with the way RE2MAKE ended, I wish there was more emphasis on the fact that Claire and Sherry were the little good parts of Leon's 1998.
with the immense hurt and depression he felt that night, it would be nice to balance it out with the reminder that he wasn't alone. I guess that's part of the reason why I loved that fence scene - it was a moment of respite. a moment where these two could lower down their guard slightly. romantic or platonic, you can't deny that Leon and Claire found some sort of solace in each other's presence. with Sherry, you have a little support family. it's wholesome.
Leon comes home drunk, and accidentally ends up messing with his favourite girl. Now it's up to him to fix it, mid hangover!
Content/warnings: Fem puppy hybrid! reader x Vendetta Leon, 1st person (you/yours), mentions/descriptions of alcohol use and rough handling, angst into fluff, Leon is called daddy, two lovesick idiots who don’t know how to communicate try to talk it out, ending is sweet!
Word count: 5.4K
A/N: This was a FAR too late commission I was supposed to have done for my lovely Sunshine anon <3!!!!! I’m so sorry for the long wait!!!
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10pm.
That was the latest time Leon had promised you when his gear was secured and his bag was packed for his next assignment. “I’ll be back before 10pm at the very latest.” Those were his words. Accompanied by a large hand stroking your ears and his lips meeting with your forehead to try and soften the blow.
You hated when he had to go away. No matter how many times he reassured you he’d be back before you knew it - which was met with a huff because, um, you knew he was gone so that was a lie - you never truly settled. Not until he got home.
So you were here. Sitting by the big bay window with a swishing tail and big wet eyes, just waiting for him. 10pm had passed, it was long gone by now, but you didn’t care. Your padding paws and nervous whimpering didn’t care.
You wanted your daddy. And you wanted him now. Like a sad, selfish, petulant child. If you had the energy you’d stomp your feet, chew up the pillows, scratch up the furniture. Anything if it meant he’d get back home faster.
It wasn’t your fault. Leon had been on a five day mission, off near the Mexican border clearing out a few infected. He’d gone through the crying and heaving, rubbing your back after he’d warned you ahead of time. It wasn’t anything new. He partially had himself to blame for it, in reality. He’d grown just as attached to you as you had to him, but he wouldn’t ever say it aloud. Well, to anyone other than you. It was normal for you to hiccup and sit at the door watching him go, to be off your food and away from the company that housesat. But this wasn’t normal. This was new.
Daddy didn’t go around making promises willy nilly, no that wasn’t something he did. Cross his heart and all that mushy junk that had both your hearts aflutter. Domesticity, house life. Having a bouncy ball of fluff to come home to after a long day. Leon didn’t believe in any of that pinky promise shit or wishing on stars until you came around. Stars were just balls of gas and promises were made to be broken, same as hearts. But now your fingers traced over his chest, all tired mumbles with a fluffed ear squished into his pec. ‘I can hear your heartbeat.’ You’d whisper. Which would in turn, of course, be met with a ‘gee I hope so, sweetheart. Wouldn’t be breathing otherwise.’ Then you’d huff, and he’d smile at the way your nose crinkles at his dad jokes.
Things are easy, they’re simple with you. Ear scratches and sunshine, rainbows and wagging tails. Throws the ball around and plays tug of war. You’re eager to please and easy to please.
So he had to come back. He had to. He always did, always does, but this time especially he had to. You were so set on the idea of getting Leon back that you hadn’t realized Chris was saying his goodbyes.
The Redfield siblings weren’t the best hybrid-sitters. Claire tried all she could to distract you, coaxing you away from the window with soft cooing sounds and sweet praises. Ear pets and stories. You liked Claire. She knew what brand of treats you liked by now, and always knew which spot to scratch so your foot thump thump thumped happily against the floor. Chris was a little less affectionate, but he tried. God, how he tried. This was his way of repaying a past favour, of giving back after all the shit he and Leon had put each other through. So he knew he couldn’t fuck it up, because if you reported that Mr. Redfield so much as made you frown he’d never hear the end of it from Leon.
How many scritches could you take before going back to pawing at the window, pacing in front of the door? How many dry bone shaped biscuits and empty words coated in a sugary-sweet croon? It was like being fed the world’s most misleading and delicious sausage only to realise there’s a pill in it. And the pill? Leon still wasn’t back. Which would kickstart the sobbing again. And again.
The Redfield siblings’ departure was accompanied by lots of ear scruffs and praise around two hours ago, and you’d watched with droopy, sorrowful eyes as each car pulled up and out of the driveway. Gravel crunching low enough to make your floppy ears twitch when the tires rolled over every rock. Torturous was the only way to describe what waiting felt like. Even the thought of secretly chewing on a shoe or two wasn’t enough to lift your spirits, because what was the fun in acting out if there was no one there to give you attention for it? You were just about ready to start howling out into the empty living room, head thrown back with the world’s longest, most mournful sound known to man and hybrid. To let it echo against each wall, hoping Leon just might hear it and come screeching around the corner on his motorbike.
But right when you were at the beginning of letting one loose, your head barely tilted and lips half parted, you heard it. The rumble of an engine pulling up to a stop, and the sight of a headlight coming into view through the curtains.
Leon was back.
And it’s clear his first stop wasn’t at home. He was swaying. Yes, swaying. Like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, he was feeling just about that old right now. Tick, tick. Step, step. Every pad of his foot against the front step was like the 12 o’clock chime banging through his head over and over. This was getting old. Tiring. Leon only had so much left in him after years on and off the bioweapon defense field. Bullets ricocheted off each wall of his skull in a tormenting, banging headache without actually hitting the damn target. Please, just hit the target.
If anyone asked, he’d swear up and down to never drink and drive. He had to come home in one piece, he had someone waiting for him after all, and ending up on the news in a gruelling fender bender just wasn’t his plan tonight. He had no intention of getting hurt, let alone dying, but this one was a shit storm on him mentally. You don’t come back from clearing out an old hospital full of infected without feeling like garbage afterwards. Now his looks just matched how he felt.
The jingle of keys haphazardly finding their way into the lock, the fumble of a familiar hand trying to push his way into his house.
And then there you were, in all your sunshiney glory. Almost blinding him, really, with how your eyes sparkled at the sight of him. It was enough to give a man an even more painful headache, but he shoved that thought down. Because it’s you. You’re soft and sweet and the light - the excruciatingly bright light - of his life. “Daddy! You’re back! I’ve been waiting for you all day!” Yap. Yip. Bark. Ruff. Tail whipping around so hard he’s surprised you haven’t taken off like a fluffy helicopter. But he just needs you to turn down the volume a tad or else tomorrow’s hangover is gonna be something fierce.
“Hey. Yeah, hey puppy.” It’s half-hearted. Pathetic, in all honesty. What kind of a greeting is that? Imagine walking into your home, a house once empty and hollow and unwelcoming to you when you got back from hours upon hours of bloodshed, and just saying ‘hey’ to the pet who helped you dig yourself out of the drunkest, most self-deprecating hole ever?
“I was good!” You try to reach out for him once more, like a weak paw batting at a loose hanging hand over the side of the couch. You’re searching under the dining table with a sniffling nose for scraps of love. For anything after days without him. “I behaved for Mr. Chris and Miss Claire. I ate all my food and drank lots of water. Does that make you feel better, daddy?”
Your sweet little yaps of adoration went in one clogged ear and out the other, pushing past the buzzing and lingering tinnitus from years of gunfire. He could hardly process what you were doing, let alone what you were saying. Now, in his sober mind he’d at least be able to do that. But while drunk all he could muster was an incoherent mumble, giving your hair what he thought was a loving scruff.
But it’s too hard. Too scratchy. His nails don’t rub right over the locks, pin pricks over your scalp that have you frowning and whimpering. Because yeah, ow, that hurt. You’re not a pin-cushion, no matter how soft and squishy you may appear. When was the last time he’d cut his nails? Always so dramatic about the length of yours, and yet here he was setting a bad example.
And those unkept nails were cracking open the sealed aluminium of cheap beer and another bad decision. Listening to unsatisfied carbonation snapping up from the liquid to slide down his throat. It was bad. It was warm, which made it worse. But it was better than nothing. Emergency grog being kept under the end table probably wasn’t a good sign, but it made things easier. Quicker.
Leon didn’t always get like this after a mission, only after a bad one. Something must’ve gone wrong, you thought as you sat at the threshold to the living room just watching. Observing the man you loved down to your marrow while he stared at the television. The television that was still turned off.
“Dadddddy?” A quiet whimper that you stretch out for his attention.
Maybe he was looking at his reflection, maybe he was somewhere else deep in the crevices and grey matter and pink flesh of his brain. You couldn’t tell. But at least he was home in one piece. Mostly.
If anything he was at home in his mind, his insecurities. Thinking. When did this become his life? When had he become the kind of man that ignores his sweet girl as she hesitantly sits in the hall with an anxiously swishing tail. He inherited his pa’s anger, but his mama’s heart, and it was a bitch of a combo to carry at times like this one. Bleeding sympathy and rage out of every orifice of his body.
“Daddy!”
“Fuck, just- give me a second here, okay?” He doesn’t mean to snap, he doesn’t see the way you jump a little at the tone in his voice. But he just needs you to shush.
And so you do, plopping down on your butt against the hardwood floors. Because of course you do. Deep down you want to hop up onto his lap and blab his ear off about your day, you want to cuddle in close and love up on him. But you know that if you tried that right now, you’d likely get shoo’d away.
“Good, stay. Just- give me some space here, girl. Christ.”
You’re too perfect, you listen to him too well. His sweet angel pup, surrounded by a hazy, almost glowing halo. A sight driven by the squealing hymn of angels ringing in the back of his head. Those ones sent by Jack - Krauser or otherwise - and whiskey, brandy. The drunken choir and dehydration made you look heavenly, this fuzzy outline highlighting your silhouette.
Even as his world tilted you were as perfect as ever.
No, literally. His world tilted. He’s tipping over sideways onto the couch before you can really process what’s happening, ear thudding against the comforter hard enough to crack through his skull. About as bad as a gunshot. And no, he is not being dramatic.
“Just, give me.. five minutes.”
Give. Give. Give. Leon’s asking you to give him so much yet so little.
His words are fading about as fast as his vision is, cheek pressed against the armrest.
Five minutes. He said five minutes.
So you waited five. And then ten. And then deja vu kicked in again.
Because you wanted your daddy, and you wanted him now. Only he wasn’t off on some mission now, in fact he was right in front of you.
It just wasn’t entirely him.
Scratchy. Itching, like low quality polyester. That was the first thing Leon could actually process when he first woke up. His cheek is squished against one of the shitty throw pillows he’d bought for 3 bucks each a while back, specifically the one you often trot around with. Lodged between your pearly white teeth as you prance through the living room like you own the place, usually carrying it off somewhere to nap.
Oh fuck. The living room. He’d fallen asleep on the couch. A discarded can had leaked a pool of sour beer out across the floor, and his hand was sticky with the same smell. Not only had he fallen asleep on the couch, he’d done it holding beer.
Oh even bigger fuck, you. He’d been the world’s biggest asshole to you. Drunk, upset and tired, he’d let himself treat you like nothing more than a pet. Not a companion, or a partner, but a common house dog. One you teach to sit and stay and toilet train. That’s not you. You’re so much more than that.
Worse than that, you’re so much more, but you’re nowhere to be found.
That was the first thing he’d noticed. You weren’t whining pitifully to rouse him, you weren’t even sitting freakishly close to his face, waiting for him to wake up on his own with your nose booping his own - most of the time when this happened he was woken by the distinctive feeling he was being watched. Which he was. But not this time.
Which meant something was wrong.
Usually when Leon passed out on the couch you were nudging yourself into his palm or tugging on his sleeve to coax him back to bed. All big puppy dog eyes and fuzzy ears nuzzling up close. Like you were reassuring him. Telling him it was alright to pick himself up, to be led to blankets and to clumsily dress himself in something close to pyjamas. The morning after he’d be met with a soft body flopped atop his own, and fluff pressed into his nose until he sneezed himself awake.
And what a sight to wake up to. Someone who welcomed him with nothing but love, loyalty and acceptance.
But you weren’t there. Which meant you were more than likely curled up on his bed. Alone. Burrowed under his blankets, hiding from his behaviour last night. And honestly he can’t blame you. He was a mess. He always has been, really, but it gets worse when he drinks. So with that realisation what exactly was there to do?
Stare. Eyes locked to the ceiling, then the black screen of the tv, then the floor. Like he might find the answer to his question of ‘what the fuck have you done?’ somewhere in his poorly decorated house. His ears pricked for the slightest sound that might indicate you were up and walking around. This was maybe the most aware of his breathing Leon had been in a long time, because usually you were there snoring happily to muffle any intrusive thoughts or worries.
He didn’t have to wait long, which was expected. Leon knew as much as you were a groggy little thing in the mornings, you couldn’t wait for breakfast. Usually also cuddles, but he wasn’t there to supply those because he was acting like the world’s suckiest daddy right now.
Pad, pad, pad went your feet upstairs against the plush runner in the hall, the sound accompanied by a droopy yawn that was likely accompanied by pointy canines. The same ones he made sure you brushed, no matter how much you grumbled about the taste of toothpaste. But what hurt the most was the way the top step creaked. Slowly. Like you were hesitating to come downstairs, to look at the state Leon was in. And he couldn’t blame you for that. What he’d done had not only hurt your hair thanks to his nails, but also your heart. After swearing he’d make an effort to get better, back he comes from work stumbling in and crashing on the couch. It must’ve been a sad sight from your perspective.
No, this wasn’t fair on you. He needed to take some initiative. He was your owner for Christ’s sake, and yet here he was moping on the sofa with a hangover. Feeling sorry for himself, which he doesn’t even deserve to feel. He’s been knocked around by enough monsters to know that lazing around didn’t do anyone any good in these cases. You needed comfort, you needed support, and most of all you needed breakfast.
Leon knew the kibble you’d had shovelled into your bowl was ‘good’, sure. But after a few days it would’ve become repetitive, boring. What you needed was some good protein, something to put the pep in that step. The same step he heard trotting down the stairs one by one, tail bouncing with every thud of your foot. Were you excited to see him now that he was awake? Of course. But that didn’t take away from the fact that he’d been inconsiderate and mean to you. That he’d lied about coming back in one piece. Because let’s face it, when he goes out to drink, Leon always leaves something behind. It sits with his first and last glass, it lingers on the lip of the bottle. Even now as he cracked an egg into the hot pan atop the stove, he couldn’t escape the evident, repetitive thumping in his head thanks to his hangover.
Another yawn. You were making your way into the living room now. Once again there was the delayed groan of a floorboard, and when Leon looked over his shoulder he could see you peeking around the couch cushions. As if you were checking to see if he was still drunkenly passed out across the sofa - which, he wasn’t. He was in fact standing upright (even that felt like a struggle), t-shirt on and sweatpants hung around his hips while he takes a slice of bacon out of the packaging.
“Morning, angel.”
You jump. You jolt like you’re surprised to see him functioning after last night. He knows he’s a fixer upper, but surely it doesn’t startle you that much to see him cooking while nursing the repercussions of drinking, right?
At first you don’t respond, be that from how tired you are or because of how he treated you. Just give a little wave and a half-hearted smile, your tail giving a weak wag. Despite it all, you’d missed him. Truly. Hesitant in your steps, you walked over to him with a perked up nose. Whatever he had cooking smelled a million times better than dry kibble and water.
“Go ahead, hop up at the table. Daddy’s getting some proper food ready for you.”
If only it were that simple. Even now that heavy, tense feeling hung between the two of you. The knowledge that something had happened, something neither of you really wanted to talk about, made you both feel awkward. Off. Suddenly bacon and eggs had your stomach churning. Your tail had a little less wag.
The clinking of a porcelain plate settling down in front of you knocked you from your thoughts, and you noticed how he couldn’t meet your eyes even as he served up breakfast. Why hadn’t he said anything? Why hadn’t he mentioned it?
Leon couldn’t speak. He wasn’t illiterate, he could speak well, he knew how to talk. For fucks sake you couldn’t shut him up after 3 drinks at the very mention of any city or he started ranting about how everyone and everything had fucked him over. At the DSO he was always the one they forced to run the mission briefings because of the way his voice resonated, reaching every corner of the room.
But he couldn’t speak, not like this. Not about himself or his feelings. Not sober, anyway.
It made him feel like an idiot half the time, the way he couldn’t force tongue over teeth to bring these kinds of things up.
Still, he had to try. Chin tilting in confusion at the way you barely pawed at your food. Almost a week of nothing but plain old kibble, and yet you weren’t eating the bacon and eggs he’d prepared for the two of you. Some red meat for the pup in you. Not all red thanks to the fact that he can’t cook very well, moreso brown. A little black and crunchy, but red meat either way. “You not hungry, baby?”
You were starved. Your very being was rumbling and aching in gurgled discomfort at the wall that had been built between the two of you. Yes, you were hungry. For the portions of love you’d gotten used to, the weighed and measured time set out to be spent together. Those parts of your routine that had apparently been cut out in this awkward new diet the two of you shared.
All because Leon couldn’t get himself to talk about it. To apologise.
But words failed you, so you simply shook your head. Ears flopping as you did.
“C’mon, gotta keep your strength up, pup. Just a forkful.”
“I don’t want a forkful..”
Christ, you sounded broken. Defeated. Like someone had stomped on your tail right as you were about to chase it for the third time in one day. It killed Leon to see you like this, especially because he knew he was the problem in this equation. He’s the tail stomper. Which he obviously isn’t, half the time when he accidentally trips on you he’s shushing you and petting your floppy ears in an instant. Please don’t cry, please don’t cry chanted in his head like a holy prayer that he hopes to all Gods will be answered (half the time he’s a fool and it isn’t answered, but that’s his fault. Clearly he’s not trying hard enough to be heard.)
“Not even a bite?”
And you shook your head again.
This wasn’t right. It was supposed to go differently. Reuniting with you, it’s always soft and sweet. When he imagined it, you threw yourself into his arms and squeaked out that bright laugh, letting him spin you and press kisses to your cheeks. Your tail wagging a mile a minute while he cooed your name. He’d ruined that.
Instead you were prodding at your breakfast with a sad paw, a barely there frown on your face. Still visible, though.
So Leon figured it was about time he tried to fix this. With the stove turned off and the pan set aside, his mission was clear. No matter how uncomfortable it made him, no matter how much his hand itched to rub the back of his neck out of nervous habit, he had to settle this. For both of yours’ sake.
“Hey. Talk to me.”
It’s not a demand, no, daddy rarely demands. Only when you’re really misbehaving. If anything it’s a persistent worry. It’s an olive branch, a hand outstretched. He genuinely wants to know what’s wrong.
But those droopy ears just keep on drooping.
“No..” Your voice is oh so broken, and so is Leon’s heart at the sound of it. At how deflated you are. It’s so unlike you, with your sunshiney attitude and playful personality. Which means he really has to fix this.
“Why not, honey?”
“Because you broke your promise. And you made me sad. And that’ll make you sad.”
All of your statements are true. He’d been a dick, he’d broken his promise to come back to you safely. To try and be better. And he had made you sad, which now made him sad. For such a naive little thing you really had your moments of clarity at the oddest of times. Not that he was any better, having an existential crisis in the middle of the hybrid park over how he treats you like a pet while you’re still technically part human. Usually right when you’re playing fetch, so you’re left with a broken daddy holding the ball you would very much like him to throw.
But now he has a broken puppy, and that’s on him. Two large hands - albeit a bit shaky - reach up to cup the warm span of your face. If you’d struggled or pulled away he’d respect that, but of course you don’t. Because you’re perfect, even when you’re tucking your tail and trying not to cry.
“You said you were getting better...”
A bullet to the heart probably would’ve hurt less than that. The waver in your voice while you hold back tears, how your whisper wobbles against your throat. It’s like you don’t want to blubber and sob, which if anything he would prefer you did. He’d take anything over this hollow version of you. So distant, so detached, so hurt by him.
Leon can’t help the way his words border on a plea. “And I am, puppy. I’ve been trying to, at least.”
He knows it's hard for you to understand. Hybrids don’t really get drunk, or intoxicated in any real way. Not in the same way humans do, at least. So when he gets home, and he’s giving you one word answers and falling asleep on the couch it’s no wonder you get so confused. So worried.
“I know you have, but.. It still hurts.”
Please just shoot him. It would be the most merciful thing to put him through right now.
How could he not see how this was affecting you? How could he let himself be tugged and dragged back by his own sorrows, his ankles dragging, as he pulled you along by your leash beside him? That wasn’t fair on you. Not at all.
“Sweetie, c’mere. C’mon.”
With a bit of shuffling and readjusting, four wooden legs scraping against a tile or two, Leon’s swapped places with you. Sitting in the dining chair, he’s got you perched lovingly in his lap. Safe where nothing can reach you. You always feel like that when he holds you, like his arms are a great big blanket to keep you protected. A shield from the outside world and the horrors of his work.
Right on schedule you burrow your face into his neck, your nose nuzzling in close. Breathing in the familiar smell of old leather and cologne, of cool mint and wood. Lingering gunpowder hangs off his top, and the leftover whiskey is a stinging whiff around the v-neck of that same shirt. A potent, messy mix. And it’s all yours.
“Daddy’s not gonna lie to you, alright? I’m gonna be truthful here, which I’m.. not great at. But this..” Leon feels like he’s playing that shitty plastic fishing game with his tongue right now - y’know, the one with the multicoloured cross-eyed cod - trying to snatch up the right way to say this. “There’s a chance it’ll happen again.”
There’s no perking up of your ears, your body doesn’t tense. If anything you seem to lean into him more. Like you understand already. “..I know.”
You know. He’s gotten so bad that you know he might slip up.
“More than once, hon.”
Hell, you might even expect it.
“..Yeah?” However the questioning in your tone gives him hope. Hope that you’ll get through this together, that he can win your enthusiasm and that bright smile back. Get that tail wagging again. He doesn’t know how people do this, how they just talk out their feelings all the time without stuffing it all down until it bursts.
But for you he’s willing to learn.
“Yeah, sunshine. And I’m sorry that this happened. There might be a day or two where I do get out of hand. Where I slip up. But I want you to tell me every time I do, especially if I do something that makes you upset. Daddy’s not gonna get better unless puppy helps train him. That make sense?” Leon doesn’t know where to put his hands as he speaks, so he settles on gently cupping the back of your waist. Just below the hip so you stay pulled in close.
“I guess it does.. Yeah.”
A moment of silence follows. Not tense, or hurt, more one of understanding. With the lingering smell of breakfast hanging around the kitchen and stale whiskey clinging to Leon’s neck. Just sitting together, reminding one another that you’re here. That the two of you are okay. All you focus on is Leon’s breath, the familiar rise and fall of his broad chest against you. Meanwhile he’s soaking up the feeling of you pressed close. The fluff of your ears tickling the stubble on his chin, warm and gentle. Fuzzy.
Even his heart feels fuzzy now.
You’re going to be okay.
“Your nails are long.” Your small voice chirps up. “Hurt.”
That he could remember. In the moment he hadn’t realised it, but it was on his mind as soon as he’d settled into that godawful couch. Seriously, that thing was on its last leg just from the feeling of the fabric alone. But he’d known when he went to crack another beer that he’d been too rough with you. Sure, tackling and play-fighting was fun with you, some days you needed a little wrestling and riling to get you to bed later that night, but that was different. He’d actually made you uncomfortable, something he never wanted to do.
“Oh, babygirl. M’ sorry. Are your ears okay?” A large palm rubs over the back of those fluffy, floppy ears, rubbing his thumb over the fur. So soft, so warm. His sunshine. “Got too rough on my puppy, that’s not okay. That ain’t right.” And yeah, he coos in that sweet crooning tone, sympathy dripping from his words. He wants you to remember that he’s safe, he’s funny - well, maybe not too funny, more like dad joke funny. Most of all, he wants you to remember he loves you.
“I’m gonna try my damn hardest for you, pumpkin, but you gotta give me a little grace here. Just a smidge. An inch.”
You could manage that, right? You were a smart puppy, knew all your commands. This was just another one to learn. Cut daddy just a bit of slack. But in that little puppy mind you weren’t entirely innocent. You’d been cold, you’d shunned him with an upturned nose earlier that morning. Given him the silent treatment, gotten petty instead of talking out your feelings. And although Leon hadn’t picked up on it too much - given how stuck he’d been in his own head - you were caught up on it. How rude you’d been to your best friend.
Just the thought of making Leon plead for your attention, for you to say something to him, had your eyes watering. You weren’t rude, you were a good girl. You were his good girl and you’d pushed away your food, as if you were some snooty pedigree who only ate the finest money could buy. What if you’d hurt his feelings? Sure, he’d done the same, but now he’d apologised. You hadn’t apologised.
So when Leon peeked down to see a teary sweetheart in his lap, snuffling sadly and tail tucking up again, his expression dropped to worry. He’d only looked away for a second and now your lip was wobbling.
“Hey, no tears, sunshine. Come on now.” You have his voice cracking, one big hand cupping your face. All furrowed brows, he’s worried you won’t forgive him for so easily overlooking your feelings. Which he really doesn’t deserve anyway. “No one’s in trouble. Do you wanna talk about anything else?”
Daddy or not, he’d been an asshole.
“..M’ sorry I gave you the- the silent treatment. I didn’t mean to be mean..” It’s the world’s saddest case of puppy dog eyes, round and wide but still droopy with lingering sleep. Oh so loving, and oh so sorry. Sorry for something you didn’t have to apologise for. Truly your heart was too big for your body sometimes. And it makes a chuckle shake Leon’s chest when he kisses the crown of your head.
“Oh, angel.”
Just what was he going to do with you?
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Some Pokemon Mystery Dungeon style portraits for the core trio of Tamagotchis— Mametchi, Kuchipatchi, and Memetchi!
I’ve always wanted to make PMD style sprites but I’m DEFINITELY not a pixel artist (it’s probably been like, a decade since I’ve even tried to make sprites). Thought I’d give it a try though and since I’ve been on a Tamagotchi kick for quite a while I made these! I can’t be the only person who’d play a Tamagotchi RPG or a PMD-like game, right? (and before anyone mentions that one on DS, yeah I know that’s a thing but good luck finding like any info at all on it lmao)
Eventually I’ll probably do these for the P1/P2 adults and maybe some other recurring modern adults. For now though, I’m pretty happy with how these three turned out.
Could I request Claire showing off her bike at the end of re2 and Leon didn't know she was a biker so he's just standing there in dumb lobing shock while Sherry is like "wow so cool!!" I understand if you can't/won't tho.
Just a thought 🩷
I changed it a little, I wanted to show Sherry’s pov (she sees Claire as a superwoman-princess-warrior)😄🩷
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