doro6o

[doro6o]

in barcelona, where promises are made — leon s. kennedy

tags. established relationship. making out. fluff-ish. not proofread n wrote this half-asleep.

the sound of wet kisses and bed creaking filled the dimly-lit bedroom. your lips moves feverishly against his and a groan leaves his throat everytime you bit his bottom lip, as if you were trying to bite it off but the pain quickly disperses as soon as it comes because you’re quick to soothe it with a softer kiss, playing the bruised lip with care between your teeth as the tip of your tongue brush over it that makes the blond let out a low moan.

his calloused hands roam freely around your body; trying to get a hold of every inch of you – squeezing, pinching, caressing, palming every curve of you as he pulls you towards him, letting your legs straddle his lap as your knees rested on both sides of his hips and trapping him underneath you with your arms wrapping around his neck. leon snakes an arm around your waist, squishing your body against his as his other hand sneaks up to the back of your head, gently pushing your head down to the left to deepen his kiss with you.

in barcelona, away from the horrors of the world and the clutches of your work, where you can wear your heart on your sleeve, you find peace in each other’s arms as yourself. every thought of horror you face in your mission and the weight of the paperworks and lives lost goes flying out the window the second you two stumble in the hotel room. you find yourselves drowning in the taste of one another and melt against the warmness of another’s body.

leon lets out a whine when he feels you grind against his pelvic and you swallow his voice, saliva sliding down your chins as he feels himself grow tighter inside his pants. another whine leaves him when you push yourself down on him.

leon chases your lips as you pulled away from him, gasping for air. your chest heaves heavily up and down, perked covered nipples brushing lightly against his toned chest. the sensation making you moan lowly and grind against his hardening member and leon lets out a groan, either from restraint or need – he didn’t care because he wanted to taste you again.

he feels you press your forehead against his sweaty one, your breaths mixing together and he feels your swollen lips graze over his chin, leaving a ticklish sensation. he squirms in his spot, hips bucking up to meet your covered cunt and you whine, fluttering your eyes to stare at his heavenly face. even with eyes closed and rosy cheeks, leon still looked beautiful as ever and the moonlight from outside the window adds a dazzling effect on him that makes him look ethereal.

“i love your eyes.” you murmured, lips pressing a chaste kiss underneath his eyelash, “reminds me of a sunny day on a beach.”

leon hums in acknowledgement, not sure what to comment at the sudden confession as he wasn’t sure what it meant since he's too pre-occupied to feel your lips again. you stifle a giggle, seeing the way his eyebrows burrow together as the corner of his lips twitch in confusement.

“blue sky.”

oh, that’s what you meant. he gets it now and he feels his heart skip a beat at this realization. his strong arms tighten around you and you let out a light laugh, throwing your head back as your eyes shut in delight. a giddy feeling consumes your chest.

leon smiles at the sight, feels how the inside of stomach twist and his heart threatens to leap out of his chest as he feels so domesticated right now with you. in barcelona, leon didn’t need to muster a faux version of himself.

in barcelona, he could still be the same twenty-one year old he once was. as long as it was you.

he places a tender kiss on your throat, right where your vocal cords should be placed at and you shiver at the sensation. your hands come up to place it gently on his broad shoulders, squeezing it with your fingers, the opal rock sitting on your ring finger glimmers as the lamp light reflects on it.

a sudden thought ran across his mind. hesitance creeps in on him, should he ask you? but he’s spent a few good years with you to know you’ll turn the idea before he could even finish his sentence. a life somewhere far from the harsh reality, like the one here inside this room, where leon would get to live a domesticated life with you – a blue victorian-style house with a white picket fence, a huge porch designed around the house while the two of you sit and drink your coffees and watch two younger versions of himself and you.. yeah, that doesn’t sound so bad right now. as long as it was with you.

it was like you knew there was something up with leon; you felt how his muscles tensed and how his lips paused between the junction of your neck and shoulder. leon wasn’t hard to read, thanks to you for stealing his heart and nestling yourself inside his chest, he’s got his guards down completely around you.

“‘s there something wrong, lee?”

your voice snaps him back to reality. his head tilts back up to look at your droopy hazy eyes and he can’t help the small smile stretching across his face, you just looked too damn cute. lips pouty and swollen and coated with his saliva and the cute twitch of your nose makes him want to bite it. jeez, talk about clinginess, leon.

“i got a question,” leon doesn’t beat around the bush. there was no harm in asking about it, surely you crave it somehow too.

“shoot” you reply, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek before moving down to his neck, leaving a trail of kisses on his burning skin.

leon swallows the saliva forming in his mouth. “let’s start a life somewhere away from all this-”

“leon, no. i’m not giving up my job.” you cut him off, your eyes casting a glare at him – warning him if he continues this conversation, it’ll get to nowhere but leon’s stubborn today. he won’t take no as an answer.

“we don’t have to quit our jobs, sweets.” he mutters, voice lulling you to sleep with how calm and soft it is. “i’m just thinking that, perhaps, we should have a small getaway house from.. all of this.”

you stare at the man before you and he sees the doubt swirling in your eyes and leon leans in to plant a kiss on the corner of your lips, you unknowingly chase his lips when he pulls back.

“a blue house that overlooks a river, a big ol’ porch surrounding our home and we could drink coffee and watch the sunset.” he coaxes you, his eyes watching you intensely, looking for a sign that you want this too.

your gaze adverts down to his lips, deep in thoughts. leon feels your thumb rub circles on his shoulder, where the bullet went through ten years ago.

“two mini us playing in the backyard,” you whisper. voice so quiet that leon almost missed it if he wasn’t anticipating your answer.

a huge grin breaks in his face and leon presses his lips on your cheek, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

“and we’d watch them, take care of them. we’ll be good parents, i know it, i have you, you have me. can’t ask for more,” leon states and you meet his gaze for the first time with a new profound look on your face.

you place your forehead against his, eyes fluttering shut. “i’d like that.”

#leon kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #dorobo — half-asleep writes.

[doro6o]

12:05 a.m — leon s. kennedy

tags. gn!reader, established relationship, bit of angst, mostly fluff wc. 0.3k

Five minutes past midnight.

His stiff posture loosens upon contact with the thick warmth of artificial heat, and the sigh that departs from his lips cuts through the dead silence of the apartment. His skin screams for an hour long shower, stomach grumbles for food that’s more than just edible, yet the tiredness that tugs heavy at his eyelids outweighs all other demands his body craves.

He peels off his leather jacket and discards his shirt into the trash without much thought, the once crisp white cotton now wasted by smudges of crimson after a forgettable string of violent acts during his mission. He enters the bedroom soundlessly, takes a moment to admire the peaceful state your sleeping form so gracefully adapts to, moved by your ability to fall into a deep sleep that’s no doubt devoid of disturbances. He crawls into bed, tucks himself in and carefully brings you into his arms. Jealousy prods at him as he watches the gentle pattern of your breath, your soft sighs and your relaxed brow. He wishes, selfishly, that you’d stir awake and run your hands through his hair and up and down his back. He wishes you would hold him, deliver hushed assurances that lull him to sleep. Despite this, he can’t bring himself to wake you. Not when the very presence of your slumber is a reminder of everything he wishes to protect you from. Mundane as it seems, he could watch you sleep soundly for hours.

Nothing is ever truly silent for Leon. Sleep is never truly restful for him.

The pressing need to be in constant awareness of his surroundings, to be prepared for anything—drilled into him from his training days and missions claim memory in his bones. His nightmares, sudden and intense in their capability to appear and his overwhelming inability to avoid them.

He takes a deep breath. Pulls you closer, a firm hand wrapped securely around your waist. He closes his eyes. Takes his chances.

He’s always slept better with you in his arms.

[doro6o]

BONE-CHILL

ghost!leon kennedy x gn!reader // 6.1k words

summary: Leon doesn't come back from his last mission, and you try to cope with the shadows that soon go bump in the night.

warnings: horror, brief description of gore, death, mentions of suicide, ambiguous ending

The days drone long and monotonous after your recent shift to a home-work-home-work lifestyle, bland but necessary change given… recent events. The stagnation of limbo between reality and your own morality-fearing pessimism.

If only grief were tangible—a thing you could grasp between your fingers and rip apart. Something you could take your anger out on, sink your teeth into, hold when you cry. You think sometimes about chewing your own fingers off just for the stimulation of it. Maybe the bleeding wounds could finally bless your sadness with a chance at freedom.

After his last stint overseas, Leon failed to return. Three months gone by with no contact—a blaring red siren given his penchant for frequent calls or emails or anything to sate your worry. You kept your long-term relationship under lock and key, a decision ultimately hinging upon your safety in regards to the danger of his profession, a sacrifice greater than your need to hold his hand in public. But now the lights in your home tend to flicker, and the shadows in each room feel like the vacuum of a blackhole, and the buzzing silence might one day consume the grey matter of your brain.

What a stupid idea. A curse of hindsight.

There's been no knock at the door, no unknown number calling your phone. No government official announcing his passing, no news articles—you say this as if you would even know where to look. He kept his flights abroad tight to his chest, left details to the wolves. I work for the government was all he said, as if he owed you no explanation. As if you don’t chew your nails bloody to the thought of his corpse rotting in some far-off corner of the world with no way to bring him home.

Shit, you're unsure if he is dead, but you always preferred catastrophization. Better to accept inevitables than hold out dwindling hope. He talked in length about the danger of his job, emphasized importance that nobody ever knew you existed in his life. How lonely it was—for both of you. He loved his paranoia more than he loved you, but he also knew a lot of things you didn't.

Every homecoming brought him back to you a little less whole, a little less him. A little more angry, a little more tired.

In hindsight, you can't remember the last time you saw your Leon.

The winter wind bites at your cheeks when you step through the front doors of your office, building up to a jog on the way to your car, anticipation of full-blast heat pushing you farther. The weather spares none this year, blooms ice crystals between the layers of tissue and fat and muscle within your body. Snow still clings to rooftops, ice crystals stick to overhangs and metal and ledges. Everyone is miserable, but the weather suits your mood. Empty and dead. A shell of its summer counterpart.

The coworker you closed with calls you over to wish you well, reminds you of the upcoming pizza party that possesses all the appeal of ripping out your own teeth by brute force (something you choose to keep private). Heat pours from her window and you lean down to defrost your cheeks as she complains about her husband and her kids and the fast food she has to get on the way home.

The ring on your finger settles a heavy weight inside your chest, stalling the thump of your heart. But you smile and nod and laugh when she says something you perceive as a joke, grateful that she's perfectly content to talk at you and not with you. Exhaustion wrings you dry of energy these days.

After the five minute, one-sided conversation ends, she drives off with a wave, leaving you to glance around the parking lot: a concrete shell of ice sheets and empty spaces and shadows that defy the laws of light. You turn your head toward your car at the far end. The chill of each inhale burns your lungs, makes you expel a heaving cough, and the bright, full moon shines down on you. The maker of tides, of fate, bright enough to light the remaining hundred feet to your car. Mocking in its own right. If that's even possible. Anything seems possible these days.

Home is lonely. Quiet and dark and solemn when you step through the front door. The air stagnates, fills your inner ear with a dizzying static, a chill that bleeds through your coat. Frost smears across each window you pass to turn on lights and adjust the thermostat, and—

Wait. You shouldn’t be seeing the glass of the windows. You keep the curtains drawn to protect your privacy. Such an odd little detail that tightens your shoulders until you remember that, no, I opened the living room curtains this morning to look out at the snow. Just forgot to close them. Maybe that's what happened with the others.

And maybe it's the loneliness, or the darkness that permeates every corner of this place, but you stay on edge the rest of the night. A simple, odd detail, but you swear by routines, and leaving the curtains open is not one of them.

But you've been stressed lately, left on autopilot. You unlocked the front door to get inside and nothing else appeared tampered with.

Still. Your gut shifts and gnarls, alerting you to other, less realistic explanations.

Ultimately, you blame a bit of forgetfulness. Home is impossibly colder without Leon here. You miss him until you can't anymore and then you miss him again. It's natural to be a bit out of it.

At work, your coworkers sniff out a problem, express their concern, implore you to think about yourself before pulling another double shift, but home is not home anymore, and you prefer exhausting yourself so extensively that you barely make it to the couch every night. A better alternative to staring at the cold, empty side of your bed.

You hadn't seen Leon smile in ten years. Really, truly smile: all teeth and full cheeks and a scrunched nose. But you dream of it. A younger version of him you recall only through pictures at the bottom of a shoe box. But here, amidst the wispy fractals of sleep, he smiles. Says you worry too much, that he's fine, that he's here.

You wake the next morning with tears wetting the pillow. An emptiness claws, taints, scars the tissue of your lungs. Each breath feels like rotting.

After readying for work, you dig out the shoe box and look through each photo. Some of them are bent, torn at the edges, yellowed on the back. All of them marked with the year, most accompanied by a short sentence for commentary. At the bottom of the pile, you find the one that started the search. Taken two years after his military training, the first time you had seen him since he left for Raccoon City. He came back changed, a lot less himself, but still. He smiled for you.

You leave the box open and the pictures scattered all over the floor after rushing to leave for work, and when you arrive back home, the pictures are put away. The box tucked back into the closet. You dig through the contents, now a mess of scattered images, a haunting in and of itself. The smiling picture of Leon nowhere to be found.

It’s the first time dread overtakes you.

Your method of rationalization goes as follows: I've been stressed from work, had to rush, forgot I put the box back up. A justifiable, realistic explanation. No signs of break-in, no other tampering. Just the messy intestines of the box and the missing photo. Your coworkers were right. Gotta take it easy.

But the incidents continue.

A few days later, you startle awake to the pitch-black darkness of the living room, curled up on the couch. The television is off, everything lay quiet. A cold sweat sticks your shirt to your back, sharp spikes of fear lingering in the pit of your stomach. Your breathing stutters, leaves your mouth in loud huffs.

You can't move. You try to sit up, to curl in on yourself, to adjust the blanket, but your body refuses to comply. Can't even twitch a finger. You hold your breath, close your eyes—please snap out of it please help me please—and that's when you hear it.

Something hovers just over the back of the couch, a presence suffocating, almost tangible in the air, like sulfur in the back of your throat. The sound of its breathing strikes you as unmistakably human. Fear-filled, panic-induced huffs.

Your heart might actively give out, might break a rib with its hummingbird beat against your chest. But your eyes never open. This is a bad dream. Sleep paralysis. A fucking nightmare.

Something frigid—a finger, has to be, oh god—touches you at the elbow, trails a path up your arm, back and forth and back and forth. Your eyes clench tighter, breath mirroring the thing's: a sharp panic, acidic on your tongue, each muscle squirming against your brain's inaction.

After a moment, the longest moment of your life, either a half-second or three hours, the thing pulls away. The huffing stops. Your thumb twitches, then your wrist moves, then your head twists deeper into the pillow.

You never understood the phrase ‘frozen from fear’ until now, and although your body is your own again, you can't bring yourself to move off the couch. You want to run to the bathroom and switch on the light and lock the door and curl up inside the shower. But you can't. Can't settle the worry that the thing still watches you, remains at the back of the couch just waiting for overwhelming curiosity to turn your head.

You lay there for an unknown amount of time, until sunlight bleeds through the curtains and triumphs over darkness. You've always felt safer during the daytime.

Sleep paralysis used to feature prominently in your life a few years back. Always catalyzed by stress, worse when laying in bed. But it seems the past has followed you to this couch and brought some demons along with it. Nowhere is safe now.

Leon always knew what to do. Always shook you out of it, talked you through it, blotted out the visions with his voice and his face and his touch. And you wish—

(you call your friend in tears, inconsolable as you recount the events of the past few months)

—god, you wish he was here.

You pack a bag for the next few days after an internally waged war about rock bottom and how far you can reasonably cope like this. Your friend offers a way out, a vacation stay for however long you need.

You leave that night.

Truly, the hallucination didn't scare you. In the moment, yes, of course, but you knew the cause. Sitting with the aftermath alone, in the cold, dark, silence, unsure of the trust you place in yourself? Questioning your own brain? That broke something within you.

Maybe the events leading up to the incident didn't help, either. The curtains then the picture that you failed to find and all the grief and worry added to such an oppressive bout of fear that you had no choice but to flee.

You don't tell your friend that, though. Instead, you twist the truth to recount a more rational version of events: haven't been sleeping well, grieving, misplacing objects, memory loss, sleep paralysis. You can't tell them that a war wages on inside you between earthly realm and ether. That you might be going insane.

By Wednesday, you sit on the same couch that chased you away, bag dropped at your feet, holding the lost picture of Leon in your hands. Found on the coffee table upon your return. His smile taunts you in a way indescribable to your brain. He would know what do, make you feel better, but where is he now to banish the darkness from this house?

You shove the picture into one of your drawers beneath a wrinkled mess of clothing. That isn't how you remember him anyway.

The next morning, you shower with invisible eyes watching, a gaze that soaks you in hot oil, that no amount of scrubbing relieves. Five separate times you peek out from behind the shower curtain and prepare to meet the gaze of… something. The subject of your fear doesn’t matter. You still wish to crawl inside your skin and curl up at the bottom of the tub.

When you step out, the familiar smell of Leon's cologne freezes you in place. Your hand remains outstretched toward the towel folded up on the toilet. The bottle sits on the sink, untouched, but you smell it. You smell it. Hints of musk and sandalwood, and against your better judgement, you inhale deep and home feels like home again.

If only for a moment.

When you spray a spritz or two, it's a reclamation of your space. A decision made with intent. You spray another on your chest for good measure (not at all because you wish for his smell to follow you around the house).

The chill of the kitchen floor helps calm your heartbeat. You flipped every light in the house on, but the curtains refuse to stay closed. A direct portal to the outside world and the darkness that threatens to overtake your haven, but you’re too afraid to close them, to look at your own reflection (and what might stare back).

Things escalate shortly thereafter.

You arrive home a bit clumsy on your feet, fresh out of the bar after a drunken evening with your friends. Can't remember the last time you had so much fun, allowed yourself to forget about the shadows haunting your home.

Dread settles like a lead weight in your stomach, a common sensation nowadays made worse by the alcohol. Eyes always watching, a presence lingering just out of the sight. The whole house feels cursed.

But you shake it off. You've had your best day in months. Can't let the cage of the walls collapse in on you.

You remove your shoes, drop your belongings on the table beside the door. Start to sing the song that played in your friend's car before you pause, hair rising on the back of your neck.

Even through the darkness, the poor adjustment of your vision, you recognize the silhouette sitting on your couch. The strands of hair, dark blond offset against the color of blue-tinged shadows. You should run to him, ask where the fuck he's been, but something keeps you locked in place, swaying on drunken feet.

It's Leon but it isn't. You know it, your brain knows it, your gut knows it, your heart knows it. You accepted his death long before this moment. Knew down to your bone marrow that he was gone for good.

And now something wears his skin.

The figure doesn't move, and you glance back toward the light switch. Just a few feet away, close enough that if you really stretch, you could reach it. You look at the couch to find the silhouette still sitting there.

You take a step and the floorboard creaks just as a finger finds the protrusion of the switch. Behind you, the couch groans.

You shouldn't look back. You shouldn't look back. A bad fucking idea—one of your worst—but blood-curdling curiosity leaves you turning your head.

Staring at you over the cushion are two shadow-logged pits where his eyes should be, the suggestion of his hair blotted out and cloudy. Too dark to make anything else out, but that same feeling from the shower soaks you in a bucket of cold water.

You can't move. You need to, should grab your keys and bolt out the door, but the communication between your brain and feet misfires. You hold your breath.

“Please don't,” the thing says, so quiet and pitiful and hoarse that you almost listen. Still, you flinch at the sound, the familiar words. The whisper goes off like a gunshot.

Something eats at you, deep down inside your belly, that this thing doesn't wish to hurt you. Let it in. Let it stay here. Let it warm your bed.

The thing stole Leon's voice.

You flip on the light switch and the thing disappears.

Over the coming days, you consider the possibility of a psychotic break. What hallucinations entail. How deep the paranoia punctures. What is real and what is a byproduct of your degrading mind.

You shower with the curtain open. You safety pin the window curtains together. One day, you spend three hours deciding which lights are necessary to keep the darkness at bay, and you never turn them off. You stop drinking. You park closer to the front doors at work.

Sometimes you cry in the car on your way home.

And still yet, the thing reappears. Your safety pins sit in a neat little pile on the kitchen table. You find blown bulbs after spending too long away. A bottle of brandy and a glass wait for you beside the sink.

After spotting a splotch of blond hair in the fogged-up bathroom mirror, you cover it with a sheet only to find that same sheet folded neatly on the end of your bed the next morning.

After your late shift, you spot a figure occupying the passenger seat of your car. Pinpricks of ocean blue in the rear-view mirror. You drop your keys one morning underneath your car and they skid back across the pavement before you can crouch down to fish for them (you were fifteen minutes late for work that day).

You don't get it. Can't understand why you're haunted by the memory of your dead love, why the grief manifests only to terrify you.

The days are lonely and the nights are horrifying. Even if you could tell somebody, what would you say? ‘Listen, I know this sounds unbelievable, but something is wearing my dead husband's skin. I can't sleep or eat or think straight anymore. I need help.’ That is a one-way trip to a mental hospital—the last thing you need right now. Nobody would believe you, and you can't even blame them. Can't trust your own senses these days.

You use your lunch breaks at work to nap. At your most exhausted, you consider sleeping under the desk until your morning shift. You consider couch surfing for the unforeseeable future, or sleeping on a friend's porch in the middle of winter.

But you think in inevitables. Going home happens to be one of them.

Winter turns to spring, bringing longer days and balmy weather and the occasional thunderstorm. The incidents go on and on, but they don't escalate.

After a week-long stint with the same friend as before, you return home bright and early on Sunday. The curtains in the living room are drawn shut, but you never shut them. You know that for certain. Stopped fussing over it after the tenth time you walked into the room to find them open again.

On the kitchen table sits the photo of Leon. Smiling, arm curled around you, eyes crinkled at the corners. You pull out a chair and sit down, and you think you want to die.

A fleeting yet comforting proposal. An end to everything, a perpetual nothingness. Maybe your souls would find each other in the aftermath, between the empty space of atoms.

You miss him.

Whatever lurks beyond the realm of possibility that resides within your home views this picture as important. It wants you to look. To remember.

You grab a photo album from the side table in the living room and switch out the picture (already a shot of you two) with the Smiling Leon.

“Okay,” you say, setting the frame on the kitchen table. “I'm leaving the picture out, so just…” A gnawing part of you knows this crosses some sort of line. Never interact with the scary thing haunting you, “move it wherever you want, I guess.”

You haven't yet tried appeasing the thing, communicating with it. Maybe it's lonely, same as you. Maybe it needs a friend, stuck in your apartment twenty four hours a day. Maybe that's why it watches you, likens your presence to a hamster on a wheel, a bird in a tree, a zoo animal. Entertainment.

Maybe you do need to go to a fucking hospital.

The picture frame turns into a little game. You wake each morning and come home each evening to find it moved, and spend the next few minutes searching for it. You find it under your bed, beneath a pillow, on the sink in the bathroom, between the couch cushions, in one of the closets.

The more you think about it, the deeper unease roots into your stomach. A ghost with free reign of your house, tangible proof of its existence. It journeys around your bed when you sleep, at your most vulnerable—the most horrifying thought of all.

You could capture the activity, but your ghost seems too smart for that. It watches you sleep and shower and watch television. Surely it would watch you set video cameras up. As if you have the money for them anyway.

Unfortunately, your plan backfires. The ghost grows more active at night. Footsteps echo from the kitchen, you wake to find furniture moved, it hides your keys. One morning your front door sticks while you already run late for work, as if a body leans against the wood.

As if the ghost doesn't want you to leave.

You're forced to squeeze yourself through the living room window, a prickly bush breaking your fall. When you get to work, a coworker plucks a leaf from your hair, asks about what activities you got up to this morning with a jesting laugh.

Nothing much. Just that the ghost haunting my house tried to hold me hostage.

It's an isolated incident, and you scold the ghost after you get home with all the intensity of an owner housebreaking a puppy. Ridiculous, all things considered, and you take the rest of the evening to reflect on how the fuck things got to this point. If you're in denial about your own mental state and you truly do converse with thin air or move things around without remembering. Maybe this is all one big scheme conjured up by a fractured mind to cope with the loss of your husband.

You aren't sure when the footsteps in your kitchen went from horrifying to comforting.

But even that changes.

You fall asleep on the couch during a rerun of some eighties movie you've seen half a dozen times. The dreams are vivid, fleeting, fragmented in execution. A loud, ragged death rattle wakes you, the water-logged image of a man with an unhinged jaw and a concave skull imprinted on your retinas when you open your eyes.

An infomercial for a cookware product plays on the television, and the air stagnates thick and buzzing, as if the house itself holds its breath.

You sit up to leave for the bathroom but a sudden cold blankets you in hesitation, turns your muscles sluggish and weary. It's so late and you're so tired, and maybe you don't have to pee that bad.

But you get up and pass by the kitchen and turn the corner into the hallway.

You don't believe it at first. Blink your eyes, dig the heel of your palms into the sockets, and yet. A figure remains stood in the doorway of your bedroom at the far end of the hall. A shroud of darkness outlined by the pitiful bloom of light from your bedside lamp.

This is not a thing, but a man. Flesh and blood. As real as yourself. If you look close enough, his lungs expand with breath. Blond hair catches on the light.

Fear collapses your legs, and you land hard against the wall. The thing—a man, a man, a man—takes a step toward you, swallowed up by blackhole shadow, and you pitch backward, hands dragging you toward the kitchen. Toward the sight-breaking safety of the island and the corner you know well.

This isn't like the other times. You were fine, okay, content when your ghost appeared as nothing more than a figment, a blink-away darkness from the corner of your eye. Present only in the aftermath of its hijinks. This thing is real, tangible.

You curl into yourself on the floor, shrinking toward your knees as heavy, stilted footsteps grow closer. Thumpthump… thump, thump… thump…. thump….

From your spot in the kitchen, you look toward the front door. Both locks are turned. The man is not an intruder in the literal sense, but that makes your predicament worse somehow.

You can't fight a ghost.

The footsteps stop somewhere in the living room, and your body shakes so hard the cabinets at your back threaten to creak. You bite the hem of your shirt to quiet ragged breathing.

A bloated silence drags on, and on, and on. Like that night on the couch, you fear moving, making noise, breathing too hard. You're sure the beat of your heart is audible, trapped in your ears, lightheaded as it makes you.

But you have to move. Gotta get to your phone on the coffee table, run outside, call a friend to help you pack your shit tonight because you're done. Fuck this house.

You glance around your corner of the island to find the path clear. A relieved breath chokes from your lungs. You shuffle toward the other, peek your head around the edge, and—

“Please don't,” the thing croaks, crouched down on the other side of the island, blue eyes wide and piercing as its head tilts to stare at you.

A phrase said once before, the first time it revealed itself.

Those eyes bore a hole into your chest, through bone and muscle and flesh already swallowed up by the rot of grief. If you compared a picture of the eyes you remember and the eyes you witness now, they would undoubtedly shine the same shade.

A wailing sob rises up in your throat, chokes off wet and reedy at the base of your tongue. Your chest squeezes tight with each inhale, halting the relief of a full breath.

It—he—moves back behind the island, and after a long moment, heavy, arrhythmic footsteps fade into the hallway where you found him.

You hide the rest of the night in the bathroom, sobbing so hard you cough then gag then vomit into the toilet. You shake and shake and shake, teeth suffering such a fierce chatter they risk cracking and breaking off.

Throughout the night, something knocks on the door in slow, regular intervals. You wonder for a moment what might happen should you answer, what manner of horror you would face, but your hindbrain forbids you from finding out. The noise stretches on for hours, until you finally use his words against him—please don't!—and the house falls into a solemn silence.

Only when hunger claws at your stomach do you emerge from the sanctuary of porcelain and tile, your home swaddled in shadow and melancholy, though the morning sun attempts to shine through the curtains. The lamp from your bedroom reflects off the glossy sheen of scattered pictures on the floor before your nightstand.

You hesitate to cross the threshold into the hallway, unsure of what lurks behind each corner, as if the four walls of the bathroom ensure protection. But you spot the open door of the bedroom closet, and the tipped-over box of pictures now empty.

Against every working cell in your brain screaming for you to run, you creep down the hallway. A shiver racks your spine, gooseflesh rising on your arms as you near the open door. It's cold here, impossibly so. Like someone bottled up a snowstorm and shook it loose within this place.

You step into the room and turn on the ceiling light, the mess of pictures coming into clear view. No harm has come to them, but they look as if someone violently slung the box. A few scatter across the bed, a few landed inside the closet.

The picture frame sits on his pillow.

Your ghost's breaking point, it seems. No coincidence that the picture scattered around all feature him in some form or another. He’s telling you something.

He's—

You really, really, really didn't want to believe it. You didn't. Fought this conclusion since the activity started because acknowledging the possibility means confronting your worst fear.

But it's not—

It is a he.

He is not a mimic.

He is Leon.

Your ghost is Leon. Has been this whole time. Which means—

Fuck. Fuck. You knew. You knew this whole time that something was wrong, that he died when the calls stopped.

And he tried to tell you. He showed you the picture you loved so much. He kept the curtains open so you could look outside at the snow like you did every winter. You smelled him. He tried to comfort you on the couch (god, you felt him). He didn't want you to leave.

You blink, and the image of his eyes peering from behind the island sears into the darkness of your vision.

Please don't—

be scared.

You sink to the floor, thoughts a scrambled, incoherent mess, and busy yourself with putting the pictures back in the box. All your tears ran out last night. The numbness pulls you down, suffocates you, cloys and thickens in the space between your organs. It's better this way, you think. Easier to find an explanation without emotion clouding your judgement.

But you know better. You know better.

“I get it now. It's you, isn't it?” You take a seat on the edge of your bed and the bed dips on the opposite side, facing the window. Perhaps he doesn't wish to scare you again. “Leon, I—” your voice breaks, shatters like the glass inside your picture frame, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Saying his name carves resignation into your chest, right where all the love resides. That chamber of your heart is bloated, fit to bursting, stretching apart each woven sinew. It hurts. Everything does.

Maybe that's why, despite every atom in your being yelling for you to flee this place and never look back, you stay. Something broke inside you a long time ago, and you lost the energy to piece yourself back together. Leon's still here, still with you just as he promised in your dream. You'd be crazy to leave now.

As an effect of your loyalty, he appears to you more often. The first few times startle you: you wake one morning to find him stood just outside the doorway of your bedroom, where light fails to reach; he rides home with you in the backseat after a long shift at work, face turned to gaze out the window; he paces back and forth around the island as you lay on the couch watching a movie, footsteps ever off-rhythm.

But he never allows the light to touch him, finds safety in the brooding maw of darkness. And you leave the lights off to encourage his presence, to catch glimpses of his eyes peering from closets, around corners. A mess of pretty hair in the mirror.

You open the living room curtains for the first time in months and see him standing over your shoulder in the reflection. The thing that stares back at you.

You talk to him daily. Fill him in on work, share the latest gossip around the office. Warn him of long shifts or nights out with friends. Ask him about what movie to watch, or what you should cook for dinner (one knock for yes, two for no).

It's crazy. You're self-aware enough to recognize this. Keeping one-sided conversations with a dead man is no doubt categorized as a blaring-red-flag symptom in the DSM. You just don't care.

The first time you touch him is when real transitions from metaphorical to earthly.

You wake from a nap to find nighttime in its infancy, fresh after sunset. Your ears buzz, alerting you to a nearby presence, and you glance around to find him (a new game of his that you fail to see the humor in). He stands before the window, facing away from you, following each car that passes by.

You greet him with a quiet, “Hey,” and his head tilts toward the sound of your voice.

He rarely speaks, but you don't mind. The familiarity of his presence comforts you enough. You would prefer the alive Leon, always, but you cling to him any way you can. Can't let him go when you just got him back.

“Is this what you do when I'm gone all day?” you ask, sitting up with a slow creak of the couch. “Maybe I should leave the TV on, or buy a radio. That's gotta be boring.”

He knocks twice on the window (”no”) and a laugh bubbles up in your throat. When your lips spread into a smile, the muscles almost ache from disuse. Can't remember the last time you truly experienced happiness, but this is as close as you're going to get.

You approach him from behind, the need to feel him, skin-to-skin, so overwhelming you almost choke on it. Fingers brush against the back of his hand, relaxed at his side, and you swallow down a gasp at the chill that consumes each point of contact. Frostbite, gangrene, the preservation of a fresh corpse buried beneath snow. So cold your nerves ache, threaten permanent damage, but his skin remains soft as you remember. Callouses scar his palms (you remember the way they held you, caressed you, the thickness of his fingers). But you'll never experience those things again.

The realization ruins your sunny mood like a grounding thunderclap.

“What happened to you?”

Still, he doesn't respond, and you slot your fingers between his. It's easy to pretend like this. He's just come back from an overseas trip, extremities still thawing out after all the cold he suffered through.

Easier still to pretend when your eyes are closed.

Over the next few days, you weigh your… options. The price of mortality. What living truly means to you. If chasing his ghost around would be worth it in the end.

“Are you staying behind for me?” you ask one night to the shadow sitting at the end of the bed. His weight dips the mattress, wrinkles the bedding, reminds you that he's no longer a figment of your imagination or a result of grief-triggered psychosis.

He remains silent.

“I mean… say I died for whatever reason. Would you come with me?”

He remains silent. The outline of his figure curls in on itself.

“Is there even anything after this? Somewhere else to go?”

He remains silent. You grow restless, agitated. Shoot up in bed at the sound of his sigh.

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

The silence burrows holes into your skull, gaping and deep. He turns his head, a pretty, piercing eye staring over his shoulder.

“Don't.” He hisses out the word like it burns acidic on his tongue. As if he knows the goal behind your questions, the contemplations that keep you awake far outside your normal schedule.

“I—” you swallow thick, throat clicking as a warning buzz charges the air, “I wasn't.”

“Don't.”

Don't—

even think about it.

“I wasn't, Leon. I swear.”

As if he would let you go through with it anyway.

#balling my eyes out #words cannot describe how beautiful this fic is #leon s kennedy x reader

[doro6o]

writing leon is so goddamn difficult. i have so many unfinished drafts of this man

[doro6o]

pre-re6! ada wong x agent! reader

cw: mentions of sex, mentions of death, angst, infidelity, ooc ada, reader’s kinda an asshole, shitty ending so sorry, not proofread.

...

in this line of work, ada was always doomed to die. one way or another. ada knew the minute she accepted her first job as a mercenary would not only cost her humanity but also her life. she knew that she would be killed one day, hence why she always looked back on her shoulder.

ada tells herself that she isn’t afraid of death, that the idea of dying doesn’t scare her but that was complete bullshit – as you called it. ada was no different from the rest, she values her life a lot more than she admits to despite her persistence. the only thing she has left is her life and it is her only treasure; no amount of money or gold or whatever divine temptation they could send to her that will make her give up her own life. she had come so far so why must she give it up now?

just from the way she speaks, ada was oozies of sex. every little thing about her was sensual even if it was against her knowledge. it was out of instinct. her whole life she’s gotten whatever she wants in two ways; killing or sex. she prefers to go with the latter despite the first option being a lot easier and less messier.

perhaps that’s why she’s tangled between these silky sheets that smell a lot like you. your bare scarred arm wrapped around her naked torso, hand sprawled against her back, your warmth radiating off her sweaty body and she shivers ever so lightly when she feels your finger tapping onto her spine.

getting involved with you is difficult and messy. especially if you’re on the other side of the coin. ada thinks everything would be much easier if you chose the mercenary life instead of devoting your life to protecting those arrogant stupidly rich people.

as the raven-haired woman lays in your bed, her mind slowly wanders to thoughts that she prefers to not think of; what would it be like you two have met under normal circumstances? would you even ever meet? what if you weren’t a government property? would you still be with her under these satin sheets or what if you were a normal person? would you still look at her with softness in your eyes and kiss her scars? worshiping her like she’s your god like you do now?

ada could feel her rapid heartbeat in her head and she fears you could hear it. hear how her heart threatens to jump out of her chest. know how much she needs you, god, ada needs you so desperately in many ways that she couldn’t even list them down. yeah, this has gotten out of hand.

“what are you thinking, my love?” the sleepy murmur of your voice snaps the mercenary out of her thoughts.

ada glances down at you, your head laying on her chest and you looked so peaceful. she hopes this could last forever. “is someone nervous?” the teasing tilt of your voice made her scoff rather playfully.

“you’re growing delusional, agent.” she states in a stern tone to which you only chuckle. she feels your chest rumble against her skin. “maybe giving you a chance was a bad idea.”

your head shot up at that sentence, “don’t say that.” your bottom lip juts out. “i know you don’t mean that.” you add, placing your head back down just above her right tit.

ada’s hand wanders to your arm, her nails scratch your skin and you let out a satisfied hum, her eyes flutter shut.

“what makes you say that?” she knew the answer to that but she asked anyway.

“you’re in my bed,” you smirked. “in my house, ada. oh and not to mention, you’re still here with me.” you state it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

this makes a small smile crack to her face and ada can’t help the breathless chuckle that leaves her. she feels your fingers freezing for a second before returning to caressing her sides. she feels you shift above her then something damp and soft on her collarbones.

ada cracks an eye open, watching you pepper kisses that slowly trails up to her neck, then jaw, face. your lips hovering centimeters away from hers. you stare at her with a glint in your eyes before moving back to lay on her chest again. a sigh leaves her nostrils earning a giggle from you.

“sounds like my baby’s disappointed,” you teased. your hand coming up and down her body leaving her feeling ticklish against the sensation of your calloused hands.

she feels her stomach turn from the nickname. geez agent, don’t call her that unless you want her to throw up from the lovesickness she feels for you.

“don’t call me baby.” she warns you and you only pinch her skin gently.

“yeah? what ya gon’ do about it, baby?” you rhetorically asked, not bothering to look up to see the bright color of her cheeks.

seriously, you’ll be the death of her. you pat her thigh before sitting up and a small whimper leaves ada’s lips when she feels the cold air hits her skin. pathetic.

you went to grab your clothes, ada frowns. she cranes her head to look at the clock on your bedside table. 11 pm.

“going somewhere?” ada asks with her eyebrows still furrowed.

the sound of your harnesses clicking could be heard in your room. she watches you button up your dress shirt and your pants. you barely spare her a glance when you went to pick up your phone that ding! with a message notification.

“told ash i’ll be back before sunrise.” you say rather casually than you intend to. the dismissiveness of your tone only made ada’s frown deeper.

sometimes ada forgets that you weren’t completely hers as much as she was yours.

she feels the butterflies in her stomach dying as soon as they come. nauseous, that’s what she feels. perhaps this has really gotten difficult and messy for ada to handle. dealing with her emotions weren’t her strong feature but she swallows the lump down her throat, the burning sensation building from the back of it.

you don’t look her way once, not when a familiar ringtone escapes the device in your hand or when you muster a grin that’s a lot more brighter than you give her or when you those three forbidden words roll off your tongue gracefully as if you didn’t use that same tongue to make her reach heaven a few minutes ago.

ada never feels more jealous of the short blonde chick than ever.

once the call ended, you finally glanced at ada’s way. she ignores the guilty and sorrow glimmering in your eyes. fuck you, she doesn’t want your pity right now. not when you shove it to her face that you were someone else’s and not hers.

“ma chérie..” you called out, feet paddling towards her but ada only shook her head, denying you. you insisted.

she feels the bed sink with you as you place yourself beside her, trapping her body between your arms as you’re face to face with her. ada musters the courage to look at you and you see the pain in them. you sighed.

“you know i love you,” you breathed out, weakly, “but i can’ live that life with you. forever running away, always looking back.” you reasoned but ada could smell your bullshit from miles away.

you just wanted to find a way to lessen the pain once she meets her fate.

“i know.” she chokes out despite every fiber of her being yells at her to do something, say something, make you hers even if it would only be for a moment. “i know you don’t love me enough to leave her.”

you frown, unable to find the words to say anything because what are you supposed to tell her? that ashley was the other woman but you didn’t want to ruin things between your job and the president? you crawled your way to the top, kudos to your abilities and skills. ashley was just a cherry on top to seal the deal. you weren’t gonna risk anything to lose this one thing you had always dreamed for. not even the woman you loved the most who’s in your bed.

your hand comes up to caress her cheek and she melts to the warmness you bring to her. god she hates the effect you have on her.

“i’ll come back soon.” you promised her, pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead before heading out to the door. “don’t forget to get rid of your traces here before you leave.” you remind her, giving your lover one last look before you disappear through the night.

just like that, you were gone. a sadden chuckle leaves ada’s lips when she hears the front door close, a bitter taste lingering in her tongue. how ironic, she was the one who’s being left behind this time.

how disappointing. to only love someone for once only for them to not return the same affection.

#ada wong x reader #resident evil x reader

[doro6o]

the warm breeze hits ada’s clothed skin, her perfectly styled bob moving lightly along with it. the sun across her slowly sinks down the horizon, a cast of tangerine neon light shining on her face, highlighting her sharp features and giving her a perfect golden hour look; she looked absolutely gorgeous right now.

at sunsets like this, ada usually spends it with you and yet you were nowhere to be found. your lack of presence and unusual tardiness sets a tick off the woman’s nerves. you knew that she didn’t like it when people didn't arrive by the time they were supposed to.

and no, it wasn’t because she was worried because you were always five minutes earlier than her; ready to greet her with whatever piece of junk you found along the way. a dandelion, a rock that reminded you of her, a dirty worned out string you found tied by a tree or an ornament that shades her lipstick well or maybe a jewelry you stole from somewhere or someone. ada would scoff whenever you gave those junks to her, telling you off about how you shouldn’t waste your time doing unimportant stuff as it would distract you from your duty but you only beam at her before updating her on a mission you’ve completed.

the raven head bit her bottom lip, her heel tapping against the rock she stood on as she crossed her arms, cursing your name in her head in hopes you’ll magically pop up in front of her with a stupid sheepish grin on your face, another piece of junk in your hand while muttering a lame excuse as to why you’re late; maybe you messed up during a mission– but you were always so calculated, careful, and precise with your job that you could never make a simple mistake unless intended.

ada’s gloved fingers dug deep into her arms, multiple thoughts ran across her head as she thought about you. no one has ever made her feel so.. anxious before so why was she now and why you?

“if your bottom lip were to be ripped off from all that biting, it’d be a pretty weird feeling to kiss it.” you announced your arrival. you plant a hand on your hip while you look up at the goddess in front of you. all worked up.

caught off guard, a small gasp left ada’s lips as she loses her balance but you were quick to react and scoop her in your arms before she could recollect herself. her hands planted on your arms, gripping onto the biceps that she didn’t know were there under all the thick and loose clothing you wear.

ada stares up at you like you were some kind of ghost and honestly, the scene was pretty amusing for you. the ever so taunting and calculated ada wong looked like a deer in headlights, all because she was racking her brain over you, yup, sounds about right. you push down the blooming feeling in your chest as you lean forward, your lips ghosting over the corner of her lips as a greeting before retracting back and letting go of her.

ada keeps her hands on you.

“did you fall down a rabbit hole on your way here?” ada snarls, her gaze hardens on you but there was no malice behind her eyes or her words.

you sheepishly grin, hand coming up to rub the back of your neck before wincing as your shoulder smarted you. ada’s gaze shifts down and looks at your shoulder before rolling her eyes, masking the worry and anger that creeps up to her skin.

“think the lickers got me good this time,” you winced out in pain, your uninjured hand coming up to plant on your dislocated joint. “wanna twist it back?”

she scoffed again, looking at you with a are you crazy look which made you grin again, a giggle leaving you.

“what? first time locating my joints back?” you joked but ada only ignores you and climbs down the rocks you both are on.

ada didn’t need to look back to see the offended look on your face. didn’t even turn around when you called her name in a painful tone. didn’t even bother sparing a glance at her shoulder when she heard a thump! followed by a groan.

“you’re mean, wong.” you sulked, catching up to the lady. you walk backwards, so you could still see her fully, from head to toe.

ada smirks, “i would have left you here, you know..” she retorts and you let out a dramatic gasp.

“how could you think about leaving your partner out here?! in the cold?! in the middle of nowhere?! where monsters swarm around?!”

“one might show up if you keep talking like that.”

you pouted again, shoulders slumping back down– well, your incapacitated shoulder did while the other one remained stiff and unjointed.

“do we have a doctor on our ride back?” you hissed, your eyes throwing daggers at your shoulder which throbbed in pain.

ada spares a glance at you, her eyes softening as she watches your face contort in discomfort and how your body looked rather beaten up than usual. whoever or whatever did this to you will get what it deserves for sure. she just needs to find a place you can stay in for a while and rest. ada watches you mumble a string of phrases in a language she doesn’t speak, probably curses, and catches the glossiness in your eyes.

you always hated messing up during your missions.

her gloved fingers itched by her sides, opting to reach out for you and help you with your shoulder but she was no doctor nor had any right to hold you the way she wants to. she balls her hands to a fist.

“where’s your junk?” she asks, snapping you out of your self loathe of your incompetence.

“huh?” you breathed out. you stare at her, wide-eyed, like she said something weird (which she did). your steps halting to a stop as you try to register her words in your brain and ada copied you.

“what junk?” you asked again, a puzzle look on your face as you stare at the woman in front of you who’s avoiding your gaze. if you weren’t high on adrenaline and racking your brain over what she meant, you might have noticed the faint dust of pink on her cheekbones.

as you connect one and one together, you finally remember the silver jewelry you found at an abandoned building. “oh!”

damn you, ada thinks before she hears you gasp out loud again and when she looks at you, you have a horrified look on your face as your free hand pockets yourself.

“shit, shit, shit, shit! where did it go?!” you panicked, mumbling strings of curses in languages she heard you speak and some she speaks.

ada watches you fumble with yourself with an amused look on her face. a chuckle leaves her throat before continuing her walk back to the abandoned greenhouse she saw earlier, you could rest there.

you snap your head back, hearing an unmistakable angelic noise coming from the goddess-like woman across you. you swear you felt your stomach flipped but you ignored it, like always, and jogged up to her to tell her that you may have lost it on your way here and apologize to her in languages you know of.

ada only shakes her head, ignoring you while you tailed behind her like a lost puppy, vocalizing your self loathing as you couldn’t believe you lost the one precious thing you were looking forward to giving her.

ada didn’t mind if you lost it, as long as you were here.

#ada wong x reader

[doro6o]

ada felt sick. sick to her stomach. she wanted to throw up, throw everything up inside her but she couldn’t. she composes herself, she steadies herself by closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, fixing her posture and letting her arms fall to her sides but her eye twitches.. in what? rage? disgust? pain? she didn’t know and she doesn’t want to.

you, her companion, watch her break quietly. you saw the way the tiniest light in her eyes faded; just when you were teaching her how to be kinder, to be more gentler. you contemplated whether to reach out for her when you saw her fingers twitch, you wanted to hold her, tell her something to make her feel better but the words never formed in your tongue so you just stood there. you see the way her body stiffens and how the hair on her neck practically stood up when she saw her clone and you never understood sympathy until now.

you send your sympathies to the broken woman before you.

people see her as a sex object; nothing more or nothing less. they crave to hear her voice or feel her hand cradle their faces. they stare at her with lust in their eyes. lick their lips like she was some kind of five star meal. she once thought before that maybe leon might be her saving grace but she only inflicted her pain towards him.

when you first meet ada, you see the fragileness of her in her eyes. the eyes that barely held light and any emotion yet you saw right through her facade, it scared her. she points a gun to your forehead but you don’t budge instead you just smile at her, tell her that it’s all right.

ada isn’t sure what made her lower her gun. was it because it would be a shame to waste your skills? or how there was light that shines brightly in your arms despite knowing how the world works? or was it when you gave her the warmest smile that took her back? maybe she’s gotten soft around the edges but she lets you live. she lets you pick; to meet your fate, start anew or accompany her. she didn’t mind having you around with your skills and knowledge, you’d be a useful hand around. another pawn to use despite your annoying nagging and constant tummy rumbles.

ada flickers her gaze from the screen and back to you. she didn’t know what to say, let alone feel. in the back of her mind, she thanks having you with her and shows her the ugly truth of this world again with your stupid technology you always bring around but she curses you badly for always looking out for her.

for once, why could you not mind your own business and let her hesitate during a battle?

“i know what you’re thinking,” you gulped. you took a few steps back, your gut tells you to when you saw that murderous glint in her eyes. “but i cannot let you hesitate for one second out there-”

“i would have figured it out one way or another.” she cuts you off, hand dropping the tablet down the ground and you hear the screen crack.

great. another waste of money. “i let you stay because i know you’re useful, not because i needed a guardian to look after me every goddamn time!” she spats out, venomously. ada takes steps forward, you see how her fingers twitch.

“why do you care so much?”

“because i love you, ada.”

you shut your eyes, awaiting the bullet that would pierce your head or maybe some part of your body like she always does but it never comes. instead, you hear a ragged breathing and smacking of wet lips.

you slowly flutter your eyes open; before you, stood ada whose eyes are full blown wide and the color in her face fading, like she’s seen a ghost. then you realize what you had said. you bit your tongue down harshly.

right now there is no time for such confessions to be known but with the way those words always seem to threaten to roll off your tongue in any given second, it seems to have successfully done as you both stood there like total idiots.

you sigh, you cannot let yourself get carried away. same goes for ada so you reach out to her, caressing her shoulder.

“c’mon we got work to do.”

as the sound of your boots clicking on the ground fade, ada was certain of one thing: you’re not coming out with the same bright look in your face this time.

#ada wong x reader #resident evil