#residentevilwriting

The sky outside was a haze of flame and ash, casting flickering shadows across the ruined corridor. Somewhere in the distance, the groan of a crumbling building drowned beneath the bark of automatic gunfire and the unrelenting shrieks of the infected. Smoke curled through shattered windows, thick and acrid, stinging the back of her throat. The air buzzed with heat and decay. But in this broken hallway, there was only silence.

Y/N dropped to her knees beside him, boots scraping against the blood-slick floor. Her hands trembled as they pressed firmly against his abdomen, trying to stanch the flow of blood seeping through his shirt. It was warm and fast, soaking into her gloves.

"Stay with me," she whispered, her voice tight and breathless. "You're going to be okay. Do you hear me, Leon? You're going to be okay."

Leon S. Kennedy coughed, the sound harsh and wet, his body twitching from the pain. Despite it, he forced a crooked smile, as if trying to ease her panic. "You should’ve gone when I told you."

"Shut up," she snapped, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I'm not leaving you. Not now. Not ever."

He grimaced, trying to speak, but it came out as little more than a ragged breath. "I told you... to leave me behind."

The words were soft, barely audible over the muffled gunfire outside—but they hit her harder than any explosion.

Y/N’s vision blurred as she pressed harder on the wound. "You don’t get to decide that. Not for me. Not after everything we’ve been through. You’re the reason I’m still standing. You don’t get to just check out."

Her mind reeled with memories—visions burned into her like scars. She remembered their first mission together, standing back-to-back on the rain-soaked rooftop of an abandoned hospital. Infected hounds lunged through the fog. She'd been shaking, nearly dropped her weapon. He had calmly adjusted her grip, guided her stance, and whispered, “Focus, breathe, and shoot. I’ve got you.” It was the first time she had trusted someone in the field.

Back in the present, his blood was everywhere—on her hands, her knees, smeared across the floor like a grim signature. He reached up, fingers trembling, and brushed her cheek with the gentleness of a man holding back everything. "I didn’t want you to see me like this," he whispered. "I wanted you to remember me standing. Fighting. Not... bleeding out."

She clenched her jaw. "Then you should’ve fought harder," she whispered, voice breaking on every word. "You don’t get to die like this. Not while I’m still breathing."

His hand slipped from her face, falling limp at his side.

"No," she gasped, more a plea than a denial. "No, no, no. Don’t you dare. Not yet. Not like this."

The corridor trembled from another explosion, dust raining down from the cracked ceiling. The infected were being held off, but it was only a matter of time. She could hear the faint shouts of backup echoing through the rubble-strewn hallways, still too far.

Her mind flashed again. A warehouse ambush. A dozen infected. She had been pinned, comms down, terrified. Leon had thrown himself into the line of fire, shouting over his shoulder for her to get the generator running. She had seen him take the hit. He never looked back.

And then that night in the safehouse—her hands fumbling as she stitched a gash along his ribs, fingers slipping in his blood. He had made jokes the whole time, calling himself "a bad patient with good abs." She had called him an idiot. He had laughed, even then.

She leaned forward now, forehead pressed against his. Her breath trembled. "You don’t get to give up. You hear me? I need you. You idiot. I love you."

For a heartbeat, she felt nothing. Then—a twitch. The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. His voice, barely audible, rasped against her skin. "Took you long enough."

She laughed through a sob, salty tears dripping onto his cheek as she clutched him tighter. Behind them, the distant rattle of boots signaled help was finally here. But she didn’t let go. Not until they pulled him from her arms and wheeled him away.

The med bay smelled like antiseptic and recycled air, the steady beeping of heart monitors a metronome for recovery. Sunlight pooled on the tile floor, catching the edge of the bed where Leon lay propped up by pillows. His face was paler than usual, a patch of stubble darkening his jaw, but his eyes were open. Alive. Watching.

Y/N sat by his side, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her fingers tangled tightly with his. Her eyes hadn’t stopped watching him since the moment he was brought in. She remembered the long nights beside him—listening to machines, watching his chest rise and fall, terrified each breath might be the last. The coffee beside her had long gone cold. She hadn’t touched it.

"You stayed," Leon murmured, his voice still scratchy.

She turned to look at him, lips twitching into a tired, broken smile. "Told you I would. Didn’t believe me?"

He exhaled softly. "Guess I hoped you’d be smart and run."

"You forget who trained me to be this stubborn."

He chuckled, then winced. The movement tugged at his stitches. "Touché."

They fell into silence again, but it was a quieter one now. Safer. After a moment, she reached out and smoothed a hand across his hair. "You scared the hell out of me. I thought I lost you."

Leon turned his head slightly toward her. "You almost did."

She didn’t reply. Instead, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his temple. He closed his eyes. "You saved me."

"We saved each other. Like always."

Leon let out a long breath and turned to face her fully. "So what now?"

She smiled softly. "Now? You rest. You heal. And when you're ready, we go back out there. Together."

He smirked weakly. "And if I get shot again?"

"I’ll kill you myself," she said with a straight face, then finally let herself laugh.

You hadn’t expected a simple recon mission to spiral into a full-blown disaster. One moment you and Carlos were sweeping the upper floors for survivors, and the next, the building trembled beneath your feet. A deafening blast roared from somewhere below, sending tremors through the concrete. Debris rained down, alarms screamed, and the elevator you had just stepped into lurched violently before screeching to a halt. The lights flickered as the emergency brakes slammed into place.

Now, you were trapped in a half-collapsed, groaning elevator shaft, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Carlos Oliveira. Sparks danced overhead. The metal creaked ominously with every vibration, and dust trickled through fine cracks in the walls. The emergency light buzzed, dim and flickering like a dying firefly. The silence between you pulsed with tension, broken only by your shallow breaths and the distant clangs from above.

"We’re gonna be fine," you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

Carlos gave a dry chuckle. "You always say that when we’re definitely not fine."

You turned to shoot him a playful glare, but his smirk had already faded. His jaw was set, and his gaze was fixed on you—not with fear, but something far more vulnerable. He wasn’t just tense. He was unraveling.

"Carlos?" you asked, softening your voice, searching his face.

He met your gaze, eyes wide and raw. "If we die here," he murmured, the words catching in his throat, "I need to tell you something."

Your heart stuttered. "Carlos—"

"I know, I know. It’s not the time. It’s the worst time. But I’ve been holding this in for too long—through every mission, every close call. I can’t go out without saying it."

The air in the elevator grew heavy with unspoken emotion.

Carlos inhaled sharply. "I like you. No—that’s not enough. I’m in love with you. I think I have been since that first mission in Raccoon. You cracked a joke about zombie etiquette, and I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my rifle. That was it. I was gone."

You stared at him, stunned. His words clung to the silence like a final breath.

He looked away, then back again, hesitating. "I know it’s probably one-sided, and I’m sorry if this makes things awkward, but—"

"Carlos," you cut in, reaching out to take his hand. His head snapped up.

You smiled, breathless but steady. "We’re not gonna die. But even if we were... you deserve to know. I’ve been in love with you too. Since day one. You just never noticed, idiot."

He exhaled a shocked laugh, eyes glistening with disbelief and something dangerously close to hope. And right on cue, the elevator jolted—then began to slowly rise. You both looked up as the movement steadied.

"See?" you said with a soft laugh, your nerves spilling out in a wave of relief. "Told you we’d be fine."

Carlos blinked, dazed. Then that crooked, boyish grin bloomed across his face. "Okay, but when we get out of here... first date. Non-negotiable."

You chuckled. "Dinner. Somewhere safe. No zombies. No explosions."

"Deal," he said, voice low and warm.

The final week of the mission arrived with the same deceptive calm as the rest of the suburb. White fences gleamed beneath the soft glow of porch lights, lawns carried the scent of fresh-cut grass, and Brenda still waved far too cheerfully from across the street, her endless casserole dishes a constant reminder of the strange life you’d been living. Yet beneath that postcard-perfect image, you could feel the weight of the end pressing down—each glance with Leon edged with the unspoken question: what happens after this?

HQ’s call came the night before extraction. Umbrella’s operatives had been neutralized, evidence secured, and your cover assignment officially ended. By morning, you’d hand back the house keys and return to being just two agents with badges and files—not rings and routines. You were supposed to feel relief, but instead the thought left you restless and hollow. The house was too quiet, as though it knew it was about to be stripped of the warmth it had borrowed. The rooms still carried traces of you both: laughter echoing faintly in the kitchen, the scent of burnt lasagna clinging like an inside joke, the low rumble of Leon’s laugh drifting through the living room.

Sleep eluded you. You sat up in bed, staring at the fake wedding photo still pinned to the fridge across the hall, the stiff smiles now softened in your memory. That’s when you heard it—Leon’s knock. Not sharp or professional, but soft, hesitant. He stepped inside, hair tousled, sweatpants and a plain shirt replacing his usual tactical edge. He looked less like the legendary agent whose name carried too much weight, and more like the man who had fallen asleep beside you during late-night surveillance shifts.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, voice thick with something unsaid.

“So are you.”

He lingered at the doorframe before crossing the room to sit on the edge of your bed. His eyes searched yours, as if trying to memorize every detail before it slipped away. Finally, he exhaled.

“I don’t want this to end.” His tone was steady, though you could hear the storm behind it. “Not the mission. Not… us.”

Your throat tightened. “Leon—”

“I know it sounds insane. We were supposed to fake a marriage. Maybe it started that way, but—” His hand brushed yours, thumb tracing small circles. “It stopped being fake a long time ago.”

The silence felt fragile, like glass holding a whole world inside. You laughed softly, nerves bubbling through the smile tugging at your lips. “Good. Because I was afraid I’d have to be the one to say it first.”

Relief washed over him so vividly it made your chest ache. He pressed his forehead against yours, and when he kissed you, it wasn’t hurried or stolen between mission briefings. It was slow, deliberate—every second steeped in the weight of everything you’d been holding back. The walls of the fake house didn’t matter. The neighbors didn’t matter. For once, it was just you and him.

Morning light crept through the blinds, gilding tangled sheets and warm skin. For the first time in weeks, the house didn’t feel like a set. It felt like home. Cheryl arrived promptly at nine with her clipboard and overenthusiastic smile, chirping about “the next lucky newlyweds” as you handed back the keys. You nodded politely, but when you slid into the car with Leon, you noticed the gold ring still on your finger. You started to remove it—then paused, seeing he hadn’t taken his off either. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

Back at HQ, bureaucracy took over. Debriefings, forms, endless reports. The mission reduced to black-and-white text, stripped of the color that had defined it for you both. Yet when Leon walked out beside you afterward, his hand brushed yours and didn’t retreat. In broad daylight, in front of colleagues and strangers alike, he didn’t let go. No cover. No neighbors. No charade. Just you.

Weeks later, life had shifted into a new rhythm. No surveillance gear humming in the background, no Brenda knocking at your door with questions about children. Instead, it was Leon’s jacket slung casually over your chair, his mug sitting beside yours in the sink, a playlist you’d made together filling the kitchen as you cooked—burning Brenda’s lasagna recipe spectacularly but laughing until you cried. On nights when nightmares clawed at you both, comfort came not from pretending to be married, but from knowing you truly weren’t alone.

One evening, Leon stood in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair a mess, fixing the jammed drawer he had once silently repaired during the mission. You caught yourself smiling, realizing just how much had changed—and how much had stayed the same.

Leon S. Kennedy had reached the point where everything was above his pay grade. Crouched in the crumbling Raccoon City Police Department, he wondered why his first day felt more like a warzone than a job.

He hid behind an overturned desk, covered in grime, half out of bullets, and fully out of patience. Every few seconds, the air trembled with a thud, thud, thud that made his teeth rattle. Dust fell from the ceiling with each heavy step, snowing onto his hair as if the building itself had given up.

“Okay, Leon,” he muttered. “Stay calm. Don’t panic. Just another day in hell with a giant murder trench coat who hates hats and emotions.”

The door exploded off its hinges. Mr. X ducked his massive head through the doorway, expression unreadable beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His footsteps echoed like gunshots as he entered, scanning the room with unnerving calm. Leon scrambled backward, bumping into a filing cabinet, gun shaking in his grip.

“WHY WON’T YOU JUST—DIE?!” he yelled, firing three useless rounds that pinged off Mr. X’s chest. The man-mountain barely flinched.

Mr. X tilted his head in what Leon swore was disappointment—like he’d expected better from this rookie.

“Sorry I’m not Chris Redfield!” Leon barked. “You want him, he’s probably punching a boulder somewhere!”

Then, the world exploded.

The RPD’s front doors went flying off their hinges in a thunderclap of fire and debris. Leon dove for cover as a wall of heat blasted through the lobby. When the smoke cleared, Jill Valentine emerged from the haze—gun raised, jaw set, looking like she’d walked through hell and decided it was boring. Behind her, the ground shook again.

Nemesis.

For a split second, time froze. Jill’s silhouette cut through the smoke, steady and unshaken, but Leon’s disbelief was written all over his face—jaw slack, eyes wide, hand frozen halfway to his gun. He blinked twice, trying to decide whether to shoot, run, or ask if this was some Umbrella hallucination gone too far.

The last time he saw that eight-foot-tall walking tank, it had ended in a strange kind of mutual respect. But now—Nemesis was here, shoulders steaming, rocket launcher in hand, eyes glowing red like a demonic Christmas ornament. Jill barely acknowledged him. “Target’s inside,” she said, voice calm, all business. “We move before Umbrella sends backup.”

Nemesis didn’t move. His head turned slowly, mechanical servos whining. His gaze locked onto Mr. X.

Two bioweapons. One lobby. And only one had dared touch his rookie.

The tension was thick enough to chew. Leon froze between them, hands raised like a referee in a deathmatch.

“Guys?” he said, voice cracking. “Let’s not—uh—make this weird?”

Too late.

Nemesis roared, and the sound was catastrophic. Windows shattered. Pigeons fled from the roof. Somewhere, a car alarm started and immediately regretted it. He charged, rocket launcher slung aside, fists swinging like wrecking balls. Mr. X met him head-on. The floor cracked. The walls trembled. Desks flew into splinters. Leon yelped and threw himself behind the reception counter where Jill was already crouched, reloading with perfect calm.

“Please tell me they’re on the same side,” Leon begged.

Jill didn’t look up. “Depends. Are you S.T.A.R.S.?”

“No!”

“Then… maybe.”

A filing cabinet whizzed past their heads, embedding itself in the wall. Leon risked a peek just in time to see Nemesis body-slam Mr. X into the front desk, roaring like a kaiju with a personal grudge. Mr. X retaliated with an uppercut so powerful it sent floor tiles flying like frisbees.

“I think they’re fighting over custody of me!” Leon shouted.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jill muttered, ducking as Nemesis hurled a bench like a frisbee of pure destruction. “He’s probably just territorial.”

“Of me!” Leon cried, indignant.

Nemesis, hearing that, bellowed louder—confirming the theory.

“STAAAAARS!” he thundered, slamming his fist into Mr. X’s face so hard the marble floor cracked like ice.

“God,” Leon breathed, “it’s like watching two refrigerators fight.”

“Correction,” Jill deadpanned. “Two exploding refrigerators.”

The fight spilled into the hallway, shattering glass and toppling filing cabinets. Mr. X ripped up a section of wall and used it as a shield. Nemesis answered by tearing down a statue and using it as a club. Every impact sounded like a thunderclap. Leon and Jill peeked through the chaos as sparks and dust filled the air.

Leon groaned. “If they bring down the building, we’re dead.”

“They are the building,” Jill replied dryly.

Mr. X finally managed to grab Nemesis by the throat, slamming him through a pillar. But Nemesis barely flinched. He twisted, ripped the marble apart, and drove his knee into Mr. X’s midsection. The impact echoed through the entire station. Leon winced at the sound of breaking concrete—and possibly bones.

Nemesis reached for his rocket launcher but paused when he saw Leon, standing frozen by the doorway, covered in plaster dust and regret. His red eyes flickered once, as if in recognition. Then, with surprising restraint, he aimed slightly to the left and fired.

Mr. X went flying through a wall and out into the street, leaving a perfect bioweapon-shaped hole.

Silence followed. Dust settled like snow.

Nemesis stood panting in the wreckage, smoke rising from his shoulders. When he spotted Leon peeking from behind the counter, he made a low rumble that sounded almost… pleased.

Leon blinked. “Uh… hey there, big guy. You win.”

Nemesis grunted. “LEON.”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Leon forced a nervous laugh. “You, uh, sure showed him. Definitely the alpha refrigerator here.”

Nemesis tilted his head, then reached down and—with shocking gentleness—picked Leon up by the back of his vest and set him upright. Jill just stared, caught between awe and existential horror.

“I’m gonna need therapy after this,” Leon muttered. “Assuming therapy still exists.”

Nemesis gave a single approving grunt—something that might’ve meant Don’t worry, small human. Then he stomped off through the rubble in pursuit of his airborne rival.

Jill holstered her pistol, raising an eyebrow. “You two are… friends?”

Leon rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s complicated. He saved me once. I think I’m his emotional support rookie now.”

“Right,” Jill said. “You need new friends.”

Leon exhaled with a tired laugh. “Tell me about it.”

Later, Leon limped—still half in disbelief that he’d somehow made a friend out of a bio-weapon. Maybe tomorrow he’d start questioning his life choices, but tonight, he just laughed softly at the absurdity of it all before moving on.

He stepped over debris and shattered glass, spotting something sitting neatly atop a busted desk: a single green herb and a crushed soda can. He smiled faintly. “Miss you too, big guy.”

Outside, thunder rolled—and from somewhere distant came a faint, unmistakable roar.

“STAAAAARS.”

Leon snorted under his breath. “He’s not even chasing her anymore. He’s just vibing.”

And for one absurd moment, amid the ruins of Raccoon City, Leon thought that maybe—just maybe—friendship could survive the apocalypse. Even if it involved bioweapons, property damage, and serious emotional confusion.

Raccoon City wasn’t ready for this level of bromance.

The motel room was suffocatingly hot, the thin curtains drawn tight, the only light coming from the amber glow of the candle Chris had set on the nightstand. Its flame bent and flickered, waiting to be turned into something more than just ambiance. He stood over you like a wall of muscle and intent, shirt discarded, veins roped in his forearms as he pinned you down to the creaking mattress with nothing but his weight and his stare.

“Open,” he growled, voice a gravelled order you couldn’t disobey.

Your lips parted and his thick fingers pushed past them, two knuckles deep on the first thrust, his calloused skin scraping your tongue. His eyes never left yours as he shoved deeper, thumb pressing under your jaw until your mouth stretched around the intrusion.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Chris muttered, watching your cheeks hollow as you sucked. “Get ‘em nice and wet.” His free hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise when you gagged softly around his fingers, the sound making him groan low in his chest. He pumped them in and out of your mouth like he would his cock, using you, stretching you, saliva slicking your chin.

When he finally pulled them free with a wet pop, a strand of spit clung from your lips to his hand. He smeared it across your cheek, then down to your throat, marking you with it.

“You’ll take everything I give you tonight,” he said, lighting catching in his eyes, “and you’ll thank me for it.”

The candle was in his hand before you could breathe, wax pooling at the top. He held it above your chest, tilting slowly until a single drop fell—scalding heat splattering over your skin.

“Ahhhhnn—fuck!” you cried out, back arching, the sting sharp then giving way to a throbbing pleasure that pulsed through your nipples, your stomach, down between your thighs.

Chris chuckled darkly, leaning close enough that his breath grazed your ear. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Hurts good.”

Another drop fell, then another, then a stream—hot rivulets trailing down your stomach, dripping into the valley of your breasts, solidifying against sweat-slick flesh. You writhed beneath him, crying out with each hiss of wax, every nerve lit with fire.

His fingers were back in your mouth instantly, stuffing your cries into gagged moans. He worked them against your tongue as molten lines dripped over your ribs, down your navel, dangerously close to your clit. You whimpered around his hand, hips bucking helplessly, tears pricking your lashes as the burn made your cunt clench empty.

Chris pulled his hand away just long enough to shove his spit-slick fingers down between your legs, pressing them against your soaked folds.

“Goddamn—already dripping for me,” he groaned, circling your clit before thrusting two fingers inside, the same ones you’d been sucking raw moments earlier. The stretch was brutal, his pace relentless, fucking you open while the last drops of wax hardened against your stomach.

Your screams were muffled by his mouth now, Chris devouring every sound in a punishing kiss, his tongue dominating yours while his fingers pistoned in and out of your cunt, rough and wet and merciless.

“You taste like sin,” he growled against your lips, curling his fingers just right until your thighs shook violently. His other hand smeared the cooling wax across your skin, grinding it against your nerves to make you whimper louder.

The coil snapped suddenly, violently, your orgasm tearing you apart with a scream swallowed into his kiss, your body shuddering under him, slick soaking his hand. Chris didn’t stop, didn’t slow, fucking you through the climax, growling into your mouth as though dragging every last drop of pleasure out of you was his mission.

When you finally collapsed, trembling, spent, he licked his fingers clean with a wolfish grin before shoving them back into your mouth.

The safehouse was supposed to be a temporary stop, four concrete walls and a flickering bulb barely holding out the night and the monsters prowling beyond it. You sat at the edge of the cot, every nerve frayed from the mission, the adrenaline refusing to leave your veins. Leon was pacing the length of the room, jacket unzipped, hair damp with sweat, gun still within arm’s reach, his eyes sharp even though his body screamed exhaustion. And then Ada leaned against the doorway, her silhouette carved in crimson and shadow, that dangerous smile curving her lips like a weapon in itself.

The air snapped taut the moment the three of you were alone together. Heat and friction built not from the threat outside but from the sheer proximity of two people who never did anything halfway.

“You two look ready to combust,” Ada said smoothly, voice low, sultry, calculated. She walked closer, heels clicking like a countdown, and Leon’s jaw clenched as his eyes darted between her and you.

“Not exactly the time, Ada,” he muttered, but his hand flexed restlessly, betraying him.

“Oh, I’d say it’s the perfect time,” she countered, gaze sliding over you like a caress. “Stress relief. Survival instinct. Call it what you want.” Her gloved fingers brushed your jaw, tilting your chin upward until your breath caught.

Leon groaned, half-exasperated, half-desperate, before finally giving in. His hands found your hips, tugging you up from the cot, pressing your back flush against his chest while Ada leaned in from the front, her lips ghosting yours before sealing the kiss with a bruising hunger.

The chemistry was chaos—Leon’s restraint fraying with every needy sound you made, Ada’s tongue claiming your mouth, her smirk tasting of danger, Leon’s groan vibrating against your ear as his hands roamed lower. You were caught between them, dizzy, every breath stolen, every nerve lit.

“Competition suits you, Kennedy,” Ada teased, pulling back just enough to drag her gloved hand down your body, fingertips teasing at the hem of your shirt.

“Not a competition,” Leon rasped, sliding his hand beneath your waistband, making you gasp. “As long as she’s satisfied, we both win.”

Your moan was the only answer as Ada dropped to her knees, smirk flashing wicked up at you while Leon held you steady against him. Her tongue traced fire over your thigh before finding your center, her skillful mouth drawing cries from you instantly. Leon’s arm wrapped tight around your waist, his lips pressing into your neck, whispering rough promises against your skin as his fingers teased higher, deeper, pushing you closer to unraveling.

Two sets of hands, two mouths, two wills locked in dangerous tandem—all focused on you. Leon’s breath ragged in your ear, Ada’s tongue ruthless between your thighs, your body trembling violently between their opposing hungers. The pressure built too fast, too sharp, until you were breaking apart in their hands, the orgasm tearing a cry from your throat that echoed against the safehouse walls.