Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It’s a fantastic night for getting a drink or two–at least, that’s what my friends had told me. It had been months since I moved to the big city. I wanted to chase my dreams of being a detective but was harrowingly unaware of how difficult it was to get into the police academy first, but I was here already and signed my soul over to a one-year leasing agreement so I had to stay and work a job that I–luckily–only mildly hated.

I agreed to go out with them even though I didn’t really want to.

“Come on!” they said, “You’re always such a stick in the mud.”

“Fine.” I replied. “I’ll come.”

But, of course, as soon as we get past the bouncer and into the club, I am left alone at the bar and reminded exactly why I never go out with them. I love my friends to death, I do, but they have a horrible habit of leaving me alone. While the club jumps with the latest hits, I sit by myself at the bar, ordering drinks and ignoring the sympathetic looks the bartender gives me when I order another refill. I want to at least pretend like I’m having some kind of fun, even if I am completely miserable.

I should just cut these bitches off already.

Right as I finish that line of thought, someone perches themself in the stool directly next to mine. The hair on the back of my neck immediately stands on end, putting a name to the presence without me needing to speak his name aloud.

“Hey, neighbor.” he says, leaning his elbow on the woodtop and cocking his head to look at me, “You gonna glare at your drink forever, or are you gonna tell me why you look so miserable?”

“Think I’m just gonna glare at my drink, thanks.” I answer dryly.

“I can’t even talk you into having a drink with me?” he asks, eyes tracing up and down my body. “You’ve lived nextdoor for six months and the only thing I ever get is a little polite ‘hi’ or ‘good morning’ and then you just run off like I’m shooing you off with a broom.”

“I don’t–”

He looks up at the bartender when he comes by and flashes a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and politely asks for two neat whiskies. The bartender–a man named Tony–shoots me an inquisitive look like do you trust this guy?

“Uh…” Tony clears his throat before lowering his voice to speak to me, “You’re a student, right? Student appreciation week for local university students–one free angel shot per person.”

“I ordered him a whiskey.” Leon interrupts, shoulders tense as his jaw sets into a hard line, maintaining a very thin veneer of social decorum. “And I know what ‘angel shot’ is code for. I’m a cop, not the antichrist.”

Tony put his hands up in defense, not wanting to cause any trouble especially because he doesn’t want to take chances with finding out if the man was lying or not. He quickly goes to pour the two drinks.

“My bad, man. Just looking out for my patrons. No hard feelings?”

My stomach does a sick roll when I hear Leon’s voice dip low enough to melt into the undulating vibrations of the thick bass in the suffocating trance music being played over the loudspeakers. I could swear I heard him say something, and if I were the delusional type then I would have believed that he was saying it to me: Not yet.

“What..?” I murmur in confusion.

“Don’t worry about it.” says Leon, passing the drink to me as soon as it comes. It’s a little fizzy, which I find immediately suspicious.

“I’m not drinking this.” I scoff.

He takes a drink of his own decidedly un-fizzy whiskey without looking at me and simply just nonchalantly says, “Yes, you are.”

“You can’t make me.”

“Wanna bet on it?”

“Fuck you.”

Leon finally looks over at me, his eyes dark and warning. It sends a violent, icy chill down my spine and I curl my fingers into a hard C-shape around the lowball glass. I look up to ask Tony for help, but he’s disappeared into the back–and there was no telling when.

I was in a room full of sweaty bodies, but totally alone next to a man who was demanding more and more of my attention.

“Just drink it so I don’t feel like I just wasted twenty bucks for nothing.” he sighs, the tension leaving him. For a moment, I almost believe that he feels a genuine sense of dejection. “Or don’t. I can just have our bartender friend pour it down the drain, but then he would be annoyed for having to waste so much product on someone who wouldn’t even let me get my money’s worth… it’s kind of selfish if you don’t.”

I wrinkle my nose at him and huff, giving him a once-over.

“Only because you’re being so goddamn prissy about it. I’m not drinking the whole thing though.” I say, “And if you’re so pressed about the money, I can just slip a couple of bills under your door later. Pushing thirty and acting like a fucking kid not getting a toy he wants. You cops are nothing but whiny frat boys, I swear…”

I take a couple of sips, noting a faint fruity taste that leaves a filmy feeling in the back of my throat. Leon says something more under his breath, but I elect to ignore it since he’s pissed me off enough.

“Bug me again, I chop your nuts off.” I say, pressing a harsh finger into his sternum, “Goodnight, officer.” 

He says nothing but offers me a shark-like smile. It takes everything in me to not punch him in the face, but I decide against it. At least if I don’t mangle him, he’ll continue to look hot enough for me to at least momentarily ignore how vile his presence makes me feel.

–

I step out into the night by myself and duck into an alleyway, fully expecting to feel the effect of some kind of drug from the drink Leon foisted upon me but I don’t. Oddly, I feel energized, if I feel anything at all and just assume maybe he slipped an electrolyte solution into the whiskey without me noticing. Strange, but I suppose it was smart on his part–maybe he wanted to cut the chances of me getting a hangover or a headache. I almost thought it was sweet.

After waiting twenty minutes for the shitty electrolyte solution to reveal itself to be something more nefarious, I give up and fish a packet of cigarettes out of my pants pocket and my lighter, sparking up in that same alleyway under the harsh yellow lamplight. The smoke curls up into the humid nighttime air.

It’s another twenty minutes before I hear a heavy set of footsteps stumbling out after me. When I turn back to look, it’s Leon again–he’s totally red in the face and so violently inebriated that he’s walking like the earth is wobbling beneath him. His eyes lock onto mine, and a bubbly smile splits his mouth down the middle.

I sigh and take another pull off of my cigarette.

“H-Hey! It’s… s-s’my… s’my favorite neighbor,” he slurs as he stumbles closer to me, “Y’know… y-you shouldn’t smoke. S’really bad for you.”

“I know,” I say flatly, “I don’t smoke for my health.”

“F-Funny.” he says, leaning against the wall and lurching too close to me. “You’re a-a funny guy.”

I shuffle away slightly, but he catches me by my arm and presses close against my side. My spine stiffens when I feel him press his cock into my thigh–painfully hard, pulsing, and the denim currently containing him cutting roughly into my cotton slacks. He props his chin onto the meat of my shoulder and grabs at the hair at the back of my neck and takes a long, deep smell.

“God, you smell so fucking good.” he groans, leaning his face further till its buried in the junction of my neck. I try to shove him away, but he wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me closer, beginning to grind upward into my thigh.

I feel him twitch and he lets out a hot, shuddering breath into the hollow of my neck.

I freeze.

I can’t move. Ash from my cigarette drops silently onto the wet ground.

His pace becomes more frantic and desperate, the weight of him swiping through the separation of my increasingly-straining muscle. The pain makes tears well up in my eyes, even as the pressure makes my thigh quiver–pins and needles numbness.

I snap out of it just long enough to try and shove him off of me, being as assertive as I could, but he just tightens his grip further till he’s practically squeezed the breath out of me. I push his arms, his hands, his chest but it just makes a languished sound pour from his throat, and he presses a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to a sensitive spot along my throat. 

I drop my cigarette and my hand flies to my mouth, covering a strangled yelp.

“Get off of me!” my voice shakes, “Let me go–please, just stop!”

Leon brings his hand up to my face and caresses my cheek, swiping his thumb through the tear tracks on my face. Through the sound and motion, he shushes me gently.

“No, no, s’okay,” he coos at me, “I can’t help it–you just look s-so good… so pretty. J-Just let me finish, okay? I’m almost done, pretty boy, I-I promise. I’ll be done really soon. Just stay still, please, please, you feel so good…”

I choke back a whimper, looking up to the sky and praying for him to realize what he’s doing to me and stop. However, when I see the look on his face, it dawns on me that he knows exactly what he’s doing–he doesn’t care. But the lack of malice in his features chills me more than if he had been looking at me with any trace of hatred and entitlement.

“C-Couldn’t do it in there,” he pants, his pupils widening, “I-I drank a little so I could c-come out an’ show you how you make me feel… please, m’so close, I need to sh-show you…”

“What..?”

“You’re jus’... jus’ s-so fucking pretty, I’ve b-been imagining doing this for… f-for…” a desperate whine slips out of his mouth, his hips rolling into my side in stuttering, messy circles. His mouth hangs open, lips pink and glistening, as he reduces himself to nothing better than a dog following its natural instinct to breed. “M’s-sorry, I can’t h-h-help m-myself…”

I squirm and shake in his grip, but even drunk, he has an impossibly iron-like strength. I hit him, I claw him, I even try to bite him, but everything I throw at him seems to act as an aphrodisiac–he continues his bruising rhythm against my thigh, and I let out a jerky, quavering sob when I feel his stomach tense and ripple. 

“Jus’... Jus’ like that, you’re doing s-so good,” he breathes, “A-Almos’ done, almos’ done… F-Fuck…”

Leon’s breath comes in hot, jagged bursts against my neck–he tenses up completely, the sounds of him riding out his orgasm sounding like knives stabbing the air in my ear while I feel his sticky release start to soak through the fabric of his jeans and bloom along the cotton of my own trousers. While he’s arched into me, I finally manage to successfully push him away and he stumbles back into the brick, knocking the wind out of him. I can still see the outline of his cock through the darkening lap of his jeans–softening now, but still twitching. It makes me feel sick, especially when I feel my body react to the sight against my will, better judgment, and common sense all at once.

“Couldn’t help myself–”

Crack!

My knuckles connect with his jaw. I’m beyond the point of tears and just feel white-hot rage, pushing him back and punching him again when he forces a whiskey-scented kiss on me.

“Come on, why d’you have to be like that?.” he whimpers, sounding genuinely hurt and confused.

“FUCK YOU!” I shout in his face, shoulders shaking, “If I see you again, I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Gonna b-be hard to avoid you.” he says, snaking his hand down his pants and taking it out to observe the evidence of his time with me. “You… You live nextdoor to me, ‘member?”

“Then you better pray I go blind very soon, Kennedy.”

I startle when he reaches out with his dirty hand and smudges the musky, pearlescent substance on the side of my face. I catch his wrist and squeeze.

“Touch me again. See what happens.” I say, and then drop his hand and turn away, leaving him in the night, checking over my shoulder to make sure he’s not following me. When my apartment building comes into view, I take my phone out and dial my “friends” who are no doubt drunk and happilly, consensually grinding into random men’s laps to shitty pop and house music. Of course, straight to voicemail, and for that I’m thankful. I can just leave each of them the same message in case one of them loses their phone in the sea of sweat and sex.

“I’m so fucking mad at you guys,” I seethe into the receiver, my voice thin and an octave higher from trying not to break down mid-vent, “Don’t talk to me for a while. Better yet, don’t fucking talk to me ever goddamn again. Lose my phone number since you guys like leaving me by myself so much.”

Chapter Text

I awoke the next morning in my apartment with a dull throb in my leg and pulled my comforter down to inspect the damage–there was a deep purple bruise in the thicker part of my thigh the size of a golf ball but from the discomfort, I could only foresee it getting larger. I just let out a sigh, feeling annoyed but trying to stifle the lingering sick feeling. I try to convince myself that I have a mild hangover to make things easier while I get up and dressed for work.

After I get some coffee and food in me, I gather my things and head out the door, jamming my keys into the deadbolt and let it slide. When I turn around, I jolt back into the woodgrain–Leon is there, stone-cold sober and prepared for a shift down at the precinct.

He looked infuriatingly put-together in his RPD blues, starched and crisp, and even the bruise I left on his face the night before only made him look ever the picture of someone who understood the risks of what it meant to serve and protect his community. It made my stomach feel sour.

“Morning,” he said, voice clear. He blinked at me, his expression shifting into an appropriate level of concern. “All good? You’re looking a little stiff.”

I froze, my lip twitching at the audacity.

“Oh. I’m fantastic, Leon. Just peachy.”

He frowned slightly at my tone, rubbing his jaw gingerly and wincing.

“Rough night for you too?” he tilted his head, looking me up and down, “I woke up feeling like I went blow-for-blow with a semi truck. I’m drawing a blank about last night–I don’t suppose you saw what happened?”

I chuckle wryly and put my tongue in my cheek.

“Take a wild fucking guess, Kennedy. That bruise didn’t get there by itself.”

He froze, hand dropping from his jaw. The confusion in his eyes was so disgustingly earnest it drove me insane, and I started to think maybe he actually didn’t know. He blinked and took a clearer look at me, then down to my leg–the one that I was clearly favoring–and as he started to connect the dots, his face went dreadfully pale.

A familiar wave of guilt washed over me. Maybe I shouldn’t have hit him so hard. Maybe I was too drunk to remember what happened clearly last night. Maybe he didn’t actually mean to hurt me.

I couldn’t stand the silence or the way his brow furrowed in genuine distress while he sat there, wracking his brain for any shred of memory of the things that happened.

“Relax, officer,” I muttered, looking away because I couldn’t handle his pretty boy eyes when they looked that guilty. “You… You just got carried away, that’s all. You kind of humped my leg in an alleyway. I was just trying to have a smoke, but some cis guys just get that way when they’re drunk, right?”

Leon’s actions was instantaneous. The blood rushed to his face and reached the tips of his ears, turning him a deep and vivid red. “I… I did what?”

His eyes blew wide in panic, looking back down at my leg again and dropped his voice into a frantic hush. “God, I–I’m so sorry. I didn’t–I would never normally–did I hurt you at all?”

I just sigh. “No. I’m fine, just a little bruise. I can walk it off–don’t worry about it, man.” I check my watch and then start walking toward the elevator, “I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to run or I’m gonna be late for work.”

“Right.” he nodded, “I’m headed out, too.”

Great.

We both moved to the elevator and for a second, I considered just booking it down the stairwell. I ultimately decided to bite the bullet and just take a ride down. When the doors slid shut, I pressed myself into the corner and made myself as small as possible. I clenched my thighs together so tightly it made the ache in my leg pulse. I could feel my body reacting to his presence again–a traitorous slickness that made me want to run back to my apartment and boil my skin off in the shower.

It’s just a biological response. I told myself, my mind racing to any logical conclusion it could find. It’s the adrenaline. Or maybe the badge. I have always felt nervous around cops, knowing some of them liked to go on power trips and abuse their authority.

I was gaslighting myself and I knew it. I was making every excuse under the sun to explain away the real reason that my heart thundered so violently in my ribs, trying desperately to convince myself that the look in his eyes last night was just the whiskey talking.

“So,” Leon started, his voice low and masking a deep-rooted dark curiosity, “You said I got carried away in the alley.”

“I already told you. Just drop it already, please.”

“I can’t, you know that,” he said, turning toward me. He didn’t move closer, ostensibly respecting the distance I was trying to maintain, but the way he moved made the walls feel like they were closing in. “If I did something to cross a line, I need to know the details. I can even take you down to the station to help you make a report if that would help you feel safer, even if it would cost me my position on the force.”

The way he said it made my stomach do a somersault–he sounded less like he wanted to make amends and more like he was asking for a play-by-play. He was fishing for sure, wanting to know exactly how much he’d taken, how far he had gone, even if he claimed to not remember anything.

“Therre’s nothing else to say.,” I said flatly, my voice coming in thin through gritted teeth. I could feel my body unconsciously bracing, tensing in case he decided that the slow-moving elevator was a good place to have me again. “You were drunk and horny. You made a fool of yourself. I punched you. The end. It was nothing.”

“You’re limping though,” he countered, eyes dropping down to my waist and then shamelessly mapping the way my legs looked. “It’s not nothing. I just–” he sighed “--did I use force at all..? Like… pinning you down. Was I heavy-handed?”

His bluntness made my breath catch in my throat. I looked at him, searching for the neighborly energy I usually saw, but all I found was unreadable stillness. He was watching me struggle, watching the way my chest heaved, and I thought for a terrifying second that he might be enjoying this, and that he liked knowing he’d left a mark that reminded me of him.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I whispered, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to remain composed.

The elevator dinged and its doors slid open to the lobby. I didn’t wait for him to say anything further. I pushed past him, brushing my shoulder against his stiff uniform jacket and sending a fresh jolt of electricity straight to my core.

“See you tonight, neighbor.” he called out, his voice smooth and calm.

I didn’t look back.

I just kept walking, my limp more pronounced now that I was out in the open air, wondering which version of Leon was going to be waiting for me when I got home.

Chapter Text

The shift at my pizzeria job was a living hell. Usually, I could handle the rush with a shrug and put my face on for the customers, but every time I pivoted to the line or slid a pie into the oven, the deep bruise on my thigh throbbed in time with my heartbeat. 

"Hey, you good over there? You're limping a bunch today." Miranda--the shift lead--asked as she boxed up two Hawaiians.

"Had a fall the other day. Stupid accident," I lied, wiping beads of sweat from my forehead. I leaned against the wall, attempting to keep my voice casual. "Actually, um... you've lived here forever, right? You ever hear much about Officer Kennedy? That broody guy from the police department?"

Miranda's face lit up instantly and she shrugged, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks.

"Oh, him? God, he's so..." she sighed, "He's a total saint. Helped my sister when she got her purse stolen a couple months back. Why?"

"No reason," I muttered, my stomach turning slightly. "We're nextdoor neighbors. He's kinda hard to read and... intimidates me a little, and I guess I wanted some perspective."

Miranda laughed, the sound nearly being lost behind the rumble of the industrial conveyor ovens. She didn't look up from the pizza she was slicing, her movements completely unbothered.

"Intimidating because he's a cop, or because he looks like every action movie star ever?" she teased, crunching through a thin crust with precision. "As much as I'd like to jump his bones, I get it. He's got that whole thing... y'know, the one where he looks like he's thinking about all the ways he should be saving the world. But for real, don't let the badge freak you out. He's probably the chillest guy on the force. I watched him help a kid stop crying about their scraped knee the other day."

I forced a tight smile, trying to keep my breathing even while I shifted the weight off of my bruised leg. The heat from the oven was starting to choke the moisture out of my throat, making the edges of my vision ache just a little.

"Guess you're right." I give a resigned sigh, my voice sounding more stable than I felt, "I think I just don't really trust authority figures that much. Thanks for the reassurance though, I was worried he was the type to be a hardass and call the landlord if I breathed too loud in my own room."

"Nah, not at all," said Miranda, looking up and giving me a reassuring wink. "If anything, he'll probably knock and come check on you. He's a good egg, kiddo, trust me. Guys like him are in short supply in Raccoon City."

"Thanks again, Miranda." I muttered, "It helps to know that I'm probably just overthinking again. Classic me."

I turned back to the counter, grabbing a handful of corn starch and scattering it over the prep station a little more aggressively than what was called for.

Leon Kennedy, the good egg.

The idea floated around in my head. I wanted to believe her. I desperately wanted to believe that the memory of what he did was just a projection of my own unsteady inebriation that night. If everyone in the city thought so highly of him, then I must be the problem. I had to have misinterpreted things, or maybe I was misremembering the night entirely. Maybe I just fell and he was a little rough when helping me to my feet. My original aspirations felt like a joke--how could I expect myself to make it as a detective if I couldn't even figure out my own neighbor?

The rest of the shift passed in a blur. Every time I had to bend down to grab a soda from the back cooler or reach for a fresh bag of cheese, my thigh screamed. By the time 10:00 PM rolled around, I was exhausted beyond the ability to care and my entire body ached in a way that drowned out the throb in my leg. 

The walk home was a gaunlet. The city at night always felt like it had eyes everywhere, but tonight felt particularly more all-seeing. I kept my headphones in but didn't play music, wanting to be aware of everything around me and checking every single passing shadow to make sure it wasn't him. I kept searching for that flash of blonde hair, but was found wanting, every single time, without fail. When I had finally reached my apartment building, the lobby was empty as well, and the elevator ride had felt like it took an entire lifetime. I stood in the corner, back against the coldwall, watching the floor numbers over the doorway glow and fade.

I stepped out as soon as the doors opened, and I hurried down the hall, my limp more pronounced now that I wasn't trying to hide it from anyone. I reached my door, pulled out my keys, and realized with a jolt of annoyance that I had forgotten to lock the stupid thing when I left.

Fuckin' idiot. I thought, pushing the door open. One-track mind. Jesus. 

I'd been so rattled by my encounter with Leon this morning that I must have forgotten to lock up when we left for the elevator together. It was a slip up, one that had the real potential to be dangerous in a city like this, but I brushed it off and hoped that Leon took his job seriously enough to protect and serve even when the blues were hung up. My brain was fried.
I went through my usual routine: hang up my keys by the door, shoes off, jacket tossed over the back of the couch. The apartment was silent, bathed in the glow from the streetlights that filtered through the blinds.

I was safe.

This space was mine.

I headed into the bathroom and stripped out of my work clothes, the smell of pork grease and gluten lingering in my pores. I avoided acknowledging the bruise, but it still made its presence known. I stepped into the shower, letting the hot water beat against my skin till I was dusted with a healthy full-body flush. I stayed there and allowed steam to fill the room, trying to drown out the intrusive memory of Leon's voice in the elevator.

"Did I use force at all?"

"Was I heavy-handed?"

I shuddered.

When I finally stepped out, dripping onto the floor and wrapped myself in a plush towel, I felt a little more alive. I padded into my bedroom, feet silent on the carpet and reached for the light switch. I stopped when I saw something out of place from the corner of my eye.

I left the switch alone.

Even in the darkness, I could see my dirty laundry baskets--I was absolutely meticulous about them. It was the only way I could keep my little space organized while balancing work with trying to have a social life. Shirts on the left. Pants in the middle. Underwear on the right.

The rightmost basket was tipped over on its side, and a handful of pairs of boxers and mismatched socks had spilled out in a harried sprawl.

My heart slammed inside my chest as I stood frozen, my eyes darting to the window to make sure it was locked. It was. I then looked at the closet. Closed. Not even the carpet fibers at the bottom had been disturbed.
I crouched down and started to gather the fallen clothes with trembling hands. I knew my inventory well. I owned seven pairs of a specific brand of cotton boxer briefs, and the only ones I found comfortable for long, sweaty shifts down at the pizzeria. I counted them as I threw them back into the basket.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

I reached under the bed, feeling around blindly for a stray pair.

Nothing.

I checked behind the basket.

Nothing.

I checked inside the basket again.

Nothing.

I was short two pairs.

I sat back on my heels, the silence of the apartment feeling suddenly much heavier. I stared at the tipped basket, mind racing as I picked through every single logical explanation that I could conjure up. Maybe the coin op in the basement had eaten them last time I did a wash. Maybe I kicked them under the bed. Maybe I was just bad at counting things when I was this tired.

But the knowledge that the basket hadn't been disturbed this morning set my stomach into a sickened roll. I looked toward the wall that I shared with Leon's apartment. It was so thin, I could hear the low hum of appliances coming through from the other side.

"Man, you're losing it." I whispered to myself. "You just need to sleep. You probably just knocked it over while rushing out this morning."

I stood up and walked back to the front door, and finally threw the deadbolt. I checked it twice. Three times. Four. Started heading back to my bedroom. Before I could even get three paces out, I swear I thought I heard the muffled sound of one of the neighbor's doors closing.

Chapter Text

The basement in the apartment complex always smelled like wet concrete and warm over-sweet floral dryer sheets. It was the kind of place you wanted to get in and out fast, but in my condition, "fast" wasn't an option I had available. I ended up hauling my laundry basket--a bigger one that I dump the week's dirty clothes into so I can lug it all downstairs--and leaned the plastic into my hip. The only thing that had been fueling me lately was a restless kind of energy that came from angry rock tracks being blasted directly into my ears from my headphones. It was the only thing that made me feel like I wasn't going crazy, and like my apartment hadn't suddenly become haunted overnight.

I pushed through a squeaky metal door at the bottom of the stairwell and reached the long row of coin-op machnes and started shoving my dirty wash into the front-loader, moving with more aggression than what was likely necessary. In my head, I was still counting.

Seven pairs, man.

I had seven pairs.

"I know that look. I've lost a few things here and there," I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sudden auditory intrusion. "Those machines are notorious for eating clothes. I swear these things are black holes for socks."

I spun around so fast that I nearly knocked my laundry basket and spilled my laundry all over the floor.

It was Leon, because of course it was. He was standing by the door with a small plastic basket of his own; he wasn't in uniform today, wearing a pair of relaxed-fit jeans and a heather grey gym shirt that clung to his shoulders in a way that looked just as authoritative as a badge. He looked relaxed, and so infuriatingly kind.

"Fucking Christ, Leon." I let out a shaky breath, pulling my headphones down to rest on my neck. "Warn a guy next time, would you?"

"Sorry," he said, stepping into the room. He kept a respectful distance, but the basement felt a lot more stifling with him in it. "Wasn't my intention to sneak up on you."

Leon cocked his head and narrowed his eyes a little as he thought for a moment.

"You look stressed. Need to talk about it?"

I turned back to the washer and huffed a pained sigh. I shoved the rest of my clothes inside the metal drum.

"Long week. I'm just tired, that's all."

"I can tell." he casually mused as he started on his own laundry. "You've seemed a little off since yesterday morning. You forgot to lock your door--looked like you were expecting someone to jump out and grab you."

I stiffened, hand hovering over the cap to my laundry detergent. My heart jumped up into my throat.

"Wait..." I said, my eyebrows coming together in a hard, knitted line. "How did you know I didn't lock my door?"

Leon didn't even flinch or look at me, just continuing going through the motions of something profoundly and maddeningly mundane.

"I saw the door was cracked when I got back from a late shift at the station," he said, turning to face me with an expression of mild concern. "I knocked, but when you didn't answer, I figured that you must've been burnt out and tired, so I shut it for you. You really have to learn to be more careful, neighbor."

He let out a soft laugh that made my skin crawl.

"I was close to calling it in and asking some of my buddies to come check it out," Leon added, his voice dropping into a low hum as he leaned against the washer that hummed next to mine. "Usually when a door's left open like that, it's a B-and-E. But I saw your keys on the table and figured you were just overwhelmed. Stress does weird things to our brains, y'know? It even makes me lose track of the small stuff from time to time."

I swallowed thickly, my throat feeling suddenly like it was filling with sand. He'd pushed the door open. He'd been inside, at least enough to spot my keys. The idea that he stood there with my door wide open while I was showering made my stomach lurch.

"Y-Yeah." I croaked out, forcing my hands to keep moving as I poured the detergent and fabric softener. "Guess I'm just... out of it. Thanks for looking out for me, Leon. Really, I appreciate it."

"Ah, don't mention it. I'm just being a good neighbor." He reached into his own laundry basket and pulled out a dark bundle of fabric. "Actually... I found these tucked behind the radiator in the hallway earlier. Must've fallen out of your basket when you were headed down."

He held them out, draped casually over his hand. I can't even register the way he's looking at me properly.

My breath hitched and my heart gave a painful, skipping thud behind my sternum. They were my black boxers, one of the pairs I was missing, but as I reached out to take them, the color drained from my face. They were wrinkled and still dirty, yes, but there were crusty white patches all over the fabric that definitely hadn't been there when I'd tossed them into the laundry pile at the start of the week. All the air inside that dank little basement suddenly felt terrifyingly thin. I wasn't stupid. I knew what those marks were, and I knew that my underwear absolutely hadn't gotten into that state sitting at the top of a laundry basket or underneath a radiator... right? Maybe it was just the residue from the floor cleaner the super used on the tiles, or maybe it was some kind of weird chemical reaction between the dust and the heat from the radiator. I mean, the building was old as shit, so it wasn't a far-fetched idea even though I'm about as much of an experienced chemist as I am the President of the United States. Not to mention, the pipes inside these buildings were ancient and leaking mineral deposits so often that you could probably find stalagmites inside the walls. It was one hundred percent plausible to assume that they'd just gotten dripped on while they were lost. I was probably just overreacting. Why was I so eager to turn a housekeeping mishap into something so depraved?

"Oh..." I whispered, my voice quavering. I took them, snatching the pair from his hand and shoved them into the washer, my hand feeling like static as if the fabric had burned me. "Wow, I... I'm even more of a hopeless mess than I thought. Clumsy me, am I right? Fuck, I'd lose my head if it weren't attached to me."

I tried to let out a laugh, but the cadence was far too high and thready to be interpreted in any way relaxed.

I didn't dare look at him--I didn't want to. I couldn't. I simply just stared at the washer as it rocked back and forth, trying to ignore the screaming feeling gnawing at the back of my brain to stop being stupid. He used them. He took them into his apartment and brought it back to me without even hiding the fact that traces of him was still soaked and dried into the cloth.

The silence that fell over the basement was a heavy blanked, punctuated only by the cardiac thud of the washing machines and the sound of my panicked breathing. I kept my eyes glued to the washer, watching it shake as much as I wanted to, desperately praying that the soap dissolved the evidence of whatever the hell happened to my underwear.

"Hey." Leon's voice was soft.

Before I could pull away or protest, he reached his hand out. It was a casual, almost brotherly gesture of affection as he ruffled my hair, fingers lingering briefly against the nape of my neck. The touch sent a violent chill down my spine that I prayed he wouldn't comment on or react to.

"There's no use in beating yourself up over something you can't control," he said, wearing a kind smile that made my stomach roll. "Honestly man, sometimes it feels like I'm babysitting a little brother lately. You've been really scattered--I'm just glad I was the one who found your door open and not someone who actually wanted to take advantage of that level of clumsiness."

His words hung in the air till my skin started itching. He framed it just perfectly, as if he were the responsible one, the protector, and I was just this messy, incompetent thing who needed saving from lost underwear or a door accidentally left unlocked. It made me feel stupid. It made me feel insignificant.

It made me feel like I owed him something for the price of my own safety.

"Yeah." I muttered, my face reddening with a mix of embarrassment and deeply suppressed anger with myself. I leaned away from his touch, pretending to be interested in the settings on my machine, but he kept his hand on my shoulder. "I guess I just have a lot on my plate. I'll be more careful next time, I promise."

"I know." Leon replied bluntly with a tired huff that almost sounded like a laugh. He reached out and gave my hair another ruffle, though it felt more like he was petting me. He sighed. "Look, I'm not trying to get on your ass over stupid bullshit, but this stuff is happening more and more lately. I can't help but wonder if you're ready for what's out there. You're a good guy, but you're making yourself a target by letting yourself be this out of it. Just... pay more attention, all right? I'd hate to see someone take advantage of your head always being in the clouds."

He slid his hand down my neck and grazed my spine before dropping his hand back to his side, turning back to his own laundry.

I stood there completely paralyzed, the smell of his cologne mixing with the scent of floral dryer sheets overpowering my senses till I felt like I was going to throw up. He had just insulted my intelligence, admitted to entering my home, and handed me back a pair of boxers that were clearly more used than when I initially lost them, all while making it sound like he was doing me a favor.

He was looking at me with that calm and steady gaze, the kind that squashed any suspicions I had and disallowed me from having any other interpretations of reality. He looked certain because he knew he was right, and it made the logic in my own head feel like the schizotypal ramblings of a foil-hatted conspiracy theorist who thinks modern medicine is from Satan.
I had been so sure of myself twenty minutes ago. I knew how many pairs of underwear I owned. I remembered the specific way I had tucked everything in the night before. I remembered locking my door. But here he was--if I didn't know any better, I would think he was rubbing my incompetence in by offering versions of events that were much more rational than the ones where I was starting to suspect my neighbor might be a perverted, underwear-thieving stalker.

I hated how confident he was. I hated the ease with which he was rewriting the last few days of my life and smoothing over my suspicion with brotherly concern until I felt like I was drowning in my own self-doubt. The more he spoke, the more the foundation of my own memory began to crack, the more I grasped at straws that weren't there.

I felt fucking crazy.

I was losing the ability to trust my own eyes and lean into his perception of things--worst of all, I was finding it easier yet to believe the story he was telling me. It was far less exhausting than the alternative. If I just let myself believe him, my world stayed the same. If I believed myself, then the walls of my own home would cease to feel safe. Maybe I was just a mess. Maybe I was putting a target on my back by being so scattered and so hopelessly out of my depth. If I couldn't even manage a deadbolt or remember to keep track of my own clothes, how could I expect to handle the real dangers of the city? Maybe I was asking for it. Maybe I was asking for someone to step in and take control--for someone to throw my door open and just take and take and take and take... The anger I'd felt moments ago was being smothered now, replaced by a strange but empty sense of relief. It felt like giving up a fight you knew you would never win in a thousand years anyway.

I watched Leon move with effortless precision, his silhouette steady and confident under the flickering basement lights.

I needed to believe him, and the part that sickened me the most was that I actually felt lucky that he was the one who caught me before someone who might truly mean me harm did.

Chapter Text

Three hours after I had dragged myself up from the basement, I heard knocking at my door. My body was still thrumming with restless energy, my headphones pulled back over my ears but with no music playing. I just needed to feel... I don't know. Something.

I was being way too paranoid for my own good.

When I looked through the peephole, expecting to see a postal worker or maybe a rogue missionary, my stomach tightened. Leon was standing there, eyes cast directly onto the little glass. He was holding a small white box in one hand and carried a toolkit in the other. I opened the door just a crack and looked out at him.

"Hey," he said, his voice dropping into a certain kind of low register that made my heart stutter violently in my chest. "I couldn't stop replaying the talk we had earlier, and it got me thinking..."

He shifted the weight of the heavy white box in his palm, eyes drinking in the sight of my fingers wrapped around the edge of the door.

"That deadbolt you have is functionally useless, so I went and bought a better one for you." he said, "It's a safety hazard for someone like you. I'd feel like a pretty bad neighbor and a terrible excuse for a cop if I let you spend another night behind a lock that flimsy. You'll let me come in and fix it for you, won't you? I'd hate to think I'm the only one in this building who's actually looking out for you."

Before I could open my mouth to refuse, he was stepping forward already, commanding the space as I instinctively stepped back to invite him in. It was such a flawless invitation--he hadn't even needed to touch me, and yet I felt compelled to move. Steered by the gravity of his presence alone, my feet shuffled back mindlessly in a retreat that my mind hadn't authorized.
I hated the way my pusle was racing. I hated that it wasn't from restraining myself from pushing him out of the doorway, but out of humiliation.

I was angry.

I was so fucking furious with myself.

Here I was, a man who wanted nothing more than to chase my detective dreams, but what good would I be if I couldn't command the space within my own home? How effective would I be if I couldn't trust myself to identify a threat? I was folding like a house of cards because a guy with a nice smile told me my lock was breakable.
The logic was screaming in the back of my skull.

He's overstepping!

He's invading!

You didn't ask for this!

But every time I tried to force the words up, they melted on my tongue before I could shape them into coherent sound. There was no way I could make him leave--a police officer and a man who spent his time worrying about my safety. It would make me look ungrateful and childishly paranoid. I never told him no, so it would just serve as further proof in the case of me totally losing my grip on everything around me.

"Y-Yeah." I finally croaked out, feeling my stomach twist tighter and tighter on itself. "I... Sure. Yeah. I... I didn't realize it was that bad--the lock, I mean. I just assumed that--"

"It's okay." Leon interrupted, kneeling by the door like he owned the room we were standing in. He set the toolkit down with a thud, echoing through my little apartment. "Most people don't really think too much about these things. That's exactly why I'm here."

I stood over him and shoved my hands deep into my pockets, mostly to hide the way my hands were shaking. I needed to smooth things over. I needed to be just as good of a neighbor to him that he was being to me.
I needed him to stop fucking looking at me like that--it made me feel like I owed him for this. Was the price of my safety my own submission?

No, that's fucking stupid.

Of course it isn't.

He's just being nice.

Stop being so goddamn weird.

"Do, uh... do you want something to drink?" I asked, rubbing the back of my neck and them jamming my thumb in the direction of the fridge. "I have water, cola, ginger ale... I mean, since you're doing this for me, I'd feel weird if I didn't offer you something."

Leon didn't look up from his toolkit, only stilling himself for a heartbeat in a way that made the air in the room feel heavy. Then, he chuckled--it wasn't mean, but strangely amused. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"I appreciate it." he remarked, finally looking up at me with a smile that was annoyingly friendly. "I'll take a water, neighbor... but don't force yourself to feel like you owe me something for helping you out."

I turned tail and fled to the kitchen. My hands were shaking so violently that I had to abandon getting him a glass of water and rip out one of the plastic bottles I usually just saved for the occasional gym run. I went back to the kitchen and stared out of the window above the sink, trying to force myself to take a steadying breath even if I couldn't take a full one. I felt like a stranger in my own life, made to feel like I didn't own my own space, and was currently catering to the man that was confusing me more and more by the day.

When I finally walked back into the entryway, I was clutching the water bottle probably harder than what was required. Leon was there kneeling on the floor with his back to me and my old deadbolt lying discarded on the floor. The only sound was the skritching of a flathead screwdriver biting into the wood. He was wearing the same relaxed-fits from earlier, the fabric pulling taut over his thighs as he shifted in order to get a better angle.

I reached out to hand him the bottle, but as I got closer, my eyes wandered downward traitorously.

Even from this angle, there was absolutely no denying it--I couldn't explain this one away. There was a thick, pulsing ridge straining under the denim on his lap--he was fully, obscenely, shamelessly hard. He hadn't even tried to adjust himself or shift to hide it. He'd just kept working, and the way he was moving only seemed to emphasize the state he was in. My heart gave a terrified roll inside my chest.

When my shadow fell over Leon, he didn't startle a bit. He only turned his head, his empty blue eyes finding me and forcing me to drag my gaze up to meet his. He saw exactly where I was looking, and he just laughed an easy laugh like it was nothing.

"Sorry about that," he murmured gently. He didn't look embarrassed as he took the bottle from my trembling hand, his fingers brushing against mine for a second longer than what was called for. "Testosterone can be a real pain in the ass somtimes."

He opened the bottle and took a slow sip, never once breaking eye contact.

"Hey, you get it, right? Better than most," he said, tilting his face to the side and looking behind me briefly. "I mean, you know, with your transition and all... have you ever had embarrassing moments like that? Where your body reacts before you can say or do anything about it?"

I couldn't breathe.

He was so kind about it that it felt like he was taking all my nerves one-by-one and fraying them at the end. Between my legs bloomed a sharp, traitorous throb that I hadn't felt since the earliest days of being on hormones--a kind of pain that I could only liken unto the woes of bottom growth. The arousal felt like a slap to the face. I hated myself. I hated that he knew me well enough to use my transition against me, but God, my body was still responding to him like the drunken alleyway assault never happened.

I could only manage a nod.

I didn't dare speak out loud.

I couldn't trust my own voice not to break.

To make matters worse, I could see his cock give a severe twitch under his belt line when he saw the fear in my eyes.

"Good." Leon said, turning back to the lock as if he hadn't just destroyed all the respect I had for myself. "Glad to know we're on the same page. I would've been embarrassed if you were the kind of guy to blow things out of proportion."

He turned the screwdriver for the last time and then stood up. He didn't acknowledge that his blood was still clearly rushing south, and he didn't look at my face immediately either. Instead, he took another slow drink from the water bottle, throat bobbing in its own hypnotic motion. He truly just looked like a man who had finished a hard day's work and was thoroughly satisfied with the fruits of his labor.

"There." he said, setting the water bottle aside and crossing his arms. "That's not going anywhere for a while. I think it's safe to say you're the most secure guy on the floor."

He began to pack his tools away, including the old deadbolt which he tucked into a large side compartment. Finally, he reached into the small white box and pulled out a shiny new key. He held it out to me.

"Before you ask," Leon said, his voice dropping into that tired hum that made me want to scream and throb all at once, "No spare keys were made. I know you're still feeling kinda spooked after the whole alleyway thing--you have a bad habit of letting your mind run wild when you're overwhelmed. I know it felt scary to you in the moment, but that's just the stress talking--you can't let it get to you."

He gave a friendly smirk.

"I hope you don't let one awkward run-in keep us from being friends. I mean... that would be kind of an overreaction, even for you."

The guilt was a shot straight to my solar plexus.

"I... no, I-I'm not letting it--" I stammered, my face flushing a deep crimson that was nearly painful. I reached out for the key and took it from him. "I trust you. Honestly, Leon, I'm not lying. I was just... I dunno. You know how out of it I've been lately."

I sigh dejectedly.

"I know you're just being a good neighbor. I'm sorry."

Leon shook his head and gave a dismissive wave of his hand, as if my entire mental collapse was nothing more than a minor social faux pas that could be so easily forgiven.

"Don't worry about it. We're both on edge," he said, sounding woefully intimate, "Like I said before, testosterone makes us do and think weird things. You're just overthinking right now because you're still getting used to the effects it has on your body and brain. Probably some new reactions thrown into the mix, am I right? Either way, you can trust that I know my shit, even if you... don't. You're safe when I'm around, and that's all that should matter. Everything after that is just static."

He picked up his toolkit and the half-empty water bottle, nodding toward the door like any of this was more than "no big deal."

"Thanks for the water, by the way," he said, stepping into the hallway. "Lock up behind me, double-check it if you feel the need. You know where to find me if you need me."

I watched him go, turning the corner. I didn't wait until he stopped existing inside my view of the doorway; the second I swung the door shut, I turned the lock over--however, I checked the lock at least seven times each time I looked away or thought I did, fearing that maybe I hadn't slid the thing shut.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

...

Why does this feel like I'm locking myself into a cage?

Why is the air inside my apartment so fucking thin all of a sudden? Why can't I breathe? Why is my vision tunnelling?

Why am I panicking so much?

He was so nice to me, and I was falling apart at the seams.

My skin felt wrong, and my clothes felt too tight on my skin. Despite the way I felt like I couldn't get enough air into my burning lungs, my body was still humming with the traitorous energy that I couldn't help--the one Leon had called out and so kindly explained to me was just a natural part of being a man. My clit was painfully hard, throbbing restlessly in time with my hummingbird heart, and the dampness between my legs was a too-warm reminder of just how much I had humiliatingly let him get to me.

I didn't even stop to turn the lights on or off, practically stumbling into my bedroom and swinging the door shut behind me in a way that offered me no real comfort. I collapsed onto my bed, the mattress groaning under me as the first sob finally broke free. I turned my head and muffled the sound with one of my pillows.

I was so ashamed.

My hands moved with desperate urgency, tugging my pants down till I could touch the heat. I wasn't looking for pleasure--I hated myself too much to believe I deserved something like that. I was looking for an escape--a way to cleanse myself of the tension he'd left strung so tightly in my gut. I worked myself with a rhythm that I knew would bruise me later, and I just let myself cry about it. My tears were angry and messy as I chased the friction.

I hated the way it felt.

I hated the way I felt.

I hated the way my body responded to the memories--the alley (which I wasn't sure happened at all anymore), his voice, the way I could tell exactly how thick he was under his jeans... but I couldn't stop.

I can't stop.

I can't stop.

I can't stop.

I can't stop.

I can't stop.

I can't stop.

I can't stop.

I can't stop.

I can't stop.

I can't stop.

My back arched off of the mattress.

It was a painful and violent spasm that wracked my body as the release hit, whiting out my vision in a way that felt more like a seizure than an orgasm.

I lay there, sweat tricking down my sides while my breath continues to hitch in my throat with the remains of my sobs and whimpers while the silence falling upon my apartment became heavier and heavier. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him and I wondered if he was actually truly locked out. I told myself that he was just a really good neighbor, I told myself that I was just nervous because I found him attractive despite everything. Anything to avoid the screaming inside my brain. Eventually, the exhaustion of fighting myself won out, and I drifted into suffocating, fitful sleep, one hand still down my pants and the other wrapped around my pillow.

Like it matters.

Chapter Text

Shift at the pizzeria was madness today, and the walk back home felt longer than usual. My legs felt heavy and ached badly, but the bruise on my thigh had finally become manageable, though I had definitely bruised myself last night. That didn't stop the climb up to my floor from feeling like a casual weekday hike up Kilimanjaro--I was far too tired and burnt out to be paranoid, too drained to even spare a glance at the shadows in my periphery. All I could think about was a blissfully hot shower and the sweet relief of sleep.

When I reached my door, there was no one with me, but not no thing.

Propped against the doorframe, aligned right beneath the brand new deadbolt, was a heavy paper grocery bag--the sight of it made my stomach do a weak flip. For a second, I just stared at it, swaying on my feet--I wondered if I had accidentally made my way to the wrong floor.

No. The number on the door was mine.

I debated sleeping on the floor and using the bag as a pillow, but just picked it up with one hand and made my way into the dark apartment. The sound of the lock sliding snugly into place sounded less comforting than usual.
I dumped the contents of the bag onto my small kitchen table and flipped the little overhead light on, the halogen humming persistently as I squinted at the generous haul. My eyes were bleary and heavy, but as I began sorting through the items, I started to feel confused. Had I ordered a delivery..? Was this my old friends trying to buy me back..? The second thing wasn't possible--they hadn't even called me back the night I left that nasty voicemail.

But... there were a lot of groceries. And it wasn't just random necessities either.

There were four packs of assorted probiotic yogurt, two large cartons of pineapple nectar, and three vacuum-sealed packs of skinless chicken breast. Tucked near the bottom was a tin of roasted cinnamon-dusted almonds and a bottle of my favorite buffalo hot sauce. I used to have another bottle tucked away in my fridge, but I had scraped the last dregs out a couple of days ago. Next in the bag was a family-sized package of my favorite sandwich cookies and a bottle of sweetened nitro cold brew that I usually only indulged in when Miranda was rather generous about giving me hours. 

I stared for a long time at the hot sauce. Had I told him about it? Maybe I'd just left an empty bottle in the garbage or he saw it in my grocery basket the few times we'd bumped into each other at the supermarket. He was a cop. He was trained to notice details. That was probably it.

A piece of lined paper caught my eye at the bottom of the bag--it was a note. 

--

Hey,

Heard your stomach growling when I was working on that lock of yours yesterday. I know that the pizza shop probably doesn't pay luxury wages, so I stopped by the market after I got off shift today. Figured a guy like you needs to keep his strength up. Consider it a thanks for yesterday.

If you're ever running low again or just need a hand with something, I'm glad to help you out.

Stay healthy, neighbor.

555-1998 (text me if you need anything)

--

I sat down and leaned back in the creaky kitchen chair, clutching the cold bottle of coffee. It was... nice? I mean, objectively. It was probably the nicest thing anyone had done for me since I moved to Raccoon City. He was just being a good neighbor. He was just looking out for me. And I appreciated it.

But I couldn't figure out why my skin felt like it was crawling.

I was too tired to figure it out or panic about it, so I just put the perishables away and just told myself that I was lucky to have someone like him watching over me. I looked at the phone number for a long time before I took my phone out to send him a courtesy text.

--

Me [10:58 PM]: hey. just sending a quick text so you have my number

Me [10:59 PM]: guy nextdoor btw. one you gave the deadbolt to.

Leon [11:01 PM]: Hey :) glad you liked the haul.

Leon [11:02 PM]: Make sure you actually eat it, alright? You’ve been looking a little worn down lately. The yogurt and pineapple should help.

Leon [11:03 PM]: It's good for keeping your body where it should be. Stress can mess with your body in more ways than one and throws things off if you're not careful.

Leon [11:05 PM]: I wouldn't want you to suffer.

--

I stared at the texts for a minute, cold brew still sweating in my hand and condensation dripping onto my lap.

I stared at the screen till it dimmed and timed out. My reflection in the black mirror was everybit the worn down mess Leon had described. Tired. Haggard. Barely blinking.

I wouldn't want you to suffer.

It felt way too heavy for a casual bag of groceries. People suffered from car accidents and illnesses, not yogurt depletion. I thought for a second about the pineapple nectar and the weirdly targeted biological advice, but I immediately put it out of my brain. I was just being a freak and projecting. I mean, he was literally just trying to make sure I didn't faint on my next shift.

I unscrewed the cap off of the coffee and took a sip, the caffeine hitting my empty stomach that wasn't doing my already over-active nerves any favors.

--

Me [11:08 PM]: thanks. didn't realize it was that obvious.

Me [11:08 PM]: kinda weirdly specific with the yogurt/pineapple combo tho lol. you a nutritionist or something? 

Leon [11:09 PM]: Haha, no. Just lots of experience. I can smell burnout from a mile away.

Leon [11:11 PM]: It's about keeping you sweet. Stress makes both mind and body bitter.

Leon [11:13]: I just want you at your best, ok? For me? :)

--

I furrow my brow and let out an incredulous huff. What's with this guy?

--

Me [11:16 PM]: "for me"

Me [11:16 PM]: i mean... i appreciate the stuff man but you sound a lil weird lol. im just your neighbor.

--

Rapidfire responses immediately--one text right after the other.

--

Leon [11:18 PM]: Oh jeez. Sorry about that.

Leon [11:18 PM]: I'm running on maybe four hours of sleep and I worked a double shift. I'm not really with it- I meant that it'd make me feel better knowing you aren't starving half to death over there.

Leon [11:19 PM]: Sorry that you thought it sound weird. I care a little too much. My mistake.

--

I let out a long, shuddering breath as the tension between my shoulders finally began to uncoil and allow me to slouch.

Of course.

He was just... tired. We both were. We worked miserable hours in a miserable city, and we were both probably over-analyzing the words on our screens. He wasn't being weird, he was just tired and a little intense about his neighborly duties. I was the one who was turning a mindless slip into a confession.

I felt a sudden hot flush creep up my neck. Here he was, being nice enough to spend his money on me, buying my favorite bottle of buffalo sauce and fifteen dollar bottle of cold brew, and here I was dissecting his words like a fucking lunatic high school English teacher. Maybe the curtains were just... blue.
God, he was right--I was being the guy who blows things out of proportion. Like I always do. Exactly as he'd warned me.

--

Me [11:21 PM]: nah you're good. i get it. we're both running on empty.

Me [11:21 PM]: thanks again, really. sorry for making it weird. i'll make sure i eat.

Leon [11:25 PM]: That's my guy :)

Leon [11:26 PM]: Go get some beauty sleep. I'll be right down the hall if something goes bump in the night or if you just need to hear a friendly voice.

Leon [11:27 PM]: Goodnight.

Me [11:30 PM]: yeah... you too.

--

I capped the cold brew with a dull click and stood up, joints popping in protest as I turned the light above the kitchen table off. Despite the weight in my gut from the conversation, the suggestion about the juice had stuck in the back of my mind. I shuffled over to the fridge and swung the door open, light spilling out and stinging my exhausted eyes as I reached for one of the heavy cartons of the nectar. I didn't even bother with pulling a glass out; I simply opted to break the seal and take several long swallows straight from the container--who else was gonna drink it anyway? It's not like I lived with anyone else.
It was thick, sickly sweet, and left a strange film in my mouth, coating my throat in a way that felt strange. I never usually bought fruits or fruit juices, so I didn't know if the taste or mouthfeel was normal.

Whatever.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stared at the label for a second before I closed the carton, shoving it back into the door next to the new bottle of sauce.

I was halway to the bathroom, peeling my grease-stained work shirt over my head when my phone buzzed on the kitchen table. The screen lit up and cast a whitish glow up onto the ceiling. It was a text from... someone who only came up as Restricted. No contact name. No photo. Not even a string of digits. I paused, thinking about checking it, but the desire to be in anything else but the day's sweat and grime won out.

I so was not doing this tonight.

I was not going to analyze anything else, and I didn't feel like dealing with a text scammer. I left the phone as it was and stepped into the bathroom, kicking off my clothes before I could even cross the threshold and shutting the door, turning on the shower as hot as it would go, and stepping in as soon as steam started rising.

Chapter Text

The entire time I'm drying off and dressing after I get out of the shower, I can't help the gnawing feeling that I should check my phone. I try my best to ignore it--it's probably just a scammer or some weird, bored prank chain text anyway--but once I'm finally dry and I've pulled on my sleep clothes, something just possesses me to go and look. Call it a sense of morbid curiosity, ignorant to the feline predisposition to die while indulging in such things.

I pick up my phone from the kitchen table.

Tap the notification.

Read.

My stomach drops. There's no number, no time stamps, nothing but words that I wish I could will out of existence or forget that I'd read entirely.

--

Restricted: I know you're probably in the shower now so you won't see this right away. Part of me wants to walk in and join you... how hot do you like the water normally? I bet you like it scalding and steaming.

Restricted: I know so much about you already, but I can hardly wait to learn even more. You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to. I'll find out either way. I've been so patient when dealing with you lately.

Restricted: You're so handsome. I can never stop looking at you when I see you.

Restricted: [Photo attached]

--

The image loads slowly.

It's my last missing pair of boxers, lying wrinkled on a set of grey sheets. It's a perfect, cropped square photo, deliberately taken to not have anything that I could identify the person texting me outside of knowing he had my underwear.

--

Me: wtf????????

Me: who the fuck are you? why the fuck do you have that???

Me: youre a real fucking creep

Restricted: You work so hard every single day... I can smell the heat and the sweat and the way your body is constantly changing. It's my favorite smell... so intoxicating.

Restricted: I have them pressed against my face right now, and I'm painfully hard just breathing it in. It's taking everything in me to not come over right now and let you know exactly what you do to me.

--

I stared at the screen, heart hammering so hard inside my ribcage that I felt like I was going to be sick. The silence inside my apartment, once a comfort, now felt like a monster's gaping maw made of brick and mortar. Every time the floorboards settled, every time the refrigerator hummed, even the sound of my own hyperventilation sounded like someone stepping closer to me. All I could feel were eyes all over my body, no matter which way I turned to try and hide myself.

I checked the deadbolt again and grabbed my keys before running into my room and ducking under the covers on my bed, hiding myself fully in the cotton fabric.

--

Restricted: Do you want to see what I'm doing with your underwear while I think about you?

--

I dropped the phone, bouncing weakly on the mattress before sliding snugly against my stomach--the screen light touched my shirt judgmentally. My hands were shaking so violently that I had to shove them beneath my pillow just to keep myself from vibrating onto another plane of existence entirely. I absolutely, positively did not want to see--as a matter of fact, I would rather take a hammer to the device and drop it down a sewer grate; however, that curiosity from earlier came clawing back up my throat with a vengeance. I had gotten this far, I was hooked by the gut and pulled into the dark.

I reached down, fumbling with the phone till I was looking at the screen again. The space between the blanket and the bed didn't feel as reliable a defense as it had when I was a kid--I mean, why would I ever expect it to be? This boogeyman was real, and I shuddered at the sinking feeling that he would have ripped the cocoon off of me and dreaded what he might have done.

--

Restricted: [Video attached]

--

I swallowed hard, the back of my throat bitten by the blood of my own fear, and I pressed play.

The frame was shaky and the camera was tilted down at a tight angle. It was the same shot from the photo--grey sheets, boxers laying on what I now came to observe as a mattress--but there was a single hand covered by a black nitrile glove, gripped around a cock that was obscenely engorged. My breath caught; he was already close. His movements were rapid, jerking frantically in a way that made the camera tremor with each stroke.

I watched, completely paralyzed as the gloved thumb swiped over the head of his penis, the slick, wet friction audible even through the low-quality audio of the recording. I could hear how his breath was coming in ragged huffs, seemingly straining to stifle the sounds he was just barely containing from spilling out as if he were afraid that even a moan would have given his identity away. The veins on his shaft pulsed, twitching with life unrestrained as he started nearing his edge. Then, his movements started getting messier, harried--he buckled.

He didn't pull away, loosening his grip while he kept his pace, quivering and breathing nasally. He spent himself all over the fabric of my underwear, the pearlescent heat of it splattering messily against the cotton in thick bursts. The recording continued for a long few agonizing seconds, capturing the exact moment ejaculation ceased, and the way his hand finally slowed before the recording finally ended.
I stared at the replay icon, heart leaping out of my chest.

I felt marked. I felt dirty, like his semen had physically gotten on me and was cooling against my skin in the darkness. I bit the heel of my palm to keep myself from crying too loudly.

I let the screen time out again. The video had been maybe twenty seconds, but I could physically feel the way it was rewiring my brain and toying with my psyche, staining the inside of my eyelids with the same splotches of white on my ruined clothing. I wanted to go back into the shower and scrub my skin raw, till I was bleeding every single impurity he was forcing on me--the air inside my own bedroom was dry and suffocating.

My thumbs hovered over the glass, tremoring so much that nearly mistyped. I needed to fight back and say something to make whoever was hiding behind that restricted ID go away.

--

Me: that's fucking disgusting. youre fucking disgusting

Me: i feel like im gonna throw up

Me: stay the FUCK away from me

--

His reply didn't come immediately. For several agonizing minutes, the Restricted number was still, silent until more texts began rolling in.

--

Restricted: I'm truly sorry you feel that way. I wish I could hold your hair back for you.

Restricted: You're so beautiful when you're angry, it makes my chest hurt thinking about how passionate you are. It makes it really hard for me to stay away, but I see you everywhere.

Restricted: I'm already getting tired of using my imagination and borrowing things from you. I'm counting down the days till I can finally feel you.

Restricted: I can't wait for the day I can just use you instead of a piece of fabric.

Restricted: Go to sleep, handsome.

--

A shiver ran down my spine and settled into the pit of my stomach. Use me? Was I nothing but a thing to be picked up and ruined? Was I nothing but the object he would graduate to once he was bored of getting off with my laundry?

My room felt like a trash compactor, walls closing in on me and threatening to crush me into the mattress. I couldn't just sit here while he watched me.

--

Me: im calling the police

Me: youre going to jail you fucking freak. i wont say it again. LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!

Restricted: They won't help you.

--

I stared at the screen till my eyes burned, waiting for another message to come but nothing else came. My mind raced--was he one of them? Was he friends with someone in their ranks? Or did he just have that level of insufferable confidence in his untouchability?

All I could hear was the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. I needed someone. I needed someone stable, someone who knew how the city worked, and a person who had already shown me that they were on my side. I exited the message thread, thumb hovering over a contact that I'd saved less than two hours ago. The nice guy nextdoor, the cop, the guy who I used to avoid like the plague.

--

Me [12:11 AM]: leon? are you awake rn?

Me [12:13 AM]: im so sorry to be texting so late but someone started texting me.

Me [12:13 AM]: they have my clothes 

Me [12:14 AM]: leon

Me [12:14 AM]: please

Me [12:14 AM]: I'm scared

--

I clutched the phone to my chest, curling into a ball under the blankets while my vision started to blur. I didn't care if I looked like I was blowing things out of proportion--I just wanted to hear a friendly voice, I wanted him to tell me that there was someone who could help me before he assured me it was just a prank and sent me off to bed.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to steady my breathing. It was pretty pathetic when I thought about it. I'd moved to Raccoon City with self-confidence and an application to the Raccoon City Police Academy. And now? Now I was here with a fading spot on my leg and shaking like a leaf beneath my duvet. 

--

Leon [12:18 AM]: Hey, hey, I'm here. Take a deep breath.

Leon [12:20 AM]: Whoever's doing this is just playing mind games with you. Stealing things from you and texting you about it? That's just sick.

--

I stared at the screen. How many times had I done that tonight?

My skin was crawling at the memory of that splatter on the black cotton of my boxers. I hesitated, my stomach coiling on itself while I thought about the restricted number's flat claim that the law wouldn't help me. 

--

Me [12:24 AM]: leon... he sent me a VIDEO

Me [12;24 AM]: he was... doing things with my underwear. while he was texting me.

Me [12:25 AM]: i cant do this. it feels like hes in here with me.

--

Silence.

The minutes began to pass, the time on my phone inching further and further later.

12:26...

12:28...

12:30...

My heart started to sink. Had he become disgusted with me, or did he just realize I was more trouble than what I was worth? Maybe he was just calling it in.
I was about to turn my phone off and give up when it finally buzzed; the vibration nearly made me jump out of my skin.

--

Leon [12:34 AM]: Jesus, I'm so sorry. I had to take a second to process what I was reading.

Leon [12:37 AM]: Sending a video like that is a power play. It's a way of marking you to get you to stop fighting back.

Leon [12:39 AM]: I'm getting my shoes on. I'm not gonna crowd you, but I am going to sit in the hall for the rest of the night to make sure no one tries any funny business.

Leon [12:41 AM]: Try to sleep, my friend. I don't want you looking any rougher than you already do over some pervy loser who's probably just bored and looking to mess with you. I'll be right outside. Don't let him win, okay?

--

I didn't reply, only laying there in the stifling humidity of my own breath as the phone screen finally faded into a merciful black.

I felt like a complete failure. I was nothing but a spineless and dramatic child who had to beg the neighbor for a bedtime story because some weirdo decided to troll me. I wanted to be a police detective, but here I was shaking like a leaf, forcing my nextdoor neighbor to be my personal body guard because I was too weak to handle an arguably juvenile prank.

Pathetic. I thought, the word looping in my head. You're absolutely pathetic. You really are just the perfect little victim, aren't you?

I closed my eyes and allowed the self-loathing to just wash over me, listening to the creak of the floorboards in the hall, and the heavy thud of a chair being dragged into place directly against my door. The floor groaned under his weight, and I felt a sick sense of relief.

Leon was right there.

He was on the other side.

Just waiting.

The silence in the apartment stretched thin, and my mind began to drift, weighing my body down heavily with the exhaustion that usually followed an adrenaline dump. My breathing was starting to even out, finally on the precipice of a deep sleep when a soft click echoed from the front of the apartment. My hazy brain registered it, but the logic was too far away to grasp. My consciousness was fraying at the edges far too quickly for me to wonder how or why or even what it had been, cradled and comforted, allowing myself to believe that I was safe.

Chapter Text

The next morning, I was greeted with the sound of rain gently tapping on the windows and the grey daylight bruising my apartment through the window blinds. I hadn't awakened inasmuch as I had just ceased being unconscious, my eyes snapping open to the same suffocating air that I had fallen asleep in.

I felt like I had been put through a fucking meat grinder. My neck was stiff, my teeth hurt (had I been grinding them in my sleep?), and my head throbbed in time with my pulse. I lay there for a long minute, debating throwing the covers off of my head; it didn't take long for the shame to reawaken after me. It ensconced itself deep within my gut and took residence like it had lived there for a long time. Maybe it had.

Look at you. the voice in my head hissed. Hidden under the covers like a todder! Making a man sit in the hallway for you because you couldn't handle images on a screen.

I am a leech.

I'd held Leon hostage outside my door all night over what could've very well been a prank. Well, if I am a leech, I need to drink like one, at least to wash the taste of last night out of my mouth so I could pretend like I wasn't completely losing it. I needed to put on my face and show that I was still put together. I needed water first before anything else though.

I rolled out of bed, my entire body feeling heavy as I dragged myself toward the kitchen, feet shuffling over the floorboards. I saw something out of the corner of my eye, but just made my way to the tap, snagged a glass from the cupboard, and filled it. I slowly turned around and leaned against the edge of the counter, emptying the glass to about halfway before my eyes landed on the counter in front of me--I started choking and coughing, bringing my fist to over my mouth even though it did nothing to keep the water I was spitting from going everywhere. I slammed the glass onto the counter with a sharp clack that echoed too loudly in the quiet room, but I was gagging and wheezing too much to care.

There they were.

Next to a half-gone loaf of bread, the black cotton was laid out flat--the morning light was particularly unkind to them, catching the stiff, translucent patches of white that I had watched getting made on a screen just mere hours ago. My stomach gave a violent lurch, and I felt cold beads of sweat beading along my temples.

The click.

The sound from last night, the one that I had thought were fabrications of my nearly-unconscious mind.

It hadn't been a dream at all. Someone had been inside and stood inside this kitchen, and God only knows if this guy had done anything else after laying out the defiled cloth on my counter before he walked right back out. All while Leon was supposed to be guarding the door.

I scrambled away from the counter, clumsily bumping into the edges of furniture as I lunged for the front door. I fumbled with the deadbolt--locked, why was it locked?--and threw the door open.

Leon was still there, slumped in a metal folding chair, chin tucked down against his chest and arms crossed tightly. One leg tucked under him, the other kicked out in front of him. He jerked his head up at the sound of my front door slamming against the wall inside, his eyes filmy with sleep and red-rimmed. He looked absolutely exhausted--his hair was a mess and he looked like he needed a good shave. He looked every ounce the heroic sentinel that I had begged him to be.

"Huh..?" he croaked, voice still heavy with sleep. He blinked and ran a hand over his face as he tried to snap himself into focus. "Hey, hey, take it easy. What happened? Why all the noise?"

"He--He was in here, Leon," I gasped, my voice cracking. I was shaking so hard that I had to white-knuckle the doorframe just to keep myself from flying off the earth's hinges. "He was in here last night! While I was sleeping!"

Leon stood up slowly, the metal chair creaking softly as his weight left. He looked genuinely bewildered, moving the chair out of the way and stepping toward me with his hand raised half-way as if he were trying to steady a spooked horse. "Who?" he sighed, "What are you talking about? I've been here all night and haven't moved an inch. Trust me, I'd have noticed."

"The... y'know, the boxers! The ones that were stolen?" I dropped my voice to a conspiratorial hush, jabbing my finger back in the direction of the kitchen. "They're on my counter, Leon. He put them there. I... I heard the deadbolt unlock last night. I thought I was dreaming, but h-he was in here!"

Leon's brow furrowed.

He didn't look horrified or worried. He just looked concerned, like the way a doctor looks at a patient who's started going off on a nonsense tangent right before asking if that patient went off their meds. He brushed past me into the kitchen, heavy footsteps sounding solid on the floorboards. I followed him and hovered by the fridge, observing from a distance while he stared down at the black fabric. His expression was completely unreadable and set my teeth on edge.

He didn't recoil or reassure me. He let out a long, weary sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Dude, seriously..." He trailed off, looking at me with a pity that felt like a kick to the gut. "Look. I get that you're running on zero sleep and I also get that you've been under a lot of stress the last few days. I think you're just overreacting again."

"Are you fucking kidding me?! I am not overreacting!" I shrieked, the sound clawing up my throat. I pointed shakily at the counter. "They were stolen--I told you they were stolen, Leon! You know about the messages! You know what he was doing to them!"

Leon didn't flinch. He didn't even acknowledge the boxers again. Instead, he stepped closer till I was forced to look up at him. He looked every ounce the solid and grounded police officer that he was--minus the uniform--and so, so incredibly tired on my behalf.

"Think about this for a second," he said, his voice dropping into the same tone that people use to talk jumpers off of ledges. "You were doing laundry, what, yesterday? Day before? Down in the basement, remember? I found that pair behind the radiator in the hallway and returned them to you."

I blinked, the flashbulb memory appearing and darkening in my mind's eye. I... did remember the laundry room. I remembered him handing me a pair.

"I thought I saw you throw them in the wash with the rest of your usual weekly load," Leon continued, shrugging wearily, "Guess I was wrong. You probably just forgot about it."

I opened my mouth to try and say something, but snapped my jaw shut, unable to produce any argument of substance.

"Are you sure they weren't there when you got back from your shift last night?" he continued, devoid of judgment which somehow made it feel even worse than if he were to outwardly admonish me, "You sure you didn't drop them there and your brain just skipped over it?"

"I... I checked the counter." I stammered, heart palpitating frantically under my ribs. "I put away the groceries you got me. I would've seen them. I know I would've seen them."

Leon didn't argue, only tilting his head to watch me with those tired, heavy eyes.

"And... it was dark. I'm just saying, I was a human gargoyle for you all night. For someone to have gotten in, they would have immediately gotten my attention. I would have stopped it, but nothing happened."

He paused, letting the preposterousness of it hang in the stagnant air between us.

"C'mon," he said with a mirthless huff, "You're not saying I'm so bad at my job that I'd just let some guy walk past me, pick your lock, throw some underwear on the counter, and walk back out without me ever noticing?"

The guilt hit me harder than I expected it to. He looked so exhausted--hair unkempt, skin sallow from barely sleeping last night, sitting in the same position in a miserably stiff metal chair for hours just because I asked him to. I was basically calling him a failure after he had spent the night offering himself up as a martyr for my personal comfort.

"No," I whispered, my gaze dropping to his shoes. My confidence was eroding fast, melting away under the acidity of his presence and my own daily-mounting shame. "I... I don't know."

"Hey," he said, his voice dropping into that soft, brotherly cadence as he stepped ever-closer. I could nearly tell the exact brand of cologne he used from pure proximity to the smell of him. "I know you're scared, but I told you already; your mind is playing tricks on you. You saw the other boxers in that video, so now you're seeing them everywhere. You probably just left them there after I gave them back to you and you just kind of... blocked it out till now."

I looked back at the boxers on the counter again.

It looked real to me.

But Leon was real, too, and the boxers couldn't talk back.

He was a cop. He was a professional. He was right there. And if he was right, then I was being crazy again and I had staged all of this because I was just so desperate to be not just the victim that I thought I was, but a victim worth saving.

"Maybe," I murmured, the word feeling like bitter surrender. "I... I'm not sure--" I let out a quivering breath. "--Actually. I'm... I'm not sure."

"It's okay," he said, his voice taking on a soothing, saccharine quality as he reached out to give my shoulder a firm, grounding squeeze. He rubbed comforting circles into my shoulder with his thumb. "You're just tired, that's all. Go back to bed. I'll stay and sit in the living room for a bit if it makes you feel better, just till I'm sure you're settled. How does that sound?"

"Yeah..." I rasped, blinking away embarrassed tears and clenching my fists at my sides. "Okay. Sure."

"I'm just glad I could help clear things up," he said, still tracing those slow, rhythmic circles through the fabric of my shirt. "It's a lot for anyone to handle all by themselves, especially when they're as sensitive as you are, neighbor."

I couldn't bring myself to look him in the eye, too suffocated by the weight of my own inadequacy to do anything but nod weakly. I turned away from him, my feet feeling like leaden weights as I shuffled back to my bedroom, leaving the defiled fabric sitting on the countertop like a discarded snake shed. Behind me, I could hear him settling into my sofa, the cushions groaning under his weight. I crawled into bed, back under the duvet, and pulled it over my head till the grey morning light was replaced by the familiar, humid darkness that smelled faintly of the laundry detergent that I no longer trusted. I lay there listening to the steady drumming of the rain, finally safe, but feeling inexplicably like I was being buried alive.

Chapter Text

When I finally woke up, it felt more like surfacing from a coma. I blinked against the morning light, head spinning with slimy lethargy as I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand. I looked at the date and the charge. 20%... 19%. The battery bar turned red.

Shit.

I groaned, my voice feeling like fiberglass in my throat--I'd slept through the entire day. It was the next morning. How in the fuck had I managed to sleep that long? I had fallen back into bed yesterday morning after working myself into hysterics over a pair of my boxers, and now I had fifteen minutes to get my ass in gear and leave for my shift at the pizza shop. I didn't even have time to get my phone to 30% and just prayed that Miranda would let me borrow her charger on shift.

I stood up, swaying on my feet as I shuffled into the kitchen. My eyes landed on the counter.

Empty.

The loaf of bread was still there. My keys were on the counter. But the boxers were gone, countertop wiped impeccably clean. Had Leon taken them as... I dunno, evidence? Hell, maybe he washed them for me. I grabbed my phone and shot a text off to him.

--

Me [9:20 AM]: hey leon? 

Me [9:21 AM]: did you move anything in my kitchen?

--

I didn't have time to wait for a reply. I was already six minutes late, so I barrelled into my bedroom and yanked open my dresser drawer to grab a change of clothes. I froze--there they were, six pairs, all folded neatly as if I'd made a laundry run I had no memory of. I was still wearing my pair I had put on the day before, but the sight of the drawer made my skin feel sick. The pair that the person behind the Restricted contact had came on was hidden amongs the identical pairs. I had absolutely no way of knowing which one it was.

I knew that the drawer only had five yesterday. I knew that the pair from the video should've been on the counter.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

--

Leon [9:22 AM]: I didn't touch anything in there.

Leon [9:22 AM]: Your kitchen looked exactly the same when I left as it did when I came in. Why?

--

I stared at the screen. Exactly the same.

I looked back at the open drawer. Back at the screen. Drawer. Screen. Drawer--if he hadn't messed with the counter, but the counter was empty, then... I did this?
I stood there for only a second before I decided that I couldn't do it. I couldn't handle picking one out and wondering if it was the pair from the video. I certainly didn't have the energy to argue back to Leon or even explain to myself why the clean laundry felt like a threat. I went back to the screen and typed the easiest response.

--

Me [9:24 AM]: nvm. forget i said anything. i think im losing my mind.

Me [9:25 AM]: im just gonna throw them all away. i cant stop thinking about the video that weirdo sent me so im just gonna get rid of all of them.

Me [9:25 AM]: i might buy some diff ones later idk

--

I went back to the kitchen and got a plastic grocery bag from under the sink, returning back to my room before I took off the pair I was currently wearing and then putting the other six in after it. I didn't care about how much it would cost. I just needed to take away my ability to keep looking.

My phone buzzed again.

--

Leon [9:27 AM]: If it makes you feel better, then do it :) Whatever helps you sleep at night, right?

--

"Yeah." I sighed, "Whatever helps."

I tied the plastic handles into a tight triple knot. I was several minutes late by this point, so I rushed to get dressed and didn't care much of the fact that I'd be going commando till tomorrow morning or if I could find a dollar store open that late.

I just shucked my shoes on, grabbed my keys, and rushed out the door. I stopped quickly at the dumpster next to the complex and threw it on top of everything, rushing to the pizzeria without looking back.

Over twelve hours later, I was just as exhausted as I had been when I woke up. The shift at the pizzeria had been one long blur of cornmeal and the blood-like scent of tinned crushed tomatoes. Being commando under my work uniform was an awful decision, but I had deprived myself of that choice when I threw out all of my underwear.

By the time I had clocked out, my back felt like it was going to snap in half. I pulled my phone off of Miranda's charger--thanking her and apologizing all in one breath--grateful for my phone finally being at a healthy 92%. As i pushed through the heavy back door into the pulsing night of the city, my phone buzzed.

--

Leon [10:01 PM]: Hey, I made way too much pasta by accident. Easy mistake to make.

Leon [10:01 PM]: I know you're probably dead tired after your shift. I'll bring a bowl over.

Leon [10:02 PM]: Oh, I picked something up for you while I was on shift.

Leon [10:05 PM]: :)

--

The din of the city used my skull as a tuning fork, vibrating my thoughts and teeth till I felt closer to teratoma than human. I stared at the smiley emoticon on my screen for a long beat--part of me wanted to say no, to just crawl into my bed and forget that anything beyond the four corners of my bedroom existed. However, the thought of a ready-made, warm meal was enough to override everything else especially when my stomach gave an audible and demanding growl.

Feed the beast.

Fine.

--

Me [10:11 PM]: sure. and thanks.

Me [10:11 PM]: you didnt have to go through all that trouble for me though. its fine, i was gonna handle it on my next day off

--

I shoved the phone into my pocket and made it back to the complex, trudging up the stairs and pushing through the discomfort of my bare thighs chafing against the denim of my work pants. Every step felt like rug burn.

When I reached my floor, Leon was there already and leaning against the closed door to his apartment. He had traded his uniform for a long-sleeved crew neck and sweatpants, looking impeccably soft. As a matter of fact, he looked less like a cop and more like he was just some guy. He held a plastic shopping bag in one hand and a bowl wrapped in cling-film in the other.

"You look rough." he said, though his voice was warm. He stepped toward me as I anxiously fumbled with my keys. "Hey, slow down. You'd think I had a gun pointed at you the way you're moving."

"Sorry. Just tired."

I pushed the door open, fully intending to take the bowl and the bag at the threshold after I managed to kick my shoes off, but he just followed me in. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as he brushed past me and sat the bowl down on the kitchen counter. Right on the same spot that the boxers had been laid on just yesterday. Or maybe they hadn't been there. I don't know. I was just tired enough that if he would've offered to cart me off to the psych ward, I'd have accepted it.

"Pasta's still warm. I don't know if you like pesto, but I found a nice one without garlic," he said, offering the plastic bag to me--his fingers grazed mine for a flash of a second as I took the handles, "And since you decided on an impromptu wardrobe change this morning, I figured I'd save you the hassle of a store run. I know how much of a homebody you can be."

I peeked inside.

Two multi-packs. Assorted colors. Grey. Blue. Red. Not my usual black, and they looked really nice.

"Man, I--" I sighed, the heat of fresh embarrassment crawling up my face, "I can't take these. I mean, I'll pay you back if you insist, but... isn't this a bit much? It feels a little weird to be buying another guy underwear."

Leon let out a short, easy laugh, leaning his hip against the counter and crossing his arms. He looked at me with a lopsided, nonchalant smirk.

"You're over-analyzing things again," he let out a dry and amused huff, shaking his head lightly, "Loosen up a little, would you? Men don't sit around worrying about how it looks when they help each other. Practical problems, practical solutions--'no homo' rules apply completely. I get that you're still figuring out how guys actually act around each other, but just take it from me: this is about as normal as it gets between men."

He reached out, planting his hand on my shoulder and giving it a grounding squeeze that didn't feel comforting at all. I felt an immediate guilty pang shoot through the middle of my chest as his thumb brushed my neck, lingering for just a second before he pulled away.

"Don't worry about the money," he said, "Just eat. I could hear your stomach growling when you were coming up the stairs earlier."

I stood there, numbly clutching the bag of assorted colors. I watched him as he pushed himself off the counter and made his way back to the door, moving with unbothered confidence.

"Get some sleep tonight," he said, looking over his shoulder with his hand on the doorknob. "I'll be right across the hall in case you need me."

The door quietly swished shut behind him. I looked down at the plastic bag again. The colors were so vibrant and crisp but... I couldn't place why it felt inappropriate. 

I stared at the bag and then back at the pesto, feeling my throat tighten in a manner that I couldn't explain. The underwear felt wrong. The pasta felt like the spring plate on a bear trap. And despite what he told me, I didn't know if I necessarily believed him about the whole guy code thing. I didn't know if "no homo" extended to knowing your neighbor's underwear size.

The guilt hit me hard and fast, twisting my stomach into violent knots until I felt dizzy.

This was a new low, even for me. I squeezed my eyes shut. Leon was a man--a real man--who had spent his own money to fix a problem I made because I was busy having a meltdown over underwear. 

You don't even know how to be a man, so who are you to question him? I thought--I was staring at free food, clutching free clothes, and I was still trying to find a way to make it vile. It's not a trap, you paranoid loser. He's right. You are too sensitive.

I marched into my bedroom, opened my dresser drawer, and dumped the new underwear into it. I moved, perhaps, a little more frantically than I had intended to and slammed the drawer shut a little too loudly. I was trying to drown out the voice gnawing at the back of my head while I forced myself back into the kitchen.

I sat down and started eating the pesto pasta, the umami of the basil tasting more like cigarette ash on my tongue. I hated myself for feeling the overwhelming urge to just start crying.

Eat the food, shut the fuck up, and be grateful that someone actually gives a shit. The voice admonished me. Tell him thank you. Don't you dare fucking cry about it, ungrateful bitch.

--

Me [10:40 PM]: sorry for being weird. the boxers are nice and the pasta is good.

Me [10:42 PM]: thanks, leon

Me [10:42 PM]: i really appreciate you looking out for me

--

I stared at the messages until I saw the read receipt and turned my phone off, drowning in the silence. My shoebox apartment felt cavernous now. 
I forced another forkful of the noodles past the lump in my throat, chewing till the selmolina noodles were mush and my jaw ached at the hinges. It was a perfectly kind, perfectly normal gesture, and the fact that I was sat here shaking like a leaf over a bowl of pesto only further proved his past observations about me. I had been relegated to being a guest star in my own life, and I had no idea how to make myself the protagonist anymore--if I even deserved it at this point. I would compare myself to the plucky side character on a grainy nineties sitcom if I weren't so fucking grey and miserable.

By the time I reached the bottom of the plastic container, the salt from my face had mixed with residue from the sauce and at this point, I couldn't tell where the seasonings ended and my own breakdown began. I just rinsed the bowl, wiped the counter till I could see my reflection in it, and retreated to my bed to wait for sleep to take me.

My phone buzzed again.

--

Leon [11:00 PM]: :)

Chapter Text

I had tried to get comfortable in bed after cleaning up, but my sheets felt uncomfortable against my skin; the taste of pine nuts and basil still coated my tongue as I repeated to myself that the new underwear Leon had so thoughtfully bought for me--as men do for each other, apparently--wasn't weird. I mean, if I was a woman, it would be the creepiest thing ever, but since I want to live and be seen as a man... I guess it isn't? I could sit through burps and horrendous body odor and the whole obsession with boobs, but this was a new one. I had spent the last little while crying till my eyes were red and my throat felt tight enough to snap, but now it was all just hollow static in the pit of my stomach.

I was nearly able to slip into a somewhat steady sleep when my phone buzzed on my nightstand.

Vvt-vvt.

I reached out and picked it up, the bright light overwhelming my tired eyes made my ears ring. When I was finally able to focus enough to turn the brightness down, my heart sank.

--

Restricted: I'm a little upset with you.

--

I stared at the words.

Who does this fucker think he is being so casually disappointed with me?

I was too tired for fear and too deeply entrenched within the wells of my own self-loathing. All that was left tonight was snark.

--

Me: okay? why is that my problem? go cry about it.

Me: i literally do not give a singular flying fuck if youre upset. go hug a land mine.

--

I had aimed my thumb over the power button, but his reply came in an instant.

--

Restricted: I'm hurt. After all the trouble I went through with washing and folding the pair I ruined, you just throw them away?

Restricted: I had to go through all of the underwear you threw out just to find the one I wanted. But I found them, so I'm not as upset as I was.

Me: youre a real fucking pervert. like actually clinically insane.

Me: did your mom drop you on your head as a baby or something? is that why you do shit like this?

Me: nothing but a tranny-chaser stalker. get a fucking grip.

Restricted: Ouch, you're being so mean tonight. So masculine and aggressive.

Restricted: I love it when you get all worked up like this, it does things to me.

Me: ?????????????? literally what the hell is wrong with you

Restricted: Nothing that you won't like.

Restricted: Anyway... I wanted to wait till I knew you were totally alone before I finally smelled them. I got a little impatient the last time. I want to tell you how it makes me feel.

Me: literally kill yourself. im not joking. go find a tall building or a gun or something and do us both a favor.

Restricted: I could just come over and show you then, if that's how you're going to act.

--

The threat turned the stagnant air inside my bedroom into something thick and painful to breathe in; my heart hammered inside my ribs, palpitating and leaving me breathless, returning the familiar salted sting from earlier to my eyes. I stared at the screen, the light from it feeling more like an interrogation lamp than an infinite connector to every corner of the world that I was most familiar with. The reality of what my options were began to settle in my stomach like a leaden, serpentine weight. If I allowed him to stay behind the screen, I could deal with him and the harassment. If I kept spitting vitriol, then that meant that I was gambling with the already-tainted sanctity of my own room--if I kept trying to defend myself, then I would have to deal with the visceral terror of him actually crossing that threshold. One was a violation of my psyche that I could find ways to medicate or therapize, but the other...

The only other option was a complete forced colonization of my body, a violation that would leave me hollowed out, and had the risk of getting me sick or the forced implantation of his bastard. I knew just about as well as anyone else that testosterone was not a foolproof way to prevent that kind of thing from happening. With immense shame, I realized that I had to choose the lesser of two personal hells. I had to swallow the puke in my throat, tuck tail, and endure the degradation; as much as I hated him and wanted nothing to do with him, I was terrified of what he would do if he actually followed through with... "showing" me. I don't think I would survive the person I'd need to become to endure it.

It takes several agonizing minutes for him to text back.

Vvt-vvt...

--

Restricted: Are you going to play nice? :)

Me: fine. i'll "play nice" if you just stay away.

Restricted: See? That wasn't so hard.

Restricted: It was actually really thoughtful that you put them in that plastic bag. Kept the scent in perfectly.

Restricted: You smell better. It's a subtle difference, but I can tell. Have you changed the way you're eating recently?

Me: ...

Restricted: I'll take that as a yes.

Restricted: I have them now. I can't begin to tell you what the smell is doing to me... how about I send another video? It would be easier than typing it out.

Me: NO. NO NO NO NO NO. NOT THIS SHIT AGAIN.

Me: I do NOT want to see that!!!!

Restricted: So you're saying you want me to come over.

Me: FUCK no

Me: dont even think about it. do not come here. at all.

Restricted: Then you want the video?

Me: yes! fine, whatever. do what you want, just stay where the fuck you are.

Restricted: You're no fun, you know that? ;)

Restricted: [Video attached]

--

I was just going to turn the phone off and ignore him for the rest of the night, but the time stamp on the video was nearly three minutes long.

I rested my thumb over the power button--not enough to turn the screen off--shaking. The fear of him taking my silence as an invitation to walk through my door was enough to keep me exactly where I was. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to see what he was doing with my boxers again, even though I had thrown them all away. I didn't want this, but I even more strongly didn't want him to come over and perform a live demonstration.

The phone buzzed before I could come to a decision on my own.

--

Restricted: Are you watching?

Restricted: I put a lot of effort into that for you, so you're going to tell me what you think. It's only fair.

Me: im not watching it. i played nice, now i want to go to sleep.

Restricted: I hate it when you disappoint me. I thought we had a deal.

Restricted: I'm sitting here cleaning myself off with one of the fresh pairs you'd thrown out. They're really soft, but the pair in the video...

Restricted: I want to know what seeing me like that does to you. Here's how this is going to work: you're going to watch the whole thing, and you're going to touch yourself while you do it.

Me: you want a review? five stars, great form, really loved the part where you made me feel like an unwilling participant in A Serbian Film.

Me: keep dreaming.

Resticted: :)

Restricted: You're so cute when you get smart with me, but I didn't ask for a review. I asked for your reaction.

Restricted: Are you touching yourself yet?

Me: please don't make me do that part.

Me: i'll watch it. just stay out of my apartment. im too tired for this shit.

Restricted: You're stalling. Remember what I said earlier about what would happen if you didn't act right?

Restricted: I'm already halfway to my front door and thinking about how much better it would be just to touch you.

--

The tears that had threatened the corners of my vision finally spilled over, trailing down my temples and running into my ears as I choked back a whistling sob that felt like it was going to burst out of my chest. All of the snark and sarcasm I had was gone, evaporating under the heat of his threats. I was trapped in a room that wasn't safe anymore, wearing clothes that I hadn't picked out myself, and was being curated by a boogeyman I had no way of escaping.

My hand was shaking so violently that the phone slipped and nearly slammed down onto my face.

He was actually going to do it. He was going to come through my door and decide to escalate from simple harassment to crime. I would lose what little dignity I had left.

--

Me: okay. fine.

Me: fine. you win. just... please stay where you are.

Restricted: Good boy :)

Restricted: Start the video all the way from the beginning. Don't skip anything. I want to hear what I'm doing to you.

--

I stared at the play icon, my vision blurring more as a fresh, furious blush crawled up my neck. I reached beneath the waistband of the crisp boxers that Leon had bought for me, and the irony was a jagged pill for me to swallow. I was soiling the gift from my protector to satisfy the lustful demands of my predator.

I pressed play.

The video was shot in a tight, vertical frame just like the last one. The background was a nondescript, dark surface that was wiped so clean that it caught the dim light of whatever room he was in. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt that masked every last inch of his arm, ending in a sterile black glove. It made him look less like a man and more like a mall department store mannequin.

As the sound of the wet and rhythmic slide of his hand filled my ears, I forced my hand down further--my skin felt electrified, a traitorous heat rushing between my legs that made my stomach feel sick. I choked back a whimper when I realized that my cunt was already shamefully drooling wet, and my clitoris was embarrassingly sensitive, throbbing against my touch as if it had been awaiting this violation with unfettered enthusiasm. It was a biological reflex--I knew that--but the uninvited pleasure that had bypassed the logic centers in my brain made me realize how little my own body cared if I consented or not.The audio was the worst part; I could hear his breathing--heavy, ragged, labored--and halfway through, the sound changed. It became a deep, guttural moan, vibrating through the speakers of my phone as if he had shoved something--my something--into his mouth to use as a gag to stifle himself. The sound of it was distorted and thick, disturbingly masked by the fabric I had tried to permanently rid myself of.

I was sobbing now, the tears hot and ugly as they dampened my hairline, but my hand didn't stop. I was trapped in a loop of terror and overwhelming arousal that I couldn't break. As the man in the video began to speed up, I felt my own climax building.

I don't want this. I don't want this. I don't want this.

Right as he let choked back another moan, his hand speeding up jerkily while he painted the surface in front of him with bursts of white-hot release, my own body betrayed me. I came with a violent shudder that left me gasping for air and toes curling into my blankets, the pleasure feeling like a cigarette burn on my soul. When the video finally, mercifully cut to black, I was shaking and crying so hard that I could hardly breathe. I felt dirty resting my phone back on my chest and just stared at the ceiling as the silence bore down on me, wearing the dampness on my skin like my own personal brand of moral failure.

Vvt-vvt...

--

Restricted: Well?

Restricted: Tell me everything. Did you cum as hard as I did?

Restriction: And be honest with me. I don't like it when you lie.

--

The words sat on the screen, pulsing like a heart in the middle of a broken chest cavity. It felt so heavy on my chest, reaching in and squeezing the air right out of my lungs. I looked at my hand--still covered in the remnants of my release--and then at the closed door to my bedroom. The threat--I assumed--had passed, but the silence inside my apartment was no more a comfort than it had been less than four minutes ago.

--

Me: i did. are you happy now?

Me: you got what you wanted. i can't do this anymore tonight.

Me: please just leave me alone.

Restricted: I'll leave you alone. You've been such a good boy for me, you need your rest.

Restricted: You're becoming such a good listener already.

Restricted: I'm going to keep these. I think I'll sleep with them tonight so I can at least keep a piece of you close.

Restricted: Go to sleep, handsome boy. I'm watching you. :)

--

I couldn't think of anything to reply back with, so I just let the phone slide onto the mattress. The screen finally timed out and plunged the room back into the dark void of night after thirty seconds. As I lay there paralyzed, I was forced to reckon with the way my skin between my legs still tingled with an orgasm I hadn't asked for and a shame I don't think I could wash off my body without wanting to blow my brains out.
Every sound from outside--the city, the hallway, everything--made me jump now. I thought about Leon and wondered if he would still tell me that whoever this was, was just trolling me. I wondered if he would still look at me with pity in his eyes as he assured me for the thousandth time that this was absolutely nothing to worry about, and that eventually this faceless stranger would get bored of me and move on. I just needed to wait it out.

Stop making a big deal of things.

He didn't touch you, he just made you uncomfortable.

That isn't a a crime.

He didn't do anything to hurt you.

It was just a video.

I stared at the ceiling, the static in my stomach now a congealed mass. The logic was so easy to swallow because everything else sounded bat-shit crazy to me. I thought about how Leon would probably just sigh and tell me that this was just a prank, assure me that everything was fine, that he would offer to protect me if I felt so unsafe, and tell me to just go back to bed. I could look him in the eye tomorrow morning while inviting him in for coffee. I could just pretend that I didn't still feel apprehensive over the friendly gesture that I was still wearing.

It's just a troll. I whispered into the dark, my voice raspy and thick with sleep. He just wants to get a rise out of you. It doesn't mean anything. You're being dramatic.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin, shivering as the sweat and the tears began to turn my skin clammy. 

He's just watching. I thought. He didn't touch you.

I closed my eyes, but the eigengrau inside my eyelids was just as claustrophobic as my room had become. I could still hear the moans from the video, and every time the blanket settled at my feet, it felt like his fingers were on me. As I finally drifted into the fitful shallows of sleep, the last thing that I felt was the dampness that clung to the fabric of my boxers, serving as a constant reminder to myself that the door didn't need to be open for someone to make me feel like I was being violated from the inside out, and that I wasn't the only person who lived in my head anymore. I had the keys to my body forced out of my hands, and I had been taken for a ride.

Chapter Text

I woke up in a cold sweat, trembling, and with my stomach very, very angry with me. I coughed wetly and groaned.

There was very little preamble, no slow climb from sleep. One moment, I was waist-deep in my subconscious; the next, I was clamping a hand over my mouth and bolting upright with a bitter taste rising slowly in the back of my throat. The nausea was manageable usually, but this wave had its own venom and violence. I had tried to go back to sleep, but the loop started.

It always began with images--intrusive, hideous, and absolutely impossible for me to ignore. How can you ignore something that keeps going even when your eyes are clamped shut?

My mind flashed first with the image of a scrambled egg, the jiggly yellow mass that smelled like sulphur and cheddar cheese and seemed to move on its own.
Pasta was next. Cold, rubbery noodles that sat in a pool of congealed liquid starch, forcing the feeling of it sliding down my throat and meeting my bubbling innards. I tried to swallow the feeling down, but I half-heaved and gagged on it.
Cake immediately followed--a massive, spongey slab of sickly sweet strawberries and cream on yellow sponge that I was forced to feel smearing all over my mouth as I clamped my teeth shut to keep the very tactile thought of it from invading, though I could still taste the phantom sugar of it.

I felt the first real surge of stomach acid hit my back teeth.

No, please, God... I begged in silent prayer. Please, God, don't make me puke right now, please, please, please...

My brain has never been too fond of me, and was an unreliable turncoat at the best of times. The spinning mental reel landed on a slice of cherry pie. I could see the viscous, gelatinous filling and the plump, pitted fruits inside. How they shimmered like poisoned blood--too much sugar, too much corn starch, too much. I could see the way the fattening crust crumbled around the lattice edges into a rough and buttery grit. I could feel it in my mouth and forced down my throat.

That was what did it.

I bolted out of my bedroom and nearly put a hole in the wall with how hard I threw the bathroom door open, hitting the floor with a painful crack as I dropped to my knees. The sound was absolutely vile--a deep, wet retch that felt like it was turning my stomach inside-out like a cheap Chinese coin purse till I was leaking acid through my nose. The staccato sound of my progressing illness was pathetically jarring, stripping me of my dignity as I retched once more, and with enough force that I nearly started evacuating my bowels on both ends.

I closed my eyes and flushed the toilet.

After it all went down, I opened my eyes and slumped my cheek against the cool rim of the toilet and let out a shaky breath, wet chunks still dripping from my bottom lip. My skin was clammy and coated in a fine sheen that made the air suddenly feel like blizzard conditions.
The bathroom was too loud. The hiss of the toilet tank vibrated through the porcelain and into my skull, making the room spin, and the smell of the water in the bowl made my head throb. Every time the tank hissed or I noticed the water moving in the toilet, the floor seemed to tilt another few inches.

Vvt-vvt...

The sound of my phone vibrating nearly startled me into throwing up again. I reached up, hand shaking so hard that I nearly knocked my toothbrush cup into my face as I fumbled for the device.

--

Leon: You okay over there?

--

My heart lurched, nausea being momentarily eclipsed by looming fear and anxiety. He's listening. He's in here. I'm not safe.

I stared at the screen, blue light from the corning glass burning into my stinging retinas. The panic clawed at my throat until I remembered--the walls. They were thin enough that I could hear what Leon was watching on TV on any given day if he had it up loud enough. They were definitely thin enough for a sharp-eared cop to hear his neighbor's life flashing before his eyes at three in the morning. I let out a shaky and pathetic breath.

You're being a fucking nutcase, dude.

--

Me: just threw up a little. im fine, go back to sleep.

Leon: That didn't sound like a little.

Leon: I'm already up. Be over in a sec.

Me: please dont... im so fucking gross rn. im fine, seriously.

--

No reply.

Even with the earth tilting on its axis, I managed to drag myself to my feet, clutching the edge of the sink and closing my eyes, steadying my breathing as I swayed from the effort. When I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror, I looked like utter shit. Pale, visibly sweating, eyes bloodshot, and mouth devoid of color.
Quickly, I turned on the sink and started rinsing my mouth out and wiped vomit residue from my skin. I took off the boxers and left them on the bathmat, trading them for a loose pair of sweatpants that I had hanging from my bedroom doorknob.

Knock-knock-knock.

The sound vibrated through the air and into my throat. I absolutely, positively did not want to open that door. I wanted to crawl back into the dark, take enough melatonin to send an elephant into a coma, and stay there till my stomach was no longer forming a riot against me. But... something told me that Leon wouldn't go away. That he would simply keep knocking till the entire floor either thought I was dying or involved in some low-level drug bust.

I grabbed the empty wastebasket from beside the toilet--just in case I needed to throw up again--and shuffled to the front door. Every step felt like walking through sharp, needle-point static.

I reached the door and fumbled with the deadbolt, fingers feeling like they were made of glass. When I finally pulled it open, Leon was standing there looking about as put together as one could have been expected to be for that hour. He was wearing a dark hoodie and tracksuit pants, holding a chilled bottle of electrolyte solution and a sleeve of saltines.

"Jesus," he muttered, stepping inside as he scanned me from head to toe, "You look awful."

"I said I was fine," I croaked, perching the wastebasket on my hip. "I think maybe it was the pesto? It was all kinda... green."

Leon's expression shifted, a flash of guilt crossing his face. He looked off at something else for a second, shoulders sagging before returning back to my gaze.

"I feel terrible about that," he said, "That's on me, I should've known the nuts had spoiled."

He placed his hand on my shoulder, steering me gently but firmly to the living room. I just let him--I didn't have the strength to argue.

"Sit down," Leon instructed, though not unkindly. He guided me to the sofa, his hand never leaving my shoulder till I settled into the cushions and stretched out. He took the wastebasket from me and sat it on the floor where I could just lean my head over in case I felt the need to heave again, and placed the bottle of electrolytes and sleeve of crackers on the coffee table.

Chapter Text

The sour air in the living room had grown cold and lifeless in the time that he was gone, the silence pressing inward on me.

I must have drifted to sleep, because the next thing I remembered was the sound of my front door closing jerking me back to the surface of wakefulness. It was, simply put, the domestic sound of boots scuffing on the floorboards as he moved toward the kitchen and just a moment later, the smell hit me--it wasn't the smell of pesto re-heating or the lingering scent of regurgitation, but something clean and briny. Chicken broth--a smell so completely plain and wholesome that it nearly felt too good to be true. I squeezed my eyes shut when my stomach started growling hard enough to almost make me gag again, heart hammering in my chest as I felt the sofa cushion dip under a heavy weight near my waist.

"Hey," Leon's voice was a low and soothing murmur that settled directly in my chest. "Still with me?"

I forced my eyes open, squinting against the dim morning light. He sat on the edge of the sofa and casting a long shadow over me. In his hand was a ceramic mug with steam wafting lazily up out of its mouth.

"Yeah. Still with you." I croaked, the back of my throat burning.

"Good. I made you some soup," He didn't extend the mug for me to take; instead, he sat it on the coffee table and slid his hand behind my neck and cradled my head. He was so maddeningly gentle as he supported the weight of my head, hoisting me into a semi-upright position against the arm of the couch. "Steady, now. I've got you."

Leon picked the mug back up from the table, not letting or even suggesting that I try to hold it myself. He simply brough the rim to my lips, his other hand still firm against the back of my neck.

"Just start with slow sips," he said, "No need to rush. Don't want you getting sick again."

I kept a wary eye on him, taking a small mouthful and making a face. It tasted like regular chicken broth and was, in all honesty, bright and flavorful, but there was a strange tang underneath it all that clung to the back of my tongue like film. I pulled back, scrunching my nose as I looked up at him.

"It kinda tastes funny." I said, tsk-ing my tongue to try and get a better idea of what I was tasting. "It's kinda bitter for some reason."

Leon didn't falter for a second, only offering the kind of small and patient smile that one might expect from a friend who was taking care of them on a sick day. He used his thumb to wipe a stray droplet from the corner of my mouth, lingering on my bottom lip for just a couple seconds too long--I'd caught him staring but before I could call him on it, he resumed speaking.

"You've spent most of the morning cycling between sleeping and throwing up. Everything's gonna taste a little different when you're this out of whack," he said, his voice smooth and utterly, remarkably untroubled, "It's just broth. Drink it."

He tilted the mug again, not giving me enough time to resist. The way he was looking at me made me feel like any protest I could conjure would be in futility anyway, so I just took the liquid as he was administering it to me and swallowed. By the time the broth was half-gone, a heavy warmth had began to take root in the center of my chest. The edges of the room had started to blur and round out the sharpened corners of my previous anxiety till I finally began to feel something close to comfortable.

"Good boy." Leon murmured, the words landing in a way that made a shiver go down my spine, and setting the mug back down on the coffee table.

The sofa dipped as he pressed in close and anchored me against his side. His hand was a sudden and heavy warmth as it slipped under my shirt, seeking out the bare skin of my waist. I couldn't control the shudder that wracked through my frame when his hand migrated and splayed wide over my stomach, dragging his thumb with maddening patience as he climbed along the bottom of my ribs. It felt as if he were counting them.

"You're shivering a lot," he noted as he began to slide his hand further till my shirt was starting to ride up with his wrist. As he reached the center of my chest, he brushed firmly and unmistakably over my breast. I winced, finally able to feel the tiny spark of alarm that managed to pierce through the thick warmth that was continuing to drag my limbs down.

"Leon..." I rasped, my tongue starting to feel heavy in my mouth, "Wh-What are you...?"

He snapped his hand back quickly and rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment.

"Sorry, uh... I was just checking for cold sweats. Didn't mean to startle you," he let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "I get a little ham-fisted when I'm tired, I guess. Sorry if you feel like I'm making you uncomfortable."

"S'fine..." I slurred, "Jus'... Jus' tired's'all."

"I know, I know," he whispered, though his voice contained a ravenous edge.

Instead of pulling away, he crowded closer till he was all but pinning me to the cushions. I felt his hand return, but there was very little caution left in the movement--he moved straight for my shirt, hooking his fingers under the hem and dragging it up till he was cupping me fully and started to knead an intense rhythm into my flesh. Despite the now-ebbing nausea and the haze I was falling further down into, I could feel a mortifying warmth--a slickness--between my legs as the contact sent electrifying signals from my chest down to my lethargic core.

"L-Leon... stop... s'hurting--s'hurting me..." I attempted to protest, but the words felt like sugar dissolving on my tongue.

"Hey, shh-shh, it's okay," he whispered, pressing his mouth to my forehead. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make it hurt. It's hard to stay gentle when you look like this."

I felt a tear slip out and track down my face, and my lungs heaved up and down with the pure effort of just forming a single coherent thought.

"P-Please... stop..." I mumbled, the word breaking apart before it could even fully form.

"It's okay, pretty boy, just breathe," Leon didn't stop--if anything, he just tightened his grip, rubbing more circles into my sensitive skin. That's when I saw it--the unmistakable, straining ridge of him against his tracksuit pants. The sight sent a fresh jolt of fear up my spine, but I felt like I was sinking.

What the hell had Leon put into the soup?

He shifted his weight once more till he was between my legs, forcing my thighs apart until he loomed directly over me. In one swift movement, he bunched my shirt up to my collarbone, exposing me to the cool air and his lustful gaze.

The sofa groaned as his weight shifted, wedging his knees between mine and forcing my thighs apart. I felt my shirt hitch upward, the fabric bunching at my collarbone till the cool air hit my skin and then immediately followed by the penetrating heat of his gaze. He pulled his hand away for just a flicker of a moment, believing he was finally going to simply stop, only to have him interrupt the temporary reprieve by sliding his hand beneath the elastic band of my sweatpants. It was a quiet invasion--he didn't even look down as he swiped two fingers through the wet--and he'd brought the moisture back up to my chest to smear it over my nipple with the steady movement of personal conviction.

"Shh, it's okay," he panted, his voice straining as he leaned down to catch my breast in his mouth, the suction sending sparks of pleasure directly downward and forcing a pathetic, undignified whimper from me. He began rolling his hips, grinding languid circles against my own clothed arousal, "I know it feels like a lot, and I just want you to know that I'm so fucking sorry, I really am. I know you're scared, I'm trying so hard to be more gentle, but..." He was cut off with a sharp, ragged intake of breath, his forehead dropping to rest on my shoulder.

"It just drives me insane how comfortable I am with you," he groaned, his voice vibrating against the hollows of my neck. "Such a s-strong man--just give me another minute, okay? You won't even remember this part tomorrow."

I tried to push him away, but my body was failing me. My head lolled back against the sofa arm, my eyes tracking the the rhythmic movement of him moving back and forth as he continued the bruising grind into my groin. Every roll of his hips felt like he was trying to wedge me open further than what I felt capable of, the friction of my sweatpants making the skin between my thighs start to chafe.

"Stop... L-Leon, please..." my voice came out as a low, thready whine.

"I know, I know--I'm sorry, pretty boy," he panted, the words muffled against my skin as he finally stopped pretending to have any restraint. My stomach fell when I felt my sweatpants being suddenly and frantically shoved off of my legs. The cool air hit my thighs for a fraction of a second before it was replaced with the searing weight of him. It was immediately followed by a blunt, stretching pressure that made my breath hitch and dissolve into a fractured sob, my fingers curling weakly as he anchored himself and bottomed out between my hips. "Just let it all out. I can't help it, you're just... you're so fucking perfect. You're doing so, so good and being so brave."

The world had started to fray at the edges--I had started drifting, my consciousness beginning to slip away into the well-oiled trauma machine. I felt the rhythmic slide and thud of his body meshing with mine; it was a steady force that seemed to vibrate down into my gelatinous marrow. Every time my eyes fluttered open, I saw the ceiling rippling lazily above us, and then I'd blink and he would have his face buried in the crook of my neck, the sound of him panting and grunting echoing in my far-away ears.

"I-It's okay," he groaned, his voice sounding like it was coming from the opposite end of a long tunnel. He was moving with a messy kind of desperation now, his breath hitching in my ear with every other lunge. "I'm... fuck... I'm gonna clean you up and then you're gonna wake up in your bed and this will all... all j-just be a dream. I... I promise."

I tried to shake my head, to be defiant in the face of his violation, but I felt beyond lost to the tranquil waves now. I could only let out a small, broken whimper as he tightened his grip on me, digging his fingers into my hips as he drove forward into me. The last thing I remembered before the fog swallowed me whole was the sensation of his hips locking suddenly, his fingers digging harder into my waist as the heavy, pulsing warmth of him filled me completely. There was nothing stopping the raw heat of him spilling into me in rhythmic, unchecked waves that made my vision explode with white sparks.

"I'm sorry," he rasped, his voice breaking as he collapsed against my chest, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my chest. "I'm so fucking sorry, I just... I wanted to be as close to you as I could. You just felt so good, I couldn't pull away."

He stayed there for a long moment, casually pinning me into the cushions as the salt-and-mint scent of him became my entire world. I felt the slow, steady drip of his release as he finally began to shift, his touch tender as he smoothed my hair back from my sweaty forehead.

"Don't worry about the mess, I'm gonna get you all cleaned up before you can wake up to know what's happening at all," he promised, his tone shifting back into that sweet, caring lilt. "You’re gonna feel so much better after some real sleep, and we’re still gonna be good friends, okay? Better than before, you and me, as long as you don't overthink it and keep letting me take care of you. It's a guy thing, remember?"

I tried to whisper a protest, but the broth had finally pulled the curtain shut, leaving me with only the sensation of a soft, lingering kiss to my temple before the dark took me.

Chapter Text

The rest of the night came to me in flashes.

Disjointed and jumpy, like a tape skipping inside a cassette player.

The first thing I remembered was the sound of water hitting tile--a deafening noise that echoed in my head till it throbbed. I was slumped against the wall, tile cold against my skin while the water ran hot over my chest. I remembered the heavy sensation of hands on me, the friction of a washcloth that felt like sandpaper against my body.

"God, I can't... I can't help it," his voice came out in broken, breathless hitches over the spray. He was pressed against my back, breathing frantically against my neck. "Y-You feel so fucking good..."

He was inside me again, hips snapping forward in a desperate rhythm that made my knees buckle. I remembered the sound of his palms hitting the wet tile as he braced himself, choking back the wanton sounds in his throat that still managed to echo off the bathroom walls.

The next thing I remembered was the smell of clean laundry and the weight of my blanket on top of me. I was on my back, limbs pinned by the heat of his body. The world was nothing to me but the slimy taste of salt and the sound of Leon's voice--no longer a soothing murmur, but a desperate, secret ruin of sounds.

"...sounds you make are unreal," he panted, marking the space between my neck and shoulder. I felt his thumb dragging through the slickness he had stirred up, a betrayal I couldn't grasp fully through the haze. "How are you able to get this wet still? God, you're fucking perfect."

I tried to turn my head, to find any air worth breathing, but he followed, grazing his mouth along my jawline as he started violating me one last time.

"Look at you... taking me so well... you're not even shaking anymore... like you were made for me..."

--

The morning light was unremarkable as it was any other day of the week, spilling across the room with a sharpness that made my brain feel more like a bruise.

I was in my bed.

I didn't remember getting here.

The last thing I remembered clearly enough was being in the living room, the smell of chicken broth, and Leon's face--everything after that was a void, and my body felt inexplicably leaden, limbs heavy as if I'd ran a marathon while I slept.

Chapter Text

After a couple days, I had wound up recovering. Restricted would text me on occasion, but he was either mostly silent or preferred small talk. Honestly, I would have preferred it if he were actively threatening me or sending me explicit material because I knew more or less how to react to that. I knew how to listen and do what he wanted to keep him at bay, even if some of the things I had to do were degrading; however, normal conversation felt more like a countdown than actual reprieve. I didn't want to talk about what I ate in a day nor did I want to tell him how hydrated I was, though I did tell him this morning that I had a yogurt and pineapple juice, and packed a lunch of grilled chicken and greens.
He had commended me for the juice especially, making a pointed comment about how I was maintaining a healthy balance and how Leon was a lucky man to have someone who put so much effort into being sweet for him, inside and out (which I found ironic, since Leon was the one who got me the groceries I was subsisting on anyway). It made my skin crawl, a phantom sensation of a tongue against my skin flashing through my brain before I knew to suppress it, but I had simply forced myself to thank him for being so nice.

The heat in the kitchen was more oppressive today than on most other days--the grease in the humid air seemed to cling more to the fine hairs on my arms and on the nape of my neck. The constant thrumming of appliances and the roar of the ovens usually were enough to serve as a buffer between myself and my thoughts, but today, every sound felt like it was being funnelled directly into my brain. I moved stiffly, body protesting movements I had previously taken for granted--the way I would twist to sling a pie into the oven or the way I had to lean over the prep station. Hell, even squatting to sit down was a chore. 

"Half past. Eyes up--rush could start any minute now!" Miranda called out, voice cutting through the greasy haze. She emerged from the back office, dusting her hands off on her apron, eyes bright with her usual high-energy spark.

I stepped out to the front counter, wiping away a slow-moving curtain of sweat from my forehead with my wrist.

The bell above the door echoed cheerfully, juxtaposing the presence of the two men who had just entered, navy RPD blues silhouetted by the glaring afternoon sun. It was a minor shock to see Leon in full uniform--tactical vest, duty belth heavy on his hips, and badge gleaming on his chest with his last name embleazoned on a patch on the left side of his chest. Beside him stood a man whose name patch said BRANAGH. I knew of him--he was the one I had spoken to when I had initially inquired about enrolling in the academy before Chief Irons had shuffled me off and told me better luck next time. That's the abridged version, but still. The man had a reputation for being a real straight-shooter and was an equally beloved fixture at RPD as Leon.

"Afternoon," Marvin greeted, his voice steady and grounding. "On a quick 10-6, figured we'd grab something fast and easy before things get too hairy with the afternoon rush."

"Hey, Captain Branagh! Always a pleasure to see you around," Miranda beamed, leaning her elbows on the counter. She wasn't subtle with the way her eyes lingered on Leon, an appreciative glint in her gaze that could've bordered on leering if she had less self-restraint. "And Officer Kennedy! Heard that you helped pull a kid out a wreck on the edge of the city."

Leon offered the kind of modest, bashful smile that was fitting for the boy-next-door hero instead of whoever was haunting my fragmented memories.

"All part of the job, ma'am. It was a team effort, I barely had a hand in the whole thing. I'm more of a pencil-pusher, if I'm being honest."

"Oh, hush that up. Modesty doesn't suit you, Officer Kennedy," Miranda teased, her voice taking on that specific not-shop-owner lilt that she reserved for the patrons she found particularly easy on the eyes. She shifted her weight, casting a knowing look back at me as I started cleaning up clumps of cornstarch from the dough prep table and re-flouring it. "Besides, I know you're good for more than a little casual life-saving. I hear you were a real saint to my best worker here while he was sick with that bug or whatever."

Marvin's eyebrows shot up at that, his gaze sliding from Miranda to Leon, and then finally settling on me with a newfound sort of curiosity. 

"That so? Didn't know you two were acquainted, Leon."

"We're neighbors, Cap," Leon said, his voice dropping into that smooth register that made my pulse spike for all the wrong reasons. He didn't look at Marvin, instead choosing to look directly at me, his eyes tracking how stiff my posture suddenly became behind the counter. "Walls in the building are thin, and figured I'd check in. It was the least I could do."

"Real neighborly of you," Marvin remarked, leaning his hip against the counter as he watched the way Leon tried and fail to play it cool. "I was wondering why you seemed so eager to clock out lately. You're usually the last one to leave, just on the off chance that there was some paperwork left to be filed away."

Leon gave a huff of a laugh, shifting on his feet and briefly casting his gaze downward before flicking back up with an earnest smile. 

"I was just making sure that the others could get home to their families on time, Branagh. Don't make a whole thing of it."

"Right," Marvin chuckled, though the gears were still turning in his head as his eyes bounced between me and Leon, but studying the way I was desperately trying to disappear from the conversation and the way my hands trembled. To a man who spent the better part of his life reading body language, it probably looked like the textbook definition of a crush--jittery, high-strung, the nervous sort of energy from someone who should've been completely floored to see his attractive neighbor not just in uniform, but actively on the job. "Well, he doesn't look sick anymore. Must've taken damn good care of him."

"I just did what anyone else would've done, seriously," Leon said, his voice dipping into that quiet sort of tone that made him sound like the most earnestly-convicted man in the room. He reached up and hooked his thumbs into the straps of his tactical vest. "It's rough to be sick by yourself. I just brought over some soup and did cold compresses. Simple stuff."

Marvin hummed and tilted his head, giving Leon a subtle up-and-down look. He adjusted his stance as a teasing glint finally broke through his professional mask.

"Well, I'll be damned. So this is why Claire can't drag you out for drinks to save her life. You know, I gotta say, you didn't exactly seem the type to bat for the other team, but I guess it pays to keep some things under wraps."

Leon's ears turned a faint shade of pink. He dropped his gaze to the counter for just a fraction of a second, letting out a low, self-deprecating laugh to deflect the teasing.

"Branagh, come on," Leon said, shaking his head. "I kept dodging her because her brother would've had me in a full-body cast if he thought I was messing around with her. And him? He's--I was just being a good neighbor."

Marvin chuckled.

"Uh-huh, because the Redfields are definitely the only things stopping you from hitting the town. I'll give you one thing though, the man's built like a tank."

"I'm jusy trying to keep myself in one piece..." Leon muttered, though the color in him hadn't faded but had actually deepened, creeping up from his collar to the rest of his face. He realized his defense had been just a touch too transparent and looked genuinely sheepish.

Marvin wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily.

"Sure, Kennedy. I'll just have to let the boys know to stop trying to set you up with their sisters so much."

"Please don't," Leon said, his voice dropping an octave and sounding truly flustered now. He shot a quick, apologetic glance toward me.

The Captain let out a sharp laugh, clearly entertained by the rare sight of typically-stoic Leon Kennedy looking like he wanted to shrink into a corner and disappear. 

"All right, all right, I'll show some mercy," said Marvin, finally turning his attention back to the menu board. "Let's just do a couple of slices of pepperoni. We still have a shift to get back to."

The conversation drifted into shop talk for a merciful moment--the humidity, precinct drama, the quiet afternoon, complaints over local politics--giving me the chance to breathe. I focused heavily on cleaning the counters, the rhythmic swipe of my rag serving as the anchor to keep myself grounded.

Chapter Text

The light inside the hallway flickered with a dull hum, casting sodium shadows against the withering wallpaper. I had been home for less than half an hour, but the walls already felt like they were closing in--when didn't they these days? And with Restricted texting occasionally to check on me and reminding me to eat, it felt like the plaster beneath the paper could hear my thoughts.
The apartment was absolutely stifling tonight, retaining the empty day's humidity like an algae-eaten sponge, but still it was a step down from the scorching heat of the pizza shop kitchen. I needed to do something to prove to myself that I had some control over my life, even if it was the equivalent of throwing a caged tiger a slashed basketball full of raw beef.

I got up and grabbed the half-full garbage bag from under the sink, the silky plastic shuffling loudly in the still air, and stepped out into the hallway. I just wanted to get it over with.

Dump the bag.

Lock my door.

Perhaps masturbate the dark thoughts away.

Slip into sleep with sticky hands.

Worry about washing my hands in the morning.

Forget about Saturday till Friday night rolls around.

I was so lost in thought that I didn't even hear the door across from mine open. I didn't hear footsteps on the carpet. It was like my presence alone summoned him forward, casting him just on the edge of the shadows of the landing, a permanent fixture of the building that I always seem to fail to notice till he's just an arm's breadth away from me.

Chapter Text

Knock, knock, knock.

The sound dragged me out of a dreamless, sweaty sleep. My eyes flew open and I bolted upright, staring blearily around my bedroom. The morning light filtered through the window across the room, bathing the walls and carpet in a sickly grey that did nothing to warm the slightly chilly air. I checked my phone. 7:30 AM.  Another three knocks followed, brisk and polite. Inexplicably, the sound made my stomach roll. He's here. It's Saturday morning, and there was no more time to push it down or hide behind my customer service mask.

I held my phone up to my face again, muscles aching like I'd had a rather fitful night of sleep, and turned the screen back on. There was a notification from the restricted number again, so I unlocked it and checked the messages.

--

Restricted: Have a great time on your hike today. Make sure you stay warm up in the mountains. I wouldn't want anything bad happening to you.

Restricted: Tell your boyfriend I said hi.

--

I just sighed. There was no horror left to be felt, being worn down by repetition and slipping into my new accepted reality. It was like living next to a bullet train. Eventually you stop jumping when you hear someone kill themselves on the tracks. A dry, hollowed-out breath slipped past my lips.

Boyfriend.

I didn't even blink. Of course he knew about the hike. Of course he knew about Leon. Hell, he probably even knew the exact size and tread of my sneakers, I would just never bother to ask. Why would I when he would probably supply the information himself later anyway? The fact that he was calling Leon my boyfriend should have made me panic or at least a little bit offended (at least on his behalf, I didn't even know if he liked men), but instead it just felt like anything else on any other day. In a way, it felt like a blessing--someone else was watching and wanted to make sure that they knew where I was going and was looking out for me to make sure that I was all right. Ignorant of the fact that he was a monster in his own right, it made me feel better that Restricted was watching. It made me feel... safer.

--

Me: okay

Restricted: Have fun :)

Me: i'll try

Restricted: You will.

--

Outside the bedroom, the mellow timbre of Leon's voice cut through the silence, muffled only by the thickness of the front door.

"Hey, neighbor! You up?"

The casual lilt of his voice made the ache between my eyes flare up in a sudden reminder of last night. The memory of how close he was combined with the spreading dampness rushed back into my head so fast that it made my head spin.

I threw off the sheets and got up, dressing for the day that waited for me, grabbing my phone, wallet, and keys as I forced my legs to carry me toward the front door. I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

Leon was standing immediately outside, illuminated by the harsh morning light from a nearby window. He'd traded the hoodie from last night for a tightly-fitted thermal shirt that hugged the swell of his pectorals and the heavy line of his shoulders, the rib-knit fabric stretching taut every time he took a breath. On top of it, he wore a leather bomber jacket with cream fur lapels and a pair of dark navy cargo pants. Stiff, durable, ready for the elements. He looked like a real man's man, straight out of an advertisement for an outdoor gear catalogue--rugged, clean, and so undeniably attractive that I felt out of place even being caught looking at him.

Chapter Text

The forest seemed to be holding its breath, and now, in the aftermath of Leon raping me, the wind sighed through the trees as if nothing had happened at all. Even the birds began to sing as soon as he was done with me.

Leon didn't withdraw immediately. He stayed pinned against me, radiating warmth that felt like it had been part of me for an eternity as he allowed my inner walls to milk his length for a few moments more. His breathing was the only thing I could hear, slow and steady and calm. He reached for something--likely a pack of wet wipes--and began to clean me. He was methodical, intimate, and still entirely invasive as he moved with tender efficiency that made bile rise in the back of my throat. Still, my hips instinctively rose to meet his touch, chasing the warmth he was so dutifully wiping away.

"You're okay," he murmured, his voice soft, "I still have you, just breathe. You're fine."

Chapter Text

Later, a styrofoam clamshell rested on my thighs.

I stared down at it as the city lights smeared in the sudden downpour through the window, bathing the interior in rhythmic, sparkling flashes of orange. Inside the cheap container was a massive slice of vanilla cream pie from the diner we had stopped at. He was kind enough to escort me in and let me order whatever I wanted, even paying to upsize the order to make sure I got adequate nutrition after the adventure he believes we had. Being realistic, I had very little appetite, but the pictures on the menu looked good and the description for each dish sounded tolerable at the very least. I ended up just getting some fries and a sandwich I can't remember the name of. Some toasted beef and cheese thing. I dunno. 

Leon insisted on dessert even though I protested, looking smug when the two slices arrived. I resigned myself to it and asked for a to-go container. I didn't want to know what would happen if I refused the pie entirely, so delaying it was the more appealing option even though--quite frankly--it didn't appeal to me at all.

Nobody had even suspected anything. They just thought I was the adorably exhausted boy who was only just beginning to recuperate after a day of not being able to keep up physically with his doting public servant boyfriend. The only time anyone approached me was to ask if I wanted my drink topped off.

When we finally got back into the car, he patted my thigh and pulled calmly back onto the highway.

I let out a breath that caught harshly in my chest, a sound that was half pathetic squeak, half stifled sob.

Chapter Text

I didn't wake up all at once.

I was dragged out of the dark by degrees, pulled toward consciousness by the relentless, rhythmic feeling of being stuffed to the brim and rattled the metal bedframe against the wall. The transition from sleep to my waking reality was a slow slide punctuated by the sound of wet intrusion.
My eyes fluttered open to the dim light of the early morning filtering its pale fingers through the blinds. I was flat on my back, limbs heavy and uncoordinated at my sides. The heavy heat pressing down on me--in me--couldn't just be explained away by the covers anymore.

Leon was on top of me and had my legs pushed up to my shoulders and parted, his hands under my knees to hold me completely open and knees bracketing my hips. He was methodical, patient, and so soft-spoken and kind last night, but that version was gone. Here was the version of him that wore no mask--fucking me with desperate urgency, burying himself to the hilt over and over again. The sound of him grunting and moaning was accompanied only by the wet sound of his hips slapping against the backs of my thighs, and the sounds I hadn't realized I had been making in my sleep.

He was a complete, devoted mess.

He had his head thrown back and eyes closed, forehead beaded with sweat. He was panting raggedly, his breath coming in harsh gasps that hitched every time the head of his cock brutally bottomed out against my cervix. He was trembling, body completely wracked by the friction, and he was talking--not to me, but himself. Senseless. Pathetic. Completely lost to the sensation of using my body.

"F-Fuck..." he stammered, the word vibrating wetly from the back of his throat. "God... fuck, so fucking good... I c-can't... so warm inside... holy shit..."

His hips snapped forward, a breathless groan tearing animalistically from his chest. He ground into me, rolling his hips like he was trying to physically fuse us together.

"Shit... d-don't care anymore," he babbled, his voice a strained whine that I'd never heard out of him before. He sounded completely delirious, like a man dying of thirst who had not just been allowed to drink, but offered an overflowing cup of ambrosia. "F-Feels too good... never pulling out... fuck..!"

All I could do was lay there.

I stared up at the shadows that danced on the ceiling, hardly able to process the reality of the morning, let alone the devastation of my surrender from the night before. I didn't thrash. I didn't try to close my legs or push him away. My hands stayed on the sheets by my side. I was a recepticle, or--more crudely--just a cocksleeve for him. And the part that would have horrified me if I wasn't so thoroughly broken down was that the total lack of resistance made the pain bearable, pleasurable even.

I drew a sharp, involuntary breath as he hit a particularly sensitive spot, my back arching off the mattress slightly.

The frantic rhythm Leon had built slowed its momentum. He pulled back just enough to look down at me through his blonde curtain of bangs, chest heaving as he stared into my eyes. His hair was a damp and messy nest, face flush and pupils blown so wide that it nearly swallowed his irises. He felt the shift in my breathing and the involuntary tightening of my internal muscles around him now that I was fully awake. 
I saw the realization hit him, and whatever fragile fraying thread of restraint he had been hanging from snapped completely, leaving him in total free-fall.

"Good morning," he breathed, his voice dropping into a reverent pitch. "S-Sorry for waking you like this, I just..."

He didn't pull away or resume his pace immediately, remaining instead at a torturously deep, dragging crawl, grinding himself against all the sensitive parts inside me as if trying to savor every single ridge. He looked down at me with an expression that was completely untethered from his usual self, stripped of the calm authority that was characteristic of him, and utterly pathetic in his groveling desire.

"God, look at you," he whispered, half-stammering as his words stumbled over each other, reaching a hand up to caress my face. His thumb swept over my cheekbone; even his touch reeked of desperation. "I-I didn't mean to wake you like this, sweet boy. I-I just... I couldn't stop. I was already inside you, and you feel so f-fucking perfect around me. I just love being like this with you."

He hovered his face inches from mine, eyes searching my expression for any kind of devotion that mirrored his own. His hand slid down to cup my jaw, pressing his thumb gently into my lower lip in an attempt to coax me open.
I don't know what came over me to excise me however briefly from my dissociation--whether it was realizing just how wrong this was or hating how he was using me for his own pleasure and believing it was serving more than just one person--but something within me snapped. Looking at his face this closely, so entirely convinced that this act was one of mutual love and bonding, sent a visceral wave of unbridled rage that sliced through the numbness I had been living in.

Before I could think, I snapped my jaw shut.

I bit down on the meat of his hand, right beteen his thumb and forefinger, with every ounce of strength that I had.

I bit to hurt.

I bit to cause as much pain as possible.

I bit till my teeth sank deep into his flesh and I started tasting blood.

Leon let out a sharp, pained sound. When he tried to pull his hand back, I clamped down harder and ground my teeth into the wound.

That was enough to disintegrate the mask he had so carefully curated.

His eyes flared with such vicious anger, my stomach flipped--I suddenly found myself fearing for my life, wishing I hadn't done anything at all and let go. With his unmaimed hand, he swung back and slapped me across the face.
The force of the blow cracked loud in the quiet room, loud enough for the sound to bounce harshly off the walls and in my ears. My head snapped violently to the side, and my vision swam with bursts of white light; my cheek burned instantly with blinding hear that I knew would leave an obvious bruise before the afternoon.

To my dismay, he didn't back off. If anything, the violence seemed to ignite something even more depraved within him.

"Fucking... hell," he growled--it was a harsh and breathless, almost awe-struck sound. He looked down at the deep crescent pattern on his hand and then looked back at me. The anger in his expression was quickly replaced with something entirely unhinged, far worse than anything I'd seen since our first encounter in the alley behind the club. My rebellion hadn't disgusted him--when his cock gave a violent twitch inside me, I realized with horror that it had aroused him to the point of delirium.

Before I could register the first throb in my face, his unbitten hand shot up to my throat. He wrapped his fingers around the column of my neck, squeezing down till black spots ate at the edges and it felt like I was breathing through a straw.

As quickly as my protest had begun, it died as a strangled wheeze in my chest. He pinned my head back against the mattress, using his weight to anchor me in place as he began to fuck me again--he abandoned the slow pace and didn't bother with the polite pleasantries of gentleness. He slammed into me with brutal, punishing ferocity, his hips battering against mine as my vision vignetted further into dark, fuzzy edges.

"God, I nearly forgot how fucking beautiful you are when you fight me... s-so fucking... masculine," he panted, voice cracking as he found himself completely drunk on the high of the aggression and friction. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to my temple, his breath hot and ragged against my ear. "I'm s-sorry... I'm so sorry, pretty boy... the way you look at me, the way you bit me--fuck--I'm gonna--"

I thrashed beneath him, my hands instinctively flying up to claw and hit at the solid structure of his forearm as he choked the life out of me, but I had no real leverage. To make matters worse, the more I fought, the harder he fucked me, the more he seemed absolutely, positively enthralled by the act. The lack of oxygen mixed with the intensity of him between my thighs created a volatile cocktail in my nervous system. My brain was screaming for air, sparks dancing in my eyelids, and the sheer force that he squeezed my throat short-circuited my body's defenses entirely.

I couldn't stop it.

A white-hot, searing orgasm ripped through my body without any other stimuli. It was far more intense than anything I had felt before--a violent, body-shaking spasm that left me completely helpless as my cunt clamped down on him in a vice grip.
That was all it took to push Leon over the edge. With a loud, completely undone groan that sounded more sob than moan, he drove himself as deep as he could go, locking his hips against mine as he came in filthy torrents, cock pulsing savagely inside me as he filled me till I felt his cum slipping down my skin and onto the mattress below.

He held me like that for a few more agonizing seconds as he let his release flow out of him, before he finally released the pressure on my throat.

I gasped, air rushing back into my lungs with a horrible wheeze that turned into wet coughing, and then gagging, and then low, terrified sobbing.

My chest heaved violently as the air continued to fight its way down my bruised windpipe, every ragged breath stinging like fire. The tears came before I could stop them, spilling over my cheeks and tracking through the sweat on my temples. I couldn't stop shaking. The sheer intensity of the climax had left my nerves completely shattered, my body twitching with residual adrenaline that had no outlet to apply itself to.

Leon didn't pull away immediately, laying heavily on top of me for a few long moments. His chest rose and fell in deep, satisfied breaths against mine, and I could feel his heartbeat.

Slow.

Steady.

Calm.

An engine of sorts that hummed idly against my ribs.

When he finally shifted, pulling his softening length out of me with a slick and heavy drag, the sudden absence made me shudder. I immediately tried to curl in on myself, to pull my knees to my chest and turn my back to him, desperate to crawl into whatever small corner of the bed he would allow me to occupy.

I was mistaken in thinking that he would let me go.

"Hey, hey... look at me. Come here," he murmured, his voice dripping with suffocating warmth.

Before I could pull away, his arms swarmed around me. He wrapped his broad frame around me and hauled me back against his chest, dragging me into an inescapable embrace.

I panicked, a sudden burst of desperate terror briefly overriding my exhaustion. I began to thrash against him, slapping his chest and pushing my elbows into his ribs. I clawed weakly at him to try and get away from even the smell of him, the heat of his body.

"Let go of me... L-Leon, please, get off me..." I sobbed, voice cracking. Pathetic, reedy.

"Shh-shh, I've got you, I'm here," he cooed, seemingly unbothered by my struggle. He didn't get angry or violent with me this time. Instead, he treated my resistance like the harmless flailing of an over-tired child. He shifted his weight, pinning my wrists flat against my front with one hand and wrapping his other arm around my shoulders, locking me down and restricting my movements until I was completely immobilized. "I'm so sorry, pretty boy. I'm so sorry, but I had to do that. Just breathe for me, all right? I've got you."

"Don't... don't touch me..." I wept, thrashing my head as the tears blinded me.

"I know, I know, you're upset," he whispered, pressing his lips firmly against the crown of my head, and then tracking a trail of soft kisses down to my temple, entirely ignoring the red mark his hand left on my cheek. He sounded so completely in awe of me. "But... God, you were just so incredible. You're so fucking strong. When you bit me like that... when you looked at me with so much fire in your eyes... it drove me crazy. I've never seen a man look so beautiful."

He buried his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply and rocking us both from side to side.

"You're such a handsome thing," he rambled softly, thumb caressing the back of my pinned hands, his tone thick with a perverse kind of pride. "I love that about you. I love that you want to fight so badly. It makes it feel that much better when you finally let me take care of you. The way you gripped me when you came..."--he shuddered--"...fuck, you were perfect. You were so perfect, it was like you were made just for me."

I kept fighting for a few more seconds, trying to twist out of his hold, but the disparity in our strength was harrowing. He was the anchor, and I was the drowning man tied to it. The realization of my helplessness slowly snuffed out the embers of my rage.

The fight drained out of me all at once, leaving me empty.

My muscles went slack.

My hands stopped clawing.

My sobbing ebbed till it was nothing but quiet, staccato weeping, shallowly hitching past my lips as I checked out of my own mind entirely.

I stared blankly at the grey morning light slicing through the blinds, eyes unblinking and hollow as I went completely still. Leon seemed to appreciate the quiet surrender, taking it as a sign that he had successfully soothed me. He loosened his grip on my wrists, sliding his hand up to cup the back of my head and pulled me firmly against his bare chest so my face was buried in the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

"There we go," he prasied me softly, gently running his fingers through my hair, untangling knots with lingering strokes. "It's okay, sweet boy. It's all right."

He stayed like that for a long time, rocking me slightly in the quiet room, whispering sweet nothings to me as the evidence of his satisfaction cooled inside me.

Eventually, the bedside clock changed, glaring obnoxiously in the dim room. Leon let out a heavy, reluctant sigh, the sound vibrating against my cheek where it was pressed against his collarbone.

"I gotta get going." he sighed, his tone laced with annoyance.

Chapter Text

I half-dragged myself into the pizzeria later that morning. Every single step I took was a grueling lesson in navigating the loss of ownership over my own body.

Leon hadn't bothered with cleaning me up before he left, leaving me with the hassle of doing so. If it weren't for the pain in my cheek, I'd have cleaned up relatively well; by the time I'd arrived at work, the ache in my pelvis had dulled to just a throbbing pulse, though the friction between my thighs made my gait awkward and stiff. I tried to minimize how uncomfortable the drag of my uniform trousers were against my skin, but like all things in my life so far, it was a futile effort. If I was just a cog in the machine, I felt dangerously close to grinding the teeth down to nothing.

I headed straight for the restroom, needing to get to the nearest mirror as soon as possible. I needed to see if what he did to be looked as bad as it felt before the rest of the world could notice and point it out for me. Locking the door behind me, I stepped up to the sink and forced myself to look up.

The reflection staring back at me was sickening. The side of my face he marked was nothing short of disastrous.

The slap he delivered left a furious red mark that stretched from my cheekbone down to the edge of my jaw, with the skin swollen and tender to the touch. However, it was my neck that made my breath catch. When I looked down, the overhead light revealed the faint bluish-red finger marks from where he had choked me. They looked like a collar--a mark of ownership that I hoped to God would fade quickly. I frantically tried adjusting my uniform shirt, tugging the collar up as high as it would go, but it only fell back to the base of my neck.

Useless.

I looked completely mangled.

"Hey, you in there? We need to get a head start on prepping before we open."

Miranda's voice, sharper and more authoritative than usual, seeped through the door, followed by three impatient knocks.

My heart did a violent flip in my chest.

"Y-Yeah! Just a sec, Miranda," I stammered, "Just, uh... freshening myself up."

I gripped the edge of the sink and took one last, desperate breath before turning around and stepping out into the kitchen. I tried to act natural, immediately grabbing a damp rag and wiping down the stainless steel prep counter, keeping my head down and my back half-turned to her, but my limping gait gave me away before I could even make my way to the walk-in fridgeto start taking out ingredients.
Miranda, who was leaning on the other end of the topping line with a clipboard in hand, stopped clicking her pen. She tracked my awkward movements as I hobbled past her, and then her gaze drifted up to my face.

She froze, furrowing her eyebrows in concern.

"Christ on a tricycle," she breathed, dropping the managerial mask and shifting into genuine alarm. She stepped close to me, putting a hand on my shoulder to get me to stop wiping the counter down. "Hey, hey, take it easy, kiddo. What the hell happened to you? Did somebody do this to you?"

I froze, clutching the rag tightly in my hand till dirty water started trickling down my knuckles. My mind was racing and short-circuiting all at once under her sudden scrutiny.

I hadn't prepared a good enough lie.

I hadn't thought of what to say.

The image of Leon's uniform, his badge, the newly bandaged hand flashed in my mind. If I told the truth, if I said a cop did this--the golden boy, to boot--who in their right mind would believe me? I would be called a liar. I would probably be the only one to suffer a reputational blow. The fear crawled into my throat and choked me.
To make matters worse, my body started reacting around the pain again, and my face instantly heated. A burning, mortified blush crept up my neck and face in such a way that made the bruise on my cheek throb. I began to stammer, anxiously darting my eyes anywhere that wasn't Miranda's face.

"I-I... it's n-nothing, Miranda. I just--we just... it was an a-a-accident. I'm just clumsy, you know me. I fell. In the bedroom. I, uh... tripped."

"You... tripped?"

Fuck, she doesn't believe me.

"Yeah! Right over the bedframe. Landed right on my face. Like... really hard."

I was an awful liar. My voice cracked, and I looked so thoroughly embarrassed that Miranda just stared at me for a long time, falling completely silent as the concern left her face and was replaced by massive confusion. She looked at my bright red face, at my posture, and the way I was shifting my weight from one sore leg to another. Then, her eyes flicked to my neck, where the faint shadow of the finger-marks were undoubtedly manifesting just a little more intensely than when I saw them in the restroom mirror.

Suddenly, her eyebrows shot up nearly past her hairline.

Instantly, the confusion was replaced by a knowing, highly amused, and utterly scandalous smirk. She let out a low whistle.

"Oh," she said, snicking as her voice dripped with sudden realization. "Okay. Damn."

I blinked. It was my turn to be confused. "What?"

"Yeah, sure, 'tripped over the bedframe,'" she continued, leaning back against the counter and turning her eyes back to the morning inventory sheet, "Ya could've just said so. I mean, I knew your little boyfriend looks like he can bench press a truck, but I didn't realize our favorite boy in blue could get properly wild like... that."

My jaw all but hit the floor.

I look like this, stutter the wrong way, and she ends up thinking it was just the passionate aftermath of consensual sex with someone everyone suddenly has collectively agreed is my boyfriend. A wave of nausea rolled through my stomach, but right on its heels was something cold, and another thing after that made me feel massively conflicted.

The questions will undoubtedly stop here--at least from her--the police wouldn't be called. She wouldn't investigate. She wouldn't push into the rotten underbelly of what my life had actually become. I didn't want the conflict that followed any level of clarification I could provide, so to keep the fragile illusion of safety intact, I just let her believe it. I allowed myself to become part of the weapon used against myself.

So, I put on my best face. I ducked my head, allowing my hair to fall over my face, mostly to hide the horror in my eyes, and I played along. I let out a weak groan and pretended to be the embarrassed, blushing partner.

"Miranda..." I groaned.

"Hey, I'm just saying--good for you though, honestly. I was wondering when you'd finally start getting some kind of action," she laughed, "Seriously though, tell him to go easier on you next time. You look like you got hit by a train. Just take it easy today, all right? I don't need you throwing your back out on my watch."

"Thanks." I whispered, keeping my eyes to the ground as she pushed off the topping line and walked away, still chuckling to herself and shaking her head.

I gripped the edge of the stainless steel table, knuckles turning painfully white as the skin stretched taut over bone. I looked out of the front windows of the pizzeria to the streets of Raccoon City as it slowly awakened with a new kind of dread taking root in my chest.

Miranda wasn't going to save me.

And in just a matter of hours, Leon and Captain Branagh were going to walk through those doors for lunch.

--

The lunch rush bled itself dry around two in the afternoon, leaving the pizzeria in a pepperoni grease-scented lull. The dining room was completely empty, so it was just Miranda and I left in the front. My body was still screaming, every lift of a tray of proofed dough balls or bend to check if anything fell out of the oven was a study in agony, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the ticking clock in my head.

They should have been here two hours ago at least, and the unease was growing more and more prickly with each passing second.

The bell above the door chimed then, and the anxiety in the pit of my stomach dropped down further.

Leon walked in first, the heavy glass door swinging shut behind him. He looked perfect as he always did in his RPD uniform with the dark fabric pressed and crisp, his duty belt shifting with that familiar, inherently authoritative crea. Right on his heels was Captain Branagh. He wore a weathered but relaxed grin, uniform cap tucked under his arm.

"Afternoon, folks," Branagh greeted us, his voice echoing on the empty walls of the restaurant. "Judging by the street, it looks like we missed one hell of a rush."

"Oh yeah, we were up to our eyeballs in orders," Miranda sighed and smiled, leaning against the counter. "Always a pleasure to have you boys in here. Help yourselves to any seat you want, I'll get started on your pie. What do you feel like today?"

"Pepperoni sound good, Kennedy?" the Captain glanced over at Leon.

"Yes, sir, sounds good to me."

"Pepperoni it is," said Miranda, "Twenty minutes."

Leon didn't say anything else at first, but simply kept his eyes on me as I stood frozen behind the cash register. He gave me a soft, warm smile, and was the perfect picture of an adoring boyfriend checking on his partner. As he stepped closer though, his gaze landed on my cheek--he saw the mark blooming across my jaw, and the way my shirt collar was mildly unkempt in a way that was obvious to only the two of us that I had tried to hide the marks on my neck. 

My own gaze dropped to his hand. It was neatly wrapped in white gauze just the same as it had been earlier in the day, the clean fabric a stark reminder of the insidious teeth marks hiding underneath it. I looked back up at him and, God help me, he looked so earnest in his affection toward me that I actually felt bad about it.

"Hey, handsome," Leon murmured, his voice a sweet purr as he stepped up to the counter. He reached out with his bandaged hand, hovering just away from my face, thumb twitching as if he wanted to trace the lower outline of the bruise he had given me. He looked remorseful. "How's your shift going?"

With my heart jumping up my throat, I searched his face for the monster from this morning, but all I found was a man who looked genuinely, terribly sorry for hurting me. His blue eyes were soft and heavy-laden with the sort of guilt that didn't look at all manufactured in the slightest. And then I looked at the rest of him. The RPD uniform hugged his frame perfectly--the brod, solid lines of his chest and shoulders, his legs, his waist... in contrast with his ash blonde hair, the dark blue fabric of the clothing, the silver of his badge catching the overhead lights, and the leather harness across his chest accentuated his physique in such a way that I could not logically find any way to deny that he looked objectively fucking gorgeous.

A harsh flutter tickled my insides. The cognitive dissonance was enough to tear my brain in half. Leon had hurt me, forced himself on me, but looking at him now--the handsome, earnest man who was looking at me like I was the very gravity tethering him to the earth--I felt a maddening rush of affection. My cheeks flared pink once more with very real, very idiotic bashfulness bleeding into the embarrassment of it all. I bit him hard enough to draw blood, and all of a sudden, I was the one standing there looking at him like I didn't deserve him.

Chapter Text

The walk from the pizza shop to my apartment was a blur of exhausting motion.

The sky had bruise into a dark and dusky purple by the time my shift ended. Every step up the stairwell to my floor sent a sharp, thorbbing ache through my core, my legs trembling from standing for nearly ten straight hours. I just wanted to unlock my door, crawl into the dark, and let the mattress swallow me whole. However, as I rouned the final corner of the hallway, my heart stuttered in my chest.

Leon was already there.

He was leaning casually against the wall right beside my front door. He had long since changed out of his uniform, dressed now in a soft, slightly-oversized grey t-shirt that made him look impossibly soft and a pair of comfortable, low-rise lounge pants. He was maddeningly attractive, and looked impossibly domestic--the picture of what I'm sure everyone thinks of when they think of the word 'boyfriend.' Tucked under one of his arms was a sleek, dark bottle of red wine, and in his hands were two large paper bags from a high-end restaurant that I was at least two tax brackets too poor to ever be familiar with the name of.
Even from down the hall, the rich, mouth-watering aroma of roasted garlic, braised meat, and luxury confits wafted through the stail air of the corridor.

He caught sight of me and immediately straightened his posture, breaking into a warm, effortless smile.

"Hey, pretty boy," he said, voice smooth and inviting as silk. "Long day?"

I stood frozen at the end of the hall, my keys digging sharply into the meat of my palm. My instincts screamed at me to run, but I was too exhausted to listen. My stomach, entirely empty since this morning, gave a pathetic, audible clench at the smell of the food.

"I..." I swallowed thickly, my eyes darting between the face and the bags. "Wh-What are you doing out here?"

"Hey, Branagh told me I owed you a nice dinner, remember?" Leon smiled, stepping forward to gently pry the keys from my fingers. He was so remarkably light with his touch, so careful to avoid hurting me any more than he already had. He unlocked my door and pushed it open, gesturing for me to go inside. "I wanted to make sure my favorite guy in the world was taken care of tonight. C'mon. You look like you're ready to drop."

I stepped into my own apartment, feeling entirely like a guest instead of the main resident. Leon moved with confidence, taking over my small kitchen.

He didn't ask where the plates were.

He already knew.

He didn't ask where the wine glasses were kept.

He reached right for the correct cabinet.

"Go sit down. Take your shoes off, your back must be killing you," he instructed softly, pulling out the white takeout containers. "I've got everything handled tonight."

I was far too tired to argue, so I kicked my shoes off and sank onto the living room sofa--the very same place that he had confessed to first violating me. The relief on my aching joints as so profound that it nearly brought tears to my eyes.

Leon plated the food beautifully. It wasn't cheap greasy fast-food takeout, it looked incredibly expensive and rich. Slices of perfectly cooked boneless steak, roasted charred green beans, and potatoes glistening with some kind of savory glaze. He set the plate down on my lap, followed by a glass filled generously with dark red wine nestled in my hand.

He sat down a respectful distance from me, sipping his own glass and watching me.

"Eat," he encouraged me gently, eyes crinkling at the corners. "It'll help you get your strength back."

If this was a trap, it was a devastatingly effective one.

The food was incredible, filling the aching void in my stomach, and the wine was heavy and warm, immediately rushing to my head and dulling the sharp edges of my panic. It smoothed out the throbbing in my face and the stiffness in my neck. Leon asked me mundane questions about my shift, completely enraptured as he nodded along and hummed in sympathy when I mentioned how busy the ovens were.

He was attentive.

He was sweet.

He poured me a second glass of wine.

And then a third.

And then a fourth.

By the time the plates were empty, the tension had completely drained out of my body. A heavy, warm docility had settled over me, and I was leaning heavily against him to support myself. The affection and arousal I was feeling for him at the pizzeria was returning full force. It was so easy to believe that this was normal, even just for a moment.

He is my boyfriend.

I am safe.

He took our plates and my empty wine glass and sat them on the coffee table, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He didn't say a word, but his hand moved to the small of my back, his touch light and grounding as he maneuvered us. Then, with a gentle, fluid motion, he pulled me up, shifting my weight until I was straddling his lap, my legs bracketing his thighs.
He settled me against him, his warmth seeping through my uniform shirt and leaned in. His lips brushed against my temple, my cheek, and finally captured my mouth in a slow, languid kiss. It was the kind of kiss you'd see in a movie--tender, loving, lingering, and entirely possessive. As he deepened it, his hands began to roam, moving up the hem of my shirt.

His palms were rough, and his fingers slid over my bare skin, moving upward till they cupped my breasts. He played with my nipples, his touch teasing and rhythmic, kneading my skin with a familiarity that made my head swim and made me shudder. It was intoxicating--the wine had made my senses feel gilded, turning every sensation into a liquid pulse of pleasure and dampened the fabric of my boxers till I was sure the slickness was leaking through to his lap.

Leon broke the kiss, pulling back just an inch, chest heaving and eyes dark with need. His restraint was fraying, and I could feel him beneath me. Hard, insistent against the clothed line of my cunt, his composure slipping into something much more raw.
He sighed--a soft, almost apologetic sound--as he pulled his hands away from my shirt to rest them gently on my waist.

"I'm sorry, sweet boy," he murmured, voice dropping into that soft register that made my heart ache, "I... I'm getting a bit ahead of myself... I really want to be with you properly tonight."

He paused, tilting his head with a bashful expression. I whined, trying to grind my hips down onto him but he held my waist fast.

"I was wondering... would you take care of me? I-I'd really love it if you could go down on me."

The request hit my wine-soaked brain, and the protest came three seconds too late to be truly automatic.

"I... I 'unno, Leon," I stammered, my head feeling heavy and dizzy. "I'm so tired, and I'm--I'm really drunk... I don't think I can."

Leon didn't get angry.

He didn't tighten his grip.

He didn't strike me.

Instead, he just looked at me with that same earnest vulnerability that always seemed to shatter my resolve. He reached up, hiis fingers gently tracing the line of my jaw--the very same bruised line he'd left this morning--and his thumb grazed my bottom lip as he bit his own and let out a low groan.

"I know, I know, pretty boy. You're exhausted." he whispered, his tone filled with sickening sweetness. "But look at you. You're such a strong, handsome man... after a shift like that, you have this crazy, incredible masculine energy about you. I love the way your jaw sets when you're thinking, the way you hold yourself while you're working... it drives me crazy. It's so damn sexy to me."

He leaned in closer, lips just barely brushing my ear, and dropped his voice to a seductive, private hum.

"There's something so powerful seeing you like this," he said, "And just imagining you taking me into your mouth... showing me just how much of a man you really are... it would make me feel like I'm the luckiest man on earth heaving someone as strong and as gorgeous as you wanting to please me."

My heart did a violent flip.

The words were like a balm--no, a narcotic.

He wasn't demanding it.

He spoke like he was venerating me.

I'm a strong, handsome man.

The wine made it impossible for me to tell if he was telling the truth or lying, but I didn't care. All I could feel was the intense, needy craving to please him, to hear him praise me like that again, to be the boyfriend he wanted me to be. And I had never felt my clit swell hard enough to throb this painfully, but it certainly didn't help my already gnawing inability to think clearly.

Any resistance I had quickly evaporated, replaced by a surge of horny, enthusiastic agreement.

"O-Okay." I breathed, my voice thick with eagerness and my eyes fluttering shut and then open again as I leaned into his touch. "Yeah, Leon... I--I wanna. I wanna do it."

Leon's smile was beautiful--radiant, genuine, and making me soak my boxers further in all its perfection.

"That's my guy," he hummed, guiding me gently to the floor till I was on my knees.

The carpet felt soft against my shins, a stark contrast to the pizzeria floor I had spent the last hour scrubbing. I was settled between Leon's legs, my hands resting tentatively on his thighs. I felt the heat radiating from him cutting through the slightly chilled air of my apartment.

Leon didn't rush.

He simply watched me with those piercing blue eyes, looking like they held nothing but complete adoration. He reached down, his movements slow, and began to work the drawstring of his lounge pants.
My breath hitched. My heart was pounding in my ears, a frantic rhythm that matched the pulsing, gushing ache between my own legs. I watched his fingers--the very same that had so brutally bruised my neck just that morning--work the fabric away and allow it to pool around his ankles, treating the moment like a sacred ritual.

Chapter Text

The morning after that ruinous dinner, I briefly entertained the delusion that I could simply get up and start my day.

Despite my body being a symphony of deep, pulsing aches and a mild hangover, I had managed to wake up early. Leon had been dead asleep beside me, his chest rising and falling in a hypnotic rhythm.

I tried to be quiet.

I slipped my legs out from under the heavy duvet, the cool morning air hitting my pink skin, and allowed my feet to touch the floor. I didn't even get to stand up when I felt his heavy hand snap around my wrist. He pulled me backward with no effort on his part, hauling me back into the mattress. I tumbled directly onto Leon's chest, and he slung his thick, dense leg immediately over my own, pinning me against the heat of him, and his arms locked around my waist.

"Where do you think you're going?" Leon asked, his voice thick with sleep, vibrating deep in his chest against my spine.

"I... I need to get ready for work." I stammered, heart racing in my chest as I felt him behind me. He was already hard, the heavy length of his cock pressing insistently against the cleft of my ass through my boxers.

"Mm..." he hummed, burying his face into the crook of my neck, his lips hot against the skin he had bruised the day before, leaving kisses all over me, making me gasp at the tingling sensation. "No, you don't... remember? You're not on the schedule today, so you're staying right here, pretty boy. Not done with you yet."

That morning ended with me utterly dismantled, flipped face-down into the mattress with my ass hiked in the air. Leon's fingers dug into the thicker flesh of my hips, painting dark bruises from how rough he had handled me. I was rendered totally brainless and drooling heavily into the pillows while his cum spilled out of my swollen, abused cunt and soaked into the sheets.

That morning set the precedent for the next several weeks.

Time shed its sharper edges after that, bleeding together into a continuous and suffocatingly warm haze of submission. 

I learned very quickly that Leon's appetite for me was bottomless--he was ravenous, absolutely insatiable and completely dictated the rhythm of my life. It didn't matter if I had just worked a long, grueling shift, if my legs ached terribly, or if I had already spent the morning completely drained and leaking all over, or if I had spent the entire weekend at his place being fucked absolutely silly. He was always ready, always hungry for more, and his touch was a constant demand that I eventually learned to embrace.

There was one night I remember when I tried to fight it, where the sheer physical exhaustion eclipsed the fear, leaving me crying against the tiles of he bathroom wall as he crowded me in.

"Leon, no... please..." I sobbed, hands trembling as I tried to weakly push him away while he hooked my knee over his hip to expose me. "I-I'm so sore... p-please, not tonight. I can't do this."

He had a habit of never forcing me with outright or gratuitous violence in moments like those, but he would find little ways to convince me to let it happen. He kissed the tears from my cheeks and gently stroked my hair, and he always--always--apologized so sincerely.

"I know... I know, sweet boy," he murmured, pressing slow kisses to my jaw even as he slicked his fingers and pushed inside my aching heat anyway, stretching me out while I breathlessly whimpered into his shoulder. "I can't help it... I'm just so fucking crazy about you. I'll just be a few minutes, okay? I promise. I'll be so, so gentle and you'll feel so good..."

It was never 'just a few minutes,' and I was always too stupid and weak to stop him once he was inside.

Another time, when we were at his place (I had been invited over with the promise of just a normal at-home hangout), the exhaustion dissolved and gave way to burning anger. The constant feeling of being trapped and used bubbled over and made me reckless--I remember I snapped at him in the living room and shoved him hard against the sofa when his hands started wandering under my shirt before I even had the chance to fully relax.

"Don't fucking touch me!" I had yelled at him, my chest heaving and my fists clenched at my sides. "I don't know why the hell I just fucking lay there and take it!"

And just like every other time I would fight back, something dark and volatile snapped within Leon, shattering the easygoing facade completely.

In a fraction of a second, he hit me hard enough to fall back into the wall and his hand shot out, seizing me by the throat. It wasn't hard enough to kill me--it never was--but it was unforgiving enough to steal the breath right out of my lungs and send me crashing backward.
The back of my head struck the drywall hard, stunning me and making my head spin. He had stepped into my space, using his size to intimidate and cage me in as he had me pinned by my throat. My resistance never deterred him in the past, and it certainly didn't now, acting more times than not as an accelerant for the flames of his arousal. As my knees buckled slightly, I felt the unmistakable ridge of him pressing into my thigh. The harder I struggled, the rougher I thrashed, the darker his eyes became. He was most undone by the defiance, his breathing turning heavy and ragged.

He never bothered to calm me down, but he also didn't ask for an apology. He simply leaned in close, breath hot against my ear, and the scent of his cologne suffocated my senses further as he squeezed my throat.

"God, you're so fucking hot when you're mad," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, steady cadence. "You have no idea how much I love seeing you like this--so fucking masculine... makes it feel so much better the second I shove my cock inside you."

He forced his knee between my legs, spreading them wide against the wall as his free hand reached down, tearing my pants down with impatient, angry movements.

"I love it when you fight back," he breathed, the praise warping my already vulnerable brain. "You're so fucking manly..."

I squeezed my eyes shut then, fresh tears spilling down my cheeks as he yanked my clothes off to expose me further. I tried to kick out, but he just hit me more and lifted me by the legs till I was suspended in the air.

"Let me show you exactly what a man like you can take."

He pushed inside me then, a sharp thrust that ripped a ragged sob from the depths of my chest. The stretch was sudden and burning, impatient--simply the brutal, possessive claiming of my body accompanied by a holy litany of validation that made my head spin in sick, contradictory circles.

"Take it like a man..." he grunted into my ear then. "Take it like the man I know you are..."

The most horrific part wasn't the pain or the way my inner muscles tore and bled and burned around his thick cock. It was the way the praise sank its claws into my brain. It was the way I latched onto the validation even as I allowed him to get away with raping me, twisting the fear into sick, wet submission till I was clinging to his shoulders, hips stuttering involuntarily to match his rhhythm as I whimpered for him to keep fucking me, to keep calling me his good boy, and leaving long, deep red scratches up and down his back.

And then there were the nights that I both loved and hated the most--the nights when all I could feel was blinding need, leaving me to crawl onto his lap of my own free will. These were the moments when I was too wet and swollen to think straight, and my self-respect would crumble till I was nothing but a frantic, heat-drenched mess, unable to think past how bad I wanted him to split me open and fuck me into the next week.
I remember one night specifically--one of our many newly-regular date nights--sitting on the living room floor, my knees pressed into the rug and my clothes having long been discarded. I'd gone so brainless as soon as the alcohol hit my system that night, I was begging to suck his cock--and very graciously had my wish granted. Before long, I found that it wasn't enough and I straddled him, grinding bare against him while he was half-hard with a rhythm I couldn't control.

He flipped me onto my back then.

"Please, Leon," I sobbed, tears running down my flushed face as I rocked my hips, desperate for the friction. "F-Fuck me, please... n-need it so fucking bad..."

And, of course, he would smirk like he always did, teasing me with the tip, making me earn and beg for every single inch while he praised me for being such a needy, pathetic whore for him. He loved to watch me come undone like that--watching me beg for him to steal my autonomy.

"God, you're so desperate..." he murmured, raking his fingers up and down my body, wracking me with anticipatory shivers. "You wanna be used? Want me to fill you up till you can't think, pretty boy? Is that what you want?"

I'd just panted and nodded my head, and then allowed it to fall back into the couch cushions, completely lost in the way he looked at me. His eyes were dark with that possessive, predatory desire. "F-Fuck me..." I whined, "Please... n-need it..."

He took my breath away that night, as he had countless others as he fucked me into blissful oblivion. Every encounter, no matter how it started, ended exactly the same way: with him emptying himself completely inside me, painting my insides white just as thoroughly as he marked my skin, closing my mind off to the possibility that I could be anything other than completely his.

That was the reality I had learned to love, that I had learned to survive in.

My lease expired just as the air outside began to sharpen with the season's first chill, but Leon made sure I wasn't exposed to the violence of cold. He had convinced me to move in with him before the leaves could turn, and because I had no one else to turn to, it was easy--he kept the world away in the stifling, permanent summer of his design. I had become so accustomed to the routine, to him--I stopped fighting it. I learned to smile at him when he passed through the pizzeria, to kiss him unprompted, to offer my body to him when I noticed he was tense or upset. I softly laughed when he would gently pull me back to bed if I tried to leave in the mornings, I sighed at the way he would smooth my hair and kiss me and whisper that I didn't need to worry about a thing. It wasn't worth it to fight, so I convinced myself that I didn't require a life outside of his reach.

It was one morning in early autumn when the rhythm finally skipped a beat.

I had slid out of the tangle of blankets, feeling heavy and sluggish, but still relatively functional. Leon was already in the kitchen, and the acidic scent of coffee wafted into the bedroom. Usually, it was simply the scent that signaled safety and the start of our shared morning ritual.
I walked toward the doorway with the intent to join him, but the moment I stepped into the kitchen, the world violently flipped on its side.

My stomach did a violent somersault, and I became so massively dizzy that I had to grab the doorframe to keep from collapsing. Saliva pooled at the back of my throat, and the smell of the coffee--the very same smell I'd woken up to every day for at least four weeks now--tasted like something rotten laid thick on the senses.

"Who, whoa, hey," Leon was there instantly, catching me before I had the chance to stumble, "Easy, pretty boy. You feeling okay?"

His voice was warm and dripping with concern. He didn't rush me for answers, he simply scooped me up and carried me to the bedroom, laying me down on top of the duvet like my weight was nothing more than that of spun glass.

"You're looking a little washed out," he said, brushing a damp lock of hair away from my forehead with his thumb. I shivered--his touch was cool and soothing against my suddenly burning skin. He furrowed his brow in worry, which only made my heart race. "Just lay down, all right? You don't look so good. I'll call Miranda and tell her you're taking the day off."

"I-I'm okay," I managed, though the words tasted acrid in my throat. I tried to offer a weak smile, but the moment my stomach gave another petulant roll, the smile died on my lips. I had to clamp my eyes shut just to keep the room from spinning.

"You don't look okay," Leon said, his voice laden with unease. He reached out to stroke my hair, thumb tracing the line of my temple, but the motion sent another spinning wave of nausea crashing through me like the three sisters battering against a jagged, rocky shoreline.

On top of the scent of coffee invading my senses, it was too much. It was everywhere, suffocating, mocking me from all sides, and I knew I had just a few seconds before I lost the battle all over the floor.

I didn't even answer him. I just clamped my hand over my mouth and bolted.

I shoved the covers off right as they suddenly began to feel like fire on my skin, legs tangling in the duvet as I tripped and scrambled off the bed. My balance was absolutely shot, and I stumbled, crashing into the doorframe before I found my footing. I didn't care that I looked insane--a panicked, pale mess making a mad dash for the bathroom. I crashed into the door hard, shaking it on its hinges and fumbling with the handle before throwing myself inside and dropping to my knees in front of the toilet just as my body finally gave everything up that it was impatiently trying to purge.

It was a violent and wretched expulsion that left me gasping for air between heaves. Tears stung my eyes as I retched till my stomach was empty and still tearing itself to shreds in tight knots. It was utterly undignified, entirely disgusting, and I felt so small and pathetic as I clung to the cold porcelain with shaking hands.

"Hey, hey... breathe, just breathe."

I hadn't even heard him follow me in--he was just there. His large frame filled the cramped space, kneeling on the tiles behind me. He just rubbed my back with a steady hand, but it just sent another violent gag through me.

"Oh--kkhch--God, don't--hrrk--don't touch me right now, please."

He retracted instantly, and the sudden absence of his touch left a noticeably cool, empty space on my back where the warmth of him had been, but I didn'tchange my mind and reach for it. I just allowed myself to sag further, resting my forehead against the rim of the toilet, eyes clamped shut as I tried to drag enough air into my lungs to make the world stop spinning so fast.
Leon didn't loom, simply opting to sit back on his heels and still somehow managing to crowd the space. Even when I rejected him, his presence felt like a blanket I couldn't shake off.

"Okay," he said, sounding--for once--like he didn't have the reins on the situation. "Okay. I'm right here, just breathe."

I didn't want him there.

I wanted the door locked. I wanted silence. I wanted to puke in peace.

Deeper than that, I wanted to understand why my body--which he usually was able to command with nothing but a look--was suddenly doing something he didn't seem to have any control over.

I gagged again, a painful heave wracking and squeezing me from the inside of my ribs, but nothing came up. My throat burned and my eyes streamed with tears that were quickly exhausting themselves and drying out. The shame of it all choked me further.

"Go away," I whimpered, "Just... Just gimme a minute, please."

"Are you kidding me? I'm not leaving you like this," he said, and there was no malice in it. The stubborn concern in his voice, usually so grounding, weighed on my chest and made it feel absolutely impossible to breathe. The air in the bathroom felt too thin and too thick all at once, absolutely saturated with the scent of his cologne. It was a smell that I'd come to recognize as synonymous with his touch, but now it had regressed to absolutely disgusting me to the point of intensifying nausea.

"I said go away, goddammit!" I snapped, the words tearing out of me before I could stop them.

Leon froze, but instead of the frustration or punishment I expected, his eyes searched mine for a long second. Something behind his gaze shifted, and it smoothed out the tension in his shoulders.

"Okay, okay, I'm going," he said, his voice dropping its stubborn edge, replaced by something entirely too soft and thoughtful as he held his hands up in gentle surrender. "I'll be on the other side of the door. Take your time."

I closed my eyes and the door clicked shut soon after.

For a long moment, I just stayed there on my hands and knees, waiting to get angrier or, honestly, for any of this to make sense. But the fury had vanished just as quickly as it had arrived, evaporating and leaving behind an exhaustion that penetrated deep inside my bones. With the weight of Leon's presence--and his cologne--gone, the air inside that small tiled room finally began to mercifully thin out. I lifted my head and dragged a shaking hand down my face, noting that my skin felt simultaneously clammy and feverish.

I swallowed hard, wincing at how raw my throat felt, and slowly pulled myself up facing the sink vanity. My legs shook as if I'd just ran a marathon.

I turned the faucet on, cupping the cold water and rinsing my mouth out, but I even had to fight the urge to gag at the taste of that. Yesterday, it tasted fine--today, it tasted sharp and vaguely offensive on my tongue. I spat it out and splashed more over my face, letting stray droplets run down my neck. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I looked like a wreck. Pale and gaunt. Dark bags under my eyes, with a mottled flush high on my cheeks.
The cotton of my t-shirt felt completely unbearable, to boot--it was too tight, the fabric rubbing against the skin of my chest in a way that made my skin crawl. I hurriedly pulled the shirt over my head and dropped it to the floor.

It didn't help at all, and more confusingly, I was rapidly vacillating between feeling like I was burning up and freezing to death.

I braced my hands on either side of the sink and hung my head as low as it could go. I felt so digustingly fatigued, I wanted to just curl up in a tight ball on the bath mat and sleep for the next year. And then, without warning, my vision blurred.

I wasn't sad.

I wasn't scared.

But I felt such a crushing wave of despair come on so fast and so hard that it felt like it physically knocked the wind out of me. A sob tore its way out of my throat, and suddenly I found myself crying. I was weeping uncontrollably, still trying not to puke again, and I had absolutely no idea why.

I slid down to the floor again and pulled my knees to my chest. Minutes ago, I wanted to shove Leon into the wall simply for touching me, and now I felt completely shattered over nothing. The feeling of wanting to be held battled for the lingering instinct to hide from him.
I sat there on the cold floor till I could calm myself down enough or till the tears ran their course, leaving me hollowed out and shivering. The tiles were unbearably hard under me, and the air in the smell room felt suffocating.
I needed out.
I needed to move, even though my limbs felt heavy enough to drag behind me on the floor.

Grabbing a towel from the rack, I wiped my face, avoiding looking into the mirror this time. I was still bare-chested and felt uncharacteristically vulnerable, but the thought of putting that shirt back on was a sensory nightmare that made the nausea flare again before I forced the thought out of my brain.

I took a slow breath in, turned to the door, and pushed it open.

Leon was exactly where he said he was going to be--he leaned against the wall across from the bathroom with his arms crossed over his chest and his head tilted back. He had been staring at the ceiling deep in thought before I left the bathroom, only looking down the second the hinges squeaked. I had expected annoyance or impatience, but he just watched me. He tracked every single slight movement I made and the way I had to lean on the doorframe to keep my balance, and I could almost physically observe in his eyes the way he was cataloging all of this.
I didn't have the energy to be angry anymore--the defiance from earlier had completely drained out of me, replaced by the nagging instinct to be near him again. I took a step forward, my bare feet quiet on the floor, and sort of softly fell into him.

Leon caught me.

Because of course he did.

He uncrossed his arms and stepped in, catching me and wrapping his hands around my bare back, pulling me loosely toward him. He was radiating an impossible amount of heat through his shirt, his hold firm and secure. The scent of his cologne still made me feel ill, but for the first time in what felt like an eternity--since I woke up this morning--it was just... him. I turned my head so that I didn't have to smell it so aggressively, but even through the sickness, it was the scent of safety. I was far too exhausted to do anything but let him take the reins back.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled into his shoulder, staring off into nothing, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. "I don't know why I got so mad at you."

"Shh," he shushed me, reaching up to cradle the back of my head. He threaded his fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp in slow circles. There was no punishment, no demand for an explanation. Just care that still somehow set off alarm bells in my head. "You don't need to apologize for anything. You're sick."

He pressed a firm kiss to my temple, lingering just a second as if assessing my temperature, before he pulled back just enough to look down at me.

"I'm putting you back in bed," Leon stated, bearing the cadence that suggested I had absolutely no power to argue. "And then I'm making an appointment to get you checked out."

"Ugh... I don't need a doctor," I protested as he ushered me back to the bedroom, "Honestly, Leon. It's just a flu or something, I'll be better by tomorrow."

"You spent your first twenty minutes awake throwing your guts up," he replied, shifting to scoop me up into his arms. "Flu or not, I'm not taking those kinds of chances. You're getting looked at today, and that's that."

He didn't give me the chance to formulate another argument. He just carried me into the bedroom and gently deposited me onto the mattress. A profound wave of relief washed over me the moment my bare back hit the sheets. He had gotten special linens just the week before because his old cotton sheets had started causing me horrible break-outs--it was cool and soft, a stark contrast to the bathroom tiles. Leon pulled the duvet up, tucking it securely enough to stave off the shivering, but loose enough to let me move quickly in case I felt sick again.

He lingered for a second, his knuckles brushing against my cheek before he kissed me tenderly, and then turned and walked out of the room.

He left the door open just a crack, letting a sliver of hallway light to spill over into the room and stretch over the bed. I closed my eyes, letting the exhaustion pull me down into the mattress that felt more plush than it normally did. My brain was as foggy as a New England morning, wrapped in thick layers of cloth and cotton, but I could still hear the hushed cadence of his voice as he paced the living room with the phone to his ear.

"Yeah... yeah. Can I get 'im in to see Dr. Birkin today, please?" Leon said, lowering his voice further. There was a brief pause before he continued, hissing into the receiver. "I don't care if he's booked, make it work! Shift something around."

I felt my eyelids dragging, the darkness behind them blooming with strange fractals and fractured shapes. I wanted to call out to him, to tell him to come back and not worry about the doctor right now, but I was too tired to move.

"Just... fucking run a full panel. Something," Leon continued, his voice dropping slightly, though the sharp, commanding edge still carried. "Yes. Yes. That sounds good. Everything. And listen to me--I swear to God--whatever those labs show, they come directly through me first. I don't want him knowing a thing till I can figure out how to handle it."

Another pause.

"Exactly," he continued, "Just tell him all of it's... routine. I'll take care of the rest."

I felt a faint flicker of unease in the back of my hazy mind at his words, but I couldn't be bothered to fan the flames. The deep fatigue I felt dragged me under the surface, drowning out the conversation in the living room till it melted into formless, hushed warbles and then eventually bleeding into nothing. I was asleep before I could even begin to try untangling what he meant.

--

The room was steeped in the heavy sepia light of midday when I finally surfaced from the dark.

I blinked awake, the sudden brightness making my head throb dully. The nausea from early morning had thankfully subsided, replaced by a deep emptiness in my stomach that felt as angry as it felt strange. I felt incredibly physically weak. I shifted under the covers and rolled onto my side.

The spot next to me was empty, but the dip in the mattress and the fading warmth led me to believe that Leon had been sitting there recently.

My phone buzzed against the nightstand, the harsh sound cutting through the tranquil quiet of the bedroom. I dragged my arm out from under the blanket, wincing at the sorness in my muscles, and blinddly grabbed for the device.
The screen lit up and bathed my face in white, stinging my eyes. I squinted against the harsh glare and turned the brightness down, waiting for my vision to focus on the notifications stacked on the lockscreen. They were all from Miranda.

--

Miranda [12:14 PM]: Hey. Leon called a little bit ago to excuse you for the rest of the week.

Miranda [12:15 PM]: He said you were really sick. Are you ok?????

Miranda [12:18 PM]: He sounded really worried about you, so I just wanted to check in. Lmk if you need me to drop off soup or something, ok?? Feel better, love!

--

I rolled my eyes but managed a weak chuckle, tentatively sitting up against the mountain of pillows behind me. My fingers felt clumsy as I typed out my response.

--

Me [12:21 PM]: I'm alive. Kind of. Leon is just being his usual overly-dramatic self.

--

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

--

Miranda [12:22 PM]: Omg you're awake! He literally sounded halfway ready to plan your funeral.

Miranda [12:23 PM]: So what's the story? Food poisoning? Stomach flu? Dr. Google diagnose you with the third rarest cancer in the world?

Me [12:23 PM]: 🤨

Miranda [12:25 PM]: Right. Sorry lol. Just wanted to lift your spirits.

Miranda [12:25 PM]: But seriously. What happened?

--

I sighed.

--

Me [12:27 PM]: Idk. Woke up, smelled the coffee he was making, and immediately started puking my guts up. I was dizzy and exhausted all morning. Still dizzy tbh. It's really annoying.

Miranda [12:30 PM]: Ew. I'm sorry, hon. Especially because I almost never see you without a coffee most mornings.

Me [12:31 PM]: I know, and I can't even think about it right now without feeling like I'm gonna puke again.

Me [12:32 PM]: Everything smells WAY too strong today.

Me [12:32 PM]: Ugh. My body hates me.

Miranda [12:35 PM]: Get some rest!! I'll bring over some ginger ale and crackers after today's shift, ok? You probably need to put something on your stomach.

--

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. My stomach panged sharply, cutting right through the hollowness in my gut. I cringed involuntarily as I imagined the plain crackers, grimacing as I thought of the taste in greater detail than I intended. The mere thought of it felt the same as the thought of scooping up a spoonful of sawdust and trying to eat it. But as I flipped through my mental rolodex of what-the-fuckisms and acceptable foods, it abruptly screeched to a halt on the strongest, most insane craving I had felt since my last menstrual cycle prior to going on testosterone.

--

Me [12:46 PM]: Actually, I'm fuckin starving. But not for crackers.

Miranda [12:47 PM]: Ok, name it. I'll stop off and get it after work and bring it to you.

Me [12:50 PM]: I really, really, REALLY want loaded fries. All the toppings, and just absolutely bogged the fuck down with unholy amounts of jalapenos.

--

The typing bubbles hovered for a heartbeat and then vanished, only to reappear and disappear over and over again for a suspicious amount of time.

--

Miranda [12:55 PM]: Uh huh. Loaded fries. Suuuuuuure.

Miranda [12:56 PM]: Last time you accidentally ate a jalapeno, you were gagging all the way to the sink to wash your mouth out.

Chapter Text

The sluggish light of midday had long since bled out into the cool, muted blues of the evening by the time I woke up again.

The nap hadn't felt restful in the slightest--my dreams were incredibly bizarre, leaving me horrendously disoriented as soon as I was able to peel my eyes open. The nausea was still mercifully, blessedly absent, but the gnawing in my stomach had only sharpened. I was starving, and just the idea of the smell of jalapenos and deep-fried jullienned potato was driving me out of my goddamn mind to the point that I wanted to punch something and cry.

I shifted, the duvet rustling atop my legs and almost on cue, the bedroom door pushed open. 

Leon stepped in, stopping against the frame before he moved into the dim, hazy light of the room. He was in his uniform pants and a plain black t-shirt, and whatever thought I had been articulating inside my head evaporated completely. Before I could even register the impulse, a sound escaped the back of my throat and I was already reaching my hand out in search of his warmth, desiring nothing more than to pull him closer.

"Hey," he murmured softly, looking at me with supreme softness as he approached the bed. He sat down on the edge of the bed in front of me, reached out and took my hand, pressing the back against his cheek; his skin was cool against mine. "You slept a really long time, pretty boy. How're you feeling?"

"Super hungry," I admitted, curling up closer to him. "Miranda texted me earlier. I told her I was really hungry for loaded fries and jalapeno peppers on top, and she said she'd drop them off after her shift was done."

In his eyes, I saw a microscopic shift--he'd gone unnervingly still, and something I couldn't quite place washed over his features before his usual expression returned.

"That right?" he asked, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. "Well, if you think you can keep it down, I'm not gonna stop you."

Before I could say anything else, the jarring tune of his cell phone cut through the quiet.

Leon breathed a heavy sigh of frustration as he pulled the device from his pocket. He glanced at the screen, rolling his eyes before he answered it and pressed it to his ear.

"Kennedy speaking," he said, his tone instantly shifting from soft to sharp and professional. "When?... You gotta be joking. Who called out?"

The sound of a low, muffled voice chattered indistinctly on the line as he listened, his eyes flicking to me occasionally as he read my pale face in the dim light.

"Look, I'm dealing with something at home right now." Leon continued, his voice dropping a fraction as he let my hand go and turned away from me. "He's--Yeah. He's sick. I'm sure you can find someone else to come in and cover."

A pause.

I felt a sudden, inexplicable wave of guilt that mingled with the relief of knowing I might actually have a night to myself for the first time since we got together.

"Fine," Leon finally clipped out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'll be there in twenty, but I swear to Christ, I'm out the second you find a floater."

He hung up quickly after that.

"Work?" I asked quietly, drawing the blankets closer to me.

"Yeah. Aiken called out. They need an extra set of hands down at the station," he said, turning around and leaning over to press a firm kiss to my forehead. "I'm sorry, pretty boy. I'll be back before it gets too dark out, I promise. You just stay here and rest."

"I don't know why you're getting so worked up over a stomach bug, honestly Leon," I said, kissing his cheek and offering a lopsided grin. "I feel better already. Just go, don't worry so much about me, okay?"

Leon's expression softened, and though his lips curved into a smile, it didn't really reach his eyes. He remained hovering over me, hands resting on either side of me. He looked down at me for a long second, and unease began to prickle at the back of my mind.

"I can't help it," he said, bringing one of his hands up to cup my face, dragging his thumb across my lower lip. "I like to keep an eye on what's mine. And you aren't exactly firing on all cylinders, pretty boy."

He straightened then, and the sudden loss of his weight made the bed feel cavernous. He stood there for a moment, adjusting his belt and getting dressed for the surprise shift. Even in a rush, his movements held predatory energy--a quality that I learned to find attractive, especially now as I clenched my thighs together.
Right as I started to have the vaguest idea of pulling him back into bed with me, three sharp knocks echoed from the front foor.

Leon's jaw visibly tightened. "I'm guessing that's Miranda."

He strode toward the doorway, but before he stepped out into the hall, he glanced back at me. His gaze locked onto mine with such intensity that it stole the breath clean from my chest.

"Stay put, and don't go pushing yourself just because you think you're feeling better. Think about this morning--I don't need you getting sick like that again, especially while I'm gone. Got it?"

"Well there goes my plans to run a marathon." I said with weak sarcasm, offering a chuckle of the same caliber. My voice, though, sounded hollow in my ears.

"Please, don't."

He sounded so affectionately tired of my bullshit as he left the bedroom, door swinging wide behind him. I listened as he walked down the hall.
I waited until I heard the muffled, mechanical clicking and clacking of the front door unlocking before I pushed the covers off and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My legs were still shaky, but my head spun far too violently to start moving toward the living room.

I gripped the edge of the mattress and squeezed my eyes shut until the worst of the dizziness passed. My stomach gave a weak twist, but I forced myself to stay seated and swallow it down. Even if I wanted to follow him, my body was currently vehemently vetoing the idea.

Down the hall, the heavy door creaked open and the smell of loaded fries immediately invaded my nose. I held my stomach as it growled fiercely enough for me to feel it warbling beneath my skin.

"Hey! Officer Kennedy," Miranda's voice floated to my ears, bright as ever and slightly breathless.

"Hey, thanks for coming all the way out here," he replied warmly, "And just 'Leon' is fine, seriously. No need to be so formal."

"How's he doing now?" she asked.

"Oh, sleeping on and off," he replied, his tone perfectly even. "He's been totally drained. C'mon--Come in."

I strained my ears and tilted my head toward the open doorway as Leon dropped his voice lower and continued speaking to Miranda. The distance and heavy walls of the inner apartment muffled the sounds, turning their conversation into a frustratingly low hum.
There was a sound I couldn't quite make out, followed by the sound of footsteps shifting on the floorboards. I expected the door to shut, for Miranda to walk down the hall and poke her head in through the doorway.

The footsteps stopped.

"Look, just before you go back there..." Leon said, his voice dropping lower. I held my breath just to try and hear him better, my heart thumping wildly against my ribs.

Miranda murmured something inquisitive in response that was much too quiet for me to pick up on.

"...easily excitable right now," he continued, the words slipping out slowly. "...please don't overwhelm him with assumptions."

A pause, followed by a silence long enough to wrap around me an cover every corner of the bedroom. I lifted my head and stared at the light spilling in from the hallway--my stomach squeezed itself in, aching in a way I couldn't name. I could only pick up fragments of the conversation.

"What do you mean?" Miranda's voice spiked just a fraction higher--she never was the best at whispering--a note of genuine confusion, or maybe apprehension bleeding through. "It's just fries, Leon."

"I think you know what I mean," Leon countered smoothly, though there was an edge to his voice now. It was the same tone he used with me when I was being particularly defiant and mulling over exactly how he wanted to correct my behavior. "...no wild theories... nothing... keep it light. Don't talk about anything serious."

I could have dug deeper into the implications attached to his words, but just as he predicted, I still wasn't feeling well enough to do too much thinking or doing. Why would Miranda talk about anything serious? It was just a stomach bug. Why was he being so cagey?

Miranda said something else, sounding clipped and defensive, but the words were completely lost as a semi-truck barrelled down the street outside, rattling the windows in their frames.

"...just promise me, please?" Leon's voice cut through the fading noise. He sounded tired.

"Uh... okay. Fine." Miranda sounded very distinctly annoyed, but there was hesitation at the foundation. She backed down, just as I always did.

"Good," Leon said, the warmth snapping back into place in his voice so fast it made my head spin. "He's been looking forward to seeing you. I'd stick around, but I gotta run--duty calls."

The front door shut with a heavy thud, followed by the metallic slide of the deadbolt locking from the outside. I reached over and turned the bedside lamp on.
Miranda audibly exhaled--a long, shaky breath that echoed off the walls. She started toward the bedroom, slower and more hesitant than what she usually would be.

I quickly turned the lamp off and resettled myself in bed and threw the covers over my legs, my heart racing. I didn't want to clue her in at all to the fact that I had been eavesdropping. I didn't want her to know just how rattled I was from the fragments of conversation I was able to pick up on.
By the time she showed up in the doorway, greasy paper bag in hand, I was feigning my best still-half-asleep disposition.

"Hey, kiddo," Miranda said brightly, though the smile she wore didn't reach her eyes. She looked around the room before entering, and then came and sat at the foot of the bed. "I know I'm here a little later than you probably thought I'd be, but I got the fries just like you wanted them."

"I was asleep most of the day, so time is super fucked for me right now," I said with a sleepy chuckle, "Don't worry about it."

I studied her and chewed my cheek nervously, carefully considering my next words.

"Hey, um... what were you guys talking about?" I asked, "Out there, I mean. I was just starting to wake up when you got here."

I felt bad for lying to her like that, but the way her face slightly paled in the dark nearly overrode that guilt.

"Oh..." she sighed, "Nothing. He was just saying to not stress you out with... with work stuff. That's all, love."

I knew it was a lie as soon as it left her lips. I'd worked for her for over a year at this point, so I could spot a fib out of her from a mile away. She was a terrible liar on the best of days, but beneath the weight of Leon's lingering authority, she was even easier to see right through. Sure, foodservice was stressful, back-breaking work, but it wasn't the kind of environment that warranted such an intense and hushed hallway conversation about stress, and it certainly wasn't an appropriate situation to prompt Leon to use his authoritative police voice to issue warnings threaded with an unspoken 'or else.'
But... the overwhelming exhaustion that still nagged at the marrow of my bones made the idea of pushing her for the truth feel like trying to move a mountain with a plastic spoon. I didn't have the energy to pry it out of her, and deep down, I don't think I was entirely certain that I was ready to hear whatever it was she was being forced to withhold.

"Right," I murmured, offering a resigned nod. I let my eyes drop to the greasy paper bag in her hands. The grease had already stained the bottom of the bag dark, and the sharp scent of vinegar and fried food was making me salivate so aggressively that it physically hurt and made me want to cry. "I'm glad you're here though. Let's get out of this room before I start crying for no reason again."

Miranda hesitated, dropping her eyes to the blanket before shifting back up to my face. For a second, her gaze at me intensified--her mouth twisted as if she were desperately fighting the urge to say something to comfort me, or to ask me exactly what I meant by what I just said.
But then, as if the weight of Leon's warning seemed to settle over her shoulders, she quickly forced a smile back onto her face.

"Yeah, sure," she said, her voice carrying an air of reassurance, "C'mon. Outta the man cave and onto the couch. We haven't had a proper hangout in a while, kid."

I shoved the covers off and swung my legs over the edge. Another wave of dizziness beckoned at the edges of my mind and threatened to tilt the floorboards, but I gripped the edge of the nightstand until the room finally stopped swinging around me. I reached for a loose, oversized hoodie draped over the back of the nearby desk chair--one of Leon's that I regularly borrowed--and pulled it over my head to stave off the chill working its way up my arms. I followed her down the short hallway.

Without Leon there to watch over me and pull me into his warm side, the living room felt remarkably empty. Yet, his presence lingered all around us, within everything, without everything, like a draft that came through the walls and never could quite locate.
I sank onto the couch cushions and pulled my knees tightly to my chest, half-ripping the styrofoam container from Miranda's hands as she handed it to me. The moment the lid popped open, a cloud of hot steam slapped me right across the face, carrying the hot scent of spices and chopped jalapenos layered over melted fake cheese and fries. The vinegar in the vapors stung my eyes badly enough to nearly make me start crying just on principle.

Under normal circumstances, the sight of that much grease would've been enough to make me gag and I would've immediately changed my mind at seeing pickled capsaicin bombs--let alone that many--all over my food. I hated the texture of jalapenos and usually picked them out when I found them in my food by accident, and I would usually be irritated at their presence. But right now, my body was demanding it with such feral intensity, it made me feel certifiably insane as it overrode every sensory preference I'd ever had.

I didn't wait for another second to allow it to cool. I shoved a messy, cheese-logged handful into my mouth, the sharp, sour bite of peppers exploding across every single bud on my tongue. It was heavenly--the most incredible thing I had ever tasted in my life, and I let out a low, shuddering and pathetic whine of relief as I chewed. My eyes stung with a fresh, absolutely ridiculous threat of bubbling tears.

Miranda sat on the opposite end of the couch, kicking her non-slips off and tucking her legs beneath her. She grabbed the remote off the coffee table and clicked the TV on, flipping the channels until she landed on some mindless reality show re-run. She cracked open a can of ginger ale and sat it on the coffee table for me, but she wasn't paying any attention to the glowing screen.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could feel her watching me inhale the food at an unholy speed. I could see her warring with herself behind her eyes--the desperate urge to say something, anything, battling against whatever boundary Leon had established in the entry hall.

"So..." she finally said, her voice deliberately light as she reached over and stole a rogue, plain fry that had fallen onto the cushion beside me. She chuckled. "You really aren't fucking around about those peppers."

"I told you," I mumbled around a mouthful, reaching for a napkin to wipe cheese that had dribbled down my chin. "They were all I could think about. I felt like I was gonna die if I didn't get them."

"Dude, you usually have to put gloves on and hold your breath when someone orders them down at the shop," she pointed out softly, her eyes lingering on my face and tracking the dark circles under my eyes, "And now you're shoveling them into your mouth like you've been starved for a month."

"I know," I admitted, swallowing hard before taking a long sip of the ginger ale. The carbonation burned all the way down, but it settled the emptiness in my gut beautifully. "Everything's just... I dunno... dialed up to a thousand today. Smell. Taste. Touch. My body is just totally crazy today. It feels like someone else has hijacked the whole machine, honestly."

Miranda clamped her jaw shut and nodded. I watched the muscles in her neck tense as she swallowed whatever words had been rising up her throat. She quickly looked away, forcing herself to look on at the glowing screen, but her expression remained tight and noticeably conflicted.

"Well... as long as you're keeping it down," she said, "You need the calories, especially considering how sick you were this morning."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

A couple of weeks passed, and I was abiding the nausea and weird fever dreams with the help of the medication Dr. Birkin prescribed me. I thought it was strange to have a stomach flu last this long, but I figured it was just the stress of still figuring out how to do life since moving in with Leon combined with the fact that there was still a whole hell of a lot of things I didn't know about the city. Hell, I was hacking up grey snot for two months after moving to Raccoon City. I figured it was something like that.

I had been cleared to go back to work on Friday, and it was just past eight. The evening rush had just died down, and the ticket machine was screaming--malfunctioning because we got repeat double orders in the day. Miranda just unplugged it and let it go till it stopped.
The kitchen air was thick and humid, the smell of yeast hanging off of every point of existence everywhere I turned, and the smell of spicy Italian sausage was making my stomach rumble so hard, I thought it might make my stomach scrunch up and cave in on itself. Miranda had started cleaning up in preparation for the next little burst before close in a couple of hours, and she had sent me on my last fifteen minute break of the day. Rather than spend it in the breakroom, I had tucked away into the space by the walk-in cooler just trying to exist in peace.

I had been freezing since the moment I woke up this morning, so I took one of Leon's thickest hoodies and stuffed it under my work uniform; my boss would've usually made me take it off, especially given how hot it usually is in the kitchen, but she let me keep it on. It didn't stop the setup from being torture and relief in equal measure--one thing that the anti-nausea meds didn't help was the overwhelming hypersensitivities I still suffered from. The heavy cotton against my skin was making me want to whine aloud with every breath I took, and I was hangry nearly to the point of tears.
I had swiped a coffee cup from the breakroom and my fingers were curled around the heavy ceramic handle. I'd spent the first three minutes of my break constructing an abomination to the Lord God himself back at the prep station, and now that I was hidden away in the shadows, I didn't bother stifling the sighs of indulgence as I drank it.
The cup was filled to the brim with whole black olives swimming in a mixture of chunky blue cheese sauce and straight olive brine. Under normal circumstances, blue cheese was enough to make me sick if I accidentally ate it--it smelled like dirty socks and tasted twice as bad--and black olives I liked most of the time, but I had to be in the mood for them and usually had to be paired with something to cut the saltiness. Right now though, it was a one-way ticket to heaven on earth. The rich salty-dairy combination was the only thing keeping my brain from hopping right out of my skull in indignation.

I took a generous mouthful of the substance and closed my eyes as I swallowed. It was, without exaggeration, the most incredible thing to ever grace my tastebuds.
A moment later, Miranda walked past the mouth of the alcove with a dirty rag slung over her shouder. She had to backtrack in her path when she caught sight of me, immediately coming back to investigate what I had in my hands, cringing involuntarily in disgust.

"What on God's green earth are you eating?" she asked, her voice cutting cleanly through the quiet of the kitchen. "Is... Is that straight salad dressing?"

"Don't judge, I'm on my fifteen," I muttered, my voice coming out more in a whine than I intended. I defensively clutched the mug closer to me, trying to shield myself while grinning at her reaction. "It's the only thing keeping me sane right now. My skin hurts. My hair hurts. My clothes feel like actual fucking sandpaper, and if anyone stops me from drinking this shit, I will cry."

Miranda let out a dry laugh and leaned on the wall opposite to me, shaking her head. The defensive edge that she usually carried during mealtime rushes was gone and replaced by a strangely amused skepticism.

"Okay, okay, relax. It's... an interesting combination, but I'm not gonna steal your sock juice," she said, gesturing vaguely to the mug with her chin. "Honestly, kid, you're a medical anomaly. I've seen people with the flu and they usually don't have to bundle up this much just to work in a hot-ass kitchen."

I took another small sip of the brine, the vinegar stinging tiny cracks in my lips.

"It's probably just whatever's left of my fever. It's just a lingering bug, Miranda, that's all."

"Uh-huh." she muttered, crossing her arms and looking me up and down. "A bug that's lasted for over two weeks and makes your boyfriend call your boss to take you off the schedule for a week."
I rolled my eyes. "I told him I was fine. You know how Leon can be--I can sneeze and he's got me up to my eyeballs in throat lozenges."

"The way he sounded on the phone sounded like you were doing a lot more than sneezing," she replied, tossing her rag onto an adjacent counter. "He called and said you were totally wiped out and needed to stay home. Didn't really leave room for any arguments."

I took another olive into my mouth and sucked the juice-cheese mix out of it before chewing it and swallowing it down.

"'Wiped out' is probably understatement of the year," I said, "I made him carry me to the bathroom a couple of times because I thought I was gonna fall asleep on my feet on the way there, and... okay, I had a little meltdown about wanting pickled onions really late a couple nights ago, but I still think he was overreacting. He's always doing that."

Miranda didn't answer right away.
She just stood there and gave me a very long, very quiet, very pointed look. Her eyes slowly drifted to the now half-empty mug in my hand, tracking the way I was aggressively fishing out another black olive, and then she looked back up at me. She raised her left eyebrow just a fraction and cocked her head at me.

"What?" I asked, popping a second olive into my mouth and feeling very suddenly self-conscious. I wiped the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand and checked to see if anything came free. "Do I have something gross on my face?"

"No," Miranda replied, her voice flat and tight but carrying a certain weight I couldn't decipher. "But you're telling me that you're all hot and cold, the texture of your clothes bother you, you're making Leon do late night snack runs--under tearful threat, I can only imagine--you're drinking... that, and you think this is a 24-hour bug that's lasted two weeks?"

"It is just a bug, though!" I insisted, the sudden spike of annoyed irritation in my chest catching me off guard. I instantly felt guilty for snapping at her. "I--I'm sorry, I've just been in a really weird mood lately. I didn't mean to snap at you, I'm just--"

"Hangry? It's fine, I get it." she shrugged, dismissing the notion easily. "What did that doctor say though?"

"Oh, right, that." I mumbled, taking the last drink of my horrifying-looking sludge. "He wrote me a couple of prescriptions for nausea and to help me sleep, said it was just my system trying to get rid of whatever's wrong with me. It's fine, seriously."

Miranda let out a soft sound, narrowing her eyes just a little.

"And you didn't think it was even a little weird that a guy like Leon's suddenly turned into the world's most doting househusband? Making that doctor's appointment for you, calling me up to let me know you're sick, getting you basically whatever you want whenever you ask, no matter what time it is?"

"He's... ugh... you know how he is," I sighed, my voice trailing off when I caught a whiff of the Italian sausage. My stomach did a sharp flip of sudden rejection that made me squeeze my eyes shut till the nausea passed. "I mean, I know... I know I've been acting weird. The smell of half the shit we keep on the prep line makes me wanna die, and I hate the feeling of shirts so much that I'd rather just work completely naked at this point. But... I mean, it's just a bug. I swear, I'll be over it in like, a week."

Miranda shrugged--a silent 'if you say so'--but she didn't say another word. She just stood there, arms still crossed, giving me a very long, very intense look. She looked at me like I was a puzzle that was waiting for the last piece to finally drop into my stubborn head.
I stared back at her as I reached into the walk-in for a jar of pickles I bought on the way to work that was now down to just six spears.
I mindlessly put the dirty mug in the walk-in and closed the door, unscrewing the lid with a dull pop, the sour smell of dill and garlic instantly hitting my nose. I fished out a spear and took a massive bite.

Miranda didn't move. Didn't blink. She just waited.
The silence stretched between us.

The walk-in compressors only seemed to amplify the quiet rather than fill it, the sound buzzing lines right through my temples.Hot and cold flashes. The texture of my clothes making me want to peel my skin off. The random break-outs that made Leon change what fabric our bedsheets were. Smells making my stomach knot up. Can't brush my tongue without barfing. A need for salty, crunchy, briney things that borders on unhinged. Crying and getting mad at completely random times.

I stopped chewing.

Suddenly, the warmth of the kitchen retreated. The timeline, previously blurred, snapped violently into a straight and clear line.
The morning Leon and I had a couple of weeks ago. 

The way I threw up after Dr. Birkin put the tongue depressor in my mouth even though I'm pretty sure I had nothing to eat that day before the appointment. 

The weird abdominal exam. 

The prescriptions. 

The secrecy around my lab results because Leon insisted that I should focus on recovering or whatever bullshit he fed to me.

Leon.

Leon had been weirdly gentle with me since the first day I started puking.
I swallowed the bite of pickle and took another bite despite the dawning realization making my insides feel warm and stifling.

"Miranda, I need you to answer me completely honestly," I started through a mouthful of pickle. "H-Has everything I've been doing lately been violently pregnant?"
She finally pushed off the wall and threw her hands into her pants pockets, finally smirking a little. "You were going down the symptom checklist like it was your job, kiddo."

I felt the blood drain completely from my face. I stared at her, my head spinning. "How long have you suspected?"

"Eh, maybe five or six weeks," she answered casually, "Give or take a day or two. What really sealed it for me is when you asked for those jalapeno fries."

"Five weeks?!" I choked out, my chest tightening in panic at the realization. "You're joking! Why didn't you say anything to me about it?! Or--fuck!--chuck a piss test at my head when you saw me drinking whatever the fuck that was in the cup earlier!"

"Not my circus, not my monkeys," she replied, completely unbothered. "And the day he called out for you and I brought the food, he told me not to say anything to upset you or excite you."

Leon did this.

My mind went suddenly and entirely blank. He hadn't been overreacting. He hadn't been treating me the way he was because he was being a worried and overprotective boyfriend. The fucking bastard had known this entire time. He had what I could only assume at this point was confirmation of his suspicions. He had made the phone calls, he picked up medication refills, and he spent two weeks or more keeping me completely in the dark for reasons that I'm sure will just confuse me, make me angry, cry, or all three.
I carefully sat the jar of pickles down on the nearby prep counter, my hands shaking too badly to hold them anymore.

"Can I..." I started, "Miranda, can I take an extra ten minutes on my break?"

She paused, looking at my pale face. Her expression immediately softened as she reached out to catch me by the elbow. "Of course, hon. You feel like you're gonna be sick?"

"No," I whispered, untying the knot of my apron clumsily, "I need to run next door and buy a test."

Miranda sighed and tossed a clean rag over her shoulder. "Take twenty. If you're not back before I start closing down, I'll just clock you out, all right?"

"Yeah. Thank you." I breathed out, stripping the apron off and tossing it onto a nearby stool, pulling the hood of Leon's heavy cotton over my head.

I turned toward the front door, balling my hands into tight fists inside the oversized pockets of the hoodie and walked out, immediately following the course next door. I went straight to the back of the store to the aisle in back and made my way down.

Formula.

Diapers.

Baby food.

Condoms.

Lubricant.

Plan B pills.

Ovulation kits.

Pregnancy tests.

I picked up two 3-packs, plus a small pack of paper party cups, and then hurriedly checked out before heading back into the pizzeria. I made a beeline for the restroom in the back, but my frantic pace faltered when I saw Miranda standing right at the intersection between the kitchen and the rear hallway carrying a stack of dirty pizza screens. She stopped when she saw me--the amused, smugly vindicated boss from just a few minutes ago was gone.
She looked at my face and quickly assessed how much I was trembling, and I saw the tension of carefully concealed anxiety settle into her shoulders.

"You okay?" she asked softly, sounding more like a mom than my friend or boss.

"I... I bought six," I blurted out, the words tumbling out of my mouth in a panicked rush. I pulled the bag out, just enough to show her the sharp corners of the boxes. "I bought six of them and little cups. I don't think I can aim right now, I'm shaking way too fucking much."

"Okay," she said, setting the pizza screens down in the nearby sink before coming up to me and holding my face in her hands. "Okay. Deep breaths, you're starting to hyperventilate."

"I'm not. I'm just breathing really fast because apparently my boyfriend has been gaslighting me about my own reproductive system!" I shot back, though my voice cracked miserably on the last word and my vision was starting to blur. I looked at the door to the restroom, suddenly feeling like I was staring down the business end of a revolver in the world's most fucked up game of Russian roulette. "Oh, god."

Miranda pressed her lips into a thin line, her expression shifting into something fiercely protective.

"Do you need to be by yourself, or do you want me to sit by the door? I can give you space or I can stay and hold your hand. Your call."

I swallowed hard, the overwhelming terror of the unknown finally overshadowing the anger. "Can you... can you stay close, please? I can't do this by myself."

"Of course, hon." Miranda said, letting her hands fall back to her sides.

She then turned on her heel, walked straight past me to the front of the restaurant, and flipped the deadbolt on the front door with a loud thwack and turned off the glowing neon OPEN sign, and pulled the front blinds halfway down.

"Miranda, what about the--"

"I'll just tell people we ran out of cheese or something," she interrupted smoothly as she walked back toward me, gesturing toward the restroom. "Go on. I'll be right here on the other side of the door."

I nodded and slipped wordlessly into the single-occupancy bathroom. I clicked the lock into place but quickly unlocked it because having it locked felt way too isolating for something like this.
My hands were shaking so badly, it took me a solid couple of minutes just to rip the cardboard boxes open--after a bit, I gave up on opening them neatly and just eviscerated the boxes. I scattered the contents all over the small vanity--six sealed foil wrappers, and a stack of tiny paper party cups.

"You alive in there?" Miranda's voice drifted through the door, muffled but close--just as she promised. She must have slid down to sit directly on the floor in the hall.

"If you can call it that!" I called back, my voice shaking.

I tore open the foil packets, lining the plastic sticks in a neat row on top of a shred of paper towel. Three of them were early response blue dye tests, and the rest were the digital ones that were advertised to be super accurate and tell you how far along you are. I grabbed one of the paper cups, did what I needed to do, and then I set the cup carefully on the edge of the sink before I sanitized my hands.
Dip for exactly five seconds.
Results should be clear in three minutes.
I held my breath, grabbed the first three tests in a cluster, and dipped the tips into the cup. One... Two... Three... Four... Five...

I pulled them out and laid them completely flat on the counter and repeated the process with the remaining three. I grabbed my phone from my pocket with clumsy fingers and pulled up the clock app, starting the timer for three minutes.

"Tests are down," I announced, staring at the faces of each test. "Timer's going."

"Got it," Miranda said through the door. "How we doing in there?"

"I feel like I'm gonna puke," I admitted, sinking down to the floor to sit against the bathroom door. "What if they're positive, Miranda? What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"You're gonna be okay, that's what's gonna happen," she said, her voice a calm and steady anchor, totally unweathered by my panic. "And then you're gonna yell at your boyfriend for being weird about it, which you are well within your rights to do. But if you're gonna fall apart first, I'll be here to hold you till you can pick yourself back up."

I pulled my knees up to my chest, resting my forehead against them and taking a deep breath. The silence was heavy and agonizing, broken only by the wobbling hum of the sconce light above the mirror.

"How long has it been?" Miranda asked quietly.

I checked my phone. "A minute and a half and counting. It feels like it's taking forever."

I sighed and leaned back, wiping my forehead with the back of my sleeve.

"You wouldn't be grossed out if I puked right now, would you?"

"You've been eating a lot of weird crap today, I'm surprised you haven't already," she said, "Plus, you're pregnant."

"We don't know that yet!" I snapped.

"You do though," she retorted gently, "Deep down, I know you do."

I swallowed against the thick and heavy lump in my throat. She was right. The fear and denial was just a reflexive respoonse, a desperate attempt at escaping reality before I had to face the music. I think I had known since the day I initially felt any real symptoms, but my brain had just refused to process the information right in front of me and inside of me.
I pushed myself off the floor, joints aching softly, and leaned against the edge of the sink to look at the vanity.

Two minutes and fifteen seconds down.

The blue dye tests were the first to shift. I thought that maybe I'd accidentally bought duds when I saw how cloudy the faces looked, but as the seconds went by, I watched as the dye began to settle and wash across the display windows. As expected, the control line appeared first--dark, vertical stripes--but it wasn't alone. Slowly, and then all at once, a plus sign. Dark. Unapologetic. Unmistakable. All three of them.
I gagged, but choked it down as I gripped the edge of the sink so tightly it made my knuckles pop.
Beside them, the digital tests were still thinking, their little pixelated hourglasses spinning in thought, mocking me, deciding what my fate would be. I let out a sharp, whimpering breath when one of the digital screens blinked and the hourglass vanished, bold text quickly following and locking into place.

PREGNANT - 3+ WEEKS
A second later, another one.
PREGNANT - 3+ WEEKS
And then the last.
PREGNANT - 3+ WEEKS

My phone suddenly went off, slicing through the dead silence of the bathroom. I flinched and slapped the screen, silencing it with scrambling fingers.
The quiet returned, but it felt distinctly different now, and I suddenly felt a hell of a lot less lonely inside that cramped room. It was the heaviest presence I've ever known. Suffocating.
Six tests. Six positives that are highly unlikely to be coincidences or flukes sitting right next to the little paper cup. The doctor was never assessing me for a stubborn stomach flu. Leon hadn't been hovering over me and bending over backward to take care of me over a simple fever. How much did he know while he was coddling me, allowing me to eat salad dressing out of a coffee mug without so much as a second thought? Normal people don't fucking drink salad dressing out of a coffee mug.

"Hey, it's real quiet in there all of a sudden," Miranda's voice was exceptionally soft. "Talk to me. What's happening?"

I stared at the little plastic sticks until my vision blurred, hot tears spilling over and tracking down my cheeks.

"They..."

"They what, hon?"

Silence.

"You're worring me, love. What do they say?"

"They're all positive." I said, trying to keep my voice low so it wouldn't break--which failed, but at least I felt like I had some kind of footing still.

"Okay," she said, keeping her tone steady as I heard her standing up in the hall. "Can I come in, or do you wanna come out?"

I reached and flipped the lock back, and pulled the door open.
Miranda was standing there leaned against the opposite wall of the narrow hallway. She took one look at me and didn't say a single word, just pushed off the wall and opened her arms. I didn't even have to think about it. I pitched forward and practically collapsed into her. She caught me easily, wrapping her arms tightly around me and pulling me flush against her--the moment the fabric of her apron touched my cheek, the dam broke completely. I buried my face into her shoulder, gripping fistfuls of her shirt, and just lost it.
I was thankful she decided to close up early, because the sound that tore out of me was loud and undignified. It was the messy, hyperventilating kind of breakdown.
Two weeks of becoming foreign inside my own body, of waking up freezing and crying, of puking and then wanting some wild culinary abomination, all culminated in a tidal wave of overwhelming panic and relief side-by-side. Miranda didn't shush me. She just held me tighter, rubbing slow and firm circles into my back, murmuring some quiet grounding nonsense against the side of my head.

"It's okay, it's okay," she whispered softly, rocking me just a little.

"Oh, g-god, don't do that, I-I'm gonna puke on you." I said into her shoulder.

We stood there in the quiet for a while inside that rear hallway. The only sounds around us were the kitchen, the muffled sounds of the city outside, and the hitching sounds of my own breathing. Slowly, the adrenaline crash began to settle in. The sobs had eased up and subsided into exhauted, involuntary hiccups and I'd stopped shaking so much. I pulled back and wiped my face clumsily with the oversized sleeve of Leon's hoodie.
Miranda reached over to a nearby wall dispenser and yanked down a long strip of paper towel, pressing it into my hands. "All better, love?" she asked.

"A little," I sniffled, wiping my nose into the rough paper. I leaned back against the doorframe of the bathroom, suddenly feeling heavy and tired. Miranda crossed her arms and leaned her shoulder against the wall next to me. She gave me a moment to breathe, letting the silence stretch out lazy, comfortable, non-demanding. I continued, "I'm fucking exhausted."

"I get it. So," she said, tilting her head to look at me. "What're you gonna do?"

I let my head thump against the doorframe, staring up at the flickering light fixture on the ceiling. "I have no fucking idea. None."

"Well... how are you feeling about all of it?" she prompted me softly.

"I..." I swallowed hard, trying to untangle the massive collision of thoughts and emotions inside my brain. "I'm scared shitless. I'm standing here wearing my boyfriend's clothes because my own shirts make me wanna scream and peel my skin off, and ten fucking minutes ago I was eating olives and blue cheese dressing out of a coffee cup I stole from you and I think I put it in the walk-in... how the hell am I supposed to be responsible for a whole other person? Me and Leon haven't even been together that long! I'm a mess!"

"You're pregnant," she corrected smoothly. "You're in your first trimester. Being a mess is pretty much the entire job description. Once you hit the second, it'll even out. Your body's just going crazy right now because it's not used to growing another person yet."

I let out a wet laugh as I scrubbed at my damp cheeks. I looked back over my shoulder at the vanity in the bathroom. The six little tests were still sitting there.
Positive. Positive. Positive.
PREGNANT - 3+ WEEKS

"Is is... is it weird to say I'm kind of excited?" I hesitated, my voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper. "Like beneath all the fear... it's... it's exciting. Me and Leon, we..."

"Could be the hormones, could be the love. Either way, it's not weird at all," Miranda said with a genuine, warm smile. "It's completely normal, hon."

I sniffled as a tiny spark of warmth bloomed in the center of my chest. Me and Leon. It was a completely insane notion, totally unplanned, and already this thing was turning my life on its head. As I pictured Leon again--the way he held me (or tried) when I was throwing up, the way he'd drive all over the city just to buy me the exact snack I'd been sobbing or angrily ranting over--the panic receded. A small sense of uncertainty still remained though, a little part of myself that was locked deep down inside me, but all of that was drowned out by the deep, achoring feeling tethering me more deeply to Leon than any lease agreement or city limits ever could. No matter what happened, no matter what we chose, I was going to be okay.
That feeling lasted for exactly four seconds.
My eyes drifted from the positive tests to the empty foil wrappers.

He had confirmation from Dr. Birkin.
He had my lab results.
He knew what was happening before I ever did.

If men bring nothing else to the table, they bring the audacity. And this motherfucker brought A LOT OF IT. The secret phone calls. The cageyness. Dodging questions whenever I'd ask if the results came back in. I slowly turned away from the bathroom, crushing the damp paper towel into a tight ball in my fist.
I felt my eye twitch as the silence passed uninterrupted between me and Miranda.

Under my breath, "I'm gonna fucking kill him."

"What'd you say, love?"
I looked back at her and blinked.

"Oh!" I said, feeling suddenly reinvigorated. "Nothing. Could I take that jar of pickles from the back of the walk-in? I know we were gonna make fried pickles tomorrow, but--"

"Oh, yeah, take 'em. Your health comes first," she cut in enthusiastically before I could finish my sentence, "Whatever makes you and the micro-Kennedy happy. I'm not having you walk home hangry."

"Thanks." I said, walking into the bathroom and putting the six pregnancy tests into my pocket. "I'll text you later, okay? Seriously, thank you for being here Miranda."

--

The walk back to our apartment was a blur of neon and noise, and the deliciously tempting sound of pickle brine sloshing in the jar in my hands. By the time I unlocked the front door, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving behind a simmering stew of pure venom in my chest. I like to believe that the thing growing inside me also felt pissed on my behalf--made me feel like I had more people on my side, even if that one person was functionally just a blob of tissue and couldn't speak.
Once I got back home, I didn't bother with the lights and left the apartment cast in the dim glow of streetlamps filtering through the living room blinds. I kicked off my shoes by the door and shimmied out of my pants, trudged over to the couch, and dropped onto the cushions. I sat with my legs curled up on the cushions and the pickle jar in my lap. I unscrewed the lid and fished one of the pickles out.

I ate four pickles in seething silence. The sour, garlicky crunch echoed in the quiet room.

At 11:32 PM, the deadbolt clicked. The door swung open and Leon stepped inside--he hadn't noticed me yet. Even in the low light, he looked maddeningly put together and the hormones were hard to fight as I tried to stay focused on why exactly I was so angry with him. His uniform was still neat, his holster hung heavily off his shoulders, and his hair--God, his hair--fell so perfectly across his forehead. He kicked the door shut with his heel and hung his keys next to the door with a muted jingle.
He unbuckled his belt and let out a long, exhausted sigh, tossing it onto the entryway table before he finally looked up.
He froze when he made eye contact with me.
I was sitting perfectly still in the dark, swimming in his clothes, staring a hole right through him while chewing on a massive pickle. I watched his eyes adjust. I watched him take in the dark room, the jar in my lap, and the tension in my body. Leon was a man who survived on instinct, and right now, I could practically hear the alarm bells ringing in his head. He shifted his weight, dropping his hands awkwardly to his sides as he very carefully like he was navigating a minefield just on vibes alone.

"Hey," he said, his voice tight and cautious. "Uh... you're up late."

I swallowed my bite of pickle.

"Hi, baby!" I said, my voice terrifyingly calm and chipper. "How was your day?"

Leon stopped just a few feet away from the couch. He looked at the pickle jar and then back up at me. The tension in the air was so thick, I could see him trying not to choke on it. He looked like a man in danger, and me? I was having a great time.

"It was... fine?" he replied slowly, carefully measuring his words. "It was a long one. Lots of paperwork. H--How are you feeling? Did your stomach give you trouble today?"

"Oh, it's doing something," I said, offering a tight smile that felt absolutely psychotic on my face. "Did you do anything interesting at work today? Catch anyone doing anything they shouldn't be doing?"

He blinked, thrown off by my disposition.

"Not really. Just... Just filing reports. Following up on some stuff."

"Oh, cool!" I said and took another bite of the pickle, chewed it loudly, and swallowed. "I'm pregnant, by the way."

Leon stood perfectly still.
One second.
Two seconds.

"Oh... uh, wow!" Leon half-exclaimed, his voice pitching up into a terrible, unconvincing register. "Really? Oh my god, that's--"

I flashed him such a look, it stopped him dead in the middle of what he was saying.
The audacity.
I reached into the front pocket of the hoodie, pulled out one of the digitel pregnancy test, and whipped it at him like a throwing knife.
It caught him right in the forehead with a sharp smack.

"Ow! Hey, what the fuck--"

I pulled out another one of the tests and hurled it at him blindly. It hit him in the chest. Thwack.

"You fucking lying sack of shit!" I yelled, standing and pulling a third one, firing it directly at him. It bounced off his shoulder.

"Whoa, hey, wait--" Leon piped up, half-successfully dodging the next one I threw at him.

Chest. Thwack.
Legs. Thwack.
Empty pocket.

I looked down at the jar of pickles. I didn't even hesitate--I shoved my hand into the brine and pulled out a large pickle, absolutely dripping with vinegar, and threw it as hard as I could. It slapped wetly against his arm, splattering juice and garlic flecks all the way down his crisp RPD uniform shirt.
"Hey! Stop that, would you?!" he pleaded. He had his hands up in surrender, but I could see the muscles in his jaw twitching as he desperately tried to suppress his frustration and surprise. He knew he was one hundred percent busted, and the fact that he was looking at me like that only added gasoline to the fire.
I grabbed another pickle.

Plap.

It pegged him right on the collarbone.

"You did this to me!" I shrieked, my voice cracking with rage, exhaustion, and hellaciously hormonal tears. "How long did you know!? When did you get the results back from Birkin!?"

"Okay, pretty boy, just calm down–”

"Don't you fucking 'pretty boy' me!" I grabbed another pickle and chucked it, though my aim was failing from how badly I was shaking. Half of the pickles were hitting the wall and bouncing onto the floor. "Why did you keep this from me?! When did you know?! I ate blue cheese and fucking olives out of a mug today, Leon! I drank it like it was fucking soup!"

Leon finally rushed forward, completely disregarding the hail of preserved cucumbers and coming right up to me. He caught my wrists with gentle restraint, stopping me from reaching back into the jar, which only had one pickle left in it. His hands were warm and firm against my shaking limbs.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, "I didn't want to worry you with it. I was just waiting for--" he sighed, looking off to the side before looking back at me, "Dr. Birkin called me with the test results three days ago."

"Three days?!" I seethed, a fresh wave of tears flooding my vision. "You knew for that fucking long and you were just super cool with watching me think I had a fucking virus?"

"You were so stressed," he pleaded softly, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over my pulse points. His fingers twitched imperceptibly, like he was holding himself back. "You've been burning the candle at both ends, you've felt like complete shit. I just... wanted to give you some time to rest before letting you know. I was gonna tell you eventually."

"Eventually? You mean till I swelled up to the size of a beached whale and started dropping a whole goddamn human being from my hairy male vagina in the middle of the supermarket?" I glared at him, "Newsflash, Leon! Most men don't do that!" I sighed, half-growling at him. "You have no idea how fucking vulnerable I've felt..." 

Leon didn't raise his voice or get defensive, which was honestly the most infuriating part of all. He just looked down at me, his blue eyes softening into this devastatingly wounded expression that he knew always short-circuited my brain.

"I know," he murmured, letting go of my wrist, sliding his large hand up the heavy cotton sleeve of the hoodie until his fingers found the nape of my neck. He tangled his fingers into my hair, applying just enough pressure to ground me. "That's exactly why I did it."

"Don't do that," I choked out, though I always leaned into his touch. "Don't try to spin some fucking bullshit hero story, Leon. That's not gonna work on me."

"I'm not, pretty boy. I'm telling you the truth," he said, stepping closer to me, taking his other hand and pulling me closer to him. The smell of him, the air in the apartment, and the overwhelming scent of pickles wrapped entirely around me. "I watched you sob your eyes out over a tissue commercial the other day. I watched you throw up until you couldn't stand by yourself. You were already so scared, even when you thought it was just a stomach bug."

He brought his hand around from my neck to catch a tear with his thumb before it could fall.

"If I told you any sooner while your body was still putting you through hell, what do you think would've happened?" he asked, brushing his thumb rhythmically against my cheekbone. "You'd've panicked. You'd not have gotten any sleep, and you would have stayed up researching every single thing that could go wrong with male pregnancies till you made yourself twice as sick. I don't want that for you."

I opened my mouth to argue, but I was so angry that I couldn't speak.

"I took the weight and let you be mad about a virus so you wouldn't be scared," he continued softly. "I talked to Birkin. I got the meds sorted. I made sure you were safe first. I wanted to give you a buffer so you could catch your breath."

I glared up at him and pushed him away from me.

"Oh, fuck off, Leon," I groaned, too tired to come up with any more real argument. "That's bullshit. I know it. You know it... Just... stop lying to me." 

"Stop lying to you?" Leon’s voice was like velvet over gravel, that maddeningly calm, steady tone that usually made my pulse flutter even when I wanted to scream. He didn't step back when I shoved him; instead, he caught my wrists again, holding them with a firm, unyielding strength that felt less like restraint and more like he was anchoring me to the earth. "I haven't lied to you, I just... curated the timeline, baby. I made sure you had the information when you could actually process it, not when you were mid-heave over the bathroom sink."

"You curated it by gaslighting me into thinking I had the plague," I snapped, though the fire was rapidly dying as the exhaustion settled in. I tried to pull away, but he was immobile. “I’m not a child, Leon. You don’t get to keep secrets about my reproductive health from me when it’s actively happening to me.”

“I know.” he whispered, his eyes searching mine with soulful intensity, though I avoided his gaze rather pointedly. He shifted his grip, moving his hands to my waist and pulling me more flush against him. The pickle brine-soaked front of his shirt pressed into me, the scent of the spilled pickles acting as a surreal reminder of my unhinged meltdown. “You’re right, and I’ll spend the next nine months making it up to you if I have to. Right now, your heart is probably pounding out of your chest, and we have a very small, very dependent person we need to think about.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, summoning the last bit of righteous fury I had in me.

“You, of all people, don’t get to use the baby as your ticket out of the doghouse, Leon. That’s low even for you.”

He let out a soft breath of a laugh, leaning his forehead against mine. If I didn’t have a headache developing, I’d have reared back and headbutted the shit out of him.

“I’m not doing that.” he said, “I’m trying to negotiate with you. You need sleep, I need to get this shirt off, and we both need to stop fighting.”

I looked at the stain on his chest and felt my resolve slipping fast through my fingers. I hated how much I just wanted to curl up into him and stop thinking, but I wasn’t letting him off so easily.

“Fine,” I grunted, pulling back just enough to look him dead in the eye. “You seriously owe me though. A new jar of pickles. Tonight.”

Leon blinked, furrowing his brow slightly as he checked the time on his phone. “It’s nearly midnight, the stores are–”

“Do I look like I give a fuck? I don’t care if it’s midnight or the crack of dawn,” I interrupted, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous warning register that was only half-joking as I jammed my finger into the center of his chest. “The baby wants pickles, and the baby gets whatever the hell the baby wants. And right now, the baby–and I–are feeling a very special kind of vindictive about all the bullshit you put me through. If I don’t get those pickles in the next half hour, I’m going to find something more solid and heavy to chuck at your fucking head, or I’ll get into your whiskey stash. I will give this baby fetal alcohol syndrome, I’m that fucking mad. Don’t test me.”

Leon put his hands up in surrender, looking the closest I’ve ever seen him to being fearful the entire time I’ve known him.

“Okay,” he said. “You win. I’ll go. There’s a 24-hour market down the–”

“Then go,” I crossed my arms, “And we’re setting boundaries right here, right now. You’re taking the couch tonight. I need space, and frankly, I really hate the smell of your cologne right now–like, it makes me want to puke every time I smell it. I’m taking the bed.”

“Deal.” he said softly, leaning down to press an apologetic kiss to my forehead before pulling away, “But as soon as I’m back through the door, I’m checking on you. Just try and get some sleep if you can, okay? Please?”

I didn’t say anything–I just watched him walk through the door, his movements hurried even in his exhaustion. I knew he was fucking with me still, but as I made the slow crawl toward the bedroom, I decided that a clean bed and a big jar of pickles was a damn good middle ground for now.

Chapter Text

I sat cross-legged in the exact center of the mattress, the heavy duvet pulled up around my waist, vibrating with a combination of bone-deep exhaustion, ebbing rage, and such a visceral need for pickled cucumbers that I was half-convinced I would die without them.
The bedroom interior was quiet, save for the muffled sounds of Raccoon City traffic and the hum of the bedside lamp, and every minute that ticked on by with Leon gone felt like an hour.

Finally, I heard the deadbolt click, and the front door opened and closed. I heard his tired footsteps trek the expanse of the living room, stopping just shy of the bedroom threshold.
I looked up and saw Leon standing there, not even leaning a shoulder in the doorframe, completely respecting the boundary I had set. He stripped out of the ruined uniform shirt, leaving him in a dark grey undershirt and his uniform pants. He looked like he was absolutely ragged, but in his right hand, he had a massive family-sized jar of the exact brand I had come home with earlier in the night.
He didn’t say a word. He simply held up the jar while looking at me with devastatingly apologetic eyes. I didn’t say anything either—I just held my hands out and made frantic grabby hands.

Leon crossed the room, taking the plastic seal off and then twisting the lid off before handing the jar directly to me. He immediately took a step back and gave me my space, hovering awkwardly near the foot of the bed. In all the time I’ve known him, this was probably the first time I’d seem him completely out of his depth.

I shoved my hand into the jar nonetheless, pulled out a cold pickled cucumber, and shoved it into my mouth. The sour crunch echoed loudly in the quiet of the room—it was exactly what my body had been screaming for, and in turn, the intense hollow in my stomach immediately began to settle.
I took another bite, feeling like an animal as I contentedly chewed and sensing the adrenaline of the fight finally draining out of my system. As the silence wore on between us, my hormone-addled brain decided to trade the blinding rage from earlier for an in-depth highlight reel of my behavior leading to the late-night pickle run.

“I will give this baby fetal alcohol syndrome. I’m that fucking mad.”

The memory echoed at full volume inside my head—I stopped chewing as I stared off at the wall, which very suddenly looked a thousand miles away from me. 

Oh… Oh my God.

I stared at the jar in my lap, vision blurring as a tidal wave of emotion washed me out without warning. A hot spike of abject horror pierced sharply through the center of my chest, so sudden and violent that it made my breath audibly hitch.
I threatened my own baby. I threatened his baby over this.

“Hey, talk to me,” Leon was instantly on high alert, “What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick? Do you need help to the bathroom?”

I opened my mouth to say something, but the dam broke before I could get the words out—my voice broke incoherently as I immediately started sobbing, dropping the half-eaten pickle back into the brine and covering my face in my hands, shoulders shaking with the magnitude of my sudden outburst.

In a heartbeat, Leon crossed the boundary I had set and closed the distance, dropping to his knees right beside the mattress. His hands found my wrists and gently pried my hands away from my tear-stained, snot-streaked face. 

“Hey-hey-hey, look at—pretty boy, look at me,” he murmured, his voice soft, steady, and entirely frantic all at once. “What’s wrong? You’re making me worried, talk to me.”

“I’m sorry!” I wailed, the words tumbling out in a hyperventilating, hiccupping rush. “I-I-I… th-threatened to g-give—hic—the b—hic—baby fetal alcohol sy-s-syndrome! I-I’m sorry, I didn’t—hic—mean it, I swear… I wouldn’t do that, I p-promise!”

Leon froze for a fraction of a second, clearly trying to process the absolute whiplash of my hormonal breakdown—and then the tension melted out of his shoulders completely. His expression softened into something incredibly soft then, and he put the jar on the bedside table before pulling me into him and holding me close, which only made me cry harder and I immediately ruined the fabric of his shirt with the amount of snot I had pouring freely from my nose.

“Oh, sweet boy,” he breathed, gently rubbing circles into my back. “I know. I know… I know you didn’t mean it. I’m not mad at you.”

“Well, I am! It was a bad thing to say!” I hiccupped, leaning heavily into his shoulder. “Just—fuck! I’m so overwhelmed…”

“I know,” he soothed, kissing the top of my head, “You’re exhausted, your body’s changing, and you’re angry. I’m not mad at you, all right?”

I sniffled loudly, rubbing my nose against his collar, chest heaving as the worst of the panic started to subside under his unwavering reassurance. I leaned my head on his shoulder for a long few minutes, letting him hold me and continue to ground me.

“You promise?” I whined, my voice still thick with tears.

“Of course.” he replied, bringing his hands up to cup my face and stroke my cheekbones.

I took a deep breath, letting the silence wash over us—the quiet intimacy of the moment easing the tension in my shoulders and upper back. I pulled back just enough to look up at him, sniffling one last time and wiping my nose.

“Okay,” I said, finally steadying my voice though it still shook. “I’m still mad at you though, and you’re still sleeping on the couch tonight.”

Leon let out a soft laugh, dropping his head for a second before he looked back up at me. To his credit, he didn’t argue with me and just nodded, helping me back onto the mattress before getting up and giving me my space again, standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

“I hear ya loud and clear,” he said, quietly accepting the defeat. “I can respect that.”

He hesitated for a moment, looking back into the living room and then back at my face, clearly not into the idea of leaving me alone or being without me. He slowly dropped to his knees at the side of the bed, propping his head on his forearms.

“Is there… uh… anything else I can do for you before I go?”

There he was, kneeling on the floor, propped up on his forearms, looking up at me through his messy blonde fringe. The bedside lamp caught the exhausted, totally devoted glint in his shimmering blue eyes, and it caught me so suddenly off guard so quickly, I accidentally gave myself vertigo.
One second, I was crying, snotting it up, and beating myself up over something I said during a hormonal crashout. The next, I was staring at him till my brain was completely short-circuited.

The residual adrenaline and the lingering ghost of panic abruptly crashed into a wall of something so blindingly hot and heavy that I felt the breath being physically punched out of my lungs.

I just stared at him—the dark grey undershirt he was wearing clung to every curve and angle of his chest, the thin cotton blend straining across the sheer width of his shoulders. I traced the thick, toned muscle of his forearms resting on the mattress, the contrast of his pale skin against the dark sheets, the prominent veins hugging his wrists. He was entirely too… him… to be kneeling there with his attention on me the way it was—he looked at me like I was something to venerate and submit to.
The heavy navy fabric of his uniform pants rode low on his hips, the duty belt discarded somewhere out in the living room, leaving his waistband resting just over his hips. And the smell of him—the smell of night air still clinging to him, the day’s sweat, the metallic ghost of his sidearm, the intoxicating essence that was just Leon.

The physical shift in my body was violent enough to completely eradicate  the nausea and emotional exhaustion, replacing it quickly with a deep, throbbing need that pulled tight and low in my gut. My skin still felt over-sensitive and irritated, but it diminished to make way for the way my body was now suddenly humming, practically begging on its hands and knees and barking, for a very specific kind of pressure.
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard that I felt my body physically rock—I suddenly found myself unable to formulate a single rational thought over the sound of blood rushing in my ears, completely consumed and soaked through to the bone by the sight of this dangerous man waiting on his knees in earnest, wanting to know exactly what he could do to help me in my state, looking up at me like he was waiting for me to give him permission to breathe.

He blinked and furrowed his brow slightly as I remained silent, clearly registering the sudden shift in energy but not quite putting the pieces together.

“Pretty boy…?” he prompted, a fresh note of concern bleeding into his tone.

My mouth felt completely dry.

I swallowed hard, dragging my eyes back up to his lips, and then straining up to his eyes. I was still simmering with anger, yes, but it felt less like a barrier now and more like fuel.

“Get on the bed,” I ordered, “Now.”

The words didn’t sound like they belonged to me. My voice was stripped and void of the watery tremor for just a minute ago, replaced by something flat and feral. Leon blinked in disbelief at me, the concern in his posture stuttering as he tried to process the abrupt shift.

“You said I was on the couch tonight.”

“And you are.” I replied, shifting my weight enough to hook my thumbs into the waistband of my boxers, “But right now, I need you on the mattress in front of me.”

I pushed the fabric down and kicked my underwear away, flinging it off to the side till I was bare beneath the hoodie I was wearing. The bedroom air hit my flushed skin, but the heat pooling in my groin was running so hot that I scarcely registered the change in temperature.
Leon’s breath hitched audibly against the quiet in the room—it didn’t take a genius to do the math, but I thanked God he was something of a situational mathematician anyway, and the worry in his expression instantly bled away from him. The reverence in his eyes that bordered on religious didn’t waver for a single second, but the tension in his frame shifted from protective to desperately pliant.

“Yes, sir.” he breathed, the words gravelly and his tone ardent.

He pushed himself up off the floor, kicking off his boots by the night stand. The mattress dipped under his weight as he climbed up the center of the bed toward me—before he could fully settle or try to take any control, I reached out and planted both hands flat against his chest. I could feel the heat of him radiating through the thin cotton of his undershirt, but before I could change my mind and pull him on top of me, I shoved him backward. He went with a surprised huff, but he went down willingly. He lay completely flat, staring up at me from the foot of the bed, chest rising and falling in anticipation.

“You wanna make it up to me for going behind my back and lying to me?” I asked, crawling over him. I straddled his chest, my knees caging his shoulders as I looked down at his face, letting the last remnants of my anger sharpen my words. “You don’t get to touch anywhere you want. You only touch where I tell you to, and you don’t set the pace. Understood.”

Leon looked up at me, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. He surrendered his agency without hesitation—he reached up, hands settling onto my hips to anchor me and pressing his thumbs into the flesh of my sides. I smacked them away till he had his hands up on either side of his head.

“Whatever you want, pretty boy,” he murmured, his breath warm against the overly sensitive skin of my inner thighs. “Just tell me how to make it right.”

“You’re going to worship,” I instructed, shifting my weight till I was hovering just over his face. “And you’re going to take exactly what I give to you. Something I should’ve done a long, long fucking time ago.”

Leon let out a quiet, desperate sound from the back of his throat as he tilted his chin up, the hesitation leaving him as he became entirely eager to serve his sentence.

I lowered myself down.

The first point of contact sent a violent shudder down my spine. The blinding need that had been threatening to rend me limb from limb was both instantly met and fueled simultaneously with the searing warmth of his mouth on me. He didn’t hesitate—he took the task with the exact same devotion he applied to keeping me safe and his. I moved his hands then–-I only allowed him to anchor my hips, holding my weight as I dictated the depth and friction. His lips were impossibly soft as they suctioned around my clit, his tongue dragging with such mind-melting pressure that made my head fall back immediately as a messy, undignified sound tearing out of me before I could stop it.
The sensory overload was intoxicating and the friction was a balm against the lingering nausea, the permanent itch in my skin, and the crushing weight of the new pregnancy reality.

He let out a sigh muffled by my wet cunt, feeling every bit like a physical downpayment on his apology.
The anger melted into blinding white heat where we physically met, anchoring me firmly into the present. I ground down against his mouth, and he flicked hot stripes, sending sparks flying through my vision and drawing another moan out of me.

“Shit,” I whispered, “Do—Do that again. Keep—fuck—keep doing it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Leon’s grip on my hips tightened, his large hands holding me steady as he obeyed with lethal precision. He found that exact spot again, dragging his tongue upward in a long, calculated stroke, pressing hard against my swollen clit before swirling around the hyper-sensitive head.
My vision exploded and whited out for a fraction of a second. I leaned back and slammed my hands down onto the mattress on either side of me, my nails digging into the fitted sheet as my spine bowed in a rigid arc. A sharp, stuttering gasp tore out of my throat, echoing loudly in the stillness, half-growled curses tumbling out of my quivering mouth.
The attention he was giving me was driving me into beautiful ruin—Leon was a man who made his living with his attention to detail, and right now, he was proving exactly why he made said living. He lapped at me like a man thrice–starved, drinking down my arousal like it was the only thing sustaining him, nose pressed firmly against me while he flicked his tongue with a relentless, maddening rhythm.

Every time I tried to chase the friction, rolling my hips to grind down harder against his face, his hands were right there to guide the movement. He kept me perfectly anchored, thumbs digging into the fleshy curve of my waist and absorbing my messy movements with the solid wall of his chest under me and the unwavering heat of his mouth.

“Fuck…” I whined with wrecked breath. My head fell forward, and even while he was half-suffocated beneath me, he looked breathtaking. The bedside lamp cast a warm glow over us, catching the damp sheen of his skin as he worked and the feverish devotion in his eyes as he looked right up at me. He was breathing heavily through his nose, his hot exhalations ghosting over my slick, electrified skin and sending fresh, violent shudders down my thighs and up my spine.

The pregnancy hormones had completely hijacked my nervous system. I felt like I was physically vibrating, the pleasure building so fast that it bordered on a desperate ache. The lingering resentment I was holding onto in that moment completely disintegrated, cast asunder by how willing he was to debase and debauch himself just to make me feel better. He let out a muffled sound of approval against my slickness, his tongue parting my folds to press deeper, dipping his tongue into me.

It was too much. It was everything.

“Leon… Leon—wait, fuck-fuck-fuck, yeah, fuck…” I stammered, my hips stuttering as I completely lost whatever fragile grip I had on my composure. “Don’t stop… fuck, just like that—”

He locked in immediately.

He didn’t speed up or slow down, maintaining that perfect pressure. My hands left the mattress, tangling desperately into his hair, tugging at the strands to hold him completely flush against me.
The tension coiled tighter and tighter in my gut, a suffocating knot that strangled me from the inside out. I could feel myself just at the precipice—breathless, toes curling, and the utter inability to form a single though outside of fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

“Nghh… c-close…” I warned, my voice nothing more than a breathless, wet gasp as my grip tightened in his hair. “Gonna cum—holy shit, fuck—gonna cum… I’m right there, Leon, f-fucking—please—”

Leon squeezed my hips in silent acknowledgment. Instead of backing off or letting up, he dragged both hands up my sides, mapping my ribs before he tangled his fingers firmly into the fabric of my borrowed hoodie. He pulled down hard, using the leverage to pull me even tighter against his mouth, sealing us together more tightly. He dragged his tongue in one long, devastating stripe right over my clit, sucking hard.

A loud, messy cry ripped out of my throat, the orgasm hitting me like a runaway train. My vision went dark as my eyes rolled back hard into the sockets, my back arching violently as waves of pure, concentrated heat flooded my veins and shorted out every single nerve ending in my body. I clamped my thighs tight against his ears, grinding down blindly with wild abandon as my body chased the last agonizing sparks of friction outside of my own will, completely surrendering to the overwhelming rush of hormones.
Leon took all of it graciously, swallowing my shouts of pleasure as they dissolved into quiet, breathless moans in the dim light. He held me securely, his hands smoothing down my sides as the tremors slowly began to subside, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to my skin as I floated back down to earth.

I stayed there for a long moment, my grip in his hair weakening, my chest heaving as the final, faint echoes of my orgasm rippled out. I was totally undone, my muscles turned into water, but I couldn’t let myself collapse forward without completely crushing his face and falling off the bed. Instead, I let my weight sag heavily onto the heels of my palms, my trembling thighs finally loosening from around his head as I leaned back with a breathless, exhausted huff.
Leon didn’t move right away, laying perfectly still for a second just to let me catch my breath, his hands remaining glued gently to my waist. He traced slow, soothing circles into my skin with his thumbs. Once my breathing finally began to level out, he shifted to guide my legs apart and slid his head out just enough to take a deep, ragged breath as soon as his face cleared the hoodie. He moved more and gently dumped me onto the mattress, sitting up slowly, reaching to catch me and ease me down till I was nestled comfortably against the nest of pillows at the head of the bed.

I let out a weak, pathetic whine at the loss of contact, curling inward and pulling my knees toward my chest. My eyelids felt incredibly heavy, dragging half-closed as I sluggishly tracked his silhouette in the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Leon stayed on the edge of the mattress for just a moment, looking at me with an expression that was so ridiculously tender that it made my throat tight all over again. He retreated quietly into the adjacent bathroom as I stayed there in the quiet, listening to the low hum of pipes in the wall, the distinct sound of water running, and the soft rustle of a towel being pulled from the rack.
When he came back, he was carrying a thick rag, steaming faintly with hot water. He sat back down at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He reached out looking incredibly fragile as he carefully lifted the hem of my oversized hoodie.

“You cold?” he whispered.

I shook my head clumsily against the pillow, too drained and thoroughly well-fucked to form actual words. He quickly set to work cleaning me up, his movements slow and agonizingly gentle. The warm, damp cloth felt like a godsend against my skin, sweeping away the sticky remnants of my release with light, soothing strokes without rushing. He was mindful to treat each task with the exact same reverence he had given me while I was seated on his face, ensuring that every touch was a comfort rather than an irritation. When he was satisfied, he set the cloth aside on the night stand and stood up, walking over to the dresser across the room. He rummaged through the top drawer for a few seconds before returning with a fresh, clean pair of black boxers.

“Can you lift your hips for me, please?” he murmured, hovering over the edge of the bed with the underwear in his hand.

I gave a weak nod, gathering enough strength to brace my heels on the mattress and lift myself up just a little. Leon slid the soft cotton over my feet, guiding the garment up my body before gently pulling the waistband over my hips, smoothing the fabric down against my skin with a featherlight touch.
With the cleanup finished, he reached down to the foot of the bed, grabbing the duvet I had thrown to the side in a hormonal panic earlier. He shook it out and draped it over me, tucking the edges around my shoulders and making sure I was comfortable. I let out a soft sigh, nestling my face into the pillows as the weight of the blanket settled over me and my eyes fluttered shut in marrow-deep satisfaction.

Leon lingered by the bedside, standing over me for a long minute. He looked down at me through his fringe, his expression a complicated mix of exhaustion, remorse, and something else I couldn’t quite read. He leaned down, supporting his weight with one hand on the mattress right beside my head. He pressed a warm kiss right to the center of my forehead before shifting down to catch the corner of my mouth in a chaste brush of reassurance.

“I’ll put the jar in the fridge so they’ll be nice and cold for you if you want another one later,” he whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair away from my eyes. “Sleep well, pretty boy. Call me if you need anything.”

“Mm… ‘night…” I breathed, slurring my words slightly as sleep finally claimed the edges of my consciousness.

“Good night.”

He stepped back and turned the bedside lamp off. He picked up his boots from the floor and gave me one last look in the dark, and then, true to his word and respecting the boundary I had set, Leon turned and quietly retreated into the living room, silently shutting the bedroom door.

Chapter Text

The sound of heavy RPD velcro tore me blind from sleep the following morning—Leon was putting on his tactical vest just by the sound of it. Before I could even register the movements, I was already in the hall with him—he was fully geared up for work already. Uniform pressed and clean, duty belt heavy on his hip, boots laced tightly. He was entirely in work mode, adjusting his collar in the hallway mirror and reaching for his keys on the counter, completely prepared to head into the crisp early morning air for a grueling fourteen-hour shift.

He didn’t even fully turn the deadbolt before I scrambled to him so fast that I slammed face-first into his chest.

The impact forced a startled sound out of him, his heavy boots squeaking against the floor as he instinctively caught my waist to keep us both from smashing into the nearby wall.

“I’m not letting you leave,” I whined, the sound coming out of my throat so aggressively that it sounded borderline unhinged. “You’re not going anywhere. Fucking—unbuckle all of this shit right now.”

Leon blinked down at me in a combination of bewilderment and genuine alarm. He slightly pulled his head back, taking in the sight of my flushed, tear-streaked face, my wild eyes, and the way I was practically grinding my teeth from the sheer force of horniness vibrating through my electrified veins.

“Pretty boy…” Leon sighed, hovering in a strange middle ground between protective partner and a predator with an appetite twice as insatiable as his. “What’s wrong? Are you hurting? Do you feel sick? Talk to me.”

“I’m fucking dying,” I said, rubbing my face roughly into his chest as a high-pitchedd, frustrated sob hitched in my chest while I ground my hips aggressively against the unforgiving bulk of his duty belt, desperate for any relief. The rigid leather pressed just above my aching heat, and the fleeting friction was so deeply unsatisfying that I had to suppress the urge to scream in rage. “I need you to fuck me. Right now. If you walk out that door, I’m going to lose my ever-loving fucking mind. I am not joking around, take your pants off.”

Leon’s brain visibly stalled.

He looked down at my hands, then at my face, completely and utterly out of his depth against the violence of my hormones.

“I… my shift starts in fifteen minutes. Chief Irons will—”

“I don’t give a fuck about Irons!” I wailed, aggressively tugging at the straps of his vest and hanging off of them by my middle and forefingers before I dropped to my knees right in front of him on the hard floor. My hands frantically clawed at the heavy buckle of his belt, fiddling with it with uncoordinated fury. “I don’t care about the RPD! I don’t care about paperwork or what Irons says, he can fucking suck my dick from the back, and so can Branagh if he has anything to say about it! I need you now, Leon, please, I’m literally gonna start crying until I can’t breathe or throw up, please, just do it—”

The feral desperation in my voice finally demolished his remaining discipline.

He let out a heavy sigh, the helplessness in his posture shifting into something dark and intense, and almost as hungry as I was. The concern was still in his eyes, but it had taken a backseat to a mix of amusement and pressured arousal.

“Okay,” he said with a slight laugh, “Okay—Jesus—Hold on, stop clawing at it, you’re going to break it. Let me do it.”

He didn’t bother taking me back to bed, unbuckling the duty belt and letting it clatter unceremoniously to the floor. He ripped the tactical vest off and tossed the heavy gear to the side before one of his hands came down to grip my hair, pulling my head back so I had to look up at him—my brain responded by immediately turning off, leaving me to involuntarily let out an undignified moan, staring wet-mouthed and glassy-eyed, completely brain dead, up at him while my weeping cunt ached and clenched around nothing.

“You want it that bad, huh?” he asked, his breathing turning heavy and shallow as he used one hand to unbutton his uniform pants. “You’re gonna make me lose my job, pretty boy.”

“Nnh… d-don’ care…” I whimpered, grabbing his thighs for balance as he shoved his uniform trousers and boxers down to his knees. 

The sight of him—hard, thick, and pulsing right in front of my face—made me drop my mouth open just on instinct. I didn’t want slow, I didn’t want sweet kisses, I didn’t want fucking praise or the tender worship from last night. I wanted him to fuck me as disrespectfully as possible just like he used to or jam his cock so far down my throat that it cured all my cravings for the next month. My skin felt like it was on fire, my brain entirely reduced to a single, primal, thumping need.

I felt my arousal drooling onto the floor.

I scrambled up his body, turned around, and bent over the entryway table, gripping the wooden edge until my nails bit into the lacquer. I kicked my boxers down to my ankles and spread my legs wide, exposing my completely soaked and trembling cunt to the cool air of the apartment, my hips arching back in pathetic invitation.

“Fuck me,” I choked out, frantic, frustrated tears finally slipping down my face. “Leon, please, don’t be gentle. R-Remember the hike? I want it… j-just like that. Please, don’t be gentle, I’ll be so fucking mad if you’re gentle.”

“Pretty boy—”

“Just fucking rape me, Leon, god damn it! Just stop fucking thinking!”

Leon’s breath caught hard in his throat. His entire body went deathly still, his blue eyes darkening till they were completely shadowed under his brow. The tentative smirk vanished from his face, replaced by an expression that was the completely focused and dangerous predator I knew him to be. I just handed him the keys to the kingdom, and all I had to do was remind him of the Arklays and that dingy little picnic table.

He didn’t give me a single second to regret my words.

“Do you really want it like the hike, pretty boy?” Leon murmured, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly smooth register that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “Do you really want me to stop thinking?”

Before the last word even left his mouth, he clamped his hand around the back of my neck, fingers digging roughly into my skin with such force that pressed my face down hard against the lacquered wood of the entryway table. The sudden, rough impact knocked the breath right out of my lungs and forced an undignified whimper out of me.
He stepped in and jammed his thigh directly between mine to force my legs wider apart, pinning my lower half against the edge of the furniture. I felt the cold metal of his discarded duty belt bite into the side of my ankle on the floor—a sharp reminder of how quickly he shed his facade the moment I begged on my hands and knees for it to return.

“Look at you,” Leon growled against my ear, sounding in complete awe as his free hand reached down and roughly anchored itself to the meat of my hip, pulling me back against him. His thick, pulsing cock smeared our combined arousal against my cunt, the friction so intense that it ripped another whine from my throat. “Shaking like a fucking leaf. You’re just asking for it, aren’t you, pretty boy?”

“Yes… Leon… Yeah, please—”

“Shut up,” he commanded, the tone completely short-circuiting my brain. “You told me to stop thinking, so you’re going to stop talking.”

“But—”

“Stop talking, or I tape that pretty mouth of yours shut instead of your wrists. How does that sound?”

A violent sob wracked my frame as I felt him aligning against my quivering folds.

He didn’t ease himself in. He didn’t give me time to adjust to his size. He simply braced his hand on the small of my back and drove himself forward in one heavy, merciless thrust that punched the breath right out of my mouth.

The fullness was absolutely staggering, and a guttural scream clawed its way out of my throat as I scratched uselessly at the smooth lacquer of the table while he buried himself to the hilt, hitting my cervix with enough force to make me fully black out. The blinding heat of the penetration was so intense, it felt like 90,000 volts straight to my brain, immediately scattering the miserable tension that had been driving me insane all morning. He didn’t let me waste a second to catch my breath, locking his hand back onto my hip, using his weight to pin me forward as he began to fuck me with the same brutal, driving cadence that perfectly mirrored the relentless pace he used in the mountains.

Every single stroke was deep and heavily disrespectful. The loud, wet smacking of flesh-on-flesh echoed off the narrow walls of the hallway and likely into the hallway outside of our apartment—an obscene, dirty, rhythmic noise that made my face burn with a mixture of sweet humiliation and agonizing pleasure, forcing me to go cross-eyed from the intensity and hang my mouth open while I panted like a stray dog. He was pulling back until the blunt, swollen head of his cock was nearly slipping free of my dripping cunt before slamming back inside, dragging along my sensitive G-spot over and over and over and over and over…

I was rendered completely mindless within seconds.

My head lolled limply against the wood as fat, frustrated tears of sensory overload finally spilled down my cheeks. I blindly rocked my hips backward into every punishing shove, matching his frantic pace with a primal, embarrassing greed of my own.

“God, you’re fucking tight,” Leon panted, his breathing turning ragged and chest heaving with every driving motion. “You’re just fucking devouring me. Just like in the woods. I should make you look at how wet you are for this… but I think you’d like that too much, pretty boy, and dumb little helpless rape toys don’t get to have what they like, do they?”

I shook my head, drooling all over the table.

He reached around, his large, heavy palm splaying across my stomach, pulling me harder into him while he aggressively targeted the throbbing peak of my clit, targeting the over-sensitive head until I couldn’t breathe. I wanted it to stop, but by God, no the hell I fucking didn’t.

The double onslaught was too much.

My back arched, my throat clicking as a string of broken, incomprehensible moans spilled from my lips. The orgasm was rushing toward me at crushing speeds, fueled entirely by the raw, animalistic roughness of him, and the terrifyingly beautiful certainty that he wasn’t going to stop until it was convenient for him.

“L-Leon! Leon—I—please! Please! Please!”

“Take it,” he ordered, his pace turning frantic as his thrusts became shallower and faster, feeling my internal muscles begin to violently clamp down around his cock. “Cum all over my cock, pretty boy.”

I shrieked into the empty apartment, my vision whiting out entirely as I clamped down around him in pulsing, exhausted waves. The orgasm so thoroughly wrecked me that it set me pin-straight, forcing my legs straight back and into the air, and I arched my neck back hard enough to crack while my eyes rolled back into my skull.

The frantic contractions of my release instantly pushed Leon over the edge, and he let out a strangled groan against my neck—he pulled the shirt I was wearing to the side and clamped his teeth down, marking me hard enough for my orgasm to rebound to force my cunt to milk his length more while he buried himself inside me. His body locked up completely one last, desperate time and he held himself deep, his hips shuddering violently as he blew his seed thick and hot against my pulsing walls, filling me till I was leaking onto the floor while his breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps against my skin.

He quickly unsheathed himself and gave my ass a rough squeeze while he put his things back on, leaving me there to shudder in my own filth.

“I gotta go now, pretty boy,” he said as he pressed a kiss to my sweat-slicked temple. “I don’t have time to clean you up.”

All I could manage was a blissed-out whimper in response. He chuckled, the doting mask slipping snugly back into place.

“Just make sure you’re not late for work either, okay?” he said as he made his way out the door, “If you’re still hungry for more of that after our shifts… let me know. God knows I will be, too. Fuck, it feels good to do it again. Thank you for that, pretty boy.”

The door shut and locked with a soft click.

Chapter Text

I felt absolutely fantastic after letting Leon take the reins that morning. No nausea, no weird back pain—hell, I don’t even think I had a shower that good in a long, long time. And even though I still had to wear a hoodie under my work shirt, I was on cloud nine all the way to work.

That feeling lasted for exactly four hours, six minutes, and fifty two seconds.

The heat in the kitchen, in my state, usually served as a comfort against the awful chills I got. Today, though, it was absolutely suffocating. The air inside the pizzeria smelled thickly of burnt cornmeal and grease. Normally, it would have just been background noise and a welcome distraction from the slog of daily life, but right now, it was making my stomach churn.
Miranda had given me easy tasks that day—scrubbing counters, folding pizza boxes, doing superficial inventory (which was really, honestly just her letting me graze if she thought I was getting hangry), mixing sauces, running the industrial dishwasher, taking restaurant laundry to the laundromat next door. 

The laundry trip was my favorite part of the shift—a chance to get away from the heat, the hum of appliances, the constant pinging of telephone and mobile orders on the register and just feel the cool mist softly besieging the city—but when I hauled the heavy bag of aprons back into the kitchen, the weight of it feeling suddenly insurmountable.

The bottom dropped out, sending aprons tumbling into a pile on the tiled floor.

One second, I was humming idly along to the radio and thinking about the way Leon held me and the next, the atmosphere felt horribly bogged down. The cloud nine feeling had been completely vacuumed out of me and left me with a hollow ache that vibrated right down into my marrow.

I sat the laundry bag on the prep table, but my hands were shaking so hard, I dropped the bag on the floor right on top of the aprons, rustling loudly.

The sound would’ve been innocuous to anyone else, and should’ve been the same to me, but it cut me clean to the bone like a razor blade.

Before I could stop it, my breath hitched and my throat seized. I stared at the canvas bag, and all I could see was the vacancy.

Leon wasn’t here.

The high was gone.

And right now, I was just some miserable, miserably pregnant guy in a sweaty-ass pizzeria.

I grabbed the edge of the counter to steady myself, but I clenched my fingers around the edge as my knees started to feel like they were turning into water. I thought I was just tired, but after a minute of standing there I realized it was a much more profound event of total unraveling.

Where is he? Where did he go?

Of course, logically, I knew exactly where he would be at this time of day. The thought wasn’t a choice, it was a compulsion that clawed at me from deep inside my gut. I needed him, the smell of him, that one specific way he looked at me when he was the only thing holding me together.
I didn’t realize I was crying until I felt a tear on my cheek, and then another, and then a full sob tearing slowly and painfully out of my chest. I tried to stifle it with my hand, but it only amplified the sound and echoed my low, pathetic whine off the walls.

“Hon? Hey—Hey, look at me.”

Miranda’s voice was the only thing that kept me from completely collapsing. She was there in an instant with a firm hand on my shoulder, steering me away from the line. She didn’t ask questions. She just saw that I was hyperventilating, clutching the hem of Leon’s borrowed hoodie like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to the inside of my own body, and the way my eyes were darting around the room.

She pulled me into the rear hallway away from everyone and everything else.

She didn’t lecture me about freezing up. She didn’t ask me what’s wrong. She just pressed a cold bottle of water into my hands and a small cup of blue cheese dressing with a cluster of black olives in it—I couldn’t get a read on her expression, but she seemed deeply concerned.

“You’re done,” she said. “You look like you’re about to fall over. Be honest with me, love… this isn’t just work stress, is it?”

“I—I can’t—” I gasped, the words barely making it past my quivering lips. “I just… I need—I need to go. Please.”

“Hey, shh-shh, I know,” she said as she put her arm around me and pulled her phone out of her apron pocket. “I’m calling you a cab. You can go home and lay down, or you can go see Leon down at the station if you need to. Either way, you’re gonna sit down, you’re gonna prop your feet up, and you’re just gonna relax today, okay?”

I nodded and wiped my face with the back of my sleeve.

She walked me out to the curb, the cool air doing nothing to soothe the irrational desperation clawing at my insides. When the taxi pulled up, she opened the door for me but not before checking my forehead with the back of her hand.

“Maybe go home and rest first, kiddo. You’re burning up.”

I mumbled an agreement that felt like it was coming from someone else entirely, but the second the taxi door shut, the facade fell. I didn’t give the driver my address. My brain was firing on one track only, a primal homing beacon that had nothing to do with the need to rest and everything to do with the man who had rearranged my nervous system as well as my guts this morning. 

“Raccoon City PD, please.” I rasped, my voice barely audible over the air vents. 

“On it.”

The ride was a sensory nightmare.

The interior of the cab was stuffy and smelled like a repulsive combination of cheap pine air freshener and upholstery glue. I spent the entire journey pressing my forehead against the cool glass of the window, shivering despite the feverish heat radiating from my skin.
Every red light felt like it stalled for an eternity, every bump in the road was a sharp reminder of the soreness in my hips. When the cab finally came to a halt in front of the precinct, I didn’t even wait to see if Miranda had pre-paid for the ride before I scrambled out.

The station’s lobby was a sanctuary of crisp, cool air that felt like a godsend on my skin. It smelled of instant coffee and sterile floor cleaner, a smell that I had come to associate with Leon.
I pushed through the lobby, ignoring the curious glances of officers manning the front desk and made a beeline for the west office and pushed through the door marked with a large spade and stopped before the descending steps on the raised platform, leaning against the railing as I scanned the room for Leon. On the opposite end of the room was Leon—he looked incredibly professional in his crisp blues, his posture relaxed, hands busy as he talked with another officer about whatever paperwork they had between the both of them.

A young officer at a desk nearby—a kid who looked no more than maybe twenty at most— looked up and adjusted his glasses before clearing his throat.

“Er… sir, I don’t think you can be back here.”

Great. Just… great. If I hadn’t been crying before, I definitely would’ve started again right then.

The rookie’s voice sounded like it was coming through thick layers of cotton, muffled by my ears suddenly starting to ring. I couldn’t articulate a response, opening and closing my mouth like a landed fish, and my fingers white-knuckling the wooden railing as I tried to hold myself upright. The humiliation of being seen and stopped was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the thought that if I didn’t get to Leon right this instant, I was going to collapse into a messy, sobbing heap right on this floor.

“I—s-sorry, I-I c-can’t—” I whispered thickly.

Before the kid could open his mouth again to repeat himself, the atmosphere inside the office shifted—the casual chatter of other officers died down awkwardly, and almost every pair of eyes in that room were on Leon.
He didn’t even look at the rookie, moving with the kind of predatory grace that usually only came out when he was about to pin me to the wall and make me forget my own name, but there, it was just about getting to me as fast and efficiently as possible. He reached the bottom of the steps in seconds and slid a firm hand around my waist—the touch was immediate relief surging through me as he anchored me to his side.

“Don’t worry about it, Badaluta,” Leon said, his voice level and perfectly professional, though his hand on my side was firm and possessive.

“Oh. Of course,” said the young officer, “Sorry, Lieutenant Kennedy.”

“Just stay on task, all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

He kept the interaction straight and to the point, ending it there and steering me away, rubbing soothing circles into the soft fabric on my hip to ground me while he pulled me into the back office.

“You shouldn’t be here.” he murmured into my hair as he led me behind his desk. He pulled his chair out, guiding me into it before taking his patrol jacket off a nearby hook on the wall to drape it over my shoulders. “Why didn’t you wait for me to come home? You’re burning up, pretty boy.”

The words got stuck in my throat before I could say them, dammed up by a fresh wave of heavy, weeping exhaustion that follows an emotional crash. I just burrowed deeper into his coat, clutching the lapels tightly with both fists. The scent of him—rain, the new cologne he wore that didn’t make me sick, and his underlying natural smell—felt like it was the only thing anchoring me to the earth. 

“I… I just needed…” I managed, my voice sounding breathless and reedy. “Didn’t wanna go home. I–I felt fine, I felt good, but then everything just got too loud and I just… I wanted you. I couldn’t be by myself.”

Leon’s hand came up to rest on the back of my neck, pressing his thumb firmly into the sensitive skin in a rhythmic up-and-down motion that kept me from floating away entirely.

“Is it because of this morning, sweet boy?” he murmured as he closed the door to his office.

The question hung in the air between us, but he didn’t pull away, his touch firm enough to force a shudder of relief out of me. I buried my face deeper into his coat, my chest hitching as a fresh wave of tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. 

“Everything’s too much,” I confessed, my voice muffled under the thick background. “I felt good when you left, but then the kitchen got too hot and all the smells were gross suddenly, and now the bite mark hurts and I just…”

Leon didn’t interrupt, he just let me spill as he continued that steady, hypnotic stroke against the back of my neck. He pulled closer till his knees were bracing mine, locking me into place and cutting me off from the rest of the precinct. 

“Just breathe,” he murmured, his voice losing that cop edge and dropping into that low, honey-like register that I only ever heard when we were at home. “You’re safe. Nobody’s looking at you. Nobody’s gonna tell you to go home, and nobody’s coming in here if you don’t want them to.”

He reached out and caught my chin, gently tilting my head so he could see my face—his face wasn’t the predatory mask from that morning, but it was something softer, cloaked in a doting fondness that made my heart ache in a completely different way. He looked at my flushed, wet face like I was the only person in that entire building that mattered.

“I know the mark must hurt,” he said as he leaned in to press a soft kiss just below the spot he’d bitten. “I’m sorry, sweet boy. I got carried away, didn’t I? I promise I’ll be more gentle next time.”

I let out a shaky, wet laugh and leaned my forehead against his.

“I didn’t say I wanted you to stop.”

“I know,” he chuckled, eyes crinkling softly at the corners as he smoothed my hair back from my forehead. “But you’re burning up. That’s not just from this morning, and I don’t think it’s from you being so overwhelmed either.”

He stood up for a moment and I instinctively reached for him, a small whine escaping me. He caught my hand in his before I could even fully reach for him, pressing a firm kiss to the back of my hand.

“It’s all right. I’m not going anywhere—I’m just gonna get you some water.”

He briefly left the office, returning quickly with a tall disposable cup of water and coming back to kneel between my legs. Instead of handing it to me, he held it to my lips and used his other hand to support the back of my head, guiding me to take small sips.

“There you go,” he coached, “That’s it. Good boy.”

After I’d taken a few swallows, he pulled the cup away and wiped a stray drop of water from my chin, his gaze softening further.

“You’re doing so well—I know today’s been awful, but you’re with me now, all right?”

He tucked some stray hair behind my ear, his hand lingering on my cheek, warm against my skin. “Tell me what you need, pretty boy—D’you need to sit here and sleep? Do you need me to hold you?”

“I just…” I hesitated, feeling gnawing hunger creeping back in, though it felt less urgent than the desperate need for his physical presence. “I’m just… really, really hungry I think, but I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s okay,” he said as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “We can figure it out later. For now, you’re going to sit here, you’re going to wear my jacket, and you’re going to let me take care of you until you feel like yourself again. Sound like a plan?”

I nodded, the panic finally draining out of me, replaced by a wave of heavy, exhausted gratitude. I felt so small and well-cared-for, and completely his.

“Good,” he murmured, leaning in to press a final, lingering kiss to my nose. “Just rest. I have to go and do some paperwork, but I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.”

“Mm… ‘kay.” I sighed as my eyes drifted closed.

—

When I drifted back to consciousness a few hours later, the harsh fluorescent hum of the station felt distant, muted by the protective quiet that Leon had curated for me. I realized then that I wasn’t only wearing his jacket, but was tucked under a RPD throw blanket that had been carefully draped over my lap while I slept. The sight of this small, domestic act of care tucked away into the corner of a police precinct made my throat tighten with a deep affection so sharp, it was almost painful.
I shifted, the blanket sliding slightly, and the hunger hit me all at once—it wasn’t the hollow, gnawing ache from earlier, but the demanding need that settled behind my bleary eyes. My brain, a mess of gestational static, suddenly sharpened into crystal-clear, shark-like clarity. I knew exactly what I wanted—cold, sweet, creamy vanilla ice cream loaded down with an entire tin of smoked sardines preserved in olive oil. 

I didn’t think about how insane it sounded and, frankly, I didn’t care. I didn’t think about how the smell might gross anyone else out. I just knew that if I didn’t get that exact combination, I felt like the world might actually, factually end.

I got up and shed Leon’s coat, wrapping the blanket around me before pushing the heavy door open, the bright light from the West Office spilling into the dim office. Leon was sitting at a desk a few feet away, his back to me, deep in conversation with a couple of other officers. They were each hunched over a stack of paperwork, their voices low and on-task.

“...reports need to be filled before six,” I heard him say, using that smooth, assured voice he used for official business that never failed to make me weak at the knees. “If we don’t get them on Irons’s desk by then, we’re gonna be stuck with it all fuckin’ weekend and God only knows what other shit he’d decide we needed to do on top of it.”

I took a hesitant step into the office floor, clutching the blanket tightly around me, and let out a small ahem.

Leon’s posture changed instantly, not even turning his head fully before he was already standing up, shifting immediately from “Lieutenant Kennedy” to “just Leon.” He spun around, his blue eyes locking intently onto mine, and the second he saw my face, the conversation with his coworkers seemed to die.

“Hey,” he said, abandoning his paperwork without a second glance and walking straight toward me.”

“Hey, what happened to the paperwork?” a female officer asked annoyedly.

“I’m busy, Officer Miller,” Leon said, his voice clipped and flat as he glanced back at her. “I’ll be back in ten minutes, not ten hours.”

She grumbled under her breath, but he couldn’t be bothered, turning his attention back on me as he placed a steadying hand on the small of my back.

“Lieutenant Kennedy, Irons is breathing down our necks about the logs—”

“And it’ll get done!” Leon interrupted, his eyes fixed entirely on me, looking down at me with a look that usually drove me crazy but felt like mainlining oxygen directly into my brain. “Come here, pretty boy. You look ready to fall over, do you need to sit back down?”

“I’m fine,” I lied, though I leaned into him, instinctively grabbing his sleeve. “I know what I wanna eat though.”

The office was busy, the low hum of the station feeling like a swarm of bees around my head, but all I could focus on was the sharp and absolutely non-negotiable demand of my body, a mandate inscribed into the DNA I was actively knitting.

The heavy Spade door at the entrance of the West Office swung open, and the mood in the room shifted. Chris Redfield stomped in, looking like he’d just gone toe-to-toe with an unhappy civilian—or, more likely, arguing with Chief Irons over a stack of bureaucratic horseshit. He was carrying a thick manila folder under his arm held together precariously by too-small paperclips and multi-colored rubber bands.

“Kennedy! Just the man I wanted to see,” Chris announced, his voice projecting over the ambient noise. “If you’re not busy doing anything, you’re helping me with this mountain of garbage Irons just dumped on my desk. The man has either lost his mind or thinks himself above gruntwork. He wants—oh.”

Chris finally saw me standing there wrapped in the throw blanket, looking like a shivering witness clinging to Leon’s arm.

“I didn’t know we allowed civilian visitors in the back now, Lieutenant Kennedy.” Chris said with a teasing tone, dropping the novel of a file onto the nearest desk with a loud thump.

I didn’t look at him, I just tightened my grip on Leon’s arm, my focus entirely on the impossible craving as I zeroed in on the mental image in my mind’s eye. “Vanilla ice cream, please? With an entire tin of smoked sardines in olive oil, or I’m gonna spontaneously combust.”

The entire room seemed to go quiet then—even the phones seemed to become muffled by the sudden vacuum of sound in our immediate vicinity.
Chris stared at me, scrunching his nose, mouth agape for a fraction of a second before he let out a low, incredulous laugh. 

“Vanilla ice cream and… and sardines? Shit, are you trying to mess with my stomach?” he chuckled good-naturedly. “Either you’re pregnant or high as a kite. Either way, kudos to your dealer.”

I stared at him, my expression completely flat and devoid of humor. Of course, passing or not, people hear “I’m a man” and suddenly the possibility of pregnancy completely eludes them. It’s a blessing and a curse.

“I’m not high.”

The silence that followed was so absolute, you could have heard a flea fart. The natural, living hum of the station seemed to freeze all at once in our immediate radius.
Chris’s grin froze. His eyes flicked from my dead-serious face to Leon, whose hand possessively tightened on my hip. I’m guessing he hoped that Leon was going to somehow nonverbally communicate that Chris was being punked and he was going to start laughing and pointing to some hidden camera, but that never came. Instead, Leon just leveled Chris with a look so sharp that it could’ve cut through steel, daring him to make another joke—Chris’s face paled.

He blinked once. Twice. His gaze dropped to the RPD blanket around my shoulders, the way I was leaning into Leon’s side, and then back to my flushed, tired face. I could see the simian Shakespearean typists hard at work behind his eyes.

“Wait.” Chris started, his voice losing all its bravado. “You’re—Wait. Oh. Oh. Holy fuckin’ shit.”

He took a half-step back, bringing a hand up to his jaw—and then, without judgment, “You’re fucking with me.”

“Does it look like I’m fucking with you?”

“Honestly, I dunno half the time with you. You’re impossible to read,” Chris replied, and then after a second, he let out a sharp laugh that startled me slightly, though Leon kept me anchored securely to his side. Chris ran a hand over his face, shaking his head in total disbelief. “I—wow, okay, I don’t really understand the logistics, but that’s incredible! Congratulations, man—to both of you, I mean. That’s huge news!”

He reached out to give Leon a firm clap to the shoulder. “A little you running around. God help us.”

“Keep your voice down, Redfield! Nobody here knows yet.” Leon hissed under his breath, though there was undeniable warmth in his tone.

“Nobody here knows what?”

The three of us turned as Captain Branagh entered through the doors on the other end of the West Office with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a clipboard tucked in the other. He stopped and took in the bizarre modern Renaissance tableau: Chris grinning like a complete idiot, Leon holding me to his side like he was my personal body guard, and me, wrapped in a blanket, dreaming so hard of canned fish that I thought my eyes might go into full cartoon logic and pop out of my skull in the shape of fishes and start pulsing with my heartbeat.
Branagh’s eyes landed on me, furrowing his brow in mild confusion though his tone was immediately welcoming. He knew me well enough—he was a regular on his patrol days with Leon, always stopping in for lunch, and he’d been the one to sign off on Leon’s mountain of HR paperwork when we officially moved in together because Leon wanted to add me as a dependent so I could get benefits despite us not being married.

“Well this is certainly a surprise,” said Branagh, stepping closer. He looked me up and down, taking in the blanket and the oversized hoodie. “You’re usually up to your ears in orders at Miranda’s about this time of day. Everything okay, son? Ya doing okay?”

Despite the exhaustion, a small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I actually felt pretty good now that the initial panic had passed, I had a nap, and Leon was right there beside me. “I’m all right, Captain, thanks. Miranda sent me home early—er, well, she tried. I came here instead.”

“I can see that,” Branagh chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. “You don’t look super worse for wear, maybe just a little tired and washed out. But what’s with the racket? I could hear Redfield from the hallway. What’s going on?”

The air in the room suddenly grew thick and heavy, pregnant with awkward energy that was far more likely to pop than I was. Chris clamped his mouth shut, looking immediately to Leon, suddenly and completely out of his depth. I looked at Chris, Chris looked at me and then back to Leon, and then I did the same. The three of us exchanged a very loaded, silent look as we tried to communicate what we wanted to do.
Leon’s hand slid up my back, his thumb brushing gently against my shoulder blade. He leaned his head down, his voice dropping to a private murmur only meant for me, ignoring the increasingly-interested audience around us.

“Can I tell him?” he asked, his blue eyes sparkling. I searched for the predator beneath—the one from the hike, the one that resurfaced early this morning—but found nothing but the golden boy everyone knew him to be, with the added excited energy of impending fatherhood. “Is it okay, pretty boy?”

I nodded, feeling a sudden warmth in my chest, and leaning my head affectionately against his chest. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

Leon pressed a kiss to the top of my head before lifting his chin, meeting his commanding officer’s inquisitive gaze. The protective edge was still there, but it was overshadowed by profound pride.

“He’s pregnant, Captain,” Leon said, the words ringing clear and steady over the hushed background noise of the office. “We’re… We’re gonna be dads.”

Branagh froze, the coffee mug stopping halfway to his mouth. He looked at Leon, then down at me, clearly trying to do the mental equivalent of figuring out how in the hell Leon somehow managed to shove a square peg through a round hole. When the logic finally clicked in his brain, his eyes widened slightly as the information fully processed.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Branagh chuckled, a wide smile breaking across his weathered bronze face. He set his clipboard on the nearest surface. “I’ll be damned. That’s fantastic news—congratulations to the both of you. Do you know how… uh… sorry if that’s intrusive—”

“Thanks, Cap,” Leon said, a boyish smile finally breaking through. “And… no, we don’t know how far along he is yet. We have some ideas, but we still need to make some calls and get him in to see the OB.” 

“Right,” said Branagh, still smiling and shaking his head. “That explains the blanket and why you look ready to shoot anyone who looks at him funny, Lieutenant.”

“Ah, just doing my job, sir.”

“And what about you?” Branagh asked, directing his warm attention back to me. “How are you holding up? Any crazy symptoms or cravings yet?”

Chris let out a snort, crossing his arms and relaxing his posture.

“Oh, you have no idea, Captain. Tell him what you were just asking for.”

I felt my face heat up, a flush of fresh embarrassment creeping up my neck as Leon shot a death glare at Chris.

“What?” He raised his hands in mock-defense.

The hunger still gnawed at the back of my mind though. I looked up at Branagh, pulling the blanket a little tighter around myself.

“Vanilla ice cream,” I mumbled, “With smoked sardines and olive oil on top. Or mashed in. Preferably mashed in.”

Branagh stared at me for a long moment. The silence was thick enough to cut, and I thought (irrationally) for a moment that he was going to tell me to leave before I somehow contaminated the West Office with my atrocious cravings. Instead, he let out a full-bellied laugh that echoed off the ceilings and drew the attention of the few remaining officers who weren’t already actively eavesdropping. It was warm and deeply anchoring in a way that instantly dissolved the lingering awkwardness in the room.

“Sweet Jesus,” he sighed, shaking his head. He took a long sip of his coffee. “Sardines and… Lord, I’ve been on the force a while, and I’ve seen some real foul stuff in Raccoon City, but honestly, I think I’d take the smell of a burned-down meth lab over that. No offense to you, obviously.”

“That’s not even the worst thing I’ve willingly eaten,” I said, “The other day I ate whole black olives mixed with brine and blue cheese dressing straight out of a mug.”

Branagh’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

“That right? Well, your body knows what it’s trying to build." He said, “Right before my daughter was born, my mother—God rest her soul—told me that if you craved sweet things, you were having a girl. Salty, sour, and savory things meant you were having a boy. Lord knows what you’re in for, Kennedy—at this rate, my money’s on one of each.”

Leon’s hand tensed more securely on my hip at the implication of twins, his thumb stalling its rhythmic stroke for a second before hesitantly resuming. I could feel the spike in his heart rate right against my shoulder.

“Let’s… Let’s just focus on getting him fed first before we start talking about multiples, Captain Branagh.” Leon said, his voice cracking imperceptibly but still remaining impressively level despite the shock.

“You’re right about that,” Branagh agreed with a firm, approving nod. “I’d suggest going down to the corner store and getting the man what he wants if you value your life, Lieutenant. The longer you stand there like a lump on a log, the angrier that little peanut in there is gonna get. Take the afternoon off—I know what my wife was like when she was pregnant, so trust me when I say I sympathize heavily for y’all two.”

Leon blinked, his sense of duty clashing momentarily with relief. “Sir, the reports—”

“—Can wait. Being a dad started the instant you decided to fly without a parachute. I’ll take over where you left off, and if Irons chews me for it, I’ll tell him to back off.” Branagh interrupted smoothly, waving his hand to dismiss the concern. “Or, since Redfield was so eager to pawn off his work onto you, he can do it.”

“Wait,” Chris’s amusement vanished instantly, looking at the stack of manila folders on the desk that Leon had been sitting at previously. “Come on, Captain, cut me some slack—”

“You heard me, Redfield. Unless you want me to get Al down here to ride your ass about the S.T.A.R.S. reports that you’re still behind on, too,” said Branagh, not bothering to look back at Chris as he turned to head back to his office. He gave us one last, fond smirk over his shoulder. “Seriously, Kennedy. Take him home, treat him to something nice this evening, and rub his feet even if you don’t want to—just don’t let him know you don’t want to. And get him as much canned fish as he wants. He’s doing all the hard work for you.”

Chapter Text

After I got my oily seafood ice cream, I felt completely fine again. Though even satisfaction had consequences, and I was pulled quickly beneath a slow-rolling tidal wave of exhaustion. I slept for hours, wrapped in the RPD blanket, completely dead to the world while my body continued the physically taxing work of hand-stitching an entire set of organs together.
When I finally woke up, the sun was dipping below the horizon and the frantic edge of my earlier emotional drop had gone; in its place was something entirely different—I still felt very sensitive psychologically and my skin felt wrapped too tightly around the bones. The hormones further left me with a deep, clingy feeling that made me completely obstinate against letting Leon out of my sight for more than a few minutes at a time…

Which was exactly why, when Leon realized he left his wallet at the precinct during his hasty exit from the station, I refused to stay in the apartment after he told me to stay home and rest.
The RPD basement parking garage was a totally different world at night—the frenetic energy of day shift was gone, replaced by the low hum of recessed overhead lights and the slimy chill radiating from the subterranean concrete, and it was all too quiet. As the rhythmic tamp-tamp of our footsteps echoed off of the walls while we were walking past a line of squad cars, Leon’s hand never left my back, guiding me through the dim light. I was wearing another one of his hoodies, the cold air biting at my exposed legs—I’d refused to wear anything but loose shorts because I felt freezing on top, but dipped into the pits of Hell on bottom.

We made a left and reached the heavy steel door that separated the parking garage from an underground corridor, and Leon reached out, wrapping his hand around the thick metal handle.

He didn’t pull it open.

Instead, his other hand suddenly wrapped tightly around me. With a swift motion that knocked the breath out of my lungs, Leon pulled me and shoved me firmly backward into the cold door. Before I could fully process the sudden change in gravity, Leon was already on me—the precinct’s golden boy lieutenant who fed me fishy ice cream and rubbed my feet just a mere few hours prior had vanished completely, and the predator from the entryway this morning was back

His hands slid under the hem of the oversized hoodie, one hand moving to hold my waist and the other snaked up to cup my breast and knead it—though I could tell he was trying to be gentle, I sensed that he was fighting the urge to not use enough force to bruise—and captured my mouth with his in a kiss that tasted sharply of mint and raw possession. He bit down gently on my bottom lip, swallowing down the startled gasp that slipped out of me, aggressively slotting his knee between my legs to spread them and pin me flush against the door.

“Leon—” I managed to finally gasp when he tore his mouth away to drag his open lips down my jawline, the faint scratch of his stubble scraping against my neck that withdrew a sigh from me. My hands came up and I weakly tried pushing his chest. “W-Wait—S-Stop, we’re gonna get—We’re just here for your wallet…”

He ignored my half-hearted protests, burying his face into the crook of my neck and inhaling deeply right over the tender flesh he’d bruised that morning. He let out a low, shaky exhale that rolled over my collarbone, rolling his hips forward to press heavily against mine.
My breath got stuck in my throat and I froze, eyes going wide beneath the dim light of the garage. Even through the thick fabric of his uniform pants, the hard, pulsing heat straining and pressing into me was hard to mistake for anything else. This wasn’t his version of a simple tease—he was rock hard and ready to hump my leg like an excited puppy if I kept saying no.

“W-Why are you…” I stuttered, struggling to mentally catch up as my own body immediately began responding to the implications, a heavy pool of heat that made my cunt drool and my clit give a heady throb. “A-Are you fucking serious right now? What brought this on all of a sudden?”

Leon pulled back just enough to look at me, and the expression in his eyes made me clench. His pupils were swallowing his irises and he was breathing deeply, unevenly.

“You…” he murmured, his voice dropping ten-thousand octaves below the sea, raw and wrecked, “You have no fucking idea what you did to me up there today.”

“I was crying over canned fish,” I giggled breathlessly, curling my fingers instinctively into the stiff material of his vest.

“No.” he corrected fiercely, pressing his thumb hard into my hipbone. “I saw you walk out of that back office, looking the way you did… and you came right up to me, right in front of everyone.”

He leaned his forehead against mine, his breathing shaky, his self-control visibly failing. “Hearing Branagh and Chris talk about it… having them congratulate us, standing there, looking at you, knowing everyone in that room knew exactly what I’ve been doing to you, knowing a piece of me is inside you…” he trailed off, rolling his hips again, grinding into me with a desperate friction that shamelessly dragged another whine from my throat. “It drove me out of my goddamn mind. I was going to try and wait till we got back home, or take you into a cruiser if I felt like I really couldn’t make it, but…”

I looked at him, my breathing coming in ragged hitches.

“But…?” I prompted him, my voice barely above a whisper, chasing the end of his sentence as my hips chased the friction of his. I looked at him expectantly, sliding my hands up his vest to finally loop around his neck.

He let out a sharp sigh, his restraint starting to snap right in front of my eyes.

“But the second we got here,” he murmured, his voice thick and fevered as he started pressing more open-mouthed kisses to my jaw. “I knew I would be lucky if I made it across the parking garage before I had you pinned to something and fucked you stupid.”

“Leon, are you crazy?” I breathed, sliding my hands back down to his chest in a final attempt at logical social decorum. “The—The night shift… someone could walk down here. We can’t—There’s no way we can do this right now without getting caught.”

He smirked in reply, and, God, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t turn me on more.

He didn’t give me a chance to argue further, his hands moving quickly to hook his fingers into the waistband of my shorts and shoved them down to my mid-thigh along with my underwear. The subterranean chill rushed over my bare skin for a second before the heat of his body immediately compensated, pressing flush against me to cage me in once more.
The next sound I heard was his duty belt coming undone, loud in the dead quiet and sending a spike of adrenaline straight into my blood, and then made quick work of the brass buttons of his pants.

He caught the back of my thigh and hooked my leg high over his hip, prying me completely open and exposed to him, and I shuddered when I felt the heft of him whispering against the skin of my inner thigh. There was no foreplay. No build-up. No worship nor gentle coaxing. He was acting purely on the primal high of the day’s events—he simply guided himself to my soaked, quivering cunt, locking his eyes onto mine for one heart-stopping second before he buried himself as deep inside as he could in one thrust.

My hand immediately flew, clamping over my own mouth to stifle the sharp cry that threatened to bounce wildly off the walls and all the way upstairs. The stretch filled that hollow, aching emptiness so perfectly that it made my vision spark and cloud. Leon cupped his hands under my ass to take my weight as he started moving.

I squeezed my eyes shut, cycling between biting my lip and chewing the inside of my cheek as I tried desperately to not make a sound while the wet sounds of our bodies colliding and the rhythmic thud of my back hitting cold metal echoed around us. I had been doing a damn good job of keeping quiet, too, at least until Leon noticed.

He let out a hum of amusement, one of his hands coming up to pry my fingers away from my mouth.

“Don’t hide from me now,” he mumbled against my ear, “Don’t be quiet.”

“I h-h-have to,” I hissed, my voice trembling as I glared at him. “O-Or you’re going to get us in—”

Leon shifted his angle and hooked my other leg around him, driving his hips in an upward arc to strike a deeply sensitive spot I wasn’t aware was aching with brutal precision, cutting me off.

“Haah—!” My back snapped against the heavy door, the impact stealing the rest of my sentence as a deep whine tore out of my throat. I immediately clamped my hand over my mouth again, my eyes going wide as my eyes darted around the garage. I dropped my hand to bare my teeth at him. “You fucking pri—”

He did it again, harder this time.

“Oh, fuck!” The curse ripped out of me loud enough to echo off of the far wall. I panicked, my nails digging viciously into the straps of his vest on his shoulders. “Okay, Leon, you can stop, you already god me pregn—”

He drove deep, pinning me hard against the freezing metal, making me completely swallow the rest of my words.

“Nngh..!”

My mouth hung open helplessly. He was playing completely dirty and unfair. Every time I tried to piece together enough breath for a reprimand, he would alter his angle, rolling his hips to grind exactly where he knew I liked it best, turning my angry swearing into a loud, wet and babbling mess.

“I swear to fucking God,” I panted, whining as I desperately tried to keep my voice down while riding out the mind-melting pace he was setting against the door, “You’re such a fucking dickhea—”

He bottomed out, and I felt his cock perfectly nestled against my cervix.

“Ah..!”

“Did you suddenly forget how much I love it when you talk back?” Leon growled under his breath, a smirk curving against my jawline that suggested he was thoroughly entertained as he unapologetically picked up the pace. “Keep going, pretty boy. What am I?”

“You’re a fucking asshole is what you—fuck, right there!” I cried, my protests dissolving into the echoing quiet. I finally gave up on trying to muffle myself, reduced to a sobbing wreck as the pleasure started to build, entirely overwhelmed by his relentless pace and the intoxicating way he was holding me.
It wasn’t long before I felt a pressure start to build in my lower abdomen and the muscles in my lower stomach started to roll and spasm. The sensation was a distinct, heavy fullness flooding the base of my stomach, pulling every single nerve ending taut that usually was accompanied by a severe clench felt different from just a regular dry orgasm.
He continued hammering into me impossibly deep, his arms tightening like iron manacles around my thighs, holding me flush against the door as that overwhelming pressure rapidly peaked.

“Le—Leon, wait, it’s—t-too much, I can’t—!” I stammered, scrambling weakly for purchase against the plates of his tactical vest, my head tossing back against the metal. “You need to—fuck, you’re fucking deep… please, you—you need to—shit, I’m—”

“Are you gonna cum, pretty boy?” he murmured, suddenly shifting into a rapid, shallow rhythm that completely fried my brain. “Good. Don’t hold back.”

The break was so sudden and explosive, it bordered on painful.
A sharp, breathless sob ripped from the depths of my chest as the sheer force of the climax crashed through me—my arousal flooded out of me in a torrent, a gushing wave that forced him to slip out of me and completely soaked the space between our bodies and soaking the front of his legs all the way down to his shoes and all over the ground.
Leon let out an airy, shuddering moan as he followed the current, withdrawing from me with a heavy, liquid sound, leaving me momentarily empty and trembling against the door while I continued to drip.

He looked down, chest heaving—in the dim lighting, I watched his eyes widen with shock. The sheer volume of my release completely soaked his uniform pants, coated my ass and pooled onto the concrete between us.

“Holy shit…” Leon said, his voice laced with disbelief as he stared in awe at the mess I just made. He looked back at my flushed face, looking even more ravenous than before.

“T-Told you it was too much.” I rasped, my voice a wreck, completely unable to put a filter on the thoughtless stream of consciousness tumbling out of my mouth. “I tried to tell you to slow down, n-now look what you did. You’re covered in it, I feel like I got hit by a bus, someone definitely heard us and is gonna walk in any second and see—”

Whatever surprise had halted him evaporated in an instant, replaced by a feral obsession that made my heart stutter violently inside my ribs.
He didn’t give me a single second to recover. He gripped my hips harder and surged forward again. Because of the copious amount of slickness now coating me, he slid back inside of me with devastating speed that made my eyes roll back into my head and punched a guttural grunt right out of my chest.

“Oh—Oh my G-God, Leon, please,” I continued to ramble, completely floating away into the edges of unreality as he buried himself to the hilt. “C-Can’t—too sensitive, please, you’re gonna break me, holy shit—”

“Christ, you’re absolutely perfect.” he breathed heavily, ignoring my pleas as he drove his hips forward with renewed energy. The added wetness added a sickeningly smooth glide to every thrust, the loud, wet sounds of our bodies colliding echoing unabashedly in the basement.

Each push forced another liquid spurt of arousal out of me, coating his thighs in a messy, musky testament to exactly what he was doing to me.

“I’m s-serious, you fucking maniac! I c—I can’t take it—h-haah! S-So fucking good, fuck…” I rambled, sobbing openly as my legs went fully weak, leaving me entirely suspended by his grip alone. “You’re gonna b-break me, I can’t even think straight—fuck—don’t stop, I swear to fuck—”

“Don’t think,” he answered, snapping his hips against mine, rattling my spine against the metal. “Just take it, pretty boy.”

“Keep going, keep going—fuck—don’t you dare stop.” I pleaded, my voice breaking completely. The cold metal was a jarring contrast to the heat consuming us, but I couldn’t focus on anything except for the way he was relentlessly railing me into next week.

Leon’s composure left the building completely.
The smug and calculated police lieutenant had been entirely replaced by something completely animal and desperate, breathing harshly, pulling in quaking lungfuls of cold air as his chest heaved against time. He buried his face into the crook of my neck, his open mouth hot and sloppy against my skin as he sucked a sensitive dark mark into the sensitive skin below my ear.

“You feel fucking incredible,” he panted, his voice straining under the immense effort of holding himself back, his hips stuttering as he hammered blindly into me, “You’re so f-fucking wet…”

I couldn’t do anything except incoherently babble, my fingers curling into the heavy vest, desperate for an anchor as the world tilted violently on its axis. The hypersensitivity from my first orgasm hadn’t faded, but instead was compounding, building back into a blinding peak with every sloppy collision.
He was hitting the exact same spot again with brutal repetition, completely bypassing any coherent attempt at rhythm for pure, animalistic speed. The sound of our bodies slapping together was completely obscene, and Leon was starting to whine and moan helplessly, loudly, on top of me.
The rhythm was a complete mess of friction that drowned out the low hum of parking garage lights and the sounds of traffic outside. My head was spinning, vision tunneling till there was nothing left in our world but the way his cock felt, filling and pushing me back till my spine vibrated like a tuning fork against the door.

“F-Fuck, too hard—fucking me senseless,” I choked out, my words slurring together into a panting, incoherent mess. Every time he bottomed out, a fresh surge of ecstasy rocketed up my spine, forcing a high, needy sound that I could no longer think to suppress.

He wasn’t listening to a single word I said.

He was just as far gone as I was, his voice dropping into a broken register as he pressed his face deeper into my neck.

“S-So fucking pretty, God, I can’t believe how easily you’re taking me,” he stammered, cock twitching deep inside me. “I’m gonna cum—fucking Christ, I’m close—”

“Then cum, you horny fuck, just—oh, shit!” I shrieked, the pressure in my abdomen spiking again; my legs were shaking, muscles spasming around him with every pistoning thrust, his breath coming in erratic gasps that mirrored the pace he was setting.

Leon’s jaw was set in a hard line, his eyes squeezed shut as he thunked his head against my shoulder.

“You’re killing me,” he hissed, his voice cracking mid-sentence, hips stuttering as he pushed past the point of no return. He drove in one final time, bottoming out so hard, my head cracked against the door till I felt my eyes shake in their sockets. “Fuck!”

I felt him surge against me, the sudden tension rippling down his stomach and into his thighs signaling that he was starting the hurtling descent over the precipice. I didn’t hold back either, chasing the friction as the pressure built and broke in a wave of such white-hot intensity, that it made my entire body go rigid. I clutched at the straps of his vest, whining and panting, my internal muscles spasming and clamping down on him, milking in an uncontrollable rhythm as we both simultaneously hit our peaks.

I let out a long, chest-deep groan as I felt him painting my insides pearly white; he shuddered and planted exhausted kisses all along my neck.

The silence that followed was heavy and absolute, broken only by our combined, ragged panting and the slow, wet sound of us finally slowing down. We remained pressed against the freezing metal, our bodies still linked, our skin slick with sweat and the mess of our release, neither of us able to move as the world slowly began to tilt back into place. Leon didn’t pull away, just sagging against me, chest heaving, and face still buried in the curve of my neck as he shuddered with the lingering aftershocks, completely spent.

We were still slumped against the door when we heard the rhythmic clacking of boots on concrete.
It was faint at first, coming from behind another door from the far end of the garage, accompanied by the low cadence of conversation.

“You hearin’ what I’m hearin’?” one of the voices asked, sounding annoyed.

“Yeah, I hear it,” a second voice replied—this one was flatter, older. “Sounds like someone’s having a better night than us.”

I felt my heart skip a painful beat.

“Are they really doin’ this now?” the first voice again.

“Yeah, they are,” the older one muttered. “But, Jesus, in the garage? Talk about a fucking hazard.”

“At least they’re a convenient distance from intake if we have to detain their asses for public indecency.”

“Nah, they sound like they’re having a good time. Lets just give ‘em a warning and tell ‘em to move along.”

The panic that surged through me in that instant was enough to eclipse the orgasm and snap me out of my deer-legged daze in half a heartbeat.
Leon’s eyes widened.

“Shit—” he fumbled clumsily with his belt as he scrambled to pull his pants back up and re-secure his belt.

I didn’t wait for him to finish, yanking my shorts back up and nearly tripping over my own feet as we threw ourselves through the door, slamming it shut just as a flashlight beam swept the space we’d been occupying seconds ago.
We stumbled into the hallway and collapsed into the opposite wall. I looked over at Leon—hair wild and uniform completely askew—and the sheer absurdity hit me. I started giggling, which quickly spiraled into bubbling, wheezing laughter.
Leon stared at me for a heartbeat before his shoulders started to shake as well. He leaned his head back against the wall, holding his stomach and let out a deep laugh that echoed off the walls.

“We’re two grown-ass adults,” I wheezed, “Hiding in a hallway like teenagers trying not to get caught smoking. They sounded… so annoyed!”

“Professional courtesy?” he choked out after a minute, still breathless.

After a long while, the adrenaline faded into a floaty, post-orgasm haze, and for a second, I had completely forgotten why we’d even come all the way down here in the first place.

“So, uh,” I whispered, leaning my head back against the wall and looking at him, reaching between my legs to try and wipe the cum I felt running down my leg. “What were we after again?”

Leon let out one last shuddering chuckle and reached out to brush a strand of sweaty hair stuck to my forehead. “My wallet, sweet boy.”

“Right.” I said, still grinning like an idiot. “Let’s go… Let’s go do that.”

I primed myself to start down the hallway despite not really knowing where anything was located, but I was glued right into place by his gaze and further solidified into place when he brought his hand down to my chin and looked, gently tracing my reddened, swollen bottom lip he'd bitten earlier. He leaned in.

It wasn't about urgency or claiming this time, and it felt grounding, sending my frantic heart into a tailspin till I felt a tingle in the cradle of my pelvis. His left hand slid up to cup my jaw, holding me steady while he kissed me and his right hand down, just above the hem of my shorts without dipping below—it was slow, savoring and heavy with everything we'd been procrastinating putting into words, but a quiet reminder of exactly who we were.
He pulled back just an inch, resting his forehead against mine, his breath catching as he looked at me.

"Okay," he said, his voice still rough but warm, something that made the tingling just a little stronger. "Now let's go get that wallet."

Chapter Text

Two weeks ago, I nearly started a fight.

It was the first time since the night I took those pregnancy tests that I’d really dug my heels in and refused to budge. It felt… strange—exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. Leon was used to me pushing back in bed, in the heat of the moment, when I wanted him rougher or slower or to stop, or to just stop pretending that he wasn’t hard already. That was different—that was sex. This was real life, and real life was where Leon had always held the reins. That is, until now.

“I don’t want Dr. Birkin.” I said.

We were on the couch, my feet in his lap, the remains of whatever batshit insane snack I’d demanded scattered on the coffee table (I don’t remember what it is anymore except that I threw it all back up two hours later). He’d been rubbing my arches and the motion had stopped the second I spoke.

“I want to choose the doctor.”

Leon paused, his thumbs pressing into the ball of my foot. When he spoke, it was measured, careful—it was the tone he took when he was trying very hard not to sound like he was giving me a direct order.

“Birkin’s fine. He’s familiar with your case already. There’s really no reason for us to switch.”

“There’s every reason for me to switch,” I yanked my foot from his grip and sat up straight. “He lied to me, Leon. You lied to me. You both knew I was pregnant and didn’t tell me a damn thing, and you asked him not to tell me—which he went along with for whatever reason. I don’t care if that’s standard procedure or whatever bullshit excuse you’re going to come up with—I don’t trust him, I barely trust you. I’m not going to let someone who lied to me be in charge of my prenatal care. He’s lucky I didn’t go to the medical board and report him.”

Leon’s jaw tightened—I watched the muscle flexed, the way he squared his shoulders. They were the telltale signs of a man who was used to getting his way, and evidently, did not appreciate being told no. His hands, still resting where my feet had been, curled into fists before he caught himself and flattened them against his thighs.

“I’m not trying to control you,” he said, the words coming out strained as if he were forcing them through a fine-mesh filter. “I’m protecting you. Birkin knows your history. He knows—”

“He knows what you told him,” I interrupted. “Which I never consented to. You want to talk about protection? Protecting me would’ve been using a fucking condom. Protecting me would have been telling me the truth the very millisecond you knew, and it would have been letting me make decisions about my own fucking body instead of managing me like I’m a case file that’s been spread open for you to gawk at on your desk, though I’m sure you’ve thought of doing that to me too, haven’t you?”

Leon stood up.

The movement was abrupt and sharp, and I flinched before I could stop him—an old reflex that came from other arguments that usually ended with his hand around my throat and my back against the wall. He had seen me flinch, and something flickered across his face—anger. At himself, or me, or the whole situation, I didn’t know or care. He had taken a deliberate step back and put distance between us.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, though his voice was tight—he was a man holding onto his temper with both hands and losing his grip with each grueling second that passed. “I’d never—”

“You have,” I said, crossing my arms and looking up at him. The words hung in the air between us like a burning bridge. “You’ve hurt me many, many times, Leon. Maybe not since I got pregnant, but that doesn’t suddenly erase all the other times you’ve hurt me. I’m not saying this to punish you or throw this in your face, though by the looks of you, I wouldn’t doubt if that’s crossing your mind. I’m saying it because we both know it’s true, and if we’re going to do this—if we’re going to raise a child together—you need to look at yourself and the situation you put us into, and you need to look at yourself. And I mean, seriously, do you even see yourself right now?

He stared at me. His chest was rising and falling too fast, his hands clenched at his sides. I could perfectly see the war raging behind his eyes—the predator who wanted to close the distance and make me submit to him, and the man who was trying, however imperfectly, to be something else.

“This baby is not a doll you just get to play dress-up with and have it magically forget your fuck-ups,” I said, my voice quieter now but no less steady. “Is this the sort of environment you want to raise your child in? Is this really the example you want to set for them? Because I grew up scared, Leon—I grew up so fucking scared. I felt like I had to make myself small just to survive, and I will not allow you to make our child—my child—feel that way. I’m not going to let them watch—” I pointed at him, aiming directly at the middle of his chest “—their father lose his temper and put his hands on people when he doesn’t get what he wants. That’s not someone I’m going to allow you to be. Because the instant you raise your hand to me or raise your voice to me or them—no matter how deserved either of us thinks it is—we’re done. I will take my shit and theirs and leave, because this is not the kind of behavior that I will tolerate. Not for me, and—under no uncertain terms—definitely not for them.”

The silence that followed was thick and stifling. Leon stood frozen, his hands still balled into fists, jaw working as if he were chewing on words he couldn’t tell if he wanted to spit out or swallow down. For a long and terrifying moment, I thought he was going to explode—scream at me, punch a hole through the wall (it would not have been the first time), hit me, do something that would prove my point and shatter whatever fragile trust we had built since the night I found out I was pregnant.

He didn’t.

Slowly, he uncurled his fingers, one joint at a time. Like he was teaching himself how to do it.

“You’re…” he said, his voice rough and low. “You’re right… I—”

He stopped. Swallowed. Looked at the floor, at the wall, anywhere else except for me.

“I… I don’t want to be that. I don’t want our kid to see that. I don’t—I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” I said, and it was so close to being true. “But I have been. A lot. And if you want this to work—if you want us to work—you have to let me make decisions about my own body. You have to trust me, and you have to stop trying to control every single little thing and you have to stop manipulating me because you’re terrified of losing control.”

He looked up at me then, and there was something raw and unguarded in his expression that I was only lucky enough to see glimpses of before—after the bite, after the drop, in the light of the basement hallway. In that moment, he looked every bit like the man I had come to understand him to be—a man who had spent his entire life building walls and had just discovered that the person on the other side of them just wanted to be let in instead of tearing it all down.

“I don’t know how to do that.” he admitted, sounding smaller than I’d ever heard him before.

“I know,” I said. “But you’re going to learn because regardless of what happens, I’m not going anywhere and neither is this baby, and I refuse to spend the next eighteen years shrinking back every time you move too fast or feeling scared when I know you’re drunk or in a bad mood. So you’re going to figure it out. Therapy. Anger management. Whatever it takes. I’ll help you. I’ll even go to therapy, too—God knows I have my own shit to straighten out. But I’m not going to do all the work for you.”

Leon let out a long, shaky breath, the kind he usually took before he was about to push back. But the push didn’t come. He just nodded—once, sharp, like he was agreeing to something that cost him more than he was used to giving.

“Okay,” he said. “You choose the doctor. I’ll be there. And I’ll—” he paused, rubbing the back of his neck and pointedly avoiding allowing a good view of his face, taking another breath, sounding more ragged, almost wet. “I… I’ll work on it. The–The other stuff. I promise.”

It wasn’t a victory exactly. It was something more akin to a ceasefire, where both sides were still armed in their own way but had come to an agreement, at least for the moment, not to fire. It was the first time I’d set a boundary about something that really mattered, something outside the bedroom, and had it actually seem like it was going to hold. It was the first time Leon admitted, out loud, before God and the angels, that he needed to change. And it was the first time I’d taken an honest look at him and not only thought I love him, but maybe we can actually do this.

I’d take it.

—

The clinic was small, sandwiched between a liquor store and a tax office on the lower east side. It wasn’t flashy, nor did it have the RPD seal of approval or a doctor who would exchange loaded, knowing glances with Leon over my head. It had a trans-informed obstetrician with good reviews, a decent waiting room that—thankfully—only smelled of neutral cleaning solutions, and a receptionist who didn’t bat an eye when she called me “sir” and my preferred name when she got me all checked in.

Leon was a coiled spring beside me—he’d been quiet the entire drive with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on my knee, tracing those slow circles that I’d come to learn was something he’d do when he was thinking on the road. I’d let him do just that. The argument—if you could call it that—had shifted something between us. But for better or for worse, he was still Leon. He was still the man who ran a campaign of gaslighting, violence, and control for months to keep me under his thumb. But… he was also the man who loosened his fists when I asked him to, and didn’t storm out to throw a grown-up temper tantrum because he wasn’t allowed to put his hands on me.

He was the man who admitted out loud that he didn’t want to be the kind of father that made his family afraid.

That man was sitting beside me now, visibly uncomfortable, clearly fighting the urge to take over, and doing it anyway—doing it for me, doing it for the baby.

The ultrasound room was dim, the lights turned down low for the large screen. The tech—a lovely, bubbly woman named Chandra, who called me “sweetheart” and didn’t so much as glance at Leon—handed me a gown and explained that the first fetal ultrasound was usually performed via transvaginal scan. She asked me if I was comfortable, if I preferred a male tech or a queer tech, but I told her that I was already comfortable with her, and that it was all right to proceed—that if, at any point, I felt uncomfortable, I would swiftly let her know.

She nodded, left the room to let me change, and came back after I had settled onto the table and helped me get my feet into the stirrups, and draped a sheet over my lap.

Leon took the chair beside me, his hand finding mine.

Chandra was gentle, narrating each step before and as she took it. The wand. The lubricant. The pressure. I stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about how exposed and vulnerable I felt, how the last time anyone had been between my legs anywhere close to that uncomfortable context, it had been Leon and he’d been exploiting the very same vulnerabilities I felt in that office. This was different though. This doctor didn’t know Leon. She didn’t know him like I did, and I was comfortable with it that way. I was even more comfortable knowing that she worked for me and not him.

“Okay,” said Chandra, “Over on the monitor here, you’re going to see an image come up. It might be a little hard to understand what you’re looking at, but I’ll walk you through it.”

I turned my head toward the monitor.

The screen flickered, a wash of hazy grey static that resolved into shapes—the dark void of my uterus, and inside it, something small and moving of its own accord.

“And there we go!” said Chandra, her voice warm. “That’s your baby.”

My baby.

I felt Leon’s hand tighten around mine. I didn’t look at him—couldn’t if I tried—I was watching the screen, watching the little shape that was nestled within my most vulnerable innards—alive, growing, and blissfully unaware of the chaos and violence that brought it into existence. It just… was. It was just there, heartbeat and all, asking for nothing, offering nothing, and somehow meaning everything.

I didn’t realize I was crying till Chandra handed me a small packet of tissues.

“All right…” she said, clicking through a few things I was, frankly, feeling all too hormonal to understand, eyes glued to the screen. “I’m just going to take a look around and make sure everything is where it should be. Let me just get a better angle here…”

She shifted the wand slightly, and the image on the screen slid sideways, nearly making me motion sick. The first tiny shape drifted out of the frame, and for a moment the screen was just grey static again. And then—

“Oh.” Chandra said.

It was a small sound—surprised, but not alarmed. My heart still lurched anyway.

“What?” I craned my neck, trying to make sense of the blur. “What’s wrong? Is–Is something wrong with my baby? What’s—”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said quickly, and there was a smile spreading quickly across her face now, bright in a way that made my heart clench. “Nothing at all. Though I think I just found the reason you’ve probably been feeling sicker than my other patients today.”

She pointed at the screen and I squinted, trying to figure out what her white-gloved hand was pointing to. There was the dark space of my uterus, as expected, the first tiny flicker of a heartbeat, still pulsing strong and steady. And then, just beside it…

“That would be Baby B.” Chandra traced the second shape. Another shape. Another flicker.

The room went very, very quiet.

I stared at the screen.

Two impossible heartbeats. Two tiny, impossible shapes, nestled side by side with their own rabbit-like pulses.

Two.

Holy fucking shit.

There were two of them.

“Twins?” I croaked. “Y-You—You’re telling me there’s two in there?”

“You’re having twins,” she confirmed, still smiling. “And by the look of it, fraternal. Two separate gestational sacs, and both measuring right on track for a healthy nine-week pregnancy. Heartbeats are good and strong. Everything looks perfect.”

Perfect. Two of them. Two heartbeats.
Two tiny people I had managed to inexplicably grow at the exact same time, without my knowledge or consent, because my body decided to take the whole “making a baby” thing—my body was a blackjack table, and this motherfucker doubled down on its own perceived winning streak.

I finally turned my head slowly toward Leon.

He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t spoken.
He was just staring at the screen with an expression that I had never seen on his face before—not when he was angry, not when he wanted sex, not even when I had seen him scared two weeks ago. He looked like someone just handed him proof that God was real and his car had exploded all in the same day. His mouth was slightly open, hand still wrapped around mine but gone slack and clammy. The poor guy looked so pale, I thought he might pass out and crack his head open on the floor.

“Leon.” I said.

Nothing.

“Leon?”

Again. Nothing.

“Leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeonnnn?”

I looked at Chandra.

“I think we broke him.”

She chuckled.

“I’d say.”

I looked back at him. He blinked once. Twice. Three times. His mouth opened, closed, opened again.

“T-Two,” he said, his voice cracking ridiculously when he continued, “Two of them?”

“Well, it doesn’t mean three.”

He looked at me then, and the expression on his face was so thoroughly overwhelmed that I was so close to feeling bad for him. The man who stalked me, gaslit me, drugged me, raped me repeatedly, and orchestrated an entire pregnancy without my knowledge was sitting in a dim ultrasound room looking like he was ready to puke, and I was the one who was pregnant with twice the number of babies he’d planned for.

Ha. Dumbass.

“I-I don’t—” he started. Stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. “Branagh said—A-At the precinct. He—He said he was betting one of each. I-I-I thought he was joking—I thought—” He stared back at the screen, at the heartbeats, and let out a breath that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Holy fuckin’ shit.”

“Uh-huh.” I agreed. “Pretty much.”

Chandra—bless her—was still calmly doing her job, entertained but unfazed by the minor existential crisis unfolding three feet away while she continued giving me the Muppet treatment. “Would you like printouts?”

“Yes. Yeah.” Leon piped up before I could answer. I couldn’t help but smile and snicker. “Yes. All of them. Every angle. Please?”

I snorted.

“Every angle? Aw, Leon, you want a 3D model? A little diorama?”

“I wanna see them,” he said, and the rawness in his voice caught me off guard enough to make the laughter bubbling in my chest die. He wasn’t performing or masking, or trying to take control of the situation. He was just… looking. Looking at the screen like it held the answer to every question he never asked before.

I squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. And yet I still felt so conflicted.

—

Chandra finished the scan, let me get dressed again, and left us with the printouts—two shots of them individually, two shots of them together. Two little blobs with tiny heartbeats, labeled **Baby A** and **Baby B** in cheerful white text. I stared at them, tracing my fingers along the shape of them while waiting for the doctor to come in.

Two.

I was having twins.

I was going to have two babies at the same time, which meant two of everything.

Twice the birthday cakes.

Twice the clothes.

Twice the chaos.

Twice the exhaustion.

Twice the—

I stopped myself. I was getting ahead of things. I hadn’t even decided yet. I had options. I had time. Dr. Mesenet was going to tell me exactly how much time, and I was going to listen, and then I was going to make a choice—my choice.

That was the plan.

Dr. Mesenet was calm and kind, had steady hands, and a no-nonsense manner that I appreciated immensely. She reviewed the scans, confirmed that both babies looked healthy and were on the right track for measurements, and asked if I had any questions. Leon was still beside me, still processing, still quiet, still clearly recovering from the twin revelation.

I had one question.

One that had been sitting at the back of my throat since the moment I’d scheduled the appointment a few days ago.

“Theoretically… if I wanted to terminate,” I said, and Leon immediately went rigid, holding his breath. “How long would I have? Legally, I mean. To, uh, to make the decision.”

Dr. Mesenet didn’t flinch. She didn’t glance at Leon or offer judgment or ask if I was sure. She just nodded and remained professional and laid the facts bare in front of me. The state’s legal window, barring medical complications. The options available at this stage. Medicated home abortion versus procedure. What recovery would look like. How long I had to comfortably and safely decide before that window snapped shut.

I listened, filing every piece of information away, turning it over in my head like a stone found in a river that I was checking for sharp edges before I threw it and skipped it mindlessly over the waves. Leon didn’t say a word—he just sat there, holding my hand, his grip tight and shaky, breathing shallowly. I could feel the fear radiating off of him—the fear of losing something he never expected to have and the helpless love of a man who had done terrible things to get there, only to realize that none of it guaranteed the right to anything. 

The choice wasn’t his.

It had never been his.

I didn’t make a decision in the room, and I didn’t leave with a prescription nor a referral. I just kindly thanked Dr. Mesenet, took the printouts, and allowed Leon to help me off the table. His hand was shaking more now. I pretended not to notice.

—

When we got back into the car, I just stared at the ultrasound photos.

Two heartbeats, immortalized, frozen, still. Two tiny curves, the faintest suggestion of heads and budding limbs. Baby A and Baby B.

Shit.

I was already thinking of them as the babies. I’d been doing it since I found out—calling it the baby in my head, personifying it more than I’d meant to. Now since getting out of that office, I needed to pluralize.

The babies.

Not them.

Not those things.

Not fetuses.

The babies.

I am entirely, staunchly pro-choice—I always have been and I always will be. I believe with every fiber of my being, that no one should be forced to carry a pregnancy that they don’t want, that bodily autonomy is not a mutable trait, that the right to choose was just as sacred as the right to life.
I had a choice. Dr. Mesenet made that clear without a hint of judgment. The window was open. I could climb right through it if I really wanted to. No one would stop me–-not really, not even Leon. He would just have to swallow his pride and accept it.

But.

And there always is some stupid fucking “but” with me.

I was already personifying them. I was already imagining what they would look like when they eventually get here, and wondering if they’d have Leon’s eyes or mine, or if they’d have the same handsome cleft in his chin. I wondered if they’d be stubborn like me or obsessive like him, if they’d grow up in the strange, violent, tender, and so deeply compromised home we were bumbling our way into building and somehow, some way, manage to turn out okay.

I was already woefully attached. 

I was, against all logic and self-preservation and the weight of everything that has happened in the past almost-year, finding myself wanting this, craving it, desiring it.

Not because this was something Leon wanted, or something I felt obligated to. Not because some pro-life asshole threw eggs at me, called me a murdering slut who should be raped and killed, and showed me a graphic, uncensored photo of a botched dilation and curettage—blood, guts, and all.

No.

I looked at that ultrasound—at both of them, at their two tiny, impossible heartbeats and saw them moving on that screen—and I looked at my innermost self and realized that I had already made my choice a long time ago. Quietly. Privately. Without anyone forcing me to do it.

We were going to keep them.

It was probably the first real, viable choice I’d made in months that had nothing to do with Leon’s influence—not reacting to him, not resisting to him, not negotiating boundaries or demanding control that was mine to take anyway. It was just simply and succinctly mine.

My body.

My choice.

My pregnancy.

My future.

My babies.

And I was choosing them freely, with open eyes and open arms.

I tucked the ultrasound photos into the pocket of my hoodie—Leon’s hoodie, but I wore it so much, practically lived in it, that it was basically mine now—and pulled out my phone.

—

I still had my friends blocked. I’d done it the night it all happened at the club, after the alley, after I nearly broke my fist on his jaw, after the voicemail I’d left full of half-drunk rage.

Don’t fucking talk to me ever goddamn again. Lose my phone number.

At the time, I’d meant it. I’d been furious and terrified and so, so fucking alone, and they had just left me to it. They dragged me to that club and abandoned me at the bar to grind on some sweaty, drunk weirdos, and the man who found me there had spent the next several months dismantling my life and tailoring it to his preferences.
But I was still here, still alive, still pregnant—with twins, apparently, because the universe has a sick fucking sense of humor—and I was keeping them, and I was choosing a future I’d never once imagined for myself, but didn’t want to snuff out. And maybe—just maybe—I wanted someone from my old life to know. Not to forgive them or to pretend that everything was suddenly fine because I was a raging bag of hormones and pickle juice and midnight fish and ice cream cravings—but to reach out. Just to say “This is what happened, this is who I am now, and you can either be part of it or choose to ignore me again.”

I unblocked them, took the photos back out and fanned them between my fingers, snapped a quick shot, and put them in a group chat.

I started typing.

—

Me: [Photo Attachment.jpg]

Me: so anyway. I’m pregnant.

Me: with twins.

Me: guess who’s REALLY fuckin bad at being a guy?

—

I stared at the screen. Read receipts popped up immediately.

—

Me: missed you fuckers. dont make it weird or whatever.

—

Send.

Read receipts again.

And then… typing bubbles. Two sets.

The bubbles danced, bouncing in tandem, and my stomach dropped straight out my ass. Nope.

Nope, nope, nope, nope, NOPE.

I was not ready for whatever was about to come through that godforsaken screen—shock, congratulations, confusion, invasive questions about how the hell a guy could get pregnant (I love them, but sometimes they’re the dumbest people alive and forget that I’m trans), the inevitable questions of parentage that I most assuredly was way less than ready for. I’d messaged them on a whim, riding the high of the ultrasound and the quiet certainty that I was keeping them, and now that adrenaline was curdling into an undiluted panic.

“Oh, God.” I muttered.

Leon glanced over at me from the driver’s seat.

“What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yeah—just did something really stupid. I’m fine. Keep driving.”

He didn’t push. I yanked my phone back up and, with the frantic energy of someone diving out of a blast zone at the last second, exited the group chat and opened Miranda’s contact.

—

Me: hey so i just had my first ultrasound

Me: [Photo Attachment.jpg]

Me: im keeping them.

—

I hit send before I could have the chance to second-guess myself. Miranda started typing almost immediately—she was probably on her break, or hiding in the walk-in refrigerator.

—

Miranda: aw that’s great, love! congrats!!! i’m so happy for you!! 💕💕💕

—

A minute passed. I could almost feel her staring at the screen when the realization hit her.

—

Miranda: wait…

Miranda: them???????

—

I grinned despite myself—the panic from the group chat was still buzzing in my palm, but Miranda’s slow motion double-take was exactly the kind of absurdity I needed right now to ground myself.

—

Me: yes. “them.” fraternal twins lol.

—

There was a long pause—the kind where I could one-thousand percent picture her staring at her phone, processing, maybe mouthing “What the fuck?” to herself in the middle of the kitchen.

Then:

—

Miranda: TWINS?!?!?!?!?!?!

Miranda: oh my god

Miranda: Leon must be losing his mind rn!!! AAAH!

—

I glanced over at Leon. He was gripping the steering wheel, perfectly at ten and two, staring straight ahead at the road, his jaw still doing that tightening thing it did when he was trying very hard not to visibly spiral. He’d been quiet since the ultrasound—not the dangerous, pissed-off kind, but the overwhelmed kind. The kind that said I didn’t plan for this shit and I don’t know what to do with it!

—

Me: he looked like he was going to pass out when the doctor told us

Me: i think hes still processing all of it

Miranda: i bet he is

Miranda: but holy shit, kid. twins!

Miranda: youre gonna have your hands full lol

Me: yeah well, they’re already making me drink olive brine and eat ice cream with fish in it, and im puking every other thing i put into my mouth. I think we’re beyond the point of “hands full” lmfao

Miranda: fair enough 😂😂😂

Miranda: seriously tho. im really happy for you! youre gonna be a great dad

—

You’re gonna be a great dad.

I stared at those words for a long moment. It felt surreal to hear it from someone who wasn’t Leon, someone who wasn’t obligated by proximity or guided by obsession to say nice things just to make me feel good. Miranda had meant it. She’d seen me at my worst—crying over dropped laundry, throwing up in the sink, drinking salad dressing out of a mug, single-handedly throwing a wrench in almost every single lunch special she wanted to have in the past two months. And yet, she still thought I could do this.

—

Me: thanks. that means a lot 

Me: im scared shitless. But. yeah. i think i can do this.

Miranda: you can. and i’ll be here the whole time.

Miranda: someone’s gotta make sure you dont eat flour if the tikes want it lol

Me: no promises lol

Miranda: love ya, kiddo. seriously. keep me posted.

—

I turned the phone on silent and tucked it back into my pocket. The group chat was still there, waiting, buzzing, probably long since resolved into whatever messages I was currently too chickenshit to read. I’d deal with them later.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Tomorrow.

Only if Leon looks at them first.

For now, I’d made my choice. I had told people who mattered to me, both past and present. And the babies were still there, two strong heartbeats, tucked safely inside me, building themselves up cell-by-cell, waiting, getting ready to meet the world.

I leaned my head against the cool glass of the passenger side window. Leon’s hand found my knee, and he started tracing those slow circles again. He didn’t ask what I’d been doing—he just drove, steady and calm, toward home.

“So…” I said, watching the streets pass us by. “Twins, huh?”

I heard him exhale—a long, shaky breath.

“Yeah. Twins.”

“You’re freaking out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“Leon, you looked like you just shat bricks back there. You’re most definitely freaking out.”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then:

“I didn’t think I’d ever get this far. With any of it. With you. The baby. And now there’s—N-Now I—” he stopped, realized he was rambling, and shook his head, tsk-ing to himself before continuing quietly, something liquid and honest in his breath. “Two… there’s two of them.”

“Yeah.” I said, “We’ve… already established this.”

He pulled up to a red light and turned to look at me, and the expression on his face was so earnest, so completely unguarded, so completely unlike the predator I’d met in that alley, I felt my throat tighten.

“A-Are we..?” he asked, and I noticed then that he had gone quite teary-eyed, something that served as a distinct shock to my system. “Are you going to–? Are we doing this?”

I looked down at the ultrasound photos on my lap.

Two little shapes. The same two heartbeats. Two tiny people who were gonna need a lot of things—love, safety, a home, parents who didn’t scream at each other or throw things or punch holes in walls or come home stumbling drunk or put their hands where they shouldn’t be or didn’t take no for an answer. We weren’t all there yet, and maybe we would never be, not in the way that most normal families were. But we were trying. And for the first time, I saw that Leon was trying. I was trying, and maybe that would be enough.

“Yeah,” I nodded, my eyes softening just a fraction. “We’re doing this. I’m all in.”

“You mean–?”

“All four of us.”

Leon let out a breath he’d been holding since I first considered termination out loud in that office. He didn’t say anything else—he just reached over, gently cupped the back of my neck, and coaxed me toward him. The kiss he pressed to my forehead was soft, and it became one of three things neither of us had a name for yet, and it made something flutter strongly and distinctly in the cradle of my pelvis.

The light turned green.

He drove us home.

Whatever came back from that group chat, I’d deal with it. For now, my choice was made. I reached out, I had taken a small, tentative step back toward a world that existed outside of Leon’s orbit. 

And the babies—our babies—were still there, continuing their cardiac song, steady, growing, waiting. Both of them.

I felt another strong flutter.

Chapter Text

I woke up to a phone full of unread messages the morning after the first ultrasound.

I’d fallen asleep on the couch feeling insanely bloated, still in Leon’s hoodie, feet in his lap, photos that we looked at probably a million times laid out on the coffee table. He had carried me to bed at some point—I didn’t remember it, but I woke up in a clean hoodie of his and new underwear, tucked up under the comforter with his arm slung over my waist, hand up the front of the hoodie and splayed out over my lower abdomen. His face was buried at the crook of my neck, breathing slowly, evenly, contentedly. He was still dead to the world, knocked out and completely relaxed in a way that he almost never was—even around me—while conscious.

I reached for my phone and squinted against the brightness, stomach giving a sleepy lurch at the memory of creating the group chat yesterday afternoon. The group chat that I’d immediately closed the second I saw read receipts and typing bubbles and—presumably—was still waiting for me.

I took a deep breath, unlocked the phone, and scrolled up to where the conversation began.

—

Me: [Photo Attachment.jpg]

Me: so anyway. i’m pregnant.

Me: with twins.

Me: guess who’s REALLY fuckin bad at being a guy?

Me: missed you fuckers. dont make it weird or whatever.

Chloe: im sorry WHAT

Delia: i???????? huh???? omg????

Delia: am i hallucinating rn or is that a baby scan thingy??

Chloe: ultrasound, dumb bitch lol

Chloe: but seriously… be kind, rewind. lets back up just a smidge.

Chloe: 1. are you ok???? like genuinely

Delia: yeah we’ve been worried about you

Delia: we tried calling you after that voicemail you sent us, but we figured you blocked us

Chloe: we both tried finding ways to reach back out for months but you had all bases pretty well covered and figured if we tried snail mail, you’d just feed it to the paper shredder (which we would have fully deserved)

Chloe: we were really shitty that night at the club… like, shitty even for us

Delia: we shouldn’t have just ditched you like that

Delia: we treated you like crap. we were drunk. we were stupid. and we’ve felt like total assholes about it for the last like idk six or seven months since we last talked to you.

Chloe: we talked about you often and nearly fell out with each other over here

Chloe: i thought about maybe showing up with a peace offering, but del talked me out of it because she said it wouldve been CREEPY AF and MASSIVELY overstepping

Delia: yeah plus you were drunk when you proposed that little marvelous misadventure and there was no way i was letting you act on that

Chloe: lol yeah…

Chloe: but seriously. we’re really fucking sorry. like genuinely. we’ve been so depressed without you :( 

Delia: what she said!!!! we love you

Delia: and we missed you SO SO SO much

Chloe: yeah. plus its a little funny how you texted us just now. we were literally just having coffee and you randomly came up in conversation and we started wondering if you were doing okay.

Chloe: and now you’re pregnant!!!!!!! WITH TWINS!!!!!!!!

Chloe: dude, you cant just drop a bomb like that and disappear on us lol

Delia: okokokokokokok so likeeeeeee

Delia: we have sO many questions

Delia: first one: whos the baby daddy??????

Chloe: is it someone we know? 👀

Chloe: wait do you even know anyone in RC

Chloe: last we talked, you hadnt met anyone and the dating scene was a complete joke

Chloe: everyone on tinder and grindr and stuff were either super boring or SUPER creepy

Delia: remember that guy who sent you a pic of his vintage playboys with visible cum stains on them

Delia: and then got SUPER pissed that you didnt think it was cool lmfao

Chloe: …please tell me its not that guy at least…

Delia: oh god what if it is

Chloe: i think we’d have to kidnap him and make him come to his senses

—

I snorted so hard, it made Leon stir and nearly wake up—he tightened his grip on me just slightly.

The Playboy collector guy. Jeez. And to think I had nearly forgotten about him—just some random dude from a dating app who seemed completely normal until he asked if I wanted to see his collection of old magazines. I said yes the regret I felt was immediate and tinged with dripping disgust—thirty-seven Playboy magazines, whose individual publications spanned from 1968 to 1979; I would’ve been a little impressed if the dude actually had the integrity to wipe the fresh splooge off at least half the cover pages. He proceeded to get all defensive after I very politely declined a second date with him. Chloe and Del roasted me about it for weeks after it happened.

I scrolled down.

The messages from yesterday had stopped around three this morning, trailing off into increasingly unhinged speculation about who the father could be. They’d guessed over half the people we went to school with, some random celebrities, a random hot Asian woman with a proclivity for bodycons and harnesses they saw when we were out at RC Pride Fest together the year before. When Del tried asking how a woman could “father” a pregnancy, Chloe went off on a tangent about how some women have dicks and that’s okay—and then Del immediately pointed out that Chloe was only pointing her out because she tried (and failed) to get the woman’s number.

I can’t even remember the woman they’re talking about.

—

Me: okay first of all

Me: IT IS NOT THE PORN MAG GUY!! jesus christ lol

Me: (also good morning)

Me: second of all. im okay, really.

Me: and im sorry i blocked you. I was pissed and scared and a little drunk and not handling anything well at all

Me: i shouldve reached out sooner

Me: third

Me: you dont know him, but youve def heard me talk about him

Me: well. “complain” or “bitch about” would probably be more appropriate but still.

Chloe: ???????? bestie im lost.

Delia: who is it???

Me: remember my neighbor?

Chloe: you mean the creepy cop who wigged you out?

Chloe: and honestly sounded like a walking red flag…

Delia: same guy he said was probably a psycho creep?

Me: …didnt realize you guys retained that much, but yeah. the very same.

Delia: …

Chloe: …

Delia: dude

Chloe: you’re having a baby with the guy you thought had bodies hidden in his floorboards?

Me: yeah. I mean. babIES, plural. but yeah.

Chloe: oh my god…

Delia: okokokokokokok

Delia: can we at least see a pic of him?

Delia: to determine if we can like idk ignore how much you used to hate him if hes hot enough ig

Chloe: and to make sure he’s not some ugly rando, del, tf??

Delia: you’re right.

Delia: but seriously show us!!! PLEASE tell us the BD is hot at least 

—

I glanced over my shoulder.

Leon was still asleep, face halfway buried in the pillow, softly snoring with his arm around my waist. The morning light was threading its golden fingers through the blinds, catching a faint scar on his shoulder and the line of his softly-grinding jaw. He looked softer, younger, less guarded. It was hard to believe in this state that he’d ever been a predator, that he was ever tormented by issues with rage at all. I shifted carefully, angled my phone just right, and snapped a photo. My face was in the foreground, wearing a sleepy half-smile; behind me, Leon was curled up against my back, nose pressed into my hair, arm around me like I was the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

—

Me: [Photo Attachment.jpg]

Me: his name’s Leon. I’ve lived with him a few months now.

Chloe: OOOOOOOOH

Delia: OH MY GODDDDD

Chloe: DEL HES HOT

Delia: I CAN SEE THAT

Me: what am i, chopped liver?

Chloe: youre okay i guess :P 

Me: fuck off lol

Me: but yes. he’s hot. i agree.

Chloe: bestie… you thought he was a creep and a psycho

Me: yeah?

Delia: he looks like he could bench press a fucking truck

Me: i mean he probably could.

Chloe: okay but like… are we sure hes not actually a psycho?

Delia: yeah because that voicemail…

Delia: we still have it. you were pretty heated and said some stuff about him before you blocked us.

—

Shit… maybe I actually was kind of sloshed that night.

—

Chloe: is he okay though?

Chloe: is he good to you at least?

—

I paused.

My thumbs hovered over the screen as I carefully considered my words. Leon shifted beside me in bed again, arm tightening reflexively around my waist and pulling me closer even while he slept.
I thought back to the way I punched him in the alley after he assaulted me. The way he liked to wrap his hand around my throat. The deadbolt he installed—in hindsight—I realized that he absolutely had a copy of the key for himself. The way I still didn’t exactly remember that one sick day I took and still felt dirty if I thought about it for too long. The picnic table in the Arklays. I thought about the bite mark on his hand that still hadn’t quite properly healed and left a jagged crescent scar.

But I also thought about how gentle he’d been with me since the pregnancy, and the way he’d loosened his fists when I asked him to. I thought about the look on his face when he saw our babies on the ultrasound screen. I thought about the way he nearly cried in the car with me because he was scared that he wasn’t going to get to have them, and the underlying understanding that it was my choice to make and not his. I thought about the way he had been genuinely trying lately, however imperfectly, to be something other than what he’d been for so long.

I typed carefully.

—

Me: hes… complicated

Me: admittedly, he wasnt the greatest when we first met

Me: theres a lot i need to tell you guys. but hes trying, he really is

Me: hes agreed to therapy, and hes working on his issues. and hes been taking really good care of me through the pregnancy

Me: i know it probably sounds crazy given all the things i said about him in the past, but i love him, and he loves me, and i think hes gonna be a really great dad

Chloe: okay

Delia: okay

Chloe: we trust you

Chloe: youve been a pretty good judge of character as long as weve known you. mostly.

Delia: except porno mag guy

Me: we DO NOT talk about that guy, please, for the love of all things good and holy, Del!!!!

Delia: too late, his legacy is forever immortalized in the gc

Chloe: but seriously. if he ever fucks up, you tell us ok?

Chloe: we’ll come get you anytime, anywhere, baby car seats and all

Delia: ^^^^^^^ absolutely

Delia: we owe you that much after abandoning you that night

Delia: we’re not gonna let you down like that ever again. we promise.

—

I felt my throat tighten.

I blinked hard, trying not to cry about it and swallowed the lump to type out one last message.

—

Me: thanks. that means a lot.

Me: i gotta run, but ill text you later. maybe we can get coffee or something soon and catch up properly?

Delia: YESYESYES PLEASE

Chloe: we would love that. seriously.

Me: okay. soon.

Me: i missed you guys.

Chloe: we love you!!!

—

I locked the phone and set it back down on the nightstand. Leon stirred beside me, eyes fluttering open, sleep-hazy blueberries. He nuzzled into my hair, tightening his arm around my waist and gently running his hand up and down my still mostly-flat, slightly bloated lower stomach. 

“Who’re you texting?”

“My old friends.” I answered. “The ones who left me behind at the club the night we… the night we met. I unblocked them last night.”

Leon looked off to the side, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“How’d that go?”

“They apologized. I offered to meet up for coffee with them sometime. They made me promise you’re not porno mag dude.”

Leon’s eyes snapped to me. He blinked.

“I’m sorry—the who now?”

“Long story. I’ll explain later,” I turned my head to look at him. “I sent them a photo of us. Hope that’s cool.”

“A… A picture of us?”

“You were asleep.” I shrugged. “You looked cute.”

Leon stared at me for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes—surprise, maybe, his cheeks dusted with faint, sheepish pink. “You sent them a picture of me.”

“Yeah. They think you’re hot. And that you look like you could bench press a truck.”

“I can’t though.”

“I know. I told them you probably could anyway.”

He let out an incredulous huff of laughter and pressed his face back into my hair. “You’re unbelievable, pretty boy.”

“You love it though.”

“I do.” he said, and the sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.”

—

Miranda texted me a few days later with an interesting proposition.

She had taken a day off because one of her kids came down with some nasty bug, but she texted me during my break. Her message was casual, but pointed.

—

Miranda: hey kiddo! so i was thinking… and please tell me if im being offensive or not because i know youre trans and dont wanna accidentally upset you or come off as insensitive…

Me: spit it out lol i promise ive heard WAY worse :P 

Miranda: okay so, i know its still too early to tell the sexes, but i was wondering if you thought about having a gender reveal or baby shower or a combination? I’d love to help plan something when the time comes!!! we could do it at the restaurant after hours or your place or mine if you want! just lmk, no pressure

—

I’d blinked at my phone, a slice of banana pepper halfway to my mouth, and realized I hadn’t thought about it at all. A gender reveal. People finding out if the babies were boys or girls or one of each. Under normal circumstances, I’d have definitely negatively judged the idea—I didn’t know whether it was the hormones or if I was just genuinely touched by the idea, but I found myself being not entirely against it.
Pink and blue confetti. A cake with some kind of colored filling. Leon’s colleagues and a handful of our friends in one room, making awkward small talk while someone popped a balloon with glitter in it, or cutting into a cake or some kind of pizza with colored sauce. Despite the borderline disgusting cisheteronormativity of it, it felt good. It felt normal, domestic, but also terrifying. 

I wondered if my parents had a gender reveal when they were pregnant with me. I wondered if they were this excited to know, even if the whole “it’s a girl” thing didn’t work out in the end.

“Miranda’s asking about a gender reveal.” I said that evening, curled up on the couch with my feet in Leon’s lap. “She offered to coordinate it for us if we don’t have anything planned yet.”

Leon paused, his thumbs stilling on the arch of my left foot.

“A gender reveal—is that like a baby shower?”

“Kind of?” I answered. “There’s cake with pink or blue in it, maybe some balloons. Branagh would probably cry about it a little.”

“Branagh would definitely cry a lot about it.”

I laughed and agreed.

“I was thinking… Miranda would handle part of it. She’s been dying to help with something and mother henning over me a ton, and she knows what I like. And I know Claire’s been bugging you non-stop about wanting to help plan a baby shower, partially as an excuse to finally meet me, right? Maybe she could also help if she’s into that kind of thing.”

Leon was quiet for a long time.

Claire Redfield was someone he’d dodged dates with for years, half because Chris would’ve put him in a headlock over it and half because Claire was more like a sister to him anyway. She was, from what I gathered, also one of the few people who actually cared about him.

“Yeah.” he said finally. “She’d probably really love that. She’s been asking if she can come over and meet you properly forever now. I just haven’t—” He stopped, exhaled. “I wasn’t sure if you were ready for that yet.”

“I am. I mean, she’s your friend and obviously important to you, so I want to meet her. And if she wants to help out, then that’s even better. Less stress on us and all that.”

“I’ll text her.”

“Cool.” I said, taking a bite of a banana pepper I’d brought home with me. “So… that’s a yes on the gender reveal baby shower thing? Miranda’s gonna be very excited.”

“That’s a tentative yes. With… With the understanding that you can cancel if you’re not comfortable with it or if you’re feeling under the weather.”

“Duh. Obviously.” I paused, then snorted. “There’s just one tiny problem.”

“What?”

“We don’t know the genders yet. The next ultrasound isn’t for another few weeks. We can’t really plan the reveal part when we don’t know what we’re revealing.”

Leon stared at me for a minute, then let out a laugh as he continued rubbing my feet. “So Miranda’s already planning a party for information we don’t have.”

“Evidently.”

“Sounds like something she’d do.”

“It really does,” I grinned. “I’ll just tell her to hold off till we know what we’re working with. She might be a little disappointed, but she’ll live.”

“She can start planning the shower instead.”

“Don’t you dare suggest that to her—she’ll have the entire thing organized by tomorrow.”

Leon smirked. “Duly noted.”

I wiped my hands on my pants and looked at him. “Now… unrelated question.”

Leon glanced at me with a wary look in his eyes. “Why do I feel like I’m not gonna like this?”

“Because you’re smart and you know me so, so well.” I took a breath. “I have an idea. To help us get a little closer, since we’ve kind of been bad at doing the whole normal couple thing…”

“We’re not a normal couple.”

“I know that,” I said, rolling my eyes. “But we’re trying to be. Kind of. Sort of. In our own way.” I shifted. “I wanna try something. Like… a game.”

He paused.

“Taking photos. At work. On our breaks or whenever we have a moment alone with no one else around.”

“Pretty boy… you’re making me anxious," Leon’s expression shifted—caution, curiosity, the faintest flicker of heat. “What kind of photos?”

“The kind you don’t show your colleagues.”

He took a moment to process before reddening slightly and saying: “That’s… That’s risky.”

“So was fucking me in the RPD parking garage where we nearly got caught,”

“That was…” He stopped. Exhaled, voice cracking. “That was different.”

“Need I remind you how our whole relationship got started, Officer Panty-Sniffing Stalker,” I retorted, only half joking. “From where I was sitting—or, pinned I guess—it felt pretty similar. Public place. Risk of getting caught. You inside me. The only difference this time is we’d be building up to it. Anticipation. Tension. We’d spend the whole shift thinking about each other instead of just being tired and stressed and cranky and collapsing as soon as we got home.”

Leon’s jaw tightened, but I could see the cogs turning in his head and I could feel him getting hard at the idea. The strategist in his head compared the risk to the reward. The part of him that still held those predatory behaviors already imagining what kind of photos I had in mind.

“What exactly are you proposing?”

“Just a game. We send each other photos during our shifts. No faces. Nothing that could get us in real trouble if someone saw our screens. Just enough to, y’know,” I gestured vaguely. “Keep things interesting. Rewire our brains. Make us excited to come home to each other instead of just exhausted.”

“You want me to take lewd photos inside the precinct?”

“I want you to take lewd photos inside the precinct and send them to me,” I corrected, “And I’ll do the same from the pizzeria. And then we can get home, we can… I dunno…” I shrugged, shooting him a suggestive look. “Debrief? If that’s all right with you, Lieutenant Kennedy.”

Leon stared at me for a long time. I could see the war playing out behind his eyes: the cop who knew how badly this could go if someone caught us, and the man who had never been able to tell me no when I looked at him like this.

“Fine,” he said finally. “But… there will be rules to this.”

“No, really?” I said sarcastically. “I thought we would both get naked in the middle of our shifts in front of everyone and take photos like that.”

His jaw tightened, and he glared at me—not angrily, but in the way where I could see him actively short-circuiting while the blush on the apples of his cheeks deepened.

“Be serious for a second, will you?” He said, “No faces. Nothing identifiable in the background. Nothing that could get us fired or arrested if it gets out.”

“Deal.”

“And if anyone accidentally sees anything—”

“Yes. We blame Chris.”

Leon snorted. “We are not blaming Chris.”

“Oh, we’re absolutely blaming Chris. He’s the only horny idiot who’d be flustered enough to make it funny instead of awkward.”

“I hate that you’re right about that,” He ran a hand through his hair, shakily exhaling. “Okay. When do we start?”

“Tomorrow.” I said. “I’ll send the first one on my break.”

—

As promised, I began the game the very next day.

My first break fell sometime in the late morning right after the breakfast rush died down. The pizzeria was quiet, the kitchen still humming with residual heat and the smell of garlic, and Miranda was in the back doing inventory. I slipped away to the single-occupancy bathroom, locked the door, and leaned against the sink.

The mirror was small and streaky, but it was good enough. I slowly pulled my shirt up and watched myself in the glass. The subtle curve of my belly. The way my chest had changed over the past several weeks. Fuller. Rounder. My nipples had darkened as well, which I read some time ago was a normal occurrence for pregnancy but something I still found just a little alarming. Leon had been the first to notice before me. Leon, who had dated women before me—and had even been engaged long before knowing me—and had never made a secret of the fact that he appreciated a nice pair of tits, had been staring at my chest for weeks with the barely-contained hunger of a man who was trying very hard to be respectful and losing the miserable battle by his own inches.

I knew exactly what kind of photo I wanted to send.

I angled the phone carefully, keeping my face out by censoring it with a conveniently placed smear of grease, and snapped a photo—my shirt bunched up under my chin, one hand cupping under my breast to show how full and sensitive it had gotten. The lighting was crap, but I was confident in the effect it would have. Obscene. Deliberate. A secret invitation to just look.

I sent it.

—

Me: [Photo Attachment.jpg]

Me: miss me? 🫦

—

The response didn’t come immediately. I pictured Leon at his desk or in the breakroom or in the middle of some mundane conversation with another officer about patrol routes and schedules, glancing down at his phone and nearly choking on his coffee. I put my shirt down and grinned to myself, and waited.

Read.

A minute passed. Then two. Then three.

Then…

—

Leon: What are you doing?

Me: taking my break.

Me: thinking about you 😘

Leon: You’re going to get me in trouble.

Me: oh no, officer! whatever will you do?

Leon: I’m being serious.

Me: so am i

Leon: …

Me: did i get you hard?

Leon: I’m not dignifying that with an answer.

Me: oh… so you’re definitely not hard right now?

Me: because i definitely didnt just send you a picture of my tits while im supposed to be at work.

Me: that would be crazy

Leon: Don’t do this to me.

Me: Leon.

Leon: Okay. Fine. Yes, you got me hard. Are you happy now?

Me: very 😇😇😇

Me: prove it though! i wanna seeeeeeeeeeeeee

—

There was a long pause.

I could picture him at his desk. Jaw tight. Scanning the room to see who was nearby.

Then my phone buzzed.

—

Leon: [Photo Attachment.jpg]

—

The photo was taken from above, angled subtly toward his lap. I could see the navy fabric of his uniform pants, the unmistakable ridge of his cock straining behind the zipper, his hand resting tensely on his thigh just beside it. No face. Nothing identifiable. Just the evidence of what I’d done to him from that little rinky dink bathroom.

I stared at it for a moment, and then rolled my eyes so hard I nearly twinged a muscle in my neck.

—

Me: 🙄 that doesn’t count

Me: youre still dressed.

Leon: What more do you want from me? I’m at my desk.

Me: i sent you a picture of my whole chest and you sent me a little tent in your pants. get on my level, lieutenant.

Leon: I can’t just take my pants off in the middle of the precinct! There are people everywhere, and I’m not walking past everyone with a visible hard-on just to sneak to the restroom!

Me: arent you in your office rn?

Leon: Yes, obviously, but the door’s open. Anyone could walk by and see.

Me: crazy idea, maybe just close the door???

Me: you’re a cop. tell them you’re on a sensitive call with a victim or something. it wouldn’t be a total lie, but i know how good you are at that anyway. 😇

Leon: …

Leon: You’re gonna be the death of me.

Me: soooooooooo… is that a no?

—

Another pause.

Longer this time. I imagined him sitting there, staring at his phone, running through every possible consequence.

My phone buzzed again.

—

Leon: Door’s closed.

Me: attaboy! now prove it properly this time. i wanna seeeee!!! 👀👀👀👀👀👀

Leon: All right. All right. Give me a minute. Christ.

Me: take your time. im not going anywhere. Seriously. im in the bathroom on a break. i dont go back for another fifteenish minutes.

Leon: You’re in the bathroom?

Me: man, i really did a number on you. yes. grease stains on the mirror, remember?

Leon: Right. And you just… took your shirt off?

Me: yep. thought about you while i was doing it. pictured your hands allllll over me.

Leon: You’re killing me.

Me: you keep saying that. still waiting on that photo, officer 🫡

—

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared once more. I bit my lip and squeezed my thighs together.

And then my phone buzzed.

Once. 

Twice.

—

Leon: [Photo Attachment.jpg]

Leon: [Photo Attachment.jpg]

—

In the first photo, he had his phone propped up against something on his desk and angled down. I could see the edge of the wooden tabletop, the corner of a filing cabinet, and Leon from the neck down.
His uniform pants were undone, boxers shoved down just enough to free his cock—thick, heavy, undeniably hard and curving up toward his stomach. His free hand was wrapped loosely around the base, just holding it. Showing me. His face was out of the frame, but I caught the line of his jaw just at the top edge of the shot, the way he was undoubtedly clenching his teeth as he tried not to worry too much about getting caught.

The second photo was closer.

Just his hand, his cock, the dark fabric of his uniform bunched roughly around his thighs. A translucent bead of moisture at the tip that made me salivate.

I swallowed hard. My mouth had gone completely dry. The heat pooling between my legs was making it very difficult to keep my mind on track of how much time I had left in that little room that felt more and more claustrophobic with each passing second. I briefly considered faking sick just to go down to the precinct and pull him into the nearest private room.

—

Me: holy fucking shit

Leon: Satisfied? ;)

Me: very. youre so fucking hot when you follow orders.

Leon: I do not follow orders.

Me: oh but you just did. i said close the door, you closed it. i said prove it, you proved it. sounds like following orders to me.

Leon: …

Me: dont worry. i wont tell anyone the big scary police lieutenant likes being told what to do lolllllll

Leon: You’re enjoying this way too much.

Me: obviously. you just sent me dick pics. this is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to me all week.

Me: second most. the ultrasound was pretty good too :P 

Leon: You’re thinking of that right now?

Me: im thinking of a lot of things rn. mostly about what im gonna to do you as soon as we get home.

Leon: Such as…?

Me: wouldnt you like to know, weather boy 

Me: youll find out later… if you behave yourself.

Leon: I always do.

Me: i have many stories from our shared past that could be used to argue against that, but ill give you a pass this time because those photos were really, really good

Me: if my gag reflex wasn’t so fucked, i’d want it down my throat asap

Leon: You’re a menace.

Me: im your menace.

Me: im gonna be thinking about those pics for the rest of my shift, i hope you know that.

Leon: Good. That was the point.

Me: oh so NOW youre into the game?

Leon: I always was. I just needed a minute to get on board with it.

Me: sure, sure, that’s the reason and definitely not because you suddenly got scared of getting caught.

Leon: Do you want me to put it away or not?

Me: nonononono, keep it out. think about me while you do your paperwork.

Me: no touching though 😘

Leon: You’re evil.

Me: you love it

Me: anyway. my break’s almost over. i gotta go.

Leon: Go. I’ll see you tonight.

Me: you’d better. im not done with you.

Leon: I know you’re not.

Me: your turn to initiate tomorrow, by the way. dont disappoint me~

Leon: I won’t.

Me: good boy

Leon: …

Me: love youuuuuuuuuuuuuu 😘😘😘😘😘😘

Leon: I love you too. Brat. Lol.

—

I locked my phone and leaned against the sink, rubbing my thighs together and taking a long, quivering breath before looking up at the mirror. Flushed face. Dilated pupils. Wrinkled shirt. I looked absolutely feral, and all I’d done was sit in the bathroom and exchange a few dirty texts with my boyfriend.

This game was proving already to be very dangerous.

I smoothed my shirt out, splashed some cold water on my face, and unlocked the door. Miranda was walking past with a stack of dirty dishes as I emerged and she gave me a knowing look that made my face flush a brilliant crimson.

“Good break, I take it?” she asked, voice dripping with amusement.

“You could say that.” I said, and headed back to the line before she could ask any more questions.

—

The rest of my shift passed in a blur of orders and ovens and the lingering, liquid heat between my thighs. Every time my phone buzzed in my pocket, my heart jumped—it was never Leon though, just the odd email or a text from Chloe and Del. Leon was still at work, probably still at his desk, probably still thinking about the photo I’d sent him just like I was still thinking about the ones he’d sent me. The anticipation was a special kind of torture.

By the time I clocked out, I was so horny I could barely see straight.

Leon was already home when I walked through the door—car parked, boots by the entryway table, jacket hung by the door. He was in the kitchen, still in his uniform pants and undershirt, rummaging around in the fridge.
He turned when he heard the door, and the look on his face made me drop my things on the floor and cross the room in three quick strides.

I didn’t say anything, I just grabbed two fistfuls of his undershirt, yanked him roughly down to my level, and kissed him. It was hard and desperate, and said I’ve been thinking about this for fucking hours and if you don’t touch me right now, I’m going to lose my mind.

Leon made a low, surprised sound against my mouth, but his hands were already on me, sliding under the hoodie, palms rough and warm against my skin. He backed me up against the kitchen counter till the edge pressed against my back, and I hooked my fingers into his belt loops to keep him pulled close to me.

“You have no fucking idea,” I breathed against his mouth, “how hard it was to focus on acting normal at work after those photos.”

“I have some idea.” His teeth grazed my jaw, and he rolled his hips into mine. “I had to sit through a briefing with Captain Branagh while I was still—”

“Still what?”

“Still hard. Thinking about you, your hands, about what you said you wanted to do to me…”

“Mm…” I tilted my head back, giving him access to my throat as he placed frenzied, open-mouthed kisses and love bites down my neck. “And what was that, exactly?”

“Y-You said—” He paused, his breath hitching as my hands dropped to his belt buckle. “You said you wanted me down your throat.”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” I worked the buckle loose and pulled it out of the loops, letting it clatter to the floor. “It’s a shame my gag reflex is still shot, but I can improvise.”

“What do you—”

“Take off your shirt, Leon.”

He did.

No hesitation, no teasing—just pulled the undershirt off and dropped it onto the floor next to us, and then his hands were back on me, rucking the hoodie up and over my head, and then there was nothing between us but skin and the thin cotton of my boxers, and his uniform pants, which I was already working on shoving down his hips.

“I’ve been wet for hours,” I told him, and the way his breath caught was one of the most satisfying sounds I’d heard all day. “Do you know how uncomfortable it was to be standing at the prep station, trying to make pizzas all day, all while I’m thinking about the photos you sent me?”

“Tell me what you thought about.” His voice came out rough, strained. His hands gripped my hips like he was just barely able to hold himself back.

“Your hands,” I shoved his pants down far enough to free him—still hard, still leaking, a fat, wobbling bead of precum traveling down the shaft. “Your cock—the way you held it. The way you did what I asked.”

“Pretty boy—”

“I thought so much about getting on my knees for you.” I wrapped my hand around him, just holding, just feeling the pulsing weight and warmth. “I thought about getting bent over the couch. I thought about riding you until you got me pregnant all over again.”

Leon made a sound that was halfway between a groan and a snarl. “Hours, huh?”

“Yeah,” I stroked him once, slow and deliberate, grazing my thumb over his glans and smearing his arousal all over it. “The photos were just…” —another stroke— “...motivation.”

“Fuck…” He sighed, jerking his hips into my hand. “I need to be inside you. Right now. Please.”

I leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Then what are you waiting for?”

With the quickness of lightning, his hands slid down to my thighs, and he lifted me like I weighed nothing, depositing me a little roughly onto the kitchen counter next to the sink. The cold surface against my skin made me gasp, but the sensation was immediately eclipsed by the heated presence of him stepping between my legs, cock resting against the damp fabric of my underwear.

“These can go.” he murmured, hooking his fingers into the waistband and pulling.

I put my hands over his. “Wait.”

He froze instantly, eyes flicking up to mine with worry bleeding through the arousal. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said, pushing his hands aside to shimmy out of the boxers myself. I held them up—damp, well-worn, thoroughly ruined from having to endure such a long shift in agonizing anticipation. “I just… had an idea.”

He cocked his head to the side. “What kind of idea?”

I balled the fabric up in my fist. “Close your eyes.”

He hesitated for a second, a flicker of remembrance behind his eyes—surprise, maybe, or maybe just the faintest trace of the old predator looming, remembering all the other times he had my underwear in his possession. But… he obeyed. He closed his eyes.

“Open your mouth.”

“Can you just tell me what’s going—”

“Open your mouth, Leon.”

He obeyed.

I reached up and pressed the wadded fabric past his lips, filling his mouth with the taste and aroma of me. Hours of arousal, hours of salted sweat, everything he used to obsess over back when he was content to debase himself with my stolen dirty laundry. His eyes flew open, wide and startled, a sound rising from deep inside his chest—something more feral and guttural than a groan or a growl.

“Bite down.” I ordered.

His jaw clamped down on the fabric. His hands, still gripping my thighs, dug in hard enough to leave little crescents.

“There we go,” I leaned back on my palms, tilting my hips up in silent invitation, my voice dropping to a low and teasing register. “Isn’t that better? Getting to taste me while you fuck me? Isn’t that exactly what you wanted since the beginning?”

The pathetic sound he made was muffled by the fabric, but I understood the gist of it at least—something between a prayerful curse and a plea. His hips stuttered forward, the head of his cock sliding over my slick cunt, and I let out a shivering breath. I hooked one leg around his waist, pulling him closer.

“I’m not gonna make you wait any longer. Take what you want. You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you? God knows I have.”

He pushed inside me then in one swift, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt—the feeling of him filling me like that after a long and grueling shift was so overwhelming, I couldn’t help but cry out; it was a sharp, broken sound that echoed off the walls. The boxers muffled the sound that tore out of his throat, but I felt it vibrate through his chest, through his hands, through the place where our bodies interlocked.

“Th-There you go,” I panted, wrapping my other leg around him and gripping the edge of the counter for leverage as he started to move. “There—There you—fuck, just like that…”

He set a brutal pace immediately, all that pent-up frustration from the day pouring out of him with each hard, driving thrust that rattled the cabinets and made the dishes clink audibly from in the rickety old dishwasher. Every snap of his hips pushed me—pushed me higher, pushed me closer to the edge. His eyes were locked onto mine, wild and dark and consumed by everything, and the sight of him—mouth full of my underwear, jaw clenched tight, completely undone—was almost enough to push me over the edge by itself.

“You like that, pretty boy?” I gasped, throwing the pet name he loved using on me back at him, reaching up to grip his shoulders. “You like tasting me? You like knowing how wet I’ve been all day just thinking about you?”

He only answered with a broken whine and rolling his eyes back, dropping his head to my shoulder and wrapping his hands around my waist tighter—he couldn’t do anything beyond that, beyond fucking into me harder, faster, his rhythm turning desperate and erratic. The boxers muffled the sounds he was making, but I could still hear them—whines, growls, and all the rest of the helpless noises of a man who had been waiting all day to just have permission to claim something as his.

“I-I’m—f-fuck, fuck, I’m close,” I warned, my nails digging, dragging down his back. “L-Leon—fuck—keep going, I’m so fucking close—”

He reached down between us, his fingers finding my clit and rubbing desperate circles—that was it. The orgasm crashed over me like a wave, white-hot and electric, pulling a shout from deep within me that I didn’t bother to stifle while I tore unforgiving scratches down his back. My cunt clenched around him, pulsing, milking desperately, and the sensation drove him over the edge right after me—he buried himself deep, hips stuttering, a muffled cry tearing out of him as he spilled, spurting ropes of white deep inside me.

For a long few minutes, neither of us moved.

The kitchen was quiet except for the sounds of our ragged breathing and the witnessing hum of our refrigerator. Leon leaned his head back, chest heaving, boxers still clamped between his teeth.

I reached up and gently tugged the fabric free, dropping it onto the counter. It was thoroughly soaked with spit and the faint, lingering scent of me.

“So,” I said, still entirely breathless as I ran my fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. “Good first day of the game?”

He let his head back down on my shoulder and laughed quietly. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You sound like a broken record, Mr. Kennedy,” I pressed a kiss to his temple. “Now help me down, please. My back hurts and the babies want cereal.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes still dark and sated and full of something that made my heart ache.

“I love you.”

“I know.” I kissed him, soft this time, tasting myself on his lips. “I love you too. Now… Cereal.”

He laughed again and lifted me off the counter, steadying me when my knees started to wobble. “Whatever you want, pretty boy.”

—

We barely made it to dinnertime before we were all over each other again. The living room. The shower. The bedroom. The living room again.
When I eventually got dressed for bed and gathered enough brain cells to rub together, I texted Miranda a quick got home safe, see you tomorrow and Leon looked like he got into a fight with a bobcat—he’d definitely have to hide the scratches in the locker room at work.

“So,” I said, sprawled across the couch with a bowl of cereal and a spoonful of relish perched on my chest—the babies wanted something sweet and briny, and I’d learned not to argue. “How’d we do for the first day of the game?”

Leon was in the armchair, freshly showered, wearing nothing but loose sweatpants and a look of utter satisfaction on his features. “I’d wager we did pretty well.”

“I agree. I still think you took way too long to close your office door though.”

“I was assessing the situation.”

“You were being a little scaredy-cat.”

He threw a pillow at me. I caught it, laughing, and tucked it snugly behind my head.

“Your turn tomorrow.” I reminded him. “You initiate this time.”

“I know, I’m aware.”

“Any idea what you’re gonna send?”

He was quiet for a moment as he thought. Then rested his cheek on his fist, looking at me as a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. My stomach flipped.

“I’ve got some ideas.”

“Care to share with the class?”

“No,” He stood, crossed the room, and leaned down to press a kiss to my forehead. “Finish your weird pickle cereal.”

“Where are you going?”

“To set a reminder on my phone so I don’t forget.”

“You’re setting a reminder to send me nudes?”

“I’m setting a reminder to be romantic.”

“Same thing.”

“For us, sure, maybe,” He paused at the bedroom door, looking back at me with a remarkably soft expression. “Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“Good job today. Seriously.”

The warmth in his voice made my chest ache and sent a violent flutter low through my stomach. “Thanks. You did good today, too.”

He disappeared into the bedroom, and I turned back to my cereal, feeling the tiniest flutter in my belly again. The babies were being super active tonight—probably responding to all the craziness, the hormones, the adrenaline, or just the general chaos of their parents’ idea of a normal evening.

“Your dad’s an idiot.” I whispered to them as I rubbed my stomach. “A very hot idiot, but… still an idiot.”

Another flutter.

I chose to interpret it as them agreeing with me.

I decided to text the group chat with Chloe and Del again. I snapped a photo of my cereal and sent it first.

—

Me: [Photo Attachment.jpg]

Me: these lil shits make me eat the weirdest things. anyway. i have a day off this weekend. wanna meet for lunch then?

Chapter Text

Chloe and Delia had agreed to the lunch meet-up—the morning of, I woke up feeling far more human than I had since I became symptomatic with the pregnancy.
I woke up that morning with no nausea, no weird aches, no tenderness in strange areas—the babies, I assumed, were asleep or at least not driving me crazy with cravings or magically making me need to pee more than I drink. Leon was in bed beside me as he was most mornings when he wasn’t called in for an early shift at the precinct. He had one arm slung over my waist, face half-buried in his pile of pillows; he wasn’t due for a shift till the afternoon so he agreed to drop me off with Chloe and Del on his way to work, which meant that I had a solid hour or two to make him regret all of his life choices.

I rolled over and pressed myself into his side, slowly and carefully trailing my fingers down his chest, his stomach, and dipping just beneath the waistband of his boxers. He stirred, making a small surprised noise and let out a strangled breath, but didn’t open his eyes.

He was already half-hard—morning wood probably, but I liked to think it was because of me.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he mumbled, pulling me closer to him and sounding very thoroughly entertained.

“Going out with Chloe and Del today, why?”

He opened one of his eyes halfway just to roll it at me and smirk.

“You know that’s not what I meant, pretty boy.” he said, rolling his hips into my hand.

I gave him a slow, light stroke.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just here minding my own business, thinking about what I’m gonna eat for lunch—” I felt a strong flutter in my lower gut, “While your children apparently try to see who can kick who in the face first. Not even sure if they have proper faces at this stage, honestly…”

Leon opened his eyes, his smirk softening into something gentler as he slid his hand down to rest on my belly. “They just wanna say ‘good morning’ to their dads.”

“They’re also probably saying ‘give us noodles and buttercream frosting or we’ll light the planet on fire’,” I gave him one more stroke—firmer this time—and watched his eyes flutter shut while he groaned softly. “We’re getting off-topic… you.” Another stroke. “Me.” Another. “The fact that we’re going to be apart for several hours and you’re going to be at your desk thinking about this all day.” I let go of him entirely and sat up. “I’ve been thinking about that game we started. I wanna change the rules a bit.”

Leon groaned. “I’m not sure I like where this is going.”

“Oh! I’m sorry, does the big, scary police lieutenant not like being told what to do?” I tilted my head, pursing out my bottom lip and giving him my best innocent impression. “That’s so sad… almost as sad as the time that you drugged and raped me in my own apartment when I was too sick to move!”

Leon went immediately very still.

His eyes snapped to mine, something flickering behind them as they flared wide. Whether it was surprise or the faintest trace of the old predator swimming to the surface, I wasn’t sure, but I felt him get rock hard under my palm.

“I… I didn’t think you remembered that, pretty boy.”

“Oh, but I didn’t,” I kept my voice light and teasing as I watched his face, “I mean, not really. I had bits and pieces, but…”

I gave him another slow stroke, feeling him throb in my hand.

“I had no way to know for certain.”

Leon’s breath was coming faster now, hips twitching under my touch. His eyes were locked on mine, wide and dark and looking completely tangled in the trap I laid for him.

“But then I brought it up,” I continued, “and all you had to say was you didn’t think I remembered. You didn’t even bother to look confused or even offended at the accusation like a normal person would.” I stopped stroking him, but kept my hand firmly around him. “You did get insanely hard though.”

I leaned in close and kissed his cheek.

“I was only about twenty percent sure. Now I’m at an even hundred-and-five. So thanks for clearing that up, Lieutenant Kennedy. ,” I pulled back and smiled sweetly at him, “You’re still a little bit of a monster, even now, aren’t you? Even after all that introspection and self-improvement… deep down, I know there’s a part of you that still gets off to what you did to me.”

Leon tightened his jaw, fisting his hands in the sheets.

“Pretty boy—”

“I’m not done,” I gently shushed him, pressing three fingers to his mouth. “I’m not angry. If I was, I’d be throwing things or much worse, I can tell you that… do you wanna know why I’m not mad, though?”

He nodded, though his head barely moved.

“I’m not mad because I already had the tiniest little inkling, but I knew what kind of man you became by the time I decided—of my own free will—to stay. I knew what you had done to me, I knew what you were capable of, and I stayed. I chose you anyway,” I traced my finger down his chest, just light enough to make his breath catch. “So if there’s still a part of you that gets turned on remembering what you did to me… fine. I can work with that. I can use that. In fact…” I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “I’m gonna use it right now.”

I walked over to the dresser and pulled open my sock drawer, producing the small black box I’d hidden there just days ago.

“What’s that?” Leon asked.

“Oh, a present.” I opened the box and held up an adjustable silicone cock ring. “It has ten different vibration settings, and I can control it from anywhere in the city.”

I tossed the box onto the bed beside him.

“Here’s how this is going to work—you will wear this to work today, but you won’t put it on till after you get to the station, and you will text me to let me know when you get there. You’re not to wear it for more than half an hour at a time. You’re not to touch yourself while it’s on. And if you complain—or if I think you’re complaining—I’m going to turn up the intensity.” I leaned against the dresser and crossed my arms. “I think that’s more than fair after what you just admitted to, don’t you?”

“You’re not gonna let me forget that, are you?” He chuckled dryly.

“Absolutely not.” I said, pushing off the dresser and walking toward the bed. “And I’m going to use it to make you squirm because I’m still just a little mad about it.”

“Put it on after you get to the station. Text me. And don’t be late for work.” I leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, letting my hand linger on his chest. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” He caught my wrist before I could fully pull away, his grip gentle but still firm. “Pretty boy?”

“Yeah?”

“Is this—” He paused, seemingly unsure of what to do with himself. “Is… Is it still–?”

“Just play,” I said, softer now, “You can stop whenever you want, you can even say ‘no’ if you don’t want to do this, though I suspect… stopping is not something you want to do, is it?”

He shook his head, his grip on my wrist loosening just slightly. “No. You know I never want to stop.”

“Didn’t think so.” I twisted my hand free and patted his cheek. “Now get dressed. I wanna get there before they do and see if the babies think the menu is barf-worthy or not.”

—

Almost two hours later, I was sitting in a booth at a little mom-and-pop place up the block from the pizzeria. It was quiet inside—the weekend lunch crowd hadn’t rolled through yet—and the owners were playing some old Italian pop on the crackly speakers. I managed to snag a seat with a direct line of sight to the door so I could see when my friends arrived. An iced herbal tea sat sweating on the table on a coaster in front of me, and my phone was propped against the ceramic salt shaker.

Leon texted me.

—

Leon: It’s on. Nobody knows.

Me: good boy 😇

Leon: Fuck… you have no idea what this does to me

Me: oh i have some idea. behave yourself and i might just let you use me like you used to when we’re back home later

Me: I'll even scream and put up a fight if it makes it feel more authentic~ 😘

—

Read.

There was a long pause after Leon saw my text. I could feel him battling with himself all the way across the city as I watched the typing bubbles appear and disappear over and over again. I smirked secretly to myself, biting my lip as I relished in the idea of all the trouble I could find myself getting into later.

—

Leon: You can’t just say that to me, pretty boy.

Me: oh no! what are you gonna do about it, officer? come get me, drive to the nearest secluded alleyway, and make me regret it?

Leon: Don’t tempt me.

Me: aw, tempting’s the whole point of the game though.

Me: now be good and sit there and think about allllllll the nasty things you’re gonna to do me when i get home~

Me: i’ll check in after my friends get here.

—

I locked the phone and set it face up on the table, switching to the app for the cock ring—the green status light blinked slowly in the top left of the display. Vibration level zero for now. I browsed the controls just to feel the smallest thrill of power, thinking about how across the city, Leon was sitting at his desk with a secret pressed snug around the base of his hard cock, waiting for me to decide when I wanted his day to get a lot harder.

Right in the middle of my train of thought, the bell above the door jangled.

Chloe and Delia walked in together, and I locked the phone screen before flipping it face-down. They hadn’t changed much in the months that passed—who would? Chloe still wore clothes vaguely stained with acrylic paints and twin braids that hung down longer than all the sense either of us had put together. Delia, however, had her hair shorn short—she looked really good, though she dressed a little more refined than when I last saw her. They both froze mid-step when they finally saw me, eyes dropping in near-perfect synchrony to my stomach.
I was only nine-and-a-half weeks along, I wasn’t even showing yet, but the bloating was absolutely unreal today. I thought Leon’s hoodie did a decent enough job of hiding it—not decently enough, apparently.

“Holy shit,” Chloe said, ”You’re really pregnant, huh?”

I looked down at myself, then back at her with a fake scowl. “First of all, how rude—I’m not that far along yet. Jeez, am I really that bloated today?”

Her face went pale.

“N-No! That’s not what—I didn’t mean—you don’t look bloated, you’re just super pregnant—wait, fuck, no—”

I clapped my hand over my mouth and snorted, trying to hide how hard my shoulders were starting to shake. Delia was already wheezing.

“Breathe, Chloe,” I managed, my voice breaking with barely-contained laughter. “I’m just fucking with you.”

Chloe snapped her mouth shut, turning an embarrassed shade of pink. She blinked at me, face cycling through seventy different emotions in the span of three seconds—panic, confusion, relief, annoyance and irritation—right before she rolled her eyes, grabbed a breadstick, and tossed it lovingly at my head. It bounced off my shoulder and hit the vinyl seating next to me.

“You’re such a dickhead,” she hissed, though she was smiling and trying not to laugh, herself. “I was attempting to be supportive.”

“And you did great. ‘Super pregnant’... I think that’s gonna go on the baby shower announcement.” I snagged the fallen breadstick and put it on the edge of the table, wrapped in a couple of napkins. “Now sit down before you stroke out from thinking about it too hard. I wasn’t kidding about the bloating though, it’s awful. Take a look at this shit.”

I looked around to make sure no one was looking before lifting the hem of the hoodie up enough just to show the subtle swell of my lower abdomen, which was one hundred percent more bloat than actual baby this early on. “Nine-and-a-half weeks. Twins, am I right?”

Delia leaned over to inspect the swell with the all-knowing eye of someone whose only reference to what a normal pregnancy looked like came from vintage Sears maternity catalogues, which famously do not include early pregnancy bodies. “I thought you’d be bigger.”

I dropped the hoodie back into place.

“Well, the babies are the size of grapes right now, so I wouldn’t be very big at all… though they like to keep me pissing like Seabiscuit and drinking my weight in various processed fruit juices.”

“Like Sunny-D?”

“Oh, God, don’t even bring that one up, I’ll throw up on you if I think about it too hard.” I said, feeling genuinely green at it. “I’m so not looking forward to when they’re, like, actual mostly-formed infants and using my bladder like a trampoline.”

“Okay, okay, I won’t,” said Chloe, putting her hands up in surrender, “It’s kinda cute though knowing how little they are right now.” I sighed, taking a breadstick and pulling it apart, popping chunks idly into my mouth. “Little grape-sized people with grape-sized faces… It's weird to think about. Like, they’re in there right now just… casually growing their own eyeballs and shit.”

“That’s scary to think about,” said Delia flatly.

“Ah… a little, I guess,” I agreed, looking at her and pinching my fingers together for emphasis. “But it’s cool. Leon’s gone full dad mode and dropping little things he learns week-by-week. Like this week, he told me they’re growing fingernails now. Like, sick, they’re also making me crave pickled pearl onions at eleven o’clock at night, but sure, focus on the fingernail stuff.”

I sighed and propped my chin on my hand while staring blankly at a crack in the wall that was shaped oddly like a fleur de lis. “He said it like he was announcing a promotion too. It was a whole thing—and they’re starting to develop fingerprints, which he thought was just the most incredible thing. Just reads it off his phone at breakfast, just staring at the screen like it was the most interesting thing he’d heard his whole life…”

“That’s adorable.” said Chloe.

“It’s very adorable. A little annoying because he wanted to talk about it when all I wanted to do was eat.” I paused, noticing the fondness creep into my voice before I could fully stop it. “I haven’t been able to think of a single name yet, but he has this giant note in his phone that he updates when the mood hits him. He floated ‘Claire’ for a little bit, after one of his friends at the precinct, but decided she’d either get overly-weepy about it or make fun of him for it because she used to have a crush on him.”

Delia raised an eyebrow. “...and were you cool with it?”

“Ah, I mean, he’s bi, but prefers men most of the time. And Claire’s a family friend—well, family at this point. Her brother works at the precinct, too. You’ll probably meet them at the gender reveal if Claire and my boss ever stop yapping at each other long enough to plan the damn thing.” I rolled my eyes, though it wasn’t ill-intended. “I agreed to let them coordinate.”

“You’re having a gender reveal?” Chloe asked, her voice pitching up excitedly. “When is it? Can we come?”

“We just got here, don’t be so—” Del chided.

“We won’t know the sexes for another few weeks, but yes, I already thought about inviting you guys. I was planning on texting the invites anyway.” I smirked and shook my head. Classic them.

Chloe looked absolutely delighted, and Delia looked a little less tense than she had just a few minutes ago. I’ll take my wins when I can get them.

“He’s really going all in on this, then isn’t he?” Delia asked. “The whole being-a-dad thing.”

“Yeah,” I traced a finger through the condensation on my glass and made a rather limp-looking smiley face. “I don’t think he ever thought he’d get to have anything like this. Someone who stayed… kids… a family. So he’s definitely not taking this for granted.”

The words settled in the space between us softer than I’d intended.
Something behind Chloe’s eyes flickered and she furrowed her brow, pursing her lips a little as she mulled her words over and considered her next words.

“You really love this guy.” she said, though it felt more like a question.

“Yes.”

She nodded slowly, picking at her fingers. “Okay…” she took a breath, “So we need to know… what made you send that voicemail?”

I let out a breath and leaned back against the booth.

Though I’d prepared for it, it was still the part I dreaded most. I had to just lay it all out there and watch their faces cycle through almost a year’s-worth of horror in the span of just a few minutes. I was glad that the restaurant was empty.

“The night you guys left me at the bar,” I said. “Leon came up to me after you left to go dance. He ended up getting pretty wasted. He…” I paused, finding the words and letting them settle before I spoke them out loud. “He sexually assaulted me. While I was out in the alley behind the club trying to have a cigarette.”

Chloe’s face was completely drained of color. Delia just went very, very still.

“I shoved him and punched him and I left. I… sent the voicemail a couple minutes after it happened. I still remember how bad my leg hurt,” I took a sip of my tea. “It got a lot worse after that. He gaslit me, stole my dirty boxers, broke into my apartment enough times to qualify for squatter’s rights on technicality, installed a deadbolt that he most definitely had a key for, and sent me anonymous videos of him jerking off into my stolen underwear. He stalked me, manipulated the whole city into thinking he was Officer Perfect. Raped me while I was sick and unconscious inside my own apartment—still don’t remember most of that one, probably for the best—and isolated me from everyone till he was the only one I had left, and then he took me on a ‘date’ I never agreed to and raped me on a picnic table in the mountains. And then—” I gestured at my stomach. “Spent weeks making sure this happened. Never wore a condom once, though it should’ve been an obvious red flag, but I was a little distracted by the whole ‘being a rape victim’ thing.”

The silence at the table stretched for a long minute.
Chloe had gone misty-eyed, but I could tell from the look on her face that she was trying hard not to cry in front of me. Delia looked like she was trying to calculate exactly how much time she might get if she hunted Leon down and killed him.

“That’s—” Delia started, then stopped. “I won’t lie to you, that got me fucked all the way up. I don’t even know what to say to that, dude.”

“I’ve had months to process this stuff. You’ve had maybe three minutes. I don’t expect either of you to know what to say, so it’s fine.”

“It’s… a lot to hear.” Chloe managed.

“I know, and I’m sorry for dumping it on you like this, but you deserved to know. And I—” I paused, taking a deep breath and glancing out of the far window before returning my eyes to them. “I didn’t wanna keep dancing around it or hide it. It’s an exhausting load to carry. Though you should know… I am staying with him, despite what he did.”

I took a long, slow drink of my tea. Chloe wiped her face with the edge of her sleeve.

“After all that?”

“Yeah,” I didn’t hesitate, “I am.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s getting better—he’s working on his anger, and because when I brought up the fact that I was thinking about getting an abortion during the first ultrasound appointment, he didn’t try to control what I did. He just held my hand.” I let out a shaky breath. “And because I love him. I know how that sounds, but I’ve had months upon months to think about this, and I’ve made the choice to stay and have his babies and build a life with him. I’m not asking for your approval, I’m just asking you guys to still be my friends anyway.”

They both went quiet for a beat, then Chloe let go of her water glass and reached across the table to take my hand in hers.

“We can do that,” she said, “But if he does anything—”

“You two will be the very first to know,” I squeezed her hand. “I promise.”

Delia nodded slowly.

“And we’re not gonna pretend that we’re fine with what he did or anything like that, but…” she glanced at Chloe and then back to me. “We’re not going to leave you struggling like we did last time.”

I felt myself going misty-eyed, my throat tightening.

“I really missed you guys.”

And then, the tension broke, just a little. Chloe let out a precarious, dry chuckle.

“Okay, so—um—can we talk about something a little less horrifying for a minute? I need to emotionally recover before we all order.”

“God, I was hoping someone would ask eventually,” I leaned back against the booth, looking at the oddly-shaped crack again as I let the weight of the conversation roll off my shoulders. “Let’s do that—so, what have I missed in the world of Chloe and Del? I wanna know everything.”

—

As it turns out, I missed a lot.

Chloe quit her old job and was a full-time freelance artist now, taking commissions for everything from pet portraits to book covers to library murals. She also impulsively adopted a three-legged cat named General Muttonchop who somehow managed to swallow an entire roll of pennies and emerged with nothing but a newfound fear of coins. Delia, meanwhile, buzzed her hair off during a sexuality crisis shortly after we parted ways and regretted it, but decided she actually loved it and felt massively confident in it.

“...oh, and I’m seeing someone,” she added with the kind of energy that felt like she’d been practically chomping at the bit to bring up.

I sat up straighter, immediately intrigued. “Who? What? Since when?”

“We’ve been seeing each other for about a month. I-It’s new, but…” She paused, a warm and hazy plum undertone creeping up on her cheekbones. “It’s going well. I keep waiting for the catch, but it just never comes.”

“Is it anyone I know?”

“Sorta?” she answered, “Remember that woman from RC Pride Fest? The one that me and Chloe joked about being one of the uh… sperm donors for the babies before you told us it was Leon?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I remember her. Red dress, leather harness, hottest resting bitch face any of us had ever seen. Chloe tried getting her number, right?”

“That’s her,” Delia’s smile turned more bashful. “Her name’s Ada and… wow, yeah, she’s something.”

“She’s just as gorgeous as any of us remembers,” Chloe added, “and honestly? A little terrifying, in a sort of ‘step on me, mommy’ kind of way—”

“Chloe—” Delia shot her a look.

“What? I’m just saying! She’s elegant as hell in a predatory kind of way.”

“Oh, so she and Leon should get along super great.” I muttered sarcastically, and Del snorted.

“She’s trans as well, actually,” Delia said, “Like you—well, not like you, like you. She’s a full-on woman, but—ah, fuck, you know what I mean. I didn’t even know till she told me.”

“Del. I love you to pieces, but you met her at Pride. During a trans-specific event. Think with your brain a little?” I teased.

Delia dropped her face into her hands and groaned as Chloe cackled like a madwoman beside her. “Look, she was pretty and I still get all stupid thinking about her!”

“Hey, if I got as lucky as you did, I’d get pretty certifiably stupid too,” Chloe agreed, “Del should tell you about the time she nearly walked into traffic because she was too caught up in la-la land staring at Ada’s legs.”

“I did not—” Delia’s face was burning hotter now.

“Oh, you so did.”

I grinned and snickered light-heartedly.

“So, how’d you two meet? Since it apparently wasn’t at Pride.”

“Oh. Bookstore,” Delia said, still slightly muffled against her hands. “We were both in the classic lit section and both reached for something by Flannery O’Connor at the same time.”

“That sounds like something straight out of a movie. It’s disgusting. I love it,” I said, “Continue.”

“God, I know,” she lifted her head, and the smile on her face was so completely and genuinely soft, it made my chest ache. “She let me have the book and slipped her phone number into the cover before I noticed. I saw it the next day and gave her a call—I ended up just putting my foot in my mouth by accidentally insulting one of her favorite authors. Backpedaled for about ten minutes before I heard her giggling into the receiver like I was the most entertaining thing she’d encountered that week.”

“Ada’s been really good for her though,” Chloe added, dropping her teasing tone for something a bit more sincere. “She’s super confident and really sweet under the whole ice queen exterior. She brought Del chicken noodle soup when she was sick last month and refused to leave till Del ate at least half the bowl.”

“I wasn’t that sick,” Delia said, blushing more furiously. “I just had a cold.”

“You were hamming it up and you loved every single second of the attention, you lying little liar.” Chloe teased, poking gently at Delia’s side.

“Okay, okay, so maybe I exaggerated a little,” Delia admitted. “She’s just—wow, y’know? She’s really something. Honest-to-god thought about doing the whole stereotypical U-Haul Subaru lesbian thing with her, but I don’t wanna scare her off with it being so soon. I would really like for you to eventually meet her though, if you’re down. I think you’d like her. She doesn’t mesh well with most others, but I think you guys would like each other.”

“Hey, once the nausea settles and I stop needing to run to the bathroom every fifteen minutes, I’d love to.” I paused, then added. “Does she know about… me and Leon?”

“She knows that you’re trans and pregnant, and that the father situation is… complicated,” she hesitated. “She doesn’t know anything beyond what you’ve said in the group chat though. The rest is your story to tell, only if you want to tell it.”

“Appreciate it,” I meant it. “Does she know about uh… our history?”

“Only that we fucked up and were bad friends, but we didn’t know what happened to you at the time,” Delia met my eyes. “Again, that’s your story to tell if and when you’re comfortable.”

I nodded.

—

The conversation drifted after that—lighter and easier things. Chloe’s latest commission (something in oils, a client who wanted a Rembrandt-esque portrait of himself… but nude, which she nearly declined because he kept sending reference photos of himself while he was completely erect—turned out the guy was on sildenafil and was taking it incorrectly). Delia’s ongoing beef with racist neighbors who wouldn’t be super overtly racist, but talked frequently about declining property values and then would loudly vacuum when they knew she was supposed to be asleep for work the next day; then there was the time when Ada stared down a rude Umbrella pharmacist who nearly refused to give up her antibiotic prescription when she had a UTI till the pharmacist apologized four times and accidentally overfilled the bottle by two or three tablets. 

It felt easy, like the way things used to be, and I felt something loosen around my shoulders that I hadn’t realized had been wound so tight.

And then… I glanced down at my phone.

I had propped it back against the salt shaker with the app still open at some point, and while reaching for something, I’d accidentally bumped the screen. The vibration level had mistakenly shot to seven.

“Oh, shit.”

“What?” Chloe leaned over, trying to take a peek at what I was staring at, but I kept my phone hovered close to my face. “What did you do?”

“Don’t worry about it. Give me a second.”

My phone was already buzzing like crazy.

—

Leon: Pretty boy.

Leon: What just happened?

Leon: That’s… a lot higher than it was before.

Leon: In my office. Door’s closed, but I have to grind my heel down on my toes just to keep myself from making a sound.

Leon: You know I’m not the only one who works here, right?

Leon: God I’m so fucking hard.

—

“Hey, uh, you’re… you’re worrying us. Everything okay?” Del asked precariously.

“Just a minute.” I waved her off, focused entirely on my phone.

—

Me: lol sorry. accident.

Me: show me tho? 👀

Leon: …

Leon: [Photo Attachment.jpg]

—

It was a shot snapped under his desk—his uniform pants were shoved down just enough that the dark silicone ring shoved snugly around the base of his cock, which was flushed a deep and angry red, straining, mid-throb. He was gripping his thigh and there was no evidence that he’d taken the ring off or touched himself at all.

Just the raw, aching evidence of how badly he needed to cum and wasn’t allowed to.

—

Leon: I just came. Dry.

Leon: Nothing came out. It hurts so much, but the pressure just keeps going.

Leon: I still feel like I need to cum, pretty boy. It’s not going away. I’m still so goddamn hard, it’s driving me crazy.

Me: oh, poor baby. that sounds so frustrating lol

Leon: And you’re not sorry at all.

Me: no, im really not. 

Me: you have four more minutes 😋

Leon: …

Leon: I’m going to remember this when I get home tonight.

Leon: I’m going to remember what you did today while you turned up the vibration and just laughed at me.

Me: oh no! are you gonna do something about it? 😇😇😇

Leon: I am.

Leon: I’m going to make you regret being such a little cocktease.

Me: hm. definitely dont want that. please dont hurt me, mr officer~

Leon: You are playing a really dangerous game, pretty boy.

Me: im just sitting and having lunch with my friends. you wont do anything to me while im with them… would you?

—

There was a long pause.

When the typing bubbles appeared again, his tone shifted.

Lower.

Darker.

The old predator, far less gentle this time, breaking the water’s surface just a little to flash his eyes at me.

—

Leon: I’m not stupid. I have a reputation to uphold.

Leon: They’re not going to be around to see what I’m going to do to you.

Leon: And when I get you home… I’m going to take my time reminding you exactly who you belong to.

—

I felt the heat rush straight down between my legs. My fingers tightened on the phone till my case creaked.

There he is.

I bit my lip, crossing my legs and pressing my thighs under the table, typing back a response before I could overthink it.

—

Me: oh no 🥺 i dont think i’d like that…

Leon: You’re not gonna like a lot of things I’m thinking of doing to you.

Me: that sounds really scary.

Me: im with my friends right now, Leon. you wouldnt just come and drag me out of here and take me home and have your way with me, would you?

Leon: I’m already on my way.

—

Oh, shit.

My stomach dropped and I stared at the screen. I was horny nearly to the point of tears at this, heart hammering violently against my ribs.

I was a little scared, but it only fueled me.

—

Me: wait…

Me: are you actually?

Leon: You’d like that, wouldn’t you? If I just showed up and dragged you out by your hair and took you home without a word, just to fuck you like the dirty little slut you are?

Leon: Fuck, I'm gonna cum again... I really wanna take this fucking ring off soon and show you exactly how full of me your cute little pussy is gonna be later.

—

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha—FUCK.

—

Leon: You’d whine and cry and tell me to stop, and I wouldn’t listen.

Leon: I never listen when you say no, do I, sweet boy?

—

I made a quiet, strangled sound of total mortification and dropped my phone face-down on the table like it electrocuted me, clapping both hands over my mouth. Both Chloe and Delia stopped mid-conversation just to gawk at me.

“What the hell was that noise?” Delia asked.

“N-Nothing—I-I—I just… remembered something! That’s all!”

“Must’ve been a real interesting ‘something,’” Chloe replied, deadpanning at me. “Your face is fire-engine red. Your ears are, too. And you’re breathing like you just sprinted uphill.”

“I-I’m pregnant. You know how it is.”

“Uh-huh, and I know the babies aren’t big enough yet to be pressing on your lungs like that unless you’re having a medical emergency.”

My phone buzzed again. I picked it up only to avoid their gazes.

—

Leon: Another one. Two for two.

Leon: It’s starting to hurt really badly. The pressure keeps going and going but nothing comes out… I’m still so fucking hard, it’s making me dizzy.

Leon: You’re going to pay for every single orgasm I have when I get my hands on you.

—

I bit my lip so hard I nearly tasted blood, flipping the phone face-down again in a rush.

—

“He’s texting you, isn’t he?” Delia said, smiling wide like the Cheshire cat. “That’s the face of someone getting sexted in public.”

“I-It’s not—he’s just—work is slow right now and he’s, uh,” My phone buzzed again, wiping out whatever train of thought I was clinging to. I flipped the device over without thinking, and the screen lit up with more messages that made my breath catch.

—

Leon: I hope you’re enjoying your lunch. It’s the last bit of peace you’re going to get before I get you home.

Leon: You won’t be able to sit comfortably for at least a week when I’m finally finished with you.

Leon: You’re going to be so full of me, you’ll be leaking for fucking days.

—

I made another sound—a lot more incriminating than the first—and dropped the phone again. Chloe reached for it, but I batted her hand away with reflexes that I didn’t know I still possessed.

“Okay,” Delia said, leaning back in her seat and trying not to laugh, wearing the expression of someone who had just been gifted free tickets to a very entertaining show. “That’s not a ‘work is slow’ face. That’s the face of ‘I need a cigarette and I’m currently very mad about not being able to have one because I’m pregnant.’ What’s he saying to you?”

“Nothing, he—”

“She’s gonna keep pushing till you tell us.” Chloe propped her chin on her hand.

“He’’s…” I swallowed down an embarrassed squeak. “He’s bored at work. Thinking about… later. When I get home.”

“Thinking about..?” Del prompted.

“You know. Things.” I replied, my voice cracking.

“What kind of things?”

—

Leon: You know what I’m thinking about? When we went to the Arklays.

Leon: How good you felt. How you cried and begged me to stop.

Leon: I’m gonna make sure you cry like that again tonight, and just like last time… well, you’re smart enough to figure out the rest.

—

I stared at the screen for a few seconds too long. My face was so hot, I could’ve cooked bacon on my forehead.

“Jesus,” Chloe said, “What on earth did he just say to you to make you turn purple?”

“I am not purple!”

“Dude, you’re like… Grimace purple.”

“The fucking McDonalds mascot guy?” I gave them both a look.

“Oh, yeah. If you did a dopey little smile, you’d look one hundred percent related.” Chloe giggled. “Are we gonna need to call an ambulance because your boyfriend turned you on a little too hard?”

“I hate the both of you.” I said, but my voice came out too high and completely, utterly unconvincing.

"No, you love us. Besides, we're very supportive of your—" Delia gestured vaguely at all of me, "Whatever this is. Which you should tell us about, by the way."

"I'm not telling you about—" 

My phone buzzed. 

"...about any of this."

—

Leon: That’s three. I’ve never came this many times without anything coming out. It’s agony, pretty boy.

Leon: I’m going to paint your insides white when I can finally get this ring off. You’re gonna be dripping for the rest of the night.

Leon: And then I’m going to do it again.

Leon: And again.

Leon: And again.

Leon: And again.

Leon: Until you can’t remember what it’s like to not be stuffed full of me.

—

I squeezed my thighs together so hard that I nearly gave myself a Charley horse. My hand shook as I typed back.

—

Me: you’re being so mean right now, Leon. i’m trying to have a nice lunch.

Leon: I’m just being honest.

Leon: When you were lying in bed too sick to fight back, I wasn’t being mean then either. I was just taking what I knew was mine.

Leon: And I’m going to take it again tonight until you’re crying on my cock and begging me to stop.

Me: i’m going to the bathroom. you had better not send me anything else this perverted and gross.

Leon: Now, when have I ever listened to you asking me NOT to do something? Be honest, I mean, really.

—

I got up and rushed to the bathroom. Delia and Chloe were saying something to me, but I was too far gone into my own brain to hear or care.

—

Leon: [Video Attachment.mp4]

—

I locked the bathroom door, leaned against the wall, and hit play.

He was holding his phone in his left hand and angled down at his chest. He had unbuttoned his uniform shirt and tossed it away somewhere, revealing his dark grey undershirt. I could see the dark silicone ring still snug around the base of his cock—flushed a deep, desperate red, throbbing hard enough to nearly make me think he was going to have a medical emergency. His right hand reached down, fingers fumbling with the ring, and I could hear his breathing—ragged, uneven, barely controlled.

"Okay," he muttered, his voice rough and strained, sucking air through his teeth. "Okay. Taking it off. Fuck-fuck-fuck…”

The ring slipped free.

He barely had time to drop it back into his lap and aim his cock away from the more sensitive items around him. The moment the pressure was allowed to release, he came with a broken groan as thick, white ropes shot up his chest, painting the cotton fibers of his undershirt in messy, pearly streaks that glistened in the overhead light. Wave after wave, load after load, more than I’d ever seen from him, even catching on an exposed sliver of collarbone and pooling in the dip in his shoulder. His hips jerked helplessly, thighs trembling. The noises he was making—low, completely undone, barely held back—sent a bolt of wet heat straight through my core.

It just kept going.

Rope after obscene rope, till he was completely glazed and his shirt could’ve passed for a Jackson Pollock original, and he was still twitching with the aftershocks, slumped back in his chair, chest heaving as he stared down at himself with an expression of stunned disbelief.

“Holy fucking shit.” he whispered raggedly off-camera.

The video cut off there.

I stared at the replay button, my mouth dry, my thighs pressed so tightly together that I felt like I was floating a good three inches off the ground.

—

Leon: All of that and more is going inside you tonight.

Leon: I’ll make you take every last drop. You’re going to be so fucking full of me, you’ll be able to taste it for a month.

Me: oh my god

Leon: Hurry up and finish up your lunch. I’m cleaning up and the sooner you get home, the sooner I can make good on every single promise I made.

—

I got up and splashed cold water on my face three times. 

It didn't help at all. 

My reflection was a disaster—wild eyes, flushed cheeks, lips bitten red and swollen. I looked as if I had already been thoroughly ravished, and Leon hadn't even touched me yet.

I took a deep breath, unlocked the door, and walked back to the table on unsteady sea legs—Chloe and Delia, to my embarrassment and complete mortification, were waiting with matching expressions of unholy glee.

"So," Delia said, sliding my iced tea toward me, “Did Leon send you anything… interesting while you were in there?"

"N-No," I lied, not making eye contact while my voice cracked.

“Your face is red again.”

"Cordelia, I swear to God—"

“Was it a dirty photo?” Chloe asked innocently, all while Del just completely glossed over the fact that I used her full name on her. “Was that why you were hiding in the bathroom like a little Victorian dandy who just got a bad case of the vapors?”

“I wasn’t—I’m not—”

“We literally both saw you text Leon that he was being ‘so mean right now’ in one of your messages,” Delia added, grinning from ear-to-ear. “You have that look on your face!”

“What look?”

“The look of someone who knows they’re about to get railed into next week and is very deeply conflicted about how much they’re looking forward to it.”

“Can we please just—” I dropped my face into my hands and groaned. “Gnocchi…”

“The waiter’ll be here any minute. We shoo’d him away while you were off playing digital grab-ass,” Chloe said, patting my hand. “We can order and then you can have your pasta and think about whatever it was that made you make that noise in the bathroom.”

“I didn’t make a noise…”

“Oh, yeah you did. We heard it.”

I lifted my head just enough to shoot a glare at her.

"I hate you guys sometimes."

"You love us," Delia said, utterly unrepentant. "Now drink your tea. I’m pretty sure it has electrolytes and you have more than just two reasons to stay hydrated.”

I was going to kill them. 

After the gnocchi. 

And after Leon had his way with me. 

And after I'd recovered enough to form coherent thoughts again.

I sighed.

It was going to be a very, very long afternoon.

Chapter Text

The apartment was dark when I got home.

All the lights were off. The television was dark, the screen was cold. Leon’s things weren’t at the door where they would usually be by now. I checked my phone to see if he’d sent me anything further—nothing for hours since the I’m cleaning up message.

He probably got called in.

It happens sometimes—I was disappointed, but mostly just tired and ready to go to bed. The lunch, the confession, the video… all of it had wetted me thoroughly, wrung me out, and hung me to dry like a cheap checkered dishrag.

I kicked off my shoes and gently rubbed my ankles before shucking my pants off and abandoning them in the hall, padding quietly into the kitchen in just my boxers and hoodie whilst the twins floated and bubbled somewhere just beneath the bloat.

I was at the fridge, bent slightly to reach for one of Leon’s protein shakes when my ears pricked at the sound of the bedroom door softly closing and footsteps approaching me from behind.

I froze.

A warm, firm hand clamped over my mouth, fingers digging into the softer flesh of my cheek, palm swallowing my startled yelp—another arm locked around my waist, yanking me back at the same time against a solid, breathing wall behind me. Somewhere amid the sudden chaos, the fridge door shut and plunged us back into darkness. My heart clanged hard against the inside of my chest and I let out a muffled, panicked sound against the palm clamped over my mouth—all of a sudden, Leon’s voice was right there, breath grazing my ear.

“Thought I forgot about you, pretty boy?”

I felt his breath fan hot over my neck and his body was rigid behind mine. I could feel that he was already hard against my backside, and my legs went weak.

“You made me cum three times at my desk,” he purred, “Three times. I couldn’t touch myself, I couldn’t even properly release. Do you have any idea how fucking much that hurt?”

I whimpered against his hand and he pressed his hips forward, grinding hard against me, his clothed erection biting deep into my soft flesh.

“Oh, shut up. I’m not in the mood for your whining—you’ve been asking for this all fucking week.”

His other hand slid down my stomach and plunged beneath the waistband of my boxers; his fingers found me immediately. My cunt was absolutely soaked and my clit was so swollen, I could feel my heartbeat in the veins along the straining body—my hips jerked reflexively, and he made a sound that was somewhere between a disparaging laugh and a hungry growl.

“You know what I think about when I’m at work?” He asked, “I think about all the times I’ve held you down and used you and made you beg to cum on my cock even when you claimed you didn’t want it—I think about the sounds you make when you’re about to cum, and I get hard. I get so fucking hard thinking about raping you all over again, pretty boy, about how I could bend you over and fuck you till you bleed or rape your throat until you throw up and it leaks out of your nose. I could drag you to the bedroom and use you like a filthy fucking cumdump over and over again till you can’t walk. And you’d just let me wouldn’t you? You’d cry and you’d beg me to stop, but I know you wouldn’t mean it. You’ve never wanted me to stop. You always want me to keep going.”

I wrenched my head to the side, breaking free just enough to draw a lungful of air and gasp, “F-Fuck you! Get off of me—”

I drove my elbow back into his ribcage, enough to surprise but not actually maim. His grip on me loosened just a second. I twisted in his arms and shoved at his chest with both hands.

“I said, get the fuck away from me!”

He staggered back just a step, and for a second I believed I had the upper hand. However, that thought was doused fast with cold water right as I made out the flash of his teeth in the dim light.

“There you are,” His voice was dripping with delight. “There’s my pretty boy. I was wondering when you were gonna start fighting back.”

I grabbed the first thing I could find on the counter and threw it uselessly at his face—he caught it and threw it aside without taking his eyes off me. I tried to rush past him toward the living room, but he caught me by the waist again and hauled me back, spinning me around and pinning me face-first against a wall. The cool surface bit roughly into my cheek as Leon pressed me flat, his body an iron cage with one hand gripping the back of my neck and the other working back between my legs till he found my quivering cunt again. I squirmed, twisted, tried to kick backward or shove off the wall—nothing worked. He just pressed harder and laughed at me.

“Aw, you’re trying so hard to fight me. It’s so cute,” He plunged his fingers inside me and curled inward, forcing a sound out of me I hadn’t meant to make. “You feel that? God, you’re such a fucking whore—you want this so bad, it’s pathetic.”

“N-Not—I-I d-dont—”

“What, so you don’t want it?” He worked his fingers inside me for just a second, filling the room with obscene wet sounds before abruptly ripping his fingers out of me and holding them against my face, slick and warm on my cheek. “What do you call this? You’re so fucking soaked, it’s running down my hand and your clit’s so hard, I could feel your heartbeat. 

"You don't what? You don't want it?" He pulled his fingers out and held them up in front of my face, glistening in the dim light from the window. "Then what's this? What do you call this? You're soaked. You're dripping down your own thighs. Don’t fucking lie to me when I know what your body really wants, sweet boy.”

“I-I-I’m n-not—” I sobbed, “I d-don’t want a-anyth–thing from you!”

“You’re such a liar,” he grabbed my jaw and forced my mouth open, shoving his slick fingers through my lips and over my tongue. “That’s what a desperate little slut tastes like. You’re not allowed to tell me how badly you don’t want it when you’re that wet.”

My vision swam as I gagged around his fingers, my eyes watering with the force of trying not to get sick and not wanting to bite down on him. He watched with a dark sort of satisfaction as he pulled his fingers out of my mouth.

“There, that’s better. Now,” he said, “You’re going to get on your knees and you’re not going to bite me at all. You remember what I had to do to you last time you bit me, don’t you, pretty boy?”

I glared up at him, drooling, still tasting myself on his fingers. I cried out—half in pain, half out of surprise—as he grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanked me off the wall, and shoved me downward till my knees hit the floor hard enough to sting.

“There you go,” he cooed as he cupped my jaw, “You can pretend you hate this, but this is where you’ll end up every single time no matter how much you scream and tell me to stop: on your knees. Mouth open. Still my knocked-up little fuckhole. Ready to swallow my cock down that pretty throat of yours.”

“Go to hell, Leon.”

He laughed and sounded so genuinely delighted, it made my stomach flip and my clit twitch helplessly, straining painfully against its own webbing. 

“I don’t plan on it, but I’ll make sure you come with me if I go,” He tenderly traced my lower lip with his thumb. “Now be a good boy and open up, okay?”

I clenched my jaw and glowered at him. He let out a sigh of mock-annoyance as if I were nothing more than a child refusing to eat vegetables.

“Most people would’ve learned by now, but not you. You just love to fight back and pretend you don’t want it,” He stroked my cheek with the back of his knuckles, wiping away tears I hadn’t noticed. “You’re so cute when you’re still so convinced that you’re not right where you want to be.”

He reached down with his free hand and undid his pants, his cock springing from his pants. That’s when I saw it—the dark silicone ring, still snug around the base but not turned on. I hadn’t expected this at all and my eyes widened. He caught the look immediately.

“Oh,” He glanced down at himself, then back at me with a smirk. “Right. That. I put it on right before you got home—you didn’t honestly think I was going to let this end quickly, did you?”

He fisted his cock loosely and gave it a slow stroke, and I watched it twitch, watched the engorged veins along the shaft pulse and scream for release.

“Open wide, pretty boy,” he tapped the smooth, fevered head of his cock against my closed lips. “I’m not going to ask you twice.”

I kept my jaw shut, not breaking eye contact with him. He cocked his head like a bird interrupted mid-preen, unimpressed.

“Hm. Whatever,” He pinched my nose shut. “Let’s see how long you last like this.”

I held out for less than seven seconds before I opened my mouth in a desperate gasp. He was quick in guiding himself over my tongue, filling my mouth before I could snap it shut. He let out a low, satisfied groan.

“There we go,” He praised, keeping one hand fisted in my hair and holding me steady. “Look at you, so fucking pretty with your mouth stuffed so full.”

I let out a muffled whine and he chuckled low at me.

“Shh, I know, I know you hate it. You’re going to go on and on about it as soon as I let you have room to breathe.” Leon thrust shallowly, just enough to make me gag and cry before pulling back just enough to let me breathe.

I gasped, a string of saliva connecting my lip to the head of his cock. My God, the way he looked at me then made my cunt give a pathetic, weeping clench. “F-Fuck you…”

“Hm. Maybe later, I’m a little busy right now.” He wiped a tear from my cheek, and the gesture would’ve been tender if not for the cruel amusement in his eyes. “You’re doing so well, though. Just look at you… drooling already and I’m nowhere close to done with you.”

All I could do was whine and grind against his boot, shining the leather with my slick arousal.

“I know, I know,” he pushed back in and I gagged around him, hands flying up to grip his thighs. “Just a little longer, okay pretty boy? I’m having too much fun to stop just yet.”

He fucked into my mouth in short, shallow thrusts—never deep enough to truly make me panic or horribly trigger reflux. Just enough to keep me choking, keep me drooling, keep my eyes streaming. The sounds I was making were obscene—wet, desperate, muffled little whimpers that vibrated around his cock and made him groan from deep within his chest.

"God, you’re fucking perfect—just listen to yourself. Such a mess… Drool all down your chin, tears all over your face, and you're still moaning like a whore. Still whining for more even with your mouth full." He thrust a little deeper, and I choked. "That's my handsome guy—Taking it so well. You were made for this, made to be on your knees for me and choke on my cock.”

I tried to say something—probably another brainless insult I didn’t truly mean—but it came out garbled and wet.

"What was that? I didn't quite catch it. Use your words." He pulled out just enough for me to gasp, then pushed back in before I could speak. "Oh, wait… You can't, can you? Just sitting there and taking it. That's all you're good for—taking my cock however I feel like giving it to you.”

My eyes rolled back into my head. 

I was floating, the world narrowing to just this—the weight of him, the stretch of my jaw, the ache in my knees, the steady degradation pouring from his mouth that felt more like electric praise against my nervous system. I wasn't bothering with pretending that I was fighting anymore.

I was just... taking it. 

Letting him use me. 

Letting him turn me into exactly what he said I was.

—

Everything dissolved after that. The world narrowed down to sensation: the rough drag of his palms on my skin, his voice ringing in my ears, the slick heat between my legs that seemed to leak endlessly out of me. I drifted in and out of awareness, just catching fragments as I plunged deeper and deeper into the moment—his hands on my hips, my back against the wall, and then bent over the sofa, and then flat on the mattress, his weight always pressing me down, pressing me deeper.

He moved me like I weighed nothing.

Bent me over the edge of the bed, pillow under my hips to keep pressure off of my center. He slid his cock into me from behind, and I sobbed wetly into the sheets, begging him indecisively to stop, that it hurt, to keep going, clutching at the fabric as he set a pace that brutalized and blissed me out both.

His hand pressed between my shoulder blades.

Pinning me down.

His voice washed over me in waves till I felt the sand of my being washed out into him, grain by grain, bit by bit.

Look at you… taking it so well.

You were made for this.

My perfect little cocksheath…

Just a pretty hole.

I came like that, clenching around him and wailing helplessly into the mattress while he laughed and kept going, kept pistoning into me through the spasms till I was shaking and oversensitive and begging in futility, please stop, please stop, I can’t cum anymore, please stop, it hurts, Leon, please…

One more.

You can do it.

He rolled us onto our sides, my back to his chest, hooking my leg over his arm. The new angle let him sink even deeper inside, and I felt him absolutely, positively everywhere—in my throat, my stomach, my arms and legs, in the space between my eyes till I thought I might see God. His hand slid down to rub circles into my clit, and I jerked in his grip, a fresh wave of tears spilling down my flushed cheeks.

So good.

You’re doing so good for me.

My handsome boy.

Such a perfect little fucktoy—

The beauty and the pain tangled together till I couldn’t distinguish up from down, left from right, until it all just felt like the purest, fluid love. I came again and again, sharp and shuddering things that made my vision white out and my toes curl and made me choke on my tears. He kept going, still.

Somewhere in the haze of it all, I was found on my hands and knees with him behind me, one hand splayed protectively over my belly while the other gripped the fleshier part of my hip hard enough to leave bruises. He was saying something—I couldn’t tell anymore; filthy things, things that made my face burn hot and my cunt clench that much harder—but the words slid past me like rushing water. 

All I could feel was him.

All I could hear was the wet sound of our bodies meeting, the obscene slap of skin-on-skin, the broken noises that he tore from my throat.

“You’re so close again, I can feel it. I can feel you clenching around me—go on, pretty boy, give me one more. Give me one more…”

My arms gave out, and I collapsed forward with his face pressed into the mattress. He followed me down, keeping his weight propped up on his elbows so he wouldn’t crush me. His thrusts turned shallow and rapid, hitting that blinding spot inside me over and over until I was screaming hoarse obscenities into the sheets.

“That’s it… That’s it… Good boy…”

I fell apart.

The orgasm ripped through me like a violent and uncontrollable seizure, and I felt myself gush in torrents and limp rivulets around him, soaking his cock, soaking the sheets, soaking my existence through. He let out a wrecked groan, his rhythm stuttering.

“Fuck… P-Pretty boy, I n-need to—I’m gonna take it off, it hurts, I can’t—”

He pulled out and the sudden loss made me sob, my cunt clenching desperately around nothing. Before I could process what was happening, his hands were on me, flipping me onto my back with roughness that bordered on being frantic. He was hovering over me now, chest heaving, face flushed and slick with beads of sweat. His cock was still achingly hard, twitching and flexing desperately against the dark ring. His eyes were wild and completely undone with animalistic hunger.

“N-Need to see you,” he rasped, fumbling with the ring and hissing through his teeth. “Need to see—fuck—wh-when I—”

He didn’t have time when the ring finally slipped free.

The second the pressure finally released, he came with a broken, chest-deep cry—thick ropes of cum shooting across my stomach, my chest, splashing hot and heavy over the subtle swell of my belly. He grabbed the base of his cock, trying to gain control, but it kept coming. Spurt after spurt, painting my skin in messy streaks, pooling in my navel, dripping down my sides. I don’t know how many times he came without release, how many hours of dry, tortuous orgasms he’d dammed, but now it was everywhere—all over me, on the sheets, on his own hands as he stroked himself through it.

"Holy—f-fuck—" 

I was too far gone to respond. 

My body was still buzzing, still aching, still desperate even after everything he'd already taken from me. I reached for him blindly, my fingers grazing his hip and catching the steadily weakening jets of pearl.

"Please—" The word came out slurred. "Please, Leon—n-need you inside me a-again—”

"You need me to what?" He was completely breathless and bleary-eyed as he grabbed my thighs and pushed them further apart. "You want me to fuck it back into you? Make sure it takes?"

"Yes—yes, please, please, please, fuck, please, Leon—"

He pushed back into me in one devastating stroke. The feeling of being filled again—still half-hard, still sensitive, cock slicked with his cum—made my back arch off the mattress. A half-shattered shriek tore from my throat as Leon buried himself to the hilt one last time and just stayed there.

Pulsing.

Breathing.

His forehead pressed to mine, eyes squeezed shut.

“Fuck, pretty boy, do you feel that?” He rolled his hips slow and deep, and I felt his cum slicking the way, mixing with my arousal and dripping out around him only to be fucked back in.
His rhythm built gradually—slow, grinding thrusts that pressed against my cervix till my vision vignetted. His thighs were shaking and his breath hitched every time I clenched weakly around him, but he didn’t stop—he just kept grinding, kept pushing deeper, kept murmuring filthy praises to me as he caught my lips with his.

"Look at you, taking it so well. You were made for this—made to be fucking bred over and over again, made to be full of me, made to carry my babies, huh?" His hand slid down to press against my belly, possessive and reverent. "You're so perfect like this, so fucking beautiful. My pretty boy. My perfect, handsome little cocksleeve. My—My—fuck—"

His rhythm stuttered. He was close again—I could feel it in the way he swelled inside me, in the desperate moans catching in his throat. His hand slid between us, fingers finding my clit, rubbing tight circles that made sparks shoot up my spine.

"One more. Can you give me one more, pretty boy? Come on, I know you can. I know you can do it…”

"I c-can't—I can't, Leon, it's too much—"

"You can. You will." He pressed harder, thrust deeper, and the combination sent me hurtling over the edge with a shout. My body locked up, every muscle seizing, my cunt clamping down around him in pulsing, uncontrollable waves.
He followed me over with a broken groan, burying himself as deep as he could go and spilling into me in thick, hot pulses. I felt it then—more of him, filling me, marking me, claiming me from the inside out. He collapsed against me, careful even now to keep his weight on his elbows, his face buried in the curve of my neck.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. The room was silent except for our ragged breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator and the wet sound of us. I stared at the ceiling, my body buzzing, my mind completely blank. 

I couldn't form a thought. 

I couldn't move my limbs. 

I was just... floating. 

Warm and heavy and utterly, completely spent.

And then it started as a hitch in my breath. 

Barely noticeable. Something I could’ve easily mistaken for an aftershock, but then another followed, and another, and suddenly my chest was heaving for an entirely different reason. 

My eyes burned. My throat tensed. A sob clawed its way out of me, raw and ugly before I could stop it.

"Pretty boy?" Leon's voice was sharp with sudden alarm. He pulled back just enough to look at my face, and whatever he saw there made the color drain from his own. The shift was instantaneous—the dominant predator evaporated, replaced by something frantic with worry. "Hey, hey, what's wrong? What happened? Did I hurt you? Was it too much? Talk to me."

He was already pulling out, already reaching for me, his hands fluttering over my body like he didn't know where to touch first or if he could. His eyes were wide, panicked, searching my face for answers I couldn't articulate.

"I-I don't—I can't—" I choked on the words, my whole body shaking. The tears were coming faster now, hot and relentless. I was unable to stop them. Every time I tried to breathe, another sob ripped through me. "I'm s-sorry—I don't know why I'm—I didn't mean to—"

"Hey, don't apologize." His voice was soft despite the panic bleeding through. He gathered me into his arms, pulling me against his chest, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other pressed gently at my mid-back. "You have nothing to be sorry for, okay? You did so well. You were so good—I’m not going anywhere, I won’t leave you all by yourself.”

The words, although they were sweet and probably what I needed to hear in another world long away from this one, only made me cry harder. I buried my face in his neck and sobbed—great, heaving shudders that shook my whole body. My fingers curled into his shoulders, clutching at him like he was the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly gone liquid and entirely sideways. He held me through all of it, rocking me gently, murmuring a steady stream of reassurance into my hair.

“It’s all right… i-it’s all right. You’re safe, pretty boy, you’re safe. I’m right here.”

After what felt like an eternity, the sobs began to subside into shaky hiccups. I felt completely wrung out and hollow, like someone had scooped out my insides and left nothing but frayed nerve endings. Leon pulled back just enough to look at me, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing away the tears still tracking down my cheeks. His expression was tight with worry, his brow furrowed.

"Can you tell me what happened? Was it something I said? Did I—W-Was it like before…?”

He waited with a fearful look in his eye as I stared up at him, my bottom lip shaking. His thumbs kept moving, gentle, rhythmic—after a long moment, the truth crawled up my throat before I could stop it.

"Did you mean it?"

Leon went still. "Mean what?"

"What you said. Y’know… t-the—the things you called me. The things you said you wanted to do to me. About—about r-raping—" My voice cracked, and I had to stop and swallow hard, but I started sobbing raggedly again, vision swimming with tears that made my chest ache and made my stomach feel sick. "Did you mean it? Do you really think I'm just—Do you want to hurt me like you used to?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Leon's hands dropped from my face like I'd burned him. He didn't move away, but I felt the shift in him, the way his whole body went rigid and still.

"Pretty boy—"

"Don't—" I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to stop the tears. "Don't f-fucking call me that right now. Please. I just—I need to know. I need to know if any of that was real to you. If you—if part of you—"

"Can I hold you?"

I shook my head immediately, my breath hitching while I grimaced.

"No. No, I—I can't right now. I'm sorry. I just need—"

"Okay." His voice was steady, but I heard the crack underneath it. "Okay. I won't touch you. You don’t need to be sorry. I'll just… stay right here. I'm not going anywhere. But I won't touch you until you say so."

I dropped my hands from my face and looked at him. 

He'd pulled back, giving me space, his hands folded in his lap like he didn't know what to do with them. His eyes were wet—not quite crying, but close. His jaw was tight. Every line of his body was rigid with the effort of holding himself back.

"I…" he said quietly, struggling to find the right words. "I didn't mean it. Not any of it. Not the things I called you, not the things I said I wanted to do to you. It was—it was the scene, pretty—" He caught himself. "It was… just pretend. It was what you asked me to do, but I didn't mean any of it. You’re—" His voice broke, and he had to stop and take a breath. "I—I still have a hard time with—”

He stopped himself. Swallowed. I watched his hands clench in his lap, the knuckles going white. He looked like he hated himself.

"If I hurt you—if I pushed too far—if I made you feel like any of that was real—I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don’t want to make you feel like that again.”

I stared at him. My chest was still aching, still tight, but something in it had loosened just a fraction. "You promise?"

"I promise." His voice was raw, scraped clean. "One hundred percent. You're my boyfriend and I love you, and I want to get better for you. And I'm sorry—I'm so fucking sorry—that I made you doubt that."

I looked at him for a long moment—at the wetness in his eyes, at the white-knuckled grip of his hands in his lap, at the way his whole body was straining even as he held himself perfectly still. 

He wasn't touching me. 

He'd asked, and I'd said no, and he'd listened. 

And that—more than anything else he could have said—was what made the last of the tension begin draining out of me.

"Okay," I whispered. 

His shoulders sagged with relief, but he didn't move. "Do you want me to give you more space? I can go to the living room, maybe sleep on the couch tonight if you need—"

"No." The word came out sharper than I meant it to. "No, I—I don't want you to go. I just needed—I needed a minute.”

He waited patiently, watching me with his hands folded in his lap, eyes still wet at the waterline while his entire body radiated a careful, anticipatory stillness. More than anything else would’ve, that was what made me finally reach out.

“Hold me please?” I whispered, my voice rough.

He moved slowly, so slowly as if he were afraid I might break all over again if he so much as breathed the wrong way. His arms came around me with immense care, drawing me close to his chest, and I felt the shuddering exhale he let out as he pressed his lips to the top of my head.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into my hair, “I’m… I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t want to make you feel scared like that again.”

“I know,” I tucked my face into his neck and let my eyes fall closed. “I just… n-needed to hear you say it.”

“Are you sure now..?”

I nodded silently.

We lay there for a while, tangled together in the wreckage of ruined sheets. His hand found its way with slow hesitation to my belly, stopping occasionally just to make sure I was okay with it, and I covered it with my own hand as I pressed his palm more firmly against the minuscule swell.

“The babies are moving a lot.” I said quietly. “I can feel them. It’s like… kind of like fluttering.”

He went silent for a moment. And then, very softly: “Th-They’re okay? I didn’t–?”

“They’re fine,” I tilted my head to look up at him. “You didn’t do anything to them.”

He closed his eyes and let out a breath that sounded like he’d been holding onto it for hours. “Good. Good. That’s—uh, that’s good. I was so worried, I tried to be careful but—”

“I know.” I kissed his jaw. “It’s okay.”

“I just—” He stopped, swallowed thickly. “I… I couldn’t live with myself if I did something— If something happened to them…”

I found his hand and laced our fingers together over my belly. “Nothing happened to them. We’re still here.”

He pressed another kiss to my forehead, and we lay there in the quiet, his thumb tracing slow circles on my stomach. The twins fluttered again—a tiny, private hello that only I could feel—and I smiled against his skin.

"I think they're saying goodnight," I murmured.

"Tell them goodnight from me."

“Why don’t you wipe me down and tell them yourself?” I kissed his cheek.

He looked at me for a long moment before slipping out of bed to disappear into the bathroom.

I heard water running, the sound of him rummaging in the cabinet, and then he was back with a warm, damp cloth and a dry towel. He cleaned me with the same meticulous care he always did after having crazy sex—gentle strokes over my stomach, my chest, between my thighs, wiping away the evidence of what we'd done. Every touch was soft, reverent, looking up cautiously from time to time to silently ask permission if he could keep going.
When he was finished, he tossed the cloth into the dirty laundry and climbed back in bed beside me. Instead of pulling me against him this time, he shifted down, propping himself on one elbow and looked at my belly with an expression I couldn't quite put a name to.

"Can I—?"

"Yeah." I reached down and tugged his hand into place, spreading his palm over the subtle curve. The twins fluttered in response, and I felt his breath hitch.
He didn't say anything at first, only staring at his own hand, his jaw tight, his brow furrowed like he was trying to solve a problem he didn't have the tools for. When he finally spoke, his voice was uncertain, like he was feeling his way through the dark blindfolded.

"Hey." He stopped. Swallowed. Looked up at me. "I don't know how to do this."

"It’s okay," I said quietly. "You're doing fine."

He nodded, but still didn't look convinced, but he looked back down while his thumb traced a slow arc just below my navel, and the twins fluttered again, stronger this time. He wouldn’t be able to feel it—they were too small—but something in his expression shifted anyway.

"I'm not good at this." He swallowed hard. "The first thing I ever learned about being a man was how to make someone afraid of me. And I've spent my whole life since trying to be something else. But it's in me. It's always going to be in me. And I'm so fucking scared—" He had to stop, his voice giving out entirely. "I'm so scared I'm going to pass it down to you. The way it was passed down to me. And you're going to grow up and look in the mirror one day and see the same thing I see."

He pressed his forehead against my belly, his breath coming in rough, uneven bursts. His shoulders were shaking—not crying, but closer than I'd ever seen him get.

"I can't—" He stopped, swallowed, tried again. "I can't let that happen. I can't be the reason you—" His voice splintered and he pressed his face harder against my skin, like he was trying to hide, as if he couldn't bear for me to see him like this. "I'm supposed to protect you. Both of you. That's my whole job now. That's the one thing I'm supposed to do, and I'm so scared I'm going to fail at it the way I've failed at everything else."

"Leon, you're not—"

"I know what I am." He lifted his head just enough to look at my belly, at his own hand still spread over the curve. "I know—I know—" He stopped, his jaw working. "I know I can't take it back and go back into the past and be a different person. But I can try. For them. For you. I can try to be—" He couldn't finish. He pressed a soft kiss to my belly and let his forehead rest there.

"Goodnight," he said, his voice scraped raw. "Goodnight, you two. I'm going to try. I'm going to try so fucking hard. I'm sorry if it's not enough, and if you grow up and decide you don’t want to talk to me ever again.”

The twins kicked—hard, frantic, a sudden violent burst of movement that made me gasp and press my hand over his. He looked up at me, his eyes red-rimmed and wet.

"What? What happened?"

"They're—" I let out a breathless, watery laugh. "They're kicking like crazy. They definitely heard you.”

He stared at my belly, at his own hand, at the invisible lives fluttering just beneath the surface. "I can't feel anything..?”

"I know. They're still too small… but they're in there just… going nuts," I took his hand and pressed it more firmly against the swell. "I think they like their other dad’s voice. They kick a lot when you talk to me.”

He didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, very quietly: "I don't deserve any of this."

"Shut up, yes you do." I tugged gently at his arm. "Now come back up here and hold me."

He shifted up the bed and pulled me against his chest, one arm wrapped around my shoulders while the other stayed draped over my belly. I felt him press a kiss to the top of my head, felt the shaky exhale he let out against my hair.

"I love you," he said quietly. "A-And them… it scares the hell out of me, honestly."

"I know." I tilted my head up and kissed the underside of his jaw. "We love you too.”