hheaven-sentt

[hheaven-sentt]

more clones should use their age as an excuse. stop yelling at me im literally two years old

[hheaven-sentt]

[hheaven-sentt]

just wanted to share this with as much people as possible

#i want him #this is a chronic disease

[hheaven-sentt]

I'm many things, but coy's not one of them.

[hheaven-sentt]

healing

summary: healing wounds you couldn't even see | leon kennedy x reader

word count: 2.1k

warnings: yearning and pining, depictions of injuries and first aid, leon being weirdly chill, softness

notes: i like dis one | ao3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You sense the knock before you hear it. You’re curled up on the couch, a few files spread out on the coffee table that you’d been pursuing for the last few hours. You’d grown bored with them, opting to stare out the window as the traffic down below on the street began to disperse and disappear. It was growing close to half past two in the morning. Which is why you almost expect the knock. It comes at exactly 2:18, and you practically jump off the couch to answer the door. Eagerness oozes from your skin.

He’s leaning against the wall, propped up with a single arm while the other cradles his stomach. With a sigh, he looks up at you, bright blue eyes looking a little more glassy than normal. A breath gets caught in your throat.

“Leon?” you ask, reaching forward to help him into the apartment. He grins up at you from his bent position.

“Sorry about the mess, sweetness,” he chokes out. He’s hurt, badly. You haul him into the apartment and set him up on the couch.

“I need you to count to ten and back out loud while I look for the first aid kit,” you say. He huffs a laugh. “I mean it, Leon. I need to know you’re still awake,”

Rolling his eyes, he says, “One,”

You smile as he continues counting, and begin your search for the kit. You find it just as he hits six for the second time, and you’re back in front of him as he reaches three. Crouching between his spread knees, you hoist the hem of his shirt up to see where the blood is seeping from. You grimace as you take in the injury. It’s a red and angry slash from his hip toward his sternum. You’re unsure of how deep.

“You wanna tell me what happened?” you ask, digging through the box for something to wipe away the excess blood with. He groans when you lay your hands on him the first time, and you have to remind yourself that he’s hurt and not enjoying this.

“Wasn’t paying attention,” he hisses between teeth. You’re threading the needle for his stitches. “Guess I should’ve been, huh?”

You shake your head. “You’re not reckless, Leon. What happened?”

He lets out a low whine as you sink the needle beneath his flesh. “Got distracted, thought I saw something I didn't,”

You know you won’t get a more direct answer out of Leon, so you don’t press for one. Instead, you continue sewing up his wound. “You see a medic, a doctor, anyone other than me?”

He laughs. “No, sweetness. No one’s as gentle as you,”

You try to fight the blush on your cheeks, and you’re thankful for the half dark room. He groans again as you tighten his freshly finished stitches. You spread an alcohol wipe across the suture, and you hear him let out a strained breath. Gingerly, you run your fingers over it.

“If it’s not better in two days, I order you to go to a real doctor and get antibiotics,” you say. “I can’t guarantee it won’t get infected,”

Slowly, he nods and lowers his shirt. You take the bloody part of it between your thumb and forefinger, contemplating on whether or not you should offer him another shirt. When you pull away your hand and see the transfer of red on the pads of your fingers, you frown.

“Need another shirt?” you ask. He grins. “I’m sure I’ve got something for you,”

You help him off the couch carefully, eyeing the way he favors his right leg. You draw your brows together, but don’t press him on the matter. Instead, you lead him to your bedroom where you force him to sit on your bed while you dig through your drawers for a shirt from a long forgotten boyfriend or something your brother left when he was last here. You find an old shirt you’d stolen from your dad at the bottom of a random drawer. It’s black and huge; when you wear it, it goes past your knees. It’ll do, you decide.

“Here,” you say, passing the shirt to him. He takes it. “You’re more than welcome to shower, but call for me if you can’t reach somewhere. Do not tear those stitches because I won’t redo them, Leon,”

Heat creeps up your neck as you say it, and you see the faintest amount of pink coloring Leon’s cheeks, but he nods and attempts to stand. It’s a slow process, but he does it on his own. As he passes you to head into the bathroom, he stops for a second, looking at you in the dim light illuminating half your face. He half smiles and takes your hand in his. He gives it a quick squeeze before dropping it, and then he goes to shower. 

It’s more than a want, the feeling you have for him. It’s an odd sort of craving. An itch you long to scratch and tear away your flesh at. In any other story, he’d be the villain. He’s mysteriously beautiful, ethereal in his ways. In any other story, he would break you down to your barest essentials and make you pick the pieces back up. And maybe you’d let him. He’s someone you shouldn’t share your secrets with, someone you shouldn’t care about this deeply.

Maybe he’s still the villain in this story, your story. But he’d only be the villain to everyone except for you.

You hear the water running in the bathroom. You anxiously bite your nails, pacing the living room. After a few moments, you hear the bathroom door squeak open, and you busy yourself with something to look more natural. He emerges a second later, hair still dripping as he runs the towel over it. Something lurches in your stomach, a breath catches in your throat.

He lays the towel over the back of a dining table chair. There’s something unholy about the way you look at him, something sinful. You attempt to school your features.

“Alright, sweetness?” he asks, voice low timbred and honey sweetened. You feel it in your bones.

You nod, swallowing thickly. “Really worried about you,”

He smiles at this, that sort of half smile that only lifts one side of his mouth and crinkles the apple of his cheek. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll heal,”

“Hopefully,” you chide, matching his smile. He shrugs. “Seriously, Leon. You have to swear to me that you’ll get that checked out by someone actually qualified,”

He raises his hands in surrender. “I swear,”

He takes a seat on your couch, and you move to join him. There’s something sacred about the time you share here, between the four walls of your apartment and the dust accumulating on your shelves. His arm is slung across the back of the couch, inviting you into his space. The other hand fiddles with the hem of the shirt you’ve lent him. Without thinking, you seize his hand, examining the splits and cuts surrounding his knuckles. They’re beginning to heal on their own, crusted over with scabs and skin. You run a gentle brush over them, and he twitches as you sweep across the tender skin.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, looking up to meet his eyes. You see something in them that you can’t place.

“Yeah,” he says, watching you. Then, with a breath, “Nothing I can’t handle,”

You frown. “Maybe we should get you a desk job. Come to work with me,”

He laughs, a bright sound to counteract the dim room. “If you could make that happen, I’d take it,”

You wonder if he’s telling the truth. From what you understand, he’s been doing this for a long time, longer than you’ve known him, and you’re not sure he would walk away given the opportunity. You hope that he would, but you’re not confident that he’d give it up. You’re not sure he knows how to do anything else. He squeezes your hand, bringing you back to the present.

“Sorry that I only ever seem to show up when I’m half dead,” he whispers. He phrases it like a joke, but you know he means it. You wave a hand.

“I’m getting pretty good at patching you up,” you say. “Maybe I’ll run away and become an EMT,”

He smiles softly. “You’d be good at it,”

“Don’t know if I could handle all the blood,” you say, shrugging. “It’s different with you,”

Even when he’s fully healthy, you look at him like a fresh open wound. He’s something that should scare you, make you faint, but adrenaline kicks in and you need to fix it, need to mend.

“You should get some rest,” you whisper. His mouth sets into a line, but he nods.

“I take it I’m on light duty for the foreseeable future?” he asks. You roll your eyes and move away from him.

He says a hushed goodnight, and you disappear into the dark hallway. You hear him shuffle as he gets comfortable on your couch, and a weird sense of guilt washes over you. He’d deny you if you were to offer your bed to him, you know him well enough to scratch that idea before it’s even born. Instead, you allow him his ego, and settle between the sheets.

You’re surprised that he’s still here when you wake, even more so when you see him still asleep on the couch. The blanket is pulled up to his chin, his face bent inwards so that he’s almost in a fetal position. It makes warmth radiate in your chest and you smile. You resist the urge to join him.

He wakes while you’re making coffee. You hear him shuffle around, the creak of the couch as he moves to sit upright. He lets out a low groan. You halt your work on the coffee and rush to help him. He’s about halfway to sitting when you find him, grimacing against the pain and stretch of his stitches. Gently, you pull him into a sitting position, and he looks at you with something you can’t place.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say. He frowns. “You took a hard hit. You’re not going to heal overnight. I’m not magic,”

“I know,” he responds. You sit beside him. “Thanks for trying, though,”

You laugh. “Keep it up, and I won’t stitch you up next time,”

“We both know that’s not true,” he says, looking at you like you’re an angel. “I know you too well,”

You could kiss him, right here and now. You think, for a moment, that he might just reciprocate. Flush creeps up your neck at the thought, and you remember that he’s still looking at you.

“Where do you go?” he asks. You blink at him. “When you stare off like that. Where do you go?”

You shrug. “Just get lost in thought, I guess,”

He doesn’t pry further, just accepts the answer and remains silent. You can’t tell if you’re satisfied by that. 

“What made you come here?” you ask quietly. He looks at you, studying your features. You wish you could snatch the words from where they linger in the air. Clearing your throat, you add, “The first time, I mean,”

He shrugs. “Figured you wouldn’t ask questions,”

He’d been right. You hadn’t asked questions. You’d tried to, thought about what you could possibly ask, but the idea was too daunting and he was bleeding out in your doorway. You’d hoped that stitches were as easy as they seemed.

“I’m good at keeping secrets,” you say. He smiles. “Can I share something?”

“Anything,”

“I’m glad you showed up that night. For a while, I was angry. Felt like I couldn’t wash my hands enough to scrub away the blood. But I’m glad you came,” you say, feeling short of breath. He’s staring at you, and you worry that you’ve said the wrong thing. You worry that he’ll get up and bolt. Instead, he brushes a few stray hairs from your eyes and smiles.

“If it’s any consolation,” he says. “I didn’t stick around for your stitching abilities,”

The apprehension wipes from your bones and you let out a laugh. “You’re so corny,” you say.

He rolls his eyes and kisses you like it’s something he does every day. It’s sweet and soft, plush against the jagged beat of your heart. It doesn’t last long, but you don’t need it to. You’re breathless anyway.

“What was that for?” you ask, starry eyed and far away.

He shrugs, as if this wasn’t the single most important thing you’ve ever experienced. “Figured it was making you anxious, so I got it out of the way,”

His cheeks are pink as you look at him. “What do we call this?”

“Healing,” he says, and kisses you again.

#leon kennedy x reader #resident evil #x reader #resident evil fanfic #leon kennedy #fanfic #m writes #my fics

[hheaven-sentt]

update: i posted it

a bit of my current wip ooo!!!

He follows you, because he would be stupid not to, and feels his bones loosen beneath his skin. You ooze comfort and simple pleasure. If he could take you with him everywhere, he would. He’s a selfish man when it comes to you; he wants to keep you beside him at all times, keep you hidden away in a place where only he can find you. He stares dreamily at you, watching you shuffle pillows and sheets as you prepare to slip between them for the night. You brush a few stray hairs from your eyes.

He’d gladly be sick for a hundred years if it were the disease you’ve given him. He smiles.

“What are you staring at?” you tease, grinning. He feels like he’s floating.

“Just admiring,” he says simply, softly, lovingly. You laugh and climb into bed. “Sometimes I feel like the luckiest guy in the world,”

You roll your eyes. “Quit being so sappy and come to bed,” you tease, reaching for the bedside lamp. He doesn’t deny you.

[hheaven-sentt]

i'd be home with you

summary: this is where he finds he is safest | leon kennedy x gn!reader

word count: 2k

warnings: yearning, mentions of catholicism, intense softness, all comfort no hurt bb, first time L bomb, past trauma subtext, this one made me blush so there's a warning for that

notes: the wip as promised, posted when i should be in bed because i have class at nine am anyway ily | ao3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leon pushes through the apartment door, light from the hallway streaming in behind him into the dark living room. He doesn’t reach for the light, just closes the door behind him to remedy his fault. He toes his shoes off next to the door. He spies you asleep on the couch, curled beneath more than a few blankets. He smiles tiredly. His feet really hurt, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t give just to rest beside you. But he only has tonight and the wee hours of the morning.

With a sigh, he trudges over to the couch where you snore. He hates to do it, but he nudges you awake. You groan.

“What time is it?” you ask, voice hoarse. You don’t even open your eyes to see who it is; you already know.

“Just past midnight,” he says. You sigh, stretching your arms out above your head. He watches you carefully, like you’re performing for him. “Come to bed,”

“What time do you have to leave?” you ask, finally opening your eyes to gaze at him. He smiles softly.

“Around six,” he says. 

You frown. “Wake me up when you get up to leave. I want to be able to see you go,”

He nods, then extends his hand to pull you free from the cushions on the couch. You silently protest for a moment, murmuring about how comfortable you are, but you eventually give in and let him haul you to your feet. You press a sleepy kiss to his cheek before walking around him toward the bedroom.

He follows you, because he would be stupid not to, and feels his bones loosen beneath his skin. You ooze comfort and simple pleasure. If he could take you with him everywhere, he would. He’s a selfish man when it comes to you; he wants to keep you beside him at all times, keep you hidden away in a place where only he can find you. He stares dreamily at you, watching you shuffle pillows and sheets as you prepare to slip between them for the night. You brush a few stray hairs from your eyes.

He’d gladly be sick for a hundred years if it were the disease you’ve given him. He smiles.

“What are you staring at?” you tease, grinning. He feels like he’s floating.

“Just admiring,” he says simply, softly, lovingly. You laugh and climb into bed. “Sometimes I feel like the luckiest guy in the world,”

You roll your eyes. “Quit being so sappy and come to bed,” you tease, reaching for the bedside lamp. He doesn’t deny you.

With as much speed as he can muster, he pulls his gear off. You watch him, hand hovering near the lamp. He’s clad in a pair of sweatpants in minutes, and finally, he joins you. It’s like coming home, getting into bed with you. It’s soft and gentle, he always knows what to expect. He tends to steal the blanket in the middle of the night and you respond by clinging to his shoulders like a backpack.

He’s staring at you again, he knows he is, but he would be a fool not to. You shut the lamp off finally, and you’re suddenly bathed in the moonlight streaming in through the windows. Your eyes reflect the light. This is where Leon finds he is safest. Beyond you, there is no Umbrella, no Raccoon City, nothing. He can only see you. He can only feel your fingers weaving between his, your lips against his cheek, your muttered words as you sink into the pillows. He never wants to leave, never wants to feel the ache of missing you ever again.

“How long will you be gone this time?” you ask quietly. He stiffens beneath you.

“A few weeks, probably,” he says. You sigh heavily. “But I’ll come home,”

“You better,” you say. He can feel your lips curl up into a small smile from where you rest against his bicep. It sends a shiver through him. “Who would keep me warm at night?”

He reaches over to pull you in closer, to stake some sort of claim upon you. “Nobody, I would hope,”

You laugh. “No one could replace you. You’re one of a kind,”

“You just like how I cook your eggs,” he mutters, but he’s smiling. He’s holding you steady against him, perfectly tucked into his side where you belong. At this moment, it feels like this will last forever, like morning will never come and he will never board a plane.

“That certainly is a plus,” you tease. He hums.

You’re asleep within minutes. He knows he will follow soon after, but he wants to hold onto the moment for a little bit longer. In this room, the world doesn’t exist. It’s just you and him. He wants it to be that way forever.

When he wakes, the sun is barely peeking over the horizon. He rolls out of your arms, tucking the duvet back into your side to keep you snug. His gear rolls back onto his body with little protest. The ache returns. Gently, he nudges you awake.

“Already?” you whisper. He fights a frown. “Don’t get lost out there,”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says.

You pull him in for a sleepy kiss, and that’s how he has to leave you. You turn onto your other side, facing the window where the birds are beginning to sing. He smooths a hand over your head before he turns out of the room. He leaves a little piece of his heart behind when he closes the front door behind him.

…

It’s week two in some European city he can’t pronounce, and Leon is full of aching. His muscles feel heavy, his head constantly hurts, and he wants nothing more than to sit in your presence for a few minutes. A few minutes is all he needs.

He remembers how his mother would drag him to church on Sundays, half the service memorized and etched into her heart. Leon was always rather bored with it, often counting how many people were in the room and then imagining how many it would take stacked on top of each other to lift him to the ceiling of the church. The only part of service he liked was communion–his midday snack, if you will. More than anything, he remembers the way the pews felt beneath him, sturdy and hard against his legs as he desperately tried to stay still for the service lest his mother send him another warning glance. It’s how he feels now, sitting in the helicopter on his way home to you. He itches to move, to have the flight conclude so he may rush home to you. But Hunnigan is throwing looks in his direction, looks that tell him that even when he touches down, he won’t be home until at least tomorrow.

A sigh escapes him. It’s been much too long since he’s missed someone, and the fact that he misses you like this, right here and now, is almost too much for him to bear. What are you doing? What time is it there? Have you showered and gone to bed? Are you making dinner? He wants nothing more than to lean against the counter and watch you cook, or sit on the bathroom counter while you shower because he can’t bear to be away from you for long, or ask you questions about the movie you’re watching because he didn’t see the beginning of it.

His longing for you is a foreign concept. He doesn’t understand what you do to him to make him think in terms of you. He passes his time planning the next time he’ll get to see you, often creating grandiose fantasies in his mind about where you’ll go and what you’ll do. Sometimes, he takes you away to a remote island and you live in paradise for the rest of time. Other times, he has a normal life with a normal job, and he can give you life you deserve; a house on a quiet street in a sleepy town, maybe a couple kids, family dinners, and bedtime stories. Sometimes, the thought makes him sick, the fact that he can’t give you a normal life. But he pushes it away with the memories of the way you look at him, and that quiets him for a while.

Finally, after hours of yearning and waiting, he’s standing outside of your door. Even after spending his formative years surrounded by God and altars and psalms, he is not sure Heaven exists. But if it does, it could not compare to the interior of your apartment. His key gets stuck in the lock when he tries to open the door, excitement coursing through him. You come to his aide, like always.

He’s home earlier than he expected, honestly. It’s just past nine in the evening. You’re clad in an old pair of sweatpants and a shirt you stole from him. The sight of you makes him melt. He can barely allow himself to get his coat off before he’s pulling you into him, breathing you in like he’s been lost for air. You laugh into his chest, returning his embrace, and he feels lighter than he has in a long time.

“Missed you,” he mumbles into your hair. It makes you laugh again. He wishes he could play the sound back from memory.

“Missed you, too,” you say. “There’s some lasagna left on the counter if you want it. I don’t know how warm it is, though,”

He grins widely, pulling away from you for a half a second just so he can pull you back in for a kiss. It’s long and languid, easy and careful. It’s warm. It’s loving. When you break, you’re blushing, staring at him like he’s acting strange.

“You alright?” you ask, searching his eyes for anything that might be out of place. He just grins again.

“More than,” he says. You laugh again. “Lasagna sounds amazing,”

You chat to him about your last couple of weeks while he struggles to dig the lasagna out of the pan and onto a plate. Apparently, the girl at work that you hate had gotten fired. Leon couldn’t remember her name if he had a gun to his head. But you seem excited that she’s gone, and so he is too. He microwaves his lasagna for too long and burns his hand on the plate when he goes to take it out. But you’re quick to soothe. As the hiss of pain leaves his lips, you’re dragging him to the sink to run cool water over his hand. You chastise him for touching the plate, telling him he needs to be more careful.

“I love you,” he says. You freeze in place, halting your fretting over him. Your eyes pull to his in an instant, searching to see if he’s telling the truth. He is.

“Do you mean that?” you ask. His lips pull into a thin line, fear beginning to creep up in a flesh on his neck. His mom always told him that was his biggest tell.

“I do,” he promises. Your apprehension eases away from your features. The water is still running, it’s the only sound between you two. You take a deep breath.

“I love you,” you return, smiling softly.

All the years spent going to church prepared him to recognize divinity when it was presented to him, and he sees it finally. It appears to him in the form of you and your laughter, your caring nature and your freckled skin, your birthmark and your crooked tooth. He kisses you again, the love fuel to his movements. You laugh against his lips, peeling his soggy hand away from your cheek. When he pulls away, your hair is smeared against your face from where he’s wet it, but you’re laughing.

Maybe he can’t give you the future you deserve, at least not yet, but he can give you now. He can give you himself, and for right now, that is enough for you both.

#m writes #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil #my fics #x reader #leon kennedy #resident evil fanfic #fanfic #fluff #re fluff

[hheaven-sentt]

a bit of my current wip ooo!!!

He follows you, because he would be stupid not to, and feels his bones loosen beneath his skin. You ooze comfort and simple pleasure. If he could take you with him everywhere, he would. He’s a selfish man when it comes to you; he wants to keep you beside him at all times, keep you hidden away in a place where only he can find you. He stares dreamily at you, watching you shuffle pillows and sheets as you prepare to slip between them for the night. You brush a few stray hairs from your eyes.

He’d gladly be sick for a hundred years if it were the disease you’ve given him. He smiles.

“What are you staring at?” you tease, grinning. He feels like he’s floating.

“Just admiring,” he says simply, softly, lovingly. You laugh and climb into bed. “Sometimes I feel like the luckiest guy in the world,”

You roll your eyes. “Quit being so sappy and come to bed,” you tease, reaching for the bedside lamp. He doesn’t deny you.

#m writes #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil #current wip #this one is soft besties

[hheaven-sentt]

glass in his palm

summary: sunk into flesh, meant to scar | leon kennedy x gn!reader

word count: 2.2k

warnings: angst, angst, angst, more angst, no happy ending (oops), depictions of injuries that are self inflicted (nail biting and finger picking, touching broken glass), self destructive behavior, anger and sadness, mentions of smut but no depictions, mentions of alcohol consumption

notes: back to back baby yeah | ao3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wonder what time it is in Paris. You’re staring out the window, watching the city lights, the rain, and the cars that pass by on the street below. You hear their honks and see the blurry red of their brake lights, and you wonder what time it is in Paris. Your fingernail beds have been bitten and torn bloody, raw, aching. Your nerves are exposed, heart on your sleeve–a very dangerous place for things to be.

When you were a child, pretending was your favorite game. You’d spend hours with your friends in the backyard, skin baked by the summer sun while you pretended to be princesses, or a single mother of three, or the owner of a hotel. You did that every single day just because you enjoyed it so much. Your hair would bleach under the sun, your skin would fry, and you would be president of the world for a few hours while the Earth spun on its axis toward damnation. Maybe, because you did it so much as a child, that’s why you’re so good at it now.

You tear another piece of skin from the cuticle of your nail. Blood pinpricks in its wake, and you wince at the sting when you flatten your tongue against it. You wonder what time it is in Paris. Is Leon in bed or is he working? Is he drinking like he’s not on the job, but is covered in gear with enough weapons to satisfy a small armory stuck to him? Is he with someone? What time is it there? You know that it’s almost eight in the morning in London, so Paris could only be a few hours ahead of that, right? You glance at the clock sitting beside you. It’s nearing three. You let out a lengthy sigh. You stand abruptly, finding the lack of traffic distracting. You slide your empty glass from the windowsill, a few remnant drops of liquor sliding around the bottom.

You feel pathetic. You could almost guarantee that he hasn’t thought about you. At least, not in a way that matters. You hazard a guess that he’s thought about you beneath him at least once. The thought, although exciting, makes you frown. You feel pathetic. You’ve been staring out the window for the better part of two hours, worrying that he’s not sleeping enough, wondering if he’s hurt, hoping that he took his meds in the morning, and you know that he hasn’t spared you a passing thought.

Is something wrong with you? What about you turns him away? The rational part of yourself says that he’s just wired that way, that he’s not capable of that sort of connection. But then why does he always show up at your door, or pull pretty sounds from your mouth in the early hours before the sun is awake? That has to mean something to him. It means something to you.

You stand over your sink. The faucet doesn’t leak anymore, not after Leon fixed it. Rage bubbles into your system with a vengeance, and you hurl the glass across the room. It shatters in an instant, shards flying to rest at your bare feet. They glint against the soft light coming from the rangehood above the stove. So pretty against the bland gray-green of your kitchen linoleum. You sink to the floor beside the pieces. You press your palm to them, blinking when they sink into your flesh, meaning to scar you.

You’re hopeless. You hate him more than you hate yourself, though. And you know you’ll forget the hatred the moment you see him, the second his gaze connects with yours because you’re pathetic and hopeless. There’s something about him that makes you gravitate to him. You orbit him. You stare at the shards of glass stuck in your palm for a moment more before brushing them away. They clatter back to the floor without a second thought. A bit of blood seeps out of your palm from where the glass was, but you swipe it down the length of your bent leg, smearing your sweatpants with the red.

You rest your head against the bottom row of cabinets. It’s easy like this, blissful amidst the chaos.You fall asleep like that.

When the sun streams across the floor, reflecting off the glass, you hear the front door open. Like a Pavlovian dog, your mood shifts. You feel him before you see him. He’s standing in the archway of the kitchen.

“What the fuck happened here?” he asks. You lull your head to the side to look at him. His expression shifts when he looks at you, like he’s concerned. “What happened?”

“Drank too much,” you lie. “Must’ve dropped the glass and fallen asleep,”

He levels you with a version of his gaze you’ve never seen before. He still has his boots on, so when he approaches you, the glass crunches beneath his feet. He extends a hand to you, an open palm that you can feel before you touch it. You would recognize him in complete darkness. Wordlessly, you take it, and he hauls you to your feet. He’s careful to keep you away from the glass as he helps you out of the room. You feel like a ghost in your own home.

“What’s going on?” Leon asks. You look at him tiredly. You don’t want to be around him, but you know you’ll crumble if he walks through the door. He smooths a hand over your hair, bringing it to rest along your jaw as he forces you to look him in the eye. His gaze dances around your features, searching for injury. “Talk to me,”

“Right, because we’re known for talking,” you say, words a bit more harsh than sarcastic. He knits his brows together. “Been a rough few days. Just need a shower, or something,”

When you try to move away from him, his grip tightens. “You’re really not going to tell me?”

“I must’ve forgotten that you’re Mr. Forthcoming while you were away,” you bite. His hand drops from your face. “You’re not gonna tell me why you were in France for the last three weeks?”

His expression neutralizes in an instant. You nod slowly, pursing your lips, and say, “That’s what I thought,”

He takes a step back from you, and you take this as your cue to run a bath. You sigh once the bathroom door shuts behind you. The running water is enough noise for now, but it will be too quiet once you sink into the water. You stare at  yourself in the mirror for a moment. Your eyes are a bit more sunken than usual. Your skin isn’t as bright. Have you lost weight? This generally happens whenever Leon is gone for an extended period of time, but never like this. You look down at your hands, nails chewed to the bed, bloody and raw. Your palm is dirty from last night’s break. You run it under warm water to wash away the dried blood.

You wonder, briefly, what it would be like if Leon stayed. The times he’s here are when you’re at your best. He’s funny, makes you smile, does the dishes, treats you right. He riles you up because he knows he’ll be the one to bring you back down. He knows your body better than you do at this point. You know his just as well. You know that he has a sweet spot just below his ear where the hinge of his jaw is, or that he likes when you drag your nails down his back. 

You hate that you want him. You hate that you need to be around him or you become a shell of yourself, lonely and agitated. Maybe be less of a ghost if he would promise to come back, promise that he’s yours, instead of disappearing without even saying goodbye. The thought makes you angry, rageful. You stare at yourself in the mirror. Tears stream down your face, your jaw is clenched, and you can feel your breathing get more and more labored. You hate this.

A soft knock comes from the door. You wipe your face a few times to appear normal, and turn to shut the bath faucet off. When you open the bathroom door a crack, Leon is peering in at you, opening your chest up like a cavern; soft blue eyes bore into you like they mean to discover what’s hidden beneath rather than scrape from the top.

“I was in Paris for work,” he whispers. You blink at him. You know that. “Got called in on an assignment,”

“Those aren’t really answers, Leon,” you say. He sighs, an air of frustration floating about him. “Half truths don’t count,”

“We’re not built for full truths,” he returns.

Pain radiates throughout your chest, crawling around your shoulders and snaking down your arms. Pins and needles prick across your skin. Is it anger or rage? Maybe, but it’s also realization. The waiting and yearning is pointless. Leon has never intended to be truthful with you, not then and certainly not now. You swallow thickly.

“What are we built for?” you ask. Leon’s brows knit together in confusion like he doesn’t fully understand the scope of your question. “God, Leon, can’t you see I’m drowning here?”

He pushes the bathroom door open at this. You can hear the bath faucet dripping faintly in the background, but it’s mostly drowned out by the roaring of blood in your ears. He looks at you–really looks at you–and you feel exposed, vulnerable.

“I can’t sleep,” you say, voice cracking and shaking. “Can’t eat, can’t stop thinking. Did you know that I spend most of my time worrying about you? Bet you didn’t, since all you ever seem to care about when it comes to me is whatever comfort you can find, right?”

Leon doesn’t say anything. His fist flexes and clenches at his side, and you take a lengthy inhale before leveling your gaze on him again.

“You don’t return my calls,” you say. “Don’t ask how I’m doing. Don’t promise you’ll be back. You just take from me, don’t you? I guess I’m guilty of having too much to give. You tell me nothing about who you are or what you do, and expect me to open my home and my legs in return. I have spent the last eight months with a complete and total stranger,”

“You don’t understand-”

“No, I don’t,” you interrupt. He opens his mouth a few times before choosing to remain silent. “And at this point? I don’t want to understand. I just…want it to be over, honestly,”

“Over?” he repeats. “You want me to leave?”

“Doesn’t really stop you all that often,” you say, shrugging. “Look at me, Leon. I’m a mess,”

He chews on his lower lip, choosing his next words carefully. “Look,” he says. You blink at him. “I care about you, I mean, clearly. But I’m not sure what you expected. I told you how this was going to work, and you let me in anyway,”

You want to scream at him. “Yes,” you say calmly instead. “I let you in anyway. I let you in regardless of whatever stupid self imposed risks you’ve evaluated because it was you. You were worth that to me. I find it hard to believe that you can take care of me when you’re here, but forget that I exist when you’re gone. I’m sorry that I can’t do that, that I can’t separate my heart from my actions, but I think it’s really unfair for you to assume that I could,”

“I am trying,” Leon says. You look him in the eye, and you see something waver there. His tough facade is starting to crack and dissolve. You feel bad for being so upset, maybe you’re overreacting. “I am trying so hard to learn how to love you better,”

You feel a pinprick of pain at your thumb, and you realize you’ve been digging at the nail cuticle for however long you and Leon have been fighting. You smear the blood over the nail in an attempt to wipe it away.

“Is this what you do to yourself when I’m not here?” Leon asks, reaching to grab your hand and inspect your fingers. “Just take yourself apart over and over again without bothering to put the pieces back together?”

You stare at him. “I am trying to figure out how to without you,”

“Don’t go,” he pleads, voice barely a whisper.

“Don’t make me,” you reply. “Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I really don’t want to,”

You want him to feel a fraction of the aching pain you’ve felt these last few months. You want him bruised, beaten. You want him to sob in a chair in the middle of the night because he can’t sleep without knowing you’re alive. You want him to hurt.

“But unless you can fix this,” you say, taking a step away from him. “I don’t want to see you ever again,”

He frowns, but ultimately nods. “If you think that’s what’s best for you,”

“I have to look out for myself because I know you won’t,” you whisper. “I don’t want to be the guinea pig you try out new coping methods on,”

His nose twitches with what you assume is anger or frustration. But he leaves.

#m writes #my fics #x reader #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil #leon kennedy #fanfic #resident evil fanfic

[hheaven-sentt]

MISSED U🥹🥹

hello ro it is i ptv anon!! i hope you are doing well and that life is giving you good things (or at least it starts quickly!!)

this is foolish but i saw your requests were open and i’ve been laid up in bed with a silly little cold this past week and i wonder if you have any thoughts on leon or chris (whoever you’re feeling most!) taking care of sick reader?? bonus points if reader tries to downplay everything and has to be dragged back to bed (affectionately)!! i remember you did such a fascinating job of writing how leon cares for the reader in cold turkey (and at the end of fair play!) and i was wondering if you had any more of those thoughts with either him or anyone else <3

in the event that you don’t feel like answering this (which is very valid live your life and be happy!!) i would just like to say thank you for being so cool and i wish you very good things!! this is ptv anon signing off :)

PTV ANON ily!!!! here is this silly lil fic that is my return (again) to mister leon ♡ i forgot how to write i think

leon kennedy x gn!reader // 1k+ words

There’s a thermometer and blood pressure machine and an extra large bottle of acetaminophen sat on the bedside table, and Leon scoots it all to one side to make room for a bottle of gatorade and a bowl of homemade soup.

“You’re overcompensating,” you say, shivering in bed as if you aren't actively sweating into your pillow. He already rid you of your sweatshirt and comforter and thick blanket, but was kind enough to leave you with a thin sheet. A lifeline that you cling to as the air cuts cold and deep, incites gooseflesh over sensitive skin.

“And you’re downplaying.”

Despite the brain matter throbbing against your skull, you roll your eyes, pitiful show of defiance that it may be. “Because I've had worse.”

He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, legs outstretched to keep him from falling to the floor. “Remember the time I came home with a cold? I couldn't even go to the bathroom alone.”

“You fail to mention that you also came home with a broken foot.”

Though he faces away from you, the slow curve of a silhouetted cheek hints at a smile. “A minor detail.”

You sniffle, and he turns around to gauge your expression, eyes dark in the low light of the room. Nothing but a clicked-on lamp on the other side of the bed. You've had a throbbing headache for days and over-the-counter medication proves no match for the worst cold of your life, but the dim orange glow settles a comfort about the room.

“Just,” he trails off with a sigh, reaches over to grab the bowl then stirs the soup around, steam rising and coiling around his hand, “let me take care of you. Alright?”

Therein lies the problem. He never stops taking care of someone. Always a problem to be solved, a target to rescue, a world to save. You’ve spent the last four days on the receiving end of his fretting, and a large part of you houses guilt. When he comes home, he allows himself to relax. To shut off the dutiful savior for a while. In a way, you robbed him of that.

A cough racks your chest, the pressure from each heave a lighting strike between the eyes. A warm hand settles upon your shoulder, keeping you upright as you spit and hack and tears blur your vision.

When the episode passes, he helps you adjust back to your previous position.

Perhaps he's just doing what he does best. The only thing he knows how.

“Remember the time I drank so much I threw up in your lap?” he asks, swiping the heel of his palm over your wet lashes. “You dragged me to the toilet, and I still managed to miss.”

Even smiling hurts, but you manage a small one anyway. For his sake. “You just had to lean over and tell me you loved me.”

He winces, still stirring your soup as the steam wanes, eyes staring into the bowl. “Seriously?”

Two weeks later, he said those three words as if it was the first time, and you pretended the same. “Yeah.”

“You never told me that.”

“Never had a reason to. Didn't expect you to,” another sniffle, “say it at all.”

Upon registering the warmth in your tone, he relaxes. Your eyelids begin to droop. “Can I admit something?” You hum. “A lot's scared me over the years, but that still takes the cake.”

Such a mundane moment (sat on the balcony at some mid-tier hotel, watching the sea of cars in the parking lot below) trancending magic by the three words he said, all dog-kicked and muttering. Like he was trying to convince himself not of their validity, but of their worthiness.

You open your eyes to a sans-soup nightstand. A sweatslick forehead, a blocked nose, a sting at the back of your throat. Everything hurts—even worse than yesterday.

You turn your head to peer out the window and note a human-shaped lump beneath the sheets. Sheets. Bastard got a blanket for himself.

“You hungry?” he asks, voice muffled by the pillow his head rests upon.

“Not really.”

He sighs. “I'll starve waiting on you.”

A hand rises to rest on the curve of your shoulder, touch delicate, as if you possess the fragility of a baby bird's wing. At this point, maybe you do. Maybe if his grip tightens you will crumble like porcelain.

“You don't have to wait for me,” you say, leaning into the pins-and-needles discomfort of his touch. Too achey for this, but it's him. He's always been the exception.

“It's about the principle.”

“No, it's manipulation.”

He grins, puffy-eyed and sleepy, stretched out far too close to you. Only a matter of time before he falls ill as well. As if that's ever stopped him.

“You wouldn't let me starve, would you?” he asks, scooting to your side of the bed, careful in how he maneuvers you to better cuddle against him.

“Speaking of, what happened to that soup from last night?”

“Fridge,” he mutters, lips brushing against the curve of your shoulder. The ghost of a kiss, a poor recollection of the real thing.

You hate being sick.

A few hours later, you wake again to light bleeding beneath your closed bedroom door and the whisper of a smell that clenches your stomach. Food. Savory. Nothing that you'll be able to taste.

The rest does you some good. If you breathe just right, you can unclog a nostril. Your headache remains, but more throb than jackhammer. Still, you're unsteady on your feet, freshly birthed from a fever dream.

You should really shower soon—no, a nice, long bath with epsom salts and bubbles.

Stood at the stove, Leon whirls around just as you shuffle into the kitchen, raising a spoon in admonishment. “What are you doing?” He reaches you in three long strides, turning you around by a shoulder. “Go. Back to bed.”

You're too weak to fight him (as if you could anyway), so you allow him to lead you back to the bedroom. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Soup's almost ready.”

When he gets like this, there's nothing you can say to change his mind. He envisions a goal, and he intends to reach it. And maybe… well. Maybe that isn't a bad thing. Maybe it's nice to be cared about.

He sets your reheated bowl of soup on the nightstand, warns you to let it cool, then joins you in bed with his own. You eat while some cheaply rented movie plays on the television. The food tastes like nothing, but it settles warm in your belly, and there's a comfort in that. A bit of love that reaches somewhere deep.

He helps people, takes care of them. Whether genuine joy or a sense of boneset duty drives his actions, you aren't sure, but you would be a liar if you said having all that attention aimed at you isn't nice once you swallow down your pride.

He loves you, and you would do the same for him.

“Can I ask a favor?” you say, halfway through your bowl though fighting the fullness in your belly.

He's long since finished his, dirty dish sat on the bedside table. Reclined back against a propped-up pillow. “I thought we agreed that we wouldn't ask stupid questions.” He says it with that same smile that spells trouble, a jesting mood.

“You're an asshole.”

“Okay, I'll be serious.”

You reach him your bowl once discomfort wins out, and he sets it atop his. “Can you run me some bathwater?”

“With bubbles?”

A tired smile stretches your lips. “Yeah.”

The funny thing about all of this: he falls ill a few days later and proves even more insufferable about retaining indepence than you could ever be.

[hheaven-sentt]

am i currently working on another angsty leon piece bc i view him as the most tragic man ever????? mind ur business

#m talks #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil

[hheaven-sentt]

devotion

summary: because love doesn't quite capture it | leon kennedy x partner!reader

word count: 2.4k

warnings: depictions of injuries, angst if you squint, mentions of alcohol consumption, yearning, mutual pining, partners to friends to lovers

notes: BACK FROM THE DEAD W A VENGEANCE. my semester has finished and my second one doesn't start until january so i will be posting for once. college is kicking my ass like all the time so it puts everything else on pause for me anyway ily all | ao3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dress feels itchy against your skin. You don’t want to go to this event, so you can’t imagine how Leon feels. He doesn’t even like when you thank him for doing the dishes, so you wonder how he might behave up on a stage to receive a medal. You stretch behind you, reaching for the zipper. Wordlessly, Leon turns to you and zips it up himself. Of course he does; that’s just Leon.

“This is weird,” he says. It’s barely a whisper, breath dusting over your shoulder as he says it. You nod with a sigh.

“I wouldn’t say weird,” you return. You watch his eyes in the mirror. They hover somewhere on your forehead. “Not normal, but not weird,” “I think it’s weird,” he says, and steps away. You nod again, because what else can you say?

Working with Leon has its ups and downs. He’s too quiet some days, and you have to fill in the gaps yourself. Or he’s too loud–sometimes without even saying anything–and you have to figure out how to deal with it. Or he’s just Leon; he laughs and jokes, he helps cook dinner, he doesn’t talk about work. You like those days the best. Had you seen these versions of Leon when you were assigned to him almost ten years ago, you would’ve laughed. Ten years ago, you couldn’t imagine being this close to someone, to care as much as you do about someone you’re paid to be around.

You suppose there’s layers to it, layers you haven’t fully unraveled yet. You know only a few things for certain: Leon is your partner, he is also your unofficial roommate, and you care about him more than you care about others.

“Are you ready?” he asks. He’s standing in the doorway of the bedroom, the light from the hallway making him look like an angel descending to relay a message from God. You swallow and nod.

“Just need my shoes,” you say, moving to the bed and sliding your shoes across the floor to be in front of you. Leon bends down without a word to help you fasten them.

When he looks up at you, he looks less like your partner and more like someone you’re meant to love. An ache resonates within you, a need to reach out a brush your fingers through his darkened hair. He shifts his gaze to your upper arm. Gingerly, he runs the tips of his fingers over a scar that spans from your elbow to your clavicle. It’s ugly and red, courtesy of the nasty burn you’d sustained there a few years ago. The ridged skin is unfeeling as Leon skirts his hand across it, tracing it from your elbow to your shoulder.

“I remember when you got this,” he says absently. His fingers dance across your skin, and you wish the scar didn’t run so deep so you could feel his ministrations. “Thought I’d lost you,”

He says nothing more, just stands up and offers his hand to you to help you off the bed. You take it, and he hauls you up with ease. He twists out of the room like a ghost. You follow him, like you always do.

The scar is one of a few you’ve come to own. You remember the day you got it, too. For whatever reason, you replay the moment in your head over and over in the taxi on the way to the gala. It makes your skin burn.

It was supposed to be a normal day, a normal mission. Go in, extract, get out. Three simple steps that you had done a hundred thousand times before. Leon stood beside you, always offering to enter a room first. You’ll admit, years removed from the situation, you should’ve been more careful, should’ve listened to what he was saying. But you were so angry at him. You felt weak, unnecessary. You remember shoving past him and through a door you hadn’t known was connected to a trigger. Almost as soon as your boot touched the concrete on the other side of the threshold, your hearing went out. It felt like you were standing miles away from a nuclear blast, and you had felt the effects of the delayed shockwave. You were knocked to the ground in an instant, but you didn’t feel pain–not yet at least. When you woke up in the hospital a day later, Leon was asleep in the chair beside you.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he’d said. You vowed not to.

“Do you think they’ll at least have an open bar?” he says now, drawing you back into the world. You turn away from the window of the cab to look at him. He’s staring at his hands, forcing a small smile.

“They better,” you say, reaching over and settling a hand on his shoulder. He looks at you. “It’s the only reason I’m going,”

This turns his smile genuine, and he even offers an eyeroll. You squeeze his shoulder, bracelets jingling with the motion. His eyes are on you, and you feel as hot as fresh sin. You hate this; hate that he makes you feel this way, hate that he is so beautiful, hate that you can’t seem to shake this deep seated love you harbor for him. You miss him when he looks away and you remove your hand.

The gala is overwhelming. Leon stays near you, hand hovering near your own. You wish he would reach out and take it. You debate the consequences of doing it yourself.

Breath hot on the shell of your ear, Leon whispers, “You think our taxes went into this?”

You suppress a laugh, tightening your lips into a thin line to fight a smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised, but I’ll pretend like this was all donated,”

“You can consider taxes a donation if you really think about it,” he says, gliding across the floor with you toward an empty table. You snort.

“I think that depends on what your definition of donation is,” you say. He pulls out your chair for you before pushing it in, then takes his own seat beside you. His legs are angled toward you like he only plans on talking to you.

“I think you underestimate my ability to bend definitions to suit my needs,” he says. You laugh again.

You like this version of Leon, and you know that it won’t last very long so you should hold onto it while it’s here. An old jazz song rings out from the speakers across the hall, and the lights catch his eyes just right. They’re really blue, as true blue as blue gets. They’re your favorite shade of blue. If you could paint your living room that color, you would. It’s a soft blue, like the crest of a wave blue, like the sky just after dawn blue, like two perfect oceans set into his skull. There’s a hairline scar that runs between the crows feet of his left eye, one you ache to reach out and trace.

That’s the best way to describe how you feel when you look at Leon: aching. It’s desperation, an aching need to touch and hold. It’s not exactly love, but you don’t have another word for it. Maybe devotion? Looking at him feels like the first time a child sees a kitten. You’re like me, soft and lovable, and we should stay together.

“Have you listened to anything I’ve said in the last few minutes?” Leon asks, putting a hand on your knee that brings you back to the gala. You suck in a breath and shake your head. He smiles wide. “Quit staring at me, makes me feel like I’ve got something on my face,”

“You’re pretty,” you say before you can stop yourself. Maybe pretty is the wrong word, but you don’t know what the right one would be. He’s handsome, sure, but handsome doesn’t encapsulate the way his lashes flutter against his cheekbones or the way he blushes when you smile at him. “Sorry,”

He’s grinning now, giving your knee a squeeze. “You flatter me,”

An hour later, and he’s being called up on stage by your director, who intends to decorate him. You’re beaming with pride, even though you know Leon is dreading this moment. He stumbles across the stage. Cameras are flashing, and you can almost see Leon cringe between photos. He’s off the stage a few minutes later, heading straight for you. You grin more, knowing that he’s choosing to seek solace in you, in your company. He wraps you in a stiff hug that loosens as it endures. You laugh into his shoulder.

“Don’t let me do anything heroic ever again,” he mumbles, burying his face into your neck. You bark a laugh.

“Yeah, okay,” you agree. “I’ll make sure to step in next time,”

In an act that surprises you, Leon tugs you toward the dance floor. You must look wildly confused because he explains, “Just this once. Just one dance,”

You agree, not that you could deny even if you wanted to. He’s looking at you like you’re someone he’s meant to love, like you’re more than just his partner. His hand slots against the curve of your waist like it was made specifically to be there. He’s warm and smiling, and you think maybe he’s had a bit too much champagne. But you like him like this. Who knows when you’ll see him like this again? You stare at him, intent to memorize his features and the way the light catches on the bridge of his nose.

“You’re staring again,” he whispers. You smile sheepishly.

“Never seen you like this,” you reply. He bows his head to chuckle. “Not sure I’ll ever get the chance to again,”

“I’m sure you will,” he says. “You’re the one who brings it out of me,”

You roll your eyes. “I’m more convinced it’s all the free champagne we’ve been drinking,”

“You can believe whatever you want, sweetness,” he says, spinning you. “I’m telling you the truth,”

You’re both giggly and joking the whole way home. Leon has you wheezing about something you can’t remember as you step into the apartment. Tears rest at the corners of your eyes. You shove him playfully. He follows you from room to room like a puppy, making you giggle and flash a smile as you clean up for the night.

You crash onto the bed, warm and light from the night, and reach to take off your shoes. Leon stands in the doorway, watching you. The light from the hallway gives him a halo. Your feet ache as you release them from their prisons, and you glance up to see Leon smiling at you. You return it with the cock of one of your brows.

“You’re pretty,” he says by way of explanation. You feel heat snake up your body. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, hair slightly messy from where he’s run his hands through it, and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone. If you weren’t as shy as you are, you’d probably move to touch him.

Instead, you huff a laugh and toss your shoes to the floor. “You flatter me,”

When you stand and begin to move around him, he grabs your elbow. “I mean it,”

Perhaps, in another life, you would see this as a win. The man you’ve spent most of your life following around and yearning for seemingly returns your affections, and you are about to deny him. Admitting it out loud makes it real, makes it mean something. What happens the next time something goes wrong out there? The next time he does something heroic? Everything will be much too real, and much harder to bury. You blink at him, looking at him for what feels like the very first and last time. He’s still Leon; scruffy stubble, blue eyes, and warmth. He’s still Leon, teetering on being your Leon, and you’re not going to let that happen. You, again, are going to deny yourself from what you want.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. You take in a shaky breath. He’s still holding you, but his touch is a ghost on your flesh.

“Leon, I don’t know-”

“You know that one Frank Sinatra song?” he interrupts. You gape at him.

“Why did you ask if you won’t let me answer?” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest. He returns his hands to his pockets.

“Predicted where it was going, figured I’d circumvent it,” he admits, the corner of his lips turning upward slightly. “The song he sings with his wife?”

You shrug. “Maybe? What’s your point?”

“I love you,” he says. Your body goes cold. “That could be the stupidest thing I’ve ever said, but I feel like you should know that before you make whatever decision you’re about to make,”

Your face breaks out into a grin, and you laugh in spite of yourself. “I’m sure you’ve said stupider,”

Whatever worry was on Leon’s face dissolves, and a real, full smile splits across his lips. He takes your face in his hands. He holds you delicately, like you’d break under the slightest pressure. To be fair, you feel like glass at the moment–if glass could have legs made of rubber.

“This makes it real,” you say. He swallows. “No going back, no forgetting, no pretending. When something happens, it will be real,”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he whispers. “It’s worked out for us so far,”

You’re not sure who closes the space first, but it matters little after it’s happened. His lips are gentle and giving against your own. Your hands splay against his sides, using his suit jacket to pull him closer. His hands wind into your hair. There’s a desperation behind his movements, one you’re all too familiar with. After what feels like hours, he breaks from you, leaning his forehead against yours. His breathing is labored, you can feel it in his strong chest beneath your hands.

“This is real,” he says.

“We take risks for a living,” you say. He opens his eyes to peek at you through his lashes. “What’s one more right?”

He grins and kisses you again.

#leon kennedy x reader #my fics #m writes #resident evil #x reader #partner!reader #resident evil fanfic #leon kennedy #id leon kennedy

[hheaven-sentt]

send me requests i need ideas

#m talks #please my writers block is so bad #m writes

[hheaven-sentt]

an oasis, a sanctuary

summary: i would say it was nice to see you, but it wasn't really | leon kennedy x gn!reader

word count: 2.8K

warnings: 18+ MDNI, SMUT!!!, mentions of a toxic/transactional relationship, mentions of alcohol consumption, leon is kinda mean but like he's going through it, angst to smut pipeline

notes: this is like. half baked smut but i wanted to post it | ao3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re fighting like teenagers. It’s pathetic, really, but you can’t will yourself to move from your spot on the floor. You’re sitting in front of the bedroom door, back rigid against the wooden planes. You feel stupid, stubborn, and, most of all, lonely. You know Leon’s either sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for you to crawl out from your cave of solitude, or he’s left entirely. You didn’t hear the front door open, though, so you’re betting on the first option.

You hear footsteps traipse across the padding of the carpet before they come to a stop outside the door. You hear him sigh.

“Are you going to open the door?” he asks. You feel your frown stretch down further over your chin.

“No,” you say defiantly. He sighs again. “Go away, Leon,”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he says. You want to groan, knowing he’s right. But you’re stubborn, cut from a taught cloth.

“You can sleep on the couch tonight,” you say. “I’d like to go to bed, and I don’t want you to stand outside the door all night,”

“What is this? Marriage?” he says, frustrated. You can picture him running a hand down his face. His comment flares the anger in you again. Of course it’s not marriage. It’s not even funny to consider it that. You laugh quietly.

“Go away, Leon,” you say again. “I want to go to bed,”

“I’m not letting you go to sleep without resolving this,”

“Too bad,”

He groans, and you hear a bit of shuffling, suggesting that he’s sat down on the floor outside the door. You feel a bit of pride, knowing that you’d bothered him enough to make him do that. 

You consider, briefly, telling him to pack his things and never come back. It would be the worst pain you’d ever experienced, but how would that heartache be any different than what you feel every day? He barely has the decency to return your calls. He’s away for weeks–months even–without a word. You want to scream at him, tell him how much you ache and hate him. You want to throw things at him, bruise him in the way he has you. Your fists curl up at the thought. What would it be like to be free of this? What would it be like to live your days without worrying if Leon was coming back?

As if he can hear your thoughts, he says, “You knew what you signed up for,”

You did. You knew what was to come when you invited him to stay. You knew the way things would end when you sewed up an open wound upon his return in the middle of the night. You knew the story. You’d thought that maybe, somehow, there was a way to change it, to rewrite the script to fit your desires better.

“I signed up for you, Leon,” you respond. “Not this,”

You wanted Leon. You yearned for him more than a desert yearns for rain. You wanted the Leon who laughed at your jokes and watched movies with you. You wanted the Leon who washed the dishes after dinner. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want the radio silence for days or more, or the gag order of his job. He got to know you, how could he deny you the same right?

“I’m leaving in two days,” he says. You cringe against the door. “Is this how you want to leave it?”

“I don’t know, Leon,” you whisper. He sighs heavily from the other side of the wood. You hear him shuffle.

“Call me when you make up your mind,” he says.

You don’t hear from him for two months. You’re almost expecting to get a call that says he’s dead, or never hear from him again at all. It’s an agonizing two months. You spend most of your nights alone, wasting away on your couch. It’s not much different to what you did before, but at least you had good company.

The knock on the door is abrupt, almost angry. You shuffle over to it, slowly and languidly like you’ve just been woken up from a deep sleep. You’ve been dazed the last eight weeks. You peer through the peephole; Leon stands, a bit worse for wear than when you last saw him, drenched in rain. You sigh.

“I know you’re home,” he says through the door. “I can see the light on through the frame,”

You grimace, and begrudgingly open the door. Leon looks good, almost better than you remember even if he’s got a few healing bruises and cuts. “Unfair,”

He shrugs, and goes to move around you to enter the space, like he always has. You put a hand out to stop him. He furrows his brow.

“What do you want?” you ask. He blinks at you. “Don’t act confused, Leon. There’s no way you actually thought you could just waltz back in here without a word for a few months,”

“Isn’t that what we always do?” he says. You bristle at the words. He’s not wrong. Every time he’s left, you’ve welcomed him back with open arms without a second thought, regardless of contact over the time he was gone. You can’t keep doing that to yourself, though. 

“I deserve more than that,” you say. He takes a step back. “I don’t want this anymore,”

“What are you saying?” he asks.

You take a deep breath, holding your ground. “Until you can step up, I don’t want you. I can’t do this anymore, Leon,”

“Do what?”

You frown. “This,” you say, motioning between you. You glance at the clock. “It’s half past two, Leon. And you show up at my door, expecting what? A welcome home party? That’s too much. I haven’t heard from you in months, Leon. I thought you were dead. Wouldn’t you agree that I deserve a bit more than a shrug? That I deserve a better you?”

He blinks at you as your words seep into his skin. You half expect him to ignore you, to stumble away and find another couch to crash on and someone else’s food to eat. He’s frowning deeply, setting in lines that look more like scars.

“Of course you deserve more,” he says. “I’ve always known that,”

This enrages you. “Then why haven’t you been that for me?”

“Because that’s not what I am,” he says plainly. You feel your eye twitch. “You’ve known that. This is what we do. We find comfort in each other for a few nights and not any more,”

Your breathing is heavy, labored. You want to push him, shove him out of the doorframe and back into the hallway. “That’s all we were?”

“I thought you knew that,”

“Get out,” you say. He’s not even in your apartment, just standing in the threshold, but your words ring. He takes another step back. “Don’t ever fucking come back. Can’t believe I wasted my fucking time on someone who didn’t even care,”

“I care,” he says. You roll your eyes, moving to close the door.

“Get out,” you say again. He doesn’t stop you as the door shuts. You stand in front of it for a moment too long, wondering if you’ve made the right decision. Ultimately, you step away, return to your spot on the couch.

You don’t cry like you might’ve a few months ago. Instead, you stare at the floor, watching the way the moonlight catches on the grooves of the wood. Everything feels for naught. You feel defeated, detached. You wonder if he’s slinked down the hall to his car yet or if he’s still standing at your door. You don’t move to check.

Life without him is normal. You don’t feel the guilt as you might’ve in another time. You continue your work, spending your time photographing galas and balls as if nothing bad has ever happened to you, as if no pain has ever washed down your back. You feel lucky to avoid him. The city can feel so small at times, and still, you have yet to cross paths with him.

The museum unveiling is beautiful. Golden ribbons and streamers streak across the ceiling, the bar looks to be made of crystal, and every waiter sounds vaguely british. You’re enjoying yourself, a glass of celebratory champagne in your hand as a perk of the job, and you feel lighter than you have in months. You feel a bit stiff in your outfit, but the theme is black tie formal, and you know your supervisor would skin you if you didn’t dress accordingly. Absent-mindedly, you pick at the hem of your shirt with your free hand. Your camera hangs loose around your neck like a badge of honor.

“You look nice,” comes from your left. Your blood runs cold for a moment. Of course you’d see him here of all places. You spy the president and his family from the corner of your eye.

Turning on your heel to face him, you say, “Thank you. Had to dig out the formal clothes,”

Leon smiles at you. “Me too,” he motions to his stiff suit. “This thing hasn’t seen the light of day in years,”

You want to bypass the formalities and ditch him where he stands. You’re still so angry at him. “Enjoying yourself?” you ask instead.

He shrugs. “You know crowds have never been my thing. Bar’s open, though, so I’ll take what I can get,”

You huff a laugh. “How’d you even get in here?”

“Last minute invite,” he says, glancing over your shoulder. “Figured I should get out of the house,”

The two of you go silent for a moment. He looks well, put together and whole. You like how he’s carrying himself. You clear your throat.

“I would say it was nice to see you,” you say. “But it wasn’t, really,”

This makes him smile. “I’m glad I got to see you,” he says. “You gave me a moment of reprieve. An oasis,”

You blink at him. For some reason, everything begins to make sense. And you hate him for it. All at once, you realize that your apartment became something of a sanctuary for him, and you denied him of it. It wasn’t without reason, but still, you deprived a man of few constants of the one thing he sought comfort from. And you feel guilty.

“How’s work going?” you ask. He falters for a moment.

“And here I thought our transaction was done,” he half jokes. “Work is okay. I’m sidelined for the next few weeks because the doctor said I could tear my ACL if I so much as jump a little bit, so here’s to office work,”

“So you’re in town for a while?” you ask. The question stands in the air for a moment, and you wish you could snatch it away from where it idles. There’s a soft smile on his face.

“Yeah, for at least another few weeks,”

You nod slowly. “I still live in that dingy old place, if you ever want to stop by. Y’know, if you need an oasis,”

His smile widens into a full grin, showing off his teeth and splitting his face in two. You can’t help but return it.

“On one condition,” he says. You quirk a brow. “I’ll call when I’m away,”

Your heart constricts, and you feel silly for letting it. “I expect results, Leon,”

He laughs. “You’ll get them,” he promises. “Can I admit something?”

You nod.

“I’m not what you deserve,” he says. You frown. “Wasn’t then, still not now. But I will be. You deserve that, and I’m willing to give,”

You reach out to him, feeling his sturdy muscle beneath your hands for the first time in a while. “I trust you,”

He looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. You’re sure that if you were, he’d kiss you. You want him to anyway.

When you get back to your apartment, slightly tipsy and light, you can’t help but think about him. Maybe this time, things will be different. You find yourself praying to any deity that might listen that they will be. You deserve for them to be different. He arrives a few moments later, standing with his hands in his pockets at your door.

And when he kisses you, you feel like you’re floating. There’s something here that wasn’t there before, and you can feel it. It’s electric, it feels like coming home. You hadn’t known how much you really missed him until his hands are on your waist, holding you steady because your body threatens to collapse. There’s a hunger behind his actions, one that claims to have missed you too, but he keeps it at bay. His lips are softer than you remember. You’re pulling him as close as you can get him before you morph into one.

“Missed this,” he says, moving to trail kisses down your jaw. You sigh. “Missed you,”

You’re fumbling with the button on his suit jacket, itching to push it off his shoulders. He lets you, and you splay your hands across his back. He’s leaving bruises across your chest, blue and purple blossoms that will certainly ache in the morning. You’re clawing for him, begging for more. He lets up on his assault on your neck and chest to lean his forehead against yours.

His breathing is labored, steady and strong in his chest beneath your hands. You feel alight.

“Leon,” you say, words whispered between kiss swollen lips. “Please,”

He sighs, heavy and gruff, before hauling you into his arms. There’s a fervent stumble to your room before you’re placed between plush pillows and blankets, and he’s above you. The first three buttons of his shirt have come undone, exposing the flesh of his clavicle.

“Tell me this is what you want,” he says, soft and sweet. You swallow thickly, nodding. “Use your words, sweetness,”

You could die right there. “Yes, Leon. I want this,”

He drops his head slightly, sighing. “Thank God,”

He bends to kiss you again, working to unbutton your slacks. Once they’re gone, he smooths his hand over your thigh gently, making you shiver. Leon was always gentle with you, but there’s a different tone to his movements now. He seeks to appease you, to satiate whatever hunger you may have regardless of his own. There’s love behind his behavior, and if you think about it too long, you’ll burst into tears.

He works you open slowly, gently, taking his time with you. You squirm against his fingers, mewling pretty sounds and reaching for him every chance you get. His hands are skilled between your legs, deft movements that nearly send you over the edge. Your desire is heady, completely intoxicating. He reaches up to push your shirt out of the way, fingertips tracing the curve of your neck.

“Leon,” you whimper. “Please. Don’t wanna wait anymore,”

You don’t have to ask twice. He’s stripped of his trousers before you can even blink. It almost makes you laugh. You’ve barely touched him. He rolls you onto your stomach, pulling you back toward him for better access. He smooths a hand down your back affectionately.

“So pretty,” he murmurs, aligning himself between your legs. “So good f’me,”

You sigh desperately as he eases into you, relief and pleasure flooding your senses. You feel like you’re going to explode. He bottoms out, leaning over to hover above your ear. His breath is hot against your skin, a tickling sensation that electrocutes you to your toes. His hands hold your hips gently as he begins to pump into you. His pace is steady, easy going against the fervor of the room. You choke on a moan. Your fingers curl into the sheets, searching for purchase.

It doesn’t take long for the coil to build in your stomach, begging to burst with each thrust. You’re sighing against the sheets, breathy moans that twist around your ears and dissipate into the air. Involuntarily, the thread snaps, and your orgasm washes over you in pulses. You feel yourself clench around him.

“That’s it, baby,” Leon coos, squeezing at your hips. “Doin’ so well. I’ve got you,”

His hips stutter, and just as the pleasure of your orgasm wains, you feel him pull out of you. Warmth coats your back as he comes undone, choking back moans with his fist. You’re breathing heavily, barely able to open your eyes. He disappears for a moment to fetch a towel. He wipes your back clean, placing a delicate kiss between your shoulder blades. You shiver. He lays beside you, barely touching you.

“Did you mean what you said?” you ask between labored breaths. He glances at you. “About being what I deserve?”

He pauses for a moment. You worry that things have already started to crumble. “I meant it. I want to be what you deserve,”

He already was. Always has been

#leon kennedy x reader #leon x reader #leon kennedy smut #x reader #my fics #m writes #resident evil #resident evil fanfic #nsft

[hheaven-sentt]

girl when i realized those leon fic titles were hozier references my brain like. expanded. you are such a genius i’m going to be listening to unreal unearth and CRYING thank u

omg this is so sweet i’m gonna cry. hozier turns me into a different person and i continuously thank him for inspiring me to write bc tbh HALF of my WIPs are based on a hozier song

[hheaven-sentt]

you and i

summary: this must be what dante wrote about | bodyguard!leon x f!reader

word count: 3k

warnings: strong language, incredible yearning and pining, self deprecation, angst, leon is sad for like the majority of this tbh, poor guy has a lot of feelings to work through

notes: this is technically a continuation of heaven is not fit, but it can be read separately you just might miss some context. there's gonna be another installment of this probably because i'm obsessed with this concept | ao3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Leon was told what his next assignment was following his harrowing return from Spain, he’d laughed. He had outright, fully, unapologetically laughed. It was ridiculous, the idea that he would spend the foreseeable future babysitting. It wasn’t possible.

He stands against the wall of a conference room. You enter with your father after ten minutes of his waiting, and you barely acknowledge him. He doesn’t mind so much, he’d rather fly under the radar and get out than have to initiate a conversation. Your father introduces him, and he’s not sure that you even hear him. He just toes the carpet and stares forward. He prays to whoever might be listening that you don’t try to speak to him. He’s less than thrilled when your dad asks him to drive you home.

He does, of course, and he tries not to hate every minute of it. You mostly stare out the window, probably pretending that he’s a taxi. He pulls up outside your building, and considers asking if you want him to walk you up, but you’re hurrying out of the car before he gets the chance.

Grabbing your elbow, he says, “Call if there’s an emergency,”

Your eyes widen a bit when you nod, and he gently releases you. You bustle out of the car with no further words.

His apartment is empty when he returns to it. There’s little light save for the lamp on the end table. An alleyway kitchen holds his dinner for the night: a random salad he’d found pre-made at the supermarket. He sits at his pathetic dining room table. It’s only got two chairs, and he never has guests, so it feels lonelier than just having a single chair. But Ashley said it was weird to only have one chair, so here he is. He picks at the lettuce aimlessly, appetite not really kicking in the way he wants it to. 

He allows himself to wonder, for a moment, what you’re doing. Have you already showered and gone to bed? Are you with someone? Maybe watching an old movie on TV? He feels awkward, and shifts around like someone’s watching him. Something crawls under his skin, and he physically shakes the feeling.

He avoids you for about a week. It’s unprofessional, but he can’t find it in him to care. He keeps a close eye on you, making sure that you’re not in any immediate danger, and calls it good. He’s been very vocal about how this is not a job he would’ve taken himself, and although it’s not exactly hard or brutal, isn’t it? Isn’t it cruel to make a grown man follow around a twenty-something all day? He sits in his car outside your apartment building, watching silently and flipping through the radio. He can’t place why, but he hates that you walk to work alone. A feeling he can’t describe gnaws away at him, makes him feel guilty all over and squirm in his chair. You seem to be able to handle yourself. But he can’t shake the feeling of what if? 

He can’t tell if you like him. You’re stiff in his passenger seat, gnawing on your bottom lip. He feels strangely insecure, constantly shifting as if someone is staring at him, but you’re facing away from him.

“Up here,” you say quietly. “On the left,”

He begins to turn right. You look like you’re fighting a laugh.

“The left, Leon,” you say again.

“I know,” he says. “I was testing you,”

It was meant to be a joke, but it comes out gruff and forced. For the love of God, why can’t he relax with you? Why does he feel like he’s being judged, put under a microscope by your gaze? He steals glances at you throughout the drive. You silently bob your head to the song on the radio, tapping your foot off beat every now and then. It almost makes him smile. He is straddling a dangerous line, and he’s leaning one way further each and every day.

…

Leon decides very quickly that he likes having you in his space. A man of few constants is sure to find comfort in coming home to you on the couch watching some movie he’s never heard of. You fit against his couch nicely, breathe a new life into the cushions that were mostly for show when they were placed. He likes that you hold a hand up when there’s something good playing on the TV, and he has to wait for it to pass so he can finally talk to you. He likes that he wants to talk to you. It has dawned on him that he just likes you.

“Wanna grab dinner later?” you ask around a mouthful of chips, syllables muddled and smooshed against the mash. There’s a faint smile on your lips.

He shrugs. “We can do whatever you’d like,”

He wants very much to grab dinner with you. He’d like to do anything with you, so long as you keep looking at him and laughing at his jokes, as feeble and rough around the edges as they are. You swallow thickly and smile at him, and he feels like he floats off the ground.

“I’m thinking italian?” you suggest. “Craving some ravioli from that place downtown,”

“Italian sounds great,” he says, and he genuinely means it. Truth be told, you could’ve suggested trash from the dumpster out back, and he would’ve accepted.

“Cool,” you say, still smiling. It grows when he returns it. “We should walk there,”

He sits beside you on the couch and you wordlessly pass him the bag of chips. “You wanna walk all the way there? It’s a few miles,”

You shrug. “Why not? It’s so nice out,”

“Wear comfortable shoes, then, sweet girl,” he says, rolling the top of the chips down. You always tell him that he’s better at it.

“I’ll wear whatever shoes I please,” you tease. “Besides, if I get tired, you can just carry me,”

He hates the fact that he would, too. He would do anything you ask of him.

You’re dangerously close to him as you walk. Your hand bumps into his a few times as it swings, and he debates on the consequences of securing your fingers in his. He almost thinks it would be easier if you rejected him, that’s a pain he could work past. But if you didn’t? He’d be facing a lot more than temporary heartache; a lifetime of aiming to please, working to avoid disappointing you, and the devastating misery when he eventually does. That terrifies him. To be the source of your suffering is to strike him down where he stands.

“Can I pick your brain for a second?” you ask. He glances at you before nodding. “There haven’t been any incidents since…the one. How do we know I’m still in danger?”

He thinks for a moment. Truthfully, you’re not in any danger, at least not directly. But Leon finds himself continuously advising your father that you should remain with him, and your father always listens. He considers himself lucky that he was there that night, feels guilty over the idea of not walking you up that had flitted through his thoughts for a moment. He won’t risk something like that again.

“Your father is still worried,” he says. You nod slowly. “I can talk to him, if you’d like,”

You wave your hand. “No use. It won’t get through to him. Besides, it’s not so bad being saddled with you all the time,” 

You knock your shoulder into his, and he feels like his heart stops. “You’re not saddled with me. You can leave any time you want,”

You grin. “Who would laugh at your stupid jokes? Or eat all your food?”

“I don’t need someone to eat all my food,” he teases, and you laugh. “Especially wouldn’t mind having the blanket to myself at night,”

You elbow him softly in the ribs, laughing at him. “Oh, be realistic. You, my darling, are the blanket hog, don’t lie,”

He’s beaming at you. He can’t fight the brightness of the smile, or the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. What he wouldn’t give to be able to kiss you right now, openly and freely without the guilt of his job hanging over his head like a sword. Shame taints the moment in an instant, and he makes an effort to contain his joy. You don’t seem to notice the shift, and if you do, you don’t mention it.

The restaurant isn’t the most elegant joint in town, but you behave like it is. You sit with pristine posture, pretend to know the difference between certain forks and complain that there’s only one–really, how is a woman supposed to eat a meal in these conditions?--and you tease him for having his elbows on the table.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think this was a date,” you say, picking around at the ravioli on your plate.

He grins. “Forgot to mention that I don’t have my wallet on me. Mind paying?”

“You’re a lousy date, then,” you say, grinning. “Like you’d ever let me pay,”

“It’s not like this is a five star meal, sweet girl,” he says. “Believe me, if it were? You’d definitely be paying,”

“Not going to treat the lady?” you tease. “Not very gentlemanly of you,”

He shrugs. “I believe that men and women are equal,”

You roll your eyes playfully. He likes seeing you like this, cast in the light from the fake candle in the center of the table, smiling faintly to yourself, and oh so beautiful. You reach over to steal a bite of his pasta, and he doesn’t stop you. He finds himself wanting to share with you, allow you to partake in whatever he’s having because he wants to keep you happy no matter the cost.

“Ashley’s coming home this weekend,” you say between bites. “She asked what we were up to,”

We. You and him, a collective, a pair. It sends a shiver through him. “I don’t think we’re doing anything important,”

You smile. “I think she misses you,”

He shrugs, hates the feeling of being wanted. “I’m sure she misses you more,”

He thinks for a moment about whether or not you would miss him if he left. Would you wonder about him? Would you feel longing? He knows he would. Hell, even just leaving the apartment brings a feeling of loneliness. He craves your presence, feels like he needs it to exist. You keep him grounded.

…

The fact that you walk away from him so easily–you barely put up a fight–makes him nervous. He regrets it the second it happens, his chest filling up with a guilty ache as he watches you storm away from the car. The ride was awkward, but he knew that saying anything would just make matters worse. He’s so sure that you hate him, and he’s not surprised that you do.

He calls you most days. It’s pathetic, really, how often he leaves messages on your machine. Most of the time they don’t even say anything other than a miserable apology and a few sighs of discomfort. He allows himself to wonder what you’re doing. Have you finished moving in? Have you met someone? You’d never mentioned a significant other while you were living with him, so he had this miniscule hope that things were going his way. The only problem is the massive barrier between you–his job to protect you. He was paid to ensure your safety, regardless of his want to. No matter how hard he tried, his efforts would always seem forced, incentivized by a paycheck. That’s no way to know someone, hidden behind bank statements. He wants to know you openly, freely.

He spends most of his days doing reports. There’s much less excitement now that you’re not waiting for him to come home each day. He moves through the motions without much care, barely reading the files he’s shoving into the cabinet. He thumbs through them with abandon, staring blankly at the half blacked out statements. Most times, he thinks of you. He feels guilt over the way he cut things off, but in what universe is there a more amicable way of doing it? There are approximately two other ways the situation could’ve gone.

He could’ve kept the job. He could’ve kept going every day, pretending like he doesn’t look at you like you hung the moon and the stars. He could’ve feigned disinterest until you inevitably found someone worthy of your time, and then wrestled with the heartache until it dulled. He could’ve stuck by his word and done his job.

He could’ve had both–you and the job, wrapped up together in the palm of his hand. But where would that get him? How long until you suspect that he’s acting this way for a paycheck? There was no way for that to work out. There was no realistic way for him to have both, regardless of how much he wanted that. He imagines that it would be pretty good to get paid to spend time with the person he desires most, a win-win situation.

The best decision was the one he’d already made. He hates it more than anything. He wants to see you. He wants to know you’re okay. He wants you to answer his calls.

You’re gone so long that his birthday passes. He wonders, selfishly, if you thought about him. Maybe your hand hovered over the phone for a moment in hesitation before you ultimately decided against calling him. Maybe you’d gotten him a gift you never intended to send his way. Even if he were just a passing thought across your mind, he’d take it. That was gift enough.

…

His breath is shaky as you stare at him. He wants so desperately to reach out to you, but he doesn’t. With a grin, he says, “Whether you want me here or not, right?”

You huff a laugh through your nose, a small smile widening on your features. God, he feels so lucky to see it. “I always want you here.

He could kiss you; he wants to kiss you, but not here, not now. Not when he just got you back. He’ll bide his time, he’ll wait until the world falls apart if he has to because keeping you in front of him is worth any cost. He’d pay millions, fight thousands, and lay his life down just to see you smile or make you laugh. He’s not letting you walk away so easily ever again, not if he can help it. You look at him, as if you’re really seeing him, and he feels like everything might be okay.

He enjoys spending his nights lounging on your couch. He’s been mostly relegated to average office work–who knows how long that will last–and it’s a refuge to sit against your cushions and feel you dig your feet into his side.

“For someone who always wears socks, you have cold feet,” he hisses, reaching down to move your ankle. You laugh.

“Not my fault you’re a human heater,” you say. You’re wrapped in a blanket he brought from his sad apartment; thank God that place is long behind him now. His arm is draped across the back of the couch, and your hand reaches up to hold onto his thumb.

“If you shove your feet into my side one more time, you have to call for the pizza,” he says, flicking the ball of your ankle. You bark another laugh, squeezing his thumb. He likes this, loves this even. The domesticity cleanses him better than any altar or priest ever could. He is bathed in a permanent ray of sunshine, one that warms up his skin and pushes away the shadows. You are akin to divinity. He confuses your touch with idolatry.

With a sweet sigh between hushed lips, you shuffle closer to curl into his side. He decides, right then, that this is where you’re meant to be always. Whatever the price, he will pay it gladly and fully without hesitation. There’s a traffic jam outside the window but he can’t hear it because you giggle when he pokes your side. There’s blush on the tips of your ears as you laugh.

He presses a kiss to your hair, and you sigh contently. Throughout the trials he’s endured, he’s never felt like much was worth that much pain. But, sitting here with you makes him think that there is brightness in the world. There is something to want, to love. He’s never wanted to please someone so desperately.

“I think we should stay like this forever,” you whisper, craning your neck to look at him. He’s grinning down at you in admiration, memorizing the lines and freckles on your face. “You and I,”

He kisses you, not for the first time, but hell it feels like it. You smile into it, fingers twisting into his shirt where your hand rests on his chest. His arm curls around the back of your neck, pulling you endlessly closer. If he is damned for eternity, at least that comes after this, he thinks. Your soft edges accept his jagged ones with ease, pulling him in and keeping him at close range. You pull away, resting your forehead against his.

“You wanna be stuck with me forever, sweet girl?” he asks, voice low and gruff. You smile.

“I’m not stuck with you,” you say. “Besides, wouldn’t you wanna spend eternity with someone you love?”

He rockets back. Your smile fades quickly as you realize what you’ve said. You go to shift away from him, and he panics. You can’t leave his atmosphere, not again, he won’t let you. He takes your face between his hands as gently as he can manage. He looks you in the eyes, searching for any regret, any fear. He can’t find it.

“Yes,” he says, voice shaking. “I want that more than anything,”

This must be what Dante wrote about. You must be Francesca.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fanfic #resident evil #leon kennedy #x reader #fanfic #m writes #my fics

[hheaven-sentt]

writers block is takin me OUT rn i’ve had 3k words for weeks and i’m nowhere near happy w it i need SOMETHING

#m talks