Hi! I’m Sammy! I’m 25, genderfluid, preferred pronouns being she/her and he/him but I am also okay with any others! If you’d like to learn more about my preferences and identity, click here! ❤️
This is my SFW writing blog!
I accept requests, but I can't make any promises that they will 100% be written! Thank you xx
Fandoms of comfort (favorites highlighted): Obey Me, Dangerous Fellows, Mystic Messenger, Spy X Family, Resident Evil, Devil May Cry
Bolded = most confident
Crossed out = currently not writing for
small = least confident in
(Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor, Diavolo, Barbatos, Solomon, Simeon, Ethan, Lawrence, Zion, Eugene, Harry, Jumin Han, Jaehee Kang, Yoosung Kim, Zen/Hyun Ryu, Saeyoung Choi, Loid Forger, Yor Briar/Forger, Leon Kennedy, Claire Redfield, Ingrid Hunnigan, Luis Serra, Ashley Graham, Ada Wong, Chris Redfield, Dante, Vergil, Nero)
Why does everyone say Leon’s bday is July 31st? I’ve even seen articles say it’s “official” when it isn’t… it was made up by someone in their AU (pretty sure it mentioned him being married to Claire and they had kids on it, if I remember correctly) on the RE wiki and everyone ran with it and somehow articles believed it to be “official” and then it became his bday somehow LMAO
Unless RE actually confirmed it and I’m missing smthn (who knows, maybe I am), I’ve always been confused on why people used that person’s AU for his bday LMAO
Hey fellas, I’m cooked beyond belief right now. Had a LOT of surprise expenses this month on my credit card and I need to get as much as I can paid or else it’s joever for me.
DM me if interested and please share!! Thank you!!
I’m going to start writing for my DMC OC’s except in x Reader format! Meaning, I keep their appearance vague, but they’ll still have an established backstory that you can put YOURSELF into instead!
These are the readers!
Dante x The Asexual Succubus Reader (gender fluid!reader. established sexuality. this character can change forms, but usually takes on a feminine form/appearance. she/her and he/him. masculine descriptors tend to be used more. fluff. comedy.)
Nero x The Valkyrie Reader (afab/gn!reader. she/they, used interchangeably. original concept for the universe. established height descriptor used only in valkyrie form, no height descriptors for regular form. angst/comfort. fluff.)
Vergil x The “Lady” in Red Reader (non-binary/gn!reader. afab. everyone refers to them as she/her as Fortuna is not as respectful towards that, Vergil is the only one who refers to them as they/them. gender neutral descriptors tend to be used only in Vergil’s pov. angst/no comfort.)
Vergil x The Witch Reader (afab/fem!reader. she/her pronouns used. feminine descriptors used. bayonetta crossover character. angst/comfort.)
Vergil has 2, lol.
Anyway, if you’re interested in any of them please let me know! I’m going to likely create character pages/masterlists for each of them at some point. Thank you!
Warnings: Blood, Mentions of Gore, Nudity, Suggestive Themes, Mentions of Loss and Death, Violence, and Wounds
Word Count: 2.8k
Song: Hollow by Smash Into Pieces
(A/N:) My first fic in forever. This one has been in my drafts for a very long time and it was requested on A03 by a reader who read the Dante version and asked for a Vergil one. Every time I started this it never felt right and once I had finally gotten a start on it tragedy struck me and I loss my best friend. My cat Bob who had been my partner in crime for 17 years had to be put down and all sense of creativity died with him. I have slowly but surely getting back into making things as it is my lifeblood. I wouldn't be who I am if I didn't write or paint. So please bear with me and be patient as I get back into the swing of things and hopefully I haven't lost too much of my writing ability where my fics are crap now. Thank you to all you have stuck around and kept reading while I find my way back. Until next time (hopefully sooner rather than later) happy reading. ~Countess
Vergil sensed the battle long before he found it, he warned you seconds before the hoard charged and surrounded you both. You fought valiantly and Vergil used all his strength to protect you but there was too many. Whatever injuries he obtained healed instantaneously, but you were human and weren't so lucky to have a quick healing ability. Vergil beheaded the last devil before he noticed you collapsed on the ground and bleeding profusely from several wounds. A growl rumbling in his chest, he was at your side in seconds.
At Vergil's touch your eyes fluttered open despite the pain at your side and blood dribbling from the gash in your chest. You mourned the state of your favorite shirt for just a moment before the sting of Vergil moving you, made you suck in a breath. Vergil quickly muttered apologies but kept trying to scoop you up gingerly from the ground.
"What do you need," Vergil asked trying to keep the terror from his voice.
"Well I need to stop bleeding would be the first step," you replied trying not to glance at the blood trailing down your arm to drop from the tips of your fingers.
"Hospital," Vergil started jogging, jostling your battered body.
You hissed at the burning pain and gripped his arm gaining his attention.
"You're gonna have to stop running Verg. I feel like I'm about to fall apart due to the jarring."
"I have to get you to the hospital," he sighed in annoyance when he was actually trying to keep from losing his mind. You were an unexpected cog in his life. Vergil had thought for years that he had no need for anyone, that relationships were just an excuse for weakness, until you crashed the party as his brother told him.
"No hospitals. We can't explain these kinds of injuries to the nurses and doctors. Also we're both terrible liars."
"Your lying is abysmal, mine is far better than yours," he scoffed.
Your gaze bore into his sky blue one, "No hospitals."
"Fine." Vergil gritted his teeth. "You leave me no choice."
"Well that's not vague and absolutely terrifying."
"We'll have to go visit my brother.
"That's it," you flicked his forehead causing Vergil to snarl.
"What do you mean that's it," he wanted to flick you back in retaliation but you were still in his arms and still bleeding. "It's my brother the most insufferable person in this entire world.
"Verg," you sighed getting tired of the back and forth. And just tired as more of your life essence dripped to the dirty ground. "Just please."
"Fine just remember you asked for this."
You had met Dante before, but you weren't used to him because Vergil stayed away majority of the time and so the boisterousness of Vergil's twin was a shock to your system. Well more so than your body was already in shock, due to blood loss, and the trauma your body was going through.
"Where's your first aid kit," Vergil interrupted his twin abruptly as he was letting his frustrations fly that his twin brother brought an injured bleeding woman into his place of business. But knowing that Vergil was in a state of ignoring him and clearly because it was due to your state of being, Dante hurriedly shut up and pointed to the bathroom. Laying you gently on the leather couch Vergil left for a few seconds to gather supplies. Dante could only stand in front of his desk gaping at the back of his retreating brother.
"Don't you have a job," Vergil snarled emerging from the bathroom with numerous supplies in his arms.
Dante ignored the venom aimed at him, "She needs a hospital Vergil. Do you even know how to stitch someone?"
"I do in fact know how to stitch. I just haven't practiced on someone living."
"I won't be living much longer if you two keep bickering like an old married couple," you groaned starting to feel a little woozy and nauseas.
"How did you learn to do stitches," Dante continued making his brother sigh in exasperation.
"Books Dante. Now leave."
"This is my place," Dante whined.
"Oh my... just leave Dante unless you want my gorgeous corpse leaving stains on your couch for all eternity!"
"You're not going to die," Vergil roared.
With a grumble Dante headed to the door, "I'm going to go get a sundae. Anybody want anything?"
"A blood donor would be nice," you replied causing Vergil to roll his eyes.
"I'll see what I can do," Dante replied shutting the door and with that leaving you and Vergil alone. He took a few seconds to make sure his twin was actually gone before reaching for the scissors he had grabbed along with the rest of the supplies.
"I'm sorry," he whispered at the first snip that cleaved the hem in two.
You didn't know if his apology was for the destruction of your favorite shirt or that he was about to see you in a light he never had before. You never bared more skin than necessary so for Vergil to see you laid bare would be a new experience and if you weren't so lost in the pain of our wounds you would be more embarrassed. Your cheeks still flushed pink when the shredded shirt met the floor in a wet heap and next your slashed bra.
"I knew that you'd get my clothes off one way or another one of these days," you tried joking to ease the anxiety inside.
"Not the reason I was expecting to remove your clothes either," he retorted. "But here we are."
"I really loved that shirt," you sniffed while Vergil pressed gauze to your wound.
"We'll get you another one. Hold pressure while I get some warm soapy water."
"I found that at a flea market it was already so comfy," you whined but listened to instructions. Despite the burn you held tightly, trying to stop the flow worried that you would ruin Dante's couch with bloodstains.
Vergil looked for a clean bowl before finding a pot in the cabinet. Running the water (thankfully Dante paid his water bill this month) until it ran warm, Vergil took the time to put a mild soap into the pot while he waited. Now that he wasn't at your side his whole body decided to rebel. The adrenaline fading away resulting into his body starting to crash. His legs gave and he caught himself on the sink, his hands crusted over with your blood and the visceral bits of demon he had slaughtered with his blade. The tang of your blood in his nose had his stomach tumbling and he fought the urge to throw up. He scrubbed his hands viciously under the running water trying to erase the smell of your life essence staining his skin. His freak out levels rising, the phantom smell of flames and blood and screams started to overload his already stressed mind. He shook his head, refusing to break, you were what was important at the moment, not the past, he needed to be strong for your sake. The thought of losing you becoming overpowering as the water finally reached a perfect temperature. He filled the container grabbed some clean clothes and made his way back to you. Running his fingers through his hair he tamed his heart that raced inside his chest. But seeing you laying there helplessly covered in gore had him back to spiraling until you managed one wobbly smile. Vergil gritted his teeth and got to work cleaning you, ignoring the paling skin under the cloth. You shivered slightly, nudity forgotten at Vergil's tender touch. Finally the bleeding subsided thanks to both of your efforts and now the fun part of having your rent flesh knitted back together with needle and thread. You just prayed Vergil had a steady hand. Which was soon left unanswered as Vergil struggled to thread the needle due to his hands shaking uncontrollably.
Vergil gritted his teeth, but his hands shook continuously though his face betrayed nothing of the turmoil inside. Grasping onto his hands the needle and stitching thread still clasped in his fingers. Your necessary nudity didn't matter at the moment all you knew that he was close to losing it and you wanted to be his comfort even when you could use some yourself.
"Hey it's going to be okay. I'm still here you got this Verg."
"I know," his teeth gritted he urged his hands to stop trembling, but like his brother they wouldn't listen.
"Talk to me," you eased back down waiting patiently for Vergil to pull himself together. Any signs of worry or nurturing from you would set the silver haired man off.
"I can't help but think I'm going to lose you no matter what I try," he blinked back tears and finally threaded the stitching thread through the eye of the needle. "I lost my mother and could do nothing about it and I have felt helpless ever since."
You listened intently though braced yourself as Vergil pinched your skin together and poked the needle through. You gritted your teeth, sucking in air to fight against screaming. Your fingernails digging into the leather couch, you wished severely for a healing factor like Vergil's.
"Dante feels the same way. That's why he was acting the way he was," Vergil now focused on the task at hand was letting more slip through his lips than he ever intended for you to hear. But despite being in agony as he methodically stitched you together, you weren't going to be the one to stop him from confessing how he felt about you at any point.
"I noticed that he wasn't acting like the Dante we have come to know and love," you panted.
Vergil tied the third stitch, getting closer to finishing the slash on your chest. He still didn't know what he could do about your ribs. You could still breath some so they didn't seem to be broken severely, maybe only cracked. At least Vergil hoped so, he didn't want to wake up in the morning and found out you had punctured a lung with a broken rib during the night.
"Losing our mother was harder on Dante than me. I wasn't home," Vergil paused while his fingers tightened on the needle. Carefully you reached and laid your hands on top of yours. His head jolted up, but unlike everyone else that he had told or learned what he and his twin had gone through. There wasn't pity, no sorrys left your lips. Just a quiet understanding, a small touch to let him know that he wasn't alone and that you understood losing someone in such a tragic way. Vergil nodded, his gratefulness clear. Without another word he finished up cleaning what blood had trickled free while he had stitched you up.
Vergil started gathering all the used supplies to clean up his mess and go on the search for some clothes. There was no way he was going to let his brother see you in such a way he would find some way to be crass about it and then he would have to kill his twin.
You watched Vergil retreat your body aching but already feeling better, though extremely tired. The tension in his body had you worried and what he had just told you had your heart aching. Vergil kept his past secretive but the wounds there ran deep and they never healed. Yours was minor compared to everything he had been through. And to grow up knowing that the people you loved went out in such a horrific way, the hurt in your heart was hurting more than your throbbing ribs. Moments later Vergil came back holding a shirt and some boxer shorts.
"My brother won't mind until I can go and get you something to wear. It'll keep you more comfortable than what you have left too. You need rest and I also brought you some pain killers. When you wake up I'll get you something to eat."
You nodded, unable to speak due to the lump in your throat. This nurturing side of Vergil was making you emotional. You sucked in sharp breaths as stabbing pains ran through you as Vergil helped the shirt over your head and lifting one arm at a time. The boxer shorts was really fun as he held you up to keep you from collapsing. By the time you were dressed and laid back down on the couch your body wracked with shakes from the pain. Vergil took your hand, rubbing his thumb on the back of your hand before brushing the messy streaks of hair from your sweaty forehead. You protested when he pressed a lingering kiss against your brow but he didn't care that you hadn't bathed and you smelled like demon blood. You were here and you were going to get better he knew. He stayed by your side until you fell asleep. Dante returned a little later guilt etched in his face as he took your battered body in.
"She's going to be fine," Vergil replied while he gently laid your hand on the couch and covered you with a meager blanket.
Dante nodded," She's as tough as they come. Feel free to stay as long as you both need to. Help yourself to some of my clothes you need a shower, you stink."
"I already have helped myself she needed something to wear."
"She's wearing my clothes? That's hot."
Vergil growled taking a step towards Dante who threw up his hands immediately.
"Just teasing," he chuckled. "No need to go alpha on me Verg."
"I hate you," Vergil rumbled stomping up the stairs to take a shower.
"Love you too," Dante replied heading towards his kitchen to look for something to eat.
Vergil started the water running in the tub letting it heat up while he shucked his dirty clothes off. Dried blood flaking off into the floor. Now that his job was finished for now the feelings that had started in the kitchen came back full force. His knees hit the bathroom floor as shakes took over his body. He dragged in deep breaths trying to calm himself but the picture of you lying on that dirty ground, bleeding out had a hold. It had been a close call, the closest since he had met you and it had shattered something in him. Something he thought that had healed long ago but it wasn't. He had just shuttered up his feelings braced them inside so he could keep going and those braces imploded as soon as the smell of your blood had tainted the air. Clutching his chest and one hand gripping his hair Vergil got under the spray of the showerhead. He didn't care if it was cold or hot, he couldn't feel the temperature anyway. He didn't know how Dante did it. Getting close to someone despite the chance of losing them in such a horrible way. While Dante loved others easily, Vergil was the polar opposite. He didn't want anyone in, he just wanted power. To become stronger than anything that could ever think about taking whatever meant the most to him away. Until you had come around and shattered that illusion of strength. Rivulets of water streamed down the locks of hair plastered to his face, tinging the water pink as the blood washed from his hair and skin. He watched the little whirlpool at the bottom of the tub, letting himself feel these emotions and imaging them going down the drain as well. He realized that he loved you more than anything and he made himself and you a vow to keep you safe no matter the cost. You molded his world into something better and he wasn't going to let anything shatter his world ever again like it did that night that had changed everything.
Toweling his hair dry before wrapping the towel around his waist, Vergil exited the bathroom to see that Dante had left him something to wear by the couch where you were sleeping. Your face pinched in pain as you tried to breath deeply but still knocked out due to the medicine. Vergil dressed quickly and got comfortable in a chair by your side. He wouldn't leave you alone, your watchful protector in the quiet of the night. Should you ever need anything from him all you had to do was ask. Vergil took your hand once more, giving it a gentle squeeze to let you know he was there before he too fell asleep to prepare whatever lay ahead of you both.
Genre/cw : emotional, survivors guilt, heavy topic, grief, no fluff, (reader being patient w Leon and comforting him), sad!leon, language, kissing
Summary : heart isn't the only thing that his ribs holds.
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Note : A part of me resonates with Leon. Not saying it's survivor's guilt, but... you know what I mean? Like how he must feel in moments like this, whether he has someone beside him or not— that achy feeling that's always there. Anyhow... you know how he's the kind to rarely open up, but when everything gets too much, he finally breaks? Yeah. That.
Anyways, its not really well written, I still wanted to post it -- so here it is.
And as much as I writing fluff and smut of baby boy, I know how many struggles he has faced and my heart goes out for him, and I just wanted to comfort him, or myself through this piece.
Honestly I ammmmm superrrr attached to him -- embarrassingly so, and i know (who tf isnt)
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"Th're is a hole inside me," Leon drunkenly slurs, his voice barely more than a fractured whisper against the dark of the room.
"A cavity that keeps growing inside me, do you see it, too? Do you see those maggots crawling out of my chest?" suddenly as he says it his fingers starts to twitch, against your shoulder as though he could physically tear the corruption out from his ribs.
"Those ugly little creatures — I watch them wriggle out of me, Every.Fucking.Day, watch them spill from my heart, into the light." He shudders out a breath, and swallows thickly, "I try, sweetheart. God, I try to be here, to be perfect, to let people see me, to let you see me. I am more than lucky. I am here."
"But sometimes I wish I wasn't."
Your heart stops for a second hearing him say that and you knew you should stop him.
Tell him that you are grateful to whatever power above had allowed him to live, to let you have him.
You wanted to tell him he shouldn't say things like that— shouldn't carry that kind of feeling or guilt alone.
But you knew... he didn't want to hear any of it right now. So you didn't speak. You didn't even dare breathe.
Instead, you let him talk, let him bare out his soul, as your cheek presses firmly against the unyielding stone of his chest, listening to the steady thunder of his heartbeat beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, as though it were the only sound keeping your world together.
Your other hand traces slow, small circles against his shoulders like an anchor, a silent promise to him, that you are not afraid of his rot -- if anything -- if you could you would have buried what he could not carry alone, inside yourself so he can breathe a little easily.
"Do you know what it does to me?" he continues, and your thoughts fades in between, as his voice splinters like old bone into your skull.
"To be awake. To be here. To have you — warm and breathing, while those who never survived Raccoon City, the people—" He stops abruptly, taking a sharp breath inside his lungs through his nose, and something essential breaks inside him, like a dam cracking under pressure of water, and when he speaks again, the words that spills out from his tongue, come out in almost ragged form, like 'I cant do it anymore' plea, but still he manages, "People I could not save--" he pauses, then breathes, "They could have lived this too. They should have. But they didn't." His hand slowly reaches up and he glides his fingers inside your scalp while tangling his digits inside your hair, gripping them -- not harshly -- but with desperate strength, as if you might slip through his fingers like sand, like ash, like all the other people he could not save.
"It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have done anything differently, Leon," you whispered in a reassuring tone into the hollow of his chest, as your fingers traces slow circles just above his heart.
He keeps his mouth and eyes shut for a moment but you knew — as he did that, or said things before, you knew, the dead weren't the only things buried years ago, it was the guilt of it he carried that had never stayed in the grave with them. It lived inside him, breathing, alive, festering on his skin -- almost refusing him to forgive himself.
He stays quiet for a long while, then he grits through his teeth bitterly, "I wish it was true," then he finally chokes out, the walls around his heart breaks — as he starts to shake violently, and his shoulders starts to hitch and his jaw clenches against the sob building in his throat, for a second he tries to keep it all in, his pain, his emotions, and then when he was not able to anymore, he started crying, and a loud anguished sob leaves his throat and his breathe heaves shudders that rack through the rigid architecture of his body, dismantling the soldier piece by piece until he is only a man, who faced too much on his own -- and your heart clenches in a way it has never before.
and you move before the thought catches up inside your mind — and you sit up in an instant beside him, while he is still laying on the pillow and your trembling hands cradle his face, and you look into his eyes, those blue oceans, that now carried, nothing -- but ache in it, then with a pained heart, you slowly swipe your thumbs roughly across the wet tracks staining his cheekbones, feeling the scrape of his stubble and the tremor of his mouth against your palms -- "I am s.. sorr--" he starts.
"Don't you dare apologize to me," you cut him off mid-sentence, fighting to keep your own composure — to not cry, not right now.
Fuck you could cry-- no, you had to be the strong one while he fell apart.
But God... you'd be lying if you said the tightness inside you wasn't growing, if every vein in your body didn't feel as though it were twisting itself into a knot around your throat, making it almost impossible to breathe -- because seeing him like this was painful than being skinned alive.
He doesn't get to reply to you, because you lean down and capture his mouth in a kiss that begins a bit chaste -- a brush of comfort of your lips on his, like a seal over his wound -- but the moment your lips deeply touches him, the fracture in him widens, and he lets out a teary laugh against your mouth.
Yet you dont pull away from him, you just keep chanting his name between your breathes while you taste him, jesus, now you could feel the salt of his tears inside your mouth, and you savour them, like pearls inside the shell that lived in ocean, and soon the ghost of his musk mingles in your nostrils until you are drowning in the scent of him.
Then he sobbed again, as his one hand comes up to cradle the nape of your neck with impossible gentleness, and you let yourself melt into him, for a second you close your eyes because fuck even now— while he was falling apart beneath you he was being still careful with you.
Christ.
Your heart ached, with his love, the one you carried so deeply inside your skin, "leon", you swallows, and he softly breathes your name like it was the only thing keeping him together, and finally the kiss breaks open between you both —not gracefully, but clumsily, and his teeth brushes yours in the urgency of it all, and you chuckle at the absurdity of it, 'my sweet boy', you smile sadly.
Then he whispered your name against your lips like another sob, 'please be mine forever', he said at last not giving you a moment to speak and then he kisses you back with a hunger born not of desire alone, but of fear — fear of losing this, of losing you, of losing the person he cherished most in the world.
And you don't let him go, you just hold him there, giving him back -- the love he was pouring inside you, and for dont know how long though, and when you pull back from him just to breathe, your foreheads pressed together with his, sharing that single lungful of air between you — and that collision of intimacy says I am here and you are here and that means something in the only language that matters -- right now.
His hands slolwly reaches up and his grips tighten in your hair, and his other hand slid down on your waist until he was pulling you closer and anchoring himself to your gravity, and you give him everything in that moment -- your unflinching mouth your love -- until the only thing that crawl out of him is the breath he finally exhales into you.
"Leon... it's okay to let it out," you whispered softly, and he finally paused, his breathing catches between another broken sob.
You gently pull yourself back just enough to look into his eyes, whispering words like a vow, "and now... for the rest of our lives, you have me." At those words, he finally breaks again and a choked sob escaped him , as he clung to you with trembling arms, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.
You didn't complain, no.
more so, could not -- because there was nothing to complain about, so instead, you let him pull you impossibly closer, pressing yourself against him until it felt as though your bones met his, silently promising that as long as he needed you -- you'd never let go, you had hold him through death of your own.
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Leon, more than my own soul."
He just smiles pressing a kiss on your temple, and pulling you on top of him.
...
and that night, when everything finally calmed down, Leon didn't say a word, instead, he lay awake beside you, holding you in his arms and staring into the darkness, and the ceiling, unable to close his eyes, thanking you silently, thinking how he got so damn fucking lucky.
For a second he realizes his mind was quiet for once, stripped of every nightmare, every regret, every memory — leaving behind only a single prayer, and somehow, that prayer resembled only one name.
Whiskey Coated Apologies — Vendetta!Leon S. Kennedy x Gn Reader
| ♡ | Angst to comfort. Your ex who pushed you away because of his trauma pulls you back in after you stumble across him in the wrong place at the right time.
Warnings: Post breakup, alcohol, drunk Leon, themes of depression, reader gets described as pretty.
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It’s Friday night and you find yourself out with your friends. You guys decided to go to one of the local bars, maybe to get a guy or two to buy your drink which inevitably happened everytime you all went out. This hadn’t happened in a while though.
Not that no one’s been buying you drinks no your too pretty for that— you were just in a relationship so you weren’t going out as much. Not without your boyfriend. Your boyfriend who pushed you away. Your boyfriend who didn’t think you gave him a good enough reason to stay with you. Your boyfriend who didn’t let you pull him out of your thoughts.
Your ex boyfriend Leon Kennedy.
You tried to help him you really did. But he didn’t want your help or anyone else’s. He didn’t let you hold him at night anymore. He didn’t go out with you anymore. He didn’t even really smile at you anymore. And inevitably, he broke it off with you. Why wouldn’t he? He didn’t see a point to anything. Not after what he had to do to the president, not after having to take out his entire team for the second time.
So when you enter the bar with your friends and you skim over the people sat at the bar, you can’t help but feel a hollow feeling in your stomach at the sight of him. Your expression is blank. He has a whiskey glass in front of him and his head is down. Usually when you see a man at the bar on a Friday night they actually look quite happy. But Leon is far from the usual man. You knew that and that’s why you loved him and his determination. You’re stuck in place, your gaze locked on him. When his head lifted and he peered over to see whose stare he felt on him your eyes locked on each other. Upon realizing who you were, something in his face shifted. You couldn’t quite tell what it was. Maybe it was the whiskey in his system making him different or maybe it was just the fact you didn’t really know him anymore.
After being at the bar top with your friends, straying away from actually sitting at it, you hadn’t drank a single drink purchased for you. You didn’t even acknowledge the men who were ordering it for you. You honestly weren’t even acknowledging your friends. And then you hear it.
“I’m sorry sir but I can’t offer you anymore drinks.”
“‘M not even tipsy” he grunted.
The bartender decided that was a good time to reach over and collect his car keys.
“Those are mine.”
She looked slightly annoyed with him now, “I can’t allow you to leave here in your car sir, if you need help getting cab, I’ll gladly call one for you.”
Maybe this is a sign. Or something. Probably not but whatever…
You take the initiative to walk over to him when his head drops again and he doesn’t reply to the bartender.
“Do you want me to drive you home.”
He knows your voice. Maybe that’s why he tries avoiding your gaze or maybe it’s the burn sitting in his throat he’s trying to focus on. Not the thoughts in his head.
“Please.”
All you do is nod and he stands up stumbling almost imperceptibly so you hold onto his bicep. You tell yourself it’s to steady him but you know it really isn’t providing much support. He knows you loved his arms though so maybe it’s just you being in denial about reminiscing.
—
Eventually you guys made it to your car. You opened the door for him and as he sat down he let his head fall back and you leaned over to put his seatbelt on for him and his head tilted down slightly to look at you. You swear you saw a red tint rise up his neck.
Once you get into the car he speaks again. “Your place.” You almost don’t hear it at first.
Then he speaks again. “Can we…your place.”
Your head slowly turns to him and his head is still resting back on the seat but his gaze is locked on you.
You can’t mutter out a reply, all you can do is nod.
—
Once you guys arrive to your home, you help him out the car and guide him inside, onto the couch. He instinctively kicks his shoes off and puts his legs up to lay down while you go to the kitchen and get water and a bottle of Advil to leave on the end table.
“Do you need anything?”
“You.”
What.
“What?”
Tears begin clouding his eyes, making it look like his eyes are oceans. “Need you.”
You can’t bare to look at him. Not right now, and not like this. So your gaze drops to the floor.
“You’re drunk, Leon.”
And then he says it again. “Please.”
All you can do is shake your head, still not looking at him.
“Y/n, please.”
You finally look up, tears are leaving his eyes now. It hurts so bad to see him like this. It’s the most emotion he’s allowed you to see from him in months— no, maybe a year now. You take your shoes off and opt to sit on the other end of the couch, out of his way and not where he’s laying. The only light is coming through the window from the streetlights which seem to illuminate his face just perfectly.
Neither of you speak. For a while. And after a few minutes of sitting in silence that isn’t quite comfortable but isn’t awkward at the same time, you feel a shift in the couch. He turns his body and now his head is laying on your lap before you can process it and he’s just looking up on you. If there was a way to capture this moment and the look in his eyes, you wish you could.
“‘M sorry.”
Your hand finds its way to run through his hair, something he hadn’t allowed you to do in months. It was enough to make a jitter of sparks run through you.
His larger hand finds its way to your wrist, pausing your motion but not pushing you away.
“Y/n.”
Your eyes don’t leave him.
“I’m sorry.”
But you still don’t speak cause you don’t want to let your heart be broken a second time by whiskey. Eventually he is holding your wrist still laying his head in your lap. You eventually fall asleep in the uncomfortable position of sitting up in the couch.
—
In the morning you wake up to the sun blaring in your eyes and a pain in your neck. You aren’t sitting up anymore though. You don’t know what happened that could’ve possibly led to you ending up in his arms. Maybe it was the fact he was now awake, hand running up and down your back.
You look up at him and don’t speak. You don’t want to. You don’t want to wake up if this moment isn’t real.
And then he apologizes once more. “I’m sorry.”
You don’t speak but your vision clouds up in the slightest. Subconsciously you find yourself leaning in, his hand still running up and down your back. Your lips meet his and the kiss is warm. It’s a million apologies and a confirmation of the million explanations he knows you didn’t need because you are the one person who never took a break from acknowledging him and understanding him. And when he pulls away you know he is pulling you back into his life at the same time.
And you’re okay with that.
And for once you aren’t angry about the smell of whiskey lingering on his lips.
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♡ + ↻
(A/n) Thank you so much for all the support on my last posts! I added an asks thingy to my profile so feel free to request any re character (including girls) cause I prob would write for them and I loveeee the inspo. I wrote this on a whim so sorry if it’s no good.
dante x f!reader. established relationship, love confession as pillow talk, abandonment issues so on and so forth. 1.8k
“Do you…”
Since he was far younger than he is now, Dante has made one single promise to himself, it’s what drives him to snap his jaw shut and end his question before it begins.
He’ll never stay where he isn’t wanted.
It’s easy to justify such a statement when everywhere you end up finds itself left behind in a mile long trail of carnage, guilt gnawing at him while you turn to face him. It’s a short distance between your bodies, one which is closed almost immediately. There’s no sense in denying the pull of his soul to yours, gravity or something like it coaxing you to drag yourself across the mattress and so close to him you can kiss his chin.
“Do I what?”
Do you love me?
It’s what he was about to ask before he remembered who and what he is.
If only there were a word to describe how foolish he feels right now, laying next to you facing one another, sunlight kissing your shoulder the way he did last night. He needs to leave you before something bad happens.
You’re here now, breathing and practically glowing like a little star he’s managed to selfishly keep for this long but nothing good lasts forever. That’s the secret the world tries to keep from you until it feels like you’re old enough to be faced with the truth.
He learned it before he was done losing teeth, his knees still scraped and grass stained like a once carefree child’s.
Nothing good lasts forever, not you, not this moment, not even the persistent memory of your body under his mere hours ago, nor your sweet words, assertions you think he hung the moon even if he’s better off living beneath it alone.
“You give so much, Dante,” you cooed at him last night, straddling his lap and dragging your curious, greedy fingers across his shoulders and biceps.
He isn’t selfless because he’s good like you, he’s selfless because it’s necessary. Nobody he’s ever cared about has survived him overstaying his welcome.
“You said something last night and I’ve been thinking about it, that’s all.”
“I said a lot of things last night I’m sure,” you admit.
“This thing was different.”
I love you.
Does it count if it’s muttered mid-orgasm with your calves wrapped around his hips, followed by an attempt to dig your front teeth into his chest, right above his heart?
You smile at him, tilting your head curiously. There are many ways in which this man has presented himself to you — arrogant, adrenaline filled and chasing more, charming, the most mature person you’ve ever met yet somehow the most childish as well — but this is new.
He’s humble and dare you say, uncomfortable, clearly tortured by whatever is running through his head as the sun rises just outside your bedroom window. You have a hunch he’s searching for confirmation that his feelings aren’t unrequited, that he haunts you the same way you haunt him even when you’re next to each other, knees touching, bodies inching ever closer.
You’ve always been the intuitive type after all.
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
There’s a chance he’s rubbing off on you after all this time spent going back and forth, a question more suited to be asked by the downright cocky man leaving your lips rather than his.
Despite the well of guilt in his gut that churns out every possible theory and excuse as to why you said something that can’t be taken back, he chuckles.
You really are a bit of each other, aren’t you?
He could blame the late night chats and this little apartment he keeps coming back to, a sort of home he’s afraid is going to eventually slip away like all the others. Whether it’s your smile or your casual mention of the toothbrush you left for him in the cup on the bathroom counter, the persistent feeling that he’s meant to belong right here, to you, never goes away.
“Out with it,” you tease, poking his calf with your toes.
He raises his eyebrows, exhaling sharply.
“You said that you loved me.”
You kiss his chin a second time, breaking out into a grin. “Do you want me to say it again?”
“So you do,” he states, afraid that if he questions you it’ll make you reconsider.
You love him.
Nodding, your face warms as you find yourself a little unexpectedly embarrassed. Not that you love him, of course not, but that you were so caught up in what he was doing to your body and how he makes you feel that you didn’t consider the possibility he’d ruminate upon your words even if you meant them without question.
You are seriously, undeniably, entirely in love with him and have been for a very long time, probably since the first night he burst into your life with a swagger unlike any you’ve ever seen still to this day and an unbelievable story.
What’s not to love?
“Why wouldn’t I?”
He shrugs, suddenly shifting his gaze from your face to his own hand that rests on your waist.
“Have you ever thought that you shouldn’t?”
“I’ve never really considered that, no.”
You thought you knew what he was looking for and despite the doubt that creeps over you like encroaching sunlight, you decide that even if you tell the truth and he leaves, at least you can say that you were honest. That you meant it.
“Listen,” you start, reaching to cup his face in your ever-gentle palm. “I used to be scared of everything, Dante, even my own shadow was just a monster who followed me around but watching you and being with you have made me as brave as you are.”
He doesn’t look at you, eyes remaining downturned.
“I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”
Whatever space remains between the two of you closes, your body pressing against his.
“Of course it is. You have given me the courage to live and not just exist, how could I not love you?”
How could anyone? You reach to touch every bit of him you can, his jaw and his cheeks and his face and his soul, ultimately. You’ve got him there most of all, hands delicately wrapped around who he truly is and who he fears he always will be.
A child looking for a place to belong, a boy looking for love.
You provide both of those things to him and ask for so little in return.
Nothing good ever lasts.
“It also helps that you’re good,” you add, meaning it most of all.
Goodness seeps from him even if he’s a little crass sometimes. You see right through the act, his carefully crafted defense mechanisms failing whenever you’ve attempted to get inside of his head.
He decides to attempt arm them again, for your sake more than his own.
“What, looking?”
Keep it physical. Keep it shallow. You can’t love someone who won’t let you, right?
“Obviously,” the word is practically spit from your lips, accompanied by a mostly playful eye roll. “You’re a good person too. I see the things you do when you think I’m not paying attention.”
Unexpectedly, he meets your eyes, mouth upturned into that sly little smirk you can’t get enough of.
“So you’ve seen me adjust my balls a lot then,” he jokes, working through his insecurity the best way he knows how.
Wrinkling your nose, you pout. “Can you please start taking my love confession seriously? I know you’ve heard a lot of them but it wouldn’t kill you to at least try.”
Contrary to what you may believe, it very well may kill him to try. The hope that buds in him every time you look at him feels dangerous, undeserved entirely. There have been other girls before you, a fact he isn’t necessarily proud of now that he’s met the only one he could ever picture himself making some sort of a life with. They liked the way he looked and the way he talked. Getting to know him was never on their radar, side stepping his traps and avoidance were always far more work than he would ever be worth.
Not to you, though. Never to you. You’ve met every ounce of his stubbornness with plenty of your own, refusing to be deterred from what you want more than anything with a few days of silence or his constant insistence he’s bad and will bring you down with him.
Even if he talks a big game, he’s aware there’s nowhere to go but up if you’re together. You make the good things about him better, it’s just what you do. Nothing is ever bad as long as you’re around.
Nothing good ever lasts yet you persist.
Isn’t he just proving himself wrong at this point?
“Nobody else has ever loved me,” he admits, raw, hand gripping your hip tight enough you feel it.
It’s your first instinct to argue with him and insist that naturally everyone does if only because you love him so much.
You think better of it. Being right isn’t important at this very moment.
“Well I do. More than I’ve ever loved anything and I’ll happily spend every minute of the rest of my life proving it if that’s what it takes.”
It’s a bold claim but hey, that’s just another way he’s rubbed off on you, isn’t it?
“You mean it?”
You nod once, flashing that just for him smile you provide so effortlessly. There’s no reason for him to leave, he decides in a split second. Not when he’s wanted like this.
Maybe he’s naive for believing it when you say you’ll try forever. His pride screams at him that he knows better, he started this conversation thinking about the truth of the world yet you’ve shown him a new truth.
You have such an uncanny way of doing just that.
“I love you too,” he blurts unexpectedly, now the embarrassed one when he realizes he cannot possibly keep this aspect of his feelings hidden any longer.
You giggle, arms making their way around his neck to toy with his long hair. “I know, you say it all the time when you’re sleeping.”
He wears his heart on his sleeve when it comes to you, even when he’s unconscious apparently.
Yet another new truth he has to come to terms with.
He sighs, looking down at you, wondering how you managed to keep this one under wraps for as long as you have.
“That’s embarrassing,” he admits.
“Only if you don’t mean it,” you shrug, playing it off, craning your neck to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.
You know he means it, just like you do, no further explanation necessary.
summary: every time dante tears another hole through his red coat, he brings it to the same tailor to be mended. the coat keeps coming back and, eventually, so does he
word count: 5,376
content: dante x gn!reader, fluff, humour, mild hurt/comfort, minor injury and blood, dante should be banned from owning leather
a/n: thank you to the lovely anon who requested this and gave me an excuse to spend 5,000 words thinking about dante, his beautiful coat and his slutty little waist 🖤
The first time Dante brought you his coat, he arrived eleven minutes before closing with one sleeve hanging by a few stubborn threads and three enormous claw marks raked through the back. He laid it across your counter like a body awaiting burial, planted both hands beside the remains and said, “Caught it on a fence.”
You looked from the ruined leather to the stranger leaning comfortably into your workspace. He was tall enough to make the shop feel abruptly smaller, white hair falling around a face arranged into cherubic innocence which might have been more convincing had he not entered carrying a sword nearly as long as you were tall. Dried blood marked his collar and stained one glove, though whether it belonged to him seemed less concerning than the fact he appeared serenely unaware of it.
“Was the fence alive?”
“Not by the time I left.”
That sounded closer to the truth. The coat had once been beautiful and, beneath the abuse, still was—scarlet leather cut to accommodate broad shoulders and a narrow waist, with enough weight in the sweeping tails to turn every movement into theatre. Whoever had made it knew exactly what he wanted from it: to be seen coming. The red entered a room before his sword did and made certain everyone was looking when he followed. Unfortunately, its owner appeared to regard being mauled as a routine laundering method.
You lifted the severed sleeve and turned back the lining. “This needs to be partially dismantled. The back panel has stretched out of shape, the lining will have to come away, and I may be able to save the sleeve if you haven’t lost any pieces.”
He bent to inspect it beside you, bringing with him the faint scents of gunpowder, old leather and something recently singed. “You’re the expert.”
“I am, which is why I’m telling you it will take at least four days.”
He tried two days, then three, and when neither moved you, deployed a charming please with all the confidence of a man unaccustomed to finding doors closed after he smiled at them. You assured him that such a polite customer could collect his coat in four days.
The grin came easily then, quick and bright and entirely too pleased by your refusal. “I like you.”
“I charge extra for flirting.”
“Put it on my bill.”
You reached for the order book and asked for his name. Dante offered no surname—“Just Dante,” he said, as though one should have been enough for you and generally was for everyone else—then watched your pen move down the page until you paused over the blood saturating the torn lining. Curiosity had its limits, yes, but professional safety required several answers.
“Is there anything on this coat likely to dissolve my hands?”
“Not anymore.”
“Venom?”
“Nope.”
“Curses?”
“Not in the traditional sense.”
Your pen stopped. “In the traditional sense.”
Dante leant closer, lowering his voice as though confiding an ancient superstition. “You know how people say red attracts trouble?”
“No.”
“Well, they should. You’d be amazed.”
You wrote the estimated cost on a separate slip. Dante whistled at the alleged abundance of zeroes, all two of them, and excavated his pockets in the desperate belief that money might have bred in one of them. Across your counter appeared two loose cartridges, a pizza voucher, several keys, a silver lighter, four coins, a demon tooth and a handful of crystallised organs.
You picked up the tooth between two fingers. “Should I ask?”
“Souvenir.”
“Take it away.”
“You don’t think it adds character?”
“I think it has saliva on it.”
He returned it to his pocket and contemplated his four coins. His attempts to negotiate instalments and barter met with escalating hostility, but the offer to handle any demons troubling you deserved an answer. “The only demon giving me trouble,” you told him, “is standing in my shop without enough money to pay the deposit.”
Dante pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”
“I think you’ll recover.”
His attention sharpened, amusement gaining a flicker of curiosity. You had the peculiar impression of answering a question he had not asked, then levity swept back over it and he reached for the enormous sword strapped across his body, apparently intending to leave it as collateral.
“Absolutely not.”
“It’s worth more than the coat.”
“I’m not keeping a sword in my workroom.”
“Rebellion’s perfectly behaved.”
“It has a name?”
“Don’t be rude.”
“You came here carrying a named weapon, several unidentified organs and no money.”
“Well, when you put it like that, I sound interesting.”
“When I put it like that, you sound like a police report.”
He eventually discovered several crumpled notes in an inside pocket, enough to cover most of the deposit. You accepted the shortfall on the condition that the coat remained with you until he paid the balance, and Dante offered his hand across the counter as though you had concluded some vital piece of diplomacy rather than negotiated with a delinquent peacock. His palm was warm, rough with old calluses and large enough to swallow yours.
“Four days,” you reminded him.
“I’ll miss you.”
“You’ve known me for twelve minutes.”
“Longest twelve minutes of my life.”
The bell chimed as you escorted him outside. Stripped of that red flare, he seemed oddly diminished, although the dark clothes beneath revealed how much of his apparent size belonged not to the garment but to the man himself. He caught you looking, flexed one shoulder with shameless deliberation, and laughed when you shut the door in his face.
The sound followed you back to the counter, where the coat lay waiting like the first bad decision in a story you had not yet agreed to tell.
The coat proved more complicated than you had initially expected. The claws had dragged the leather out of shape, stretching the edges until the panels could no longer meet, and the damage spread each time you opened another seam. You removed the lining and built a fine support beneath the worst of it, strengthening without making the leather rigid; then you placed each stitch so the repaired sections would flex with Dante’s body rather than split during his next quarrel with something possessing talons.
The deeper you went, the more old repairs emerged. Some were competent, others appalling. One sleeve had been reattached with what looked suspiciously like fishing line, and the left side had been scorched, conditioned and scorched again. Beneath the lapel, your fingertips found the mouths of bullet holes, a dark stain near the ribs and a narrow cut through the collar which had missed the wearer’s throat by perhaps an inch if you were being generous. The garment had become an accidental biography, each scar evidence of some disaster its owner had survived and reduced to a joke. You suspected Dante would be much the same beneath it.
He returned on the fourth day carrying the remainder of your money and a pizza he introduced as a peace offering. When you pointed out that he owed you fifteen and the restaurant offered free delivery, Dante maintained that a large pizza held at least twenty in emotional value, then surrendered the money when it became clear charm would not alter arithmetic. You accepted a slice while he stepped onto the fitting platform and slipped into the restored coat.
It settled across his shoulders as though relieved to have found him again. The reconstructed leather bent cleanly when he rolled his arms, the long tails sweeping around his legs as he turned before the mirror. Yet for all his earlier noise, Dante fell quiet when his fingers reached the seam crossing his back.
“You saved it.”
For once, Dante let the sincerity survive without smothering it beneath a wink. You busied yourself with the collar and told him that was generally what people paid you to do, but his thumb continued slowly over the repair. “Most would’ve replaced the whole panel.”
“Most would have told you to buy another coat. The original leather was still workable, it just needed a little patience.”
In the mirror, mischief had fallen away from a face seemingly built to contain it. Without the grin, older things became visible. The weariness feathered around his eyes, a habitual distance in the set of his mouth, sorrow worn for so long it no longer troubled to announce itself. You looked away before observation became intrusion and smoothed the scarlet leather over his shoulders.
“Lucky me,” Dante said.
You pretended not to hear the answer beneath the answer.
The second catastrophe arrived several weeks later as a neat, smouldering hole through the coat. Dante invited you to see the other guy, who turned out to have been a flaming skull mounted on a demonic centipede. Because it fired projectiles, he insisted, it was cannon-adjacent. You asserted it made him an idiot.
This time he had remembered money, or at least enough that you accepted the garment without conducting another financial inquest. He had also brought coffee prepared exactly as you liked it, a coincidence requiring him to pass over several nearer cafés in order to visit the one you frequented each morning. You did not mention that just as he did not mention how carefully he watched you take the first sip.
The damaged panel required new measurements, so Dante climbed onto the fitting platform and spread his arms while you circled him with the tape. He asked you to buy him dinner before wrapping it around his chest, expanded his ribcage by three blatant inches and claimed nervousness when confronted. You pulled the tape snug enough to expel the breath in a betrayed rush.
“Cruel,” he accused.
“Occupational necessity.”
He remained unrepentant while you measured the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his back and the fall from waist to hem, offering opinions throughout, most of which concerned additional pockets. He wanted one large enough for a slice of pizza that was insulated, removable, and perhaps came with a waterproof flap. You were threatening to pin the measurements directly to him when his reflection asked whether that was a promise.
The tape slipped between your fingers.
His delight was immediate, warm and intolerable. You recovered by tightening it around his waist, but Dante merely laughed until you stepped nearer to check the fit beneath his collar. Then, with the abruptness of a curtain falling at the end of an act, he became quiet beneath your hands.
You would come to recognise that stillness. Dante filled any silence left near him, whether with a joke or the extravagant sprawl of his body. Under your hands, he let the quiet remain. His eyes followed you in the mirror while you adjusted the line of the coat and marked the damaged panel with chalk, but he made no attempt to disturb your concentration.
Few customers recognised how intimate a fitting could become. You learnt the angle of their shoulders, where tension gathered through the spine, which parts of themselves they concealed and which they exaggerated. Dante wore confidence with the same dramatic ease as scarlet leather, but his body held truths the costume could not completely disguise. There was an old stiffness beneath one shoulder blade, a faint flinch when your fingers passed his left side, pale scars rising wherever the shirt pulled taut; there were too many to count, and more beneath the surface than any mirror could offer you.
“You always stare this intensely at your customers?” he asked.
“Only the ones assembled incorrectly.”
“That hurts, sweetheart.”
“Hold still.”
He did.
After that, one repair threaded itself into the next. Dante returned with a singed hem, a missing cuff and, on one memorable occasion, a sleeve stiff with something he insisted was not technically blood. You banished him until it had been cleaned and he reappeared the following morning with the coat dripping wet and the righteous expression of a schoolboy who believed literal compliance should exempt him from consequences.
Soon the damage barely justified professional attention. A loose button required an hour on your fitting platform and most of the sweets beside the till. A pulled thread became an excuse to occupy the little sofa while you worked on commissions, his long legs hanging over one arm as he supplied increasingly improbable accounts of his latest hunt. You learnt that he ran a business called Devil May Cry, although ‘ran’ seemed generous. Most days, he appeared to survive through bad planning and a body too stubborn to die. Whatever god protected fools had clearly made Dante a personal project. In return, Dante learnt which afternoons were quietest, where you hid the good coffee and how to distinguish the expression that meant you were listening from the one that meant you were considering stabbing him with your shears.
His pockets developed their own ecosystem. Shell casings bred beside lollipops and overdue bills while the demon teeth multiplied until you suspected the first had begun a dental archive. You made him empty everything before surrendering the coat, and during one such excavation found a scrap of scarlet thread looped carefully around a card.
It was the thread you used for his repairs.
“You’ve been carrying this?”
Dante glanced over from the mirror. “Emergency.”
“You can’t perform emergency leather restoration with six inches of thread and no needle.”
“Good luck charm, then.”
Lightly said, but he took the card from you with surprising care and returned it to the safest inside pocket. After that, you began signing your work with a tiny line of embroidery concealed beneath the lining, where nobody would find it unless they went searching. Dante said nothing when he discovered the first, but he arrived the following week with pizza from the expensive restaurant across town and the entire cost of his repair in cash.
You might have carried on pretending his visits meant nothing if you had not caught him manufacturing one. Late on a rain-swept afternoon, Dante placed the coat across your counter and pointed gravely to a separation in the lining. The stitches had been snipped one by one. The leather was neither strained nor frayed; even the loose thread remained caught beneath the lining, damning him.
“Must’ve been a very small demon,” he said.
“A demon carrying a seam ripper?”
“They’re evolving.”
“You picked this open.”
He received the accusation with magnificent offence. You informed him that your trust had died the moment he disembowelled his own lining. Dante called that dramatic, and you reminded him he had come to the right shop.
Rain threaded silver down the windows behind him. Without the usual catastrophe demanding your attention, the absurdity of the arrangement stood plainly between you—he had sabotaged a perfectly sound repair because he wanted an excuse to visit. Apparently, a man who could face a flaming centipede without hesitation could not ask whether you wanted to see him outside the shop.
You pushed the coat back across the counter. “This doesn’t need a tailor. It needs ten minutes and someone capable of threading a needle.”
“Know anyone?”
“I’m busy.”
His grin faltered—not enough to disappear, but enough to reveal the uncertainty underneath it—and he reached for the coat. You let his fingers find the leather before adding that you finished at seven and intended to eat at the restaurant around the corner. They served pizza, since that appeared to constitute the entirety of his diet.
Dante’s hand remained where it was. “Are you asking me to dinner?”
“I’m telling you where I’m eating tonight. Your interpretation is your own problem.”
“At seven?”
“If you’re late, I’m leaving without you.”
He arrived at half past six.
Dinner became another kind of routine. Dante remained an inconsistent correspondent and a terrible planner, but he appeared at odd hours with coffee, takeaway or news of some minor disaster he insisted you would find entertaining. Sometimes he vanished for several days, never warning you before he went; you refused to ask when he would return, as though silence could make the waiting less revealing.
The coat always came back eventually, until the night Dante arrived wearing it over an injury he thought you would not notice.
The damage he presented was almost insulting. There was a narrow tear beside the lower seam, simple enough to mend within the hour. He launched into a story about an overgrown lizard with attachment issues while you examined it, but the familiar animation had thinned into effort. He kept his left side angled away, one hand braced upon the counter and carrying far more weight than his careless posture would admit. When your fingertips touched the torn leather, it was wet with blood.
“How long ago?”
“Couple of hours.”
You told him to take off the coat. Dante attempted a remark about finally winning you over, but whatever he found in your expression discouraged the rest. He drew the garment gingerly from his shoulders, and beneath it his shirt clung dark and wet to his side.
The tear was forgotten. You caught his wrist when he tried to wave you away and found a steady pulse beneath skin colder than it should have been. “Sit down.”
“I heal fast.”
“You’re bleeding on my floor.”
“I’ll pay for cleaning.”
“With what money?”
“Good point.”
The joke had no shine left in it by the time Dante lowered himself onto the fitting platform, the same narrow stage from which he had posed, preened and stolen enough pins to establish a private armoury. Now he folded instinctively around an injury he insisted did not deserve attention, and the sight of him there felt wrong enough to hollow out the room. You fetched the medical box from beneath the counter, cut through the darkened side of his shirt, and listened as he pointed out, with dwindling conviction, that the shop was already closing.
“Then you can stop bleeding whenever it becomes convenient.”
“You should see the other guy.”
You looked up. “If you say that again, I will make this hurt.”
“There’s my favourite bedside manner.”
The wound curved across his ribs, vicious but already surrendering to his unnatural healing. Once the blood was cleaned away, new skin showed beneath the torn edges; it would not kill him, but relief did not arrive softly. It entered your hands as anger, sharpened by the sudden knowledge of how much the coat had hidden. How many times had it reached your worktable like this while Dante laughed until you attended to the leather and overlooked the body that had bled into it?
You pressed clean gauze against his side, drawing a hiss through his teeth. Dante assured you the wound would be gone by morning, but you secured the dressing anyway. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt tonight.”
The answer seemed to hit harder than you intended. Without the sword, the coat or the swagger broadening his shoulders, Dante seemed less like the impossible figure who had once occupied your doorway than a man who had never learnt what to do when someone noticed his pain and refused to be distracted by his survival.
“The jacket can wait,” you said.
“I knew it. You only love me for my wardrobe.”
“I’d prefer if the man inside it stayed in one piece as well.”
Outside, the rain had thinned to a whisper beneath the awning. Your hands remained at his waist, one resting over the bandage and the other warm against his back. In the hush following your admission, the intimacy of your position asserted itself all at once. You stood between Dante’s knees, close enough to feel heat returning gradually to his skin and each careful expansion of his ribs beneath your palm.
His hand closed loosely around your wrist. “You worried about me, Stitches?”
Usually the nickname earned an eye-roll. Tonight it had lost its teasing edge. You accused him of arriving half-disembowelled; he accused you of melodrama, reminding you that his rapid healing had already begun. The coat, he pointed out, had once survived being set on fire beneath your care.
“The coat, yes. You are considerably more difficult.”
His thumb moved once across your pulse. “You keep trying anyway.”
The glib answer waiting behind your teeth refused to come. You knew what to do with Dante when he was flirting. You knew considerably less about what to do when he meant something, and now he watched you without offering either of you a place to hide.
“I come here ‘cause you don’t ask,” he said at last, his gaze drifting towards the scarlet leather darkened by his blood. “Most people see the sword and the whole half-demon thing, and decide what I’m supposed to be. Monster, hero, tragedy—depends who’s asking.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “You just think I’m bad for leather.”
“You are calamitous for leather.”
“Exactly.”
There was no self-pity in him, only an old fatigue spoken plainly for once. You smoothed the edge of the bandage and told him that catastrophic nuisances still deserved medical attention, a sentiment he warned might give a man ideas. Yet when he lifted his chin and drew you a fraction closer, the confidence with which Dante faced every violence deserted him before compassion. His gaze fell to your mouth; your breath caught, the shop contracting around the narrow distance between you.
Then his stomach growled loudly enough to qualify as a demonic incident in its own right.
Dante closed his eyes. “You didn’t hear that.”
You had undressed him, lost a considerable quantity of his blood upon your floor and were now ordering him dinner, he observed once you insisted upon food. As far as he was concerned, the evening was going exceptionally well. Your laughter loosened the moment without quite breaking it, warmth returning to his face at the sound.
He fell asleep on the shop sofa before the pizza arrived, one arm folded beneath his head and his long legs trailing over the edge. When the leather was clean enough to move, you laid the coat across him and watched scarlet rise and fall with the deep rhythm of his breathing.
By the time you woke at your worktable, Dante was gone. He had taken the remaining pizza and left enough money to pay for it beneath your empty coffee cup.
For nearly two weeks afterwards, you saw nothing of him. His work took him beyond the city without warning, and Dante treated plans as polite suggestions rather than obligations, so the silence should not have troubled you. You told yourself it felt different only because you had seen him injured before he left. Even so, every ring of the bell lifted your attention from the needle in your hand, and every customer who entered left a little more disappointment hanging in the doorway behind them.
On the twelfth evening, the door struck the wall hard enough to rattle the glass. A young man with short white hair stood on the threshold, breathing heavily, one mechanical hand clutching a bundle of ruined scarlet leather.
Your body understood before your mind did. “Where is he?”
The stranger assured you Dante was alive, which was not an answer and did nothing to slow the cold travelling through your veins. He laid down what remained of the coat. For one dislocated instant, you could not recognise it. The back had split almost from collar to hem, one side eaten brittle by acid, the lining in ribbons and blood drying to rust across the surviving panels.
You braced your fingers against the counter because touching it felt impossible. “How alive?”
“He was standing when I left. Complaining, showing off, being a pain in the ass. Normal Dante.”
“Then why isn’t he wearing this?”
“Demon grabbed it. He slipped out before it dragged him into a mouth the size of a van.” The stranger paused, sympathy tempering his impatience. “Would’ve left the coat, but he went back for it.”
Of course he had. Dante had told him to rescue the leather before the acid dissolved it and predicted, with satisfaction, that you would kill him. You informed Nero, once he finally introduced himself, that this stayed under consideration. He received your promise to save the coat with offensive scepticism, then left after swearing he would contact you when the hunt ended.
You worked through the night.
There would be no hiding what had happened to the coat. You could replace every ruined panel, but Dante would return to something cut from the same pattern and stripped of all the same history. Instead, you cut away only what could not be restored, treated the acid damage and built support beneath the torn back. New leather bridged the missing sections, dyed to belong beside the old scarlet without pretending to share its age, while the lining was pieced together from whatever had survived. Each pass of the needle drew the longest rupture closer, not erasing the wound but teaching its edges how to hold.
The coat had always narrated Dante’s survival. Beneath the work lamp, it became an omen.
Every old repair passed through your hands; the claw marks from the first night, the scorched panel, the cuff once torn away during an alleged fall through a church roof. Your hidden embroidery remained safe among the wreckage. He had not replaced a single piece bearing your mark unless the damage made it unavoidable, and when the creature tried to take all of it, he had gone back.
The tenderness of it hurt, though the idiocy, at least, kept your hands steady. You drove the needle through the backing, pulled the thread taut and tried not to wonder whether anyone would remain to wear what you were saving.
Morning slowly unpicked the darkness from the windows. Beyond the glass, the city stirred, oblivious to the terror gathered in your shop. Coffee cooled beside your elbow and cramps stiffened your fingers, but stopping would mean waiting, and waiting offered nothing you could mend.
The bell rang shortly after nine.
Dante stood in the doorway, bruised, filthy and missing part of one boot. Blood had dried through his hair and a fresh cut crossed his forehead, yet he remained upright, breathing and leaning against the frame with exaggerated ease, as though returning from the dead was simply another late arrival.
“Morning, Stitches.”
You crossed the shop before deciding whether you planned to strike or embrace him and managed both in swift succession. Your palm met his chest with enough force to wipe the grin from his face, and when Dante confirmed that he had gone back into a demon’s mouth for the coat—“Would’ve ruined the leather,” he attempted—you caught the front of his shirt and dragged him against you.
For one heartbeat, he was motionless. Then his arms folded around you, one hand spreading over your back while the other cradled your head with a care so immediate it hurt. Beneath your ear, his heart beat hard and steady.
“There,” he murmured into your hair. “Still ticking.”
You called him an idiot, told him you hated him and tightened your arms until his answering laugh dissolved into something without humour. Dante rested his cheek against your temple and, for once, made no attempt to rescue either of you with a joke. He simply held you while the fear drained slowly from your body.
When you stepped back, his hands lingered at your waist and his attention travelled to the worktable where morning light found every alteration. The new leather among old, fine stitches crossing the back, the pale scar left where the acid had bitten too deeply to erase.
“I couldn’t make it look untouched,” you said. “Not without replacing almost everything.”
Dante ran his fingers along the reconstructed seam. “Wouldn’t want that.”
“The marks will still be there.”
“So will I.”
The answer was quiet. He turned while you lifted the coat and settled it over his shoulders, easing the repaired side around his arm and drawing the collar into place. Despite all your measurements, it fitted differently now, a garment assembled from several versions of itself, altered by every survival and strengthened where it had once given way. Dante rolled his shoulders once and the seams held.
You reached around him to fasten an interior closure, your arms almost encircling his waist, and he covered your hand before you could retreat. When Dante turned within the loose circle of your embrace, the tails swept around your legs and enclosed you both in scarlet.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’ve been awake all night.”
“Because of the coat?”
“Don’t insult me.”
He lifted your hand to his chest, pressing your palm over the heartbeat waiting beneath the leather. “Still here.”
You warned him that he had better remain there, because you refused to perform another restoration before next month. Dante considered that a vote of confidence, and when you threatened to sew him into the coat, his smile tilted and he accused you of promising him a good time again.
“For the record,” he said, thumb following the pulse inside your wrist, “I didn’t go back because it’s a nice coat.”
“No?”
“Lots of nice coats in the world.”
“None you can afford.”
“Low blow.” His forehead lowered towards yours, mischief softening into something unguarded as the distance disappeared. “I went back ‘cause you made this one mine.”
The words drew tight every thread stretched between you—the two sleepless weeks, one unbearable night, months of small returns and the hidden marks of your hands carried faithfully against his body. Rather than trust yourself to answer, you closed the remaining distance and kissed him.
After months of shameless provocation, Dante kissed you with startling care. One hand slid into your hair while the other settled at your waist, close without presuming; it was only when you caught his lapels and pulled him nearer that the familiar confidence came rushing back. Even then, beneath all that instinct and flair, he listened to every change in your breath.
When you parted, his smile was softer and slightly dazed. “So, does kissing the tailor get me a discount?”
“Actually, romantic partners incur a nuisance fee.”
His laughter filled the shop, bright enough to scatter the shadows the night had left behind. There were conditions, of course. Dante would pay his invoices, stop opening perfectly sound seams and attempt to avoid being swallowed by anything larger than a delivery van. He considered the last restriction unreasonable, but stole another kiss and promised to try.
It was a worthless promise. You both knew it.
Later, while Dante sat on the fitting platform eating the breakfast he had persuaded you to order, you discovered one final weakness beneath his right arm. He lifted it obediently while you threaded the needle and leant close, your arm curved partially around his waist as his free hand settled at the small of your back with the ease of something finding its intended place.
“Could add that pizza pocket while you’re in there.”
“I have a needle beside your ribs.”
“Just brainstorming.”
“You’re already storing food in my shop. Your coat doesn't need provisions.”
“Our shop.”
Your needle paused, but Dante continued eating with an expression of calculated innocence while the hand at your back drew you slightly closer. You should have corrected him. The shop was yours, as were the bills, the workrooms and the demon teeth hidden in an empty button tin. He had just wandered through the door one evening carrying trouble, blood and four coins. Instead, you tied off the final stitch.
It sat hidden beneath his arm; a small scarlet promise holding old leather to new. Dante could not see it, but he tested the seam with a roll of his shoulder and smiled when it held.
He would tear it again. He would return scorched, bloodied and carrying some outrageous explanation, and you would curse him, mend what you could and remind him that survival did not render pain inconsequential. The coat would never be pristine again. Neither would Dante, but you had never asked them to be. The difference was that now, when Dante came home carrying the damage, he would find someone waiting to let him in.
if you would like to be tagged in any future dante works, please let me know! 🖤
All rights reserved. Please do not repost, copy, translate, plagiarise, or feed my work into AI. Reblogs are deeply appreciated; reposts are not permitted.
HII I absolutely LOVEEE the way you write the sparda twins!! I've just powered through every dmc fic you have and I need more of Vergil's subtle moments where he actually smiles for reader (even if its slight!!)🥹 could I request a fic where reader spends all day challenging themselves to see if they can make Vergil smile? I can imagine them eventually giving up but the whole effort in itself is what makes Vergil kinda give in but he doesn't outwardly show it (not too much at least🤭)
IK ITS LOWKEY OOC BUT I THOUGHT ITD BE A CUTE FLUFF IDEA
— 🫧 (ill be bubble anon hehe)
There. I Saw That.
Vergil x reader
By eleven in the morning, you had decided on your mission. By noon, Nero was deeply regretting encouraging it.
“You’re wasting your time.” he sighed.
You leaned against Nico’s workbench with your coffee. “That’s a rude thing to say to someone with a dream.”
“It’s a rude dream.” he fires back.
“It is a noble dream.”
Nero tightened a bolt with far more aggression than necessary. “It’s impossible.”
“Impossible?” You gasped.
“Yes.”
“Well now I have all the more reason to try.”
Nico glanced up from beneath the van. “What’s impossible?”
You placed a hand dramatically over your chest. “Making Vergil smile.”
Nico’s wrench clattered against the concrete. Then she laughed loud enough to startle Nero. “Oh, that’s what this is?”
“This?” you question.
“You’ve been circling him like a cat since breakfast.” she points out.
“I have not.”
“You asked him if he wanted pancakes shaped like rabbits.”
“That was generosity.” you defend.
“Girl.” Nico deadpans.
In the room over, through the open door, Vergil sat in the old armchair by the window with a book open in one hand and tea balanced beside him. Unbothered and silent. Entirely unaware, or pretending to be, that your entire day had become centered around getting one visible reaction from him. One smile.
Not even a full one. You'd be happy with just a twitch of the corner of his mouth. And so far, nothing.
He looked up from his tea. You set a plate in front of him proudly. Two pancakes, shaped vaguely like rabbits, one of the ears had collapsed. The syrup smile had slid halfway off the plate. Vergil stared at them. Then at you.
“…What is this?”
“Breakfast.” you said plainly, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“I gathered that.”
“Bunny pancakes.” you smiled.
There was a pause. Dante nearly choked on his coffee. Vergil lowered his gaze back to the plate in silence.
“Thank you.” his words were short and polite, but no smile.
Attempt three involved a sketch. A terrible one, but a sketch, nonetheless. You slid the folded paper across the table toward him while he read. He opened it. Inside was a charcoal drawing of him. Very serious. Very stoic. Except someone (meaning you) had added cat ears and labeled it: Vergil, if he allowed himself joy
He stared at it. You stared at him, waiting.
“…Did you spend time on this?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” He folded it neatly and placed it beside his book. No reaction, not even a breath. You dropped your head onto the table.
Nico patted your shoulder on her way past. “Tough crowd.”
By late afternoon you were losing faith. Vergil remained exactly as he always was, composed and unreadable. Standing by the bookcase now while sunlight stretched across the floorboards. He turned pages with the same serene focus he always had.
You flopped dramatically onto the couch beside Dante. “I quit.”
Dante glanced over his magazine. “Already?”
“It’s hopeless.”
“Yep...” Dante agreed. “Nero said that.”
“Because Nero was right.” you sighed. “I thought maybe I could at least get a smirk.”
Dante snorted. “Vergil doesn’t smirk.”
“Yes, he does.”
“Nope.”
“I’ve seen it.” you insisted.
“That was probably indigestion.”
“I’m done trying.” You groaned into the couch cushion.
Across the room, Vergil turned a page, utterly unaffected. You narrowed your eyes at him from afar. He didn’t even look up like the ridiculous, impossible man that he is.
Evening settled over Devil May Cry slowly. Nico shut down the garage, Nero had left to go back home to Kyrie, Dante left to grab food, and the office became quiet in that familiar way with the old wood creaking, pipes ticking, and the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
You wandered in with a blanket over your shoulders and found Vergil alone near the window, tea untouched beside him, book open in his lap. The blue twilight spilling over the floor painting him as handsome as ever. You paused in the doorway. Then sighed dramatically.
“I surrender.”
He looked up. “Surrender?”
“I’ve spent all day trying to make you smile.”
“I am aware.”
Your jaw dropped. “You knew?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“This morning.” he said taking a sip of his almost forgotten tea.
“During the pancakes?”
“Before the pancakes.”
You stared at him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Vergil turned a page. “You seemed committed.”
“That’s evil.”
“Perhaps.”
You walked farther into the room and dropped into the couch opposite him. “I can’t believe you knew.”
“You were not subtle.”
“Rude.”
“You asked if I would recognize Dante wearing my coat.”
“That was a legitimate question.”
“It was not.”
You huffed, blanket gathered around your knees. “Well. It doesn’t matter. I lost.”
“Lost?”
“I never made you smile.”
Vergil said nothing. You leaned your head back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. “Not even once.”
“I disagree.”
You turned so fast the blanket nearly slid off. “What?”
Vergil was still looking at his book. “You did.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.” he said plainly.
“Vergil.”
He closed the book carefully and set it aside calmly. “When you handed me the drawing.”
“The cat ears?”
“Yes.”
Your eyes narrowed. “That made you smile?”
“A little.”
“How little?”
He considered. “…Minimal.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It does.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“You’re lying.” you pressed.
“I have no reason to.”
You sat up straighter. “Then prove it.”
Vergil raised an eyebrow. “Prove… that I smiled?”
“Yes.”
“That would be difficult.”
“Oh, that must be convenient for you.” You crossed your arms.
He studied you quietly for a moment. Then stood, moved toward the bookshelf to set his tea aside, and as he passed the couch, you caught it. So small you nearly doubted it. A faint shift at the corner of his mouth, gone almost instantly. You shot upright.
“There.” you pointed at you.
Vergil kept walking. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I saw that.”
“Saw what?” he said browsing the books like they weren't all his own.
“That.”
“You are imagining things.”
“I am not! You smiled.” you shifted in your seat.
“No.”
“You absolutely did.”
Vergil picked up another book from the shelf with perfect composure. You stared at him open-mouthed and victorious.
“Vergil.” No response. “You smiled.”
Silence. You stood from the couch, pointing accusingly. “You smiled.”
content: vendetta!leon x reader, gn!reader, fluff
notes: i have a headache so you guys are getting a short sleepy vendetta leon fluff, that's a win for all of us right? this concept has been done a thousand times before but that won't stop me. as usual, proofread but things happen. enjoy my lovely people ♥
The room was quiet, lit only by the dim orange glow of the streetlamps filtering through the curtains. Every once in a while, a car would pass outside and the headlights would drag shadows across the ceiling. The digital clock on the nightstand showed a glowing red 2:14 AM, but the numbers blurred in Leon’s vision every time his heavy eyelids threatened to close.
Leon’s right arm was tucked behind his head, while his left one was wrapped securely around your waist, hand resting flat against the small of your back. You were sprawled against his left side, head comfortable right over his heart. With every breath he took, you could feel the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. The room was cool, the chill of a late autumn night seeping through the glass panes.
He needed to sleep, every fiber of his body was begging him to close his eyes and just let go. He had been running on fumes for days, the latest operation a week long dreadful nightmare.
But then, there was you.
You had become a quiet anchor in a life full of chaos and right now, he didn’t want to sleep. Because sleeping meant giving up this moment. Trading the feeling of your warmth, the fresh scent of your hair and the soft rhythm of your breathing for an unpredictable and often violent dream. He couldn’t bring himself to give up the time he got to spend with you.
So he fought it.
Leon blinked hard, his blue eyes glassy and unfocused in the dim light. He stared at the ceiling, watching another dance of shadows cast by a passing car. He flexed the fingers of his left hand, pressing his fingertips into the fabric of your oversized shirt. His oversized shirt, actually, the worn gray one he’d had for years and was forgotten at the back of his closet.
"You're awake," you spoke, voice muted against his collarbone. He felt you shift, your leg tangling further with his under the blanket.
He let out a low hum in response.
“Why?” You nuzzled your face closer into the crook of his neck, your breath sending a shiver down his spine. “You look exhausted.”
“M’not that tired,” Leon lied.
Your answer was a soft, breathy laugh. You didn’t even bother lifting your head to look at him, instead moving the hand that had been resting against his ribs up to trace the edge of a scar near his shoulder.
“Liar,” you whispered. “You’ve been blinking at the ceiling for half an hour, I know you.”
A smile tugged at his lips and he turned his head to press a kiss to the top of your head, his messy bangs falling across his forehead. “If I fall asleep, who’s going to make sure you don’t steal the rest of the blanket?”
“I don’t do that,” this time it was you lying. “Why would I do that when I sleep next to a radiator?”
“A radiator,” Leon repeated, his eyelids drooping dangerously low. He forced them open again. “You complain, but you’re the one clinging to me like a koala.”
“I am tactically utilizing available heat resources,” you joked, your hand stopping its tracing to rest flat against his chest.
Leon’s chest hitched with a chuckle. “Tactical. Right. You’ve been reading my mission reports again.” Back in the day, he used to not talk about his work, but you had insisted, wanting to understand what kind of nightmares haunted him in his sleep. Maybe you could help somehow. Gently joking about your relationship being a mission seemed to do the trick, at least a little bit.
“They are very educational,” you sighed and your body felt heavier against his as another wave of sleep crashed over you. “Teaches me… how to secure the perimeter.”
“And the perimeter is secure?” he asked, voice nothing more than a raspy whisper.
“Very secure,” you answered, thumb stroking his collarbone. “I’m the perimeter and you are now trapped.” You barely made sense with your brain half asleep.
"A tactical disadvantage.” His eyes closed for a second too long before he forced them open again. "I should have seen this coming."
"Too late. It’s just us now."
The words hit him hard and resonate in his head. It's just us. For a man whose entire adult life had been defined by what he had to fight, what he had to shoot and what he had to survive, the concept of 'just us' was still something to get used to. He thought of the endless nights spent sitting on the edge of a motel bed, booze in his hand, staring at the wall until the sun came up. The hollow emptiness that was consuming him. He was trying really hard now. The first step had been switching the bottle on his nightstand from whiskey to water.
His arm twitched and tightened around your waist and you felt the shift and the sudden rigidness in his body. Even half-asleep, you knew him too well. You propped yourself up on one elbow and blinked down at him, eyes half closed and struggling to focus.
“What?” Leon looked up at you and felt his body immediately relax again, his thumb rubbing small circles into the fabric of the shirt at your lower back.
You didn't say anything at first. You just reached out with your free hand and gently brushed a strand of dark hair away from his forehead.
"I can practically hear your brain working. Turn it off," you said softly in a gentle reprimand, “and go to sleep.”
"Easier said than done," he admitted. He shifted slightly, not to get more comfortable but to try and wake himself up. "Besides, if I go to sleep now I won't get to appreciate the fact that I'm actually home. In a real bed. With you."
You sighed and dropped against him, smiling against the crook of his neck again. If someone had told you that the dark, moody man you had met a year ago would be lying next to you, vulnerable and open with his feelings, you would have had trouble believing it.
"I'll be here when you wake up.” You pressed a kiss where your face was buried. "I'm not going anywhere. The bed isn't going anywhere."
“What about the blanket?” Leon countered, eyes closing as your thumb went back to idly brush over his scar.
"I will concede fifty percent of it," you answered, arm sliding further across his chest to hold him closer. "No more. That's my final offer."
"Tough negotiator."
“Go to sleep, Leon,” you tried to sound stern, but a yawn had other plans.
He took a deep breath, the air filling his lungs and lifting his chest, then let it out slowly, letting his whole body’s weight relax against the mattress. “I will. In a minute.”
“You said that two hours ago,” you were losing the fight to sleep again.
The room fell into silence and no cars had passed for a long time. As the last of your consciousness drifted away, the last thing you felt was Leon shift. His fingers brushed against the hand you had placed on his chest, and you instinctively opened your palm. He slid his fingers between yours, one by one, slowly interlocking them, the rough calluses a comforting contrast against your own skin. He gave your hand a light squeeze before finally letting his own eyes close, breathing falling into a perfect rhythm with yours.
Leon meets you when he believes his opportunity for a family has passed. He screwed things up too badly for those things with Claire, and Ada never really felt like an option for the family lifestyle.
You work with the DSO, not directly with Leon, but he had seen you around before Hunnigan and Sherry convinced him to talk to you.
The two of you hit it off pretty quickly, and you're very up front about your kids and reluctance about getting remarried. Leon pushes the marriage thought aside and promises to be patient.
He doesn't push for more for months. You aren't happy with just the dinner dates and occasional hook ups when you find time, so seven months in you ask him to sleep over for the first time.
Leon comes over almost every night your kids are away until the two of you reach a year together. It just so happens to be close to the holidays, so you think it's perfect.
Your ex tries to give you shit when your kids come home talking about "mom's cool new boyfriend" and Leon puts an end to that in a shockingly peaceful way. You think Leon threatened him in a subtle way, but nothing came to blows so you're happy.
Leon takes to fatherhood well, immediately helping where he can without overstepping. He pushes for better communication between you and your ex, which makes co-parenting a lot easier than it had been.
Leon shows your son things his dad hadn't been interested in, but Leon thrives as a girl dad. Your daughter is slightly younger than your son, so Leon gets a taste of getting to raise a little girl before she reaches her teenage years.
You didn't want to get married again until your kids ask if Leon can be their dad. The ceremony is at a courthouse, but you let your daughter help plan the party after in the backyard.
The more Leon steps up, the more you notice your ex kind of distance himself. You worry about how that affects the kids, but Leon makes sure they don't feel unloved for even a second.
He introduces them to all the important people in his life as his kids. He's there for every milestone that he can be without ever asking if you'd be willing to have another.
Leon is more present than you ever could have hoped and even goes as far as to push you to be there more too. You stop having as many late nights at work or taking more than what you can chew. He takes care of you just as much as he takes care of your kids.
Summary: They loved each other at the wrong time, in all the wrong ways. You weren't supposed to call. Leon wasn't supposed to answer. Now he has someone waiting for him in the next room, and you're still the only voice that feels like home.
Warnings/tags: emotional infidelity, toxic relationship, unresolved feelings, angst, mentions of past arguments, no happy ending
I didn't have a specific Leon in my head, so please use your imagination! Based on the song Lips Of An Angel by Hinder. Not proofread.
The apartment was quiet enough for Leon to hear the second hand of the kitchen clock. It wasn't late by his standards. Missions had trained his body to function at impossible hours, but tonight felt different. Peaceful. Normal. Ada had kissed him goodnight almost two hours ago. The bedroom door was cracked just enough for warm light from the hallway to spill across the hardwood floor. He could hear the faint rustle of blankets every now and then, followed by silence again.
It felt strange sometimes. For years, he'd wanted something like this. A place that felt lived in. A beautiful woman waiting at home instead of another government briefing or another hotel room. A life outside of missions.
His phone buzzed against the coffee table. Unknown number. Leon frowned. Most people who needed him had secure lines, which means this could only be one person.
His thumb hovered over the screen before he answered. "...Hello?"
There wasn't an answer right away. Just quiet breathing before he finally heard someone call his name. "...Leon."
Every muscle in his body went rigid. He hadn't heard your voice in a little while. He stood from the couch so quickly the whiskey in his glass sloshed onto his hand.
"...Honey," he said quietly, disbelief softening his voice. "Why're you calling me so late?"
You laughed weakly through tears. "I don't know, Lee."
He checked the hallway toward the bedroom. "It's kinda hard to talk right now."
"I'm sorry, I can go."
"Please don't." He answered too quickly. He closed his eyes. "Don't hang up."
Silence settled between you. It was comfortable... familiar. Dangerous. You tried to steady your breathing, but another shaky sob slipped out anyway. Leon heard it immediately.
"Hey... talk to me, baby."
He didn't even register the pet name he used. Concern replaced every trace of surprise he had from your call. You pressed your forehead against your bedroom window. The rain slid down the glass in crooked lines.
"Is everything okay?" Leon asked again.
You wanted to lie. You'd always lied to Leon when you were hurting. When he was hurting you.
"I'm fine."
"Fine doesn't call me at two in the morning, sweetheart."
Another tear rolled down your cheek. Leon hadn't always been good at this comforting part. When you'd been together, it was a toxic and heated love-hate relationship.
"It doesn't matter. I don't know why I called."
Leon sighed into the phone. He knew you like nobody else. He knew at some point you'd call him or see him, and every emotion he'd ever felt for you would come back.
"It matters to me because you're crying."
You covered your mouth. God... he still knew exactly how to break through every wall you'd built.
"I..." You laughed bitterly. "I miss you, baby."
Leon looked back toward the bedroom again. Ada moved around in her sleep, blankets shifting above her. He instinctively lowered his voice.
"Uh... I... miss you." Leon said breathily, barely moving his mouth.
"What? I can't hear you."
"Uh, sorry, I gotta whisper cause I can't be too loud."
"...Why?"
He leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. "My girl's in the next room."
The words landed like someone dropping a bucket of ice water on your head. Your heart sank. Fuck. The room around you suddenly felt too quiet. Your fingers tightened around your phone until your knuckles ached.
You'd seen the pictures. Not because you'd gone looking for them. At least not the first time. A mutual friend had posted one after some charity gala. Leon stood in a tailored black suit, one hand tucked into his pocket while Ada rested comfortably against his side. She looked effortlessly elegant. He looked... happy. Or as close to happy as Leon Kennedy ever looked in front of a camera.
After that, you'd made the mistake of searching. One picture became five. Five became an hour of convincing yourself that smiling for a photograph didn't mean anything. Leon had always hated cameras. Half the pictures from when you'd dated caught him rolling his eyes while you laughed beside him, or trying to hide behind the hood of his jacket because you'd insisted on taking "just one more."
You'd told yourself people online loved inventing stories. You'd told yourself maybe she was just another partner. Another contact? Another assignment? Now there wasn't any room left to lie to yourself.
"She lives with you?" you asked, barely above a whisper.
Leon's eyes squeezed shut. He hated admitting it to you. Hated that you were hearing about this life from him instead of living it with him. Somewhere deep down, a selfish part of him still imagined what it would've looked like if you'd been the one waiting behind the bedroom door.
"Yeah."
Nothing else. He didn't offer any details. He just said that one word. Somehow that hurt more than if he tried to explain it. He didn't want you to know details. It isn't your business. And yet, it felt like it was.
You laughed quietly, though there wasn't an ounce of humor in it. "I picked a hell of a night to miss you then."
Leon's chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt. There it was. The sentence he'd been terrified of hearing. The quiet admission that, after everything you've done to each other, you still missed him.
"Don't do that." He shook his head left and right.
"Do what?"
"Don't pretend you don't care." He said a little louder than before.
You looked at the ceiling, wondering what you should even say to him now. You called him because you missed him. You called him because you thought maybe the girlfriend thing was a fluke and you could weasel your way back in. You called because you thought he would miss you too.
"I'm trying not to care."
"You're terrible at it, sweetheart."
"That's funny, I'm pretty sure I learned that from you."
---
"You disappeared again," you said.
Leon didn't answer. He just looked at you.
"It's been three months, and you didn't even call."
"I'm sorry, baby."
"You couldn't even send a fucking text?"
"I know... I know, but I'm here now."
"You show up with flowers and think it erases everything?"
"I'm trying, though," he says, stepping forward.
"You let me think you were dead and gone."
"I'm sorry."
The mission had gone sideways before anyone even realized they were compromised. Communications had been cut. Debriefings had stretched into weeks. When he'd finally been cleared to go home, he'd spent three days sitting in his apartment staring at your number without pressing Call. He hadn't known how to explain another disappearance. Another lie. Another apology. By the time he'd found the courage... You'd already packed your things again. It was a nasty pattern.
---
"Leon..." you whispered, pain seeping deep into your chest. "You remember what I said last time we saw each other?"
Leon's jaw tightened. He hated thinking about it. "Every word."
"Go find someone who can actually love you."
The sentence tasted poisonous coming back. You'd thought about it regularly. It hurt you, and you know it destroyed him so much, but here you are, calling him. Because the only person you've ever been able to love is him.
"Seems like you listened."
Leon laughed once, but it was hollow enough to make your chest ache.
"Did I, though?"
Silence answered him. The truth? He hadn't. He found someone. Ada was kind and mysterious. She was beautiful and patient. Steady when it came right down to it. You and Leon had been anything but steady. Ada didn't beg for his attention. She gave him space. She trusted him. She deserved every piece of him.
Instead, he was standing in a dark hallway of his house whispering into a phone at two in the morning because the woman he'd never stopped loving missed him. Because she called and he felt everything he'd ignored after the breakup.
"I hate you sometimes," you admitted.
"I know."
"I hated waiting for you."
"I know, sweetheart."
"I hated wondering if every knock at my door was going to be someone telling me you were dead," your voice broke.
Leon's breathing caught in his throat.
"I hated loving someone who belonged to everybody except me."
The words carved straight through him. You'd never said them before. At least not like that. Not without yelling or anger to cushion the blow.
"But leaving you? I'm just stuck in that same loop. Except now, you're really gone."
Your words were simple and true. Leon covered his eyes with his free hand.
"I'm sorry."
You sniffled. "You've apologized enough, Lee. Clearly you've moved on."
"I've never apologized the right way."
"It doesn't matter now." You shook your head.
"I kept asking you to forgive me for things I never stopped doing."
Your heart broke a little more. He understood now, but it was too late. It was always too late with him.
"I miss you," he whispered so you could hear him this time.
You let out a shaky breath. "I know."
"I don't mean the idea of you," his voice cracked. "I miss Sunday mornings."
You frowned. "What?"
"The pancakes."
Despite everything, you laughed. "You couldn't make those suckers to save your life."
"I still can't... burn every single one." He smiled into the phone. "But you always ate the crispy edges."
"Those are the best part, dude!"
"You always said so..." he sighed.
A warmth settled over both of you for the briefest moment. Long enough to remember what it had felt like before everything became so complicated. The memories made him feel nothing but happy. Even though the bad times were really bad... the good times were the best he's ever felt. After everything he'd been through, you were always the best part of his day and the last thing he thought about before going to bed.
Leon swallowed. "Sometimes..."
His voice was barely above a breath again. "Sometimes I wish..."
He stopped himself. You waited patiently... something he'd noticed you'd developed since you last spoke. The silence stretched long.
"...Sometimes I wish she was you."
The words slipped out before he could catch them. His eyes flew open. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to think it. He certainly hadn't meant to give it a voice. The apartment felt impossibly still. From the bedroom, he could see Ada moving again. Guilt crashed into him with enough force to make his stomach turn.
They lingered in the silence between you, impossible to take back, impossible to pretend you'd imagined them. His pulse pounded in his ears. He could still hear Ada breathing down the hall. Every steady inhale was another reminder that he'd crossed a line he'd promised himself he never would. She trusted him. She'd built a home with him, given him pieces of herself without asking for much in return. She had no idea that a single phone call had unraveled months of careful restraint.
Because that was the truth Leon had spent so long burying beneath missions, routine, and the comfort of something stable. He'd fallen in love with Ada. He cared about her. He wanted a future with her. But none of it had erased you. It had only taught him that a heart could carry more regret than he'd ever thought possible.
His eyes drifted shut. If he'd met Ada first... If Raccoon City had never happened... If he'd chosen you instead of another classified assignment. If he'd stayed. His life was littered with "ifs," and every single one of them somehow led back to you.
You realized your hand was shaking. Leon looked at his phone in disbelief, almost as if someone else had spoken through him.
"I'm sorry."
Across town, you couldn't breathe. Your chest tightened until it physically hurt.
For months you'd convinced yourself you were mourning a relationship. You weren't. You were mourning the version of Leon Kennedy that had only ever existed when the two of you were alone together.
The man who danced barefoot in your kitchen while pancakes burned on the stove. The one who absentmindedly reached for your hand whenever the two of you crossed a street. The one who smiled without realizing it because you were laughing at something stupid. That Leon had never completely disappeared. He'd simply learned to hide himself beneath duty, guilt, and impossible choices.
Now, hearing those words, you realized something that frightened you more than any breakup ever had. Your eyes filled with tears instantly. "Don't say sorry..."
"I shouldn't have..."
"Stop, Leon." Your voice trembled. "Don't apologize for telling me the truth."
"It's not fair to either of you." Leon sighed.
"It isn't." You agreed.
"I don't deserve even half of her. And I didn't deserve even half of you either."
Another silence settled over the call. You turned onto your side in bed. Leon slid down the wall and outstretched his legs. The guilt sat in his chest like wet concrete. You were the first to speak.
"...Does she make you happy?"
The question caught him off guard. It wasn't bitter. It wasn't meant to trap him. You genuinely wanted to know. He stared toward the bedroom door.
"I think..." He paused, choosing every word carefully. "I think she gives me the life I've always wanted."
You closed your eyes tight, seeing splotches of color against the back of your eyelids.
"A home?"
"Yes..."
"A chance to stop looking over your shoulder?"
He nodded before realizing you couldn't see him. "Something like that."
A small smile found your lips. It almost brought you comfort. "I'm glad, Lee."
"You don't sound glad."
"I'm really trying to be..."
Silence drifted between you again. You laughed quietly to yourself.
"Remember when you told me we'd end up eighty years old still arguing over whether pineapple belongs on pizza?"
Leon smiled despite himself. "I do."
"I guess you were wrong..." You trailed off.
You'd imagined it many times. Growing old with Leon. Finally making up for the lost time when he retired. Finding his first gray hair and getting wrinkles together. Seeing parts of the world that weren't burdened by the government's secret missions. Buying a house together... maybe raising some kids. Now it's the opposite.
"We don't know that, sweetheart," Leon said again, not realizing what kind of emotions that would put on you.
"You get this peaceful life with her... and I get to be alone." You bit your lip to stop another sob.
"You won't always be alone. You'll find someone," Leon said, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.
"I already found him. There's no getting over Leon Kennedy. It will always be you."
You let that sink in. You're not sure whether you're trying to convince him to change his mind or just to help you feel some closure. Maybe both?
"You deserve better than me," he said, shaking his head.
"I've never wanted better. I've only ever wanted you," you wiped at your eyes with the back of your free hand.
Leon covered his eyes. Every instinct screamed at him to tell you to come over tomorrow, to tell you he'd figure it out, to tell you this wasn't over. But he looked toward his bedroom. Ada trusted him enough to sleep soundly while he did whatever this was. She trusted him enough to live with him. She trusted him enough to build this life. He couldn't destroy that because he'd spent twenty minutes remembering the woman he'd never truly let go.
He swallowed hard. "I can't do this to her."
The words came out broken. He loved you. But he loved her too, and she was the easiest choice.
"You always knew what kind of man I wanted to be."
"And what kind is that?" you asked.
"The one who doesn't keep hurting people."
Your tears finally spilled over again. It's him saying goodbye, though his words make it seem doubtful. That maybe, just maybe, something could come of this in the future.
"That's funny... you're hurting me right now." You cry softly. "You should go back to bed, Leon."
He didn't move. He didn't even know what to say.
"I don't want to hang up, though. I missed hearing your voice."
"I know."
"I forgot..." He smiled sadly. "I forgot what it sounded like when you laughed."
You wiped your eyes. "I guess this is goodbye."
Leon leaned his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. "This has to be the last one."
You covered your mouth to stop the sob from ripping out of your lungs. Your phone lay on speakerphone now, his contact picture an old one of you both. It's like you're torturing yourself by staring at it. Neither of you believed him, though. That was the cruel part. Every breakup had been the last one. Every goodbye had been forever. Until they weren't anymore.
"I'm never going to stop loving you," you choked out. "I'll always be here."
"I know..."
No 'I love you, too.' No promise that you'll ever hear from him again. No impossible hope. Just the quiet acknowledgment of something that had existed for years and probably always would. Leon listened as you exhaled slowly.
"...Goodbye, Lee."
His eyes closed. He hadn't heard that nickname in over a year. You'd been the only person who called him that. And it was probably the last time he'd hear it from your mouth.
"Goodbye, honey."
The line went dead. Leon remained on the floor long after the call ended, staring at his reflection in the phone's black screen. Eventually, he turned it over, tucked it into his pocket, and walked back to the bedroom. When he got there, he plugged it in and crawled into bed.
Ada stirred the moment the mattress dipped beneath his weight. Still half asleep, she instinctively reached for him. Her fingers found his hand under the blankets. She smiled without opening her eyes.
"There you are."
Leon intertwined his fingers with hers and kissed the side of her head.
"Sleep tight, sweetheart."
He stared into the darkness. Your voice still echoed in the corners of his mind. He wondered if it always would.
Ada shifted closer in her sleep, her forehead brushing against his shoulder.
"Love you," she murmured, her voice barely more than a dream.
Leon's throat tightened. "...Love you too."
The words came automatically, and they should've felt comforting. Instead, all he could hear was another voice calling him Lee over a phone line.
Thanks for reading! <3 I hope you enjoyed.
Special thanks to @pixopix for the dividers. Direct link here!
leon was the same man you'd known for the past six years. hardened shell, gruff voice, a body worn and rough from years of training and fighting—of surviving, never knowing if he’d even see the next sunrise. the dark circles under his striking blue eyes, the gentle wrinkles that adorned his face, and small creases around his mouth and nose showing glimpse of the rare moments where life had given him something worth laughing for.
moments with you.
he never thought he'd experience a love like this, didn't think he was worthy of it—of a dynamic like yours. the kind you'd see in 90's movies where the main couple grows old together, learning every little detail about each other until decades pass and their presence becomes something as familiar as breathing. a love that stays through cold winters, warm and sticky summers, floral springs, and muddy autumns. love that didn't fade with time, but instead grew alongside it, blooming quietly with every passing season.
the kind that made him feel embarrassingly soft and had him getting all gooey inside, blush creeping up the back of his neck before slowly traveling to the apples of his cheeks, grinning so hard his lips would quiver.
when he finally proposed, the ring he slipped onto your finger wasn't extravagant. it didn't need to be. it was thoughtful, carefully chosen, and carried every unspoken promise he struggled to put into words. a promise of every quiet morning, every ordinary day, every tomorrow he was lucky enough to have.
the vows he shared with you would keep you up on random nights, heart still thumping at the thought.
“i spent a long time thinking i wouldn't get a future,” he'd whispered, his thumb brushing gently over your hand as he held back a grin. “but somehow, I found one with you.” his voice trembled slightly, nervous.
“i can't promise that life will always be easy. i can't promise i'll never worry, or that i won't come home exhausted and stubborn…” a small laugh escaped him.
“but i can promise i'll love you through all of it. i want to spend every tomorrow i can get with you.”
little drabble bc im feeling sad and nostalgic tonight so i thought writing would get some of that weight off my chest + im sappy for old man leon
in which leon kennedy tries his best to get out of paperwork
(re9!leon x f!reader)
cw: sfw, but very suggestive
“What’s goin’ on?”
He takes up your doorframe, one arm braced against it, leaning in with the ease of someone just passing through. His eyes find you, then Mike—the resident bane of the office—in front of you.
Too casual, too controlled.
Like he’d already decided how this ends before he hit the door.
Mike, clenching his jaw hard enough to crack teeth, must sense it, too, because when he looks back, he does a double take.
His gaze slips to you, jaw slackening, bravery fizzling under Leon’s presence at his six.
Figures.
You answer for him. A sharp bite.
“Nothing. He was just on his way out.”
He doesn’t argue.
Instead, he compresses himself through the doorway, Leon’s gaze boring into him as he pointedly stares anywhere else. His boot catches on something—Leon’s foot—and his breath hitches as he glances back before stumbling away, muttering.
Leon closes the door. Not enough to echo, but more forceful than necessary.
You stare at him, then busy yourself with your computer.
“You didn’t need to do that.” You slam the spacebar. “I can handle him.”
He huffs, sinking heavily into the chair in front of your desk, hands folding over his stomach as he reclines. “Didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“Then don’t come charging in here like that. People will talk.”
A quiet laugh leaves him as he swivels the chair back and forth. “And they don’t already?”
You tut, shaking your head.
“You're gorgeous when you’re angry, by the way.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, all warmth and fondness. “Can’t stop staring at ‘cha.”
Bastard.
You can’t help your smile, glancing at him sidelong and drumming your fingers along your keyboard.
“Don’t you have something to do?”
He rolls the chair forward, bringing an elbow to your desk to rest his chin atop a fist.
“Stopping by in the middle of you reaming into everyone's favorite was on my to-do list.”
You flick him on the nose.
He snatches your hand, trapping it against his cheek.
“Wanna make out?”
You snort and yank your hand back. “You’re three seconds from Mike part two if you don’t leave me alone.”
He throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Oh no, can't have that.”
He stands and meanders around the desk, slow, deliberate—giving you plenty of time to glare at him.
Never mind the twitch of your lips betraying you completely.
He drops to his knees in front of you, hands coming to your waist to stroke gingerly up and down.
Your brow hikes upward.
His grin widens.
“Leon,” you mutter, pushing loosely against his chest.
“Yes ma’am?”
“Stop. We’re at work.”
He hums. “I’m not doing anything.”
He edges a finger into your waistband and snaps it against your hip. You huff, planting your palms on his cheeks, smushing them once.
“Leon Scott.”
His brows lift at the middle name. You ignore them.
“I’m busy, you’re supposed to be busy…”
God, his stupid eyes.
You bite your lip at the softness in them, too close now to resist. He takes it as an invitation, closing the distance and capturing your mouth with his. His arms snake around your waist, scooting you forward so that he’s between your knees.
You sigh into the kiss. Involuntary.
He matches it, his tongue edging into your mouth.
“Okay.” You push a finger against his lips. “That's enough.”
He only stares, amused and slightly miffed.
You roll your eyes, shaking your head, and bring your forehead to his.
“We. Are. At. Work.” Each syllable accompanies a light bump of your head against his.
“I’m aware.” He kneads the curve of your ass, aiming for your lips again.
You smile and lean back despite his arms heeling you. Your fingers walk under his chin, edging the stubble there.
“Look. The sooner we finish here—“
“Yeah, I’d like to finish here,” he interrupts, deadpan.
You slap his shoulder. “Listen. I was going to say, the sooner we finish here, the sooner we can continue this,” you run your thumb along his lower lip, “at home.”
He groans, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.
You laugh, the sound light and genuine. “Oh god. Where’s my camera. The Leon Kennedy on his knees, begging? Nobody’ll believe me.”
He only plunks facedown into your lap, grumbling something that vibrates against your skin.
Your fingers comb through his hair, twisting the strands into small ringlets. “What? Sorry, didn’t catch that.”
He turns just enough to free his mouth from the fold of your thigh.
notes. just some headcanons about leon <3 not a lot but still wanted to jot them down 😝 i did add which version i wrote in mind with, but you could read it for whichever vers. you like the most 🫶 testing a new format out 🫡
[ re9 ] leon’s not really a tattoo man. his skin is free of ink. however, he decided to get one tattoo, and it’s dedicated to you.
he lets you choose which one you’d prefer him to get. do you want your eyes or your name? whatever you choose, he gets it on his forearm, where it’s visible for anyone to see whenever he rolls his sleeves up. it’s dangerous for him to wear his wedding during missions, but he needs something to show he’s a taken man.
leon does not play the work wife & work husband. he genuinely despises it. why does he need a wife at work? the only time he has one is when you are working with him, his wife.
when he was younger, he had trouble figuring out when a woman was interested in him. she used to have to come out straightforward for him to realize, “oh, she was flirting with me.”
if a female colleague of his ever gets too close, he’s doesn’t let it fold out. he puts an end to it at that very moment. on the off chance one of them “jokingly” calls herself his work wife, oh, he gets really pissed off.
all of a sudden, the organized leon kennedy needs an assistant to handle his files and help ease his workload for a bit. it just so happens that his temporary assistant (you) that starts the following week shares the same last name as him.
[ di ] leon prefers to have old technology. his little flip phone is cute, and it shows his age.
he has no hate towards modern technology. he knows how to use it, and has a work phone issued by the DSO. when it comes to his personal life, he wants to detach himself from all the screens and high tech. you understand his reasoning and can’t blame him, as much as you hate his terrible reception and having to wait to show him a picture of something interesting that happened earlier in the day.
all the photos he has on his phone are low quality pictures of you. he changed his wallpaper, and he flips open his phone dramatically to stare at the grainy image.
another thing he likes to do is bring digital cameras to trips and vacations. takes his time to get them printed out, carefully sets them in an album and labels it with the place you went to visit.
[ bonus ! ] the small box next to the one that contains your jewelry is his. inside are wallet sized pictures of you. he likes to switch out at the start of each week. though, it’s easy to tell which one is his most favorite, considering it’s rather worn out.
