꒰ 𑄹 ׅ 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 do not 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭. ✶ 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.
﹙ ੭꣒ ˖ ﹚ㅤㅤ𝓦𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. angst. hurt comfort. emotional insecurities. depictions of nightmares. crying & vulnerability. strong language. implied sex. power imbalance at work.
📃 continuation of 𝓢𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐅 𝓦𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒.
the new normal is a fragile, unspoken truce.
it’s you, back in his orbit, but only in carefully controlled doses. the silence isn’t the suffocating, soul-crushing void it was before, but it’s not the easy quiet you once shared either. it’s a tense, watchful thing, a ceasefire line drawn down the middle of every room you share.
he has you come to his office sometimes. “need a hand with this paperwork, rookie,” he’ll grumble, not looking up from his monitor. and you’ll go, because you’re a good agent, and because you’re a masochist who craves the specific brand of pain only he can deliver. you’ll sit in the chair across from his massive desk, the same desk where he’d… well. you try not to think about that. you try not to think about a lot of things.
you’ll organize files, transcribe reports, and do the mindless administrative tasks that someone of his rank shouldn’t be touching. and the whole time, you’ll feel his presence like a physical weight. he’ll be right there, just a few feet away, the scent of his cologne and the low hum of his computer filling the space between you. but he won’t look at you. he’ll focus on his work with a single-minded intensity, his jaw set, his shoulders tense. he ignores you so thoroughly it feels like an art form. and every second of it is a fresh twist of the knife in your gut. the ache is a constant companion, a dull throb behind your ribs that reminds you that while the war might be over, you definitely didn’t win.
you’re just… there. a tool he uses when he needs to. a body he claims when the mood strikes.
and there’s valencia.
she’s the new golden girl, the rookie he’s actually training. you see them in the halls, in the training yard, in the briefing rooms. he’s with her in all the ways he used to be with you. he stands behind her at the range, his arms bracketing hers as he corrects her stance. you see him laugh at something she says, a real, genuine laugh that makes your stomach clench with a hot, ugly jealousy. he’s teaching her, mentoring her, giving her the attention and validation you’re starving for.
you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. it’s his job. you’re just a coworker. but the lie tastes like ash in your mouth.
the only time the truce is broken is at night, in the dark, behind the locked door of his apartment.
you practically live there now. it happened gradually, without a formal discussion. a toothbrush left in his bathroom. a drawer half-filled with your t-shirts and underwear. a spare key he’d tossed on the counter for you one morning with a gruff, “don’t lose it.” he never acknowledged the slow creep of your life into his space. he didn’t seem to care. or maybe, more accurately, he just didn’t bother to notice.
tonight was one of those nights. a long, grueling day of paperwork and watching him with valencia had left you feeling raw and empty. he’d taken you home, and the second the door was closed, he’d pushed you against it, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was more about possession than affection. he’d fucked you on the kitchen counter, then in the shower, and finally, for hours in his bed, until you were both boneless and slick with sweat, the sheets a tangled mess around you. it was rough and desperate and everything you needed to forget the day.
now, in the dead of night, the silence of his apartment is absolute. the only light is the faint, blue-white glow of the city filtering through the blinds of his bedroom window. he’s asleep beside you, a dead weight of warm, solid muscle. his breathing is deep and even, a peaceful rhythm that should be comforting.
but you’re not at peace. you’re trapped in the labyrinth of your own mind.
you’re running.
the hallway is impossibly long, the walls stretching and warping like taffy. the dso headquarters is empty, a ghost ship adrift in a sea of fluorescent lighting. but you can hear him. his footsteps are heavy, measured, just ahead of you. you can’t see him, but you know he’s there.
“leon!” you call out, your voice thin and reedy.
you see him then, a flash of his dark tactical gear as he rounds a corner. you push your legs harder, your lungs burning, your worn boots slapping against the linoleum. you have to catch him. you have to.
you round the corner, skidding to a halt. he’s there, at the end of the hall, his back to you. he’s standing in front of a heavy, dark wood door. his office door.
“leon, please wait!” you plead, your voice cracking.
he doesn’t turn. he doesn’t acknowledge you. he just reaches out, his hand closing around the cold metal handle.
you try to run again, but your feet are stuck. you’re wading through invisible molasses, every step a monumental effort. you’re screaming his name now, a raw, desperate sound that doesn’t seem to make any noise.
he opens the door and steps inside.
“no, please, don’t leave me,” you whisper, the words finally escaping your throat, soft and pathetic.
the door clicks shut.
you finally break free, stumbling forward until you’re standing in front of it. his name is on the brass plaque, mocking you. leon s. kennedy. you reach for the handle, your hand trembling. you turn it.
it’s locked.
you rattle it, your desperation growing. you bang on the solid wood with your fists, the impacts jarring your bones. “leon! leon, please, open the door! don’t shut me out again!”
but there’s no answer. just silence. the crushing, absolute silence of being left behind. of being erased.
“please…”
the soft, choked plea is what wakes you up. it’s your own voice, thick with sleep and tears.
your eyes snap open. you’re in his bed. the room is dark, the air still. he’s still beside you, his breathing unchanged. it was just a dream. a stupid, pathetic dream.
but the feelings are real. the panic, the desperation, the gut-wrenching pain of being abandoned. they’re clinging to you like a second skin. hot shame floods your system, a burning wave that starts in your chest and spreads through your entire body. you’re so stupid. so fucking stupid for letting him get to you like this. for dreaming about him, for crying over him, when you’re nothing more than a warm body for him to use when he’s lonely. you’re not exclusive. you’re not anything.
tears you didn’t even know you were crying start to slide from the corners of your eyes, tracking hot paths down your temples and into your hair. you need to get away. you can’t let him see you like this. you can’t be this pathetic, weeping girl for him again.
carefully, silently, you begin to untangle yourself from the sheets. you move with painstaking slowness, trying not to make a sound, not to disturb the sleeping giant beside you. you manage to get your legs free and are just about to slip out of the bed when his breathing pattern changes.
it’s a subtle shift, a slight hitch in the rhythm. you freeze, your heart hammering against your ribs.
he’s awake.
you stay completely still, hoping, praying that he’ll just roll over and go back to sleep. but of course, he doesn’t. the silence stretches for a long, agonizing moment. then, you feel the mattress dip as he shifts his weight.
you squeeze your eyes shut and turn onto your side, your back facing him, curling into a tight ball. you hold your breath, trying to will your tears to stop. it’s no use. a fresh wave of them spills over, and a small, quiet choked sob escapes your lips.
you feel his hand, large and warm from sleep, land gently on your side, his palm resting on the curve of your hip. the simple, non-sexual touch is so unexpected, so tender, it feels like a brand. you flinch, but you don’t pull away. you can’t. you’re paralyzed by a confusing mix of shame and a desperate, pathetic longing for that very touch.
“hey,” his voice is a low, gravelly rumble, thick with sleep. “what’s wrong?”
you just shake your head against the pillow, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.
“you were cryin’ out for me,” he says. it’s not a question. it’s a statement of fact. “talk to me, kid.”
“it was nothing,” you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse and shaky. “just a bad dream. go back to sleep.”
you’re dismissing him. you know it’s a mistake the second the words leave your mouth. leon does not like to be dismissed. especially not by you. especially not in his own bed.
“bullshit,” he growls, the sleepiness gone from his voice, replaced by that familiar, stubborn edge.
before you can react, he’s moving. his arm snakes around your waist, and with a strength that is both terrifying and thrilling, he pulls you, forcing you to roll onto your back. he looms over you in the darkness, propped up on one elbow, his body caging you in. the faint city light outlines the hard lines of his face, his shoulders, his arms. even in the dimness, you can see that his expression is a thundercloud of concern and annoyance.
“don’t fuckin’ lie to me,” he says, his voice low and dangerous.
you stare up at him, your vision blurry with tears. you try to turn your head away, to hide the pathetic mess you’ve become, but he’s not having it. his free hand comes up, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him.
“i wasn’t,” you insist weakly.
his thumb moves, wiping at the wet track of a tear on your cheek. the gesture is so soft, so caring, it shatters the last of your composure. a fresh sob breaks from your lips, and you squeeze your eyes shut, more tears leaking out. you bring your hands up to your face, trying to hide, to shield yourself from his intense gaze.
“hey, hey, none of that,” he murmurs, his voice softer, laced with a confusion that is almost comical. he’s so good at fighting monsters, but he’s completely out of his depth when it comes to your tears.
he pries your hands away from your face, his large hands easily enveloping yours. he holds them down on the mattress by your head. you’re completely vulnerable, pinned beneath him, your tear-streaked face exposed.
“just tell me what the dream was about,” he says, his tone somewhere between a command and a plea.
you shake your head, sniffling. “it’s stupid.”
“i don’t care if it’s stupid. tell me.”
you take a shaky breath, the air rattling in your lungs. you stare up at the ceiling, at the way the shadows play across the white paint. you can’t look at him while you say this. it’s too humiliating.
and then you start to blabber. the words just spill out of you, a frantic, incoherent torrent of your insecurities.
“it was just… you were there,” you begin, your voice small. “at the dso. and you were walking away from me. and i was trying to catch up to you, i was calling your name, but you just kept walking. and you went into your office, and you locked the door, and i couldn’t… couldn’t get to you. you just left me there.”
you pause, taking another shuddering breath. you wipe at your runny nose with the back of your free hand, a pathetic, childish gesture.
“and it’s so stupid, because it’s just a dream, but it felt so real. it felt like… it felt like how it feels now.” the last part is a whisper.
he’s silent for a long moment. you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face. you risk a quick glance at him. his expression is unreadable in the dark, but you can see the muscle in his jaw working.
“what’s that supposed to mean?” he finally asks, his voice tight.
“it means that even though we’re… we’re doing this again,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the bed, at the two of you, “it feels like you’re still a million miles away. it feels like you’re still punishing me. you ignore me all day at the office, you walk right past me like i’m not even there. you’re training valencia, and you’re laughing with her, and you’re giving her all the things you used to give me. and then you bring me here, and you fuck me until i can’t see straight, and for a few hours, it’s okay. but it’s not. it’s not okay. because i know that as soon as the sun comes up, you’re going to put that wall back up, and you’re going to be a million miles away again. and i’m just—i’m so tired of chasing you.”
the confession hangs in the air between you, heavy and fragile. you’ve said too much. you’ve laid all your pathetic, broken pieces at his feet. you brace yourself for the fallout. for him to get angry, to call you crazy, to tell you to get your shit and get out.
but he doesn’t do any of that.
he just watches you, his blue eyes searching your face in the dim light. you see a flicker of something in them. regret? pain? you can’t be sure. he lets go of your hands and moves closer, his body shifting on the mattress. he doesn’t get on top of you, but he moves so he’s lying on his side, facing you, his arm bracketing your head, his body a warm, solid line against yours.
“i’m not punishing you, sweetheart,” he says, his voice a low, rough murmur near your ear.
“it feels like it,” you whisper, another tear slipping down your cheek.
he sighs, a heavy, weary sound. he reaches out, his thumb once again finding the tear track on your face, wiping it away with a gentleness that makes your heart ache.
“i know,” he says. “i’m… not good at this shit, kid. you know that.”
he’s admitting it. he’s actually admitting fault, in his own gruff, leon-kennedy way. the shock of it silences you.
“seeing you with that alex kid…” he starts, then stops, shaking his head as if angry with himself. “it fucked with my head. i saw red. and i didn’t know how to deal with it. so i shut down. it’s what i do.”
“you erased me,” you say, the words still full of hurt.
“i know,” he repeats, his voice softer, full of a self-loathing you’ve never heard from him before. “it was a dick move. i’m sorry.”
an apology. he’s actually apologizing. you don’t know what to do with it. you just stare at him, your mind reeling.
“i’m not… with valencia,” he says, as if reading your mind. “i’m training her. that’s it. it’s my job.”
“you laugh with her,” you accuse, the jealousy still a sharp sting.
a faint, humorless smile touches his lips. “she’s young like you. she says dumb shit. it’s not… like it is with you.”
he shifts closer, his forehead coming to rest against yours. his hand moves from your face to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you gently. his other arm is wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. you can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your own.
“no one is like it is with you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. “you get under my skin in a way no one else does. it scares the absolute shit outta me.”
and there it is. the truth. the real reason for the silence, for the distance. it wasn’t just jealousy. it was fear. the great leon s. kennedy, the man who faced down armies of the undead without flinching, was scared of how he felt about you.
the realization is a balm on your raw, wounded soul. it doesn’t fix everything, but it’s a start. it’s more than you ever thought you’d get.
you let out a long, shuddering breath, the last of the tension finally leaving your body. you feel boneless, exhausted, but in a good way. you wrap your arms around his torso, burying your face in the warm, solid expanse of his chest. you breathe him in.
he holds you tighter, his hand gently messing with your hair. you lie there for a long time, wrapped in the darkness, your bodies pressed together. it’s the most comfortable you’ve felt in weeks.
“‘m not going anywhere,” he says, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “‘m not gonna lock you out.”
you look up at him, your eyes having adjusted to the dark. you can see his face clearly now. the hard lines are softened, the storm in his eyes has calmed. he looks tired, but he’s here. he’s with you.
“you promise?” you whisper, the word small and silly.
he leans down and kisses you. it’s not a desperate kiss from earlier. it’s deliberate, and soft, and full of all the words he can’t say. it’s a kiss that tastes like an apology, like a promise.
when he pulls back, he keeps his forehead pressed against yours.
“i promise, baby,” he says.
and for the first time in a long time, you believe him. you close your eyes, a real, genuine smile touching your lips as you snuggle closer against his warmth, safe in the arms of the man who was both your personal storm and your only shelter.
💭 thinking about re9!Leon Kennedy threatening to shave his happy trail 18+ I’m insane about him oml
He’s standing at the foot of your queen-sized bed in a pair of boxers, having just gotten out of the shower. “I think I might need to shave this off soon, baby.” Your head instantly snaps up at his direction, dropping the book you were reading onto the mattress beside you.
You watch in silent horror as he runs his hand over the dark hairs that dust across his chest and down towards that delicious happy trail of his, his brows all pinched together in contemplation, even the thought of him considering it sent you into panic.
“Absolutely not. No,” you tell him, shaking your head in vehement protest as you shuffle to the end of the bed on your knees.
His eyes catch yours, and his frown softens into a grin. “Look at it, baby, it’s getting out of control down here.” He huffs in amusement, fingers still grazing over the coarse hairs, heart melting a little at the way your lips purse out into a frowny pout.
“It’s sexy, Leon.” You tell him, brushing his hands away from the sacred trail with a huff. “You’re not allowed to just shave it all off.” your fingers now toy with the waistband of his boxers.
He chuckles, cupping your cheeks between his big palms and tilting your head back. “Not allowed? What you gonna stop me?”
“No… but if you shave it off I-I-” you pause, wracking your sleepy brain for a suitable punishment, “I won’t have sex with you until it grows back.”
“Oh, fighting talk, huh? You wouldn’t last a week, babe.” He replies smugly, knowing for a fact that he’s not wrong. You barely survive when he gets pulled away by his ever-demanding job, always relying on those special homemade videos you both made.
You groan in frustration, and he coos down at you, running the pad of his thumb over your pouty lips to try and coax you to smile— but it doesn’t work, you seem genuinely heartbroken, and he would be lying if he said it didn’t amuse him just a little.
“C’mon… don’t look at me like that, baby, it needs taming.”
You don’t answer, but your expression turns determined. You lean forward, looking up at him through your lashes as you press a wet kiss right over the hard ridge of his abs. His fingers slip into your hair, tightening a little at the roots, your name catching in his chest as you drag your tongue back up his firm stomach.
“Oh Fuck-” his voice comes out hoarse, ragged.
“Promise me you won’t get rid of it.” You tell him, dragging sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down to his V-line, and when he doesn’t answer right away, you pull back, scowling at him. “Promise me, Leon.”
“Yeah, yeah, I promise… I’ll keep it, s’all yours gorgeous.” He breathes out heavily from above you, dick already hard and twitching to life against the thin fabric of his boxers.
“Good.” You beam up him happily, tugging the waistband of his boxers down a little further with a lick of your lips.
જ⁀➴ Resident Evil Masterlist જ⁀➴ General Masterlist
AN: is this a safe space to say I love big hairy men and women?
i'm tired of ppl being tired of everything, if you don't like how ppl write reader x your fav, it's fine i don't like a lot of tropes too but seriously stop pretending like someone is forcing you to read it or banning you from requesting from talented writers here or like different tropes doesn't exist here cuz it's just not true btw . if the person that's writing it likes it then why the hell are you ''ranting'' and making it about you? i ''don't like this thing and i hate seeing it '' okayy???? why are posting about it to ppl that do it to run from the real world and so as ppl that request things ''you don't like'' AND AGAIN YOU LITERALLY CAN REQUEST WHAT EVER YOU WANT TOO SO WHO GAF ?! STOP MAKING IT FRUSTRATING FOR PPL TO WRITE WHATEVER TF THEY WANT ?! (ofc i'm not talking about weird pedos and misogynistic stuff here yk what i mean)
| just an older leon blurb…. my beautiful sweet man…. (fluff) ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
“Doll.”
You hear a smoky voice huff out, heavy, yet laced with a certain softness, only concerned for you. You can practically imagine the weight of his shoulders and the shake of his head, tossing a silver-lined tendril to the side of his forehead with a sigh as his booted steps stumble through the door of his apartment.
His tired silhouette fills the doorframe of the bedroom as his white pleated comforter covers the length of you. The broadness of his shoulders and shape of his biceps illuminate from the back glow of his warm, lit kitchen, painting a soft smile on your face as you sit up with open arms.
Wordlessly, your Leon crosses to your figure, enveloping you in a slump as his weight gently crashes upon you. Your fingers slip softly under the hem of his tight shirt, framing the familiarity of his body in hushed whispers against the pink of his ear.
“Missed you, lovey.”
The gravel lap of his voice swirls against your collarbone as he nuzzles his nose into your scented skin, his chapped lips ducked into the pool of your clavicle.
You let out a hum, vibrating against his pressed features as they melt against the warmth of your flesh. The smile that drags out from Leon’s core at the simplest of sounds from your lips should be damn right embarrassing, but he’s too comfortable against you to care.
warnings: 18+, p in v, oral (m recieve), daddy kink, age gap
summary: He’s been keeping busy, between work, and his workouts, and sleeping with his best friend’s daughter. Couldn’t pay him to say those few words out loud. He feels guilty, very guilty to the point where it makes him nauseous; but not guilty enough to stop him from doing it again.
words: 2.4k
a/n: you're going to have to walk with me on this one, like daddy issues but if you inject them with steroids. but yeah, extremely guilty leon but still a weirdo loser, enjoy!!
“Welcome, Leon. Have a seat.”
This place never seems to get any less suffocating. You know for a place that aims to heal whatever fucked up trauma you have, some colors in this office would’ve been nice. It’s not like Leon is an interior design enthusiast, not when he lived in an apartment with nothing other than a mattress to sleep on for the majority of his twenties. But he honestly would rather look at anywhere else other than at the therapist sitting in front of him.
He takes a seat on the black leathered chair next to her. Taking in a deep breath and reminding himself that this only a one hour, once a week thing and once he’s done, he’ll reward himself with a cold drink for being responsible.
Truth is, he was going to give himself that drink anyway. Because he deserves it, because life has fucked him in the ass so many times by now that even if he turned into a war criminal it would be justified. But he didn’t, not sure why though. Not like he had a loving childhood with parents who taught him right from wrong. Matter of fact his parents are the last people he would seek moral advice from, not like he can anyways. Not when they’re six feet below.
God, this is fucking depressing.
“So, how have we been?”
He chews the inside of his cheeks, and realizes how unnatural this whole concept is. Meeting someone once a week, expecting them to dump their entire life problems onto you as you scribble down your notes on your notepad before moving on to the next patient.
Leon is convinced that she shares everything he tells her over a glass of wine with her friends; he just can’t prove it—he can’t blame her either. Or maybe it’s just about the way she looks, the bob, the glasses—he swears that she looks like someone he went to high school with; just with lip fillers.
Her lips look awfully natural though. Ashley taught him how to tell the difference when they got lunch together the last time he saw her before she left to go to Sri Lanka. Apparently, they have beautiful landscapes there; but that’s about all he can remember from the conversation.
“…I’m guessing not so great?”
“Oh, no sorry. Um, yeah I’ve been good.”
She laughs, one of those fake laughs though—because she doesn’t believe him. He can say whatever he wants, but when his progress has been stagnant for the past few weeks it doesn’t take a degree to figure out that he’s lying.
But reality is, he isn’t—not this time at least. He’s been good, like better than usual, like he still has a very, very, manageable, no issue, got it under control drinking problem but other than that he’s doing amazing.
He’s been keeping busy, between work, and his workouts, and fucking his best friend’s daughter. Couldn’t pay him to say those few words out loud. He feels guilty, very guilty to the point where it makes him nauseous; but not guilty enough to stop him from doing it again.
He’d be lying if he said that you weren’t one of the few good things to happen to him, even if you come with a price. Everything in life comes with a price, but you feel good and he isn’t just talking about the sex. You’re fresh and full of life, and he sounds like such a creep when he says this but he feels so much better around you.
You seem to enjoy your time around him as well, but it could just be because you don’t see each other often and maybe that’s for the best. If you got too close, you’d realize that he’s just a bum with a whole list of underlying issues.
You’d send him a text from time to time. A little update on your life here and there, and it’s nice to know that you’re doing well.
“Will you be in town this week? I’m coming back from college to visit my dad.”
“No, sweetheart. Maybe next time, I miss you.”
“Miss you too”
But when he does see you, he makes sure to make up for lost time. He takes you out, buys you those overpriced drinks that you like, and he never comes empty handed.
The dynamic between the two of you is complicated and no matter which way he twists it, it’s still morally wrong. He’s the same age as your dad, and your dad is your dad so technically if he had a hypothetical daughter she would be the same age as you. Did he also mention that you’re his best friend’s daughter?
Like, he cares for you like his daughter, he spoils you like you’re his daughter, he talks to you honestly more than he would talk to his actual daughter. But you’re not. And with your mom being out of the picture, you’ve become more attached to him.
Point is, you matter. Matter so much that he is in here because of you.
Typically, most of your “dates” end up at his apartment; with him sprawled out on the bed and you on top of him. Your lips move from his lips, to his nose, cheek, forehead, and back to his lips. His bulky arms wrap around you, taking in your scent. A warm fuzzy feeling fills his chest, he feels loved, and if he’s loved by someone like you it means that he’s doing something right.
Your hips grind on the outline of his cock beneath his jeans and your lips latch onto his neck. You bite and kiss the tender skin, his hands gripping your hips sucking in a breath at the sensation. You’re good at this, a little too good. Dipping lower, you whisper into his ear.
“I wanna suck your cock.”
He almost chokes on his own spit, it never gets easier to hear you say these sorts of things. You kiss from his jaw, to his neck, and down his chest.
“Want you, daddy.”
Leon feels a pang in his chest and a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Sweetheart… don’t call me that.”
You move back closer to him, a smile plastered all over your face like this is funny.
“Why?”
Cause it makes him feel like shit, cause it makes him feel like an asshole who can’t keep his dick in his pants. But you’re not even listening, you’re too busy rubbing his cock through his pants.
“Because- It’s just kind of weird, baby.”
“I’ve literally called you that before and you didn’t mind.”
“What? When?”
“New years, when you came over to our house.”
New years to Leon is just another excuse for him to get piss drunk and blackout without anyone judging him for it. He can’t even remember what he did that night, let alone what you said.
“Okay, I was drunk so it doesn’t count.”
“Yeah, well drunk you really liked it; besides you never listen when I tell you to stop calling me pumpkin.”
“That’s different.”
Your eyes snap back at him, your face morphing into an expression he knows too well. The same face you used to make when your dad wouldn’t let you attend those high school parties with alcohol and drugs because he’s a good parent; right before you would stomp to your room and he’d have to intervene to make you see your dad’s perspective. Honestly, he used to only do that because he couldn’t stand the idea of you crying upstairs.
You start getting off the bed before he grabs your arm.
“No, no, I’m sorry.”
He wraps his arms around you and squeezes you against him, teasing you for holding in your laugh. He manages to get you on top of him again, with you still putting up a fight.
“Come on, give me a kiss.”
He puckers his lips out for you, making kissing sounds. You laugh, feigning disgust before caving in. The kiss starts off soft and sweet at first, Leon’s hand caressing your cheek before pulling away and looking at you.
“You know how much you mean to me, right?”
You nod your head in response. He moves some of the stray hairs away from your face.
“Daddy’s princess”
At this point, he can’t blame you for acting like a brat when he’s been enabling this behavior since you can remember. When your dad didn’t agree to buying you that three story barbie dreamhouse on your birthday, Leon did. When you were drunk and out of the house when you were supposed to be grounded, Leon was the one to pick you up every time. And even now, he can’t ever so no to you.
If he wants to be completely honest with himself, he doesn’t entirely hate this whole daddy thing. It’s just his morality getting in the way, or whatever is left of it at least. But either way he’s going to hell so it doesn’t matter.
His hand gropes your ass as he trails soft open-mouthed kisses on your neck. You go back to rocking your hips, delicate sighs slipping from your mouth. It doesn’t take long before his cock starts to get hard and he can feel himself getting dumber and dumber as the blood rushes all the way from one head to the other.
Grabbing your hand, he guides it to his crotch. His hips buck against your hand making you feel how hard he is.
“Wanna suck daddy’s cock, baby? Make me feel good?”
You nod, giving him a final peck on the lips before moving back and fumbling with his belt. He helps you undress him before pulling his cock out. Your hand wraps around the base giving it a slow stroke before kissing the tip.
You make sure to keep eye contact with him as you kiss the tip again and again, a transparent string of his arousal connecting your lips to the leaking head. You take him into your mouth, your pillowy lips wrapping around him with your hand at the base making up for what your mouth can’t accommodate.
He moves your hair from around your face, putting it in a makeshift ponytail with his fist and feeling your tongue slide up and down his length.
“That’s it, sweetheart. So good f’me.”
You moan with him in your mouth, the sound sending waves of pleasure through him. He lets you do what you want, your spit along with his precum coating your hands and dripping down to his balls.
Eventually deciding to take a bit more of control, he gently pulls your hair to move you according to his pace. He guides you slowly before picking up the pace, you handle it pretty well the wet sounds coming from your throat making him groan in pleasure.
With his orgasm building up he pushes your limits a little more, pulling your face down to take more of him into your mouth. He cusses under his breath, watching his cock disappear into you. You gag when he pushes too much, a few tears running down your cheeks out of reflex.
Letting go of your hair, you pull away. Your chest rises and falls as you regain your composure, your face shiny with your mixed fluids. He smiles at you, grabbing the base of his cock and slapping it against your lips a few times.
“Such a good girl. Making me proud.”
You smile weakly, placing an openmouthed kiss on the head before he pulls you towards him. His hand sneaks past the waistband of your underwear, collecting the buildup slick and circling around your clit.
“Fuck, sweetheart. This pussy is practically crying to get filled.”
You slip off your underwear, his hands gripping your waist as your straddle his lap. He grabs the base of his cock, rubbing the leaking tip against your clit. Your sensitive bud gets coated with a transparent layer of precum; his eyes take in your expression as he applies more pressure on your clit.
Moving your hips forwards, he nudges at your entrance as you sink down on his length causing the two of you moan in unison at the stretch. You place your hands on his shoulders, and he begins to thrust into you from below. You sigh and your face scrunches up in the crook of his neck in concentration. A smile creeps up on his lips from your reaction.
“Not in the mood to put up a fight anymore?”
You tut in annoyance, your arms wrapping around him even tighter. He reciprocates, one of his arms snaking around your lower back with the other pulling you against his chest. He picks up the pace, his cock slamming into you feverishly.
He keeps up the same speed until you start to squirm on top of him, your walls squeezing around him a little too tight signaling your orgasm being around the corner. Deciding to prioritize you, his hips remain bucked making sure his cock is buried deep inside your aching cunt as he guides your hips in a circling motion.
Your thighs begin to shake as his tips rubs against your g spot again and again. He shushes you, his hand rubbing up and down your back soothingly.
“Gonna cum, baby? It’s okay, daddy’s got you.”
It takes a few more seconds before you begin to whimper, the fluttering of your velvety walls causing his grip to tighten on you as he tries his best to not lose composure himself. He makes sure that you get the same stimulation throughout your orgasm before he starts chasing his own.
You slump against his shoulder, your thoughts god knows where as he feverishly fucks into you. He takes in your scent, the smoothness of your skin, and the curves on your side; and as the pleasure floods his brain he silently begs for your father’s forgiveness.
He makes sure to pull out of you despite your mumbled protests. His cock now exposed to the cold air of the room throbs before shooting hot spurts of cum over your abdomen. He hisses as your fist pumps up and down the length, his balls emptying all over you.
Completely spent, you lean against his chest and he pulls you into a warm hug. It’s usually at this point where the post nut clarity hits him like a bus and he vows to never do it again. But he’s also done this enough times to realize that next time won’t be any different.
He looks at your face against his chest, your eyes closed and your chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. A soft kiss is placed on your temple, his head resting against yours.
synopsis: you sent a nude picture to leon while he was at work, and well, he’s letting you know that you were misbehaving badly.
tags: re9!leon (or di!leon) x fem!reader: ddlg established relationship, leon is a father figure, age gap (at least twenty years, but reader is over 21) fauxcest, spanking (pussy and ass spanking), condescending jargon, mentions of vibrators, daddy kink (used: daddy, dad, papa and dada), petnames: sweetheart, dollface, girl, little/young lady
author's note: i finally gave into ddlg and fauxcest with leon bc hes literally dada. i don’t condone this type of dynamic with any man in real life unless they’re jensen ackles, or wilson bethel tbh. i personally feel comfortable writing this with leon bc i can control the narrative. but in real life, a big no-no, i know u guys r smart enough to know this. read at ur own discretion. we know dada <3
wc: 2.6k
Piled high on the mahogany table were the reports and assignments left unfinished thanks to the bureaucratic chaos by the name of the highly respected Kennedy, ironically enough, the head of the division department, had brought upon himself. Because if we were to consider his work ethic, your Daddy was normally as sharp as a tack, always precise and swift in executing his tasks (and missions) within governmental standards – could potentially even earn him the approval to be running this country his damn self should he ever wish to represent the eagle, soldiers and superb men alike pledged their loyalty to.
But today, a string of high-stakes phone calls atop the plethora of papers seemed to have left their mark on the American golden boy (or rather, rugged old man with legendary status), and thus, his productivity slowed down to a cipher.
It didn’t help quite help that his own phone had buzzed with a notification that Leon should have refrained from checking upon in the first place. Because all it took was one look, and the agent, who was known by his protegees as competently indifferent, wasn’t able to think straight anymore, therefore, had explained himself of having to leave work early due to an emergency and rushed out of the building.
Right.
Not much of a surprise when it came to –
Said to be a present, clearly, as he read the message, added with a picture of your body, scantily clad, in the lewdest position possible, only for his eyes to see, of course. Indeed, the man who was as anonymous as one could be, had a very weak spot for a beautiful, little missus in his life.
A-hem, you.
To then say that he wasn’t willing to speak upon of what had prompted him to ditch work ahead of schedule would be an understatement. Everything you did was solely reserved for Leon the professional, and he wanted to keep it that way – under lock and key (in conclusion: secretive). He also wouldn’t be willing to admit (to you either) that he loved your risqué side (proven by the exempt as just shown), more accurately, your overly provocative one, especially when the entire relationship was established on said premise: that he was the one in control, and therefore, intent to be the one to draw the impermeable lines (boundaries) in scorching hot sand, which you had to respect and abide by in return.
Leon had, admittedly, been in denial for a very, very long time.
At the beginning, he had stated time and time again he wasn’t into such things (his browsing history said otherwise, though, but let’s digress), shooed you away and shook his head as if he’d been disappointed by you (translating into: he pushed you away because you had kept boking the bear). Silly you.
But late at night, that’s exactly when he couldn’t help but think about it.
The very first time you had called him Daddy, it was more of an awkward situation to be quite frank – he laughed awkwardly, cocking an eyebrow (didn’t hate it at all, side note) – though it was only natural to you, because Leon was the very embodiment of a fatherly figure, no?
He loved explaining things to you, especially when it came to his job, his guns or his motorcycle (which, obviously, was incredibly attractive and only amplified your feelings towards him). He liked showing you around, driving you around (which became common courtesy as you had admitted once that he looked sexy in his Porsche. Coincidence?). Would often times go to the grocery shop with you just so he could buy you whatever you wanted. He’d let you hold him by his two fingers, thick in girth, whenever you two decided to go for a walk at the park. He’d stroke your hair in bed, and at last, would always make sure you were safe and sound (for example: text you hourly whenever you were at a party or outside enjoying yourself with your friends, reminding he’s home alone waiting for you. Poor Leon, not even his favorite movies could keep him company anymore).
Without a doubt, to fall for Leon was no difficult feat to do. It was very easy, in fact, given that this man was a man, who gently nurtured and guided you through life and luckily, not at the expanse of your own intelligence, for example, to be downright insulted as so often was the case with men, unfortunately.
If we were to look behind the scenes though, Leon constantly debated himself over a predicament of his own making, that he was falling for a woman half his age. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint why it felt so wrong. Most definitely assured, the two decades of disparity drove a huge nudge. You were settling down in life, meanwhile Leon already had roughly thirty years of experience under his leather belt. Tough on the mental, for him, to say the least (asking himself daily what his colleagues would think of him were they ever to find out about it).
The need to be close to you was stronger, however, and it eventually won him over, so much so, that he ended up needing you as much as the very air to live and breathe, couldn’t believe you were this kind and stunning, also greatly emphasized: able to empathize with his struggle he was more than ashamed of (his alcohol addiction). How heartbreaking, for what it’s worth, Leon could have ended up way worse for what had to endure in his life. And you had told him that, more so, of how proud you were of him. Sadly, he wanted to keep you at distance to spare you. He didn’t want to hurt you, and purposefully ignored you for about three months.
After much consideration, he told himself screw it, allowing himself to let this all be, no matter what his brain had conspired against him to believe about you – or this relationship. And why wouldn’t he?
He was incredibly thankful you hadn’t given up on him. Having nearly missed out on a little angel like you was a near-miss of a nightmare vivid enough to leave him tossing and turning, wallowing in the sweat of his own self-sabotage. “Cuteness be damned, you do have a head on your shoulders, young lady”, he muttered under his breath with a sincere smile on his face the day he decided not to fight his very own whim to be with you.
With that being said, it was of no surprise that he let himself fall, truly fall, as in: curtains strung wide open for you to see Leon in all of his glory, for who he was, stripped bare and all. He was scared, free from pretense, wasn’t sure whether he was ready to receive love now, considering all he’d known was to care for other people. Nevertheless, he welcomed you to his world and his heart with open arms and hadn’t let go since.
Now, back to the picture.
So, what was the result?
Well, as indicated heretofore, your Daddy had a few consequences lined up for you in case you wanted to misbehave. Though he was very loving, he did discipline you. You knew very early on that certain things were strictly forbidden without Daddy’s permission, including saying the word “Daddy” out loud in public.
Well, little miss provocateur – you – had other things in mind.
Once, he took you out shopping, on the pretext of: needing new clothes himself, but secretly bought them to impress you, wanting to look dapper (yes, dapper, he said so himself). So, when your man – a replica akin to pure perfection – stepped out of the dressing room to show his black slacks (he was more than ready to buy), you complimented him with dreamy eyes, quote, “You look so handsome, Dad.”
Not Daddy. But Dad.
And that’s when things took a turn for the worse for Leon.
Objectively speaking, you had not overplayed your hand here. In all fairness, though, this was just another version of the original, if not the original itself (the paternal one), which, in all candor, wreaked havoc within him, spiraling his guilt out of control to such depths he wanted to resent you for it. You fed into his domineering manhood too much, pushing the envelope until his own mind started to drift off to places he desperately wished he could just forget.
He was, truthfully, at a loss for words here.
He couldn’t believe – well, that he liked –
Clearing his throat, Leon excused himself in front of the shop assistant, his cheeks burning brightly red he looked sunburnt at this point. The emotional concoction of – what was it? –embarrassment, anger and a heavily laden, forbidden lust that turned Leon’s mind into a wasteland with its last standing resident – him – giving in to the madness of his own prurient desires. At that moment, all he knew was this: he needed to escape the shopping mall as soon as possible.
To hell with changing, the price tag issued that sorting out this never-wracking fiasco was way more urgent. You bid your own endgame when you started giggling as he frantically dragged you out, back into his car – not the front, but the backseat (sealing your destiny) – where you were forced onto his lap, telling you to zip it and to listen to him carefully. Each leg of yours rested comfortably over his as you were spread wide open, your slick center turning all puffy and swollen as he imprinted his palm onto your mound, slapping you stupid, his questions leading an entire investigation, forcing you to explain yourself to him.
And that you did. For about an hour.
And this time, it wasn’t your center that had to deal with the result of your tomfoolery that knocked Leon out of his reasoning. No, it was your bare ass, panties dragged to your knees, as you were draped across his thighs like a blanket, a spanking following right up to meet you to remind you who was in charge here.
“Count it, girl,” he rasped, breathing raggedly as he soothed your skin that had been marked already upon the impact of his with veins riddled hand. “C’mon, be good for Daddy and let me hear it.”
“Ten,” you sniffled, regret creeping in until you were completely submerged. Leon had the stereotypical strength of every elderly man who’d spent decades doing manual labor, a very dense, functional strength, though you wouldn’t perceive at first glance (his statue did however support the presupposition). But you certainly felt it now, entirely at your Daddy’s mercy, forced to play the cards you’d been dealt – your fault, shoulders shrugged, mind you.
“Aw, poor baby,” he cooed condescendingly, rubbing your butt and smirking to himself. “Is my little girl crying, yes?”
“Yes,” you whined, wiggling your butt to flee from his grip but it transgressed into him growling out of pure frustration, his hand hitting you so hard you yelped, “I’m sorry, Dad!”
“Zip it,” he warned, bending over to get closer to your face, utilizing his other hand to grip your chin with no chance left to move anymore. “You know you’re not sorry. You were bad today, weren’t you?”
“No, Daddy,” you mewed, your lips jutting out into a pout. “I wasn’t. I only wanted to show you how much I missed you.”
“Yeah? And that involves sending naughty pictures to Daddy while he’s at work speaking to the fucking President of the United States, huh?” he seethed, his breath fanning over your cheek. “You never fucking learn, do ya?”
“I didn’t know!”
“Cut it out,” he countered angrily, another brutal smack landing on your perky buttocks. “Count it. C’mon.”
“Dada –“
“I said,” he groaned through his teeth, cutting you off, clean slices. “Fucking count it.”
Quite the curveball, but you couldn’t. The man in leather jackets, nursing his expensive whiskey, was done here, he was not having it with you anymore. Worse still, he absolutely loved seeing you like this. To be looked upon as a monumental person in your life was too satisfactory of a victory he had no intention of giving it up, ever. You were his baby, no questions asked, it was embedded into the ground like a cornerstone, and like a good father should, lay his girls foundation of the world by showing her what was right and what was wrong. Even if it meant it had to hurt a little.
“Aw, is it getting hard to speak?” he purred, kissing you featherily. “Let’s do simple math then, little lady. I know you’re smart. What’s one plus ten?”
“Eleven,” you quipped to his wit.
“There you go,” he chuckled warmly with half-lidded, lustful eyes. Then added all high and mighty: “See? You do listen when you want to. When there’s a will, there’s a way, sweetheart.”
“No more, Dada,” you pleaded, ignoring his fatherly non-sense, biting your bottom lip and looking him in the eye. “No more spanking.”
“Aw, it’s too much for you already?” Squeezing the plumpness of your ass, he grazed his lips over your skin, his stubble slightly tickling you. “But you’re gonna take it, no? You said you wanted to be good for me.”
“I am good, Papa! I am!”
“Well, guess what’s for dinner tonight, sweetheart?” he asked, a tone so cocky it almost played a wagging finger at you. And he didn’t let you guess either. “A big old slice of be-have-your self, and Daddy’s gonna make sure you leave the plate empty. Understood?”
“Your joke wasn’t funny, Daddy.”
“Oh, I know it wasn’t funny to you, sweetheart,” he snickered, very much amused at the wordplay at hand. “Especially not for what I have planned.”
“Wait,” you quivered panicky, but definitely understandable, considering Leon was able to play extremely dirty. “What?”
“Do you remember Henry?”
No two ways about it. You did.
Hook, line and sinker.
Thus, your throat went as dry as a well out of water. You gulped – well, tried to. It hurt, and while you could explain it, admitting what your Daddy was referring to was definitely too much of a shameful gamble. Before you met him, you had – let’s say – certain ways of satisfying your needs. These, a-hem, tools could vibrate, came in cute colors like pink or purple, and were available in different sizes. Well, Leon here, had found one while snooping around in your bedroom once. In lack of better words: it was an invasion of privacy, but not like he cared. He was looking out for you. Like a father should. Right. He was appalled at first, and, comically enough, had his ego bruised that you still kept one in your nightstand.
Until a bright idea flickered in his mind, that he could use it on you – to make you squirm, to make you moan, to make you cry, all while you were confined to the bed, unable to flee from the calamity. He made sure, no, Leon put you to a test of how well of a student you could be. Whatever you tried would be used as a weapon, turned against you, to tranquilize your maverick energy for his own benefit.
“Yes,” you whispered. “I do.”
“Well, our friend should come over tonight. Don’t you think?”
“No! No, please, no,” you begged, trying to kiss him now, but to no avail. He withdrew from your face.
“You don’t like Henry?” he asked innocently, pretending he was a real living and breathing human being. “Young lady, that’s not nice.”
“I don’t like Henry,” you whined. “I like you. I want you, Daddy.”
“’S that so, yeah?” Shifting his gaze back to your ass, he chuckled, “Well, I already called Henry. He’s coming over. No if and buts, dollface.”
“But –“
“I said, no if and buts. Hear me?”
Seemed like you were in for one heck of a situation tonight.
summary : trying the 'wiping your partners kiss' trend from tiktok on leon
notes : something small fluff for the heart<3
"mhmm, hi baby". leon hummed against your skin. he's bent by the couch to press his face against you while youre sat on it, tv playing infront and your pink fluffy blanket on your lap.
he then gave you a kiss on your soft cheeks, his stubble tickling you softly causing you to smile. his scent wafted around you and you cant help but feel giddy when you smell your usual body wash.
you really like it when he uses your body wash, its cute as hell for someone like him.
"shower felt good?". you asked him when he rounded the couch to finally sit beside you but before he could sit, he noticed you casually wiping the cheek that he kissed a few seconds ago.
your face remained neutral as you glance at him but inside, you want to laugh cause his face looks so offended. he's frowning and his brows are almost touching each other while he stares at you.
you just found this silly little prank on tiktok a few days ago where women or men wipe the kiss of their partners in front of them. you found it hilarious when you watched multiple videos of it and suddenly, you thought what if you'll try that on leon.
so when he took a shower earlier after coming home, you were waiting for him in the living room where you are seated right now. you were on your phone while the plays a tv series rerun and it seems like the world wants you to do it now cause as you scrolled on tiktok, you saw a video where the woman wiped the kiss from his husband.
you took that as a sign to be honest, and here you are right now, trying to remain casual.
"something wrong?". you tilted your head up to look at him.
leon narrowed his eyes on you a little causing you to really not try to laugh. he then shook his head before moving to the couch, his weight made the furniture dip gently and he threw an arm at the back of the couch as he made himself comfortable.
"is this a rerun?". leon asked as he his gaze moved to the tv while you moved closer to him and when your head hit his shoulders, an automatic kiss on your head was given.
leon frowned when he noticed your hand moving to the spot that he just kissed and seemingly wiping it away.
"is my stubble bothering you?". leon asked, brows furrowing as he looks at you.
"what?". you said as you move your head up to look at him. he still has his brows furrowed and his lips are in a frown, his eyes are looking at you like he's trying to figure something out.
goddamn, he looks so cute. you thought.
"you know i love your stubble". you told him and you reached a hand on his face to caress his stubbled cheek. "makes you the most handsome almost silver fox".
you grinned at him as you continued to caress his cheek. his frown softened and his eyes looked at you in amusement and in love, you look so soft and beautiful in his arms right now.
"i love you". you smiled causing him to lean his head down to press a very sweet kiss on your lips.
you smiled against his kiss, you absolutely love his kisses. especially when his stubble softly rubs up on your cheek.
but right now, youre doing a prank.
"lets watch the new episode rerun". you said when he finally pulled away and before returning to your comfortable position against his shoulder, you wiped away your lips.
okay, he's had enough. thats three kisses that you already wiped and he knows you love kisses so why are you doing this?
"do you not want kisses anymore?". leon asked as he moved beside you to sit up straight. muscles and body tightening up again cause he's confused and hurt.
after years of being with you, you always tell or show him that you love his kisses. youre always asking for it and you just love it when he does his sudden kisses on each part of your body. leon knew that you really love getting kissed on your cheek, his kisses on your lips makes you smile and kisses on your neck makes you relax always.
so this sudden action of you wiping his kiss is so questionable, did he do something wrong? are you mad at him?
"how can you say that?". you feigned a confused look on your face.
you noticed how he moved away from you a little, to give space to settle this, whatever youre doing cause this is not normal at all.
"youre wiping away my kisses". leon said this with all of his heart that his expression is mirroring his younger self.
his younger self that you accidentally saw in one of his file pictures. the sweet eyed baby boy. it kinda feels like youre looking at him right now that you cant help but coo inside.
your man is the cutest ever.
"i dont wipe—".
"yes, you do". leon stressed before taking your hand to press a kiss on it, to test if its not only on your face.
immediately, you took it away and wiped just to tease him more. you saw how his face contorted in hurt and being offended, you could even see the gears turning inside his head.
"i—". he opened his mouth, his eyes turning into a doe and all of the sudden you cant help it anymore.
you moved forward to hug him fiercely while saying multiple sorry's at him while he just widened his eyes when he suddenly got you flying in his arms. he felt you pressing kisses against his neck and shoulder while still saying sorry.
his face is still marred in confusion when he wrapped his big, strong arms around you and you clambered up on his lap.
"im sorry, its a prank". you mumbled against his tshirt as you laid your head on his shoulder and your hand drawing patterns against his back.
"what?". he scrunched up his brows again.
"a tiktok prank". you pouted before burying your head against his neck, to nuzzle deep in his arms and body. you dont want to ever leave from his warmth and love.
while nuzzling on leon like a cat, his mind whirred to process what you just said cause tiktok sound familiar. it took him a few minutes to register and understand everything before he squeezed your waist gently then tug you more closer to him causing you to hum.
"that fucking app is a menace". he grumbled as he moved his head on your hair, to bury his nose in your sweet scent.
tiktok, that one app that everyone seems to be addicted to these days. yeah, he's heard about it, kinda hard not to when he's always seeing you watching videos from it or telling him stuffs about what you saw.
even his coworkers and sherry has tiktok. always laughing and cant seem to focus sometimes.
"its a fun app". you giggled against his neck before pressing a kiss on his neck when you feel his hand sneaking inside your shirt to rest on your skin.
feeling your skin has always been so good for leon, it makes him relax.
"not if youre wiping away my kisses". he pinched your skin softly then kneaded it. he heard you laughing and he kissed your head.
not just one kiss, multiple kisses causing you to sigh in delight.
"dont do that again". he playfully warned and you bit his neck in response.
You’ve grown used to the stinging sensation by now. Perhaps it’s the only semblance of reassurance that you are still alive.
Bleeding, broken, but still alive. Somehow.
cw + notes: self-harm (implied/referenced relapse & history of it), implied dissociation, hurt/comfort ft. leon’s corny ass jokes, emotional constipation, reader-insert is bad at feelings lol, gender-neutral reader + no pronouns used. written with death island leon in mind, but can also be infinite darkness leon <3 + wc: 2.5k
a/n: please check out nightly’s cover of iris! that and the acoustic version by the goo goo dolls was what i had on loop as i was writing this (❁´◡`❁)
— originally posted on ao3!
THE BLOOD IN YOUR HANDS SEEMS TO TREMBLE WITH YOU. You have no idea how long you’ve been in this cramped space of a bathroom, but there is this dull ache that follows you around like a persistent, stitched shadow when your limbs attempt to move. It is sluggish, painfully so, especially with the dread of something pursuing you. It is right behind you—though, when you turn your head to look, it is never there. The dread continues to churn within you, akin to the sensation in the stomach when one shoves their fingers down their throat.
Cold water hits the surface of disturbed skin. You’ve grown used to the stinging sensation by now. Perhaps it’s the only semblance of reassurance that you are still alive.
Bleeding, broken, but still alive. Somehow.
The ringing barely fades from your ears, and your entire frame feels simultaneously heavy and light—perhaps guilt for the former, and fatigue for the latter—when you turn to slip back into your dimly lit bedroom. As you flick off the light switch and blindly search for the edge of your bed (ignoring the thought of the darkness swallowing you whole), another flicks on.
Leon stares at you from the bed, a drowsy look in his gaze as he rubs his eyes tiredly. Despite the sleep lingering in his eyes, it seemed as though something had been keeping him awake for a while.
It’s at that moment you realize he’s been staring at your arms.
You’re all too familiar with that look by now, and frankly, it doesn’t suit him. He has this expression, as his gaze shift from your eyes, to your limbs, then back up to keep the contact—worry, perhaps. Or guilt. Confusion. Maybe a bit of hopefulness, which you found odd. It’s slightly different from the usual look people give you, but a hint of annoyance still bubbles up from your chest at the thought of others pitying you in the past. You barely manage to keep your emotions in check, reminding yourself to avoid adrenaline from taking the reins, yet the bitterness from being belittled still stays in your throat.
“Everything okay?”
Seeing you not give an immediate response, Leon slightly winced at his choice of words. “Do you want to talk about it?” He corrects himself.
The tension in his shoulders dissipated when you slid back into bed with him, sitting there for a while in silence. He could accept this much; at least you hadn’t shut him out entirely. His fingers twitched with the impulse to reach out, but he held back. He isn’t as stingy when it comes to showing his concern, though; his voice stays gentle, but there’s a firmness underneath that you recognize as his refusal to let this slide easily.
Still, Leon’s had his suspicions for a while now.
“Will you show me?” He asks quietly. “Your arms.”
“My… arms.” You glance up at him, slowly, your head still feeling heavy on your shoulders. “What for?”
“Because I miss seeing them.” A weak attempt at a smile tugs at his lips, but the worry in his eyes betrays him. “You always hide them now. Even when it’s hot as hell outside.” He swallows hard before continuing, softer. “…I just want to know you’re okay.”
He hesitates for a second before finally reaching out—slow and careful, mindful that you may retreat like a delicate, wounded animal—and rests his hand lightly on your covered forearm. His touch is warm through the fabric. “If something’s wrong, I wanna help.” He exhales sharply through his nose, brows knit together in an obvious display of courage amidst a vulnerable moment. “You don’t have to keep it to yourself, carry it alone. You know that, right?”
His thumb brushes absently over your sleeve, then he meets your eyes again, voice dropping to almost a whisper. “Please.”
I don’t want to be a bother, was your go-to phrase. You never wanted to be an inconvenience to anyone, never wanted to make it about you. Never wanted to face the inevitable barrage of questions, or the way people would be overly-cautious around you to the point of childishness. It was exhausting. As the sentence falls from your lips, Leon’s eyebrows shoot up in immediate disbelief.
“A bother?” He looks almost angry, but his eyes are pained. He calls out your name, achingly gentle with it, like he always is. “You can’t be a bother. That’s… that’s not how it works. I’ll help you because I want to. I want to.”
Your fatigue creeps in, and you realize it far too late.
You’re so, so… tired.
Once people have had their fill of you, they easily discard you like crumpled paper. But Leon’s thumb apologetically brushes against your wrist, and your attention is drawn back to his face. His words come out fierce and urgent, releasing your sleeve before he grips it a bit too tight from his emotions and accidentally hurts you.
“Look, I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “I’m worried about you, baby. All this sudden hiding and you… you can’t even change in front of me anymore. It… it makes me think it’s something serious. I just want to know what I’m dealing with, sweetheart—I need to know.”
He’s visibly frustrated, and your thoughts back you into a seemingly inescapable corner. “Don’t be mad.”
Leon blinks, taken aback. He shakes his head, a bit of the frustration in his expression fading as he speaks. “I’m not mad. I could never be mad at you.” He sighs, gently moving closer and resting his hand on your arm again, thumb absentmindedly rubbing back and forth soothingly. “Just… not having any idea what’s going on is killing me.” He searches your eyes with that same pleading look from earlier, and you relent.
Leon’s breath hitches. For a second, he just stares—eyes tracing over the marks with this stillness that makes your heart sink with regret. Then his fingers twitch toward your bare arm again, like he wants to touch them but can’t, settling to hover over them. You could see him trembling, and it’s taking quite the effort for him to hide it. An apology immediately slips from your lips, but he effectively stops you with a soft shush.
“Don’t apologize.” He isn’t angry, he isn’t disgusted. The confirmation almost feels cathartic, in a bittersweet way. You’ve opened up enough for him to know what was going on, after all. “I’m just worried. I’m really…” he trails off, rubbing a hand over his face again, before shifting in the bed and taking both of your hands in his. He’s trying to act calm, to keep his voice steady, and your heart clenches.
“I’m not upset, okay?” He reassures with a tender squeeze to your hands, looking you in the eye again. “But you have to be honest with me. How long?”
Leon listens, never interrupting you once. It’s one of the many things you adored about him, especially in times like these. He knows all you needed was a listening ear right now, and he’d go through hell, back, and hell again to help with that weight on your shoulders. His thumb traces your knuckles, rubbing along them comfortingly. His gaze is locked on yours, eyes filled with nothing but concern and care. Maybe a bit of gratitude and relief, too. He knows what kind of battle you’ve been fighting now.
“When did it happen?” He reaches up to rest the back of his hand against your cheek, the quiver in his fingers easing as he feels your skin. “The relapse.”
“Just… earlier.” You settle vaguely. You weren’t sure what time it was yet, but it was still dark outside, and the chilly air gives you the hint that it might be past midnight already.
The last word hangs in the air for a moment, and you can practically see the thoughts running through Leon’s head. He shifts closer, sheets rustling beneath him, before pulling you into his arms—tight, but careful of your injury.
Leon pulls back just enough to look at you again, one hand cradling the side of your face. “I’m not leaving you alone with this again,” he says firmly, with no room for argument. “We’re getting through tonight together, okay?”
At your not, he lets out a small breath of relief, tracing his thumb along your cheek before pressing a light kiss to your forehead. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in relief, but he’s still cautious. He traces along the shell of your ear, smoothing along the trail of hair behind your ear.
He settles beside you properly, one arm around you in case you needed an anchor or wanted to lean further into him. “Is that better? Anything I can do right now?”
“Just… hold me, please.”
Leon doesn’t hesitate at that. He pulls you closer, tucking you comfortably against the solid warmth of his chest. He rests his chin atop your head and exhales, tension slowly draining from both your bodies as you laid there. “Of course,” he murmurs into your hair. His fingers trail absently up and down your back, reminding you of his presence without ever having to say it aloud. “Anything for you.”
After a moment of quiet, he shifts slightly to press another kiss atop your head, before settling back down again with a contented sigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A wave of worry suddenly washes over you. “Is this… going to change things?”
Leon pulls back to gaze at you, “Yeah.” The way it comes out is certain, but soft-spoken, especially with how your breath hitches. “Because now I know, so I can help.”
Brushing a thumb under your eye where tears might have gathered, his gaze softened. “That’s the only thing changing. Not how I see you. Not how much I love you. Alright?”
Upon noticing the words have stuck with you, a small smirk tugs at his lips—cocky but tender. “You’re stuck with me being extra annoying now about checking in, alright?”
You chuckle weakly. “I’d rather have that, yeah.”
He smiles alongside you in amusement. You’ll be alright, if he’s managing to make you smile with his stupid jokes again. His grip feels almost desperate when he pulls you back into his chest again. “I know you like your space, baby, but I’m gonna be up your ass the second you’re having an off day.” He pokes the tip of your nose. “You can’t escape me.”
When your chuckle flourishes into a bigger laugh, something in Leon’s chest unclenches in relief. He grins against the top of your head, nuzzling into your hair before pulling back to see the art that was your face.
“There it is,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. He looks proud and relieved all at once. “I missed that laugh so much.”
A beat passes where he just looks at you, soaking in the moment before shifting slightly to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth with an exaggerated mwah!, lightening things up on purpose. “I’ll be just as annoying tomorrow, don’t you worry your pretty little head.”
His cheeks have started to hurt from grinning so much, and he doesn’t even realize the pain immediately, not when you’re chuckling more against him. He leans back against the headboard with you still tucked against him, running his fingers through your hair in a soothing motion. “Knew I’d be able to get a genuine laugh out of you by tonight.” He says, smug, but keeping his tone light.
After a moment, he presses a firm kiss to your temple before relaxing again.
“Feeling up to letting me dress those cuts soon, sweetheart?”
He bribes you with snacks when he sees you contemplate on it, and you can’t help but feel the ache that came with being cared for, for once. As he notices you’re getting teary-eyed again, he reaches up to cup your face in his hands, thumb brushing away a tear that’s fallen.
“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, voice gentle, “don’t cry, my love, it’s gonna be okay.” He traces the curve of your jaw with his knuckle, giving you a small but warm smile. “I’m not mad at you, okay? I never was.”
After a final stroke against your cheek, he presses one more kiss to your forehead before shifting out from behind you. He slides off the bed, grabbing his first aid kit from the bathroom—a huge DSO moment, he thinks to himself, noticing how it’s way too stocked for normal people. When he returns, he settles cross-legged in front of you on the mattress, popping it open with a click.
“Alright,” he snaps on a glove with practiced ease, his touch feather-light as he gently takes your arm, “tell me if it hurts, okay?” He dabs antiseptic onto a gauze pad, hesitating just briefly before meeting your eyes again.
“I’m proud of you for saying yes to this. You know that, right?”
You scoff, looking away to stop unshed tears from resurfacing. “Don’t make me cry even more.”
“Can’t make any guarantees, baby,” he teases, gently cleaning the cuts and pausing whenever you winced. He’s being careful—keeping an eye on your expression and the way you wince from time to time. “You’re kind of a cute crier, too. Just a fact.”
After a moment, he pauses his movements to meet your eyes again. “Besides, I don’t mind. You can let it all out.” He’s serious this time, though he’s still smiling warmly. “You feeling okay so far?”
You nod, muttering a soft word of gratitude. Leon nods back, the corner of his mouth twitching upward again before returning to cleaning your wounds. He works silently at first, focusing on disinfecting them properly—he’s got plenty of experience patching up both himself and others. He’ll never let on that it gets to him seeing you hurt, though. Not while he’s taking on the role of an annoying caregiver, at least.
After several minutes, he’s already finishing up dressing the cuts, securing the last piece of gauze tape with a gentle swipe of his thumb and a precise snip. When he’s done, his hand lingers on your arm, almost too gentle of a touch.
“…Feeling a bit better after getting those bandaged up, sweetheart?”
“Mm-hmm.” You smile softly.
He can’t help smiling back when you do, fingers reaching out to trace along your jaw again, trailing up until they linger in your hair. “I’d kiss them, but they’re fresh. It’d be unsanitary.” He remarks, and you’re unable to hold back the surprised laugh at his bluntness.
He still hates knowing what you went through alone, for who knows how long, still hates that he didn’t notice it earlier, but the fact that you’re smiling—because of him, no less—is the best relief he could ever ask for.
additional end notes + liked what you just read? show your support with a like/reblog or kudos on ao3! (❁´◡`❁)
you felt awful. the congestion in your throat was near suffocating, and the feeling of one of your nostrils being clogged while the other was perfectly clear was so incredibly infuriating. to make matters worse, you were running a fever, and you felt disgusting. all you could do was lay there in you and leon's shared bed, head propped up on two pillows while lazily watching a reality tv show with vicks vapor rub infused tissue shoved up your nostrils to stop the never ending runny nose from leaking down any further.
you heard the creak of the bedroom door, and shortly after, leon's head peeked in before he stepped in quietly, carrying a fresh mug of something steaming. seeing you like this made him a little worried for you, but he had to admit, it was kind of endearing. he didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched a little bit at your current state.
"looking real deadly there, baby," he said, voice low and teasing but soft nonetheless. he set the mug on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. you groaned quietly, rolling your eyes as you strained your head to view the tv which he was so rudely blocking. you'd just gotten to the good part, too, you think.
as much as you tried to be annoyed at his sarcastic little comment, you don't have the heart to be upset. he'd specifically informed sherry he'd be unable to accept any mission requests until you got better, and she politely told him to take all the time he needed— even offered to drop off some extra meds and soup on her way through the city. deep down, you were infinitely grateful for him being here with you. having him was much better than suffering alone.
"oh shut it, kennedy. i'm dying here," you say, glaring at him with no real malice behind your eyes. you cough a bit, throat raspy and raw from speaking after hours of silently watching the terribly scripted yet undeniably entertaining reality tv show.
leon reaches towards you, pressing a large hand to your forehead then your cheek with concerned eyes as he scanned your features meticulously. his hand felt blessedly cool against you, your eyes even fluttering a bit from how relieving it felt. he hums, a slight frown forming on his face upon surveying you. "yeah, i can tell. fever's still up. you're burning, sweetheart," leon murmured, his voice low and rough with worry. he kept his hand on your cheek a moment longer, thumb slowly stroking your cheek, and you leaned into it, a sigh leaving your lips.
"gonna have to work on this fever, baby," he declares, a fond expression gracing his features when your eyes flick open to his. you pout, huffing out a breath exasperatedly as you remember just how annoyingly sick you are. leon's presence satiated you a bit, and his gentle touch definitely aided you, even if you were embarrassingly snotty and germ-ridden. "let me run you a cool bath. can't stand to see you like this," he says softly. without waiting for an answer, he reaches over, pulling the mucus-clad tissues out of your nose and throwing it in the small garbage bag you had next to you whenever the tissue got too full.
you groan in embarrassment and try to turn your face away, but he catches your chin lightly and makes you look at him. "hey. none of that," he murmurs. "you’re sick. i've seen way more disgusting things out there. a little snot isn't gonna bother me," his voice is soft yet firm, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he holds your gaze. you still feel a little bit mortified, but the way he says it eases some of the shame you felt. you nod slowly, and leon hums, taking your hand in his as he guides you out of the bed you'd practically made your own germ nest.
once you make it to the bathroom, leon lets the water run for a bit, occasionally putting his hand under the water to check the temperature. he helps you out of your clothes, which was only one of his old raccoon police department shirts— now slightly damp with sweat— and your underwear.
he helps you into the lukewarm bath, supporting your weight as you sink in. the cool water makes you shiver and let out a pitiful whine, but leon stays right there, kneeling beside the tub with one arm behind your back so you don’t slip. "i know, baby. i know it feels cold," he soothes, guiding you down further until you've fully submerged into the bathtub. "but your fever’s too high. gotta bring it down a little."
leon stays right there on his knees beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, never taking his eyes off you. he scoops water with his free hand and lets it trickle slowly over your shoulders and neck, repeating the motion in a steady rhythm. eventually, your body gets used to the temperature of the water, and you find yourself leaning back in the bath, sighing contently as your eyes flutter at the soothing feeling.
leon’s expression softens even more when he sees the tension leave your face. the corner of his mouth lifts in a small, relieved smile. "that's it, just relax, baby," he hums, scooping up more water in his hands and watching as your muscles begin to relax under his attentive care. "that's better, huh?" you hum softly, eyes flickering over to his, and manage a small, tired smile. even through the fever and congestion, gratitude swells in your chest so strongly it almost hurts. you're so eternally grateful for him.
leon— the one who risks his life every single day for the sake of the world, who’s seen and survived hell more times than anyone should— is on his knees beside a bathtub, patiently pouring lukewarm water over your sick, sweaty body like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. he’s here, sleeves rolled up, gently washing you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever protected. you almost feel like you should be the one comforting him like this.
leon catches the look in your eyes and tilts his head slightly, reading you the way he always does. "what’s that look about?" he asks quietly, his hand moving to cradle the side of your neck, thumb stroking just under your jaw. you nuzzle into his hand, your own hand moving up to blanket his as you stare into his soft, comforting blue eyes.
"i... just love you so much, leon," you whisper, the words scratchy and raw from your sore throat, but full of quiet sincerity. "you're always taking care of everyone else, but... just feels like it should be the other way around sometimes," you confess, and leon's thumb stops moving for a second. his gaze softens, something pained yet tender flickering across his face. he leans in closer, resting his forehead gently against yours, unbothered by the heat radiating off your body.
"baby..." he breathes, voice low and rough with emotion. he stays there for a moment, just breathing with you, before pulling back enough to look you in the eyes again. he grabs your hand tenderly, pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles as he stares at you with all the love in the world. "you do take care of me. hell, you're the only reason i find myself wanting to keep going in this world," he confesses, squeezing your hand fondly while rubbing circles into your clammy hands. your heart stutters, the words so incredibly profound and endearing as you hold eye contact with him.
"i love you too. and i can't... i can't even begin to put it into words how much i do," he whispers, thumb still stroking your hand like it’s something fragile. you could feel your throat tighten up, and somehow, it's way less painful than the raw soreness that’s been there all day.
you feel your eyes sting at his confession, the fever making everything feel ten times more intense. "leon…" you rasp, throat tight with more than just congestion. his free hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb gently brushing away a tear that slips free before it can fall into the bathwater.
"hey... hey, don't cry, baby," he says, voice impossibly soft as he strokes your cheek lovingly. he leans in to press a kiss to your heated forehead, and somehow, it's like all your worries about him quiet for a minute. the firm pressure of his lips, the coolness of his skin against your burning forehead— it's all unbelievably grounding. leon lingers there, mouth pressed to your forehead like he can will the fever and the overwhelming emotions away. when he finally pulls back, his blue eyes are warm and soft as he stares at you like you're the most precious thing to him. which, you are.
you try to speak again but it comes out as a weak, congested sniffle. leon just shushes you gently, pressing another kiss to your temple, then the bridge of your nose, then the corner of your eye where another tear threatens to fall.
"i know," he whispers between kisses. "you don’t have to say anything else, baby. i feel how much you care," he coos, pulling back to stare into your glossy eyes. "but don't you go worrying your pretty little head about me. let's focus on you getting better, yeah?" he reassures you, raising his brows while waiting for your response.
you manage a tiny, congested "okay," your voice raspy and wrecked from the mucus that had settled in your throat. your eyes stay locked on his, glassy and tired, but full of so much affection it makes your chest feel tight. leon nods, a lopsided smile creeping onto his features as he leans in once more, pressing a soft kiss between your brows before resting his forehead against yours again. the love you feel for him is so powerful, so profound, almost reverent as you sigh and close your eyes to relish in the moment. you swear you could stay like this with him forever, even if you were all snotty and congested.
but, for the first time since you got sick, the ache in your body feels just a little more bearable, and your heart feels a little less heavy with him here with you.
nier’s note 🗒️: a request from my lovely moot @reneiseepy!! i lowkey started tearing up writing this it's so fucking sweet hello:( i love leon sm you guys dont even im not normal about him:') love u and enjoy mwa xoxo
cw: mentions of reader having a bush, leon has a limp dick (real bitches love his old ass for it)
“look! they hit a home run!” she exclaimed as she pointed at the television. leon quickly looked over, eyes fixated on the screen, burrito left unattended in his hand.
she quickly leaned down and took a massive bite and sat back up. he looked back when she giggled around the mouthful of food, brows furrowing in confusion. he looked at her burrito. not difference. he looked at his own. half of it was gone.
“hey,” he pouted, “that’s messed up, babe.”
he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face as she covered her mouth to chew the large bite, eyes crinkled in amusement.
“y’know what i love about you getting old?” she asked, rolling over to look at him.
“what, sweetheart?” he sighed.
“your limp dick,” she giggled, “dunno why. i just love it.”
the look on his face was priceless—a mixture of utter horror and a freakish amount of arousal.
“you can’t be serious,” he muttered.
“i’m as serious as your back pain, old man.”
he blinked slowly at her and sighed, shifting his gaze back to the television.
she walked into the bathroom one saturday morning, immediately freezing. she saw leon, stood in front of the mirror, shaving cream slathered on his chest and stomach.
“leon scott kennedy,” she muttered, looking at him with utter betrayal in her eyes. he looked back at her, razor in hand.
“what?” he asked innocently.
“don’t you dare,” she stated.
“i need to shave, honey,” he replied softly.
“you shave that, i’ll shave my bush!”
“you wouldn’t do that,” he commented, “you’re emotionally attached to it at this point, sweetheart.”
damnit.
fucking leon and his fucking observation skills.
“i suppose i can leave some of it,” he mumbled, receiving an excited squeal from her as she rushed back out of the bathroom—hyper with joy.
sorry for not being very active, i’ve had no motivation
sorry i can't get behind baby fever or any of that stuff so the leon tag recently has been excruciating for me 😭😭 pls... somethign else apart from dad leon we as humans need variety pls...
Masterlist
AO3
Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader
Summary: Leon falls victim to the cat distribution system.
As an emergency vet, you have strict rules about giving out your personal number to clients. But when a soaking wet, broad-shouldered man walks into your clinic holding a shivering neonate kitten like it's a live grenade, you make an exception. Strictly for cat emergencies, of course.
(It does not stay strictly for cat emergencies. Not when he keeps using "suspicious sneezes" as an excuse to see you)
Content: Sick animals, grief and loss, burnout, alternating POV, no Y/N, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, gentle romance, Leon becomes a cat dad, flirting, awkward Leon, domesticity, reader is a veterinarian, realistic vet med content
DM or Comment to join the taglist
The rain is a relentless, gray sheet that turns the Washington D.C. outskirts into a blurred watercolor of brake lights and misery.
Inside his Porsche Cayenne, Leon S. Kennedy feels the familiar, hollow hum of a post-mission comedown. His suit is wrinkled, his tie is loosened to the point of uselessness, and the smell of stale coffee and government-issued paperwork seems to have seeped into his very pores.
The debriefing had been a disaster. Four hours of bureaucrats in sterile rooms asking him to quantify the "unquantifiable horrors" he’d seen in a damp basement in Eastern Europe.
They want data; Leon just wants a drink and a decade of sleep.
"Note to self," he mutters, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carries over the rhythmic thwack-thwack of the windshield wipers. "Next time Hunnigan calls with an 'easy' reconnaissance job, tell her I’ve retired to open a bakery. At least bread doesn't try to grow extra heads."
He’s doing sixty on the slick highway, his grip on the leather-wrapped steering wheel light but practiced. His mind is already drifting toward the bottle of aged bourbon sitting on his kitchen counter—his only roommate in an apartment that’s too quiet and too clean.
It’s a dangerous headspace to be in. In his line of work, the moment you start looking forward to the end of the night is the moment something bites you.
Suddenly, the world narrows.
A flash of neon orange darts into the cone of his high beams. It’s small—too small for a deer, too erratic for a trash bag.
"Son of a—!"
Leon reacts before he thinks. It’s a muscle memory honed by years of dodging charging Ganados and careening through Raccoon City in a stolen cruiser.
He slams the brake pedal, the ABS system pulsing violently beneath his boot. The car skids, its tires screaming in a high-pitched protest against the wet asphalt. The back end fish-tails, a graceful but terrifying slide that Leon corrects with a sharp, disciplined jerk of the wheel.
The car lurches to a halt, the engine idling with a low, mechanical pant. Leon’s heart is hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm he usually reserves for when a Tyrant is breaking through a drywall.
"Great. Just great," he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "If I’ve totaled the suspension for a squirrel, I’m never living this down."
He throws the car into park and steps out. The rain hits him instantly, soaking through his dress shirt and plastering his blonde hair to his forehead. He rounds the front of the car, expecting to find a mess on the road. Instead, he sees a tiny, shivering lump huddled against the front passenger tire.
It’s an orange kitten. It couldn't be more than five weeks old, its fur spiked into pathetic, sodden needles. It looks less like a predator and more like a very angry, very wet dandelion.
Leon stares at it. The kitten stares back with wide, watery eyes, letting out a pathetic, high-pitched mew that sounds like a rusty hinge.
"You’ve got a real sense of timing, kid," Leon says, crouching down. The water is already pooling in his expensive shoes. "Of all the lanes in all the world, you had to walk into mine."
He reaches out, and the tiny creature tries to hiss. It’s a valiant effort, really—a miniature display of bravado that makes Leon’s chest ache with an unexpected, sharp tug of empathy.
He knows what it’s like to be small, cornered, and surrounded by things much larger and meaner than you.
"Easy. I'm not a zombie. Well, not on the weekends, anyway," he murmurs.
He sheds his suit jacket—the one that cost him more than an average paycheck—and scoops the kitten up. The creature is so light it’s terrifying; he can feel every individual rib beneath the soaked fur. It’s vibrating with a bone-deep chill. Without a second thought, he swaddles the kitten in the heavy fabric of his jacket, shielding it from the downpour.
Back inside the Porsche, the heat is blasting, but the kitten is still shaking. Leon sets the bundle on the leather passenger seat, watching as a tiny, pink nose pokes out from the lapel of his jacket.
"Come on, little guy," Leon mutters, his voice softening in a way he hasn't heard in years. "Don't clock out on me yet. I didn't almost wreck my favorite car just for you to quit now."
He taps the GPS on his dashboard with a frantic, wet finger. 24-hour emergency vet.
"Alright, hold on," he says, shifting the car back into gear. He glances at the kitten, who has now curled into a ball inside the jacket, looking exceptionally small against the vastness of the interior.
"I hope you like German engineering, because we’re about to break some speed records."
As he pulls back onto the highway, the bourbon is forgotten. His focus is entirely on the tiny, rhythmic rise and fall of the orange fur beside him. For the first time in a long time, the mission isn't about saving the world or stopping a virus.
It's just about making sure one small thing makes it to tomorrow.
──────•✦•──────
The clock on the wall of the treatment area mocks you. It’s 3:00 AM, the literal witching hour of veterinary medicine, where the cases are either bizarre, tragic, or a headache-inducing combination of both.
You take a sip of coffee that has reached a temperature and consistency best described as "over-brewed sludge," feeling it burn a slow path down your throat. It’s the only thing keeping your eyes open.
"The tulips really did a number on him," you mutter to Sarah, your lead tech, as you both stare down at a sedated domestic shorthair in cage four. "Bloodwork looks like a disaster zone. His liver’s basically thrown in the towel and headed for early retirement."
Sarah sighs, rubbing her eyes behind her glasses. "Are we starting him on the lactulose titration now?"
"Yeah," you say, your fingers dancing across the sticky keyboard of the workstation with a weary, mechanical rhythm. "And hang the fluids. I’ve already typed in the orders. Honestly? I could use a Propofol coma myself right about now. Just ten minutes of medically induced silence. Is that too much to ask of the universe?"
The chime of the front bell rings—a sharp, cheerful ding that feels like a physical blow to your sleep-deprived brain.
"The universe says yes," you grumble, pushing off the counter.
You catch a glimpse of the security monitor. Standing in the lobby is a man who looks like he just crawled out of a shipwreck. He’s soaking wet, broad-shouldered, and wearing a look of such raw, high-octane panic that your professional instincts override your exhaustion.
"Well," you mutter, adjusting your stethoscope around your neck. "This is going to be interesting."
You head out to the lobby, the smell of wet pavement and expensive leather hitting you before you even reach him. He’s striking—harsh jawline, blonde hair plastered to his forehead in messy clumps, and eyes a startling, piercing shade of blue that seem to be vibrating with adrenaline. He’s cradling a high-end suit jacket like it’s made of glass.
"Exam room one," you say, your voice blunt but not unkind. You don't wait for him to move; you lead the way, the squelch of his boots following behind you.
Once the door clicks shut, he gingerly places the jacket on the stainless steel table. "I found him on the highway," the man rasps. His voice is deep, underscored by a slight tremor he’s trying very hard to hide. "He almost... I almost hit him. I think he’s dying."
"Let’s see the damage," you murmur. You carefully peel back the wet fabric, expecting a gore-fest. Instead, you find a tiny, orange scrap of fur that lets out a pathetic, high-pitched squeak.
Your hands, practiced and steady, move over the tiny body. You grab a warm, chlorhexidine-soaked gauze to wipe away the road grime and grease. You check the gums—pale, but pinking up. You listen to the heart—fast, but steady. No broken bones. No internal bleeding. Just a very cold, very hungry little life.
"Good news, sir," you say, looking up at him. "He’s not dying. He’s just a dramatic, malnourished neonate."
"Leon," he corrects instantly, his voice slightly breathless. "Just... Leon."
You blink, then tap your ID badge with a tired, playful smirk. "Okay, Leon. We can do first names. It saves time in an emergency." You go back to drying the kitten with a soft towel. "He’s probably five weeks old. He’s thin, he’s got a bit of a chill, but he’s remarkably intact for someone who took on a car and won."
Leon sags against the counter, his hands shaking as he runs them through his wet hair. The relief on his face is so profound it makes your chest twinge with a rare spark of empathy. Usually, people are just annoyed about the bill. He looks like he just saw a ghost be resurrected.
"So, what happens now?" he asks. "You... you have a shelter? Or a rescue?"
You stop scrubbing and give him a long, grim look. "It’s kitten season, Leon. Every rescue within a three-state radius is currently overflowing. They won't take a bottle-baby right now. If I send him to the city shelter, his chances are... well, they aren't great."
The silence that follows is heavy, thick with the sound of the rain lashing against the exam room window. You watch the conflict play out across his face—a man clearly burdened by a world of "heavy" things, staring at a three-ounce kitten. He rubs his temples, looking at the orange scrap that is currently trying to burrow into his damp shirt.
"I don't know the first thing about cats," he admits, a dry, self-deprecating humor touching his lips. "I'm more of a... tactical entry kind of guy. Not a 'nanny' guy."
"You managed to not squash him with a car," you shrug, reaching into the cabinet to pull out a starter kit. "That’s a passing grade in my book."
He sighs, a long, defeated sound that ends in a nod. "Fine. I’ll take him. What do I do?"
For the next ten minutes, you give him the 'Neonatal 101' crash course. You pack a box with formula, tiny bottles, and a snuggle-safe heating pad. You show him how to hold the kitten—belly down, never on his back—and how to test the temperature of the milk.
"And here’s the best part," you say, a mischievous glint in your tired eyes. You pick up a cotton ball and dip it in warm water. "Since he’s this small, his mom would usually lick him to make him go. Since you are now the mom, you have to stimulate him to go to the bathroom after every meal."
You hand him the cotton ball. Leon stares at it as if you’ve handed him a live grenade with the pin pulled.
"I have to... what?"
"Stimulate," you repeat, suppressing a grin. "Gently. It’s glamorous, I know. Welcome to parenthood, Leon. Try not to get any on the suit."
The moment of levity is shattered when Sarah’s head pops through the door, her expression grim. "Doc, we’ve got a hit-by-car ten minutes out. It’s a Golden Retriever, multiple fractures, looks like he’s in shock. We’re prepping the crash cart."
The shift in your energy is instantaneous. The playful vet vanishes, replaced by the clinical commander. You reach for a pen stuck in your pocket and use it to shove your messy hair up into a makeshift bun, tightening the knot with a sharp tug.
"Copy that. Get the O2 ready and start a warm saline bag," you say, already moving toward the door. You look back at Leon, who is standing there holding a box of formula and a terrified-looking orange kitten.
"Leon, he's stable. Take the kit, go pay the tech at the front desk, and get that cat into a warm bed," you say, your voice now a sharp, professional staccato as the adrenaline begins to flood your system. "I’ve got a real crisis coming through those doors. Good luck. Don't be a stranger if he stops eating."
You don't wait for a goodbye. You're already sprinting toward the treatment area, the "Propofol coma" forgotten.
──────•✦•──────
The apartment is a monument to a man who expects to leave it at a moment’s notice and never return.
It’s located in a quiet corner of D.C., all cold granite countertops, brushed steel, and a sofa so ergonomically perfect and devoid of character it might as well have come with the lease. There are no photos on the walls. No stray mail on the entry table. The air usually smells of nothing but filtered ventilation and the faint, metallic tang of the gun oil he uses to clean his gun.
Now, it smells like kitten formula and desperation.
Leon sits on the edge of his bed, the glow of his phone illuminating the deep grooves of exhaustion etched into his face. He sets an alarm for 02:00. Then 04:00. Then 06:00.
"Great," he mutters, his thumb hovering over the save button. "I've gone from tactical extractions to a scheduled piss-watch for a creature that weighs less than a standard-issue magazine. My career trajectory is really peaking."
He looks down at the shoebox he’s lined with one of his softest, most expensive hoodies. Inside, the orange kitten—whom he has tentatively dubbed 'Cheeto' in a moment of sleep-deprived weakness—is a vibrating ball of fluff.
The 02:00 alarm blares with the subtle grace of a flashbang. Leon is upright in half a second, his hand flying toward the nightstand before his brain registers that he’s not in a trench in Edonia. He’s in a climate-controlled bedroom, and the only 'hostile' is a hungry five-week-old feline.
He stumbles into the kitchen, his movements stiff. The process of heating the formula is an exercise in agonizing precision. He uses a meat thermometer to ensure the liquid is exactly 98.5 degrees Fahrenheit. If it’s 98.4, he’s convinced the kitten will get hypothermia; if it’s 98.8, he fears he’s essentially serving lava.
"Okay, kid. Chow time. Don't make it weird," Leon whispers as he gathers the kitten into his lap.
His hands—hands that have steadied a sniper rifle in high-wind conditions and punched through the reinforced glass of Umbrella laboratories—are shaking slightly. He holds the tiny plastic bottle like it’s a detonator with a frayed wire.
When the kitten finally latches, a frantic, rhythmic tug-tug-tug vibrating through the silicone nipple, Leon finds himself holding his breath.
"Easy there, tiger. It’s a buffet, not a race," he says, a small, lopsided smirk tugging at his mouth. "You eat like a zombie at an all-you-can-eat brain buffet."
The "glamorous" part comes next. Leon stares at the box of cotton balls you had handed him with that knowing, mischievous glint in your eyes. He can still see your face—the way your hair was a mess, the way you didn't even flinch when he walked in looking like a drowned rat.
You had looked at him like he was just a guy, not a government asset, not a survivor. Just a guy with a cat.
"Stimulate," he repeats your words, his voice a flat, dry monotone. "She said it would be fun. She lied. I’m definitely filing a complaint with the veterinary board for emotional distress."
He performs the task with a grimace of intense concentration, murmuring apologies to the kitten the entire time.
By day three, the "sterile" nature of the apartment has surrendered. There are half-washed bottles in the sink. A trail of discarded paper towels leads from the sofa to the trash. A stray sock, mangled by tiny needle-teeth, sits in the middle of the hallway.
Leon should be annoyed. He should be furious that his sanctuary has been breached by an orange chaos-agent. But as he sits on the sofa at 4:30 AM, watching the sun begin to bleed over the D.C. skyline, he realizes his internal monologue has gone quiet. The anger—that low-simmering hum of PTSD that usually keeps him company in the dark—has been drowned out by a tiny, motorized purr.
The kitten crawls up his chest, stumbling over the buttons of his shirt, and tucks its head directly under Leon’s chin. The fur is soft, smelling faintly of the soap you’d used to clean him.
Leon freezes, his arms hovering awkwardly for a moment before he slowly, tentatively, rests a hand over the kitten’s back. He feels the tiny heart beating against his own.
For the first time since the world ended in a rain of missiles over Raccoon City in 1998, the crushing weight in his chest feels... lighter.
"I think the vet might be onto something, Cheeto," Leon breathes into the quiet room, his eyes heavy with a sleep that feels, for once, like it might be dreamless. "But don't tell her I said that. She already thinks I’m a pushover."
He closes his eyes, the minimalist apartment finally feeling like something it has never been before: a home.
──────•✦•──────
The fluorescent lights of the clinic are humming at a frequency that is starting to feel like a drill against your temple.
You’re leaning your lower back against the cabinetry of the pharmacy station, clutching a lukewarm cup of coffee like it’s a holy relic.
"I mean it, Sarah," you mutter, watching your tech draw up meds with terrifying efficiency. "One more pyometra. Just one more emergency spay where the uterus looks like it might burst, and I’m done. I’ll donate my scrubs to a thrift store and start a new life. Maybe I’ll go into accounting. Numbers don't bleed on your shoes or try to bite your face off.'"
"You’d be bored in a week," Sarah chirps, not even looking up. "Besides, you love the drama. Oh, speaking of drama—look who’s back."
The front bell dings. You peer around the corner. It’s Leon.
He looks like he’s been through some shit. The rugged, leading-man handsomeness is still there, but it’s buried under a layer of profound sleep deprivation. He’s got dark, bruised circles under his eyes that rival your own, and his blonde hair is a mess of spikes. But then you look at his hands.
He’s holding that plastic carrier with a level of tenderness that is honestly offensive. It’s like he’s carrying a box of nitroglycerin.
"Room two," you tell Sarah, snapping into a professional mask that is mostly held together by caffeine and sheer stubbornness.
You walk into the exam room and find him standing by the table, looking at the carrier like it’s a bomb he forgot how to disarm.
"Back for more punishment, Leon?" you ask, your voice dropping into that comfortable, blunt cadence. "You look like you’ve been living in a war zone. Which, granted, is a normal Tuesday for a kitten owner."
"He doesn't stop," Leon rasps, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that makes your nerve endings tingle. "I followed the schedule. I monitored the intake. But he just keeps screaming. Is he broken?"
"It’s called meowing, Leon. It’s how they demand your soul." You reach into the carrier and scoop out the orange scrap. He’s already gained weight; his belly is a round, healthy little pear, and his eyes are bright. "Wow. Look at you. You’ve actually kept him alive. I’m impressed. Most guys usually give up by the third bottle feeding."
"I don't like failing assignments," Leon mutters, though there’s a flicker of a lopsided smile on his face as he watches you examine the tiny creature.
You perform the check-up, checking the heart rate and the lungs, all while Leon stands way too close. He smells like woodsmoke and laundry detergent, a combination that is currently frying your brain.
You praise him for the kitten’s hydration levels, and you see his shoulders drop about two inches in relief.
As you move to pack the kitten back into the carrier, Leon starts firing off a string of hyper-specific, borderline neurotic questions.
"The water for the formula—I’ve been using a thermometer to keep it at exactly 98 degrees. Is 98.5 too high? Does it cause thermal shock? And the cotton balls—are the quilted ones too abrasive for his skin?"
You stare at him. This man is currently worried about the abrasive quality of a CVS-brand cotton ball. It’s the most endearing thing you’ve ever seen, and your filter—already weakened by a twelve-hour shift—completely disintegrates.
He’s hot, your brain shrugs. He’s a good dad. And you haven't been on a date in ages. Just do it.
"Leon," you interrupt, putting a hand on his arm to stop the frantic flow of questions. The muscle beneath his sleeve is hard as a rock, and the heat of him makes your palms itch. "Stop. You’re doing great. The cat is thriving. You, however, look like you're about to have a stroke."
He pauses, looking a little sheepish. "I just... I don't want to mess it up."
"You won't." You reach over to the counter, grab a neon-pink sticky note and a pen, and scribble your personal cell number on it. You press the note into his large, calloused palm, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
"Look," you say, flashing him a playful, slightly crooked smirk. "If you have any more midnight panics about formula ratios or quilted vs. non-quilted cotton, just text me. Strictly for cat questions, of course. My expertise is limited to things with four legs, but I can talk you off a ledge."
Leon stares at the pink paper in his hand like it’s a piece of top-secret intel. He looks up at you, his blue eyes searching yours, and for a second, the sarcastic vet and the stoic man are just two people standing in a cramped room with a tiny cat.
"Strictly for cat questions," he repeats, his voice low and a little amused.
"Obviously," you say, walking him toward the door. "I'm a professional, Leon. Now get out of here and go take a nap before you face-plant in the lobby."
As he walks away, you lean against the doorframe, watching the swing of his shoulders.
"What was that?" Sarah asks, appearing out of nowhere with a smirk.
"Professional consultation," you mutter, taking a final, cold sip of your coffee.
Oh god, what did I just do? If he texts me a picture of his cat's poop at 2:00 AM, I'm never living this down.
──────•✦•──────
Leon is a man who understands protocol. He understands mission parameters, chain of command, and the strict rules of engagement. So, when you handed him that sticky note with your number on it, his brain filed it under a very specific, very restricted category: Emergency Technical Support.
He spends the better part of forty-eight hours staring at the digits, convinced that a woman like you—someone who handles life-and-death crises with a sarcastic quip and a steady hand—has better things to do than talk to a government-sanctioned blunt instrument like him.
You’re light, and full of life, and you probably have a social circle that doesn't involve handler-reports and ballistic testing. In Leon’s mind, you are firmly out of his league, occupying a world that isn't stained by the things he’s seen.
But then, the kitten—Cheeto—starts doing things. Weird things.
His first text is sent at 11:30 PM. He attaches a grainy photo of the kitten standing in the middle of the hallway, arched like a Halloween decoration, scuttling sideways with a chaotic energy that Leon can only describe as "biological anomaly."
Leon: He’s moving at a forty-five-degree angle and his tail looks like a pipe cleaner. Is this a neurological tremor? Do I need to bring him in for an MRI?
Your reply comes three minutes later, and Leon feels a pathetic jolt of electricity at the buzz in his pocket.
You: Leon, he’s just playing. It’s called crab-walking. He’s trying to look big and scary. Is it working?
Leon looks at the kitten, who has just tripped over its own paws and face-planted into the carpet.
Leon: I’m terrified.
By Thursday, the anxiety reaches a fever pitch. Leon is sitting on his bed, watching the kitten knead a fleece blanket with a rhythmic, intense focus. He doesn't text this time. He calls. He needs a professional voice to talk him off the ledge.
"He's vibrating," Leon says the moment you pick up, his voice a deadpan, military monotone that betrays the fact that his eyes are currently dinner-plate wide. "The whole cat. He’s vibrating and poking the blanket with his claws. It’s some kind of repetitive motor reflex. Is he having a seizure? Should I be checking his airway?"
He hears you let out a long, melodic breath on the other end—a laugh you’re trying to stifle.
"Leon," you say, and the way you say his name makes him grip the phone a little tighter. "He's making biscuits. He's purring. It means he's happy. It means he thinks the blanket is his mom."
Leon looks down at the orange fluff currently 'baking' against his thigh. "Making biscuits. Right. So it’s a culinary instinct, not a medical emergency. I’ll cancel the medevac."
"Please do," you chuckle. "Go to sleep, Leon."
But sleep doesn't come easily. The climax of his "cat-dad" neurosis hits at 1:00 AM on Saturday. Cheeto had been particularly enthusiastic about his bottle, guzzling the formula until his stomach was a hard, round little marble. Afterward, the kitten had simply... collapsed.
He’s sprawled out on his back, limbs limp, unresponsive to Leon’s frantic prodding.
Leon’s heart is in his throat. He hits the FaceTime button before he can talk himself out of it.
The screen flickers to life, and suddenly, you are there. You’re in your pajamas—something soft and mismatched—and your hair is a magnificent, messy bird’s nest that tells him he definitely just woke you up. You look soft, blurry around the edges, and devastatingly beautiful in the low light of your bedroom.
"Leon?" you mumble, squinting at the screen. "Is everything okay?"
"He’s unresponsive," Leon says, his voice dropping into a low, intimate rasp of genuine distress. He turns the camera toward the kitten. "He’s just... lying there. I tried poking his paw and he didn't even hiss. I think I broke him."
You lean in closer to the camera, your eyes scanning the image. Then, you smile. It’s a gentle, warm expression that makes Leon’s apartment feel ten degrees warmer.
"Just a milk coma, Leon," you explain softly. "Look at that belly. He’s just full. He’s passed out in a food haze. He’ll be up and terrorizing your curtains in two hours."
Leon sags back against his headboard, the adrenaline draining out of him and leaving a hollow, aching exhaustion in its place. He covers his face with one hand, letting out a jagged sigh.
"I'm a disaster at this," he admits, his voice sounding raw even to his own ears. "I've faced things that—things that shouldn't exist—and I'm losing my mind over a cat that's just... full."
"It's because you care," you say. There’s no mockery in your tone, no punchline. Just a simple statement of fact that cuts right through his armor. "Most people would have just ignored him on that road, Leon. You didn't. You’re a good man. Even if you are a neurotic cat-dad."
Leon lets the words sink in. A good man. He hasn't felt like one in a long time. Usually, he’s just a weapon that the government points at problems.
"A 'cat-dad,'" Leon repeats, a dry, self-deprecating smirk appearing as he looks back at the screen. "Is there a badge for that? Or do I just get a lifetime supply of lint rollers and a permanent coating of orange fur on all my tactical gear?"
You laugh—a real, bright sound that echoes through his quiet bedroom. Leon finds himself staring at the screen, watching the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, the way a stray lock of hair falls over your forehead.
He realizes, with a sudden, jarring clarity, that he’s stopped looking at the kitten. He’s just looking at you.
The silence stretches, becoming something heavy and electric. Leon realizes he’s spent the last forty-eight hours coming up with increasingly flimsy, ridiculous reasons to see your name light up his phone.
He isn't worried about the cat anymore. He’s worried about how much he doesn't want to hang up.
"You look tired," he says softly, his thumb tracing the edge of the phone. "I should let you get back to sleep. Sorry for the... milk coma false alarm."
"It’s okay, Leon," you say, your voice dropping to a sleepy, tender murmur. "Call me anytime. Even if it’s just for biscuits."
As the screen goes black, Leon stares at his own reflection in the glass.
He’s a mess. He’s a DSO agent who just got called a "good man" by a woman who makes him feel like he’s eighteen again, before the world turned into a horror movie.
He looks at the sleeping kitten and then at the phone.
"You've failed miserably, Kennedy," he whispers to the empty room. "You’re definitely flirting now."
──────•✦•──────
The daily text updates from Leon have become the highlight of your grueling, twelve-hour rotations—a digital breadcrumb trail of "cat-dad" neurosis that you’ve come to rely on more than caffeine. What started as a clinical safety net has morphed into a steady stream of orange-furred chaos. You find yourself smiling at your phone in the middle of the surgery prep, looking at a blurry photo of a kitten stuck in a tissue box.
But lately, the digital interaction isn't enough for him.
"He’s back," Sarah, your tech, sings out from the pharmacy area. She leans against the doorframe with a devious, toothy grin. "The hot brooding guy with the orange accessory is in the lobby. Third time this week. What’s the 'emergency' today? A crooked whisker? A suspicious meow?"
"Shut up, Sarah," you mutter, though you can feel the heat crawling up your neck. You instinctively reach up to smooth a stray hair back into your ponytail.
"Oh, please. You’re wearing the 'fancy' scrubs and you actually used mascara today. I see you," she teases, checking the clipboard. "He’s here for... a bag of gastrointestinal kibble. The kind we sell for a 20% markup that he could literally Prime-deliver to his door in four hours."
You roll your eyes, grabbing a clean lab coat. "Maybe he just likes supporting small businesses."
"Maybe he likes supporting your specific business," she retorts, following you toward the lobby. "The girls in the back have a pool going. Twenty bucks says he asks for your number by Friday. Fifty says he’s already got it and he’s just a massive coward."
"I don't think 'coward' is in his vocabulary," you whisper, though your heart is doing a rhythmic thud against your ribs that feels suspiciously like a drumroll.
You push through the double doors and there he is. Leon stands near the display of prescription diets, looking entirely too large and too handsome for a sterile veterinary lobby. He’s wearing a charcoal sweater that hugs his shoulders in a way that should be illegal, his blonde hair perfectly tousled despite the humidity outside.
"Leon," you say, your voice landing in that sweet spot between professional and playful. "Don't tell me. He’s developed a sudden, life-threatening allergy to his own tail?"
Leon turns, and the way his blue eyes light up when they land on you makes your stomach do a slow, dizzying somersault. He clears his throat, shifting his weight. He looks incredibly cool until he opens his mouth, and then that slight, charming awkwardness leaks out.
"He sneezed," Leon says, his voice a serious, low rumble. "Three times in a row. It was... rhythmic. I thought it might be the early stages of a respiratory collapse. Or a dust mite allergy."
You walk over, taking the carrier from him. Your fingers brush against his—just for a second—and you feel the static electricity zip up your arm. You peek inside at the kitten, who is currently busy trying to eat a loose thread on his bedding.
"He looks like he’s on death’s door, truly," you say, your voice dripping with dry sarcasm. "The 'rhythmic sneezing' was likely just him being a cat, Leon. But since you’re here, I suppose I can perform a very expensive, very rigorous five-second nose check."
"I also needed food," he adds quickly, gesturing to the shelf. "The bag I have is... getting low. Maybe."
"You have half a bag left at home, don't you?" you ask, tilting your head, a smirk playing on your lips.
Leon stays silent for a beat too long, his gaze dropping to your name tag before meeting your eyes again. "I like the atmosphere here," he says, a bit of that one-liner bravado returning. "Very... clinical. Good lighting."
"Right. Everyone comes to the vet for the 'ambiance' of barking dogs and the smell of anal glands," you retort. You lead him to the counter, ringing up the overpriced kibble. You’re acutely aware of the techs watching from the window, probably exchanging silent high-fives.
You feel a pang of doubt as you hand him the receipt. A guy like this—rugged, mysterious, probably used to high-octane thrill-seekers—couldn't possibly be interested in you.
You’re a woman who spends her days getting peed on by Chihuahuas and her nights smelling like antiseptic and wet fur. You’re exhausted, your under-eye circles are permanent residents, and your social life is a graveyard.
But then Leon reaches out, his hand hovering over yours for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary as he takes the bag.
"Thanks," he says softly. The way he says it isn't like a client. It’s a low, intimate vibration that makes the bustling clinic fade into the background. "I’ll... let you know if the sneezing returns. Or if he looks at me funny."
"I'm sure you will," you say, your bluntness softened by a gentle, tired smile. "Go home, Leon. Your cat misses you."
As he walks out, his stride confident and his shoulders broad, you lean against the counter and let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"Twenty bucks!" Sarah yells from the back. "He’s totally into you, Doc! He’s just waiting for the cat to give him the green light!"
You just shake your head, looking down at the counter where he stood. You find yourself hoping the kitten sneezes again tomorrow. Just once. Just to be safe.
──────•✦•──────
The air in the treatment area is thick with the scent of antiseptic, metallic blood, and the heavy, lingering stillness of the recently departed. You’re standing over the stainless steel prep table, your hands steady despite the tremor of exhaustion in your knees as you pull the heavy plastic of a cadaver bag over a sweet, senior Greyhound who just couldn't fight any longer.
"If the shift keeps up like this, we're going to run out of freezer space," your tech, Marcus, sighs, his voice flat with the kind of gallows humor that keeps hospitals running at 2:00 AM.
"Don’t," you whisper, zipping the bag with a sharp, final schlick. "I hate this part the most. Every time. Packing up someone’s best friend in a glorified trash bag. It’s a hell of a way to say goodbye."
You lean your forehead against the wall for just a second, letting the grief wash over you and then drain away. You have to stay empty. If you let the "sad" stay in your lungs, you’ll drown.
Then, the front bell doesn't just chime—it screams. Someone is leaning on it.
You’re moving before you even think, your clogs squeaking on the linoleum. You burst into the lobby and stop dead.
It’s Leon. But the charming, awkward "cat-dad" who buys too much kibble is gone. In his place is a man who looks like he’s standing in the middle of a war zone. His face is pale, his eyes are blown wide with a jagged, frantic terror, and his chest is heaving.
He isn't holding a carrier. He’s holding the orange kitten against his chest, his large hands trembling so violently you can see the tremors from the doorway.
"Please," Leon chokes out. The sound is raw, a jagged piece of glass in his throat. He thrusts the limp, tiny body toward you. "I can't—don't let him die. Please. Not him too."
The kitten is a wet rag. His breathing is a shallow, agonizing rasp—the "guppy breathing" that makes every vet’s blood run cold.
You swear under your breath and snap into action the internal "vet-mode" slamming into place. You snatch the kitten and sprint back through the swinging doors. "Marcus, get the O2 cage prepped! I need a 24-gauge IV and a dose of dex. Now, move!"
For the next twenty minutes, you are a machine. You slide the needle into a vein thinner than a piece of thread. You listen to the crackle in the tiny lungs—pneumonia. Aspiration, likely. The kitten is tucked into the oxygen-rich plexiglass box, a tiny, fragile heartbeat under a mountain of IV lines and telemetry wires.
You finally step back, wiping a smear of blood off your thumb. You look toward the door. Leon is standing in the entryway of the treatment area, looking utterly lost. He’s hovering in the "no-man's land" between the lobby and the sterile zone, his hands still curled as if he’s holding a ghost.
"He’s in the cage, Leon. Steroids, antibiotics, and oxygen," you say, your voice softening as the adrenaline begins to ebb. "It’s touch-and-go. The next six hours are the decider. You should go home. Get some sleep. I’ll call you the second anything changes."
Leon doesn't move. He just looks at the floor and then slides down the wall, his long legs stretching out across the cold linoleum directly in front of the kennel bank.
"I'm staying," he says. It’s not a request. It’s a directive.
"Leon, I have four other critical patients in here trying to find the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s not exactly a five-star hotel," you say, trying to inject a bit of your usual dry bite into the air to break the tension.
"I don't care," he mutters, leaning his head back against the cages.
You leave him there because you have to. You spend the next three hours wrestling with a diabetic ketoacidosis cat and a bloated Doberman. Every time you pass the kennel ward, you see him sitting on the floor like a dejected kid, watching the rhythmic puffing of an orange kitten in a plastic box.
Around 5:00 AM, you find a lull. You walk over and nudge his boot with your clog.
"Leon. Seriously. The floor is disgusting, and you look like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin. Go home."
He looks up at you, and the sheer weight of the shadows under his eyes hits you. "Sometimes," he says, his voice a low, hollow echo, "I feel like I can't save anyone. Not my teammates. Not the people I’m sent to protect. And now... not even a cat."
You feel the breath hitch in your throat. You slide down the wall next to him, your shoulder brushing his. The warmth of him is startling against the sterile chill of the room.
"You and me both, Leon," you sigh, staring at the rows of monitors. "The 'God complex' they give us in vet school is a lie. Most days, we’re just finger-plugging a leaking dam."
Leon looks at you, his gaze intense. "Sorry. I shouldn't... this has been a hell of a shift for you, hasn't it?"
"They all are," you say, leaning your head back. "Some just have more body bags than others."
──────•✦•──────
Your shift officially ends at 7:00 AM. Your relief vet walks in, and you should leave. You should go home, take a scalding shower, and sleep for a week. But you don't. You go to the break room, grab two lukewarm coffees, and walk back to the floor.
You sit down next to Leon again.
"You're still here," he notes, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"I’m a glutton for punishment," you mutter, handing him the cup.
For the next hour, the barriers crumble.
You find yourself telling him about the "soul-crushing" parts—the people who bring in their pets to be euthanized because they’re moving, the neglect cases that make you want to break things. But then you tell him about the good parts—the dog that woke up after three days of a coma, the kitten that beat the odds.
Leon listens with a terrifyingly focused intensity. He doesn't interrupt. He just watches you speak, his blue eyes mesmerized by the way you navigate the darkness of your profession without letting it turn you cold.
"You’re a lot stronger than you look," he says softly.
"I'm not strong, Leon. I'm just stubborn," you retort, nudging him with your shoulder. "But thanks. You’re not a bad listener."
──────•✦•──────
Leon is no stranger to stakeouts.
He’s spent weeks in cramped vans eating lukewarm rations, and he’s spent months in damp trenches waiting for a target to blink. But this? Sitting on a stool that’s three inches too short for his frame, staring into a plexiglass box at a creature that weighs less than his handgun? This is the most grueling mission of his career.
Over the next week, the clinic becomes Leon’s base of operations. He shows up at the start of your night shift and doesn't leave until the sun is high enough to make his eyes ache. He’s become a fixture in the kennel ward—the tall, brooding man in the leather jacket who looks like he could snap a neck but spends four hours straight whispering to a kitten with a congested nose.
You become the highlight of his vigil.
Whenever the clinic settles into that eerie, midnight lull, you find him. You don't just check the charts; you check on him. You start bringing him half of your sandwich—usually something with way too much sprout-to-protein ratio for his liking, but he eats it like it’s a five-star meal because you made it. You sit on the floor next to his stool, your shoulder occasionally brushing his knee, and the contact sends a low-voltage jolt through his system that he’s doing a poor job of ignoring.
"You look like you're trying to intimidate the pneumonia into leaving," you murmur one Tuesday at 3:00 AM, sliding a container of pasta toward him. "I hate to tell you, but bacteria doesn't care about your 'scary agent' eyes."
Leon takes the plastic fork, his thumb grazing yours in the exchange. He lingers for a second too long, his gaze dropping to your lips before he catches himself and looks back at the kitten.
"I’m just providing overwatch," Leon grunts, though his tone is fond.
The conversation drifts, as it always does, into the quiet, heavy things. You talk about the "little miracles"—the paralyzed dog that wagged its tail for the first time today, the elderly cat that finally started eating. You speak with a weary, glowing passion that Leon finds intoxicating.
He realizes he’s spent years surrounded by people who are hollowed out by their work, but you? You’re tired, sure, but your heart is still terrifyingly intact.
The weight of his own secrets starts to feel like a physical burden. He’s used to being a ghost, a name on a redacted file. But sitting here in the dim light of the clinic, with you looking at him like he’s someone worth knowing, the lie feels like a wall he’s tired of leaning against.
"I don't just do 'security,'" he says suddenly. The air in the room shifts. He stares at the oxygen monitor, his voice dropping into that professional, gravelly register. "I work for the DSO Division of Security Operations. Directly under the President."
He waits for the shift in your expression. He’s seen it before—the way people’s eyes go cold when they realize he’s a professional dealer of death, or the way they start prying for gruesome details like he’s a character in a movie. He explains the bio-terrorism, the BOWs, the constant cycle of violence that has defined his life since the night he drove into Raccoon City as a rookie cop.
He braces for the disgust. For you to realize that his hands, the ones that have been helping you bottle-feed a kitten, are stained with things you couldn't imagine.
Instead, you just take a slow bite of your sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. You look at him with a gentle, tired smile that makes his breath hitch.
"So, you fight bio-weapons," you muse, leaning your head back against the cold kennel. "I guess that means we have the same primary skillset."
Leon blinks, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Which is?"
"We both try really hard not to get bitten on the clock."
Leon stares at you. He waits for the punchline, for the horror, but all he sees is your playful, sparking gaze. A laugh bubbles up in his chest—not the dry, sarcastic bark he uses to deflect trauma, but a genuine, soft sound that echoes off the metal cages. It’s a sound he hasn't heard from himself in years.
"That’s... one way to put it," he says, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. The heavy weight he carries every day feels, for a moment, like it’s been halved.
"I'm serious," you say, laughing softly as you nudge his arm. "I've seen the teeth on a grumpy Malamute, Leon. I think I could handle a zombie."
"Don't test that theory," he says, but he’s smiling now—a real, lopsided Kennedy smirk.
He looks at you, and the tension that’s been simmering for weeks suddenly boils over. The ward is quiet, the only sound the hum of the oxygen machine and the soft rain against the window. You’re close—close enough that he can see the gold flecks in your eyes and the way your scrub top dips at your collarbone.
Leon reaches out, his hand hovering near your face before he loses his nerve and settles for tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger on the skin there, warm and soft, and he sees your breath hitch.
"You're a strange woman," he whispers, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy longing.
"And you're a very dramatic cat-dad, Leon," you whisper back, not pulling away.
For a second, the mission, the BOWs, and the world outside don't exist. There’s just the smell of antiseptic, the hum of a kitten’s recovery, and the terrifying realization that he’s falling for you faster than he ever fell into a trap.
──────•✦•──────
The dawn light is a sickly, pale yellow as it bleeds through the clinic’s high windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing over the surgical bays. You feel like a ghost inhabiting a body made of lead and caffeine. Your neck cricks as you stand up from the floor, your joints popping in a rhythmic protest that sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies.
Leon is still there. He’s slumped on that too-small stool, his head bowed, his hands clasped between his knees. He looks like a man waiting for a verdict from a hanging judge.
"Alright," you murmur, your voice sounding like it was dragged over gravel. "Let’s see if the little guy is ready to join the land of the living."
You walk over to the incubator. The hum of the oxygen concentrator has been the soundtrack to your week, a mechanical heartbeat that you’ve grown to loathe. You unlatch the plexiglass door with a soft click.
Inside, the orange scrap of fur is no longer a limp rag. He’s sitting up, his head wobbly, his copper eyes half-open.
"Hey, tough guy," you whisper. You scoop a tiny dollop of calorie-dense recovery mousse onto your finger and hold it to his nose.
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then, a tiny, sandpaper tongue darts out. Then another. He starts to lap at your skin with a desperate, frantic hunger. A weak, high-pitched mew vibrates through his chest—a sound of life, demanding and stubborn.
"He’s eating," you breathe, and the sheer, ridiculous relief of it makes your vision blur for a second. "He’s actually eating. The little bastard made it."
You turn to Leon, a triumphant, sleep-deprived grin plastered on your face. "He’s actually eating. He’s—"
The words die in your throat.
Leon has stood up, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the kennel ward. He’s staring at the kitten, but his face isn't the stoic mask of a government agent. His jaw is trembling, just a fraction, and his eyes—those piercing, icy blue eyes—are brimming with tears that he’s desperately trying not to let fall.
He looks shattered. Not because of the danger, but because of the hope.
Oh, Leon, you think, your heart doing a slow, painful squeeze. You really were ready to lose everything again, weren't you?
You don't think. Thinking is for people who aren't running on thirty minutes of sleep and pure empathy. You are about to do something wildly unprofessional. You don't care.
You step across the linoleum, closing the distance between you and the man who fights monsters, and you wrap your arms around his waist.
Leon goes rigid instantly.
It’s like hugging a statue carved from granite. He stays perfectly still, his breath hitching, his arms hovering uselessly at his sides. He feels like a man who expects a blow to follow the touch—someone whose only experience with physical contact in the last decade has been a struggle for survival or a professional handshake. It’s jarring, feeling the tension radiating off him, a high-voltage wire ready to snap.
"It’s okay," you mumble against his chest, squeezed tight. "He’s okay. You can breathe now."
Slowly, agonizingly so, the statue crumbles.
You feel a shudder rip through him, a deep shift of his shoulders. Then, his weight collapses into you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching against your skin, and his arms finally come around you.
They are heavy. They are massive. He wraps them around you with a crushing, desperate strength, as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. You can feel his heart thudding against your collarbone—slow, heavy, and raw.
He doesn't say anything, but the way he clings to you tells you everything. He isn't just relieved about the cat. He’s drowning in a decade of loneliness, in the weight of the bodies he couldn't save. He’s so touch-starved it feels like he’s trying to absorb the warmth of your scrub top through his skin.
It’s not just "he’s hot and I’m tired." It’s the feeling of two people who spend their lives in the trenches finally finding a place to put their packs down.
Your hands move up his back, rubbing small, soothing circles into the expensive fabric of his shirt. You feel the dip of his spine, the hard muscle of his shoulders, and the way he lets out a long, shaky exhale into your hair.
"You're okay," you whisper again, your voice softening, losing its sharp, sarcastic edge. "He’s got you."
Leon pulls back just an inch, his hands sliding down to rest on your waist. He doesn't let go. He looks down at you, his lashes wet, his face mere inches from yours. The air between you is thick, charged with the scent of his woodsy cologne and the clinical tang of the ward. His gaze drops to your mouth, and for a second, the world stops spinning.
"I don't... I don't know how to do this," he rasps, his voice a broken low-frequency hum.
"Do what? Hug? You're doing a C-plus job, Kennedy," you tease, though your voice trembles. "A little less 'death-grip' and a little more 'gentle human interaction' next time."
He lets out a watery, huffed laugh, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "I think I've forgotten what 'gentle' feels like."
"Well," you say, closing your eyes and leaning into him, savoring the solid, terrifying warmth of him. "Stick with me. I’ve got plenty of practice. Usually with Golden Retrievers, but I think I can make an exception."
He squeezes your waist, a silent, grateful pressure. In the quiet of the dawn, with a recovering kitten purring in the background, you realize you’re in a lot of trouble. Because Leon Kennedy isn't just a client anymore—he’s someone you’d fight a world-ending virus just to keep holding onto.
──────•✦•──────
Leon’s smartphone vibrates against the granite countertop with the persistence of a terminal alarm. He doesn't need to look at the ID to know it’s Hunnigan.
The universe has a twisted sense of humor; the moment his life gains a shred of stability—symbolized by an orange kitten currently trying to disembowel a feathered toy—the DSO decides it’s time for him to jump out of a plane.
"Yeah, Ingrid," Leon sighs into the receiver, his eyes tracking the kitten's chaotic movements. "Tell me it's a seminar on file organization. Tell me I’m being sent to Hawaii to count palm trees."
"It's a hot-zone extraction in the Balkan periphery, Leon. Transport leaves in four hours," Hunnigan’s voice is crisp, devoid of the sympathy he’s looking for.
"Four hours. Right. I’ll just tell the cat to order pizza and lock the deadbolt behind me," he mutters, his mind racing.
Panic, cold and sharp, stabs at him. He can’t leave Cheeto. Not after the pneumonia, not after the nights spent on a linoleum floor praying for a meow. The idea of a stranger from a boarding app—some teenager who might forget the water bowl or leave a window cracked—makes his skin crawl. He finds himself dialing your number before he’s even processed the thought.
When you answer, Leon’s cool persona is nowhere to be found. He’s just a man with a cat and a very specialized, very annoying career.
"I have a problem," he says, skipping the pleasantries. "Work called. I'm being... deployed. A week, maybe more. Do you know a medical boarder who doesn't mind a kitten with a God complex and a lingering cough?"
He hears you pause on the other end. "Leon, it’s short notice. Most medical boarding is booked out through the month. Is it somewhere... dangerous?"
"It’s never a spa day," he says dryly. "Look, if I have to, I’ll—"
"I’ll do it."
Leon freezes. "What?"
"I can stay at your place. I'm overqualified and I can keep an eye on his lungs. Besides," you add, your voice taking on that playful, blunt edge he’s grown addicted to, "your apartment probably needs a woman’s touch. Or at least someone to throw away the three-week-old takeout."
"You'd... stay here?" Leon asks, his throat suddenly tight.
──────•✦•──────
An hour later, you’re standing in his foyer. Leon is dressed in his tactical gear—dark, reinforced fabrics and heavy boots—looking every bit the agent he tried to describe to you. He holds out his keychain. The metal is warm from his palm. As he drops the keys into your hand, his fingers linger against your skin.
It feels like a surrender. He’s giving you the keys to his sanctuary, the only place on earth where he doesn't have to look over his shoulder.
"The alarm code is 1998," he says, a flicker of dark, self-deprecating humor in his eyes. "Try not to set it off. The response team is... unfriendly. And if he stops eating, call me. I don't care if I'm in a tunnel. Make them patch you through."
"1998? Creative," you remark, looking at the keys. "Go save the world, Leon. I’ll make sure the kitten doesn't burn the place down."
He lingers at the door, the weight of the mission pulling at him, but the sight of you standing in his living room—framed by his sterile, gray walls—makes him feel like he’s actually leaving something behind for once.
"Don't eat all my cereal," he says, a lopsided smirk appearing. "It's the only thing I have left."
──────•✦•──────
Leon’s apartment is exactly what you expected: a high-end, minimalist cave that screams 'I don't plan on being here for long.'
The furniture is expensive but looks like it’s never been sat on. The fridge contains three bottles of high-end bourbon, a jar of pickles, and enough Gatorade to hydrate an army. It’s a gorgeous space, but it’s inhabited by a ghost who clearly spends his life waiting for the next disaster.
"Alright, Cheeto," you sigh, dropping your bag on the granite island. "Let’s see if we can make this place look like a human actually lives here."
Over the next week, you start a quiet insurrection against Leon’s minimalism. You buy a soft throw blanket to cover the "ergonomic" sofa. You bring over a small succulent that Leon will almost certainly forget to water. You organize the chaos of his mail and make sure the kitten’s toys aren't just limited to "stray socks."
It becomes a semi-regular occurrence. Every time Leon gets the call, you get the keys. You’ve mastered the 1998 alarm code and you know exactly which floorboard creaks near the bathroom. You send him daily updates—photos of the kitten sleeping on his discarded hoodies, or videos of Cheeto "hunting" his toys.
When he’s home, you linger. You’ll stay for an hour after he returns, leaning against his kitchen counter while he tells you—in vague, redacted terms—about where he’s been. You find yourself liking the routine. The way he looks at you when he walks through the door, his eyes scanning you first before they even find the cat.
"You moved the blender," he notes one evening, leaning against the doorframe, looking exhausted but softer than you’ve ever seen him.
"I put it where a normal person would use it, Leon," you retort, not looking up from your phone. "You had it stored like it was a classified weapon."
"It's a high-RPM motor," he deadpans. "It’s practically a turbine."
You laugh, and you see his shoulders drop an inch.
The messages between you two have evolved from 'Is he breathing okay?' to 'Saw this and thought of you' and late-night Facetimes where you talk about nothing and everything. You’re becoming a permanent fixture in a life that was never meant to have any.
──────•✦•──────
The wind in the mountains is a serrated blade, cutting through his tactical layers and biting into his skin. Leon is crouched in a blind, his rifle steady, the world around him a monochrome blur of snow and gray rock. His breath mists in the air, his fingers numb despite the heated gloves.
It’s the kind of environment where his mind usually goes to dark places—to the faces of the people he’s lost, to the smell of burning plastic in Raccoon City, to the weight of the kills he’s had to rack up to keep the world spinning.
But today, his mind wanders somewhere else.
He thinks about you. He thinks about you sitting on his couch, probably wrapped in that fuzzy blanket you "donated" to his living room. He thinks about the way his apartment smells like your shampoo instead of gun oil when you’re there. You are currently three thousand miles away, probably complaining about a difficult client or a dog that wouldn't stop barking, and the thought is his only anchor to reality.
He pulls his phone from a secure pocket, shielding the screen from the wind. He has one bar of satellite signal. A photo from you has managed to crawl through.
It’s a picture of you on his bed—the kitten curled up on your stomach, both of you looking half-asleep. It’s a domestic, quiet image that has no place in his world of bioluminescent horrors and political assassinations.
"Hunnigan’s going to kill me if she sees I’m using secure bandwidth for cat photos," Leon mutters to himself, a tiny, genuine smile cracking his frozen face.
He wouldn't admit it to you—not yet, maybe not ever—but he’s stopped dreading the "end" of the mission. He used to hate coming back to the silence of his flat. Now, he finds himself checking his watch, calculating the hours until he can walk through his door and hear your voice.
He doesn't just have a cat to come home to anymore. He has a presence. He has a reason to stay sharp, to stay fast, to stay alive.
"Target in sight," his comms crackle.
Leon shifts his grip, his eyes focusing. He feels steady. The cold doesn't matter. He has a cat-sitter to get back to.
"Copy that," Leon whispers, his thumb flicking the safety off. "Let’s wrap this up. I’ve got a date with some bad takeout."
──────•✦•──────
The shift didn’t just break you; it ground you down into a fine, bitter powder and scattered you across the linoleum.
It started with a car crash that sent two mangled retrievers into your bay and ended with a client screaming at you that you were a "heartless gold-digger" because you couldn't perform a miracle on a sixteen-year-old cat for the price of a drive-thru burger.
You’d spent four hours in emergency surgery, your hands slick with blood and your back screaming in protest, only for the monitor to flatline anyway. You’d had to tell a ten-year-old boy that his best friend wasn’t coming home, and then you’d been reprimanded by management for the "negative impact on wait times" caused by you taking five minutes to cry in the supply closet.
By the time you let yourself into Leon’s apartment, you’re less of a human and more of a walking bruise. You don't even turn on the lights. You just drop your bag, kick off your clogs, and collapse onto the sofa—the one with the soft throw blanket you bought—and bury your face in your hands.
The kitten, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, trots over and lets out a concerned chirrup. He kneads your thigh, his tiny claws snagging on your scrubs, before curling up against your chest.
"I hate it, Cheeto," you sob into his orange fur, the tears finally bursting the dam. "I hate the people, I hate the blood, and I really, really hate the wait times."
The front door clicks. The 1998 alarm code beeps—one, nine, nine, eight—and then the heavy thud of boots hits the floor. You don't even look up. You’re too deep in the salt and the snot to care that the owner of the house is back early.
Leon freezes in the entryway. Even in the dim light of the city skyline peeking through the window, he looks like he’s been through a meat grinder. His shirt is torn at the shoulder, there’s a nasty, dark bruise blossoming across his cheekbone, and he’s limping slightly. He looks like a man who just survived a war, only to find a different kind of casualty in his living room.
"Hey," he says, his voice a low, startled rumble. "What—is the cat okay? Did something happen?"
"The cat is fine," you choke out, wiping your nose with your sleeve and failing miserably at looking composed. "Everything is fine. I’m just... Go away, Leon. You look like you need a medic and a gallon of ibuprofen."
He doesn't go away. He drops his duffel bag with a heavy thud and walks over, his movements stiff and cautious. He looks wildly out of his depth, his hands hovering at his sides as if he’s trying to remember the manual for 'Human Comforting 101.'
"You’re crying," he notes, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register.
"Astute observation. They really do pay you for the big brain, don't they?" You let out a jagged, watery laugh. "I just had a shitty day, Leon. A patient died after four hours of me playing God, and then some guy called me a bitch because he had to wait forty minutes for his dog's ear cleaning while I was doing CPR. I’m just... done."
Leon stands there for a beat, the blue of his eyes scanning your face with a terrifying intensity. He’s seen trauma, he’s seen death on a global scale, but seeing you falling apart on his couch seems to rattle him more than a BOW ever could.
"Move over," he says.
"Leon, you’re bleeding on my 'donated' blanket—"
"Move over," he repeats, firmer this time.
You slide over, and Leon sinks onto the sofa next to you. He smells like gunpowder, cold rain, and woodsmoke. He doesn't say anything at first; he just reaches out, his large, scarred hand hesitating before he pulls you tentatively toward him. You collapse against his side, your head landing on his shoulder.
"I've got you," he murmurs.
He wraps an arm around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and starts to stroke your hair. His touch is awkward—clumsy, even—as if he’s afraid he’ll break you, but it’s the most grounding thing you’ve ever felt. You grab the front of his torn shirt and just sob, letting all the bitterness and the exhaustion pour out of you and into his expensive, ruined gear.
"It’s just... so much sometimes," you whisper, your voice cracking. "I try so hard, and it’s never enough. The world just keeps biting."
"I know," Leon says, his voice vibrating against your temple. "Believe me, I know. But you did your job. You showed up. That’s more than most people can say."
He keeps stroking your hair, his calloused fingers snagging slightly on the tangles, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't try to "fix" it with a one-liner or a tactical solution. He just holds you. You realize, as your breathing finally starts to level out, that this is the first time in your life someone has held the weight for you instead of you holding it for everyone else.
"You look like hell, Leon," you mumble against his chest, feeling a flicker of your usual bluntness returning through the haze of grief.
"You should see the other guy," he retorts, a ghost of a smirk in his voice. "Actually, don't. He’s currently a smudge on a highway in Sarajevo."
You let out a tiny, genuine huff of a laugh, and you feel his arm tighten around you.
"See? There she is," he whispers.
You stay like that for a long time—a battered agent and a broken vet, curled up on a minimalist couch with a kitten sleeping between you.
In the quiet of the apartment, the monsters and the body bags feel a million miles away. You’re still tired, and your heart still aches, but as Leon rests his chin on top of your head, you realize that maybe the "ghost" has finally moved out of this apartment.
And for the first time in a long time, you don't feel like you're fighting the dark alone.
──────•✦•──────
The transition from "emergency technical support" to "semi-permanent fixture" happens so gradually that Leon doesn't even see the trap until he’s happily walking into it.
It starts with you dropping by after your shift to "check the kitten's weight," and then somehow you’re staying for a coffee, and then—suddenly—you have your own designated spot on his couch and a spare toothbrush in the guest bath.
Leon finds himself leaning against the kitchen island, watching you move through his kitchen with a grace that is utterly at odds with the clinical chaos of your day job. For years, this kitchen has been a graveyard for styrofoam containers and a shrine to a single bottle of high-end bourbon. His culinary skills are limited to reheating things and not burning the water.
"You know, the FDA suggests that a human being cannot actually survive on a diet of ninety percent spicy tuna rolls and ten percent Scotch," you remark, your back to him as you chop fresh parsley with a rhythmic, practiced speed.
Leon takes a slow sip of water, leaning his hip against the counter. "I’ll have you know I also eat the occasional multivitamin. And once, a piece of fruit that I'm reasonably sure wasn't plastic. I'm practically a health nut."
"You're a disaster," you retort, but the look you throw him over your shoulder is fond, lacking the sharp bite of your usual sarcasm.
You’ve taken over his stove, and for the first time since he moved in, the apartment doesn't smell like filtered air and gun oil. It smells like sautéed garlic, crushed basil, and browning butter. The scent hits Leon with a physical force, dragging up buried memories of a childhood —the sound of heavy pots clanking, the steam on the windows, the feeling of a home that was loud and full.
It’s a sensory overload that makes his chest ache with a sudden, sharp pang of nostalgia he wasn't prepared for.
"Is that... actual garlic?" Leon asks, his voice dropping into a low, slightly dazed register. "I forgot it came in cloves. I thought it was just a powder that lived in the back of the pantry until it turned into a solid brick."
"God, you're pathetic," you laugh, sliding a pan of chicken onto the burner. The sizzle is loud in the quiet room. "Go sit down. You look like you're having a religious experience over a bulb of garlic."
"I might be," he mutters, though he doesn't move.
He likes watching you. He likes the way your hair starts to frizz slightly from the steam and the way you’ve tucked your ID badge into your back pocket.
He realizes, with a dry, self-deprecating twist of his gut, that he’s become addicted to this. To you. The mission-driven part of his brain—the part that usually keeps him scanning for exits and checking his six—has gone completely quiet. He feels safe. Not "perimeter secured" safe, but actually safe.
He walks over, ostensibly to reach for a glass, but he lingers in your space. He’s still a touch awkward with the physical stuff, his hands hovering near your waist before he settles for gently bumping his shoulder against yours.
"Smells better than my grandmother's Sunday gravy," he admits, the honesty feeling like vulnerability. "And she would have hit me with a wooden spoon just for thinking that."
"Well, don't tell her ghost I'm trying to upstage her," you say, nudging him back. Your smile is gentle, and Leon feels the last of his professional walls crumbling. "I just figured since you're busy saving the world, someone should make sure you don't succumb to scurvy."
"It's a noble cause," Leon says, his blue eyes softening as they fix on you.
"Just doing my civic duty, Agent," you tease.
Leon watches you stir the sauce, and he feels a surge of protectiveness so fierce it surprises him. He spends his life in rooms with people who want to tear the world apart, but here, in the dim light of his kitchen, you’re putting things back together. You’re making a home out of a man who thought he was just a weapon.
"You're staying for dinner, right?" he asks, and he hates how much he hopes the answer is yes. "The cat gets lonely if you leave too early. And I... Well, I'm not great at talking to the furniture."
"I'm staying, Leon," you say, reaching out to pat his hand. "Relax. I'm not going anywhere."
Leon breathes out a sigh he feels in his very marrow. He looks at the garlic, the herbs, and the woman currently occupying his heart's center of mass, and he decides that if this is a trap, he never wants to be rescued.
──────•✦•──────
The blue light of the television flickers across the living room, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. On the screen, some generic action flick is playing at a low volume—something about a heist that Leon has already found sixteen tactical flaws in—but he isn't watching the movie.
He’s watching you.
You are out cold. Your head is tilted back against the cushion at an angle that looks like it’ll require a chiropractor by morning, and your breathing is deep and rhythmic. On top of you, Cheeto—who has graduated from a palm-sized scrap to a lanky, teenage chaos-agent—is sprawled across your stomach like a heavy, orange weighted blanket.
Leon sits in his armchair, a glass of bourbon sweating in his hand, and feels a strange, terrifying tightness in his chest.
He should wake you up. He should tell you that the movie is over and offer to call you an Uber. That would be the professional, just friends thing to do.
"Right," Leon whispers to the empty room, his voice a dry rasp. "Because I’ve always been so great at following the 'sane' path."
He sets his glass down with a soft clink and stands, his joints popping. He gently nudges the cat aside. Cheeto lets out an offended mrrp but settles into the crook of the sofa, watching with wide, glowing eyes as Leon slides one arm under your knees and the other behind your back.
He braces himself, expecting you to be dead weight, but as he lifts, he’s struck by how light you feel—and how perfectly you seem to slot into the space against his chest. You let out a tiny, sleepy sigh, your head rolling naturally into the hollow of his neck, and Leon freezes. His heart kicks against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Don't wake up, don't wake up, don't make this weird, he thinks, his internal monologue screaming in a way it never does during a fire-fight.
He carries you down the short hallway, his boots silent on the hardwood. His bedroom is the inner sanctum—a place that usually feels like a cold, utilitarian bunker. But as he lays you down on the mattress, the room feels different. It feels occupied.
He pulls the heavy duvet over you, tucking the edges in with a focused, military precision. He lingers there for a moment, his hand hovering over your face. He can't help it; his thumb grazes your temple, smoothing away a stray lock of hair, before his knuckles lighty brush the warmth of your cheek. Your skin is soft, a stark contrast to the rough, scarred texture of his own hands.
"Rest up, Doc," he murmurs, his voice barely a breath. "You’ve earned it."
He backs out of the room, closing the door with a click so soft it’s almost silent. When he turns around, Cheeto is standing in the middle of the hallway, tail twitching, staring at him with unblinking, judging eyes.
"What? I’m being a gentleman," Leon grunts, stepping past the cat toward the sofa. He doesn't go back to his chair. Instead, he collapses onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. The cat hops up onto his chest, pinning him down and staring directly into his soul.
"I’m a DSO agent," Leon tells the cat, his voice flat and defensive. "I’m stoic. I’m professional. I’m a guy who deals with world-ending threats and international conspiracies. I definitely don't have a 'crush' on the veterinarian who makes me eat kale salad."
Cheeto blinks slowly, looking entirely unimpressed by the lie.
Leon sighs, rubbing his face with both hands. The lie is thin. It’s paper-thin and tearing at the seams. He lies there in the dark, listening to the silence of the apartment. For years, he’s filled this silence with the burn of cheap whiskey, the hum of a background news cycle, and the crushing weight of old regrets—Raccoon City, Krauser, the faces of people he couldn't pull out of the fire.
But tonight, the silence feels... full.
He thinks about the way you’ve invaded his space. The way you cook him actual meals because you know he’d live on protein bars and spite if left to his own devices. Most of all, he thinks about the night you fell apart on this very sofa, and how holding you felt more important than any mission he’s ever been assigned.
He realizes then, with the terrifying, crystalline clarity of a man staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, that he isn't just "interested."
He is completely, hopelessly, and dangerously gone for you.
It’s a catastrophic tactical error. He’s spent his entire adult life running from attachments because in his world, attachments are liabilities. Attachments get turned into leverage. Attachments get you killed. But as he looks at the closed door of his bedroom, knowing you’re safe inside, he knows the truth.
He’d burn the whole world to the ground—he’d take on an army of Ganados with a pocket knife—just to make sure you wake up tomorrow without a care in the world.
"Great," he mutters, his hand dropping to scratch Cheeto behind the ears. "I’m officially a Hallmark movie protagonist with a body count. Hunnigan is going to have a field day with this."
The cat purrs, finally satisfied, as Leon closes his eyes and accepts his defeat.
──────•✦•──────
The air in Leon’s apartment has changed.
It’s no longer just the scent of high-end bourbon and your lavender shampoo; it’s thick, electric, and heavy with the kind of "will-they-won't-they" energy that usually precedes a season finale. Every time you’re near him, the space between you feels like a magnetic field, pulling you toward him until you can practically hear his heart thudding in sync with your own.
You’re not an idiot. You’ve seen him look at you when he thinks you’re not looking—that soft, guarded yearning that makes your own chest tighten. You’ve felt the way his hand lingers on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. He’s a DSO agent, a man who survived Raccoon City and global bio-terrorism, but apparently, asking a veterinarian on a date is the one mission that has him completely paralyzed.
And then, there’s the cat.
"You know, I was thinking," Leon starts, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that usually makes your knees feel like they’re made of cotton candy. He’s leaning against the kitchen island, his blue eyes fixed on yours with a terrifying intensity. He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out toward your arm. "I’ve been meaning to ask you—"
CRASH.
You both jump. Cheeto, now a lanky, orange blur of destruction, has successfully swiped a half-full glass of water off the side table. The glass doesn't shatter, but the water spreads across the hardwood in a slow, mocking puddle.
Leon closes his eyes, his hand dropping back to his side. He lets out a long, weary sigh that suggests he’s currently contemplating buying a kennel.
"He’s just expressive, Leon," you say, struggling to keep the smirk off your face. You grab a roll of paper towels, your internal monologue providing a dry commentary. Mission failed, Kennedy. The orange menace has you beat.
Ten minutes later, the puddle is gone, and the tension is back, sweltering and inescapable. You’re sitting on the sofa, and Leon is beside you, closer than usual. The movie on the TV is just background noise now. He turns toward you, his arm draped along the back of the couch, his fingers inches from your neck.
"Anyway," he says, his voice a breathy murmur. "What I was trying to say before we were so rudely interrupted by the feline Special Forces... is that I’ve really appreciated you being here. Not just for the cat. For me."
He begins to lean in. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of his woodsy cologne wrapping around you like a promise. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, a frantic thump-thump-thump that screams finally.
"I was wondering if—"
Suddenly, there is a soft fump sound, followed by the sensation of four pounds of orange fur landing directly on Leon’s face.
Cheeto hasn't just jumped; he has launched himself from the top of the bookshelf with the precision of a heat-seeking missile. He is now perched on Leon’s head, his tail flicking rhythmically against Leon’s nose.
"Are you kidding me?" Leon’s muffled voice comes from beneath the cat.
You burst out laughing. You can't help it. The legendary Leon S. Kennedy is currently being used as a landing pad by a cat who still hasn't figured out how to bury his own poop correctly.
"It’s not funny," Leon grumbles, gently detaching the cat and setting him on the floor. Cheeto just looks at him, lets out a smug little mrrp, and starts grooming his shoulder like he didn't just ruin the most romantic moment of the year.
"It’s a little funny, Leon," you wheeze, wiping a tear from your eye. "I think he’s gatekeeping you. He knows you’re about to make a move and he’s not ready for a stepmother."
"I am a professional," Leon says, straightening his shirt, though his ears are a distinct shade of pink. He looks adorable—awkward, frustrated, and so deeply human it makes your breath hitch. "I have survived international conspiracies. I have navigated minefields. I can handle a five-pound orange domestic shorthair."
"Can you, though?" you tease, leaning back and watching him with a playful, expectant look. "Because so far, the score is Cheeto: two, Leon: zero."
Leon looks at the cat, then back at you, a lopsided, determined smirk finally breaking through his frustration.
"The night is young," he says, his voice regaining some of its cocky, one-liner edge. "And eventually, that cat has to sleep."
"Good luck with that," you retort, your heart singing even as your inner skeptic sighs. He’s going to chicken out again. I’m going to have to be the one to do it, aren't I?
You watch him settle back into the couch, his eyes fixed on you with a renewed focus. The tension is still there, humming under the surface, but now it’s tempered with the hilarious reality of your domestic life. You realize you don't mind the interruptions. If anything, they make the quiet, stolen moments feel even more earned.
You just hope the cat doesn't decide to launch a third offensive when things finally get interesting.
──────•✦•──────
The dinner is kind of a disaster.
Leon has spent the last hour trying to act like a normal human being, which is difficult when his heart is trying to beat its way out of his ribcage like an escaping experiment. He’s made pasta—the one dish he can’t screw up—and the table is set, the wine is poured, and you are sitting across from him looking so devastatingly beautiful in the low light that he’s forgotten how to use a fork.
The air between you is thick enough to choke on. Every time your eyes meet his, Leon feels like he’s standing on the edge of a skyscraper with no parachute. He clears his throat, leaning forward, his hands clasped tight.
"So," he begins, his voice dropping into that low, serious register he uses for briefing the President. "I was thinking that maybe—"
Clank.
In one fluid, chaotic motion, the cat—who has apparently developed a taste for expensive Pinot Noir—swipes a paw at the wine bottle. Leon lunges, catching it before it tips, but the moment is shattered. The cat lets out a defiant meow and begins to weave through Leon’s ankles, tripping him as he tries to sit back down.
Leon’s patience, a resource he usually has in abundance when dealing with global catastrophes, officially hits zero.
"That's it," Leon mutters.
He doesn't hesitate. He scoops up the lanky, protesting orange blur with the efficiency of a man clearing a room. He strides to the hallway, ignores the indignant squawk from the feline, and gently but very firmly sets the cat on the other side of the door. He shuts it with a definitive thud and turns the lock.
Silence. Blessed, complete silence.
Leon turns back to you, leaning his back against the door. He’s breathing a little hard, his blonde hair a mess, and his face is flushed with a heat that has nothing to do with the stove. He rubs the back of his neck, the "cool agent" mask finally crumbling into a thousand pieces.
"I face bio-terrorists for a living," he starts, his voice rough and stripped of its usual bravado. He looks at his boots, then finally, desperately, at you. "I’ve survived things that defy the laws of physics and biology. But asking you out is officially the most terrifying thing I've ever done. My heart rate is higher right now than it was when I was being chased by a ten-foot-tall man in a trench coat."
He takes a step toward you, his hands trembling just enough for him to notice. "I don't want to just be the guy with the cat anymore. I don't want to be the guy who only sees you when things are bleeding or when I’m being deployed to some hellhole. I want to be... yours. If you’ll have me."
He braces himself. He’s ready for a "let’s just stay friends," or a polite laugh, or even a tactical retreat. He’s spent his life waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the mission to fail.
But you don't say a word. You just stand up, and the look in your eyes makes Leon’s knees go weak. You cross the kitchen in three purposeful strides, your gaze locked on his.
Scritch. Scritch. MEE-OWW!
From behind the door, the cat begins a frantic, rhythmic assault on the wood, accompanied by a series of yowls that sound like a siren. Leon flinches, his eyes darting toward the hallway.
"Dammit," he curses softly, his shoulders sagging.
He never finishes the sentence. You reach out, your hands snaking up his chest to grab the collar of his shirt. With a strength that catches him entirely off guard, you pull him down toward you.
You can feel the exact moment Leon’s brain goes entirely offline. There is no more DSO. No more missions. No more orange cats trying to sabotage his life. Beneath your hands, his chest seizes with the shock of a man who has finally stopped running and found exactly what he was looking for.
He freezes for a millisecond, his body going completely rigid. He is so utterly unaccustomed to physical contact that doesn't involve violence or a medical triage that he genuinely doesn't know what to do with his hands. But then, a low, fractured groan vibrates from deep in his chest, and the dam breaks.
His hands, clumsy and hesitant at first, suddenly scramble to find purchase at your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He kisses you back with the terrifying, unbridled hunger of a man who has been starving in the dark for years. It’s a searing, desperate collision that tastes like red wine and the heavy weight of shared secrets.
You can feel the slight tremor in his fingers as they dig into the fabric of your shirt, gripping you like a lifeline. Months of suffocating tension, of late-night FaceTime calls and lingering, aborted touches, all shatter in this frantic, messy connection.
He feels you smile against his mouth, and he forces himself to pull back just an inch, his breathing ragged as he rests his forehead against yours. He’s delightfully dazed, his blue eyes blown wide and glassy, completely stripped of his cool-agent armor.
"Took you long enough," you whisper, your voice breathless and playful, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "I’ve been waiting for you to do that since I gave you my number."
Leon blinks, his mind clearly struggling to process the information. A slow, lopsided smirk finally pushes through his shock, accompanied by a faint, boyish flush on his cheeks. "You have? I thought... I thought that was really just for cat questions."
"You are so incredibly clueless," you laugh, grabbing his shirt and pulling him back down by his collar.
"Maybe," Leon breathes, his hands tightening possessively around your waist, completely ignoring the cat that has begun to scream and scratch at the hallway door. "But I think I'm starting to get the hang of it."
He kisses you again, and the second kiss is even better than the first.
Where the first was a desperate, panicked collision, this one is a slow, deliberate exploration. He’s a man carefully mapping out a territory he never thought he’d be allowed to claim. His initial awkwardness melts into a heavy, intoxicating rhythm.
Leon’s hands are surprisingly gentle as they slide up your spine, settling warmly at the small of your back. He pulls you in tighter until you can feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against your chest.
He’s so profoundly touch-starved that it aches; he chases your lips when you pull back to catch your breath, his mouth hot and insistent, sliding a hand up to cradle the back of your neck so he can tilt your head exactly how he wants it. His thumbs trace small, rhythmic circles against your skin.
Your inner monologue, usually a sharp-tongued critic, has finally been silenced. About fucking time, you think, your fingers tangling into the soft, blonde hair at the nape of his neck. I was starting to think I’d have to perform a personality transplant to get you to make a move.
The moment is perfect. It’s cinematic. It’s everything a slow-burn romance should be.
And then, there’s the scratching.
Scritch. Scritch. Mrow?
The sound of claws on wood is followed by a heavy thud against the door, as if the cat has decided to use himself as a battering ram. The rhythmic, indignant yowling has escalated into a sound that can only be described as a feline operatic tragedy.
You huff a laugh into Leon’s mouth, the vibration of it making him let out a low, frustrated groan. You reluctantly pull back just an inch, your hands still resting on his broad shoulders. He looks absolutely wrecked—pupils blown wide, lips slightly swollen, and a dazed expression on his face that you’re definitely going to tease him about later.
"He's going to tear through the drywall, Leon," you whisper, your voice breathless and playful.
Leon leans his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. "Let him scream. I’ve survived interrogations in darker rooms than this hallway. I can outlast him."
"He’s a cat, Leon. He has nothing but time and spite."
With a reluctant sigh, you disentangle yourself from his arms—feeling the immediate, cold void where his body heat was—and walk over to the door to pull it open.
Cheeto doesn't even hesitate. He streaks into the kitchen, his tail puffed out to the size of a bottle brush. He doesn't go for the food bowl. He doesn't go for the toy. He marches straight to the space between you and Leon, sits down, and begins to lick his paw with a level of smugness that is almost impressive.
"See?" you say, leaning back against the counter and crossing your arms. "He’s the third wheel we never asked for."
Leon watches the cat, then looks at you. The adrenaline of the confession is still fading, replaced by a soft, domestic glow. He walks over, invading your personal space again, and traps you against the counter with a hand on either side of your hips. He’s smiling now—that lopsided, cocky Kennedy smirk that usually means he’s about to say something incredibly cheesy.
"You know," he says, his voice dropping into a low, teasing rumble. "I just realized something. As a professional, I have to ask... is this even allowed? Isn't it a little unethical to be dating a patient's owner? I feel like there’s a code of conduct for this."
You stare at him, a deadpan expression flat on your face. Oh, here we go. Tactical awkwardness at its finest.
"Leon," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "The 'patient' is currently trying to eat his own tail. And his 'owner' is a man who carries a handgun to the grocery store. I think the ethics board has bigger fish to fry than us."
"I'm just saying," he continues, his blue eyes dancing with mischief as he leans in closer, his nose brushing yours. "I’d hate to be the reason you lose your license. 'Vet caught in scandalous affair with local cat-dad.' The headlines would be brutal."
"You are such a dork," you mutter, though you can feel the stupid, helpless grin breaking through your defenses.
"I have my moments," he murmurs.
"Shut up, Leon," you say softly, the playfulness fading into something warmer, something real. You reach up, grabbing the front of his shirt again to bridge the tiny gap he’s left between you. "And kiss me again. Before the cat decides to jump on the ceiling."
Leon doesn't need to be told twice. He closes the distance, his mouth finding yours with a renewed confidence. This time, there’s no hesitation, no tactical stalling—just the quiet, certain knowledge that the empty apartment isn't empty anymore.
And as the lanky orange cat finally settles on the floor to watch you both, Leon realizes that for the first time in his life, he isn't just surviving a day.
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