip.

You knew that feeling. In fact, you had been in Leon's place many times before. You knew what it was like to try so hard and feel like you were failing, like nothing you did was enough, like you were floundering in deep water with no idea how to reach the surface. You'd felt it a thousand times growing up, trying to wrangle your siblings, trying to be the second parent your mom needed you to be when she was working two jobs and barely had time to breathe, let alone handle four kids under the age of twelve.

You'd felt it when your little brother had scraped his knee on the playground and you'd been the one to clean it up, to kiss it better, to tell him he was brave even though you were only ten years old yourself and had no idea what you were doing. When your baby sister had cried for hours and you'd been the one pacing the living room at two in the morning, bouncing her in your arms until your shoulders ached and your eyes burned, whispering nonsense words until she finally, finally fell asleep against your chest.

So, you'd set down the folders on your desk, with a soft thump, not caring that they were probably out of order now. You’d opened your drawer and pulled out Officer Bandit.

You hadn't planned to keep the plushie in your desk. It had just sort of... ended up there. Left over from some community event months ago, just something that you thought was cute, shoved into the drawer and forgotten until you'd needed it. You'd started using it to comfort yourself when things got rough or you had a particularly bad day, opening the drawer and reaching down to just brush the fur in one direction, feeling the soft texture under your fingertips, the rhythmic motion soothing you.

It was the same trick you'd used on your siblings when they were upset, a soft stuffed animal went a long way when you were trying to calm an overwhelmed child. And somehow, you'd adopted it yourself, a self-soothing measure that you were probably too old for but couldn't quite give up. But now you were glad you had officer bandit tucked away for a moment like this.

When you'd crouched down next to that little boy, watching as his sobs had stuttered to a stop as he'd stared at the raccoon with wide, wet eyes, when his small fingers curl into the soft fabric and squeeze. You'd felt something inside you melt, something warm and tender spreading through your chest. But It wasn't just about the kid finally looking at peace, his breathing evening out, his tears slowing to hiccups. It was about Leon too.

You'd brushed the kids hair off his forehead with gentle fingers, rubbing slow circles on his back between his shoulder blades, but you'd been acutely aware of Leon standing there, watching you. 

You'd glanced up at him, and he'd been staring at you like you'd just performed a miracle, like you'd walked on water or pulled a rabbit out of a hat. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open, and the soft, warm expression on his face made your stomach flip in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. You'd felt your cheeks flush subtly, heat crawling up your neck.

When you'd caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. "You good, Kennedy?" you'd seen the way his face had gone red, the color flooding his cheeks and spreading down his neck. How he'd stammered out a response, his voice rough and unsteady, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in that nervous gesture you were starting to recognize, and you'd had to bite back a smile.

Oh…he was cute. He was really, really cute. But you'd again forced yourself to focus on the task at hand, you didn't have time to get distracted by a rookie who was cute…with nice eyes and a smile that made your heart do stupid things.

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Except It seems the universe was not on your side and you couldn't stop thinking about him. You'd started noticing him more after that day with the kid.

Leon often smiled when he thought no one was looking, a soft smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, made his whole face light up in a boyish way.

He always held the door open for people, even when his hands were full. He'd juggle files and coffee cups and evidence bags, contorting himself into awkward positions just to keep the door propped open with his shoulder or his foot, waiting until everyone had passed through before he'd follow. He never complained.

He’d often make extra coffee in the breakroom and leave it on the counter for whoever needed it, never asking for thanks. You'd come in some mornings to find a fresh pot brewing, still hot, and you'd know it was him. You'd seen him do it once, early, before the day shift had fully rolled in, setting it to brew before slipping out like he was afraid someone would catch him in the act of being kind.

One night when you'd walked into the breakroom, exhausted and frazzled from a long day of chasing down missing files and dealing with an attorney who'd been an absolute nightmare. Your hair had been falling out of its ponytail, your blouse wrinkled, your eyes burning from staring at documents for too many hours straight. You'd just wanted coffee and to sit and relax for five minutes, anything, to get you through the last hour of your shift. The break room usually had more chairs, but you suspected, as you looked at the single table that usually had at least two chairs, that people forgot to bring them back after a briefing.

Leon had been sitting there in the break room, head down just reading a report when he’d looked up from the table, his eyes widening slightly when he saw you, and without a word, he'd stood up and offered you, the only chair. 

Not in a showy way that was meant to be some grand gesture of chivalry, where he expected something in return. No, he'd just... stood up, gestured to the chair, and said, "Here. You look like you need it more than I do."

His voice had been soft, sincere, and when you'd tried to protest. "No, it's fine, I'm just grabbing coffee" he'd shaken his head and gently guided you toward the chair with a hand on your elbow.

"Sit please," he'd said kindly with a smile on his face. And you found you couldn’t say no to that face.

You'd sat, and he'd poured you a cup of coffee without asking how you took it. Two sugars, no cream. He'd remembered. And then he'd set the cup in front of you, his fingers had brushed yours, just for a second.

"Thanks," you'd murmured, wrapping your hands around the cup, and he'd smiled at you and said, "Anytime."

Then he'd gone back to his reports, standing at the counter, because you'd taken his chair, and he hadn't complained once.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

After that day in the break room It was like you couldn’t stop looking for him, It wasn't conscious at first. You'd just... find yourself glancing up from your files when you heard his voice, your eyes tracking him across the bullpen as he moved from desk to desk, helping other officers with their reports or asking questions about procedures. You'd linger in the breakroom a little longer when you saw him there, pretending to be engrossed in the bulletin board or the vending machine selections, just so you could be in the same space as him, hear his voice and see his smile.

You'd find excuses to walk past his desk. Dropping off files that could have been left. Asking questions, you already knew the answers to. Offering to help him with paperwork you had no business touching.

And he always looked up. His face would light up when he saw you, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his mouth curving into that smile that made your stomach flip. "Hey," he'd say, like he'd been waiting for you to walk by. And you'd smile back, your heart doing that stupid flutter that you were starting to associate exclusively with him, and you'd find some reason to stay a little longer. To lean against his desk and chat about nothing, about the weather, about the latest ridiculous call that had come in, about the new coffee shop that had opened down the street.

He'd look at you when he thought you weren't paying attention. His gaze lingering on your face before he'd catch himself and look away, his cheeks flushing. He'd often find excuses to touch you. Brushing past you in the narrow aisles of the filing room, his hand grazing your arm. Reaching across you to grab a file, his arm pressing against yours. Handing you a pen and letting his fingers linger on yours just a second too long.

It was subtle. So subtle you weren't sure if you were imagining it and reading too much into innocent gestures, if your own growing feelings were coloring your perception. 

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

It had been during the community event, the one with all the kids running wild through the precinct, their voices echoing off the walls, their laughter filling every corner of the building. You'd been helping wrangle them, handing out juice boxes and wiping sticky faces with damp napkins, tying shoelaces and settling disputes over who got to sit where. Leon was on his hands and knees searching for a stuffed cat while a gaggle of children shouted directions at him like he was navigating a minefield.

He'd been grinning and laughing, his hair was a mess, sticking up in six different directions from where at least three kids had tried to style it with their sticky hands. His uniform was wrinkled, the collar askew, and there was a suspicious sticky spot on his shoulder that you were pretty sure was juice box residue, and he'd looked happy. His eyes were bright, his face flushed, and when he'd finally pulled that stuffed cat out from under the desk and held it up, the kids had erupted in cheers, and Leon had laughed, a full, belly-deep laugh that made your chest tighten, and you felt that familiar ache settle deep in your ribs, spreading through your whole body like warmth from a fire.

You'd grown up in a big family. Four siblings, all younger than you, The house was always loud and chaotic, and someone was always demanding something of you. Your mom had worked two jobs to keep the lights on and food on the table, and you'd been the one to pick up the work. You'd been the one to make sure everyone got to school on time, to help with homework, to break up fights and kiss scraped knees and read bedtime stories.

You'd been a second parent before you'd even hit puberty, and you'd loved it and hated it equally. When it was bad, it was bad and you hated it, but when it was good, it was amazing and you'd loved it. You'd loved the noise, the chaos, the way your little brother would climb into your lap and fall asleep during movie night. Loved when our baby sister would reach for you when she was scared, and the way your other siblings would come to you with their problems, their secrets, their fears.

You'd loved being needed and loved by them, but then you'd left for college, and everything had gone quiet. Your dorm room had been silent, your apartment after graduation even more silent. Sometimes it ate at you, and you craved being home, where it wasn’t so quiet that you could hear your every thought like a drop in a still lake. I mean sure the precinct was loud at sometimes which helped, but it wasn't the same, It wasn't home. 

You'd buried that longing deep inside, told yourself you didn't need it, that you were fine on your own. You'd thrown yourself into your work and into building a career, you were strong, independent, and self-sufficient.

But then you'd met Leon, and that desire had come roaring back, clawing through your chest cavity to eat at your insides. You wanted him. You wanted to build a life with someone who would get down on the floor with kids, who would try so hard even when he didn't know what he was doing, who would look at you like you were the only person in the room. Who would laugh like that let himself be silly and messy.

You wanted the noise and chaos. The sticky fingers and the laughter and the bedtime stories and the scraped knees. You wanted the life you'd had growing up, the life you'd been missing for so long, the life you'd buried under career ambitions and independence and the lie that you didn't need anyone, and you wanted it with him. 

Later once the children had left and you were alone, he'd asked you about the future. You'd been working on paperwork together, the precinct quiet and empty around you, and he'd looked up from his files and said, "You ever think about the future?” This was the moment in which you knew that everything could change.

So, you'd set down your pen, and you'd looked at him, and you'd listened, and when he'd talked about wanting a house, kids, dogs, a family. When he'd looked at you with those blue eyes full of hope and vulnerability and asked, "Is that stupid?", you'd reached across the table and taken his hand.

"It's not stupid, Leon," you'd said. "You'd be a great dad.” And you'd meant it with every fiber of your being, because you'd seen someone kind, and patient, and selfless. Someone who tried so hard, who cared so much, who wanted to make the world a better place.

When he'd told you that he liked you and asked you out, his voice shaking, his face flushed, you'd said yes without hesitation. ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The house was a disaster.

Leon stood by the counter top, surveying the wreckage like a cop at a crime scene. Toys littered the floor, action figures, a headless Barbie doll that had seen better days, building blocks scattered like shrapnel from an explosion, a stuffed raccoon that looked suspiciously like the one from the precinct all those years ago, now missing an eye and most of its stuffing.

The breakfast table was a war zone. Cereal scattered across the surface like confetti. Milk dripped steadily onto the floor in a rhythmic plink that was starting to drive him insane. There was a suspicious sticky puddle near Oliver's placemat that might have been syrup or jelly.

The TV blared a cartoon theme song at full volume, singing about a talking dog and a mystery van, bright colors and loud voices that drilled into his skull. The dishwasher was rattling through its cycle, the plates inside clanking together and the refrigerator hummed and over it all, the voices of his three children, each one louder than the last, competing for dominance like they were auditioning for a reality show about who could drive their father crazy first.

Leon stood in the middle of it all, barefoot, his old RPD academy shirt wrinkled and riding up slightly from where Sophie had been using him as a climbing post five minutes ago, her sticky hands leaving prints on the fabric. His sweatpants had a suspicious stain on the thigh and his hair was sticking up in about six different directions because he hadn't had time to shower yet. 

He had Oliver wrapped around his leg like a koala, tugging insistently with sticky fingers on Leon's pant leg, his small face scrunched up in determination. While Leon tried to grab items from the fridge.

“Papa, Papa, I want pancakes!”

Leon looked down at him, four years old, blue eyes wide and demanding, his blonde hair, the color of honey in the sunlight sticking up in cowlicks that defied gravity and every attempt Leon had made to smooth them down. He was wearing his Batman pajamas, the ones with the cape that he refused to take off even though he'd been wearing them for three days straight and they were starting to smell like a combination of sweat and maple syrup.

“Ollie, buddy, we just had pancakes yesterday—“

"Papa! Look what I can do!" That was Emma, their oldest, standing on her chair at the table like it was a stage and she was the star of the show. Seven years old and already too smart for her own good, with a vocabulary that sometimes made Leon wonder if she was secretly a tiny adult in a kid's body.

She was waving a spoon like a sword, her blonde hair cascading past her shoulders in tangles that would take ten minutes and a bottle of detangler to fix, whipping around as she moved. She had food smeared across her cheek and her pink nightgown was twisted around her waist, the hem riding up to show her knobby knees.

"Em, get down before you—"

"Mine!" That was Sophie. Three years old, a tiny whirlwind of chaos who was currently on top of the kitchen counter. Leon's heart seized, his dad instincts kicking in as he watched her curls bouncing, chubby little hands yanking at a box of cereal she'd somehow managed to reach despite being three feet tall on a good day. She teetered dangerously close to the edge, her toes curling over the granite, her balance precarious, and Leon could already see the trajectory of the fall in his mind.

"Sophie, no—" he said reaching for her, but you were faster.

You swooped in from the hallway before Leon could even take a step, your reflexes honed by years of wrangling three tiny humans who seemed determined to injure themselves in increasingly creative ways. You scooped Sophie off the counter with practiced ease, one arm hooking around her waist.

"Nice try, Fi-bug," you said, your voice warm and patient despite the fact that it was seven in the morning and you'd probably been up for a while. Leon was up at five in the morning when Sophie crawled into your bed and kicked Leon in the ribs until he'd groaned and rolled over, giving up on sleep entirely as he got up to let you sleep some more.

You settled Sophie on your hip, and she pouted, her lower lip jutting out in a move that was pure manipulation and had worked on Leon more times than he cared to admit. Her blue eyes, Leon's eyes, not the only thing she'd inherited from him, went wide and glassy, threatening tears. But you were immune to her manipulation, and just kissed her forehead, your lips pressing against her curls, soft and gentle, and smiled.

"How about we sit at the table like a big girl, huh?" Sophie grumbled, an indignant little whine, like a tiny angry bear cub, but she didn't argue, never with mama. You set her down in her booster seat, the pink one with the unicorns on it that she'd picked out herself at the store, screaming "THAT ONE!" at the top of her lungs until Leon had caved and bought it. She immediately grabbed a fistful of Cheerios and shoved them into her mouth, her cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk.

Emma was still standing on her chair, spoon raised and you pointed at her without even looking, your mom-radar finely tuned after seven years of this.

"Emma Kennedy, sit. Now."

Emma sat. Just like that. No argument or negotiation. She plopped down into her chair, crossed her arms over her chest in a huff, and went back to eating her cereal.

Leon stood there, next to the microwave waiting for Ollie's pancakes, watching you move through the chaos like you were performing some kind of magic he didn't understand but was endlessly grateful for. You wiped Sophie's face with a damp cloth you'd pulled from seemingly nowhere your movements efficient and gentle, your touch soft. You poured Oliver a cup of juice without him even asking, because you already knew he was going to ask. You somehow managed to get Emma to eat an actual bite of cereal instead of flinging it at her brother, which was a minor miracle in itself, the kind of thing Leon would have needed at least thirty minutes to accomplish.

And then you looked at him, your hair was falling into your face, strands escaping the messy bun you'd thrown it into before bed last night, the elastic barely holding on. Your shirt the one with the faded RPD logo on the chest that he'd worn during his first week on the job, was stained with God-knows-what. There was a smudge of something on your cheek. You looked exhausted and frazzled. Your eyes had dark circles under them, your skin a little pale from lack of sleep.

You looked beautiful and you laughed as you looked at him, like you knew exactly what he was thinking. It was the same laugh, the one he'd heard in the precinct all those years ago, when he'd been a nervous rookie with no idea what he was doing, watching you calm a crying kid with nothing but a stuffed raccoon and a smile. The same one he'd heard on your first date, when he'd spilled red wine on the white tablecloth and you'd told him it was fine, that you liked messy, that perfection was overrated. The same one he'd heard in the delivery room, exhausted and radiant and covered in sweat, holding Emma for the first time while Leon cried like a baby himself, his hands shaking as he touched her tiny fingers.

It was the same laugh, and it still made his chest tighten, still made his heart do that stupid thump that he'd never quite gotten used to.

Leon looked at the kids, Emma, now actually eating her cereal her spoon moving from bowl to mouth in a rhythm that was almost civilized; Oliver, shoveling tiny pieces of leftover pancakes that Leon placed in front of him into his mouth by the fistful, syrup and chocolate dripping down his chin; Sophie, babbling to herself in a stream of nonsense words punctuated by the occasional "mine!" and "no!" and kicking her feet against the chair, and then back at you.

This was what he'd wanted all those years ago, this exact moment.

He crossed the kitchen, his bare feet sticking slightly to the floor where syrup had pooled, the tile cold and slick. He ignored all of that as he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you against him, and buried his face in the curve of your neck.

You smelled like coffee and baby shampoo. 

"Leon," you said, laughing, your hands coming up to rest on his forearms, your fingers warm and slightly damp from the washcloth. "What are you doing?"

He didn't answer. He just held you tighter, his chest pressed against your back, his arms wrapped around you like he could keep you there forever, keep this moment frozen in time. His chin hooked over your shoulder, and he closed his eyes, breathing you in.

"We did good," he whispered.

You went still and he felt you take a breath, felt the way your body softened against his, the tension draining out of your shoulders. And then you turned in his arms, your hands coming up to cup his face, your palms warm against his stubbled jaw, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.

When you looked at him, your eyes were soft and warm and full. "Yeah," you said quietly, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone, tracing the line of his face like you were memorizing it. "We really did."

Emma made a loud gagging noise from the table, her face scrunched up in exaggerated disgust. "Ew, gross."

Oliver giggled, a high-pitched sound that was pure mischief, his eyes sparkling. Sophie threw a piece of cereal at the wall. It stuck, clinging to the paint.

Leon didn't care. He leaned down and kissed you, his hands sliding up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. You smiled against his lips, and he felt the curve of your mouth, the warmth of your breath, you melted into him like you always had, like you always would.

When he pulled back, you were grinning, your eyes sparkling with that same warmth, that same light that had drawn him in all those years ago and never let go.

Leon thought about that rookie cop. The one who'd stood in the precinct with a crying kid and no idea what to do, who'd watched you drop to the floor without hesitation and felt his heart thump for the first time.

When you'd smiled at him across the break room table, late at night with paperwork scattered between you, and told him he'd be a great dad, your voice soft and sincere and full of a belief he hadn't known he needed.

"Love you," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours.

"Love you too, Kennedy." you said, soft and teasing and full of affection, full of a love that had only deepened over the years and made him want to kiss you all over again.

Sophie threw another piece of cereal. It hit Leon square in the head, bouncing off and landing somewhere near the dog's bowl, where their golden retriever, Super-Biscuit-princess, Biscuit for short, immediately gobbled it up.

You both started laughing, the sound filling the kitchen, drowning out all the noise and chaos. Leon pressed a quick and messy kiss to your lips, catching the corner of your mouth, and you swatted at his chest, still laughing.

"Go shower, Kennedy," you said, pushing him gently toward the hallway. "You smell like a gym sock and syrup."

Leon's grin widened, his chest filling with a warmth. He stole one more kiss, his lips lingering on yours for just a moment longer, and then he headed toward the bathroom stepping over toys.

Behind him, he heard Emma ask, "Mama, can we get a big lizard? Like, a really big one? like a dinosaur."

"Absolutely not," you said, but your voice was warm, patient, the same voice you used when you told Sophie she couldn't eat ice cream for breakfast or when you explained to Oliver why he couldn't bring all of his action figures everywhere he went.

Leon shook his head, still grinning as he stepped into the shower, the hot water hitting his shoulders and washing away all the exhaustion.

✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦ 𝖆 𝖓 𝖔 𝖙𝖊 ✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦

Here we goooo, finally!!! I was very excited about this concept, and really wanted to do something fluffy and cute so I got carried away!! This was actually a request I got in my messages weeeeeks ago from the lovely @king-thunderstorm, I'm so sorry this took so long and thank you so much for the request! I really needed this one, and I hope you liked it!

The fabric is soft against your cheek, worn thin in places by years of washing and chaffing against his skin. It is a simple dark navy henley that carried the scent of your shared detergent, and his scent never quite washes away no mater how many times you wash it. You breathe it in deep, your lungs expanding until you couldn’t anymore, holding onto his scent. The shirt is clutched in your white-knuckled grip as your body arches off the mattress.

Between your thighs the vibrator hums, the silicone is slick and warm with your heat. The pressure against your clit is a desperate attempt to replicate the way he makes you feel when he is between your legs. Your hips roll instinctively against the vibrator, chasing a high that feels just out of reach, you are aching for the feeling of his hands gripping your waist as he fucks into you, of him smothering your moans with his mouth.

The front door clicks open and then there is the heavy tread of boots on the floorboards, but you don’t react, the sound muffled by the blood rushing to your ears. You are gasping and panting into the cotton shirt, the toy still buzzing against your clit in a continuous rumble, you don't even bother with the other settings. Your heart is beating so loud you can barely hear anything, the world around you blocked out. The scent of him is headier now, mixed with the sharp smell of your own arousal, clouding all rational thoughts and feelings.

He appears in the doorway stopping in his tracks, the light from the hallway silhouettes him, a broad figure cast in the light bleeding into the dim room.

He watches from the doorway as a flush bloom across your chest, the sheen of sweat and your own release coats your inner thighs, your knees are trembling, fallen wide in invitation. The shirt, the one he wore before he left yesterday is pressed desperately against your nose and mouth as you breathe the scent in frantically, panting and gasping against the fabric as you circle your clit with the vibrator.

You whimper into the fabric when finally, your eyes meet his, heavy-lidded and wet with unshed tears of frustration and arousal. You don’t seem surprised to see him there, lost in the haze of pleasure, in fact his visage seems to spur you on as you whimper and writhe on the mattress with renewed effort, rubbing your slick thighs together. Your eyes are begging and pleading him without words to bridge the gap, that feels as wide as a canyon, to come closer and join you in the bubble of heat and arousal that you’ve created.

Leon doesn’t speak as he shreds his jacket, letting it fall to the floor before he crosses the distance to the bed. The mattress dips under his weight as he climbs onto the bed with you, the springs groaning in protest. He doesn’t touch you immediately, just kneels there with one hand resting on his thigh, the other braced near your head.

Slowly he reaches out gently pressing his palm to your overheated skin, you jerked moaning as his hand slides down your sweat-slicked stomach. He maps your curves sliding along the dips in your waist, his firm calloused hands gripping your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh, and pulls you softly. A sharp gasp escapes you as your lower half slides across the sheets, settling your lower half heavily in the cradle of his lap. 

"Keep going," Leon murmured, "Show me how you fuck yourself when I'm not here." A shuddering moan escapes you as you obeyed, slowly pushing the tip of the vibrator down and into your dripping warmth and then dragging the toy out before pushing it back in slowly. The vibration and angle is different now with your hips elevated in his lap, and the vibrations hit a soft sensitive spot inside you.

"Ahhh—nngh—Leon," you gasped as your back arches off the mattress, your fingers knotting desperately in the fabric of his shirt. The cotton was damp with your breath and sweat, the faded scent of laundry detergent mixed with the scent his skin fueling the fire in your blood.

His hands slide down from your hips down to the soft flesh of your inner thighs. Pushing them wide to expose the slick, quivering center of you to the cool air and his burning gaze. One thumb drags down your outer folds, collecting the dripping wetness there, before pressing inward to spread you apart. He holds you open, his eyes darkening as he stared intently at your exposed cunt.

"Look at that," he murmured as he watched, mesmerized, as your inner muscles clenched and fluttered around nothing, the wet flesh pulsing. The toy in your hand buzzed frantically, glistening under the low light, coated in a thick sheen of your arousal. You couldn't stop the desperate whine that built in your chest, your hips rocking upward to chase the friction.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he groaned, before he leaned in closer. "Were you thinking about me? Hmmm? Was it my cock you were imagining when you were fucking yourself?"

You nodded frantically, your chin wobbling as tears of frustration prickled your eyes. "Yes—mnm—oh god Leon," you babbled, working the toy in tighter, faster circles now, chasing the building pressure that coiled tight and hot in your core. "Needed you so bad."

He shifted, bracing himself over you, caging you in with his broad shoulders, but his attention never wavered from between your legs. He reached down, his large hand covering yours where it gripped the toy, gently pried your fingers away and took control of the toy himself.

"Such a greedy girl," he murmured, the degradation sending a fresh jolt of heat through you. He guided the toy, changing the rhythm from your frantic fluttering to slow circles that pressed the vibrating head harder against your swollen clit. "Let me help you, baby."

He leaned down, his hot mouth finding the flushed, sweaty curve of your breast. He placed an open-mouthed kiss just above your nipple, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin, even as his eyes remained locked downward, watching the slick wet mess he was creating between your thighs. Studying every twitch of your legs and every throb of your clit under the vibration.

He shifted his hips, grinding his erection against the soft flesh of your ass. "Leon," you whimpered, your head falling back, the shirt slipping from your fingers as all the sensations became too much for you to handle. The scent of him is everywhere now, overpowering the lingering smell on the shirt, It was intoxicating and dizzying.

He dragged the toy downward, sliding it through your dripping folds to coat it in fresh wetness, the silicone humming against your entrance, teasing the sensitive rim. Then he brought it back up, pressing it firmly against your clit, the vibration rattling your nerves.

Your hands scrambled for purchase reaching up and gripping his shoulders. Your fingernails dug into the skin, raking angry red lines down his muscles, the pleasure threatening to pull you under.

"You look so beautiful like this. Feel good?" he asked softly, his eyes finally lifting to lock onto yours. They were intense and dilated until the blue was just a thin ring around a black void, watching every flicker of pleasure that crossed your face. 

You nodded furiously, your breath hitching in your throat, your hands tightening on his shoulders afraid that if you didn't answer him he might stop. "Yes—don't stop, please don't stop."

The buzzing head of the toy drags away from your clit, moving in slow circles around the swollen bundle of nerves without quite touching it, making you keen and your hips jerk upward, begging for attention. Your breath hitches in uneven gasps, your body trembling with the effort to stay still, to not chase his touch.

Leon shifts, leaning in over your body, and you feel the hot splatter of his spit land directly on your exposed pussy, mixing with your own arousal to make a mess, before he slides two digits into you effortlessly. Your body sucks him in with a greedy, embarrassingly wet squelch and he curls his fingers upward. Immediately finding that rough patch of swollen ridges inside you that makes your vision blur and your toes curl. He strokes it firmly in a 'come here' motion, dragging his fingertips against the sensitive front wall until your thighs shake.

"Leon," you gasp, the last syllable of his name dragging out on a moan as your head falls back against the pillows, your fingers scrabbling uselessly at the sheets.

He answers your plea by suddenly pressing the toy directly onto your clit again. Your thighs clench around his arm, fighting involuntarily to close your legs but he doesn't budge an inch. He holds you open, one hand buried inside you, the other hooked around your thigh to keep you spread while the vibrator grinds into your clit. He watches your face contort in pleasure, your mouth falls open and your eyes roll back.

Overwhelmed and desperate for a connection, you reach up your hands find the back of his neck. Fingers tangling desperately in the hair at his nape, and you pull him down. He yields easily to your whims, a soft grunt escaping him as he lowers his chest down to cover yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress, suffocating you slightly.

You crush your mouth to his, swallowing the low groan he makes as your hips buck against his hand. The kiss is messy, all clashing teeth and dueling tongues and desperate, shared breath. You taste the lingering mint on his tongue and the faint, bitter edge of strong coffee, but underneath it all, it's just Leon. You moan into his mouth, which is swallowed by him as his fingers pump harder into you, the toy still buzzing against your clit. He devours your whimpers, his tongue dominating the kiss, fucking your mouth in time with the rhythm of his fingers.

The kiss breaks only when oxygen becomes a necessity, your lungs burning as much as your veins, the room spinning in the peripherals of your vision. You pull back just enough to gasp, your forehead resting heavily against his, his breath hot and mingling with yours in the scant, humid space between your mouths. He doesn't let up, not for a single second. His fingers pumping inside you, curling hard against your front wall with every thrust, dragging a wet lewd squelching sound from your core.

"God, look at you," Leon breathes, his voice rough like sandpaper against your ear. He shifts his weight, his jeans rubbing against the sensitive skin of your trapped thigh, sending jolts of heat skittering up your spine. "You're dripping all over me."

The pleasure is a tight, hot knot in your belly, pulling tighter and tighter with every circle of his wrist and every crook of his fingers. Your inner muscles clench around him, trying to keep his fingers inside you and pull him deeper. Your hips try to buck, to chase the sensation or flee from it, you aren't sure which. His arm is locked across your leg, holding you open for his use and you are entirely at his mercy, spread wide and trembling.

"Leon, please," you whimper, the words dissolving into a high pitched keen as he twists his fingers just right, scissoring them slightly to stretch you. "I'm—fuck, I'm close."

He growls low in his throat, before he adjusts the angle of the toy, pressing it directly into the swollen hood of your clit. The coil that had been tightening snaps. Your vision whites out, your back bowing off the mattress as the orgasm rushes through you like a wave. You cry out, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, your body seizing up around his hand as the pleasure crashes over you, leaving you gasping and shuddering in his grip.Your body convulses, every muscle locking tight. Your pussy clenches rhythmically around his fingers, squeezing them in fluttering contractions. 

Leon doesn't stop, he keeps his fingers buried deep, curling them through each spasm, drawing out your pleasure to an unbearable overstimulating degree. The toy stays pressed hard against your clit, the vibrations now almost too much, pushing you past pleasure into oversensitive territory. You gasp, your thighs trying to clamp shut, but his arm keeps you spread, keeps you exposed to the stimulation.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you chant breathlessly, your voice breaking on each syllable, turning into sobbing gasps. Your hips jerk erratically, caught between the instinct to grind down onto his hand and the need to escape the overwhelming buzz of the toy. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, leaking out to run down your face and into your hair.

It only then that he finally eases the vibrator away, letting it fall to the mattress beside you where it continues its muffled hum against the sheets. His fingers slow, gentling their movements, stroking your inner walls with a tender caress. His gaze locked on your face, taking in every shuddering breath, every flutter of your eyelashes as you try to come down from your high.

"It's okay...," he murmurs, his voice a low and soothing. "Breathe, baby."

You are dragging air into your lungs in great, heaving gulps. Your body feels like it's made of liquid in his grip. The aftershocks ripple through you, smaller waves that make your muscles twitch involuntarily. You can feel the slickness coating his fingers, dripping down onto his palm, soaking into the denim stretched across his lap.

The room is filled with the uneven sound of your breathing and the slick sound of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from your clenching heat. You whimper at the loss, your body still twitching and clenching around nothing.

Leon brings his hand up, his fingers glistening thickly with your cum, strings of it connecting his digits. He stares at the mess coating his skin, his chest heaving slightly, his eyes dark with a hunger that hasn't been sated in the slightest, if anything, it's only whetted his appetite. He brings his fingers to his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste you, groaning low in his throat at the flavor.

"Sweet," he mutters before sticking his fingers in his mouth to suck them clean. The sight sends a fresh pulse of heat through your exhausted body. You reach up, your hand trembling as you cup his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble against your palm.

"Leon," you whimper and he leans down immediately, capturing your mouth in a deep and slow kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, salt and your own release mixing with the unique flavor of his skin. His hips shift against you, and you feel his erection through his jeans.

Your hand slides down between your bodies, seeking the source of the heat pressing into you. Your palm presses against the length of him trapped beneath the denim, and he hisses against your lips, a sharp intake of breath through gritted teeth. His hips buck involuntarily, a reflexive thrust into your touch that sends a jolt of electricity through your palm. He’s rock hard, thick and straining against his denim pants.

He pulls back suddenly, the loss of his body heat leaving you cold for a split second. His hands move to the waistband of his jeans, the metal button snaps open before he drags the zipper down, the teeth parting with a harsh rasp, and shoves the rough denim down his hips just enough to free himself.

His cock springs out slapping against his lower abdomen. The tip is flushed a dark red, already beading with a pearlescent drop of precum that wells up. He fists himself, his large hand still slick with your arousal wrapping around his girth, and gives a slow rough stroke from base to tip. His eyes never leave yours watching your reaction as he squeezes the shaft, drawing another moan from his throat.

He shifts forward, settling between your spread thighs, the heat radiating against your oversensitive skin like a furnace. He hooks your legs over his arms and lifting them, folding you nearly in half. The position leaves you vulnerable, exposing you completely to him.

He notches the tip of his cock against your entrance, sliding it through your slippery folds to coat himself in your wetness. he presses just the broad tip in and your body reacts instantly, your inner walls fluttering in anticipation and trying to draw him in.

He braces one hand on the mattress by your head, the other gripping your hip to hold you, and begins to push inside. He fills you completely in one long slide, stretching you wide until he's seated to the hilt, his hips flush against yours. You gasp, your head falling back against the duvet, the fullness pushing the air from your lungs. He pauses his jaw tight, the muscles in his neck standing out as he fights not to just thrust wildly, letting you adjust to the size of him.

"Fuck," he grinds out, as he drops his forehead to your shoulder, pressing a hot open-mouthed kiss to the sweaty skin of your neck, his breath hitching against your throat.

Then, he shifts his weight, his hands slide from your hips to the backs of your thighs, gripping the soft flesh. He lifts your knees up toward your chest, bending you nearly in half as he hooks your calves over his broad shoulders. The position makes everything more intense, your hips tilted at a steep angle that opens you up to him. Your lower back presses against his thighs as he kneels upright, using his body weight to pin you down.

The first thrust drives the air from your lungs. He thrust into you with a deep, powerful snap of his hips, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke. He is deeper than before, and you feel him hit spots inside you that make your eyes close in overwhelming pleasure. A moan is pulled out of you from your throat with every thrust. Your hands fly out, scrabbling for purchase on his forearms, your nails digging into the muscle there, leaving crescent-shaped indentations in his skin.

"Leon!"

He pulls back until just the thick head of his cock remains inside you, pauses then slams inside again. He sets a punishing rhythm that rocks your entire body with each impact. The mattress creaks beneath you, the headboard thumps against the wall. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs, holding you folded, using the leverage to drive deeper, chasing his own release with single-minded focus.

The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room, you're so slick from your earlier orgasm that he slides in and out with ease, each thrust accompanied by a lewd, squelching sound that makes heat flood your cheeks. Your pussy grips him tight, the sensitive walls fluttering and clenching around his thickness with every stroke, trying to keep him inside.

"So fucking tight," he growls, his voice strained, rough with need. Sweat beads on his forehead, a single drop sliding down his temple to drip onto your chest. His eyes are locked on where you're joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over, watching the way your body stretches to accommodate him, your arousal coats his shaft creating a creamy ring before it drips down onto the sheets into a dark wet stain. "Look at you."

You can't even look if you wanted to, your head is thrown back, your spine arched as much as the position allows. The pressure of being folded in half makes everything more intense, the angle has him grinding against that soft sensitive spot inside you with every thrust, the one his fingers found earlier, and the stimulation is pushing you toward a precipice.

"Please," you gasp.

He leans forward, pressing your knees closer to your chest, folding you tighter. The shift drives him deeper, and you sob, your body trembling violently beneath him. He's everywhere, inside you, around you, his scent filling your lungs, his weight pinning you to the mattress. You're trapped in the cage of his body, helpless to do anything but take what he gives you, overwhelmed by him.

He fucks into you harder, each thrust punctuated by a grunt of effort, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing as he uses your body for his pleasure. The coil in your belly winds tight, faster this time, the overstimulation pushing you toward another peak.

"Come on, baby," he demands, one hand releases your thigh to snake between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down hard. He circles the swollen nub in rough, quick strokes, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

That's all it takes for you to reach your second orgasm, ripping through you with even more violence than the first. You moan, your body seizing up, your back bowing as much as it can, your pussy clamping down on him. The contractions are so strong they almost push him out, dragging a groan from his throat. He holds firm, fucking you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as he chases his own end.

He buries himself deep one last time, his hips grinding against yours as he finds his release. You feel him paint the inside you in his thick spurts of cum, filling you, the mixture of your releases beginning to leak out around him.

He collapses forward, catching himself on his forearms to keep from crushing you completely. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard, your chests heaving in tandem.

Your fingers loosen their grip on his shoulders, sliding up his sweat slicked nape to cradle the back of his head, threading through his dampened hair. "Welcome home...I missed you." You whisper to him sweetly. Leon huffs out a breathless laugh against your neck, the warm air making you shiver, before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦ 𝖆 𝖓 𝖔 𝖙𝖊 ✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦

Thank you! I'm so glad you like my page and that you trust me with this, anon!!! ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ...I love the catching your partner masturbating trope and eat it up every single time. Side note writing smut is interesting...I don't know if it's like this for anyone else but it's so easy to get distracted looking for "references" lol

You're sprawled across your bed in your room, The afternoon sun is warm against your skin, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight as you stare up at the ceiling. Your phone is pressed to your ear as you try to have a conversation with your brother, while Claire rummages through your closet in the background, the hangers clattering together.

“No, Carlos, I'm telling you, this professor is absolutely insane,” you say, frustration leaking into your voice as you switch the phone to your other ear. “He assigned a twenty-page problem over the weekend. Twenty pages! Who does that?”

Before Carlos can respond, likely with some brotherly comment about how easy you have it, Claire launches herself onto your bed with zero warning. The mattress bounces violently, nearly making you drop your phone, and you let out a startled yelp as your legs flail slightly.

“Jesus Christ, Claire!” you protest, scrambling to sit up, but she just grins up at you, completely unapologetic, her eyes bright with mischief.

“Hi Carlos!” she sings out, loud enough that there's no way he didn't hear her through the receiver.

You hear your brother's laugh through the speaker, warm and familiar and tinged with a distinct kind of amusement that usually means he's enjoying your suffering. “Hey Claire! How's it going?”

Then you catch Chris's voice in the background, muffled but unmistakable, booming and cheerful. "Is that my Claire bear!? Tell her I said hi!"

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts, a gesture that runs in the family. "Chris says hi," you relay flatly, even though Claire definitely heard him perfectly well; she's practically vibrating with excitement.

"HI Chris!" Claire shouts toward your phone, then makes herself comfortable on your bed, stretching out like she owns the place. She kicks off her shoes, tucking her legs underneath her, clearly planning to stay for the long haul.

You sigh and pull the phone away from your ear for a second, giving Claire your best annoyed look. "Do you mind? I'm trying to have a conversation here."

Claire just smirks, completely unbothered by your irritation, and starts scrolling through her contacts on her phone, the visual distracting you slightly.

You shake your head and turn your attention back to the call, deciding to switch to Spanish, hoping for at least a little privacy from Claire and probably Chris's prying ears. “¿Qué tal va entrenando el nuevo?" (How's training the new rookie going?)

Carlos scoffs so hard you can practically see him rolling his eyes through the phone. “Ay, no, ni me hagas hablar. El nuevo nomás es un niño bonito, ya. Está demasiado entusiasta y me sigue a todas partes como perrito perdido. Es bien cagante.” (Oh, don't get me started. The rookie is just a pretty boy, that's all. Too enthusiastic, follows me around like a lost puppy. Annoying as hell.)

You can't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. It's so like Carlos to complain about someone eager to learn.  “Ay, qué tierno. Pero si a ti te gustan los perros, Carlito. Siempre has querido uno.” (Aww, how cute. But you like dogs, Carlito. You've always wanted one.)

“Ya cállate,” (Shut up,) he grumbles, but you can hear the smile creeping into his voice despite his best efforts.

There's a pause, and you hear some shuffling on his end, like he's grabbing a coffee in the break room. "Oye, ¿tienes planes para esta noche?" (Hey, do you have any plans for tonight?)

"No, ¿por?" (No, why?) You say, rolling to the side slightly to watch Claire type away, already suspecting where this is going.

"¿Cómo que “por”? Es Halloween." (What do you mean why? It's Halloween.) Your brother says incredulously, probably rolling his eyes as you hear the rustle of a fast food wrapper in the background.

You roll your eyes back at him even though he can't see you, the gesture purely reflexive.  "Ohhh, no. I'm just staying in tonight. Gonna study, maybe watch a movie."

Carlos hums, and you can tell he doesn't quite believe you but he's not going to push it. "Bueno, está bien. Nomás ten cuidado si cambias de opinión." (Well, okay. Just be careful if you change your mind.)

"Siempre lo tengo," (I always am) you say, which is a complete lie and you both know it. You are tied with the twins, Mateo and Rafael, for the Oliveira sibling most likely to find trouble, though you usually do it accidentally.

Carlos chuckles, a low, warm sound. "Sí, claro. Oye, antes de que se me olvide, mamá quiere que los dos vayamos a la casa este fin de semana." (Yeah, sure. Hey, before I forget, Mom wants both of us to come to the house this weekend.)

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. "¿Este fin de semana? Carlito, tengo un examen el—" (This weekend? Carlito, I have an exam on—)

"Ya le dije eso." (I already told her that.)  he interrupts, his voice taking on that long-suffering tone he uses whenever he talks about your mother's stubbornness. "She said you can bring your books and study there. She just wants to see us. Dice que ya ni la visitas." (She says you don't visit her anymore.)

The guilt is a sharp and familiar feeling that bubbles up in your chest and settle deep in your stomach like a rock. Your mom has always been good at that, the gentle guilt trip that makes you feel like the worst daughter in the world for simply trying to get an education.

"Está bien, está bien. Iré." (Okay, okay. I'll go.) You sigh, defeated.  "¿A qué hora?" (What time?)

"Como a las dos. Y también dijo que lleves a Claire, si quiere ir." (Around two. And she said to bring Claire if she wants to come.)

"Le voy a preguntar." (I'll ask her.) You pause, looking over at Claire as she perks up listening more closely now that her name has come up in the conversation. "¿Va a estar Chris?" (Is Chris going to be there?)

"Probablemente. Ya sabes cómo es, siempre aparece cuando hay comida gratis." (Probably. You know how he is, always shows up when there's free food.)

You laugh, already ready with a quip.  "Como tú." (Like you.)

"Oye, yo ayudo a cocinar. " (Hey, I help cook.) Carlos protests, sounding offended.  "Tú nada más llegas, tragas y ya." (You just show up and eat.)

"¡Mentira! I helped last time!" (Lie!) you shout defensively. No way you're taking that slander lying down, your brother is a lying piece of shit.

Sure, there were times when you came over and ate while your seven brothers were forced to help Mamá cook. But that was what was expected, you were the youngest and the only girl. Mamá treated you like a true princess amongst peasants.

But you could distinctly remember all the times that asshole Carlos just came over and took a nap on Mamá's floor or argued with Luis and Rafael about fútbol while you were elbow-deep in masa, actually helping.

"Sí, ayudaste a comerte tres platos de arroz con pollo." (Yeah, you helped eat three plates of chicken and rice.) He scoffed. 

You're about to respond with a witty retort about his cooking skills when Claire suddenly sits up, abandoning her phone. She starts gesturing frantically at you, pointing at her watch and mouthing something you can't quite make out. Her eyes are wide and insistent, and she's practically bouncing on your mattress with pent-up energy.

You wave her off with your free hand, trying to focus on Carlos, but she's persistent, making increasingly dramatic gestures that involve a lot of pointing, flailing, and eyebrow waggling.

"Okay, okay, I gotta go," you tell Carlos, switching back to English with a resigned sigh. "Claire's having some kind of crisis or something."

Immediately, Carlos's tone shifts into full big-brother protective mode. You can practically hear him straightening up, his voice going serious. "Wait, before you go. Be careful tonight, okay? It's Halloween you know there is lots of drunk idiots out there."

"I'm not going anywhere—" you start to protest.

"I'm serious," he interrupts firmly. "No stupid decisions. No drinking too much, and if some guy tries anything—"

"Carlos," you cut him off, laughing despite yourself, warmed by his concern. "I'm fine. I promise I'll be careful. Love you, bye!"

You hang up before he can launch into a full-blown lecture about personal safety and the dangers of college parties, and toss your phone onto the pillow. You turn to Claire, who's now grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“Sooooo,” she says, drawing out the word with obvious glee. “The frat is throwing a massive party tonight for Halloween, and you'll be attending with me.”

You groan, flopping back dramatically on your bed and throwing an arm over your eyes. “Claire, no. God, no. Those parties are disgusting. The guys are gross and handsy, it's always way too loud, someone always breaks something expensive, and there's inevitably vomit somewhere.”

“Exactly! That's what makes it fun!” She grabs your arm and shakes it insistently. “Come on, you never go out anymore. You're always holed up in here studying or talking to one of your brothers. Just come for a little while? Please?”

You peek at her from under your arm, taking in her pleading puppy-dog eyes and pouty lip. She knows exactly what she's doing; she's weaponized that face since you were freshmen.

“Fine,” you concede with a heavy, put-upon sigh. “But I'm staying for like five minutes, max. Maybe ten if the music doesn't suck, and the second I get bored or some drunk guy tries to grind on me, I'm locking myself in my room and you're not dragging me back out. Deal?”

Claire squeals and throws her arms around you, nearly crushing your ribcage. “Yes! Oh my god, yes! Okay, we need to figure out your costume right now. What are you thinking? Sexy cat? Sexy nurse? Sexy devil? Ooh, or sexy—”

“If you say the word 'sexy' one more time, I'm backing out of this entire thing,” you warn, but you're already smiling despite yourself, unable to resist her infectious enthusiasm.

Claire just laughs and bounces off the bed, already heading for your closet with determination in her eyes. “Okay, okay. How about... harlequin? I saw this amazing costume at the store and I think you'd look incredible in it. Red and black, kind of edgy, super cute...”

You sit up, resigned to your fate. “Fine. Lets go.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　  ︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

Leon's jaw is so tight it starts to ache as he clenches his jaw muscle, he pulls the patrol car up to the curb in front of the frat house. The house is currently emitting a bassline so loud he can feel it rattling, even from inside the cruiser. The house looks like bad news waiting to happen, windows pulsating with erratic strobe lights, shadows of way too many bodies packed against the glass, the faint but distinct scent of spilled beer drifting even through the closed windows of the cruiser.

He keyes the radio, keeping his voice steady despite the knot of tension in his stomach. "Dispatch, this is unit seven-two-three. We're on scene at 588 raccoon road for the noise complaint. It's... active."

Static crackles back at him, the dispatcher sounding bored. "Copy that, seven-two-three. Keep us updated. Use discretion if it's just college kids being college kids."

Discretion. Right.

Leon reaches for the console, his fingers hovering over the switch to trigger the lights and sirens. Nothing clears a street faster than the wail of a siren, It’s the universal language of "you're busted." But before he can flip the switch, Carlos's hand shoots out from the passenger seat and clamps over his wrist.

"Whoa, whoa, hold up there, rookie," Carlos says, his voice lazy and thick with sleep. He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes already half-lidded. There's a smirk playing on his lips that Leon has learned to dread. "You can handle this one solo, right? Good training experience."

Leon stares at him. "Carlos, there's got to be at least a hundred people in there. Maybe two hundred. It's a full-blown rager."

"And you're a cop," Carlos interrupts, covering a yawn with the back of his hand. "You got the badge and gun. You got this. Just go in, flash the badge, tell them to shut it down. Easy peasy."

"Shouldn't we both go in? Standard procedure for crowd control—"

But Carlos is already reaching for the seat lever, tilting it back until he's practically horizontal. He pulls his cap down low over his eyes, effectively ending the conversation. "I'll be right here if you need backup. Just knock on the window. If I don't wake up, throw a rock at it." he hears Carlos mumble something in Spanish, his voice muffled by the cap over his face. 

Leon freezes as he understands every word. Four years of high school Spanish, two semesters in college meant he'd been quietly comprehending about seventy percent of Carlos's muttered complaints since day one. It was annoying but Leon had kept his mouth shut, not wanting to make things more awkward than they already were. Thank you, Mrs. Benitez, he thinks.

Within thirty seconds, a soft, rhythmic snoring is emanating from the passenger seat. Leon sits there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white, trying to decide if he's more frustrated or impressed by his partner's ability to fall asleep literally anywhere at anytime. They'd been paired up for three weeks, and while Carlos was undeniably a great cop, he also had a frustrating habit of treating Leon like a glorified intern who needed to learn "the hard way."

"Unbelievable," Leon mutters under his breath, unbuckling his seatbelt with a sharp snap. He steps out and shoves the door closed harder than necessary, hoping the slam might jostle Carlos awake, It doesn't. He checks his reflection in the car window, uniform crisp, hair neat, badge polished. He looks the part as he squares his shoulders back.

The front door is propped open with a traffic cone, Leon steps over the threshold and is immediately hit by a wall of sensory overload.

The house is packed wall-to-wall with bodies, the heat radiating off the crowd suffocating. The air is thick, a toxic cocktail of cheap beer, sweat, vapor clouds from smokes, and an overwhelming amount of body spray. Music blasts from speakers hidden somewhere in the living room.

He takes a breath, puffing out his chest, and raises his voice to a shout. "Attention! This is the police! This party is over! Everyone needs to—"

A guy dressed in a yellow banana suit stumbles past him, reeking of tequila. He shoves a red solo cup into Leon's hand, sloshing warm liquid over his fingers. "Dude! Sick costume, bro! You look so legit! Did you rent that or buy it?"

"I'm not—this isn't a costume," Leon tries to explain, but the banana guy is already gone, swallowed back into the throng of dancing bodies.

Leon grimaces, sets the cup down on a nearby table that is sticky with unknown substances, and tries again. He projects his voice, using his "commanding voice". "Everyone needs to evacuate the premises! You're in violation of noise ordinances and public intoxication laws!"

A girl in a sexy nurse outfit consisting of mostly red lace and a plastic headpiece giggles and drapes herself over his shoulders, nearly spilling her drink down the front of his uniform shirt. "Oh my god, you're so hot. Can I get a pic? Hold my drink!"

"Ma'am, please, I'm an actual police officer—"

She's already pulling out her phone, posing and completely ignoring his words. Leon gently but firmly extracts himself from her grip, his frustration mounting with every second. He pushes further into the house, moving against the flow of the crowd.

"Excuse me! Police!" he tries to flag down a group of guys playing beer pong in the hallway. "I need you to end the game and clear the area."

"Dude, chill!" one of them laughs, high-fiving his partner. "It's Halloween! Live a little!"

They offer him a ping pong ball. Leon bats it away.

"Please, just turn the music down," he implores a guy standing near a massive amplifier.

The guy just grins and reaches out, patting Leon on the cheek condescendingly. "Nice try, bro. Nice gun, by the way. Very realistic."

"It's not a prop!" Leon snaps, finally losing his cool. "And if you touch me again, you'll be spending the night in a cell, 'bro'" But his voice is lost, drowned out by a sudden drop in the music that makes the crowd scream in delight.

He makes his way toward what he thinks might be the source of the music, hoping that if he can just kill the power, people might actually hear him. But the deeper he gets into the house, the more impossible the task seems. The hallway is a bottleneck of bodies, the air is getting harder to breathe, and he's starting to realize this is a losing battle.

Nobody is taking him seriously. Not one person. He’s too young, and he knows it. "Baby-faced," Carlos calls him, usually while laughing over a burger. At twenty-one, he barely looks old enough to be out of high school, let alone be a police officer. The academy had been brutal, the physical training grueling, and even after graduating at the top of his class, he still gets mistaken for a cadet half the time.

And now, surrounded by people his own age, people who should, by all rights, be respecting the uniform, he's just another partygoer. He feels the frustration boiling over in his gut, turning into something closer to resignation. He's one guy. He can't arrest two hundred people by himself.

He pulls out his radio, thumbing the talk button. "Carlos, I need backup in here. This is out of control. Nobody's listening to me." Static hisses back at him.

"Carlos? Carlos, you awake?" More static. Leon closes his eyes and counts to ten, just like they taught him in de-escalation training. When he opens them again, nothing has changed. The party is still raging, the bass is still shaking the floorboards, people are still ignoring him, and his partner is likely back in the car dreaming about donuts.

He's turning toward the door, defeated, already ready to turn and shake Carlos awake and force him to help him, when he sees her.

She's standing near the makeshift bar set up in the kitchen doorway, and even in the chaos of the party, she stands out. The harlequin costume hugs her curves in a way that makes his mouth go dry, the fabric a dizzying pattern of red and black diamonds. Her makeup is dramatic and bold, black mask, painted-on smile, dark lipstick, and she looks confident and completely in her element.

But it's not just the costume that catches his attention. It's the way she's looking at him. Most people have looked through him, or at him like he's a joke. But her? She's looking right at him. Her eyes lock onto his from across the crowded, noisy room, and for a second, the rest of the party fades away.

She smiles, and it's not the mocking, drunk giggles and grins he's been getting all night. Leon forgets what he was about to do. He forgets the radio in his hand, the noise complaint, the sleeping partner in the car. He just stands there, rooted to the sticky floorboard.

She pushes off the doorframe and starts walking toward him, cutting through the crowd like she is parting the sea, and Leon's heart does a strange, nervous little flip. ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　 ︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

The bass is so loud you can feel it in your chest, each thump reverberating through your ribcage like a second heartbeat. You tip back your cup, letting the vodka-spiked punch burn down your throat, your second drink, and already the edges of the room are starting to blur in that pleasant, fuzzy way that makes everything seem just a little bit brighter, a little bit easier.

You were just about to make your escape. Five minutes have definitely passed, probably closer to twenty, and you've done your duty as Claire's friend. You've shown up, you've had a drink, you've nodded along to conversations you couldn't hear over the music. Now it's time to retreat to your room, lock the door, put on some TV, and pretend the chaos downstairs doesn't exist, but then you see him.

He's standing near the front of the room, and God, he's gorgeous. Tall and broad-shouldered, with dirty blonde hair that falls just right across his forehead, soft and cute baby-faced jawline, and these incredible blue eyes that you can see even from across the crowded space. The cop costume fits him like it was custom-made, navy blue shirt that stretches across his chest in all the right ways, tactical pants that hug his thighs, utility belt slung low on his hips with handcuffs dangling from one side.

Even from here, you can tell the costume is high-quality. Not like the cheap polyester crap most guys throw on. This looks real, detailed, almost professional. The badge on his chest catches the light, gleaming in a way that seems too authentic for Party City, not that you could actually put that together in your drunken haze anyway. 

He looks frustrated, his jaw is tight, his brows furrowed, and he's trying to talk to people who keep brushing him off. You watch as someone hands him a solo cup and pats him on the back, and the expression on his face is priceless, a cute bewildered and annoyed frown on his face, his eyes shining like he might cry out of frustration.

The alcohol is warm in your veins, and suddenly the idea of hiding in your room seems a lot less appealing than talking to the hottest guy at this party, and before you can second-guess yourself, you're moving. You weave through the crowd of drunk college students in various states of costume, sexy nurses, zombies, a guy in a large spider costume, and make your way toward him.

He's turning away, reaching for something on his shoulder, a radio? Wow, he really committed to this costume, when you slide up next to him.

“Hey,” you say, pitching your voice loud enough to be heard over the music. You flash him your brightest smile, the one that always worked on your brothers' friends. “Nice costume.”

He turns to look at you, and up close he's even better. Those blue eyes are striking, framed by golden lashes, and there's a slight flush to his cheeks that makes him look younger than you first thought. Maybe your age, actually. Early twenties at most.

“Thanks...” he says, but there's something distracted in his tone. His eyes flick back to the crowd, then to you again. “Um sorry...Listen, I'm actually—”

“You look way too serious,” you interrupt, emboldened by the alcohol and the way his gaze keeps lingering on you. The harlequin costume was definitely the right choice; you can see his eyes tracking the diamonds that curve over your body. You step a little closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look up at him. “You should relax. Have some fun.”

His lips part like he's about to protest, and you notice they're really nice lips. Full, perfectly shaped and you wonder what they'd feel like against yours.

“I'm serious,” you say, reaching out to touch his arm. The muscle beneath the fabric of his uniform shirt is solid and very distracting, he has really nice biceps you think to yourself. “When's the last time you actually enjoyed yourself at one of these things?”

He blinks at you, and you can see the exact moment his brain seems to shut down like a windows screen. His mouth opens, closes, and then he swallows hard. You track the movement of his throat, the Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. Your eyes drift lower, catching on the cute little moles that sprinkle his neck, a constellation you want to map out with your mouth, that you would never tire of tracing. You're utterly fascinated and captivated by him.

“I... I'm not really here to enjoy myself,” he manages, but his voice is a little rough.

“Well, that's a shame,” you murmur, stepping even closer until there's barely an inch of air separating your bodies. You can smell his cologne now, something clean and masculine that smells a million times better than the stale beer and sweaty smell of the party. “Because I was hoping you might want to get out of here.”

You reach out and toy with the stiff collar of his uniform shirt, your fingers brushing against the warm skin of his neck pressing your finger to the mole hiding just under his collar. You feel him shiver, a full-body reaction he can't hide. Then you press your chest flush against his, letting him feel the softness of your curves against him. You look up at him, fluttering your lashes, putting on your best innocent act, your heart beating a mile a minute in your chest.

His eyes widen slightly, and the flush on his cheeks deepens to a very pretty pink that spreads all the way down his neck. “Are you—are you asking me to—”

“To come upstairs with me?” you finish for him, your voice dropping to a low and intimate register that he has to lean down to hear you over the thumping bass. You slide your hand down his chest, over the badge resting on his chest, letting your fingers trail down his tensing sternum to rest dangerously close to his gun belt. “Yeah. I am.”

“Why?” he breathes, looking down at you like he’s afraid you’re a hallucination conjured up by his exhaustion and frustration. A siren songing him to crash against your shores.

“Because you’re the hottest guy here,” you say simply, your hand traveling back up his chest to lay right between his pecks, your thumb stroking the fabric right over his heart, feeling it race. “And you look like you need to relax.” You stand on your tiptoes and brush your lips against the soft line of his jaw. “My room's upstairs,” you say, your voice dropping into a lower sultry tone. The alcohol makes you bold; makes you reach out and tug gently on his wrist. His skin is warm under your fingers. “What do you say, officer? Want to help me unwind a little?”

He just stares at you like you've spoken a different language entirely, maybe that was his thing, you could totally break out the Spanish if that was his thing. You weren’t below using it especially if it got him to follow you upstairs. You can see the conflict playing out across his face, confusion, surprise, and lust warring with what's you don't know is his sense of duty.

His lips part, and you can see him forming the word "no." his eyes flick toward the door and you think you've lost him, but then his expression shifts. His jaw clenches slightly, and you swear you see a flash of frustration cross his face, not at you, but at something else you couldn’t see. Leon's eyes come back to you, and the conflict is still there, but there's a resignation mixed with recklessness now.

His hand turns in your grip, his fingers tangling with yours, and he lets out a breath that sounds almost defeated.

"Okay..." he says quietly, so quietly you almost don't hear him over the music. There's a helpless and innocent but entirely too excited expression on his face that makes your stomach flip, he's got this eager puppy energy that is making you go absolutely crazy.

Victory surges through your body, and you feel as if you just won the hot boy lottery as you grin and start pulling him toward the stairs, weaving through the crowd. A few people glance your way, you catch Claire's eye across the room, and she gives you an enthusiastic thumbs up that makes you want to die of embarrassment.

You guess you doth protest too much when she had to practically force you downstairs, now look at you disappearing upstairs with a guy only after twenty minutes. You owed it to her big time and if this went as well as you hoped it would, you would be buying her the largest coffee you could tomorrow.

The noise dulls as you climb the stairs, the bass fading to a manageable thump beneath your feet. Your room is at the end of the hall, and your hands are shaking slightly as you fumble with the door handle.

“Sorry, it's kind of a mess,” you say as you pull him inside, though honestly your room is probably the cleanest space in the entire frat house. Textbooks are stacked neatly on your desk, your bed is made with your favorite comforter, and the only real clutter is the pile of rejected costume options Claire had pulled from your closet earlier.

You close the door behind you, and the quiet is almost jarring. You can still hear the party, but it's more muffled now, and in here it's just the two of you and the sound of your breathing.

He's standing in the middle of your room, looking around with an almost dazed expression. The lighting is softer here, just your bedside lamp casting everything in a warm glow, and you can see more details now. The way his hair is slightly mussed, like he's been running his hands through it in frustration.

“Soooo,” you say, stepping closer. Your heart is pounding now, alcohol and pure want thrumming through your veins. “What's your name, officer?”

He looks at you, observing you.

“Leon,” he finally says. “My name is Leon.”

“Leon,” you repeat, testing his name on your tongue as you step close enough that your chest almost brushes his, and you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “I'm glad you came upstairs with me, Leon.”

His hands hover at his sides, like he's not sure what to do with them. “Wait—I should probably tell you something—” But you're done with talking, you've been watching his mouth for the past five minutes and you need to know what it feels like. You rise up on your toes and kiss him. For a second, he freezes, going completely still like he's forgotten how to move.

Slowly his hands come up to cup your face, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and his lips are even better than you imagined. Soft but firm, moving against yours with an urgency that makes your knees weak. You grab onto his shirt for balance, feeling warmth of his body beneath the fabric.

You kiss him harder, sliding your tongue along the seam of his lips, and he opens for you with a groan. The taste of him floods your mouth and you want more, need more. Your hands slide up to his shoulders, then into his hair, and it's just as soft as it looks. He makes another noise when you tug slightly, and you file that information away for later. When you finally pull back, you're both breathing hard. His lips are swollen and pink, his eyes dark with want, and the bulge in his pants is very, very obvious.

“Bed,” you breathe, you don't give him time to overthink it, as your hands find his belt, and you walk him backward until his legs hit the edge of your bed. One firm push and he goes down, sitting heavily on the mattress with a surprised exhale that's absolutely adorable.

“Wait—” he starts, but you're already dropping to your knees between his legs, fingers working at his belt buckle with determination.

The metal clinks as you pull it free, and his breath catches audibly. You can see the conflict written all over his face, those blue eyes wide and uncertain, his lips parted like he wants to protest but can't quite make himself form the words. His hands hover in the air, trembling slightly.

“Just relax,” you murmur, your voice low and sweet as you pop the button on his pants. The zipper follows with a soft hiss, and you tug the fabric down to reveal dark boxer briefs underneath. He's hard, the outline of his cock strains against the fabric, thick and mouth-watering, you can't help the pleased hum that escapes your throat.

“Hold on I think I made a mistake, I really shouldn't—” Leon's voice cracks slightly, his hands finally moving to catch your wrists, but his grip is gentle, hesitant, like he doesn't really want you to stop. “This isn't—I'm, I—”

You look up at him through your lashes, letting your lower lip push out in an exaggerated pout. “What's wrong? You don't want me to suck your cock?”

His face goes scarlet, bright red from his neck all the way up to his ears, and the sight is so delicious you almost moan out loud. You lean forward and press your lips against his cock through his boxers, letting your hot breath warm over the dark fabric.

“Fuck—” He whimpers, his hips jerking involuntarily off the bed. You kiss him again, slower this time, dragging your mouth along the length of him. He's thick and you can feel him twitch against your lips, your tongue darts out, wetting the fabric, and Leon makes a strangled noise that goes straight between your legs.

“Do you want me to stop?” you ask, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. He stares down at you, chest heaving, face still flushed that gorgeous shade of red. His hands are trembling where they rest on your wrists, and you can see the exact moment he decides.

“I...” He swallows hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “No.” he says defeated, and your grin is wicked as you lean back in. You press open-mouthed kisses along his length through the fabric, sucking gently, getting the cotton wet with your saliva. Leon's breathing is uneven as he pants, his thighs tensing under your hands.

You look up at him as you work, maintaining eye contact while you mouth at his cock. His eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide, and he looks absolutely destroyed already and you've barely done anything. It's intoxicating, the power you have over him right now.

“Please,” he breathes. You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and tug them down teasingly. His cock springs free, and God, it's even better than you imagined.

“Oh,” you breathe, wrapping your hand around the base. “You have such a pretty cock.” And you mean it. He's thick and flushed, the head already dark pink and leaking. He curves slightly upward, and the vein running along the underside is prominent. He's neatly trimmed, clearly takes care of himself, and the whole package is honestly mouthwatering.

Leon makes a choked sound at your words, his cock jumping in your hand and leaking more precum. A pearly bead forms at the tip, and you watch, fascinated, as it threatens to drip down his shaft.

You laugh softly, delighted. “You're so responsive,” you murmur against his heated skin. “It’s cute.” you tell him, stroking him slowly.

He's a mess already, face red and breathing hard, trembling under your touch. Most guys you've been with try to act all cocky and too confident for their own good, and honestly it kinda gives you the ick. But Leon? Leon is open and honest in his reactions, and it's refreshing as hell. You lean in and press a soft kiss to his tip, right where that bead of precum has formed. The taste bursts across your tongue, salty and musky and you hum in appreciation.

Leon's whole-body jerks, a broken moan falling from his lips, and his hand flies to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands but not pulling. 

“Oh god,” he whimpers, and the sound makes you clench around nothing. “That feels—you're—”

You kiss him again, then drag your tongue along the underside of his shaft, following that throbbing vein from base to tip. His thighs are shaking now, muscles jumping under your free hand. You swirl your tongue around the head, dipping into the slit to gather more of that addictive taste, and Leon actually lets out a cry. His hips twitch like he wants to thrust up but he's holding himself back, trying so hard to be good and not force his cock down your throat.

“It's okay,” you tell him, pressing kisses along his length. “You can fuck my mouth; I want you to.”

And with that, you seal your lips around the head of his cock and suck. The taste of him floods your mouth as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks and working your tongue along the underside of his shaft. Spit leaks from the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin and making an absolute mess, but you don't care. You push yourself further, taking him until he hits the back of your throat. The stretch makes your eyes water, your throat constricting around him, and Leon moans and whimpers uncontrollably.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck—” Leon's babbling now, his voice high and strained. His thighs are tense under your hands, muscles jumping with every bob of your head. “That's—you're—holy shit—”

You pull back until just the tip rests between your lips, then swirl your tongue around the head. His hips buck involuntarily, driving himself deeper, and you let him, relaxing your throat to take more.

“Sorry, I'm sorry—” he gasps, but his hand tightens in your hair, contradicting the sweet way that he is apologizing.

You hum your approval and take him as deep as you can, your nose nearly brushing the hair at his base. The sound he makes is desperate, a moan mixing with a quiet sob, and you feel a rush of power knowing you're the one reducing him to this.

You pull back with a gasp, spit connecting your lips to his cock in a lewd string, then dive back down. The wet, obscene sounds fill your quiet room, combines with Leon's increasingly desperate whimpers. You work the base your hand following your mouth while the other slides up his thigh, feeling the way his muscles quiver beneath you wandering hands.

You pull off of him with a soft pop. “You're so hard,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the side of his shaft. “Does it feel good, officer?”

“Don't—” He chokes on the word, his head falling back. “Don't call me that right now, please—” But you can see the way his cock jerks at the title, the way more precum leaks from the tip. You lap it up with a flick of your spit slick tongue, and Leon's moan bounces off your bedroom walls.

Your free hand slides up his stomach, fingers scratching through the trimmed blond hair of his happy trail. The texture is coarse against your fingertips, and you feel his abs flex and jump under your touch. 

He's so responsive and it is driving you absolutely crazy. You’ve given head before, but it's never felt like this. Never made your pussy throb with need, never made you feel throbbing and warm just from the taste of someone on your tongue. But Leon is different in every way from most frat guys who end up at these parties, the way he whimpers and trembles under your touch, makes you want never to let him leave your bed.

Tears well up in your eyes, partly from choking on his cock but mostly from sheer arousal. Your makeup is definitely running now, black streaks probably running through the makeup on your cheeks, but you don't care. You just want more of him.

Your other hand slides down your body, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. You're absolutely soaked, your arousal coating your inner thighs, and when your fingers find your clit you have to moan around Leon's cock.

“Jesus—” Leon's voice breaks. “Are you—are you touching yourself?”

You pull off to look up at him, your lips still brushing his tip. “Uh-huh,” you breathe, circling your clit with slick fingers. “You make me so wet, Leon.”

His cock jumps, leaking more precum, and you lap it up eagerly before taking him back into your mouth. You set a rhythm now, bobbing your head while your hand works what you can't fit, your other hand buried between your legs.

“Such a good boy, Leon.” His face somehow gets even redder, and you grin before taking him back into your mouth.

You slip two fingers into yourself, your walls clenching around them as you imagine what Leon's cock would feel like instead. The thought makes you moan, the vibration traveling through his length, and Leon actually sobs.

“Wait, wait—” His hand tugs at your hair, not hard enough to hurt but urgent. “I'm gonna—if you keep doing that I'm gonna—”

You pull off just enough to look up at him, your lips still brushing his tip. “Gonna what?”

He's panting, his chest heaving, sweat beading at his temples. Those blue eyes are glazed with pleasure, pupils blown wide, and he looks absolutely wrecked.

“Come,” he admits, “I'm gonna come.” The confession sends a thrill through you, heat pooling low in your belly. You want that. Want to taste him, feel him lose control, know that you did this to him.

“Then come,” you say simply, before you double down, sucking harder, taking him as deep as you can while your fingers are finding your clit. The sensation of his cock heavy on your tongue and your own fingers pumping inside yourself, has you teetering on the edge. You scratch your nails through his happy trail again, a little harder this time, and Leon's whole body goes taut.

You look up at him through tear-blurred vision, and the sight of him, his face is flushed, his mouth open in a silent moan, sweat beading at his temples, above you is going to push you over the edge. 

You moan around him and that all it takes for Leon to snap, his hips jerk up, driving himself into your mouth as his hand fists tight in your hair. You relax your throat and let him, working him with your tongue as he fucks into the wet heat.

“Fuck, fuck, I'm—” His warning dissolves into a strangled groan as he comes across your tongue and the back of your throat. You take him deeper, relaxing your throat as much as you can, choking on him while tears stream down your face and your fingers pump in and out of your dripping pussy.

You're making such a mess, spit and precum coating your chin, your hand between your legs absolutely drenched. You swallow around him greedily, not wanting to waste a drop, your own fingers working faster between your legs.

The taste of him, the sounds he's making, the way his cock twitches in your mouth, all coalesce into a tight ball deep in your core before it all crashes over you and you come too, moaning around his length as pleasure floods through you. Your walls clench tightly around your fingers, your whole body shaking.

Leon collapses back on your bed in a boneless heap, gasping his chest heaves up and down, his uniform shirt twisted and rumpled. You pull off slowly, licking your lips as you sit back on your heels. His cock is still half-hard, glistening and sensitive, and when you press one last kiss to the tip, Leon actually whimpers. Withdrawing your hand from between your legs, your fingers are slick and shining, and without thinking, you bring them to your mouth and suck them clean.

Leon peeks at you from under his arm, his face still flushed, his hair a mess. Staring at you like you're some kind of goddess. “Jesus christ…,” he breathes, his cock giving a small twitch of interest despite having just come. “You’re—that was—”

You grin, wiping your chin with the back of your hand. Your makeup is definitely ruined, mascara streaked down your cheeks, lipstick smeared everywhere. You probably look like a mess But from the way Leon is looking at you, you've never felt more beautiful.

You stand up, legs still a little shaky from your orgasm, and Leon watches you with dazed blue eyes as you reach for the laces of your corset. His gaze tracks every movement of your fingers as you slowly undo them, letting the garment fall away.

Your breasts spill free, nipples already hard and aching, and Leon makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. Next come the shorts, shimmied down your hips along with the fishnets and soaked panties. You kick them aside, standing completely naked in front of him except for the smudged harlequin makeup and the little jester hat that's somehow still sitting upon your head.

“Fuck,” Leon breathes, his eyes roaming over every inch of exposed skin. His cock is already stirring again, hardening from where it rests against his stomach.

You crawl onto the bed, straddling his hips, and push him back against the mattress. He goes easily, his hands coming up to rest on your waist like he can't help himself.

“I want you inside me,” you murmur, leaning down to capture his lips. This kiss is different from the first, deeper, more confident, flavored with the taste of him still lingering on your tongue. Leon groans into your mouth, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You roll your hips, grinding your bare pussy against the rough fabric of his rough pants. The friction against your sensitive clit makes you gasp, breaking the kiss.

“Need this off,” you pant, tugging at his shirt.

Leon sits up enough to help you pull it over his head, and oh god, he's beautiful. Lean muscle, defined abs, a light dusting of golden hair across his chest that trails down in that perfect happy trail you'd scratched through earlier. You run your hands over his chest, feeling the way his heart pounds beneath your palm.

“Pants too,” you demand, helping strip him completely.

“This is such a high-quality costume,” you comment breathlessly, running your fingers over the uniform before you toss it aside carelessly. 

“Actually—” Before he can respond you are straddling him as you grind down hard on his cock, sliding your slick folds along his length, and whatever Leon was about to say dissolves into a helpless moan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping tight enough to bruise. “That feels—you're so wet—”

You are absolutely dripping, coating his cock with your arousal as you rock against him. The head catches on your clit with each roll of your hips and you whimper at the sensation.

“You feel so good,” you breathe, bracing your hands on his chest. 

Leon's looking up at you his face flushed and his lips parted. “You're incredible,” he manages. “I can't—I've never—”

You grind down harder, cutting off his words with another moan. His cock slides through your folds, getting absolutely soaked, and you can feel him throbbing against you.

“Need you inside me,” you whimper, reaching down to position his pink tip at your swollen entrance.

His eyes go wide, his grip on your hips tightening. “Wait—do you have—I don't have a condom—”

“I'm on the pill,” you say quickly, too desperate to care about the details. You need him now, need to feel him stretching you open, filling you up. “Please, Leon. I need you.”

He searches your face for a moment, before he nods, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Yeah, okay.”

You sink down slowly, taking just the tip, and you both moan at the sensation. He's thick, stretching you wide and you have to pause to adjust to his girth. Leon's hands grips your hips as he slides into you, watching your face as you adjust to his size, your breath hitches lips parting on a soft gasp. Which makes something primal stir deep in his chest.

“You're so tight,” Leon grits out, his abs flexing as he fights the urge to thrust up. You sink down another inch, then another, taking him slowly until he's fully seated inside you. The stretch feels so good, almost too much but not quite, and you feel absolutely full.

“Oh my god,” you whimper, your head falling back. You're already rolling your hips before you can fully adjust to the feeling of him being buried deep inside you. You look at him, panting and breathless from just a few rolls of your hips, and the pleading blissed out look on his face makes you want to tease him.

“I've been such a bad girl, officer,” you purr breathlessly, your lips brushing against his. “Are you going to punish me?”

Leon's whole body goes rigid. “Don't—” he warns again, but you can already feel his cock twitching inside you. You grin wickedly, running your hands down his arms where they're lying beside him. “Maybe you should use those handcuffs on me, officer. Make sure I don't try to escape.” You purr before you trail your fingers back up his arms to rest on his chest, feeling the way his muscles jump under your touch, and lean up to whisper in his ear.

“What's wrong?” you ask innocently, rolling your hips in small tight circles in his lap. “Isn't that what cops do? Detain bad girls who break the rules?”

“Jesus Christ,” Leon mutters, and then he's kissing you again, hard and demanding. Leon's hips snap upward hard, driving into you so deep you gasp. 

“Fuck—don't—” he mumbles, the rhythm you had set faltering. “Don't call me that when I'm—when we're—” Leon groans interrupting himself, his hips continuing to thrust into you shallowly, each one making you gasp. You can feel his cock jumps inside you, the way he somehow gets even harder. He likes it, even if he's embarrassed to admit it.

Leon's breathing grows heavier. The control that he had been maintaining ever since you found him downstairs was slipping, you can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his muscles cord beneath sun-kissed skin dotted with those distinctive moles.

"Common, Officer," your voice lilts higher, sing-song and deliberately provocative. "Maybe you should—oh fuck—" Leon's hands tighten on your hips and suddenly the world is spinning. He flips you onto your back with surprising strength, your head hitting the pillow as he settles between your thighs raised on his knees. The shift in position makes his cock slide even deeper, as you gasp at the sensation.

"You think this is funny?" he pants, his voice rough and strained. "Teasing me like this?"

"A little," you admit breathlessly, then laugh when he drives into you particularly hard, his hips snapping forward with force. The laugh dissolves into a moan as pleasure sparks through you, an all-consuming fire that starts from your toes spreads up your chest to settle there and warm you from the inside. 

"But you love it—oh god—you love when I call you that. Don't you?" you say breathlessly. He can't deny it, not when his cock is rock hard inside you, throbbing with need. His jaw clenches, and you can see him trying to formulate words, trying to match your teasing energy.

"Gonna—" he grits out, his voice lacking the usual cockiness that is to be expected from most guys who come to these frat parties, "—gonna fuck that attitude right out of you."

There's no real bite to his bark. The words almost uncertain, like he's testing them out, trying to play along but not quite sure how. It's endearing, actually, his inexperience with dirty talk, the way he's clearly attempting to match your energy but fumbling slightly. And it only turns you on more, knowing that he's trying, that he wants to give you what you want even if it doesn't come naturally.

"Promise, Officer?" you tease, your legs wrapping around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back.

"Fuck—" He groans, his voice slightly strangled and tense, as you feel his whole body tense. Suddenly he's pulling almost all the way out, just the tip of his cock still inside you, and then he slams back in hard enough to make you whimper. Your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks in his skin.

" Ahhh—Yes! That feels so good," you gasp out, and the praise seems to ignite something in him. Your words spur him on like nothing else could. Leon's hands slide down to hook under your knees, and in one fluid motion he folds you completely in half, pressing your thighs back toward your chest. The new angle drives him deeper, so deep you can feel him in your stomach, and he slams into you with a force that punches the air from your lungs.

“Leon, oh god, Leon—” You're babbling now. Emboldened he sets a brutal pace, each thrust powerful and deep, his hips pounding into you hard and deep. The wet sounds of your coupling fill the room, the slick slide of his cock in your drenched pussy, the slap of skin on skin, the creaking of the bed beneath you, all mixing with your breathless moans and his desperate groans.

Each thrust is harder than the last, and you love every second of it. your hands fisting in the sheets as pleasure crashes through you in waves. You can't help the high-pitched whimpers that escape, your voice climbing higher and higher. "Ah—ah—ah—Leon—!" Each drive of his hips forces another sound from you, helpless little cries that match his rhythm perfectly.

He's breathing hard above you, his face flushed and his hair falling into his eyes the pupils blown wide with lust as he watches you writhe and moan beneath him. The shy, flustered guy from earlier is gone, replaced by a man on a single-minded mission. Sweat beads on his forehead, a drop trailing down his temple, and his arms shake slightly with the effort of holding himself up, but he doesn't slow down or ease up. 

Each thrust drives you further up the bed, the headboard starting to knock against the wall. Tears spring to your eyes from the overwhelming sensation, the stretch and fullness and break neck pace. Your hands reach up desperately, fingers grasping at his shoulders, trying to pull him closer as he drives you into the mattress.

Leon leans forward, folding you tighter, and his mouth finds your breasts. He kisses the soft swell of them before his lips close around one peaked nipple. His tongue swirls around the sensitive bud, then he sucks, hard, drawing it between his teeth. Your back arches and he releases your nipple with a wet pop, only to lavish the same attention on the other breast. His teeth graze the tender flesh, biting as you cry out, and leaving dark red marks all over the curve of your breast.

“Fu—fuckfuck—You're so pretty,” he pants, his voice rough. His words send heat flooding through you, and you clench around him again. Leon hips stutter as he buries his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he moans, his arms slide around you, pulling you closer, crushing you against his chest even as he continues to thrust into you. His hips snap forward particularly hard and you cry out. 

“You feel so good,” he groans, his grip on your knees tightening. Your hands slide up into his hair, tangling your fingers in his hair, pulling and gripping tight as you pull his face closer to yours. 

“Look at me, Leon.” you demand. He lifts his head, and the eye contact is intense. Those blue eyes are dark with lust, glazed over with pleasure and unshed tears, and you pull him down into a kiss. Your mouths crash together messily, his tongue sliding against yours as his cock continues to fill you over and over. 

When he finally pulls back to breathe, you chase him, pressing kisses to his neck, kissing, sucking, teeth scraping over those moles. He’s so beautiful like this, completely lost in pleasure, and you want to memorize every detail. You bite down on the junction of his neck and shoulder, then soothe it with your tongue before moving to another spot, Hickies blooming across his throat like petals.

Leon's hand suddenly fists in your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as he pulls you to angle your face toward his again. 

"Leon," you breathe against his mouth. His hand slides from behind your knee to grip your thigh, holding you open as he pounds into you with renewed vigor. The change has you crying out into his mouth, your whole-body trembling.

“I'm close,” you whimper against his lips. “Leon, I'm so close—”

“Me too,” he admits, his voice strained. He buries his face back in your neck, his moans getting higher and more desperate. “I can't—I'm gonna—”

“Do it,” you encourage, your walls starting to flutter around him. “Please, Leon. Want to feel you come inside me.”

Leon's whole body goes taut, every muscle locked and trembling, his hips slam forward one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix as he empties himself. You feel him throb and twitch inside you, hot thick ropes of cum flooding your pussy, painting your walls white. It triggers your own orgasm like a chain reaction, and you come with a sharp cry, your back arching off the bed as pleasure races through your blood like liquid fire.

Your thighs quiver where they're still folded up by your chest, your entire body hypersensitive and singing with pleasure. Leon's weight presses you into the mattress, as you both come down from that high peak. Finally, he lifts his head, those blue eyes hazy and satisfied. He slowly straightens up, still buried inside you, and lets your legs gently unfold from their bent position, settling on the mattress beside his thighs. Leon leans back further, his gaze traveling down your body with obvious appreciation, your flushed skin, your marked breasts, Where you're still connected. Then his hand presses flat against your lower belly holding you down gently but firmly as he slowly pulls out.

You both watch as his cock slides free, twitching and glistening with both of your combined release. The moment he's fully withdrawn, his cum starts to leak out of you, thick and white as it drips from your swollen throbbing pussy.

"Fuck," Leon breathes, transfixed by the sight.

You grab his wrist with one hand, feeling his pulse jump beneath your fingers. Your other hand travels down your body, past your navel, between your thighs. Your fingers slide through the mess there, his cum mixed with your own wetness, slick and warm. You gather some on your fingertips, watching as you pull your hand away and a string of combined release connects your fingers to your pussy, stretching thin before breaking.

Leon's eyes are locked on your hand as you bring those glistening fingers up to your mouth. You maintain eye contact as your tongue darts out, licking the cum from your fingertips.

"Jesus Christ—" Leon groans, his head falling back, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard, his cock twitching visibly. You can't help the laugh that bubbles up from your chest, delighted and a little smug at his reaction. The sound makes him look back down at you, and he leans down his hand sliding up your sternum to cup your jaw. His mouth captures yours in a deep kiss. He can taste himself on your tongue and he doesn't care, if anything it makes him kiss you harder, his tongue sliding wetly against yours.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing heavily again, as he collapses gently on top of you, careful not to put his full weight on you, holding you close. Your fingers card through his hair gently now, and you can feel his heart racing against your chest.

“Holy shit,” Leon mumbles into your neck.

You laugh breathlessly, the sound turning into a content sigh. “Yeah. Holy shit.”

The music downstairs that had turned into white noise as you fucked was cut off abruptly. The sudden silence is jarring, and then you hear it, people yelling, feet scrambling, the unmistakable sound of a party dispersing in a panic.

“COP! COPS ARE HERE!”

Your blood runs cold and Leon who had been admiring and kissing the red bruises across your breast stops, his head snapping up from where he had been resting, his eyes going wide with panic. “Shit—”

“POLICÍA! Everyone out, now!” The voice booms from downstairs, a very familiar gruff voice barking orders.

Oh no. Oh no no nononono—

“Everyone out! Party's over! Let's go, move it!” The same voice says as you hear people groaning and scattering, boots and heels scratching and thumping against the floorboards to vacate the premise. Your blood runs cold as you debate trying to escape yourself even though this was your room and your frat house. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no—” you mumble under your breath, and Leon looks up at you with his brow furrowed.  

That's Carlos, your brother Carlos.

“Get up, get up!” you hiss, scrambling out from under Leon. He jumps up naked, his full body now on display, which would have been hot if you weren't currently panicking about being caught with your pants down, quite literally, by your brother. You grab his clothes from where they're scattered across your floor, his uniform shirt, his pants, his belt and shove them into his arms.

“Closet! Now!” you whisper urgently, pushing him toward it.

“Wait, I should just—” Leon starts, but you're already shoving him inside.

“No! My brother will literally kill you! Get in!” You whisper yell shoving him towards your closet frantically.

Leon's face goes pale as he almost trips over the rug in your room. “Your what?”

“My brother Carlos! Get in the closet, now!” you hiss, shoving his uniform shirt into his arms and practically dragging him across the room. “Now, Leon, please!”

He stumbles after you, still mostly naked, clutching his clothes as you yank open your closet door and push him inside.

“Don't make a sound,” you whisper urgently, and slam the door shut just as you hear heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, Carlos's voice getting closer as he barks orders at fleeing partygoers. 

You have maybe five seconds. You look down at yourself, completely naked, covered in sweat, makeup smeared everywhere, and you can literally feel cum dripping down your inner thighs.

The doorknob rattles, then stops.

"What the fuck? Why is this door locked?!" Carlos's voice comes through the door. "Oye, I know your in there! Open the door!" You hear him curse and grumble under his breath about the door.

Rattle rattle rattle. The doorknob is turning violently now, and there's more banging. Fuck.

You grab the first t-shirt you can find, one of Carlos's old RPD academy shirts that you stole years ago and yank it over your head. and a pair of sleep shorts that you shimmy into, not bothering with underwear because there's no time. You're just running your fingers through your completely fucked-out hair when your door flies open the hinges snapped clean.

"What the FUCK, Carlos?!" you snap, your heart still racing and your temper rising as your older brother acts like an idiot, breaking doors he probably won’t fix.

"Well, you weren't answering! Why didn't you open the door?" He yells back.

"Have you thought maybe I was RESTING MY EYES, you dick?!" you shout back exasperatedly.

Carlos stands in the doorway, radio crackling on his shoulder. His dark eyes sweep the room with the practiced efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times, and you try very hard to look casual and not like you were just getting railed by a guy thirty seconds ago. Your hair is a mess, your makeup is smeared all over your face, and you're pretty sure you're still flushed from sex.

"Mhm. Right," he says slowly, his eyes narrowing.

"Resting your eyes," Carlos repeats, not believing a word.

"Yes. Resting. My. Eyes." You say innocently running your fingers through your hair, trying to appear casual as the silence between you stretch’s out leaving a gaping hole in the conversation. 

You clear your throat crossing your arms as you sway in place and try and look everywhere but his face. “Any way, Carlitoooo, What's up?” you say, trying for casual and landing somewhere around 'extremely suspicious.' And ‘up to no good’.

Carlos's eyes narrow. “What's up? There's a massive party downstairs that we got called to shut down, and I find you up here locked in your room not answering me and looking like—” He gestures at you. “What the hell happened to your face, you look like a mapache.” (Raccoon.)

“Halloween makeup,” you say quickly, wiping at your cheeks. “It's supposed to look like this.”

“Uh-huh.” He doesn't look convinced. His gaze travels around your room, taking in the rumpled bed, the discarded harlequin costume on the floor. He steps into the room, and you resist the urge to step back. “I thought I told you to stay out of trouble,” he says slowly, suspicion dripping from every word.

“I am out of trouble!” you protest. “I was just relaxing in my room. See? Totally innocent.”

“Yeah, right,” Carlos mutters, his gaze tracks over you, your mussed hair, your flushed cheeks, the way your t-shirt is inside out. “Sure, looks like you were relaxing.” He says sarcastically but he's not looking at you anymore. He's looking around your room, his cop instincts clearly on high alert. Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it. Please don't look in the closet, please don't look in the closet!

You force a laugh. “Okay fine! I did go to the party but only for a minute! Claire was very insistent but I was just—” Carlos isn't listening, his attention has caught on something on the floor near your bed. Your stomach drops as you watch Carlos's gaze land on a badge by your bed. 

"No no no—" you breathe, already moving to intercept him, but Carlos is already bending down. His hand closes around the object and you watch, frozen in horror, as he straightens up slowly. The badge catches the lamplight. Leon's badge. The one that must have fallen from his uniform when you'd frantically stripped him earlier, too desperate and drunk to care where his clothes landed.

Carlos turns it over in his hand, studying it with an expression that makes your blood run cold. You watch his jaw clench, the muscle jumping beneath his skin. The silence stretches out, thick and suffocating.

"You—," he says quietly, and that tone, that dangerous, too-calm tone that you know from years of being his little sister, makes your stomach drop even further. This is worse than yelling. So much worse.

"Carlito—" you start, your voice coming out small and guilty.

"Where is he?" Carlos asks, still in that terrifyingly quiet voice. His dark eyes lift from the badge to scan your room, taking in the rumpled sheets, your inside-out t-shirt, the general chaos of post-sex disorder.

"Where's who—" you try weakly.

"Don't." He holds up the badge, and the gesture is sharp enough to make you flinch. "Where. Is. He."

You open your mouth, close it, your mind racing for some explanation that doesn't involve admitting what you both already know happened here. But before you can formulate anything remotely coherent, Carlos is moving past you toward the closet.

"Carlos, wait! No—" you start, trying to block him, but he just gently moves you aside with one arm. The ease with which he does it only emphasizes how futile your resistance is.

"Carlos, please, just listen—" you try again desperately, but it's too late. Carlos yanks the closet door open with enough force that it bangs against the wall.

Leon is standing there in just his boxers; his uniform clutched against his chest like some kind of shield. He's staring down at the floor like he's trying to will himself into disappearing, maybe hoping if he doesn't make eye contact this will all turn out to be a nightmare he can wake up from. His face is bright red, not just his cheeks but his whole face, the flush spreading down his neck and across his chest. His normally neat hair is a complete disaster, sticking up in every direction from where your fingers had been buried in it. And there visible in the lamplight, are the very obvious scratch marks running down his neck and chest, angry red lines from your nails. Purple hickies bloom across his throat and collarbone, marking him thoroughly.

The evidence of what you've done couldn't be more obvious if you'd written 'I just had sex' across his skin in permanent marker.

"Hey," Carlos says, his voice dropping even lower, dangerously calm in a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. "How was the party?"

Leon's throat bobs as he swallows hard. His knuckles are white where he's gripping his uniform. "...It was fine, sir," he manages, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Fine," Carlos repeats flatly.

"Yes, sir." Leon mumbles the words to the floor, still refusing to look up. He looks like a guilty dog caught chewing on his owners’ shoes. If he had a tail, you're pretty sure it would be tucked firmly between his legs right now.

You can see a muscle ticking in Carlos's jaw, the telltale sign that his blood pressure is rising. The vein in his temple starts to pulse visibly. His hands clench into fists at his sides, the badge still clutched in one of them, and you can practically see him counting to ten in his head, trying to maintain that iron clad control.

"Carlito, listen—" you start, stepping between them with your hands raised placatingly.

"You," Carlos points at you without looking away from Leon, his finger stabbing the air, "stay out of this."

"Carlos, wait—" You step forward anyway, switching to Spanish without thinking, the way you always do when you're panicking. "No es su culpa, es mía. Yo lo arrastré aquí arriba, él ni siquiera—" (It's not his fault, it's mine. I dragged him up here, he didn't even—)

"¿Sabías que era policía?" (Did you know he was a cop?) Carlos interrupts, his eyes snapping to you with laser focus. There's something in his expression you can't quite read, disbelief, maybe, or hope that this is all some terrible misunderstanding.

You freeze, the words dying in your throat. "¿Qué?" (What?)

"El rookie. Mi compañero." Carlos gestures first to himself, then to Leon in a sharp, stabbing point. "¿Sabías que sí es policía de verdad?" (The rookie. My partner. Did you know he's an actual cop?) He speaks slowly, enunciating each word carefully so you'll understand, and somehow that makes it worse.

The words hit you like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head. The room seems to tilt slightly as the full implications crash over you. You turn slowly to look at Leon, who's still staring at the floor with that guilty, miserable expression.

"Wait," you say, your voice coming out strangled as you switch back to English. Your brain is struggling to process this information. "You're... the rookie that Carlos is training? You're actually a cop? Like, a real cop?"

Leon finally looks up, and the guilt written across his face confirms everything. Those blue eyes are full of apology and shame.

"I tried to tell you," he says quietly, his voice rough. "But you just... kept kissing me."

"Oh my god." Your hands fly to your face, covering your burning cheeks. The memories come flooding back, him trying to say something, you cutting him off with your mouth, too drunk and horny to listen. "Oh my god, I just—I just fucked an actual police officer who was here to shut down the party—"

"Are you KIDDING me?!" Carlos roars, and there it is, the yelling you'd been expecting from the start, probably audible throughout the entire house.

"I mean—I didn't know!" you protest, your face burning with embarrassment so intense you think you might actually combust. Your hands are still covering your face, as if that might somehow make this less mortifying. "¡Pensé que era un disfraz de Halloween!" You gesture wildly at Leon, your movements frantic and uncoordinated. "¡Míralo, tiene veintiún años! ¡Pensé que era estudiante!" (I thought it was a Halloween costume! Look, he's twenty-one! I thought he was a student!)

"¡Sí es policía!" Carlos says flatly, his voice dropping back to that dangerous calm. "Mi compañero." (He IS a cop. My partner.) He makes a vague gesture with his free hand that somehow encompasses the entire disastrous situation.

Your face burns hotter. You're pretty sure you've never been this embarrassed in your entire life, and that's saying something. "No sabía," (I didn't know,) you say weakly, knowing how pathetic it sounds even as the words leave your mouth.

Carlos stares at you like you've grown a second head. "¿No sabías?" (You didn't know?) His voice climbs in volume and pitch. "The badge! The gun! Hellooo!" He gestures wildly, his hand coming dangerously close to smacking you in the face.

"I was drunk! I wasn't paying attention to details!" you yell back, smacking his arm away from you harshly. Carlos smacks your arm back in retaliation, the gesture comes automatic to him after years of childish fights with his sister. Even in a situation like this, he can't help himself, you're siblings, after all, and some habits die hard.

"Clearly!" Carlos runs both hands over his face, dragging them down slowly. When he drops them, he looks like he's aged ten years in the past minute. There are lines around his eyes you've never noticed before, and his expression is one of profound exhaustion.

"Okay, in my defense," you start, your voice getting higher and more frantic, "he's really hot and he seemed really into it and I didn't—I mean I thought—oh god, this is so embarrassing—"

"Okay! EW!?" Carlos's face contorts in disgust. "Shut up! I don't want to hear about—" He makes a cutting gesture with his hand. "Just STOP."

He turns back to Leon, deliberately not looking at him in the eyes, his gaze fixed somewhere over the rookie's shoulder. "Rookie. Get dressed. We're leaving." His voice is clipped, professional, the tone he uses when he's trying very hard not to lose his shit. "You've got exactly two minutes before I drag you out of here in your underwear."

"Yes, sir," Leon says quickly, already fumbling with his pants, nearly dropping them in his haste.

The full weight of what you've just done crashes over you as you look at Leon, really look at him. The marks you left on his skin, the way he can barely meet anyone's eyes, the trembling in his hands as he tries to get dressed. "Oh my god. Oh my GOD." You cover your face with your hands again, your voice muffled. "I dragged a cop away from his job to—oh my god, I'm going to jail. I'm going to jail for obstruction of justice or—or—solicitation or—"

"You're not going to jail," Carlos sighs, and he actually sounds tired now instead of angry.

"I'm sorry—" Leon mumbles, his voice small and guilty and apologetic as he struggles with his shirt buttons. His fingers are shaking too badly to get them through the holes.

"I corrupted an officer! I—" You're spiraling now, pacing back and forth across your small room, your hands gesturing wildly. "Carlos, I'm so sorry, I didn't know, I swear I didn't know, if I had known I never would have—I mean, not that he's not attractive, he's very attractive, but I wouldn't have—oh god, does this mean I'm going to have a record? Will this affect your career? Oh my god, what if you get in trouble because of me—"

"I know! I KNOW—I believe you, Jesus, stop pacing, you know I hate that." Carlos says, and he actually sounds tired now instead of angry. He's watching you freak out with the resigned expression of someone who's seen you do this exact thing many, many times before. "You're giving me a headache."

Suddenly the door bursts open and Claire rushes in, breathless and wild-eyed. "I'm sorry, I tried to stop him before he—" She stops dead in the doorway, her mouth falling open as she takes in the scene.

Claire's eyes are wide as saucers as she processes everything: you in your inside-out t-shirt and sleep shorts, clearly disheveled and still flushed, your hair a disaster; Leon standing in the closet in his boxers looking like he wants the earth to open up and swallow him whole, his chest covered in scratch marks and hickies; and Carlos looking like he's contemplating early retirement and possibly homicide, the badge still clutched in his white-knuckled fist.

"Oh," Claire says slowly, a grin starting to spread across her face despite the palpable tension in the room. "Oh wow."

"Claire, not now—" you start desperately.

"Is that a cop?" Claire points at Leon, her grin widening.

"Yes!"

"Did you fuck a real cop?" Her voice is climbing with barely suppressed glee.

"I DIDN'T KNOW HE WAS A COP!" Your voice cracks on the last word, going up a full octave.

Carlos pinches the bridge of his nose hard enough that it has to hurt. "Dios mío, dame paciencia," (My God, give me patience,) he mutters under his breath.

"This is..." Claire starts, then stops, that grin spreading even wider across her face despite the obvious tension crackling through the air. "Actually, this is incredible. I need all the details later. Every single detail. Don't leave anything out."

"Claire!" you screech.

"What? I'm just saying, you picked a literal cop! Like what are the odds? That's actually impressive—"

"OUT," Carlos says flatly, his voice dropping into that dangerous register that makes even drunk frat boys shut up and listen. It's his cop voice, the one that brooks absolutely no argument. He points at the door with the kind of authority that comes from years of dealing with bullshit on the streets. "Now."

Claire holds up her hands in surrender, backing toward the door, but she's still grinning like the Cheshire cat. You can hear her laughing as she heads down the hallway, and then her voice drifts back. "Oh my god, wait till I tell Chris—"

"CLAIRE!" you and Carlos yell at the same time, your voices overlapping in perfect sibling harmony born from years of shared exasperation. Her laughter echoes as it fades down the stairs, and you can hear her voice getting farther away.

Carlos turns back to Leon, who's managed to get his pants on and is fumbling with his shirt, his fingers still shaking slightly as he tries to button it. He keeps missing the holes, his coordination shot to hell. The scratch marks you left down his chest are clearly visible in the gaps between buttons, angry red lines that stand out starkly against his pale skin.

"Rookie," Carlos says, his voice still that dangerous calm that's somehow worse than yelling. "Two minutes. Meet me downstairs. And for the love of God, make yourself presentable." His eyes flick briefly to the marks on Leon's neck, and his jaw clenches even tighter.

"Yes, sir," Leon says quietly, still not meeting Carlos's eyes. He's staring at his shirt buttons like they're the most fascinating thing in the world. His face is still bright red, the flush spreading down his neck and disappearing under his collar.

Carlos looks at you one more time, shaking his head with an expression that's equal parts disappointment and resignation and something that might be reluctant understanding. It's the look he's given you a thousand times before, when you got caught sneaking out at sixteen, when you crashed his car at seventeen, when you called him drunk from a party at eighteen. The look that says 'I love you but why do you do this to me?'

Then he walks out, and you catch him muttering in Spanish under his breath as he goes. You can make out "mi hermanita" (my little sister) and "el pinche rookie" (the damn rookie) and what sounds like several creative curse words you're pretty sure you've never heard him use before, combinations that would make your grandmother cross herself. The door closes behind him, and suddenly it's just you and Leon. You can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, can hear the distant sounds of the party dispersing downstairs, people still scrambling to leave.

“I'm so sorry,” you both say at exactly the same time.

Leon looks up, surprised, his hands freezing on his half-buttoned shirt. “Why are you apologizing? I'm the one who—”

“I literally dragged you up here!” you interrupt, your hands flying to your hair and tugging at the tangled strands. “You were trying to do your job and I just—I seduced you! Oh my god, I seduced a police officer on duty.”

“I could have said no,” Leon says quickly, finally stepping fully out of the closet as he continues buttoning his shirt with shaking fingers. “I should have said no, but...” He trails off, his face flushing even deeper. “You were very... persuasive.”

You cover your face with your hands, groaning. “This is so embarrassing. oh my god, I can never look Carlos in the eye again.”

“I know,” Leon says miserably. He's pulling on his boots now, his movements jerky and rushed, nearly losing his balance and having to catch himself on your dresser. “I'm probably getting fired for this—”

“Don't say that!” You drop your hands, looking at him with genuine concern and guilt churning in your stomach. “It's my fault, I'll tell Carlos that, I'll explain everything—”

“No,” Leon says firmly, standing up and buckling his belt. All his equipment clinks as he adjusts it, the very real handcuffs and gun that was definitely not from Party City. “You're not taking the blame for this. I'm an adult. I made my own choices.”

He runs a hand through his hair, trying to make himself look somewhat presentable, but it's a completely lost cause. His hair is still thoroughly messed up from your fingers, sticking up in about five different directions.

“This is my fault I knew better…I’m sorry, I really did try to tell you,” he says softly, finally meeting your eyes. His expression is guilty but also tinged with a fond look. 

You think back through the alcohol-hazed memories of the party. Him saying “I'm not really here to enjoy myself” and “I'm actually—” before you'd kissed him. Him trying to explain “I should probably tell you something—” before you'd dragged him upstairs.

“Oh my god, you did,” you breathe, the realization hitting you like a truck. “I just kept... interrupting you. With my mouth.”

“Yeah.” A small, slightly hysterical laugh escapes him. “You're very good at that...”

Despite everything, the embarrassment, the mortification, the fact that your brother just caught you, you feel your lips twitch into an involuntary smile. “I can't believe I called you 'officer' while we were—” You cut yourself off, your face burning even hotter than before. “Oh god, I kept doing it too. Multiple times.”

Leon's face goes bright red, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Please don't remind me. Every time Carlos calls me 'rookie' I'm going to think about—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. 

“I'm so sorry—”

“Stop apologizing,” he says, and then he's crossing the room to you in three long strides. His hands come up to cup your face gently, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, wiping away some of the harlequin makeup even further. “For what it's worth? That was... amazing. Incredible. Best night of my life, actually, even if I'm probably about to get the lecture of my life from your brother.”

You lean into his touch, your hands coming up to rest on his wrists. You stare at each other for a moment, the absurdity of the situation hitting you both at the same time, and then you both start laughing.

“This is insane,” you say between giggles, your shoulders shaking.

“Completely,” Leon agrees, and then he's kissing you again. It's soft and sweet and tinged with desperation because you both know he has to leave, that Carlos is waiting downstairs probably getting more pissed off by the second.

When he pulls back, you're both breathing a little harder. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, and you can see the conflict in his eyes, wanting to stay versus knowing he has to go. His radio crackles to life, making you both jump.

“Rookie! if you're not down here in thirty seconds, I'm coming back up there,” Carlos's voice comes through, sounding extremely annoyed and also slightly threatening. “And I'm bringing the employee handbook with me so we can review the section on professional conduct.”

Leon sighs and reaches for his radio, pressing the button. “Copy that, sir. On my way down now.” He clips the radio back to his shoulder and looks at you one more time. His hand comes up again, thumb brushing over your bottom lip to clean up some of the smudged lipstick.

“Can I...” He hesitates, looking suddenly uncertain. “Can I see you again? When I'm not, you know, on duty and supposed to be working?”

Your heart does a little flip in your chest. “You want to see me again? After all this?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I do,” Leon says, a huff of disbelief escaping him. He runs a hand through his already-messy hair. “It would be the stupidest mistake of my life if I didn’t.”

Leon's smile is genuine and a little bit shy. You can't help but smile back, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “Yeah, I'd really like that.”

“Good.” He steps back into your space, just for a second, and steals one more quick kiss. It’s brief, chaste compared to what you were doing earlier.

You scramble for your dresser, your heart racing. Your fingers fumble for a pen and a bright pink sticky note in the drawer. You scribble your number down, the digits messy and frantic in your haste, the ink slightly smudging at the edges. Then you press your lips firmly to the corner of the paper, leaving a perfect, lip print right next to your name.

You rush over to him, closing the distance in two steps, and grab hold of his belt loops. You tug him closer, pulling him flush against you until you can feel the heat radiating off his body.

“Here,” you breathe as you slide the note into the front pocket of his pants. Your hand lingers in the warmth near his hip, your fingers exploring the heavy fabric. Your knuckles graze the fly, brushing deliberately against the outline of his cock, and you feel him twitch against your hand, a reflex he can’t control.

He goes bright red, his breath hitches audibly in his throat, his eyes widening as he looks down at you with that same look on his face hat’s been driving you crazy all night.

“Don't keep me waiting, Leon,” you whisper, leaning up to press a kiss to the line of his jaw.

“I won't,” he chokes out, his voice strangled. “I promise.”

He looks at you for one long second, memorizing your face, and then he reluctantly steps back and heads for the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle, looking back at you over his shoulder. “By the way? You look really cute in that harlequin costume.” And then he's gone, slipping out into the hallway. You listen to the sound of his footsteps echoing down the hall, the heavy thud of his boots on the stairs fading together with the last stragglers leaving the party.

You stand there touching your lips, trying to process everything that just happened in the last hour. You groan and flop back on your bed, staring at the ceiling.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Downstairs, Leon finds Carlos waiting by the patrol car, arms crossed over his chest, his expression carefully unreadable, that blank look that reminds Leon of the quiet before a thunderstorm. The street is mostly clear now, just a few stragglers stumbling away into the night, holding each other up as they weave down the sidewalk. The last of the partygoers are dispersing, some calling taxi, others walking in groups toward the dorms. The bass from inside the house has finally stopped, leaving an almost eerie quiet in its wake.

"Sir, I—" Leon starts as he approaches, but his voice cracks slightly, betraying just how nervous he is. He clears his throat, trying again. "I can explain—"

Carlos holds up one hand, cutting him off with the gesture alone. "Get in the car, rookie."

"Yes, sir." Leon's response is automatic, ingrained from months of training. He moves around to the driver's side, his legs feeling slightly unsteady.

They both climb in, Leon sliding behind the wheel again. He fumbles with the keys for a moment before getting them into the ignition, his hands still shaking from adrenaline and mortification and the lingering aftereffects of what he'd just done. He starts the engine, the familiar rumble somewhat comforting, and pulls away from the curb carefully. He's hyperaware of every movement he makes, every turn of the wheel, desperate not to give Carlos any more reasons to be disappointed in him tonight.

They head back toward the station, the streets mostly empty at this hour. The silence in the car is deafening, broken only by the occasional crackle of the radio and the sound of the engine. Leon can feel Carlos's eyes on him periodically, assessing him, and it's taking everything in him not to squirm in his seat like a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Except instead of cookies, it was Carlos's sister. His baby sister. Who Leon had just thoroughly fucked in her bedroom while Carlos was downstairs breaking up the party.

The silence stretches on, Leon counts them in his head, each one feeling like an eternity. His mind is racing, trying to formulate some kind of explanation, some way to make this better. Five minutes of complete silence pass before Carlos finally speaks.

"My sister," he says flatly.

"I know, sir." Leon's voice comes out small.

"My little sister."

"I know, sir." Leon's hands tighten on the steering wheel until his knuckles turn bone white, he can feel the leather creaking under his grip.

Carlos is quiet for a long moment, and Leon risks a glance over. His partner is staring out the windshield, jaw clenched so tight Leon can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. The streetlights pass over his face in intervals, illuminating the hard set of his features.

"I..." Leon swallows hard, his throat clicking. He can feel his face burning again, the flush creeping down his neck. "She was very determined, sir." The words come out before he can stop them, and he immediately wants to take them back because they sound like he's making excuses, like he's blaming her when this is all his fault.

"Yeah," Carlos mutters, and there's something almost resigned in his tone. "She gets that from our mom." Leon isn't sure if he was supposed to hear that last part, it's said so quietly, almost to himself. They drive in silence for another minute, passing through an intersection. A few late-night pedestrians cross in front of them. Leon keeps his eyes fixed on the road, not daring to look over again.

Finally, Carlos sighs, long and heavy and world-weary, like he's aged ten years in the past hour. 

"Did you at least use protection?" he asks, and he sounds so tired, like this is just one more thing on a very long list of things he has to deal with tonight.

Leon's face goes absolutely scarlet. He considers lying but Carlos would see right through it in a heartbeat, the man's a detective for a reason.

"Sir—" he starts weakly.

"Rookie..." There's a warning in Carlos's voice now.

"...No, sir." The admission comes out barely above a whisper.

Carlos drops his head into his hands with a groan, his elbows bracing on his knees. "Jesus Christ." He drags his hands down his face slowly. "I'm going to have to have a conversation with her about that too, aren't I? The safe sex talk. With my baby sister." He cuts himself off to make an exaggerated gagging sound.

"I'm really, really sorry, sir," Leon says miserably, and he means it with every fiber of his being. "If I could go back and make different choices—"

"Would you?" Carlos interrupts, looking over at him sharply. His dark eyes are piercing, searching Leon's face for something.

Leon opens his mouth to say yes, of course he would, but the word dies on his tongue. He thinks about your smile, the way it had lit up your whole face when you'd looked at him, your laugh, how you'd kissed him and touched him, like you couldn't get enough, like you needed him as much as he'd needed you. The way you'd felt wrapped around him, the sounds you'd made, the way you'd said his name.

"I..." He trails off, unable to finish the sentence. Unable to lie.

Carlos stares at him for a long moment, and Leon can practically see the gears turning in his head, processing this new information. His expression shifts through several emotions too quickly for Leon to track, surprise, and finally resignation.

"You like her," Carlos says finally. It's not a question, it's a statement of fact.

"Yes, sir. I really do." The words come out steady, honest. "I know the timing is terrible and the circumstances are worse, but... yeah. I like her. A lot."

"And she clearly likes you, apparently." Carlos makes a vague gesture with one hand, encompassing everything that happened upstairs. "Enough to drag you away from your job and—yeah."

He continues to stare at Leon, and Leon forces himself to meet his eyes. He owes Carlos that much at least, to face him head-on.

Carlos turns back to face forward, watching the streetlights pass by through the windshield. The orange glow illuminates his profile, and Leon can see him working through something, coming to some kind of decision.

"You hurt her, rookie," Carlos says quietly, "and I don't care how good you are at your job or how much potential the Captain thinks you have. I will make you disappear. They'll never find your body. Understood?"

"Understood, sir." Leon says sincerely. "I wouldn't—I won't. I promise."

"And if you ever, ever abandon your post to hook up with anyone again, my sister or otherwise," Carlos continues, his voice taking on that authoritative hard tone, "I will personally make sure you're on parking duty for the next ten years. You'll be writing tickets for expired meters until you retire."

"Yes, sir. It won't happen again, sir." Leon's hands are still tight on the wheel, but some of the tension is starting to ease from his shoulders. 

"Good." Carlos pauses, then adds with a slight smirk, "Also, you have — y’know all over you. Might want to grab a turtleneck from the trunk before we get back to the station.”

Leon's hand flies to his neck automatically, fingers finding the tender spots where you'd definitely left your mark. Multiple marks. He can feel the raised skin, the slight sting when he presses. "Oh god."

"Yeah." Carlos finally cracks a small smile, just a tiny upturn of his lips. "The guys are going to have a field day with this."

"Great," Leon mutters, already dreading the inevitable ribbing he's going to get. He can already hear the jokes, the comments, the endless teasing. They pull into the station parking garage, the fluorescent lights harsh after the relative darkness of the drive. The familiar concrete walls and painted lines should be comforting, but Leon just feels a sense of impending doom. Carlos is right, the second anyone sees these marks, it's over. His reputation as the serious, by-the-book rookie is going to be completely shot. As they get out of the car, Carlos claps him on the shoulder, the gesture somehow reassuring despite everything.

"Welcome to the family, rookie," he says, and there's something almost fond in his tone now, underneath the exasperation and the lingering frustration. Like despite everything he's not actually that upset about this development.

Leon's eyes go wide, his head snapping around to look at Carlos. "Sir?"

"Yeah. There's no escaping now." Carlos grins, and it's slightly evil, the expression of an older brother who's just realized he has new ammunition. "Hope you're ready for Sunday dinner. My mom's going to want to meet you officially now. Can't have some random guy sleeping with my sister without meeting mama."

"I—what?" Leon's voice comes out strangled. “Sir, I don't think—"

"Too late, Kennedy. You made your bed." Carlos's grin widens. "Now lay in it." He waves a hand. "Hope you like tamales." Leon stands there in the parking garage, still in his wrinkled uniform and realizes that his life just got infinitely more complicated.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊

･ﾟ 🎀 𝒮𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝓈𝓉♡𝓇𝓎 🎀 ﾟ･

: Carlos's Perspective

The radio crackles to life, breaking the silence in the idling patrol car.

"Unit seven-two-three, this is dispatch. You still in the vehicle, Oliveira?" Elliot's voice comes through, slightly staticky but clear enough.

Carlos doesn't stir from where he's slumped in the passenger seat, head tilted back against the headrest, arms crossed over his chest. His breathing is slow and even, not quite snoring, but definitely out cold.

"Unit seven-two-three, come in," Elliot tries again, sounding slightly more insistent.

Still nothing. Carlos shifts slightly in his sleep, his head rolling to the side, but his eyes stay firmly shut.

"Carlos, I know you're in there, man. Don't make me send someone to check on you."

The radio goes quiet for a moment, then Elliot's voice returns, louder this time, almost shouting through the speaker. "OLIVEIRA! Wake your ass up!"

"¡Qué!" Carlos jerks awake with a start, his hand automatically going to his weapon before his brain catches up and he realizes it's just the radio. "What...Elliot, what the hell, man?"

"There you are," Elliot sounds amused now. "Thought you'd fallen into a coma or something. You still in the car?"

Carlos rubs his eyes, trying to orient himself. "Yeah, I'm—" He stops, blinking as his vision clears and he actually looks around. He'd parked beside the house, and now that he's actually paying attention, actually seeing it instead of just closing his eyes for what was supposed to be a quick rest...

The house is lit up like a damn carnival. Every window glows with colored lights, orange and purple, classic Halloween. He can see silhouettes moving past the windows, way too many people crammed into what's clearly not a small space but definitely not big enough for this kind of crowd. The bass from the music is audible even through the closed car windows, a steady thump-thump-thump that he can feel in his chest.

And there, on the front lawn, slightly crooked but unmistakable even in the dark: Greek letters. ΑΔΠ.

Alpha Delta Pi.

"Mierda," Carlos mutters, sitting up straighter. His eyes narrow as he stares at the house, pieces clicking into place in his still-sleep-foggy brain.

This is your house. Your sorority house. The one you share with Claire and a dozen other girls. The house you'd specifically told him would be quiet tonight because "I'm not doing anything for Halloween, Carlito." Clearly your sorority had other plans...you little liar.

"Carlos? You there?" Elliot's voice crackles through again.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here," Carlos says, still staring at the house with a growing sense of annoyance. He'd believed you, actually believed you when you'd said you were staying in, he thought you were probably watching movies with Claire, definitely not throwing or attending any massive parties that would require police intervention.

"Finally. Jesus, Carlos, I've been trying to reach you for ten minutes. Where's your rookie?" Elliot asks. "He was supposed to check in."

Carlos checks his watch. Shit. The rookie's been in there for almost an hour. What the hell has the rookie been doing in there for an hour? How hard is it to break up a party and clear people out?

Unless...Carlos's mind starts running through possibilities, none of them good. Maybe the rookie ran into trouble. Maybe some drunk frat guy decided to get aggressive. Maybe there are way more people in there than it looked like from the outside and Leon got overwhelmed trying to manage the crowd. Maybe he's in there trying to handle some kind of situation and needs backup but his radio got damaged or worse.

"I gotta go check on my partner," Carlos says into the radio, already reaching for the door handle. "Rookie went in to shut down a party and he's been gone too long."

"Want me to send backup?"

"Nah, I got it. Probably just taking him a while to clear everyone out. I'll call if I need anything."

"Copy that. Stay safe."

Carlos pushes open the car door and steps out into the cool night air. The music is definitely louder out here, and he can hear voices now too, laughter, shouting, the general chaos of a college party in full swing.

He starts toward the house, there are still quite a few people on the front porch and lawn, red cups in hand, some of them in elaborate costumes. A girl dressed as a sexy cat nearly stumbles into him, giggling as her friend pulls her away. A group of guys in matching superhero costumes are doing shots on the porch steps.

He reaches the front door and doesn't bother knocking. The music is too loud for anyone to hear it anyway. He pushes it open and steps inside, and the wall of sound and heat hits him immediately. The house is packed, bodies everywhere, the air thick with sweat and cheap beer and too much cologne.

Carlos takes a deep breath, plants his feet and reaches deep in his chest. "POLICÍA! Everyone out, now!"

The effect is immediate, the music cuts off mid-beat like a record scratch, someone yanking the plug or hitting stop on the speakers. For a moment there's complete silence and everyone is frozen in place like a paused movie, then chaos erupts.

"COP! COPS ARE HERE!"

"Shit shit shit—"

"Go go go!"

People scatter like cockroaches when the light turns on. They're running for every exit, front door, back door, windows, anywhere they can escape. Solo cups hit the floor, alcohol splashing across hardwood. Someone knocks over a table in their haste to get out.

"Everyone out! Party's over! Let's go, move it!" Carlos bellows, stepping aside to let the flood of panicked college students stream past him. He spots a few familiar faces, kids he's busted before at other parties.

They pour out of the house in waves, some still clutching their drinks, others abandoning everything in their rush to escape. Carlos doesn't try to stop them, he's not here to arrest anyone, just break up the party, find his rookie, who is apparently somewhere in this mess, and finally most important make sure his sister was okay, maybe lecture her a little.

"Let's go, people! Nothing to see here!" He moves further into the house, his boots crunching on spilled chips and god knows what else. The living room is a disaster zone, furniture pushed against the walls, decorations hanging from every surface, a fog machine still pumping out mist in the corner.

Where the hell is the rookie?

Carlos makes his way through the now-empty house, checking rooms as he goes. Kitchen, empty except for a truly impressive amount of alcohol lined up on the counters. He counts at least four handles of vodka, three cases of beer, and more wine bottles than he cares to count. The bathroom, he pushes the door open, takes one look at the state of it, and immediately closes it again. He doesn't even want to know what happened in there.

He heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time. His hand trails along the bannister, which is sticky with something he's trying not to identify. The second floor is quieter, most of the party having been contained to the first floor. The music and voices from downstairs are muffled up here, creating an almost eerie contrast.

He starts checking bedrooms, pushing doors open without knocking, kicking couples out of rooms if they didn't live there. Empty. Empty. Locked, probably someone passed out inside. He makes a mental note to come back to that one if he doesn't find Leon soon.

He pauses in the hallway, trying to remember which room is yours. It's been a while since he's been up here, you usually meet him outside or downstairs when he picks you up for lunches, not wanting him to see the inevitable mess of your room. But he's pretty sure it's... that one. The door at the end of the hall with the fairy lights strung around the frame, the ones you'd insisted on putting up freshman year when he'd helped you move in.

He remembers that day clearly. The whole Oliveira clan had shown up to help, him, your mother, your six other siblings. Dante and the twins had spent more time flirting with your sorority sisters than actually moving boxes, and Carlos had eventually dragged Dante out by his collar, while you'd laughed so hard you'd snorted.

Carlos approaches your door, and that's when he notices it. The doorknob is locked, why would your door be locked? Unless you're in there and you don't want to be disturbed...

Carlos's jaw clenches. If you're in there with some guy, if you brought someone back to your room he's going to....He tries the doorknob again, rattling it harder. Still locked.

He can hear movement inside, the sound of scrambling, something hitting the floor, definitely someone in there.

"What the fuck? Why is this door locked?!" His voice comes out louder than he intended, frustration bleeding through. "Oye, I know you're in there! Open the door!"

Carlos curses under his breath, a string of Spanish expletives that would make his mother wash his mouth out with soap. He rattles the doorknob again, more violently this time, his patience wearing thin.

"Open this door right now, or I swear to God—"

The doorknob continues to refuse to open, and Carlos's frustration spikes. He's tired, he's annoyed, he still hasn't found his rookie, and now his little sister is locked in her room doing God knows what with God knows who, and.....Fuck it.

Carlos takes a step back, plants his foot, and kicks the door right next to the lock. The wood splinters with a satisfying crack, the lock mechanism breaking free from the frame. The door swings open hard enough to bang against the wall, the hinges protesting but holding.

You're standing in the middle of the room, and Carlos takes in the scene with instincts that have been honed by the police force over the years.

You're wearing one of his old RPD academy shirts, the one you'd stolen years ago and never given back despite his repeated requests. It's inside-out, he can see the tag sticking out at the neck, and it's clearly just been thrown on in a hurry. Your hair is a complete disaster, tangled and messy, there is smudged makeup all over your face, and there, on your neck, just visible above the collar of the shirt, is the unmistakable mark of a hickey.

"What the FUCK, Carlos?!" you snap, your eyes wide and your voice sharp with a combination of shock and anger. "You broke my door!"

"Well, you weren't answering! Why didn't you open the door?" He yells back, his voice rising to match yours. The vein in his temple is starting to pulse, and he can feel his blood pressure climbing.

"Have you thought maybe I was RESTING MY EYES, you dick?!" You gesture wildly at your bed, which is clearly rumpled, sheets twisted and pillows askew. Resting your eyes, Right.....Did his sister think he was stupid. ...actually wait don't answer that—

✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦ 𝖆 𝖓 𝖔 𝖙𝖊 ✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦

….you don’t understand, I’m so happy with how this came out! I have the biggest crush on re2 Leon, he's so cute! I hope you don't mind that I included Carlos, I love that big shaggy dog alot! lol I immediately started planning a continuation for this because I neeeeed to write that family dinner where Leon gets grilled by seven protective older brothers lol Side note Did you know Carlos has six brothers! Tonio and Pedro are the only ones who are named so I took the liberty to name the rest, and yes Luis is from re4 and Dante is from DMC. (Here's the whole line up in order of age: Antonio, Pedro, Carlos, Luis, Dante, and finally the youngest of the boys, Rafael and Mateo, the twins. The Oliveira siblings most likely to find trouble...on purpose.)

✦✧✦ 𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖋𝖎𝖑𝖊 ✦ see you in the next life ✦✧✦ This post was brought to you by BUNI ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦

The garage was loud per usual, air compressors kicking, wrenches clattering, the radio fuzzing out mid-song. Eddie had his headphones in anyway, the big clunky ones that always left his curls a mess, a socket wrench balanced against his palm as he leaned over the hood of a Chevy.

He was thinking about lunch, and letting his mind run to nowhere, when his phone buzzed in his coveralls. He swipes it open with dirty fingers, there’s a voice memo from you... Weird. You usually just texted when a customer was waiting. He presses play.

The sound is you, moaning. Breathless. Gasping. “Ahhh—please—faster—”

He drops the wrench. It clangs loud against the floor of the garage and Gareth yells across the bay, but Eddie barely hears it. His knees go weak, his head slams the underside of the hood, and for a second he swears he’s blacking out. But that doesn't stop your voice from ringing in his ears. The voice memo plays on, a filthy symphony in his ears ending with your whimper that sounds like you’re falling apart. Eddie’s jaw goes slack.

“…holy fucking shit.”

He listens again, and again, five times before he realizes he’s got a hard-on tenting his greasy coveralls and if he doesn’t stop, he’s gonna end up jerking off in his office with the door closed.

He pushes one headphone off, heart hammering, but the audio was still pouring into the other ear, breathless moans, a broken little whine, the kind of thing no one should be hearing in the middle of a work shift. He fumbled with his phone pressing the volume down button so hard it nearly cracked, staring at the dark screen like it might give him the answers to his questions. His pulse roared in his ears.

You had a boyfriend or something? Someone else you were sending shit like that to? But then, why the hell would it end up in his inbox?

Eddie wiped his hands on a rag, cursing under his breath, but by the time the lunch bell rang he’d listened to the memo five more times. Each time leaving him worse than the last, his cock stiff in his coveralls, his face hot enough to fry an egg on.

He spent the rest of the day half-hard and completely fucked in the head, stealing glances toward the reception desk, where you sat cool as ice, answering phones and scheduling oil changes like you hadn’t just whined in his ear.

It wasn’t until closing time, when the shop finally quieted and the last customer pulled away, that he cornered you.

You were shutting down the computer when he leaned against the counter, fiddling with the rag still stuffed in his pocket. His grin was crooked and slightly nervous, “Uh… hey. Got, uh… got your memo earlier.”

You looked up, eyes steady, expression calm. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, ears red. “Uh, yeah. Just...y’know, I think you maybe sent it to the wrong person?” His laugh slightly loud and awkward, desperate to downplay the situation. “Like...your boyfriend or somethin’? ‘Cause, uh—”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

The silence stretched. Eddie blinked. His throat gulped slowly. “Then… you—”

“I sent it on purpose.” Eddie froze and his brain blue-screened. The rag dropped from his hand.

The silence stretched like pulled wire, Eddie stared at you, lips parted like he’d forgotten how to breathe, because he had. His heart pounded behind his ribs like it wanted out. His palms itched. His cock still throbbed faintly in his grease-streaked coveralls.

"You... what—" he said again, the sentence hushed, eyes searching your face like maybe this was a dream, some weird heatstroke fantasy cooked up between too many Monster energy drinks and that fucking audio loop stuck in his head.

You just looked at him, Cool, Calm, and maybe a little smug.

“I sent it on purpose.”

Eddie blinked. Swallowed. His brain fought to reboot. “B-but… why?”

You blinked before a laugh slipped out “Because,” you said simply, rounding the counter and stepping closer until the scent of motor oil and cheap coffee faded under the warmth of your perfume, a light woodsy floral scent, already making him dizzy. “Gareth got drunk at your last party and told me everything.”

Eddie’s soul left his body. He backed up a half-step, as if trying to physically escape. “Oh fuck, no—he didn’t—”

“He did,” you confirmed, eyes glinting with amusement now. “Laid out the whole thing. Word for word. Told me how you always ask if I looked at you. How you get weirdly quiet when I wear skirts. How you—” you smirked, “—asked if your hair looked okay after I touched it that one time.”

Eddie was dying, a slow death by embarrassment. “Motherfucker,” he muttered, burying his face in his hands.

You giggled, like this was cute instead of catastrophic mess of a man, and stepped even closer. “He also said, and I quote, ‘he’s so far gone for you, if you ever made a move he’d combust.’”

“I’m gonna kill him.” he muttered into his hands.

“Too late.” You reached out. Fingertips skimmed the edge of his jaw, rough with grease, stubble catching the pads of your fingers. Eddie flinched, towards your hand like he was being pulled in by gravity itself. Your touch short-circuited what little brain function he had left.

You leaned up on your toes, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and whispered. “So I decided to see if you’d really combust.”

Eddie whimpered. Actually whimpered and he grabbed your waist on instinct, broad palms wrapping tight like a lifeline. His fingers curled in your shirt, heart jackhammering.

You leaned in close again, closer than before, your breath ghosting over the shell of Eddie’s ear, and his grip on your waist tightened, instinctive, like his body knew he wasn’t ready to let you go even if his brain hadn’t caught up yet.

Your voice came soft, low, like a secret. “Call me later.”

Just three words, but they scorched straight through him, lit a fuse in his belly and left smoke curling in his chest. His pulse jumped so hard he thought maybe you could feel it through your lips when you kissed him on the cheek.

You lingered for a second, then pulled back with a look that made him dizzy, eyes bright, lips quirked, calm like you hadn’t just set off a fucking bomb in the middle of his day.

Your purse slid up onto your shoulder with an easy toss, and you turned toward the door, steps slow but sure.

“fuck me,” he muttered, staring at the door as it shut behind you.

Still rooted to the same goddamn square of cracked linoleum, knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the reception counter, his whole body humming like someone had shoved a live wire down the back of his shirt. His heart hadn’t slowed, not even a little. Your voice kept echoing in his skull like a reverb loop. Call me later. Call me later.

He was two seconds away from sprinting out the door like a lunatic just to see if he could catch you at your car when he felt it. A firm, smug clap on the back.

“You’re welcome,” Gareth said.

Eddie turned, his curls fell in his face as he looked over his shoulder, and whatever was in his eyes made Gareth visibly hesitate, one foot stepping back like he couldn’t decide if he’d just gifted his best friend a winning lottery ticket or accidentally released a fucking demon.

Eddie’s face was a cocktail of emotions. Murder. Elation. Disbelief. Desire. Murder again. He looked like a man who’d just found out his favorite band was getting back together and also that someone had totaled his van.

“You. Mother. Fucker...” he breathed.

Gareth blinked. “Okay, but before you hit me—”

“I’m not gonna hit you,” Eddie snapped, voice shaking, dragging both hands down his face. “I’m gonna kiss you. Then I’m gonna kill you. In that order.”

Gareth, unfazed as ever, raised his brows and backed up half a step, one hand lifted like he might need to ward him off. “Dude. One HR violation at a time.”

Eddie growled, grabbing him by the front of the shirt and dragging him into a bro hug headlock combination. “You rat. You betrayed me. You exposed council secrets. You told her about the thing—the thing I didn’t even tell you, I told Jeff when I was drunk last year!”

“And he told me,” Gareth laughed, muffled against Eddie’s shoulder “In my defense, You left me unsupervised! I had, like, six drinks and zero adult supervision. Plus SHE was asking about YOU. I mean, she kissed you, and told you to call her. I’d say I’m a fucking hero.”

“God, kill me...." Eddie groaned throwing his head back, letting him go finally. He collapsed forward onto the counter, face mashed into the cool laminate. "...Jesus Christ, man, I’m gonna have to jerk off just to calm the fuck down.”

Gareth recoiled, hands up. “Ew, man. No. I do not need that visual. Haven’t I done enough?”

Eddie shoved him, “Yeah, you have, Judas.” but he was smiling now, wide and flushed and bright in a way Gareth hadn’t seen in months. And when Eddie fished out his phone, thumbing through the contact list with a dopey grin, Gareth just smirked and turned back toward the garage getting ready to leave.

“Text me if you combust,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll call the fire department.”

Eddie just laughed, voice low and giddy and still slightly ruined. “Fuckin’ asshole.”

It didn’t take long for him to call you. The second you got home, your phone buzzed, Eddie’s name flashing.

You answered with a smirk in your voice. “Hi, Eddie.”

He was already hanging on by a thread, you could hear it in the way his breath rasped against the receiver, in the low, shaky laugh he let out.

“You—you cannot just drop somethin’ like that on me at work. You almost killed me, y’know.” You could hear fabric shifting, probably him pacing his tiny kitchen or collapsing onto the couch, the phone cradled too tight in a calloused hand. Somewhere behind him, a song played.

“I mean it,” he groaned. “You can’t do that to me. I was elbow-deep in a fucking car, and then I’m hearing you, moaning in my ear?”

You bit your lip, sinking into the sheets with your own little sigh, phone pressed close. “Sounded good, didn’t I?”

Eddie made a noise that was half laugh, half strangled choke. “You sounded unreal. I thought I hallucinated it. Thought I’d died or somethin’…”

“How many times did you listen to it?”

“10 times,” he admitted, shameless now, voice low and throaty. “And I had to sit on my hands the rest of the shift. You ever try fixin’ a transmission with a fuckin’ boner? It’s dangerous. Should be illegal.”

You hummed, smiling slow. “What if I told you I recorded it with you in mind?”

He sucked in a sharp breath. You imagined his hand flexing, on the phone, maybe lower. “F-fuck, did you?”

“Mhm,” you purred. “Had my fingers buried in me, thinking about you. Pretending it was yours. Pretending you were behind me, pulling my hair and telling me how filthy I sounded.” As you talk your fingers are sliding down, between your folds, wet from how long he’d been winding you up.

You let out a soft gasp into the receiver as they sank in, the stretch a familiar ache, already aching for more. Eddie heard it, the way your breath stuttered, the slick sound of your fingers moving, and he groaned.

“Jesus fucking Christ—”

There was a thump, like he’d dropped something, maybe his head against the wall, maybe the phone slipped and fell for a second. When he came back, his voice was rough.

“You touchin’ yourself now?”

“Maybe.”

Eddie’s voice dropped to a hush. “You want me to talk you through it?”

The moan you gave in answer was soft, and he laughed, a dark sound full of heat. The breathy, teasing confidence you’d had at the shop was melting fast, unraveling into something needier.

“Mhm,” you purred, breath catching as your hips rocked against your own hand. “Two fingers, nice and deep. Just like I imagined yours would be.”

“Yeah… that’s it,” he rasped, voice gone gravel-deep. You could hear the creak of leather, the telltale rustle of denim, he was sitting on the edge of his couch now, you could picture it, legs spread, one hand already palming himself through those stupid coveralls. He swore so loud you giggled, the sound making his breath hitch.

“I’d whine for you,” you murmured, your voice growing thinner, higher. “Beg you to go faster. Cry your name over and over until I couldn’t even think.”

“Oh my god,” he choked, breath ragged now. “You’re gonna kill me. I swear.” you could hear his hips slamming up into his own fist.

You let out a tiny whimper, before continuing. “Mmm Eddie… been thinking about you all day, covered in grease, hair a mess, cock straining against your coveralls. How you’d grab my hair. Spit on your fingers and fuck me from behind until I couldn’t breathe” you whispered, voice shaky now, every word hitching between soft moans.

Eddie groaned, a Long and wrecked, full-bodied sound. “Fuck, I haven’t stopped thinking about you. You in that skirt last week? Jesus, bent over the desk right in front of me, and I could see the edge of your fuckin’ panties.”

“Did you like it?” you whispered, breath catching as you circled your clit slow, teasing yourself like you knew he wanted to imagine it in detail.

“Like it? Baby, I had to hide just to get through the next customer without blowing a fuckin’ gasket.”

You laughed breathlessly, the image too perfect. “Bet you wanted to bend me over right there. Get grease on my thighs. Fuck me with your coveralls around your ankles.”

Eddie’s breath hitched, sharply. You could hear the quick slide of his hand now, fist stroking fast and tight. “Fuck, don’t say shit like that, I will come in my pants, no warning.”

“Don’t you dare,” you teased. “You haven’t even told me what you’d do to me yet.”

Eddie groaned again, deep and husky. “You really wanna know?”

“Yes.”

His next inhale sounded shaky, like he was picturing it so vividly it hurt.

“I’d pull your panties down right there in the office,” he murmured, each word a drop of gasoline. “Make you bend over my desk. Spread you open so I could see how wet you are for me. Then I’d get down on my knees, baby. Get my face all messy with your pussy. Make you scream for me.”

You moaned, loud this time, desperate, fingers moving faster. “Eddie—”

“I’d eat you out until you were begging,” he growled, the coarse rhythm of his fisting a heavy, wet slap through the phone’s speaker. “Pin your legs back and lick you through every little shake and whimper. Make the whole goddamn shop hear how pretty my girl sounds when she’s falling apart on my tongue.”

A choked gasp tore from your throat, your own fingers slick and fumbling against your clit. “F-fuck, Eddie, I’m so close—”

“Yeah? Already?” A low, smug purr vibrated down the line, coiling in your belly. “That’s my good girl. You gonna come for me? ”

You whimpered a broken, pathetic “Y-yes,” your whole body trembling, trying to slow your frantic hand but the edge of your climax was close and the filthy rasp of his voice was shoving you right over.

“I’d fuck you so good if you were here,” he said, his breath ragged, the words torn from him like he couldn’t stop them. “Fuck you open with my fingers first, stretch that tight little cunt real good for me. Get you so wet you’re dripping all over my floor.”

A sob broke from you, raw and needy. “Eddie! Please. I… I need—”

“Nnnhh—not yet,” he panted,“Hold it for me. I’m so close, baby, so fucking close.”

“Eddie, fuck—”

“Good girl. Let me hear it. Let me hear how wet your pussy is.”

You obeyed without a thought, sliding two fingers deep inside your dripping heat. The wet suck of your own body pulled them in and you moaned, a long, keening sound of pure pleasure. On the other end of the line, Eddie whined, a desperate noise in your ear.

“Aahhh-fuck, that’s it. Come with me, baby—now!”

You shattered together, your own cry was a high, sharp scream swallowed by the phone as his was a guttural roar, the slick, frantic rhythm of his fist finally slowing into heavy spats. Your orgasm crashed through you in brutal, unending waves, your inner muscles clenching violently around your fingers, thighs quaking as your toes curled. He groaned through his teeth, drawn-out sound of shameless release, every ragged breath an echo of your own frantic, stuttering gasps. You felt the hot spill of his seed as if it were coating your own belly, his final, shuddering groan the last thing you heard before you collapsed back into the sweat-damp sheets.

Finally, Eddie let out a long, shuddering sigh that was half groan, half laugh. “…Hhhholy… fuck.”

A faint giggle escaped you, the sound bubbling up from a place deep in your chest. “You okay over there, Munson?”

“Oh, I’m fucking… stellar,” he rasped, his voice still thick with spent pleasure. “My neighbors, however, are probably forming a lynch mob. Pretty sure Mrs. Gable just had a coronary.”

You laughed for real this time, the sound clear and happy as you curled into your pillow, your whole body humming. He was quiet for a moment, the only sound his breathing, and then his voice came again, lower now, a warm, gravelly murmur that went straight to your core.

“Hey.”

“Mhm?” you hummed, your eyes drifting closed.

“So… you gonna send me another one of those memos tomorrow?”

A slow, wicked grin spread across your face. You pushed yourself up on one elbow, the sheet pooling around your waist. “How about… I skip the memo,” you purred, your voice dropping into a sultry promise. “And instead, I let you bend me over that big, fancy desk in your office and fuck me until I can’t walk.”

The other end of the line went dead silent, like you’d hit him with a full-body reboot. No breath, no fumbling laughter, no witty comeback. You could almost hear the static rush in his brain as that sentence landed and detonated in the center of whatever was left of his self-control.

“…Eddie?” you teased, a smile already spreading across your lips as you bit down on the corner of one, sinking deeper into your warm sheets. “You still alive over there?”

His breath hitched hard, a ragged, desperate sound like a man being defibrillated. And when he finally spoke, his voice was a ruin, scraped raw from the bottom of his lungs. He groaned, a low, wounded sound that ended in a whispered prayer of your name. “You’re… you’re gonna be the fucking death of me, sweetheart. That’s not even fair.”

“Didn’t say I was playing fair,” you giggled, the sound light and wicked in the charged air between you.

You could hear the squeak of his leather couch, and the rustle of denim. He was shifting, probably running a hand through his sweat-damp hair and wondering how quickly he could get to you without wrapping his van around a telephone pole. “You’re lucky you’re not here right now, baby. I’d have you bent over so fast your head would spin. Face down, ass up, legs shaking.”

Your breath caught, a tiny audible hitch. He heard it. And you could practically feel his slow, predatory smile through the phone.

“Wouldn’t even take your skirt off. Just hike it up around your waist, hook my fingers in the waistband of your panties and rip them right off you. bend you over a stack of unpaid invoices and shove my cock in you.”

“Oh my… god—”

“And when you feel that first orgasm building?” he went on, relentless, his voice a guttural promise that coiled hot in your belly. “I’d cover your mouth with my hand. Make you swallow your screams while I fuck you through it, then I’d keep going, pumping into you, until I’m filling you up with my cum.”

A whimper escaped you, your thighs pressing together so tight they ached, trying in vain to quell the fresh wave of arousal crashing through you.

“Still wanna be bent over my desk?” he whispered, the question more of an invitation than a threat.

You choked on a laugh that was bordering on a whine. “Eddie… if I walk into that office tomorrow and you don’t fuck me over your desk, I’m quitting.”

He barked out a laugh, an utterly feral sound that was pure, unadulterated lust. “Then you better wear your shortest skirt tomorrow, sweetheart. ”

✦┈┈┈┈┈⛧┈┈┈┈┈┈✦ 𝖆 𝖓 𝖔 𝖙𝖊✦┈┈┈┈┈⛧┈┈┈┈┈┈✦

Day 16 is over, Yay!! 🖤 hope you enjoyed! ☆૮꒰ˊᗜˋ* ꒱ა

I got so carried away with this one… mechanic Eddie all greasy, dirty, sweaty… drool  plus him dirty talking over the phone...ughhhh

Y/n sending that diabolical voice memo :

next is Bucky!

…𝕻𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘 𝕯𝖆𝖞 ✦✧✦  𝕹𝖊𝖝𝖙 𝕯𝖆𝖞...

✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦ 𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖋𝖎𝖑𝖊 ✦ see you in the next life ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦

 This post was brought to you by BUNI ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦

  ₍ᐢ .  ̫ . ᐢ₎