Considering how many times this has happened to me, I’m pretty sure this pic has already been recommended to a lot of you while scrolling through Flambert images on Pinterest 😭 but I’m still sooo obsessed with it. It just screams Flambae and Robert to me.
The image is actually this amazing piece by raccoon_on_caffeine for their webcomic Little Starling. And these are Zazu and Vince.
(Link to the original Instagram post)
(Link to the webcomic)
Summary: A mission meant to be routine becomes a race against the clock when you’re bitten, and the only antivirals are destroyed. With the infection spreading and time running out, Leon Kennedy abandons everything except the one objective that matters: getting you back alive.
Warnings/tags: bite injury (reader), infection themes (fever, delirium), mentions of blood/wounds, mission-related violence, guns, angst, protective leon
The hallway smells like antiseptic and old rain, sharp enough to taste at the back of your throat. Emergency lights pulse a slow red, painting everything in the color of a heartbeat that refuses to settle. Somewhere deeper in the facility, something metallic groans, the sound carrying through the walls like the building itself is shifting in its sleep.
Leon moves ahead of you with that familiar economy, every step deliberate, shoulders slightly rounded forward as if he's braced against a wind no one else can feel. Years ago, you would have called it tension. Now you know it's simply how he stands when he's ready to protect something.
You.
He lifts one hand without looking back. Two fingers. Hold. You stop immediately, rifle angled down but ready, covering the rear out of habit. Your breathing slows to match his. In the quiet, you can hear it, the faint rasp of fabric as he adjusts his grip, the tiny click of leather at his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes catching red light, and the corner of his mouth tilts.
"Tell me you hear that too," he murmurs.
"Ventilation system struggling to keep up with poor life choices," you whisper back.
His mouth twitches a little more. "Comforting."
"Very."
He turns forward again, advancing with a careful sidestep around a fallen gurney. You follow close, boots landing where his did, stepping into the spaces he clears without thinking. Years of missions have worn this path between you into muscle memory. You could navigate a battlefield blind if he were moving ahead of you.
Sublevel three, quarantine wing. The official report had said that the outbreak was contained. Minimal hostiles. Data retrieval only. You and Leon had both read that and packed extra ammunition.
Something scrapes faintly above you. You both stop again. A wet sound follows, soft but unmistakable, like raw meat dragged across tile. Leon's shoulders go rigid. He tilts his head, listening, then slowly raises his pistol toward the ceiling vent ten feet ahead.
"Don't," you breathe.
Too late. The grate explodes outward in a shower of dust and rusted screws. A shape drops hard onto the floor between you, limbs hitting at angles that don't belong to anything living. The body spasms once, twice, then snaps upright with a sound like tearing cloth. Its eyes are wrong. Its mouth is wrong.
Leon fires twice. The creature barely stutters before lunging. You're already moving. Your rifle cracks, recoil thudding into your shoulder as you pivot left to avoid Leon's line of fire. The rounds chew through rotten muscle, splashing something dark across the wall. The thing keeps coming anyway, a puppet yanked forward by invisible strings.
"Persistent," you mutter.
"Understatement."
It reaches Leon first. He sidesteps, grabs a fistful of its ruined jacket, and uses the momentum to sling it into the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Before it can recover, he drives a knife up under its jaw with brutal precision. The body convulses, fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve, then goes slack.
For a moment, the only sound is your breathing and the slow drip of something unpleasant onto the tile. Leon exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. He wipes the blade on the creature's shirt before sheathing it, movements efficient, practiced, almost weary.
"You okay?" he asks without turning.
"Fine."
He turns anyway, eyes scanning you head to toe, checking for tears in fabric, blood that isn't yours, the small tells you can't hide from him even if you tried. His gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary.
"Your heart rate's up."
"So is yours."
"Occupational hazard."
You step closer, bump your shoulder lightly against his arm. "You jumped."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I adjusted my stance."
You snort. "Sure you did, hero."
His hand comes up automatically, settling at the small of your back as he guides you past the body. The touch is brief, grounding, gone almost before you register it. He does it all the time now, in doorways, on stairs, whenever the path narrows. Years ago he used to keep that kind of contact locked away behind professionalism. Marriage burned that barrier down to ash.
"Remind me why we didn't retire somewhere with a beach," you say quietly.
"You hate sand."
"I could learn."
"You said that last time. Then you threw a shoe at a seagull."
"It started it."
He huffs, a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "We're not buying a coastal property just so you can wage war on wildlife."
"Coward."
They're soft words, familiar words, the kind that live comfortably between you, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. If you stop talking, the silence fills up with too many ghosts.
Ahead, the corridor splits. One path descends into deeper shadow. The other ends at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL ISOLATION.
Leon studies it, jaw tightening slightly. "That's our best bet for antiviral storage."
"And our worst bet for everything else."
"Probably."
He reaches for the panel. It flickers, unresponsive.
You lean in, shoulder brushing his. "Stand back."
"I am standing back."
"Further."
He sighs but obeys, stepping aside as you pull a compact breaching charge from your pack and set it against the seam. Your hands move quickly, efficiently, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.
"Try not to blow yourself up," he says.
"Try not to worry so loudly."
"I don't worry."
You glance up. "Leon."
"...I worry a normal amount."
You smile despite yourself. "Uh huh."
You trigger the charge and pivot away, grabbing his vest to pull him with you behind the corner. The explosion is sharp, contained, dust puffing into the air like a violent exhale. When the ringing fades, the door hangs crooked on shattered hinges. Leon looks down at where your hand is still gripping his gear. His expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with combat.
"You can let go," he says gently.
You realize you're still holding on and release him, suddenly aware of how solid he feels under your fingers, how warm even through layers of tactical fabric.
"Right," you say, clearing your throat. "Professional."
"Very."
But he brushes your knuckles once before moving past you, so quick it could almost be an accident.
Inside, the medical wing is colder, air conditioning still struggling on backup power. Cabinets hang open, supplies scattered across the floor as if someone had tried to pack in a hurry and failed. A hospital bed sits abandoned in the center of the room, sheets twisted into ropes. You sweep left. Leon sweeps right. The familiar dance resumes. For a few seconds, nothing moves.
Then something thumps weakly from behind the bed. You both pivot, weapons raised. A figure drags itself into view, lab coat smeared dark, face gray with fever. Human. Barely.
"Help," he croaks.
Leon lowers his weapon first, but doesn't relax. "You're infected?"
The man nods frantically, clutching his side. "Bite... hours ago... there's... antivirals... storage fridge... code..."
His hand trembles as he points toward a small sealed unit in the corner. Hope flickers, fragile and dangerous. You step forward. Leon catches your arm immediately.
"Careful," he murmurs.
"I know."
His grip tightens just a fraction before he lets go, thumb brushing your sleeve as if memorizing the texture.
The man coughs wetly, body shaking. "Please... I don't want to... turn..."
Leon's jaw flexes. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the grim understanding of how this story usually ends. You move past him anyway, crouching by the fridge, fingers already working the manual override. The seal pops with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of vials gleam faintly in the emergency light, liquid clear and precious as water in a desert.
"Jackpot," you whisper.
Behind you, the man makes a sound that isn't quite human.
Leon's voice snaps sharply. "Back."
You turn just in time to see the change sweep across the man's face, muscles locking, eyes clouding over like frost creeping across glass. Too fast. Leon fires once. The body collapses before it can lunge.
Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute. Your hands are still wrapped around the cold vial when Leon steps in close, one hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. He leans his forehead briefly against your temple, a gesture so intimate it almost hurts.
"Hey," he murmurs. "Stay with me."
"I'm here."
"Good."
"Leon," you say, unable to keep the lift out of your voice. "We've got—"
The ceiling tile above the doorway caves in with a thunderous crack. Something drops through in a tangle of limbs and teeth. Leon fires before it even lands.
The room detonates into motion. Another body slams through the door behind it, then another, drawn by noise or scent or whatever twisted instinct drives them now. The first infected hits the floor crawling, jaw snapping, fingers scrabbling for purchase on slick tile.
"Back!" Leon snaps.
You're already moving, grabbing the case and pivoting away from the fridge as gunfire shatters the sterile quiet. Your rifle kicks against your shoulder, rounds punching into torsos that refuse to care. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite and something fouler underneath.
One lunges for your legs. Leon intercepts it, boot driving into its chest hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. He doesn't even look as he fires downward, ending it with clinical precision.
More are coming. The hallway beyond the ruined door is a writhing mass of shapes pushing over each other, hungry, relentless. The lab equipment rattles as something heavy slams against the wall.
"Too many," you shout.
"Move!"
You sidestep, firing, trying to carve space, trying not to hit Leon as he crosses your line. Your shoulder clips the edge of the bed. The case slips in your grip for half a second.
A larger infected barrels through the doorway, body swollen, movements jerky but powerful. It collides with a rolling cart, sending metal instruments clattering across the floor like thrown knives. Leon pivots to engage, emptying three rounds into its upper chest. The creature staggers backward. Straight into the open refrigerator. Glass explodes.
The sound is high and crystalline, almost delicate beneath the gunfire, like a chandelier being smashed in a ballroom no one will ever dance in again. Vials shatter against metal shelves, against tile, against each other. Clear liquid splashes across the floor, instantly indistinguishable from the spreading mess of everything else. You see it happen in horrible, slow clarity. Hope, reduced to glittering debris.
"Leon!"
He fires again, dropping the brute for good. The body collapses forward, crushing what remains of the storage rack beneath its weight. For one stunned heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then another infected claws over the fallen bulk, and survival yanks you back into motion. You fire. Leon fires. Bodies drop. The noise is deafening, claustrophobic, relentless until at last the hallway falls silent again, littered with unmoving shapes.
Your ears ring. Smoke hangs in the air like a dirty veil. Slowly, cautiously, Leon lowers his weapon. His gaze drifts past the carnage to the refrigerator, to the floor, to the glittering field of broken glass and spilled medication soaking uselessly into grout lines and fabric and things you don't want to identify. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. The man on the bed has gone very still. His eyes stare at the ceiling, clouded over, whatever fragile thread holding him to himself finally snapped in the chaos. A drop of liquid slides off the shelf edge and hits the tile with a soft, final tick.
Leon exhales, long and controlled, like he's forcing the air out through a space too small for it. "...We'll find more," he says quietly.
He steps closer to you, one hand settling on your shoulder, firm and grounding. His thumb moves once, a brief stroke through dust and sweat, as if confirming you're still solid beneath his palm.
"You hurt?" he asks.
You shake your head, throat tight. "No."
"Good."
His hand lingers a moment longer, then drops. He scans the room again, already shifting back into mission mode, but the tension in his jaw has sharpened, lines around his eyes etched deeper by the red emergency light.
"Storage areas are usually clustered," he says. "If there was one unit, there are probably others."
You nod because he needs you to nod. Because forward is the only direction that exists anymore.
Together, you step around the shattered glass and the ruined promise it once held, boots crunching softly with every movement, and head back into the corridor where the dark waits patiently for you to return.
The corridor beyond the lab is narrower, older, the walls traded from clean hospital white to poured concrete stained by decades of leaks and neglect. Emergency lights hum overhead, casting everything in a tired amber glow that feels less like an alarm and more like a dying sunset that forgot to go away. Your boots echo differently here. Hollow. The sound carries too far.
Leon slows without saying anything, adjusting his pace until you're shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. His arm brushes yours with each step, solid and reassuring in a way that feels deliberate without calling attention to itself. After a minute, you realize he's listening to your breathing.
"You know," you say quietly, "most couples go to dinner."
He huffs under his breath. "We tried that."
"You got a call."
"We both got a call."
"I didn't even get to eat my pasta."
"You ordered something with fourteen ingredients I couldn't pronounce."
"That's not a crime."
"It should be."
You bump his shoulder lightly. "You promised dessert."
"I'll buy you dessert."
"You said that last time."
"I meant it last time, too."
His hand comes up automatically, resting on your back as the corridor narrows, guiding you around a fallen chunk of concrete. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.
"When this is over," he adds quietly, "we'll go somewhere that doesn't have reception."
You glance at him. "You're serious."
"Dead serious."
A small smile pulls at your mouth. "You'd last two days."
"I'd last three."
"Two and a half."
He considers it like it's a tactical estimate. "Two and a half."
The next door is heavier than the others, industrial steel with a small wired-glass window clouded by years of grime. A faded placard reads BIO STORAGE B in letters that have peeled into something ghostlike and hard to trust.
Leon raises a hand automatically, stopping you just short of the threshold.
"Hold."
You halt with your boot inches from the seam, rifle angled down but ready. He steps past you, placing himself between you and the door without thinking about it. He always does that. As if the hinge of the world were located somewhere in his spine.
He wipes a sleeve across the glass and peers through, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the dim interior. "Don't see movement," he murmurs. "Shelving units. Containers. Could be clear."
"Could be."
He glances back at you, reading your face the way other people read weather. "You good?"
"Always."
One eyebrow lifts. Not convinced.
You roll your shoulder where your gear has started to dig in, trying to work out the stiffness before it becomes a problem. "Just cramped."
"Switch packs with me."
"I'm fine."
"That wasn't a suggestion."
"It wasn't an order either."
For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet argument unfolding in expressions instead of voices. Married diplomacy in a war zone.
Finally, he exhales through his nose, conceding the point without admitting defeat. His hand comes up instead, settling briefly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing the muscle there in a grounding stroke.
"Tension," he says softly.
"Observation skills of a seasoned agent."
"Comes with the badge."
"You don't even carry a badge."
"Metaphorical badge."
You lean into his touch for half a second before you can stop yourself. He notices. His thumb stills, then presses lightly once more before he lets his hand fall away.
"Stay behind me on entry," he says, voice shifting, professional edges sliding back into place.
"I take left. You take right," you counter automatically.
He gives you a look. You give him one right back.
"...Fine," he mutters at last. "But if I say fall back, you fall back."
"Yes, dear."
His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't 'yes, dear' me in a mission."
"Yes, sir," you salute.
Leon grunts and shakes his head, trying not to smile. You reach past him to test the handle. Locked.
"Stand clear," you say.
He moves aside this time without commentary, covering the door while you pull a compact bypass tool from your vest. The metal is cold against your fingers, humming faintly as it interfaces with the ancient locking mechanism.
For a few seconds, the only sounds are the tool's soft electronic chirp and your breathing. Then the mechanism clicks. You don't open it immediately. Instead, you glance sideways at him. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tiny scar along his jaw, the exhaustion he carries like a shadow that never quite detaches.
"After this," you say quietly, "we're getting that dessert."
He studies you for a long beat, something unspoken passing through his expression. A deep, stubborn refusal to imagine a future where that doesn't happen.
"Yeah," he says at last, voice low and certain. "We are."
Your hand brushes his wrist as you shift your grip on the handle. He turns his palm just enough to catch your fingers, squeezing once, firm and warm. A promise disguised as reflex. Then he releases you, raises his weapon, and nods.
"On you."
You pull the door open. Cold air spills out, stale and chemical, carrying the faint scent of something spoiled long before anyone stopped coming down here. The room beyond is a maze of tall storage racks and plastic containers, shadows pooling thick between them like standing water.
Leon moves through the doorway first, silent, precise, clearing angles with ruthless efficiency. You follow a half-step behind despite earlier negotiations, covering what he can't see, trusting him to do the same.
All you hear is the hum of failing lights. The soft creak of metal settling. The distant, almost inaudible drip of water somewhere in the dark.
Leon lifts two fingers, signaling pause. You freeze. He tilts his head, listening.
"...Thought I heard something," he whispers.
You hold your breath. The room holds its breath too. Then, very softly, something shifts deep between the shelves. A scrape. Leon's posture tightens, every line of him sharpening toward the sound.
"Stay close," he murmurs.
You move in beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him grounding against the cold air of the room.
"Always do," you whisper back.
The air grows colder the farther you go, heavy with the stale tang of chemicals and something faintly organic beneath it, like fruit left too long in a sealed container. Your flashlight beam skims across plastic bins, sealed crates, labels bleached into illegibility. Dust floats in slow spirals each time you move, disturbed ghosts reluctant to settle again.
Leon advances at a measured pace, weapon steady, shoulders tight enough to telegraph that he hasn't liked this room from the moment the door opened. You mirror him, covering the angles between shelving units, eyes darting through the narrow gaps where shadows knit together into something almost solid. Another scrape, closer this time.
A container shifts on a shelf to your left with a soft plastic thud, tipping just enough to rock in place. Your rifle swings toward it automatically.
"Probably just settling," you whisper.
Leon doesn't answer. He takes one careful step forward, angling to get a better view past the rack. The beam of his light cuts across the gap, illuminating stacked boxes, a collapsed cart, nothing that looks immediately threatening.
Your shoulders start to loosen. That's when the hands shoot out of the darkness. They clamp around your calf, iron strong, nails digging through fabric as something drags itself from beneath the lowest shelf with a wet, hungry sound. You don't even have time to shout before you're yanked off balance.
"Leon—!"
He pivots instantly, dropping his aim to avoid hitting you as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The infected is half-crushed, lower body mangled, but its arms work just fine. Its mouth snaps inches from your boot, teeth clacking together with a sound that vibrates up your bones.
You kick, connecting with its face, but it barely registers the impact. Its grip tightens, hauling you closer, closer, jaws opening wide enough to show the slick black of its throat.
Leon moves. He doesn't fire. Too risky. Instead, he lunges forward, grabbing the back of your vest and hauling you backward with brutal force. The infected comes with you, still latched on, dead weight and fury combined.
"Let go!" he snarls, driving his boot into its shoulder.
Bone cracks. The grip loosens just enough for him to wrench you free, dragging you behind him as he finally gets a clear shot. Two rounds. Point-blank.
The body jerks, collapses, and goes still. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the thunder of your pulse. Leon stays crouched in front of you, one arm braced across your chest like a barricade, gun still trained on the corpse in case it decides death is negotiable.
"Hey," he says, voice low, urgent. "Hey. Look at me."
You blink, vision swimming, lungs finally remembering how to work. "I'm... I'm good."
His eyes scan you anyway, fast and thorough, hands already moving, checking arms, shoulders, gear, the way he always does. Routine. Training. Care disguised as procedure. Then his hand stops at your leg.
The fabric of your pants is torn where the creature grabbed you. Dark spreads through the rip, wet and unmistakable even in the dim light. Leon goes very still. Slowly, carefully, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and tosses it aside. His bare hand is warm when it closes around your ankle, steady but not gentle as he angles your leg into the beam of his flashlight.
You follow his gaze. For a second, your brain refuses to interpret what you're seeing. Just shapes. Color. Shine. Then it resolves. Deep teeth marks on your ankle. Blood wells from the punctures, thick and bright, running down into your boot.
"Oh," you say softly.
Leon doesn't speak. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle jumps along his cheek. His thumb presses near the wound, not enough to hurt, just enough to assess depth, damage, and reality.
"How bad?" you ask, because someone has to.
He inhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying to pull the air all the way down to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore.
"...Through the muscle," he says at last, voice roughened at the edges. "No arterial spray."
You almost laugh. Of course, that's what he notices. Of course, he frames it in survivable terms.
"Good news," you murmur.
His eyes snap to yours, sharp, bright, furious at something that isn't you. "Don't."
The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Silence floods back in, thick as the dust hanging in the air. Carefully, he releases your leg only long enough to tear open a pouch on his vest. Gauze. Compression wrap. His hands move with practiced efficiency, but there's a tremor there now, small and stubborn, like a fault line threatening to split.
"This won't stop it," you say quietly.
"I know."
He presses the gauze down anyway, firm, unyielding, as if pressure alone could force time to behave.
"You didn't get grabbed anywhere else?" he asks without looking up.
"No."
"Scratch? Contact with fluid?"
"No, Leon."
He nods once, wrapping the bandage tight enough to hurt. You don't complain. Pain feels reassuringly human. When he finishes, he doesn't pull away. His hands remain braced on your leg, head bowed slightly, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. From this angle, you can see the faint silver threaded through his hair, the lines carved deeper by worry than age. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his jaw. He freezes.
"Hey," you say softly.
His eyes close for one heartbeat, leaning just slightly into your touch, like a man starving who just found water. Then he opens them again, focus snapping back into place with visible effort.
"We're moving," he says, voice low and absolute. "There will be another storage area. Another lab. Something."
You nod because you believe him. Because you have to. Because you don't want this to be the end. Because you don't want Leon to have to go through that. Because you want your dessert.
He rises first, then offers you his hand. When you take it, he pulls you up carefully, keeping his other hand hovering at your waist in case you falter. You put weight on the leg. It holds, though pain flares hot and sharp.
"Can you walk?" he asks.
"Yeah." A lie. A manageable one.
He doesn't call you on it. Instead, his arm slides around your back, anchoring you against his side as you take your first step. Protective. Supportive. Refusing to let distance exist.
"Stay with me," he murmurs.
Your head rests briefly against his shoulder, just for a second.
"Always," you whisper.
Adrenaline still burns hot in your veins, dulling the edges, convincing your body it can outrun consequences if it just keeps moving. Leon keeps his arm locked around you, pace adjusted to match yours without comment. Not slow enough to feel patronizing, not fast enough to make you stumble. Perfect. Infuriatingly perfect.
"You don't have to babysit," you murmur.
"Good," he says quietly. "Because I'm not."
His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading as if to support more of your weight without making a show of it. The corridor slopes downward. Each step sends a dull shock up your leg, deeper now, heavier, like the pain has roots instead of edges. You grit your teeth and keep going. After a dozen paces, something else creeps in. A warmth. Not the healthy kind. Not exertion. This feels wrong, thick and syrupy, pooling under your skin like fever deciding where to settle. You swallow. Your throat feels dry. Too dry.
"Leon," you start, then stop, because you're not sure what you were going to say.
He glances at you immediately. "What?"
"Nothing. Thought I heard something."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he shifts you a little closer, your hip brushing his with every step now, a steady rhythm of contact that keeps you oriented.
The lights flicker overhead. For a split second, the world tilts. You blink hard, waiting for it to right itself. It does, but not completely. The edges of your vision feel soft, as if someone smeared petroleum jelly across reality.
"Hey," Leon says quietly.
You realize you've slowed. "I'm fine."
He stops anyway.
"No," he says, voice calm and immovable as bedrock. "You're not."
Before you can argue, a shape lurches from a side passage ahead. Its movements are jerky and uneven, its head twitching like a broken marionette. Leon eases you behind him with one hand, weapon already up. He takes it out, waiting a few seconds to make sure it's down.
When he turns back to you, his focus narrows, shutting out the rest of the world. "Sit," he says.
You shake your head. "We don't have time."
"Sit."
There's no edge in it. No raised volume. Just absolute certainty that this is happening. Your legs decide for you. The moment you stop resisting, they wobble, knees threatening to fold. Leon catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your back, the other under your uninjured leg, guiding you down against the wall with careful control.
The concrete is cold through your gear. It feels strangely good. He crouches in front of you, close enough that your boots nearly touch his knees. Up close, you can see every tiny tension line in his face, every sleepless hour etched into skin that has forgotten what "rested" means.
His bare hand comes up again, settling against your neck, fingers sliding to your pulse point. You shiver.
His brows draw together. "You're burning up."
"Shock," you say weakly.
"You know that's not true."
His thumb presses lightly, counting. You can feel the rhythm under his skin, your heart hammering like it's trying to break out of your chest.
"Too fast," he murmurs, mostly to himself.
A tremor runs through your hands. Small at first, then stronger, fingers twitching against your thigh as if they belong to someone else and forgot to tell you. You curl them into fists, but it doesn't help. Leon notices. He reaches down slowly, deliberately, and wraps his hand around yours. Not restraining. Anchoring. His grip is warm, solid, impossibly steady compared to the jitter under your skin.
"Look at me," he says softly.
You do. Blue eyes. Tired. Fierce. Terrified in a way he would deny under oath.
"We're going to fix this," he says.
"You don't know that."
"Yes," he says, so simply it almost hurts. "I do."
Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, but the edges keep fuzzing out like a badly tuned signal.
"Everything's... weird," you admit. "Like I'm underwater."
His jaw tightens. "Any nausea?"
"No."
"Dizziness?"
"...Maybe."
"Confusion?"
You hesitate.
His expression darkens. "How long?"
"Ten minutes."
He leans forward suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is gentle, deliberate, his eyes closing for a brief moment like he's drawing strength from proximity alone.
"You stay with me," he murmurs. "You hear me? No drifting."
"I'm right here."
His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there. Making sure you don't slip away. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Somewhere far off, metal clatters. A distant echo of something collapsing. The facility settling into deeper ruin. You swallow. Your throat feels raw now, like you've been breathing dry air for hours.
"Leon."
"Yeah."
"If I start to..."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sharp. "Don't."
"You need to be ready."
"I am ready."
"That's not what I mean."
His hand tightens at the back of your neck, just enough to stop you from looking away.
"I'm not leaving you," he says quietly. "Save it."
Your chest aches, and not from the bite. You nod because you don't trust your voice. He studies you another moment, memorizing something only he can see, then exhales slowly and shifts back into motion.
"Okay," he says, tone sharpening into mission focus again. "We move in short intervals. Next sector should have auxiliary storage or research offices. More supplies. Maybe antivirals."
"Maybe," you echo.
He rises, then hesitates, looking down at you like he's recalculating physics.
Without warning, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees.
You blink. "Leon—"
"Save your strength."
"I can walk."
"I know."
And that's the end of the discussion. He lifts you with controlled ease, settling you against his chest. Your head ends up tucked under his chin, close enough to hear his heartbeat, steady and stubborn as a drum calling soldiers back to formation. You don't argue again. Your hand fumbles for his vest, gripping the fabric as another wave of heat rolls through you, deeper this time, almost nauseating in its intensity.
"Still with me?" he murmurs into your hair.
You nod weakly. "Yeah."
"Good."
He adjusts his hold, one hand splayed protectively across your back, and starts down the corridor again, footsteps measured, unhurried, as if he has decided that time itself can wait its turn. The world sways gently with each step. Your eyelids feel heavy.
Leon's voice cuts through the fog, low and insistent. "Stay awake."
"I'm trying."
"Talk to me."
"About what?"
"Anything."
You think for a long moment, chasing thoughts that scatter like startled birds.
"...Dessert," you mumble finally.
A soft breath leaves him, almost a laugh, almost something else entirely.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."
You clutch his vest a little tighter, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.
"Don't let me fall asleep," you whisper.
His arms tighten around you, careful but unyielding.
Leon adjusts his grip as you shift in his arms, not because you're heavy, never that, but because your body no longer anticipates his movement the way it usually does. You used to lean into turns before they happened, tighten your hold when he stepped over debris, and match his rhythm without thinking. Now you lag by half a second behind every motion, like your connection to gravity is buffering. He notices. He notices everything.
Your skin is too hot even through layers of fabric. Heat seeps through his sleeves, through his gloves, into his palms like you're burning from the inside out. Your breath ghosts unevenly against his throat, sometimes shallow, sometimes too deep, like your lungs can't agree on a pattern. Fever, he tells himself. Infection. Not the other thing. Not yet. Your fingers twitch where they clutch his vest, loosening, tightening, loosening again.
"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Still with me?"
A pause. "...Yeah."
The word is slurred at the edges, dragged through molasses. His jaw tightens. He keeps moving.
The corridor stretches ahead in dim amber light, empty except for the occasional smear on the wall or abandoned equipment pushed aside by people who ran out of time. His footsteps are steady, deliberate, conserving energy, minimizing jostling. He's carried wounded before. Teammates. Civilians. Strangers. None of them felt like this. None of them felt like carrying his own heartbeat outside his body.
Your head shifts, cheek pressing against his collarbone. For a moment you go very still, so still that something cold claws down his spine.
"Talk to me," he says, softer now. "You promised."
A long silence. Then, faintly, "Cold."
He stops. A clean halt, like someone pulled a lever inside him. Cold is wrong. You're burning up. He lowers you carefully to one knee without setting you fully down, keeping one arm wrapped around your back so you don't tip sideways. His other hand comes up to your face, bare fingers brushing your cheek. Your skin is blazing. But you're shivering. Small, violent tremors run through you, teeth chattering softly against each other, lashes fluttering as if your body can't decide whether to wake or sleep.
"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Open your eyes."
You do, slowly, unfocused at first. Your pupils look blown wide in the low light, swallowing what little color remains in your irises.
"It's... dark," you mumble.
His chest tightens. The lights are still on.
"I'm right here," he says. "Look at me."
Your gaze drifts, struggles, and finally locks onto his face. Recognition flickers there, fragile but present.
"...Leon."
Relief hits him so hard it almost feels like pain.
"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, it's me."
Your brow furrows faintly, confusion knitting your expression into something painfully vulnerable.
"You look... tired."
He almost laughs. "Occupational hazard," he says quietly.
Your hand lifts weakly, fingers brushing his jaw as if you're mapping terrain you've walked a thousand times but suddenly don't trust your memory of.
"You should sleep," you whisper.
The tenderness in it is what breaks him a little.
"Soon, sweetheart," he says.
Your hand slips, falling back against your chest. Silence stretches. Your breathing grows uneven again.
Then you say, very softly, "Did we make it home?"
The words land like a physical blow. For a second, he can't answer. His throat closes around something sharp and unmanageable.
Home. Not the facility. Not the mission. Not the outbreak. Home. He swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs.
"Not yet," he says, voice low and steady by sheer force of will. "Working on it."
Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, as if you're looking at something over his shoulder that isn't there.
"...Smells like coffee," you murmur. "Burned it again."
His vision blurs. He blinks hard, refocusing on the concrete wall behind you. You're not smelling coffee. There is no coffee. There hasn't been coffee in hours. Just dust and chemicals and rot. Hallucinations, a cold voice in his mind supplies. Neurological involvement. He hates that voice.
Your lips curve faintly, a sleepy little smile that belongs in a sunlit kitchen, not here. "You always do that," you mumble. "Say you're watching it, then forget..."
Your head tips sideways, resting against his arm. Your eyelids droop. Panic slices through him, clean and immediate.
"Hey," he says sharply, fingers tightening on your shoulder. "No. Stay with me."
You stir weakly. "...'m tired."
"I know."
"So tired."
His thumb presses against your pulse again. Still fast. Too fast.
"You can sleep when we're home," he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to something rough and urgent.
Your eyes open a sliver.
"...Promise?"
The question is so small it barely exists.
He bows his head until his forehead rests against yours, eyes closing for one heartbeat, he allows himself.
"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."
He doesn't know if he's promising sleep, survival, or something else entirely. It doesn't matter. Your breathing evens out a little, not better, just slower, drifting toward something that looks dangerously like unconsciousness. Not yet, he thinks fiercely.
He slides one arm under your knees again and lifts you back against his chest, more carefully this time, as if you might come apart if handled too roughly. Your head lolls against his shoulder, then settles in the hollow of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.
"Stay with me," he murmurs into your hair. "Just a little longer."
Your fingers twitch weakly against his vest, not gripping anymore, just resting there like they forgot their job.
"...Love you," you whisper, so faint he almost thinks he imagined it.
He stops breathing. The entire world narrows to the weight in his arms and the fragile thread of sound still hanging in the air. His hold tightens, protective, desperate, careful all at once.
"I know," he says quietly, voice breaking on the edges despite his best effort. "I know."
He presses his cheek briefly against your hair, eyes closing, grounding himself in the reality of you. The heat. The softness. The terrifying fragility. Then he straightens and starts moving again, steps faster now, less cautious, urgency bleeding through the discipline he's clung to since this began. Somewhere ahead, there has to be another lab. Another storage room. Another chance. There has to be. Because the alternative is unthinkable, and Leon Kennedy has built an entire life on refusing to accept those.
"Hang on," he murmurs. "I've got you."
The corridor opens into what used to be a patient ward, rows of metal-framed beds bolted to the floor, privacy curtains hanging in limp, dusty folds like flags after a lost battle. Most of the mattresses are stripped bare, plastic covers cracked with age, but the room is quiet. No movement. No shuffling breath. Just the low electrical hum that seems to haunt every corner of this place.
Leon slows, scanning automatically, mapping exits, sightlines, choke points. Good visibility. Single main entrance. Minimal clutter. Defensible. More importantly, close.
A reinforced door at the far end bears a faded hazard symbol and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled beneath it. The hinges are external. The frame is thicker than standard interior construction. Lab access. Or something close to it.
"Okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "This'll do."
He crosses to the nearest intact bed and lowers you with painstaking care, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other guiding your legs so the injured one doesn't twist. The mattress sighs softly under your weight, springs complaining but holding. For a second, he doesn't let go. Your head rolls slightly to one side, hair falling across your face. Your eyes are half-open, unfocused, lashes trembling like you're dreaming with your eyes still in the world.
"Hey," he says quietly, brushing the hair back with fingers that are gentler than anything else he's done today. "Stay with me."
Your gaze struggles to find him. "...Hi," you whisper.
"Hi," he echoes, voice rough.
Your hand lifts weakly, searching. He catches it immediately, folding his larger one around yours, grounding you with solid pressure.
"Where are we?" you murmur.
"Almost there," he says. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. "I need to check something."
Your fingers twitch in his grip, barely there. "...Don't go far."
His throat tightens.
"I won't," he says. "You'll be able to hear me the whole time." That seems to satisfy something in you. Your eyes drift closed, not fully unconscious, just sliding along the edge of it.
He gently lowers your hand to rest against your stomach, then hesitates. After a moment, he reaches up and unzips his jacket, shrugging it off despite the chill. He drapes it over you, tucking it around your shoulders, creating a cocoon of familiar warmth and scent. Leon rests his palm against your cheek one last time, thumb brushing your skin in a soft arc.
He forces himself to stand. Every instinct screams not to leave you. To pick you up and run until the world ends, the cure appears, or both. But the door at the end of the room waits, silent and stubborn, and something in his gut tells him that whatever hope exists is behind it.
He moves. Slow at first, reluctant steps that keep him within arm's reach, then a little farther, turning back every few seconds to make sure you're still breathing, still there, still you. Halfway across the ward, a shape shifts behind a curtain. Leon's weapon is up before the fabric finishes swaying.
A figure stumbles out, skeletal, skin pulled tight over bone, eyes reflecting dull amber in the emergency light. Its mouth opens in a soundless snarl as it lurches toward the nearest movement. Leon intercepts it before it gets anywhere. Two suppressed shots. One to the chest, one to the head. The body collapses in a boneless heap, momentum carrying it forward until it skids to a stop across the tile.
Another groan answers from somewhere deeper in the room. He pivots, firing again, dropping a second infected as it claws its way over a bedframe. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Three heartbeats of silence. He listens, counting breaths. Nothing else rises. Only then does he glance back. You haven't moved. Relief floods through him so sharply his knees almost unlock.
"Still here," he murmurs under his breath, as if confirming it makes it true.
He reaches the reinforced door and tests the handle. Locked. Of course it is.
Up close, the barricade becomes obvious. Heavy shelving units have been shoved against the interior side, metal edges visible through the narrow seam where the door meets the frame. Whoever sealed this room meant to keep something out. Or in.
Leon leans closer, ear to the cold steel. Nothing. No breathing. No scratching. No shifting weight. He steps back and scans the frame. Electronic panel. Dead. Manual override slot intact. Hope stirs, cautious and unwelcome.
He glances over his shoulder again. From here, he can still see you on the bed, small beneath his jacket, chest rising and falling in shallow motions that make his own lungs ache in sympathy.
"Almost there," he says quietly, whether to you or himself, he doesn't know.
From a pouch on his belt, he pulls a compact breaching tool, the metal catching the light as he slots it into the override housing. The device hums softly, vibration traveling up his wrist.
Behind him, the ward remains still.
Then your voice drifts across the room, thin and fragile. "...Leon?"
He spins instantly. Your head has turned toward him, eyes open again, unfocused but searching, panic flickering in the small movement of your hands against his jacket.
"I'm here," he calls, already crossing back toward you. "Right here."
You stare at him as if trying to memorize his face before it disappears. "...Too many," you whisper. "They're everywhere."
"There's nothing here," he says gently. "You're safe."
Your head sinks back into the thin pillow. Consciousness slips away from you like water through open fingers. Leon stays there a second longer than he should, watching your chest rise, fall, rise again. Then he stands and turns back to the barricaded door, something steely settling over him, heavier than anger, sharper than fear.
The tool in his hand whines as it bites into the locking mechanism, sparks spitting in brief, angry bursts. Metal protests. Screws shear. The smell of hot circuitry fills the air.
"Hold on," he murmurs, not looking back this time because he won't stop if he does. "I'm getting us in."
Behind him, the bed creaks softly as you shift in fevered sleep. Ahead, the door shudders as the final bolt gives way. Leon shoves the door inward, the weight of it grinding against the barricade until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through sideways. Inside, a toppled shelving unit leans against the opposite wall, confirming what he already suspected. Whoever sealed this room did it from within and didn't plan on leaving.
The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sterile in that artificial way that smells faintly of alcohol wipes and plastic, like illness reduced to a controlled environment.
Emergency lights glow a sickly green, illuminating rows of lab benches, overturned stools, racks of glassware frozen mid-experiment. Papers lie scattered across the floor, curling at the edges. A monitor flickers weakly on one station, casting a pulsing rectangle of pale light that feels almost alive in the otherwise stagnant room.
Leon clears the space in seconds, weapon sweeping corners, checking behind doors, under desks, anywhere something could hide. Nothing lunges. Nothing breathes. Just abandonment, sudden and absolute, like the people who worked here evaporated mid-sentence.
He lowers the gun a fraction, chest rising and falling a little too fast to be purely tactical.
"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough in the quiet. "Okay."
He moves to the nearest workstation, scanning labels, cabinets, drawers. Chemical reagents. Disposable supplies. Data drives. Everything except what he needs. Another bench. Same story. He opens a refrigerated unit. Empty trays. Frost buildup. Power too low to maintain temperature.
His pulse hammers harder.
Not here. Not here. Not here.
"Come on," he mutters, rifling through containers faster now, less methodical, more desperate. Glass clinks sharply as he shoves aside vials of things that don't matter, powders with long names, syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Nothing labeled antiviral. Nothing labeled serum. Nothing labeled hope. A cold weight settles in his stomach.
He moves to the flickering computer, fingers flying across the keys, waking it from whatever half-dead state it's been trapped in. The screen brightens sluggishly, revealing a login prompt already bypassed, system hanging on by a thread.
"Don't do this to me," he whispers.
Folders populate slowly. Research logs. Incident reports. Containment protocols. He scans titles with ruthless speed, opening anything that looks remotely relevant, eyes burning as line after line of technical jargon scrolls past.
A crash echoes faintly from the ward beyond the door. His head snaps toward the sound. Silence follows. He waits three seconds. Five. Ten. No approach. No impact against the door. No dragging footsteps. Still there, he tells himself. She's still there.
He turns back to the screen, forcing his focus to narrow again. A document catches his eye.
ANTIVIRAL DISPERSION PROTOCOL – EMERGENCY USE
He opens it. Paragraphs of dense instructions spill across the display. Stabilization procedures. Delivery methods. Storage warnings. STORAGE LOCATION: SECURE BIOCONTAINMENT VAULT B-2. His stomach drops. Not here.
Coordinates blink uselessly on the screen, pointing deeper into the facility, farther than he wants to think about, farther than you may be able to survive the trip.
Something inside him finally gives. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, shoulders bowing as if someone just added fifty pounds to his back.
"Damn it," he breathes.
The word fractures on the way out, barely more than air. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping toward his clenched fists, fighting the surge of helpless fury that threatens to tear through discipline, training, every wall he's built over years of surviving the unsurvivable. Not enough time. Not enough distance. Not enough anything.
Out in the ward, you lie alone on a metal bed, burning up, slipping further away with every second he spends standing here empty-handed. His chest tightens until breathing feels optional.
For one dangerous moment, he imagines walking back out there, picking you up, and never stopping. No cure. No mission. Just distance and denial. Just the selfish hope that if he runs fast enough, the virus won't catch you.
He exhales sharply, dragging himself back from the edge. Running never saved anyone.
"Think," he mutters hoarsely. "Think."
His gaze drifts across the lab again, slower this time, less frantic, searching for patterns instead of miracles. That's when he notices it. A sealed medical kit is mounted on the wall near the exit. Standard emergency issue. Bright white casing. Untouched, pristine compared to the chaos everywhere else. Too pristine. He crosses the room and pops it open. Bandages. Burn gel. Basic trauma supplies. Nothing else.
His shoulders slump. Then his eyes catch a thin seam along the back panel, almost invisible unless you're looking directly at it. Not part of the original design. Too clean. Too deliberate. He taps it with his knuckle. Hollow. Hope flares, sharp and painful.
He wedges a knife into the seam and pries. The panel resists for a second, then snaps free with a brittle crack, revealing a narrow cavity hidden behind the kit.
Inside rests a single reinforced container, matte gray and no bigger than a paperback book, sealed with a biometric latch long since disabled. Not government-issue, but research-grade. Whoever put this here didn't have the chance to get it.
Leon's hands shake as he pulls it free. The lid pops open. Nestled in foam are two glass syringes pre-loaded with clear liquid, labels printed in blocky lab script:
ANTIVIRAL SERUM — FINALIZED STRAIN
For a second, he just stares, brain refusing to trust what his eyes are telling it. Air leaves his lungs in a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to a sob strangled before it can exist.
He presses his forehead briefly against the cool plastic case, eyes squeezing shut, letting the relief hit him in one violent wave before he can stop it. Shoulders shake once, twice, a tremor he doesn't bother to control because no one is here to see it. No one except the person who needs him most. He straightens abruptly, wiping a hand across his face, composure snapping back into place like a mask he's worn too long to misplace.
"Hang on," he says, already moving for the door, clutching the case like it's made of glass and prayers. "I'm coming back."
Your skin is still hot. That's the first thing he registers when his palm cups your cheek. Heat floods into his hand, fever-bright, but there's a wrongness to it now, a brittle quality, like warmth without life behind it.
"Hey," he says softly. "I'm back."
No response. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, unmoving. Your mouth is slightly open, breath slipping in shallow threads that barely stir the hair at your temple. The shivering from before has stopped. Your body lies too still beneath his jacket, as if it finally decided movement was optional.
A cold spike of terror drives straight through his chest.
"Hey." Louder this time, but still gentle, still careful, as if volume alone might break you. "Come on. Open your eyes for me."
Nothing. He slides his hand to your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point. It's there. Fast. Thready. Irregular in a way that makes his own heartbeat stumble trying to match it.
"Okay," he breathes, more to himself than to you. "We're okay."
His other hand trembles as he fumbles the case open, snapping it back with a soft plastic crack. The syringes gleam under the emergency lights, their clear liquid looking impossibly calm compared to the storm in his chest. He sets the case on the bed beside you, movements deliberate, controlled, forcing precision where panic wants chaos.
"You're gonna hate this part," he murmurs, fingers working to clear space at your collar, tugging fabric aside so he can reach skin. "But you can yell at me later. I'm counting on it."
Your head lolls slightly with the movement. No protest. No reflexive tension. He swallows hard.
"Hey," he says again, softer now, thumb brushing your jaw in a slow arc. "Stay with me, okay? You don't get to check out early. We still owe each other dessert."
His voice catches on the last word. He pushes through it.
"Remember that place downtown? The one with the ridiculous chocolate cake you said was worth the calories?" A shaky breath. "I figure we'll go there."
He presses his forehead briefly against yours, eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second.
"You hear me? We've got plans."
Your breathing hitches faintly, a tiny irregular stutter that might be a coincidence or might be something else. He latches onto it anyway, desperate for anything that looks like a connection.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Right there. Stay with me."
He lifts the syringe, checks it automatically, habit stronger than fear. No air bubbles. Fluid clear. Needle steady despite the tremor in his hand.
"Okay," he whispers. "Here we go."
He slides his arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough to support you against his chest, cradling you there so the injection won't jostle too much. Your head falls against him, cheek resting over his heart, breath warm and frighteningly faint through the fabric of his shirt.
"You're doing great," he says softly, even though you're doing nothing at all. "Almost there."
The needle presses into your skin.
He hesitates.
Not because he doubts the serum. Because once this is done, there's nothing left to do but wait, and waiting is the one thing he has never learned to survive gracefully.
"Don't be mad," he murmurs. "I'm not giving you a choice."
He depresses the plunger slowly, watching the liquid disappear into you, as if he can track hope molecule by molecule. His other arm tightens around your back, holding you upright, holding you together.
"All right," he says, voice barely above a breath. "You did good. See? Easy."
He withdraws the needle and sets it aside with mechanical care, as if any sudden movement might undo what he's just done. Then he just holds you.
Seconds crawl past, each one stretching thin as wire. Nothing happens. Your breathing remains shallow. Your pulse, when he checks again, is still fast, still erratic. His chest starts to feel tight, air coming harder, like the room has quietly stolen oxygen while he wasn't looking.
"Okay," he says hoarsely. "Sometimes these things take a minute."
He shifts you slightly, thumb stroking your arm in absent circles, the same motion he uses when you're half asleep on long flights or bad nights. Comfort muscle memory kicks in even when the situation is far beyond comfort.
"You're not allowed to do this," he whispers. "You hear me? Not now. Not like this."
Your hand slips from where it rested against his vest, sliding down between you, fingers loose and unresponsive. He grabs it instantly, folding it back into his palm, pressing it against his chest.
"Come back," he says, the words fraying at the edges.
Another long stretch of nothing. Fear blooms, cold and suffocating, filling every hollow place in him. Too late, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Too slow. Too far gone.
He shakes his head sharply, jaw clenching.
"No," he mutters. "No, you don't get to do that."
He bows over you, pressing his forehead to your hair, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in like oxygen.
"You promised," he says roughly. "You don't break your promises."
Your pulse stutters under his fingers. He freezes.
There it is again. A strange hitch, a pause that stretches too long, then a sudden rush, as if your heart forgot the rhythm and is trying to find it again. His own heart stops in sympathetic terror.
"Come on," he whispers. "Come on..."
Your body jerks. A sharp, involuntary spasm that arches you slightly against him before you go slack again. Leon sucks in a breath, half panic, half hope colliding in his chest.
Your brow creases faintly, expression tightening as if pain is finally breaking through the fog. A weak sound escapes you, barely audible, more exhale than voice. His grip on you tightens, careful but fierce.
"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. You're okay."
Your breathing changes, deepening suddenly, as if you're pulling in air like someone surfacing from underwater. It catches, stutters, then comes again, stronger this time, dragging oxygen into lungs that finally seem interested in using it.
"There you go," he breathes, voice shaking openly now. "That's it. Stay with me."
Your fingers twitch weakly against his chest. He presses his cheek against your hair, eyes closing, holding you like you might still vanish if he loosens his grip.
"I've got you," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you."
He keeps you cradled against his chest, one arm locked around your back, the other braced across your shoulders, hand splayed as if shielding you from something that no longer exists. His cheek rests against your hair, breath uneven, dragging in through his nose, out through parted lips like he's relearning how to do it.
Your pulse is stronger now beneath his fingers. Still fast, still fragile, but steady enough to count. Steady enough to believe in. Only then does the tension start to bleed out of him. It comes all at once.
His shoulders shudder. Not violently, just a small, contained tremor that he tries to swallow down and can't. A sound escapes him, rough and broken, something halfway between a breath and a sob he never intended to make. He tightens his hold instinctively, pressing his face into your hair as if hiding there makes it less real.
"Okay," he whispers hoarsely. "Okay... you're okay."
Warmth hits your scalp. At first, your fogged mind can't place it. Wetness. A second drop follows, sliding along your temple before disappearing into your hair.
Leon doesn't notice. Or he does and can't stop. He bows over you, forehead pressed to the crown of your head, shoulders shaking in small, uneven pulses he's trying desperately to keep silent. Years of training, years of surviving, years of holding everything inside, finally cracking under the simple fact that you are still here.
"I've got you," he murmurs, voice wrecked, words stumbling over each other. "I've got you, I've got you..."
Your fingers twitch. This time, the movement is stronger, a weak curl against his shirt, fabric bunching slightly in your grasp. The sensation filters through layers of fog, heat, exhaustion, and the lingering echo of pain. Consciousness creeps back in like dawn through heavy curtains.
Your throat burns. Your body feels impossibly heavy, as if gravity doubled while you were away. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-level fatigue that sleep alone could never fix.
Sound reaches you first. A heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Close enough to be yours, except it isn't. Breath above you, hitching, uneven. Fabric shifting faintly with each inhale.
Someone is holding you. You force your eyes open.
The world swims into view in slow, watery shapes. A blurred patch of green light. A shadow that resolves into the curve of a shoulder. Blond strands of hair brushing your cheek.
Leon.
He doesn't notice you're awake yet. His face is buried against your head, one hand cupping the back of your skull with fierce gentleness, thumb moving in tiny, repetitive strokes like he's soothing a nightmare that hasn't ended for him yet.
Your voice comes out as a rasp. "Leon...?"
He freezes. Absolute stillness, like a statue suddenly unsure whether it's allowed to move. Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red. Not just glassy, not just tired, but openly, unmistakably wet. Tracks of tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, catching the light as he blinks hard, as if blinking might erase evidence before you can register it.
For a second, he just stares at you, something raw and disbelieving cracking across his face, like he expected this moment and still isn't sure it's real.
"You're..." His voice fails. He clears his throat roughly. "Hey."
You try to smile. It feels wobbly, incomplete. "Hi."
Relief hits him so visibly it's almost painful to watch. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him like someone cut the strings holding him upright.
"Hey," he repeats, softer this time, thumb coming up to brush your cheek in a careful sweep, as if confirming you're solid. "You're back."
"Was I... gone?"
His jaw tightens. "Not allowed."
You attempt a small laugh. It comes out as a weak breath. His hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers resting over your pulse again, counting, grounding, refusing to trust his eyes alone.
"You scared me," he says quietly.
Your gaze drops to his chest, to the wrinkled fabric where you must have been gripping him earlier. "Sorry."
His head snaps slightly. "Don't."
The word is sharp, then softens immediately.
"Don't apologize," he adds, voice rough. "Just... don't."
You nod faintly. Even that feels like work.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there in his arms, breathing the same air, sharing the same small pocket of reality after hours of separation that happened without distance. Then you notice how tightly he's still holding you.
"Leon," you murmur, "I can't breathe."
He releases you instantly, horror flashing across his face. "Sorry. Sorry."
He shifts his grip, supporting you more carefully, one arm still behind your shoulders but no longer crushing you to him. His other hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as if he can't quite stop touching you.
"You're okay?" he asks, scanning your face like he's looking for cracks. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Vision?"
"Everything hurts."
He exhales, something that might be relief ghosting through the pain in his expression. "I'll take it."
Your eyes drift past him, taking in the ward, the beds, the dim light. Memory trickles back in jagged pieces. Teeth. Heat. Falling. Darkness.
"...You found it," you whisper.
He nods once. "Yeah, told you we would.
Your mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You did."
You study him more closely now, the red around his eyes, the dampness he hasn't fully wiped away, the way he keeps blinking as if his vision is unreliable.
"You were crying," you say softly.
Immediate denial rises to his lips. You can see it form. Then he looks at you. And whatever excuse he was about to give dissolves.
"...Yeah," he admits, voice low. "Maybe a little."
A tear slips free anyway, tracking down before he can stop it. He doesn't bother hiding it this time. Doesn't look away. Just lets it exist.
"You weren't waking up," he says, as if that explains everything. It does.
Your chest aches in a different way now. You lift your hand slowly, muscles protesting, and touch his face. Your thumb brushes the damp track on his cheek, wiping it away with clumsy tenderness.
"I'm here," you whisper.
He leans into your hand without thinking, eyes closing briefly, relief and exhaustion and something deeper collapsing together inside him.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."
He covers your hand with his, pressing it lightly to his skin as if anchoring himself. After a moment, his gaze sharpens again, mission awareness bleeding back in.
"We need to move," he says gently. "Facility's not stable, and we don't know how long before more of them wander in."
You nod, though the idea of standing feels ambitious at best. He notices the hesitation immediately.
"Hey," he says softly. "I've got you."
He shifts, sliding one arm behind your back again, the other under your knees, lifting you with the same careful strength as before, only this time you help a little, arms coming up weakly around his neck. Your head settles against his shoulder.
"Still getting dessert?" you murmur against his collar.
A real smile breaks through at last, small but bright as sunrise after a storm.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."
He turns toward the exit, steps steady, protective hold unyielding but gentle now that he knows you're truly there.
Three days later, the world smells like coffee and clean laundry instead of antiseptic and decay.
Sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, laying soft gold across the rumpled bedspread and the tangle of blankets around your legs. The air is warm, carrying the faint hum of city life from outside, tires on pavement, a distant horn, someone laughing somewhere far below.
Leon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, watching with that quiet intensity he hasn't quite learned to turn off yet. He looks cleaner than before, shaved, hair damp as if he showered quickly and came right back, but the exhaustion still clings to him in the set of his shoulders.
"You're staring," you murmur.
"Monitoring," he corrects.
"You blink?"
"Sometimes."
You huff a small laugh, the motion tugging at sore muscles that remind you exactly how recently everything went wrong. His gaze sharpens instantly, concern flaring before you even realize you winced.
"I'm okay," you assure him.
He searches your face a moment longer, then nods, not convinced but willing to accept it for now.
"You hungry?" he asks.
"Always."
He disappears into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a plate of pancakes that look slightly uneven but deeply sincere. You eat, he watches, tension slowly unwinding from him with each bite you take.
When you finish, you lean back, warm and heavy with food, eyelids drooping in content exhaustion.
"So when is our dessert date?" you ask softly.
Leon goes still. Then he stands without a word and leaves the room again.
You hear the soft thud of the door opening, the faint clink of something ceramic, the careful movements of someone handling something fragile. When he returns, he's holding a small white bakery box tied with a thin ribbon, the bow slightly crooked as if it had to survive transport in a large, impatient hand. He sets it on the bedside table with surprising delicacy.
"I didn't make this," he says gruffly. "Figured we've both suffered enough."
Suspicion and curiosity spark together. You pull the ribbon loose, lifting the lid. Inside sits a slice of decadent chocolate cake, glossy frosting catching the sunlight, layers dark, dense, and unapologetically indulgent.
Your chest tightens.
"You remembered," you whisper.
He shrugs, looking suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. "You seemed pretty sure it was worth surviving for."
You lift the cake plate slightly and notice something tucked beneath the ribbon, partially hidden against the cardboard.
An envelope. Your fingers hesitate, then slide it free. Leon doesn't look at you. He's staring out the window now, jaw set, shoulders a little too rigid, like he's bracing for impact.
Inside the envelope are two plane tickets. Beach destination. Departure in two weeks. Round trip. Vacation time from work. A hotel confirmation tucked behind them.
For a long moment, you can't speak.
"You said somewhere boring," he mutters quietly, still not turning around. "Figured that would be perfect."
"Leon..."
He finally looks back, expression carefully neutral, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something that says this mattered more than he wants to admit.
"You don't have to go," he adds quickly. "If you're not up for travel yet, we can postpone, or cancel, or—"
You set the tickets down and reach for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing right at the edge of the bed, close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.
"Thank you," you say softly.
Not just for the vacation. Not just for the cake. He understands anyway. His face softens, tension draining into something warm and quiet and deeply relieved.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "Anytime."
You pick up the fork, take a small bite of cake, then hold it out to him. He leans in, accepting it, eyes never leaving yours. For a second, neither of you pulls back, the space between you charged with something gentler than urgency, heavier than simple affection.
"Worth it?" he asks.
You nod. "Absolutely."
You set the plate aside, your hand finding his again, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, protective, like he did in the hallway, only now there's no fear behind it. You both crave this closeness after it was almost ripped away just days before.
You tug lightly, coaxing him down to sit beside you on the bed. He goes without resistance, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically, careful of lingering soreness. Your other hand lifts, brushing his cheek where faint redness still lingers if you look closely enough.
"I love you," you whisper.
His eyes close briefly, leaning into your touch in a way he never would in public. Just here, just now, where it's safe to be human.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you too."
Leon leans in first. The kiss is slow, gentle, nothing desperate or urgent, just warm lips and shared breath and the simple reassurance of contact. He stills for half a heartbeat, like he's afraid you might break, then melts into it, one hand cupping the back of your head. When you pull back, his forehead follows yours, resting lightly against it, eyes still closed.
"Careful," he murmurs. "Doctor said no overexertion."
You smile. "Pretty sure that wasn't what they meant."
"Still."
His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder, fitting there like it always has. His chin settles lightly against your hair, breath warm, steady.
Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time slows to match the rhythm of two people who fought hard for the right to sit in a quiet room and eat cake.
"Two weeks," you murmur.
"Yeah."
"You think you can handle boring?"
He huffs softly. "I'll manage."
You laugh, the sound light and real and alive. His chest rises under your cheek, its vibration grounding you in the best possible way. For a long moment, neither of you says anything else. You just sit there, sunlight warming your skin, fingers loosely entwined, the promise of salt air and quiet days waiting ahead like a horizon you can finally see. Sharing cake, and kisses, and being alive, and together in your home.
Dividers by @uzmacchiato <3
Thanks for reading<3 Just a reminder, my requests are open! I would love to hear from you!
Author Note: BROO this been in the works for a minute, was gonna add Jake Muller and Jack Krauser to this but couldn't find the motivation to do it :(( BUT HERE'S CHRIS AND LEON, a win is a win
Word Count: 1511
-----------------
Chris Redfield
This man had been fighting for his life overseas and wanted nothing more than to come home and just be in your presence. He had texted you when he had hit the airport, telling you he planned to be home around evening time.
He didn't expect you to have anything big planned and well you didn't in your eyes, just simply making a nice, home-cooked meal for your man. But Chris? You might as well have proposed and offered to give him head,
And God, he nearly came in his pants the moment the food graced his tastebuds. He had to set down his damn fork and remind himself to breathe, that the food wasn’t going to go anywhere - that YOU weren’t going anywhere, because after eating packaged MREs for three months straight, this was like liquid gold touching his tongue.
"Babe?" You raised an eyebrow, noting how he had hunched over his plate, eyes closed in what you could only describe as pure bliss, "You okay?"
"I'm perfect." Chris murmured tersely, shoveling another bite into his mouth.
You let out a laugh, a sound that normally would've made him melt but only made him get a boner.
"Fuck," He groaned,
Once again, you looked at him with a raised eyebrow, "Chris, are you sure you're-"
"No, I'm actually not. Bedroom. Now."
And that was how you found yourself in this position- folded in half underneath your boyfriend as his cock burrowed itself into your wet pussy.
"Chris! Mmph-" He clamped a hand over your mouth, all too aware you had neighbors after all who had made noise complaints in the past.
"Shh, shh," He cooed, propping an arm under your head to cushion it and hold you closer so he could fuck you harder, meaner "Fuck, takin' this dick so good, gonna make me cum-"
Sure, you had seen Chris act like this before but only after hours of teasing and being coy- why the hell was he so worked up now?
"Fuck!" He was whimpering right into your ear, breaths hot and heavy against your skin. The sensations were too much, he was too much yet he wasn't enough. You needed him deeper, needed-
Fuck, it was like he could hear your thoughts as his hips snapped into yours over and over and over, not even pulling out to the tip fully before ramming back into your poor pussy.
You tried to garble something out, to tell him how good he was treating you, but his hand was firm over your mouth, leaving you to cry into his hand and cream all over his cock as he fucked you like there was no tomorrow.
"Fuckin' breed this pussy, my baby needs a treat, doesn't she? huh?" Chris snarled at you, pulling his head back so he could see your face and you could see his-
Fuck, he looked drunk and high at the same time, all on you- his girl, his, his, his, his-
"I'm gonna marry you," He blurted out, too lost in the moment to think twice, "Gonna put a ring on your pretty little finger, take care of you-" His thrusts were getting sloppy and you could tell he was close
So, you reached a hand down to rub aimless circles on your clit, wanting to cum with your man
"Shit!" He cried out, fuck he was crying, "You're gonna cum, baby? G'na cum on my dick?"
You nodded, not even noticing that he had let go of your mouth and settled his hand on your chest, groping the pillowy flesh of your breasts.
"Words, baby, Daddy needs words." He rasped, his thrusts getting deeper and harder, more desperate.
"'m gonna cum, o'fuck, please, please, please!"
Neighbors be damned, all Chris could think about was making sure you came and making sure his cum filled you up.
"That's it, atta girl, c'mon," He grabbed your thigh which had been slipping and readjusted it to firmly rest on his shoulder while his other hand pushed yours out the way and started rubbing your clit.
Your world went white and so did the sheets.
"Fuckkk, squirtin' so much, baby,"
You couldn’t hear or see anything, it was like your brain had turned to mush under his attention, but God could you feel everything- feel his thick cock bullying into your pussy and fucking you through your orgasm.
"That's it, fuck, fuck-" His voice got higher in pitch, pitifully so, "I'm cummin', gonna fill this pussy up- Shit!" Usually he would have pulled out, neither of you had the lifestyle fit for a child but at that moment? All he wanted to do was give you a creampie, give you a baby.
His hips bucked against yours one last time and stayed there, body quaking as his orgasm ripped through him.
Your jaw dropped as you felt his warmth filling you. Finally, after what felt like forever, he let your legs drop from his shoulders, but he didn't pull out, not yet.
"So full," You whined,
Chris shushed you, all that roughness from before gone and replaced with the tenderness that you knew and loved, "I know, baby, I know. Did so good f’r me..." He murmured, gathering you in his arms.
Tonight, he'd hold you in his arms. Tomorrow? He was ring shopping.
-----------------
Leon S. Kennedy
"Leoonnnn~"
"Shh, I know baby, I know," He grunted from between your legs.
You didn't think fried deer steak could get you into this type of situation, was it something you had put in the mashed potatoes? Hell, what could have warranted this type of attack from your boyfriend?
He had been kneeling between your legs for what felt like hours, probably was hours. He had come home when there was still light outside, now there was nothing but darkness in the entire house.
His tongue was relentless, swirling around your poor clit before dipping into your wet heat to get a taste of his handiwork like it was a second dinner.
"Taste s'fuckin' good," He groaned, his eyes fluttering close for just a moment before he opened them and locked eyes with you. Those light blue eyes burned into yours and naturally, you turned your head away which earned you a spank on the thigh.
"Eyes on me." He growled,
"Eyes on me, baby- there she is, such a good girl." He hummed with approval as you locked eyes with him, his hand rubbing the spot he had spanked as if apologizing.
He dipped his head back down, laving his tongue from your back hole all the way up to your clit, the sensation had you reeling and whimpering as you felt your pussy clenching around nothing and bracing for yet another orgasm.
"Taste s’good, baby, just as good as the food you made." He groaned, pressing his mouth against your cunt and sloppily kissing your folds.
Fuck, you were crying. Not that he minded, it only told him he was doing something right, that he was taking care of you like any real man should.
"I'm g'na cum, Leon-!" You sounded so pitiful, downright pathetic. You said it as if that'd be incentive for him to stop, to give you a break,
You had never cum so many times before and your poor mind couldn’t take it, the heat boiling under your skin as your tummy tightened with your coming orgasm.
“Leon, c-can’t, ‘s t’much,” Oh you poor thing, your words slurred oh so prettily, Leon just had to reward you for it, right?
“It’s okay, baby,” He groaned, his tongue teasing your entrance as he nudged his nose against your clit. “I got you, Daddy’s got you-” His hands grabbed your hips and easily held you down,
You couldn’t do anything but cum on his face with a loud cry, soaking his face. He let out a low groan that was smothered by your sweet pussy, hips bucking against the mattress to try to get some relief for his aching cock in his pants.
Leon didn't come up for air, you had to reach down and push his head back so the air would hit his face and remind him to breathe. He gasped softly, his breaths shaken as if he had just gotten ate out vigorously.
You were a mess in his arms as he finally stood up, eyes looking you over as if to make sure you were okay, that you were actually here. His grip had softened and rested on your stomach,
“Breathe,” He croaked
Fuck, you hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath until he said that. Your first breath was followed by a whimper,
“Good girl,” He cooed softly, “You okay?”
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. He laid down beside you, grabbing you and pulling you into his arms. The warmth of his body was a nice change to the inferno he brought with his tongue,
"Such a good girl," He grunted, "Took such good care of me like a good wife."
Wait, wife?
"W-Wife?" You huffed,
"Did I stutter?"
No he did not.
-----------------
Sorry y'all the horny got to me with this one
☆ summary : a quiet life was never supposed to be possible for leon. but somehow it happened anyway — a beautiful wife, a house in a wooded suburb outside the city, a son who thinks he has the coolest dad ever, and another baby on the way. for the first time in years, things are calm. normal. until one morning, leon receives a photo taken from within his home. in it, his family is asleep. someone has been watching.
✩ caution : age gap relationship! don’t shoot! reader in mid twenties to early thirties. pregnancy, motherhood, tension, suspense, canon typical resident evil tension/violence/danger.
☆ note : sorry for the wait guys! i hope you enjoy the chapter! i’m in base for work and i didn’t bring my laptop like an idiot—so all this was written and edited on my phone! (¬`‸´¬) . . .
it’s been about twenty minutes or so.
the porsche shudders as leon steers it off the road and into the parking lot beside a little roadside market. the ruined tire drags with a scraping grind that rattles through the floorboards and into your teeth, sharp enough that you catch yourself clenching your jaw against it. what an awful sound it is—it actually makes you feel a bit nauseous but at seven months pregnant? everything makes you feel nauseous. thinking about the thought of nausea makes you—you get the point.
leon keeps the wheel steady anyway, guiding the car through the loose gravel until it finally slows to a stop near the front of the building.
you already know the tire is finished before he even checks it because the way the car leaned during the last mile? told you everything you needed to know and you didn’t know much about cars in general. you can’t help but to feel terrible though because this car was so expensive.. leon knows it too, but he still sits there for a few seconds after stopping, hands resting on the wheel while his eyes travel slowly across the parking lot.
but he’s not looking at the place the way you do. the two of you react to a room on entirely different levels, your bodies wired for different threats: a mother and a father— man and woman.
when you first glance at the market, what you notice is how dead quiet it feels. its one of those squared market stores that look identical no matter what town or city they’re dropped into: pale siding and a flat roof with a strip of buzzing lights running along the edge. bright posters cover most of the front windows—groceries, energy drinks, lottery jackpots, cheap cigarettes—a little bit of everything because there’s a few gas pumps on the outside too.
but through the gaps between them, you can see fluorescent lighting that spills across narrow aisles of snacks and coolers humming along the back wall. everything inside seemingly looks clean. well stocked. the norm for places like this.. but its so fucking quiet. your mind subconsciously rations it's thoughts; you shouldn't be surprised, right? according to your husband, raccoon city is stupidly close. and it’s not like this place would be a terribly popular spot by any means. it's probably meant for the locals who’ve been populating the town for generations and have no intentions of leaving. the cost of living is probably crazy cheap too. still. the place reminds you of wrong turn or something..
and leon doesn’t see any of that first.
his attention moves along the roofline, the corners of the building, the spaces beside the entrance where someone could stand without being visible from the lot. the habit is second nature by now. you’ve watched him do it enough times to recognize the method to his madness: doorways, windows, sightlines, places a person could hide.
the quiet really starts to press in once the engine stops and without the car running the town around you makes your ears strain for sounds that might not even be there or maybe its tinnitus. you never felt silence like this back at home—there was always the tv running while you made lunch, matteo’s little feet padding against the floors while he plays, the cars passing by with neighbors chatting as they walk along the sidewalk. hosting dinner parties (that leon hates but he still plays along because he knows you’re excited about that pot roast you made). to think your life was seemingly normal less than twelve hours ago but it feels so far away now.
wind pushes lightly across the gravel lot, carrying thin sheets of dust over the ground that curl around the tires before breaking apart again. your eyes drift back toward the market.
the sign above the door reads harper’s market in bright plastic letters mounted against the front of the building, it lights up pretty when it's night like this—though, the sky is slowly starting to turn that odd morning gray. the storefront is clean enough to suggest someone still takes care of the place. a security camera sits tucked into the corner near the roofline, a dark lens angled toward the parking lot. security is nice. this is good. yeah, this is good.
the store looks open and there are no signs of anything odd, you feel like you can maybe breathe again. leon finally exhales through his own nose and he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms against the steering wheel while his gaze lingers on the glass of the storefront. he’s deciding something. you can tell by the way his shoulders— you can read this man like the back of your hand at this point in your marriage.
“tire’s done,” he says quietly, the words aren’t directed at you so much as spoken aloud for confirmation. “stay.” he reaches for the door handle and steps out, letting the outside air spill into the car, not surprising that it smells like gasoline and dry dirt but in some odd way—it makes your mouth water and crave something that you absolutely cannot ingest. pregnancy makes you have the weirdest cravings.
you watch him through the windshield as he circles the front of the vehicle and gravel crunches under his boots while he crouches beside the ruined tire, studying the damage up close. you can’t see it from where you’re sitting but there’s shredded rubber hanging in rough strips around the rim, the edges curled and blackened where the debris on the road tore through it. leon presses his thumb briefly against the bent metal wheel.
but leon already knows the answer. he needs a spare but he thinks he’ll be able to make due with some things around here.
inside the car, matteo shifts in the back seat and the sound pulls your attention away from the window immediately. he’s been awake this whole time it seems, just quiet. the sounds of the tire pulled him right out of this sleep. you turn slightly in your seat just as the little boy stirs, greeting him with a smile as his curls stick up in soft and uneven tufts where they’ve been flattened against the seat. his face is puffy with sleep and his eyes blink slowly in the cute way children do when they wake somewhere unfamiliar.
“good morning, sleepy baby.” you coo.
“mommy..” he mumbles. you glance back toward leon through the windshield without thinking to make sure he’s okay and outside he’s already looking into the car. it’s the way he always reacts when matteo makes noise or moves a little—like there’s some sort of invisible thread that connects them together. his expression softens for a second when he sees the boy moving around in the back seat, the tension in his posture easing just slightly before his focus drifts back toward the surrounding area again.
wind rattles the loose chain hanging from one of the gas pumps near the road, a faint metal clink carrying easily across the empty lot. leon studies the storefront a few seconds longer.
matteo shifts again, the soft creak of the seatbelt tugging lightly against the buckle as he moves. the sound pulls your attention away from the windshield and when you glance back over your shoulder, he’s pushing himself upright in the back seat with a sleepy effort, one small fist rubbing hard against his eye while his gaze drifts toward the front of the car.
the empty driver’s seat makes him pause.
and confusion settles across his little face first, that moment where something in his routine doesn’t line up the way he expects it to. he leans forward against the seatbelt slightly, peering between the two front seats like maybe leon is just hiding somewhere he can’t see yet.
“mama,” he mumbles thickly, voice still foggy with sleep as his eyes scan the dashboard, then the door, then back again. “mm.. papa? where is..?” the words come out uncertain, the question sitting plainly in his voice.
“he’s right there, sweetheart.” you say softly, tilting your head toward the windshield so matteo can follow your line of sight. “see him?” matteo squints toward the glass.
it takes him a second before his eyes land on the familiar shape of leon standing up beside the hood. the moment recognition clicks, the tension in his tiny shoulders disappears and his whole face brightens, his routine and reassurance visibly fall back into place.
“papa,” he hums quietly then just as quickly, his attention drifts somewhere else. one small hand presses against his round tummy as he shifts in the seat, fingers bunching the fabric of his shirt while he looks toward you again. his voice is softer this time, almost thoughtful. “..eat, ’teo.”
you open your mouth to answer, but matteo is already squirming again, the seatbelt pulling tight across his chest as he tries to shift his legs under him and his brows pinch. slightly.
“..mama.” he wiggles harder this time, the restless little movement of a toddler who’s suddenly realized something urgent. “potty.”
“okay, okay—” but before you can even get out yourself, its leon who opens matteo’s door, one hand against the frame of the car. his gaze flicks over you first then toward the carseat below him. you could see a little smear of black on his hand because outside the car, leon managed to find a spare nearby and dropped it beside the car. he could see the little scene playing out in the car and decided to be daddy to the rescue.
“papa!” he calls, voice suddenly bright. you can see the small smile tugging at the corner of leon’s mouth.
“hey, buddy.” he says quietly.
matteo looks at him immediately. “hungry.” he reports. then after a tiny pause with much greater urgency— “..’n potty!”
leon exhales slowly through his nose, the sound of a tired laugh as one hand drags briefly down his face before he glances back toward the market behind the car.
“yeah?” he mutters under his breath. “pssh. got some serious business to check off this to-do list, huh?”
you twist in your seat being mindful of your belly, but you’re already reaching behind you to unclip matteo’s latch. leon watches you, and he inwardly sighs. you’re always doing things he can do for you. he swears it's like you have this complex about asking for help but, he knows you probably need a task right now—he can only imagine how much you’re dealing with mentally and physically, so. he doesn't make a fuss. the metal tongue slides free with a quiet click and the second it does matteo leans forward into the space between the seats and leon lifts him out, setting him down outside the car. leon walks him around the car where you're currently opening your door.
the loose stones shift under your weight when you step out and matteo is already wiggling impatiently. little cutie.
“potty,” he reminds you urgently.
“i know, baby.” you say, fighting the small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth despite the tension sitting in your lower back. you lift him carefully, settling him against your hip.
the lot stretches wide and quiet around you, the darkness pressing in beyond the weak glow spilling from the market’s front windows. a single overhead light above the entrance throws a dull yellow circle across the ground while the rest of the lot dissolves into shadow. you carry matteo across the lot toward the entrance, one hand resting lightly on his bottom to keep him moving while the other steadies the door when you reach it. the glass reflects things in warped pieces—your tired posture, matteo’s rosy cheeks, the car sitting a few yards behind and leon.
“mommy, store.” he says, voice small and insistent.
“mhm! you're so smart, aren't you, sweet pea...?” you murmur softly, pulling the door open.
the inside of the market greets you with a rush of cool air and the harsh brightness of fluorescent lights. it floods the narrow aisles and spills out through the front windows into the empty parking lot, making the darkness outside look even deeper by comparison. the shelves are stocked neatly with chips, canned goods and rows of bottled drinks humming quietly inside the refrigerators along the back wall.
you guide matteo quickly toward the small hallway beside the counter where a printed sign points toward the restroom, your footsteps echoing faintly across the tile before the two of you disappear around the corner.
meanwhile outside, leon watches the door close behind you. he waits until you and matteo are fully inside before he moves, and once the coast is clear the driver’s door opens quietly and he leans down slightly, reaching beneath the seat where a small black case rests tucked out of sight. the latch pops open with a soft click when he flips it back, the lid lifting just enough for him to slide his hand inside.
the pistol settles into his palm and it feels like a familiar friend, something that’s lived in his hands for decades—a weapon unlike the one he keeps in the glove compartment, this one is.. essentially a handheld shotgun. a gun that really screams he was so fucking over fighting literal monsters and demons with a 9mm pistol.
it’s “gorgeous” as he would say. you get jealous of those things.
his thumb checks the magazine — full, just what he wanted. the metal glints faintly before he seats it back into place. he pulls the slide just enough to check the chamber, the faint click sound swallowed by the open night.
leon exhales slowly through his nose and his eyes drift toward the storefront again, studying the bright interior through the glass.. he doesn’t want to anticipate something happening but—his pregnant wife and kid are in there, he’d rather be safe than sorry. he tucks the pistol into the back of his waistband beneath his jacket, adjusting the fabric so it falls naturally over the grip before shutting the car door with a quiet push. he crosses the lot, the lights from the windows growing brighter the closer he gets.
by the time he steps through the door, the calm expression settles back on his face because you’re standing a few aisles over with matteo beside you. he’s already wandered toward a lower shelf stacked with brightly colored snack packs, his small hands hovering like he’s deciding which one deserves his attention most. you’re saying something to him that leon can’t quite hear but you’re smiling and cradling a couple bottles of water to your chest while you rub your belly.
leon joins you quietly, his eyes moving through the store as he gives your temple a kiss. the place is running. the lights are on but on his way in he noticed the counter sits empty. no clerk. no customers. no voices anywhere else in the building—he has a weird feeling but, he’s thinking maybe some kid is out back smoking pot because this place probably doesn't get a lot of business.
you glance up at him with a little smile.
“bathroom was clean,” you say quietly, you’re half surprised by it because there hasn't been a time where you’ve felt comfortable using a gas station bathroom.
matteo tugs at your pant leg. “snack.” he says hopefully.
you sigh softly but reach down to grab the small packet of puffy cheetos he’s holding. “this is what you want, baby? how about—”
leon doesn’t take his eyes off the aisles and he hasn't this whole time even as you’re trying to talk your three year old into a ”healthier” option.
his head tilts slightly..listening.
because underneath the store music, your voice and the soft crinkle of matteo wrestling with the chip bag. something else is sounding inside the store. its a wet sound. a slow, thick sound like.. like meat slamming against something hard.
it comes from somewhere deeper in the building, he decides to move a bit down the aisle eyes narrowing slightly as he studies the stretch of store beyond the shelves. the sound isn’t loud but it repeats and repeats, over and over with a slow rhythm that feels mindless.
you notice the shift in his posture almost immediately. leon doesn’t tense in an obvious way when something’s wrong, especially when his family is around but there is a subtle change that always gives him away to you—the way his attention stops and locks onto one point in the room. he also doesn't have a very good poker face either.
“what’s wr—”
“stay here a second,” he says quietly, his voice calm enough that matteo barely notices the change.
you follow his gaze toward the back of the market, where a narrow corridor opens near the refrigerated cases. a neon sign hangs above it advertising the deli counter, the letters flickering faintly in the light like the sign has been buzzing there for hours without anyone bothering to turn it off.
the sound gets louder the closer leon steps but this time there’s another noise tangled inside it. a dull thud—metal striking something soft, yes. but.. strangled throat sounds.
leon’s steps are slow and careful as he angles himself toward the end of the aisle. the pistol appears in his hand sometime during the walk, drawn quietly from beneath his jacket in a motion so smooth it’s almost invisible. god, he’s so cool.
the smell reaches him before the sight does and he rounds the corner just enough to see into the deli area.
the overhead lights back there are still on above the long glass display case where cuts of meat sit neatly arranged for customers— but instead of meat from cattle, it looks like human remains. leon can’t quite make it out from this far. the counter itself is smeared with dark streaks that have dried in uneven patches along the white tile.
and two figures stand behind it.
the first one is a.. rather large male—at least 6’6, burly and still wearing a stained butcher’s apron to which it’s fabric hangs crookedly from one shoulder where something has torn through it. his back is turned slightly, broad shoulders hunched over the counter as one arm lifts and falls in a slow, mechanical motion. each downward swing ends with that same dull thud heard from before and in his hand is a meat cleaver.
the blade rises again and comes down hard against something lying on the cutting board.
a human hand. the butcher doesn’t react to the damage he’s already done to it. he simply repeats the motion over and over, chopping with the empty persistence.
beside him, slumped awkwardly against the tiled wall is the second body. the clerk or what used to be the clerk, if he could call the poor bastard that anymore. he can tell because the uniform shirt is still visible beneath the stains spreading across his chest, the name tag also hanging crookedly where it’s half torn from the fabric. his head hangs forward at an unnatural angle while one arm stretches uselessly across the counter.
the butcher keeps hacking at that hand as the clerk twitches. his head lifts just enough for leon to see the cloudy film coating his eyes. a wet sound slips from his throat as his mouth opens, jaw working in grinding motions as if trying to speak to service a customer.
there’s a very sudden pause—one that seems as though they’ve been alerted by something. a noise.
that very noise being his son’s high pitched giggles a few aisles over.
fuck.
leon quickly takes cover, after a few seconds he leans slightly around the end cap long enough to look again toward the deli counter. the butcher has wandered a few steps away from the counter now, the cleaver still hanging loosely from his hand while his head turns in slow twitching angles like something inside his skull is struggling to remember what it was doing moments ago. beside him the clerk has pulled himself upright, shoulders slumped forward while his ruined jaw opens and closes in useless motions.
neither of them has fully locked onto anything yet, but.. they are not idle either. both bodies drift pausing and turning in short, jerky movements that make it clear something nearby has disturbed them. the butcher’s cloudy eyes sweep across the aisles without focus while the clerk’s head tilts toward the open store floor, both of them reacting to faint sounds and subtle shifts in the air the same way animals react to scent they can’t quite locate.
leon doesn’t wait to see if they figure it out.
the moment the butcher’s head begins to lift a little higher, leon steps back from the corner without making another sound. he rounds the aisle again and finds you exactly where he left you. matteo is still standing beside you with the chip packet still clutched in his hands, the plastic crinkling softly every time he digs his fingers inside.
highway to hell starts playing over the store’s system and leon thinks this is one big joke.
you’re watching leon now, reading the change in his face immediately even though he hasn’t said anything yet. you want to say something but there's a noise relatively close those makes you turn your head and his hand closes around your wrist firmly. “come on,” he murmurs quietly and you don’t argue.
there’s something in his tone that tells you this isn’t a suggestion, and the way his eyes flick briefly over your shoulder toward the back of the store is enough to make your stomach drop without needing any further explanation.
he guides both of you quickly down an aisle and turns between two rows of shelving that block the line of sight from the open floor of the store. he makes you all stay crouched.
matteo looks up at leon, clearly confused by the sudden movement. “papa?”
leon smooths matteo’s hair with a strained smile while his other hand stays wrapped loosely around the grip of the pistol resting low at his side.
“hey, kiddo,” he murmurs softly. his voice shifts in that soft way it always does when he talks to matteo, the tension smoothing out of the edges even though his eyes are still tracking the open spaces between the aisles. the kid blinks up at him, crumbs already stuck to the corner of his mouth.
“can you do something for papa?”
matteo nods automatically. “mhm! ‘helper teo!”
“that’s right.” leon brushes his fingers gently through the boy’s hair, “close your eyes for me, okay? be as quiet as possible.. like a little mouse. and don’t open until i say it's okay.”
matteo tilts his head slightly, considering the request. “why?”
leon doesn’t miss a beat. “part of a game.”
the answer comes easily, he’s used it—all the questions. matteo is a curious little boy and leon doesn’t fault him for it because leon was a curious kid too, he just hopes his son opts in for a normal job. not like his old man. the boy studies him for a second with the deep seriousness, then squeezes his eyes shut tightly and puffs his cheeks.
“perfect.” only then do leon’s eyes shift toward you.
for a second he studies your face, the tension in his shoulders saying everything that doesn’t have time to be explained. his gaze drops briefly to your stomach before lifting again, the look lingering just long enough to make sure you understand what he needs you to do next.
“stay here,” he says quietly. “don’t make a sound.”
you nod and leon gives you both a kiss before standing up and stepping back toward the end of the aisle.
☆ summary : a quiet life was never supposed to be possible for leon. but somehow it happened anyway — a beautiful wife, a house in a wooded suburb outside the city, a son who thinks he has the coolest dad ever, and another baby on the way. for the first time in years, things are calm. normal. until one morning, leon receives a photo taken from within his home. in it, his family is asleep. someone has been watching.
✩ caution : age gap relationship! don’t shoot! reader in mid twenties to early thirties. pregnancy, motherhood, tension, suspense, canon typical resident evil tension/violence/danger.
☆ note : sorry for the wait guys! i hope you enjoy the chapter! i’m in base for work and i didn’t bring my laptop like an idiot—so all this was written and edited on my phone! (¬`‸´¬) . . .
it’s been about twenty minutes or so.
the porsche shudders as leon steers it off the road and into the parking lot beside a little roadside market. the ruined tire drags with a scraping grind that rattles through the floorboards and into your teeth, sharp enough that you catch yourself clenching your jaw against it. what an awful sound it is—it actually makes you feel a bit nauseous but at seven months pregnant? everything makes you feel nauseous. thinking about the thought of nausea makes you—you get the point.
leon keeps the wheel steady anyway, guiding the car through the loose gravel until it finally slows to a stop near the front of the building.
you already know the tire is finished before he even checks it because the way the car leaned during the last mile? told you everything you needed to know and you didn’t know much about cars in general. you can’t help but to feel terrible though because this car was so expensive.. leon knows it too, but he still sits there for a few seconds after stopping, hands resting on the wheel while his eyes travel slowly across the parking lot.
but he’s not looking at the place the way you do. the two of you react to a room on entirely different levels, your bodies wired for different threats: a mother and a father— man and woman.
when you first glance at the market, what you notice is how dead quiet it feels. its one of those squared market stores that look identical no matter what town or city they’re dropped into: pale siding and a flat roof with a strip of buzzing lights running along the edge. bright posters cover most of the front windows—groceries, energy drinks, lottery jackpots, cheap cigarettes—a little bit of everything because there’s a few gas pumps on the outside too.
but through the gaps between them, you can see fluorescent lighting that spills across narrow aisles of snacks and coolers humming along the back wall. everything inside seemingly looks clean. well stocked. the norm for places like this.. but its so fucking quiet. your mind subconsciously rations it's thoughts; you shouldn't be surprised, right? according to your husband, raccoon city is stupidly close. and it’s not like this place would be a terribly popular spot by any means. it's probably meant for the locals who’ve been populating the town for generations and have no intentions of leaving. the cost of living is probably crazy cheap too. still. the place reminds you of wrong turn or something..
and leon doesn’t see any of that first.
his attention moves along the roofline, the corners of the building, the spaces beside the entrance where someone could stand without being visible from the lot. the habit is second nature by now. you’ve watched him do it enough times to recognize the method to his madness: doorways, windows, sightlines, places a person could hide.
the quiet really starts to press in once the engine stops and without the car running the town around you makes your ears strain for sounds that might not even be there or maybe its tinnitus. you never felt silence like this back at home—there was always the tv running while you made lunch, matteo’s little feet padding against the floors while he plays, the cars passing by with neighbors chatting as they walk along the sidewalk. hosting dinner parties (that leon hates but he still plays along because he knows you’re excited about that pot roast you made). to think your life was seemingly normal less than twelve hours ago but it feels so far away now.
wind pushes lightly across the gravel lot, carrying thin sheets of dust over the ground that curl around the tires before breaking apart again. your eyes drift back toward the market.
the sign above the door reads harper’s market in bright plastic letters mounted against the front of the building, it lights up pretty when it's night like this—though, the sky is slowly starting to turn that odd morning gray. the storefront is clean enough to suggest someone still takes care of the place. a security camera sits tucked into the corner near the roofline, a dark lens angled toward the parking lot. security is nice. this is good. yeah, this is good.
the store looks open and there are no signs of anything odd, you feel like you can maybe breathe again. leon finally exhales through his own nose and he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms against the steering wheel while his gaze lingers on the glass of the storefront. he’s deciding something. you can tell by the way his shoulders— you can read this man like the back of your hand at this point in your marriage.
“tire’s done,” he says quietly, the words aren’t directed at you so much as spoken aloud for confirmation. “stay.” he reaches for the door handle and steps out, letting the outside air spill into the car, not surprising that it smells like gasoline and dry dirt but in some odd way—it makes your mouth water and crave something that you absolutely cannot ingest. pregnancy makes you have the weirdest cravings.
you watch him through the windshield as he circles the front of the vehicle and gravel crunches under his boots while he crouches beside the ruined tire, studying the damage up close. you can’t see it from where you’re sitting but there’s shredded rubber hanging in rough strips around the rim, the edges curled and blackened where the debris on the road tore through it. leon presses his thumb briefly against the bent metal wheel.
but leon already knows the answer. he needs a spare but he thinks he’ll be able to make due with some things around here.
inside the car, matteo shifts in the back seat and the sound pulls your attention away from the window immediately. he’s been awake this whole time it seems, just quiet. the sounds of the tire pulled him right out of this sleep. you turn slightly in your seat just as the little boy stirs, greeting him with a smile as his curls stick up in soft and uneven tufts where they’ve been flattened against the seat. his face is puffy with sleep and his eyes blink slowly in the cute way children do when they wake somewhere unfamiliar.
“good morning, sleepy baby.” you coo.
“mommy..” he mumbles. you glance back toward leon through the windshield without thinking to make sure he’s okay and outside he’s already looking into the car. it’s the way he always reacts when matteo makes noise or moves a little—like there’s some sort of invisible thread that connects them together. his expression softens for a second when he sees the boy moving around in the back seat, the tension in his posture easing just slightly before his focus drifts back toward the surrounding area again.
wind rattles the loose chain hanging from one of the gas pumps near the road, a faint metal clink carrying easily across the empty lot. leon studies the storefront a few seconds longer.
matteo shifts again, the soft creak of the seatbelt tugging lightly against the buckle as he moves. the sound pulls your attention away from the windshield and when you glance back over your shoulder, he’s pushing himself upright in the back seat with a sleepy effort, one small fist rubbing hard against his eye while his gaze drifts toward the front of the car.
the empty driver’s seat makes him pause.
and confusion settles across his little face first, that moment where something in his routine doesn’t line up the way he expects it to. he leans forward against the seatbelt slightly, peering between the two front seats like maybe leon is just hiding somewhere he can’t see yet.
“mama,” he mumbles thickly, voice still foggy with sleep as his eyes scan the dashboard, then the door, then back again. “mm.. papa? where is..?” the words come out uncertain, the question sitting plainly in his voice.
“he’s right there, sweetheart.” you say softly, tilting your head toward the windshield so matteo can follow your line of sight. “see him?” matteo squints toward the glass.
it takes him a second before his eyes land on the familiar shape of leon standing up beside the hood. the moment recognition clicks, the tension in his tiny shoulders disappears and his whole face brightens, his routine and reassurance visibly fall back into place.
“papa,” he hums quietly then just as quickly, his attention drifts somewhere else. one small hand presses against his round tummy as he shifts in the seat, fingers bunching the fabric of his shirt while he looks toward you again. his voice is softer this time, almost thoughtful. “..eat, ’teo.”
you open your mouth to answer, but matteo is already squirming again, the seatbelt pulling tight across his chest as he tries to shift his legs under him and his brows pinch. slightly.
“..mama.” he wiggles harder this time, the restless little movement of a toddler who’s suddenly realized something urgent. “potty.”
“okay, okay—” but before you can even get out yourself, its leon who opens matteo’s door, one hand against the frame of the car. his gaze flicks over you first then toward the carseat below him. you could see a little smear of black on his hand because outside the car, leon managed to find a spare nearby and dropped it beside the car. he could see the little scene playing out in the car and decided to be daddy to the rescue.
“papa!” he calls, voice suddenly bright. you can see the small smile tugging at the corner of leon’s mouth.
“hey, buddy.” he says quietly.
matteo looks at him immediately. “hungry.” he reports. then after a tiny pause with much greater urgency— “..’n potty!”
leon exhales slowly through his nose, the sound of a tired laugh as one hand drags briefly down his face before he glances back toward the market behind the car.
“yeah?” he mutters under his breath. “pssh. got some serious business to check off this to-do list, huh?”
you twist in your seat being mindful of your belly, but you’re already reaching behind you to unclip matteo’s latch. leon watches you, and he inwardly sighs. you’re always doing things he can do for you. he swears it's like you have this complex about asking for help but, he knows you probably need a task right now—he can only imagine how much you’re dealing with mentally and physically, so. he doesn't make a fuss. the metal tongue slides free with a quiet click and the second it does matteo leans forward into the space between the seats and leon lifts him out, setting him down outside the car. leon walks him around the car where you're currently opening your door.
the loose stones shift under your weight when you step out and matteo is already wiggling impatiently. little cutie.
“potty,” he reminds you urgently.
“i know, baby.” you say, fighting the small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth despite the tension sitting in your lower back. you lift him carefully, settling him against your hip.
the lot stretches wide and quiet around you, the darkness pressing in beyond the weak glow spilling from the market’s front windows. a single overhead light above the entrance throws a dull yellow circle across the ground while the rest of the lot dissolves into shadow. you carry matteo across the lot toward the entrance, one hand resting lightly on his bottom to keep him moving while the other steadies the door when you reach it. the glass reflects things in warped pieces—your tired posture, matteo’s rosy cheeks, the car sitting a few yards behind and leon.
“mommy, store.” he says, voice small and insistent.
“mhm! you're so smart, aren't you, sweet pea...?” you murmur softly, pulling the door open.
the inside of the market greets you with a rush of cool air and the harsh brightness of fluorescent lights. it floods the narrow aisles and spills out through the front windows into the empty parking lot, making the darkness outside look even deeper by comparison. the shelves are stocked neatly with chips, canned goods and rows of bottled drinks humming quietly inside the refrigerators along the back wall.
you guide matteo quickly toward the small hallway beside the counter where a printed sign points toward the restroom, your footsteps echoing faintly across the tile before the two of you disappear around the corner.
meanwhile outside, leon watches the door close behind you. he waits until you and matteo are fully inside before he moves, and once the coast is clear the driver’s door opens quietly and he leans down slightly, reaching beneath the seat where a small black case rests tucked out of sight. the latch pops open with a soft click when he flips it back, the lid lifting just enough for him to slide his hand inside.
the pistol settles into his palm and it feels like a familiar friend, something that’s lived in his hands for decades—a weapon unlike the one he keeps in the glove compartment, this one is.. essentially a handheld shotgun. a gun that really screams he was so fucking over fighting literal monsters and demons with a 9mm pistol.
it’s “gorgeous” as he would say. you get jealous of those things.
his thumb checks the magazine — full, just what he wanted. the metal glints faintly before he seats it back into place. he pulls the slide just enough to check the chamber, the faint click sound swallowed by the open night.
leon exhales slowly through his nose and his eyes drift toward the storefront again, studying the bright interior through the glass.. he doesn’t want to anticipate something happening but—his pregnant wife and kid are in there, he’d rather be safe than sorry. he tucks the pistol into the back of his waistband beneath his jacket, adjusting the fabric so it falls naturally over the grip before shutting the car door with a quiet push. he crosses the lot, the lights from the windows growing brighter the closer he gets.
by the time he steps through the door, the calm expression settles back on his face because you’re standing a few aisles over with matteo beside you. he’s already wandered toward a lower shelf stacked with brightly colored snack packs, his small hands hovering like he’s deciding which one deserves his attention most. you’re saying something to him that leon can’t quite hear but you’re smiling and cradling a couple bottles of water to your chest while you rub your belly.
leon joins you quietly, his eyes moving through the store as he gives your temple a kiss. the place is running. the lights are on but on his way in he noticed the counter sits empty. no clerk. no customers. no voices anywhere else in the building—he has a weird feeling but, he’s thinking maybe some kid is out back smoking pot because this place probably doesn't get a lot of business.
you glance up at him with a little smile.
“bathroom was clean,” you say quietly, you’re half surprised by it because there hasn't been a time where you’ve felt comfortable using a gas station bathroom.
matteo tugs at your pant leg. “snack.” he says hopefully.
you sigh softly but reach down to grab the small packet of puffy cheetos he’s holding. “this is what you want, baby? how about—”
leon doesn’t take his eyes off the aisles and he hasn't this whole time even as you’re trying to talk your three year old into a ”healthier” option.
his head tilts slightly..listening.
because underneath the store music, your voice and the soft crinkle of matteo wrestling with the chip bag. something else is sounding inside the store. its a wet sound. a slow, thick sound like.. like meat slamming against something hard.
it comes from somewhere deeper in the building, he decides to move a bit down the aisle eyes narrowing slightly as he studies the stretch of store beyond the shelves. the sound isn’t loud but it repeats and repeats, over and over with a slow rhythm that feels mindless.
you notice the shift in his posture almost immediately. leon doesn’t tense in an obvious way when something’s wrong, especially when his family is around but there is a subtle change that always gives him away to you—the way his attention stops and locks onto one point in the room. he also doesn't have a very good poker face either.
“what’s wr—”
“stay here a second,” he says quietly, his voice calm enough that matteo barely notices the change.
you follow his gaze toward the back of the market, where a narrow corridor opens near the refrigerated cases. a neon sign hangs above it advertising the deli counter, the letters flickering faintly in the light like the sign has been buzzing there for hours without anyone bothering to turn it off.
the sound gets louder the closer leon steps but this time there’s another noise tangled inside it. a dull thud—metal striking something soft, yes. but.. strangled throat sounds.
leon’s steps are slow and careful as he angles himself toward the end of the aisle. the pistol appears in his hand sometime during the walk, drawn quietly from beneath his jacket in a motion so smooth it’s almost invisible. god, he’s so cool.
the smell reaches him before the sight does and he rounds the corner just enough to see into the deli area.
the overhead lights back there are still on above the long glass display case where cuts of meat sit neatly arranged for customers— but instead of meat from cattle, it looks like human remains. leon can’t quite make it out from this far. the counter itself is smeared with dark streaks that have dried in uneven patches along the white tile.
and two figures stand behind it.
the first one is a.. rather large male—at least 6’6, burly and still wearing a stained butcher’s apron to which it’s fabric hangs crookedly from one shoulder where something has torn through it. his back is turned slightly, broad shoulders hunched over the counter as one arm lifts and falls in a slow, mechanical motion. each downward swing ends with that same dull thud heard from before and in his hand is a meat cleaver.
the blade rises again and comes down hard against something lying on the cutting board.
a human hand. the butcher doesn’t react to the damage he’s already done to it. he simply repeats the motion over and over, chopping with the empty persistence.
beside him, slumped awkwardly against the tiled wall is the second body. the clerk or what used to be the clerk, if he could call the poor bastard that anymore. he can tell because the uniform shirt is still visible beneath the stains spreading across his chest, the name tag also hanging crookedly where it’s half torn from the fabric. his head hangs forward at an unnatural angle while one arm stretches uselessly across the counter.
the butcher keeps hacking at that hand as the clerk twitches. his head lifts just enough for leon to see the cloudy film coating his eyes. a wet sound slips from his throat as his mouth opens, jaw working in grinding motions as if trying to speak to service a customer.
there’s a very sudden pause—one that seems as though they’ve been alerted by something. a noise.
that very noise being his son’s high pitched giggles a few aisles over.
fuck.
leon quickly takes cover, after a few seconds he leans slightly around the end cap long enough to look again toward the deli counter. the butcher has wandered a few steps away from the counter now, the cleaver still hanging loosely from his hand while his head turns in slow twitching angles like something inside his skull is struggling to remember what it was doing moments ago. beside him the clerk has pulled himself upright, shoulders slumped forward while his ruined jaw opens and closes in useless motions.
neither of them has fully locked onto anything yet, but.. they are not idle either. both bodies drift pausing and turning in short, jerky movements that make it clear something nearby has disturbed them. the butcher’s cloudy eyes sweep across the aisles without focus while the clerk’s head tilts toward the open store floor, both of them reacting to faint sounds and subtle shifts in the air the same way animals react to scent they can’t quite locate.
leon doesn’t wait to see if they figure it out.
the moment the butcher’s head begins to lift a little higher, leon steps back from the corner without making another sound. he rounds the aisle again and finds you exactly where he left you. matteo is still standing beside you with the chip packet still clutched in his hands, the plastic crinkling softly every time he digs his fingers inside.
highway to hell starts playing over the store’s system and leon thinks this is one big joke.
you’re watching leon now, reading the change in his face immediately even though he hasn’t said anything yet. you want to say something but there's a noise relatively close those makes you turn your head and his hand closes around your wrist firmly. “come on,” he murmurs quietly and you don’t argue.
there’s something in his tone that tells you this isn’t a suggestion, and the way his eyes flick briefly over your shoulder toward the back of the store is enough to make your stomach drop without needing any further explanation.
he guides both of you quickly down an aisle and turns between two rows of shelving that block the line of sight from the open floor of the store. he makes you all stay crouched.
matteo looks up at leon, clearly confused by the sudden movement. “papa?”
leon smooths matteo’s hair with a strained smile while his other hand stays wrapped loosely around the grip of the pistol resting low at his side.
“hey, kiddo,” he murmurs softly. his voice shifts in that soft way it always does when he talks to matteo, the tension smoothing out of the edges even though his eyes are still tracking the open spaces between the aisles. the kid blinks up at him, crumbs already stuck to the corner of his mouth.
“can you do something for papa?”
matteo nods automatically. “mhm! ‘helper teo!”
“that’s right.” leon brushes his fingers gently through the boy’s hair, “close your eyes for me, okay? be as quiet as possible.. like a little mouse. and don’t open until i say it's okay.”
matteo tilts his head slightly, considering the request. “why?”
leon doesn’t miss a beat. “part of a game.”
the answer comes easily, he’s used it—all the questions. matteo is a curious little boy and leon doesn’t fault him for it because leon was a curious kid too, he just hopes his son opts in for a normal job. not like his old man. the boy studies him for a second with the deep seriousness, then squeezes his eyes shut tightly and puffs his cheeks.
“perfect.” only then do leon’s eyes shift toward you.
for a second he studies your face, the tension in his shoulders saying everything that doesn’t have time to be explained. his gaze drops briefly to your stomach before lifting again, the look lingering just long enough to make sure you understand what he needs you to do next.
“stay here,” he says quietly. “don’t make a sound.”
you nod and leon gives you both a kiss before standing up and stepping back toward the end of the aisle.
☆ summary: a quiet life was never supposed to be possible for leon. but somehow it happened anyway — a beautiful wife, a house in a wooded suburb outside the city, a son who thinks he has the coolest dad ever, and another baby on the way. for the first time in years, things are calm. normal. until one morning, leon receives a photo taken from within his home. in it, his family is asleep. someone has been watching.
☆ caution: age gap relationship! don’t shoot! reader in mid twenties to early thirties. pregnancy, motherhood, stalking, canon typical resident evil tension/violence/danger (though, this instalment is pretty tame).
☆ word count: 3,000.
what is that noise..?
it’s subtle at first— drawers opening, something heavy set down on wood, the soft zip of a bag? your brain tries to ignore it for a few seconds, trying to cling to sleep because god knows you need it. but the sounds are continuous and you’re now registering them somewhere down the hall and it pulls you up the rest of the way.
the bedroom is still dark with the exception of the night light across the room and the digital clock at your side of the bed.
2:17 AM.
you sit up slowly, blinking blearily as the oversized t-shirt you slept in slides off one shoulder. there’s a heatless curl ribbon still tied in your hair from when you set before bed, stray ends that came undone in your sleep hang down in soft loops— you don’t even know where your bonnet went. but its almost always stuck somewhere between the mattress and the headboard or somewhere discarded on the floor.
your stomach rises in a precious round curve beneath the cotton when you shift. for a moment you just lie there, then something warm shifts beside you and a small heel presses into your side. you blink slowly and turn your head to see your three year old son sprawled across the bed sideways; half on your pillow, half on your arm, breathing softly with the deep and heavy sleep only toddlers seem capable of after a long day of terror (play). one of his hands is tangled in the hem of your shirt and you're certain he fell asleep holding onto you. his hair is messy, sticking up in soft tufts against the pillow— he looks just like his father. you almost want to take a picture.
your son stirs with a sleepy little noise. “..mama..”
“shh,” you murmur, brushing your fingers through his curls. “go back to sleep, baby.” he sighs softly and curls deeper into the blankets.
you’re six— almost seven months along in your pregnancy now and everything takes a second longer than it used to. your back is a little tight and your breasts feel sore and heavy, it takes you a few moments to gather yourself before your legs swing over the side of the bed and push yourself up with a small grunt, rubbing sleep out of your eyes as you waddle toward the hallway.
the light in the living room is on. that’s the first thing you notice.
the second is your husband, leon. how strange. was this a dream? he wasn’t supposed to be home for a couple days. and you know that for a fact because you were counting down the days with a little pochacco widget on the homescreen of your phone. you’re not upset by any means, you’re just very confused, disheveled and half asleep.
leon’s moving quickly through the living room, tossing things into a duffel bag on the couch with urgency that makes your chest tighten before you even understand why. jacket. flashlight. an ammo box. something metallic you don’t recognize and there’s a couple more bags by the door already packed too.
“leon?” your voice comes out soft with sleep and he freezes for just for a second before he turns toward you. oh. you know that look. that’s the look he gets before missions— really focused, distant, already five steps ahead of wherever he is.
“..is he awake?” he asks.
you shake your head. “no.”
leon nods once and relief flashes across his face for just a moment. “good.”
you shuffle further into the room, one hand instinctively resting over the curve of your stomach and the hardwood floor is cold under your bare feet.
“what are you doing..?” you ask. he doesn't answer right away, he zips the duffel bag closed instead then moves past you toward the front door where another bag is already sitting by the entry table.
you frown. “leon.”
he stops again and this time when he looks at you, his eyes soften just slightly. enough that it almost makes you more nervous. “we’re going for a drive, baby.” he says.
your eyebrows knit together. “..a drive?” you glance toward the windows. it’s still dark outside— early enough that the sky hasn’t even started turning gray yet. “leon, it’s like two in the morning.”
“yeah.” he reaches for his jacket off the chair and slips it on, you take another few slow steps toward him.
that’s when you see the axe and the gun holstered at his hip like it always is when he’s working, but seeing it here in the living room in the dead of night, makes your stomach dip unpleasantly. he already knows how you feel about live guns in the house, you don’t care about what he does for a living. he’s not to bring weapons in you guy’s home if its not an emergency.
“why do you have that on?”
leon doesn’t look at the gun when you ask; he looks at you. but really looks this time— taking in his shirt that swallows you almost, the sleepy confusion in your face, the ridiculous polka dot, satin ribbon wrapped in your hair, the way you’re standing there barefoot and pregnant. christ, you’re beautiful.
his jaw tightens. “go grab shoes,” he says instead.
you blink at him. “…what?”
“shoes, sweetheart. your shoes.” he repeats, already reaching for the car keys on the counter. “and maybe a sweater. it’s chilly outside.”
you don’t move. “leon, you’re being weird.”
he exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying very hard to keep his head on. “i know.”
“well that’s not really great to hear, weirdo..” you shift your weight, wincing a little when the movement pulls at your lower back. “did something happen?”
“nothing you need to worry about,” he says.
you give him a look. “i’m seven months pregnant, leon. everything is something i need to worry about— don’t piss me off.”
he runs a hand through his hair, clearly losing patience with the conversation. “just— go get your shoes and i’ll let you know what’s going on.”
“no.” the word comes out before you can stop it.
leon’s head snaps back toward you. “no?” he repeats, brow raised.
you cross your arms loosely under your chest, the fabric of the big shirt bunching over your stomach.
“no,” you say again, stubborn now. “not until you tell me why you’re packing like the house is on fire.”
you hardly have time to react before your husband is closing the gap between you both so quickly it nearly startles you. he reaches up and places both of his hands on both sides of your face. the contrast between his warm hands and the cooler wedding band feels so familiar— it's only then you realize you haven’t physically touched each other in almost two weeks since he left.
“listen to me.” his voice is low, tight with something that makes your heart drop. “i need you to cooperate right now.”
you blink at him and leon’s eyes search your face like he’s trying to make sure you actually understand what he’s saying.
he’s serious. you know it because he has a look in his eyes— something akin to desperation..
“okay..” you nod in his hands. “can i least know what’s going on.. please..?”
silence stretches between you then leon’s eyes flick briefly toward the kitchen counter and you follow the movement without thinking.
there’s a phone there, his personal phone actually. you close the gap and unlock the phone with the passcode— your birthday.
the photo is already pulled up on the screen, the brightness catches your eye before you even realize what you’re looking at, but your stomach drops so suddenly it feels like the floor shifted beneath you. your fingers loosen around the device and you immediately set it back down on the counter like it burned you, taking a small step backward before you can stop yourself.
when you look at leon again there’s fear in your expression before you can hide it.
it was a photo of you and your son. you recognize the room immediately. the angle of the shot, the dim amber glow of the nightlight, the familiar shape of the blankets pulled halfway up your body. your son is curled against your side in the image, one small arm thrown across your chest the way he does when he crawls into your bed during the night. his face is buried against your shirt, hair sticking up in every direction from sleep. you’re asleep too, one arm loosely wrapped around him. even in the low light, the shape of your pregnancy is obvious beneath the shirt.
the picture.. wasn’t taken from across the street. hell, it wasn’t even taken earlier in the evening while you were awake. whoever took it had been close enough that the details of the bedding, the edge of the nightstand, even the small toy car on the floor beside the bed were perfectly visible.
someone had been in your while you were sleeping.
close enough to see your son. close enough to take their time lining up the shot while both of you slept completely unaware.
“leon..” his name barely leaves your mouth and hen you look back at him, he’s already watching you. there’s no surprise in his expression, no confusion— “what—okay, um—what do you want me to do?”
“shoes, phone, documents,” he says quietly. “and grab my kid.” he pauses. “please.” he adds on, still wanting to have some manners about his orders.
the house suddenly feels different, like its no longer your little slice of life’s pie. you rest one hand against the underside of your stomach as you walk down the hallway again supporting the weight of it as the baby shifts, it draws a labored breath from you. its probably because you’re moving about a bunch at an hour you’re supposed to be replenishing your rest. the satin ribbon tied around your hair has slipped crooked from sleep, one end hanging loose against your shoulder as you walk.
the bedroom is still dim when you step inside and your son hasn’t moved much since you left. he’s still sprawled sideways across the mattress in a tangle of blankets, face buried halfway into the pillow. one leg sticks out from under the comforter, his small foot hanging off the edge of the bed. you move closer and sit carefully on the edge of the mattress, easing your weight down with a soft exhale and the bed dips slightly beneath you. your fingers slide gently through his messy hair.
“hey,” you murmur softly. “buddy.”
he reacts with a little whine, rolling his face deeper into the pillow and you rub slow circles on his back.
“i know, honey..” you whisper. “mommy’s sorry. but we have to get up for a little bit, okay?”
he squirms, one arm reaching out blindly until his fingers find your sleeve and he bunches the fabric in his fist and tugs weakly. “..mama.”
“i’m right here.” another sleepy noise escapes him as he drags himself halfway upright, eyes barely open. he leans heavily into you, resting his forehead against your chest and you smooth his hair down.
“we’re gonna go for a drive, okay?”
he blinks slowly. “..drive?”
“mhm, with papa.” you nod and ge considers this for a long moment in sleepy silence, then lifts his head just enough to mumble: “…papa?”
a small laugh escapes you despite the tight feeling in your chest. “yeah.. papa’s home, lovebug.” and that seems good enough for him. he lets you pull his sweater over his head with minimal protest, though he keeps leaning against you like he might fall asleep standing up.
by the time you make it back to the living room, your shoes are finally on, you have sweats on and a sweater pulled over the shirt. leon is already outside again, the front door standing half open and letting the cold gray light of early morning moon spill into the house. you can hear the dull thud of the trunk closing and reopening, the shuffle of bags being moved around as he rearranges things.
your son has gone almost completely limp against you in the few minutes it took to get dressed. the moment you lifted him from the bed he buried his face into your shoulder and never really woke back up. now his arms hang loosely around your neck, his cheek pressed warm against your collarbone as he breathes slowly into the fabric of your sweater.
you adjust him carefully, one hand supporting his weight under his legs as you walk toward the door. the cold air hits your face the second you step outside; leon’s car is parked in the driveway with the trunk wide open, the interior light casting a warm glow over the scattered bags already inside. leon stands at the back of it, moving quickly, lifting another duffel and shoving it farther in before slamming the trunk down with a solid thud.
he turns at the sound of the door behind you, then he’s already walking toward you.
“hey,” he murmurs quietly as he reaches you, his voice lowering automatically when he sees how deeply asleep his son is. you shift your weight slightly, adjusting the small body slumped against you. even half asleep, your son instinctively curls closer, his fingers tightening weakly in the fabric at the back of your sweater.
“didn’t wake up,” you whisper.
leon’s eyes soften when he looks at him. “figures.”
he reaches out without hesitation, one hand sliding carefully under the boy’s back while the other supports his legs. the transfer is gentle and your son barely stirs as leon lifts him away from you, just making a soft sleepy noise before his head drops against leon’s shoulder instead.
you exhale quietly when the weight leaves your arms, and leon notices immediately. “i got him, go sit.” he says softly as ge turns and walks to the back seat, opening the door and leaning in to settle the boy into the car seat already strapped in place. he works slowly, carefully buckling the harness without jostling him too much. your son squirms once, eyes fluttering halfway open before he sinks right back into sleep, his head tipping to the side.
leon adjusts the strap gently near his shoulder, making sure it sits right. only after he’s satisfied does he shut the door softly.
you’ve made your way around to the passenger side by then, lowering yourself carefully into the seat. the cushion dips under your weight and you lean back with a quiet breath, one hand resting on your stomach out of habit. leon walks around the car, stopping when he sees you watching him through the open passenger window.
“baby, can you do me one favor?” you ask.
leon pauses with his hand resting on the roof of the car. “what do you need?”
you glance back toward the house. “i left my bear on the bed.”
his eyebrows pull together slightly. “the one i won you?”
you nod a little, almost sheepish. “i know it’s stupid,” you say quietly. “but you know i can’t sleep anywhere without it.”
leon exhales softly through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “not stupid.”
he's leaning down so he’s level with you and up close you can see the exhaustion in his face,
“two minutes,” he says but before he straightens, you reach out slightly, your hand catching the sleeve of his jacket.
“hey.” you call out softly and he pauses.
you lean toward the open window just enough to press a quick kiss to his lips. it’s soft and brief, but warm— something sweet in the middle of everything that suddenly feels uncertain. you also didn’t get a chance to give him his welcome home kiss.
leon lingers for half a second when you pull back, his forehead almost brushing yours before he finally straightens again.
his hand briefly touches your cheek.
“love you too,” he murmurs. then he turns and jogs back toward the house. a minute later he steps out again with the plushie in his hand, walking straight over to the passenger side and passing it through the window to you. the fabric is worn soft from years of being held, but you recognize it instantly.
“almost left without your emotional support,” he mutters.
you take it from him and put it between your thighs.
“thank you, bub.” you smile a little, despite the anxiety.
leon taps the roof of the car lightly before finally moving around to the driver’s side, hopping in and starting the engine before backing out of the driveway. your thumb fidgets with your wedding ring; a pretty princess cut, four and a half carat diamond.
leon turns onto the empty road, heading toward the highway that cuts through the wooded suburbs outside of dc. at this hour the neighborhood is still dark, porch lights glowing faintly between the trees as the car slips past sleeping houses.
synopsis: starting your new job at a hybrid fighting ring as one of the in-house physicians, you seem to have caught the eye of some very dangerous predators… (wc: 972)
The sun blazed overhead as you made your way to work. Rushed your way to work, more like. The heat, the morning crowd, and your lack of morning coffee were all starting to eat away at what little patience you had left.
You barely made it to work on time, clocking in a few seconds before the official 9am start of the day. With a sigh of relief, you began setting up your office for the day. Changing into your scrubs, making your morning coffee and reviewing your charts. A semblance of peace before your chaotic day. Working in the country's largest hybrid fighting ring as an in-house doctor certainly wasn't easy but hey, the pay was good and you could stick to a semi-regular schedule, rather than the constant night shifts at the hybrid hospital you used to work at. This new workplace also offered many employee benefits, like a great insurance plan, free meals, an in-house therapist (Janet), and more.
Unfortunately, the company failed to warn you about the hybrids you'd encounter. Not so much about their breed, since you've worked with all kinds of hybrids, but more about their… personalities.
First, the wolf hybrid, Fenrir. He'd barge in, his face dark and brooding. His pointed ears on top of his head added extra height to his already intimidating build. Every time he comes to your office he'd have to hunch over slightly just to fit through the door. He's never injured that seriously, at most a shallow bite wound or some bruising. Ranked number 1 among all the fighters, his fights would end the quickest with him barely sustaining an injury. And yet, after each fight he'd still walk through your office and sit in front of you, all without a word. Even if it was a tiny scratch, he'd still insist on getting you to treat him. When you treat his wounds, he'll stare at your face the entire time without a sound, as if trying to commit it to memory. As you lean in for a better reach, he'd take a deep breath of your scent before grumbling about how you smell like other animals in his usual gruff voice. And each time you'd brush him off, trying to ignore how close he was to your face. "Don't let them get too close to you." is all he says before he leaves your office.
Compared to the wolf hybrid, the snake hybrid Jörmun is much tougher to deal with. His slit pupil eyes and cunning smile leave an unsettling feeling in your stomach. Every conversation you have with him feels like a chess game. His gaze unmoving, noticing and analysing all your responses and reactions. Sometimes his scaled tail would wrap around your ankle, slowly winding up your calf. "It just has a mind of its own, sorry," he'd say, as if he doesn't just display full control over his tail, using it to take down his opponent in his previous match. He didn't become ranked 2nd using brute strength but his intellect and strategy. Each move he makes is a carefully calculated one, tailored to attack his opponent's fatal weaknesses and defeat them with a chilling efficiency. As such his injuries were never too serious either, no broken bones or sprained ligaments, just bleeding wounds that only need to be bandaged up. Weirdly enough his wounds heal the slowest, even with the enhanced healing abilities of hybrids, they would randomly reopen or sometimes even get infected. His older medical records never mentioned anything of the sort, and when you mention this to him all he does is smile and reply with "It's fine. Afterall, I have you to take care of me, don't I?"
Ranked third in the fighting ring and the most annoying to deal with would be the hawk hybrid, Zephyr. Overly friendly and charming, sometimes outright flirting with you. He'd show off his massive wings with feathers of different hues of brown, white and specks of black. Even when he's beat up and battered after a fight, he'd still find a way to sneak in a pick-up line or two while your patching him up. His cocky and confident attitude doesn't hide his keen intellect and constant awareness of his surroundings. He'd enter the room and instinctively scan the room for threats, exits, and potential weapons (or prey). Flying is his second nature, maneuvering in the air and using his sharp eyes to spot the perfect opportunity to strike—his usual formula to victory and how he clawed his way up the ranks. Treating his wounds is a constant challenge, having to divide your attention between the actual treatment and keeping up with the conversation lest he become pouty again. However one thing you noticed was that the only time the hawk would stop making advances at you would be when your hands are on his wings. Only then would he be completely silent and frozen in place, with the occasional shiver when your hands brush across a particularly sensitive feather. After you're done, he'd turn back to you slightly breathless, cheeks flushed and pupils dilated. "You.. you really have a way with your hands, doc." He whispered, looking down at you with a hunger in his eyes. You frowned in confusion before shooing him out of your office.
A knock on your door breaks you out of your morning daze. You sigh, bracing for whoever may be on the other side. Ever since those three hybrids had discovered your existance, your other hybrid patients have been visiting your office less frequently, which narrows down your guesses as to who was knocking on your door. Thinking about what those three have done to make that many other prideful hybrids scared to come into your office… ignorance is bliss, you tell yourself.
Taking a deep breath, you silently prayed for today to be uneventful. "Come in!"
*********************************************
for extra background info: couldn't think of any cool guy names so i chose the names based on norse/greek mythology (i had a percy jackson phase as a kid....) (i never left that phase really...)
Fenrir: Monstrous wolf, son of Loki
Jörmungandr (Jörmun): aka World serpent, son of Loki
Instead of making the reader Bruce unknown kid or neglected kid make them a normal citizen. They were living in Gotham city because of [reason] and they got kidnapped by [some scientist villain or mod boss] to be used as an experiment. In so twisted way of actually making a BAT person. Reader body was forced into test and mild mutation (so they still look human enough!) to have bat function.
Abilities the reader can have
- bat wings
- Echolocation
- super crawl, jump, and hop. Moving at unnatural speeds in these actions.
- [if you go the bat wing route] Powered Flight and High-Speed Mobility
Let the reader met the bat fam in a rescue or they escaped and become a hero or anti-hero. Let the reader be adopt by the bat family, or fall in love with a member, or join the justice league. Make the reader have to get used to a bats diet make the human but different enough to know the reader is no longer human. Make them homesick, a crybaby, an openly expressive person something the bat family isn’t.
Build up there obsession, their clingy attitude, and possessive side. Cause reader is not from their world and the reader has to learn from them. Depend on them.
You know I used to think some of these yandere fam was the shit but they all get boring with the same neglect reader. Like no one switch it up yes I get you are working with characters that aren’t your but like really ?
• The reader sick or dying
• Bat fam don’t notice cause well they barely see reader
• Reader fuck off and DOESNT ask for help. Not their friend, teacher, FUCK IT ALFRED ! They are actively trying to die in the most painful way
• Reader almost dies cause some was fucking watching suffer ? Than save them like what?
• Bat fam noticed, feel guilty , self pity party
•different scenarios where bat fam get jealous ore self pity
Than ending being
• Reader (mostly) never forgive them and fuck off or fuck off with their new found family that happens to be a yandere family.
Like the same god damn DANCE OVER AND OVER. There are millions scenarios these authors can come up with. But they just fall flat on it ass.
No reader that is a mutant or reader that is like [insert movie] (Example a movie like Lucy) or something different?
It’s the same five song. Over and over and over and I’m going insane. I’m complaining because where is the god damn creative. “Make it yourself “ I DO ! I JUST WANT INSPIRATION AND I CANT WHEN IT A MILLION OF THE SAME NEGLECTED MARY FUCKING SUE. HAVE THE READER WANT TO LIVE. I was a teenager and I WANT to live and DIE. And especially when the reader always have a group of friends. BULLSHIT! Have a reader that has no friends than I believe those mf and not BULLIED just they have trouble connecting with people for to long and not those STEREOTYPES where they have trust issues, they just don’t know how to build a lasting relationship without them feeling boring. Make them a person and not a god damn Mary sue!
