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diaryofasentimentalist · 2 years ago

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‘𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐫𝐲 / 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐲𝐞’

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x f!Reader

Summary: Leon returns home to you unexpectedly but has to leave you once again, making you confront all the feelings on his dangerous job and the pain of your love for him.

Contains: angst, mentions of: alcoholism, sex, death.

Word count: 3.0k (wow) | Read on AO3

A/N: My first of hopefully many fics inspired by a song! I thought the lyrics fit very well. I feel at home writing angst lol, this might be one of my favourites of mine so I really hope you like it :’) (I left it unfinished for a month but we don’t need to talk about that lmao)

It was two in the morning. You stood there in your nightgown, holding the door open to your apartment but standing in front of it–so the man in question, who had awoken you with a knock on the door that had you wanting, needing him there to protect you against whoever was knocking on your door at this ridiculous time–wouldn’t come in just yet. You deserved an explanation.

An explanation for why Leon was standing at your door like a lost puppy and a dying man simultaneously when he was supposed to be away, working–as usual. But you couldn’t help but smile softly at the sight of him even though he looked terrible; dark under eyes, messy hair, and hunched over with fatigue that made you frown ever so slightly again. You didn’t know how long you could bear seeing him like this again. It came with the job, came with the man you wanted to marry but you love him. How can someone who loves him stand by when he was tearing himself to pieces?

“Surprise…” Leon said, forcing a small smile as his eyes looked up from the floor to you, making you feel the urge to feel his body against yours again. You practically threw yourself at him. The silk of your nightgown pressed against the cotton of his button-up shirt and you felt his warmth radiating off him as you pulled him into your arms and those strong arms of his pulled you into an equally desperate hug, both seeking comfort from one another. “I…” Leon started but sighed deeply and that pit in your stomach formed again. You felt yourself drown in it, the air from his deep and telling sigh pushing you so deep you felt you couldn’t get out, making you grip his shirt and screw your eyes shut–already knowing what was to come.

“I… can’t stay for long, I’m on my way to another mission in the next state tomorrow–” he paused, stroking your hair and pulling you closer as if he feared you would run away. You would never. But you understood why he thought so. “Was in the area, thought I’d stop by–especially after… how we left off” Leon said and although your face was pressed against his chest and therefore unable to see anything, you could hear the grimace in his voice and it made you screw your eyes shut again. You focused on his breathing chest beneath your ear–rhythmic and calm, a heartbeat that was growing faster but stable–that once always lulled you to sleep but now filled you with a sense of dread.

It was happening again. He was being taken from you. Again. Your greetings to him nowadays seemed more like goodbyes than hellos, always getting ready for the next call to action. It never ended.

‘How we left off’... his words repeated in your head again and again with the flash of a memory; two shouting voices, the slam of a door, and the rev of a car engine–how we left off. You pressed against him harder and he held you tighter, no doubt recalling the same memory with pain in both of your hearts that beated just a little faster now. Whether it was because you were finally in each other’s arms again or the recollection of the memory or the thought of Leon leaving again in the morning–neither of you knew.

“We should go inside,” you said quietly with your voice muffled a little from speaking against his chest. If you could, you would spend all day just resting your head on his chest, feeling his strong arms around you as he ran his hands through your hair, tranquil and quiet. Leon would be watching those awful game shows, ‘it’s just what’s on’ he would say–defending himself, and critiquing every person who fell from the high jumps and splashing into the water below. And you, nuzzled into his chest, would roll your eyes–seemingly annoyed at his choice in television that took his mind off things and his horrible jokes. But you would be equally invested in who would be the next champion and letting out the smallest laughs at his one-liners. They were so bad you had to.

But those moments were few and far between. And now, with you gripping onto him as if that would do anything to change his mission tomorrow, those moments seemed too far away to comfort you, too impossible to happen in the near future. Your dreams of being kissed and swept off your feet at the aisle in a beautiful white dress that you got months before and spent weeks agonizing over all seemed too impossible and deluded to be of any comfort. ‘One day’ seemed to shatter gradually with every desperate kiss you gave him before he turned and walked away, not knowing when you’ll see him next–keeping your phone on at all times in case of a dreaded call from his colleagues telling you awful news.

As long as he was alive, he would always come back to you. If it was a 45-minute drive or even a seven-hour flight, he would always come back–you knew that. You would always be his and he would always be yours. But those dreams, as long as he was on the move–like he always was– weren’t going to happen, you both knew that.

“Yeah, don’t want you getting a cold,” Leon said, shaking you out of your thoughts that if left for just a few seconds longer would bring you to the brink of tears. Gently, he steered you inside by your shoulder, still holding you tight and rubbing his hand up and down your arm comfortingly and warming you up. You forgot you were in your nightgown, standing at the door in the middle of the cold night. But with Leon’s arms around you, it was hard to remember the coldness of anything else, all you felt was warmth.

You took off his jacket, your hands lingering and brushing against his clothed arm as your dreary eyes drifted up to his face, seemingly sinking in on itself from too many years of this same cycle–over and over again. In late hours of lonely nights, with the smell of alcohol on his lips, he would whisper against your skin. ‘There’s no end to this,’ he would say with slurred words, collapsing into bed to place lazy kisses along your neck in a desperate attempt to regulate himself. ‘What’s the point of it all?’ he would say with a deep sigh as his fingers entangled with yours, laying back and sinking into his pillow as he gazed up at the ceiling with eyes that you swore looked like were about to cry. But the tears never came, not often at least, he reserved those for his time alone, away from you.

“So pretty…” Leon breathed out as you hung up his jacket, his hands snaked around your waist from behind and you turned to see him eying you intently. His eyes flickered both from the anxiety that you didn’t want to feel him so close to you, not after everything he put you through, but also from scanning each of your features closely. Your pretty eyes that he got lost in, your hair that he loved to caress and stroke, your nose that would brush against his right before he kissed you. Leon was never one for taking photos, but you… he needed something to look at on those lonely trips away from you. But it was never enough. Leon would always soak you up before he left.

And even that wasn’t enough either. Nothing would be, not unless he fulfilled your dreams of a stable life with him. But that wasn’t possible. The thought made the rest of his thoughts spiral even more. So he did what he knew worked best at quelling those thoughts, or at least helped with dealing with them–getting close to you.

You couldn’t help but sigh in appreciation at Leon’s arms around you, his hands caressing your hips on top of the thin fabric of your nightgown as they moved further downwards, down your thighs. As much as you wanted to stay distant and sad, getting ready for his departure in the morning, you tilted your head back onto his shoulder and a breathy sigh escaped your lips at the intimacy. The more you resist his affection, the less it will hurt when it gets taken away. But it was Leon. You could never resist him, not when his hands were trailing back up your thigh and bringing your nightgown with them. You could barely feel the tips of his fingers on you but the ever-so-gentle touch made you shiver in his arms, feeling his breath fan against your neck–which, thankfully, didn’t have the familiar smell of alcohol.

Maybe some intimacy before Leon went would be good for you–to feel his touch against your blushing hot skin, feel his lips move with yours, feel him inside you. Your mind was already plagued with him, why not have your body remember the way he made you feel–why not have it yearn for him just as your aching heart did every second he was gone? But you knew whether he touched you or not, whether the night for the two of you contained chasing each other’s pleasure or not–that you would always feel the need for him. Conscious of it or not.

“Want you,” he whispered, the desperation seeping through his voice and through his touch that turned into a gentle grip on your supple skin. Nothing could help him but you and the fact that he wasn’t sure if you even wanted him after he just broke the news of him leaving again and ruining yet another surprise, made him even more desperate. You could only nod quickly, turning around and muttering a quick “want you too” before crashing your lips against his as both your legs and his instinctively moved to the bedroom. Leon’s eyes flickered again, expecting distance from you but you could feel him smile ever so slightly against your lips in the tiniest bit of surprise.

You clung to Leon throughout, the gnawing feeling of wanting him with you always seeping through. And similarly, Leon never broke contact with you. Whether it be his lips kissing and adoring every part of you or his hands gripping you tight as the sounds of your shared pleasure filled the dark and quiet room–Leon never let go. In the morning he would have to, but not now, not if he could make it. The touch and feeling of you was permanently engraved and etched into the grooves of his skin but on nights like these, where he has to confront the feeling of leaving you time and time again, it would never be enough.

———

You should’ve known better. As you laid next to him on your side, your chest still raggedly heaving from the all-consuming pleasure Leon always made you feel, the distraction from your ever-growing worried thoughts was gone. They just got even worse. Not even the gentle feeling of Leon’s hand in your hair, the other rubbing your arm soothingly, and his words of asking if you were okay and praising you could do anything to stop the impending doom you felt festering in the pit in your stomach. The tremble and uncertainty in his voice were unmistakable even though it was clear he tried to hide it. You tried to focus on his hands on you, the warmth you felt under the covers next to him and the feeling of his soft hair against your neck as he nestled in your neck and rested on your shoulders. You knew he was needy. You were too. Needy for distraction, for him.

But he was leaving in the morning. And that was that.

The more you felt Leon’s touch against you, the soft caress of his hands on your arm or through your hair, the more you could feel the absence of it that was to come. You knew all too well how physically painful it was, how every part of you yearned for his return. So, you turned around in your shared bed so your back was facing him, unable to get the rush of thoughts to stop. Leon’s thoughts must be running as quickly as yours too. But the pain of your worry that weighed on your shoulders, pressing you so deeply into the mattress below as if you were sinking into it, was too much to bear.

If it was any other time, you would soothe him the night before he left, no matter how painful. This time though, you would leave him alone with his thoughts and lay in silence, your back against him and looking at the wall with bleak eyes because your own thoughts–let alone his–were too much in itself.

Now it wasn’t the thought of living without his affection and presence temporarily that worried you, that plagued your mind and made you grind your teeth together as you looked at the wall with teary eyes. You didn’t know enough about Leon’s job to know the extent of how dangerous it was, but the hush-hush attitude from him and the few of his colleagues you had met and the injuries he came home with was indication enough. “You’d be the first to know,” Hunnigan said to you, with a forced smile, on one of the only times you had met her after you nervously brought up the topic of Leon’s… safety. Of course, you would be the first one contacted if… anything happened to him but that didn’t bring you solace whatsoever. Whatever bastard that stood over his body would be the first. The thought sent a shiver down your spine. Leon always tried his best to give you updates when he could, one word was enough.

But the thought that you could be doing literally anything, living a life while he didn’t have one anymore sent all the tears you had repressed for too long to come flowing down your cheeks.

Would this time be the time that took not only his love away from you but his life too?

Your distance didn’t go unnoticed by Leon. Almost every other time, you would be nestled into his arms and he would gently soothe you to sleep, knowing you wanted to spend every waking moment possible with him before he left so you tried your best to stay awake. But now, you laid on your side with your back facing him, curled in on yourself. He stared at your back and wondered what your face looked like; just the usual urge to just stare at you all day long before he left for a mission, but most importantly because he wanted to know what he was doing to you, what loving someone like him was doing to you. Leon’s eyes trailed down to your legs to see you weren’t only hunched over with your back facing him but you were curled up in a ball with your thighs against your chest. He wanted nothing more than to scoop you up into his arms but he knew better not to.

That was when he heard it. A stifled sob. The impact of it sent a tremor throughout your body that made you flinch and curl into yourself more.

Leon could feel every cell in his body crumble and shatter, sinking and disintegrating into the plush mattress beneath him–the one the two of you bought after a day of you flinging yourself onto every mattress in the store as you held his hand and sent him tumbling down with you. With every sniffle and ragged breath he heard, with every sight of your body trembling as you held in your sobs, Leon felt every piece of him crumble before his eyes.

The only thing keeping him together after years of the same cycle was that at least, at least… he was a good partner to you, a loving one that put you before all else. Even though he faced near-death time and time again, to the point it felt like an old friend–an obsessive one–but a friend nonetheless, at least… at least you were happy. But you were not. The same things that crushed him, that threatened to take his last piece of sanity, crushed you too.

———

Now it was Leon’s turn to cry, alone in his car as he gripped the steering wheel, far away from your worried eyes that looked at him as if it were the last time you’d ever see him. It might be, there was always that risk. He just didn’t realize the extent of how badly that tore you apart until you stifled your desolate sobs the night before, the sound that crumbled every part of him that he knew. A few stray tears trickled down Leon’s face, unable to control the slight tremble in his lips–something that always happened on the rare occasions he would cry. He hated it.

It wasn’t just the pain of living without you and leaving you that festered within Leon, now he couldn't get rid of the sight of you curled up in the bed you both shared with tears streaming down your face. In his imagination, you would be lying on your side–not crying–with a smile on your face, doing one of your hobbies that he probably didn't understand but loved that it made you smile anyway. You would be happy. You would miss him–of course, you would–he wanted you to miss him. But you would be happy. But those stifled sobs in the silence of your bedroom late at night came back to haunt him. He knew whatever he was thinking about–your smile–wasn’t true.

All Leon could do was grip the steering wheel as he drove, blinking away tears so he could see the road in front of him–a road that led him further and further away from you.

#A+ song choice A+ concept A+ fic #i'm in LOVE with this you don't understand #also i like this style of incorporating the lyrics naturally into the fic #as opposed to traditional songfic style but anyway #this is PERFECT #was literally listening to this song and thinking about leon like... a month or so ago? idk. but to have it actually written out... thank u #lowkey this dynamic is exactly why civilian!reader x leon fics will always have a certain je ne sais quoi #other writers #recs: lsk

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diaryofasentimentalist · 2 years ago

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RIPE FOR THE PICKING (I)

pairing: ID!leon kennedy x gn!reader

summary: Faking a marriage is easy—so you thought. But your life-or-death mission leaves the door wide open for feelings to fester. Feelings that you really do not have time for.

words: 7.2k

warnings: strong mentions of domestic violence, shady business practices, predatory Umbrella execs, kidnapping, canon-typical violence, partners to fake spouses to friends to lovers (soon)

notes: this has been a long time in the making, based on a smut week request that got a lot bigger than i ever could’ve imagined. i know nothing about government agencies but this is resident evil so who cares right (pls dont yell at me)!!

It feels wrong. Being with him like this.

Your ring finger’s been branded by the weight of cold metal—a gift from your supervisors for a long-term mission abroad. Just you and him, two rabbits trapped within a woodland wolf camp: the inner circle of Umbrella’s most elite. Hundreds of apex predators with their keen noses and hair-trigger reflexes and you cannot fuck this up. One wrong move means an unveiling means swift death.

Leon isn’t your husband. The marriage papers are forged, and the engraving inside of both rings (forever yours) means as much as his hollow affections. Barely even friends before this. Just two people with opposing skill sets and long-term bioterrorism expertise—a match made in USSTRATCOM heaven.

“Trouble in paradise?” asks the woman to your right. Elegant in her older age, bejeweled from hair to feet—she favors emeralds and silk fabrics, supplemented by her husband’s high-paying salary. A family you seek to infiltrate. One of many.

She’s made it very easy. Umbrella’s welcome party, apparently. Kind enough to invite you over for wine while Leon sets plans in motion back at home base.

“What makes you say that, ma’am?”

She scoffs, finishes the last of her drink, closes her book, removes her glasses. Leans over the armrest of a thick-cushioned chair to where you sit beside her. “You’ve fiddled with your ring this entire conversation, which means something’s on your mind. Most likely something husband-shaped.”

Every Umbrella higher-up possesses the same preternatural wit. Sometimes, you fear breathing wrong lest the members discover your ruse, and that perception only sharpens with age—couldn’t last long with the company otherwise.

This time, however, you’re one step ahead.

You breathe out a sigh and regard her with a pinched brow. “Can I ask you something? In confidence?”

She refills her glass halfway with deep red wine and takes a sip, smudging same-colored lipstick along the rim. “Of course, my dear.”

“How do you know if someone’s… cheating on you?”

Her lips purse, gaze casting to the floor. “You just know. But it wouldn’t matter anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“As spouses, we support our husbands in all their endeavors. No matter how much it hurts us.” At your widened eyes, she smiles. A broken thing, thin, resigned. “Think about it for a moment. With the resources at their disposal, what do you think they would do if we tried to leave?”

Not exactly the information you were seeking. Painful all the same. A perspective you hadn’t considered.

“That’s horrible.”

She rests a wrinkled hand over yours, thumbs at the metal of your ring. “You’re still young, which is why I’m telling you this. It’s not worth it. Let him do what he wants, and when the time comes, you swallow your pain.”

You carry her advice back to your false home where Leon awaits, files strewn across the dining room table, mid-conversation with a burner-phone Hunnigan.

He turns at the sound of your footsteps. Says, “We got word from the informant. I’m heading to the facility tomorrow.”

You take a seat at the table as Hunnigan greets you over the speaker, and you return with your own pleasantries. “So they got you a badge?”

He nods. Pulls out the chair to sit beside you. “How’d your visit with Mary go?”

“I still can’t get over how big their fucking house is.”

Hunnigan cuts in, voice rough from the static. “Did you find anything of note?”

“No. I mean, I know she likes to read in her library, she enjoys red wine, she—wait. Actually.” You turn to Leon with a solemn frown. “There’s trouble in paradise.”

His gaze sharpens, and the line of his back straightens. “What do you mean?”

“Well—okay. I might’ve told her that I think you’re cheating on me.” As his mouth opens, you raise a hand to give him pause. “I thought it would be a good way to cover our asses and get some dirt on them.”

What better excuse for aloofness than adultery?

“Did you?” Hunnigan asks.

“A lot more than I expected. From what I gather, the elite get up to a lot of… morally questionable shit in regards to the treatment of their spouses.”

“That’s kind of a given, Nightingale.”

He still hasn’t referred to you by your real name. Either by alias or code, despite the latter’s arguable lengthiness. And it shouldn’t affect you as much as it does. A silly thing to find hurt feelings over, but it sours your mood. Leaves you bristling.

“But to hear it from an actual victim. I saw the look in her eyes, Leon.”

He leans in close, drops his voice to a low grumble. “These people aren’t victims. Don’t let them get in your head. We have a mission to focus on.”

Through your nose you exhale a tired sigh and look away to follow the woodgrain of the oak-stained table. He’s wrong. Didn’t hear what you heard, see what you saw. “You seem to forget that my specialty is subterfuge. Reading people, blending in, manipulation. I know what I’m talking about.”

“I remember perfectly fine, actually. You seem to forget what Umbrella’s capable of.” You meet his glare, stubborn and unyielding, then lean back in your chair.

Raccoon City stains deep, leaves him wary and standoffish. You’ve read his file. Little more than two dozen pages of redacted writing, but word of mouth spreads. A man like him doesn’t just fall under the radar, and government officials love to talk. To you, especially.

After a long moment, he brushes the hair from his eyes and turns back to the messy spread of papers. “We just need to be careful, okay?”

“You need to stay focused. Both of you.” Hunnigan, bemused by your arguing. “Do whatever it takes to complete this mission.”

—

Your first real party as newlyweds. The ballroom is brightly lit, spanning half a football field of sparkling chandeliers and velvet settees and champagne glasses filled with diamonds. Neither of you belong here, but you walk through the doors hand-in-hand, and you wave to those who recognize you, and attempting to navigate public affection through the lens of realism proves difficult.

This was a sore idea, in hindsight. Choosing an era commonly characterized by the most intense love and affection and happiness of the entire relationship. You should have spun a different story. A better one. But Umbrella didn’t seem an arranged-marriage type. From your research, most of their scientists got married around this age anyway.

Maybe you try too hard to fit in, and maybe that’s obvious. The wolves love fresh meat, and you and Leon are fresh out the cradle. It puts you at a disadvantage, leaves you as vulnerable as a fresh wound.

“I’ve noticed that you and your husband aren’t quite as… in love as newlyweds usually are.”

Carina Voerman: an absolute snake of a woman. The wife of an exec. Nosy to an impressive degree. An unconventional beauty, a stand-out. Every facet of her personality perfectly engineered for subterfuge.

What you wouldn’t give to pick her brain.

“The move has been… stressful, to say the least.”

“Let me guess.” She joins you against the wall, glossy lips pursing, and gazes off to where Leon mingles with his new work friends. “He’s staying out late, won’t tell you where he’s been. He keeps his phone a little too close.” When you say nothing, she turns to give you a wincing smile. Soothes a palm down your arm. “I thought my last husband was cheating? Come to find out, he was looking to use me in his experiments.”

You swallow down your surprise alongside the bitter taste of white wine, and your tongue almost sours in response. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She brushes a dark curl away from her forehead and it falls immediately back into place. “I’ve heard much worse stories than my own. You’ll get used to it.”

A few weeks ago, you would have doubted that, but you’ve heard stories as well. Each more horrific than the last.

“But I digress,” she continues, plucking a pack of cigarettes from her purse. “Do you smoke?”

Rarely, but when in Rome…. “Of course I do. Cigarettes are my very own brand of Vicodin.”

She laughs into the back of her hand, and the bejeweled bracelets on her wrist jingle. “I’ve never heard such a thing, but I think I’ll steal that.”

“They said it a lot where we used to live.”

She lights up her cigarette and exhales from the corner of her mouth. “You moved from the States, right?”

From your peripheral, Leon approaches. Gives you a stilted smile and pauses a moment before you outstretch a hand. Embrace me, dumbass.

The exchange is painfully awkward, slow-moving, and Carina clicks her tongue in disapproval. “You’re supposed to pretend at these events, my dears.”

Leon’s fingers tighten about your waist, and your heart soars up into your throat, each beat pulsing and painful. Her eyes narrow to a piercing scrutiny, and Leon turns to kiss you soft on the cheek. She could mean two different things, and only one of them would bring you relief.

She hums. “Aren’t you just the cutest couple?” Stamps out the lingering burn of her cigarette’s filter in the ashtray sat on the high table. “I suggest you keep each other close. The wolves around here tend to prowl.”

You aren’t sure if it’s a threat or a warning—maybe both. But you know not to underestimate her. Anybody, for that matter.

She leaves with a wave of manicured fingers, and Leon slumps against the wall at your back. Says, “Well. We might be fucked.”

“To be fair, you could’ve at least acted like you enjoy my presence.”

“I didn’t wanna overstep.”

You turn to glare at him. “We are married. I implore you to remember that.”

“Then as your husband,” he takes the half-smoked cigarette from between your fingers and smothers it inside the ashtray, “it breaks my heart to see you smoking.”

“It’s social.”

“It also kills people.”

With a starry smile, you lean your head on his shoulder. “Wow. So you do care.”

“I kinda have to.”

With a roll of your eyes, you push him away. “Oh, fuck you.”

—

It seems like a great idea. Fantastic, really. Your intimacy appears staged. Your safety, along with your chance of success, is up in the air. Not to mention, he’s a pretty man and you’re undeniably caged by touch-starvation.

Be honest with yourself: it’s the only idea.

You work on kisses first. Practice loving pecks. His lips pillow soft against your own, over and over and over again until you relax into the motion and instinct takes over—the caress of an arm here, the cradle of a neck there. It isn’t weird. It should be, but you tell yourselves that the mission takes priority. Nothing matters above this: swearing fealty to your roles.

You practice daily. When you leave for book clubs and gossip circles and brunch. (Yes, you’re eating brunch now.) When he leaves for the facility and late night bar-hopping and some top-secret locations he can’t even divulge to you.

It becomes easy. Second-thought.

Mary hosts a wine-tasting and invites most of the spouses from the facility. It’s extravagant as always, the furniture cleaned to the point of glittering, the dining room stocked with a feast of military-sized portions. Everyone gathers inside one of two seating rooms, chatting and laughing and sharing gossip with razor-sharp glances.

But you miss Leon. He always accompanies you to the large events, and you’ve found a certain comfort in his presence. Umbrella’s social dynamics ensure that he holds power in conversation, that you’re little more than set dressing. Being here, nothing but a little lamb on stumbling legs utterly ripe for the picking, leaves you appreciating the buffer of his standing a lot more.

“Oh, you look so pitiful standing in the corner like this.” Mary embraces you with a comforting smile, then hands you a tall glass of pale pink wine. “My husband just received this new shipment from Italy and it’s absolutely wonderful. I think you’ll like it.”

She’s become somewhat of a friend over the last few months. Treats you kindly, offers advice, shares with you her books and recipes and jewelry.

Missions like this require a certain amount of vulnerability to keep masks authentic, but trust is a slippery slope and you’re sure to break a few bones lest you fortify a few on-guard spikes.

Regardless, you think you’ll miss her when this is over.

You’ll surely miss the wine that you sip from your glass. A note of sweet strawberry that lingers bitter on the back of your tongue. Whether from the nerves or your actual enjoyment, you could drink the whole bottle.

“This is amazing. Sweet wines are very under-appreciated.”

A look of pride gleams on her face, and she nods to your glass. “I can send you home with a bottle, if you’d like.”

“That would be lovely.”

She nods her head over to the center of the room, where the other spouses mingle. “Why don’t you join us?”

Everyone greets you with their usual pleasantries. A woman a few years your junior compliments your outfit. Another offers you a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

“So,” begins the woman to your right, “I’ve noticed a change between you and your husband at our last few parties.” Spoken hushed, like the truest form of gossip. “I could almost call you love birds.”

The smile that graces your face is genuine this time. Easy. “Yes. We had a bit of a rough patch, but we’ve worked things out.”

A few people coo in response, others gush amongst themselves. How sad, in a way, to find a smile so enviable. But the shift in attitude was easy. Just a few kisses and suspicions are destroyed. You aren’t sure whether it speaks to your experience or their own romantic yearning.

Then comes the hard part. Sharing a bed. Leon proves horrible as a bed partner. He steals the covers, rolls onto you, possesses a mean snore. But the most egregious sin is one he can’t control at all, that chills you down to your marrow, that breaks your heart into each individual atom: nightmares. They plague him frequently, and you wake to him calling unfamiliar names, to rogue elbows sore-ing up your face, to his childlike clinging.

Most everybody working in this field has nightmares, but his. His are different. Personal.

On very rare occasions, he whispers about them inside the pitch-black limbo of your shared bedroom. The split-second blink of his mother’s hair, the tick of his father’s watch. He can’t remember what they look like, not anymore, but slivers of memory cut through the empty longing.

It’s the first time you truly see him. Leon. Less star-striking agent and more man, wet clay shaped around a shell of suffering.

His transparency gives you permission to sink between the fresh gaps in his guard and dare to know him. It isn’t about the mission anymore. You come from a place of sincerity.

Maybe it’s the loneliness. He’s the only ally you’ll have for the foreseeable future. Why not learn about him? Become friends?But everything is… weird. Friends do not kiss each other. They don’t cuddle before bed. They aren’t faking a relationship.

The first time you both say I love you on instinct, you’re settled in for the night. The lights shut off, sheets cozy, his body warm against yours.

It just comes out. Good night, Leon. Love you.

He laughs, a puff of breath against your nape, and you wish for the mattress to swallow you whole. Your eyes squint shut. Your face buzzes to numbness. Until,

Night, Birdie. Love you, too.

You have the best sleep in weeks, and you wonder what the fuck that means.

—

Leon calls you early on a Tuesday morning. Says he forgot his lunch, that you need to bring it by the facility.

You aren’t sure how Hunnigan pulled the strings, but he works alongside the businessmen in charge of hiding Umbrella’s dealings. Access to secret files, special projects, names upon names names upon names of suspects.

Your target is here, somewhere in this building. Selling off Umbrella’s most dangerous viruses to the highest bidder, and catching him means busting the whole operation wide open. Linking who knows how many corporations and billionaires to shady dealings. Finding him amongst the sea of guilty faces will be difficult.

The facility is stark-white walls and fluorescent lights and open-plan rooms but you’ve never felt more claustrophobic. People mill about on their lunch break, bright red and green and blue badges hung about their necks. A headache starts behind your eyes just as you check in at the front desk.

Once your identity has been confirmed, the pretty receptionist hands you a bright yellow badge with heavy black font that spells out VISITOR, then leads you through a maze of hallways, past office doors and lounges and holy shit how big is this place?

Finally, she pauses before an inconspicuous door with a plastered-on smile. “Remember that guests are only allotted ten minutes in employee-only spaces as per our safety policy.”

“I won’t need more than five.”

With a narrow-eyed smile, she knocks thrice then opens the door. Steps aside to allow you entry.

Leon looks up from his computer before standing to embrace you with a relieved groan. Gives you a lengthy kiss before relieving you of his lunch bag. “You are amazing. I’ve been starving all day.”

“These walls are thin, if that’s of any concern to you,” says the receptionist, before she turns to leave with raised brows and a click of the door.

You blink. “Wait, is she—do people fuck inside their offices or something?”

He shrugs. “Probably.”

The room falls silent in her wake as Leon sits down at his desk, and you can’t help but think of how natural he looks like this: surrounded by monetary excess in the form of mahogany furniture, dressed in a silk button down and spit-shined shoes and the finest watch available. But it’s also odd. This isn’t him, and you know it. He looks more like himself when he’s a little disheveled, his clothes wrinkled from fighting, dressed in a tactical vest and belts and guns galore.

“Did you get my favorite?” he asks, unzipping the bag.

“Plus dessert,” you say, moving to hover over his shoulder.

Beneath the actual food, slid beneath a cut-out slice of fabric, he pulls out a set of items. A USB drive, an SD card, and a slip of paper with the email of Hunnigan’s contact written upon it.

“That’s what you wanted, right?”

“It’s perfect. Looks good, too.”

The code speak may be a bit too much, but you put nothing past Umbrella. Eyes and ears could be anywhere. These walls are thin.

“I’ll see you at home, then? Wouldn’t want the receptionist to come looking for me.”

He exhales a laugh before glancing up at you. “I may be a little late tonight, but I’ll text you.”

“Don’t forget like the last three times. You know I worry.” That they’ve figured out our secret and you lay dead in a gutter somewhere.

“I won’t. Promise.”

As you step out of his office, an odd mourning hits you much like an ice-cold wave. Always that fear—the last meeting, the last goodbye, the last fake I love you. You don’t think it’s too outlandish to say that you care about what happens to him. You wring your hands every time you imagine his potential fate.

“Excuse me.”

You blink to attention at the voice, and a man you recognize from your files approaches you, suit perfectly ironed, hands stuffed into his pockets. Leon’s boss, for all intents and purposes.

“Hello,” you say, glancing over his shoulder to where the double doors open up to reception. So close to freedom. “Can I help you?”

“I just wanted to properly introduce myself. Carl Voerman.” You accept the hand that he offers to shake. “You and your husband have been here, what, three months?”

“Four this Saturday.”

His smile makes your skin crawl. All teeth, plastic in its falsity. Sharpened canines. Every bit the wolf Carina—his wife—warned you of. “You’ve been the talk of this facility.”

“Oh, I’m sure. My husband does fantastic work.”

“That he does.” He takes a step forward, and your thighs tense to keep you in place. Much like a skittish deer. “But I’m more interested in you. Maybe we can discuss your contributions to this company over dinner.”

Your heart drops to your stomach. The last thing you wish is to be alone with this man. But he’s in your files. Could have information you need.

‘Do whatever it takes to complete this mission.’

Goddamn it, Hunnigan.

“I’d have to ask my husband, but—“

“Why? It’s just dinner.” When you give him little more than a blink, he lowers his head with a deep sigh then meets your gaze again. “The culture here is different than what you’re used to. I forget that sometimes. But my wife will be there as well, if that eases your worries.”

Soon, you’ll walk straight into the wolf’s den, and you can do nothing. The worst part? He truly thinks you believe a word he says. But you know types like him—he won’t take no for an answer, and you need no more suspicion on your behalf.

“In that case, I accept.”

“Fantastic. Friday then. I’ll have a car fetch you around seven.”

Leon doesn’t come home until eight. A fact that Carl must know. Not that it matters. You’ve already sealed your fate.

After arriving home, you beeline to the office where your files sit inside a false bottom of the desk drawer. Carl Voerman. One of many suspects. A seedy individual with a very undocumented past—a possible identity change somewhere during early adulthood. The earliest information you can find of him is when he started working for Umbrella around twenty years ago as a temp, then quickly worked his way up the corporate ladder. And now, he leads an entire department.

A few HR complaints that led nowhere, business dealings with unnamed companies. He sounds like your guy, but most every higher-up shares a similar story.

So you need a plan to get him talking. Need him vulnerable.

You research late into the night, long after Leon comes home. Hunnigan helps from her place on speaker phone, finding connections with other members of the company, helping you fill in the blanks of Carl’s timeline.

Neither of them know what you’re planning, that you even spoke to him earlier, and you hope to keep it that way.

Leon does his part in all this. He needs no more danger breathing down his neck, weighing on his shoulders. It’s time you do yours.

—

Friday evening rolls around, and Carl shows up not a minute late. He greets you at the front door with his usual smile, says you look lovely, then escorts you to the car where the driver awaits. Carina sits on the opposite row of seats, legs crossed at the knee, a half-smoked cigarette in hand. The burning tobacco bursts an ominous blister in the dark as her husband’s warmth seeps into the line of your side.

Carl turns to you, expression marble-esque. “We’ll be having dinner at my home tonight. I hope you like salmon.”

You won’t be eating anything if you can help it. No telling what he’ll do to your plate. “I love it.”

“Fantastic. My chef is one-of-a-kind. The best of the best.” He turns to his wife, and from the bleary street lights, you see her force a thin smile. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Of course.”

You arrive to a home of extravagance. Mansion-like in size, pearly stone on the exterior, a curved set of concrete steps leading up to the towering double doors. You’ve never felt so bottom-feeder in all your life, living in a one-bedroom apartment back home.

And you thought Mary’s home was large. How ignorant of you.

Once inside, Carina leads you to the sitting room. Her red-bottom heels snap against the marble flooring, and the black dress she wears accents the curve of her hips. Her jewelry reflects the golden accents scattered about the place, like the glorious chandelier and the statues and the photo frames.

Carina Voerman looks way too good for a man like him.

You take a seat on one end of the couch, and she occupies the one across from you. When Carl returns with a bottle of champagne and three glasses, he chooses the cushion beside yours.

“You don’t have to sit so far away. I won’t bite,” he says.

If you scoot any closer, you’ll be pressed up against him.

From the corner of your eye, Carina downs her drink. Still, she never looks at you. Instead, she reaches for the champagne again, eyeing her husband’s empty glass.

This was a goddamn mistake. Your chest fights pangs of anxiety, and your heart threatens to break open your ribcage. You knew where this could lead, and the knife holstered at your hip provides comfort, familiarity.

But you’ve been here, done this before. Threatened your own safety for the sake of a mission. Still, it never gets easier.

“I’m not sure my husband would appreciate me cuddling up to his boss.”

He laughs, a loud, bassy sound that sends your skin crawling. “I can see why he likes you. Everyone else is quite boring, wouldn’t you say?”

“I quite like boring.”

“And I don’t believe that.”

He moves in closer, spreads out a knee so it collides with yours then takes a long drink from his glass. Across the clawfoot coffee table, Carina exhales a cough.

What a horrible man, to do such a thing before his very own wife. To flirt so extensively with another man’s spouse. But you aren’t surprised. If anything, awed by his brazenness. As if you would ever entertain the thought.

“I do have a question, however.” Carl throws an arm over the back of the couch, fingers brushing against the fabric of your dress shirt. “How would you like it if I gave your husband a well-deserved promotion?”

Carina then stands and leaves to the other room, almost on some unspoken cue. You remember the dinner he supposedly arranged. Hasn’t mentioned it since. This—bringing you here, the isolation, the attempted seduction—was his plan all along.

Your mouth stretches wide into a boxy smile. “I would be ecstatic.”

“Unfortunately, these things come at a cost, you see. I have to put in a mighty good word to my peers, which I’m not sure he’s earned yet.”

He moves in closer, until you’re hip-to-hip, then leans forward with a wide grin. Every bit a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“I thought you said he did good work.”

His grin falters, glaciers forming in the blue of his eyes. “No, you said that.”

“And you agreed. Did you not?”

Tension swells in the room, and you soothe the sudden stiffen of his body with a hand upon his knee. Squeeze just enough that the line of his shoulders calm.

“That I did. But I require a bit more persuasion.”

“I’m not sure I can give you that.”

Amidst the lengthened silence, your phone rings inside your pocket. A perfect out. A gift from the universe itself. Leon guised under a different name—a heady balm for the pain in your chest.

“I’m sorry. I need to take this.”

You measure out your steps to keep from rushing into the hallway, but your hands tremor as they answer the call. You press your back to the wall, Carl just out of sight on the couch.

Stay calm. It’s fine.

“Hey, honey.” You lower your voice, barely above a whisper.

“Hey. Everything okay? You didn’t answer the house phone.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m with some friends right now, so…”

He stays silent for a moment before the sound of fabric muffles against the speaker. “I thought we agreed to let each other know when we went out.”

“No, we did. I just forgot. I’m sorry.”

“When will you be home?”

“I’m not sure. Later.”

“Something’s wrong.”

“I can’t—“ Carina rounds the corner barefoot, tight curls freed from her updo. Takes guard against the opposite wall and stares your way. “I’m sorry you’re sick. Do you need me to come home?”

“What?”

“I know you always feel better when I make my special soup.”

You lock eyes with her, pinned in place by her raised brows, and all you can do is keep talking.

She knows. You know she knows. She knows and Carl is in the next room and you need a plan to get the fuck out. You’ve been in situations much worse than this, can lie with the best of them, but something about the Voermans—their ooze of power, control, wickedness—renders you novice-level in skill.

“Okay, uh. Yeah, sure.”

“I’ll be home soon.”

“Good. You can tell me what the fuck’s going on.”

You hang up, and her shadow falls upon you. A whisper of, “Follow me,” into your ear before she turns away.

You remove your shoes to heed her order, feet a light pitter against the floor, and she leads you further down the darkening hallway.

“He looks to punish me for my misbehavior,” she whispers, eyes lidded and bloodshot. “If you would like a promotion for your husband, I suggest you take him up on his offer.”

“I would never.”

“Oh, don’t act virtuous on my account.” She pauses to lean in close, perfume cloying and thick. “You think you’re the first?”

Feigning surprise, your eyes widen. “No, I don’t.”

“At least you’ve done better than them.” You see it, then. Hurt, raw and visceral, tucked between the wrinkles of her brow. “They jumped at his little opportunity. Every single one of them.“

Maybe this is why she confides. Sees some shred of loyalty within you, needs some way out to prevent drowning from her own desperation.

“Listen,” you say. “I love my husband, and I would rather lose everything than betray him like this.”

She tilts her head back. Stares down the line of her nose for a long few moments, jaw working beneath the skin. “I never thought I’d say this, but I actually believe you.”

You aren’t sure where you stand with her. She shares her suspicions—rightfully so—but still, she’s never acted untoward or disrespectful. Not like the others you’ve met. Blunt, but never rude. Shit, she even gave you advice.

“I have a question,” you say as she leads you into an office. Locks the door after you enter. “When you talked about prowling wolves, who were you referring to?”

She heads for the desk then takes a seat in the thick-cushioned chair. “Many people, dear.” She nods you over. “I slipped something into Carl’s drink, so get what you need while he’s asleep. But make it quick.”

“What?”

Her fingertips clack against the keyboard before the home screen sunburns to life.

“To protect my own safety, I can tell you nothing, and tonight never happened. Do you understand?” She rolls away from the desk to allow you room to take her place.

Oh. You get it now.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

You search through his web browser, emails, personal files. A few emails from upper management, more business related. B.O.W. incrimination, salary cuts for bottom-rung employees, buyer information. Most of it makes little sense to you, heavily coded as it reads.

But one name sticks out. Nolan Reed. The lead virologist linked to a secret project that Carl helps fund, who pops up in files dating back three years ago—around the time USSTRATCOM had been tipped off to Umbrella’s dealings.

Okay. You have a name. Another lead. Maybe you could track this Nolan to the head of the project.

With a heavy sigh, you shut off the computer then turn to Carina. “How did you know?”

“You’re good at what you do, make no mistake. But I’m the best.” She gives you a smile, almost prideful if you squint hard enough. “As it speaks to your talents, I wasn’t entirely sure until your phone call.”

You exhale a sheepish laugh. “I panicked. Your husband’s quite scary.”

Her face falls, darkness shadowing her eyes. “Don’t I know it.”

You escape the Voermans alive. Carl snores on the couch. Carina wishes you well.

She never tells you why she helped.

Leon does a poor job at hiding his anger. A cloying tension festers throughout the house as you enter, as he rises from the couch with a huffing sigh.

“Where the hell have you been?”

You pass by him in a rush, and he grabs on to your arm. Spins you half-around, enough to catch the ghost in your eyes. “Leon, please. I don’t have time for this.”

One thing about him—he knows when to back off, leave shit for later. And he must see those ghosts swimming around, fresh as a bullet wound. Bitter as a blow to the ego. That’s why he lets you pass.

The office is a mess by the time you’ve finished pulling out files. Separating the names you recognize from the names you don’t. Leon hovers in the doorway, ice clinking against the inside of his glass. You’re guessing whiskey, but can’t chance the time-waste of looking back.

“What are you looking for?” he asks, and you almost snap. At him, in two. For all the government’s resources, all the preparation and the research—not one goddamn mention of Nolan Reed in almost a hundred files.

Maybe it’s the stress of the day. Maybe you’re worn down, threading a lost-cause needle. But biting back your anger takes every ounce of empty-tank energy left inside you.

“Nolan Reed. That name ring a bell?” You rest your head in your hands, elbows propped up on the desk.

“Who?” he asks. Steps into the room, footsteps muffled by his socks.

You look over at him, a palm clasped over your mouth, and note his lack of outfit change. Still in his suit from work, jacket undone, tie loosened. And you think.

Either an alias, or Carina Voerman played you. The latter catalyzes your downfall.

Shit. You might’ve fucked up the whole operation.

“I went to see the Voermans for dinner tonight. Had a… very lovely time.”

His shoulders tense, fingers white-knuckling his glass. “What?” You nod. It’s all you can do. “You—” His eyes close, lips drawn into his mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t wanna put you in any more danger.”

“That’s bullshit.” His glass slams to the table, and you expect a shatter than never comes. “I knew the risks when I agreed to this. So did you. And we made a deal to HQ—to each other—that we would never act alone.”

His disappointment cuts quick, and it cuts deep. Festers and wells, and fuck. You really don’t wanna cry. Not in front of him. Unprofessionalism to the highest degree. But you suppose you already crossed that bridge and burnt it to ash.

“I know. I fucked up. You don’t have to tell me.”

He spins your desk chair around, plants his hands on each arm, and stares at you. Asks, “How long have we been here?”

“Four months tomorrow.”

“And you still don’t trust me.”

“Listen, Carl approached me. Right outside your door. What was I supposed to do, say no?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how that would’ve looked? You don’t say no to these people, Leon.”

You wish he would understand. He hasn’t heard what you’ve heard, seen what you saw. You are nothing but fodder, disposable, breakable, a means to an end, a prize. You are nothing.

“Carina told me her last husband tried to experiment on her. Mary told me that if you’re cheating, I should mind my fucking business. Lucia’s husband beats her for fun—”

“You’re in too deep with these people.”

He might as well have slapped you across the face. Given your shock, maybe he did. “I can’t fucking believe you. What happened to saving innocent people, hm? You suddenly forget about that?”

Raccoon City cuts deep.

“You seem to have forgotten a lot of things.”

He sleeps on the couch for the next week, of his own volition. Can barely look at you from across the dinner table, when you see him off for work, when you ready for bed—as if you give a shit.

You don’t need him.

You don’t.

Too busy anxiously dreading a phone call, a knock on the door, an interception of life-ending proportions.

Four months, two weeks, three days in: your mistake comes back to break your skull wide open.

—

Okay, so it doesn’t. But a blow to the head sure feels like it, and the blood seeping into the collar of your shirt doesn’t help.

“Sorry about that,” says the woman, swimming soupy behind the opaque sheathe of your blindfold. “We didn’t expect you to put up such a fight.”

“Good. How’s your boy’s windpipe?”

“Severed. Where did the spouse of a businessman learn experience with knives?”

You exhale a humorless laugh, working numbed wrists beneath their bindings. “I dabble.”

“Oh, I know.” A chair scrapes, and your head follows the motion, until gooseflesh prickles along your forearms. She sits close. Close enough that you smell her expensive perfume. “I guess I should cut the act, huh? We know you’re USSTRATCOM.”

“And I know that if you wanted to kill me, I would’ve been dead in that parking lot.”

“You’re right. That’s not why we’re here.” Someone steps up behind you, fiddles with the knot holding your blindfold in place. Then, inky darkness. Plying shadows dance across the basement. “I’m here on behalf of Carina Voerman. You know her, right?”

Your poor vision fails to adjust, instead a gentle sway that incites nausea. “I guess you could say that.”

“She has a proposition for you. Let’s say it’s a good-faith agreement between like-minded individuals.”

“Like-minded?”

“Two talented spies after a similar goal.”

“I’m not a spy.”

“And I’m the Queen of England.” Bathed in shadow, she leans in close, and you note the curve of her features. Hooded eyes, full lips, an aquiline nose. Little to go off of, but you’ll take anything at this point. “Nightingale, we can help each other.”

She’s done her homework. Unsurprising, given Carina’s efficiency. Her intelligence.

But you still don’t trust her. Any of these people.

“So what’s in it for me?”

“You want Nolan Reed, yes? Carina can get you to someone even higher on the totem pole. All you need is to dig up some dirt on Carl, be a little birdie in the government’s ear—”

“The U.S. doesn’t have that kind of jurisdiction over here.”

“Not yet. But Umbrella’s claws dig deep, do they not? He gets extradited to the U.S., that’s one more player out of the game.”

“He’s a small fish in one very big pond.”

The woman grins, laughs under her breath. “A win is a win is a win. Think of the long-term.”

“Carl Voerman isn’t our target.”

“But a bioterrorist is still a bioterrorist, right?”

You’re worn down. Exhausted. Sore as all hell. Really miss your bed.

Fuck your pride, you miss Leon.

“Okay, fine. I’ll talk to my contacts, see if I can’t get something worked out. Widen our field of view.”

“That’s all we ask. You do that, Carina will pay you back tenfold.”

The car dumps you a few blocks from home. Shoeless and battered, you hope Leon still holds his anger close. Can’t imagine his reaction otherwise.

Unfortunately, you experience a string of misfortune. He’s on you as soon as you unlock the front door then step inside. Asks where the fuck you’ve been, drags you over to the kitchen table to play doctor.

Worry. Worry tenses up his shoulders, furrows his brow, leaves him tender and malleable.

“I should probably apologize,” he says, discarding another square of bloodied gauze.

“I mean, I kinda deserved it.”

He treads carefully around your blunt-force wound, crusted with dried blood. The wet cloth burns regardless, despite his cautious touch. “Maybe. Some of it.”

“You are a very shitty apologizer.”

“Cut me some slack. I’m not exactly used to this.”

“Oh, I can tell.”

He smiles at you and the world rights itself. Your headache ceases. You forget about the last few days so easily it almost makes you sick.

“What’s that saying? You don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone?”

You don’t expect him to kiss you, and if anyone asks, you absolutely do not pull him closer. Definitely don’t curl a fist in his hair. Definitely don’t sigh in relief.

No. God, no. You’re playing pretend. Faking a relationship built upon foundational love.

This means nothing.

It means nothing.

#HELLO? i'm OBSESSED #i love this sm omg #i really do hope carina is good on her word though #i'm afraid she's going to betray them or throw them under the bus in the end ksjhdfks #but it would be so sexy n cool if they really could team up and help each other out here #sure would suck if carina was even more dangerous than carl though LMFAO #ok i'm rambling now i'm sorry #but this was so great i adore everything about it from the story to the characterization to the dynamic between leon and reader #going from 'embrace me dumbass' to kissing each other out of relief when the reader comes back (mostly) unscathed !!#other writers #recs: lsk

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diaryofasentimentalist · 2 years ago

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LOVELY,, you don't have to follow back but thank you sm!!

Your work is seriously amazing, my jaw DROPPED reading all three chapters!! The kind of work that makes me go,,, damn i still got SO much more learning to do!!

anyway have a good day/evening

OH BUT i was so excited when you reached out!! this is a brand new blog and i admittedly haven't even been on the re tumblr scene until making it so i'm looking for similar blogs/other writers hehe 👉👈

but really THANK YOU SM!!! i hope you have a wonderful night 💜💜

#also not that relevant but we're the same age so that's neat :) and idk you seem cool from your intro post plus you're so sweet so!! <3 #.ask #💌#.mutuals #roseglazedlens

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diaryofasentimentalist · 2 years ago

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replaying bioshock for an au i'm planning and it's so nice to see that the sound of triggered security alarms still inspires a sense of dread within me

#feels like coming home #.dear diary #.text #i hope there's substantial overlap between re fans and bioshock fans bc i'm really excited for it #if not i hope it being a fake marriage au convinces people to give it a shot anyway LMAO

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diaryofasentimentalist · 2 years ago

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I'm ABSOLUTELY invested in always the fool!!

your descriptions, the dynamics between leon is so swoonworthy, my eyes are blessed reading your work!

Also your pacing?? Absolutely brilliant, I CAN'T WAIT FOR CHAPTER 4 <3 KEEP UP THE AMAZING WORK

THANK YOU SO MUCH omg 😭 i'm so happy you're enjoying it!!! ❤️

#i hope you'll enjoy the coming updates just as much!!#anyway tysm for taking the time to send such a sweet message :')#.ask #.always the fool #roseglazedlens #.mutuals #💌

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diaryofasentimentalist · 2 years ago

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— always the fool (how was i supposed to see the way?)

chapter 3 // more than meets the eye

[series masterpost] [01] [02] [03]

warnings: light gore, vague mentions of past injury, mentions of animal testing

summary: you try to get to know your new escort a bit more as you step into the new identity you've assumed. (2.7k)

“So, Agent Kennedy,” you say, striding down the hallway he had emerged from earlier. You’ve cleaned it enough times to look like you belong here, and you’re trying to sell it now that you’ve convinced your new escort that you need to make a stop in ‘your’ office.

“Please, call me Leon,” your savior says, keeping stride. His eyes scan ahead, evidently trained to detect the smallest motion, prepared to counter at all times.

You use the opportunity to look him over. Sandy hair, parted at the front, frames his strikingly handsome face: piercing blue eyes staring ahead, alert, a straight nose leading your gaze easily down his profile, to his pert lips and strong jaw. Aside from the pretty face, he’s got a muscular physique all around. Broad shoulders, thick arms that strain beneath his brown leather jacket whenever he flexes, powerful thighs strapped with holsters and tactical packs. In terms of appearance alone, he should scare you… but he doesn’t. He just doesn’t feel scary. Which is a weird way to put it, but the only way that’s making sense to you right now. Stranger though he may be, he hasn’t given you reason to believe he’d weaponize his strength against you. Actually, you feel a lot more confident with him at your side.

Yes, you did hold him at gunpoint— and you tried to do it again a second time— but who could blame you? The second you’d realized he wasn’t with Biovance, you were on guard, and him pinning you down didn’t exactly help. Anyway, he let you off easy, all things considered, and he even gave you the very gun you’d aimed at him back.

Obviously, you’re still wary. About what he’s here to do and why he agreed to let you come with him and just in general. But you’ve just always been cautious. Wouldn’t have made it this far if you weren't.

“Okay, Agent Leon—” you try again, eyes scanning all the office doors that have been left ajar as you pass them by.

“Just Leon will do.”

“Okay, ‘just Leon,’ what do you do?”

His lips twitch slightly. He must have an abysmal sense of humor for that to work on him. It doesn’t matter, though, in fact, all the better. You’d prefer it if he let his guard down a little. “I work for the government,” he says finally.

“Yes, but what do you do?” you repeat, a little miffed now. The fact that he’s supposedly here on the president’s orders— which is hard to believe as is— told you as much. His use of the term ‘special forces’ earlier has piqued your curiosity. And concern.

“Lots of things. But I specialize in missions that require a certain kind of clean up.”

“Clean up?”

“When someone makes a mess of nature and endangers human life,” his eyes flit to yours from the side as he sizes you up, “I come and clean it up.”

A grim feeling settles in your chest. “How so?”

“That’s classified.”

“I see,” you say. Evidently, no amount of pressing is going to get him to yield more information.

“What about you, doctor? What is it that you do?”

Unlike him, you make no such insistence on first names. Hearing him call you doctor is weird enough, but being called by someone else’s name would only be more uncomfortable. Outright stealing— or, as you keep insisting, borrowing — Malenia’s whole identity had been a split-second decision, one made because the first person you ran into here happened not to be associated with Biovance in any way. It’s going to get a little more complicated once you two start running into other employees, but you’ll handle that when the time comes. Really, you’re banking on everyone being a little too preoccupied with trying to save their own skin to worry about the broom pusher wearing a white coat.

“I’ve been developing a treatment whose scope is meant to encompass a variety of neurological conditions,” you say, doing your best to mimic Hallyoke’s factual tone from all the times you’ve heard it in passing.

“Do tell,” Leon says, his eyes meeting yours once more.

“It’s classified,” you fire back.

He laughs. Sort of. It’s more like that forceful nasal exhalation that shows he’s amused. You’re getting the sense that this guy isn’t big on smiling or laughing. “Okay,” he says, “Mind telling me who you’re trying to save?”

My mother. You don’t say it aloud, but even just hearing his question makes you think of her, lying in bed at Loving Hands Hospice. Unmoving. Unblinking. Unreactive.

Always waiting. Waiting for you to save her, to find a way to pull her out of the confines of her own mind where she’s been trapped for— God, has it really been that long? — nearly eight years now. Waiting for help out of her vegetative state, waiting to hold you again and tell you that you did well, that she’s missed you and she’s been listening to everything you’ve told her since the day of the accident. That she’s so proud of you for never giving up, for doing whatever it took to find the cure.

You don’t say any of that, though.

“Also classified.”

At that moment, you arrive outside of Hallyoke’s office. The door is ajar, and you wonder if she left it that way, if she was forced to evacuate in a hurry. Maybe she already took anything and everything of value. You’re not entirely sure what you should be looking out for here, but you’d like to see if you can glean any valuable information, maybe even an external drive of some sort like a floppy disk or USB drive that you can take with you. There’s no way you’re leaving the premises without a physical, living sample of R-vive, but it couldn’t hurt to have some more information to pass along to Biovance, or, hell, any scientist who’s interested in continuing their work after today.

It would be convenient to have Hallyoke’s ID card, too. Leon almost caught sight of Diego’s badge on you earlier, before you closed the coat around yourself more tightly. No doubt he’d question why you needed another employee’s ID. If need be, you could spin another bogus explanation, but you’re hoping to avoid that. There are only so many lies you can weave together before you get tangled in your own web.

“Listen, doctor,” Leon says suddenly, rounding on you now that you’ve stopped moving. There’s a certain intensity to his eyes, but it feels strangely earnest. The urgency in his tone takes you by surprise. “I won’t push you for any more information right now. But I want you to know that you can trust me.”

You frown. Perhaps in part because you know he shouldn’t fully trust you, and in part because you don’t trust anyone aside from Gabriel— you can’t help but wonder what happened to Biovance’s Head of Experimental Affairs, if he’s in the building somewhere — you’re finding it a bit grating that Leon keeps insisting you put your faith in him. “Can I trust that you’ll stay put out here while I look inside my office?” you ask pointedly. The words are harsh, but not without reason. The last thing you need is for him to see how aimless your search truly is, or how quickly you find yourself at a dead end against one of Hallyoke’s locks or codes.

“I think you’ll want me in there,” he says with a sense of self assurance, raising an eyebrow slightly.

“I think I’ll be fine in my own office,” you huff. He crosses his arms over his chest, but before he can say anything, you spin on your heel and head in.

Monster. A white lump on the ground makes you recoil, fumbling for your waistband when a firm grip holds your arm in place. A scream is working its way up your throat when a hand clamps over your mouth, startlingly warm against your cool, clammy skin.

“It’s dead,” Leon says, his voice low in your ear as he removes his hand from your mouth. Slowly, he eases his hand off of your wrist, hovering nearby. You don’t move to release the gun, still clutching it tightly as you take a small step back. His breath stirs your hair, tickling against your ear when he speaks again. “I killed it when I was in here earlier.”

“What are these things?” you murmur, your hand trembling as you finally release the revolver. Giving the mangled form on the floor a wide berth, you circle around to the desk, never once removing your eyes from the ghastly sight. Pale skin, gangly limbs, wiry hair— they’re just human enough to be recognizable, but twisted enough to make it uncanny. Their faces are the worst. The one here is splattered beyond recognition, a spray of red decorating the floor, walls, and furniture, but you recall the way the other one hovered over you, snarling, that strange film over its face, the glassy look in its eyes.

A sour taste works its way up the back of your throat. If you hadn’t already emptied your stomach before, you surely would have now. Instead, you only shudder.

“I was hoping you could tell me, doctor,” he says, his expression seemingly unaffected by the gory monstrosity sprawled between you as he watches you approach the desk.

“Whatever happened here today has nothing to do with my work,” you say firmly, pressing your lips together in a hard line. His eyes narrow slightly, and you wonder if he believes it. Regardless of whether he does or not, you can speak with conviction on the matter, even as a pretender. R-vive regenerates neurons, it doesn’t cause these grisly physical changes. Which, of course, begs the question… which of Biovance’s projects has created the things you see before you?

People. Right, they’re people. Even if they don’t look it anymore. Biovance uses a number of animal test subjects— frogs, rodents, swine, and in the later stages of testing just before human trials, primates— but none of those could have become… this. They’re just too big, too humanoid. These must be the volunteers. People who were desperate enough, either physically or financially, to sign up for the test trials of new, unstable, unapproved products.

Had their families been notified of what happened yet? Were they themselves aware of what was happening before they devolved into their wretched state?

Or… is it possible that they’re still in there somewhere? Trapped inside their own minds. Like your mother. Does it pain them to watch, helpless against the animalistic behavior that propels their bodies forward, while they run after the people who had once promised them a cure? Or perhaps, when they chased you down… were they asking for help?

“You alright?”

The voice snaps you out of your trance, and you shake your head. There’s an unexpectedly gentle light in Leon’s eyes as he watches you, impossibly tender to be coming from a stranger, and you can’t have that right now. You can’t be coddled. You can’t deal with someone else understanding, acknowledging how fucked up this all is, not right now. It’ll only freak you out more. What you need is to keep busy, to keep moving, so that you don’t have to think about it. “I’m fine,” you say. “You can wait outside now.”

“Alright. Just shout if it starts moving,” he says, glancing around the office. He stops for a moment, gaze lingering on the wall behind you, above your head. When he catches you staring at him, his lips curl slightly at the corner. “Sorry, just a joke. It really is dead.”

A joke in poor taste. You shake your head, waiting for him to spin around before digging through the mess on Hallyoke’s desk. You try not to shuffle things around too loudly, aiming to avoid attracting Leon’s attention. Let’s see. A calendar, a desk pad, her desktop computer and all of its accessories, a pager, and a number of oddities lie scattered over her desk. Nothing useful, or even feasibly transportable.

Three drawers line the right side of the desk, so you move onto those, next. In the top are some old notebooks with illegible script and bulleted personal reminders, scrap papers, old sticky notes, and printouts of old emails. In the middle, more of the same, along with a personalized engraved hole puncher. To our Malenia, it reads, We’re so proud of you. A gift from her parents, perhaps. It’s a strange choice of object to have customized for congratulations, but you don’t have time to dwell on it.

With a defeated sigh, you tug on the last drawer. It sticks. Oh?

It doesn’t budge, even when you give it a good, hard tug, and then several more. Locked. That means that whatever is in there is precisely what you want to get at. But where are her keys?

“You almost done?” Leon calls back to you without so much as turning around.

Funny, if you’d wanted to, you could have killed him while he stood guard. It’s almost weird that he’s trusting you so quickly. If he thinks a few acts of good faith are all it’s going to take to earn your reciprocity, he’s wrong, but you’re not complaining. Plus, to your credit, you never actually considered killing him; you were just noting the opportunity. The truth is, the gun has been a bluff from the get go. You can’t murder someone. You’re not even sure what it would be like to kill one of those… mutated people that are crawling around the building. That’s why you need him.

“Just a minute,” you say quickly, banishing that train of thought before it can get away from you.

You glance around the office, but Hallyoke’s lanyard is nowhere in sight. The file cabinet and a chair in the corner look misplaced, like someone or something bumped into them, but aside from that, nothing even catches your attention as having been recently disturbed. Frustration growing, you scan the walls, hands on your hips. They’re largely bare, save for a few photos of herself meeting chairs and board members of fancy science and medicine organizations, a few awards, and of course, directly behind her desk, her diplomas. A B.S. in Biochemistry from Columbia, and of course, two PhDs in neuroscience and microbiology respectively, both from Harvard. Her pride and joy. That is, if the snide remarks you’ve caught her colleagues making in the wisps of conversation you’ve overheard are to be believed. Just as you’re ready to give up, something occurs to you.

Stealing a glance at Leon and finding him standing dutifully in the doorway, his back to you, you lift the center diploma— the one in neuroscience— off of the wall. As your fingers wrap around the frame, your index presses into something cool, jumpstarting your heart. You tug it out from the frame. A small silver key.

“No way,” you breathe, so quietly you almost don’t hear it yourself. Your heart is hammering in your chest as you squat behind the desk, slipping the key into the bottom drawer. With a twist and a small squeak, you pull out the drawer, trembling hands leafing through the file folder within. Your eyes widen as you realize what you’re holding.

It’s… her acceptance to Biovance. The papers are over a decade old, now, yellowed at the edges, and aside from a personalized welcome letter, the rest of the files are generic onboarding materials about getting started with the company. Your heart sinks. Seriously? All that for a stupid memento?

As you rise with a sigh, something else occurs to you. The drawer is too small, isn’t it? It’s a desperate thought, you admit. One that you only entertain because you want to believe, not because it seems plausible.

Still, you crouch down again, fumbling on the underside of the drawer. It’s smooth and cool under your fingertips until— click — you’ve got it. No. No fucking way.

Cautiously, you ease up the false top with the file folder and set it on the floor, your eagerness from before resurging along with your pulse. A well weathered old journal, small enough to fit into the palm of your hand, sits in the true drawer bottom. It’s bulging, and when you flip it open, you see why.

Again?

You stare down at the objects that have fallen into your waiting palm: a thick, old-fashioned brass key, and an impossibly, impractically small switchblade.

#leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #re fanfic #re x reader #my writing #.always the fool #leon kennedy

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diaryofasentimentalist · 2 years ago

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leon cop slide

#LMFAO #professional ragdoll #Leon Kennedy #.img #.art

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diaryofasentimentalist · 2 years ago

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— dear diary,

— 24 // sideblog (main: understatedamalgamation) // ao3

— latest uploads:

i dial drunk (ex!leon) always the fool ch. 3

— requests: open!

— minors please dni with or request nsfw content

— currently only writing for leon but may eventually expand to include other video game loves

— i write primarily fem!reader or gn!reader for shorter pieces, everything from angst to fluff to light smut, aus

— i do not write underage, bathroom kinks, incest/pseudo incest, and other assorted topics

— be polite when requesting :)

— ask box is always open to chat, vent, bounce ideas, etc., even when requests are closed!

#.intro

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diaryofasentimentalist · 2 years ago

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GRENADINE

pairing: leon kennedy x gn!reader (afab) warnings: 18+ only (mdni), past relationship, alcoholism, smut, angst, p in v (unprotected), choking, biting, mentions of death/murder, the funnest foreplay involves knives & guns word count: 3.3k notes: partially inspired by the song grenadine by dreadlight. some lyrics have found their way into the fic! as always, rbs appreciated <3

[- ao3 link -] | [- masterlist -] | [- playlist -]

summary: an assassin lurks in the shadows of leon's apartment as he finds himself to the bottom of another bottle. the hired killer, once sweet, might be having second thoughts.

{{ Grenadine /ˈɡrɛnədiːn/ is a commonly used nonalcoholic bar syrup characterized by its deep red color. It is a popular cocktail ingredient renowned for its flavor as well as its ability to give a reddish or pink tint to mixed drinks. }}

The clock strikes 2am. He could have sworn it was 11pm five minutes ago.

The main room of his apartment, incorporating a dining room, kitchen and living room, maintains an air of desperation. An internal struggle made corporeal.

Clothes, discarded and strewn haphazardly about, draped over furniture and left in a crumpled heap on the floor. An amber light from a floor lamp which would’ve felt warm and inviting in any other home. On the coffee table, an ashtray sits full, in dire need of emptying. What also needs to be emptied is his tumbler of whiskey, dark-brown liquid verging on black swirling at the bottom of the glass.

He toys with the idea of pouring it down the drain, tipping the glass this way and that and watching the alcohol move in tendril-like rivulets to opposite sides. Perhaps he is due a self-intervention, since all the others hadn’t worked up to this point. The sink, filled with dirty dishes, calls to him to let it go, to stop.

Leon Kennedy’s gaze flicks over the geometric pattern on the side of the tumbler, and he remembers where he got it. A gift from a ghost that had never ceased their haunting. His jaw sets, eliciting a crack from his temporomandibular joint, and he drains the last of the whiskey from the glass. Its heat burns his throat on its way down, unforgiving in its intensity.

And once again, his thoughts are on you. When you drank together, you teased him for his love of hard liquor. You always enjoyed something sweet more. Sugary, syrupy. Cocktails.

Grenadine. Always something with grenadine.

Best thing to come out of a pomegranate, you always said. What does that even mean?

Leon slams the empty glass down on the coffee table with a finality that he thinks will stamp away the thoughts of you. It doesn’t work.

He rests his back, sinking into the couch cushions, propping his head up on the back. His dirty blonde hair falls over his eyes, and the energy to lift his hand and swipe it out of the way doesn’t come.

Instead, what comes are the shadows. The dark corners of his apartment, stretching and all encompassing. The lamp is still on, yes, but the darkness creeps ever closer around him. And in the shadow that is cast the deepest, you stand.

You’ve been watching him for hours. Still as a statue, like an ever-observing monument to your past life together. He always leaves the kitchen window open a crack, just enough for someone of your experience to slide it silently open and snake their way in. Your eyes glide over the shaded cabinet that contains the liquor, the nectar that Leon has found himself lost in over recent years. Perhaps part of that is your fault, and perhaps, some part of you cares. What you and Leon had is long over, and what remains instead, is the job.

Cold, hard truth. This place… always teetering on oblivion, but somehow still holding on, by the threads he kept taut between his fingers. All warmth for him has evacuated your heart, sucked away like it had gone from this apartment.

Or so you thought. So you had always thought, when you were given this assignment, when you enthusiastically took the job of ending the life of Leon Kennedy. Despite your past. Maybe even because of it.

He drinks from your glass. Watching his Adams’ apple bob as he swallows the last dregs of whiskey, flashes of memories seep into your consciousness, like rot degrading the sturdiest of wood.

Why don’t you try something sweet for a change? You might like it.

Only sweet thing I like is you, baby.

You exhale as much as your stealth will allow, and focus on your target. The hair falling over his face- his hair coursing through your fingers as you run your hands through it- did help you to stay hidden, fortunately. You adjust your position, taking light steps around the kitchen sink, brimming with dirty dishes, and sliding past the liquor cabinet.

Perhaps it is something about the way the shadows shifted as you strode through them. Perhaps it’s training, intuition, the feeling when you’re not really alone sending him spiralling into self-preservation. Or perhaps he just knows your walk too well, the way the pads of your feet land on the kitchen tile in a way he would never forget.

Drunken dancing in the kitchen, as you topped up your cocktail with more grenadine. Blood red, he should’ve known.

Leon knows you’re here.

His fingers find the service pistol he keeps stowed under the left couch cushion. In an instant, he is standing, a good soldier, the government’s lapdog, aiming the gun in your direction. If he is tipsy, he doesn’t show it, his stance rigid and practised. But it does falter, slightly, as you step into the light cast from the weak orange lightbulb in the floor lamp. The light glints along the stainless steel of the knife that slides between your palms.

“I should’ve known it would come to this.”

Leon fights to keep his voice even when he regards you, but the quiver in his diction pierces through the quiet. The gun stays unmoving, pointed at your head.

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Leon.”

You’re better at pretending this doesn’t affect you. You keep your mind fixated on the paycheck awaiting you at the end of the job. More than anybody should ever be paid for any single act, enough money to vanish into the ether and start a new life somewhere far, far away from here, far away from the United States, far away from Umbr-

“I suppose I don’t need to ask who sent you,” Leon steps around the couch, keeping a measured distance between you.

“Good,” you respond, knife dancing in your hands. “Because I won’t tell you.”

You take a step then. You have your route planned out. Three quick, long strides, maybe four. Across the kitchen, over the dining table, onto the back of the couch. Within reaching distance in less than six seconds and if Leon hesitates - which you expect he will - the blade would be in him before he’d squeezed the trigger.

Leon disengages the safety of the pistol with a defiant click. You stop.

“You come any closer, I shoot you,” Leon’s tone is commanding, an unambiguous threat, “Then you don’t get paid. Or breathe.”

You scoff, trying to ignore the surge of want that blossoms inside at the deep growl of his voice. “Damn, Kennedy. What was it your mentor always told you? Knives are faster, right?”

Leon’s demeanour changes in an instant as you weaponise his past against him. A dirty trick, and one of the reasons you, specifically, were selected for this job. Hesitation breeds opportunity. A twitch.

You’re on him. In the end, it only took three strides. Two and a half, if we’re being generous.

You twist the wrist holding the pistol with one hand, his grip slackening enough to render the gun temporarily inoperable. With your other hand, you propel the knife forward, narrowly missing his defined jawline as you knock him to the floor. With Leon sprawled out under you, you set your knees tight either side of his hips, pinning him- down unbuttoning his jeans and feeling the firmness developing beneath the fabric his lips are on your neck breath on your skin- below you as powerless as you can make him.

The knife soars through the air once more as you stab down towards his face, but he recovers enough to clamp down on your wrist, pushing the blade away. Your strengths are evenly matched, now, leading to a stalemate. The blade is stopped in mid-air, suspended in a moment. A moment, where Leon Kennedy - the man of your dreams, once - gazes up at you. His blue eyes iced over with world-weary jadedness. When he speaks, he just sounds tired. Wistful. A breeze that knocks the wind out of your sails.

“What happened to us?”

It cuts deeper than any knife ever could.

“Can’t stay sweet forever,” you reply in a whisper, expression hardening in defiance of the emotion sliding into your tone.

The laugh that falls from Leon’s lips is without humour or warmth. “You always knew how to say the right thing at the right time.”

He’s got you, now. The knife ricochets uselessly out of your hand and he kicks you in the shin, buckling your knees. Enough time for him to swing your bodies around. Leon looms over you now, a shadow blocking out the floor lamp behind him. His body presses down on you- his fingers ghosting over your chest your abs toying with your waistband slipping underneath your eyes close he kisses you again his hand sliding into your most sensitive areas- and he has taken the power back.

Leon presses a strong, well-knit forearm to your throat in a parallel to past intimacy, a thought which crosses both your minds at the same time.

“Answer me this,” Leon mumbles, whiskey-scented breath huffing out on your skin as he moves his face closer to you.

You nod, the picture of obedience. You keep your gaze fixed on him, the edges of your vision blurring with the choking. Harder, Leon, I’m close.

Your hand slides under the coffee table, fingers pushing to their limits to grab hold of the glass bottle you can see out of the corner of your eye. Just keep him talking, long enough to grab it.

“Was any of it real? Hm, you and me?” Leon’s voice cracks again, threatening a tumble into a wave of emotion. You see tears brimming at his eyes. “Or was it all part of the job, huh? You looked at me and you saw dollar signs. A payday was all I was to you. You were gonna chew me up and spit me out. Were you waiting for the right moment? A knife in the stomach when I was fucking you, yeah? A little poison in my drink. Joke’s on you, I’ve been poisoning myself-”

To illustrate his point, he glances over to the whiskey bottle abandoned on the table. And, in the process, Leon catches sight of the other bottle, the one you had grabbed by the neck and were gearing up to shatter against his head. His lips part, countenance softening. The forearm on your neck slackens. With his bizarre reaction, your eyes adjust to see the treacly red cocktail syrup rolling inside the embroidered bottle. You tilt your head towards it and let out a shaky breath, clawing back oxygen.

“You kept it.”

It was always too sweet for him. There’s no reason he would’ve kept the grenadine unless he-

“Thought you were coming back.” Leon sits back on his haunches. His voice hasn’t lost its venom, but the poison is ebbing away slightly. Enough for you to peer through the cracks.

Now would be the perfect time, wouldn’t it?

It would. Every part of you knows that. The bottle could be smashed over his head. Your knife is within reach too, lying discarded just a few feet away. All it would take was a little twist to get your body over there. And then the job would be done. Leon Kennedy, checked off your list once and for all. The hired killer part of you left behind, and you could start your life. Whatever comes after him, bittersweet, shrouded but real.

The grenadine bottle’s cap is loose enough that the viscid syrup dribbles out as you hold it, rolling slowly onto your hand. The drops are thick, sweet, and bathe your skin in saccharine carmine.

“We both know how this ends,” You gather yourself, gaze flicking up to Leon and away from the sticky substance collecting on your hand.

Leon looks from you, to your hand. Your grip slowly slackens on the neck of the bottle. You let it tumble uselessly to the carpeted floor.

“Always too fuckin’ sweet for me.” His words fall forth, thick and sweet like grenadine. “Won’t you let me try it?”

Leon doesn’t wait for your response. It is only then that you allow yourself to feel the stiffness forming where his jeans pressed against your pelvis. He takes your wrist, raising your syrup-covered hand to his mouth and dragging his tongue languorously along the flesh. The honeyed substance collects on the surface of his wet, hot tongue, and he gathers it into his mouth by closing his lips into a kiss.

The pomegranate viscosity leaves a deliciously crimson streak across his lips, not unlike a smear of lipstick. You shoot upwards to join your mouth to his, biting down with fervour on his lower lip.

Leon tastes like blood and grenadine as he pushes you upwards onto the couch, your hips finding purchase on the cushions. You card your fingers through his soft hair, closing your hand into a fist and pulling. This earns an affirming moan from Leon - ever-vocal and giving - as he unbuckles your belt. Tertiary throwing knives and a palm pistol stored in your belt slide off the couch and to the floor, their landing cushioned by his shirt that he’s already yanked off.

His eyes are wild with a twisted need. Anger, longing, boiling over, sickening and sweet all in one. A sense of wrongness tinged with right.

Leon’s fingers find your clit once you are freed of the clothing which covered your lower half. Gathering the damp slick soaking your entrance, he uses it to slide his fingertips over your sensitive bud. Counter-clockwise circles, as he always used to do. You throw your head back in rapturous pleasure, the nape of your neck meeting the sofa’s armrest.

You worship his chest with nips and kisses, hands coursing over the toned ridges of his abdomen and welcoming its contours like an old friend.

It is akin to muscle memory, the way you’ve memorised each other’s bodies. The little acts that summon moans of assent, like pressing buttons and watching them light up. You know his body like you know your own. Call and response, immediate gratification.

When you take his cock in your mouth, you hollow out your cheeks and he pushes his tip as far as it will go. Stopping just short of the point which triggers your gag reflex, almost to the centimetre. The slight tinge of salt from his precum coats your tastebuds. When he pulls his cock from the sheath of your mouth, you take the opportunity to stroke his cock with twisting motions aided by the spitslick surface. You know what he likes, what he needs and what he wants.

“So fucking good… you sure you want to kill me, baby?” Emboldened, his teasing slides forth. You shoot him a glare from below, accompanied by a light kiss to his tip.

You’re losing conviction. By the moment. But there’s something else you’re gaining back. With each touch, a memory. With each breath, a feeling. You and Leon were good together, better than good. You were sweet. The whole time you spent observing him, you pitied the void that seemed to have claimed him. But really, the one lost to oblivion was you. Any iota of humanity replaced by calculating coldness. You liked to watch as life left your target’s eyes, like watching the zeroes multiply in your bank account. The world made you this way, but perhaps Leon could bring you back from the brink.

No. No, some things are just too broken to fix. You are one of them. And so is he.

And yet, as he pushes himself into you, your body welcomes him with fervent grace. The familiar feeling of his cock gliding easily into your warmth triggers a shiver of desire. Incoherent strings of words spew forth from you and Leon’s mouths, words that could be affectionate and could be as filthy as the obscene noises that filled the apartment with each thrust. Perhaps a bit of both - you always were bittersweet together.

“You- always fuck your marks?” Teasing again, Leon kisses along your jawline, palms kneading at your hip bone as he bottoms out inside of you. Your back presses hard into the cushions - you feel the couch springs grazing lightly at your spine.

“Just you, so far,” you sigh in response, allowing yourself a glance to your discarded weaponry on the floor. Instruments of destruction that have become instruments of your surrender.

“What a big heart you have,” Leon whispers, syllables dissolving into moans as you rut your hips upwards in response to his penetrations. Setting a steady pace, you move together like a well-oiled machine, as only lovers who once warmed each others’ bed every night could do.

Your walls flutter needily around him as warmth spreads throughout your naked form, cast in amber light. The thread inside you is pulled taut, and you can feel it about to snap.

Leon’s thrusts grow more desperate as he snaps his hips in time with your quickened heartbeats. The twitching sensation from his cock buried inside you is familiar, too - he’s close.

His eyes find yours, and a hand reaches to caress your cheek. Its softness is diabolical. Your resolve fades as you gaze at him, eyes locked in the moment before the crash. And you know one thing to be true. Cold, hard truth.

Right now, at this moment, with you… Leon could die happily.

As your body tips over the edge of what it can take, you decide that you won’t be the one to end his life.

At least, not tonight.

Your climax ripples through your body in tandem with the hot sweetness of him filling you. He whines as his length twitches inside you, every last drop coating your insides.

With the last beads of warmth drifting away, you realise with ice-cold clarity that fundamentally, you have failed. You have succumbed to the emotions which so often clouded your heart.

“Just like old times.”

As he unlinks your bodies, Leon leans in to kiss you, and you allow him the affection. If only for now. You kiss him back, savouring it. Somehow, trying to imprint it on your very soul lest you forget the feeling. Your palm rests on his bare chest, through which you can feel the kick-drum of his heartbeat.

Leon Kennedy lives.

Regret swims through your brain as you disconnect your mouth from his, walls sliding back up and locking in place. In a swift scramble, you scoop up your clothes and pull them on. You gather your weapons and slide them back into their proper, easily accessible places. Gritting your teeth, you try to ignore the slick remnants of Leon’s release leaving your body and finding home in your underwear.

Leon says your name, first softly, but then hitching in panic. You can’t look at him. Your foot catches the tipped-over grenadine bottle and you nearly stumble.

Your target has been granted a stay of execution, living on borrowed time. And your role as the executioner has been disrupted. Being with Leon reminds you of how sweet you once were. It is terrifying.

You’re at the window of the kitchen, ready to climb out into the night once more when Leon speaks again, causing you to turn back. His head rises from the couch, and the heartbreak registering on his face crushes you. He says something even worse.

“How do you sleep at night?”

Your foot finds the amber-floor lamp and you kick it to the ground. The lightbulb shatters into crystalline pieces on the floor and plunges the apartment fully into darkness.

“Sleep tight,” you say, as you leave him behind.

#'perhaps some part of you cares' well perhaps all of me cares 😐 what then 😐😐#i'm ngl i forgot this was smut halfway through i was holding my breath to see who would kill who first LMFAO #the mid-bone banter killed me though 'you always fuck your marks?' 'just you so far' 'what a big heart you have' IT'S SO-#i'm actually very mentally healthy and well-adjusted i promise i'm not toxic but their dynamic in this... 😮‍💨🤌#the reader literally thinking about turning their life around while getting dicked down because it's just that good is so real #like gimme some of THAT thanks #other writers #recs: lsk #nsfw #i'm pretending the reader left at the end to pack a bag of clothes to bring back to leon's place (i'm delusional)

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diaryofasentimentalist · 2 years ago

Text

— always the fool (how was i supposed to see the way?)

chapter 2 // takes one to know one

[series masterpost] [01] [02]

warnings: blood and gore, canon-typical body horror mutations, lore-accurate corny leon one liner

summary: leon comes across the first survivor he's seen since entering biovance. the rescue does not go as planned. (2.6k)

The sound of a gunshot, unmistakable no matter how muffled, rings in the distance. That tells Leon that there’s a survivor somewhere. Or at least there was. He strains his ears, listening for anything that might tell him who won the scuffle.

The only thing he hears is labored breathing and the harsh squeak of metal as something bumps into a filing cabinet. From his position behind the grand oak desk, he can feel it getting closer. It walks on all fours, searching for him. Whether it saw him duck in here or just sniffed him out, he isn’t sure yet. The briefing he got on his way over was sparing with the details, and he hasn’t observed them long enough to know how they work. Whatever’s going around here is new to him, but not novel.

Damn mutants. Always the same story. Just a little different in the way they manifest.

If he thought he’d have an easier time with this mission, being dispatched to ground zero within 24 hours of the containment breach, he knows now he was wrong. The city is still safe, at least, but the entire facility is overrun. He can’t even begin his descent— a long one, thirteen stories down to get to the true center of this place— because of how many hallways are locked or blocked with debris. It would’ve been nice if they’d given him a masterkey card, but they didn’t. The assumption was, as usual, that he could figure it out.

The mutant takes another step, the sound finally close enough that Leon knows he has it where he wants it. Now. In one fluid motion, he rises and spins, unloading two swift rounds into the thing’s head. The first bullet hits the strange, throbbing mass growing out of it, and the thing unhinges its jaw, but the second has already gone through its eye and burst through its brain before it can make another sound. It falls to the floor with a heavy thump.

Leon steps around the desk, taking a moment to inspect the thing. They’re in an enclosed space and nothing else is sniffing around for him— yet— so it’s his first chance to really stop and get a closer look. From the flashes he’s seen of the others, he knows each one is slightly different, but there are a few similarities he’s starting to pick up on. Slender limbs, a visible rib cage, pale or grayish skin with dark splotches, long brittle hair that sheds easily, and little to no clothing covering the body. A few of the others also have strange masses growing out of them, like this one had in its head, but they’re always in a different place. This one also seems to have that strange translucent film growing over its face that a number of them have shown, giving it an eerie, almost blurred quality when he tries to focus on its features.

Something skitters past the door, and he’s on high alert again. No time for disgust now. Besides, he’s seen worse. Slowly, he makes his way over, peeking out down the hall. Another mutant is sniffing around, swaying and whining on occasion. Better take this one out before it notices him.

Easier said than done, though. This one is more erratic than the last. Leon frowns, trying to keep it in his line of fire, but it won’t stop moving long enough. Maybe if he could get a little closer.

He follows it down the hall, ducking into the various offices as he does. That’s all there is in this hallway, aside from some restrooms. It looks like this whole wing is dedicated to researcher needs, judging by that massive lounge with those hideous orange couches that he saw earlier. He spares each office a cursory glance but doesn’t linger once he’s sure there’s nothing and nobody hiding within. It’s tough making pace stealthily enough to get close to the thing. He takes a risk, darting from one doorway to another across the hall, slightly closer. The thing must catch a flash of movement in its periphery, or maybe it hears him, because it whips around just as he hides.

“Shit,” he murmurs, bracing himself. His fingers tighten around the grip of his pistol. It’s getting closer, closer, when a loud bang sounds, like someone throwing open a heavy door. Abandoning its search for Leon, the mutant instead forces its way through the doors at the end of the hallway, back into the ransacked lounge Leon passed earlier to access the office hall. Someone else must have entered from one of the other halls that feeds into it. “Shit.”

A scream. Leon gives chase, slipping through the door just before it closes. Sure enough, the mutant has pounced upon new prey, its victim pinned back against the floor.

“Hey!” Leon shouts, the thing whipping its head in his direction. A slimy film covers its whole face, blank milky white eyes staring at him as it opens its mouth, the film finally tearing a little to allow the saliva that had been building behind its lips to dribble down its chin. He doesn’t flinch. “I thought we were playing hide and seek. You gave up already?”

As soon as the thing rears onto its legs, its head far enough from the other person, he shoots. A single bullet right between those creepy eyes is all it takes. The carcass— or corpse? He’s never sure how to refer to the B.O.W.s that used to be human, once— collapses, and the person on the ground gives a little grunt.

“Are you okay?” he asks, holstering his gun as he strides over. He hoists the creature off of them and tosses it to the side effortlessly; maybe because of how skinny they become, these things aren’t much heavier than a normal person.

The barrel of a gun is waiting to greet him.

Instinct kicks in. In two seconds flat, he’s knocked the firearm from their hands— her hands, he can see it’s a woman now— and grabbed onto her arm. In a single motion, he flips her over onto her stomach, pinning her down with a knee and using one hand to hold both of hers behind her back while the other holds the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair.

She screams, struggles beneath him, but it’s pointless. She’s way outmatched. He isn’t even breaking a sweat, holding her down like this.

“Shh, I’m not going to hurt you,” Leon says gruffly, eyes scanning the lounge, alarmed that the noise is going to attract more of those things. “I’m here to help.”

“Let go of me!” The woman says, and although she’s trying to sound tough, authoritative, the panic is obvious in her voice. She’s scared. The realization makes Leon soften a bit.

“I will,” he says, his voice devoid of its earlier exasperation. “But you just pointed a gun at my face right after I saved your life, sweetheart, so I’m going to need some assurance you won’t do it again. Do you have any other weapons?”

The woman finally stops squirming, head sinking slowly to the floor. “No,” she says tersely.

“I’m going to have to confirm.” Hesitating a moment, he releases his hold on her head and quickly runs it down the length of her body, skimming over one side and then the other, noticing how she tenses at his touch. It must feel strange, and he knows how terrified she must be, so he tries to make it quick. Nothing. No lumps or holsters or even pockets where she could be hiding something. “Okay. I’m going to release you now, so you can sit up. No sudden movements, though, alright?”

She nods, and Leon lets go of her hands, first, which she braces against the floor. Slowly, he eases his knee off of her back, crouching as he watches her push up— and promptly lunge for the gun. She’s quick, but he’s quicker. In an instant, he has her pinned down again, this time on her back. She stares up at him with wild eyes, pushing against him as he pins her wrists above her head.

“Easy, easy,” he says, like he’s trying to soothe a spooked animal. Fuck, this is so obviously a horrible first impression. But he needs her to understand that he’s there to help. Now that he’s looking at her better, he can see she’s young, maybe just a few years younger than him, but with a youthful quality to her face that says she’s nowhere near as battle-hardened. Her white lab coat is askew, thrown open with all of her struggling, and beneath it, she looks dressed for a day out on the city, not the lab. After a few more moments of futile writhing, she finally stops again, chest heaving, still staring at him wildly. A glint around her neck catches his eye with the movement, but it turns out to be from a delicate gold chain, nothing potentially dangerous. “My name is Leon Kennedy,” he says evenly, brandishing his ID with his free hand with the hope that it'll calm her down. “I’m a special forces agent, here on the president’s orders. I won’t hurt you, but I won’t let you hurt me, either. Understand?”

The muscles in her jaw twitch as she clenches her teeth before nodding.

“Good. Here, let me help you up.” He leans back, this time pulling her with him before releasing her hands. She brushes down her clothes, straightening out her coat. The name tag comes into view. M. Hallyoke. The name is familiar. It’s the same one that was etched into the plate on the door of the office where he just killed that mutant. “What’s your name?”

It looks like she isn’t going to answer, the way she’s glaring at him defiantly. “Hallyoke,” she says finally, her voice faltering. She repeats it with a little more conviction. “Dr. Hallyoke.”

“I can read as much, doctor,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “I was wondering what the ‘M’ stood for.”

Her eyes narrow. “Malenia.”

He nods, grabbing the revolver that he'd sent skidding across the floor earlier and rising. Slowly, she follows, her body trembling almost imperceptibly, and another wave of sympathy floods through him.

“Listen, Malenia,” Leon says, not unaware of the way her eyes follow the gun as he opens the chamber. Five bullets. It must have been her who fired earlier. He slides it back into place. “You have to get out of here. There should be an exit—”

“I’m not leaving,” she interjects, a steely look in her bright eyes.

“You can’t stay here,” he says, frowning. The place is crawling with mutants, and probably hostile humans, too. She could technically be hostile herself— he has no way of knowing who in this facility is a medical researcher and who was knowingly producing military monstrosities— but he just feels she isn’t. She’s too scared, too underprepared, too… naive. Most likely, she’s just another scientist who can't bear the thought of losing years of her work. “Whatever you’re hoping to get from here isn’t worth your life.”

“It is,” she says more firmly, the fear draining out of her by the minute, replaced with a hardened resolve. Definitely an obsessed scientist. “It is my life.”

“What could possibly be more important to you than your own safety?” he asks with a sigh. Whatever sample or information she's after isn't leaving this place. He has to destroy it, all of it, but he knows she won’t take that news well, so he refrains from saying so.

“There’s someone I’m trying to save.”

Oh. Not the answer he was expecting. In spite of everything, he can sympathize with that.

“Whoever it is, I’ll be keeping an eye out for them,” Leon says. “Leave all that stuff to me. You need to—”

“It has to be me,” she says. His eyes trail over her skeptically, and she clutches the flaps of her coat, pulling them tighter around herself. Yikes. Did it look like he was checking her out? Another strike against him, he supposes.

“Where is this person most likely to be?” he asks. Clearly, she won't willingly evacuate the premises. Maybe he can get her to stay put while he retrieves this person and brings them back here so they can leave together.

“Floor B13,” she says, and his brows furrow. That’s where he was planning to go, but just getting there will be an ordeal. There’s no way she seriously thinks she’d make it in one piece, let alone back out.

“I’m heading there myself, and I’m here to escort the survivors. So why don’t you go ahead and get out while you can, so that you’re still breathing by the time I bring your friend back to you.” She opens her mouth to protest, so he cuts her off. “All due respect, doctor, you wouldn’t make it a quarter of the way with the things that are crawling around out there.”

“And you wouldn’t make it an eighth of the way with the number of blockages and locked passageways out there,” she counters. Before he can so much as tell her to let him worry about that, she speaks again. “Let me come with you.”

“No.” The proposition takes him by surprise. He shakes his head. “Absolutely not. Are you crazy?”

“Takes one to know one,” she says, nonplussed, arms crossed over her chest.

Fuck. She’s right and he knows it. Not about the crazy thing— well, maybe that too— but he’s been having a rough time trying to navigate through the building. Somehow he keeps looping through this same damn wing. That means she could be helpful. But she’d definitely be a liability. Then again, he doesn’t see how he can feasibly stop her from tagging along with him unless he physically restrains her, which he can’t exactly do with bloodthirsty mutants wandering around. Coming to an agreement willingly might actually be their best course of action here.

Oh, hell, he’s actually considering it.

“Women,” he says with a sigh. Always so stubborn. He shakes his head. As a newer agent, he might've argued longer, might've threatened legal action. But he's done this enough times to know how it's going to end. Any time spent chasing the same points around and around is time wasted, time that other survivors might not have. “Alright, fine. You lead the way, and I’ll keep you safe. But you have to stay close to me at all times, and you have to do exactly as I say. That sound like a deal to you?”

She nods eagerly, all traces of her earlier terror now replaced with hopeful vigor. It sends a pang to his heart. If she knew what she was in for, she wouldn’t look so happy right now. “Deal.”

He extends the revolver. At first, she makes no move to take it, staring up at him with her lips slightly parted. “What? You don’t want it anymore?”

“I do,” she says quickly, holding out her hand.

“I don’t know where you got this old antique,” he says, eyes scanning over the long-discontinued model, “but you should hold onto it. Don’t try to play the hero, don’t be so trigger happy. Let me handle hostiles. This is only for emergencies.” His eyes meet hers sharply, darkening slightly. “And don’t even think about pointing it at me again.”

He places the revolver into her waiting hand and watches as she tucks it into the waistband of her skirt. Seriously, not even a holster? His eyes flicker up to meet hers once more, and she nods once. “I understand,” she says, a tinge of genuine remorse in her tone. “I’m sorry.”

He nods. Truthfully, he’s not even that mad. It’s not the first time a beautiful woman has pointed a gun at him, and somehow, he doubts it’ll be the last. That just seems to be a recurring theme in his line of work.

“Lead the way, doctor.”

#leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #re fanfic #re x reader #leon kennedy #my writing #.always the fool

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diaryofasentimentalist · 2 years ago

Text

— always the fool (how was i supposed to see the way?)

chapter 1 // a fool's errand

[series masterpost]

warnings: blood and gore, suicide, emetophobia (vomiting)

summary: you sneak into biovance, determined to get ahold of the r-vive bacterium, but something takes you by surprise. (1.5k)

The smell of blood in the hallways of Biovance isn’t unusual to you. It’s just never been this strong.

Holding your breath, you push the door open the rest of the way, its hinges squeaking in protest. Knowing damn well you’re not supposed to be here right now, you’d thought it wise to take one of the side entrances. The last thing you need is security or law enforcement kicking you off the property. The fluorescent lights in this hallway flicker weakly, and you blink a few times as your eyes adjust from the bright pre-dusk light outdoors to the noticeably dimmer atmosphere inside. Slowly, the scene comes into focus.

A figure is slouched against the wall, groaning quietly. A puddle of crimson surrounds them like a shadow, thick smear marks trailing all the way down the hallway. The poor soul must have dragged themselves here.

“What the hell happened here?” you whisper to yourself, stepping inside to take a closer look. Your stomach twists anxiously, sending a wave of acid up the back of your throat, but you push it down. As much as you want to check on the person on the floor, something holds you back.

A loud clang from behind makes you jump, sends your heart rate skyrocketing. It’s just the door shutting behind you. Nothing more. The sound seems to have finally caught the attention of whoever is on the floor, though, and slowly, the figure lifts their head, something strange flapping alongside it.

Shit. It’s Diego, one of the security guards. His lips part, emitting a strange, strangled wheeze. The sound propels you into motion, and you quickly close the gap between you, crouching before him.

“Where are you hurt?” you ask immediately, scanning his body. His navy blue security shirt is stained with darker splotches, and his arms seem to be cradling his side, where the shirt is torn. Looking back up at him when you notice he isn’t moving his hand, you prod gently, “Can I take a look?”

Diego opens and closes his mouth again wordlessly, like a fish, and he turns his head the rest of the way to you. It takes you a moment to figure out what you’re seeing. That strange floppy thing hanging off of his head turns out to be his face, or at least, the top left half of it. The skin has been torn clean off the muscle beneath, hanging by a taut flap of hypodermis by his ear. Bile rises in your throat once again but you’re unable to tear your eyes away from the exposed muscles and top teeth. This time, when Diego opens his mouth, you can finally make out his message.

“Run.”

A strange click sounds, followed by an ear-shattering bang that startles you so bad you fall backwards, landing hard on your ass. Diego slumps down, the arm you hadn’t even noticed him raise falling limply to his side. Where his mangled face once was is now a shattered mass of bone and tissue, a deep crimson spray dotted with chunks of spongy pink bits decorating the wall behind him. All you can do is stare in horror, mouth agape as you clutch your ears that now ring painfully.

Every single cell in your body is screaming at you to listen to Diego, to get the fuck away from here. Run outside, run away from Biovance, run back home like the stupid alert said. The ringing in your ears subsides after some time— you’re not sure how much— but it doesn’t go away completely, just dulls down into something more bearable. Slowly, you push yourself up, only to keel over immediately and hurl, partially digested chicken alfredo mush splattering onto the linoleum floors. Now it really smells foul here. Spitting the lingering sourness from your mouth, you wipe your lips with the back of your hand.

Steeling yourself, you reach over to the now headless figure beside you, easing the revolver out of his hand. After a moment of consideration, you pluck the ID card from his front pocket and clip it onto the hem of your own shirt. That’ll get you farther than your own clearance ever could. Your legs nearly give out when you finally stand, tucking the gun into your waistband, but you manage to steady yourself.

You want to run. But you can’t. You won’t.

Stumbling down the hallway, you glance at each door you pass. Most of them are shut tight, but the one to your right is open a crack. Hesitating just a moment, you step over the thick crimson stripe that lines the hallway, into the room, fingers inching towards your waistband. In one swift motion, you push the door open and flick on the lights, bracing yourself.

Someone stares back at you. As you fumble to remove the revolver from your waistband and hold it up, she does the same. After a moment, you sigh, arms relaxing. Stupid. It’s just your reflection.

The room appears to be a mini lounge of some sort, probably an old storage closet that was refurbished to accommodate demand when the staff expanded years ago. There isn’t much to see. A mini fridge, a coffee maker, a few cabinets, a small table with two chairs, and right across from the door, a sink with a mirror fastened above it. Sighing, you step closer, inspecting your own reflection. There are red droplets splattered across your face, and your eyes have an uncharacteristically wild look to them. Which, to be fair, makes perfect sense considering those eyes just watched someone shoot themselves. Still, kind of explains why you didn’t immediately recognize yourself earlier.

Setting the gun on the counter, you use this opportunity to rinse the blood off of your face. The icy cold water feels good, gives your nervous system the fresh reset it so desperately needs. You can’t afford to lose your gall now; you have a feeling this is just the beginning of a very, very long endeavor. Maybe a fool’s errand entirely. Whatever it is, however long it takes, you have to try. You have to save a sample of R-vive, incomplete as it is. It might be your last hope of ever being able to speak to your mother again.

The leaky faucet continues to drip even after you turn the handle, the pittering of water droplets barely audible to you in your still-sensitive state. Forgoing the rough paper towel Biovance stocks in favor of an air-dry, you grab your gun again and make for the door when something else catches your eye. A long white coat like those worn by the researchers is slung over the back of a chair.

On a normal day at Biovance, people leaving their stuff lying around was vexing, creating an unnecessary hassle for you to find somewhere to return it to. Now, however, you find yourself perking up. You glance down at your outfit. A black blouse and houndstooth skirt that doesn’t even make it halfway down your thighs. The best part, of course, are the heeled ankle boots. Wonderful. But it’s not like you’d known you’d be coming here when you got dressed this morning. Aside from being impractical for stealthing around, your clothing stands out in a facility like this, where everyone is either in scrubs, suits, or a uniform of some kind. Without thinking, you slip the coat over your outfit. There. Now you won’t raise any alarms, at least not from a distance. You glance down at the name tag, curious if you’ll recognize it, and to your surprise, you do.

M. Hallyoke. One of the head researchers on the R-vive project, coincidentally enough. That’s how you know her, keeping up to date with news from that team as you do. Doctor Malenia Hallyoke is competent and she knows it, and you’ve always felt good having someone as dedicated as her spearheading the project. She’s always been cordial but curt when she’s had to interact with mere custodial staff like you, but you can’t complain; most people around here ignore you outside of pleasantries and empty promises not to leave their belongings lying everywhere. You can’t imagine she would be too pleased that you’re stealing— well, borrowing— her coat, but you get the sense that if she’s even in the building right now, she’ll have much bigger concerns.

A reinvigorated pep in your step, you emerge from the lounge, crossing the rest of the way down the hall, where a heavy steel door leads into the main hub of the staff wing. Throwing it open, you scan the room before stepping in. It’s a mess. Furniture is overturned, orange sofas flipped over and glass tables shattered, filing cabinets dented, dozens of papers scattered across the floor. And blood. So much of it. Smears, splatters, footprints, hand prints. An involuntary shiver rips down your spine.

If your ears weren’t still fucked from earlier, you might have heard the footsteps approaching. Might have had a chance to hide, or to take out your gun and prepare to stand your ground. Instead, you only wander further in, oblivious.

Until it's upon you.

#leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #re fanfic #leon kennedy #my writing #.always the fool

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