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nyushkawritesstuff · 6 months

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MEASURED TOUCH

FEATURING: death island!leon x afab!reader

SYNOPSIS: you’ve already crossed the line from partners to something more, yet never labeled your relationship due to the nature of your work. lovers, partners, colleagues; it all fit, but at the same time, there didn’t seem to be a word for what you were—until Leon’s injury.

WARNINGS: minors, blank and ageless blogs don’t interact. hurt/comfort, nursing back to health, mutual pining, agent!reader, scenes of a recovery, minor descriptions of injury and blood, mentions of canonical-violence but nothing too detailed, situationship -> lovers, oral sex (m receiving), switch!Leon, big bold MAKING LEON BEG, teasing, soft dom!Leon, foreplay, fingering, unprotected sex, sex with feelings, creampie, usage of pet names (sweetheart, baby, sweet thing), praise

WORD COUNT: 18k

STICKY NOTE: a lil crazy but proofread 3 times. nervous as hell posting this 😭 basically 10k plot + 8k smut. this has nothing to do with death island events, i just love di leon & had to put him in a situation (and got him out of it of course). crossposted on ao3. thank you for reading!!

It’s a losing game.

If there’s one thing you’d learned in life, you sure can tell when the universe is working against you and this surely was out of your hand.

Definitely a losing game.

“Stay still,” you mumble, frowning as Leon pulls his head back when you try to unwrap the gauze by his jaw. He has a frown of his own etched on his face, eyes shut and lips pulled tight with discomfort. You’d feel pity for him if he weren’t being so damn uncooperative. “You’re gonna tear your stitches.”

This feels foolish. Everything about it.

Your couch, despite serving as Leon’s resting place while he recovers from his injury, is likely not the most appropriate place to carry out some fairly intensive first-aid. However, you have no other choice since he refuses to go to the doctor to change his bandages.

One hospital visit was enough, he’d muttered then, still drenched in his own blood, and you hadn’t the heart to argue with him.

That was two weeks ago now—fourteen days of sleeplessness, of antibiotics and pain medication and bruise balm for his ribs, of waiting until the dead of night to cry so that he doesn’t hear you.

You’re grateful that you weren’t there to witness it. It’s selfish, you’re well aware of that, but you’re not sure how you would have been able to cope if you had the images of the attack replaying in your head over and over, tormenting you both.

“Thought you’d be nice to me,” he grumbles, and although he can’t really smile with his injury you can still hear one in his voice. “Your bedside manner is lacking today.”

“I tried being nice at first. You told me to ‘act like normal and stop treating me like I’m dying’, so that’s what I’m doing,” you counter, carefully grabbing the corner of the medical tape.

He winces but doesn’t budge. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“A direct quote, I’m afraid. And that was before they administered the morphine, so you can’t even blame it on that.”

You pull the tape gently, exposing the stitches and bruised skin. Leon tenses underneath you, every muscle in his body going rigid, small beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

It breaks your heart.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispers. His voice is quieter now since talking too much can be painful. “Bring back the tough bedside manner. I take back my complaint; I need to be humbled.”

You blink, trying to fix your expression into one that’s more impassive.

“I’m just focusing on the stitches. I need to be careful at this part,” you say, knowing that both of you recognise the lie for what it is.

Yeah, now that you think about it, this really is foolish. It’s everything you feared about getting involved with another agent. You’re supposed to be unshakeable, callous to all loss, utterly focused on the mission. You’re supposed to be tough.

Instead, you’re close to tears at the thought of what would have happened if the strike had landed just a few inches lower.

Things were supposed to be different. You were supposed to do this whole B.O.W. hunter thing by yourself. This was never the plan; to factor another person into your life in such a significant way, to value their well-being as highly as you do your own.

But he makes your days interesting. He’s kind at heart and values you as an equal as well as a partner. He always seems grateful to even be near you, and so you’ll happily tend to his wounds and keep him company, and even let him drink indoors to take the edge off. Crack the faintest smile at his stupid, horrendous jokes, even.

You remove the old gauze carefully, clean the stitches according to the nurse’s directions, and replace it with fresh bandages while Leon stays still, eyes squeezed shut.

“Nearly done,” you reassure him, applying the medical tape at a careful angle, “nearly done, I promise… and… there. All clean.”

He opens his eyes and lifts a hand to his cheek. He’s not going to tug at the gauze, he knows better than that, but he ghosts his fingers over the bandages as if to check they’re really there.

You smile and lean in closer to press a kiss to his forehead, feeling the breath catch in his throat as you pull back.

“It’s gonna make me ugly, y’know,” he says, letting out an amused scoff.

“More ugly?” you gasp. He lifts up his hand to playfully flick your nose.

Joking around like this is one of the only ways you know how to distract him, to show him this change is not going to upset things irreversibly. The last thing he wants is for you to be walking on eggshells around him. For his recovery to be a success he needs support, a sense of normalcy—he needs you to be yourself.

“Yep,” he agrees. “A nasty scar to complete the whole image.”

You scoff and climb into his lap, feeling him sink back into the couch cushions, muscles releasing their tension. His injuries are almost entirely confined to the upper half of his body but you still move with incredible care and gentleness as if he’ll break underneath your touch. Sensing your hesitation, he wraps a strong arm around you, pulling you closer.

It’s easy to melt against him.

“You know I could never find you ugly,” you reply with a chuckle, nestling against his shoulder. “I tried really hard, too. When we first got partnered up, I used to stare at you for hours trying to trick myself into finding you gross, but no luck. You’re stubbornly handsome. It’s a flaw of yours.”

“A flaw?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice muffled against his sweatshirt. “It’s really fucking annoying, actually.”

He kisses the crown of your head. “Think I can live with annoying.”

Even after the absolute chaos of the past fortnight, he still smells wonderful. Fresh and clean and familiar, with something deeper in there that draws you in even after smelling it a thousand times—it’s him.

You hum thoughtfully. “I’m glad, because for a while there it was really inconvenient. Wanting to fuck your annoying partner is not something they teach you about during training.”

“But did they tell how inconvenient it is to keep fucking him afterwards?”

You laugh a little, your eyelids getting heavier and heavier with every passing moment.

With Leon’s health taken care of for now, you feel at ease. The sensation of being wrapped in his broad arms takes you back to the first night you fell asleep beside him, where you let go of your worries and concerns, trading them for a brief window of serenity.

It’s a type of comfort that you thought you could never have, a blessing only available to other people and never to the people on government’s leash.

“Nah, I just kinda accepted it at that point.”

He says something in response, but you fall asleep before you hear it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ *

The pancake batter sizzles as it hits the pan, bubbles forming on the surface after a few moments on the heat—you finally got the temperature just right, and so you pour another serving alongside it for good measure.

You’re somewhat proud. You burnt the last one, and don’t have enough eggs for another batch.

This is your fourth time making pancakes this week since they’re a nice, soft food that can be easily cut up into tiny bites. They don’t cause too much strain to Leon’s jaw and you can flavour them with fruits and chocolate. Best of all, they’re significantly more appealing than the nutri-shakes the hospital supplied when he was discharged.

(He took one sip before saying he’d rather you punch him directly on his dislocated shoulder than make him drink that shit again.)

As if on cue, Leon’s voice calls out from the living room.

“Smells nice out there.” And it really does; the warm aroma of baked goods wafts through the air along with a hint of freshness from the fruits you prepared. It finally masks the smell of the smoke from the unsalvageable first batch. “Need any help?”

The offer sounds innocuous at first, but the desperation buried in the words tells you that he’s on the verge of disobeying his doctor’s orders.

“You’re on bed rest!” you shout back, stealing a chocolate chip from the bag on the countertop. The sweetness is enough to tempt you to grab another; this time, you pour a small handful and tip it into your mouth, savoring the taste.

You flip the pancakes with a spatula only to wince as the metal burns your finger—you hadn’t realized that you’d left it so close to the heat. You drop the spatula and it clatters against the tiled floor.

You groan, choosing to go clean the utensil before tending to your hand. It’s only a small injury but you grimace nonetheless as the pain starts to build, aching and throbbing. An angry welt forms on your fingertip.

It was careless on your part, but it’s not surprising that your attention span is somewhat lacking as of late. You run your hand under some cold water and get lost in the sensation.

Four days have passed since you last changed Leon’s bandages and two days since his most recent check-up (which you finally convinced him to attend), and things haven’t gone smoothly, to say the least.

The doctor had kindly but firmly informed you both that in order for Leon to proceed to the next step in recovery, he needed to play it safe over the coming week. Unfortunately for him, playing it safe means that he has to actually get some rest.

A lot of rest.

He hadn’t even complained when receiving the news—he just sat there, motionless, with displeasure and annoyance radiating off him like a fever. It worried you. This whole thing hasn’t been easy on you but it’s not exactly a walk in the park for him, either. He might pretend otherwise, but he doesn’t like to be benched. He’d do more to help you if he could.

As if it weren’t bad enough that he can’t move a muscle, now, he’s rendered completely and utterly defenseless, unable to even make himself a meal without assistance. It goes against every survival instinct in his body.

Part of you wishes he wouldn’t be so stubborn about staying on the couch. You had offered to share your bed with him (expected it, even) but he refused. Hurt at first, you hadn’t brought it up again, but once he understood your reaction he explained it was because his meds make him toss and turn in his sleep. He didn’t want to wake you.

Then you offered to take the couch instead since he’s the one recovering, after all. Again, he turned that down, but you didn’t take that refusal as much to heart as the first one.

This setup—him staying on the couch and allowing you your own space—seems to be the one bit of independence he can hold onto; the one way he thinks he’s making your life easier amongst all of this.

The buzzing of a timer startles you out of your trance, and you turn off the tap to go pour yourself a coffee.

You plate the pancakes and chop some berries and fruits to serve alongside them, angling the knife so it doesn’t put too much pressure on your finger. In spite of this, the burn starts to sting once again, the pain sharp and angry. You give up halfway through. Taking the plates in hand, you turn to bring them into your living room.

When you enter the room, you see Leon already standing. His arms are folded casually across his chest despite the damage he sustained to his shoulder and ribs. He’s pacing slowly, fixated on the wall to your left-hand side—from the looks of it, he’s browsing the books on the shelf behind the couch. He seems to be scanning the titles with interest.

Something’s… different. In a strange way, a sort of déja vu that you can’t quite place.

As he spots you, head turning in your direction, you know from the look on his face what he’s about to offer. You cut him off before he can do so.

“Don’t need any help,” you inform him. “I can carry the plates, you’re supposed to be resting.”

“Not what I was gonna say, smartass,” he huffs in amusement, until his eyes flicker down to your hands and you know he can see how you’re favouring one side over the other, gingerly holding one of the plates so as not to aggravate your burn. He lifts his gaze up, a question written on his face as he regards you.

Playing ignorant, you choose not to address it. “So what were you gonna say, then?”

He’s not going to drop it entirely, of that you’re certain, but he does concede a little. He straightens his posture, a glint in his eye, and tells you, “I was thinking we could eat at the table tonight?”

His tone is light and ebullient, his demeanor carefree in a way you haven’t seen from him in a long time. He had spent the past two days in what could only be described as a pit of despair, and so to see this change now—it stops you in your tracks.

You blink at him. “What?”

“Can we eat at the table?” he repeats. “Just this once.”

It seems harmless, but you’re not sure if it’s wise. The instructions from the doctor were for Leon to minimize unnecessary movement and stay well-rested.

(He had also been told to try and eliminate stress as much as possible, but the two of you had laughed at the last part.)

Still, you’re not sure if this is a good idea; the last thing you want is to set back his recovery, even at his own request.

“Please?” he follows up. The word stings you as much as the burn. “I just want to have a meal together like we always do. Just once. And I’ll shut up from here on—I won’t complain about the shitty nutri-shakes or the exercises for my shoulder. I won’t say a word about any of it,” he pauses and breathes in, breathes out. “Just a half an hour of being normal.”

Looking at him now, it’s plain to see how being confined and restricted has eaten away at him.

You come to a decision quickly, happy that this won’t do too much harm. If anything, this might help his recovery somewhat.

“For half an hour only,” you direct slowly, not breaking eye contact, “and absolutely no unnecessary movement. If you try to pick up the plates or push in chairs or anything, I’ll give you a matching scar on the other cheek.”

“Oh, I assumed as much,” he answers quickly, and millimeter by millimeter, his expression lifts into something that looks a lot more like him—like how he looked when you walked in the room. Even with the bandages, you can see his lips quirk upwards; the closest thing to a smile as he can manage. “And I agree.”

He lets you carry the plates in without objection, and you eat your meal together in blissful silence.

It’s been a while since someone other than you has eaten at this table.

By the time you’re halfway through the stack of pancakes, some color has returned to Leon’s complexion.

“These are the best yet,” he says after a particularly big forkful, “which makes me a little confused, because I could hear you swearing for about fifteen minutes while you were making them.”

“Well, I burnt the first couple,” you point out, taking a few orange slices and setting them down on your plate, “which I’m sure you know since the smoke alarm is a rat bastard.”

“That’s not all you burnt,” Leon remarks as he takes a sip of water.

You lift your head. “Hmm?”

He sets down his glass and takes your hand, flipping it so your palm is facing upwards. “I saw you holding the plates funny.” He frowns when he spots the welt on the tip of your index finger. “What happened?”

You can’t help but laugh. Leon was nearly eviscerated a few weeks ago, yet he’s here worrying about a burn that will fade in its entirety before the month is out.

“I burned it on the spatula,” you answer as he strokes circles on your palm with his thumb, “it was my own fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

His eyes flicker up to yours and you wish you chose your words more carefully.

It was my fault.

Wasn’t paying attention.

My fault.

In amongst the near-constant worrying about his health and the gratitude at the fact he’s still alive, you can sometimes forget that it wasn’t only Leon who got hurt that day.

He has a complicated, solemn sort of look on his face, his gaze dark and clouded. You open your mouth to say something but with a near-imperceptible shake of his head, he tells you that it’s not necessary.

“Did you put any burn gel on?” he asks then, moving on as if nothing happened.

You try to take your hand back but he clasps it gently. “No, not yet.”

He raises his eyebrows with mock surprise and you chuckle, letting your head fall back with a groan, predicting what’s coming next.

“Don’t start,” you warn him.

Leon scoffs. “This is coming from the person who gave me a lecture on how to properly care for wounds not two days ago—”

“Okay, okay, I’ll take care of the damn burn—”

“—and about the importance of recovery and taking proper medical advice—”

“Fucking hell, I’m doing it!” you exclaim with a laugh, pushing back your chair and letting go of his hand. “Who knew you could whip out guilt trips like that?”

He shakes his head and shrugs his uninjured shoulder. “Not a guilt trip. Just pointing out the similarities.”

“You’re insufferable.”

You stand up to leave but before going to the kitchen cabinet to fish out your heavily-used first aid kit, you lean down, tilt his face towards your own and press a soft kiss to his lips, finding yourself uncontrollably smiling against—

Just then, the realization dawns on you. Right, it’s been a while since the last time you kissed him. That’s probably the reason why he doesn’t kiss you back. You pull back ever so slightly, afraid of what his reaction would be.

Shit, now everything between you two is going to be even more complicated.

There’s a second of silence. Then another. You can feel each one in your heart. Leon doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything in return, just gives you a look you can’t really decipher. His breath is warm against your face.

You can sense him trying to fight something. It leaves you wondering what he actually thinks.

It’s hard not to want to sink into your skin at the tight atmosphere between you two. It’s an odd feeling, but your chest starts to ache and your ribs feel like they’re curving inwards and clenching at your skin from the inside out. It hurts, and you know why it does. And you don’t like this feeling as it lingers.

You should apologize, make up a shitty excuse, and return to your room. Act like this never happened. You part your lips to do just that—but before you can, Leon grabs the back of your neck and pulls you towards him, closing whatever space was left between you.

He gives in. He kisses you.

He kisses you until he can’t breathe, so that his tongue no longer aches with the weight of all those words left unsaid.

For once, even his mind is at peace—not focusing on anything other than the feeling of your lips against his. The feeling of you.

Wavering breath in, deep exhale out. There’s a dreadful hole permanently set in Leon’s chest, and it has your name on it.

“Insufferable?” he manages to repeat between the exchanges of soft gasps, “Maybe, but you knew that already.”

It’s just a kiss, you remind yourself. You’ve both done this before. Nothing more than that.

This time though, this time it does give you a strange sense of relief.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ *

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ONE MONTH AGO

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ *

He looks so unlike himself. Hooked up to all these different machines, with gauze covering most of his upper body, he could be anyone.

You thought there’d be some recognition within you, some moment where you see him in the hospital bed and just know it’s him—the world could take away all five of your senses and you’d still be able to find him.

Atleast, that’s what you thought.

You awfully don’t feel anything of the sort. It could be a stranger lying there for all you know. His face is covered, the clothes aren’t his, there are no distinguishing factors at all that make you think that the person in front of you is Leon.

Maybe they were wrong?

The Division officials might have made a mistake. The scene was chaotic; there were so many people running around, so many casualties, it would have been easy for them to misidentify a person in an ambulance, to have shouted the wrong name by accident.

Maybe this isn’t him. Maybe he’s fine. He could be still at the scene helping to clear up.

But then you spot it—hanging on a coat rack in the corner of the hospital room is his leather jacket, torn and bloodied but still his. You walk over to it, movements so slow and mindless it’s as if you’re possessed.

You barely register the low buzzing of the machines. Even when they emit a loud beeping sound every now and then you can’t bring yourself to look at them directly. He’s being kept alive by these machines.

You stand by the coat rack and reach out a trembling hand. Some dust—no, it’s black, so it’s soot—starts to fall softly to the floor, almost like snow, and it stains your hand as you pull back the fabric to search for something. You rifle through the side pockets, looking for it even though you know he never keeps it there, checking every nook and cranny—

There it is. His battered old flask. It’s in the inner pocket, but that was the last place you searched.

Your fingertips touch metal, tracing the outline of the flask as your eyes start to sting. You breathe in through gritted teeth as you slip it out of the pocket, clutching it in your palm as if it’s made of solid gold, and you turn it over to make sure it’s his.

You make a choked sound that thankfully catches in your throat before it turns into a sob.

You can’t cry here. The hospital is full of other agents, milling about to try and find and identify any survivors. You can’t break down in front of them.

Although personal relationships between two partners aren’t banned or even all that rare, displaying such open, raw vulnerability in front of everyone, it would mark you for death. To let your colleagues see you weep for Leon would mean that, in their eyes, you have become weak, soft, unfit for this line of work. They would never trust you on a mission, and being untrusted while out in the field is a guaranteed death sentence.

A few tears might be excusable, but you know that the cry you just suppressed would have burst out like a dam breaking. It would have made it very clear that your relationship goes beyond that of coworkers.

It’s funny though, in a way; if they outright asked you just what your relationship actually is, you wouldn’t be able to tell them. You know it’s not casual—not anymore. The pit of agony in your stomach tells you that you’re even further gone than you’d assumed.

But it’s not defined, either, and likely never can be.

You hear some people shuffle outside the hospital room as the door handle turns. You hastily raise your hand to your face and wipe at some tears that are threatening to spill, slipping Leon’s flask into your own pocket as you do so.

Two nurses stride in and start to record some of the figures displayed on the machines, paying absolutely no attention to you. There’s a single chair in the corner of the room and so you go to sit down before your legs buckle underneath you.

You were warned it was going to be bad, and the hushed voices around you tell you that it can’t be good news.

When you arrived at the hospital they had asked if he had any family, if you could contact them, that they should really be here for this. They said that if he has any hope of survival, he needs support.

You can only hope that when he wakes, you’ll be enough.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ *

Leon is no longer on bed rest, and he is delighted.

He’s definitely not out of the woods yet (he’s still on a list of meds as long as your arm) and he’s been ordered to only engage in the lowest-of-low impact activities; walking, essentially, and maybe cooking a quick meal or two. Nevertheless, he welcomed the news with open arms. He expected it would bring him a degree of freedom and independence he’d spent the past few weeks (more like his whole life, really) yearning for.

This morning, however, you’re discovering that this may not be the easiest milestone to have reached. Success and improvement aren’t guaranteed and he’s struggling more than he anticipated he would. He gets fatigued easily (walking from the kitchen down the hallway has his muscles aching and his body weak) and everything hurts. The many weeks spent without exertion have taken their toll.

He’s at the stage in his recovery where the long-term effects of his injuries are starting to make themselves known. It’s too soon to tell for sure, but it looks as though his shoulder might be damaged permanently; as he tries to reach above his head he winces in pain, even more intense than in previous weeks.

The resulting hit to his morale is tough to see.

I’ve got to. The way he bitterly jokes about how he has to get well soon and claims, I’ve got to return, is like if anything happens when he’s gone, if people die or if something goes awry, it’ll be him who’s responsible. Like this is all a heavy burden he alone has to carry, whether it’s by choice or by circumstances.

(It’s not a choice.

Despite his state, you both know the government is still breathing down his neck. It really isn’t a choice, but Leon likes to word it as it is.

You’re not sure if he does it to keep himself sane, or if he’s only saying that in order to quell your concerns for him.)

There’s people I can’t leave behind, he told you once. He’s never been a coward (and always been far too selfless) but he tries to put on a brave face, and you can see right through it.

“Looks like you’re finally going to be the stronger one,” he jokes half-heartedly as you support him on his way back to the couch. He’s bearing most of the weight himself, but using your shoulder to keep steady. “Take this as my concession.”

“I was always the stronger one,” you mumble, lowering yourself down to let him sit.

He collapses onto the couch, face twisted in pain. “Mentally stronger,” he concedes. “And emotionally, I guess. Better socially, too, if you count having to put up with the brass. But I think I’d have put up a good fight for the title of physically strongest.”

You scoff as you release him. “Even with your best fight, I’d have left with a clean sweep.”

With his good arm, he clutches his chest dramatically as if gravely offended.

“Would lying to you be nice?” you ask fondly, arranging the cushions on the couch so he can sit more comfortably. “I thought you were sick of the sugarcoating?”

Laughing, he drops his arm. “Guess not.”

“Good,” you smile, watching as he settles himself. “I like when you’re agreeable.”

He chuckles again. “Ever thought of being a doctor? You’d be good at it, if you gave up shit-talking your patients.”

“Well, my patients would probably be more reasonable,” you say with a yawn, subtly rolling out an ache in your shoulder from supporting Leon up and down the hallway. “I wouldn’t have to shit talk them as much.”

Even in this hypothetical context, it’s funny to think of a world in which you and Leon work normal jobs. The main reason for joining a bioterrorism organization is usually one of two: revenge or necessity, and sometimes both. But over time, those reasons start to twist and change; becoming stronger, weaker or more obscure, and through the course of people’s career, they often collect new motivations.

For you now, it’s just that you’re good at what you do (as good as your partner, if not better) and so you rarely let yourself think about what could have been had you chosen differently. It seems pointless.

“And if you leave, then what would I do?” Leon pipes up with a grin. It’s a little strained since you know he’s in considerable pain, but he does look as though he’s entertained by all these impossible scenarios. “When you’re off being a big-shot doctor, couldn’t really do my job well then, could I?"

You sit down cross-legged next to the couch, a place you’ve spent countless hours as of late. If you checked, you’d probably find an indentation on the carpet. “Why couldn’t you? They’d just give you a new partner.”

He makes a noise somewhere between disagreement and disgust. You laugh, feeling a little bemused; you’re far from being his first partner, and he’s not yours, either. You’re not sure where he got this strong distaste towards the idea of working with someone new. It’s bound to happen eventually.

You take his hand on your own and give it a squeeze.

“I don’t think I’d want a new partner,” he admits casually. “I think I’m set.”

You arch a brow. “You know you won’t have to sleep with them, right? You can just work with them?”

“Wait, really?” comes his sarcastic retort, his expression taking on a forced and sudden seriousness. “Holy shit, that changes things. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

You release his hand for dramatic effect only for him to stubbornly take it back.

“You’d really be that upset if I couldn’t be your partner anymore?” you ask after a moment has passed. The question gnaws at you, allowing your mind to revisit the prospects you had locked away in a box somewhere in its depths. You try to keep your face as impassive as you can.

He nods as though there’s no need for him to even consider it. “Yeah, pretty sure.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Think I would drag you back, too.”

You roll your eyes. “Be serious.”

“Yeah, well...” he huffs, only to be met with an amused glance from you. “I’m not sure, really. I haven’t thought it through.” Well, that makes two of you, at least. “I just know that it… I know we’re told not to rely on our partners to the point of it becoming self-sacrificial, but the thing is…” He doesn’t manage to finish his sentence. Still, you’re surprised. You weren’t expecting him to be so talkative. “I think I’m gone past that point. So, I just don’t think I could trust anyone as much as I do you.”

Something’s at the tip of your tongue; something that scares you.

You don’t say it. Instead, you just enjoy the easy silence, both of you indulging in the frivolous what if’s in your own minds.

The quietness is soon interrupted by the sound of an alarm buzzing in the kitchen.

“Time for your meds,” you announce. You get to your feet and ignore your own fatigue.

“The ones that taste like shit?”

You shake your head. “Nah, the little ones you can knock back with water.”

“What a relief,” he sighs, eyes following you as you head out to the kitchen. “Thanks, doc.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ *

It��s not always so easy for Leon to keep things light-hearted. As the week progresses and his injuries show no signs of improvement, he has taken to napping during the day, more to let the time pass by quicker than anything else.

He seems less willing to do the exercises the doctors assigned him, and the tasks that he once begged you to let him do no longer carry the same appeal. He eats a meal with you at the table, chats for a few minutes, then returns to the living room. Afterwards, he stays quiet unless spoken to.

You know it has absolutely nothing to do with you. It’s not any form of silent treatment—in fact, you can see how he uses his very limited social battery to chat with you over dinner. His eyes still show fondness when he looks your way. He still kisses the crown of your head when you embrace him.

He’s just struggling. And you are too.

You’re reading a book (or trying to, at least) as Leon sleeps off the morning’s unsuccessful attempts at stretching out his shoulder. Your eyes are unfocused, the page before you blurry. You find yourself thinking of that first morning you woke up next to him.

When you woke up in your bed back then, rays of sunshine streaming through the curtains, you knew Leon was lying by your side. He didn’t leave. You didn’t even have to roll over to confirm it; you could smell his aftershave.

It’s not that you forgot (neither of you had too much to drink the night before) but it all felt so surreal that part of you thought it was a dream. You felt so grounded that morning, Leon’s arm draped over your waist, and you knew it was all real from the soft sounds of his breathing next to you.

“You up?” he’d mumbled, his voice laced with sleep as it often is during your early-morning missions.

“Just about.”

“Will I get breakfast?” He suppressed a yawn, making no attempt to move his hand away.

“I can get it. You paid for the cab,” you replied then, not moving away from him either.

The cab. That night. The cab you took home from the bar, to sleep with your partner, to make a decision with irreversible consequences.

Though funnily enough, the regret hadn’t hit you. You half-expected to wake up in a cold sweat, having come to the realization that entertaining your feelings for Leon was the stupidest mistake you ever made.

But you didn’t feel anything of the sort. This was easier than you had expected. It was like a piece of your day-to-day routine you hadn’t realized you were missing.

You’d rolled out of bed and looked at him, his hair tousled from sleep and a satisfied smile on his face, and it took only that one glance to make you crawl back under the covers and let him take you apart over and over again.

The pattern continued over the following weeks, months. You worked as normal, bickered as you always did, and then went home together most nights. Your dynamic didn’t change all that much, except maybe for the fact that you were a little gentler with each other—not in the field, but in the mornings when you woke up with bloodshot eyes and tired limbs.

Of course, relationships don’t tend to work on that trajectory; the idea that you can just coexist forever without anything ever changing. Happy as you were, you knew things wouldn’t continue undefined, unexplored. Something would come along to disrupt things. Something big, something you weren’t prepared for—

Just then, Leon stirs. You drop your book to your lap, ready to leap up to assist if needed, but he falls back into a restless sleep after a few moments pass.

Despite everything, you smile. His morale may have taken a hit but he’s still trying, trying every single day, to get better. That hard work can’t just be for nothing. You’ll both see improvement soon.

You’ve gotten this far together and he just might make an optimist out of you yet.

You thought he fell back asleep, but…

He says it so softly that he could just be sleep-talking, but the words cut clear through the air, repeating in your mind on a loop until you can no longer think of anything else.

“Love you.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ *

It’s a bad night for Leon.

Yesterday was his first attempt at sharing your bed, a fairly significant milestone in itself, but the pain kept him awake all through the night, tossing and turning until the early hours of the morning. Though you swore that you didn’t mind (and you meant it), he returned to the couch this evening and there was no convincing him otherwise. He stayed silent while you tried to argue your case.

However, you weren’t about to let him isolate himself indefinitely or stand idly by as he wallowed in his own imagined failures, and so tonight, you decided to stay with him.

You’re curled up in an armchair on the other side of the room, wrapped in a blanket and resting your head against the velvet cushion behind you, watching in silence as his face twists in pain to the point it’s almost unrecognizable, clutching his sides as his aching muscles try to heal themselves.

His breath sounds torn and ragged as it leaves him, but apart from that, he makes no verbal signs of discomfort. You start to worry that he’s holding back for your benefit.

Obviously, you don’t want to hear the sounds of his suffering, but the idea that he’s trying to act tough or unbreakable or any of that other bullshit you stopped caring about long ago…

(You feel his pain as your own and you want to touch him, feel him, reach inside his fractured heart and pull out all of the love he had buried inside.

You want to feel his brokenness against yours, like if you hold each other long enough, something within each of you would finally heal.)

Leon sucks in a shallow breath and his hands ball into fists, his knuckles turning white as he does so.

You catch a glimpse of the clock above the window; it’s just after 2AM, which explains why it’s been a few hours since you’ve heard the sound of traffic or footsteps from the street below floating through the cracked window. You rub your tired eyes with the back of your hand.

Ordinarily, you’d be in bed by now, but you can’t bring yourself to leave. The thought of him being here alone in the dark, sweating bullets as he tries to struggle through the pain—you know you wouldn’t be able to get a wink of sleep.

Just then, Leon makes his first utterance of pain; a low sound that gets caught in his throat, but you still hear it.

You shrug off the blanket and rise up from your chair, quietly pacing across the room. You sit down on your haunches by the sofa and Leon opens his eyes—exhausted, bloodshot eyes that have something of an apology in them.

He opens his mouth to say something but you just reach your hand out to cup his cheek. Your thumb traces slow, soothing circles and he leans into the touch, almost mesmerized by the movement. You don’t say anything, don’t try to crowd him or lay next to him or get him to talk unnecessarily; your touch alone is enough reassurance.

His gaze softens.

It’s been two weeks since he kissed you back. A week since he mumbled that he loved you. It’s been six days and twelve hours since you said it back. Neither of you has said it since, but you don’t really need to.

This is enough.

The only perceptible sounds in the room are that of the two of you breathing and the tick-tick-ticking of the clock behind you, but you can easily tune that out, choosing instead to focus on how Leon’s chest is now rising and falling at a much steadier pace, on how the divot between his brows has fully relaxed.

Your thumb gently grazes over the reddened skin on his cheek but he feels no pain from it—he told you before that the scar by his cheek is as close to fully healed as he’ll get it. His eyes flutter shut as you keep up your gentle caresses, but you don’t stop. You keep going as if it’s offering some comfort to you as well.

This started out as a bad night, but it just might turn into one of those rare occasions where Leon gets more sleep than you do.

And you don’t mind at all.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ *

Leon finishes his first complete set of exercises the following morning.

Two days later and he can walk unsupported, up and down the hallways—it tires him out, but he can do it. He sleeps the full night in your bed afterwards.

He’s more proactive, too, in his recovery. He’ll make an effort to keep to a schedule, which certainly helps to keep him from falling back into that pit of despair. He responds better to feedback from doctors. That familiar glint in his eye returns, as does his terrible sense of humor. He starts to smile more.

As the days pass, his progress becomes more and more apparent—an exercise here, an independent task there—and it all adds up to a far more encouraging picture than what was painted at the beginning.

It’s not all good news, of course; there are still signs of long-term damage to his shoulder. His range of movement will likely never be the same.

But crucially, his outlook has changed. He no longer carries himself like a burden.

As a result, you’re sleeping through the night again—it’s easier to wake up in the mornings knowing your day will have a sense of normalcy. Though come to think of it, it’s hard to pin down what ‘normalcy’ will even look like from this point on.

As he continues to improve, you find yourself considering it more and more. Will it be both of you returning to life as two people living life exclusively in the short-term, never planning or aspiring to anything else?

You doubt any other thing is possible.

Maybe ‘normal’ isn’t something that’s casual, unlabelled. Maybe ‘normal’ isn’t about just hooking up and going your separate ways the next morning.

Maybe it hasn’t been like that for a while now.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ *

“You take good care of me, y’know?”

You lift your head, surprised; you thought Leon was asleep. It’s midday and he’s stretched out in your bed—he had the last of his stitches from surgery removed yesterday, the new medication makes him drowsy—and the last time you glanced in his direction, his eyes were closed.

“What do you mean?”

You ask the question through a mouthful of piping-hot vegetable soup, having made yourself a bowl while he napped. Sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed with a book in your other hand, you have the bowl carefully perched on your lap—eating in bed is not a common occurrence at your place, but you don’t like leaving Leon unaccompanied while the meds are wearing off. This way, you’re within reaching distance of him should anything happen.

“Everything okay?” you follow up when you don’t get an answer.

“Yeah, all okay,” he mumbles, his voice sleepy but still achingly fond. His eyes are still closed, a lazy grin on his face; you have to imagine that it still hurts for him to smile, but he seems to take some novelty in the fact that he can do it at all. “I was just saying: you take good care of me. Really good care.”

You chuckle softly as you take another sip of the broth. All it took was his stitches being removed and the sentimentality just starts pouring out.

“Is this because of that stuff you were saying last week?” you ask amusedly, recalling his reluctant praise for your first-aid skills and how he said you’d make a great doctor. “About me quitting and getting into medicine?”

“Maybe?” he answers with the lilt of a question. He sounds a little hazy, almost unsure of whether he even knows himself.

Now properly awake, he starts to sit up in bed, clasping his hands behind his head as his lower back stays supported by pillows—again, likely pushing the boundaries of his comfort, but he seems unperturbed by it.

Despite the fact that he’s only wearing a t-shirt and that the windows are thrown open to allow some fresh air into the room, his cheeks are lightly flushed. His hair is messy, too, the light brown strands pushed back as though he’s run a hand through it.

He smiles at you as you eat, eyes scanning your face. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was trying to commit it to memory.

It takes a while for realization to dawn on him, for him to figure out what he had initially meant to tell you.

“I just… wanted to tell you you’re great at this,” he says then, with considerably more determination this time. “At all of this. And to say how much I appreciate it. To thank you, as if that’s even enough.”

You lower the spoon from your lips and shoot him a bemused look.

“You a little stoned off the pain meds, huh?” you tease. “They got you on the good stuff?”

He laughs. “Yep, a bit.”

“Knew it.”

“But I’m still telling the truth,” he continues with a shrug, and he sounds so sure of himself, “pain meds or no pain meds.”

“Always honest to an absolute fault,” you remark quietly, stirring distractedly as he gives you a wry smirk.

And it’s true.

His honesty wasn’t the easiest thing to get used to at first. He’s a man of few words, you’ve noticed a long time ago. Teasing and flirtation aside, when it came down to it, Leon could be blunt—to the extent that it caused quite a few spats in the early days of your partnership.

However, somewhat reluctantly and without any conscious decision on your part, you got used to it over time. It went from aggravating to just annoying to tolerable, and now, you figure that his honesty is more of a virtue than anything else. Especially in your line of work, you can’t rely on someone who sugarcoats things and builds up a false sense of security. Dependability is everything. You’d rather hear the truth from him than something that could get you killed.

He’s an honest man. Part of you wonders if outside of work, he’s picking up some of your bad habits.

You slide off the bed and set your bowl down on the nightstand as his gaze follows you. When you return, you hop up next to him, laying down by his side. He shuffles over to make space and you pull the covers up halfway, staying on your side, propped up on an elbow and resting your chin against your hand.

Then, you just look at him, taking in the relative peacefulness that he hasn’t been able to enjoy in so long.

“Okay, in the spirit of honesty,” you begin, smiling to match the expression on his face. “Want to tell me how I’ve been taking good care of you?”

“Fishing for compliments?”

“Oh, always.”

“Well, now who’s being honest?”

You raise your eyebrows as a means to challenge him; he relents with a laugh.

“Fine. Want to hear me sing your praises?”

You nod instantly and he rolls his eyes without any malice. With a fond shake of his head, he starts to speak.

“Okay, where to start? I mean, I suppose firstly; you’re here all the time. I like that I can go to sleep at night and then wake up in the mornings, knowing that you’re here.”

You snort at the candor and his straightforward delivery. “Is this your way of telling me to back off? Because I won’t be offended. Too much, anyway.”

Leon chuckles.

“Nah, the opposite, actually,” he corrects you, his eyes twinkling, but then grimaces in pain as he rolls out a kink in his shoulder. You shift over to go and help him, but thankfully, the jolt of discomfort passes as soon as it hits. You return to resting on your elbow but stay a little closer this time.

“I want you here as much as possible,” he says then, a softness to the words. “So I can take good care of you, too.”

Oh. Huh. You truthfully weren’t expecting that.

You blink, unable to think of any other way to respond. Ignoring the heat creeping up your neck, you try not to read too much into it.

“You do take good care of me, saved me from that pack of fiends back in January, for one—”

He shakes his head by means of interruption, clearly dissatisfied with the angle you’re taking.

“I don’t just mean work stuff. I mean… I don’t know, doing extra stuff.”

Your brow furrows in confusion.

“Like more than what partners do?” you ask, genuinely curious. It’s hard to think of anything he could do for you that he hasn’t already done. You share a relationship of equals; you’ve never wanted for anything.

“More than what partners do,” he agrees, tilting his head to the side. “I meant… like what husbands do.”

You blink at him again. He blinks back. Neither one of you say anything else.

An unfamiliar sensation rushes through you like a wave, starting in your chest and spreading up and out to your limbs, and it’s such a strong, visceral feeling that you have no idea how you can’t place it.

Surely something this intense has a name?

Leon looks far more composed than you feel, far more composed than he arguably should be considering what was just said. Other than his light blush and the way his pupils are just a little blown out, he seems unruffled.

You, on the other hand, are decidedly not.

Then, before you can even begin to formulate something resembling an answer, he ups the stakes once again.

“Move in with me,” Leon says, phrasing it as a statement rather than a question, and it’s as though years worth of unspoken words are hitting you at once.

In a way, you suppose they are.

Unable to do anything else, you sit up straight, lips parting helplessly while no words come out.

If Leon is concerned by your lack of response, he doesn’t show it. He stays where he’s sitting, patiently awaiting an answer without so much as an anxious fidget.

An answer. Your answer.

You search for one desperately, trying to pick just one decipherable thought amongst the thousands rushing through your mind right now.

But before one comes to you, a lightbulb goes off. You don’t have to give an answer—no, you shouldn’t give one, considering that Leon’s on medication, recovering from weeks of pain and rehabilitation, and he’s not thinking things through right now.

Of course, you think to yourself as the waves start to subside, this isn’t an official offer. He’ll forget all about this in the morning.

Rather than stress him out with complications or details or promises that he may not even be aware he’s making, you decide to give him an out. To give him the opportunity to revisit this another time.

You twist to the side to look at him, hoping your face doesn’t betray you. He looks back expectantly.

“Maybe you should get some sleep—”

“I don’t need sleep,” he objects, frowning now. “I’m being serious. This isn’t the drugs talking—well, maybe part of it is, I don’t know. But I’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

You can’t help but smile, marveling at the absurdity of this conversation. “You want me to move in with you?”

He nods. “And, to be completely honest, I want a lot more than that.”

You know it’s a bad idea to push further, but your curiosity wins out. “Like what?”

“I want us to be something,” he answers matter-of-factly, and your heart goes from beating too fast to stopping entirely. “I want to wake up next to you in the mornings. I want to see you before we go to sleep every night. And if we get there and decide it’s something we can do, I want to stay with you every day until we’re old as shit and you really do find me ugly.”

He stops speaking like he’s run out of breath. Similarly, you feel as though you can’t get enough air into your lungs.

What he’s saying, it sounds like an indulgence. Something that’s so normal for so many, but so unbelievably idealized in your own mind that you hadn’t even allowed yourself to hope for it.

How can you possibly plan for your lives together when you can only take things week-by-week, grateful for every morning you wake up unscathed?

But now, Leon isn’t unscathed. The worst-case scenario actually happened, but instead of running away when faced with the harsh truth of your mortality, you both got through it. You stayed by his side, caring for and comforting him. He, in turn, placed his trust in you, entirely and without hesitation. And you know that things would be the same if the roles were reversed.

Still, that doesn’t mean that you’ve never even thought about how could you begin to take on all of those responsibilities.

Almost as if he’s reading your mind, he elaborates.

“But I don’t mean… I don’t want to force you into a life you don’t want, or anything like that. We don’t need to do it the traditional way. I don’t care about the official papers or the white picket fence or any of that, and… shit, I didn’t mean this to pressure you,” he says, and you know he really means it. “It’s just… I don’t know… with everything that’s gone on, I think I’d regret it if I didn’t say it.”

As the words sink in, something inside you clicks into place. So that’s the feeling you just experienced: true regret.

Regret that you hadn’t said something like this earlier.

Regret that you’d lived a whole life without even allowing yourself a glimpse at the other possibilities.

Regret that it took Leon nearly dying to get this far, that you had wasted so long pointlessly holding back the inevitable.

But with the regret came a sense of relief as well, relief so great that it feels like a deep breath after being held underwater. Relief that offers your racing mind some much-needed clarity.

You look at him with a smile and his shoulders relax.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

He exhales—you hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath—and nods slowly. “Okay, good,” he murmurs. “Is that your answer?”

You shake your head once. “Not quite. I do want you to get some sleep first. I need to be a thousand percent sure this isn’t influenced by those meds. Then I’ll give the official answer,” you finish, ensuring the words are delivered softly so he knows it isn’t a rejection.

Thankfully, he doesn’t interpret it as one. “Fair enough. Can’t argue there.”

You lean over to kiss him then hop out of bed to let him rest, picking up the bowl to take back to the kitchen. In preparation for his nap, he settles himself in amongst the pillows and blankets, beaming from ear to ear.

“See you soon, doc.”

You head out, laughing, and just as you’re about to close the door behind you, you call out over your shoulder.

“If this is going to happen, you need to do some serious work on those god awful pet names.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ *

At some point that night, Leon wakes up next to you. He’d been in and out of sleep all day and you’d dozed off hours around midnight, but you’re not sure what time it is when your eyes open instinctually at the sound of him stirring.

The air feels heavy but warm, almost like an embrace.

“You awake?” he whispers, but his words are clear and crisp. The medication’s worn off.

You don’t roll over, don’t shift in place. You stay lying there, staring at the ceiling, feeling your eyes inexplicably prickle with tears.

Happy tears, for once in your life.

“Mhmm,” you agree once you’ve cleared your throat. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s okay.”

The only visibility in the room is from the moonlight trickling through a small opening in the curtains; not enough for you to see his face, but you know he means it from those two words alone.

It’s time to make good on your promise.

“You’re really sure?” you ask then. “About what you said, earlier?”

A beat of silence.

“Yeah. I meant it.”

Another moment of pure quiet, slow and sedated, without so much as the sound of a car passing outside.

You breathe in deeply.

“Then yes. My answer’s yes.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ *

It’s difficult to pinpoint the moment at which Leon officially moved in.

You both agreed that it was better for him to move into your place as opposed to finding somewhere new—he practically lives here already, plus you hate packing—and for lack of an official move-in date, today seems as good as any.

Leon has finally been given the all-clear: a clean bill of health, with minimal long-term damage. The relief is so profound you could cry.

And so tonight, you’ll toast his recovery and celebrate the move, celebrate getting to this point together, celebrate the good habits you’ve picked up from each other and the fact that you’re not as terrible at this as you once feared.

Leon doesn’t have much left back at his old apartment, which makes the move-in process short and sweet. This morning he’d gone back to hand in his key to the landlord, packed a suitcase with the few belongings that he hadn’t already moved over, and arrived back at your door with a smile on his face and an expensive bottle of whiskey in hand.

Now, he’s in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Your offers to help him are pointedly ignored. In his words, he wants to start repaying the favor for all you’ve done—you explain that he doesn’t need to repay anything but he’s typically insistent—and, truth be told, it’s nice to sit back with a glass of whiskey while a meal is served to you.

You enjoy the delicious smells wafting through the kitchen, the sight of Leon humming along to one of his vinyls as it spins in the record player on the countertop. You laugh as he tries (and fails miserably) to hit one of the high notes.

He, in turn, appreciates the look on your face when he serves up the dish in front of you. He marvels at your strength, your resilience. He never imagined he’d be grateful for almost dying.

Hours pass with the two of you eating, talking, drinking, acknowledging your mutual ignorance over the course of your partnership. You think back to a time long before his injury when Hunnigan mailed a package intended for him to your address, assuming that the two of you were already living together—and you feel your heart swell at how your little apartment is, for the first time, full of laughter and levity.

After the meal has been enjoyed and the kitchen cleaned spotless by a highly-motivated Leon, you retire to the couch for the evening to sit together, not to rest. In a perfect world, that couch will never need to be slept on again.

As you settle on the couch, you don’t miss how Leon’s gaze lingers on you—the later the hour gets, the more heated glances the two of you share. You feel a pleasant heat creep up your neck as his eyes trail downward.

You mindlessly flick through the channels, settling on some shitty murder mystery you have no intention of actually watching. He wraps his arms around you and you lean your head back against his shoulder, draping his arm over your waist.

You hadn’t realized that the hem of your t-shirt had lifted a couple of inches until a few minutes later when you feel his fingertips graze against the exposed skin of your hip. It’s only the lightest of touches but it’s burning.

Your enthusiastic reaction is understandable since you obviously haven’t been able to share any physical intimacy since his injury. His health, understandably, took priority, but now you’re now far more reactive to his touch after months of going without it.

He notices.

Testing the waters, you push back against him and feel him already half-hard against your lower back.

“I know what you’re doing,” he murmurs, his breath hot against the back of your neck. Your laugh is saccharine, playing innocent.

You missed feeling him like this. You had gotten so used to this type of intimacy, so familiar with each other’s bodies.

Bored of the movie you had barely been pretending to watch, you crane your neck around to press your lips to his jawline, slightly skimming the sensitive skin. He makes a gruff sound of approval that catches in his throat, and before the moment has passed, he has you lifted up and around onto his lap, pulling you in for a kiss.

Wasting no time, apparently.

It hadn’t taken much to get him going, but then again, it has been a while—you can’t fault him for his eagerness when you’re just as excited yourself.

You return his kiss, eager and hungry as his tongue pushes into your mouth. This is far messier than usual—in the past, you’ve taken your time with soft, languid kisses, gentle caresses, but this is different; heated, urgent, as though you physically can’t stand the absence of his touch.

With immense self-control, you pull back, looking with hooded eyes as a thin string of saliva connects your mouth to his.

“Bed,” you choke out, the whisper barely audible as it leaves you—and he responds without question. He helps you up from the couch and grasps your hand firmly as you head down the hallway.

Once the bedroom door closes behind you, Leon half-guides, half-pulls you onto the bed with him. You don’t even have time to gasp. Within a matter of seconds, he’s lying on his back in the center of the bed as you hastily move to straddle him, the movements a little unpolished and frenzied but you’re past the point of caring about appearances.

Your lips are so close to his that you share a breath before he pulls you in for another messy kiss. You grind down on his clothed cock and he shudders, grabbing your hips and grinding back, marveling at the fact that he can finally, finally touch you like this again.

“Do you have any idea how much I’ve fucking missed this?” he whispers into the shell of your ear, having moved his swollen lips to nip and suckle at your pulse point until you can feel his mark against it. You tug his shirt up a few inches, mirroring his earlier movements on the couch. “Weeks and weeks of having to look without being able to touch.” You gently drag your nails over his lower stomach, over his hips, running your fingers around the waistband of his pants.

You want to hear more. Every word sends shivers down your spine, goosebumps prickling on your skin, and so you push him a little more: “how badly did you want to touch?”

He chuckles disbelievingly, the sound canting up into a sharp gasp when you slip your hand fully into his pants, cupping the bulge in his underwear. “Well, sweetheart,” another shaky pant. “It’s… shit, it’s most of what I thought about the past month,” a groan this time. “At least.”

“Mm?”

You lean in to kiss his neck, clouding his thoughts even further. He makes an admirable attempt at continuing: “Spent every night thinking about the thousand different ways I wanted to touch you.” You nip his earlobe with your teeth. “Fuck you, watch you squirm underneath me.” He swallows thickly. “And how could I not?”

You straighten up, giving yourself a moment to catch your breath. “What do you mean?”

His breath is heavy as you start to stroke him through his underwear. You feel a bit mean for making it so hard for him to reply, but his shaky moans and the way his muscles tense as you touch him are too much to resist.

To his credit, he gives his answer. “How could I not feel that way when I was there on the couch, thinking about you? Imagining being able to just reach my hand down and make you come on my fingers, knowing you were just down the hallway. It nearly killed me.”

“Nearly killed you, huh?”

He lets out a short laugh. “Part of the reason I insisted on the couch.”

Leon’s chest is heaving and you’d barely touched him, so when you palm him one last time through his boxers before taking it off—his heart damn-near stops beating.

It’s thick and long, with a slight curve to it—so damn pretty that you nearly start drooling at the sight even though it’s not your first time seeing it. Leon reaches down to grab your face, just as you wrap your hand around the base of his dick, stroking him to a lazy rhythm.

He mouths something so quietly you almost miss it: Hold still. Then, he shifts his hips until he can lay the length of his cock over your cheek. For a moment, he holds you there, admiring the way it dwarfs your face, a little half-hearted chuckle escaping his lips.

He brings his thumb to the tip of his cock while your loose palm continues to pump him. A faint, wet sound echoes in your ears as he rubs circles over the slit, gathering the sticky precum that leaks from there. He presses his thumb to your mouth, and when your lips part, he shoves it in, smearing his precum over your tongue.

“There we go,” Leon coos, exhaling a long, unsteady breath. Your lips close around his finger and you give it a gentle suck. “Yeah, want you t’ suck on me just like that.” He pulls his thumb out of your mouth, grabbing your face and squeezing your cheeks. “Got it?”

You nod. “Mhmm.”

Leon presses the tip of his cock to your lips, and you feel it throb hard when you kiss it. He pulls on your chin, coaxing you to open your mouth. Punctuated by his harsh breathing, he slurs a string of instructions: Open wide. Stick out your tongue. C’mon, you’re gonna have to open wider than that. We both know you can.

Once you take him into your mouth, slowly bobbing your head down on him, your throat adjusting to his size—Leon smirks and continues, Keep taking it just like that. Don’t look away from me.

“Look at you. Doing such a good job already, sweet thing.”

After his instructions, you’re not sure how you manage to push past your embarrassment and continue, but you do. Your tongue sets flat against the bottom of his cock and you take him further into your throat, stopping a little over halfway when you feel like you can’t take it anymore. You start to pull back but a firm press against the back of your head keeps you in place.

Leon gives you an expression containing the slightest amount of annoyance. “No, take it all the way.”

You whimper, looking at him with eyes that’s trying to say, I can’t, but he doesn’t seem to get the hint. Instead, he presses even firmer against the back of your head, forcing you further down, cramming his cock in your mouth past where you thought was possible. Before you know it, tears are pricking at the corners of your eyes and he’s somehow all the way in.

“Shit, sweetheart,” Leon chuckles breathlessly, “think this was the medicine I needed from the start, huh?”

The stupid joke manages to make your heart race in your chest. His firm press on the back of your head finally eases up, letting you pull your head back just far enough to allow yourself to breathe.

You stall for a minute, attempting to regain your composure—but with your throat aching, keeping calm is a little hard to do. Your senses are becoming so overwhelmed it feels like your mind has gone fuzzy. All you can think about is him, all you can taste is him, all you can smell is him and the distinct scent of whiskey that still lingers in the air and on his clothes. The feeling of his cock choking you and filling your throat is all-encompassing. Trying to wait any longer is a waste of time because at this point, you’re never going to be composed. Plus, the last thing you want right now is to make Leon impatient.

Intentionally, you pull back and then sink back down again.

Leon groans, his head tossing back a bit but his eyes remaining fixed on you. The sight of your pretty lips bobbing on his cock, doe eyes and fluttering eyelashes staring up at him is unbelievably captivating and he wouldn’t be able to tear his gaze away even if he tried. The wet sounds of you sucking, gagging, and gasping echoes impossibly loudly throughout your bedroom.

“Fuck,” Leon swears under his breath, the sound of you choking on his cock just turning him on even more than he already was.

Once you start to work up a rhythm, your job gets a little bit easier. Your mouth and chin becomes an utter mess of saliva and spit. Leon makes no effort to stifle or hold back any noise he makes—which is a pleasant surprise. Each time you draw back with a harsh suck, you pull a soft little gasp or groan from him which encourages you to keep going.

Honestly, you’re a bit grateful he wants you to stare at him, because if you weren’t, you’d be missing out. You never imagined you’d be seeing your normally so collected mission partner like this again—face flushed out, trying desperately to remain together but at the same time, not caring if he fell apart.

One of his hands threads through your hair and the other tightly grips the sheets. His chest rises and falls with each shaky breath he takes in. When you sink down once more and Leon’s hips roll forward, forcing his cock far into your esophagus—you feel like you’re going to fall to pieces, but the loud moan he’s unable to restrain goes right to your core, keeping you intact.

“Just like that, don’t look away from me,” Leon pants, and although you weren’t planning on doing so, your vision becomes blurred and his tip repeatedly hitting the back of your throat is starting to be too much to handle. His facial expression has lost all semblance of its usual seriousness, instead contorted in pure pleasure.

His grip on the back of your head grows weaker as he puts his full focus into what you’ve realized is essentially fucking your mouth. Every thrust is deeper into your throat than the last and has you choking, feeling like your mouth is going to be split open. You’re unable to hold back from crying and Leon revels in the sight of tears streaming down your pretty face.

Your jaw aches to an unbelievable degree but you don’t dare to pull back when his hips begin to stutter as he loses his rhythm. He breaks eye contact, his eyes shut as he throws his head back on the pillow. You pray he’s getting close because you aren’t sure how much more of this you can take, but Leon answers your prayers when he speaks, voice punctuated with his ragged, heavy breathing, “I-I’m so… Fuck—I’m so close… I want you to swallow all of it.”

You hum in response, and the vibrations on his length are just enough to send Leon over the edge. Abruptly, he gasps and his hand roughly pushes you forward in tandem with his hips upwards. With his cock as deep in your mouth as he could get it, you feel it twitch before his cum pours down your throat. Attempting to pull away is fruitless as Leon’s press on the back of your head is firm, so all you can do is accept it, will yourself to breathe through your nose, and swallow.

He won’t give you a break until he’s sure that you got every last drop.

When you feel Leon’s whole body finally slump, you tore yourself away, his cock coming out of your mouth with a pop. You immediately feel a heavenly sense of relief in your jaw and throat. As you catch your breath, you attempt to wipe the mixture of tears and saliva off your face with the back of your hand. At this point, you don’t have to see yourself to know that your face is an absolute mess.

Although, even if you look like a mess, you can probably say the same thing about Leon. You bring your gaze to him, and the first thing you notice is the rise and fall of his chest. He’s panting hard and the sound of him practically gasping for air while trying to get ahold of himself fills the bedroom. And once you shift your gaze down, the second thing you notice is his dick. Even though he just came, he’s half-hard.

Understandable, you think. After all, he finally has the chance to get rid of all of that pent up desperation he’s had for so long now.

You grasp the base of his length and feel him pulse hard beneath your palm. His entire cock is still wet and coated with your saliva. You bring your tongue to his base and begin to drag it up agonizingly slowly, all the way up to the tip.

Leon gasps in return, “Wait, don’t—” His voice stutters into a moan when you suddenly take him in your mouth, sucking hard, before pulling away to flick your tongue against his tip.

“You can keep going, can’t you?” you coo, massaging his sensitive tip already leaking with precum between your thumb and index finger. Leon simply moans in response, stuttering as if he’s going to say something but ultimately fails, and you swear you see him perform the faintest nod. You smile, “That’s it. I knew you could.”

Bringing his cock to your lips once more, you kiss the tip, then down, down further, until you’re trailing wet kisses up and down his hard length. You peer up at Leon through your eyelashes and to your surprise, he was looking right at you, his face and ears coated in a red blush. The second you meet his gaze, he sheepishly turns away.

How cute.

Once you think you sufficiently embarrassed him, you place a final kiss on his tip before taking him into your mouth again, swirling your tongue throughout. You could hear Leon letting out a shaky breath and you continue, eyes fluttering shut as you slowly take his cock all the way down your throat. It’s much easier this time now that you’re used to the feeling. You pull back just as slowly, and after his cock falls out of your mouth, you bring a single finger to his base, slowly dragging it up, and you feel him twitch beneath it.

When you look up, you’re faced with Leon glaring down at you, voice stern but shaky with desire when he whispers, “Please, don’t fucking tease me.”

Unfortunately for him, he just screwed himself over by saying that—because the way he said please was so goddamn attractive. You want to hear him say it again and again. You’re so greedy to see him fall further into desperation for you.

You continue to play with him, completely disregarding his request for you not to (a mental note to yourself: his safeword is red). You start up a pattern of bringing your head down and swallowing, forcing him to the back of your throat before abruptly falling back, kissing his tip and stroking his dick with your hand. Leon certainly isn’t helping his case much because he happens to be very fun to play with.

He covers his face with his hand, throwing his head back again. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he tries to swallow down moans. You find it adorable how he quickly becomes restless, hips squirming uncontrollably.

The second you go back down on him, he thrusts into your mouth, attempting to get some kind of relief—but you end up punishing him by pulling away as soon as he does so. The moans he can’t hold back are so loud, so sweet, and so incredibly needy. He brings a hand down to grasp your cheek, and a smile falls across your face when you notice just how much he’s trembling.

Leon swallows before speaking, his voice hoarse and dry from all his gasping and moaning, “I told you not to tease me like that.” His eyes lock onto yours and the desperation he feels is plastered all over his face.

“Yeah? I didn’t hear you,” you taunt, your tone only ever so slightly condescending. You continue to pump his cock, taking careful attention to the tip—so red and leaking with so much precum you’re sure it aches. You rub it hard with the base of your palm and Leon groans in response.

“Stop it,” he tries to command in a low voice, but much of the authority is lost since he’s barely able to choke out the words.

“Oh, so you want me to stop?” You take your hand off his cock, leaving it completely unattended to.

“No,” Leon spits out hastily, his response so fast it’s almost comical. He continues to stare at you with a look of complete and utter want in his eyes, chin tucked into his chest. “Don’t stop.” He draws in one long, quivering breath, “Please.”

You bring your hand back, wrapping it loosely around his length—but before you can even do anything, Leon’s hips roll up into your palm and he whimpers from the relief.

He keeps going and you hold still, allowing him to recklessly grind against your motionless hand. Now this was the Leon that you were waiting to see, that you truly loved to see. Here he is, lips parted as he moans softly, thrusting his hips into your hand out of desperation for your touch. It’s impossible for you to tear your gaze away from him because the sight is intoxicating.

If only you could snap a picture with your eyes.

There’s no chance you would let anyone else see Leon like this. This version of him is one you want all to yourself. Nothing could top the satisfaction that you, and only you have him so desperate. You, and only you have one of the most revered agents in the country reduced to a pathetic mess at the hands of his partner.

With every thrust he takes up, an adorable, breathy cry falls from his lips and it’s music to your ears. When he starts picking up the pace, thrusting faster, you take your hand away and he audibly whines in disappointment. “Enough, I-I can’t—”

“If you want more, hold still.”

You bring your hand back to his cock, pumping it once. Leon grunts, his hips shifting, but he’s unable to keep himself from moving any more than that. You stroke his cock slowly and leisurely, as if you have all the time in the world to do so. You keep a gentle, apathetic rhythm, ignoring how much Leon is clearly fucking struggling. He whimpers and squirms at every touch.

Searching for something to hold onto, he runs his fingers through his own hair, gripping close to the scalp. As a result, light brown strands fall free and cover his face.

“More,” Leon gasps, “I can’t fucking take this, I need more, I—”

“Tell me what you want,” you say in immediate retaliation.

“I want…” he hesitates for a moment, swallowing, “I want you.”

Is he blushing? Or is his face just red from breathing so hard?

“Yeah? You want me?” you smirk, drawing your hand away from him.

Leon nods hastily.

“Beg for it.”

He stares at you with an expression simply indecipherable. His ragged breaths become the only sound to fill the room and the only thing you have to indicate the passage of time. He inhales sharply, exhales shakily. Breathes in, breathes out. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times.

“I want you, I want you so fucking bad,” Leon blurts out, suddenly breaking the silence. “I want to kiss you, I want to touch you, I want to be inside you. Is that what you were looking for?”

You’re stupid to expect him to stand a chance against you. It’s only a matter of time until he swallows the last of his pride.

“I’ll do anything,” Leon begs. He brings a hand to his face, covering his eyes in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. “Just this once, let me fuck you.”

“Then say please. Ask politely if you really want me.”

“Please,” he sighs, dragging his hand away so he could look at you. His desperate gaze pleads harder than his words ever could. “Please let me fuck you. I need you. I really need you. Please.”

Now, how are you supposed to resist that?

The heat of the moment must be possessing you because before you’re even able to process what’s happening, you’re pushing yourself up, leaning forward, and so is Leon. With the two of you torturously close, so close to connecting but not quite, you manage to sneak in one last comment before Leon fully leans in.

“Good boy.”

Leon completely stalls. His lips tremble like he wants to say something, but in the end he gives up. He leans down, grabbing you firmly by the neck and yanking you up until he meets you in a rough kiss.

His soft lips against yours sparks a red-hot fire in your chest and you find yourself pressing against him further, wanting more. He places his hand on your chest and gently pushes you back—your bed creaks, the mattress shifts and the sheets rustle as he slowly climbs on top of you. Even still, he isn’t close enough. You grab a fistful of his shirt collar and tug him in.

Once he feels you’re comfortable enough, Leon parts his lips, wasting no time coupling his tongue with yours. His mouth tastes vaguely of whiskey from earlier. He kisses you with all the fervor from his pent-up emotions, with all the anticipation built from days and nights prior. It’s passionate and intense with a clear-cut sense of urgency felt between your exchanges of gasps and sighs. All the while, he maintains such a strong grip around your throat that it makes you feel as if you’re floating among the clouds.

Leon has been craving this for so, so long and now that he has it, it’s better than he ever could have imagined. His whole body feels warm and filled with an utter need for more. You run your fingers through his hair, starting from the base of his neck near his scalp, sending tingles throughout his spine.

You’re delicious, but the faint taste of himself on your tongue is like nothing else he’d experienced before.

Your hand grabs his, your fingers brush over his calloused knuckles, and you’re leading him. You get lost in the deep blue of his eyes, in the way he draws his bottom lip between his teeth when you guide his hand to drift between your legs, in how his breath hitches and his expression softens, his cheeks tinged rosy once you press his fingers to your waiting cunt.

“Right here? You want me to touch you here?”

Leon swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. He drags his middle finger over your pussy, and he soaks the digit in your slick. You’re dripping out onto him, making a mess of his hand. His fingertip is wet and sticky when he toys with your clit. He rubs in slow, faint circles, his breath comes out shaky, and he can’t help but grin a little when your body shivers and your hips buck into his touch.

“You’re completely soaked, were you getting off on teasing me like that? I’ve got to say, you never striked me as the sadistic type,” Leon taunts, nearly in disbelief, his voice a bit breathless; even with your eyes shut tight, you can hear the smile in his tone, his half-hearted laugh when your thighs close around his arm, the stutter in his breathing when you whine his name in the form of a plea.

He continues to play with your clit, leaning down until his hair is tickling your cheek and his breath is hot on the shell of your ear. “Tell me what you need from me. I know you need me, so tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

His lips placing tiny kisses on your ear and his two fingers spreading your pussy are ample distractions, but you’re somehow able to choke out just what he’s looking for: Need you to touch me more, please, Leon.

And in no time at all, Leon gives you just that—he teases your entrance for a moment, he revels in the way you shake when he presses just the tip of his finger inside. When you’re this desperate for him, he can’t leave you waiting for long—and so he eases it in all the way, he crooks it into your sweet spot just slightly, just enough to make you sigh.

“That’s it,” he whispers, “Do you want another?”

You mutter some desperate mhmm’s, and Leon slowly pulls his middle finger out, aligning it with his ring before pressing both back deep inside you, nice and slow, teasingly, almost. You’re filled with two of his thick fingers—he’s stretching you out around them as he slowly pumps them in, and then out.

“There we go... Just like that, sweetheart. You’re taking them in well.”

Leon fucks you with his fingers languidly and carefully. He grips your waist tightly with his free hand. You’re so wet, you’re getting his fingers soaked, it’s so easy for him to pump them inside you—his cock stiffens at the thought, he feels himself throb when you cry out his name. Tingles shoot up his spine when you tangle your fingers in his hair and grip the strands hard.

“Feels good? Yeah? I know baby, I know.” He kisses your cheek, and then your forehead. It’s taking all of his strength not to grind himself against you, especially when he’s aching so bad, when he’s so hard again. You always do this to him, you get him so worked up when he’s been already touched—even just the anticipation of being touched by you once more makes him want to come.

But he doesn’t, his breath is ragged and he’s losing his composure but he focuses on pleasing you, he curls his fingers right into the spot that makes you melt for him. You buck into him once more, his hand finds the small of your back when it arches. Your body molds into his touch, you moan to the tune of his fingers inside you—and God, Leon could never get enough of this.

He’s just as worked up as you are, he can hardly speak, his breath is warm when it fans over your face. “My poor baby’s just strugglin’ to cum, huh? Dont you worry, I’ll get you there.”

You’re falling apart on his fingers then, you’re getting his hand slick and messy, and Leon loves you through it—he rubs your clit with his thumb, he kisses every inch of your neck, he presses his forehead to yours and slows the pace of his fingers. He closes his eyes, gasping, “There, there... That’s it… So good, always so good f’me.”

You’re given a few moments to calm down and rest, your thoughts focused on Leon’s shallow breathing before slowly, he drags his fingers out of you. He looks up to you, asking, Are you okay?—and when you answer with a nod, he’s bringing his sticky fingers to his mouth. You watch through a half-lidded gaze as he tastes you with his eyes fluttered shut, his lips closed around his knuckles as he sucks on them, his tongue swirling around the digits as he tastes your cum.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he says, and he sounds so hopelessly in love, “Did you know that?”

You can’t help but smirk, push on his chest playfully, and reply, “Of course.”

Honestly, how could you not know? Leon would take a bullet for you and you know it, he’d give you his heart right out of his chest if yours ever stopped beating—but all you want to do is keep him safe. The only thing you’ve ever wanted since you met him, since you first held his calloused hands in your own was to see him smile just like this, a dumb grin on his face as he rubs your head and softly pushes you back.

All you’ve wanted is to give him a taste of comfort and simplicity, of everything he’s always wanted but has never had. You wished to have a quiet life with him that consists of love and nothing more, nothing complicated, nothing grief-stricken. All you’ve ever desired out of him is whatever he’s willing to give you, and if there’s one thing you know, it’s that Leon longs to provide you with everything you need.

You deserve anything and everything. Someone as important to him as you, who showed him what it’s like to love and be loved, who cared for him when he was sinking, and when he was drowning, who loved him even more so—someone like you is deserving of his utter devotion, so that’s what he’s gonna give to you.

Leon grips your waist tightly. He kisses you, longer this time. The head of his cock teases your entrance, his lips taste like they’re dripping with honey.

He pulls away, he cups your cheek softly, he stares into your eyes. His chest heaves as he quietly asks, “Are you ready? You’re alright with this, aren’t you? I’ll stop if you need me to.”

Your response comes immediately and unwaveringly: Yes, it’s alright. What about you, Leon?

“Yeah, more than alright, definitely.” Leon’s face goes soft, his eyes become glazed over with affection. “Just checking.”

As you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in for another kiss, Leon can’t wait any longer—he holds you by your waist while he slowly eases himself inside of you, he gasps into your mouth, he kisses you a little harder. He fills you slowly, tenderly, he gives you the chance to adjust to how he feels inside you, and he lifts you by your hips to get a better angle.

“Fuck, I missed this—” His words are nothing more than messy slurs into your mouth, and he moans before tearing himself away and breathing in a long, shaky breath to regain his bearings.

“I… I wanna be all the way inside you, is that okay? Can you take it, baby?”

Mhmm. For him, you can take it, you can do so much better than that. You smile, and you beg, Give me more.

So he does: Leon presses in to the hilt, he fills you with everything he has. You feel so amazing around him, it feels so fucking good to be all the way inside, to feel you all around him, to be connected. Your cunt is squeezing him, you’re tight and warm and it’s perfect, all at once. His hips are shoved against your own, he wraps his arms around you and holds you close. His head falls to your shoulder and he exhales a hot, heavy breath.

Leon groans, “Love you, I love you.”

He could stay like this forever. He could spend the rest of the days he has just like this, your body pressed close to his, the two of you cuddled up while he fills you. He could enjoy this lovely form of intimacy with every last fiber of his soul, he could show you each part of himself, until you and him are one in every conceivable way. There’s nothing he wants more than that. There’s no one he adores more than you.

His hips start up a very careful, shallow rhythm; he stays deep inside, and he’s barely moving, barely rutting into you, but even just this is enough to make him whine, his voice loud, high-pitched. It’s enough to compel him to grab your hand in his own and squeeze it tightly, lacing his fingers around yours. His body on top of yours has you caged in, but when it’s Leon, it’s a comfortable kind of feeling.

You feel safe when you’re under him.

He nips at your neck, leaving impressions of his teeth that he’s sure he’ll admire later when the two of you are getting dressed. When this night ends, he’ll kiss your lips and each one of the marks he’s left as he’s buttoning up your shirt. He’ll rest his head on your shoulder and rub your thighs if they’re sore while you both brush your teeth. You’ll sit in his lap while he sips his coffee, and maybe you’ll end up falling asleep on him, leaving Leon to hold you and ignore the rest of the world for just a little while longer.

“So good to me, so beautiful,” Leon pulls away from your neck, he pushes himself up with his hands and stares at you beneath him. His hair frames his face, his pupils are blown, the deep blue of his iris captures the moonlight.

He’s blushing hard, all the way to the tips of his ears, his face is a warm shade of red. Sweat keeps messy light brown strands sticking to his forehead, droplets drip down his chest and his collarbones.

“You’re pretty,” Leon mumbles between staggered breaths, and he smiles ever-so slightly, “You’ve always been.”

Yeah, you could say the same thing about him.

Then, he starts to move a bit faster—he takes his time dragging his cock nearly all the way out, until you’re filled with just the fat head. He takes a deep breath in, and he eases it back inside, giving you everything nice and deep before repeating the process again, and again. His eyelashes flutter, his eyebrows pinch.

It feels so good when he’s fucking you like this. There’s something about the way Leon makes love to you that does it for you every time. He’s so gentle, he ruts into you with deep, slow rolls of his hips. He would never hurt you, and he knows how to please you: he’s memorized it ever since the first night you gave yourself to him.

And there’s something about the way you feel, warm and divine and like everything Leon thinks he’s ever needed. There’s something about the way you look when he’s deep inside you, how you stare at him like you trust him, like you’re in love with him. You tug him closer and say his name like he’s precious, like he’s not just an asset to be used and discarded, and he’s sure this is what it feels like to have someone be made for you.

His eyes flicker from your face to between your legs, he watches how your expression changes each time he thrusts deep inside, he looks downward and fixates on the sight of your cunt taking his cock. Your bed creaks and shifts a little with each of his movements. The quiet sound of skin hitting skin echoes with your gasps, and with his desperate grunts.

“Say my name again,” Leon says abruptly, and his bottom lip quivers, his whole body shudders and tenses, “I wanna hear you say it.”

You nod, mumbling his name into his ear, you wrap your arms around his back and trace the scars between his shoulder blades while you murmur it softly. Say it again, Leon pleads, and you work your fingers through his hair from the back of his neck and mutter it more, you chant his name over and over again when he breathlessly asks, Once more, once more for me.

You cry out for him when he presses into you hard, you gasp and toss your head back into the pillows. For him, it’s all for him, and that makes his heart swell and his head spin, it makes his dick throb inside.

You can feel him in your stomach, you can feel how his cock twitches and his thighs shake every time the syllables of his own name leave your mouth. You can hear his lovesick whines, you can smell his enveloping scent, so rich and familiar. His lips pepper your jaw with insistent kisses, he groans from the pleasure, from the intensity. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes and threaten to spill with each thrust into you.

He’s getting closer, he’s fucking you sloppier—his moans are getting louder, needier.

“I love you,” Leon chokes out—his voice breaks at the end, and it’s taken on a sweet sort of tone, the tone only you get to hear, only when he’s falling apart at the seams. And when you say it back, when you tell him you love him, he can’t help but lift your thighs and grip your waist and fuck you deeper.

“Fuck, sweetheart—” He gasps out your name, and his heart pounds faster, so hard it feels like it might beat right out of his chest, “I’m close—I’m so close. You g’nna come f’me, pretty thing?”

You nod meekly—your legs wrap around his back and pull him in, you hold his cheek and kiss him softly. Leon kisses back with trembling lips, with muffled noises into your mouth and meager gasps for air. His eyes meet yours when he pulls away, and they’re glazed over with lust, his eyelids are heavy and drooping.

His pace is sloppy, he can’t stop moaning—and with one more look into your pretty eyes, his fingers grasping your chin, he’s falling into you. He’s wrapping his arms around your figure and holding you close, dragging his lips over your ear and grabbing your hand.

“G’nna fill y’ up, stuff you full of my cum and you’ll take it, yeah? Yeah, yeah you will. That’s my baby.” The tension is building and building, it’s about to snap, and before he knows it, Leon is thrusting into you faster, more desperately—he’s got tears in his eyes, his heart is skipping incessantly.

Leon squeezes your hand, his fingers tremble, he falls from the edge at the same time he brings you to it—he kisses your lips as you fall apart around each other. He feels you pulse around him, he pumps you full of his warm cum—it drips from your cunt and dirties the sheets as he fucks you through his orgasm, trying to plug you full of his cum.

His breath is shaky, loud, his hips start to slow. He keeps his forehead pressed to yours, and you can feel his tears on your skin: little wet droplets that fall from his eyelashes to soak your cheeks. His voice is weak, he whispers sweet nothings as he starts to come down.

Eventually, pleasure makes way to exhaustion—and after pulling out of you slowly, with a deep, tired exhale, Leon collapses on top of you. His weight pins you to the mattress, his body is warm and slick with sweat, he smells like sex and like a scent that’s so undeniably him it makes you feel at home. You can feel his heart beating in his chest—it’s slowing down, it’s beginning to sync with the rhythm of your own.

For a while, there’s nothing. Just the two of your bodies pressed infinitely close, just Leon’s arms sprawled around you and his figure on top of your own. Your hand is still in his, you’re comfortable and tired. His deep breath in your ear starts to lull you to sleep, moonlight creeps in through the curtains and illuminates the room even further.

You can hear the sound of his heartbeat, the lull of his quiet breathing. You’re trying to stay awake, but you’re quickly falling back asleep, and Leon rubs your back soothingly, he feels you start to still.

He’s back right where he started now, with you in his arms.

He’ll get up later. Soon, you’ll both be ready to start the day, he’ll help you clean up and get comfy clothes on, he’ll have his morning coffee on the balcony while you run a warm bath. He’ll make breakfast for you, he’ll eat with you across from him, with you kicking at his feet from under the table to make him smile. He doesn’t have much to do today, thankfully. He doesn’t have to work. You’ll spend the day together, just as you began it together.

Just not right now. He’s going to let you sleep for a while longer, he’s decided. He’ll stare at the moonlight on the walls and enjoy this moment for as long as you’ll allow him to. It’s funny, this night isn’t even over yet, and he’s already here thinking about the next one.

Leon’s sure he wants to spend every single night like this from now on.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ *

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ PREQUEL

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 2011

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ *

Leon has always been the responsible one.

Ever since he joined the special program that day—even before then, even as a child—he’s been deemed reliable by everyone he encounters.

Trustworthy. The backbone of the force, someone you can depend on. He’s prepared for almost every eventuality, and carries out his work with diligence.

It’s a point of pride for him. He gets attached too easily, he’s well aware of that, but the fact that other people consider him to be responsible—it gives him some small amount of reassurance. Almost as if he’s exuding a little bit of comfort just by being around. It feels nice.

But now, for the first time in his thirty-four years, he feels completely and utterly irresponsible.

Clueless, some could say.

Panicked, too.

Out of his depth.

He stands there, his gaze focused intently on the ground beneath his feet, phone pressed tightly to his ear. His lips part slightly, as if to say something, but the words die before they can escape. He feels a sense of helplessness, of being truly lost, as the silence stretches on.

His new mission partner?

Leon doesn’t know how to respond. In fact, he didn’t know how to respond for so long that he starts hearing Hunnigan on the other end jam the phone’s disconnector as if it’s the landline’s fault for his abrupt silence.

“It’s...” He thinks about his first encounter with his new partner just yesterday (and the horrible, mortifying realization that he’s only really handled you for less than twelve hours and already had half of his dignity and testicles decimated not just once, but in multiple consecutive hits, is starting to sink in). “It’s like watching a prepubescent brat,” he determines.

Your little exchange has put Leon through a portal of actualization, as funny it may seem. He’s more self conscious of himself, feeling like he’s walking on shells around you, a little exposed by every second, so aware of the awkwardness surrounding you both. He can’t say he doesn’t particularly feel anything, just that there isn’t a word for it. There’s a force, a drive between you, a magnetic pull but Leon was never one to ponder upon fate and ideas as such.

(There was nothing he could do to erase the cruelty of wayward emotions, feelings he can’t comprehend. If there was a guided hand-book like Love 101 for dummies, he’s sure to be taking notes like it was a grade A metaphysics lecture at 8 in the fucking morning.)

He finally conjures a harsh elaboration for you that’s summarized from his accusatory entanglement of thoughts, as well as from a general sense of revulsion for bruising up his balls during sparring: “A brat who lives without hardships, and therefore has no judgment as to what consequences are.”

“Is that resentment I hear?”

“No. It isn’t.”

His brows pull together, concern weighing heavily on him. He hasn’t admitted this to anyone—least of all to himself—but deep down, this was always a worry of his.

Because he knows that on some level, the reason why he always acts as the responsible one is that he has to be in order to keep going. He’s spent most of his life feeling the crushing survivor’s guilt from losing everything that mattered to him. That feeling has informed every decision, every choice he’s made in the field, even the way he interacts with the people in his life.

Leon is responsible because he needs to protect. He knows he can’t shoulder the burden of losing another person close to him. He can’t afford to be any less than perfect.

“I know you well enough to know when you’re lying, Leon.” Hunnigan sighs from the other end of the line. “I think you’re also aware that you don’t mean it.”

“Nope.” He’s quick to reply, and he coughs a little in a poor attempt to cover his fast response before adding, “I mean it.”

“You both have quite a keen sense of survival. I’m sure I don’t need to explain how beneficial a trait that is in this line of work,” she says, voice as monotone as ever. Leon, in response, says nothing, any retorts dying instantly on the tip of his tongue. “I’m certain you both will build upon each other’s strengths, won’t you?”

He pauses. A far too long, drawn-out, brain bouncing around inside your skull type of pause. He sways back and forth, shifting his weight from foot to foot, before finally steadying himself with a sigh. “We’ll see how it turns out.”

And so his fate is sealed. Besides, what could he do, say no?

Fortunately for him, it’s a losing game.

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