NAVIGATION.
greta. 21. she/her. aries. multifandom. english is my second language. newbie writer. ୨ৎ
masterlist. about me. carrd. kofi.

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Not today Justin
i don't do bad sauce passes
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I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
DEAR READER
noise dept.
dirt enthusiast

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

Kiana Khansmith
Stranger Things
we're not kids anymore.
Jules of Nature
taylor price
trying on a metaphor
Cosmic Funnies
Cosimo Galluzzi
Monterey Bay Aquarium

tannertan36
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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@itsgreti
NAVIGATION.
greta. 21. she/her. aries. multifandom. english is my second language. newbie writer. ୨ৎ
masterlist. about me. carrd. kofi.
MISSION COMPROMISED
pairing. leon s. kennedy x f!reader
summary. leon's jealousy during an undercover gala mission explodes into a night of possessive passion.
warning. (18+) NSFW, sexual content, strong language, jealousy/possessive behaviour, minor violence (choking/threatening), alcohol consumption, undercover mission setting
word count. 4.1k
a/n: english is my second language, so if you find any mistakes, don't hesitate and text me!
The invitation was embossed in gold leaf, heavy cardstock that felt expensive between your fingers. You ran your thumb over the raised lettering — The Annual Charity Gala for Biomedical Advancement — and tried not to roll your eyes at the irony. Pharmaceutical companies and their charity events were all the same: polished surfaces hiding dirty secrets, champagne flowing while deals were made in shadowed corners. It was just another Tuesday night assignment, another ballroom full of targets wearing tuxedos and diamonds, another evening of pretending to be someone you weren't in order to get what you needed. You set the invitation on your vanity and reached for your lipstick, checking your reflection one last time before he arrived.
"You ready?"
You looked up from the vanity mirror, lipstick poised halfway to your mouth. Leon Kennedy leaned against your bedroom doorframe, and the sight of him made you forget how to breathe for a solid three seconds.
He was wearing a suit.
Not the tactical gear you'd grown accustomed to seeing him in during training exercises. Not the rumpled button-downs he favoured at the office. This was a proper, tailored, devastating black suit that fit him like it had been sewn onto his body by angels with a very specific agenda. The jacket hugged his broad shoulders, the vest emphasized the narrow taper of his waist, and the trousers — God help you — did things to his legs that should be illegal. His tie was deep burgundy, and he'd actually styled his hair, the usually messy brown locks swept back in a way that showed off his sharp jawline and those impossible cheekbones.
His eyes, that particular shade of blue that seemed to shift with his moods, travelled down your body with an intensity that made your skin feel too tight.
"You're staring," you said, trying to sound casual as you finally applied your lipstick — a dark red that matched his tie in a way that felt intentional.
"You're worth staring at," he replied, his voice lower than usual. He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, moving with that predatory grace he usually reserved for combat scenarios. His reflection appeared behind yours in the mirror, and you watched his expression darken as he took in your dress.
It was black. Of course it was black — it had to be for the mission. But it was also dangerous. The bodice was structured corsetry that cinched your waist and pushed up your breasts, the neckline plunging in a way that revealed the valley between them and the elegant line of your collarbones. The back was open, dipping low to show the curve of your spine, held up by nothing more than willpower and a few strategic seams. The skirt hugged your hips before flaring slightly at the thighs, slit up the left side to reveal your leg when you walked. You'd paired it with heels that added four inches to your height and made your calves look spectacular.
"You look..." Leon's hands came to rest on your bare shoulders, his thumbs tracing the exposed skin there. His touch was warm, calloused from years of handling weapons, and it sent a shiver down your spine. "You look like you're trying to get me killed tonight."
"Is that a complaint, Kennedy?" You met his eyes in the mirror, watching the way his jaw tightened.
"It's a warning," he murmured, leaning down until his mouth was level with your ear. His breath ghosted over your neck, raising goosebumps. "Every man in that room is going to want you. Every man is going to look at you the way I'm looking at you right now. And I'm going to have to pretend I don't care. I'm going to have to watch you smile at them, dance with them, let them put their hands on you while I sneak upstairs to steal files from a safe."
"That's the job," you said softly, though your voice had gone breathless. "I'm the distraction. You're the thief."
"I know what the job is." His grip on your shoulders tightened, not painful, but possessive. "That doesn't mean I have to like it."
You turned around to face him, the movement bringing you chest to chest, close enough to smell his cologne — something woodsy and clean, with a hint of spice. His hand slid from your shoulder to your neck, thumb resting against your pulse point where he could feel how fast your heart was beating.
"Leon," you whispered. "It's just acting. It's just-"
"I know," he said, but his eyes said something else entirely. They were dark now, that storm-cloud blue that meant he was feeling something intense and trying to hide it. "I know it's just the mission. But (Y/N), when I see you in this dress, when I think about those bastards looking at you, touching you..." He trailed off, his jaw working like he was physically restraining himself from saying more.
"Focus on the objective," you said, placing your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath the expensive fabric. "Get the files. I'll keep them busy."
"Two hours," he said, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, smearing your lipstick slightly. He didn't seem to care. "Two hours of watching you be charming and gorgeous and completely untouchable, and then we're leaving. And when we leave, (Y/N), I'm not going to be able to pretend anymore."
Your breath caught. "What does that mean?"
His smile was slow, sharp, and sent heat pooling low in your stomach. "You'll see."
The ballroom was everything you'd expected from a high-society pharmaceutical gala — crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than your apartment, marble floors that reflected the golden light, an orchestra playing something classical and forgettable in the corner. Men in tuxedos and women in gowns that cost more than cars circulated with champagne flutes, laughing at jokes that weren't funny, networking with smiles that didn't reach their eyes.
You and Leon entered separately — standard protocol for a two-agent operation. You came through the main entrance, pausing at the top of the grand staircase to let the room see you. The plan worked immediately. Conversations stuttered. Heads turned. You could feel the weight of dozens of eyes on your body, assessing, admiring, wanting.
You smiled — a practiced, dazzling thing — and began your descent.
By the time you reached the bottom of the stairs, you had three offers for dances and two business cards pressed into your palm. You accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter and began to work the room, keeping your movements languid, your laughter musical, your attention focused on the men who mattered.
The target was Richard Vance, CEO of Vance Pharmaceuticals, currently holding court near the bar with his inner circle of executives. He was fifty, silver-haired, handsome in a shark-like way, and absolutely the kind of man who would keep classified documents in his private safe on the third floor.
He was also, unfortunately, exactly the kind of man who thought he deserved beautiful things.
"Miss..." He approached you as you lingered near the dessert table, his smile showing too many teeth. "I don't believe we've been introduced. I'm Richard Vance."
"(Y/N)." you said, offering your hand. He took it and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving your cleavage. You suppressed the urge to shudder. "Your home is beautiful, Mr. Vance."
"Please, call me Richard." He didn't let go of your hand. "And I must say, you are the most captivating woman in this room. Where have you been hiding?"
"Here and there," you said lightly, extracting your hand with a graceful twist. "I do love a good charity event. So many... interesting people."
His laugh was too loud, too pleased with itself. "Then you must let me show you around. The art collection on the second floor is quite impressive. Private viewing, of course."
Perfect. The second floor was exactly where you needed him — away from the main party, close to the staircase that led to the third floor where Leon would be working.
"I'd love that," you said, touching his arm lightly, letting your fingers linger. "Lead the way."
As you turned to follow Vance, your eyes scanned the room and found Leon. He was across the ballroom, near the terrace doors, talking to some politician's wife who was hanging on his every word. But his eyes weren't on her. They were on you, and the look in them made your steps falter for just a moment.
He was furious.
Not the hot, explosive anger of an argument, but something colder, more controlled, and infinitely more dangerous. He was watching Vance's hand on your lower back, watching the way the CEO leaned in to whisper something in your ear, watching you laugh and nod and let yourself be led toward the stairs.
His expression didn't change, but you saw his hand tighten around his champagne flute until his knuckles went white.
Two hours, he'd said. Two hours of pretending.
You'd barely made it through twenty minutes.
The second floor was quieter, the sounds of the orchestra muffled by thick carpets and closed doors. Vance was talking about some painting — Dutch masters, you thought, though you weren't really listening. You were positioning yourself near the window that overlooked the side garden, making sure you had a clear view of the hallway that led to the third-floor staircase.
"You're different from the usual women at these events," Vance was saying, moving closer, invading your personal space. "There's something... sharper about you. More interesting."
"You're too kind," you said, stepping back until you felt the wall behind you. You hadn't meant to get cornered, but it worked for the mission — if you were here, Vance was here, and if Vance was here, his security detail was focused on protecting him rather than patrolling the upper floors.
"I'm not kind at all," Vance said, his smile turning predatory as he placed one hand on the wall beside your head. "I'm honest. And honestly? I want to take you upstairs. Show you the view from the penthouse. Very... private. Very exclusive."
Your skin crawled, but you kept your expression inviting. "That sounds tempting, but I should probably get back to the party. My date might miss me."
"You didn't come with a date," Vance said, his other hand moving to your waist. "I asked the concierge. You're alone, which means you're looking for something. Someone."
"I'm looking for a lot of things," you said, your voice staying light even as you calculated how quickly you could break his nose if necessary. "But I'm afraid I'm quite particular about who I go upstairs with."
"Particular?" Vance laughed. "Darling, do you know who I am? I could buy-"
"She said she's particular."
The voice came from the shadows of the hallway, cold and cutting and unmistakably Leon's. Vance startled, turning to find Leon emerging from the darkness, his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed in a way that was completely at odds with the violence in his eyes.
"Who the hell are you?" Vance demanded, straightening his jacket.
"Her date," Leon said, moving closer with that lethal grace. He didn't look at you, keeping his attention focused on Vance, and somehow that was more terrifying than if he'd been glaring. "And you're in her personal space, Mr. Vance. I suggest you step back."
"This is my house," Vance sputtered, but you heard the uncertainty in his voice. Leon had that effect on people — he radiated danger even in a suit, especially in a suit. He looked like a weapon that had been dressed up for show but was still very much functional.
"And that's my partner," Leon said, finally looking at you. The anger in his eyes shifted, became something hotter, hungrier. "Come here, (Y/N)."
You didn't hesitate. You ducked under Vance's arm and crossed to Leon's side, fitting yourself against him, feeling the tension radiating through his body. His arm came around your waist instantly, pulling you flush against him, his hand spread wide against the open back of your dress, skin against skin.
"Partner?" Vance's eyes narrowed. "You said you didn't have a date."
"I said a lot of things," you replied, leaning into Leon's chest, feeling his heart hammering against your shoulder. "I'm afraid our evening is over."
Leon didn't smile. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his hand spread wide against the open back of your dress. "We're leaving."
"The hell you are," Vance spat, stepping forward with his hand raised.
Leon moved faster. He stepped in front of you, catching Vance by the throat and slamming him back against the wall with a force that made the paintings rattle. Vance made a choked sound, his feet dangling inches off the floor as Leon held him there, his expression terrifyingly calm.
"Don't," Leon said softly, almost gently, "ever touch her again."
"Leon," you said, placing a hand on his back, your gaze flicking toward the hallway and the distant sounds of the gala below. Any second now, someone would hear the commotion. Any second now, Vance's security detail would come running. "Leon, let him go. He's not worth it."
For a moment, you thought he might not listen. You could feel the violence coiled in his muscles, the desire to hurt, to punish, to mark his territory in blood. But then he exhaled, and some of the tension left him. He let Vance drop, the CEO collapsing to the floor gasping.
"You're right," Leon said, turning to face you. His eyes were wild, the controlled mask completely gone. "He's not worth it. But you are."
"Leon-"
"Car's waiting outside," he interrupted, his voice rough. "We're leaving. Now."
The drive back to your apartment was silent, the tension in the car thick enough to choke on. Leon drove with one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against his thigh, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He hadn't said a word since he'd pulled you out of Vance's estate, hadn't looked at you during the entire walk to the car, hadn't touched you until he was practically shoving you into the passenger seat. He looked like a man barely holding himself together, and the energy rolling off him had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the way Vance's hand had felt on your waist.
You should have been annoyed. You should have pointed out that he'd compromised the mission by almost revealing himself, that his jealousy had nearly blown the operation, that he had no right to be possessive when you'd just been doing your job.
But you couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked at you when he'd said you're worth staring at.
And you couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd said my partner with a kind of fierce pride that had made your knees weak.
Your apartment building was quiet, the hallway empty as you unlocked your door. Leon followed you inside, closing the door behind him with a click that seemed too loud in the silence. You kicked off your heels, suddenly exhausted, suddenly nervous in a way you hadn't been during the mission.
"Leon, about tonight-"
He was on you before you could finish the sentence.
One moment he was by the door, the next his hands were framing your face, and his mouth was crashing down on yours with a force that drove the air from your lungs. He walked you backward until your back hit the wall, his body pressing against yours, hard and hot and demanding. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting like mint and desperation, and you moaned against him, your hands fisting in his jacket.
"Jealous," he growled against your lips, his hands sliding down to grip your waist, his thumbs pressing into the exposed skin of your hips. "I was so fucking jealous, (Y/N). Watching him touch you. Watching you smile at him. Watching you let him-"
"I was doing my job," you gasped as his mouth moved to your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point, sucking hard enough to leave marks.
"I know," he said, his voice harsh. "I know you were. But I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand them looking at you like that. Like you were theirs." His hands moved up, cupping your breasts through the corset bodice, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks. "You're not theirs. You're mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should have been a red flag. It should have made you push back, assert your independence, remind him that you didn't belong to anyone. But instead, it sent a thrill through you, heat pooling between your thighs, your body arching into his touch.
"Say it," he demanded, his mouth returning to yours, biting at your lower lip. "Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," you breathed, and the truth of it shocked you both.
He made a sound like a wounded animal, his control shattering completely. His hands were everywhere — tugging at the zipper of your dress, palming your ass, lifting you up so you could wrap your legs around his waist. He carried you away from the wall, stumbling toward your bedroom in a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses, neither of you willing to break contact long enough to see where you were going.
You hit the bed with a bounce, Leon following you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress. He reared back just long enough to tear off his jacket, his tie already loosened and askew, and then he was back, his mouth finding yours again, his hands pushing your dress up your thighs.
"You have no idea," he panted between kisses, his fingers hooking into the edge of your underwear. "No idea how long I've wanted this. Wanted you. Watching you in training, watching you on missions, watching you tonight in that fucking dress-"
"Leon," you whimpered as his hand slipped between your legs, his fingers finding you wet and ready. "Please-"
"Please what?" He asked, his voice dark with a kind of wicked intensity. "Please touch you? Please make you come? Please fuck you until you forget anyone else ever existed?"
"All of it," you gasped, your hips bucking against his hand. "All of it, Leon, please-"
He didn't wait for more encouragement. He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them in a way that made your vision blur, his thumb circling your clit with devastating precision. You cried out, your head falling back against the pillows, your hands gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises.
"Look at me," he commanded, his free hand gripping your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his. "Don't look away. I want to see you. I want to watch you fall apart."
You held his gaze, drowning in that storm-blue intensity, as he worked you higher and higher. The pleasure built like a wave, cresting, crashing, and when you came it was with his name on your lips and his eyes burning into yours, watching every second of your undoing.
But he wasn't done.
Before you could catch your breath, he was stripping off the rest of his clothes, revealing the body you'd only ever imagined — lean muscle and scars and strength, all of it yours for the taking. He pulled your dress the rest of the way off, leaving you in nothing but your underwear, and then he was settling between your legs, his hardness pressing against your thigh, his mouth finding your breast, sucking your nipple into wet heat.
"Leon," you moaned, your fingers tangling in his hair. "I need you. Now."
"Tell me what you need," he said against your skin, his hand guiding himself to your entrance, teasing, tormenting. "Be specific, (Y/N). I want to hear you say it."
"I need you inside me," you demanded, your nails digging into his back. "I need you to fuck me, Leon. Hard. Now."
He slammed into you with a force that drove the air from your lungs, filling you completely, stretching you around him. You both froze for a moment, adjusting to the sensation, the intimacy, the reality of finally being joined.
"Fuck," he groaned, his forehead pressed against yours, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "You feel… you're so…"
"Faster," you begged, your legs wrapping tighter around him. "Please, Leon, faster."
He pulled back and thrust forward, setting a pace that was fast and deep and exactly what you needed. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall, and neither of you cared. He was relentless, his hips snapping against yours, his mouth devouring yours, his hands pinning your wrists above your head when you tried to touch him too much.
"Mine," he growled with every thrust, the word becoming a mantra, a claim, a promise. "Mine, mine, mine-"
"Yours," you agreed, your voice breaking as another orgasm built inside you. "Only yours, Leon, always-"
He released your wrists to grip your hips instead, tilting you up to change the angle, hitting a spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyes. You came screaming his name, your body clamping down around him, and he followed you over the edge with a shout that sounded like your name and a prayer mixed together.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight a comforting blanket, his heart hammering against your chest in time with yours. For long minutes, neither of you moved, too overwhelmed, too spent, too there in the aftermath.
"I was jealous," he finally whispered against your neck, pressing soft kisses to the marks he'd left there. "From the moment you walked down those stairs. I wanted to kill every man who looked at you."
"I know," you said, your fingers tracing patterns on his back. "I could see it. That's why I kept looking at you. To remind you that I was only acting."
"It didn't help," he admitted, lifting his head to look at you. His eyes were soft now, the storm passed, replaced by something tender and terrifying in its intensity. "Nothing would have helped except getting you alone. Getting you here. Getting you under me."
"Well," you said, a smile tugging at your lips, "you certainly accomplished that."
He laughed, the sound warm and surprised and so Leon that your heart ached with it. He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. His hand traced lazy patterns on your back, his lips finding your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth.
"I've wanted this for so long," he said quietly. "Wanted you. I thought... I thought if I kept it professional, kept my distance, it would go away. But tonight, watching you with him, I realized I was done pretending. Done waiting. Done being careful."
"Leon Kennedy," you teased, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at him. "Since when are you the careful one?"
"Since I met you," he said simply, his hand cupping your face, his thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips. "You're the only thing I've ever been afraid to lose, (Y/N). The only thing that matters."
You kissed him then, soft and slow and full of everything you hadn't said, everything you'd been hiding behind professional courtesy and mission protocols. He responded in kind, his arms wrapping around you, holding you like he never planned to let go.
"So," you said when you finally broke apart, breathless and smiling, "does this mean we get to be partners in more than just the professional sense?"
"It means," he said, rolling you onto your back and settling between your thighs again, already hardening against you, "that you're mine. And I'm yours. And the next time we have to go undercover, I'm going to be the distraction, and you're going to be the one sneaking around, because I cannot handle watching another man put his hands on you ever again."
"Possessive," you observed, though you were grinning, your legs wrapping around him willingly.
"Completely," he agreed, his eyes darkening again as he entered you slowly, filling you with a gentleness that was somehow more intense than the frantic pace from before. "Is that a problem?"
You arched into him, your hands framing his face, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted like forever.
"Not even a little," you whispered against his mouth. "Now shut up and make me yours again, Kennedy."
He did. Thoroughly. Completely. Until the sun came up and the mission was a distant memory and the only thing that mattered was the man in your arms, the weight of his body, the promise in his eyes.
Yours. Always yours.
And as he whispered it against your skin, over and over like a vow, you knew that some missions didn't end when the operation was over.
Some missions lasted a lifetime.
THE BACK SEAT
pairing. leon s. kennedy x f!reader
summary. longtime partners finally give in to years of tension with a steamy encounter in the back of leon's porsche.
warning. (18+) NSFW, sexual content, established relationship/friends-to-lovers dynamics, car sex, mature themes
word count. 3.7k
a/n: english is my second language, so if you find any mistakes, don't hesitate and text me! this is my second time writing smut, so please be kind. <3
The late afternoon sun bled across the horizon in strokes of amber and violet, painting the desolate stretch of highway in hues that felt almost theatrical. You'd been on the road for six hours already, and the GPS insisted there were still four more to go before you'd reach the safehouse outside of Denver. But time had a way of stretching when you were trapped in close quarters with Leon S. Kennedy — and when you'd spent eight years pretending you didn't notice the way his shirts pulled across his shoulders or the particular shade of blue his eyes turned when he was thinking about something he shouldn't.
The Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT purred beneath you, its engine a low, satisfied growl that vibrated through the leather seats. It was an obscene vehicle for a government agent—matte black, tinted windows, custom suspension that ate up the cracked asphalt like it was fresh pavement. Leon drove with one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, his fingers drumming an absent rhythm against the carbon fiber. You'd seen those hands do a lot of things over the years — fire weapons, pick locks, bandage wounds — but you'd be lying if you said you hadn't imagined them doing other things. Things that had no place in a professional partnership.
He looked different than he had when you'd first met, fresh out of training and assigned as his backup on a routine extraction in Eastern Europe. That had been eight years ago. Now there were silver threads weaving through his honey-brown hair, catching the sunset like molten metal, and the lines around his eyes had deepened into permanent fixtures. The scar on his jaw — acquired in a basement in Bucharest three years back, when you'd been too slow and he'd taken the blade meant for you — was white against his tan. It should have made him look rougher, but instead it just added to the whole package, the thing you'd been trying not to think about for nearly a decade.
"See something you like, partner?" His voice had that gravel in it now, the kind that came from too many cigarettes and shouting over gunfire. It hadn't been there eight years ago, and now it did things to you that you absolutely refused to acknowledge.
"Just wondering when you're finally going to admit that you're overcompensating," you deflected, turning to watch the scrubland roll past your window. It was an old game between you, this deflection, this pretense that you hadn't noticed the way his gaze sometimes lingered or the way the air between you got thick enough to choke on.
"Overcompensating?" He arched a brow, glancing at you with amusement. "For what?"
"For something. Nobody buys a Porsche Cayenne unless they're trying to prove something." You let your gaze drift over the custom interior, the carbon fiber trim, the way the leather smelled expensive. "Let me guess. Midlife crisis? Finally realized you're mortal and decided to blow your retirement fund?"
His laugh was genuine, warm and rumbling. "Hardly. I earned this, thank you very much."
"You earned a ninety-thousand-dollar SUV? On a government salary?"
"Actually," he said, his tone shifting to something more serious, "after Spain, after everything... they paid me. Properly. Back pay for years of hazardous duty, hazard pay that got 'misplaced,' compensation for injuries sustained in the line of duty, the whole bureaucratic nightmare." He shrugged, but you could see the satisfaction behind it. "Turns out when you save the President's daughter and prevent a global bioterrorist outbreak, the government suddenly remembers they owe you money. Lots of it."
You looked at him, really looked at him. "They finally paid you."
"With interest," he confirmed. "Enough that I could buy this ridiculous car, pay off my debts, and still have enough left over to pretend I'm a functional adult." He glanced at you, checking for your reaction. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. After years of eating ramen in safehouses and patching my own gear, it's nice to have something... nice. Something that's mine."
"You could have bought something practical," you pointed out, though your voice had taken on a teasing edge. "A Honda. A Toyota. Something that doesn't scream 'look at me, I have unresolved trauma and a large bank account.'"
"Where's the fun in that?" His grin turned wicked, familiar, the one that had gotten you both out of more trouble than it had any right to. "Besides, I've spent my entire adult life being practical. Being careful. Being the good soldier." He downshifted smoothly as the road began to climb, the engine's pitch rising to a hungry whine. "I figured I was allowed one ridiculous purchase before the next apocalypse hits."
"And yet, here you are," you said. "Still driving into danger. Still answering the phone when it rings."
"Some habits die hard." His hand moved from the gear shift to adjust the air conditioning, and his knuckles brushed your knee — not for the first time on this trip, and probably not accidental. His pinky finger lingered, tracing a lazy pattern against your jeans, and you felt the touch everywhere. "Besides, if I retired, who'd watch your back?"
"I could find someone."
"You could," he agreed, his voice dropping into that register that did things to your stomach. "But you won't. Because years ago, you decided I was worth keeping around. And you're too stubborn to trade up."
"Trade up?" You laughed, shifting in your seat to face him more fully. The leather creaked beneath you. "You think you're the best I can do?"
"I think," he said, his eyes leaving the road just long enough to rake over you, slow and deliberate, "that you know exactly what you're doing when you wear those jeans on long car rides. And I think you've been watching me watch you for the last six hours, and you haven't called me out on it once."
Your breath caught, but you kept your voice light. "Maybe I just enjoy the view."
"Do you?" His hand settled more firmly on your knee, thumb pressing in just enough to be felt through the denim. "Because from where I'm sitting, the view is pretty spectacular."
"Leon-"
"Just making an observation." But he didn't move his hand, and you didn't pull away. The touch was warm, grounding, sending heat pooling in your belly that had nothing to do with the car's climate control. "Eight years, (Y/N). Eight years of this. Of you wearing shirts that fit just right. Of you stretching in the morning when you think I'm not looking. Of me trying to remember all the reasons why bending you over the nearest surface would be a terrible idea."
"Name one reason."
"We're partners."
"That's never stopped you from flirting."
"That's different. Flirting is..." He searched for the word, his thumb tracing circles on your knee that were maddening in their innocence. "Flirting is safe. Flirting is 'maybe someday' and 'what if' and all the space in between. Flirting is looking but not touching."
"And touching?"
His grip tightened slightly, his fingers curling around the inside of your knee. "Touching is dangerous. Touching is 'I can't stop' and 'I don't want to' and 'fuck the consequences.' Touching is the point of no return."
"Maybe," you said, your voice coming out lower than you intended, "I'm tired of safe. Maybe I've been tired of safe for years."
His jaw tightened, muscle jumping beneath the skin. "Don't say things like that if you don't mean them."
"Who says I don't mean them?"
The car went quiet except for the engine and the wind. Leon's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, then relaxed, then tightened again. When he spoke, his voice was rough, controlled. "You're playing with fire, rookie."
"I'm not a rookie. Haven't been for seven years."
"No," he agreed, his gaze flicking to you again, hot and heavy. "You're definitely not a rookie anymore."
The teasing had always been there, simmering beneath the surface of your partnership. The comments that walked the line, the looks that lasted a second too long, the casual touches that felt anything but casual. You'd both gotten good at pretending, at maintaining the fiction that there was nothing between you but professional respect and friendship. But eight years of buildup had a way of eroding fiction, and somewhere around the Nevada border, you'd both stopped pretending quite so hard.
"So," he said, turning his attention back to the road, though his hand remained on your knee. "Tell me something. Since we've apparently got four more hours of this."
"Something like what?"
"Something I've never asked before." His thumb traced higher, just an inch, but enough to make your breath hitch. "Something I've wondered about. In the dark. When I couldn't sleep."
"That sounds ominous."
"Or interesting." His voice dropped, becoming something intimate, conspiratorial. "Depends on your perspective."
You shifted in your seat, crossing your legs, and his hand had to move or get trapped. He chose to move it, but not far — just to your thigh, resting there like it belonged, his fingers spreading wide enough to be felt through your jeans. "Ask."
"That night in Madrid," he said, and you knew exactly which night he meant. "Three years ago. You opened your door and you stood there, and you looked at me like-" He stopped, swallowed. "Like you wanted me to come in. Why didn't you say something?"
"Why didn't you?"
"I was scared," he admitted, and the honesty of it surprised you. "Not of the job. Not of the mission. Of you. Of what wanting you would mean."
"And now?"
His hand squeezed your thigh, just enough to be felt. "Now I'm too tired to be scared. Now I've spent six hours in this car with you smelling like that shampoo you use and wearing those jeans that fit like they were made specifically to torture me, and I'm starting to think the consequences might be worth it."
"Starting to?"
"Fine." His laugh was short, humourless. "I've thought they were worth it for years. I'm just finally admitting it out loud."
"About time."
His head turned sharply, his eyes meeting yours, and the heat in them made your mouth go dry. "Careful, (Y/N). I might start thinking you actually want this."
"Maybe I do."
"Maybe?" His hand slid higher, just an inch, testing. "Say it. Say you want this."
"I want this," you said, and the words felt like release, like finally exhaling after holding your breath for years. "I want you. I've wanted you for years. I just got tired of waiting for you to catch up."
"Christ," he breathed, and his hand tightened on your thigh, his fingers digging in just enough to bruise. "You can't just- you can't say things like that and expect me to keep driving."
"Then don't keep driving."
"(Y/N)-"
"Pull over, Leon."
He didn't need to be told twice. His foot found the brake before you'd finished speaking, the Cayenne slowing with a purr of protest as he guided it onto the shoulder, gravel crunching beneath the tires. He found a turnout, secluded, hidden from the highway by a stand of scrub pine, and killed the engine.
The sudden silence was shocking, broken only by the wind and the ticking of cooling metal and the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.
"Now what?" he asked, his voice rough, his hand still on your thigh.
"Now you stop thinking," you said, and unbuckled your seatbelt, climbing over the center console into his lap before he could react.
The steering wheel dug into your back, and his hands came up automatically to steady you, settling on your hips, and you could feel him beneath you, hard and interested, and the knowledge sent a thrill through you that made you dizzy.
"Eight years," he murmured, his eyes searching yours, his hands flexing on your waist. "Eight years of wanting this. Of imagining this."
"Stop imagining," you said, and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It couldn't be, not with years of tension snapping like a wire pulled too tight. He met you with equal force, his mouth opening under yours, his tongue sliding against yours with a confidence that made you moan. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you down against him, and you felt him everywhere, the hard planes of his chest, the strength of his thighs, the evidence of his desire pressing against you through too many layers of clothing.
"Fuck," he breathed against your mouth, his teeth grazing your lower lip hard enough to sting. "You taste like-"
"Like what?"
"Like everything I shouldn't want but do anyway."
You laughed, breathless, and rolled your hips against him, feeling him groan into your mouth. "Shouldn't?"
"Shouldn't," he confirmed, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer, eliminating what little space remained between you. "Professional ethics. Partnership boundaries. All the reasons this is a terrible idea."
"Terrible ideas are kind of our specialty."
"True." He kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt and sliding beneath, his calloused palms against your skin making you arch into him. "God, you're soft. I imagined… you're softer than I imagined."
"You imagined this?"
"Every night for eight years," he admitted against your throat, his mouth finding your pulse point, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. "Every time you wore that tank top in the summer. Every time you stretched after a mission. Every time you smiled at me like you knew exactly what I was thinking."
"Maybe I did," you gasped, your head falling back as his mouth moved lower, finding the hollow of your collarbone, the top of your breast. "Maybe I was imagining it too."
"Yeah?" His hand found your breast through your shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple, making you whimper. "What did you imagine? Tell me."
"Your hands," you managed, rolling your hips against him again, feeling him twitch beneath you. "Your mouth. This. Exactly this."
"Not exactly this," he corrected, his voice rough with desire. "Because in my imagination, we had more room. A bed. Time."
"We have time," you said, though your voice was breathless, desperate. "We have now."
"Now," he repeated, and kissed you again, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand sliding down to the button of your jeans.
The car was too small, the angle was awkward, and you didn't care. You helped him, your fingers fumbling with your own button, with his, trying to find skin, contact, anything to ease the ache that had been building for years. He laughed against your mouth, the sound warm and real, and shifted you, maneuvering you into the back seat with a grace that spoke of years of tactical training.
The leather was cool against your back, and then he was there, following you, caging you in with his arms, his body a warm weight that you welcomed. The tinted windows turned the starlight into something private, something just for you, and the world outside ceased to exist.
"Better?" he asked, his mouth at your ear, his breath hot against your skin.
"Better," you confirmed, and pulled him down, your hands tangling in his hair, your legs wrapping around his waist.
He settled between your thighs, and you could feel him, hard and insistent, pressing against you through the layers that suddenly felt like too much, like an insult to the years of waiting. You arched up, seeking friction, and he groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
"Slow," he managed, his voice strained. "We should go slow-"
"I don't want slow," you interrupted, your hands finding his belt, his button, the zipper that was digging into you. "I want you. Now. Fast. However I can get you."
"Christ, (Y/N)-"
"Leon." You said his name like a prayer, like a demand, like the only word that mattered. "Stop thinking. Stop waiting. Just-" You pulled him down, kissed him hard, your teeth catching his lower lip. "Just take me."
He made a sound in his throat, half-growl, half-surrender, and then his hands were moving, efficient and desperate, stripping away barriers, finding skin. His mouth followed his hands, hot and wet and devastating, tracing a path down your throat, your chest, your stomach, and you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him there.
"You're beautiful," he murmured against your hip, his breath hot against sensitive skin. "I should have told you. Should have said it every day for eight years."
"Tell me later," you managed, tugging at his hair, needing him closer, needing him now. "Show me now."
He showed you. His mouth found you, and you cried out, your back arching off the leather seat, the sound echoing in the enclosed space. He was thorough, dedicated, devastatingly effective — the same focus he applied to everything, now turned entirely on you, on your pleasure, on making you fall apart. His tongue was wicked, his fingers clever, and you were already so wound up, so ready, that it didn't take long.
"Leon," you gasped, warning, begging, and he doubled his efforts, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you open, holding you there, and you broke apart with a cry that was probably too loud, too desperate, and you didn't care, couldn't care, because it was him, finally him, and it was better than any fantasy, any imagination, any dream.
He crawled back up your body, his mouth finding yours, and you could taste yourself on his lips, and the intimacy of it sent another wave of heat through you. He was still dressed, mostly, and you were a mess beneath him, and you had never felt more wanted, more seen, more desired.
"That was-" he started, his voice rough.
"Not enough," you finished, and reached between you, finding him, hard and heavy and hot through his briefs, and he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours.
"(Y/N)-"
"I want you inside me," you said, your voice steady despite the trembling in your hands. "I want to feel you. All of you. Now."
"Condom," he managed, though his hips were already rocking into your touch, seeking friction. "Wallet. Back pocket."
"Get it."
He moved, fumbling, his usual grace abandoned in favor of speed, of need. You watched him, propped up on your elbows, your shirt rucked up, your jeans discarded somewhere in the front seat, and you had never seen anything more beautiful than Leon Kennedy desperate for you.
He found it, tore the packet with his teeth, and you helped him, your hands working together to remove the last barriers between you. And then he was there, hot and hard and perfect, and you guided him, and he pushed in, slow, so slow, and you both groaned, the sound harmonizing in the darkened cabin.
"Fuck," he breathed, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes closed, his jaw tight with control. "You're- this is-"
"Move," you demanded, your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapping tight around his waist. "Please, Leon, move."
He moved. He set a pace that was neither slow nor fast but exactly right, exactly what you needed, his hips snapping against yours, the leather creaking beneath you, the car rocking slightly with the rhythm of your bodies. His mouth found yours, swallowing your moans, his hands finding your hips, your breasts, everywhere, touching you like he couldn't get enough, like years of waiting had built an appetite that one night couldn't satisfy.
You met him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving together like they'd been made for this, like all the years of partnership had been practice for this moment, this joining. The tension built again, coiling tight in your belly, and you could feel him getting close, his rhythm faltering, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your neck.
"Come with me," he managed, his hand sliding between you, finding you, pressing just right. "Please, (Y/N), come with me."
You did. You fell apart together, your bodies shaking, your voices mingling in the dark, your names on each other's lips like promises, like prayers, like the only words that mattered.
After, you lay tangled together, sweat cooling on your skin, the leather seats creaking softly as you shifted to find a more comfortable position. Leon's arm was beneath your head, his other hand tracing lazy patterns on your bare hip, and you could feel his heart still beating fast against your back, a steady rhythm that matched your own.
"We should go," you murmured, though you made no move to leave.
"Five more minutes."
"The mission-"
"Fuck the mission." But he said it gently, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Five minutes. Please."
You turned in his arms to face him, studying him in the dim light. He looked younger, the years of tension erased from his face, replaced by a satisfaction you'd rarely seen. The scar on his jaw stood out, white against his skin, and you leaned in to press your lips to it, feeling him shudder beneath you.
"Hey," you said softly.
"Hey."
"That was worth eight years of waiting."
He laughed, the sound warm and rumbling. "High praise."
"You know what I mean." You cupped his face, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "I wasn't sure it would live up to the fantasy."
"And?"
"Reality's better."
He smiled, slow and wicked and satisfied. "Give me twenty minutes and I'll prove it again."
"Twenty minutes? Confident."
"Determined," he corrected, and kissed you, slow and thorough, a promise of more.
They dressed eventually, reluctantly, trading touches and smiles that felt like secrets. Leon climbed back into the driver's seat, adjusting the rearview mirror, and you slid in beside him, reaching immediately for his hand. He took it without hesitation, threading his fingers through yours, and pulled back onto the highway with the ease of long practice.
The miles stretched ahead, dark and full of unknowns. But for the first time in eight years, the tension between you had finally snapped, leaving something warm and satisfied in its place.
And as the stars wheeled overhead and Leon's thumb traced circles on your palm, you thought that maybe the next safehouse could wait. Maybe you'd find another secluded spot. Maybe you'd spend the whole drive finding new ways to make up for lost time.
The road unwound before you, endless and dark, and you drove toward the dawn together, two partners who had finally stopped pretending, and started taking what they wanted.
RESIDENT EVIL MASTERLIST.
— leon scott kennedy.
❝ ONE-NIGHT ❞ - (18+) two exhausted agents surrender to years of restrained desire during a rain-soaked night.
❝ THE BACK SEAT ❞ - (18+) longtime partners finally give in to years of tension with a steamy encounter in the back of leon's porsche.
❝ MISSION COMPROMISED ❞ - (18+) leon's jealousy during an undercover gala mission explodes into a night of possessive passion.
ONE-NIGHT
pairing. leon s. kennedy x f!reader
summary. two exhausted agents surrender to years of restrained desire during a rain-soaked night.
warning. (18+) NSFW, sexual content, age gap (~20 years), mentions of violence/scars, brief allusion to character death
word count. 3.1k
a/n: english is my second language, so if you find any mistakes, don't hesitate and text me! this is actually my very first time writing smut, so please be kind. <3
The rain had been falling for six hours straight, a relentless autumn downpour that turned the world outside into a blur of neon reflections and dark puddles. You sat on the thin carpet of the motel room, your back against the rattling air conditioning unit, watching the water trace jagged paths down the windowpane. The safehouse three blocks over had gone dark — radio silence, then a burst of static, then nothing. Standard protocol dictated separation, isolation, survival above all else.
Which was how you'd ended up here, in this beige tomb of a room with its stained ceiling and the persistent smell of mildew, with Leon Kennedy sitting on the edge of the queen-sized bed methodically field-stripping his Requiem.
He hadn't spoken in forty minutes.
You'd known him for three years. You'd watched him evolve from the distant, polished operative who'd trained you in the DSO facility in Washington to the man before you now — forty-nine years old, silver threading through his hair at the temples, shoulders carrying a weight that seemed to grow heavier with every operation. You were twenty-six, technically old enough to be his peer now, though the gap between you sometimes felt like decades rather than twenty-three years.
"You're bleeding," he said, not looking up from the slide assembly he was cleaning.
You glanced down at your left forearm. A shallow gash from the fire escape, probably. You'd barely noticed. "It's nothing."
"Let me see."
"It's fine, Leon."
He stopped then, his hands going still over the weapon parts spread across the cheap polyester bedspread. When he lifted his eyes to yours, you saw the exhaustion there, the bone-deep tiredness that never quite left him anymore. "Don't," he said quietly.
"Don't what?"
"Don't pretend you're invincible. Not with me."
The room was too small. That was the problem. It forced a proximity that the operations center never did, removed the buffers of desks and computers and other people. Here, you could hear every breath he took, could see the way his shirt clung to his back where the rain had soaked through, could smell the gun oil and the faint trace of the sandalwood soap he always used.
You stood up, crossing the narrow space between you, and held out your arm. He took your wrist in his hand — his fingers were calloused, warm, careful — and turned it to examine the wound. His touch was feather-light, clinical, but you felt it everywhere.
"Needs stitches," he murmured.
"We don't have a med kit."
"I have a field suture in my pack."
"You always were prepared."
The ghost of a smile crossed his face, there and gone. "Someone has to be." He released your wrist and reached for his bag, rummaging until he found the small kit. "Sit."
You sat on the bed beside him, close enough that your knees almost touched. He worked in silence, threading the needle with steady hands, and you watched his face as he focused on the task. The lines around his eyes were deeper than they'd been six months ago. There was a new scar, you noticed, barely healed, tracing along his jawline.
"You took a hit." you said. It wasn't a question.
"Grazed me."
"You didn't report it."
"It wasn't relevant."
"Leon." You waited until he looked up. "When are you going to stop trying to die?"
His hands paused, the needle hovering mere millimeters above your skin. For a fraction of a second, the carefully constructed mask of the legendary DSO operative cracked. Something raw flickered in his expression — vulnerability, maybe, or a flash of defensive anger.
"I'm not trying to die," he said. His voice was too quiet, too carefully controlled, the cadence of a man walking a tightrope over an abyss.
"Aren't you?" You didn't flinch, didn't move away. You kept your eyes locked on his, forcing him to look at you. "You take the dangerous extractions. You volunteer for the solo recon. You don't sleep, you don't eat properly, and you sure as hell don't let anyone close enough to notice when you're falling apart."
Leon’s jaw tightened. A small muscle ticked beneath the fresh scar on his jawline. "You're one to talk."
"I'm not the one with a death wish."
He didn't answer. Instead, he dropped his gaze back to your arm and resumed stitching. His movements were precise, efficient, born of a hundred different battlefields, but there was a stiffness in his shoulders now that hadn't been there a minute ago. The pain of the needle piercing your skin was distant, manageable, entirely eclipsed by the suffocating proximity of him.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he murmured. He pulled the thread through, tying a knot with mechanical ease, but the words lacked conviction. They sounded tired. Hollow.
"I know you better than you think."
"Do you?" He didn't look up, but his hands slowed just a fraction on the next stitch.
"I know you blame yourself for every casualty," you said, your voice dropping to a whisper that felt incredibly loud in the small room. "I know you keep a list of names — everyone you couldn't save. I know you drink whiskey in your apartment at 3 AM because the silence is too loud."
Leon froze. The room seemed to shrink, the air thickening until it felt heavy and charged with electricity. The relentless drum of the autumn rain against the windowpane became a dull, background thrum.
You leaned in just an inch closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough to see the silver threading through his temples catch the dim, sickly yellow light of the motel lamp.
"And I know," you continued, your breath catching slightly in your throat, "that you look at me sometimes like you're starving and I'm the last meal on earth."
The needle stopped completely.
For three heartbeats, neither of you breathed. Leon remained perfectly still, a statue carved from grief and duty. Then, slowly, with agonizing deliberation, he set down the suture kit on the cheap polyester bedspread. He didn't pull his hands away immediately; his fingers lingered near your arm, trembling so slightly you might have imagined it.
He kept his eyes fixed on your skin, on the half-finished, neat black stitches. He couldn't look at you. If he looked at you, the walls would crumble.
"You shouldn't say things like that," he said. His voice was different now — rougher, stripped of the polished authority he usually wore like armor.
"Why not?" you challenged softly, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"Because..." He finally lifted his head. His blue eyes, usually so guarded and unreadable, were dark with a turbulent storm of restraint and exhaustion. "Because I'm twenty-three years older than you. Because I'm your superior. Because tomorrow we're walking into a facility that's probably rigged to blow, and because-"
He broke off, his jaw clamping shut as he looked away, staring at the peeling wallpaper across the room. He was fighting himself, constructing the barriers back up brick by brick, trying to remember the protocols, the rules, the decades of discipline.
"Because what, Leon?"
You reached out, your uninjured hand moving through the small space between you. Your fingertips barely brushed the cuff of his wet sleeve. A simple, tentative touch, but it felt like a match dropped into a powder keg.
Leon let out a long, ragged breath that sounded like a defeat. He turned his head back to you, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before rising to meet your eyes. The distance between you felt agonizingly small, yet vast with everything he had spent years holding back.
"Because," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, completely devoid of the strength he usually possessed, "I don't have the strength left to pretend I don't want you."
The admission hung in the damp air, heavy and irreversible.
He didn't move away, but he didn't close the distance either. He just sat there, inches from you, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. The ghost of his fingers still hovered near your wrist, waiting, caught in the agonizing, beautiful space between the rules he lived by and the reality he couldn't deny anymore.
The admission hung between you, fragile and dangerous. You could hear the rain, suddenly louder, drumming against the glass like something trying to get in. You could hear your own heartbeat, too fast, too reckless.
"Then don't pretend," you said softly.
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and you saw the war in him — the part that was honourable, that wanted to protect you from this, from him, and the part that was so tired of being alone. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and you felt the shift like a physical thing, the moment when the tether snapped.
"I could ruin you," he whispered.
"You could save me."
"There's no saving anyone in this world."
"Then just be with me. Just for tonight. No ranks, no tomorrow, no-"
He kissed you. It wasn't gentle, wasn't careful — it was three years of denied tension breaking through the dam, hunger and need and exhaustion all tangled together. His mouth was hot, desperate, and you met him with equal force, your hands coming up to tangle in his damp hair, pulling him closer.
He broke away first, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against yours. "We can't," he said, but his hands were already moving to your waist, already pulling you closer.
"We already are."
"You're half my age."
"I'm twenty-six. I've killed men. I've watched friends turn into monsters. I know exactly what I'm asking for, Leon."
His thumbs traced circles against your ribs, his touch burning through the fabric of your shirt. "And what are you asking for?"
"One night. Just you and me and this room. No ghosts. No future. Just now."
He closed his eyes, and you watched him surrender, watched the last of his resistance crumble. "One night," he repeated, and it sounded like a prayer.
He kissed you again, slower this time, his mouth learning the shape of yours. His hands moved with more purpose, sliding under your shirt to find skin, and you gasped at the warmth of him, the roughness of his palms. You tugged at his shirt, needing to feel him, and he broke away just long enough to let you pull it over his head.
The scars were a map of his life — bullet wounds, knife scars, the jagged line across his ribs from something you didn't recognize. You traced them with your fingers, then with your mouth, feeling him shudder under your lips. He tasted like rain and salt and something uniquely him.
"Look at me," he managed, his voice strained.
You didn't answer with words. Instead, you shifted, leaning back just enough to anchor yourself against the stacked pillows at the head of the bed, never breaking eye contact.
Leon followed you, his movements stripped of their usual calculated grace, driven by a raw, quiet desperation. He moved over you, his weight settling over your frame as he braced his hands on either side of your shoulders. The cheap springs of the mattress groaned softly beneath the sudden shift, but the sound was instantly swallowed by the heavy rhythm of his breathing.
The feel of him was completely overwhelming — solid, warm, and entirely real. He was nothing like the distant, untouchable figure you'd spent years imagining in the dark hours of the night. Here, trapped between his braced arms, you could feel the heat radiating through his damp shirt and the slight, trembling tension in his chest as he hovered just inches above you. His mouth found your neck, teeth grazing just hard enough to make you arch, and you were already wound tight, already wet and wanting.
"Slow," he murmured against your skin, even as his hands were already working at the buttons of your shirt. "I should go slow."
"We don't have time for slow."
He pulled back to look at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide. "You deserve slow. You deserve-"
"I deserve to feel alive," you interrupted, reaching up to cup his face. "Make me feel alive, Leon. Please."
Something broke in his expression, and then he was moving, stripping your clothes with efficient precision that spoke of years of training, but his hands trembled when they touched your bare skin. You helped him with his pants, shoving them down along with his boxers, and then he was naked above you, all lean muscle and scar tissue and barely leashed need.
He paused, reaching for his jacket on the nightstand, pulling a condom from the wallet there. You watched him roll it on, your breath coming in shallow gasps, and then he was settling between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
You met his eyes, and he pushed in.
The stretch burned, perfect and intense, and you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. He groaned, his forehead dropping to yours, and for a moment he just stayed there, buried to the hilt, breathing hard.
"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained.
"More than okay. Move, Leon. Please."
He withdrew slowly, almost all the way out, then thrust back in, and you cried out, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you again. He found a rhythm, deep and steady, each thrust dragging against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. The bed creaked beneath you, cheap and loud, but you didn't care, couldn't care about anything except the way he filled you, the way he surrounded you.
"So good," he muttered against your jaw, his pace quickening. "You're so… fuck… you feel…"
"Don't stop," you begged, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Don't stop, don't-"
He didn't. He drove into you harder, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, mixing with your broken moans and his ragged breathing. You were climbing fast, the coil tightening in your belly, and when he reached between you to find your clit with his thumb, circling it in rough, perfect strokes, you came undone.
The orgasm crashed over you, violent and consuming, and you cried out his name, your body arching off the bed, your internal muscles clenching around him. He groaned, the sound torn from his chest, and then he was following you over the edge, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate, as he spilled into the condom, his body shuddering through the release.
He collapsed beside you, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his side, both of you panting, sweat-slicked and trembling. The rain was still falling outside, a soft counterpoint to the thundering of your heart.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. You traced patterns on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slow, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing settle into something steadier.
"This doesn't change anything," he said finally, his voice quiet in the dark.
"I know."
"Tomorrow, we're still-"
"Partners," you finished. "I know, Leon. I asked for tonight. Just tonight."
He was silent for a moment, then his arm tightened around you. "I should have said no."
"But you didn't."
"No," he admitted. "I didn't."
You tilted your head up to look at him, and he was already watching you, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "Regrets already?"
His hand came up to brush hair from your face, his touch gentler than you'd expected. "No. That's the problem."
You didn't ask what he meant. You weren't sure you wanted to know. Instead, you shifted closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, tasting salt and skin.
"Again?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
He answered by rolling you beneath him, his mouth finding yours, hungrier than before, as if the first time had only sharpened his appetite rather than sated it. This time was slower, his hands learning every inch of you, his mouth following, leaving marks that you'd wear tomorrow like secrets. He took you apart with painstaking care, drawing out your pleasure until you were begging, until you were shaking, until you came apart under his hands and tongue and cock three times before he let himself follow.
After, when you were both spent and limp with exhaustion, he held you like something precious, something he was afraid to break. You fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, to the warmth of his skin against yours, to the phantom feeling of his lips pressed to your temple.
The alarm went off at 05:30, harsh and mechanical. You woke alone, the space beside you cold. For a moment, panic spiked — had he left, had he run — but then you heard the shower running, saw his clothes still scattered on the floor.
You dressed in silence, pulling on your tactical gear, checking your weapons. When he emerged from the bathroom, steam billowing behind him, a towel around his waist, he stopped in the doorway. His eyes found yours, and for a moment, you saw everything he wasn't saying — the want, the fear, the years of isolation that had made him believe he didn't deserve this.
"Leon- you started.
"We should go," he said, cutting you off, but his voice was soft. "Briefing in thirty."
You nodded, shouldering your pack. At the door, his hand caught your arm, and you turned to find him closer than you'd expected, his expression conflicted.
"Last night- " he began.
"Stays last night," you finished. "I meant what I said. One night."
His grip tightened, just for a second, and then he let you go. "Okay."
But as you walked to the car, as the sun rose over the horizon painting the sky in shades of blood and gold, you felt his eyes on you, and you knew that some things, once broken open, couldn't be sealed again.
The age gap didn't matter. The ranks didn't matter. What mattered was the ghost of his touch still on your skin, the memory of his voice rough with need, the knowledge that somewhere under all that armor, Leon S. Kennedy was still human, still capable of wanting, still capable of being wanted in return.
And as you drove toward the facility, toward the mission that might end everything, you carried that knowledge with you like a weapon, sharp and bright and secret.
One night. That was all it had been.
That was all it could ever be.
But as you checked your sidearm and he gave you a look that lasted a second too long, you wondered if one night would ever be enough.
THE LAST OF US MASTERLIST.
— joel miller.
❝ SHELTERED BY YOU ❞ - trapped overnight in a snowbound cabin after a patrol went wrong. (TV show version).
ABOUT ME.
hi, my name is greta! i am twenty years old and a beginner writer. originally, my hobby is editing (my tiktok: editedbygreta), but after reading too many stuff, i decided to try out writing fics myself!
my other hobby besides writing is drawing. i enjoy drawing portraits the most. i used to be a gamer, but nowadays i don’t find the time to sit down and play. :(
currently, i am not taking any requests, cuz i still just practicing writing, (but if you really want, you can leave a request). for now, i don’t write smut, but as an adult i don’t have a problem with writing nsfw and i read a lot, but to be honest idk how to start one.
english is my second language, so please be aware of mistakes and if you find anything, don’t hesitate to text me. plus i love chatting with new people and i am open to new friendships!
my page is multifandom! you will find fics with a lot of different characters from videogame, tv show and movie worlds.
all likes, reblogs, follows are appreciated, thank you so much! <3
navigation. masterlist.
MAXTON HALL MASTERLIST.
— james beaufort.
❝ IN THE QUIET MOMENTS ❞ - james, burdened by his father's high expectations, finds strength in his relationship with (Y/N), who helps him get through the pressures of his legacy.
❝ DRUNK CONFESSIONS ❞ - (Y/N) and james have been best friends since childhood, but a drunken confession at a party reveals (Y/N)'s hidden feelings for him.
❝ UNSPOKEN FEELINGS ❞ - james realizes he has deeper feelings for lydia's best friend.
SHELTERED BY YOU
pairing. joel miller x f!reader
summary. trapped overnight in a snowbound cabin after a patrol went wrong.
warning. age gap (~10 years), violence, infected
word count. 1.2k
a/n: eh, the romantic stuff are still hard for me to write. english is my second language, so if you find any mistakes, don't hesitate and text me!
The wind was sharp that morning, biting across the open Wyoming landscape. You pulled your scarf tighter, eyes scanning the tree line as Joel motioned for you to stay close. The sun barely filtered through the thick gray clouds, and snow clung to the branches like dust in an old attic.
“This route's clear most days,” Joel said, voice low. “But we stick to the plan. No hero shit.”
You offered a tight smile. “That your subtle way of saying I take too many risks?”
His eyes flicked toward you, unreadable. “That’s my not-so-subtle way of sayin’ I don’t wanna be draggin’ your ass back to Jackson on a sled.”
You scoffed but didn’t argue. He had a way of sounding gruff even when he was being… careful. You’d been doing patrols together for a few months now. Always partnered, never random. Maybe it was Maria’s orders. Or maybe Joel had asked for you.
The age difference was always the elephant in the room. Not huge — but enough. You were younger. Not new to this world, but newer than him. And Joel… Joel had lived through more than most.
And yet, you trusted him. Completely.
The first hour passed in silence, the way he preferred it. He wasn’t big on talking. You filled it sometimes with light jokes or short questions, and occasionally, if he was in a generous mood, he’d answer with more than a grunt.
By midday, the snow had thickened, and you found the remains of what used to be a ski lodge. Joel stopped at the edge of a clearing, crouching low and lifting a hand.
You mirrored him and followed his gaze to the shattered window on the second floor.
“Movement,” he murmured. “Clicker maybe.”
Your throat tightened. “Just one?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then a screech — sharp and inhuman — pierced the cold silence.
“Shit,” you hissed. “We should double back.”
Joel looked toward the trees again, jaw tight. “Too open out here. If they heard that, more might come.”
Another shriek echoed. Then another. Too close.
He grabbed your wrist, pulling you toward the lodge. “We’ll go quiet, clear what’s inside, hole up if we have to. Can’t run blind in this.”
The door groaned as he opened it, and the inside smelled like rot and mold. You pulled your knife free while Joel took point with his revolver.
Two infected came at you in the hallway, fast and thrashing. Joel took one out clean with a headshot, and you drove your blade into the other’s neck before it could sink its teeth into your arm. You were breathing hard, adrenaline buzzing under your skin.
“You good?” he asked, eyes sharp.
You nodded, wiping the blood off your blade on your sleeve. “Yeah. Let’s clear the second floor.”
It took fifteen minutes to confirm the rest of the building was empty. You blocked the back exit with a broken table and stacked crates against the front door.
By the time you settled in, the snow was falling harder, thickening into a white wall. You both knew what that meant. Patrol was over for the day. No leaving until morning.
Joel exhaled and leaned back against a wall in the loft room. The roof was intact, at least. There was a dusty fireplace and an old couch, mostly free of mold.
You looked around. “I’ve had worse first dates.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You call this a date?”
“Two people stuck alone in a building, snowstorm outside, danger all around? It’s practically romantic.”
He gave you that look again — the one that meant he was thinking something but wouldn’t say it. “You’re a piece of work,” he muttered.
You threw your pack down, peeling off your jacket. “So are you.”
Later, after you got a fire going with some torn-up furniture and matches, the warmth started to cut through the cold. You sat cross-legged near the hearth, rubbing your hands.
Joel watched you from the couch. “You’re shakin’.”
You shrugged. “Adrenaline crash. Cold. Both, probably.”
He stood and removed his coat, tossing it over your shoulders. “Here.”
You stared at him. “Won’t you freeze?”
“I’m fine.” His voice was low, gruff again.
“Thanks,” you whispered.
The fire crackled. Shadows danced across the wooden floor, and for a long moment, there was only silence.
Then you said it, surprising even yourself. “You ever think about what it’d be like if things were different?”
Joel didn’t look at you. “Different how?”
“Like... if this wasn’t the world. If there weren’t infected outside, if we didn’t have to carry guns just to walk ten feet.”
He took a deep breath. “Don’t let yourself think like that too long. Doesn’t lead anywhere good.”
“I know. But sometimes, I can’t help it.”
You didn’t know what compelled you to say the next thing. Maybe it was the way the firelight made his features look softer. Maybe it was the way he’d pulled you out of danger again today like it was nothing — like he would always catch you.
“Sometimes I wonder if we’d still end up here,” you said quietly. “Together. If the world hadn’t gone to hell.”
His eyes found yours. Something flickered in them. Conflict. Frustration. Want.
“You’re young,” he said finally. “You got a life ahead of you.”
“I’ve got a life now, Joel. This is it. And you’re in it.”
He stood, walked to the other side of the room like he needed distance. His voice was low when he spoke. “I ain’t good for you.”
“You think I don’t know how messed up everything is? That I don’t know how dangerous this is?”
He turned, looking at you fully now. “You don’t get it.”
“Then tell me.”
The tension in the room crackled louder than the fire. You stood too, crossing to meet him halfway.
“I don’t care about the rules,” you said. “I don’t care about the age thing. About what people might say back in Jackson. I care that when we’re out there, I’m not scared as long as you’re beside me.”
His jaw clenched. “You should be scared. Of me.”
“I’m not.”
The silence that followed was heavy, fragile, and alive.
Then — finally — he stepped forward, his hand cupping the back of your neck, his mouth crashing against yours with a force that made you stumble. You kissed him back, fierce and aching, like it had been building for weeks. Maybe longer.
He pulled away first, breathing hard. “We shouldn’t.”
You pressed your forehead to his. “But we already did.”
His hands were at your waist now, pulling you closer, like he was afraid you’d vanish. You felt the heat of his skin through your shirt, the tremor in his fingers.
“Joel,” you whispered, “we’re alive right now. Isn’t that enough?”
He didn’t answer with words this time.
The snow didn’t stop that night, but neither did the fire. You lay beside him hours later on a makeshift bed of blankets and jackets, his arm around you, your head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear.
“Back in Jackson…” you started, unsure how to say it.
“We keep this quiet,” he murmured. “At least for now.”
You nodded against him. “Yeah.”
The fire cast a soft orange light across the walls. Outside, the world was still chaos. But here — just for tonight — you had warmth. You had safety.
And you had each other.
CALL OF DUTY MASTERLIST.
— simon 'ghost' riley.
❝ BENEATH THE MASK ❞ - (Y/N), Task Force 141's medic, saw Ghost's face for the first time while patching up his injuries.
— task force 141.
❝ BONDS FORGED IN FIRE ❞ - (Y/N) is a medic who joined Task Force 141 and proved her worth, earning the respect of her new team, who later on became her family.
BENEATH THE MASK
pairing. simon "ghost" riley x f!reader
summary. (Y/N), Task Force 141's medic, saw Ghost's face for the first time while patching up his injuries.
warning. descriptions of gunfire, explosions, scenes depicting injuries, medical treatments, and blood (typical cod theme)
word count. 2.3k
a/n: english is my second language, so if you find any mistakes, don't hesitate and text me!
The desert wind howled across the rocky terrain as the Task Force 141 team moved swiftly through the night. (Y/N), their medic, felt the weight of her gear as she kept pace with Captain Price, Soap, Gaz, and the mysterious Ghost. She had been with the elite unit for a few months, but Ghost remained an enigma to her, a silent, masked figure whose presence was always felt but never fully seen.
Their mission that night was simple in concept: infiltrate a heavily guarded compound and extract crucial intel regarding a new shipment of chemical weapons. But as they approached the compound under darkness, their plan quickly unravelled. A patrol they hadn't anticipated stumbled upon them, leading to a chaotic firefight.
Bullets whizzed through the air, accompanied by the sharp cracks of rifles and the distant thunder of explosions. (Y/N) took cover behind a crumbling wall, her mind racing as she assessed the wounded. Soap and Gaz held their ground nearby, providing cover fire as Captain Price barked orders over the radio.
Suddenly, Ghost appeared beside her, his presence as silent as ever. He motioned towards Soap, whose shoulder was grazed by a bullet. Without a word, (Y/N) nodded and hurried to assist.
The firefight continued for what felt like an eternity, but the team managed to eliminate the immediate threat. With the area momentarily secure, they regrouped in a small, dimly lit room within the compound. Captain Price leaned over the map spread out on a makeshift table, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"We need that intel," Price said grimly, his voice low yet commanding. "Ghost, find it. (Y/N), patch up whoever needs it and be ready to move out."
(Y/N) nodded, her focus shifting to Soap and Gaz as she pulled out her medical kit. Soap winced as she began to clean and dress his wound, but Gaz remained alert, scanning their surroundings.
As (Y/N) worked, she stole glances at Ghost, who was hunched over a computer terminal in the corner of the room. His movements were precise and deliberate, his gloved hands flying over the keys as he accessed the encrypted files.
The tension in the room was palpable, broken only by the occasional click of Ghost's keystrokes and the muted sounds of the ongoing battle outside. (Y/N) couldn't help but wonder about the man behind the mask—his past, his motivations. But such thoughts had to wait. Right now, their survival depended on securing the intel and getting out safely.
Just as Ghost seemed to make progress, an explosion rocked the building, sending debris flying and knocking everyone off balance. (Y/N) stumbled, but Ghost was quick to steady her, his gloved hand gripping her arm firmly. For a brief moment, she felt the weight of his presence, his strength beneath the mask.
"Ghost!" Captain Price called out, his voice urgent. "We're running out of time. Can you get that intel or not?"
Ghost nodded, his masked face unreadable. With renewed determination, he returned to the terminal, his fingers moving faster now.
Outside, the gunfire intensified, drawing nearer by the second. Soap and Gaz exchanged worried glances, their weapons at the ready. They knew they couldn't hold out much longer.
"Almost there," Ghost muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the screen.
Suddenly, the screen flickered and then displayed a map with a blinking marker. Ghost's gloved hand hovered over the keyboard as he extracted the data onto a portable drive.
"We've got it," Ghost announced, his voice calm yet triumphant.
Captain Price wasted no time. "Good. (Y/N), pack up. We're moving out–"
Before Price could finish his sentence, a barrage of gunfire erupted from outside the room. Bullets tore through the walls, sending chunks of debris flying. (Y/N) ducked instinctively, shielding her head with her arms.
In the chaos, Ghost acted decisively. He grabbed (Y/N)'s arm and pulled her towards him, shielding her with his own body as they sought cover behind a thick concrete pillar. His masked face was just inches from hers, his eyes intense behind the tinted lenses.
"Stay down," Ghost ordered, his voice low yet urgent.
(Y/N) nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the heat of his body against hers, his presence a comforting shield amidst the chaos. For the first time, she found herself grateful for his silent strength.
Captain Price and the others returned fire, their shots echoing through the room. The enemy was relentless, their numbers seemingly endless. But Task Force 141 was relentless too, fighting tooth and nail to hold their ground.
As the firefight raged on, (Y/N) couldn't help but steal glances at Ghost. His mask remained firmly in place, betraying nothing of the man beneath. But now, with the adrenaline coursing through her veins, she found herself drawn to him in a way she hadn't before.
"We need to move," Captain Price shouted over the din of gunfire. "Ghost, (Y/N), cover us. Soap, Gaz, with me!"
Without hesitation, Ghost and (Y/N) provided covering fire as Price and the others dashed towards the exit. Bullets whizzed past them, impacting the walls with deadly precision.
"Go!" Ghost called out, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of battle.
(Y/N) nodded and followed Ghost as they made their way towards the exit, their backs pressed against the cold stone walls. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of gunpowder, their lungs burning with each breath.
Just as they reached the exit, a stray grenade sailed through the air and landed at their feet. (Y/N)'s eyes widened in horror as she realized they were trapped. Without thinking, Ghost pushed her behind him and shielded her with his body once more.
The grenade exploded with a deafening roar, sending shrapnel flying in all directions. (Y/N) felt the force of the blast against her back, but Ghost absorbed the brunt of it, his body tensing with the impact. She could hear him grunt in pain, but he didn't falter.
"Ghost!" (Y/N) screamed.
"(Y/N)..." Ghost's voice was strained. He was conscious but clearly in pain.
"Ghost is down!" she shouted into her comms, her voice filled with urgency.
There was a brief crackle of static before Price's voice came through, sharp and focused. "Gaz, Soap, fall back to Ghost's position! (Y/N), get to him now!"
As the smoke cleared, (Y/N) peered around Ghost to assess the damage. His mask was scorched and cracked, revealing a glimpse of his face beneath. Blood trickled down his neck from a gash caused by a piece of shrapnel.
"We need to get him out!" she called out, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.
A few moments later the team managed to get to the position of (Y/N) and Ghost. Soap and Gaz provided cover as Price helped lift Ghost. They moved quickly, bullets whizzing past them, the sounds of battle all around. Outside, the night air was cool against (Y/N)'s skin as they regrouped with the extraction team and jumped into the helicopter that was waiting for them. As everyone was situated, (Y/N) immediately went to work, her focus solely on saving Ghost.
Captain Price and the others scanned the area around the helicopter, holding off the enemy as they flew off. (Y/N) didn't hesitate, knelt beside him. Ignoring his initial resistance, she gently pushed aside his damaged skull mask, and her hands went to his fabric mask that was under the other one.
"I need to see the wound," she said, her voice steady despite the panic rising within her.
Ghost caught her wrist instinctively, his gaze locking with hers. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"It's alright, I need to patch you up," (Y/N) said softly, her voice barely a whisper.
Ghost hesitated, his grip on her wrist loosening ever so slightly. He gave a barely noticeable nod, allowing her to proceed. (Y/N) peeled back the mask, revealing his face for the first time. His face was a canvas of battle-hardened features, each scar telling a story of survival and sacrifice. A deep, fresh gash ran from his cheek down to his neck, the wound raw and bleeding, but the older scars drew her gaze – the jagged line across his left eyebrow, the faded burn mark along his jawline, and the small, puckered scar near his temple. His skin was pale, almost ghostly, contrasting sharply with the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw. But it was his eyes that caught her attention – dark brown, filled with a mix of determination and vulnerability.
Carefully, (Y/N) cleaned the wound on his neck and applied pressure to staunch the bleeding. Ghost felt a strange mix of emotions. He was not used to being exposed, his face a closely guarded secret. The sensation of her hands, gentle yet firm, was foreign but strangely comforting. Despite the pain, there was a sense of relief, a small crack in the armour he had built around himself.
Even though the severity of the situation, she remained calm, her training guiding her every move. Ghost winced, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he watched her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.
"There," (Y/N) said gently, securing a bandage around his neck. "That should hold for now."
Ghost's eyes met hers, a mixture of pain and gratitude in their depths. "Thanks," he muttered, his voice strained.
"I've got you," she replied firmly. "Just hang on."
As (Y/N) finished, Captain Price stepped over the duo, his expression a mix of concern and relief. "How is he?" he asked, his eyes on Ghost.
(Y/N) looked up, exhaustion evident in her features. "He'll be okay. The wound was serious, but he's stable now."
Price nodded, his respect for (Y/N) clear in his eyes. "Good work. You saved his life."
(Y/N) offered a tired smile. "Just fulfilling my duty."
Price clapped a hand on her shoulder, a rare gesture of affection. The helicopter blades whipped through the night, and (Y/N) stayed beside Ghost, her hands steady as she pressed the bandage on his wound. The field dressings had been held, but the ride was rough, so she kept a close watch to ensure he stayed stable. Despite the dire situation, Ghost’s eyes remained sharp, and focused, a silent testament to his resilience. (Y/N) looked at the others and Ghost knew that she wanted to check on them. He nodded and without another word, he moved (Y/N)’s hand from his gash and pushed her to go to the other injured comrades.
Once she agreed, (Y/N) turned her attention to Soap. She barely took care of his shoulder which took a hit during the firefight, and although he didn’t say anything, she knew he must be in pain.
“Soap,” she called, her voice cutting through the hum of the helicopter. “Let me see your shoulder.”
Soap glanced at her, his usual bravado dimmed by exhaustion. “It’s just a scratch, doc,” he muttered, but he didn’t resist as she moved closer.
(Y/N) carefully peeled back the torn fabric of his sleeve, revealing the graze. The bullet had grazed his shoulder, leaving a raw, bloody scar. She winced at the sight but quickly set to work, cleaning the wound with practised efficiency.
“You need to take it easy,” she said, her tone firm but gentle. “This might not be serious now, but it could get worse if you don’t let it heal.”
Soap grinned, a flicker of his usual humour returning. “Don’t worry about me, lass. I’m tougher than I look.”
(Y/N) smiled back, shaking her head. “Maybe, but even tough guys need to let their medics take care of them.”
As she bandaged his shoulder, Soap’s grin softened into something sincere. “Thanks, doc. We’re lucky to have you.”
She finished securing the bandage and patted his good shoulder. “Just doing my job, Soap. Now sit tight, we’ll be back at base soon.”
She glanced around the helicopter, checking on the rest of the team. Gaz was alert, his eyes scanning the horizon, and Captain Price was deep in thought, already planning their next move. Despite the weariness and the injuries, there was a deep sense of unity among them. They had faced the fire together and come out stronger on the other side.
As the helicopter touched down at the base, the team began to disembark, their movements slow and weary. (Y/N) remained beside Ghost, her presence a steady anchor amidst the chaos. His mask was back in place, hiding his features once more. But now, she knew the man behind the mask – a warrior with a haunted past, driven by a sense of duty and honour. She held his hand gently, ensuring he felt her support. Even through the pain and exhaustion, Ghost’s eyes flickered with a rare vulnerability, acknowledging her silent strength.
As the other medics arrived and began to transfer him onto a stretcher, Ghost’s grip on her hand tightened slightly. “You don’t have to stay,” he muttered, his voice strained but sincere.
(Y/N) smiled softly, squeezing his hand in return. “I want to. You’re my patient and my friend. I’m not leaving you now.”
Ghost’s eyes softened, a flicker of gratitude passing over his features. “Not used to... this kind of care.”
She chuckled lightly, adjusting the blanket around him. “Well, get used to it. You’re stuck with me.”
There was a brief silence as the medics prepared to move him, the sounds of the bustling base fading into the background. Ghost looked at her, his expression serious. “Thanks, (Y/N). For everything.”
(Y/N) leaned closer, her voice gentle but firm. “Just focus on getting better, Ghost. We need you.”
He nodded, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth behind the fabric mask. “I’ll do my best.”
“You better do,” she said, walking alongside the stretcher as they moved him towards the infirmary.
BONDS FORGED IN FIRE
pairing. task force 141 x f!reader (platonic)
summary. (Y/N) is a medic who joined Task Force 141 and proved her worth, earning the respect of her new team, who later on became her family.
warning. mentions of physical injuries, using guns (typical cod theme)
word count. 1.6k
a/n: parts in italics are flashbacks. english is my second language, so if you find any mistakes, don't hesitate and text me!
(Y/N) found herself drawn to the call of duty, as a skilled medic, she had always believed in the power of healing in the middle of chaos, and her dedication to saving lives had earned her a reputation far and wide. But it was a chance that would change the path of her destiny.
Task Force 141, a legendary unit working in secrecy had heard of (Y/N)'s deeds and sought her out for her unmatched skills. Captain John Price, the team's stoic leader, saw the value of the skilled medic in the heat of battle, and he knew that (Y/N) would be an inevitable asset to their ranks.
When (Y/N) first arrived at the Task Force 141 base, she met with a mix of scepticism and curiosity. Ghost, the mysterious special forces operator known for his gruff manner, eyed her suspiciously, his scepticism obvious in every word he spoke. "Another recruit," he muttered, his tone with disregard. "We'll see if she's worth the trouble."
Soap MacTavish, on the other hand, greeted her with a friendly and playful smile. "Welcome to the team, lass," he said, his easy-going nature a steady contrast to Ghost's grumpiness. "Don't mind Ghost, he's always like this."
Captain Price, ever the commanding presence, wasted no time in assessing (Y/N)'s skills. "We expect nothing but the best from you," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "Our missions are dangerous, and lives depend on your expertise."
And then there was Gaz, the welcoming soldier whose warmth and company put (Y/N) at ease. "Glad to have you on board," he said with a smile, offering her a handshake. "We're a tight-knit group here, but we look out for each other."
(Y/N) had barely settled into her new surroundings when the call came in. Their first mission together would be a test of her skills and her ability to integrate into this close-knit team. The objective was clear: infiltrate an enemy stronghold and secure valuable intelligence. It was the kind of high-risk operation that Task Force 141 excelled at.
As they gathered in the meeting room, Price outlined the mission. "We'll insert under the cover of night," he began, pointing to a map of the compound. "Ghost, you'll take overwatch. Soap, you're on demolition. Gaz, you and (Y/N) will handle the interior place. We move fast, we move quietly, and we get the job done. Understood?"
A chorus of affirmatives followed. Ghost remained aloof, his eyes hidden behind his skull mask, but (Y/N) could feel his gaze on her. Soap offered her a reassuring smile, while Gaz gave her a thumbs-up.
As they geared up, Soap sidled over to (Y/N). "Nervous?" he asked, his tone light.
"A little," she admitted, securing her medical pack.
"Don't worry, lass. You'll do fine. Just stick close to us, and we'll watch each other's backs."
Ghost, overhearing, grunted. "This isn't a walk in the park. Keep your head down and stay focused."
(Y/N) nodded, determined to prove herself. "I will, Lieutenant."
Price's voice cut through the tension. "Mount up, we're moving out."
The helicopter ride to the drop zone was tense. The team remained silent, and each member was lost in their thoughts. As they approached the target, Price's voice crackled over the comms. "Get ready. We insert in sixty."
The helicopter hovered just above the ground, and one by one, they rappelled down, disappearing into the shadows. Ghost took position on a nearby ridge, his sniper rifle at the ready.
"Overwatch in position," Ghost reported his voice a low whisper over the comms.
"Copy that," Price responded. "Gaz, lead the way."
Gaz signalled for (Y/N) to follow, and they moved silently towards the compound, while Soap and Price secured the other floors. The night was their ally, cloaking them in darkness as Gaz and (Y/N) approached the perimeter.
Inside, the compound was a maze of corridors and guard posts. Gaz moved with practised ease, his rifle at the ready. (Y/N) stayed close, holding her rifle close to her chest and her senses on high alert.
"Clear," Gaz whispered, motioning for her to follow. They reached a heavily secured door, and Gaz quickly hacked the keypad.
"We're in," he said, pushing the door open.
Inside, they found a room filled with computers and filing cabinets. (Y/N) immediately began searching for the intel while Gaz kept watch. Minutes felt like hours as they sifted through the files, the tension thick in the air.
"Got it," (Y/N) said, holding up a flash drive. "Let's move."
Gaz nodded, but just as they turned to leave, the alarms blared to life, red lights flashing throughout the compound. "We've been compromised!" Gaz shouted.
"Fall back!" Price ordered over the comms. "Ghost, we need cover fire!"
"On it," Ghost replied, his sniper rifle already picking off approaching enemies.
The team moved swiftly, fighting their way through the compound. Soap detonated the charges, creating chaos and confusion among the enemy forces. (Y/N) stuck close to the team, her medical kit ready for any injuries.
As they reached the outer perimeter, an explosion rocked the ground, sending debris flying. Gaz was hit, a piece of shrapnel embedding in his leg. He fell to the ground with a grunt of pain.
"Gaz is down!" (Y/N) shouted, dropping to her knees beside him. "I need cover!"
"Copy that!" Ghost replied, his rifle taking out enemies with deadly precision.
Soap and Price formed a protective barrier around (Y/N) as she worked quickly to stabilize Gaz's leg. "Hang in there, Sergeant," she said, her voice calm despite the chaos.
Gaz gritted his teeth, his face pale. "Just a scratch, doc."
With Gaz stabilized, they resumed their retreat, moving as a solid unit. They reached the extraction point just as the helicopter arrived, the rotors kicking up dust and sand. Ghost provided cover fire until the last moment, ensuring everyone made it on board safely.
(Y/N) smiled as she remembered her first mission with Task Force 141. It's been a few years now, and she is still in one piece alongside the others. The members of Task Force 141 became like family to her, and she took her role as their caretaker seriously.
The sun was beginning to set over the rugged landscape, casting a warm, golden hue across the horizon. As the team settled into their temporary base, a rare moment of peace descended upon them. (Y/N), was busy tending to the minor wounds of Gaz again, just like in her first assignment with them. Despite the exhaustion etched into her features, she moved with practised ease, her hands steady and her touch gentle.
Price was the first to sit down on a makeshift bench. He lit a cigar, the familiar ritual helping him unwind. His sharp eyes softened as he watched (Y/N) work. "You always manage to patch us up, don't you, doc?" he said with a hint of a smile.
(Y/N) looked up from bandaging Gaz's arm and returned the smile. "Someone's got to keep you guys in one piece, Captain."
Gaz winced slightly as (Y/N) tightened the bandage. "Yeah, well, if it weren't for you, I'd probably be in pieces by now."
(Y/N) chuckled, giving his shoulder a gentle pat. "You're tougher than you look, Gaz."
Ghost, silent as ever, observed from the shadows. His skull mask concealed his expression, but his eyes betrayed a glimmer of gratitude. He had always admired (Y/N)'s dedication and the calm she brought to their chaotic world. He approached her, handing over a canteen of water. "You should take a break," he said, his voice a low rumble.
(Y/N) accepted the canteen with a nod. "Thanks, Simon. But you know me… I can't rest until everyone else is taken care of."
Soap, always the optimist, sauntered over and plopped down beside Price. "Well, lass, once you're done, how about joining us for a quick drink? We all deserve it."
(Y/N) finished tending to Gaz and wiped her hands on a rag. "I think I can manage that, Johnny. Just give me a few more minutes."
As (Y/N) wrapped up her duties, she couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment. These men were more than just her comrades – they were her family. Each of them had their own way of expressing gratitude, and she cherished the small moments of connection they shared.
Finally, (Y/N) joined the group around the small fire they had built. Soap handed her a flask with a grin. "Here, this should help take the edge off."
She took a sip, feeling the warmth spread through her body. "Thanks, Soap. I think we all needed this."
Price puffed on his cigar, his gaze distant but peaceful. "It's not often we get a chance to sit like this. We should make the most of it."
Gaz nodded, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Agreed. We don't get many moments like these."
Ghost remained silent, but his presence was a comfort to everyone. He leaned back, his eyes reflecting the firelight. In these quiet moments, the mask felt less like a barrier and more like a part of him, a reminder of the bond they all shared.
(Y/N) looked around at the men who had become her family. "You know, no matter what we face out there, I always feel safe knowing we're together."
Soap raised his flask in a toast. "To the best damn team there is."
"To Task Force 141," Price echoed, raising his cigar.
Gaz lifted his flask as well. "To us."
Ghost gave a rare, slight nod, his eyes meeting (Y/N)'s. "To family."
They clinked their flasks together, the sound a small but significant affirmation of their bond. As the night grew darker, they shared stories and laughter, the weight of their burdens temporarily lifted. At that moment, surrounded by her team, (Y/N) felt a profound sense of belonging. No matter what lay ahead, she knew they would face it together.
And in those brief moments of solace, amidst the warmth of company and the glow of the fire, Task Force 141 found a momentary but precious break from the relentless world outside.
MASTERLIST.
CALL OF DUTY masterlist.
RESIDENT EVIL masterlist.
MAXTON HALL masterlist.
THE LAST OF US masterlist.
IN THE QUIET MOMENTS
pairing. james beaufort x f!reader
summary. james, burdened by his father's high expectations, finds strength in his relationship with (Y/N), who helps him get through the pressures of his legacy.
warning. mention of domestic abuse
word count. 1.2k
a/n: english is my second language, so if you find any mistakes, don't hesitate and text me!
(Y/N) and James Beaufort had been dating for a few months now, their relationship blossoming amidst the magnificence of the Beaufort estate and Maxton Hall. From their first date to their shared dreams and whispered secrets, their bond only grew stronger with each passing day. However, James still had secrets before (Y/N). His father, a tough presence in their lives, had high expectations for James, that weighed heavily on his shoulders.
James was the heir to the Beaufort family legacy, immersed in wealth, power, and influence. His father, Mortimer Beaufort, was a harsh man, known for his rigid standards and desire for power. From a young age, James was groomed to take over the family business, to uphold the Beaufort name with honour and distinction. Yet, the pressures of living up to his father's expectations were immense, and James was unable to decide about his fate. He often hid these feelings by being arrogant, but his true personality is far from that.
Despite his inner turmoil, James was determined not to burden (Y/N) with his worries. He enjoyed every moment they shared, treasuring the moments of joy away from the pressures of his family's obligations. (Y/N) was his sanctuary, her presence a comforting anchor for his troubled soul. He wanted to protect her from the harsh realities of his world, to shield her from the weight of his responsibilities.
One sunny afternoon, (Y/N) decided to surprise James by visiting the Beaufort mansion. She had a big smile on her face and a bouquet of wildflowers in her hand, knowing how much James loved their simplicity among the grandiose setting of his home. As she entered the luxurious halls of the mansion, she couldn't help but feel a pang of nervousness. Even though she feels comfortable with his family, sometimes she feels like an outsider in James's world, but he always reassures her that only their happiness matters.
Upon reaching James's study, she found him seated at his desk, his brow furrowed in concentration. Papers were strewn across the desk, and he seemed lost in thought, his mind burdened by hidden troubles. But it wasn't his focused expression that caught her attention; it was the scar cutting his usually flawless lips. Worrying flooded into her as she rushed to his side, her heart aching at the sight of his pain.
"James, what happened?" she asked, gently tracing the scar with her fingertips. Her touch was light, but it carried all the love and worry she felt for him.
James looked up, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and reluctance. "It's nothing, just a minor accident," he replied, his voice tense. He tried to muster a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.
(Y/N) could see through his disguise. She knew there was more to the story, and she wasn't about to let him brush it off so easily. "James, please," she urged, her voice soft but determined. "You can tell me."
For a moment, James hesitated, his gaze flickering with uncertainty. He had always prided himself on being strong, on keeping his troubles to himself. But then, as if the weight of his secret became too much to bear, he finally gave in.
"It's my father," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "He... he expects so much from me, (Y/N). I try to live up to his standards, but sometimes it feels like I'm drowning."
(Y/N) reached out, taking his hand in hers, offering him comfort and support. "You don't have to face this alone, James," she said, her voice filled with sympathy. "We're in this together."
Tears welled in James's eyes as he looked at her, overwhelmed by her firm love and understanding. "Thank you, (Y/N)," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "You don't know how much that means to me."
(Y/N) squeezed his hand, her heart aching for him. "James, you don't need to prove anything to anyone, least of all your father. I'm here for you, no matter what."
James sighed, a deep, tired sound that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. "I know, but it's hard. My father has always been so demanding. He wants me to be perfect, to follow in his footsteps. He is prioritizing the business before the family. I-"
(Y/N) cupped his cheek, forcing him to look into her eyes. "James, listen to me. You are not your father. You have your path to follow, and your own dreams to pursue. Don't let his expectations define you. You are more than enough just as you are."
James closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. Her words were like a balm to his wounded spirit, offering him a spark of hope amidst the darkness. "Thank you, (Y/N). I don't know what I would do without you."
"I'm not going anywhere," she promised, her voice steady and reassuring. "We'll face this together, one step at a time."
As they sat together in the quiet sanctuary of James's study, (Y/N) made a silent promise to always be there for him, to share his burdens and his joys, and to love him entirely, now and forever.
James pulled her into his arms, holding her close as if afraid she might slip away. "I love you, (Y/N)," he whispered against her hair, his voice filled with emotions.
"I love you too, James," she replied, her own voice thick with tears. "We'll get through this together, I promise."
In that moment, (Y/N) realized just how much James had been carrying on his shoulders, how he had been silently struggling under the weight of his family’s legacy. But she also knew that together, they could face any challenge that came their way.
In the following days, James continued to cope with his father's tasks, attending press conferences or negotiating about new business collaborations. But with (Y/N) by his side, he began to find a sense of balance, a way to navigate the duties without losing himself in the process. She stood by him during difficult conversations with his father, offering her steady support. And slowly but surely, James began to carve out a space for himself, a place where he could be true to his own wishes and dreams.
One evening, as they sat together in the garden of the Beaufort mansion, surrounded by the scent of blooming flowers and the soft glow of the setting sun, James turned to (Y/N) with a look of gratitude and love.
"You've changed my life, (Y/N)," he said, his voice filled with sincerity. "I don't know how I would have faced all of this without you."
(Y/N) smiled, her heart swelling with affection. "You've changed mine too, James. And I'm so proud of the man you're becoming."
James leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to her lips. At that moment, as they bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun, (Y/N) was happier than ever. And as they held each other close, their hearts beating in harmony, they knew that their love was the greatest strength they could ever have.
DRUNK CONFESSIONS
pairing. james beaufort x f!reader
summary. (Y/N) and james have been best friends since childhood, but a drunken confession at a party reveals (Y/N)'s hidden feelings for him.
warning. alcohol consumption
word count. 1k
a/n: english is my second language, so if you find any mistakes, don't hesitate and text me!
(Y/N) and James Beaufort had been inseparable since they were children, growing up side by side. Lydia, James's energetic sister, was the third musketeer in their trio. They were inseparable, their laughter echoing through the halls of the Beaufort estate daily. Their families, long-time friends with a history that stretched back generations, only strengthened their bond, gathering together for holiday celebrations, or Sunday picnics.
As they grew older, (Y/N)'s feelings for James deepened. She found herself captivated by his character and stared longer at him than she should have. However, she didn’t dare to tell it aloud, fearing it could affect their friendship. And so, she buried her feelings deep within her heart.
One evening, one of their friends throws a party after the exam period, inviting the whole of Maxton Hall. (Y/N) decided to release the stress and she soon found herself consumed by a heavy amount of alcohol, blurring the edges of her consciousness. Darting from one group to another, she lost track of time as she danced and mingled with the crowd, her laughter ringing out in joy.
Throughout the evening, James kept a watchful eye on (Y/N), his protective instincts kicking in as he noticed her growing intoxicated state. He made sure to stay close, subtly guiding her away from the masses and ensuring she always had a glass of water nearby. Now and then, he would catch her eye from across the room, offering her a reassuring smile.
But James soon realised her dizziness coming too far and gently supported (Y/N) as she swayed slightly on her feet.
"Whoa there," he chuckled softly, steadying her with a firm grip on her arm. "I think you've had enough for today."
(Y/N) giggled, the sound tinged with a hint of mischief as she leaned against him for support. "Nonsense," she protested playfully. "I could drink a whole barrel and still be standing!"
James chuckled, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "I highly doubt that," he teased, he guided her gently to the waiting car with Percy, the Beaufort twins' loyal chauffeur, at the wheel. "Let's get you home before you decide to put that theory to the test."
Holding (Y/N)'s dozy form in his arms, James whispered comforting words of reassurance as Percy navigated the winding roads home.
Once inside the (Y/L/N) residence, James led (Y/N) through the grand hallway, her steps uncertain with each stumble. With tender care, he guided her to the comfort of her room, his heart heavy with unspoken words.
But as he turned to leave, (Y/N)'s voice pierced the silence, her words slurred by the haze of drunkenness. "James," she whispered, her eyes clouded with tears. "I... I have something to tell you."
James froze, his heart pounding in his chest as he turned to face her, his gaze locking with hers in a moment of raw vulnerability.
"What is it, (Y/N)? Are you alright?" he asked softly, his voice barely a whisper in the stillness of the night.
Tears spilt from (Y/N)'s eyes as she stumbled over her words, her confession tumbling out in a murmur of drunken desperation. "I... I have feelings for you, James," she admitted, her voice trembling with emotion. "I've been feeling this way for a while now..."
James's heart clenched with a mixture of longing and regret. James's feelings for (Y/N) were a symphony of emotions, admiration, and a love that had quietly taken root in the depths of his soul, just like she did. From the earliest days of their friendship, he found himself drawn to her infectious laughter and the way her presence brought light and warmth into his life.
But instead of succumbing to the temptation of the moment, James took a step back, his hands trembling with restraint. "Oh, (Y/N)," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "You don't know how much I wish..." But before he let himself finish his sentence, he refused to take advantage of the defencelessness of his best friend. "(Y/N), you don’t know what are you talking about. Go and sleep it off."
The next morning dawned with the harsh light of reality, (Y/N) waking to the dull ache of a pounding headache and the sharp pang of regret. She found herself suffocated with a sense of shame, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at the memory of her drunken confession to James.
Avoiding him became her sole mission, her footsteps quickening whenever she caught sight of his familiar figure in the school hallways. But fate, it seemed, had other plans. One fateful afternoon, as (Y/N) hurried around a corner, her heart leapt into her throat as she collided with James, her books scattered across the floor in a chaotic symphony of clattering pages. As she looked up, her eyes widened, she found James gazing down at her with a gentle smile, his outstretched hand offering her help. Once they stood up, (Y/N) met with his eyes for the first time in a long time.
"(Y/N)," he greeted softly, his eyes searching hers.
"James, I..." she began, her voice trembling with regret. "I'm so sorry about the night. I didn't mean to-"
Before she could finish her apology, James stepped forward, his hand reaching out to cup her cheek. Her heart pounding in her chest. "Shh," he whispered, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through her veins. "You have nothing to apologize for."
"But I-"
James silenced her with a gentle kiss, his lips tender against hers. At that moment, the world fell away, leaving only the two of them suspended in a bubble of warmth and affection.
When they finally parted, (Y/N) gazed up at him, her eyes wide with wonder. "James, I... I didn't know..."
He smiled a softness in his gaze that melted her heart. "You don't have to say anything, (Y/N)," he murmured. "I've felt the same way for a long time."
Tears welled in (Y/N)'s eyes, emotion threatening to overwhelm her. "I never imagined..."
James brushed away her tears with a gentle thumb. "Sometimes, the best things in life are the ones we least expect," he said, his voice filled with quiet certainty.
LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS
pairing. lucas hood x f!reader
summary. (Y/N) was harassed by a drunk man, but before the situation escalated, lucas hood, the town's sheriff, appeared and intervened.
warning. slight harassing
word count. 1k
a/n: there are ony few fics about him, so i'm gonna solve this problem. english is my second language, so if you find any mistakes, don't hesitate and text me!
(Y/N) had just moved to Banshee a few weeks ago, drawn by the promise of a quieter life and the chance to make a difference in the small-town hospital. She loved her job as a nurse, and even though the days were long and the nights longer, she felt a deep sense of fulfilment every time she helped a patient.
One night, after an exhausting shift, (Y/N) was walking home. The streets were mostly empty, the town wrapped in a quiet that was both comforting and distressing. She pulled her jacket tighter around her, the cool night air biting her skin.
As she passed by a creepy, dark alley, she heard a noise that made her stop. It was the unmistakable sound of stumbling footsteps and slurred speech. She quickened her pace, hoping to avoid any trouble, but her hopes were gone when a man stepped out from the shadows, his movements unsteady and his breath smelled of alcohol.
"Hey there, pretty lady," he slurred, a smirk spreading across his face. "Why are you in such a hurry?"
(Y/N) tried to sidestep him, keeping her head down. "Just going home," she said quietly, hoping he would take the hint and leave her alone.
But the man reached out, grabbing her arm. "No need to rush. Why don’t you keep me company for a while?"
Fear spiked through her, and she tried to pull away. "Let go of me!"
Before the situation could escalate further, a new voice cut through the night. "Let her go."
(Y/N) and the drunk man both turned to see Lucas Hood standing a few feet away, his stance relaxed but his eyes hard as steel. The sheriff’s badge gleamed on his chest, and his hand rested on the edge of his gun, a silent warning.
"Mind your own business," the drunk man snarled, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
"It becomes my business when someone in my town is in trouble," Lucas replied, his voice calm but authoritative. "Let her go, now."
The drunk man hesitated, then shoved (Y/N) away with a muttered curse. She stumbled but quickly regained her balance, backing away towards Lucas. He stepped forward, placing himself between her and the creep.
"You go home and sleep it off," Lucas said, his tone tolerating no argument.
The man glared but seemed to realize he was outmatched. He stumbled away, cursing under his breath. Lucas watched until he was out of sight, then turned to (Y/N).
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice softening with concern.
She nodded, still shaken but grateful. "Yes, thank you. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t shown up."
Lucas gave her a reassuring smile. "Just doing my job. Do you need a ride home?"
(Y/N) hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "If you don’t mind."
"Not at all," Lucas said, leading her to his patrol car. He opened the passenger door for her, then got in the driver’s seat and started the engine.
As they drove through the quiet streets, (Y/N) took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves, then glanced at him, her curiosity piqued. "I’ve heard a lot about you, Sheriff Hood. People say you’re not like other sheriffs."
Lucas chuckled softly, his eyes fixed on the road. "People say a lot of things. I just try to keep the peace."
She sensed there was more to him than he was letting on, but she didn’t press. Instead, she found herself feeling a strange sense of safety with him, a feeling she hadn’t experienced since moving to Banshee.
"I haven’t seen you in the town before," he said glancing at her.
"I’m (Y/N), new in the town." her eyes met his.
Lucas offered her a brief but genuine smile. "Nice to meet you, (Y/N). And just call me Lucas. ‘Sheriff’ makes me sound more official than I feel sometimes."
(Y/N) chuckled, feeling some of the tension ease from her shoulders. "Alright, Lucas. I’ve only been in Banshee a few weeks, so I’m still getting used to everything."
"Where did you move from?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"A big city," she replied. "I wanted a change of pace, something new. I’m a nurse at the hospital here."
Lucas nodded. "Banshee is definitely quieter than a big city, but it has its own... unique challenges."
(Y/N) smiled wryly. "I’m starting to see that."
They drove in pleasant silence for a few moments before Lucas spoke again. "It’s a good town, though. The people here can surprise you. In good ways, mostly."
"I hope so," (Y/N) said, glancing at him. "What about you, Lucas? How long have you been in Banshee?"
Lucas’s eyes flickered with a hint of something she couldn’t quite place – perhaps, pain or a memory best left undisturbed. "Not too long," he said finally. "But long enough to know it can be a rough place. Just keep your wits about you, and you’ll be fine."
She nodded, appreciating his advice. "I’ll do my best. And it’s good to know there’s someone like you looking out for the town."
Lucas shrugged modestly. "Just doing my job."
As they pulled up to her apartment building, Lucas parked the car and turned to her. "Here we are. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call."
(Y/N) took the card he offered, their fingers brushing slightly. "Thank you, Lucas. I really appreciate it."
He nodded, his eyes holding hers for a moment longer than necessary. "Take care, (Y/N)."
As she got out of the car and watched him drive away, (Y/N) felt a sense of connection to this mysterious man who had come to her rescue.
Lucas sighed, pulling his patrol car into the station’s parking lot. He couldn’t afford distractions, and it wasn’t often that someone new to Banshee caught his attention that quickly, but there was something about (Y/N) that he couldn’t quite let go and he knew one thing for certain: (Y/N) had made an impression on him.
UNSPOKEN FEELINGS
pairing. james beaufort x f!reader
summary. james realizes he has deeper feelings for lydia's best friend.
warning. slight cursing, mentions of cheating
word count. 1.4k
a/n: i just watched maxton hall and felt the urge to write a quick fic. english is my second language, so if you find any mistakes, don't hesitate and text me! (divider is made by rookthornesartistry)
The prestigious campus of Maxton Hall Boarding School was a world itself, where the rich teenage life unfolded in all its complexity. Among its many students were James Beaufort, the charming and popular heartthrob, and his twin sister Lydia, known for her big mouth, but besides that, intelligence. (Y/N) was Lydia's best friend since they were toddlers, and because of that she often finds herself in the company of the Beauforts. Despite this, (Y/N) felt like a shadow, always in the background and unnoticed by James. His attractive presence draws attention, as he walks around the hallway, towering over others, always surrounded by admirers. Like everyone in the school, (Y/N) also had a crush on him, but she knew she would always be only his little sister’s friend. And she had long accepted that.
The (Y/L/N) family is famous internationally, because of their luxurious, high-quality dresses. They often collaborate with the market-leading fashion brand, Young Beaufort. But (Y/N) usually wished for just a simple way of life, without fame. All the children, who inherit their family’s legacy, are burdened by the weight of expectations and pressure.
To make things worse, it was a chilly afternoon when (Y/N)'s world shattered. She had been dating a boy from another school, a relationship that seemed promising but ended in betrayal and heartbreak. The boy had just played with her, and thrown away her without a second thought. (Y/N) was devastated and hurt.
Lydia was away on a school trip, leaving (Y/N) with her emotions alone. She wandered the campus aimlessly, eventually finding an isolated bench near the gardens, where she let the tears flow freely.
Unaware of (Y/N), James had noticed her distressed state from afar. He had been passing by when he saw her sitting alone, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Concerned, he approached quietly, unsure of how to begin.
"(Y/N)," he said softly, startling them. "Are you okay?"
(Y/N) quickly wiped her tears, attempting to make herself presentable. "Oh, James. I'm fine. Just... having a rough day."
James sat down beside her, his expression gentle but insistent. "You don't look fine. What happened?"
The unexpected kindness in his voice broke through (Y/N)'s defences. She looked at him, eyes filled with pain, and sighed. "It's just... this guy I was dating. He turned out to be a jerk. He used me and then just... dumped me."
James's jaw tightened, a flash of anger in his eyes. "Who is he?"
"It doesn’t matter. He’s not from Maxton Hall." (Y/N) shrugged her shoulders.
When James heard the pain in her voice, he decided to deal with her now, and it will be enough later to get to know about that asshole. "I'm sorry, (Y/N). You didn't deserve that."
(Y/N) shook her head, feeling small and insignificant. "I should have seen it coming. I'm not exactly someone would notice."
James frowned, shifting closer. "That's not true. People notice you, (Y/N). I notice you."
(Y/N) looked at him in surprise. "You... notice me?" she said with irony.
James was confused, but nodded, his gaze sincere. "Of course I do." (Y/N)’s heart skipped a beat hearing those words. "You're important to Lydia, which makes you important to me. And beyond that, you're a great person. Anyone would be lucky to have you in their life."
The warmth in his words and the intensity of his gaze made (Y/N) feel a flicker of hope. She had always seen James as someone out of reach, but here he was, sitting beside her, offering comfort and understanding.
"Thank you, James," she whispered, feeling the weight of her sadness begins to lift. "It means a lot."
James smiled softly, his hand reaching out to gently squeeze hers. "I do care about you, (Y/N). And if that guy couldn't see how amazing you are, then he's the one who's missing out."
For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence, the cold air around them a sharp contrast to the warmth blossoming in (Y/N)'s heart. James's presence was a balm to their wounded soul, a reminder that she was not alone.
"Do you want to talk more about it?" James asked, his voice gentle. "Or maybe we can just sit here for a while. Whatever you need."
(Y/N) smiled, feeling a sense of gratitude and a newfound connection. "Sitting here is nice. Thank you, James," she said feeling his arms pull her into a hug.
As they sat together, (Y/N) realized that maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong about James’s emotions towards her. Perhaps he had been seeing her all along, and in this moment of weakness, she had realised that her feelings for her had not changed over the years.
The weeks following that emotional afternoon saw a gradual but significant shift in the dynamics between James and (Y/N). Where once their interactions were only about polite nods and casual greetings, now there were shared moments, conversations, and a growing sense of friendship.
James found himself looking forward to seeing (Y/N) more than he ever anticipated. Her presence was comforting, her laughter infectious, and her perspectives refreshing. He was drawn to (Y/N) in a way that was new and unexpected, and it unsettled him in the best possible way. He finally had to admit that he had lied to himself all the years when he said he didn’t care about (Y/N).
(Y/N) felt the change too. She was still close to Lydia, but now James seemed to seek her out independently. He'd join them for lunch, walk with them between classes, and even invite them to hang out with his friends, to where (Y/N) always refused to go and eventually Lydia accepted it. It was confusing but exhilarating.
One evening, while Lydia was busy with her extracurricular activities, James invited (Y/N) to study with him at a cosy coffee shop off-campus. They settled into a quiet corner, books and notebooks spread out before them.
"You know," James said, looking up from his notes, "I never realized how much fun studying could be until I started doing it with you."
(Y/N) laughed softly, their cheeks flushing. "I have never thought that once in my lifetime I will hear that from the mouth of James Beaufort, but I think you just enjoy the coffee and the company."
James smiled, but there was a depth to his gaze that made (Y/N) look away shyly. "You're right about that. But it's more than that. You're different, (Y/N). In a good way. You make everything better."
(Y/N) felt her heart skip a beat. The sincerity in his voice was undeniable. "Thanks. Spending time with you isn't that bad either."
As the weeks went on, James's feelings for (Y/N) deepened. He found himself thinking about her at odd times, daydreaming about their future conversations, and feeling jealous when he saw her with others. It was during one of these moments when he saw (Y/N) laughing with Cyril, that he realized the truth: he had fallen for (Y/N).
The next day, James asked (Y/N) to meet him in the gardens where they had first bonded. The air was cool, the sky painted with the hues of sunset.
"(Y/N)," James began, taking a deep breath. "There's something I need to tell you."
(Y/N) looked at him, concern flickering in their eyes. "What is it?"
"I've been thinking a lot, and I realized something important," he continued, his voice steady but his heart racing. "That day when you sat with me here, something changed for me. Spending time with you, getting to know you better... I've come to realize that I have feelings for you. Romantic feelings."
(Y/N) stared at him, her breath catching in their throat. "James, I... I-"
James stepped closer, his eyes locked on her. "You don't have to say anything right now. I just needed you to know how I feel. Whatever you decide, our friendship means a lot to me, and I don't want to lose that."
Tears welled up in (Y/N)'s eyes, but they were tears of happiness and relief. "James, I feel the same way. I've liked you for a long time, but I never thought you'd feel the same."
James's face broke into a radiant smile, and he reached out to gently hold (Y/N)'s face in his hands. With that, James leaned in, closing the distance between them. Their lips met in a soft, tender kiss, a perfect blend of nervous excitement and genuine affection.
As they pulled away, both of them breathless and smiling, James whispered, "I've wanted to do that for so long."
(Y/N) smiled back, her eyes shining with happiness. "Me too."