pairing: leon kennedy x reader [no y/n used]
warnings: none
tags: gender neutral reader, straight up just cuddling, self-indulgent domestic comfort, holding leon, drabble, written on my phone in lowercase sorry
wc: 774
you have what feels like thirty pounds of weight on top of you. curled into yourself, face pressed into soft fabric. only half-conscious, in an exhausted daze for what's probably been an hour and a half.
you're exactly where you want to be.
the weighted blanket was a purchase well worth it, especially when your favorite weight on top of you gets pulled miles away every few weeks. so this is a middleground destressor. something about being around people for eight hours a day, five days a week, grips your heart and fills your body with compressed air like a sad dollar store balloon. it's not until you've had it physically pressed out of you that you can feel truly relaxed after a workday.
the front door clicks open after a while, heavy boots and a deep sigh like clockwork notifying you that your boyfriend had finally been freed from his own job. you can't bring yourself to move, too comfortable and too wound tight with stress to be the first to reach for him. after some shuffling around, keys on the counter, jacket on the hook next to the door, you feel his presence behind you. another sigh and the rustle against the couch cushions as he kneels in front of the couch. a hand comes to rest on your head, stroking over your hair. you let out a small grunt to let him know you're not asleep, and his palm slides down to rest on your covered shoulder.
"stressful day?"
"yeah. i'm exhausted." you mumble. after a moment you manage to gain the motivation to roll over and look at leon. he's got his chin rested on the edge of the cushion as he studies you. eyes all soft like you're the first comfort he's seen all day. which is true, to him.
"i hope the blanket is doing its job?" he hums and tucks it underneath your chin. you're effectively burrito-ed in warmth and weight that has your eyes heavy, but torturously, not relaxed enough for sleep. "y'know, since it took mine."
"my bitter man," you give him your first real smile of the day. not a forced mask to make people feel better. not politeness. genuine amusement and affection for your favorite blonde-headed nuisance. "you still have that job. this is just the temp when you're out of the office."
"it better be," he hums, reaching up to brush a thumb over your cheek. "i don't wanna file for unemployment. not sure i'm built for holding anyone but you."
corny.
"i sure hope so. i was never good at sharing."
"oh, i'm aware. you almost bit my head off when i had one of your fries last night."
"and i'd do it again."
"i know," he chuckles. "now get this fraud out of the way. i'm clocking in." he tugs the blanket off you with a grunt, and you whine a little at the cold air creeping across your bare legs. leon's hand soothes it, humming as he crawls onto you with gentle touches. now on your back, your chest is the perfect pillow for him to nestle into. his hips rest in the space just below where your legs part to make way for your new blanket, complete with body warmth and a heart thrumming just for you.
"this is my therapy, too, y'know," he practically moans into the softness of your chest, placing a kiss just over your heart. "missed you today." he saw you this morning. kissed you goodbye on his way out the door, at the crack of dawn to get his workout in at the gym beforehand. but it's still true.
"i missed you, too, sweetheart," you sigh and squeeze his shoulders, before trailing your nails down the length of his spine. a deep groan rumbles from him that shakes you to your core in a way you never get tired of. a mass of muscle practically whining and unfolding for you. "how was work?" leon lets out a grunt. his way of saying nothing to report, don't wanna talk about it.
after a moment, he begins his own assault of his love language. checking on you.
"you eat yet, baby?" you mumble a no and he lifts his head to look at you. "i'll make you something, hm? think about what you want," he presses himself up enough to bring his face to yours. his forehead kisses your own before he lets his lips do the same. it's a lingering, chaste affection, followed by an additional peck before he settles back down in your arms. "in a while, though. my session's not up yet."
"Relax sweetheart, I promise I won't drop you. But only if you promise not to step on my toes every two seconds"
RE4!Leon x gf!Reader
summary: it's a cozy Saturday night and you're about to slow-dance to jazz with your boyfriend, Leon. the catch? he doesn't know how to dance. but he's still got plenty of tricks and... touches up his sleeve that'll sweep you off your feet.
tags: indulgent domestic fluff, comfort, playful banter, Leon being a gentleman and a tease, pet names, mini flashback
w/c: 3k
a/n: as the title suggests, i was heavily inspired by the song "All I Need to Hear" by the 1975 while writing this lol. enjoy down bad Leon braving dancing for you, and ofc, he will not be beating the yearning final boss allegations here.
all i need to hear duology: part 1 of 2
November 2005
Saturday nights were a much awaited respite, a private cocoon untethered from the disorderly chaos of the week. Every moment in it stretches out with a slow-moving comfort, and the afterglow of the memories created in that space lingers on for a lifetime. Thus, tucked in the domestic quiet of such nights, are promises of forever.
Tonight was one of those nights.
Eating mismatched leftovers out of the fridge at 11pm like a dumpster racoon was not on your date night itinerary. However, you should have foreseen that possibility when you agreed to the insistent appeals of a man who practically lived off of beef jerky and frozen pizza to cook a fine-dining meal for you both. All that was left was a burnt fillet of salmon, a ringing smoke alarm, and Leon's lousy attempts to cover up his inexperience around a kitchen. Starting by blaming the pan for its "uneven heat distribution" and ending by arguing that he wasn't used to having such distracting company, adding a flirtatious wink for emphasis
The gurgle of the kitchen sink ceased in the distance, followed by the damp thud of a dishcloth being hurled aside. Laughter echoed in the wake of your combined footsteps, as you both left the freshly cleaned crime scene behind. With Leon's arm slung leisurely around your waist and his insatiable lips nibbling your ear lobe, the both of you eventually made your way back to the living room.
The citrine glow of the floor lamp cast the living room in shades of amber, glossing the mahogany floorboards with a saturated sheen. You slithered out of Leon's unyielding grip, rolling your eyes at his rough whine that followed you. Padding over to the backpack that you had thoughtlessly dumped by Leon's dying houseplant, you hoisted it up against a knee. You rummaged through it for a moment, and a soft "aha" slipped through your lips as you fished out your iPod Touch.
Flopping longitudinally onto the leather couch with a whooshing thump, your thumb hovered to unlock the device, when you caught traces of a warm scent. Musk and amber. With a deep inhale, you tipped your head across the armrest, studying Leon as he set down the scented candle you bought him a few months ago.
The steady flame carved out the regal arch of his cheekbones, tracing the bags beneath the deep set of his oceanic eyes. Leon felt his chest loosen as the wooden undertones rinsed through his lungs, calming his habitually vigilant nerve-endings. He never thought he would be a scented candle type of guy. But you sensed it, and you were right.
It had been half a year since you and Leon started seeing each other .
Leon had always possessed a tactical skepticism when it came to relationships. In his line of work, meaningful human connection is an abstract concept. Between the bullets and bloodstreams, there was little space left for quiet intimacy. So Leon had accepted his reality with a numb indifference, never daring to look twice through the looking glass of what-could-have-been.
But on a dreary February morning, he caught a glimpse of you at the edge of his periphery. And something about the light you glimmered, secure and hopeful, through his lonely skies made Leon want to never stop looking. Slowly but surely, you thawed that very region of his sentience that he had kept on total lockdown for years, since Raccoon City - his heart.
And that heart has been in a state of freefall since.
Lifting his gaze off the glowing wick, Leon’s electric blue eyes captured yours from across the room, and you felt a jolt of lightning ripple down your spine. His gaze drifted lazily over your lounging figure, marking your body with phantom kisses as he stalked towards you.
Your brain short-circuited in real time as your glazed eyes transfixed on your boyfriend. The fabric of the charcoal-grey henley clung like second skin to his chiseled torso, accentuating the broadness of his frame. A knowing smirk pulled at Leon's lips as your line of sight absent-mindedly travelled down to where his black sweatpants hung loosely below the V-line of his hips.
"Enjoying the view from down there?" Leon’s gravel-edged voice teased from above you, cutting through your trance. You blinked at his towering frame before a flustered scoff left your lips at the double entendre.
Ripping your eyes off the amused arch of his brow, you busied yourself browsing through the jazz playlist you had opened. A suppressed smile peeked through your lips while your eyeballs flitted across the screen, scanning the songs you had saved in it.
Slow-dancing was the most sincere act of intimacy to you, one you had dreamt of since you were a kid. The synchronicity of two souls intertwined by ribbons of melody, the sacred space where their breaths braided into each other. The complete sense of surrender and trust. You had meticulously curated this playlist over years, waiting to share it with the right partner.
So, a few weeks ago, when you had told Leon you wanted to try with him, he immediately understood the gravity of what it meant to you. Or more of what he meant to you.
He didn't hesitate to agree.
Even though he didn't have the first clue about slow dancing.
Out of the corner of your eye, you tracked Leon playfully stretching his brawny arms and rotating his neck in what you assumed was a warm-up. "Reckon I wear some of your body armor in case you plan on dropping me during the dip?" you taunted lightly, shifting your weight onto your elbow as you sat up on the couch. A dry chuckle tumbled from his lips as he cocked his head at you, sending his ash blonde locks cascading like dominoes.
"Relax sweetheart, I promise I won’t drop you. But only if you promise not to step on my toes every two seconds," he traded sarcastically, a roguish glint in his eyes. A frown painted across your face as you let out a huff of denial.
"It was one time, and it was an accident," you negotiated as Leon hovered between your parted legs, peering down at your pouting expression fondly. He raised a dubious eyebrow at your argument. "It was twice, if you count the time you intentionally stomped on my feet," he corrected you, thoroughly satisfied as you groaned at him.
You tilted your head back, meeting his crooked grin with narrowing eyes. "That was payback for nearly twisting my arm off during the twirl," you shot back, alluding to last week's eventful session. You thrust an accusatory finger at his abs, swallowing a wince as the cushion of your finger slammed into the rock-hard wall.
Leon shrugged and swiftly caught your retreating wrist, giving it a playful squeeze as he countered, "I was just testing my grip strength". Dragging his hand over yours, he hooked his fingers beneath your outstretched palm with the chivalry of a gentleman. His thumb brushed over your knuckles languidly, sparks igniting at the points of contact.
"Leon," you retorted lightly, your challenging tone now faltering in conviction, "I could have lost my right hand, which happens to be my favorite limb."
With a beckoning tug, Leon guided you off the sofa. His other hand fell to the small of your back, steadying you as you stood up. You hadn't realized that you were holding your breathe until you felt the cool metal of your iPod leave your grasp. Cradling the device in his free hand, Leon clicked play on the open playlist before casting it onto the sofa with a subtle flick of his wrist.
The spirited timbre of a saxophone rolled sensually through the room, glazing over you like a burgundy wine. In succession came the riffs of piano as they fluttered nimbly in the air, the staccato notes bursting enthusiastically. Leon's gaze dropped to your intertwined fingers. Slowly, he lifted your joint hands to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss onto the back of your hand.
With a cheeky wink, Leon moved to graze his teeth over the goosebumps that had exploded over your skin. He finally responded to your amputation allegations, murmuring “, Yet your hands are still in mine right now, aren't they?"
A breathy laugh slipped from your chest, an octave higher than usual. "Good save, prince charming," you remarked, head shaking in disbelief at this man's ability to sweep you off your feet with appallingly clichéd one-liners. Offering him an endearing smile, you pointedly nodded at his toes with a sarcastic quip, "Let's see if you are as skilled on the dance floor as you are in enchanting the ladies."
Leon narrowed his eyes at you, raising a corrective finger. "First of all, it's 'lady.' Singular." A competitive glint flashed in the curve of his lips as he drawled, "And secondly, I have a medal of honor from the president, sweetheart. Adapting to seemingly impossible situations is practically my M.O."
As if to emphasize his proclamation, Leon promptly hooked his other arm around your waist, the pad of his thumb pinning the sensitive ridge of your hipbone. You gasped lightly at the sudden contact as he pulled you close, leaving just enough room so as to not restrict your mobility.
"Actions, Kennedy, speak louder than words, " you crooned, as you lifted your entwined hands upwards and in position. Your free arm moved to snake loosely over his shoulder, fingers resting over his nape. Thoughtfully scratching his silky blonde mane, you added, "But I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt."
The determined grunt Leon responded with was cut by the rich soprano of Ella Fitzgerald's voice echoing from your iPod. Your hips began to sway loosely as the familiar rhythm registered itself, a warm comfort settling over you like a childhood blanket. A nostalgic smile lit your face as your feet began to move in tempo, and you reminisced about the countless nights spent dancing alone in your bedroom, sixteen and starry-eyed. Except maybe, you wouldn't have to do it alone anymore.
Leon instinctively went still for a millisecond, quietly observing the lithe tilt of your spine as you shifted your weight into his hand trustingly. Despite this being your second go at dancing, Leon still had no clue what to do with his limbs. With an imperceptible shake of his head, he dismissed the urge to press himself flush against you and just freeze. All that slipped through his demeanor was a reflexive twitch of his hand against your hips, before his focus recentered. Studying the peaceful flutter of your eyelids, Leon took a steadying breath.
He would try his level best to do this slow dance right. For you. Always for you.
As the crisp jazz notes popped around the room, you peered at your partner with an amused curiosity. Leon's gaze was trained on the shared space of your feet, his dark brows furrowed with a single-minded concentration. His eyes darted as they traced the path of your moving feet, and you realized with wide eyes that he was trying to predict the trajectory of your steps to guide his own.
You giggled internally at the irony. Of course the Leon Kennedy would apply mission strategy 101 to, what should be, a relaxing slow dance. Oblivious to the incredulous laugh you fought to suppress, Leon continued to move with a rigid wariness that one would perhaps use when navigating an active minefield. At every beat that the melody would shift, he would mirror your fluid steps with a stiff one of his own, worried that he might trip you or get in your way. It was as if every muscle in his body had locked up, and he had resorted to moving himself like he were one solid chess piece.
Smiling, you ducked your head to intercept his line of sight at your feet. "Leon. Babe, look at me. You are overthinking this,” you chuckled warmly, your crisp voice slicing through his focus. Your thumb moved to ease the taut muscle of his brow, and Leon let a slow sigh through his nose like he had been holding his breath. With a reassuring smile, you murmured, “It doesn't need to be perfect. It just has to be… us." Something unreadable flickered across Leon's face at your words as he listened intently. "Just try to relax and feel the music. Feel my body. The rest will follow.”
Once the simple truth of what you said settled over Leon's conscience, his disposition eased into one of open vulnerability and complete trust. From then on, with every passing second, the stiffness in his limbs melted away and the knots of uncertainty in his chest dissolved. A vivacious laugh would spill out of you when Leon teasingly poked your side during a twist. He learnt to adjust his grip by a fraction right before a turn, loosening his steadying support on your waist to let you pivot. Sometimes you'd veer off balance during a spin, and Leon would swiftly catch you before you kissed the floor, an amused grin on his lips. You savored the feeling of your exploring fingers flexing against each other, and he worshipped the delicate hitch in your breath when his callouses brushed the low of your back.
So sure, maybe you both lacked the refined finesse and synchronicity that’s seen in movies. But it didn't matter one bit.
The notorious dip came at the climax of the night, the anticipation building in slow waves since Leon's promise from earlier. A crescendo of brass and ivory notes flooded the room, building to the precipice of the song. Bracing one arm over his shoulder, you shifted your body weight entirely onto the forearm Leon had wrapped behind your torso. "Moment of truth," you muttered, arching a wary brow at the mischievous glint in his eyes. Feeling your center of gravity tilt as Leon angled you lower, you arched into his chest as he dipped you gracefully. You perked your eyes at him in faint surprise. He actually managed to not drop you this time. Suspicious.
Just when you were about to kick your toes up in the air, you felt Leon's grip on you playfully loosen without warning. An alarmed squeal lurched through your throat, and before you could move to clutch his shirt to arrest your fall, Leon had already tightened his grip again. Reeling, you gasped for air as you held onto his bulging biceps for dear life.
A wide grin broke over his face at the sight of your flustered glare. "Gotch'a there, didn't I?" he chuckled with a wink, squeezing your hip gently. He leaned in to brush the tip of his nose against yours, and you fought to keep the growing smile off your face. "Leon Scott Kennedy, that was not funny," you sighed, "And you promised not to drop me-"
You went quiet as he angled his lips at the base of your jugular, whispering, "If I do recall correctly, the terms of our agreement stated that I don't drop you if you don't step on my feet." His hot breath tickled your collarbone as he provided you the statistics, "Yet you stepped on my feet thrice in the last half hour."
Savoring the taste of your skin as he peppered kisses up the column of your neck, Leon murmured ", And technically, I didn't actually drop you, did I?" A moan floated through your parted lips, which he captured greedily with his own as he kissed you drunk.
“Thank you for the reduced penalty, officer," you laughed breathily once you two broke for air. Leon smirked boyishly at your flushed face before he pulled your body upright from the dip. "Well, ma’am, you’re lucky you're cute, " he quipped as he nodded the invisible police cap on his head.
You kept dancing into the night. The candle had snuffed out halfway through. One song bled into another. Melodies evolved like the seasons, voices kept rotating between deep baritones and airy sopranos. But all these nuances were a blur to you. The world had reduced to a sequence of slow-moving canvases, each painted in the very shades of blue and gold that sparkled in Leon's eyes. Eyes that you could spend a lifetime falling into.
It was past 1am when you felt the exhaustion of the day catch up with you. Whining silently in protest at your drooping eyes, you blinked rapidly as your vision blurred and refocused. Much to your dismay, your efforts did little to slow down the sleepy veil that settled over your bones. Shaking your head with excessive force, you sighed as you met Leon's concerned stare. You didn't want this night to end. Even though deep in your heart, you knew this would be one of many to come.
"Alright sleepyhead, maybe it's time to wrap up tonight's session on the dance floor," Leon offered consolingly, fingers tucking a stray lock behind your ear. Though he made no move to let go, you defiantly tightened your arms around him like a clingy koala, confessing, "No, Leon, please. I- I don't want this to end." Pressing your face into his chest as you stifled a yawn, you prayed he wouldn’t step away and drag you to bed.
A beat passed in silence.
"Stand on my feet."
You stilled at Leon's suggestion, peering up at his face to confirm you weren't hearing things. He met your gaze with an assuring tilt of his lips, his glacial orbs glowing in the dark. You looked back down at your feet.
"You aren't keeping score right now, are you?" you mumbled, referring to his tally of the number of times you've stepped on his toes, which probably stood at a solid nine as of tonight. Leon let out a dry chuckle, his hands bracketing your hips to steady you as you slowly balanced your small feet on top of his wide ones. You hummed pleasantly as he wrapped his strong arms around your back, adhering you to his body as he carried your weight effortlessly.
"I think I'll let this one slide," he laughed quietly into your hair. Leon resumed moving slowly to the soft jazz. You barely felt the rise and fall of Leon's gentle steps, and the steady pace of his movements rocked you like a lullaby. "Sleep, Y/N. I've got you," he murmured, delicately cradling your head that rested on his shoulder. The warmth of his body cocooned you like a weighted blanket, and you fell deeper into his embrace.
And just as Leon felt your breathing even into a peaceful slumber, he caught a faint mumble that slipped through your parted lips. Three words, and Leon heard them as clear as daylight. Closing his eyes, he quietly etched those words in cursive along his ribcage.
So Leon kept swaying in the quiet of the night, keeping his word as he continued slow-dancing with you while you slept soundly in his arms. Even if you never said those words to him again, tonight was enough.
For the rest of his life, however long that may be.
That was all that he needed to hear.
eek i hope you guys enjoyed!! i giggled and blushed so many times while writing this one. coming up w the ending did choke me up tho ngl (hope you got the reference to the title there). writing re4 leon was so much fun, and i totally believe he would strike a perfect balance between being a playful tease and a deeply aware partner who would do anything for you.
as always, i would love to hear what y'all think!! my asks are open too <3 feel free to drop by and say hi!
and stay tuned for part 2 of the duology, set two decades later with RE9 leon ;) that's all i can say for now ^giggles before mysteriously disappearing into the fog^
MEMO ── LEON / IF I WERE A ZOMBIE, I'D NEVER EAT YOUR BRAIN .
NOTES : you found him half-feral in a dead police station and chose to keep him instead of putting him down. weeks of blood, bandages, and something unnamed growing between you, until fear of what he could become sent you running before you ever gave him your name. years later, they call you back for his last mission, still infected, still muzzled, still theirs to send into the dark, and raccoon city isn't finished with either of you yet.
WARNINGS : female reader-insert (no y/n), infected au, zombie leon au, gore, violence, blood, cannibalism, guns and knives, zombification, inspired by the zombie song, unethical relationships and monsterfucking dynamics, science experiment leon, labs, testing, cures, body horror, canon-typical violence, dubious consent undertones (captivity dynamic), medical/institutional restraint themes, complicated/unequal power dynamic, hurt/comfort, protective instincts, 30 year slow burn, found among the infected, 'humanising the monster,' forced proximity, captivity/observation setting, unresolved tension, reader flees emotional intimacy, sherry as an adoptive daughter, reader and leon are close in age, re2 and re9, mutual pining (kind of), touch-starved leon kennedy, muzzles, not fully cured / partial cure, public controversy over infected leon, caretaking as intimacy, reader and leon as faux parents, first love dynamics, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, blow jobs, sixty-nine position, manhandling, labratory sex, praise, degradging, breeding, fear as a turn on, using sex to make up for lost time, found family.
CONFIDENTIAL MATERIAL ── 18+ ONLY.
a week had passed since raccoon city went dark, since the first reports came in about a virus nobody could name turning the whole place unlivable in a matter of days. being one of the government's best agents, you were the one sent in to find out what it actually was, and you'd taken the job without much hesitation, figuring you had nothing waiting for you back home that a little risk could ruin.
the city didn't so much welcome you as it did throw itself at you, a whole crowd of things you couldn't bring yourself to call human anymore, even wearing the faces of people who probably used to be. you'd managed to get clear of them, barely, ammo dwindling fast in a way you hadn't planned for. you hadn't prepared for any of this, not really, not for a city eating itself alive, and now you were down to two options: turn back and abandon the mission, or push further in and hope you found more bullets along the way.
somehow, the second option was the one that pulled at you harder.
you found a police department not long after, the kind of building that made your stomach turn just looking at the front doors, but you went in anyway, hoping there'd be ammo inside, even a little, enough to buy you some breathing room.
while you were searching, picking through drawers and shelves for anything useful, another group of the infected shuffled into view. but this time, tangled among them, there was a boy in a police uniform, standing frozen, staring at you like he couldn't decide whether to attack or just keep watching. he looked young, but maybe around your age. less disfigured than the rest, his veins black and his skin grey and dull, lifeless.
you kept digging through papers, hunting for anything that might explain what had actually happened here, all the while feeling eyes on you, tracking your every move. soft, slow footsteps followed at a distance, close enough to prickle the hair on your neck, but every time you turned around, there was nothing there, just an empty hallway and your own nerves playing tricks on you. still, the feeling wouldn't leave, that low, crawling sense of being watched by something that hadn't decided yet what it wanted from you.
"...h- hey..."
the word came slow, dragged out, and it spun you around on instinct, gun raised, flashlight cutting straight into the eyes of the same boy you'd seen earlier. he flinched hard against the light, throwing an arm up to shield his face, a rough sound catching in his throat before he looked back at you again. his eyes seemed to plead, like the light itself was causing him pain, but he didn't come at you the way the others had. he just stayed where he was, trying to shrink away from the glare, waiting.
you don't lower the gun right away, some old training keeping your arm steady even as everything in you wants to soften at the sight of him. "easy," you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be. "i'm not gonna hurt you."
it's not entirely true and you both seem to sense it, but he doesn't lunge, doesn't snarl the way the others had. he just stands there, breathing too fast, shoulders curled inward like he's trying to make himself smaller under the light. you let the beam drop an inch, no longer square in his eyes, and watch something in him loosen at the small mercy of it.
up close now you can see him properly; veins climb dark up the side of his throat and jaw, thin rivers pushing under skin gone pale and damp, pulsing slow like whatever's left of him is still fighting to survive despite everything working against it. blood had dried at the corner of his mouth, down his collar, turning the blue of his uniform nearly black in patches. it puts a strange ache low in your chest that you don't have room to sit with right now.
his throat works before he manages to speak again, voice rough like it hasn't been used in days.
"...please... d- don't..."
you don't know what he's asking you not to do. don't shoot, don't run, don't look at him like he's already gone behind the eyes? you lower the flashlight further, just enough, and his whole body sags with something like relief.
"what's your name?" you ask, testing the air between you.
he blinks slowly, confusion flickering across what's left of his face as the question reaches him from somewhere far away.
"...leon," he finally manages. "leon kennedy..."
rookie, you'd guess, judging by how crisp the uniform still looks beneath the blood and grime, like he hadn't even made it through his first week before the whole city came apart. you keep the gun raised, but you don't fire, some instinct telling you this isn't the same as the others, that whatever's happening to him hasn't finished taking the person underneath.
a low groan rolls out from somewhere down the hall, wet and dragging, followed by the scrape of shuffling feet. leon's head snaps toward the sound immediately, something shifting hard in his posture, a stillness dropping over him that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with hunger. his nostrils flare, pupils blown wide and black, and before you can process it, he's moving past you, faster than anything in his state should be able to.
you spin in time to see him slam into the zombie stumbling out from the records room, tackling it flat to the floor with a growl that doesn't sound like him anymore. you should be terrified; you are. you keep your gun raised on pure reflex, but something roots you in place instead, some morbid pull keeping your finger off the trigger as you watch.
leon doesn't hesitate as he tears into the thing's shoulder, teeth ripping through dead, tender muscle easily, a low sound working in his throat while the zombie claws uselessly beneath him. it's brutal, fast, over in under a minute, the body falling still under him while he pulls back with blood smeared dark across his mouth and chin, chest heaving.
then he looks up at you. and for a second, something almost sheepish crosses what's left of his face, like he's embarrassed you saw that.
"...sorry," he rasps, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, only smearing the blood worse. "they don't taste like you..."
you lower the gun slowly, watching him climb to his feet, swaying before he catches himself against the wall.
"you don't want to eat me?" you say, half question, half disbelief.
leon shakes his head, a rough sound escaping him that's almost a laugh. "...no," he says, and his eyes, when they find yours, are clearer than they've been this whole time, something painfully human still swimming underneath the sickness. "...i don't know why. i just can't. i won't."
silence stretches between you, broken only by the distant moan of something else moving through the building. you should keep going, should find those bullets and get out before more of them show up, before his control slips or something worse finds you first. but you find yourself stepping closer instead, close enough to see his breath catch at the distance closing, close enough to see him fight something clawing under his skin and win.
"stay with me," you say, your eyes scanning him up and down, ignoring the blood and zombie guts that follow the shape of his shoulders, rotting organs with a faint pulse smeared along his wrist from where he’s cleaned his mouth. nothing dead on him is from a human. "help me get through this place. i'll help you figure out whatever– whatever this is that's happening to you."
leon stares at you a long moment, blood still drying on his mouth, veins still crawling dark beneath his skin, and something in his expression breaks open soft and grateful, like he can't quite believe you're still standing this close to him.
"yeah," he breathes eventually. "...yeah, okay."
when he falls into step beside you toward the stairwell, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours in the dark, you don't pull away, and neither does he.
further into the station, past the shattered glass doors and the overturned chairs, a corkboard hangs crooked on the wall near the front desk. someone had pinned a hand-painted sign there once, cheerful lettering gone dull under a layer of dust and old blood spatter.
‘WELCOME LEON.’ it reads in big, joyous yellow lettering against blue circles that used to go from one side of the room, to the other; it was crooked now, a large space between the ‘l’ and the ‘c’, clearly not spaced properly
leon stops walking and you notice a second later, gun still raised, still half-turned toward the hallway behind you in case something followed. when you glance back, he's standing frozen in front of the board, staring up at it, and something in his stance has changed. the readiness has drained out of him, that predatory stillness from earlier replaced by something slower, heavier, human.
you keep your distance. he's still a stranger wearing a uniform and a dead man's name, still something that tore into a zombie's throat not twenty minutes ago with his bare teeth. you're not about to forget that just because he looks sad about a piece of paper.
but you look at the sign again, then at him, and you start putting it together anyway, because your mind doesn't know how to stop working even when it probably should. new officer, first day, judging by how clean the uniform still looks underneath the blood, the sign, the handwriting, someone excited to have him on the team. and now this, whatever this is, a rookie who never even got the chance to sit at a desk before the whole city turned into something out of a nightmare.
his hands have curled into fists at his sides, knuckles pale and blue under the grime. he doesn't say anything, doesn't explain, doesn't fill in the blanks for you. just stands there staring at his own name on the wall like it belongs to somebody else now.
you don't reach for him, you don't tell him it's okay, because you don't know that it is, and you don't know him well enough to make promises like that. instead, you just watch, keeping the gun low but not lowered, some careful distance still sitting between you that you're not quite ready to close.
"that yours?" you ask eventually, nodding toward the sign with the gun, voice even.
leon's eyes flick to you, then back to the board. he doesn't answer. his jaw works like he might, throat bobbing, but nothing comes out, just a rough breath dragged in through his nose, shoulders sinking another inch.
you let the silence sit there instead of pushing. it's not your job to fix whatever's happening behind his eyes, and honestly you're not sure you'd know how, not with veins crawling dark under his skin and blood still drying at the corner of his mouth. but something about the way he's looking at that sign makes your chest tighten anyway, small and unwilling.
poor guy, you think as you stare at this twenty-something-year-old guy who looks like a kicked (puppy) zombie. wrong place, wrong week, wrong everything.
"we should keep moving," you say instead, because sympathy doesn't clear a building and it doesn't find you ammo. "you can stare at it more once we're not standing in the open."
leon doesn't respond to that either, not in words, but he peels his eyes away from the board after a moment, following you when you start walking again. he stays a step behind, quiet in a way that feels less like agreement and more like something in him too tired or too hollowed out to argue. you don't reach for his hand, and he doesn't reach for yours.
the corridor beyond the front desk opens into a break room, vending machines busted open and looted, a coffee pot still sitting half full and long gone cold on the counter. you keep close to the wall, flashlight sweeping low across the floor, and leon trails a step behind you, quiet the way he's been since he saw the sign, like he's still reeling from the memory of his first day of work.
you find a box of shells wedged behind the vending machine, not many, but enough to make your shoulders drop with something like relief. you pocket them without a word, and when you turn back leon's watching you, not the room, not the shadows, just you, head tilted slightly like he's trying to work something out.
"what," you say, more clipped than you mean it, because it unsettles you a little, being watched like that.
he doesn't answer, of course he doesn't. just blinks slowly and looks away, back toward the hallway, back to being on alert, and you tell yourself the flicker of guilt in your chest isn't worth examining right now.
you push forward through the station room by room, the two of you falling into an uneasy rhythm. you clear corners, he clears the ones you miss, faster than you, quieter than you, gone before you even register movement and back at your side a minute later with blood on his mouth and nothing else changed about him at all. you've stopped flinching at it.
mostly.
it's in the licensing office, drawers pulled out and papers scattered everywhere, that you find something worth stopping for: a stack of internal memos, half burned at the edges, something about umbrella corporation and a virus designation you don't recognise. you crouch to read them properly, flashlight angled low, and it's only the sudden stillness at your back that makes you realise leon's stopped moving.
you look up and see he's standing near the doorway, body rigid, head cocked toward the hall outside like he's listening to something you can't hear. his nostrils flare, the same look crossing his face that you saw right before he took down that first zombie, except this time he doesn't move. he just stands there, breathing slow and careful, eyes fixed on you instead of the door.
your hand drifts back toward your gun.
"leon.." you say, low, testing.
nothing.
his jaw tightens, throat working, some visible effort keeping him rooted in place. and it hits you then, cold and sudden, that whatever's pulling at him right now isn't coming from the hallway. it's coming from you, close and unarmed and crouched at his feet with your back half turned, and for the first time you're not sure which version of him is standing in that doorway.
why did you trust a random fucking zombie?
you rise slowly, memos forgotten, gun still holstered but your hand resting near it anyway, old instinct refusing to fully quiet down even now.
"hey," you say, careful. "you with me?"
a long second passes. two. his eyes are darker than they were a moment ago, something feral moving just under the surface, and you brace yourself for the possibility that you read this whole thing wrong from the start, that sympathy made you careless in a building full of things that used to be people.
then he blinks, and it's gone. whatever had gripped him loosens all at once, his shoulders dropping, breath rushing out unsteady through his nose. he looks almost as unsettled as you feel, eyes going wide for a second like he's just realised what his body was doing without his permission. he takes a step back. putting distance between you on his own, which tells you more than anything he could've said out loud.
you don't move toward him, but you don't reach for the gun either. "we should go." you say, voice steadier than you feel, and gather the memos into your bag.
leon nods, still holding himself carefully apart from you as you head for the door, like he doesn't fully trust his own legs to keep the distance if he doesn't concentrate on it. you let him have the space.
you're not ready to close it again either, not yet, not after that. but as you step back out into the hallway, you catch him glancing at you sideways, something almost apologetic in the look, and despite everything, despite the memos in your bag and the blood still on his collar and the very good reason you have to be afraid of him, you find yourself softening again anyway.
poor guy, you think, and this time you don't fight it as hard.
the air in the station changes the deeper you go, thick and wrong in a way that coats the back of your throat. rot, mildew, the metallic tang of old blood gone dark and sticky in the carpet, all of it folding together into something you can taste more than smell, sitting heavy on your tongue no matter how shallow you try to breathe. somewhere a pipe drips steadily, water hitting tile in a rhythm that's almost soothing if you don't think too hard about what else might be dripping alongside it.
you push through a set of double doors into what used to be the main hall, wide open, desks overturned, evidence bags scattered across the floor like confetti after a party nobody survived. your boots crunch over broken glass, over something softer you don't look down to identify, and leon moves ahead of you without a word, shoulders squared, that same unnatural stillness settling over him that you've learned means trouble's close.
three of them shuffle out from behind the reception counter almost in unison, drawn by the noise, mouths hanging open around sounds too wet to be words. you raise your gun on instinct, but leon's already moving, faster than you, closing the distance before you can even line up a shot.
he takes the first one down at the knees, dragging it to the floor with a sound that turns your stomach, and you focus on the second one instead, squeezing off two rounds that drop it clean. the third comes at you sideways, and you pistol whip it back before finishing it with a shot to the skull, ears ringing in the sudden quiet after.
when you turn back, leon's crouched over the one he took down, and your stomach drops for an entirely different reason.
he's eating.
not tearing and abandoning like before, not quick and functional, but slow this time, methodical, fingers digging into the open cavity of the thing's stomach like he's looking for something specific. you catch a glimpse of something dark and glistening lifted between his fingers before he brings it to his mouth, and you have to look away fast, swallowing hard against the lurch in your throat.
"jesus, leon," you manage, voice tight, eyes fixed firmly on the far wall instead.
he doesn't answer, too busy, the wet tearing sound of it following you even as you retreat a few steps, putting real distance between yourself and whatever's happening behind you. you hear him shift, hear something crack, and your whole body flinches on reflex, bile rising hot and sudden.
you breathe through your mouth. it doesn't help. the smell's already everywhere, copper and rot and something underneath that you refuse to name, clinging to the inside of your nose no matter how hard you try to breathe around it.
by the time he's done, you've composed yourself into something resembling steady, arms crossed, eyes deliberately trained on the exit sign flickering weakly above the far door. leon straightens up behind you, and when you finally glance back, his mouth and chin are slick and dark, more of it smeared down the front of his uniform, staining what was already ruined even further.
he looks almost sated. calmer, somehow, some of the tension that's been sitting in his shoulders since the break room finally easing out of him.
you swallow again, hard, willing your stomach to settle. "you good?" you ask, aiming for casual.
leon nods, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand the same way he did before, like it's routine now, like there's nothing strange at all about crouching over a corpse mid-fight to have a snack. he catches your expression though, the careful blankness you're trying to hold onto, and something flickers across his face. not quite shame but more self-aware, maybe- aware enough to know how it looks even if he can't stop needing it.
you don't say anything else. you just gesture toward the hallway ahead, silent agreement to keep moving, and he falls into step beside you like nothing happened at all.
it takes another two rooms before your stomach fully unclenches. it takes considerably longer before you stop noticing the smell still clinging faintly to the collar of his uniform, sweet and rotten beneath the blood, a permanent reminder walking three feet to your left of exactly what you've chosen to keep close.
but you don't put more distance between you. you just breathe through your mouth when you have to, and let him stay.
the night outside is worse than the station somehow, open air that should feel like relief pressing down instead with the low groan of things moving in the dark beyond the streetlights. you keep close to the wall as you move, gun up, eyes scanning the wreckage of what used to be a parking lot, cars overturned and windows shattered, the distant sound of something dragging itself across asphalt somewhere you can't quite place.
it's quiet enough that you can hear your own breathing. quiet enough that the wet, rhythmic sound behind you registers almost immediately, and it takes a second for your brain to place it, a second too long before your stomach drops and your head snaps back toward leon.
he's chewing.
casual about it in a way that makes your skin crawl, one hand holding something dark and stringy up near his mouth, tearing off another piece with his teeth like he's snacking on jerky on a road trip instead of walking through raccoon city with a strip of zombie flesh in his hand. you realise with slow, creeping horror that he must have taken it off one of the ones back in the station, tucked away somewhere on him this whole time, saved for later like a packed lunch.
"oh my god," you breathe, voice cracking somewhere between disgust and disbelief. "are you serious right now?"
leon glances over at you, mid-chew, completely unbothered, like this is the most normal thing in the world. he even has the audacity to look a little confused at your reaction, brows pulling together as he swallows.
"what?" he says, voice still rough and unused, the first real word he's given you since the sign. "m'hungry..."
"you ate, like, twenty minutes ago?!" you hiss, keeping your voice low even as your gag reflex threatens open rebellion. "you can't just– that's not a snack, leon, that's a person's arm."
he looks down at the strip still in his hand, considering it for a second with an expression that's somehow both sheepish and completely unrepentant, before tearing off another piece anyway, chewing slower this time like he's at least trying to be polite about it in front of you.
"...wasn't using it," he offers, which is possibly the worst thing he could have said, and you have to physically turn away, one hand pressed to your mouth as your stomach lurches hard.
"i hate you." you manage, muffled, eyes screwed shut against the image now burned permanently into your brain.
behind you, you hear him take another bite anyway, unbothered by your suffering, chewing with the same unhurried calm as someone finishing off a bag of chips on a boring commute. it's almost worse how normal it sounds now, how easily your ears have started to categorise it as just another background noise of your night, right up there with distant moaning and shattering glass.
"y'want some?" he asks, and you can hear the small, awful trace of humour creeping into his wrecked voice, like he's actually messing with you now.
"if you hold that anywhere near me i will shoot you." you say, dead serious, still facing resolutely away.
he laughs; it's rough and short and clearly out of practice, more air than sound, “noted." he says, and you hear the faint crinkle of something- fabric maybe- as he tucks the rest away again, saving it, apparently, for later.
you don't look back until your stomach settles, until the nausea fades into something more manageable, and when you finally do glance over, he's watching you again with that same unreadable focus from before, except now there's the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, blood still smudged there but softer somehow, almost fond.
"you're disgusting." you tell him, no real heat behind it as you keep on.
"...yeah," he agrees easily, falling back into step beside you as you keep moving through the ruined lot. "...you're still here though."
leon falls into step ahead of you not long after, angling his body slightly so he's leading instead of trailing, and when you ask why he just taps two fingers near his ear, voice still rough like it's fighting through rust to get out.
"...hear better," he says, testing each word slow, like he's relearning how his own mouth works. "...up front. you're safer behind."
it's the most functional sentence he's given you all night, and something about the effort in it, the visible concentration on his face as he strings it together, makes you huff something close to a laugh despite yourself. "look at you," you say. "using full sentences now."
he glances back at you, and even as gray and lifeless and toned black as his face is, you can see the ghost of something wry pulling at the corner of his mouth. "...still got it," he offers, and it's such a strange thing to hear, something almost like charm dragging itself up through whatever's happened to him, that you don't quite know what to do with the warmth it puts in your huff.
you walk like that for a while, him ahead, head tilted slightly to catch sounds you can't, body angled protectively without him seeming to think about it. you watch his shoulders instead of the street for a stretch, the tension sitting there, the way he startles less at things now that you're behind him instead of beside him.
it's in that stretch of watching that you see it properly for the first time.
the streetlight catches him at an angle as he turns his head, and there, low on the side of his neck, half hidden by his collar, is a bite; deep, ragged, skin torn and healed wrong around the edges, veins spidering out from it darker and thicker than anywhere else on him, like whatever's in him started right there and spread outward from that one point.
your stomach turns cold and it has nothing to do with the flesh he'd been chewing on twenty minutes ago.
it's on the side and slightly back, low enough that he'd never have seen it coming, positioned exactly where someone gets caught when they're distracted, when they're turned the wrong way, when nobody's watching their back for them. he didn't see it coming, he couldn't have.
you think about the sign on the wall, about the first day he never got to have, about a rookie cop probably still learning the building's layout, still learning names, still new enough that nobody had drilled into him yet to never turn his back on an open room. you think about how something got him from behind, how he probably didn't even have time to raise whatever he was carrying before teeth found his neck.
and then, quieter, uglier, a thought slides in that you don't want but can't stop. if it happened once, it can happen again. if something got to him from behind before, blindsided him before he even knew to be afraid, there's nothing saying whatever's holding him together now, whatever's letting him choose zombies over you, can't slip the same way; fast and from behind with no warning at all.
you glance down at your gun, then back up at the base of his skull, exposed above his collar, and hate the calculation your mind runs anyway, hate how easily it maps out the angle, the distance, the half second you'd need if it ever came to that.
you might have to be the thing that gets him from behind next time. if it comes to that.
leon glances back at you, maybe feeling the shift in your attention, and whatever he sees on your face makes something flicker briefly in his own, uncertain, like he can guess at least part of what you're thinking even if he can't name it outright.
"...you okay back there?" he asks, voice careful now, testing the air between you the same way he tested his own words earlier.
"fine." you say, too quick, and look away from the mark on his neck before he can catch exactly where your eyes had been. "just thinking."
he doesn't push, but maybe he can't, not with the vocabulary he's still clawing his way back to, or maybe some part of him already knows better than to ask what a person's really thinking when they go quiet like that in a place like this. he just turns back around, resuming his slow scan of the street ahead, trusting you to watch behind him the way he can't watch himself.
you follow a step back, gun steady, eyes flicking every so often to the bite scar on his neck, half healed and permanent, and you don't lower your guard again for the rest of the walk. not because you don't trust him, but because you're starting to realise you might have to be the one who protects him from himself, if it ever comes to that.
and you're not sure why you feel this sense of camaraderie with the half-zombie, half-rookie. and you’re not sure yet if you'll be able to.
leon stops mid-step, head tilting sharply toward the east, and you barely have time to ask what before his hand is closing around your wrist, pulling you off the street and toward the nearest building.
"...horde," he manages, breathless, already hauling you toward a fire escape bolted to the side of an apartment block. "...big one. move."
you don't argue, you just climb, metal groaning and rattling under your boots as you scramble up flight after flight, leon’s just below you, close enough to catch you if you slip but never quite touching. by the time you haul yourself over the edge onto the roof, lungs burning, the sound has caught up to you too, a low rolling moan rising from somewhere below, dozens of voices layered into one long, wet groan that makes the hair on your arms stand up.
you crawl to the ledge and look down, and your stomach drops.
the street is a river of them, shoulder to shoulder, shuffling in a mass that stretches the length of the block and further, more of them than you've seen gathered in one place since you got here. you sit back fast, putting distance between yourself and the edge, and beside you leon does the same, breathing hard, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders now that you're both out of reach.
you settle a few feet away from him. not far enough to look deliberate, you hope, but far enough that if something shifted in him, if that same stillness from the licensing office crept back in, you'd have half a second's head start. you catch him noticing anyway, the way his eyes flick to the gap between you and then away again, something unreadable passing over what's left of his face before he looks back out at the street instead.
he doesn't say anything about it. you're grateful for that, mostly.
after a minute, he reaches into his jacket and pulls the strip of arm back out, offering it toward you without much ceremony, like he'd genuinely forgotten your reaction from earlier or was hoping you'd changed your mind.
"...want some?" he asks, and there's the faintest thread of teasing in it, rough around the edges but there.
"yeah, no." you say, already pulling your own bag around, digging out the small foil pack of trail mix they'd handed you before deployment, the kind of bland, practical rations nobody actually enjoys but everyone's grateful for eventually. "thanks though."
he huffs something like a laugh and tucks the strip away again, and you both settle into silence after that, watching the horde crawl past below, the moon casting everything in flat, colourless light. you eat slow, methodical, more for something to do with your hands than actual hunger, and beside you leon sits with his knees drawn up, watching the street with an intensity that makes you wonder what exactly he's tracking down there, if it's danger or something else entirely.
it's a while before he breaks the quiet.
"...where're you from?" he asks, voice careful, like he's testing whether you'll even answer.
you don't look at him. "does it matter?"
"...guess not," he says, but doesn't drop it entirely. "...family? someone waiting on you?"
"leon."
"...just asking."
"i know what you're doing," you say, finally glancing over, and there's no real anger in it, just tiredness, the kind that's been building since you first stepped foot in this city. "and i'm not doing the whole backstory thing right now. i'm not here to make friends. i'm here to find out what happened to this city, hopefully find something that looks like a cure, and get out before i end up like one of them."
leon's quiet for a second, something in his expression flattening out, and you almost feel bad for it before he nods slowly, looking back out at the street.
"i'm with you until i find that, or until my people pull me out," you continue, quieter now. "that's it. that's the whole deal."
"...okay," he says, and there's no argument in it, just a kind of steady acceptance that surprises you a little.
then, after a beat, careful, like he's offering something rather than asking for anything: "...i can help. look around, i mean.. i know this place. Well.. knew it, before." he gestures vaguely at himself, at the ruined uniform, the veins, all of it. "...still know the layout. labs, records, all that."
you study him for a moment, the sincerity sitting plain and unguarded on his face, none of the teasing from earlier, none of the hunger either. just an offer, simple as that.
"fine," you say eventually. "you help me find what i need. i keep you fed enough that i'm not on the menu."
something almost like relief crosses his face, quick and quiet, gone before it fully settles.
"...deal." he says, and the two of you go back to watching the horde crawl past beneath you, the silence between you a little less heavy than before.
the horde takes a long time to pass, the sound of it dragging on below in that same low, wet moan, and somewhere in the stretch of watching it leon starts talking again, unprompted this time, voice still rough but steadier now, like something in him's decided the silence isn't worth keeping anymore.
"...was supposed to start monday," he says, not really looking at you, eyes fixed on the street below like it's easier to say this to the horde than to your face. "...first shift. big deal, right. new job, new city, whole fresh start thing."
you don't say anything, just let him keep going, watching the side of his face in the moonlight.
"...went out saturday night instead. bar a few blocks from my new apartment." a rough breath, almost a laugh but not quite. "...had a girlfriend before i moved here. didn't work out. she uh–" he stops, jaw working like the words are heavier than the ones before them. "--didn't wanna do long distance. didn't wanna do short distance either, turns out. just didn't wanna do me, i guess."
"leon.."
"m'not looking for anything," he cuts in, quick, like he needs to get ahead of whatever sympathy you're about to offer. "just.. drank more than i should've, lost track of time. was walking back when it all started, sirens everywhere, people running, and i thought—" he shakes his head slow. “thought it was a riot or somethin' and i didn't clock what was actually happening 'til i saw someone get torn apart in the middle of the street."
your stomach tightens at that, at the image of it, at the thought of him standing there half drunk and completely unprepared while the world came apart around him.
"...ran for the station 'cause it was closest. figured i'd be safe there, uniform or not, didn't matter, just needed somewhere with walls." his hand drifts up unconsciously toward the bite on his neck, fingers hovering near it without quite touching. "...thought i made it. thought i was fine, and i wasn't paying attention behind me.. never even heard it coming."
he goes quiet for a second, and you watch his jaw tighten, something working behind his eyes that you don't have a name for.
"...last thing i really remember clear is the door of the station. after that it's just–" he makes a vague gesture, something like static, like fog. "pieces. don't remember much. don't think i want to."
you watch him stare out at the horde like it's easier than looking at you, and something about the whole picture of it settles heavy in your chest. a guy nursing a bad breakup on what should've been the biggest week of his career, drunk and distracted on exactly the wrong night, caught from behind before he even had the chance to be scared properly.
"that's a hell of a first week." you say eventually, quiet, careful not to make it sound like pity even though some part of it probably is.
leon huffs, something almost like real amusement in it despite everything. "...yeah," he says. "...welcome to raccoon city." and he lets out a self depreciating laugh.
you don't say anything else for a while after that. you just sit there beside him, a little closer than before without quite meaning to close the gap, watching the last stragglers of the horde shuffle out of sight down the street, and let him have the quiet again if he wants it.
he doesn't fill it this time. he just breathes, slow and steady, shoulder almost brushing yours in the dark, and for the first time all night it feels less like sitting beside a threat and more like sitting beside a person who's just had a very bad week.
the days that follow blur together into something that only barely resembles time. you stop counting hours somewhere around the second horde, somewhere around the third building you and leon clear together, falling into a rhythm neither of you talks about but both of you rely on now.
you meet a kid, sherry, barely a teenager, terrified and alone, clutching a pendant she won't explain, who you end up half dragging half carrying through the sewers when leon insists you can't leave her behind. leon's gentler with her than you've seen a zombie with anyone, something protective and aching in the way he ushers her along, like some part of him recognises himself in a kid who never should've been caught up in any of this.
the sewers are the worst of it. something enormous moves down there, something that used to be a man named birkin before whatever he injected himself with turned him into a shifting nightmare of muscle and teeth, and more than once you find yourself hauled bodily out of its path by leon, fast and rough and wordless, his grip bruising your arm as he all but throws you both clear.
there's a man in a long coat too, tireless, relentless, showing up in doorways and stairwells with mechanical patience no matter how far you run, and the first time he corners you leon puts himself directly between you both without a second's hesitation, snarling something low and furious that doesn't sound entirely human.
you don't forget that.
somewhere in the underground labs, surrounded by broken glass and files stamped with a company name that makes your skin crawl every time you read it, you find pieces of what you came here for. umbrella, g virus, designations and case numbers that explain too much and not nearly enough, and none of it gives you the clean answer you were hoping for, no easy cure sitting in a vial waiting to be found. just more questions, and a growing, sick certainty that whatever's happening to leon isn't something anyone up top ever intended to fix.
through all of it he stays close. closer than the mission requires, closer than either of you have said out loud; he starts waiting for you to fall back into step instead of walking ahead without checking, starts angling himself between you and whatever's coming without seeming to think about it first, you stop putting distance between you on the rooftops, and you stop flinching when he eats.
somewhere around the third day, you realise you've stopped thinking of him as a threat you're managing and started thinking of him as leon, just leon, sharp humor and rough voice and unsettling table manners included.
by the time you make it out past the wreckage of what used to be raccoon city, sherry safe, the train tunnel behind you finally collapsing on whatever's still hunting through the ruins, you're bloodied and exhausted and standing in the open air for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.
leon's beside you when you stop to breathe. he always is now.
you look over at him, veins still dark along his throat, blood still staining what's left of his uniform, and you focus on the tired grin stretching across his face.
"we made it.." you say, quiet, disbelieving.
leon looks over at you, something unguarded crossing his face in the dawn light. "...yeah," he says. "yeah we did."
the helicopters find you an hour after dawn, blades cutting loud through the quiet you'd finally gotten used to. it should feel like relief but, mostly it just feels like the start of something else.
they separate you almost immediately once you're aboard, hands pulling sherry gently but firmly toward one end of the chopper while five men in hazmat gear move on leon with a kind of clinical efficiency that makes your stomach turn cold. you open your mouth to argue and get a hand on your shoulder instead, someone telling you it's protocol, containment procedure, standard for anyone confirmed exposed.
leon doesn't fight them, he doesn't growl, doesn't so much as tense when they cuff his wrists and fit something heavy and restrictive over his jaw, muzzling him like an animal that hasn't earned trust yet. he just looks at you, once, steady across the noise and chaos of the cabin, before letting them guide him toward the back and out of sight.
you don't see him again after that for three days.
they keep you all in different wings entirely. your apartment in the compound is besides sherry’s sterile room that smells like antiseptic and nothing else, with a door attaching the two rooms through the bathroom. she’s tested and comes back clear of whatever strand that leon’s dna is intertwined with and she’s released into your care. you spend most of that first stretch answering the same questions over and over for men in suits who write everything down and tell you nothing in return. sherry clings to your sleeve more often than not, and you let her, some worn-down piece of you grateful for the excuse to hold onto something steady too.
it's the fourth day when you finally get them to let you see him.
the room they've got him in looks more like an observation cell than a hospital room, glass on one side, restraints bolted to the table he's seated at, and the muzzle still fitted tight over his jaw even now, weeks of grime finally washed away but his hair a mess, uncombed, falling into eyes that track you the second you step through the door like you're the only thing in the room worth looking at.
nobody's cleaned him properly in days, you realise. nobody's really touched him at all except to draw blood or take samples, judging by the fresh bruising along the inside of his elbow, the raw look to his skin where they've clearly been rougher than necessary.
a technician's adjusting something near his shoulder when you walk in, movements careless, tugging at a cuff hard enough to make leon flinch, and something in you goes sharp and hot before you've even fully processed the sight of it.
"hey!" you snap, voice cutting through the room easy as a blade. "be careful with him."
the technician glances up, startled, something dismissive already forming on his face before he catches whatever's sitting in your expression and thinks better of it. "he's not exactly fragile.." the man says anyway, weaker than his first look.
"i don't care." you say, stepping further in, close enough now to see leon's eyes on you, something soft and grateful flickering behind all that careful stillness. "you're not authorised to be rough with him. i'll be handling his care from here."
it's not entirely true, not officially, but you say it with enough certainty that nobody in the room argues, and by the end of the week it's true anyway, paperwork be damned, because you make enough noise with enough people that eventually it's just easier to let you.
after that, you're the one who brings his meals, still mostly raw, still mostly meat nobody wants to think too hard about the sourcing of. you're the one who sits with him during the worst of the testing, a steady presence at the edge of the room that makes his shoulders drop half an inch every time you walk in. you're the one who, weeks later, finally convinces someone to let you cut his hair back out of his eyes, working slow and careful with a pair of scissors as he sits still beneath your hands, patient in a way he probably wouldn't be for anyone else in this building.
he never snaps, never so much as growls at the scientists no matter how rough they get before you catch it, never so much as strains against the restraints even when you can see how badly it costs him to hold still, and he always smiles when sherry waves at him through the glass.
you dont comment on how the shackles are so tight he cant wave back.
the observation room is full today, more than usual; your bosses are standing shoulder to shoulder with three researchers behind the glass, all of them watching the way they always do, like leon's a specimen and not a person, still sitting in the chair in front of you.
you don't look at them and you've gotten good at that.
"hold still." you murmur, peeling back the old bandage from the side of his neck, careful around the edges where the skin's still healing. leon obeys easy, tilting his head just slightly to give you better access, some old obedience in it that used to unsettle you and now just feels familiar.
the wound looks better than it did last week. you clean it slow, gauze soft against skin that's less grey than it used to be, more of an undertone now, something closer to human. you make a note of it on the chart balanced on your knee, murmuring half to yourself as you work.
"veins are lighter today," you say, tracing a careful finger just beside one without quite touching it, watching the dark thread of it beneath his skin. "less black and more blue, i think. that's good! that's really good, leon."
he hums low in his throat, something content in the sound, eyes half lidded while you finish taping fresh gauze into place. behind the glass, you can hear the low murmur of the researchers, someone jotting notes, someone else murmuring something about progression rates, but you tune it out the way you've trained yourself to, focused entirely on the careful work of your hands and the steady rise and fall of his breathing under them.
it's while you're smoothing the last piece of tape flat that his hand moves.
slow, careful, nothing sudden about it, fingers lifting from where they'd been resting on the table to catch the hem of your top instead, rubbing the fabric idle between finger and thumb like he's testing the texture of something soft after weeks of nothing but sterile cotton and cold metal restraints. it's such a small thing. absent, almost, more instinct than intention, his eyes barely even on it, more focused on your face while you work.
the room erupts anyway.
"get her out of there–" someone's already moving, one of the researchers slapping a hand against the intercom, voice sharp with alarm, and you hear the door mechanism click, hear footsteps hurrying in from the hall, six men in protective gear already reaching for your arm before you've even fully processed what's happening.
something in you snaps and you're on your feet before you've decided to be, rounding on them so fast leon's hand drops away from your shirt, startled, his whole body going tense and still in the chair behind you.
"get out," you say, voice low and furious, cutting clean through the noise of the room. "all of you. now!"
"ma'am, protocol requires–"
"i said get out." you snap again, louder this time, stepping between them and the chair without a second's hesitation, something fierce and protective flaring hot in your chest. "he wasn't doing anything. he barely touched me. if you cannot handle sitting behind that glass without panicking over fabric, then you don't get to be in this room."
the men hesitated, glancing toward the observation window like they're waiting for someone to override you, and for a long, tense second nobody moves. then, finally, reluctantly, they back off, filing back out through the door they came in, muttering something about writing this up, about reporting the incident, and you don't care, not even a little, chest still heaving with the leftover heat of it.
you turn back around and leon's staring up at you, wide-eyed, hands now folded carefully in his lap like he's trying to make himself smaller, some genuine confusion twisting his face beneath the mess of his hair.
"...what'd i do wrong?" he asks, voice small in a way you haven't heard from him in weeks, uncertain, almost scared, like he's bracing for you to be angry too.
your chest aches at the sight of it, all that fierce protectiveness draining out of you at once, replaced by something softer.
"nothing." you say, sitting back down in front of him, voice gentle now, reaching to smooth his hair back out of his face without thinking about it. "you didn't do anything wrong, leon. they're just idiots."
he leans faintly into your touch, some of the tension easing back out of his shoulders, and you stay like that a moment, quiet, his eyes finding yours steady across the small space between you.
"...okay," he says eventually, soft, trusting the reassurance even if he doesn't fully understand it, and you let your hand stay in his hair a little longer than necessary, some warmth settling low in your chest that you're not ready to name yet, not here, not with the glass still watching even if the room behind it stands empty now.
the vials line up neat along the tray beside you, numbered and labelled in careful handwriting, weeks of trial and error boiled down into whatever combination the team's landed on today. you draw the dose slow, tapping the syringe clear of air the way you've done a hundred times now, muscle memory taking over while leon watches you work with the same quiet patience he always does.
"last one for today." you murmur, finding the vein along his arm gone easier to find now that the colour's returned properly to his skin. he barely flinches anymore when the needle goes in, just watches your face instead, steady and unbothered. you press a bit of gauze over the spot after, taping it down, and start gathering the tray back together when his voice stops you.
"...can you take it off?" he asks, and you glance up to find his eyes on the muzzle strap visible at the edge of your vision, something quiet and hopeful sitting behind the request. "...just for a bit. i won't–" he stops, swallows. "i wouldn't hurt you, you know that."
you do know that after weeks of shots and bandages and quiet afternoons in this room have made that much clear, some certainty settling into you that no amount of glass or protocol has managed to shake since raccoon city.
you set the tray aside and ignore the bangs on the glass.
"turn a little bit." you say instead of answering outright, and he does, patient, letting you reach behind his head to work the buckles loose one by one, fingers steady even as your pulse picks up a little, some quiet defiance in the act that you're choosing not to examine too closely. the muzzle comes away in your hands, and leon rolls his jaw once, slow, like he's testing the freedom of it.
then he looks up at you, and smiles.
it's the first real smile you've seen on him, not the wry half curve from the rooftop weeks ago, not the sheepish almost apology after a kill, but something full and warm, familiar in a way that makes your breath catch, charming in exactly the way you imagine he must have been before any of this happened to him. it settles strange and lovely across a face that's looking more and more like the boy in the photo on his old badge every single day.
"...hi–" he says, like it's the first time either of you have properly met, voice steadier now, clearer, more his than it's been in weeks.
"hi yourself." you manage, something warm curling low in your chest at the sight of him like this, unguarded, easy, nothing between you now but a few inches of space and whatever's finally starting to heal.
his hand lifts slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you want to, fingers drifting up until they brush light against your cheek, careful, like he's testing whether he's allowed. his skin's warmer than it used to be. steadier too, no tremor in it at all, just the quiet weight of his palm settling against your jaw while his thumb traces slow along your cheekbone.
you don't pull away.
"you keep coming back.." he says quietly, eyes searching your face like he still can't quite believe it, like some part of him expected you to give up on him weeks ago and never did.
"who else would bandage you up and cut your bangs, hm?" you say, voice softer than you meant for it to come out, leaning just slightly into his palm as you tease him, as if there isnt multiple scientists youve told to piss off so you could do all his test and take care of his hair.
his expression shifts into a pleased grin, his eyes glinting with a grateful shine; gratitude and disbelief and something warmer tangled together all at once. you dont pull away from him until it hits you, sudden and cold, cutting straight through the warmth pooling low in your chest.
you don't know this ‘man.’
not really. not outside of raccoon city, not outside a police station with looted vending machines, not outside weeks of bandages and shots and careful, curated proximity in a room full of people who still don't fully trust what he is, you know the sound of him chewing on things you don't want to think about, you know the low warning stillness that comes over him right before he kills something, you know he's half whatever he used to be and half something else entirely, something science still hasn't finished categorising, something with a muzzle sitting on the tray beside you for a reason.
you step back.
it's not unkind, or a scared stumble but it's immediate, putting several feet of distance between you and his hand falls away from your cheek and hovers in the empty space between you a second too long. you watch something flicker across his expression, confusion first, then a slower, quieter kind of hurt he doesn't bother hiding.
"i'll see you tomorrow, leon.” you say, voice even, professional, gathering the tray back into your hands like it's the only thing steadying you right now.
"...wait–" he says, sitting up straighter, brows pulling together. "did i– what happened, did i do something wrong?"
"you didn't do anything.." you say, already moving toward the door, not quite looking back at him. "i just need to go, sherry needs me."
"...hey," he tries again, voice rising slightly, more urgent now. "what's your name? you never– i don't even know your name!"
you falter for half a second at that, hand on the door. weeks together and he's right, you realise, he never has known it, never asked outright until now, some quiet intimacy built entirely without it.
you don't answer and instead you push through the door, leaving him sitting there in the observation room, muzzle discarded on the tray, hand still half raised where your face used to be, his confused voice trailing after you through the closing door.
"hey– wait, please, i just wanna know your–"
the door clicks shut behind you, cutting him off mid-sentence, and you stand there a moment in the sterile hallway, back against the wall, heart going too fast for reasons that have nothing to do with fear anymore and everything to do with how easily you'd let yourself forget, even for a minute, exactly where and how you found him.
behind the door, you can still hear him calling out for a name you never gave him.
you don't go back the next day.
you tell yourself it's just being busy, that sherry needs you more, that the reports on your desk aren't going to write themselves, and for the first few days it's almost convincing. you throw yourself into the debrief work instead, into sherry's transition paperwork, into anything that keeps your hands full and your mind further away from a room down the hall with a tray of vials and a muzzle nobody's using anymore.
you tell yourself it a lot, actually.
you tell yourself everyday from that day on, for years, that you were just too busy.
you hear about him in passing after that. secondhand, filtered through reports you're not supposed to read and conversations you're not meant to overhear.
the treatment doesn't take the way everyone hoped. the veins fade, some, the worst of the grey easing out of his skin over the following months, but whatever's tangled up inside him never fully lets go, not completely, not the way the early trials predicted it would. you hear that in a hallway you shouldn't have been standing in, one of the researchers' voices carrying further than she meant it to. you hear other things after that, scattered across years you're mostly not part of anymore.
he never stops needing the muzzle. that part never changes, not in five years, not in fifteen, and there's something almost cruel about it, you think, hearing it secondhand instead of from him, a man decades into rebuilding himself still fitted with a strap and buckle every time he steps outside cleared containment, still treated like a variable nobody's fully sure won't tip the wrong way.
he gets bigger and stronger, too, not in the sudden violent way from those first weeks but slow, steady, whatever's still alive in his blood building him into something more than human ever quite manages to be, broader through the shoulders than fifty should allow, faster than men half his age. you hear an analyst call it useful once, clinical, like he's a piece of equipment instead of a person, and you hate how easily some people slip into thinking of him that way even now, decades later.
there are others who don't think of him that way. you hear that too, more of it as the years stretch on. field agents who'd rather work beside him than anyone else in the building. rookies who ask for him by name. reports calling him the best asset the agency's had since you left the field yourself, and something complicated twists in your chest every time you hear that comparison, pride and grief and something unnamed sitting uneasy together.
and then there are the ones who hate him for existing at all. you catch that in whispers too, in memos you're not supposed to read, in a senator's aide once loudly wondering how dare the government let something like that walk around armed, how dare they call a zombie an agent and put a badge on it instead of putting it down years ago. you want to find whoever wrote it and explain, slow and clear, exactly what you watched him do with a corkboard sign and a strip of jerky and every ounce of restraint he had left in him.
you don't get the chance. you're not really part of his world anymore, not officially, just an old name in old files nobody thinks to ask about. except you never gave him your name, so you're not even that.
you're nothing in his files at all.
there's a potential cure now, apparently. real this time, something further along than anything from those first frantic months in the lab. you hear it's tied to his next mission somehow, some new outbreak circling back to where all of this started, raccoon city itself, still quarantined all these years later, still sealed off and waiting.
it's sherry who tells you the rest of it. she's not a scared kid clutching a pendant anymore, hasn't been for a long time, and she finds you a week after the news of the mission's greenlit, sliding into the seat across from you with the same steady seriousness she's carried into everything since the day she was cleared and released into your care.
"i'm running his comms," she says, no preamble, watching your face carefully like she's gauging how you'll take it. "mission intelligence, support, all of it. i requested it myself."
"sherry—"
"he doesn't know," she says, cutting through whatever you were about to say. "not who you are. not that you're the reason i turned out okay. he's never known your name, and i never told him. that wasn't mine to give away."
you don't answer that right away, something tightening in your chest at the thought of decades passing with your name still just a shape he never got to hold.
"where," you ask instead, even though some part of you already knows, already dreads the answer before she gives it.
"raccoon city," sherry says, quiet, wincing when you sigh, "they're finally letting a team back in. small perimeter, contained. they want him in front, obviously." a pause. "they want you there too. for oversight. institutional knowledge, they're calling it."
you think about you walking away from him without ever giving him a single word to hold onto. about decades of telling yourself it was easier this way, cleaner, that whatever happened between you had died with the version of the city it happened in.
"when do we leave," you ask, and sherry's shoulders drop half an inch with something like relief.
"three days," she says. "he still doesn't know you said yes."
you look out the window at nothing in particular, already feeling the ghost of a station hallway settling back over you, already feeling decades of distance start, quietly, to close.
"good," you say. "let's keep it that way til we land."
the compound they've set up outside the quarantine line looks nothing like the facility from decades ago, all temporary structures and portable generators, but the muzzle waiting on a table near the briefing tent looks exactly the same. you clock it the second you walk in, stomach twisting in a way that catches you off guard after all these years of thinking you'd made peace with it.
leon's already there.
you see him before he sees you, and it gives you a second, just a second, to take him in properly. sherry was right to warn you it'd be strange. he's bigger than you remember, broader through the shoulders in a way that fills out the tactical gear differently than it should on a man his age, more grey threaded through hair that's still the same unruly mess it always was, just paler now, silver overtaking blonde the way frost overtakes a window. his face carries the years properly, lines at the corners of his eyes that weren't there before, but underneath it you can still see the shape of the boy who stood frozen in front of a corkboard sign, and something in your chest aches at how little that part of him has actually changed.
then you see the rest.
his skin's still not quite right, still carrying that faint dullness under the surface no amount of decades seems able to fully scrub out, and the veins along his throat, visible above his collar, still map dark trails beneath it, blue instead of black now but never quite gone, never quite human. and the muzzle. even folded and set aside on the table rather than on his face, just the sight of it sitting there makes something old and furious rise up in you, the same reflexive protectiveness that once had you screaming grown men out of an observation room.
he hasn't seen you yet. he's looking over a tablet sherry's holding, half listening, half distracted the way he always used to get right before something needed his full attention.
then he looks up.
everything about him goes still.
you watch it happen in real time, tablet forgotten, sherry's voice trailing off as she notices where his focus has gone, the whole tent seeming to narrow down to just the space between you and him. he doesn't move for a long moment, just stares, something raw and disbelieving working across his face like he's checking you against a memory he's turned over a thousand times and still isn't sure matches.
"...you look the same," he says finally, voice rougher than you remember, decades of wear sitting in it now instead of just the aftermath of a bite. "same as when i lost you."
it lands harder than you expect, quiet and unguarded, nothing performative in it at all, just a man who apparently spent twenty eight years keeping an exact picture of you preserved somewhere and finally getting to hold it up against the real thing.
"you don't," you say, before you can stop yourself, and it comes out softer than you mean it to, taking in the grey in his hair, the new lines, the extra size to him that wasn't there before. "you got bigger."
something almost like a laugh breaks loose from him, short and surprised. "yeah," he says. "guess i did."
sherry glances between the two of you, something knowing and carefully neutral in her expression, and quietly excuses herself toward the comms tent, leaving the two of you standing there in the space she'd been filling a second ago.
up close he's every bit as tall as memory made him, if not more so, and you have to fight the old, familiar urge to catalogue every point of dulled skin, every dark blue line still tracing up from his collar, every place the muzzle's straps have clearly rested against his jaw so often they've worn a faint permanent mark into the skin there.
you hate the sight of it. you hated it decades ago and you hate it now, hate that after all this time, after however many trials and cures and years of slow, grinding progress, some committee still looks at him and decides a strap and buckle is the responsible choice.
"they still make you wear that thing," you say, not quite a question, nodding toward the table.
leon's jaw tightens, something tired passing behind his eyes. "yeah," he says simply. "still do."
you don't say anything else about it, not yet, not with sherry two tents over and a mission briefing waiting and decades of unfinished conversation crowded into the small space between you. but you file it away anyway, old and new anger sitting side by side, and think, distantly, that you're going to need a very long time to get used to looking at him again.
the briefing runs long, maps and containment routes and old blueprints pulled up on a screen at the front of the tent, and you spend most of it with your eyes on the wall behind leon's head rather than on leon himself, some old discipline kicking back in the second you realize how badly you need it.
it doesn't entirely work.
you catch yourself watching him anyway, somewhere between the extraction points and the secondary rally position, and you hate how thoroughly the years have not been unkind to him. tactical gear fits him like it was built around him instead of just issued, dark and worn soft with use, straps crossing broad shoulders that catch the tent lighting in a way that makes something low in your stomach twist, unwelcome and entirely inconvenient. dirt and old grime still cling faint along his jaw and throat, the kind that never quite scrubs out after decades of fieldwork, and his hair falls messy and unbothered across his forehead exactly the way it always did, except grey now instead of blonde, and somehow that's worse, somehow that's the detail that gets you, proof of every year you weren't there to watch happen.
you are, you realize with a kind of quiet horror, disgracefully attracted to a man who once ate a stranger's arm in front of you like it was beef jerky.
you keep that thought firmly to yourself.
what you don't keep to yourself, what you can't quite stop noticing instead, is how differently he moves through the briefing than the version of him you remember. he asks clarifying questions, sharp, specific, cutting straight to logistics nobody else thought to flag. he corrects an outdated blueprint from memory, precise about a stairwell that apparently got sealed off years before most of the room was even assigned to this. every sentence lands whole and steady, no gaps, no static, nothing fought for word by word the way it used to be, and you find yourself listening less for the content and more for the simple, startling fact of how easily it all comes now.
it carries into the field, too, once you're actually moving, boots on cracked pavement inside the perimeter, the old, ruined skyline of raccoon city rising up around you all over again like nothing's changed in twenty eight years except everything has.
creatures still linger this deep in, slower than you remember somehow, or maybe you're just better now, more practiced, less green. leon takes point without needing to be told, the same instinctive protectiveness settling over him from decades ago, and you watch him drop the first one with a controlled, economical shot instead of the sudden feral lunge you'd braced yourself for out of habit.
there's no blank stare, no stillness dropping over him like a switch flipped, no black, hungry focus swallowing whatever was human in his face a second before. he just clears the threat, efficient and calm, and glances back to check on you the way any partner would, nothing distant or unreachable behind his eyes at all.
you don't know when exactly that changed. sometime in twenty eight years of trials and treatments you weren't there to witness, sometime between the version of him who tore into flesh mid conversation and the version currently jogging back to check the corner you're covering, muzzle still fixed uselessly to his jaw for a threat that, watching him now, you're no longer sure exists the way it used to.
"clear." he says, low, falling back into step beside you, and there's something almost apologetic in the glance he gives you after, like he can guess exactly what you're cataloguing behind your carefully neutral expression.
"you didn't even flinch," you say, quieter than you mean to, half to yourself.
leon huffs something small, not quite a laugh. "...long time since i had to," he says. "mostly just muscle memory now." a beat, his eyes flicking briefly to yours before returning to the street ahead. "still not allowed to prove it, apparently." his fingers twitch faintly toward the strap at his jaw, an old, tired frustration in the gesture more than anything sharp.
you don't have an answer for that yet. you just fall back into step beside him, matching his pace through the ruins of a city that made you both exactly who you are now, and try, mostly unsuccessfully, to stop noticing the exact line of his jaw every time he turns to check behind you.
the sewers smell exactly the way you remember, which is somehow worse than if they'd smelled different, twenty eight years and the rot underneath raccoon city apparently timeless in a way nothing else about this place has managed to be.
"careful, there's a drop about six feet ahead," sherry's voice comes low and steady through the comm in your ear, pulling up something on her end you can't see. "old maintenance shaft. structural readings say it's stable but go slow."
leon's hand finds your elbow before you've even processed the warning, steady and immediate, guiding you half a step to the left around a section of grating that's clearly seen better decades. he doesn't announce it, just does it like its some old instinct apparently never having gone anywhere in all these years.
"i can see the drop, leon." you say, half exasperated, even as you let him steer you around it anyway.
"i know," he says, easy, not even looking at you, eyes already back on the tunnel ahead. "still gonna do it."
sherry's voice again, dry despite the comm static. "for the record, he's been like this since the briefing. i had to remind him twice the objective's the lab, not you."
"i heard that," leon mutters, and you catch the faint colour rising along his ears even in the low emergency lighting.
"you were meant to." sherry says, entirely unbothered, and you have to bite down on a laugh, the sound of it strange and warm in a tunnel that's trying its best to feel like a tomb.
you push further down, leon a half step ahead the way he always seems to end up, checking corners before you reach them, angling his body just slightly between you and every dark opening you pass, and you don't call him out on it again, some old, stubborn part of you deciding it isn't worth the argument this time.
"remember this stretch," he says eventually, nodding toward a rusted maintenance door hanging half off its hinges. "birkin's second form near took your head off right about here."
"i remember," you say. "i also remember you throwing yourself directly into its path like an idiot."
"worked, didn't it."
"he almost ate you."
"still worked." he glances back at you, something easy and familiar tugging at the corner of his mouth, decades folding down into something that feels, for one strange, weightless second, exactly like it used to. "you were slower back then anyway. needed the extra half second."
"i was twenty eight years younger, not slow."
"could've fooled me."
"i will leave you in this sewer, leon."
"you say that every time," he says, grinning properly now, the expression sitting easy and unguarded on a face gone soft with something that isn't quite nostalgia and isn't quite something else either, "and yet."
sherry's voice cuts back in, amused despite herself. "if you two are done, the lab entrance should be another two hundred meters. and leon, eat something before we get there, your vitals are dipping."
leon doesn't even pause before reaching into a pocket on his vest, pulling free something wrapped in cling film that you very deliberately do not look directly at. but then you hear an annoyed chuff and a click of metal before he grabs at your wrist, turning you back to reach him.
“what– what’s wrong?” you ask, squinting your eyes at him.
“mask, cant take the piece of shit off myself.” he huffs, dropping his grip from around your wrist, but you can clearly feel how his finger lingers on your pulse as it drops.
you reach up, both hands going to the buckles of the muzzle and you clip it off, using the small little code you had memorised that they apparently hadnt changed and watch as it dropped off of his face.
“thanks.” his voice is muffled as the second the muzzle comes off, hes tearing off a piece with his teeth as easy and unbothered as he's done since the very first night you met him, chewing while he walks like it's the most natural thing in the world.
you've had twenty eight years apart from that particular sight and somehow it still gets you exactly the same way it did the first time, stomach turning slow and familiar.
"still keeping snacks on you.." you mutter, looking pointedly ahead instead.
"old habits." he says around the mouthful, entirely unrepentant, and you shake your head, equal parts disgusted and, infuriatingly, fond, falling back into step beside him as the tunnel curves deeper toward whatever's waiting for you both underground.
"you know," leon says after a minute, thoughtful in a way that immediately puts you on guard, "still can't get over the DSO thing. sherry, an agent." he shakes his head slow. "last i actually knew her proper, she was twelve. clutching that pendant like it was gonna save her life."
"it basically did, at the time."
"yeah." something quieter crosses his face. "ten years ago, i finally get a call outta nowhere, and it's her, all grown, telling me she just got assigned to the same division i work under. nearly dropped the damn phone."
you huff, half a laugh despite yourself. "she never told me that part."
"probably didn't want you fussing." he glances sideways at you. "she fussed enough for the both of you when she found out i was still doing fieldwork at my age. lectured me for twenty minutes straight. very much your kid."
"she's not–" you start on reflex, then stop, because there's no clean way to argue with that, not really, not when you've spent decades answering to exactly that word every time sherry's said it. "she is my kid," you admit instead. "was, before i ever had the paperwork to make it official. we found her at twelve, and that was just– that."
"i know," leon says, quiet. "she told me that too. said you never once made her feel like it was a burden, taking her on like that. said you just did it, no big speech about it."
"wasn't a decision, really. it was already official before i filed the paperwork."
there’s something warm behind his eyes, but your words dont quite land soft this time, some old weight sitting heavy on his chest comes out of his mouth. "wish i'd been there for that part. the raising part. not the— not finding out about it a decade late over a phone call."
"leon…"
"i'm not saying it to make you feel bad," he says, quick, glancing at you. "i just. i think about it sometimes. what it would've looked like. the three of us. you and her figuring out school and groceries and whatever else, and me just–" he gestures vaguely at himself, jaw tight. "there too. however that would've worked. dad, or not dad, or just some zombie who stuck around. i don't know what i would've been to her. but i wanted the chance to find out. wanted to be there for you too, not just hear about it after the fact from a woman who was already grown by the time i got her number."
something in your chest aches at that, sharp and unexpected, the shape of a life neither of you got to have laid out plain between you in a tunnel that smells like rot and old concrete.
"i took that from you," you say quietly. "both of you."
"you did," leon says, and he doesn't soften it, doesn't let you off easy, same as before. "and i'm still working through being okay with that." a beat, his voice gentling slightly. "but i'm here now. get to know the version of her that exists now, at least. and you're here too." he glances at you, something raw and hopeful sitting just under the surface. "figure that's worth something, even twenty eight years late."
"it should've never been twenty eight years late," you say, voice gone too soft for a government agent.
"no," he agrees simply. "it shouldn't have."
neither of you says anything else for a while after that, just walk on through the low tunnel light, old grief sitting heavy and honest between you instead of brushed aside, until sherry's voice finally crackles back through the comm, dry as ever, entirely unaware of what she just walked into the middle of.
"lab entrance in fifty meters. and for the record, i can hear you talking about me. flattering, but weird."
leon huffs something that's almost a laugh, glancing at you, some of the weight easing off his shoulders despite everything still sitting unresolved underneath it. "thanks kid," he says into the comm, easy, and you watch something settle into place in him as he says it, small and real, twenty eight years late.
but there was no time like the present.
the lab opens up wider than the sewer tunnels leading into it, old fluorescent fixtures dead overhead, emergency lighting casting everything in a thin red wash that makes the rows of shattered containment tanks look worse than they probably are. glass crunches underfoot, decades old, and the smell here is different from the sewers; sharper, chemical, formaldehyde and rust layered over something fouler underneath that you don't let yourself think too hard about.
"careful," sherry says through the comm, quieter now, more focused. "structural integrity's iffy past the first checkpoint. and i'm reading movement two levels down. multiple signatures."
leon's already gone still beside you, head tilted slightly, that old listening focus settling over him, though nothing feral in it now, just completely focused attention.
"how many?" he asks, low.
"hard to say. could be strays, or could be something worse. birkin's old research wing is directly below you, so. i'd assume worse."
"comforting.." you mutter.
leon glances at you, something wry pulling at his mouth despite the tension gathering in his shoulders. "stay close," he says, not a request, and you don't argue with it this time, falling into step just behind him as he leads you deeper past the ruined tanks toward a bank of old computer terminals still miraculously intact against the far wall.
it takes sherry talking you both through a decades-old security bypass, leon physically prying a stuck panel free with his bare hands at one point, grunting with the effort in a way that reminds you all over again exactly how much strength lives in him now, before the terminal finally flickers weakly to life, throwing pale blue light across the room.
files. hundreds of them, degraded but readable, case numbers and designations you recognise from your own reports decades ago, and buried in the middle of it, a research thread that wasn't in any of the old files. something newer. dated only a few years back, apparently smuggled data from a splinter research team working off birkin's original notes long after umbrella itself was gone.
"leon," you say, quiet, scrolling. "this is it. this could be a lead."
he leans over your shoulder to look, close enough that you can feel the solid warmth of him at your back, and for a second neither of you says anything, just stares at a decades-old promise finally sitting in reach.
then the lights flicker.
a low mechanical groan rattles through the walls, old failsafes waking up somewhere deep in the building's bones, and before either of you can move, a series of vents along the ceiling hiss open all at once, releasing a fine, choking spray of something pale and powdery into the air.
"contamination event," an automated voice announces, flat and tinny, decades old and still functioning. "biological countermeasure released. lockdown initiated."
"leon–" you start, already turning, but it's too late, the pollen already settling thick over both of you, coating your hair, your shoulders, catching in your throat with a taste like rot and copper all at once, and leon's arm comes up on instinct, sweeping you back and half behind him even as the fine dust clings to his own skin, his jacket, the exposed line of his throat.
heavy metal shutters slam down over every exit at once, the sound deafening, sealing the lab tight.
"sherry!" leon barks, voice sharp, "talk to me, what the hell was that—"
static, then her voice comes back thinner than before, worry cutting through the professionalism. "reading it now— it's some kind of aerosolised agent, old birkin countermeasure, looks like it triggers on unauthorised terminal access. i'm not getting a clean read on composition, give me a second–"
you're already coughing, throat raw, wiping uselessly at the powder settling into your collar, and beside you leon's doing the same, jaw tight, checking you over with quick, urgent hands before even looking at himself.
"i'm fine, leon, i'm fine—" and you are, mostly, throat scratchy but nothing worse than that, and when you finally get a proper look at him you find him watching you with the same sharp focus, waiting for you to prove it.
it's sherry's voice that breaks the moment, tight and urgent. "leon. i need you to check your levels. now."
"i'm fine–"
"leon."
something in her tone makes him go still, and you watch his hand drift, unconsciously, to the inside of his own wrist, some old habit from decades of monitored vitals, and his face changes, just slightly, something unreadable passing behind his eyes.
"...what," you say, quiet, dread pooling cold in your stomach. "sherry, what is it. what did that thing do to him?"
there's a pause on the line, too long, and when sherry finally speaks again her voice has lost all its usual dryness, careful in a way that scares you more than the shutters ever could.
"i don't know yet," she admits. "but his readings just spiked. hard. i've never seen numbers like that on him before."
leon looks down at you, and for the first time since you found him again, you watch something like real fear cross his face, not for himself, you realise, watching the way his eyes drop instinctively to check you over again.
"however this goes," he says, low, steady despite everything, "you stay behind me. whatever's coming."
the shutters hold fast around you both, sealed tight, and then out of the corner of your eye, just before leon goes to walk in front of you; he goes down before you can catch him.no warning, no stagger, just leon's knees buckling like something cut the string holding him up, and his weight hits the floor with a sound that punches the air straight out of your lungs.
"leon–"
you're on the ground beside him just as he drops, hands scrambling over his chest, his throat, his face, and he's not moving, not breathing that you can tell, eyes closed and mouth slack and the veins along his neck gone still and dark like something in them just stopped.
"leon, hey, hey, look at me–" your voice cracks straight down the middle. you shake his shoulder, hard, harder, like you can rattle him back into his body if you just do it hard enough. nothing; no groan, no flicker under his eyelids, none of the small tells you've learned by heart over weeks and then decades of watching this man's face for exactly this kind of change.
"sherry." you don't recognize your own voice. "sherry, he's not moving, he's not– i can't find a pulse, i can't find it, sherry–"
static answers you. thin, crackling, useless.
"sherry!"
you don't wait for her. you're already moving, tearing yourself off the floor and lunging for the nearest shelf, sweeping vials into your arms without reading a single label, because labels don't matter right now, nothing matters except finding whatever's in this room that might undo whatever just happened to him. glass shatters against the floor, bottles rolling, and you don't care, you just keep grabbing, keep searching, some desperate animal part of your brain insisting there has to be something here, there has to be, decades of research doesn't just end in an empty room with nothing to show for it.
"come on," you're saying, to the shelves, to the vials, to nobody. "come on, come on, there has to be—" your hands are shaking too hard to read the handwriting on half of these, faded ink over cracked glass, and you throw one aside when it means nothing to you, grab another, another, kneeling now in a widening circle of broken glass and spilled reagent that smells like copper and rot and twenty-eight-year-old chemicals gone to ruin.
"sherry, i need a name, i need to know what to give him, tell me what to give him—"
nothing. just static, worse now, breaking up into long dead stretches between bursts of noise.
"sherry, please—"
you crawl back to him between armfuls, checking his throat again, his wrist, pressing your ear flat to his chest and holding your own breath so hard your vision swims, straining for anything, any sound at all under your ear, and there's nothing, there's nothing, and something in your chest starts to come apart at the seams.
"no. no, no, no–" you're back on your feet, back at the shelf, sweeping another row of bottles into your arms so fast two of them crack against each other and spill uselessly across your hands. "there has to be something, this is a lab, this was a whole lab, twenty-eight years and there has to be something in this room that—"
"—yth—reading—" sherry's voice, fractured, barely a voice at all anymore. "—los—signal—"
"sherry! sherry, don't you dare, don't you cut out on me right now, i need you, i need you to tell me what's happening to him—"
the static holds a second longer. two.
then it cuts out entirely, and the silence that replaces it is so total, so absolute, that for a second you can't process it as anything but wrong.
"sherry?" you say it smaller now, into a comm that isn't answering, isn't going to answer, and something about hearing your own voice go that small breaks whatever's been holding you together.
you turn back to leon and your knees just go, dropping you back down beside him hard enough to hurt, glass biting into your skin through your pants and you don't feel it, don't feel anything except the cold, wrong stillness of him under your hands.
"leon." you're gripping his shirt now, both fists twisted into fabric, shaking him again like this time might be different. "leon, please, please don't do this, don't you dare do this to me, not after i just got you back, not after twenty-eight years, you don't get to—"
your voice gives out entirely on the last word, and what comes after isn't words at all, just sound, ugly and raw, torn out of you as you fold forward over him, forehead pressed to his chest where his heartbeat should be and isn't, hands still fisted in his shirt like you can hold him here by will alone.
the shutters don't move, the lights don't come back, and sherry doesn't answer.
there’s a heavy, dead silence that stretches through the labratory.
then the words come slow at first, broken, like they have to fight their way up through everything sitting in your throat.
"i thought about you every day." your voice is wrecked, barely holding together, but you keep going, hands still fisted in his shirt like letting go means losing the last piece of him. "did you know that? every single day for twenty-eight years, and i never– i never came back, i told myself it was too late, i told myself you were better off without me dragging up everything that happened here, and i was wrong, i was so wrong, leon, i should've come back the very next week–"
a hiccup breaks the sentence in half, but you press on anyway.
"i raised her.. sherry. i raised her and she's– she's incredible, leon, she's so smart, she graduated top of her class, she wanted to study biochem because of everything that happened to you, because she wanted to understand it, wanted to help, and i used to sit in the back of every ceremony and cry because you weren't there to see it, because you should've been there–"
your breath catches, stutters, and you have to stop, forehead still pressed to his chest, that horrible stillness under your cheek where his heartbeat should be.
"i dated. a couple times. never– never worked, never went anywhere, because i kept comparing everyone to a guy who ate zombie jerky in a parking lot and made me laugh about it twenty minutes after and i wanted to throw up." a broken sound escapes you, something between a sob and a laugh that dies before it fully forms. "how messed up is that. twenty-eight years and nobody ever came close, and i never even told you why, i never told you anything, i walked out of that room and let you call after me for a name i never gave you–"
you're properly crying now, words coming apart between breaths.
"i wanted to go back so many times. i'd get as far as booking the flight, leon, i swear, i got that far more than once, and then i'd– i'd think about how much time had passed, how you probably moved on, how you probably didn't even think about some nameless woman from a police station anymore, and i'd cancel it, every time, i cancelled it every single time and i hate myself for it, i hate myself so much right now–"
your hands twist tighter in his shirt.
"you don't get to go now. you don't get to go now that i finally came back, that's not– that's not how this works, you don't get to make me spend twenty-eight years too scared to say your name out loud and then just– just go, leon, please, please don't do this.."
the sentence collapses. you stop trying to speak at all, and what's left is just sound, your face pressed hard into his chest, shoulders shaking, a scream tearing loose from somewhere underneath all the words you didn't get to say in time, raw and endless in a room that doesn't answer back.
a hand comes up before you register it, still that same faint coolness you know, cupping the back of your head, fingers threading slow into your hair.
"...twenty-eight years," leon rasps, voice wrecked and rough and unmistakably his, "and you wait 'til i collapse to tell me your name?"
you go rigid for half a second, disbelief locking every muscle in your body, and then you're scrambling back just far enough to look at him, and he's looking right back at you, eyes open, dazed and glassy but open, chest rising under your hands in that same slow, uneven way it always has.
"leon!" it comes out strangled, half question, half sob. "leon, you went down, i couldn't tell if you were– i thought i lost you!"
"m'here." his thumb brushes clumsily along your cheekbone, catching a tear that's already fallen, his hand shaking against your skin. "m'here. i got you. 'm sorry."
"you scared me," you choke out, and it comes apart into something closer to a laugh, wet and hysterical and relieved all at once, your forehead dropping to his chest; just to feel him solid and present under you, veins still tracing faint and dark beneath his collar, skin still carrying that same undertone it's carried since a police station twenty-eight years ago.
his arm comes around you, weak but insistent. "wasn't plannin' on it," he murmurs. "kinda hard to warn you when you're busy passin' out."
"don't joke," you say, sharp even through the tears, fisting your hand into his shirt. "not yet. not right now."
"...okay." he presses his mouth to the top of your head instead, breath still uneven under yours. "okay. m'sorry."
you don't move and neither does he. the shutters are still sealed, and whatever that pollen did to his readings, it clearly didn't undo him, didn't change the zombie side of him, just knocked him flat and let him back up the same as he's always been. for one suspended, glass-littered moment, none of that matters. just his hand in your hair, and your name, finally, sitting out loud in the space between you after twenty-eight years of him not having it.
"leon," you say, pulling back just enough to look at him properly, hands still braced against his chest. "are you okay? what happened, why did you go down like that, sherry said your levels spiked and then you just–"
he doesn't answer.
his hand slides from your wrist up into your hair instead, and he pulls you back in slow, giving you every chance to pull away if you want to, but the questions die in your throat the second his mouth finds yours.
it's not clumsy, not for a man who just came back from wherever he went. it's careful, aching, his other hand fisting gently in the fabric at your waist like he needs something solid to hold onto too, and when you make a small, muffled sound of protest against his mouth; half question, half something else entirely- he only pulls you closer, like the questions can wait, like this can't.
you kiss him back despite yourself, hands framing his jaw, still half convinced you should be shaking answers out of him instead, but he's solid and present under your palms, and twenty-eight years of wanting this wins out over twenty-eight seconds of wanting an explanation.
when he finally breaks away, it's only far enough to breathe, forehead dropping to rest against yours.
"leon," you try again, breathless, not letting it go entirely. "seriously. what was that?"
"...m'fine," he murmurs, which isn't an answer at all, and you can feel him smiling faintly against your mouth like he knows it too. "ask me later."
"i'm asking you now—"
he kisses you again instead of answering, slower this time, and you feel the fight go out of your protest somewhere around the second time his thumb strokes along your jaw.
"you're avoiding the question," you mumble against his mouth.
"...yeah," he agrees, easy, unrepentant, exactly the way he used to be about the arm in the parking lot. "m'not answering that one for free."
static crackles back to life in your ear, sherry's voice threading through it, tinny and hesitant.
"—hello? hello, is anyone — i'm getting comms back, are you two okay in there? leon? your vitals just did something i've genuinely never seen before, i need a verbal confirm—"
leon pulls back just far enough to answer, voice rough. "...we're fine, sherry."
"that's not– that's not a real answer, what happened, your levels spiked and then flatlined for a full nine seconds and then—"
"we're fine," he says again, grunting it more than saying it, and you barely have time to register the shift before his hands close around your waist and hauls your body into his lap, glass crunching under the both of you as he moves, settling you there like it's the easiest thing in the world.
"leon—" you start, half-laugh, half-protest, hands landing on his shoulders to steady yourself, but he's already reaching up, plucking the earpiece out of your ear with careless fingers before doing the same to his own, tossing them both aside without a second glance.
"hey—! sherry's still trying to–"
"she's forty years old, she’ll be fine." he mutters, and then his mouth is back on yours before you can argue further, one hand splayed solid and insistent against the small of your back, the other sliding up into your hair again like he can't quite stand not touching it.
his voice comes out low and rough against your mouth. "everything's fuzzy," he admits, quiet, like it costs him something to say it. "...hot. feels like my blood's boilin'." he doesn't stop, doesn't pull back to explain further, just kisses you again, slower, like the words are secondary to whatever this is.
"leon, that doesn't sound fine—" you try, pulling back enough to actually look at him, searching his face for something wrong, but his eyes are dark and steady on yours, none of that old feral blankness in them, nothing that looks like danger, just something urgent and a little desperate that has nothing to do with hunger for anything but you.
"'m fine," he says again, quieter this time, more certain, and kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, like he's chasing something he's not ready to name yet. "just– need this a second. need you a second. let me have it."
your protest dies somewhere in your throat. you let him have it.
you feel the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin as his lips trail along your jaw, each kiss slower than the last, like he's memorising the shape of you all over again. his hands stay planted on your shoulders, fingers digging in just enough to keep you close without pushing further. the sewer air clings to both of you, thick with damp rot and the metallic sting of old blood, but none of it matters when his mouth finds that spot just beneath your ear.
his breath comes uneven, warm against your neck. you can feel the tremor running through him, the way his chest rises and falls too fast against yours. twenty-eight years of silence and death and everything in between hangs between you, and all he wants is this moment pressed against cold concrete walls.
"just a second," he whispers again, voice cracking around the edges. his lips brush yours once more, soft and searching, before he pulls back enough to rest his forehead against yours. his eyes stay closed, like looking at you might break whatever fragile thing he's holding onto.
you don't move, you don't even speak; just let him breathe you in while the distant drip of water echoes through the tunnels around you.
his hands stay on your shoulders for another beat, then slide lower, thumbs dragging over the curve of your collarbones like he's testing if you'll let him keep going. when you don't pull away he exhales hard through his nose, almost a groan, and leans in until his forehead rests against yours again.
"i need you," he says, voice low and rough like gravel under water. "please. let me touch you."
you nod before the words even finish leaving his mouth, and his palms move at once, broad and heavy as they sweep down your sides, mapping every inch like he's afraid you'll disappear if he stops. he's so much bigger than you remember—shoulders wider, chest thicker, the solid weight of him pressing you back against the cold concrete wall. even through his jacket you can feel the unnatural strength in him, that half-dead, half-alive power coiled under his skin.
his fingers find the hem of your shirt and slip underneath, cool against your stomach. he doesn't rush. just rests his hand there, feeling you breathe, before his thumb strokes slow circles over your hipbone. you can't stop staring at how his forearm looks against you; thick, corded muscle wrapped in pale skin that doesn't quite look human anymore, veins darker than they should be, the way his body fills the space between you makes your pulse jump.
"fuck," he breathes against your neck, pressing closer. his other hand slides up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. "you're still so warm. i forgot how warm you are."
you reach up and touch his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble that's grown in uneven patches. his eyes are darker than they used to be, pupils blown wide, but there's still that same look in them, like you're the only thing keeping him grounded. he turns his head and kisses your palm, lips parting just enough for you to feel the wet heat of his tongue against your skin.
"tell me if you want me to stop," he says, but his hands don't move away. they stay right where they are, one under your shirt, one cradling your skull, holding you like something precious and breakable all at once.
you shake your head. "please don't stop."
he makes a sound that's half relief, half hunger, and presses his mouth to yours again. this kiss is deeper, his tongue sliding against yours, careful but wanting. his body cages you in completely, broad chest flush to yours, hips angled just close enough that you can feel the hard line of him through his pants. he doesn't grind or push, just lets you feel how much he wants this, how much he's been holding back for years.
his hand under your shirt moves higher, palm spreading wide over your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. he pauses there, waiting, and when you arch into his touch, he groans into your mouth and finally, finally, lets himself have more.
you lose track of time like that. his mouth on yours, his hands learning you, the massive frame of him keeping you pinned safe against the wall while the lab groans and echos around you. every touch is deliberate and every kiss is a promise, and through it all you can't stop thinking about how big he is now, how solid, how the thing that used to be leon is somehow even more than he was before.
his hands leave your ribs and drop straight to your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. before you can blink, he's lifting you clean off the ground, using that impossible strength to haul your whole body up like you weigh nothing. your back scrapes the concrete as he swings your legs over his shoulders, forcing your thighs wide around his thick neck until your cunt is pressed right against his mouth through your panties.
he doesn't wait. his lips seal over the damp fabric, and he sucks hard, tongue pushing wet heat through the thin cotton until it's plastered to your folds. the sound is filthy and loud, hungry, the wet drag of his mouth working against you while his massive hands cup your ass from underneath, fingers spreading you open even more. he holds you suspended there, feet dangling, completely at his mercy as he mouths at your clit through the soaked material.
"fuck, you taste so good," he growls against your cunt, voice vibrating straight through you. his tongue presses harder, tracing your slit, pushing the fabric deeper between your lips before he finally hooks two fingers under the edge and yanks your panties aside. the cool air hits your bare pussy for half a second before his mouth is on you again, all hot, wet, and desperate.
his tongue drags flat and broad from your entrance all the way up to your clit, then he seals his lips around the swollen bud and sucks. your thighs clamp around his head but he doesn't even flinch, just groans into your cunt and keeps eating you like he's starving. every lick is deliberate, every suck greedy. he keeps you pinned against the wall with your ass in his hands, lifting and lowering you so your pussy grinds against his face exactly how he wants it.
“o– oh my fu–” your voice shakes into a moan as your hands find his hair, fingers twisting in the dark strands as he works his tongue inside you, fucking you with it before pulling back to circle your clit again. the muscles in his arms flex as he holds your weight, veins standing out under that pale half-dead skin. he doesn't let up for a second, just keeps your thighs spread wide around his broad shoulders while he devours you, tongue lapping at every drop of slick you give him.
when you start shaking, he just tightens his grip on your ass and pulls you harder against his mouth, forcing you to ride his face while he sucks your clit between his teeth and flicks it with his tongue. the wet sounds echo off the walls, mixing with your gasps and his low, hungry groans as he loses himself between your legs.
leon’s tongue drags through your soaked folds with a wet, filthy sound that bounces off the damp concrete walls. his half-zombified strength keeps you pinned high on his shoulders, thighs clamped around his head while he devours you like he’s starving. every rough scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs makes you jolt, and he answers with a low, broken groan that vibrates straight into your clit.
"fuck, leon–you’re so fucking good at this," you gasp, voice high and whiny even as you slap a hand over your mouth. "eating pussy like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. please dont stop, don’t you fucking stop–"
he groans against you, the sound rough and primal, and sucks your clit between his teeth. his tongue flicks hard and fast, forcing a sharp, broken moan out of you that echoes down the tunnel.
"please– fuck, i wanna suck you off," you beg, voice shaking with every pulse of pleasure. "i need your cock in my mouth, please, let me taste you—"
leon grunts, the sound deep and guttural, but he obeys. strong hands slide down your ass and he lowers you carefully until your boots hit the ground. the second your feet touch concrete you’re on him, fingers yanking at his tactical pants, zipper ripping open. his cock springs free, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip.
you don’t even wait. you shove him back against the floor, plant your dripping pussy right back on his mouth, and drop forward to swallow him down in one greedy motion. leon groans so hard it shakes through your entire body, the vibration making your thighs tremble.
he grips your ass with bruising force and drags you harder against his face, forcing you to ride his tongue while you bob on his cock. every wet slurp of his mouth on your clit mixes with the obscene sounds of you choking yourself on him. you pull off just long enough to taunt him, spit and precum stringing from your lips.
"god,” you whine as your hand grips his cock, jerking his tip in filthy, quick jerks, “bet you’d let me ride your face until i drown you, wouldn’t you?" you let out a giggle in amusement as you lick at his tip.
keon answers with a deep, rumbling grunt, hips bucking up into your mouth while his tongue fucks into you. his grip tightens, fingers digging deep as he forces you to grind harder, faster. your legs start to shake, and he only pulls you down more firmly, sucking your clit between his teeth again, flicking it mercilessly while the wet, messy sounds fill the lab.
"fuck, i wasted twenty-eight years when i should’ve hunted you down," he growls against your pussy, voice rough and thick with regret. "couldve been between your pretty legs every fucking day. could’ve had this sweet cunt on my tongue every goddamn morning."
you moan around his cock, the sound muffled and broken, and he grunts like he’s the one being wrecked. his tongue works deeper, more desperate, as if he’s trying to make up for every lost year with each filthy stroke.
leon lowers you to the cold floor of the lab, his broad frame settling over yours in a slow, deliberate motion. his tactical pants are already shoved down around his thighs, cock heavy and flushed where it presses against your inner thigh. both of you are breathing hard, the weight of years pressing down between you.
"i wanna see that pretty face when i make you cum," he mutters, voice low and rough like gravel as hs hand slides up your side, palm warm against your skin. "been thinking about it since i first saw you again."
you reach up, fingers brushing over the stubble along his jaw. "i haven't done this in decades," you admit, voice steady but honest, too deep in with this man for childish embarrassment.
leon huffs out something between a laugh and a groan, forehead pressing to yours. "i only wanted you all these years,” his cock twitches against you, leaking. "you sure about this?"
"i trust you," you say without hesitation. your legs part wider, knees bending to cradle his hips. "all of you. even the parts that want to eat me."
he groans at that, the sound deep in his chest, and lines himself up but quickly presses his lips to yours. maybe to quieten you, or maybe to show how his tongue can do more than devour. the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance, sliding through your slick before he pushes in slow. inch by inch, stretching you open, until he's buried to the hilt with a shaky gasp into your mouth before he disconnects you two.
"fuck," he breathes, lips finding your pulse point. he sucks there, teeth scraping just enough to make you clench around him. the fear spikes through you sharp and electric, and your walls flutter tight. leon feels it and laughs low against your skin. "you're crazy. getting wetter because i could bite down right now."
he doesn't wait for an answer. his hips draw back and snap forward, setting a deep, steady rhythm that has your back scraping against the concrete. each thrust punches a grunt out of him, low and guttural, his mouth working at your neck like he's trying to mark you without breaking skin. you cling to his shoulders, nails digging in, and he fucks you harder for it.
the wet sound of him sliding in and out fills the room, mixed with the slap of skin and the rough drag of his stubble against your throat. he keeps his face buried there, sucking and licking, hiding the way his teeth want to sink deeper. every time you clench around him from the danger of it, he groans and pounds harder.
"close," you gasp, thighs starting to shake around his waist. "leonnnnn– fuck—"
he lifts his head just enough to watch your face, eyes dark and hungry. "that's it. let me see."
you cum first, walls pulsing around him, a broken moan tearing from your throat. leon follows right after, hips stuttering as he buries himself deep and spills inside you with a long, shaking groan. his whole body trembles, then he collapses forward, face pressed between your breasts, breathing hard.
you let out a soft, exhausted laugh, fingers threading through his hair. "pussy putting you to sleep?"
leon makes a sound that's half grunt, half laugh, and gives you one shallow thrust that makes you gasp. he grins up at you, lazy and satisfied, then leans up to kiss you slow and sweet, tasting like sweat and the years you both lost.
the first aid tent is bright in a way that hurts after hours in the dark, fluorescent and sterile and entirely too clean after everything you just walked out of. you don't remember most of the walk back, just leon's hand locked around yours the whole way, refusing to let go even when a medic tries to get him onto the cot properly.
"vitals are stabilising." someone says, reading off a tablet, and you're only half listening, rattling through your own list at the same time, half to the medic, half to yourself.
"he took in the aerosol, whatever it was, spiked hard, went unconscious for– i don't know, a minute, less? no change in presentation after, no wounds, no new bites, pupils reactive, breathing's steady now." you're gripping his hand so hard your knuckles have gone white, and you don't loosen it, not once, not when they check his pulse, not when they draw blood, not when someone reaches for the muzzle sitting coiled and waiting on the supply tray.
"no," you say, before they've even fully lifted it. "put that down."
"ma'am, protocol says–"
"i don't care what protocol says." your voice doesn't shake, not this time, twenty-eight years of practice sitting steady under it. "he's not wearing that. not today, not ever again if i have anything to say about it, and i will make very sure i have something to say about it."
leon's thumb strokes slow over the back of your hand, quiet, grateful, and doesn't say a word, just lets you fight this one the way you've been fighting since a glass-walled observation room decades ago.
nobody argues and the tray gets pushed aside.
sherry finds you both a few minutes later, comm headset still crooked on her ears, and the second she clears the tent flap she doesn't stop to ask questions, doesn't stop for anything, just crosses the space and wraps both of you up at once, one arm around each of your necks, her face pressed somewhere between your shoulder and leon's.
"you scared the hell out of me," she says, muffled, voice cracking. "both of you. i thought—"
"we know," leon says, rough, and lifts the arm not currently pinned by your grip to pull her in tighter. "'m sorry, kid."
"don't do that again," she mutters, and you feel her hiccup against your shoulder, twenty-eight years dissolving right back down into the girl who used to cling to your sleeve, just for a second, just long enough to remind you all exactly what you almost lost.
nobody lets go for a long while.
but after twenty-eight years apart, you'd take anything, so long as it was with sherry and leon still breathing beside you.
your freaky little zombie family, back together at last.
Hii! Love your work 🧡 so I just wanted to see your take on the cute idea of Leon not remembering you bc of the anesthesia after a surgery, due to an injury during a mission. It’ll be so him to try and flirt as you check up on him and just the fact he refuses to accept that he managed to have a wife like you, no doubt mess with him a bit saying you’re married but not say to him until after a bit of teasing 😭
Omg yes!!! Ngl, I was born with a birth defect and have had some surgeries for it, and anesthesia really is the WILDEST TRIP EVER lol. Also, I used some memes as inspo for this.
Summary: Anesthesia is one hell of a trip. Oh, and there's this pretty lady next to him. Wait, what the fuck do you mean you're his wife?!
An Angel - Leon Kennedy x Reader
The first thing he notices as he comes to is that there’s a steady beeping beside him. It’s a little shrill, but not particularly loud, just a constant noise that makes him want to go back to sleep.
When his eyes crack open, he has to squint, lights too bright above him.
“Leon? You awake?”
Oh, that voice is pretty. Sweet and gentle and everything he could want to hear. His mind feels all fuzzy and hazy. What happened? Where the hell is he?
There’s a giggle off to the side. It’s soft and sugary, like fresh spun cotton candy. “Careful, now. They gave you enough anesthesia to knock out a horse.”
He grumbles, his eyes finally adjusting a bit more. He’s in a hospital bed, a thin scratchy blanket laid on top of him, tucked carefully into his sides. The beeping to his left is coming from a heart monitor, linked to a little cuff on his finger. Leon smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times, cringing at the dryness.
“... Hospital?” His voice is rough and hoarse.
The person nods, and his vision finally clears fully. You’re standing beside him, a book tucked under one arm and a paper cup in your hand. You lower it to his lips, and he drinks greedily, even if it feels so cold that it shocks him.
“Yep. The doctors said you could be a bit out of it. Do you remember what happened?”
He tries to remember, he really does. Something about a bullet and a monster and some kind of cure? It’s all a blur in his mind.
“Kinda?” He gives a small, weak cough. “Why’d they put me under?”
Your hand reaches down, grazing his cheek. This doesn’t feel real. You’re so pretty it hurts, all soft and sweet and gentle. Who the hell are you?
You tsk, a small smile on your face. “You got shot. Apparently the bullet got lodged near your ribs. Are you feeling okay?”
“Who’re you?” He blinks. “A nurse?”
You giggle again. “No, Leon. I’m not a nurse.”
“An angel?”
The giggle evolves into full blown laughter. “They were real damn generous with those pain meds, weren’t they?”
Now that he thinks about it, yeah, they probably were. He doesn’t feel much pain right now. Mostly just some discomfort. Some tightness around his ribs, probably from some kind of bandaging. Your hand moves down to his chest, pressing against his collarbone. You’re warm, he notes. He wants to curl into that warmth forever if he could.
Wait, why are you touching him?
You’re not a nurse, you said. His eyes flit around the room, landing on the wedding ring on his finger. Oh, fuck. His brain is groggy, and he can’t remember all that much, but he has a wife. He knows that. No matter how pretty and warm you are, he has a wife.
“My wife-” He sputters, though he doesn’t dare pull away from your touch. “My wife will get mad if she sees you touching me like that. On my chest.”
More laughing. This time, you have to step away clutching your hands to your stomach as you nearly choke on laughter. You wipe a tear from your eye, finally trying to calm down.
“And my husband,” You heave in a breath, giggles still tumbling from your lips. “Would get mad if he saw me touching any other man.”
Leon nods, assured. “Husband?”
“Yes, Leon. Husband.” You lift your hand, showing a ring. It’s similar to his own, he notes. Must have similar taste. “Whom I am very loyal and loving to.”
“He a decent guy?” Leon tries to reach for the water on the bedside table, but his arm falls short. You help him immediately, grabbing the cup and letting him drink again.
“Yes, he is.” You wipe a dribble of water from his chin. “Treats me perfect and all. Though he can be an idiot sometimes. Always running headfirst into danger.”
He grumbles. “He better be treating you right. You’re too pretty for him not to.”
Another laugh, and this time he joins in, even though he’s not sure what’s so funny. Okay, there it is. The pain. When he laughs, his ribs hurt, a sharp stinging pain that lances up his side. Leon can’t help but hiss in discomfort, body twisting a little to try and get away from the burn.
“Hurts?” Your hand is there immediately, giving the gentlest of soothing pressure. “It’s okay. Just breathe, honey. Do you need me to get the doctor? He can give you some more morphine.”
Even through his agony, Leon’s brow raises. “Don’t call me that. My wife wouldn’t like it.”
“Leon, baby, I am your wife.”
Beside him, the heart rate monitor starts going haywire, beats crescendoing into a rhythm that is definitely too fast. “W-What?”
"I'm your wife." You answer surely, still petting over his side. Your touch almost feels healing, and he doesn’t even try to shy away from it. Instead, he looks at you. Looks at your wedding ring, then his. Looks back at you.
"...No."
An amused huff. "What do you mean, no?"
"I mean..." He gestures vaguely toward your face. "...Look at you."
You frown. "What about me?"
"You're..." His brain searches for the word. "...Beautiful."
You smile, and it does something in his brain that he really can’t explain right now. He still feels all slow and dumb. Morphine, you said? That makes sense then.
"Thank you."
"No, I don't think you understand." Leon shakes his head, and his hand shakily moves up to you, brushing a few strands of hair back from your eyes. He doesn’t miss the way you accept the gesture, even going along with it.
Your wedding ring is still glinting on your finger. It looks like it matches his, actually. Shit, are you telling the truth? How the hell did he get this lucky?
"I probably don't." You giggle.
"You are way too pretty to have married me."
Your eyes soften, almost getting a little teary. It confuses him. Why do you look like that? Like you love him?
“You say that all the time, baby.” Your hand moves from his ribs, and you lean down to kiss his forehead. It sends him reeling. “You’re always saying how you have no idea how you got so lucky. I think it’s the opposite, but you never let me say that.”
His forehead is still warm where your lips pressed against it. He wants more, truthfully. Instead of prompting for another, words blurt out of him before he can stop it.
“So, do we kiss? Have we kissed?”
Your face twists for a moment, before chuckles escape you anyway. “Yes, baby. We kiss a lot.” As if to prove your point, you give him a quick peck on the lips, your nose crinkling. “Ew, you need a shower. I’ll help you clean up once you wake up more.”
The heart rate monitor has only increased. He can feel a flush come to his cheeks, making his whole damn face red. “So have we…? You know…?” His eyes sheepishly look away.
At this point, you’re wheezing. “Made love? Of course, baby. But please calm down. Before the doctors think you’re having a heart attack, please.”
He sputters. “S-Seriously? We’ve done that?”
At this point, your head falls into your hands, and your giggles don’t stop. “Very serious.”
“More than once?!” He tries to move, and more pain lances through his ribs.
“Yes, baby.” You press a button near his head, and almost immediately, he feels a wave of relief wash over him. The morphine drip, maybe? The call button? He has no idea what you just pressed. You continue, “Honey, we’ve been married for almost six years.”
“Six years?!” Leon coughs again. “Six whole years?!”
Another nod, and this time he’s sure that he died during that damn surgery, and went to heaven. You really must be an angel, he’s decided. There’s no way this is real.
His eyes are starstruck when you kiss his cheek. His gaze drifts toward the chair beside the bed. Your jacket is thrown over the back. An overnight bag rests beneath it. A dog-eared book sits on the seat beside an empty coffee cup gone cold hours ago. How long had you been here? Waiting for him to wake up?
I'm in love with your stories ❤️ What do you think about an isekai reader in Atla who falls in love with Aang while trying to avoid him as much as possible, but they keep running into each other and it's very difficult not to find him charming? Or if that's not your thing, something about a reader x Aang where they complement each other very well despite having opposite personalities?
Sunshine and Thunderstorm
╰┈➤ pairing: Aang x gn! reader
a/n: tyy sm for the requesttt! <3 (had to take break again, also just did like a whole rebrand on my acc loll)
summary: While the Gaang constantly teases that you and Aang are complete opposites, everyone eventually realizes that your differences are exactly what make your relationship so strong, and bringing out the best in each other.
Everyone always thought it was strange that you and Aang worked so well together.
Because on paper?
You shouldn’t have. Aang was light, gentle and patient. The kind of person who smiled at strangers and stopped to help lost animals on the street.
You-
Well.
You were definitely not that. You were sharper around the edges. More realistic. Quick to snap when irritated. The type to cross your arms during meetings while Aang tried to peacefully negotiate with people.
Honestly, most people assumed you argued constantly. And to be fair, you did.
Just not in the way they thought.
“Aang.”
“What?”
“That man is literally trying to scam you.”
The old vendor immediately gasped dramatically. “I would never scam the Avatar!”
You stared at him flatly. “You just doubled the price!"
Aang looked sheepish instantly. “…Did you?”
The vendor slowly lowered the price. You snorted and continued walking while Aang hurried after you.
“You can’t glare at every shopkeeper.”
“I can if they deserve it.”
Aang laughed softly beside you.
And there it was. That balance. Because where Aang saw the good in everybody-
You saw the warning signs.
Where you got angry-
Aang stayed calm.
Where he overthought everything-
You grounded him.
You balanced each other without even trying. Katara noticed it first. Probably because she spent the most time watching both of you together. One evening the Gaang sat around a campfire after a long day traveling. Sokka was loudly losing a Pai Sho game to Toph.
Again.
“It’s not cheating if you’re just bad at the game,” Toph said smugly.
“It literally is cheating!”
You snorted quietly from your spot near the fire while sharpening a small dagger absentmindedly. Across from you, Aang sat cross-legged meditating.
Or trying to.
Every few seconds one eye cracked open to look at you. You noticed by the fourth time.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m meditating.”
Aang grinned. Katara watched the interaction with amusement. “You know,” she said casually, “you two are weirdly perfect together.”
You immediately looked over.
“We are not weird.”
Toph laughed loudly.
“You guys are SUPER weird.”
Sokka pointed dramatically. “You’re like sunshine and a thunderstorm dating each other.”
You blinked.
“…That was weirdly poetic for you.”
“Thank you.”
Aang smiled softly beside the fire. “I think we work well together.”
Your eyes flickered toward him. He said it so simply, like it was obvious.
And maybe it was.
Because despite how different you both were-
Being with Aang felt easy, almost natrual.
Even when you argued. Especially when you argued.
Like last week-
The Gaang had stopped in a crowded Earth Kingdom town where a dispute broke out between local merchants. Aang immediately tried solving it peacefully.
Of course.
Meanwhile you stood nearby already annoyed. “This meeting has been going in circles for an hour.”
Aang kept his calm smile. “We’re making progress.”
“You’ve said that three times.”
One merchant started yelling again. You pinched the bridge of your nose. Aang touched your wrist gently under the table.n“Give me a little longer,” he murmured quietly.
And because it was him... you did.
Thirty minutes later the argument finally settled peacefully. Outside afterward, you crossed your arms. “That could’ve been solved way faster.”
“Probably.”
“You still dragged it out.”
Aang smiled. “But nobody got hurt.”
You sighed dramatically.
“You’re exhausting.”
“And you love me.”
Unfortunately true. Another thing people noticed?
Aang softened you. Not completely. You still had a temper, still rolled your eyes constantly. Still threatened Sokka at least once a week.
But around Aang... you became gentler without realizing it. The best example was probably Appa. Before dating Aang, you tolerated Appa.
After dating Aang?
You were literally hand-feeding the giant sky bison apples while baby-talking him. Sokka saw it once and nearly fainted.
“WHO ARE YOU?”
You immediately pointed at him. “Say one word and I’ll push you off Appa.”
Meanwhile-
You toughened Aang up too.
Not in a bad way. But you taught him how to stand firm sometimes. How to stop apologizing for existing, how to say no. One night after a council meeting in Republic City, Aang came home frustrated.
“They wanted me to mediate another harbor dispute.”
“And?”
“I already have three other things tomorrow.”
You looked up from your book.
“So say no.”
Aang blinked.
“…I can do that?”
You stared at him.
“You are literally the Avatar.”
The next meeting?
Aang finally set boundaries. And afterward he came home looking almost shocked with himself.
“They said okay.”
“No way.”
He laughed while collapsing dramatically beside you on the couch. “They just said okay.”
You kissed his cheek proudly.
“See? Growth.”
He smiled into your shoulder afterward.
“You make me braver.”
Your heart nearly exploded honestly. Because Aang said things like that so sincerely. Another reason you worked so well together, you understood each other’s weaknesses instinctively. When Aang got overwhelmed, you noticed before anyone else.
Like during festivals.
The crowds.
The expectations.
Everyone wanting something from him.
You’d quietly grab his hand and pull him away before he could burn himself out trying to please everybody. And when you got angry, really angry, Aang never got angry back, he just stayed calm until the storm passed. One time you snapped at a rude councilman so hard the entire room went silent.
Afterward you expected Aang to lecture you. Instead he handed you tea. “He was rude,” he admitted carefully.
You blinked. “That’s all you’re gonna say?”
“You already know you scared everybody.”
“…Fair.”
Then there were the quiet moments too. The ones nobody else really saw. Like mornings. Aang waking before sunrise to meditate while you groggily pulled him back into bed because he was warm.
Or nights where he’d ramble excitedly about rebuilding Air Nomad culture while you listened even when half asleep.
You grounded him.
He softened you.
You protected him emotionally.
He protected your heart without even realizing it.
One rainy night, Katara finally said what everyone had clearly been thinking for years. The Gaang sat crowded together inside a small inn while rain hammered outside. You were arguing with a man downstairs earlier because he overcharged your rooms.
Aang had calmly talked the price back down afterward.
Now both of you sat beside each other sharing tea.
Katara smiled softly watching you both. “You know why you work?”
You looked over suspiciously.
“Why does everyone keep analyzing our relationship?”
summary: When vandals desecrate an ancient Air Nomad temple, Aang is consumed by grief and nearly loses himself in his anger until the person he loves reminds him that his people still live on through him, allowing him to regain control of the Avatar State.
The mission had already been tense from the beginning.
Too tense.
The reports coming into Republic City had been strange at first, small attacks near ancient Air Nomad landmarks, damaged statues, stolen relics. At first, Aang tried convincing himself it wasn’t targeted. That maybe it was random, but then more news came.
Another temple damaged.
Old Air Nomad artifacts destroyed.
Sacred murals burned.
And suddenly it became very clear, someone was intentionally targeting Air Nomad history.
Targeting his people. The entire trip there, Aang had been quiet. The kind where his thoughts were eating him alive. You noticed it immediately.
Of course you did.
While everyone else planned routes and discussed strategy, Aang barely spoke. He just stared ahead on Appa, jaw tight, hands clenched in his lap. You stayed close the entire flight.
Sometimes your knee brushed his.
Sometimes your hand rested quietly over his.
Small reminders.
I’m here.
Aang always held your hand back a little tighter than usual when you did.
Then you arrived.
And everything got worse.
One entire side of the old temple had collapsed. Stone pillars shattered across the mountainside, ancient carvings destroyed, and pieces of Air Nomad history buried under rubble and ash.
The second Aang saw it-
He froze.
Completely.
His face went pale.
“No…”
The word barely came out. You felt your chest tighten instantly. Because this wasn’t just a building to him.
This was home.
Family.
Culture.
The last pieces of people he’d already lost once before. Aang slowly stepped through the wreckage. Eyes darting desperately over broken walls and destroyed statues.
Then suddenly-
His breathing changed.
Fast.
Sharp.
Angry.
“Why would someone do this?!” his voice echoed through the ruined temple.
Everyone went silent.
Aang turned toward the destroyed murals. “They were already gone!” his voice cracked, “They’re already gone so why keep destroying what’s left?!”
You’d rarely ever heard him yell like this. This was grief mixed with rage.
“Aang,” you said softly.
But he barely heard you. His fists clenched hard enough his knuckles whitened. “This is all we have left of them.”
The hurt in his voice nearly broke your heart. You stepped closer carefully. “We’ll fix what we can.”
Aang laughed bitterly. “How many times do I have to watch my people disappear?”
Silence hit the group hard after that.
Then suddenly-
An explosion echoed from deeper inside the temple. Everyone snapped around instantly. Enemies flooded into the courtyard from multiple entrances. And the second Aang saw them, something in him broke completely. The battle exploded instantly.
Zuko’s fire lit the courtyard.
Katara’s water crashed through enemies.
Toph split stone beneath their feet.
Sokka shouted instructions somewhere nearby.
But Aang-
Aang fought like a storm. Airbending blasts slammed enemies into walls hard enough to crack stone. Debris whipped dangerously around him. His movements weren’t controlled anymore.
They were emotional.
And anger and the Avatar State had never mixed well.
Aang’s grief was overpowering everything else. You could see it happening in real time. He tried to enter the Avatar State twice already, his tattoos flickering briefly before vanishing again.
His emotions were too unstable.
He was too angry.
And every failure only made him angrier.
“Aang!”
He barely reacted. Another enemy rushed him. Aang airbent them back so violently they crashed through broken stone.
Your stomach twisted.
Then you saw it.
Three enemies preparing an attack directly behind him while his attention stayed elsewhere.
“AANG!”
You immediately ran toward him. Grabbing his arm hard enough to force his attention onto you. “Aang, stop!”
He turned sharply toward you. He didn’t even seem to fully see you, his breathing was wild, overwhelmed with rage and grief and pain. The wind around him spiraled chaotically.
“Aang.”
You grabbed his face firmly with both hands, making him look directly at you. “Look at me.”
His eyes struggled to focus. You could physically feel him shaking. “They destroyed it,” he choked out. “They destroyed their home…”
Tears were already building in his eyes now.
Pure heartbreak underneath all that anger.
“I know.”
His breathing hitched sharply. “I couldn’t protect any of it.”
“You’re trying to protect it now.”
“It’s all disappearing again!”
The crack in his voice hurt more than the yelling ever could. You held his face tighter gently. “Aang.”
This time he looked at you fully. He was drowning, not in anger, in grief. The anger was just covering it.
“You need to breathe.”
“I can’t-”
“Yes you can.”
Your thumbs brushed gently beneath his eyes. “I’m here.”
The battle still raged around you both. But for a second none of it mattered. Only him.
“You need to calm down.”
His breathing shook violently. “They took everything from the Air Nomads.”
Your eyes softened immediately. “No.”
Aang blinked.
“You’re still here.”
His expression cracked completely.
“You are Air Nomad culture,” you whispered softly, “You carry them with you.”
Tears finally spilled down his face. And suddenly all that rage underneath him shifted, softening enough for the grief beneath it to finally breathe. You rested your forehead against his. “It’s okay.”
Aang’s hands slowly gripped your wrists.
Grounding himself.
“You’re not alone.”
His breathing finally started slowing little by little. The violent winds around him calming gradually.
“You have us.”
Another shaky breath.
“You have me.”
Aang closed his eyes tightly. And for one long moment, he simply let himself hurt.
Then suddenly-
The air changed.
The energy around him steadied completely.
Balanced.
Aang’s eyes opened glowing bright white. His tattoos illuminated instantly afterward.
The Avatar State.
But this time it was controlled. The wind burst outward powerfully, forcing enemies backward across the courtyard. Aang wasn’t fighting blindly anymore. Now he fought like the Avatar again.
His movements became fluid.
Precise.
Air and earth and water moving together effortlessly around him as he defended the temple instead of lashing out through it.
And through all of it right before he turned back toward the battle. His glowing eyes found yours one last time.
SUMMARY: You were born a non-bender, but Aang tries to make you feel included.
WARNING(S): fluff, angst
WORD COUNT: 5,197
PAIRING: Adult!Aang x reader
A/N: Hope you like it! Comments and feedback are always welcome.
MASTERLIST
The first time Aang got you out of the house to teach you, he was all smiles.
Bright and hopeful, excited to share something that mattered to him. You don’t think you’d ever seen him look that happy, especially by the fourth attempt.
Airbending.
The others thought you might pick something up eventually. Water, earth, maybe even fire, but nothing ever came of it. And deep down, you knew nothing ever would.
You weren’t a bender.
You weren’t going to wake up one day and move the ground beneath your feet, or shift water with your hands, or throw fire. It wasn’t something you could learn. It wasn’t something anyone could promise you. You weren't born to be able to bend.
But Aang didn’t let it go.
And you didn’t have the heart to take that from him, no matter how much it pained you.
So you let him pull you out of the tower you’d been calling home for years now and take you to the Southern Air Temple.
You’d been there before, back when it was you, Katara, and Sokka, following him around while he showed you around. You’d seen far greater things, but the temple in ruins always settled heavily in your heart. It felt different now. More overgrown. Quieter.
Still beautiful though.
And you knew how much it meant to him.
You ran your hand along one of the columns as you walked, the stone cool under your fingers. You wondered if he ever thought about what this place used to be. If being here made it harder or easier.
“Okay,” Aang says, clapping his hands together as he turns to you. “Airbending. My area of expertise.”
His grin widens. And just like that, he looks like himself again.
You cross your arms loosely, raising a brow at him. “Confident?”
He moves past you, then circles back, positioning himself a few feet away. His posture shifts without him thinking about it. He looks lighter on his feet, shoulders relaxed, arms loose at his sides.
“I have to be,” Aang says easily. “I’ve only been doing this my whole life.” He steps back a little, giving you space. “Besides, you've made it through three trials. You haven't given up.”
“Three failures,” you correct.
“Three attempts,” he says, like it matters.
You sigh, finding your sandals more interesting, the dirt beneath them crunching with every press-down you make. You're pulled out of the hole you begin making up in your mind when Aang claps loudly again. The crack had made you flinch.
“Okay! Airbending isn’t about forcing anything,” he starts. “That’s why it’s hard to explain. You don’t grab it like the earth beneath your feet, or push it like fire. You… move with it.”
You nod, even if you don’t fully get it.
He gestures for you to stand straighter. “Feet apart. Don't stand too stiffly. You don’t want to lock yourself in place.”
You adjust, trying to copy him.
“Good,” he says. “Now, don’t think about making something happen. Just focus on what’s already there.”
“The air,” you say.
“Yeah.” He gives a small nod. “It’s everywhere. You don’t need to have a source like water or earth. You just… connect to it.”
You take a breath, slower this time.
Behind him, the wind moves through the open temple, brushing past the columns, slipping through broken archways. You can feel it on your skin, faint but constant.
“Okay,” he says. “Follow me.”
He steps into motion, slow and controlled. His arms move in a wide circle, like he’s tracing something invisible.
You mirror him. At least, you try to. Your movements feel heavier. Less natural. Like you’re thinking about every step instead of letting it happen.
“Loosen up,” he says gently. “You’re resisting it.”
“I’m not trying to,” you mutter.
“I know...”
You exhale, forcing yourself to relax your shoulders. Your arms follow his again, slower this time, less rigid. You shift, trying to follow what he’s doing again.
“Better?”
“Yeah. That’s good,” he says. “Now just…move your arms. Slow at first.”
You copy him, lifting your hands and pushing them forward in the same motion he just showed you.
Nothing happens.
You try again.
Still nothing.
Aang doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches on, further heightening the fact that you were aware he was observing your every move.
“Try not to think about it too much,” he says after a second.
You let out a small breath. “That’s kind of hard not to, especially when I’m trying to make something happen.”
“I know,” he says. “But if you focus on making it happen, it won’t.”
You glance at him. “That doesn’t sound very helpful.”
He laughs. “It’s true, though. Don’t think on it too much.”
You shake your head a little, but you try again anyway. This time slower.
Less stiff, more loose.
Going with the flow.
For a second, it almost feels right.
Almost.
“Now shift your weight,” he adds. “Don’t stay rooted. Airbenders don’t stand still if they can help it.”
You step lightly to the side, copying the way he moves. He’s already adjusted, already onto the next move before you've barely finished the previous action.
You’re a step behind. Always a step behind. Never able to keep up with the rest of them.
“Okay,” he says. “Now guide it.”
Your arms move through the air, and for a second, you almost think you feel something pulse within your palms.
But it’s gone before you can figure out what it might be.
Probably nothing to be honest.
You drop your hands with a huff. “Yeah. Still nothing.”
Aang steps closer, not an ounce of discouragement on his face. “That’s okay. It takes time. With more practice, you're bound to get something out of it. It gets easier. Trust me.”
“For you maybe,” you say. “You’ve been doing this since you were a kid.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you can’t learn something from it.”
You give him a look. “Aang, I can’t move a leaf, I couldn't shift the water from the stream, I couldn't move the stupid pebble that Toph had me attempt to move. Zuko even tried having me light the fire for the camp we set up. We almost froze. I can't move anything!”
“Not yet,” he corrects. Oh, how you wonder where he gets his patience and his calm from? Something you were surely running out of.
You sigh, but there’s no real frustration behind it. Yet, anyway.
He hesitates for a second, then moves behind you. “Can I?” he asks.
You nod. His hands hover near yours before settling lightly over them. Gentle, warm to the touch.
“Let me guide you,” he says.
You feel him push your arms through the same motions as before. Slower this time. More steady.
“Breathe,” he adds quietly. The warmth of his words tickles your ear.
You try to match his pace, his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.
The air moves around you, brushing past your arms, your face. You can feel the wind, how it responds to him. The subtle breeze he lets swim in and out through your hair.
“Feel that?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
You almost laugh at the sensation, but you keep going. Letting your hands move with his instead of trying to lead on your own.
For a second, the motions feel easier. Like you’re not working as hard to exert them, act them out.
There's barely anything happening. Most of which is done by Aang. But the air in front of your hands stirs.
You pause.
“Did you—”
“I saw it,” Aang says quickly, a little quieter now. “Keep going.”
Your focus breaks.
And just like that, it’s gone. You let your arms fall.
“Of course.” You huff in defeat.
Aang doesn’t move away right away. “You felt it, though, right?” he asks.
“Barely.”
“It’s still something.”
You turn your head slightly, glancing back at him. “It only worked because you were helping. I’m not even sure that was me just now.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe you just needed to stop trying so hard.”
You don’t answer that.
After a second, his hands drop away from yours. You miss the warmth of them in an instant. The lack of his touch makes you want to pull him close again.
“Do you want to try again?” he asks. Chin dipping to try and get your eyes to meet his own. They don't. He looks down at the ground before waiting for your response.
You look at your hands, then back at him.
“Maybe later, if that’s okay.”
"It's okay. We can take a break."
-
The hill you found and settled on feels nice and cool underneath your touch as the sun dips.
Long shadows stretch across the mountains, swallowing the land around them, making it quieter. Emptier. At peace.
You and Aang sit side by side, and you disturb a patch of grass by pulling grass stems from the ground. You'd guess your anxiety was to blame for impulsively messing with perfectly good grass. Aang had lain back, eyes darting up at the sky. His thoughts wandering, you'd guess as much, seeing as his fingers stopped tapping against his stomach.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The wind moves gently through the open air, brushing past softly, reminding you of the reason for being there in the first place. You figured Aang could've been reminded of home. Of everything he lost, but who were you to speak for him?
Aang exhales slowly.
“It’s weird,” he says.
You glance at him. “What is?”
He doesn’t look at you. Just out.
“The sky. The temple, all the antiques we keep finding. Everything.”
His fingers curl slightly against the grass as he sits up.
“I used to think the temples would always feel full,” he admits. “Like, no matter what happened… I could come back, and it’d still feel like home. Still… alive.” There’s a pause. “But it only reminds me of how everyone I've ever known...is gone.”
That lands heavier than anything he’s said all day.
You don’t interrupt. You just listen.
“They’re gone,” he continues, voice quieter now. “The monks. My friends. Gyatso. The stories they all used to tell, the way we used to celebrate, the food we would eat… even the stupid games we played.” A soft, broken laugh slips out of him. “I’m the only one left who remembers any of it.”
Your chest tightens.
“I don’t even know if I remember it right anymore.” He finally looks down at his hands. "I keep thinking that if I die, my culture dies with me. What if I forget something important?” he whispers. “What if it all just… disappears with me? No one but me can carry on my past. My whole life rests in my hands.”
There it is. His fear. It hits you harder than you expected. Because for once, this isn’t about being the Avatar.
This is just a boy, a man now, sitting in the ruins of his home, terrified of being the last voice of his people.
You don’t think. You don’t weigh your next words. You just… say it.
“Then I’ll carry it with you.”
Aang freezes.
You don’t stop.
“I’ll learn it,” you add quickly, heart racing now. “All of it. The stories, the traditions... Whatever you remember, I’ll remember too. I won’t let it disappear.”
He’s staring at you now.
Completely still. Like he’s not sure he heard you right.
“And if you’re worried about it ending…” You hesitate, then push through it anyway, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.
“I’ll give you a legacy.”
The silence falls heavily on you both. You look out into the valley, feeling the wind settle.
And the second it leaves your mouth, you second-guess your words.
Oh.
Oh no.
Your breath catches. “I-I didn’t mean—”
Aang’s expression changes.
“You’d… What?” he asks softly.
You shake your head quickly, heat rushing to your face. “I didn’t mean it like that, I just mean, I mean I did, but not—” you let out a nervous breath, stumbling over yourself. “I just meant I’d help. However you needed, I—”
“You’d give me children?” he interrupts.
That stops you. Your mouth opens agape, then shuts.
His voice is so quiet you almost miss it. You look at him properly now. Really take in the man before you. Give him children? You'd be stupid not to want a family with him.
Something in your chest settles warmly.
“Yeah,” you say, softer this time. “If you wanted me to. The only thing I could really give back.” You release a nervous laugh.
Aang’s eyes search yours, like he’s trying to find any sign of hesitation. Doubt. Anything that screamed that you were just trying to make up for what you lacked in, but you weren't
There isn’t any. Because you meant it. Even if you didn’t take into account how much you did until just now.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says, but there’s no strength behind it. No real push. No malice. Just a hint of genuineness.
“I know,” you reply. A beat. “I want to, though.”
That hits him harder than anything else.
You see it in the way his breath stutters slightly, the way his shoulders drop just a fraction, like something inside him is loosening up for the first time all day.
“You’d really…” he starts, then stops, swallowing. “…you’d learn everything?”
You nod. “Everything you’re willing to teach me.”
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then his hand reaches for yours. Slowly, hesitant. Like he’s still asking permission to touch you, when he has every right to. When you don’t pull away, his fingers tighten slightly around yours.
“That means a lot to me, Y/n,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "I never even considered the idea of having children right now.
You smile, just a little. “I figured. It looked like your heart stopped for a second there.”
A soft huff of breath leaves him. almost a laugh, but not quite.
The wind returns, gentle once more, curling around the two of you as if it felt the heaviness settle between you. Like it had listened in.
Aang glances down at your joined hands, then back up at you.
For once, he doesn’t try to turn it into a joke right away. He just looks at you.
Like he’s still catching up to what you said and what it means. Not just the words, but the fact that you meant them. That you said them so easily, like it wasn’t something huge you placed in his lap.
It was.
You can tell by the way he keeps holding your hand, squeezing every now and then, like letting go would break up the moment too fast.
“I don’t know what to say,” he admits after a while.
You let out a small breath through your nose. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“I feel like I should.”
“You don’t have to.”
His mouth twitches a little at that, but it fades just as quickly.
“I just…” He looks away for a second, out at the valley below, at the fading light and shadows. “I’ve spent so much time thinking about what I lost that I never really thought about what could still happen. What I could still have.”
Your thumb brushes lightly over his knuckles before you can think better of it. Aang notices. His shoulders loosen again, but not enough.
“You make it sound simple,” he says.
“It’s not simple.”
This turns his attention back on you.
“It’s just not impossible either,” you say quietly. “There’s a difference.”
He studies your face for a second, and you can almost see the thoughts moving behind his eyes. Aang was never very good at hiding what he felt, but this is different. He's less open. More careful. Like he’s afraid of letting this conversation go in the wrong direction. Of making you angry.
“You'd really give me children?” he asks again.
Not because he didn’t hear you the first time. Because he needs to.
You nod once. “Yeah.”
“And learn all of it?”
“Yes.”
“The stories, the customs, the food, the prayers, the weird games—”
You smile a little. “You’re really trying to sell it now.”
That earns a breath of a laugh. Then he goes quiet again.
“Even if you can’t bend?”
There it is. You had a feeling it would come back to that.
You look down at your lap for a second before answering.
“Especially then.”
Aang frowns. You take a breath.
“I can’t give back from the lack of bending,” you say. “I know that. I know I’ll never be part of your culture in the same way you were born into it.” You pause, picking at a blade of grass near your knee. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t love it because it matters to you. It doesn’t mean I can’t help keep it alive. This could be one of the only things I can give back.”
His face changes at that. Softens. Something about those words gets through to him in a way the other words of the gang couldn't. Maybe it's because he knows you’re not saying it to make him feel better.
You’re saying it because you’ve already decided.
“I don’t want you to think this is all you’re good for,” he says after a moment.
You look at him, caught a little off guard.
“What?”
He turns toward you more fully now, his hand tightening around yours.
“The only thing you could really give back?” he repeats softly, using your own words. “Don’t say it like that.”
Heat crawls up your neck in half embarrassment, and half of something else.
“I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” His voice stays gentle, but there’s something firmer in it now. “But you make it sound like you have to make up for something.”
You open your mouth, then close it. Because there isn’t a clean lie waiting to spill past your lips. Aang notices that too.
“You don’t owe me a legacy,” he says. “And you don’t owe me children just because you can’t bend.”
Your throat tightens a little.
“I know,” you say, but it comes out softer than you intended.
He watches you for another second, then shifts closer, close enough that your heads are leaning against each other.
“You don’t have to try and even the score for what you think you're lacking in,” he says. “Not for me.”
His words land hard. Too hard.
Because some part of you had thought exactly that, even if you didn’t want to say it out loud. That if you could never stand beside the others in the way they did, through bending, through power, through something useful, then maybe you could still give him something that mattered.
Something lasting.
You stare down at your lap for a second, blinking against the sting behind your eyes.
“I didn’t mean for it to sound like that,” you say quietly. “I’m not trying to make up with children for my lack of bending with you.”
“I know.” He says it immediately. Reassurance following his understanding. “I know you’re not.”
It helps. His words. A little.
You breathe out slowly.
“I just hate that I can’t help out sometimes,” you admit. "Heck, even Sokka is out there being a hero... But what can I do?"
Aang goes still. Because he finally understands what’s underneath all of the hurt you've bottled up inside of yourself.
The discouragement after every attempt. The way you'd look away from everyone's eyes after every attempt. The way you'd say it’s fine, when it clearly wasn't.
He shifts again, this time dipping his head enough that he can see your face better.
“What can you do?” he repeats quietly. And it's just him, sitting with the question instead of brushing it off.
You don’t answer right away because you’ve already answered it a hundred times in your head. Nothing, was always your response. He frowns as though the crease in your forehead gave you away.
“You think being a hero is just about bending?” he asks.
You give a small shrug. “It helps.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You glance at him, a little caught. He doesn’t look away.
“You think Sokka is a hero, but he can't bend?” Aang presses.
You hesitate. “Yes, but—”
“But what?”
You sigh, frustrated now. “But he still does things, Aang. He fights. He plans. He actually contributes when something goes wrong.” You shake your head a little. “When things get bad, I’m just… there.”
The words come out flatter than you meant them to. Like you’ve said them before. To yourself. Too many times.
Aang’s expression tightens.
“You’re not ‘just there,’” he says.
You don’t argue. You don’t agree either. You just look away again.
“Do you remember the canyon?” he asks suddenly.
You frown slightly. “What about it?”
“You were the one who figured out how to settle the feud between the Gan Jin and the Zhang tribes,” he says. “You made them work together to get us out of being eaten by those canyon crawlers.”
“Wasn't that you—”
“And the village near the volcano?” he continues. “You were the one who convinced the villagers that they needed to evacuate.”
You shake your head. “That’s not—”
“And when Appa got hurt,” he adds, quieter now, “you stayed with him the whole night. You looked over him, you lost sleep over it too.”
You go still because you do remember that memory.
You remember thinking it didn’t count. That it wasn’t enough.
“That’s not fighting, though,” you say, softer now.
“No,” Aang agrees. “It’s not.”
He leans in just slightly, not crowding you, just enough that you can’t ignore him.
“But it’s helping.”
You swallow.
“It’s paying attention,” he continues. “It’s seeing things the rest of us miss because we’re too busy trying to win something.”
His voice softens. “And it matters.”
You look at him again because he’s not trying to make you feel better.
He’s not reaching just to say something nice. He means it.
“But when something actually happens—” you start.
“You’re there,” he says, cutting in gently this time. “You don’t run. You don’t hide. You stay.”
Your chest tightens.
“That’s not nothing.”
The wind shifts around you again. You look down at your interlocked hands.
“It doesn’t feel like enough sometimes,” you admit.
Aang nods. “I know.”
That catches you off guard.
“I get that, trust me,” he adds. “I’ve felt that too.”
You blink at him. “You?”
“Yeah.” A small, almost self-conscious smile tugs at his mouth. “Being the Avatar doesn’t automatically make you feel invincible.”
You let out a quiet breath. That… comforts you more than you expected it to.
Aang studies your face for another second, then reaches out again. This time, slower, more deliberate, as he nudges your right cheek with his left hand, before pressing a gentle kiss on it. You don’t pull away.
“I'm sorry if we made you feel that way. You don’t have to be like the rest of us to matter,” he says.
You let that sit. It doesn’t fix everything. But it settles the war that was waged inside you anyway.
“You really believe that?” you ask.
He nods.
“I wouldn’t be sitting here with you if I didn’t.”
That makes you look at him again. A small, uneven smile pulls at your lips.
“You’re really bad at letting people wallow in their self-pity,” you mutter.
He smiles back, softer now. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been told that.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head.
"Why do you keep talking like bending is the only part worth carrying on?”
That shuts you up again.
He’s not angry. If anything, he sounds a little sad. A little frustrated that you still can’t see what he’s trying to tell you.
“My people weren’t just airbenders,” he says. “They were monks, teachers, healers. They made toys for kids and baked fruit pies and played games and told stories they’d told a hundred times before.” A small smile pulls at his mouth. “They were annoying sometimes. And stubborn. And really nosy.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. Aang smiles a little wider when he hears it.
“My culture didn’t live in bending alone,” he says. “It lived in how we treated people. What we believed. How we lived.”
He looks down at your joined hands. “And you’ve been trying to understand that part of me since the day we met.”
Your heart settles.
“So no,” he says softly. “You wouldn’t be giving me the only thing you could offer.”
You swallow.
“Aang…”
“You’d just be giving me more of you.”
His words are so simple they almost hurt. You don’t know what to do with them. So for a second, you do nothing. Then your hand tightens around his. His eyes flick down to it, then back to your face.
You shake your head a little, a laugh leaving you, thin and shaky. “You always know how to make me feel stupid in the nicest way possible.”
That finally gets a real laugh out of him.
“You’re not stupid.”
“Mm.”
“You’re not.” He presses firmly, gently.
You look over at him. “I heard you the first time.”
“Good.”
The breeze picks up around the two of you, cooler now that the sun has dropped. It lifts a few strands of your hair and brushes the fabric on his sleeves.
Aang leans back on one hand, still facing you.
“I think I’d like that,” he says after a while.
You blink. “What part?”
He smiles, small and careful. A beat. “All of it.”
Something in you eases. Not all the way, but enough to let you breathe easier.
“Even if I can't bend?”
He tilts his head, brows furrowing in feigned shock. “You can't bend!”
You let out an offended noise and shove at his shoulder.
He laughs, catching your wrist before you can do it again.
“I’m kidding,” he says.
“You’re not.”
“Okay, maybe a little.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling a lot brighter now, and he is too, and the heaviness from a minute ago doesn’t feel quite so sharp in your chest.
He keeps hold of your wrist for a second longer than he needs to. Long enough for the mood to shift again. Just slightly.
His smile fades first, not into sadness, but something more aware. Serious. You felt it too. The tension.
The way he raised his hand and his thumb brushed once, almost absentmindedly, over the side of your face.
“Aang,” you say softly.
His eyes avert from your lips, falling on your softening gaze.
You lost your train of thought, the words you wanted to say falling off the tip of your tongue. Maybe it was nothing. His name just felt easier than everything else sitting between you.
His eyes search your face anyway.
“Yeah?”
You shake your head, but not because you want to take it back.
“Nothing.”
His mouth curves faintly. “You sure?”
“No.”
He studies you for another moment, then glances out at the valley again.
“You want to stay here tonight,” he says. “If you want, of course.”
You lift a brow. “You mean avoid going back and getting interrogated by Katara?”
“That too.”
You smile. “Tempting.”
“Very. It’s quiet here.”
You look around. The grass. The temple in the far distance, worn down but still standing strong, like Aang.
“It is.”
Aang nods, then looks back at you. Letting the quiet air take over as he took in his favorite view. You. Who went back to pulling at the patch of grass you disrupted, he can't help but let his smile grow.
“I love you.”
There it is again. His plain honesty. It always got the best of you. You feel your face heat up, but there’s no point in pretending you didn't hear him.
“I love you too,” you say, expression timid, but still facing the ground.
His heart beats faster. This was it for him. You were it. All he'd ever want, so long as the universe allowed you and him to last. To be.
His shoulders drop. His mouth softens. He looks younger for a second, and older too. Like the boy and the man he’s still becoming are both sitting right here beside you. Making your head spin and your heart full.
The wind curls between you again. Gentle. Familiar.
And this time, when the silence returns, it doesn’t feel empty.
It feels full.
Aang glances at your joined hands once more, then back at you, his expression almost shy despite everything you’ve just said.
"So you really want children with me?"
"Yes, Aang." Your grin grows as you stifle a laugh.
“Do you want to start...on our legacy?” he asks.
You smile.
“Right now?” you ask.
Aang freezes. “Right now?”
You shrug, biting back another laugh. “You’re the one who asked.”
His brain immediately starts short-circuiting.
“Okay, wait, hold on—” he lets go of your hand just to gesture wildly, before stopping again. “I didn’t mean like right now, right now, I meant like, someday right now. Future right now. Not, this exact moment on a hill—”
You’re fully laughing now.
“Aang—”
“No, because there’s—there’s steps!” he insists, pointing at the ground like the steps might appear if he believes hard enough. “There are definitely steps. We skipped all of them.”
“You asked!”
“I didn’t think you’d say yes that fast!”
You tilt your head. “You wanted me to say no?”
“No!” he says immediately. “No, definitely not that either, just, maybe a warning? A little preparation time?”
You grin. “You’re panicking.”
“I am not panicking,” he says, voice an octave higher than usual. “I am calmly evaluating a very big, important, life thing—”
He stops. Looks at you. You’re still smiling at him like this is the best thing that’s ever happened.
“You’re serious, though,” he says, quieter now.
You nod. “Yeah.”
That does it. He exhales, shoulders dropping, all that frantic energy softening just a little.
“Okay.”
A beat.
“Okay,” he repeats, like he’s trying to convince himself he’s got this.
Then.
“Not right now, though,” he adds quickly.
You laugh. “Not right now.”
“Good,” he says, relieved. “Because I think I’d pass out.”
“You’d pass out?”
“Immediately.”
You bump his shoulder. “Avatar, master of all four elements… defeated by the talk of children.”
He points at you. “You’re the one who started it!”
“You asked!”
“And I regret nothing,” he says quickly, then pauses.
You laugh again, leaning your head against him. He relaxes this time, letting your head rest against his shoulder, still a little flustered but smiling anyway.
“We can start with the easy stuff,” he mutters.
“Like what?”
“Like… teaching you those games I used to play here,” he says. “Much safer.”
aang would definitely learn how to style your hair.
Aang definitely plays with your hair.
It starts absentmindedly, just the little things.
HIs fingers combing through the ends while you lay beside him. Gently separating strands when you rest your head in his lap. Slowly undoing tangles with surprising patience whenever you’re sitting in front of him.
He finds it very soothing, almost like painting without a goal, just doing to so to put his attention on something.
It is perfect to focus on while he talks to you or just listens or thinks.
And because he grew up around air nomad monks, where even something simple as touch was always soft and careful, there’s something very comforting about the way he handles you.
He treats your hair with the same attention he gives his staff or prayer beads or Appa’s fur.
Sometimes you’ll be half asleep and feel his nimble fingers fidgeting through your hair, and you'll wake up with tiny braids through a section of your hair.
Each braid better than the one before it, stating evidence of his gradual improvement.
Other times he’ll gently scratch at your scalp while you read, not even noticing he’s doing it until you go completely limp against him.
“You stopped talking.” He would state once he notices your forgotten book and dozing state.
"Mmm, because i’m ascending...”
He smiles a little at that and keeps going.
And he gets oddly fascinated by different hairstyles too.
He wants to try everything.
Different braids. Buns. Flowers woven between your strands.
And he is not particularly good at it—he’s actually kind of messy—but he likes the intimacy of it.
He likes sitting close to you for long stretches of time with his hands occupied.
Sometimes he’ll rest his chin on your shoulder while doing your hair and get so relaxed that he nearly falls asleep halfway through.
Which means you’ll occasionally walk around with one finished braid and the other side completely abandoned because Aang dozed off on you.
have you read any good aang x reader fics lately and if so, any recs kween? 🥹🥹
Helloo!! I apologize for not answering this immediately. I had to take my time and look back at the Aang fics I have read 😭
Which is surprisingly not a lot, I was so sure I had read so many!!
But here is my list:
Taking Space by @tteokdoroki. The best smut writer imo, and if you're a yuji lover like me, then you'll really like this blog too!
Tomorrow's Promise by @luvqi. I read it recently, and it's SO SO good! We love a yearning Aang.
Eyes of the girl I won't forget by @bia-nana. SOOO good! I was shitting tears by the end of it :(
The Avatar's Girl by @ruya4four. Their blog is a FEAST for anyone who's a huge fan of both Avatars (ATLA and James Cameron). This Aang fic is definitely my favorite, it's so cute and sexyyy.
Anything by @singse. But go read THIS ONE, and THIS TOO, ANDDDDD THIS, . There are so so SO many, you'll be so satisfied!
Same with @gyalcapone. Their recent work, though not TECHNICALLY an ang fic, I think it counts, which is Night Moves. I am obsessed with this fantasy AHh. You'll find more on their blog!
These are all I have.
Please recommend any more Aang fics you know!
You can also use this opportunity to share your own Aang fics because I would love to read them! 🤍
The entire temple smelled faintly of incense, fresh flowers, and wind.
The playful, living sort of wind that curled through the open halls of Air Temple Island like it had been invited to the wedding itself. White banners danced from the ceiling beams. Candles flickered in protected alcoves. Somewhere below, acolytes hurried around carrying baskets of fruit and folded silks while Appa groaned happily under the attention of several children decorating his horns with flowers.
And in one of the upper rooms overlooking the ocean, you were trying very hard not to pass out.
“You are breathing way too fast.” Toph teased.
“I know that,” you hissed.
One of your cousins snorted while tightening the gold cords around your waist. “You used to hang upside down from silk ropes thirty feet in the air.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I wasn’t marrying the Avatar!”
The entire room burst into laughter.
Your family had taken over the preparation room hours ago. Circus performers moved through the space like organized chaos, someone sewing a loose bead back into place, another adjusting your sleeves, another balancing on a chair to pin gauzy golden fabric into the perfect drape behind you.
It felt like home.
Loud. Warm. Chaotic.
Safe.
Your mother stepped behind you, smoothing her hands over your shoulders carefully so she wouldn’t wrinkle the delicate fabric. “Turn around.”
You did slowly.
The dress flowed around your body in layers of cream, pale gold, and deep marigold silk, inspired by old Air Nomad robes but blended with the theatrical elegance your family was famous for. Gold jewelry wrapped delicately around your arms and waist like flowing currents. Sheer sleeves draped from your shoulders like wings. The skirt split softly at the front in layered panels that moved every time the wind touched them.
It was beautiful.
Circus-beautiful.
Air Nomad beautiful.
You.
Your mother’s eyes immediately watered.
“Oh no,” you warned. “Don’t start crying.”
“I’m not crying.” She sniffled.
“You absolutely are.”
“I raised you in a circus caravan and now you’re marrying the Avatar,” she whispered, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest. “Let me have emotions.”
Your uncle who was currently balancing upside down on a support beam because apparently standing normally was illegal in your family, leaned down with a grin. “Remember when she used to bite people?”
“I did not bite people often.”
“You bit that Fire Nation noble.”
“He deserved it.”
“Fair.”
You covered your face with your hands, groaning while the room laughed again.
Then your little cousin ran in breathlessly, smiling wide. “He’s pacing!”
Your stomach dropped. “What?”
“Aang!” she squealed. “He keeps asking if she’s ready yet and Sokka told him if he asks one more time he’s getting tied to a pillar.”
That earned another round of laughter and you could already picture it perfectly.
Aang pacing holes into the temple floors.
Hands shaking.
Arrow tattoos probably glowing from stress.
You smiled helplessly.
Because after everything, the war, trying to stay alive through circus acts, the rebuilding of everything, the years spent finding yourself again after discovering you were an airbender, he still looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.
Your mother touched your cheek gently. “You love him very much.”
The smile on your face softened instantly.
“Yes.”
“And he worships the ground you walk on.”
A snort escaped you. “That sounds unhealthy.”
“He watched you do one trapeze performance and fell in love immediately,” your uncle said from the ceiling. “That sounds very healthy to me.”
Another performer chimed in, “To be fair, she did descend from the ceiling like a celestial spirit.”
“And then almost fell.”
“I caught myself!”
“You screamed.”
“I was committed to the bit!”
The room dissolved into chaos again.
Gods, you missed this.
Even after leaving the circus to travel with Team Avatar, even after becoming an airbender, even after helping rebuild pieces of Air Nomad culture alongside Aang…this would always be part of you.
The circus girl who flew before she ever learned how to bend air.
Your father finally entered the room quietly.
And unlike everyone else, he stopped speaking the second he saw you.
His eyes widened. “Oh,” he breathed softly.
The room slowly quieted.
Your father was not an emotional man by nature. Loud? Absolutely. Dramatic? Unfortunately yes. But openly emotional? Rare.
Yet now his eyes glistened suspiciously as he looked at you.
“You look…” He swallowed. “You look like sunlight.”
Your chest tightened painfully. “Oh no,” you whispered. “Now I’m gonna cry.”
“Don’t you dare,” your cousin warned immediately. “I worked too hard on your makeup.”
Too late.
Your father walked over carefully, taking your hands in his rough calloused ones, the same hands that used to catch you after dangerous drops from the trapeze when you were little.
“I used to worry,” he admitted quietly. “You always looked at the sky like you belonged to it.”
Your throat burned.
“And then you met him,” he continued with a watery laugh. “And suddenly I realized…you did.”
You hugged him instantly and the room collectively pretended not to sniffle.
Except your uncle, who openly sobbed upside down from the rafters. “I RAISED HER TOO!”
“You taught her how to cheat at cards!”
“THAT IS A LIFE SKILL!”
Outside the room, temple bells rang softly.
The ceremony.
Your stomach flipped violently.
“Oh spirits,” you whispered.
Your mother immediately grabbed your shoulders. “Breathe.”
You inhaled shakily, exhaled and you repeat the process again.
Then the doors opened.
Katara stepped inside first, smiling warmly before immediately freezing when she saw you. "Oh.”
Toph grinned instantly. “Judging by the silence, I’m assuming she looks disgustingly pretty.”
“She really does,” Katara whispered.
Toph smirked. “Nice.”
Behind them, Sokka peeked around the doorway and immediately slapped a hand over his eyes.
“NOPE. Nope, absolutely not. Aang’s already losing his mind and if I tell him what she looks like he’s gonna pass out before the ceremony.”
You laughed helplessly. “Aang’s that nervous?”
Katara and Sokka exchanged a look.
Then both answered together. “Yes.”
Your stomach fluttered.
Sokka pointed accusingly. “Do you know he tried to meditate and accidentally airbended all the cushions out a window?”
Toph snorted. “One hit a monk.”
“He apologized!”
“He apologized while upside down in a tree!”
You covered your face laughing.
That sounded exactly like Aang.
Sweet, anxious, disastrously in love Aang.
Katara walked toward you slowly then squeezed your hands. “He’s been smiling all day.”
Your expression softened instantly. “Really?”
“He looks happy,” she said gently. “Like…completely happy.”
For a moment, emotion lodged painfully in your chest.
Because you knew what that meant. Aang carried grief everywhere. Even now. Even years later.
The weight of being the last Air Nomad never truly disappeared.
But today?
Today he wasn’t alone anymore.
The bells rang again.
Everyone straightened.
Your father offered his arm.And suddenly this was real and the walk to the ceremony felt dreamlike.
Wind curled around your dress softly as you stepped through the temple halls. Performers from your family lined the walkways alongside air acolytes and your friends. Some tossed flower petals. Others grinned knowingly.
And at the end of the long temple platform,
Stood Aang.
The second he looked up and saw you he stopped breathing.
You watched his entire body go still.
His eyes widened so much it almost made you laugh.
The wind around the temple shifted sharply.
Then his tattoos glowed.
Bright.
Soft blue light illuminated his skin as absolute awe spread across his face.
You felt heat creep up your neck as you reached the end of the platform.
Aang stared at you like the stars themselves had descended from the sky.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered immediately.
The emotion in his voice nearly shattered you.
Not flirtation.
Not teasing.
Pure wonder.
Like he genuinely could not comprehend how someone like you existed.
You smiled shakily. “Hi.”
That somehow made him look even more emotional.His hands trembled slightly when he took yours.
“Hi..." he paused then gave you a shaky smile. "You look like…” He swallowed hard. “You look like something I dreamed about.”
Your heart melted instantly.From behind him, Toph groaned dramatically. “Okay, that was smooth.”
Sokka wiped fake tears from his face. “Young love.”
Katara shoved him.
But Aang never looked away from you.
Not once.
Like if he blinked, you might disappear.
The wind lifted the gold fabric around you both gently, swirling through the temple as the sun dipped lower behind the clouds.
And standing there beneath the open sky with the boy who carried the world on his shoulders looking at you like you were his peace, you realized something.
For the first time in a very long time, Aang looked weightless too.
A/n: Sokka losing his mind because one girl doesn't care who they are.
Reader being an animal tamer from the circus from my wonderful friend. @nuttymouthful
The circus smelled like hay, sugar, and something faintly dangerous, like singed fur and poor decisions. Lanterns glowed overhead, casting everything in warm gold, and the distant roar of a crowd rippled through the tents like a living thing. It was loud, chaotic, alive…exactly how you liked it.
And currently, you were elbow-deep in a bucket of fish, arguing with a turtle seal who thought rules were optional.
“No,” you said flatly, holding a fish just out of reach. “You do not get a third one. You are not starving. You are manipulative.”
The turtle seal blinked at you. Then, with all the audacity in the world, it made the saddest noise imaginable.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t start that.”
“Uh… excuse me?”
You didn’t even turn around. “Busy.”
They waited two seconds and then much louder, more offended. “Excuse me?!”
You sighed, tossed the fish into the bucket, wiped your hands on a towl tied at your belt loop and finally turned.
And immediately clocked… a group.Not just any group. A group group.
A bald airbender with bright gray eyes and the kind of open, curious expression that screamed too nice for his own good. A Water Tribe woman who looked like she could mother an army then take down said army. A very muscular woman who was absolutely judging everything with her arms crossed. A man in royal Fire Nation attire who carried himself like he’d spent years trying not to set things on fire. And another guy…
"We wanted to check out the sho-."
You interrupt him as you looked at him. "…and you are?”
He blinked. “I’m Sokka.”
You nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“…that’s it?”
“Do you want a sticker?”
The girl with the metal bracelets snorted.Sokka looked personally wounded.
The bald one stepped forward, smiling warmly. “Hi! I’m Aang—”
“....cool,” you cut in, already turning back to your animals.
There was a pause. A confused, almost offended pause.
Then Sokka’s voice exploded behind you because of course he does. “LADY?! HE’S THE AVATAR?! THIS IS THE FIRE LORD.” His thumb jerking to point at them.
You didn’t even flinch. You reached down, grabbed your turtle seal under the belly, and lifted him to his side with practiced ease, turning slightly so they could see him.
“And this,” you said, deadpan, “is a turtle seal.”
The turtle seal made a happy noise.
You set him down, then immediately scooped up your fire ferret, who wriggled in your grip like a noodle with opinions.
“And this is a fire ferret… look at it.” You held him up, squinting at him like you were personally offended by his existence. “It’s like a long rat.”
The ferret chirped.
You grabbed one of his little paws and stretched it gently toward them.
“Look at his feet. All the worst people own one of these bad boys.” You tilted your head, offering him forward slightly. “Wanna pet him? He bites.”
Zuko, the actual Fire Lord who had faced war, politics, and his own inner demons… leaned back.
“…I’m good.”
Toph was already stepping forward. “Oh, I like her.”
“Do not encourage her,” Katara whispered.
Aang, meanwhile, was staring not at the ferret, not at the turtle seal but at you.There was a strange tilt to his head, like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
“You work with all of them?” he asked, softer now.
You shrugged. “Train them. Feed them. Clean up after them. Stop them from eating each other. Same as any family.”
That made something flicker in his expression.
“You don’t… care who we are?” he asked, his chest felt light.
You finally looked at him properly.
Not the tattoos. Not the robes. Not the weight everyone else seemed to place on his shoulders.
Just him.
A guy.
A little too curious. A little too bright. A little too open.
You hummed.
“I care if you scare my animals,” you said simply. “You don’t. So… you’re fine.”
Sokka looked like he might combust.Katara blinked.Zuko looked faintly like he wanted to laugh but didn’t trust himself to try, Toph grinned like she’d just found her favorite person.And Aang, Aang just smiled.
Not the polite, practiced one. Not the “I’m the Avatar and I should be kind” smile.
A real one.
“You’re… different,” he said.
“Yeah,” you replied, already turning back to your bucket to toss the Turtle seal a fish. “I get that a lot.”
Behind him, the tall one….Sokka, if the muttering was anything to go by dragged a hand down his face. “This is insane. This is actually insane. You don’t even care who we are.”
“Nope.”
“That’s the Avatar!”
“Mhm.”
“That’s the Fire Lord!” he snapped, pointing dramatically at the scarred man.
You glanced at him again. “Good for him.”
The Fire Lord…Zuko, made a strangled noise.
“And I,” Sokka continued, gesturing to himself, “am—”
You stared at him.
“…important,” he finished weakly.
You blinked. “Okay.”
Toph snorted so hard she nearly doubled over.Katara covered her mouth, trying and failing not to laugh.
Meanwhile, Aang was still holding the fire ferret like it was the greatest treasure he’d ever been given, completely enchanted despite the occasional bite. “These are amazing,” he said, voice soft with genuine wonder. “You train all of them?”
“All of them,” you confirmed, already turning back to your work. “Feed them, clean them, train them, deal with their moods, their tantrums, their weird little habits—”
“That sounds like Appa,” Aang said immediately, brightening.
You paused, then tilted your head. “…what’s an Appa?”
“A sky bison,” Aang said. "….My Sky Bison."
You slowly turned back around, your eyes narrowed.
“You’re telling me,” you said carefully, “you have a flying animal… and you didn’t lead with that?”
Aang grinned, and just like that, for the first time since they walked in you looked interested.
“Where is it?”
Sokka groaned. “Oh no.”
Zuko pinched the bridge of his nose.
Toph grinned like chaos itself had just found a new best friend.
And Aang….Aang looked like he’d just won something far more important than any title he’d ever held.
Because you didn’t care about the Avatar.But you did care about animals.And for him? That was more than enough.
summary: A private late-night moment between you and Aang turns into chaotic embarrassment when Sokka barges in at the worst possible time, leaving Aang flustered but still instinctively protective of you.
wc: 1.1k
contains: Soft romance, established relationship intimacy, cuddling, playful kissing, light sexual tension (no explicit content), embarrassment humor, Sokka comedic chaos, protective behavior, blanket “cover-up” moment, affectionate teasing, Gaang dynamics.
The temple was finally quiet.
For once.
No missions.
No meetings.
No training.
Just you and Aang alone in your room late at night while the rest of the Gaang settled down for sleep somewhere else in the temple. The windows were cracked slightly open, cool mountain air drifting through the room while candlelight flickered softly against the walls.
You were curled against Aang’s side underneath the blankets, practically melted into him at this point. Not that he minded.
Aang loved being close to you.
Actually, loved was probably an understatement.
At the moment, he was laying back against the pillows shirtless, one arm around your waist while the other lazily traced shapes against your skin absentmindedly.
You were half laying on top of him, wearing one of his loose wraps that kept slipping off your shoulder every few minutes and nothing else underneath-
Aang was definitely struggling to focus because of it. You noticed every single time his eyes drifted.
“You’re staring again,” you teased softly.
His ears turned pink immediately.
“I can’t help it.”
You laughed quietly before leaning up and kissing him again. That ended any chance of coherent thought immediately.
Aang kissed you back fast, one hand sliding up your back as he pulled you closer against him instinctively.
Warm.
Soft.
Comfortable.
The kind of kissing that had no real goal other than enjoying each other. At least at first. Because after a while, it deepened naturally.
Aang’s kisses got slower, heavier, his hand tightening slightly at your hips every time you shifted against him.
And honestly?
You weren’t helping.
Especially not when your fingers slid over his body gently. A quiet sound escaped him immediately. You smiled against his lips. “That got your attention.”
“You always have my attention,” he murmured.
You kissed him again before he could keep talking because comments like that made your heart melt every single time. Aang responded instantly. He slowly moved his hand to the hem of the wrap. Slowly removing it. One hand moving up your ass, carefully while he kissed you deeper now, completely relaxed beneath you.
The blanket that was around you both had slipped lower somewhere along the way, exposing more of your naked body, but neither of you cared.
At least-
Until the door suddenly swung open.
“Aang, I need to ask you someth- ”
Silence.
Horrible.
Awful silence.
You froze instantly.
Aang’s eyes widened in absolute horror. Sokka stood in the doorway staring directly at the two of you.
At Aang shirtless.
At you half laying on top of him.
At the very obvious makeout session he had just interrupted.
“…OH COME ON!” Sokka yelled immediately.
Aang reacted on pure instinct. He grabbed the blanket so fast it was honestly impressive, yanking it up around you protectively until you were completely covered.
“SO KNOCK!” Aang shouted back immediately.
“I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE DOING THIS!”
“Well maybe you should’ve!”
You buried your burning face into Aang’s shoulder instantly while Sokka pointed accusingly.
“WHY ARE YOU BOTH ALWAYS LIKE THIS WHEN I WALK IN?!”
“GET OUT!”
“I LIVE HERE TOO!”
“NOT IN THIS ROOM YOU DON’T!”
You could physically feel Aang’s embarrassment radiating off him.
His face was bright red.
Ears glowing. One arm wrapped tightly around you while he kept the blanket firmly pulled up around your body protectively.
Which honestly made your heart flutter a little despite the embarrassment. Sokka looked personally victimized.
“I can never unsee this.”
“THEN LEAVE!” Aang snapped.
“You guys are unbelievable!”
“You opened the door without knocking!”
“Because I didn’t think I was interrupting this!”
Aang groaned loudly, dropping his forehead dramatically onto your shoulder for a second. “You’re the worst.”
“You’re making out in the middle of the night!”
“It’s OUR room!”
Sokka pointed dramatically.
“I have trauma now.”
“You’ll survive!”
At this point you were laughing too hard into Aang’s shoulder to even help.
Which made Aang look at you in betrayal. “This isn’t funny.”
“It kind of is,” you admitted through laughter.
Aang groaned again while Sokka kept rambling dramatically.
“I’m serious, from now on there should be a warning sign on this door.”
“GET OUT!”
Finally, mercifully, Katara appeared behind Sokka.
“What are you yelling abou- ”
She stopped instantly after seeing the scene. Aang looked ready to evaporate on the spot. Katara sighed immediately. “Sokka, seriously?”
“I’M the problem?!” he cried.
“Yes! Knock before entering people’s rooms!”
“I DIDN’T THINK THEY’D BE HALF NAKED!”
Aang immediately pulled the blanket higher around you protectively again.
“Stop looking at her!”
“I’m trying NOT to!”
Katara physically grabbed Sokka by the arm. “Okay. We’re leaving now.”
“I can still see him shirtless!”
“Sokka.”
“I’m traumatized!”
The door finally shut behind them.
Silence.
Then
Aang dropped his face into his hands.
“Oh my god.”
You immediately started laughing again. Aang looked at you, still completely red. “This is your fault too.”
“How?”
“You distract me!”
“That is not a real excuse.”
“It is to me.”
You smiled softly despite yourself. Even flustered out of his mind, he still had one arm securely around you underneath the blankets. Still holding you close. Still protecting you first before even processing his own embarrassment.
Your expression softened immediately. “You covered me up,” you murmured quietly.
Aang blinked.
Then his face softened too.
“Of course I did.”
The sincerity in his voice made your chest warm. Even during absolute chaos
He thought about you first.
You leaned up, kissing his cheek softly this time. Aang immediately melted again despite everything.
“You’re cute,” you whispered.
“I’m humiliated.”
“You’re still cute.”
He huffed softly, trying not to smile.
Then after a second
“…Do you think Sokka’s gone?”
You listened for a moment.
“…Probably.”
Aang narrowed his eyes suspiciously toward the door.
“I don’t trust him.”
That only made you laugh harder while he pulled you closer again, still stubbornly keeping the blanket wrapped around you both.
when FIRELORD ZUKO takes a liking to AVATAR AANG'S mysterious new BRIDE.
TORN BETWEEN TWO ROADS ! — aang x reader x zuko
PLOT. republic city is finally at peace, and katara allows herself to hope that maybe now, after everything, she and aang can finally become something real. but when aang returns after eight months, he isn’t alone. he comes back with you at his side, introducing you as his wife. suspicious yet helpless, his friends do their best to welcome you, even as nothing about this sudden marriage makes sense. but while everyone else keeps their distance, one person doesn’t. and perhaps Zuko gets a little too comfortable with the avatar’s new wife.
CHARACTERS. AANG and ZUKO.
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, smut, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, dark themes, sexual assault, mentions of rape (not aang or zuko dw), established relationship, yearner aang, infidelity, depression, mentions of suicide, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not canon compliant to legend of korra, wip.
masterlist
art creds :: chamiii07, ilameys on x
CHAPTER ONE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang but follows the characters, not canon compliant to legend of korra, not proofread.
CHAPTER TWO
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, established relationship, mean sokka (no hate for him please, i am just a bitch hahah), little arguing (lowkey fight), fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER THREE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, some 'arguing' with zuko, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER FOUR
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, smut, angst, hurt with comfort, small argument (i don't think it even counts), penetration sex, no protection (do they even have protection?), my own version of plan b used, pregnancy talks, slightly insecure reader (regarding katara), takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, kinda proofread.
CHAPTER FIVE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, implied sexual assault, fight with zuko, zuko is kind of a prick ngl, protective aang, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER SIX
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, blood, stab wound, cauterization, lots of fire, a little tension, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, slight panic attack, a very bad injury (not detailed), takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, alcohol consumption, underage drinking (?) [idk their legal age for drinking, but in this fic it's 21], takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER NINE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, kidnapping, restraints, sexual assault, character death mentioned, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER TEN
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, bad father, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, zuko spirals a little, multiple minor character deaths, ozai appearence, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER THRITEEN
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, blood, mentions of premeditated murder, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, blood, mentions of premeditated murder, head injury, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, blood, injections, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
At least, as safe as you could get in a zombie apocalypse. The undead didn’t do well in the cold, limbs with no blood froze, fell off, slowed them to an essentially inert state.
But when you didn’t need to worry about horrifying, rotting, infectious dead people, you had to worry about starving.
When the news broke that the cold slowed them down, just about everyone migrated north. What that meant, though, was basically all of the stores were totally raided.
So here you were, in your fingerless gloves (that used to have fingers) digging through the wreckage of a 7-11 you’d been to before trying to find anything edible enough. You’d take something even technically edible at this point. The gloves catch on a broken shelf, sending your frustrations over the edge. You rip them off and throw them on the ground.
It was the fifth store you had tried today. You were getting desperate enough to start trying the same places again. In the summer, you could forage in the forest, maybe even catch something in a snare if you were lucky. But right now? The forest was deader than the zombies. You’d have to rely on something canned pre-apocalypse. Or you could die. That was looking pretty appealing right now.
Your doom-and-gloom thoughts were interrupted by a loud rattle by the door. On instinct, you ducked and pulled your knife from your belt, making yourself small behind a shelf. Sure, winter slowed them down, but that didn’t mean a persistent straggler wasn’t possible. You couldn’t let your guard down.
You were tense, ready for any scenario…until you heard voices. Accented voices—at least to you in mountain-town USA.
“Bloody hell, this place is a ghost town…”
They were human, but you still didn’t dare poke out. The apocalypse did nasty things to people. Made them compromise their morals for survival. Some people leaned into that more than others and there was no way to know.
“Just see if there’s anything salvageable, sergeant. Map says this is the last town for a while.”
Sergeant? Military? Last you heard, they were all wiped out in the initial push-back. Not to mention they were passersby, which was incredibly rare. People in general were getting rarer by the day, but most people clung to the safety of the cold, and towns they knew. Unknowns were dangerous. Trained ones, even more so.
As far as you knew, this place didn’t have a back door. But, if you could get to the front undetected, you could get the hell out of dodge, belly no less empty, but still very much alive. You’d take that trade-off.
As they rounded the shelves, you paralleled their movements, snaking around them to stay out of sight. Curiosity was a beast of its own, though, so you risked a peek.
There were three of them, all large men. One was older with mutton chops and a bucket hat, holding a gun—a large one—and looking around while the others dug through the mess. The other two were younger. One shorter, but no less built, with a Mohawk of all things. The other, very pretty with a Union Jack on his cap.
They all had guns (another rarity these days) and tac vests, clearly military and clearly not American. Definitely wanted to avoid them.
They seemed occupied with their search, which benefited you. They didn’t seem overtly concerned with their noise levels either, so it was easier to sneak away. By the time you made it to the front door, you almost felt like it was too easy. Still looking back to make sure they hadn’t seen you, you didn’t notice the hulking figure in front of you. But boy did he see you.
He grabbed you by the straps of your backpack before slamming you against the brick wall of the building. Oh…they left a scout. You realized a little too late. He was the scariest of them all, face fully covered by a skull mask. He had to have been well over 6 feet, and struck an intimidatingly muscular figure. You were so so so incredibly fucked.
“Captain!” His low voice cut through the silence of the outdoors, making you flinch. You can’t remember the last time someone had yelled in your presence. Frankly, it’s been a while since you’d seen anyone at all.
His comrades responded rapidly, flying outside with their guns up ready to defend him. They deflated at the sight of you, which…was sort of offensive. Sure, you probably didn’t look as intimidating as them, what with no gun, and you were clearly outnumbered, but still. They didn’t know what you could do.
“Well, what do we have ‘ere, Ghost?” Mutton chops—the captain?—asks.
Your brows furrow, “ghost…?” You can’t help but whispering inquisitively.
His gaze turns back on you, “got a problem?”
“No!” You speak louder, head shaking, “no problem…just…ghost?”
The one with a Mohawk snorts before Pretty Boy stomps on his foot.
You’re confused at the dynamic here. Are you in danger? You can’t tell. Ghost still has you pinned, but they all seem very relaxed and Mohawk even seems to find humor in the situation.
“Are…you gonna kill me?” You were always told that speaking your mind is best.
The captain lowers his weapon fully, hands coming to wrap around the front straps of his vest before rocking on his heels and smirking a little. You try to ignore the way it crinkles his eyes and how that makes you feel. “No, sweet’eart, we’re not that type of folk. Just needed to make certain you weren’t a threat.”
There’s silence for a moment. Your gaze sweeps from the captain to Ghosts hands, still wrapped around your backpack straps and pinning you to the wall, before back to the captain in a silent plea.
“Alrigh’, Ghost, release.” He lets you go, dropping you the inch he had you raised back to the ground, before backing up.
You fix your jacket and bag and clear your throat, wiping your hands down the front of your shirt. “Well…gentlemen…if that’s all…” you move to leave before the captain jerks you back by the hook on the back of your bag.
“Not so fast.”
This is getting old quick.
“What!” You flip to face him, exasperated and no longer caring, “what could I possibly do—“ you stop at the sight of a granola bar in his outstretched hand. You look down at it and then back at him. Was he really offering this to you? Food was so scarce and kind people even scarcer. What did he want in return?
Before you could ask or just grab it and run, the sound of a motorcycle revving in the distance interrupted your thoughts.
You flinch hard, looking the direction it came before backtracking rapidly. “Shit. Shit, shit—“
They’re confused but you’d be damned if you had another run in with him. You’re about to take off when you think about them. Clearly unfamiliar with the territory and kind enough to offer you food (…and not kill you). The least you could do is save them from this fate.
So, you grab Pretty Boy’s bicep and tug him along with a “come with me!”
“Hey, wait a second—“ Ghost is gripping his gun and taking a defensive step forward, but you don’t have time for his suspicion.
You’re still holding Pretty’s bicep when you swoop past Mohawk and grab him too, “if you want to die that’s fine by me!” The two in your hold are sharing a glance over your head but seem inclined to listen. You don’t spare a look to see if the other two are following, if not, it’s their funeral.
You’re pretty sure the gas station has a secondary building around back for overstock and snow supplies. Last you checked all the food was gone, but hopefully the door was still in tact. You had to be out of sight before they got here.
The sounds of motorcycles were getting closer, and your window was closing. Luckily, you could see the shed still standing with a door. You abandon the hold on the boys in favor of tugging the latch and opening the door to the shed. Looking behind you, the other two ended up following, both seeming more suspicious of you than they had when you were pressed to a wall. There wasn’t time to explain, though, so you just ushered them in before following and closing the door.
It was about a quarter of the size of the actual station, with some closets and nooks and crannies, but they stayed huddled by the entryway, reluctant to venture further into the dark unknown.
You turn to face them, feeling claustrophobic at the way they are towering around you. You take off your backpack, shoving it into the chest in front of you. “Hold this.”
You start to rummage through before Ghost interrupts, “are you going to explain anything?”
Your head whips up in the dark, “shh!” You pull out a flashlight and flick it on, zipping your bag up and flinging it onto your back.
You break out of the circle, giving the room a glance over to make sure no zombies had made this their hibernation home. When you’re certain it’s clear, you turn back around to answer.
“Listen, there’s only one group in town that have motorcycles and you don’t want to cross their path.”
They share a dubious look with one another before shouldering their guns higher. “I think we’d be set, love.”
You scoff, “you’re not the only ones with guns. And from the looks of it, you’re a lot nicer than they are.”
“We’re only nice to people who look on the verge of starving. It’s not like you pose much of a threat.” Ghost again.
They’re not getting it. “Just!—trust me. You’re passing through, right? Not from around here?” You’re looking at each of them in the eye, trying to impress upon them how serious you are. “These guys rolled up at the very start. People were making a community here. With walls and laws, trying to make something of this mess. They tore it all to shreds. Pretended to join the community and then opened the gates to a bunch of undead. The things that they did—“ you take a breath and look away before continuing, “they’re not good, okay? If they saw the gear y’all’re sporting, they’d never let you walk away.”
You can only hope you got through to them because the motorcycles are here. You turn off the flashlight and punch through their group again to peek out a gap in the door. Please don’t stop here, please don’t stop here, please—
They park the bikes in front of the 7-11.
“Alright! Split up, see if this fine establishment has what we’re lookin’ for!” His southern drawl makes you shudder, thinking back to how callous he was in the wake of the destruction he caused.
“His name is Graves.” You whisper, not taking your eyes off of him. “Was U.S. military before all of this…deserted when the shit hit the fan.”
They don’t ask how you know so much about him.
Suddenly you jerk back with a hissed “shit!”
Suddenly you’re turning around and pushing on their chests to get them to move. “Go, go, go! Someone is coming.”
You had seen plenty of hiding places when you were checking for undead, you just had to hope they wouldn’t check too thoroughly.
You all scrambled for a place to hide, silently directing them to places you had spotted. Everyone squeezed into gaps or took closets, and then it was just you, standing in the middle of the room, spinning helplessly. Footsteps approached from outside, about to reach the door, when someone stuck their hand out and jerked you into their spot.
Ghost squeezed you into the cabinet he was in, chest pressing to yours, before shutting the door and plunging you into darkness.
“I—“ you try to whisper, but he just brings his hand up to cover your mouth as the door to the shed creaks open.
Your breathing picks up as someone enters to room, sweeping a flashlight back and forth, momentarily illuminating the crack in the cabinet. You can hear his boots scrape the floor and the click of a gun as he leisurely makes his way deeper into the room.
Eventually he stops in front of your cabinet. Your eye flickers from the crack to Ghost’s eyes. His gun is nuzzled between the two of you. He brings his finger up to his lips before reaching down to your thigh holster for your knife, not yet pulling it out, just hovering with his hand pressed against your thigh and waiting for the door to open.
“Walkowski!” You hear Graves yell from the main building. The man retracts his hand from the handle of the cabinet and runs back to his master.
Ghost drops both of his hands from you and you finally feel like you can breathe again.
You all give it a moment before emerging from your hiding spots. You approach the door that is still ajar, looking out to find no one in sight.
You look over your shoulder and gesture for them to follow before shooting out and jogging for the back of the gas station.
As you all take refuge behind the back wall, Graves finally re-emerges with his crew.
“Any clues on our little deflector?” He asks his goons as they flood back to him.
“Not sure, sir, but we did find this.” One of them holds up two gloves—your gloves.
Graves chuckles and takes them from his hands. “Well I’ll be!” He holds them up and waves them at his other comrades, “looks like we’re on the right track, boys!”
Your head drops, eyes squeezing shut at your stupidity. A barely audible fuck leaves you. The boys share a look, starting to put some dots together.
You all stay silent as they all get back on their bikes and start up the road. The tension only minimally leaves your shoulders, you honestly look on the verge of tears as you stand.
“Well…it was nice meeting you. Thanks for the granola bar. If you’re trying to get out of town you’re going to want to follow the highway so you don’t get stuck in a snowed-out overpass.” You point in the direction of a large road, not turning around to face them before staring the opposite direction Graves went.
“Come with us.” Ghost stops you before even fully considering what he’s saying. He spares a look at John, forgetting chain of command for a moment. All he’s thinking about is that he knows what it’s like to be running from something. To be scared. But John doesn’t protest, in fact they all look to be in agreement.
That does get you to turn back. “What?” You say incredulously.
“We could use a guide.” He offers.
“I’m—“ you look around like you’d find someone to protest, “I’m not just dropping everything I have here for…for some strangers I met 30 minutes ago…” despite your arguments, you look contemplative.
“Everything you have here? Like what? The lack of food and a sociopath on your ass?” Tough love it is.
You scoff and shake your head. Of course they caught that. Your brain tells you that there’s no argument, that obviously you can’t go with them. But…but…
To tell the truth, you had nothing here. Just the memory of what was before Graves took everything. He was right. You were starving and terrified Graves would find you everyday. You were sick of watching your own back, sick of having no one to talk to, and sick of Graves looming over you.
You open and close your mouth a couple of times. “…okay.”
You’re not sure how, but you felt like you had just irreparably changed something.
theartofmadeline
gamechangershow
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
