chandrxla

hi, i'm izzy! i write fanfiction

[chandrxla]

call me izzy! (she/her) ౨ৎ

writer. lover of leon s. kennedy, heavy angst, and self-indulgent AUs.

things tend to get a little explicit around here... (so mdni. plz. and mind the tags!!!)

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featured.

ivy - knight!leon kennedy/princess!reader, medieval au

like a bird in the heart, like a sparrow - re9!leon kennedy/brat!reader, post-canon

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current projects.

ivy - knight!leon kennedy/princess!reader, medieval au

protect me from what i want - sebastian (sdv)/reader, university/band au

gardenias on the tile - bounty hunter!leon kennedy/wanted rebel!reader, western horror au, coming so very soon!!!!

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links.

ao3 - works are organized by fandom using pseuds

faq

askbox - for requests and questions and giggling together

masterlist - all works + meta in an organized fashion

personal account - fic recs and a little shitposting…

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tags.

#leonkennedyxreader - baby i know what ur here for ;)

#leononeshots - quick and easy treats <3

#mywriting - all posted works!

#meta - fic analysis and rambling and screaming into the void

#izzyspeaks - answering asks and me pretending this is twitter

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status.

requests: open! (soft ask, no guarantees)

asks: always welcome <3

[chandrxla]

snique pique

2 requests for bd!leon whaaaaaat. ngl guys this is not my usual territory but i am enjoying this exploration of domestic angst. tell me why i was on a child support calculator for 30 mins fiddling w numbers last night.

working on it though!!! apparently the trick to get me out of writing slumps is to send requests. keep them coming!! preview below the cut ;)

leon dialogue is so much fun to write in quite literally every universe. i do so love a good whispered argument

Your apartment is dim except for the kitchen light.

He’s still there, but he shouldn’t be.

You told him he could leave twenty minutes ago. After you took Grace from his arms, after you said thank you, after everything that should’ve ended this interaction cleanly.

But Leon’s ducked underneath the cabinets, fiddling with the drawer that’s been squealing since your daughter was three months old. She’s asleep down the hall. You can hear the soft hum of the baby monitor between you.

“Hey,” he says, gently closing the drawer. It’s silent now. You hate that you feel a little relieved.

You don’t look at him when you speak, still holding on to one of Grace’s dolls. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say. “I was gonna get around to it.”

“Yeah?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder. “Sometime before she starts kindergarten?”

You almost smile. That annoys you more than anything. “I had a system.”

“Right,” he hums. He’s standing now, leaning back on your old counter like he never stopped belonging there.

Neither of you say anything for a while. Silence stretches. Familiar, like always. Uncomfortable, like it’s been since you split.

“You didn’t have to send that much, either,” you add. “Again.”

His jaw ticks a little. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is when you keep doing it.”

He huffs, but there’s something amused beneath it. “It’s for her.”

“She’s two, Leon. She doesn’t need 700 dollars a week.”

“She’s got expensive taste,” he says lightly. “Takes after her mom.”

You glare at him, sharp. “Don’t.”

He shrugs, much too easily. “What? It’s true. She asked for a rocking horse from Pottery Barn the other day.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

You set the doll down on the table harder than you mean to. “The point is, you don’t have to keep—” you make a vague, frustrated gesture between you, “—doing all this.”

“All this,” he repeats slowly, like he’s testing the words.

“Yeah,” you say. “You don’t just drop her off anymore. You hang around. You buy shit from Pottery Barn—”

“Language,” he chides, tilting his head toward Grace’s room.

You ignore him, holding a hand up. “You… you fix things that don’t need fixing.”

“Drawer needed fixing.”

You’re just about ready to tear your hair out. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Leon steps closer. “Maybe I just like being here,” he says.

That lands softer than it should. You swallow hard. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Why?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “You think I’m gonna break something?”

“You already did.” It slips out before you can stop it.

He inhales, his shoulders tensing. “Yeah,” he says. “I remember.”

You pull the chair out and sit, your head in your hands. “We tried this, Leon,” you murmur. “It didn’t work.”

He follows, his leg brushing yours. You tense, but you don’t move away.

“Hey. I’m not trying to mess things up again,” he says quietly. “I know we were bad for each other.”

You snort, meeting his gaze. “That’s a generous way of putting it.”

He smiles, just a little. “Tryin’ to be nice.”

[chandrxla]

haloo the jester leon fic was AMAZINGG im gonna explode!!!!! yayy thank you omg <3 have a wonderful day! teehee

hiii!! <33 so glad you liked it it was so much fun to write!!! have the best day ever MWAHHHH!!

[chandrxla]

haii fic req: jester leon x reader! no pressure :D have a nice day! ^^

this was a fun challenge!!! thought long and hard about how to execute this but once i started writing it just didn't stop and kept getting longer. this is the fastest i've ever written anything in quite some time so thank you anon for the inspiration! hope u like <3 also this is barely proofread so i apologize for any errors HAHAHA

꧁⋆ if i speak plainly

court jester!leon kennedy/lady-in-waiting!reader | medieval au

🃟

rated: mature

word count: 2,293

tags: mutual pining, court intrigue, forbidden attraction, spicy kissing LOL

when you ask the court jester to speak plainly, he warns you that you won't like what he has to say.

you insist.

At first, Leon is only noise.

He’s color where everything else is restraint. Laughter where everything else is measured. You learn quickly, as all new arrivals do, not to take it to heart. To let it pass over you — his voice, his bells, the ripple of attention he leaves in his wake.

The others at court laugh easily. You learn to smile when they do. You do not think about him when he is gone.

For now, at least.

🃟

It begins quietly, almost beyond notice.

You’re standing behind the queen’s chair, fingers smoothing the fall of her hairpiece, when Leon slips a remark between two jokes. 

“I’ve been trying to improve myself,” he says to the long table of nobles sitting before him. “I now agree with everyone. It’s much easier than thinking.”

It’s light, meant to be disguised as folly, but sharp enough that it makes your hands still and your breath catch.

The rest of the room seems to dismiss it. Laughter follows, as it always does.

Without meaning to, your eyes meet. He holds your gaze for one long, silent second, like he’s measuring whether you understood.

You look away first, busying yourself with a pitcher of wine.

🃟

After that, you begin to hear him differently. Clearly. He’s never careless. Every word lands where it should. Every jest bends just enough to avoid breaking.

There’s a pattern you notice. How he circles something before touching it. How the king shifts, almost imperceptibly, when he goes a fraction too far. How most in the room are none the wiser to what he truly means.

Watching him becomes a habit you don’t intend to form. You never do it openly, but you catch his face in the reflection of polished goblets. You see a flash of blond hair in the space between shoulders and the shape of his shadow in the flicker of candlelight across the hall.

At dinner tonight, the wine’s been poured much too freely. You can tell by the noise. It echoes off stone, looser, unmeasured, slipping at the edges of propriety. The king leans back in his chair, looking satisfied. Everything feels softer around the edges, a hush falling over the court as they wait to be entertained.

Leon drifts towards the end of the table, eyeing the nobles as though selecting something from a shelf. He stops beside a broad-shouldered lord, richly dressed and clearly indulgent.

“My lord,” Leon says lightly. “You’ve been remarkably consistent this evening.”

The lord glances at him, amused already. “In what regard?”

Leon gestures to the wine in the his hand. “I’ve not seen your goblet touch the table once tonight.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the room. The corner of your mouth lifts before you can stop it.

The lord grins, raising the cup in acknowledgement. “A tragedy, I assure you.”

“On the contrary,” Leon replies, stepping back with an easy smile. “A talent. I’ve been trying to cultivate it myself.”

“Then you’d best begin at once,” the lord says.

A servant steps in beside Leon, refilling his cup without a word.

Leon glances at it briefly before downing it. He raises it to the room. “I am, as ever, devoted to my studies.” 

The table laughs again. Leon lets the sound of it crest and break, as natural as breath, before he steps into the center, before the king.

A shift happens then. It’s slight, but you’ve watched him long enough to recognize it. No one else has caught up yet, still expecting the next easy thing. The torchlight catches in his hair as he bows, pale where it falls across his brow, darker where it’s damp with heat at the nape of his neck. You shouldn’t notice. You do anyway.

“Your Majesty,” he says lightly. “I had a thought earlier today.”

The room quiets in anticipation, still very much at ease. No one ever expects much from a fool. But you — you look up from your meal, caught in his every movement. 

“I was watching the court,” Leon continues, pacing slowly along the length of the table. “A great pleasure, I assure you. One sees so many remarkable things.”

He gestures loosely toward the nobles. “Such loyalty. Such devotion.”

A lord near the end of the table raises his goblet, grinning.

Leon’s smile sharpens, just slightly. “And such… bountiful feasts.”

Something in your stomach drops. You clasp your hands tightly together in your lap.

He stops walking and turns, just enough that his voice carries clearly. “Some of us are growing quite… comfortable,” he says, almost thoughtfully. “Myself included. It’s impossible to stay trim, especially when the cook makes his roast.”

Murmurs of agreement sound amongst you. You keep your eyes on Leon, heart caught high in your throat.

“The servants, of course, seem to have no such difficulty with their figures. They keep a far stricter table than we do. I’d say we ought to try it tonight, but—”

A small pause. Just enough. He motions to everyone’s plates.

“—it’s much too late for that now, I’m afraid.”

He catches you then, in that fleeting moment before the joke fully lands. This is the part you dread — the pause, the holding of breath, the way the court leans towards the king’s high table, waiting for permission.

You realize then that the smile he wears doesn’t quite reach his eyes. At least, not until the king laughs. 

The rest of the room follows shortly, like it always does.

You don’t. You haven’t for weeks now, but relief floods through you all at once.

Dinner resumes as though nothing happened, only everyone seems to speak louder, a touch too eager. At the end of it all, when the court disperses and the air clears, you linger longer than usual. The hall is a mess of empty goblets, torn bread, and half-eaten meals. Indulgence, abandoned without thought. The truth of Leon’s words settles somewhere inside you, impossible to ignore. 

You watch as servant boy reaches for a plate, pausing as another whispers something low at his shoulder. They both smile, then continue their work.

Leon is there, when you reach the quiet corridor that leads to the royal chambers. You tell yourself it’s merely by chance.

“My lady,” he says lightly. He leans loosely against the wall as though he’s always belonged to this in-between space, one glove discarded, bells at his wrist stilled. “You look troubled.”

You regard him carefully, struck briefly by his deliberate gaze. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

“Am I?” His head tilts, and he studies you in the way he does the noblemen at court when he’s about to make a joke at their expense. “That’s impressive. Most people manage to look less troubled when they’re not.”

Your jaw tightens. You should leave it here, should return to the queen’s quarters where you belong, where the other ladies-in-waiting will already be drawing her nightly bath. You cannot.

Leon meets your eyes squarely now, pushing off the wall, and you find yourself rooted in place, heart stumbling out of rhythm as he closes the distance by a step.

“You mustn’t… say things like that,” you murmur. Holding his gaze is burdensome. You let yours drop. “Not in court.”

“Like what?”

“You know what.”

“I say many things,” Leon replies, unshaken. He dips his head slightly, angling himself just enough to catch your eyes again when you try to avoid his. “You’ll have to narrow it down for me, my lady.”

You hesitate, fingers twisting faintly in the fabric at your side. Giving in feels like stepping into something you don’t understand. With a breath, you gather your nerve.

“The way you speak,” you say finally. “It isn’t…” You trail off. You can’t seem to finish the thought with him looking at you like that.

He seems to take pity on you then, something softer in his expression. “Safe?” he offers.

You give him the slightest of nods.

He watches you for a moment longer, then smiles. It’s easy and light, meant to reassure. 

“That’s the beauty of it,” he says. “No one expects sense from a fool.”

“What, then, when the king realizes and has you punished for it?” you ask.

“Then I’ve miscalculated,” he says simply. “And I won’t have to worry about it again.” 

You shake your head slightly. “You should be more careful,” you say quietly. The words slip out before you can stop them. They’re too soft to be a reprimand, too direct to be nothing. 

His smile flickers, just for a moment. “And deprive them of their only honest man? That seems a waste.”

You search his face, looking for fear. You don’t find a trace of it. “Surely honesty is not worth your life.”

He shrugs. “It’s the only thing I’m permitted to spend freely.”

You pause, thinking over his words, before letting out a soft breath. “You need not speak in riddles here, though. There’s no one to hear it but me.” 

“I’m afraid it’s what I’m paid to do,” he replies without missing a beat. He pauses, then quieter, he asks, “Would you prefer I speak plainly to you?”

“I would.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I will,” you insist, too quickly. 

A flash of amusement passes through his eyes. “You won’t,” he repeats.

He closes the distance between you. This time, there’s no pretense to it. No circling, no performance. He’s close enough now that you can feel the heat of him. Every inch of you stills.

“Because if I speak plainly,” he says, voice lower now, steadier, “I’ll say that I’ve noticed you watching me.”

You falter. “I haven’t—”

“You have.” He speaks certainly. No room for question. “And I’ll say,” he continues, quieter still, “that you don’t laugh when I jest.”

Your gaze flickers — his shoulder, his collar, anywhere but his eyes.

“And I’ll say,” he adds, “that you hear more than you should.”

You turn your face to the side. It’s the only way you can think to escape him without stepping back. Leon leans in anyway, his breath brushing your cheek.

“You understand me, and you show it. And that,” he finishes, his voice dropping just enough that it feels meant for you alone, “is far more dangerous than anything I’ve said in court.”

Gently, he takes your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look at him. You don’t resist.

“Would you like me to go on, my lady?”

Your heart pounds so loudly in your ears that you don’t trust your voice. You stay exactly where you are, and you nod.

“I’ve thought about this,” Leon says. He guides you back, until your shoulders hit cool stone. “More than once.”

Your fingers shake as you reach for him, twisted in the fabric at his chest. “About what?”

“About how it would feel to have you look at me properly,” he answers, lips curving into that familiar half-smile. “Not across a room. Not when you think I won’t notice.” His thumb shifts, just enough to tilt your face up. “But like this.”

“Whether you’d let me kiss you…” A pause. His fingers brush your cheek. “…here...”

His touch drifts lower, to the skin at your throat. “…or here…” 

You tilt your head, just slightly, opening yourself up to him. An invitation too delicate for words.

“Ah,” he murmurs, quieter now. “You would.”

You close your eyes, breathless. “I would.”

He presses the first just beneath your ear. A sharp shiver runs through you, heat pooling low.

Your hands tangle in his hair as his lips move lower, leaving gentle kisses in their wake. He nips gently where neck meets shoulder, smiling when your grip tightens.

“Leon—” you breathe, his name leaving you before you can think better of it.

He suddenly stills, mouth lingering against your skin.

“…please.”

His head lifts. Something softer has settled in his expression when your eyes meet again.

Gently, you take his hand. You guide him slowly, until his fingers rest just beneath your lips. “Kiss me here,” you whisper.

He laughs, warmed by you, and says, “You’re particular, my lady.”

Then his mouth finds yours.

The first press of him is warm and wine-sweet, claiming your lips with the same precise grace he wields in court.

For a moment, you don’t move. The heat of it, of him, of this, holds you in place. 

Then you take his face in your hands, and you kiss him back. 

Whatever restraint he had completely gives at your touch. He tilts your head just slightly to suit himself, deepening the kiss until you feel it in your toes.

You sigh softly into his mouth, opening for him completely, forgetting everything else. The hall, the court, the careful lines you’ve kept are all gone. Dissolved into this. All that remains is him, and this quiet, forbidden want that’s been building for much too long.

One of his hands moves up your body, testing the line of your bodice as if deciding how far he can go. The other glides down your side, spreading wide over the curve of your waist before settling lower still. He draws your body flush with his, grip tight on your hip. You feel him then, all lean muscle and barely leashed desire, pressed hot and insistent against your thigh.

The need for air finally forces you to part, though neither of you goes far. Your lips brush his again, softer, feather-light and breathless. Then again, and again, and again, leaving him to chase after you.

“We’ve chosen a very inconvenient place for this,” he murmurs between kisses.

You smile against his lips, warmth rising beneath your skin. “Perhaps.”

“And here I thought you’d send me away.” He strokes your cheek, something tender in it now. “Dangerous woman.”

[chandrxla]

leon is allergic to saying i love you did you notice that

omg. my first meta post for RE!! my first favorite thing to do in the world is write, and the second is to analyze every detail and literary device until my eyes burn and scream about my favorite moments. so if you want more insight on ivy’s process thus far, it lies below the cut B)

as usual, spoilers up until the latest chapter!! (catch up here 😉)

3.2k spiral ahead. you have been warned.

general rambling

i actually meant for this blog to be mostly meta/discussion of my process as sort of a diary for myself to look back on regarding my works, and for ao3 to be the main thang but it’s so funny how things end up. more people have engaged with my silly little works than i ever expected in my entire life bc of this platform and for that i am so happy and thankful! my time to write has definitely lessened since i really picked it back up again the past few years (CURSE YOU POST-GRAD LIFE!!! PREEMPTIVE CURSE YOU GRAD SCHOOL APPS!!!!!!), which means less material to analyze which SUCKSSS. but you know what i’m kind of playing cooking mama with my life because there are some very important things i should be doing right now at 12:39AM (sleeping or perhaps studying for entrance exams) but i’m in my notes app instead typing this :D

you guys seriously don’t understand how long i’ve been itching to make a post like this, but i wanted to wait until enough of the story was out that i could do a spoiler-free analysis (so as not to ruin the magic you know). i do love my horny one-shots, but angsty longfic is where my heart truly lies (as excruciating it is to build a long, cohesive narrative sometimes :P). ivy is that happy medium where it’s not an 80k+ word spiral (hi marcus i kinda miss you) but there’s still enough volume for symbols to become motifs, opportunities for callbacks, more fleshed-out character arcs etc etc 

I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS

so without further ado…

leon s kennedy is the love of my life

i’m not really sure what it is about him, but out of every fictional character i’ve ever loved in my life (and boy are there many!) he’s just so… AU-able??? for some reason, it’s just so much easier for me to pluck him out of the RE-verse and drop him literally anywhere — medieval times, in the wild west, fuck it lets put him in space in the next fic — than it is for any other character i write for.

but wherever he lands, i do try to make sure he still has that leon silly quirkiness to him, no matter the setting. it’s a little hard to make dad jokes when you’re the king’s champion knight while simultaneously having an affair with the soon-to-be queen consort, but he tries his best.

in chapter i, the leon-isms start off subtle:

“I don’t belong anywhere in this country,” you interrupt, sharp but not unkind.

He doesn’t answer. He just watches you, a brow raised…

“…Sir,” you add, a little meek.

His mouth twitches faintly. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s softer than you anticipated.

idk i just thought this was adorbs (on both ends! they’re both so cute and awkward). reading it back now reminds me of that one screenshot from re9 where he’s just like 🙂

once the walls start to come down, we get more of his signature dry wit. i think this moment in chapter ii is one of my favorites in the whole work:

He’s lit a candle already… You gesture toward it. “What are you praying for, Sir Leon? Divine intervention? A swift death?”

“A quieter court,” he replies, deadpan. “Maybe a mute herald.”

You barely suppress a smile. “That would be a mercy.”

That earns a soft chuckle. It’s a rare sound, but it’s earnest. It might be one of the only honest things in this country. 

AAGHHGHGHHGG i need him so bad </3 believe it or not guys i b squealing to my own writing sometimes. they match each other’s energy here so sweetly and i’d like to think i’d be the same if i ever got to speak to leon but i’d probably just burst into tears ngl

in canon, the more horrors leon sees, the more one-liners he says to the most terrifying, dangerous, deadly creatures without ever looking like he gives a fuck 😭we don’t have too many fights against BOWs in this story unfortunately, so the closest thing we get is a joust LMAO. he’s a beast in canon so naturally he is the Best Knight in this story, which comes with what sounds like arrogance on the surface, but is a coping mechanism (at least in the way i interpret his character). if this man doesn’t laugh, he Will Cry. in chapter iii, he’s injured during the tournament and of course neglects it in favor of brooding around at the feast. when the princess calls him out:

A long gash blooms red and raw along his ribs, hastily bandaged and already bleeding through.

“This isn’t nothing,” you murmur, looking up at him. “You fought with this?”

“I won with it,” he amends, but his voice is tight with pain.

BOYYYY IF U DONT

in the latest chapter, i wanted to be nice and give them just a bit of time to be happy before everything crashes and burns. i think this is the quippiest we see leon thus far and probably for the rest of the story ngl… the things i have planned guys… have i ever told you how much i love and adore and cherish you?

ANYWAY. we get these little moments where we see what he’d be like if things were as close to Fine and Good as they could get 

first in the gardens:

“We meet in daylight now,” he says dryly, reaching for you. “Shall I start greeting you in court?”

PANTIES AWFFFFFF

and then in the corridor, when he’s teasing her about her very wonderful ladies-in-waiting:

Your back hits the cold stone wall, and you look up at him with a grin. “They adore me,” you say lightly. “And they pity you.”

He huffs a soft, teasing laugh against your hair. “Then they’re fools twice over.”

smart alec alert helloooooo!!!! your ladies aren’t fools for adoring you he’s just kidding. if they are fools for simple adoration, that makes him a total buffoon a thousand times over because he’s so completely head over heels. i hc that teasing is his love language, so you must endure it in every fic i write ok?

because i am me, we must end this section with some angst. 

leon is doomed the second he has his first real conversation with the princess, because he sees a little bit of himself in her. when he was first taken in by the king from that border village, he was alone, and knighthood became his meaning. the princess is in a similar situation, alone, and with her upcoming marriage as her only means of belonging to this kingdom. that recognition is evident in chapter i, in this moment:

“Are you planning on running?” he asks…

“I’m betrothed to a man twice my age, in a land I don’t know, with a war brewing just across the sea.” You glance at him, bitter. “Would you stop me?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “I’d have to try.” He says it quietly, but there’s nothing gentle in it.

You should be afraid. He’s the king’s sword — loyal, feared, immovable. You’ve heard what they call him in the barracks. You’ve seen then way the court bends when he enters a room.

But he’s looking at you like you’re not a burden to bear, or a pawn to guard. He’s looking at you like he understands.

You swallow, throat dry. “Will you tell the king about this?” you ask.

Leon’s jaw flexes. He shakes his head. “I won’t,” he murmurs. “But you should get back before you’re missed.”

the tea is that i wrote this moment BEFORE i had solidified his backstory, but it ended up working gorgeously. if i ever find the mental fortitude, i’ll make this into a 200k+ novel one day. there’s just so much potential for a long narrative here, AND I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE a historical forbidden romance, but i have to be responsible about my limits HAHAHAHA

leon s kennedy is not leon s kennedy without a sense of duty to a fault. it’s dialed up to 1000 in ivy just because of the setting and chivalry and his role as a knight yadayada. but if you notice, he’s usually the one who sets the boundaries here. it’s not because the princess doesn’t care, but moreso because he’s so on top of it that he beats her to it every time. the reader character is also written to be aware of her role but a little naïve. the way i see it, her hopefulness and spirit are what he loves about her most, and he always has to be the one to crush that in the interest of keeping them both alive YESSSS LOVE ITTTT MAKE IT HURT

the Saddest Moment (which had me biting my fist while i was writing ngl) has to be when he does give up a little bit since their time is running out. i shit you not this came to me while i was in the shower, and i dragged my phone in there with me to make this cursed thing in my notes app so i wouldn’t forget what i wanted to evoke

AND SO THIS WAS BORN

The week before your wedding, he lets you sleep on the chapel’s cold stone instead of waking you as he usually does… He’s watching you, softly, like always, but also with something heavier.

You lift your head. “What is it, my love?” you ask, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

Leon shakes his head. His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and absent. “Nothing,” he murmurs, 

but his voice wavers like he’s already grieving. “Just enjoying you.”

it’s so telling of his character — yes he is a little stoic and has seen some shit in his day BUT HE WANTS TO BE LOVED TOO </3 he’s known from the beginning that this is something that could never last, but still lets it happen anyway BECAUSE LOVE!!!! it makes life more than survival :,)

and the fact that at this point in the story, “my love” is just so easily said by the princess… i wanted to convey that those words have become second nature to her. and it’s all going to be taken away so soon….

which brings us to my clickbait ass title LMFAO

why leon never says i love you unless he’s forced to (at least so far)

i know you all have eagle eyes. i know you noticed. the one and only time leon ever says “i love you” verbatim is when the princess basically says SAY IT GODDAMMIT OR KICK ROCKS!!

“You’re a coward, Leon,” you cry, eyes stinging. “If you care for me, truly, don’t run. Don’t call it duty. Don’t hide behind oath. Speak it true.”

“I cannot…”  His voice breaks, and he looks as if he’ll shatter at any moment. “I love you. Is that what you want to hear?”

Leon sinks to his knees in front of you, in ruin. His hands clutch your skirts like he’ll unravel without the anchor of them, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

“I love you,” he says again, voice hoarse. “I love you, and I don’t know how to stop.”

everything else he says after this confession is not quite “i love you,” but it’s definitely not rejection or denial. we know he feels deeply and shows it through his actions, but he struggles a lot to say it openly because, walk with me here, naming it means acknowledging he has something that he can’t keep. naming it means he makes it real, and if it’s real, it’s something he can lose.

in chapter v:

“I want you,” you whisper. “All of you.”

“You have me,” Leon says. He turns slightly, catching one of your palms with a kiss. 

“Not just tonight,” you say. “Forever.”

Something breaks in his expression then, but he doesn’t speak. 

he wants forever so bad girl… he just doesn’t have the heart to promise something he can’t ever give…. 

they have to end their sneaking around before she gets married because that’s when it really is treason. i guess it was treason before, but post-marriage, it would be Super Treason. i have leon give her his mother’s ring here because it’s an acknowledgement of what they have being Real True Love (contrast a political marriage for war advantage) without him getting on his knees (again) and giving her a shakespearean soliloquy. for him, this is as close as it gets to a long-winded confession in the rain.

i take some artistic liberties here with leon’s heritage HAHAHA. his last name is kennedy so obviously there’s some irish in there… right?? right??? i discussed it a little in the ao3 author’s notes, but the ring he gives her is a claddagh ring :,) it’s a tad historically inaccurate, since i imagine this story taking place a few hundred years before they were invented 😭 but my motto is poetic meaning above all else, for better or for worse 💪🏼 and also i have one (thanks nana <3) and it is my most prized possession. so that makes me the princess.

i linked this little article about its meaning. IT’S JUST SO PERFECT FOR THEM. the crown symbolizes royalty, yes, but also loyalty?? it rests on top of the heart, which symbolizes love??? hands come together and hold it up???? i could speak for days about this and the parallels with their story. if you really want to get into the nitty gritty, the crown on top of the heart is what really got me thinking. royalty vs loyalty, and the weight their love bears as a result of that struggle… holy shit i feel like my eighth grade english teacher…..

i want to talk about this moment here:

Somewhere quieter, far away from here, your hand is in his across a rough wooden table, sunlight spilling through an open window. No crown, no guards, no one watching. He says something that makes you laugh. It’s easy. Unburdened. A life that belongs to no one but the two of you.

we get a little slice of life like this in the princess’s dream (the interlude chapter), so i tried to make leon’s little daydream take place in the same universe.

what this is basically saying is that there’s another life where he’s making her laugh instead of cry, where he’s taking away her pain instead of being the cause of it. ohhhhh leon…. oh leon….

i do want to note that the princess doesn’t see him as a source of pain though. at least, not to the extent that warrants leon’s extreme guilt for it. it’s ~worthwhile pain~ to her but leon just thinks it’s just Pain. #unreliablenarratoryasss

anyway. he loves her down. he loves her spirit and her hope and her strength. i wanted to drive it home here with this moment

“I won’t survive it,” you whisper.

Leon’s thumb brushes beneath your eye, swiping at the dampness there. “You will,” he murmurs, steady despite everything else. He’s more sure of your strength than he is of his own. “You must.”

it just reminds me of the little pep talks he gives in canon. like in re4r where ashley’s like “i don’t know if i can” and he’s just like “You Can 💪🏼” he believes in you 🌈 and also he wants you to live LOL

he has one last chance here to say i love you but he just doesn’t LOL. in fact i’d argue it’s even better.

You pull away trembling, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. “I love you,” you whisper into his skin. “There is no vow I can say tomorrow that could undo that.”

He holds you tighter at that, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Nothing could,” he says, aching and fond. “My heart is yours, my lady. Even in silence. Even from afar.”

he may not SAY i love you verbatim, but everything else he does—ensuring your safety above all else, the ring, the restraint, the distance even though it hurts—SCREAMS it to the high heavens. he basically says here that he’s hers in this life too, even though it can’t ever be, which is soooo much more fitting and painful than just saying “i love you too.” he loves the princess so much that he won’t even say it. think about that. >:)

bonus: your ladies-in-waiting

originally, i was just going to have leon and the princess suffer with their secret alone, but i saw this one edit on tiktok about girlhood in period pieces and it got the gears turning. there’s just something so special to me about female friendship, and i adored the idea of her ladies helping the princess keep this one thing that makes her happy, because they too know how difficult it is to be a woman in their world :,)

so we have a cameo from claire and grace :D ignore their canon ages they’re around the same age as the princess here. they also have the more believably medieval-y names.

i tried to keep them true to their canon selves. grace is resourceful and really soft with the princess, and claire’s more outspoken and decisive, but still very sweet.

You’re meant to sit for a portrait with the king, your ladies fussing behind you, when one of them, Grace, suddenly gasps.

“Oh—my lady, you’ve dropped something!”

You haven’t, but she’s already ushering you into a hidden alcove, hands quick and knowing.

“Five minutes,” she whispers, squeezing your hand. “No more.”

“Three,” Claire corrects. “Don’t make us liars, Princess.” She winks before heading to the portrait room with an excuse.

this is another reason i’d want to one day make this into a full-length narrative. adding them was kind of a last minute decision and i wish i’d integrated it earlier in the story but i’m also too lazy to go in and add it cleanly to previous chapters (my backwards excuse for starting a whole ass novel). RAHHH MORE SISTERHOOD MOMENTS </333 

in conclusion

if you read all the way to the end, i hope you know that i adore you and that there are some fun things planned in the endgame of this fic. i actually wasn’t sure what to write about at first, but like always, it snowballed into something monstrous. i hope at the very least that this was interesting insight?? somewhat?? and that you got some giggles out of it, but if there’s anything else you noticed that you’d like me to discuss or anything you want to keke about together PLEASE SHOOT ME A MESSAGE I WOULD LOVE TO DO SO

[chandrxla]

𓇢𓆸 ivy

vi. all i wish to see

knight!leon kennedy/princess!reader | medieval au

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word count: 1,928

a/n: the end is near.... outlined the rest of this and i predict 3 more parts after this one, possibly 4. thank you for reading and most especially for waiting <333 i've gotten so busy the last few months but your support genuinely keeps me going. i love and appreciate you endlessly!!!

i love you. there is no vow i could say tomorrow that will undo that.

𓆱

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Spring comes in small mercies, as if apologizing for what’s to come. It comes through open windows and softening ground, through the hush of thawing earth and the first green pushing stubbornly through frost. The palace begins to breathe again, and as the date of your wedding draws closer, you steal as much time with Leon as you can.

It’s your ladies-in-waiting who notice first.

They see the way your gaze drifts in the great hall. How your face softens when you hear his name brought up in court. How you linger too long by the windows that overlook the training yard.

One evening, as they unlace your gown, one of them says lightly, “You always look for him at court, you know. Sir Leon.”

You still, heart lurching, and brace for the worst.

But another of your ladies, Claire, only laughs softly, her hand setting warmly on your shoulder. “We all do, my lady. He’s very handsome.”

Your cheeks flush, and you cast your gaze to the ground. “It’s not—”

Claire draws your robe over your shift, then turns you gently to face her. Her hands close around yours. “We cannot stop what is coming, Princess,” she says quietly. “But we can give you something of your own before it does.”

After that, it becomes much too easy.

The overgrown hedge maze in the garden becomes yours. 

“Her Highness requires air,” your ladies insist, sweet as honey, sharp as knives. 

The guards hesitate, but they always lose.

You walk the winding paths with a breathless grin, down the route you’ve committed to heart. The scent of damp leaves, fresh from the earlier fall of rain, fills the air.

Leon steps out from the shadows. That private smile of his flickers, and he greets you with a soft murmur of your name.

“We meet in daylight now,” he says dryly, reaching for you. “Shall I start greeting you in court?”

You laugh, slipping your fingers into his. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He lifts your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Give me another week.”

It’s always like that — too fast, too much, never enough.

Another time, it’s in the corridor outside the west wing.

You’re meant to sit for a portrait with the king, your ladies fussing behind you, when one of them, Grace, suddenly gasps.

“Oh—my lady, you’ve dropped something!”

You haven’t, but she’s already ushering you into a hidden alcove, hands quick and knowing.

“Five minutes,” she whispers, squeezing your hand. “No more.”

“Three,” Claire corrects. “Don’t make us liars, Princess.” She winks before heading to the portrait room with an excuse.

You smile, quiet and disbelieving, and then Leon’s there. He always is, like he’s been waiting at the edge of the world for you to step into it.

“You’ll get them killed,” he murmurs, though his hands are already on you, grounding and familiar.

Your back hits the cold stone wall, and you look up at him with a grin. “They adore me,” you say lightly. “And they pity you.”

He huffs a soft, teasing laugh against your hair. “Then they’re fools twice over.”

At night, it’s the chapel. Always the chapel. 

He waits for you in the shadows, half-lit by candlelight, surrounded by the ivy winding up the walls. And every time you see him, there’s a moment where neither of you moves. You just… look.

These nights are ending, you think, but you don’t say it. You go to him instead, trace the lines of his face, the shape of his hands, and commit them to memory.

The week before your wedding, he lets you sleep on the chapel’s cold stone instead of waking you as he usually does. When the sun breaks through the clouds, you find yourself with your cheek against his chest, his cloak wrapped around you, and his hand tangled loosely in yours.

He’s watching you, softly, like always, but also with something heavier.

You lift your head. “What is it, my love?” you ask, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

Leon shakes his head. His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and absent. “Nothing,” he murmurs, but his voice wavers like he’s already grieving. “Just enjoying you.”

𓆱

Leon should have this stopped long ago. Now it’s too late.

He knows it every time you slip through the chapel doors, the hem of your gown catching on ivy-eaten stone, your grin wide with something too close to hope.

Hope is dangerous. It gets men killed. It gets women married to kings they do not love.

He tells himself each time will be the last. Each time he sees you, each time you laugh, soft and breathless, like your fate hasn’t already been decided by doctrine a thousand years old.

This is the last, he thinks as you run into his arms, a dozen stories on your lips about your day spent in town.

This is the last, he thinks, as you kiss him beneath the chapel’s altar, your touch gentle on his bare skin.

This is the last—

And still, his hands find you. Still, he holds you, trying to memorize the shape of something he knows he’s about to lose.

The night before the spring equinox, the night before your wedding, he finds himself outside your chambers. Every step toward your door is a kind of treason, but he cannot stand to waste this one last night in favor of fear.

Your ladies let him in without a word. Not surprised, not afraid. 

Claire meets his gaze for a brief moment, solemn. “We’ll see to it that the corridor remains clear for the rest of the night.”

Leon nods, grateful, and he steps inside.

The room is dim when he enters. The fire has burned low, the candles are nearly spent, and the curtains are drawn, blocking the light of the moon.

You’re half-sat against the pillows, just in your chemise, the coverlet gathered loosely around your waist, your hair undone and falling soft around your shoulders. Your eyes are still bright with tears not yet dried. Your lashes are clumped faintly, your cheeks flushed where you must have wiped at them again and again.

Something in his chest tightens, and he shuts the door behind him more quietly than he has ever done anything in his life.

Your head lifts, and when you see him, something breaks across your face so quickly it nearly undoes him. Relief. Pain. Longing. All of it at once.

“Penny for your thoughts, my lady?” he asks, and even to his own ears, it sounds like a poor attempt at lightness. Too soft. Too pleading.

You shake your head, turning away from him like you can’t bear to be seen. “Don’t jest,” you murmur. “You know already what ails me.”

He crosses the space between you before he can stop himself. His hand finds your cheek, gentle and careful, and turns you back to him before you can retreat any further.

“Indulge me anyway,” he says softly.

You look at him then like he’s already lost. Something inside him, deeper than blood, aches with a will.

“Tomorrow,” you whisper. The word is heavy. It leaves your mouth broken.

Leon nods once, and comes to sit beside you. “Tomorrow,” he echoes.

You close your eyes, another tear slipping free and cutting a path down your face. “I’ll tell them what they want,” you say. “I’ll recite the vows. I’ll smile at the altar. But my truth is here.” You put your hand on his chest, both of you knowing the heart beneath it beats only for you. “My truth is you.”

“And you mine,” he murmurs, covering your hand with his. “But I am sworn to protect you, from anything that would do you harm.” A pause. His thumb shifts against your skin. “That includes me.”

You start to shake your head, but he keeps on.

“I should have stopped this,” he says. His eyes never leave yours. “I didn’t. But I will not pretend that I regret it.”

Your tears are falling freely now, but you make no move to wipe them away. “I’ve only just gotten you back,” you whisper. “Don’t take yourself from me so soon.”

“I would never, if it didn’t put you at risk,” he says. “But I cannot be the thing that undoes you.”

Time, duty, and consequence press in on him from all sides. Leon does the only thing left to him. He reaches into the lining of his tunic and pulls out a small pouch.

The ring inside is thin. Gold. Worn and nicked and imperfect with time. Two hands clasp a heart, a crown resting above it. It’s simple, unadorned, and entirely out of place in a room meant for silk and jewels.

“This was my mother’s,” he says quietly. “From her homeland.” His thumb brushes over the heart, a habit he doesn’t realize he still has. “Before she died, she told me that one day, I should give it to the woman I meant to spend my life with.”

Your breath hitches. “Leon—”

“I know,” he cuts in, shaking his head. “I know what tomorrow is. I know what I am to you. What I cannot be.”

He gently takes your hand. “But in another life, I would have done it properly. I would have courted you. I would have asked for your hand. I would have made a place for you that no one could take.”

Slowly, carefully, he slides the ring onto your finger, hand lingering over yours. The heart faces inward, toward you. “Here, now, this is all I can give you,” he murmurs, voice roughened by something he can’t quite contain.

You turn your hand slightly, watching the light catch against the worn gold. Something breaks in you—your gaze lingers too long, your lips pressed tight to hold something back—and he knows then that your mind has drifted elsewhere.

Just for a moment, he follows.

Somewhere quieter, far away from here, your hand is in his across a rough wooden table, sunlight spilling through an open window. No crown, no guards, no one watching. He says something that makes you laugh. It’s easy. Unburdened. A life that belongs to no one but the two of you.

It comes to him so quickly it feels like memory. It vanishes just as fast.

Your watery gaze finally lifts towards his, grounding him back in the present. And when he looks at you, the pain in your expression makes him still.

“I won’t survive it,” you whisper.

Leon’s thumb brushes beneath your eye, swiping at the dampness there. “You will,” he murmurs, steady despite everything else. He’s more sure of your strength than he is of his own. “You must.”

It’s you that closes the distance with a kiss. His hand splays against your ribs, feeling the way you try to steady your lungs. Your lips part against his, and he exhales softly, something broken slipping through the cracks of what he’s been holding in.

He tastes salt. He doesn’t know if it’s yours or his. His breath begins to shake as it leaves him.

You pull away trembling, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. “I love you,” you whisper into his skin. “There is no vow I can say tomorrow that will undo that.”

He holds you tighter at that, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Nothing could,” he says, aching and fond. “My heart is yours, my lady. Even in silence. Even from afar.”

𓆱

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[chandrxla]

sister was visiting yesterday so we made some collages :D been working on the rest of ivy so of course had to make some knight leon while the inspiration was flowing <333 now i gotta find a place to hang this in my room LOL

[chandrxla]

like a bird in the heart, like a sparrow 𓆱

leon kennedy/reader | ao3

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all summer long, leon kennedy has been very careful. careful not to look too long, not to let his touch linger, and not to forget that you're far too young, far too curious, and far too interested in him, the reclusive deer hunter who lives across the road.

all summer long, you've been circling him.

when a storm knocks out the power in town, you show up on his doorstep soaking to the bone and smiling sweetly.

tonight, he might finally give in.

rated: explicit

word count: 6,520

tags/cw: explicit sexual content, age difference (i picture re9!leon for this one but there are many other valid choices cough cough death island), oral sex (both ways), brat/brat tamer dynamics, face slapping, hair pulling, edging, rough sex, praise kink, aftercare, emotional intimacy

a/n: new lana song AND re9, oh my! i finished the game in 2 days and IMMEDIATELY started writing this. he's just soooo adfWBDLABSFEABA. enjoy your white feather hawk tail deer hunter ;) very much inspired by this remix

𖥠

June

The first time you see Leon Kennedy up close, you’re losing a fight with a stack of fence posts in the parking lot of Miller’s Hardware.

The afternoon sun sits low and heavy over the town, baking the dust caked on your shoes. Somewhere across the street, a screen door slams as a worn-down van rattles down the road.

The wood keeps sliding out of your truck bed no matter how many different ways you angle it. But for a second, it seems like you’ve got it handled. You’re just about to load the last one in before it suddenly slips sideways and nearly takes you down with it.

You brace for the sound, but someone catches the post before it hits the ground. 

You glance up, immediately recognizing him. He lives across the street from the house you inherited from your grandmother a few weeks ago. You’ve seen him in passing in town, watched him haul game from his truck into his garage, heard him shooting out back at the fall of dusk.

He’s taller than you thought he’d be. Broad shoulders, worn leather jacket despite the summer heat, hair a little too long for the neatness you’ve come to expect in this small town. The paler strands at his temples catch the light of the summer sun.

There’s a faint scar across his cheek and another that disappears under the collar of his shirt, and the lines around his eyes crease when he squints at the truck bed. 

With a grunt, he lifts the post and sets it next to the others like it weighs nothing.

You brush your hands off on your skirt. “Thank you.”

He gives you a curt nod and starts to walk away.

A bit thrown, you let out a soft huff. “Do you always help strange girls in parking lots?”

He doesn’t look back. “Just the ones about to kill themselves with lumber.”

You watch him climb into his dusty pickup. It’s an older model, one that growls before it turns over. Gravel crunches under the tires as he pulls out of the lot and heads for the back roads.

You stand there longer than you mean to, the heat of the afternoon settling around you.

Two weeks later

The first time you work up the courage to go to his house, you knock twice before the door swings open.

Leon Kennedy looks exactly the same as he did in the parking lot. Same tired eyes. Same quiet gravity.

He raises a brow at you. “You alright?”

“My sink’s leaking,” you say innocently. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

He glances across the road to your house, then back at you. Your teeth catch your bottom lip. His eyes flick downwards for just a second longer than necessary. Then he sighs and grabs a bag of tools.

“Let’s go, then.”

Your kitchen still smells faintly like the lemon cleaner your grandmother used to swear by. You sit on the counter, legs swinging over the floor, while you watch him work. You don’t even pretend to look away.

He rolls the sleeves of his flannel up to his elbows and ducks under the sink like he’s done it a hundred times before. The space between you is quiet — just the sound of metal against metal and the occasional rumble of tires on the pavement outside. 

“You live out here alone, Mr. Kennedy?” you ask, breaking the silence.

He doesn’t look up right away. “Leon,” he corrects, but leaves your question unanswered. 

You smile anyway. “Leon.” 

He cuts the water on, testing the pipe before leaning back to check for leaks. Satisfied with his work, he wipes his hands on a rag he pulls from his back pocket.

Softly, he closes the cabinet door.

“Should hold now,” he says with a nod.

Leon leaves shortly after. You stand on your porch, watching him walk all the way back to his house. He gives you a short wave before disappearing inside.

Mid-July

One day, just before sunset, three sharp cracks echo through the trees behind Leon’s property. The sound rolls across the fields and dies somewhere past the horizon.

Naturally, you go investigate.

The path behind his house smells like sun-warmed cedar and dry grass. Cicadas buzz lazily in the branches overhead.

Leon notices you the second you step into the clearing. He lowers his rifle immediately. “You shouldn’t be back here,” he says gruffly, setting the gun to the side.

You cross your arms over your chest, the cool summer breeze leaving gooseflesh in its wake. “Why?”

“Not safe.”

“You don’t look like the kind of man who misses.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t know anything about me.”

You shrug. “I know you don’t talk much. People in town say you keep to yourself. That you always pay for things with cash. That you pull the biggest buck every season. That you came out here to live quiet.”

His jaw tightens slightly, the lines in his face hardening. “People in town talk too much.”

You grin. “You’re interesting,” you say.

“Interesting doesn’t always mean good,” Leon retorts, coming to stand behind you. Your heart stills. He’s so close that you can count his breaths. He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. It’s heavy, and it smells like wood and smoke and pine. Then, softer, he says, “You should know better.” 

A pause settles between you. The cicadas start up again, somewhere in the trees.

You look out toward the makeshift range, toward the green bottles he’s set on top of the fenceposts. The glass catches the last gold of the setting sun.

Slowly, you turn your head to the side, feeling his gaze on you. “Teach me,” you murmur, nodding towards the rifle.

Leon hesitates.

For a second, it looks like he’s going to refuse, but he reaches down and picks it up. He checks the rifle — chamber, safety, sight — then places it carefully into your hands.

“Feet apart,” he says.

You adjust your stance in the grass.

When he moves behind you again, the air shifts. There’s a stutter in your lungs when his chest brushes your back. You watch his hand as it comes to settle on your shoulder. The touch is firm and practical, but it lingers for just a second longer than it should. His other hand slides down to adjust your elbow, warm and steady.

Your gaze lingers. He catches you.

“Eyes ahead,” he murmurs. 

Your cheeks flush, and you turn back toward the range, trying very hard not to smile.

August 

You find him out back again one evening, leaning against the fence with a cigarette between his fingers while the sun sinks behind the trees. The air smells like dust and freshly-cut grass.

Leon glances over at the sound of your boots in gravel.

“You’re making a habit of this,” he says.

He’s right — second time this week. But you smooth your dress down and hop up onto the fence beside him, the wood warm from the day’s heat. “You make good company,” you reply.

He snorts, but you don’t miss the fact that he turns and looks away from your bare legs. “You don’t have anywhere better to be on a Saturday?”

You pretend to think about it. “Not really.”

He exhales, smoke floating toward the trees.

You nod toward the cigarette burning in his hand. “Can I try?”

Leon looks at you, but he doesn’t seem surprised. “You smoke?”

You shake your head. “Mm-mm.”

“Then no.”

You pout and hold out your free hand anyway. “C’mon. Just one.”

He sighs quietly, the way he does when he’s already decided you’re not going to listen. After a moment, he passes it over.

You take a careful drag the way you’ve seen people do in movies and immediately regret it. Your lungs seize and you double over coughing, sputtering into your sleeve.

Leon mutters something under his breath, then shifts closer to rest a hand briefly between your shoulders. “Easy,” he murmurs. He takes the cigarette back before you can embarrass yourself further.

You laugh, wiping at your eyes. “That’s awful.”

“That’s why I said no.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a halfway-smile.

You glance over at him. “You do that every day?”

He flicks ash into the dirt. “Tryin’ to quit.”

You both watch the horizon darken — orange to pink to dark, dusky blue. For a while, neither of you says anything. That’s been happening more lately. Comfortable silence.

“Why’d you move out here, Leon?” you ask. You can see the moon faintly now, just above the trees.

Leon takes another slow drag before answering. “The quiet.”

You lean in towards him and smile brightly. “Oh, so people in town are right.”

“Don’t start,” he mutters.

“What’d you do before all this? Something dangerous? Something with guns?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” he finally says.

You grin. “You dodge all of them.”

A faint smile ghosts across his mouth before disappearing. Time seems to slow then. Even the breeze stills. Suddenly, the quiet feels different.

Leon notices the shift immediately. Your bare knee brushes his waist where he’s leaning against the fence. Neither of you moves.

You look at him. Really look. 

“You know,” you say softly. “People in town also say you don’t look twice at girls my age. But I don’t think they’re right about that.”

Leon turns away.

You keep your eyes on him, steady. “Are they?”

The question hangs between you like a rope in the wind. The cigarette between his fingers is slowly burning down to the filter. Leon slowly lifts his gaze, and his eyes flick to your mouth.

Your breath catches.

For a second, just a second, it looks like he might lean in. Like he might reach for you. Might tuck that strand of hair behind your ear.

Instead, Leon exhales and straightens, like he’s remembering something at the last possible moment.

Distance. He puts a bit of it between you.

“Gettin’ late,” he says quietly.

You blink. 

He crushes the cigarette against the fence post and flicks the filter into the grass. “You should head home.”

You watch him for a second, then sigh, hopping off the fence. “Alright, then. Goodnight, Leon.”

“‘Night.”

He doesn’t follow you down the path back to the road, but you can feel his eyes on you. Right before you reach the driveway, you glance back. 

Leon’s still standing there, against the fence. Arms crossed. Watching. After a moment, he runs a hand over the back of his neck and looks away.

You’re smiling the rest of the way home, because now you know something important.

Leon Kennedy wants you.

He just hasn’t let himself give in yet.

Two nights later

A summer storm rolls across town, so strong that it rattles your window frames. The lights in your kitchen flicker with each clap of thunder, then suddenly, they fizzle out.

You look up from the dress you’re mending. With a sigh, you get up to flick the light switch off, then on, then off again. Nothing. The power’s out.

Rain pounds against the window as you look across the street, at Leon’s house.  

You squint through the glass. Slowly, the lights in his house come back on, one by one.

A generator. Of course he has one.

Thunder rolls through the sky, louder this time, shaking the panes.

You glance down at yourself, then toward the door.

“Well,” you murmur.

You slip your shoes on and step outside into the rain without bothering to grab a jacket. By the time you cross the road, your hair is plastered to your neck and you’re soaked to the bone.

Leon’s door swings open on your second knock.

Warm yellow light spills out onto the porch, along with the faint hum of the generator running somewhere in the back of the house. Leon’s eyes drop immediately to the way your dress is clinging to your skin.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

Rainwater drips from your hair down onto the porch boards. You hug your arms around yourself, half real, half-performance. “Hi.”

Leon runs a hand over the back of his neck like he’s trying to decide whether to scold you or drag you inside.

Thunder cracks again, and you flinch. Somewhere far off, lightning splits the sky.

He sighs through his nose, stepping aside. “Get in here.”

His house smells like cedar and coffee and something warm and smoky. You kick your muddy shoes off by the door, then follow him into the living room.

“You walk over here like that?” he asks.

You give him a small, sheepish smile. “Well… my power went out. Thought the deer hunter might have a generator.”

Leon exhales slowly. “Right.”

Another rumble shakes the house.

Leon studies you for a second, then exhales sharply. “Stay there.”

He disappears down the hallway and comes back a minute later holding clothes. In his arms, there’s a towel, an old pair of sweatpants, and one of his flannels. He sets the bundle down on the couch.

You look down at the pile, then back at him. Then you slip your dress down your shoulders, bare skin catching the moonlight from the window.

His eyes widen, and he immediately steps back into the hallway, out of sight. “I’ll, uh, give you a minute.”

You smile to yourself and get changed.

The hallway stays quiet longer than a minute. Long enough that you think he might stay there for good. Then you hear footsteps sound against the floorboards.

Leon steps back into the room and stops in his tracks.

The flannel hangs loose on your shoulders, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. You’ve left the top three buttons undone, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The sweatpants are still where he left them on the couch, unworn.

“Pants didn’t fit?” he asks, raising a brow at you.

You shrug. His shirt slips slightly down one of your shoulders. “Didn’t feel like it.”

He drags a hand down his face, looking exhausted. “You’re gonna catch a cold,” he mutters. He gestures vaguely toward the hallway. “Bedroom’s down there. I’ll take the couch tonight.”

“Kicking me out already?”

“I’m not kicking you out,” he says, a little sharper than before. “I’m putting you somewhere warm so you stop standing in the middle of my living room looking like that.”

You blink, feigning innocence. “Looking like what?”

Leon’s jaw tightens. “Trouble.”

When you don’t move, he motions you over, insistent. “C’mon.”

You sigh and obey, footsteps quiet against the worn wooden floor.

At the very end of the hall, he pushes the door open, tilting his head toward the room.

You step halfway inside the doorway, closer than he expects. “You don’t really think I came here because of the storm, do you?”

He doesn’t answer you. He already knows the truth. “Just get inside,” he says quietly.

You take another step toward him instead, leaving no space between you. Your voice drops down to almost a whisper. “You knew what you were doing, giving me your clothes.”

His gaze hardens. “I gave you pants.”

You grin and open your mouth to respond, but suddenly, thunder cracks so loud it shakes the walls. You flinch, just slightly. Instinctively, your hand catches his arm. You don’t move, seeing how long he’ll let you stay.

Leon looks down at your hand, then back at your face.

“I walked through a thunderstorm to get here,” you murmur.

He pulls his wrist out of your grip, eyes narrowed. “That was a stupid thing to do.”

“You still let me in.”

His expression darkens. 

You step closer now, close enough now to see the faint lines etched in his forehead, the steel-blue of his eyes. “Leon,” you press.

He shakes his head. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”

You scoff lightly. “You almost kissed me the other night.”

“That was a mistake."

“What was? That you almost did? Or that you didn’t?”

“You—” His hand catches the front of the shirt you’re wearing. His shirt. He pulls you closer. “You’ve been pushing me all summer,” he says through gritted teeth.

Your heart jumps under his fingers. “And?”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

You lean in, just a little. “Then tell me to leave.”

He studies you for one long second. Rain hammers the roof. Wind whistles, howling through the fields outside. If you didn’t know better by now, you’d think he might actually tell you to go. But his hand tightens in the fabric of the flannel.

“You’re trouble,” he mutters.

You smile slightly. “You said that already.”

Leon exhales slowly, like he’s been holding the breath for months. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

Then he pulls you the rest of the way against him and kisses you, hard. Like he’s been holding it back for months. 

Your back hits the wall, and you gasp softly into his mouth, taking his face in your hands. The kiss deepens, his stubble scraping roughly against your skin.

You pull away for air just as thunder shakes the house again. “I know you wish you had a girl like me when you were my age,” you say breathlessly, your forehead pressed against his.

The corner of Leon’s mouth curves upwards. “I wouldn’t have known what to do with you.”

His lips find your neck, and his hand drifts lower, down past the open front of your shirt, slipping beneath its hem. Where he expects to find cloth between your thighs, he finds bare skin instead, already slick with arousal.

He stills. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters under his breath.

You grin.

His head lifts slowly until his eyes meet yours. Sharp. Dark. Hungry. “On your knees.”

Your smile drops and your eyes widen. For once, you’re at a loss for words. Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

Leon lets out a short laugh that isn’t very amused. “You wanted this,” he says quietly. “You don’t get to look surprised now. Get on your knees.”

Cheeks flushed, your pulse pounds in your ears. Leon’s gaze doesn’t leave your face. He doesn’t repeat himself. He knows he doesn’t have to.

Slowly, you sink down onto the floor. The flannel falls open slightly as you move, revealing your chest. The wooden floor is cool against your knees.

Leon watches the entire time. His hand finds your chin, tilting your face upward so you’re forced to meet his eyes again, shadowed under the low light.

Lightning flashes, painting the room silver-white for a fleeting second.

His thumb brushes once across your bottom lip, slow and deliberate. “Look at you,” he murmurs. He shoves his jeans and boxers down in one motion.

You swallow hard, gaze on the length of him — thick, flushed, and already slick at the tip.

His hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back. “Open,” he says, low. No room for debate.

You find yourself again and smirk up at him. “Make me.”

Leon’s eyes narrow. Then he exhales, slow and controlled. “You really wanna test me right now?”

Before you can fire back, he presses his thumb hard against the corner of your mouth, forcing your jaw open. He slides in deep on the first push, past your tongue, straight to the back of your throat.

You gag hard, tears springing instantly. He holds you there, hips flush, letting your throat flutter around his cock. Your hands fly up, pushing at his thighs.

Immediately, he shoves them away.

You whimper around him, defiant even now, and try to pull back, moaning something muffled and bratty.

He suddenly eases back, giving you the chance to drag in a ragged breath, air burning through your lungs. When you look up at him again, his free hand gives you a single, sharp tap to the cheek. Open palm, just enough to make your skin smart. You gasp sharply, surprised.

“Behave,” he warns, voice gravel-rough. “Or next time, it’s harder. And I stop.”

The threat lands heavy, and you go still and nod, pulse hammering.

Slowly, you take him in again, inch by inch, tasting the salt and heat on his skin. A low hiss escapes through his teeth when your tongue swirls tentatively around the underside.

“‘Atta girl,” he murmurs. His thumb strokes over the spot he just tapped, soothing the sting. “See? Wasn’t so hard.”

Thunder rolls again, shaking the house. You feel it in your knees, in the way the floor vibrates faintly. 

His grip tightens in your hair, and he starts moving, slowly at first, then faster. Spit slicks your chin, dripping messily onto your chest.

“Fuck—good. Just like that,” he mutters. He sets a punishing rhythm, deep and relentless. “Been thinking about this pretty mouth since June.” 

The praise lands like a spark, and you moan around him. Heat pools low in your belly when he groans raggedly. His hips cant forward, thrusts shallow and controlled, and you meet them, hollowing your cheeks on the pull-back, tongue pressing flat on the way down.

One of his hands drops from your hair to cup your jaw, thumb tracing where your lips seal around him. The other braces on the wall above your head, like he’s trying to keep from losing himself too fast.

Leon’s breathing turns rougher. He slides back in deep, holding you there until your nose presses against coarse hair. Your throat convulses, fresh tears spilling over. He holds you pinned, letting you struggle for air just long enough that your lungs burn, then falls back into rhythm. 

You press your thighs together when you hear him try to hold back a moan, an ache building between your legs.

Finally, he tenses, hips stuttering. “Gonna come,” he grits, voice strained. “You’re gonna swallow it all. Understand?”

Your hand answers for you, twisting at the base of his cock, reaching what your mouth can’t.

Leon curses under his breath, mutters something that sounds like your name. Then he’s pulsing, hot and thick down your throat. You take every last drop like you were told, gasping when he pulls out.

He hauls you up, hands under your arms, pressing you against the wall. His mouth finds yours, kissing you deep, tasting himself without hesitation.

You soften beneath him, boneless and buzzing, a strange warmth radiating through your chest. Leon doesn’t let the moment linger. He flips you toward the bedroom door, one hand fisted in the back of the flannel like a leash, steering you ahead of him.

Warm lamplight from the bedside table washes over the room. It’s simple, lived-in, smelling faintly of cedar and of him. The bed is unmade, sheets rumpled from earlier sleep he clearly didn’t finish. The storm hasn’t tired itself out a single bit. Rain lashes against the window, falling in sheets.

Leon lets go of the flannel, stepping back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, his breath heavy with want.

“Strip it off,” he says. His voice is low, steady in a way that makes your stomach flip. “Everything. Then get on the bed. On your back. Legs apart.”

You turn to face him fully, heart slamming against your ribs. You fight the urge to mouth off, holding his gaze while your fingers work the remaining buttons loose. Fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling on the floor. Naked now, skin prickling in the cool air, you feel every inch of his stare like a physical touch.

You retreat toward the bed, never breaking eye contact, until your calves hit the mattress. Then you crawl backward onto it, slow and deliberate, making sure he sees every movement.

When you settle on your back, legs falling open, you prop yourself on your elbows and give him the sweetest smile. “Your turn, old man.”

Leon’s mouth curves at your teasing, small, dangerous, and unimpressed. He shrugs out of his jacket, lets it drop. Then his shirt, revealing the scars you’ve glimpsed in passing — one on his chest, one across his ribs, another low on his abdomen. 

He climbs onto the bed, knees bracketing your hips, caging you in. One hand plants itself beside your head, and the other slides up your inner thigh, brushing so close to where you’re aching that you twitch.

“You wanna keep being a brat?” he asks, eyes locked on yours. “Or are you gonna let me get my mouth on you?”

Your breath hitches. You reach up, fingers brushing the stubble along his jaw. 

“Both,” you say.

He huffs an almost-laugh, low and rough, then he lowers himself between your legs, broad shoulders forcing your thighs wider. He hooks his arms under your knees, pulling you closer to him, then his thumbs spread you apart slowly, deliberately, exposing everything.

“Fuck,” he mutters. You’re soaked, glistening in the lamplight. “Look at this mess. All from sucking me off?”

You try to close your thighs, a little playful instinct, but he pins them down to the bed.

“Don’t even think about it,” he says, low and final. “You stay open for me.”

No more warnings. His mouth descends.

Leon licks a slow, flat stripe from entrance to clit, tasting you like he’s been starving. The first contact rips a gasp from your throat, you back arching off the mattress. He doesn’t let you go far — his hands keep you exactly where he wants you while his tongue works.

He sucks lightly, pulling your clit into his mouth. The tip of his tongue flicks over it in quick, relentless strokes.

“Leon,” you gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair.

He hums against you when your grip tightens, the vibration shooting straight to your core. Two fingers easily slide in, curling immediately to that spot that makes your vision blur. Then a third, stretching you, pumping steady.

He pulls his mouth off with a wet pop. You groan softly at the loss.

“Anyone ever done this to you?” he asks, fingers moving faster. It’s almost cruel, how good it feels.

“N-no one who knew what they were doing,” you manage.

His thumb circles your clit, and you feel your thighs start to tremble. You moan desperately, hips chasing his touch. You’re close already. Too close.

Leon feels it, slowing his pace. He replaces his thumb with his tongue, pressure just enough to torture, but not enough to push you over the edge.

You whine, high and frustrated. “Leon, please—”

He dives back in, tongue flicking faster, fingers pumping in time, building you right back up. Your breath hitches as he hits just the right spot, your grip tightening in his hair as he brings you to the brink again.

“Fuck, yes, like that,” you gasp. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop, let me—”

Leon doesn’t listen. He stops anyway. Pulls his mouth away. Slows his fingers to shallow, teasing strokes.

You sob, writhing against him, hips bucking uselessly against his hold. “Fuck, I was so close.”

He bites the inside of your thigh, then soothes it with a slow lick. “That’s the point.”

He does it twice more, building you up with ruthless precision, tongue and fingers working until you’re shaking, begging, right on the razor’s edge. By the third time he denies you, you’re a wreck, tears streaking your cheeks, voice hoarse from pleading.

“Leon, I can’t—please—I-I need to come—”

He crawls up your body, settling between your legs. His cock is hard and heavy against your inner thigh, slick from how worked up he is watching you unravel.

“You don’t come on my fingers. Or my tongue,” he says quietly, nose brushing your jaw as he presses a line of kisses to your neck. “You come on my cock.”

You take a sharp breath, the ache in your core only growing as his hand comes down to squeeze your breast.

“Gonna fuck you now,” he murmurs into your skin. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “Promise?”

He doesn’t answer. He presses a kiss to your cheek like an apology before burying himself inside you to the hilt.

The stretch is immediate and overwhelming, filling you so completely your breath stutters. You can’t help the broken moan that spills out, still oversensitive from the edging.

Leon stills for just a heartbeat, his cock throbbing inside you, letting you feel every inch of him, every pulse. Then he starts moving. Slow, deep rolls of his hips at first that make him catch on that spot inside you over and over.

You gasp his name, nails digging into his shoulders.

He presses his face into your neck, leaving long, languid kisses. He soothes each bruise he sucks into your skin with his tongue, hitting you with deep strokes that make your vision blur. 

You can’t stay quiet, feeling yourself grow slicker by the second. “Faster,” you say, voice wrecked but still edged with a smirk. 

“So fucking needy,” he mutters.

His hand moves to your neck, but doesn’t squeeze just yet. A dizzy rush of heat floods to your core, and you shift into his grip, pressing your throat harder into his palm.

Leon’s hips snap into yours, faster now, like you asked for. Every roll hits exactly where you need it, pressure building fast and hot.

You moan, your legs trembling around his waist. “Leon—right there—don’t stop—”

He shifts, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder, folding you open wider. The new angle changes everything, too much, too good, too fast, and you can’t stop the noises spilling out of you.

“That’s it,” he praises, “Takin’ me so fuckin’ well.”

Each thrust jolts you up the mattress. His thumb rests lightly over your pulse, feeling it flutter.

You hold his gaze, half-lidded eyes on his. “Harder,” you pant, arching up into him. He grunts softly at the sensation, and you grin. “Thought you were gonna ruin me.”

His jaw ticks, his grip on your throat tightening. It’s just enough to cut your air a fraction, to make your head spin. His cock twitches hard inside you when you reach for his arm.

“You really wanna talk?” he asks, low and lethal. He pulls out almost completely, letting you clench around nothing, then bottoms out with a wet slap that jolts your whole body. “After I already edged you to tears once?”

He doesn’t let you answer. His hips snap forward again , the angle brutal with your leg over his shoulder. You cry out, half moan, half sob, the tightness around your throat making every sound sharper, more desperate.

You try to speak again, air thin. “Harder—make me—make me—”

His fingers tighten further, thumb pressing harder on your pulse, cutting your words off mid-sentence. Your vision spots for a second, and you clench around him in response. You feel Leon throb again inside you, like the control turns him on just as much as it does you.

He leans down, lips brushing your ear. “Keep going,” he dares you. “See how long that mouth lasts before I shut it for you.”

You don’t back down. With the tears drying on your face, with barely any air, you push anyway. “Shut… me… up,” you manage. “Want you to… make me… count… every thrust… like a good girl… or can’t you handle… one more word from me?”

Leon stills. “S’that right?” 

In one rough motion, he pulls out and flips you suddenly, onto your stomach, yanking your hips up so you’re on your knees, ass high, face pressed to the pillow. Your hands scrabble for something to hang onto as you gasp for air. His hips snap forward with enough force to jolt you forward on the mattress.

“You wanna count?” He takes a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back, arching your spine and exposing your throat. “Then fucking count.”

You try to sass, opening your mouth for another taunt, but his hand lets go of your hair to crack against your ass, sharp and stinging. He gives you a sudden, brutal thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. 

“One,” he orders, voice sharp. “Say it.”

Your hands fist the sheets. Your breath trembles as it leaves you. “One—” you repeat.

He grabs your arms, pinning them behind your back, and slams in again.

“Two—”

Again.

“Three—fuck—Leon—”

When you falter on four, too overwhelmed, he stops and leans down. “Missed one,” he murmurs against your ear. “Start over.”

You whimper, half in protest, half in desperate need, but you obey when he starts again.

“One—”

“Good.” He rewards you with another hard snap forward.

“Two—”

Leon keeps the slow, punishing rhythm as you keep going. When you hesitate again at seven, he pauses, still buried deep, and grinds against you in a slow circle that makes you sob.

“Don’t stop ’til I say,” he grits out. “Start over.”

Saying the numbers out loud only makes it worse. Each one forces you to feel every inch, every slap of skin, every time he bottoms out. The humiliation burns hot in your core, making you clench harder, slicker, more desperate.

By the time you reach ten, your body’s shaking, tears soaking the pillow, walls fluttering wildly around him with every counted thrust. By fifteen, you’re begging between numbers, voice hoarse and desperate. By twenty, you’re a trembling mess, so close to the edge that you can taste it.

You’re barely holding on. Every breath you take feels like it’s being torn out of you, every thrust driving you higher, but Leon still hasn’t let you fall.

“Please—” you cry, voice cracking on the word. “Leon—please—let me come—I can’t—count anymore—please—”

He stills for half a second, buried deep, cock throbbing inside you. “Fine—you’re done,” he says, letting go of your arms.

Leon leans down, speaks low against your neck. “You did good. Real good. Now come for me. I’ve got you.”

You sob in relief, a fresh wave of slickness coating him at the praise.

He speeds up, hips snapping against yours faster, harder, chasing the end for you both. His hand slides around to your clit, rubbing it in rough circles. 

You climb fast, embarrassingly so, because he’s kept you right on the edge for so long that every thrust feels like lightning. 

“Leon—”

“Come,” he orders, voice strained. “Now.”

You shatter, pulsing hard around him in waves. He fucks you through it, relentless, keeping the rhythm steady until you’re sobbing, completely undone, begging for mercy and more at the same time.

He follows right after, his grip on your hips tight enough to bruise. A choked groan escapes him as he finishes, filling you in hot, thick pulses.

Leon stays buried inside you for a long minute, hips locked flush against yours, breath hard and ragged against the back of your neck.  Slowly, he eases out. You wince at the sudden emptiness, pressing your thighs together.

“Easy,” Leon mutters. With one hand, he flips you gently onto your side to face him.

You’re still catching your breath, cheek pressed to the pillow, hair sticking to your face. Everything feels warm and heavy and a little overwhelming.

“Fucked you up good,” he says quietly, almost to himself. He tucks your hair behind your ear, then his hands move to your wrists, rubbing where he pinned them, then down to your hips, over the fingerprints he left. “Still with me?”

Your eyes are still glassy, but you grin anyway. “Barely,” you reply.

He huffs a quiet laugh, tension leaving his shoulders. For a moment, he just studies your face, making sure. Then his thumb brushes gently along your jaw.

“Too rough?” 

You shake your head, shifting closer and wrapping your arms around him. “No. Perfect.”

He takes you in like it’s second nature and presses a kiss to your temple. “Good.”

For a while, neither of you says anything. His hand moves slowly up and down your back, fingers catching slightly in your hair, untangling it. The rhythm is steady. Thoughtless. Like one day, this could be familiar.

You tilt your head up slightly, studying him. The sharpness from earlier is gone. What’s left is quieter. He looks tired, almost. Like something in him finally gave out.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask softly. Your fingers trace the faint silver at his temples, then down the lines at the corners of his eyes.

His brow furrows. “Nothin’ you need to worry about.”

You don’t press at first. Your fingers slide down to the faint scar along his cheek, then lower, tracing the one on the side of his neck you’ve only ever glimpsed in passing. It’s raised and pale, but looks newer than the others. You follow it with your fingertips, slow and careful.

He tenses under your touch, just a fraction, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You’ve got a lot of these,” you remark, gentle.

Leon exhales through his nose. His hand stills on your back. “Yeah. I do.”

You press your palm flat over the one on his chest. “You ever gonna tell me where they came from?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Most of ‘em are old.”

You tuck yourself closer to him, cheek against his chest. “It matters to me.”

He’s quiet for a long while. His hand resumes its slow path up and down your spine, but it’s heavier now, like he’s thinking too hard.

“I’m not a good bet,” he says finally. “I’ve seen shit most people never will. Done shit most people shouldn’t. I wake up some nights and still smell smoke. I’m not… clean. I’m not easy.”

His gaze doesn’t quite meet yours, but you lift your head enough to catch it. His expression softens, just slightly.

“You’re young,” he murmurs, his finger brushing your cheek. “You’re bright. You’ve got time. You could have someone who hasn’t been through hell and come out the other side half-broken. Someone who doesn’t carry ghosts.”

“I don’t want that,” you say simply.

He looks at you, really looks, like he’s waiting for the catch.

“I want you, Leon. I want shooting lessons in your backyard. I want you to fix my sink when it starts leaking again. I want the mess and the scars and the stories that go with them, when you’re ready. I want all of it.”

He exhales, and the room feels lighter, somehow. His arms lock around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other splayed wide across your lower back. The storm outside eases into steady rain, the kind that soothes the fields instead of tearing them apart.

“Stay, then,” he says. It’s not a command this time. It’s quieter than that. 

You glance up at him, searching his face.

“You’re really asking?” you tease gently. 

His mouth twitches. “Yeah. Long as you want.”

You give him a grin like trouble. “You’re sure? ‘Long as I want’ might be forever.”

Leon huffs a quiet laugh and kisses you again, slow and lingering. He tastes like smoke and quiet and you. “Don’t push your luck, sweetheart.”

[chandrxla]

hollanov x lonely touch - sarah kinsley

[chandrxla]

hi i love love love writing style SO MUCH!! especially in ivy, how do u do it im just genuinely speechless?? like do u practise orrr ru jst natrually good :') its INSANELY GOOD like it clears my entire discography </3 i compare all my work w urs cos ur like a big inspo of mine in writing. icl!! ur writing is better than real books ive read. PLEASE PLEADSEFERFERPRETTY PLEASE GIVE ME SOME TIPSSSS!!

hiii!!!! <33 this is such high praise thank you so much im literally blushing.... to make a very long winded answer as concise as possible, it's all practice!!! i've been writing for forevaaaa. all types — poetry, essays, fanfic, original work, research papers... of all the (many many) hobbies i've rotated through, writing happens to be the one that's stuck the longest and makes me the happiest!!

my best piece of advice is to read read read!! i was a big reader growing up and still am!!! it also helps with finding motivation during writing slumps (which i am currently in right now, so i've been reading voraciously for the past couple months...). my biggest inspirations as far as writing style are toni morrison, madeline miller, and senlinyu, so i recommend finding authors you resonate with and trying to incorporate the aspects of their work that you like into yours!! i really like how madeline miller's work in particular reads like poetry in every line, even though it's technically prose, so i try to do that in my writing too. music is also a HUGEEEEE part of my process. i don't really write without it unless i don't have a choice TT i make playlists for all my work to help with my mindset bc for me, music and emotion are so deeply intertwined that it helps with my writing soooo much. and it's lowkey why a lot of my fics exist in the first place — a good 70% of them were inspired by songs HAHA

this mightttt sound a little psychotic bc of how specific is, but as an example, in the most recent chapter of ivy, i wanted that confession scene and that kiss to sound like the swell of strings in mitski's song heaven (it happens at 1:50ish). so i wrote with a cadence and using phrases that make me feel the same way that part of the song makes me feel and i eventually ended up with "Everything inside you stills — your bones, breath, your blood. But your shaking hands find his face before thought can catch up, and you kiss him, fierce and desperate, teeth and tears and disbelief..."

then i read that scene back and see if i can imagine that music playing in the background if i were watching scene in a movie. then rinse and repeat for your other scenes.

ok wow that was really long but i hope this helps!!! what makes writing really good is that it's authentic to you <333 i could go on and on about this stuff forever so feel free to dm me i'll happily chat!!!! happy writing loveeee <333

[chandrxla]

PSA: i am editing to kill, to keep

bored asfk at work and instead of updating my wips i decided to reread this bad boy AND OH LORD are there some errors i need to fix. only making some teeny tiny changes for redundancy and whatever but if u see anything change in the next few days or so that's why!!!

[chandrxla]

𓇢𓆸 ivy v. magnificently cursed knight!leon kennedy/princess!reader | medieval au𓆱 word count: 2683 gahdayum cw: explicit sexual content a/n: speed-proofread like an absolute madwoman. apologies for any typos and i hope the wait was worth it <3 this is my fav chapter yet ily peeps thank u for the support hehehe

don't hide behind oath. speak it true.

𓆱 previous 𖧧 masterpost 𖧧 next

The dream lingers.

You don’t speak of it. You don’t even dare to write it down. But it clings to your ribs like the cobwebs that gather in the corners of the chapel windows. Soft, stubborn, and impossible to shake.

When you pass the barracks or catch the scent of woodsmoke from the kitchen, you think of Leon. Of the way he smiled at you in that cottage, like he had nothing to lose. Like you were his. But here, in the daylight, in reality, he won’t even look at you.

Leon hasn’t touched you since the king’s announcement. Not a brush of his hand. Not a single stolen glance.

He still stands guard during audiences with nobles. Still bows in court. Still walks three paces behind you and the king on promenades through town like this is duty and not punishment.

You try not to let it bother you at first. You tell yourself that he’s protecting you. That he’s scared. That he’s grieving.

In a naïve display of hope, you went to the chapel once, twice, three times. You sat on the bench where he first kissed you. You waited until your fingers went cold and your candle burned down to the base. He never came.

Your patience hardens after days continue to pass without a word, after you catch him in the the corridor and he steps back like your presence burns.

That night, you slam the door when you return to your chambers, but you don’t cry.

You think of the first time you ever spoke. Of the nights that came after where he met you in those ivy-eaten walls like a man starved, like every second apart from you had been killing him. His absence now is pain. A wound that bleeds slowly, but never quite heals.

How magnificently cursed it is, to love someone who doesn’t want to be held, to grieve for someone who is still very much alive.

The staff begins preparations a few weeks later. A celebration, they say. A ball, to mark the coming equinox, to honor the king and his bride-to-be.

You don’t ask for the details. You don’t comment on the embroidery of your gown or the choice of flowers. But when one of your ladies braids your hair, you snap at her for tugging too hard.

You sit alone at your vanity as the sun starts to set, minutes before you’re expected in the ballroom. You think that maybe if you’d known that last night you shared in the chapel was going to be the last, you might have held on a little tighter.

𓆱

The ballroom glitters.

Candles drip from the chandeliers, and golden light pools on the marble floor. The strings swell. Silk rustles. Courtiers whirl across the floor like the dolls you used to play with as a girl.

You wear the gown your betrothed chose for you, stitched with the kingdom’s crest, a train long enough to trip over, opals glinting at your ears. You’re made to look celestial. Holy. Untouchable.

And yet you burn.

You burn every time the king touches you. A hand too low on your back, a whisper too close to your ear. Every time a noble toasts your future like it’s something to be grateful for.

Leon is across the room.

Over his armor, he’s wearing the ceremonial blue of the royal guard, sword at his hip, jaw locked tight,

You feel the heat of his gaze on you with every dance you accept. You laugh when a duchess asks what you’ll name your firstborn. You sip wine. You watch him from beneath your lashes and fight the urge to scream. To cry. To hold him until he finds his sense again and the walls fall down around you.

At one point, the king kisses the back of your hand, lips lingering against your skin. Leon turns and walks out.

You see red.

As soon as you can find an excuse to slip away, you sweep after him in silence, silk hissing behind you like a blade unsheathed. Courtiers part for you instinctively. One of your ladies calls your name. You don’t look back.

You catch him halfway down the corridor toward the east wing.

“Leon,” you call.

He shakes his head and keeps walking.

“Leon.”

“Go back to your party, Your Highness,” he says without turning. He continues down the hall, turning the corridor. You chase after him with a huff.

“Sir Leon Kennedy.” Your voice slices through the silence, clean and sharp.

He stills, mid-breath, and faces you in full. He looks like a man unraveling. Storm-swept and starved, like just being near you spells his end. But he says nothing.

“You will follow me to my chambers, and we will talk,” you say, quiet but firm.

His expression hardens — wild, furious, wounded. “Princess, you cannot—”

“I command it.”

A long silence. The tempest behind his eyes is fierce.

The ache in your chest sharpens. You push it down, hold your chin high, and try not to break.

But he bows his head, and through gritted teeth he mutters—

“…Yes, Your Highness.”

𓆱

Even in his anger, Leon lets you into your chambers first. But the door slams shut behind him when he finally meets your gaze, his jaw held tight.

“You can’t do this, Princess,” he spits. “I am not yours to summon and command as you please.”

Slowly, you take off your crown and set it down onto your vanity. “You are mine,” you say quietly. “Just not in the way that you say.”

Leon doesn’t say anything. He just stares at you in that awful, silent, stone-cold way.

It doesn’t shake you. Not this time. You see it, beneath the glint of the armor he tries to hide behind. In how his eyes remain soft on your face while the rest of him is held rigid.

Boldly, you step closer.

“You do not deny it,” you say.

“Princess—”

Heat builds in your chest, temper lost. “Call me by my name.”

Silence. It hangs heavy in the air, like a blade about to find purchase.

“It’s the least you could do, after leaving me like that,” you continue, sharper. “You vanished like a ghost for days, for weeks, and still, I waited for you. Night after night. I waited for you at that chapel until my candle burned out and I thought maybe I’d gone mad inventing it all—”

“I had to,” he snaps, stepping forth. The moonlight from the window illuminates the anguish that lies in the lines of his face. “You believe that I didn’t wish to see you? That I didn’t burn for it? Each night I told myself no, each time I passed you in the halls and kept my hands at my sides, it near unmade me.”

“Then why?” Your voice breaks, wrought with grief. “Why let me believe that I imagined it? That none of it was real?”

“Because you are promised!” he roars. “And I am owned.”

Your breath catches. He’s so close now that you could strike him if you wanted to. And you do.

You shove him, hard.

He barely stumbles, but his eyes blaze, and he closes the distance between you. His mouth opens like he’s about to snap or curse or yell, but you don’t give him the chance.

“You’re a coward, Leon,” you cry, eyes stinging. “If you care for me, truly, don’t run. Don’t call it duty. Don’t hide behind oath. Speak it true.”

He flinches. His lips part, but they close again, and he swallows his words down.

You turn away. Wave him off. “Then go. If it is easier to forget me—”

“I cannot!” he shouts.

You freeze, eyes wide, heart in your throat.

“I cannot…”  His voice breaks, and he looks as if he’ll shatter at any moment. “I love you. Is that what you want to hear?”

Leon sinks to his knees in front of you, in ruin. His hands clutch your skirts like he’ll unravel without the anchor of them, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

“I love you,” he says again, voice hoarse. “I love you, and I don’t know how to stop.”

Everything inside you stills — your bones, breath, your blood. But your shaking hands find his face before thought can catch up, and you kiss him, fierce and desperate, teeth and tears and disbelief.

Leon makes a sound, soft and aching, torn from somewhere deep. He rises with you, hands dragging up your spine like he’s afraid to let you go. The kiss turns open-mouthed. The air between you heats. Slow and simmering at first, then searing, like kindling catching flame.

You keep yourself pressed against him and reach with trembling fingers for the buckle at his throat. “Let me,” you whisper.

He swallows, and you feel him still under your hands. For a fleeting second, you think he might deny you. But then he nods, just once, like too much movement will shatter the moment.

You work gently. The metal of his armor is cool against your skin, worn with years of duty. You undo each strap, each clasp, each layer. Cuirass, pauldrons, gauntlets — one by one, they fall away with soft thuds against the stone floor.

Only once he’s stripped of steel and leather, down to the plain tunic beneath, do his hands rise again. His touch is slow and careful, asking wordless permission.

You give it in silence, eyes never leaving his. He starts to undo the fastenings of your bodice. The silk slackens as they come loose, and the dress slips from your shoulders. When it pools around your feet, you’re bare beneath the pale moonlight, save for your shift.

His fingertips trace the outline of you, and the warmth of him seeps through the sheer fabric, up the small of your back, the curve of your hip, the swell of your breast. You shiver and let your eyes close.

“God,” he breathes. “You’re…”

“Yours,” you whisper. Your lips find his again.

You’re lost in it. His hands on your body, the slow burn of his touch. Before you know it, your back hits the furs laying before the hearth, your legs tangled with Leon’s as his fingers graze your bare skin. 

You tense. He stills. Leon breaks the kiss, a shaking hand coming to your cheek.

Your name leaves his lips like a prayer. “If we do this…” His thumb brushes your cheek as he speaks. “There’s no taking it back. Not with who you are. Not with who I am.”

You cover his hand with your own. “I know.” Your voice is steady. “I’d give it up for you, you know. The crown. The title.”

His brows draw together, pained. “Don’t say that,” he murmurs.

“But I would. I love you,” you say, and that’s all that matters. “I love you, and you’re here.”

A breath passes between you. Against yours, his chest rises, then falls.

“Then gods forgive me,” he murmurs, voice breaking. He kisses you like this might be the last time.

Now, he doesn’t stop.

It deepens. You feel yourself start to grow wanton with desire. His mouth falls from your own, down your throat, then to your collarbones. Each kiss pressed to your skin makes you ache for another.

“Leon,” you whisper. 

“My lady,” he returns softly, sliding your slip down your shoulders. “My love.”

His tunic comes off too, moonlight painting silver across his bare skin. For a moment, all you can do is stare. His chest is littered with old scars, pale slashes and half-healed wounds, a living record of everything he’s survived. Muscle ripples beneath his skin as he exhales, eyes dark and searching, as if he’s afraid of what you say.

You smile softly. Sit up and reach for him. You feel the steady beat of his heart under your palm. “You’re beautiful,” you say, reverent.

Leon huffs a breath of disbelief, but he looks at you like you’ve unmade him.

“I’m yours,” he murmurs. He guides your hand from his chest to his shoulder, and you wrap your arms around him. “Even if it kills me.”

You press a chaste kiss to the underside of his jaw when you lower yourselves back down. His hand runs down the curve of your side. You shiver when you feel his fingers slip under your the fabric of your shift, over your thighs, between your legs.

A groan escapes him when he feels how wet you are already. The sound sets you ablaze. With need, yes, but also with trust. Longing. Your back arches into his touch.

His thumb finds the place that makes your breath falter, and all of a sudden, the heat inside you flares into something bright.

Two fingers slip inside you with ease. A gasp breaks from your lips, hand coming to his forearm and grasping it tight. Your hips bow upward as he quickens his pace, tension building deep inside you.

“You’re perfect,” he mutters, barely above a breath. “You’ll be the death of me.”

Your only answer is a whimper. He chases it away with a kiss to your temple.

It’s almost overwhelming — the pressure of his thumb, how his fingers curl with intention, with need, with want. A knight’s hands. Scarred and calloused, gentle only for you.

You’re trembling for him now, breath catching at the loss when his touch slows. You take his face in your hands, gaze pleading. “I want you,” you whisper. “All of you.”

“You have me,” Leon says. He turns slightly, catching one of your palms with a kiss. 

“Not just tonight,” you say. “Forever.”

Something breaks in his expression then, but he doesn’t speak. His lips brush yours once more, reverent, then he shifts above you, guiding himself between your legs.

Your breath hitches at the stretch, the fullness, the way his fingers thread through yours and squeeze.

His jaw tightens as he sinks inside you, inch by inch. Your body opens for him easily, wet and aching and ready. You both moan softly when he bottoms out, and you wrap your arms around him.

He holds still for a moment, every muscle of him trembling with restraint as he lets your heart find its rhythm again. The firelight flickers across his face, and you realize now that you’ve never loved anything so much as you love him.

Leon starts to move, and the world begins to blur.

His hips pull back, then roll forward with a deliberate snap. This time, the sound you make isn’t quiet. Something in his gaze darkens, and he does it again. And again.

The rhythm builds steady. You cry his name. He murmurs yours in return.

Each thrust drives deeper. Your legs tighten around his waist, drawing him closer. You can feel the weight of him, the heat, the want, and you cling to him like ivy to stone. When his thumb starts to circle where your bodies meet, you feel yourself tighten around him. 

You find it together breathlessly — your end, your breaking point. Your hands slide from his shoulders to clutch at the nape of his neck. Pleasure crests inside you like a tide, then crashes down like thunder through your spine.

He follows soon after, groaning into the crook of your neck. The sound is raw and helpless, his fingers knotting in your hair as he pants your name into your skin. 

Everything goes quiet then, the air heavy with something tender. You relax beneath him as he pulls out of you and let out a breath of a laugh.

Leon grins, the kind no one else ever gets to see, and you go warm all over. Your hand finds his like home, and you lace your fingers together, pressing your forehead to his.

“That was… ungodly,” you remark lightly.

He chuckles quietly, a thumb caressing your cheek. “You wound me, my lady.”

You close your eyes, still smiling, and you whisper, “Stay.”

His nose brushes yours. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

previous 𖧧 masterpost 𖧧 next

[chandrxla]

HI IM ALIVE

I FINISHED THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF IVY IT WILL BE UPLOADED TMRW GOD WILLING. had a brief case of ao3 author curse BUT IM BACK. just gonna let it marinate for tonight and will proofread after work hehe <3

[chandrxla]

hey queen, so sorry about my longass comment on ao3 💀 dear god i didn't mean for it to get that long but alas. i hope you like Feverish Monkey with Keyboard style feedback because like. call me neal the way im bangin out the tunes 😭 just slappin that phone keyboard with my little pizza hands. typing whatever the hell crosses my mind that's even semi-related to the topic 😭😭💀 anyway. blessings of akatosh upon ye or whatever ✨️✨️ or technically dibella would be more fitting in this case i guess. her too ✨️✨️ just for good measure

omg do not EVER be sorry for longass comments they are my most favorite in the world. i love love love ur insight my friend and will gladly read every singly word. thank you thank you thank you for the blessings i bless u back!!! <3333

[chandrxla]

ᨒ↟ the summit

i. threshold

sam/sebastian (stardew valley) | the long walk au

read on ao3

⌖

word count: 4,072

"might as well start the end of the world with some company."

a/n: by the end of this fic i estimate the f-bomb count to be be over 200. oops! if you haven't read the book/seen the movie i am going to warn you that this fic WILL hurt please read the tags in the masterpost love you <3

⌖

info/masterpost ↟ next

“There’s still time to change your mind, Sebby,” his mother said. Her gaze kept flicking between the gravel-filled path ahead and him, sitting in the passenger seat.

When Sebastian first learned how to drive, she’d always scold him for getting distracted. For a second, he contemplated being a smartass like he always was, telling her to keep her eyes on the road instead of on him. But she looked at him now like she was memorizing his face, and her grip on the wheel was white-knuckled. He swallowed hard, feeling something twist in his chest, faraway and aching.

“The back-out date was yesterday,” Sebastian said instead.

“They’d understand,” she insisted. “I know they would. The Major—”

“The Major would—” he began harshly, but he saw his mother wince and cut himself short. He sighed. “You know what the Major would do, Mom.”

She parked the truck a little too suddenly, and he jerked forward in the seat as they came to a halt. He stepped out into the cold morning air, cinching his fatigue jacket tighter against the chill and slinging his worn knapsack over his shoulder. His body was sore — they’d been driving upstate for six hours — and he wondered if the Walk would dull it or make it worse.

Probably worse after a while, he figured. Way worse.

His mother looped her arm through his as they made their way toward the unit of soldiers at the check-in tent. Ordinarily, he’d pull away and mutter something dry and bitter, but this time, he covered her hand with his. She jolted slightly at the contact, thrown. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Steadier than he’d expected, Sebastian gave his ID to one of the soldiers, who checked it against a list. He didn’t give it back, tucking it away into a metal box on the table, and he motioned them through.

His mother’s pace faltered beside him. “Don’t they—”

He shook his head, solemn. They kept walking. 

Goodbyes were being said all around them. Some were stiff and stilted. Others were full of tears and promises. Sebastian felt like he was watching this from elsewhere, somewhere outside of his body. Maybe from a television at home, like the rest of the Valley. It didn’t feel real, and he couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not.

His mother dug through her bag and pressed a small wrap of foil into his hands. “Pumpkin cookies to keep your strength up,” she murmured as he pocketed them. “Your favorite.”

Sebastian tried for a smile, which only seemed to make things worse. “Thanks, Mom.”

She was trembling. It scared him, maybe more than the Walk ahead. His mother’s hands were always so sure, always so certain — calloused from gripping an axe, from hauling supplies through her workshop, from carving a home into the mountains. She pulled him into a hug, and Sebastian stiffened for a moment before softening, feeling much younger than he was.

“I love you,” she said, and he could tell she was trying to be strong. “Be a good boy, okay?”

“Okay,” he replied, because he didn’t have the heart to argue anymore. “Okay, I will. I love you, too.”

They stayed like that for a while, his cheek on his mother’s shoulder, her hand in his hair. He closed his eyes and pushed away the thought that this might be the last time. Even so, he knew he’d have to be the first to pull away, so he did.

“I love you,” he said again. “I’ll see you soon.”

He saw her lip tremble once before he tore his gaze away from her and turned towards the corral of boys sitting on the ground up ahead. But just as he took his first steps, she grabbed him desperately by the wrist.

“Wait!” she cried, half-sobbing. “Wait, wait!”

“Mom,” Sebastian muttered. “I can’t—”

She threw herself into his arms anyway, clinging tighter than before. His eyes stung as he held her back, and he found himself regretting the arm’s length he’d always kept between them. When had he grown to be so much taller than her? When had she grown so thin? Something flickered in him, and he remembered now, in his mother’s grip, why he wanted to win.

She always said the supplies for their district weren’t worth the blood, that nothing tasted right after watching the Walk. But that was before the wildfires that destroyed their forests, before the hunger that hollowed them out. When he’d entered the lottery and the first rations came, enough to fill their cupboards for a month, he couldn’t shake the look on her face — three parts guilt, one part gratitude. And when his name was drawn, the shipment that followed was enough to feed his family for a year. If he won, they said, their district would thrive for a decade. His mother had burst out into tears then, and Sebastian had never forgiven himself for noticing the hope hidden beneath all that grief. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” he murmured as she wept. “It’s gonna be okay, Mom. It’s just a few days.”

Her breath stuttered, and she held him tighter. She was saying something into his shirt that he couldn’t make out.

“I know,” he said anyway, feeling dampness at his collar. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Around them, the other mothers were already starting to walk back to their cars, and he felt a bit of panic start to rise up his spine. The Major’s men didn’t like it when goodbyes ran too long. Last year, one family had to be pulled apart. The Major made some speech afterwards about discipline. It had made Sebastian angry at first, but now he thought it might have been a mercy.

“I gotta let you go now, alright?” he said, gently patting her on the shoulder and hoping she’d agree.

She nodded and stepped back, hastily wiping her face with the sleeve of her jacket. Then, one last time, she reached out for him. First for his face, to brush a strand of dark hair from his forehead, then for his hand. She gave him a squeeze, and he squeezed back. Neither of them said anything more, and he went on his way.

He couldn’t help it. Sebastian looked back at his mother once, her red hair catching the soft morning light. Then he kept on towards the corral. 

⌖

The noise hit him first as he passed through the gate and had his knapsack checked. The scuff of boots, the soft beat of wings disappearing into the sky, the low murmur of the other boys pretending not to be afraid.

Fifty hadn’t sounded like such a big number to Sebastian until he sat by the fence, watching everything from afar. Fifty districts in the Valley, fifty boys to march in The Long Walk, one left standing at the end of it all. That meant a two-percent chance of survival.

From afar, he heard the familiar rattle and growl of his mother’s truck. He turned to watch it sputter off and tried not to imagine her white-knuckled grip on the wheel, tears streaming down her face now that he was here and no longer in the passenger seat. His fingers itched, and he fought the urge to reach into his pocket for a smoke.

It was a cruel sort of irony for the Walk to start on the first day of Spring. Sebastian was too young to have known the Valley before the farming died and production took its place, but his mother and the other townsfolk always spoke fondly about planting season, even if it was behind cupped hands and with hushed voices.

As eight o’clock drew nearer, the corral started to fill. That ball of panic he felt earlier was starting to rise again, and now that he was alone, Sebastian wondered if his mother was right, if they’d hear him out about changing his mind. He tried to swallow the feeling down, but it only seemed to grow with each passing second. His throat burned, and all of a sudden, he couldn’t tell whether he was breathing too fast or not at all. His surroundings sharpened around him — the air, the chatter, the swipe of fabric against the rifles as the soldiers slung them onto their backs.

Someone laughed too loud at the center of the group, and Sebastian snapped his head toward the sound. Blond hair, jacket rolled to the elbows, pants worn at the knees. He was telling some kind of story, the boys around him watching with rapt attention.

The blond turned, caught Sebastian watching, and grinned. Sebastian braced himself, waiting for some kind of jeer, but it didn’t come.

“You waiting for an invitation?” the boy called instead.

Sebastian blinked, pulse hammering. He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until he tucked them under his arms.

“C’mon,” the boy said, patting the empty space of concrete beside him. “Might as well start the end of the world with some company.”

Everything seemed to quiet then. Maybe the boy was right. Company might make things easier, even if it wasn’t something he was used to. At the very least, he’d die with someone who might remember his name. Sebastian stared for a heartbeat longer before pushing himself up and joining the group.

There were three of them sitting there, including the blond-haired boy. Each of them looked a little worn, in their own way. Sebastian wondered what districts they hailed from and whether they were walking for glory, survival, or something else entirely. 

“What’s your name, man?” the blond asked.

“Sebastian. I’m from Forty-seven,” he answered. “You?”

“Sam. From sunny Twenty-three.” The light hit him just right as he said it, bright enough that Sebastian had to blink. The sound of the crowd thinned for just a second, then came rushing back.

Sebastian looked away quickly, at the others in the group.

“Alex is the name, walking’s my game,” the boy across from him said, raising his hand in a two-finger salute. He looked to be tall and quite built, wearing a faded green varsity jacket. Probably would be one of the hardest to beat. “I’m from District Six.”

“Shane,” muttered the boy to his right. “District Thirty-eight.” He barely looked up as he spoke, hood pulled over his head. Beneath it, Sebastian saw a glimpse of dark hair and bruises under his eyes from lack of sleep. 

“This shit’s terrifying, isn’t it?” Alex asked, but to Sebastian, he didn’t really look scared at all.

“Better than starving back home,” Sam answered wryly. It wasn’t actually funny, but Sebastian found himself huffing something of a laugh anyway, because it was true.

“I’m trying not to think about it too much,” Sebastian said, rolling a small pebble between his fingers and the ground. “My mom’s got her rations for the year. That’s all I really care about.”

“Amen to that.” Alex reached over and patted him on the knee, his palm rough and too warm. “I just hope my grandparents can get through ‘em all before they go bad.”

Sam snorted. “Rations don’t go bad, numbnuts,” he said, but it was all warmth and no malice. “That’s the whole fucking point of them.”

Alex’s retort seemed to die on his tongue as Sam’s gaze drifted away, and Sebastian followed it towards a boy pacing by the fence, looking much too young to be here. 

“Hey!” Sam called. “Hey, you okay, kid?” 

The boy looked startled, eyes wide, like he’d been caught. “M-me?”

“Yeah, you,” Sam said. “You’re walking like a maniac. Hint 13, remember? Are you okay?”

Sebastian recalled the handbook that came along with the year’s supply of rations when his name was drawn for the Walk. He’d skimmed it at first, trying to convince himself that he didn’t care all that much for The Major’s stupid rules, but as the first of Spring drew closer, he found that he’d memorized the thing cover to cover.

Hint 13: Conserve energy whenever possible.

The boy straightened up and forced an easy smile. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

Shane grunted from beside Sebastian. “You’ve got hundreds of miles to warm up when we start,” he said, gruff.

“Ignore my friend, there,” Sam said gently. “Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, as you can see. What’s your name, kid?”

“My friends call me Mack.”

Sebastian watched Sam carefully then, saw his jaw work then soften, saw the line between his brows ease. “Okay, Mack,” Sam said. “How old are you?”

Mack looked to the side before answering. “Eighteen.”

That’s a load of bullshit, Sebastian thought, but he kept his mouth shut. Calling it out might cause trouble for the kid, and he didn’t want that.

“Sure thing, man,” Sam said, no bite in it. “You sure you’re fine?”

Mack nodded brightly.

“We’ll see you on the road, yeah? Keep your energy up ’til then.” Sam smiled at him, still soft and much too kind for a place like this. Something squeezed in Sebastian’s throat then, quick and strange.

Their side of the corral fell quiet for a while after that. Mack stayed standing by the fence, drawing circles in the dirt with the toe of his boot.

“That bleeding heart’s gonna get you killed, Sam,” Shane remarked flatly. There was a part of Sebastian that felt poorly about it, but he sort of agreed. That, he didn’t point out either, even as his ribs grew tight around his lungs at the idea of watching it happen.

Sam only shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve got an excuse, though — kid brother at home. His name’s Vincent. Ten years old. Pain in the ass. Just… reminded me of him.”

Alex glanced at the soldiers on the perimeter before leaning in. “Kid definitely lied to qualify,” he said, low. “If Mack’s a day over sixteen, I’ll eat my fucking shoes. Hell, I’ll eatSebastian’s fucking backpack, too. That poor kid doesn’t know what he’s in for.”

Sebastian raised a brow. “And you do?” He didn’t mean it like a challenge, but it came out like one anyway.

Alex took it in stride. “Yeah, man, I do. I’ve been watching old broadcasts to prep. You gotta be aggressive.” He puffed out his chest, looking a lot like those big military posters The Major had pasted up on the highway billboards. “Year four, The Major said that if you wanna win this thing, you’ve gotta be rarin’ to rip. And fuck, boys, I am rarin’ to rip.”

“Fuck, boys, I am rarin’ to rip,” Sam parroted mockingly. Sebastian snorted despite himself, a hand quickly coming to his mouth.

Sam glanced at him then, and the teasing grin softened into something quieter. 

“Fuck you, man,” Alex muttered, but he was smiling. He turned to Sebastian, jokingly exasperated. “And fuck you too, for laughing.”

Sam snickered, still looking at Sebastian as he gently elbowed him in the side, and Sebastian found it difficult to keep holding his gaze. The halfway-smile stayed on his face though, even with his eyes cast down on the concrete. 

For a moment, the weight in the air let up. Sebastian thought that this might be what it felt like for boys like him before the War. He imagined that instead of in the corral, he, Sam, Alex, and even Shane might be sitting on the curb of the corner store in town, or maybe on stools at the arcade. The soul of those places was long gone now, alive only in stories and half-remembered talk, even if the buildings still stood.

But whatever levity they had created disappeared the second they heard the rattle of the half-tracks, now loaded with soldiers, drawing towards the corral.

“Holy shit,” Shane said quietly, dropping his hood. “It’s the fucking Major.”

The Major’s command car was shinier than any vehicle Sebastian had ever seen. The gates were pulled open by the soldiers, and it rolled in, flanked by a fleet of half-tracks. It was half-past eight now — thirty minutes to the start of the Walk — and the sun was starting to rise higher in the sky. As the men drew nearer, Sebastian felt his hands start to shake again. He pinned them under his thighs, ignoring the glance Sam threw his way.

The last dregs of chatter died out as The Major’s boots hit the ground, replaced by the smell of motor oil and the low drone of engines. An even-spread line of soldiers stood on each side of him with rifles at the ready. One’s finger ghosted the trigger even though the safety was on, and Sebastian wondered how far the fifty of them might be able to get if they could only come to a consensus. The foolish thought was gone almost as soon as it came, because The Major started speaking.

“Good morning, boys,” he said.

His voice carried without even needing to shout. When he smiled, it didn’t touch his eyes. He was a plain-looking man, almost civilian-like. His hair was grey underneath his uniform cap, and his mustache was neat and trimmed. If there wasn’t such a gleam in his eye looking at the fifty bodies sitting before him, The Major looked very much like a man that might pass through his mother’s shop back home, buying lumber for a project.

“When I call your name, step forward and take your tag. Wear it around your neck, and go back to your place until I instruct otherwise.”

One by one, The Major called each boy up. Sebastian watched them each return with a silver tag on a chain, stamped with the number of their home District in the center.

When Alex was called, he shook The Major’s hand. The Major looked impressed and clapped him on the back, saying something low in his ear before sending him back.

Sam looked curious about it, and Alex grinned and said, “He told me to ‘give ‘em hell.’” The 06 on his tag gleamed proudly in the light. 

Mack was from District Seventeen, and Sebastian learned then that Mack was short for Mackenzie. If he really did lie about his age to qualify, The Major said nothing about it. Mack was grinning as he walked back, no trace of fear. Sebastian found the pebble he was rolling around before, and put it between his fingers again.

His head snapped up when The Major called for Twenty-three and said “Samson” instead of “Sam.” The soldier with the tags reached for Sam’s neck, but Sam took the chain from him instead.

Sebastian’s pebble fell to the ground with a soft clatter, and he held his breath, eyes wide.

Sam’s grin didn’t falter, even as The Major narrowed his eyes at him. “I’ve got it, man,” he said to the soldier, looping his tag around his neck and heading back to the group. Sebastian thought about trying to meet his gaze when he sat back down, but Sam looked far away now, green eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

It was quarter to nine by the time Sebastian was called. Up close, The Major smelled like tobacco and something sharp he couldn’t put a name to. He kept his eyes on the horizon when the chain was slipped over his head, cold against his skin and lighter than he expected. The Major’s gaze landed heavy on him as his fingers brushed the 47 stamped on the tag, but Sebastian didn’t lift his own to meet it. Instead, he stared at the cracks in the road until he found his way back to the group.

After the final boy received his tag, The Major took a moment to regard them all, mouth drawn into a thin line. 

“Line up by fives, fellas,” he ordered. “No particular order. Stay with your friends, if you like.”

Sebastian glanced at all the others slowly finding their places before coming to stand himself. He slung his knapsack over his shoulders and held tight to the straps, Sam on his right and Alex to his left. He felt a little bit like a soldier in formation like this, even though there was no war to fight. His stomach tied itself into a loose knot.

“Fifty Districts,” The Major began, at the head of it all. “Fifty young men, handpicked from the Valley’s finest to take part in The Long Walk. You stand here not only for yourselves, but for the promise of progress — for the hope that keeps this great nation alive.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, strolling across the line like he was inspecting trophies.

“The weak will falter. The strong will endure. And the strongest will reach The Summit.”

Back in the center, he paused. Sebastian looked down at his feet, searching for the pebble he dropped. It was nowhere to be found.

The Major smiled. Too gentle.

“This year marks the twenty-fifth since the end of the War. Twenty-five years since we reclaimed order from chaos. Each of you is a reminder that the Valley does not starve. It survives.”

Sebastian would have begged to differ. The back of his neck grew hot, thinking about home and the mountains and his mother — how she’d always insist that he eat first. He bit the inside of his cheek, drawing blood.

A soldier on one of the half-tracks dismounted, handing each boy a watch. Sebastian kept the face on the inside of his wrist. It displayed the time — 08:57 — as well as mileage and speed, which were both currently at zero. 

“The rules, as you know, are simple. Walk until there’s only one of you left. Maintain a speed of three miles per hour. If you fall below the speed, you get a warning. If you can’t make speed in ten seconds, you get an additional warning. Three warnings, you get your ticket.”

Ticket’s a nice way of saying ‘bullet in your skull,’ Sebastian thought. He let out a clipped breath through his nose without realizing it, boots scuffing a little on the pavement. Sam looked over at the sound, and in unison, their lips quirked up in bitter smiles. It didn’t catch The Major’s attention, but the exchange felt like the first thing Sebastian had owned in weeks. He fixed his eyes straight ahead, but couldn’t help feeling a little off-balance.

“Walk one hour at speed, one warning is erased and so on. If you step off the pavement, you will get your ticket without warning.”

Another soldier followed the first to hand them wide belts, fixed with canteens filled with water and a few high-energy concentrates inside the snap pockets. Alex strapped his diagonally around his chest, like the gunslingers in Sebastian’s comics, and Sam fastened his around his hips, like most of the others. Sebastian opted for the hips, figuring that might make him less sore, even if Alex’s way did look kind of cool.

“There will be no rest until one remains. No finish line, no distance limit. Only The Summit. The peak is yours to find.”

Sebastian looked down at his watch. 08:59. The belt felt heavier than it did a second before, and he reached down to adjust it. It didn’t help.

“To the victor, the Valley’s highest honor: ten years of prosperity for your District, and one personal wish, granted by the Republic. Wealth, land, security — whatever your heart desires. The choice will be yours.”

The Major tipped his hat toward the corral. The air grew thick, muffling the rustle of leaves in the wind and the rumble of the tanks’ engines.

“Walk well, boys,” he said, but it sounded to Sebastian like he was underwater. He raised his pistol to the sky. “Make your families proud. Make your Districts proud. Make the Valley proud.”

Everything hung suspended with The Major’s pistol. Sebastian watched it carefully, and the silence was awful and immense.

The gun went off with a bang, and Sebastian’s hands flew to his ears. He’d never heard a gun before. He didn’t like it. It made his head ring, flushed his chest with heat, swallowed his breath. Alex nudged him in the shoulder, and he set off with the rest of the boys.

The Major got back into his command car and started following them down the road, along with the half-tracks.

“Reach The Summit,” he shouted at them, grip tight on the railings. “Earn. Your. Wish.”

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info/masterpost ↟ next

[chandrxla]

ᨒ↟ the summit

"tell me something real."

sam/sebastian (stardew valley) | the long walk au

also on ao3

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summary

Reach The Summit. Earn your wish.

Fifty Districts, fifty boys, no finish line. Sebastian enters the Walk for rations and a mother he might never see again. Sam meets him there with a bleeding heart and a grin like sunlight. It’s a brutal march, a show of control — the Valley lies and calls it honor.

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info

rated: explicit

tags PLZ READ THEM: graphic depictions of violence, major character death, found family, mutual pining, heavy angst, doomed yaoi HAHAHAHAHAHA, lots of crude language

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chapters

i. threshold

[chandrxla]

breaking my silence

so uh..... guys i just watched this movie and it's called the long walk and it's all i've been thinking about. and you know by now new hyperfixation means new wip. here's a hint: sambastian RAHHH RAHHHH RAHHHH ARRGGHHH AHHHHHH AHHH!!!!!!!!!! the tiniest crumb is below the cut. i haven't written in past tense or anything not x reader in so long HAHAHA

Sebastian’s stomach flipped. His mouth went dry again, worse than before. He wanted to say it, the thing hammering in his ribs, clawing at his throat.

I think I love you. I think you’re the only reason I’m still alive. I think if it wasn’t for you, I’d have let them shoot me miles back.

He swallowed hard, shoved the words down where they always went, and instead muttered, “You’re full of shit.”