la shawna

social media sucks 22 — she/her

[graysonsshirt]

─ ⟢ ・⸝⸝ WELCOME TO LESHAWNA’S PAGE

22 ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ Leshawna ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ Shauna ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ she/her ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ leo ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ istj ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

・ Leon Kennedy ・ Norman Reedus ・ Jill Valentine ・ Barbara Gordon ・ Mia Winters ・ Taron Egerton・Joseph quinn ・ Dick Grayson ・ Connor RK800 ・ Jonathan Byers ・ Eddie Munson ・ Shrinking Rae

BEFORE REQUESTING A FIC, CHECK OUT:

THE RULES

GUIDE ON HOW TO SUBMIT A REQUEST

(Divider credits: @/cafekitsune, @/dividers-are-us )

[danahzhq]

[photos-for-fics]

[graysonsshirt]

i agree with this so much

[graysonsshirt]

i have three drafts of three different fics about three different men that contain three different genres

might post one of them soon

[hagihino]

[applepieandcupcakess]

STOP FUCKING ROMANTICIZING LOLITA YOU’RE NOT A NYMPHETTE YOU’RE WILLINGLY BEING GROOMED

[comabite]

DSO golden boy

RE: Vendetta

— C0MMS OPEN!

[graysonsshirt]

But you don't know the half of the shit that you put me through

Pairing: dick grayson x f!reader

Summary: Dick loves you. He really does. But you don’t like the way he copes with his insecurities. He shapes you into a perfect image and turns your feelings into a joke at the same time.

Warnings: angst with a bittersweet ending, boyfriend!dick grayson, ooc dick (for the plot), yearning dick, dick is a toxic asshole here, everyone glazing nightwing here including reader. Toxic side of dating a man like him. Lots of dialogue (~50%). I tried to put some giggles between them.

Song: Norman Fucking Rockwell by Lana Del Rey

Word count: 9,9k

The apartment smelled like expensive cologne, takeout, and the vanilla candle Dick insisted made the place feel more like home.

You stood in the doorway for a second too long, keys still hanging from your fingers, trying to gather enough strength to take your shoes off without collapsing face-first onto the hardwood floor.

The day had been catastrophic in the kind of unimpressive, deeply adult way that made it worse. Your boss had spent the entire afternoon correcting mistakes that weren’t yours in that fake-patient voice that somehow felt more humiliating than yelling. Your coffee had spilled over the paperwork you stayed late to finish. One of your coworkers had asked if you were “doing okay lately” with enough concern in her voice to make you realize you apparently looked as bad as you felt.

And then there was the subway ride home. Some guy was staring too long. Someone shoved into your shoulder hard enough to almost knock you over. The overwhelming urge to cry over absolutely nothing by the time you climbed the building stairs.

You looked… not well, honestly. Hair half-fallen from its clip. Makeup separating around your eyes. Dick’s oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder because you’d stolen it in the morning after deciding none of your clothes looked right anymore. Not after all his little comments.

You’d barely stepped fully inside when Dick’s voice floated from the living room. “Well, damn.”

There he was, stretched across the couch in gray sweats, one arm behind his head, phone glowing against his palm. Pretty enough to make you resent him for a moment. His eyes flicked over you once. “Rough day, baby?” he asked, lips twitching. “You look like work chewed you up and spit you back out.”

You stared at him while Dick grinned at whatever was on his phone again before tossing it onto his chest.

And maybe on another day, you would’ve laughed. Maybe on another day, you would’ve walked over dramatically and collapsed on top of him while he kissed your temple and told you the city was cruel to beautiful women.

But today your bones hurt. Today you’d spent the entire commute fantasizing about coming home and being taken care of for five fucking minutes. So when he didn’t move immediately, something in you soured quietly. “You could at least pretend to like me,” you muttered, dropping your bag by the door.

Dick blinked once before sitting up slightly. “Hey,” he said, softer now. “C’mere.”

You hated how immediate your body’s reaction was. Like some pathetic flower turning toward sunlight. He opened his arms and you walked into them automatically, exhaustion outweighing pride. Dick pulled you down onto the couch between his legs, warm hands sliding under the hoodie to rub your waist.

“There she is,” he murmured against your shoulder. “That bad?”

You let out a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a breakdown. “My boss hates me, I think I’m getting fired. Emily asked if I was on drugs because I forgot to answer an email. Some man coughed directly into my face today. And I haven’t eaten since eleven.”

Dick made a face. “Okay, that one’s criminal.”

You snorted despite yourself. That was the problem with him. Dick could make you laugh when you wanted to stay angry. He knew exactly how to tilt situations away from confrontation, how to smooth rough edges with charm and warmth until you almost felt silly for being upset in the first place.

His fingers brushed your hair back gently before he frowned. “You wore this to work?”

You automatically looked down at your outfit. Loose jeans. One of his hoodies. Sneakers. “I was tired.”

“Nah, I know, I just…” His hand squeezed your hip absentmindedly. “You’re too pretty to hide under all this, baby.”

There it was. Not cruel enough to call out. Not mean enough to fight over. Just another tiny comment placed delicately on top of all the others.

“I like your hair down more.”

“That skirt hugs you better.”

“You should wear lighter makeup.”

“Don’t go drinking alone with your coworkers.”

Never commands. Never enough to make him the bad guy. Those were suggestions. Suggestions from Dick Grayson, who always looked unfairly beautiful standing next to you in public, effortlessly charming while women stared openly at him like they’d forgotten shame existed.

And God, he was friendly. That was the worst part. His phone buzzed constantly—women from galas, old classmates, friends, coworkers, neighbors. Dick answered everyone with the same easy affection that made people fall in love with him accidentally.

“Sorry I don’t meet your standards like the women in your phone do,” you snapped, already embarrassed the second the words left your mouth. Dick had looked up so fast you almost regretted saying it.

“What?”

“The girls constantly texting you,” you muttered. “The ones you flirt with without realizing.”

“I don’t flirt—”

“You do.”

He stared at you for a second, genuinely confused instead of defensive, which somehow made it worse. “Baby,” he’d laughed softly, hugging you like this was ridiculous, like you were being cute instead of serious. “You think I’d ever cheat on you?”

No. That was the horrible thing. You didn’t.

You knew with terrifying certainty that Dick would come home to you every night. He would kiss your forehead half-asleep. He would hold your hand under restaurant tables. He would remember your coffee order and warm your side of the bed before you got in.

He loved you. But sometimes love from Dick felt less like being seen and more like being carefully arranged.

Like he loved you best when you fit neatly into his life — smiling at his jokes, wearing the clothes he lingered on too long in stores, letting him redirect every difficult conversation into affection before it became inconvenient.

And the worst part was that he never sounded manipulative. Just earnest, like he genuinely believed reassurance should fix everything.

So when your face stayed tense in his arms, Dick only sighed fondly, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “You’re thinking too hard again,” he said lightly.

Then he kissed your forehead. Like that solved everything. You stayed there against his chest while the apartment settled into the evening around you. The TV played quietly somewhere in the background, forgotten. Dick’s fingers kept tracing lazy patterns against your waist beneath the hoodie, absentminded and warm.

That was the problem too. Everything with him was comforting enough to make you question your own unhappiness.

Because how could you sit there in the arms of a man who looked at you like that and still feel lonely?

Dick tilted his head down slightly. “You’re being weirdly quiet.”

“Tired.”

“Mhm.” His nose brushed your temple teasingly. “Wanna order something disgustingly unhealthy and rot on the couch with me?”

You almost said yes automatically. That was another thing you’d started noticing lately — how quickly your feelings disappeared around him. Or rather, how quickly he made them disappear. Not by fixing them. Just by smoothing over them until you felt dramatic for having them in the first place. Like putting a blanket over a crack in the wall instead of repairing it.

Your eyes drifted toward his phone still lying on the couch cushion. A girl’s name lit briefly across the screen before disappearing again.

Dick didn’t even look. Of course he didn’t. To him, there was nothing to hide.

Something in your chest twisted tiredly. “Dick.”

“Mm?” You swallowed.

It suddenly felt ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. Like standing up in public only to realize everyone else understood the joke except you.

But you were so tired. Tired at work. Tired in your own head. Tired of feeling like you were slowly becoming someone smaller inside this relationship.

“I think…” You paused, immediately wanting to take it back. “I think sometimes you make me feel bad about myself.”

Dick blinked. Then, unbelievably, he smiled a little. “Baby,” he laughed under his breath, like you’d accused him of secretly being a serial killer. “What?”

“I’m serious.”

“I know, I just—” He shook his head once, amused confusion all over his face. “Where is this coming from?”

You pulled away from him slightly now, enough to see his expression fully. And there it was. Genuine (or not so) disbelief.

“You’re constantly commenting on how I look,” you said quietly. “What I wear. My makeup. My friends. Everything.”

Dick frowned immediately. “I do not comment on everything.”

“You do.”

“I compliment you.”

“You also compare me.”

His eyebrows pulled together. “To whom?”

“The women you follow. The women in your texts. The girls you point out without realizing it.”

Dick stared at you for another second before exhaling a short laugh through his nose. “Okay, first of all, I literally do not point women out—”

“You told me that the bartender had a nice dress and then spent a week trying to convince me to buy one exactly like it.”

“That’s because you’d look hot in it,” he said immediately, like this helped his case.

You just looked at him. Dick’s expression faltered slightly. “What?” he asked.

“You hear yourself, right?”

“Yeah?” He sat up more now, one arm resting along the back of the couch. “You’re acting like I’m forcing you to wear stuff.”

“You make comments until I feel stupid not changing things.”

“That is not true.”

“It is.”

“No, baby, c’mon.” He reached for your knee again. “You know I think you’re beautiful.”

Your throat tightened. Because he did. That was what made this conversation impossible.

If Dick were cruel, this would’ve been easier. If he yelled or insulted you or acted intentionally controlling, maybe you wouldn’t feel like you were going insane trying to explain why his behavior hurt.

But instead, he looked at you with soft blue eyes and touched you like something precious while slowly rearranging parts of you without noticing.

“You don’t get it,” you said finally. “You say things so casually and then act like they mean nothing. But after enough times, they do mean something.”

Dick rubbed a hand over his jaw, looking more confused than defensive now. “Okay, tell me one thing I said that was so horrible.”

You laughed softly at that. Not because it was funny. Because somehow he still thought that was the point. “It’s not one thing.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s all the little things together.”

He leaned back against the couch cushions with a sigh dramatic enough to almost be playful. “Jesus, you’re making me sound evil.”

“I didn’t say evil.”

“Well, you’re definitely making me sound like some manipulative asshole boyfriend and I gotta be honest, sweetheart, that’s a little insulting.”

There it was again. That twist. Suddenly you were comforting him. Your feelings somehow becoming an accusation he had to defend himself from instead of something he should listen to.

You looked down at your hands quietly. Dick noticed immediately. His tone softened at once. “Hey.”

His fingers hooked under your chin gently. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That sad face.” He smiled a little. “Kills me.”

Somehow, somehow, even now he was turning this into flirtation. “I’m trying to talk to you seriously.”

“I am listening seriously.”

“No, you’re trying to make me calm down.”

“Well, yeah.” He gave you an easy grin. “You’re upset.”

“That’s not the same thing as solving the problem, Dick.”

For the first time, silence settled between you. Dick looked at you carefully now, like he was finally realizing this wasn’t going away with kisses and charm tonight.

And maybe that scared him a little.

Because his next joke came quieter.

“So what, you want me to become ugly and antisocial?” he asked lightly. “I can do that for you. I’ll become a basement-dwelling loser. Delete Instagram. Start hissing at women in public.”

You closed your eyes briefly. Everything turned into something easy enough to survive. “You always do that,” you said quietly.

Dick’s smile faded a little. “Do what?”

“Make everything sound ridiculous so we never actually talk about it.”

“I’m literally talking about it right now.”

“No, you’re joking about it.”

“Because you’re acting like I’m some controlling psycho boyfriend.” The words landed harder than he meant them to.

You could tell immediately from the way his expression shifted afterward, like he regretted the phrasing the second it left his mouth. But instead of apologizing, Dick just leaned back deeper into the couch cushions with a tired exhale.

And somehow that almost hurt more. Like this conversation was exhausting him.

You stared at him for a second. Then slowly pulled yourself out of his lap. Dick’s hands instinctively tightened around your waist before letting go. “Baby—”

“No, it’s fine.” You stood up too fast, exhaustion making the room tilt for half a second. Your bag was still lying by the doorway where you’d dropped it earlier. One shoe was half kicked off. You suddenly felt painfully aware of how pathetic you probably looked right now — tired, emotional, standing in the middle of a luxury apartment arguing with your beautiful boyfriend about feelings he clearly thought were irrational.

Dick sat up straighter. “C’mon, don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you asked tiredly.

“Pull away like I just called you insane.”

“You kinda did.”

“I said you were acting like I’m controlling.”

“You are controlling sometimes.”

His jaw tightened slightly at that. Dick didn’t really do explosive anger. His version was subtler. Defensive. Hurt. Like every criticism felt strangely unfair to him because he loved you so much already, so how could he possibly be doing damage too?

“That’s crazy,” he said with a short laugh. “You know that, right?”

You felt something in your chest sink quietly. Not because he raised his voice. Because he sounded sincere. “You don’t even hear yourself.”

“No, you don’t hear yourself,” Dick shot back now, frustration finally slipping into his voice. “I compliment my girlfriend and suddenly I’m emotionally manipulating her?”

“It’s not just compliments!”

“Then what do you want from me?” he asked, spreading his hands now. “Seriously. Because this whole conversation feels like you decided I’m the bad guy before I even opened my mouth.”

Your hurt becoming his accusation. “I didn’t say you were the bad guy.”

“You’re sitting here psychoanalyzing me.” Dick looked away first, rubbing a hand over his mouth briefly. “You know what I mean,” he muttered.

Dick always convinced himself that warmth excused everything. As long as he was affectionate, smiling, loving — then nothing he did could really wound you deeply.

Meanwhile, you were standing there feeling smaller by the month. “You know what’s funny?” you said softly.

Dick looked back up.

“I don’t even think you notice when you hurt me anymore.”

His expression immediately fell. “Okay,” he said quietly. “That’s not fair.”

You laughed weakly. “See?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means every single time I tell you something hurts my feelings, your first reaction is defending yourself instead of listening.”

“That is not true.”

“It literally is happening right now.”

Dick opened his mouth. Then his shoulders slumped instead. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, leaning his head back against the couch. “So now I’m a terrible boyfriend.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “No one said that.”

“You’re implying it.”

“I’m trying to tell you how I feel!”

“And I’m trying to understand why my girlfriend suddenly thinks I’m some asshole who destroys her self-esteem.”

His voice cracked slightly around the frustration now. Dick genuinely sounded hurt. Like he couldn’t understand how the relationship he’d been trying so hard to make beautiful had somehow become painful for you too.

But you were too exhausted to comfort him through your own sadness tonight.

“You know what?” you said quietly, grabbing your bag from the floor. “Forget it.”

Dick sat up immediately. “Oh my God, don’t do that.”

“I’m tired.”

“So am I now!”

The apartment went silent. You both froze slightly at his tone. Dick blinked first, clearly realizing how awful that sounded. “Baby, I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s okay.” Your voice came out frighteningly calm now. “I get it.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.” You moved toward the hallway, but Dick stood up quickly from the couch.

“Can you stop walking away during serious conversations?”

You actually laughed at that. A small, disbelieving sound. “Are we having a serious conversation?” you asked. “Because honestly it kinda feels like you’ve been arguing with yourself for the last ten minutes.”

Dick’s face hardened in that wounded way pretty people had when they weren’t used to failing socially. “I’m trying here.”

“No,” you said softly. “You’re trying to win.” And for the first time that night, Dick had absolutely nothing charming to say back.

The silence after was raw in a quiet, ugly way. Dick stood near the couch watching you move around the apartment with slow, exhausted motions while the argument hung between you like something damp and heavy. The city lights spilled weakly through the windows behind him, catching against the tense line of his shoulders.

For once, he wasn’t talking. You’d seen Dick hurt before. Bruised, exhausted, bleeding, furious. But this was different. He looked strangely young standing there barefoot in sweatpants, hands flexing uselessly at his sides like he wanted to reach for you and knew he shouldn’t. Like a child realizing too late that he’d pushed too hard.

You grabbed your charger from the kitchen counter without looking at him.

Behind you, Dick swallowed hard. “So what,” he said finally, voice rougher now. “You’re just leaving?”

“I’m going to bed.”

“That’s basically leaving.” You closed your eyes briefly. Even now he somehow made it sound like you were abandoning him.

“I can’t do this tonight, Dick.”

“Yeah, because apparently I’m this horrible fucking boyfriend now.”

Your grip tightened around the charger. You turned around slowly. “Why does every conversation about my feelings become about protecting yours?”

Dick looked genuinely stung by that.

His face twisted slightly — not angry, not cold. Just wounded in that ugly, open way people got when they stopped performing for a second. “Because you’re saying things that make me feel like shit too,” he admitted quietly. Dick looked down at the floor briefly before laughing once under his breath, humorless. “I don’t even know what you want me to say anymore.”

“I wanted you to listen.”

“I am listening.”

“No,” you said tiredly. “You’re waiting for your turn to explain why none of this is actually your fault.”

Dick’s mouth pressed into a line immediately, eyes flicking away from yours. And suddenly he looked pathetic in the heartbreaking way beautiful people sometimes did when they lost control of a situation they thought love alone could manage. Because Dick loved loudly. But this required him to admit he could hurt someone without meaning to. And he didn’t know how to survive that.

“Can you stop talking like I’m some manipulative asshole?” he asked softly.

You stared at him for a moment. Then shook your head a little. “See? You’re doing it again.”

Dick’s expression crumpled slightly at that. “Baby…” He took half a step toward you before stopping himself immediately, arms folding over his chest instead like he physically didn’t know what to do with them.

“I’m trying,” he said. “I swear to God I’m trying here.”

Your exhaustion suddenly felt crushing. “Dick, you’re trying to defend yourself.”

“No, I’m trying to make you understand I love you.”

“You think that automatically fixes everything.”

His jaw tightened. “Well, sorry for loving my girlfriend, I guess.” Dick scrubbed a hand over his face harshly before looking at you again, eyes glassy now with frustration more than tears.

“Please don’t walk away mad at me.”

You looked at him quietly. Dick stood there helplessly beneath your gaze, pretty face twisted into that bitter, unhappy grimace, shoulders tense like he was bracing for impact.

But he still couldn’t stop defending himself.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said quickly. “That’s what I’m trying to say. You’re acting like I’ve been sitting around trying to ruin your self-esteem or something.”

“I never said that.”

“But you keep talking like I’m toxic.”

“You keep refusing to hear me.”

“I am hearing you—”

“No,” you interrupted softly. “You’re hearing accusations.”

That shut him up. And for the first time all evening, Dick looked genuinely lost. Not charming enough to fix it. Not smooth enough to redirect it. Not lovable enough to immediately erase it. Just a man standing in the middle of his expensive apartment watching the person he loved pull further away from him while he accidentally helped it happen.

Sometime after midnight, the bedroom door creaked open quietly. You were half asleep already, curled beneath the blankets with damp hair spread across the pillow, body heavy from the shower and emotional exhaustion. The apartment had gone silent hours ago.

You’d heard Dick moving around the kitchen at some point, heard the TV turn on and off again, footsteps pacing once or twice outside the bedroom door like he wanted to come in and couldn’t work up the courage.

Now the mattress dipped carefully behind you. You kept your eyes closed. For a moment, Dick didn’t touch you. You could feel him there though — the warmth of him, the hesitation. Like he was waiting for permission that normally came naturally.

Then slowly, cautiously, his arm slid around your waist. His face pressed against your shoulder blades, and you immediately felt tiny uneven breaths.

Your tired brain took a second to understand before realization hit. He was crying. Not pretty crying either.

Dick was ugly crying into the back of your shirt trying desperately not to make noise.

You felt his shoulders shaking against you as his hand stroked weakly up your arm like he didn’t know what else to do with himself. “Dick,” you mumbled sleepily, voice rough. “Stop…”

“I know,” he choked out instantly. “I know, I’m sorry.”

His voice sounded wrecked. You’d seen him emotional before — frustrated, angry, overwhelmed — but this was different. Dick sounded like someone had cracked him open somewhere private.

His grip tightened slightly around your waist. “I’m trying so hard not to make this about me right now,” he admitted in one miserable breath, words tumbling together. “I swear to God I’m trying but I just— fuck, hearing you say I make you feel small—”

His voice broke embarrassingly hard on the last word. Dick inhaled shakily behind you. “Okay,” he whispered quickly to himself. “No, okay. See? That’s not— this isn’t about me feeling bad. I’m doing it again.”

Another shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

The sincerity in his words hurt. Not because it magically fixed everything, but because Dick rarely sat in discomfort long enough to apologize properly. Usually, he redirected things before they reached this point. Kissed you until you laughed. Made food. Distracted you. Wrapped affection around the problem until it dissolved temporarily.

But now there was nowhere left to run.

His fingers trembled slightly where they rested against your stomach. “I didn’t realize I was doing that to you,” he whispered. “I swear I didn’t.”

You finally turned your head slightly toward him. Dick’s face was buried halfway into the pillow behind you, eyes red and wet, curls messy from dragging his hands through them over and over. His nose was pink. Tears still clung stupidly to his lashes while he tried so hard to hold himself together and failed completely. He looked like a terrified man who realized too late that love alone wasn’t enough to keep someone from hurting beside him.

“You wouldn’t listen to me,” you said quietly.

Dick shut his eyes immediately, as if the words physically hit him. “I know.”

“You kept making jokes.”

“I know.”

“You kept acting like I was accusing you instead of talking to you.”

Another awful little sob escaped him before he covered his face briefly with his hand in humiliation. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered thickly. “That sounds so bad when you say it out loud.”

“It felt bad.”

That one made him cry harder. Actually harder. You felt him curl closer behind you instinctively, forehead pressing against your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated helplessly. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

And even now he was trying so hard not to turn it toward himself. You could hear him catching the impulse in real time.

Because every few sentences he’d start slipping:

“I just hate thinking you see me like—”

then stop himself.

Or:

“I never wanted to become—” then cut the sentence off sharply before it could become about his guilt instead of your hurt.

It was almost painful watching him try.

“I think…” Dick swallowed thickly. “I think I got too comfortable assuming you’d understand me no matter what.”

You stayed quiet, listening.

“And I think I kept hearing criticism instead of hearing that you were unhappy.” His hand smoothed shakily over your waist again. “You shouldn’t have to explain your feelings like they’re evidence in court,” he whispered.

Something in your chest softened painfully at that. Finally, he was listening instead of defending. “I don’t want to feel managed,” you admitted quietly into the darkness. “I don’t want to feel like I’m constantly being shaped into something easier for you to love.”

Dick made a wounded sound immediately before stopping himself again. You actually felt him physically restrain the instinct to interrupt.

Tears slipped silently down his face again while he nodded against the pillow behind you. “I can fix this,” he whispered after a long moment, voice trembling. “I can listen better than I did tonight.”

His fingers intertwined carefully with yours under the blanket. “You tell me when I’m doing it again,” he said softly. “Even if it makes me feel bad. I’ll listen.”

You finally turned a little more toward him then, enough to see his face fully in the dim light.

Dick looked exhausted, holding you carefully like he was afraid he’d already bent something too far.

You looked at him for a long moment in the dark. At the messy curls falling over his forehead. The tears were still drying on his cheeks. The stubborn way he kept holding your hand like you might disappear if he loosened his grip for even a second.

And God help you, your heart still melted for him. Because this was Dick. Beautiful, loving, impossible Dick. Your Dick!

The man your friends stared at in disbelief the first time you brought him around. The man strangers gravitated toward effortlessly. The kind of person who walked into rooms and became the center of them without trying. Women looked at him like he was hand-crafted specifically for them.

Sometimes men did too.

And out of everyone in the world, somehow he crawled into bed every night looking for you. You would be lying if you said that didn’t matter. You would be lying if part of your fear wasn’t tangled up in the knowledge that losing him would feel like fumbling something everyone else wanted desperately.

Dick kissed your shoulder softly. Then again. Small apologetic kisses against bare skin while his breathing slowly steadied behind you.

“I love you,” he whispered miserably.

You sighed quietly through your nose. “I know.”

“No, like…” He swallowed. “I really, really love you.”

The way he said it made your chest ache because it sounded less romantic and more frightened. Like love was the only defense he had left.

You turned carefully in his arms then, enough to face him properly beneath the dim bedroom light.

Dick’s eyes immediately searched your face anxiously. Your fingers brushed damp curls away from his forehead gently. “You’re such a mess,” you murmured softly.

A weak laugh escaped him at that. “Yeah,” he admitted hoarsely. “I know.”

And maybe you should’ve stayed angry longer.

Maybe this should’ve been the moment you held firm and demanded change with sharper edges instead of softening the second he looked wounded enough.

But you were tired. And Dick was devastating to love.

Especially like this — stripped down emotionally, clinging to you without charm or confidence to hide behind. “I forgive you,” you whispered finally.

Dick shut his eyes immediately. Relief moved through him so visibly that it was almost painful to watch. “Oh, thank God,” he breathed, forehead falling against yours. His arms wrapped around you tighter instantly, like his body reacted before his brain did. Dick buried his face into your neck with another shaky exhale, kissing your shoulder again and again between words.

“I’ll do better,” he promised quickly. “I mean it this time.”

This time. The words lingered quietly between you both. Because it wasn’t the first conversation like this. Maybe not even the fifth. Not always this bad. Not always tears and near-breakdowns in dark bedrooms. But enough smaller versions that you recognized the pattern now.

Dick loved like sunlight after storms. Warm and consuming and sincere enough to make you question whether the storm had even been that terrible to begin with.

You knew tomorrow morning he’d wake up determined to change. He’d listen more carefully for a few weeks. Catch himself before certain comments. Hold you softer. Watch your reactions more closely. Maybe even delete a few numbers from his phone dramatically while pretending it wasn’t a big deal.

And eventually, slowly, unconsciously…

He’d slip again. Not because he wanted to hurt you. Because this was how Dick loved when he was afraid.

Carefully possessive. Quietly shaping. Wanting reassurance without realizing he demanded it constantly through control disguised as care.

You knew it. And maybe somewhere deep down, he knew it too. But right now he just held you desperately like a man who almost lost something precious. “I’m sorry,” he whispered one more time against your skin.

Your hand rubbed slowly up and down his back. “It’s okay.” It was a big lie that came out naturally.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Finals are almost over for me and im so glad I managed to finish this fic. I wanted to write about the other (toxic) side of dating men like dick aka my own experience lmao. My type hasn’t changed since childhood, unfortunately.

(Art credits on the top: @/ciricearts

Divider credits: @/cursed-carmine)

[graysonsshirt]

But you don't know the half of the shit that you put me through

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Pairing: dick grayson x f!reader

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Summary: Dick loves you. He really does. But you don’t like the way he copes with his insecurities. He shapes you into a perfect image and turns your feelings into a joke at the same time.

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Warnings: angst with a bittersweet ending, boyfriend!dick grayson, ooc dick (for the plot), yearning dick, dick is a toxic asshole here, insecure reader and insecure dick, everyone glazing nightwing here including reader. Toxic side of dating a man like him. Lots of dialogue (~50%). I tried to put some giggles between them.

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Song: Norman Fucking Rockwell by Lana Del Rey

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Word count: 9,9k

The apartment smelled like expensive cologne, takeout, and the vanilla candle Dick insisted made the place feel more like home.

You stood in the doorway for a second too long, keys still hanging from your fingers, trying to gather enough strength to take your shoes off without collapsing face-first onto the hardwood floor.

The day had been catastrophic in the kind of unimpressive, deeply adult way that made it worse. Your boss had spent the entire afternoon correcting mistakes that weren’t yours in that fake-patient voice that somehow felt more humiliating than yelling. Your coffee had spilled over the paperwork you stayed late to finish. One of your coworkers had asked if you were “doing okay lately” with enough concern in her voice to make you realize you apparently looked as bad as you felt.

And then there was the subway ride home. Some guy was staring too long. Someone shoved into your shoulder hard enough to almost knock you over. The overwhelming urge to cry over absolutely nothing by the time you climbed the building stairs.

You looked… not well, honestly. Hair half-fallen from its clip. Makeup separating around your eyes. Dick’s oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder because you’d stolen it in the morning after deciding none of your clothes looked right anymore. Not after all his little comments.

You’d barely stepped fully inside when Dick’s voice floated from the living room. “Well, damn.”

There he was, stretched across the couch in gray sweats, one arm behind his head, phone glowing against his palm. Pretty enough to make you resent him for a moment. His eyes flicked over you once. “Rough day, baby?” he asked, lips twitching. “You look like work chewed you up and spit you back out.”

You stared at him while Dick grinned at whatever was on his phone again before tossing it onto his chest.

And maybe on another day, you would’ve laughed. Maybe on another day, you would’ve walked over dramatically and collapsed on top of him while he kissed your temple and told you the city was cruel to beautiful women.

But today your bones hurt. Today you’d spent the entire commute fantasizing about coming home and being taken care of for five fucking minutes. So when he didn’t move immediately, something in you soured quietly. “You could at least pretend to like me,” you muttered, dropping your bag by the door.

Dick blinked once before sitting up slightly. “Hey,” he said, softer now. “C’mere.”

You hated how immediate your body’s reaction was. Like some pathetic flower turning toward sunlight. He opened his arms and you walked into them automatically, exhaustion outweighing pride. Dick pulled you down onto the couch between his legs, warm hands sliding under the hoodie to rub your waist.

“There she is,” he murmured against your shoulder. “That bad?”

You let out a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a breakdown. “My boss hates me, I think I’m getting fired. Emily asked if I was on drugs because I forgot to answer an email. Some man coughed directly into my face today. And I haven’t eaten since eleven.”

Dick made a face. “Okay, that one’s criminal.”

You snorted despite yourself. That was the problem with him. Dick could make you laugh when you wanted to stay angry. He knew exactly how to tilt situations away from confrontation, how to smooth rough edges with charm and warmth until you almost felt silly for being upset in the first place.

His fingers brushed your hair back gently before he frowned. “You wore this to work?”

You automatically looked down at your outfit. Loose jeans. One of his hoodies. Sneakers. “I was tired.”

“Nah, I know, I just…” His hand squeezed your hip absentmindedly. “You’re too pretty to hide under all this, baby.”

There it was. Not cruel enough to call out. Not mean enough to fight over. Just another tiny comment placed delicately on top of all the others.

“I like your hair down more.”

“That skirt hugs you better.”

“You should wear lighter makeup.”

“Don’t go drinking alone with your coworkers.”

Never commands. Never enough to make him the bad guy. Those were suggestions. Suggestions from Dick Grayson, who always looked unfairly beautiful standing next to you in public, effortlessly charming while women stared openly at him like they’d forgotten shame existed.

And God, he was friendly. That was the worst part. His phone buzzed constantly—women from galas, old classmates, friends, coworkers, neighbors. Dick answered everyone with the same easy affection that made people fall in love with him accidentally.

“Sorry I don’t meet your standards like the women in your phone do,” you snapped, already embarrassed the second the words left your mouth. Dick had looked up so fast you almost regretted saying it.

“What?”

“The girls constantly texting you,” you muttered. “The ones you flirt with without realizing.”

“I don’t flirt—”

“You do.”

He stared at you for a second, genuinely confused instead of defensive, which somehow made it worse. “Baby,” he’d laughed softly, hugging you like this was ridiculous, like you were being cute instead of serious. “You think I’d ever cheat on you?”

No. That was the horrible thing. You didn’t.

You knew with terrifying certainty that Dick would come home to you every night. He would kiss your forehead half-asleep. He would hold your hand under restaurant tables. He would remember your coffee order and warm your side of the bed before you got in.

He loved you. But sometimes love from Dick felt less like being seen and more like being carefully arranged.

Like he loved you best when you fit neatly into his life — smiling at his jokes, wearing the clothes he lingered on too long in stores, letting him redirect every difficult conversation into affection before it became inconvenient.

And the worst part was that he never sounded manipulative. Just earnest, like he genuinely believed reassurance should fix everything.

So when your face stayed tense in his arms, Dick only sighed fondly, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “You’re thinking too hard again,” he said lightly.

Then he kissed your forehead. Like that solved everything. You stayed there against his chest while the apartment settled into the evening around you. The TV played quietly somewhere in the background, forgotten. Dick’s fingers kept tracing lazy patterns against your waist beneath the hoodie, absentminded and warm.

That was the problem too. Everything with him was comforting enough to make you question your own unhappiness.

Because how could you sit there in the arms of a man who looked at you like that and still feel lonely?

Dick tilted his head down slightly. “You’re being weirdly quiet.”

“Tired.”

“Mhm.” His nose brushed your temple teasingly. “Wanna order something disgustingly unhealthy and rot on the couch with me?”

You almost said yes automatically. That was another thing you’d started noticing lately — how quickly your feelings disappeared around him. Or rather, how quickly he made them disappear. Not by fixing them. Just by smoothing over them until you felt dramatic for having them in the first place. Like putting a blanket over a crack in the wall instead of repairing it.

Your eyes drifted toward his phone still lying on the couch cushion. A girl’s name lit briefly across the screen before disappearing again.

Dick didn’t even look. Of course he didn’t. To him, there was nothing to hide.

Something in your chest twisted tiredly. “Dick.”

“Mm?” You swallowed.

It suddenly felt ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. Like standing up in public only to realize everyone else understood the joke except you.

But you were so tired. Tired at work. Tired in your own head. Tired of feeling like you were slowly becoming someone smaller inside this relationship.

“I think…” You paused, immediately wanting to take it back. “I think sometimes you make me feel bad about myself.”

Dick blinked. Then, unbelievably, he smiled a little. “Baby,” he laughed under his breath, like you’d accused him of secretly being a serial killer. “What?”

“I’m serious.”

“I know, I just—” He shook his head once, amused confusion all over his face. “Where is this coming from?”

You pulled away from him slightly now, enough to see his expression fully. And there it was. Genuine (or not so) disbelief.

“You’re constantly commenting on how I look,” you said quietly. “What I wear. My makeup. My friends. Everything.”

Dick frowned immediately. “I do not comment on everything.”

“You do.”

“I compliment you.”

“You also compare me.”

His eyebrows pulled together. “To whom?”

“The women you follow. The women in your texts. The girls you point out without realizing it.”

Dick stared at you for another second before exhaling a short laugh through his nose. “Okay, first of all, I literally do not point women out—”

“You told me that the bartender had a nice dress and then spent a week trying to convince me to buy one exactly like it.”

“That’s because you’d look hot in it,” he said immediately, like this helped his case.

You just looked at him. Dick’s expression faltered slightly. “What?” he asked.

“You hear yourself, right?”

“Yeah?” He sat up more now, one arm resting along the back of the couch. “You’re acting like I’m forcing you to wear stuff.”

“You make comments until I feel stupid not changing things.”

“That is not true.”

“It is.”

“No, baby, c’mon.” He reached for your knee again. “You know I think you’re beautiful.”

Your throat tightened. Because he did. That was what made this conversation impossible.

If Dick were cruel, this would’ve been easier. If he yelled or insulted you or acted intentionally controlling, maybe you wouldn’t feel like you were going insane trying to explain why his behavior hurt.

But instead, he looked at you with soft blue eyes and touched you like something precious while slowly rearranging parts of you without noticing.

“You don’t get it,” you said finally. “You say things so casually and then act like they mean nothing. But after enough times, they do mean something.”

Dick rubbed a hand over his jaw, looking more confused than defensive now. “Okay, tell me one thing I said that was so horrible.”

You laughed softly at that. Not because it was funny. Because somehow he still thought that was the point. “It’s not one thing.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s all the little things together.”

He leaned back against the couch cushions with a sigh dramatic enough to almost be playful. “Jesus, you’re making me sound evil.”

“I didn’t say evil.”

“Well, you’re definitely making me sound like some manipulative asshole boyfriend and I gotta be honest, sweetheart, that’s a little insulting.”

There it was again. That twist. Suddenly you were comforting him. Your feelings somehow becoming an accusation he had to defend himself from instead of something he should listen to.

You looked down at your hands quietly. Dick noticed immediately. His tone softened at once. “Hey.”

His fingers hooked under your chin gently. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That sad face.” He smiled a little. “Kills me.”

Somehow, somehow, even now he was turning this into flirtation. “I’m trying to talk to you seriously.”

“I am listening seriously.”

“No, you’re trying to make me calm down.”

“Well, yeah.” He gave you an easy grin. “You’re upset.”

“That’s not the same thing as solving the problem, Dick.”

For the first time, silence settled between you. Dick looked at you carefully now, like he was finally realizing this wasn’t going away with kisses and charm tonight.

And maybe that scared him a little.

Because his next joke came quieter.

“So what, you want me to become ugly and antisocial?” he asked lightly. “I can do that for you. I’ll become a basement-dwelling loser. Delete Instagram. Start hissing at women in public.”

You closed your eyes briefly. Everything turned into something easy enough to survive. “You always do that,” you said quietly.

Dick’s smile faded a little. “Do what?”

“Make everything sound ridiculous so we never actually talk about it.”

“I’m literally talking about it right now.”

“No, you’re joking about it.”

“Because you’re acting like I’m some controlling psycho boyfriend.” The words landed harder than he meant them to.

You could tell immediately from the way his expression shifted afterward, like he regretted the phrasing the second it left his mouth. But instead of apologizing, Dick just leaned back deeper into the couch cushions with a tired exhale.

And somehow that almost hurt more. Like this conversation was exhausting him.

You stared at him for a second. Then slowly pulled yourself out of his lap. Dick’s hands instinctively tightened around your waist before letting go. “Baby—”

“No, it’s fine.” You stood up too fast, exhaustion making the room tilt for half a second. Your bag was still lying by the doorway where you’d dropped it earlier. One shoe was half kicked off. You suddenly felt painfully aware of how pathetic you probably looked right now — tired, emotional, standing in the middle of a luxury apartment arguing with your beautiful boyfriend about feelings he clearly thought were irrational.

Dick sat up straighter. “C’mon, don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you asked tiredly.

“Pull away like I just called you insane.”

“You kinda did.”

“I said you were acting like I’m controlling.”

“You are controlling sometimes.”

His jaw tightened slightly at that. Dick didn’t really do explosive anger. His version was subtler. Defensive. Hurt. Like every criticism felt strangely unfair to him because he loved you so much already, so how could he possibly be doing damage too?

“That’s crazy,” he said with a short laugh. “You know that, right?”

You felt something in your chest sink quietly. Not because he raised his voice. Because he sounded sincere. “You don’t even hear yourself.”

“No, you don’t hear yourself,” Dick shot back now, frustration finally slipping into his voice. “I compliment my girlfriend and suddenly I’m emotionally manipulating her?”

“It’s not just compliments!”

“Then what do you want from me?” he asked, spreading his hands now. “Seriously. Because this whole conversation feels like you decided I’m the bad guy before I even opened my mouth.”

Your hurt becoming his accusation. “I didn’t say you were the bad guy.”

“You’re sitting here psychoanalyzing me.” Dick looked away first, rubbing a hand over his mouth briefly. “You know what I mean,” he muttered.

Dick always convinced himself that warmth excused everything. As long as he was affectionate, smiling, loving — then nothing he did could really wound you deeply.

Meanwhile, you were standing there feeling smaller by the month. “You know what’s funny?” you said softly.

Dick looked back up.

“I don’t even think you notice when you hurt me anymore.”

His expression immediately fell. “Okay,” he said quietly. “That’s not fair.”

You laughed weakly. “See?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means every single time I tell you something hurts my feelings, your first reaction is defending yourself instead of listening.”

“That is not true.”

“It literally is happening right now.”

Dick opened his mouth. Then his shoulders slumped instead. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, leaning his head back against the couch. “So now I’m a terrible boyfriend.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “No one said that.”

“You’re implying it.”

“I’m trying to tell you how I feel!”

“And I’m trying to understand why my girlfriend suddenly thinks I’m some asshole who destroys her self-esteem.”

His voice cracked slightly around the frustration now. Dick genuinely sounded hurt. Like he couldn’t understand how the relationship he’d been trying so hard to make beautiful had somehow become painful for you too.

But you were too exhausted to comfort him through your own sadness tonight.

“You know what?” you said quietly, grabbing your bag from the floor. “Forget it.”

Dick sat up immediately. “Oh my God, don’t do that.”

“I’m tired.”

“So am I now!”

The apartment went silent. You both froze slightly at his tone. Dick blinked first, clearly realizing how awful that sounded. “Baby, I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s okay.” Your voice came out frighteningly calm now. “I get it.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.” You moved toward the hallway, but Dick stood up quickly from the couch.

“Can you stop walking away during serious conversations?”

You actually laughed at that. A small, disbelieving sound. “Are we having a serious conversation?” you asked. “Because honestly it kinda feels like you’ve been arguing with yourself for the last ten minutes.”

Dick’s face hardened in that wounded way pretty people had when they weren’t used to failing socially. “I’m trying here.”

“No,” you said softly. “You’re trying to win.” And for the first time that night, Dick had absolutely nothing charming to say back.

The silence after was raw in a quiet, ugly way. Dick stood near the couch watching you move around the apartment with slow, exhausted motions while the argument hung between you like something damp and heavy. The city lights spilled weakly through the windows behind him, catching against the tense line of his shoulders.

For once, he wasn’t talking. You’d seen Dick hurt before. Bruised, exhausted, bleeding, furious. But this was different. He looked strangely young standing there barefoot in sweatpants, hands flexing uselessly at his sides like he wanted to reach for you and knew he shouldn’t. Like a child realizing too late that he’d pushed too hard.

You grabbed your charger from the kitchen counter without looking at him.

Behind you, Dick swallowed hard. “So what,” he said finally, voice rougher now. “You’re just leaving?”

“I’m going to bed.”

“That’s basically leaving.” You closed your eyes briefly. Even now he somehow made it sound like you were abandoning him.

“I can’t do this tonight, Dick.”

“Yeah, because apparently I’m this horrible fucking boyfriend now.”

Your grip tightened around the charger. You turned around slowly. “Why does every conversation about my feelings become about protecting yours?”

Dick looked genuinely stung by that.

His face twisted slightly — not angry, not cold. Just wounded in that ugly, open way people got when they stopped performing for a second. “Because you’re saying things that make me feel like shit too,” he admitted quietly. Dick looked down at the floor briefly before laughing once under his breath, humorless. “I don’t even know what you want me to say anymore.”

“I wanted you to listen.”

“I am listening.”

“No,” you said tiredly. “You’re waiting for your turn to explain why none of this is actually your fault.”

Dick’s mouth pressed into a line immediately, eyes flicking away from yours. And suddenly he looked pathetic in the heartbreaking way beautiful people sometimes did when they lost control of a situation they thought love alone could manage. Because Dick loved loudly. But this required him to admit he could hurt someone without meaning to. And he didn’t know how to survive that.

“Can you stop talking like I’m some manipulative asshole?” he asked softly.

You stared at him for a moment. Then shook your head a little. “See? You’re doing it again.”

Dick’s expression crumpled slightly at that. “Baby…” He took half a step toward you before stopping himself immediately, arms folding over his chest instead like he physically didn’t know what to do with them.

“I’m trying,” he said. “I swear to God I’m trying here.”

Your exhaustion suddenly felt crushing. “Dick, you’re trying to defend yourself.”

“No, I’m trying to make you understand I love you.”

“You think that automatically fixes everything.”

His jaw tightened. “Well, sorry for loving my girlfriend, I guess.” Dick scrubbed a hand over his face harshly before looking at you again, eyes glassy now with frustration more than tears.

“Please don’t walk away mad at me.”

You looked at him quietly. Dick stood there helplessly beneath your gaze, pretty face twisted into that bitter, unhappy grimace, shoulders tense like he was bracing for impact.

But he still couldn’t stop defending himself.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said quickly. “That’s what I’m trying to say. You’re acting like I’ve been sitting around trying to ruin your self-esteem or something.”

“I never said that.”

“But you keep talking like I’m toxic.”

“You keep refusing to hear me.”

“I am hearing you—”

“No,” you interrupted softly. “You’re hearing accusations.”

That shut him up. And for the first time all evening, Dick looked genuinely lost. Not charming enough to fix it. Not smooth enough to redirect it. Not lovable enough to immediately erase it. Just a man standing in the middle of his expensive apartment watching the person he loved pull further away from him while he accidentally helped it happen.

Sometime after midnight, the bedroom door creaked open quietly. You were half asleep already, curled beneath the blankets with damp hair spread across the pillow, body heavy from the shower and emotional exhaustion. The apartment had gone silent hours ago.

You’d heard Dick moving around the kitchen at some point, heard the TV turn on and off again, footsteps pacing once or twice outside the bedroom door like he wanted to come in and couldn’t work up the courage.

Now the mattress dipped carefully behind you. You kept your eyes closed. For a moment, Dick didn’t touch you. You could feel him there though — the warmth of him, the hesitation. Like he was waiting for permission that normally came naturally.

Then slowly, cautiously, his arm slid around your waist. His face pressed against your shoulder blades, and you immediately felt tiny uneven breaths.

Your tired brain took a second to understand before realization hit. He was crying. Not pretty crying either.

Dick was ugly crying into the back of your shirt trying desperately not to make noise.

You felt his shoulders shaking against you as his hand stroked weakly up your arm like he didn’t know what else to do with himself. “Dick,” you mumbled sleepily, voice rough. “Stop…”

“I know,” he choked out instantly. “I know, I’m sorry.”

His voice sounded wrecked. You’d seen him emotional before — frustrated, angry, overwhelmed — but this was different. Dick sounded like someone had cracked him open somewhere private.

His grip tightened slightly around your waist. “I’m trying so hard not to make this about me right now,” he admitted in one miserable breath, words tumbling together. “I swear to God I’m trying but I just— fuck, hearing you say I make you feel small—”

His voice broke embarrassingly hard on the last word. Dick inhaled shakily behind you. “Okay,” he whispered quickly to himself. “No, okay. See? That’s not— this isn’t about me feeling bad. I’m doing it again.”

Another shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

The sincerity in his words hurt. Not because it magically fixed everything, but because Dick rarely sat in discomfort long enough to apologize properly. Usually, he redirected things before they reached this point. Kissed you until you laughed. Made food. Distracted you. Wrapped affection around the problem until it dissolved temporarily.

But now there was nowhere left to run.

His fingers trembled slightly where they rested against your stomach. “I didn’t realize I was doing that to you,” he whispered. “I swear I didn’t.”

You finally turned your head slightly toward him. Dick’s face was buried halfway into the pillow behind you, eyes red and wet, curls messy from dragging his hands through them over and over. His nose was pink. Tears still clung stupidly to his lashes while he tried so hard to hold himself together and failed completely. He looked like a terrified man who realized too late that love alone wasn’t enough to keep someone from hurting beside him.

“You wouldn’t listen to me,” you said quietly.

Dick shut his eyes immediately, as if the words physically hit him. “I know.”

“You kept making jokes.”

“I know.”

“You kept acting like I was accusing you instead of talking to you.”

Another awful little sob escaped him before he covered his face briefly with his hand in humiliation. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered thickly. “That sounds so bad when you say it out loud.”

“It felt bad.”

That one made him cry harder. Actually harder. You felt him curl closer behind you instinctively, forehead pressing against your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated helplessly. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

And even now he was trying so hard not to turn it toward himself. You could hear him catching the impulse in real time.

Because every few sentences he’d start slipping:

“I just hate thinking you see me like—”

then stop himself.

Or:

“I never wanted to become—” then cut the sentence off sharply before it could become about his guilt instead of your hurt.

It was almost painful watching him try.

“I think…” Dick swallowed thickly. “I think I got too comfortable assuming you’d understand me no matter what.”

You stayed quiet, listening.

“And I think I kept hearing criticism instead of hearing that you were unhappy.” His hand smoothed shakily over your waist again. “You shouldn’t have to explain your feelings like they’re evidence in court,” he whispered.

Something in your chest softened painfully at that. Finally, he was listening instead of defending. “I don’t want to feel managed,” you admitted quietly into the darkness. “I don’t want to feel like I’m constantly being shaped into something easier for you to love.”

Dick made a wounded sound immediately before stopping himself again. You actually felt him physically restrain the instinct to interrupt.

Tears slipped silently down his face again while he nodded against the pillow behind you. “I can fix this,” he whispered after a long moment, voice trembling. “I can listen better than I did tonight.”

His fingers intertwined carefully with yours under the blanket. “You tell me when I’m doing it again,” he said softly. “Even if it makes me feel bad. I’ll listen.”

You finally turned a little more toward him then, enough to see his face fully in the dim light.

Dick looked exhausted, holding you carefully like he was afraid he’d already bent something too far.

You looked at him for a long moment in the dark. At the messy curls falling over his forehead. The tears were still drying on his cheeks. The stubborn way he kept holding your hand like you might disappear if he loosened his grip for even a second.

And God help you, your heart still melted for him. Because this was Dick. Beautiful, loving, impossible Dick. Your Dick!

The man your friends stared at in disbelief the first time you brought him around. The man strangers gravitated toward effortlessly. The kind of person who walked into rooms and became the center of them without trying. Women looked at him like he was hand-crafted specifically for them.

Sometimes men did too.

And out of everyone in the world, somehow he crawled into bed every night looking for you. You would be lying if you said that didn’t matter. You would be lying if part of your fear wasn’t tangled up in the knowledge that losing him would feel like fumbling something everyone else wanted desperately.

Dick kissed your shoulder softly. Then again. Small apologetic kisses against bare skin while his breathing slowly steadied behind you.

“I love you,” he whispered miserably.

You sighed quietly through your nose. “I know.”

“No, like…” He swallowed. “I really, really love you.”

The way he said it made your chest ache because it sounded less romantic and more frightened. Like love was the only defense he had left.

You turned carefully in his arms then, enough to face him properly beneath the dim bedroom light.

Dick’s eyes immediately searched your face anxiously. Your fingers brushed damp curls away from his forehead gently. “You’re such a mess,” you murmured softly.

A weak laugh escaped him at that. “Yeah,” he admitted hoarsely. “I know.”

And maybe you should’ve stayed angry longer.

Maybe this should’ve been the moment you held firm and demanded change with sharper edges instead of softening the second he looked wounded enough.

But you were tired. And Dick was devastating to love.

Especially like this — stripped down emotionally, clinging to you without charm or confidence to hide behind. “I forgive you,” you whispered finally.

Dick shut his eyes immediately. Relief moved through him so visibly that it was almost painful to watch. “Oh, thank God,” he breathed, forehead falling against yours. His arms wrapped around you tighter instantly, like his body reacted before his brain did. Dick buried his face into your neck with another shaky exhale, kissing your shoulder again and again between words.

“I’ll do better,” he promised quickly. “I mean it this time.”

This time. The words lingered quietly between you both. Because it wasn’t the first conversation like this. Maybe not even the fifth. Not always this bad. Not always tears and near-breakdowns in dark bedrooms. But enough smaller versions that you recognized the pattern now.

Dick loved like sunlight after storms. Warm and consuming and sincere enough to make you question whether the storm had even been that terrible to begin with.

You knew tomorrow morning he’d wake up determined to change. He’d listen more carefully for a few weeks. Catch himself before certain comments. Hold you softer. Watch your reactions more closely. Maybe even delete a few numbers from his phone dramatically while pretending it wasn’t a big deal.

And eventually, slowly, unconsciously…

He’d slip again. Not because he wanted to hurt you. Because this was how Dick loved when he was afraid.

Carefully possessive. Quietly shaping. Wanting reassurance without realizing he demanded it constantly through control disguised as care.

You knew it. And maybe somewhere deep down, he knew it too. But right now he just held you desperately like a man who almost lost something precious. “I’m sorry,” he whispered one more time against your skin.

Your hand rubbed slowly up and down his back. “It’s okay.” It was a big lie that came out naturally.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Finals are almost over for me and im so glad I managed to finish this fic. I wanted to write about the other (toxic) side of dating men like dick aka my own experience lmao. My type hasn’t changed since childhood, unfortunately.

(Art credits on the top: @/ciricearts

Divider credits: @/cursed-carmine)

[graysonsshirt]

Hello! I came across your Leon Kennedy bot specifically the android one, I LOVE IT SM LIKE AHHH TAKE MY SOUL AND EVERYTHING!! butttt I was thinking of requesting a bot if that's possible>< it's the same but it's just that leon is surprised to see a carbon copy of the android knocking on his doors (user works from the company and is there to retrieve the android) OR maybe Leon's outside and comes across user!

sorry i dont take requests right now😔 Maybe once i return them

[graysonsshirt]

fuck finals

[cumvarlot]

rookie photo study hehe

[graysonsshirt]

im more than sure im in shadowban

[graysonsshirt]

I don’t blame you, but I can't change you.

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Pairing: re2!leonkennedy x f!reader

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Summary: After miserable experience in relationships, Leon feels himself desperate for someone to have a deep connection with. But was the connection worth lying about Leon’s age to someone he had fallen for?

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Warnings: Angst, age gap (leon is 21, reader is in her 30s), miscommunication, slightly suggestive, lies and more lies, leon is an yearner, a pathetic one too, leon is an ugly crier, i love him hes my baby he’s a little dickhead just for plot.

Just to clarify! I’m not against age gap in a relationship as long as both of the people are legal adults <3 This is simple fanfiction that wouldn’t really match the same situation in reality. The ending my feel a little rushed, so feel free to skip it and keep it simple.

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Song: BLUE by Billie Eilish

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Word count: 5,7k (5,769 words)

Early mornings, cold showers, bruised knuckles, hours buried in textbooks about criminal law and procedure—

He handled all of it like it was second nature. Becoming a cop wasn’t just a goal — it was the goal. The one thing in his life that made sense, that felt stable, that didn’t slip through his fingers the moment he started to care too much.

Because everything else? Yeah… not so much. Relationships, for example.

He’d had… what, two? Maybe three if he counted that awkward almost-thing in his senior year. The first girl liked him because he was “nice”—which really meant he listened more than he spoke and let her talk about her problems without ever asking for anything in return. She left when she got bored. Said he was “too intense” when he finally tried to open up.

The second one liked the idea of him. The future cop, the dependable guy, the one who’d “take care of things.” But Leon wasn’t there yet — he was still struggling, still figuring himself out. And when she realized he wasn’t some already-formed hero, just a 21-year-old kid trying his best? She drifted. Found someone easier. Someone has already finished. That one hurt more than he’d ever admit out loud.

So yeah. Leon learned. He learned to keep his head down. To focus. To push everything soft and needy and wanting somewhere deep inside his chest where it couldn’t mess with his plans. But wanting doesn’t really disappear. It just… waits.

It always hit him the hardest at the worst times. Like that one evening.

He was in a small café, the kind with warm lighting and too many plants by the window, sitting hunched over his notes in a baggy hoodie that still smelled faintly like rain. His coffee had gone cold — again — because he’d forgotten to drink it while rereading the same paragraph for the fifth time. And then they walked in. A couple.

Nothing movie-like. Just… real. She laughed at something quiet he said, her hand brushing his arm as it belonged there. He pulled her chair out without thinking, fingers lingering at her shoulder for just a second too long. They shared a dessert— one fork, slow bites, eyes meeting like there was some private conversation happening that no one else could hear. It was small, simple, effortless. And it hit Leon like a punch straight to the chest.

He stared a second too long before forcing his eyes back down, but it didn’t help. He could still hear them— soft laughter, the murmur of voices, the kind of closeness that didn’t need to be loud to fill a room.

God, he wanted that. Not the grand stuff. Not fireworks or anything dramatic. Just… someone to sit across from him like that. Someone who’d look at him like he mattered in a way that wasn’t about expectations or potential or what he could become.

Someone who’d just… choose him. His vision blurred slightly, and he blinked fast, jaw tightening.

“Get it together,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

It felt stupid. Overreacting over strangers. Over something so basic.

But it still hurt.

He met you a week later. Not in some dramatic, life-changing way. No music swelling, no perfect timing.

He was rushing out of the subway, late, distracted, backpack half-zipped with papers sticking out, when he collided straight into you.

“Shit—sorry!” he blurted instantly, hands coming up as he could somehow catch the moment before it happened. A few of his papers slipped free, scattering at your feet.

And then— You laughed. Not annoyed. Not irritated. Just amused. 

“It’s okay,” you said, crouching down to help him gather everything like it wasn’t a big deal at all.

Leon froze for half a second. Because you were— God. Not in a flashy way. Not in a trying-too-hard way. But naturally beautiful. The kind that didn’t need effort, that settled into every little expression, every movement. Calm. Confident. Warm.

And when you handed him his papers back, your fingers brushed his — and that was it. Something clicked. Something quiet but real.

“Thanks,” he said, voice just a little too soft. And the moment you smiled, Leon was smitten.

You talked. Casually at first. Then longer. Then somehow it became a habit: running into each other, lingering conversations, small jokes that turned into shared ones.

It felt easy. Like that couple in the café. Like something he wasn’t used to but had always wanted. So yeah, he looked you up.

He wasn’t proud of how long it took him to work up the nerve, scrolling through your social media like it was some kind of treasure map. But when he finally sent that message — awkward, polite, overthought to death — and you said yes? Leon swore his heart almost gave out.

There was just one problem. You were thirty.

And Leon? Leon was twenty-one.

Still in the academy. Still figuring things out. Still… young. Too young, he thought. Too young for you. Too inexperienced. Too unfinished. What if he talked too much? What if he didn’t talk enough? What if you realized halfway through that he wasn’t… enough? So he lied.

Comfortable silence stretched between you for a few seconds, the kind that didn’t feel empty. Then you leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other.

“So how old are you, Leon?” It was casual. Almost an afterthought. Like it didn’t really matter.

But his stomach still dropped just a fraction. He didn’t show it. Didn’t let it reach his face.

“Twenty-seven,” he said smoothly, like he’d said it a hundred times before. There wasn’t even a pause.

You blinked once, then gave a small amused smile. “Twenty-seven, huh? You’ve got a baby face, you know that?”

God, he laughed so easily around you — and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I get that a lot.,” he added quickly, trying to sound relaxed. “I started the academy a bit later than most people. Took me a while to figure things out.”

“That makes sense,” you said, nodding slowly, like you accepted it without resistance. And just like that—

It stayed. No suspicion. No further digging. Just you sipping your drink like the conversation continued naturally from there.

Leon felt something in his chest loosen and tighten at the same time.

Because lying should’ve felt worse.

And just like that… It worked. You didn’t pull away. Didn’t reconsider. Didn’t look at him like he was something temporary.

He tried to justify it. It wasn’t a huge lie, right? Just a few years. It wasn’t like he was pretending to be someone completely different. Everything else was real— his feelings, his effort, the way he looked at you like you were something he’d been waiting for without even realizing it.

But still.

Every time you smiled at him like that— Every time you touched his arm, leaned a little closer, trusted him— There was this tight, aching knot in his chest.

Because he knew. If you found out… He might lose it. Lose you. And Leon wasn’t sure he could handle that. Not after finally, finally finding something that felt like this.

Were relationships supposed to feel like this? Like waking up and immediately thinking of someone before you even fully open your eyes. Like carrying their voice in your head all day. Like doing push-ups at the academy and suddenly remembering the way you laugh, and nearly losing focus because your chest gets too tight with it.

But that’s exactly what it was. You became routine. You became home. And Leon? He became someone completely different around you.

He had a girlfriend now. His girlfriend. It sounded unreal in his head sometimes, like a word he borrowed from someone else’s life. And he loved you— God, he loved you in that quiet, aching way that never really turned off. It was in everything he did. The way he texted you good morning even when he had no time. The way he showed up at your place after exhausting academy days like it was the only place his body remembered how to relax. The way he looked at you when you weren’t paying attention, like he was trying to memorize you in case something ever took you away.

Your dates weren’t extravagant. They didn’t need to be! Sometimes it was cafés again— except now he wasn’t alone, buried in papers. Now he sat across from you, pretending to be normal while secretly watching how your fingers curled around your cup, how your eyes softened when you talked about your day.

Sometimes it was late-night walks, your shoulder brushing his, his jacket half draped over you because you always forgot something and he always “happened” to bring it.

Sometimes it was just your apartment. That became the center of everything.

Because Leon… didn’t have anywhere else. Not really.

The academy dorms were cramped, loud, too exposed. No privacy. No space to breathe. Strict rules. So slowly, without ever saying it out loud, your place became yours, as in both of yours.

Your couch had his hoodie on it. Your kitchen had his coffee mug. Your bathroom had his stupid shampoo that he insisted on bringing because “yours smells too floral.”

And you let it happen so naturally that it terrified him. Because it felt like he was being accepted into your life without you even realizing what kind of weight he was bringing with him.

Leon never left anything from the academy lying around. No papers, no files, no notebooks. If he brought something home by accident, he panicked more than he should’ve, quickly shoving it into his bag like it was dangerous.

His wallet stayed hidden. Always in his pocket. Always turned away from you.

His schedule? “Messy.”

His place? “Not really ready for guests.”

His life outside you? Carefully blurred, carefully incomplete.

And every time you asked about it, he smiled too fast. Changed the subject too smoothly. Kissed you to distract you just a little too eagerly.

“Hey,” you’d say one evening, curled up beside him on your couch, your fingers playing idly with his sleeve, “when am I meeting your friends?”

Leon’s entire body would go still for half a second. Then he’d laugh. Too light and too quick. “They’re… kinda boring,” he said, brushing it off. “Nothing you’d like. Trust me.”

Or—

“Your parents seem nice,” you’d mention once, scrolling on your phone, completely unaware of how his heart dropped at the words. “They ever ask about me?”

And Leon would swallow. Smile. And lie.

“They’re busy. I… haven’t really told them much yet.” Always a reason. Always a delay. Always just out of reach.

And the worst part? He was happy.

Genuinely, stupidly, dangerously happy. He’d come home to you after long days of training, dropping his bag at the door like he was shedding the weight of the world. You’d open your arms without even thinking, and he’d melt into you like it was the only place he made sense.

You’d cook together sometimes—more like you cooking while he hovered behind you, stealing tastes and wrapping his arms around your waist like a habit he couldn’t break.

You’d tease him about how clingy he was. He’d just bury his face in your shoulder and mumble something like, “Don’t complain…” while his hand slowly lowered itself underneath your shorts.

And you wouldn’t. You never really complained.

At nights, everything slowed down and it felt like the world outside your apartment didn’t exist. Leon would lie beside you, staring at the ceiling, listening to your breathing even out as you drifted closer to sleep.

And he’d think— This can’t be real. Because someone like you shouldn’t exist in his life like this: beautiful. Calm. Older. Grounded. Sure of yourself in a way he still wasn’t. And yet you were there, next to him. Choosing him. Touching him like he wasn’t temporary. It made something inside him twist every single time.

He was affectionate. Very. Too much, sometimes. Hands always finding you. Forehead pressed to yours when no one was looking. Kisses that lingered longer than they should have because he couldn’t quite get enough of you.

He wanted you constantly. Not just physically— though that was there too, undeniable and raw in a way he didn’t always know how to handle— but emotionally.

He wanted all of your attention, your approval, your presence. Like if he lost it, he’d lose something essential in himself too.

Because in his mind… he would lose you. He told himself his lie was temporary. Just until he graduated. Just until things settled. Just until he figured out how to fix the gap between who he said he was and who he actually was. But the longer it went on, the heavier it got.

Leon felt like he was living two truths at once: one where he was finally happy, and other one where it could all collapse if you ever looked too closely.

It was one of those nights that didn’t feel like it belonged to real life. Rain tapping softly against the window. Warm light spilling across your apartment like honey. The air is slightly messy in the way only shared spaces become.

Leon was sitting on the edge of your couch, sleeves pushed up, hair still a little damp from the shower. 

You were standing in front of him, barefoot, holding your phone loosely in one hand while talking about something completely random — some story from your day, half-laughing at your own words.

And Leon? He wasn’t even pretending to listen properly. He was just looking at you. Like he always did when he thought you weren’t noticing. Like he was memorizing you.

The way your expression shifted when you got excited. The way you leaned your weight onto one leg when you were relaxed. The way your voice softened when you were around him like this— safe, close, his.

“You should stop staring at me all the time, pretty boy,” you said suddenly, raising an eyebrow.

Leon blinked like he’d been caught doing something illegal. “I’m not,” he lied instantly. 

You smiled. That small, knowing smile that always made something in his chest loosen. “You totally are.” 

He exhaled a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I just like looking at you.” There it was.

You stepped closer, standing between his knees now, and Leon’s hands instinctively found your waist like they already knew where to go.“You’re cheesy,” you murmured, but there was no real complaint in it.

“Yeah?” he said softly. “You still like me though.”That made you laugh under your breath.

“Unfortunately.”

And then you leaned down first. Leon’s hands tightened at your waist as your lips met his, and for a second — just a second — he forgot everything else. The academy. The lies. The fear was sitting quietly at the back of his mind.

Because this was the part that made everything worth it.

The way you kissed him like you meant it. The way your fingers slid into his hair without hesitation. The way he always, always felt like he was finally breathing properly when you were this close.

He stood up without breaking the kiss, pulling you in fully now, and you made a quiet sound against his mouth that sent a sharp pulse through his chest.

“Leon…” you murmured against him, but you didn’t pull away. He didn’t either.

His forehead rested against yours for a moment, breath uneven, hands still holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. “I missed you today,” he admitted quietly.

You tilted your head slightly. “You saw me last night.”

“Still.” That made you soften in a way that always got him. 

“That’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, almost smiling. “For you.” And then you kissed him again. Deeper this time. Slower.

The kind of kiss that made time feel like it was slipping out of your hands without asking permission. Leon guided you back toward the couch without thinking, like his body already knew this rhythm— like you’d done this a thousand times before in a thousand quiet nights just like this.

Your fingers tugged lightly at his shirt, and he let out a breath that sounded too real, too soft. Everything about him softened around you.

All that discipline, all that tension, all that carefully built structure he kept for the outside world — it all melted when you touched him like this. Like he was already yours.

And that’s exactly what made it dangerous.Because the truth doesn’t usually explode. It slips unexpectedly and quietly.

It happened in the middle of everything being too soft to notice danger. You shifted slightly on the couch, reaching for his face again, fingers brushing his jaw like you loved doing when he got too quiet.

And he laughed under his breath, catching your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to your palm.

“You’re distracting,” you whispered.

“Good,” he murmured back. Then he moved slightly — just enough — and some scrunched bills and a card slipped from his pocket onto the floor with a dull sound.

Neither of you paid attention at first. Not until you noticed the Leon’s face on the card. 

And Leon— Leon froze so hard it was like the air left his lungs all at once. “No—wait,” he said instantly, too fast.

But you were already leaning down to pick it. How could you not? You have a gorgeous boyfriend whom you just love to tease. Teasing him over a photo is a natural thing.

But the room didn’t feel warm anymore. Your fingers held it lightly at first, eyes scanning out of habit— And then stopping completely.

Because there it was. Name. Photo. And a date that didn’t make sense with what he told you. Not even close.

Your expression didn’t change right away. That was the worst part. A moment where everything in you seemed to recalibrate.

First, it was just confusion. You were standing there with his document in your hand like it didn’t belong in your reality, like it had been dropped into the wrong story entirely. Your eyes kept flicking between the card and him, back and forth, like repetition could somehow fix what didn’t make sense.

“…No,” you said quietly at first, almost like you were testing the word. “No, that’s not— that’s not right.”

Leon flinched immediately. “Wait— please, just listen,” he rushed out, taking a step forward. “It’s not what it looks like.”

But you didn’t look at him right away. Not yet. You were still stuck there, your brain trying to solve something that refused to solve.

“Twenty-one,” you repeated slowly, like it was a foreign language. “You’re… twenty-one.”

Silence. That silence did it. Because it confirmed everything. And then came denial, sharp and quick. “No, no— this doesn’t make sense,” you shook your head slightly, still staring at the card. “You told me twenty-seven. You told me— you literally said it like it was nothing.”

Leon’s voice cracked instantly. “I know what I said— I know, I know, I just—”

“Why would you lie about that?” you cut in, finally looking up at him. And that’s where it started changing. Because now there was no confusion left.

Just him standing there. Not denying it anymore. And something inside you twisted. First anger — but not at him. At you. A bitter, sharp thing that rose fast.

“Oh my god,” you let out a short laugh that wasn’t humor at all. “Of course. Of course I let this happen.”

Leon froze. “What?”

You looked at him properly now, eyes sharper. “I let this happen,” you repeated, voice rising slightly. “I’m sitting here thinking I’m not stupid, I’m not careless, I’m not — whatever this is — and I’m dating a twenty-one-year-old who lied about his age.”

Leon stepped closer immediately, panic flashing across his face. “That’s not— I didn’t do it to hurt you, I swear—”

“You lied,” you said flatly. “That’s like, the biggest problem here.”

“I was scared!” he snapped suddenly, voice breaking in frustration. “I was scared you’d look at me like I was nothing! Like I was just some kid! You wouldn’t have even talked to me if I said the truth!”

“That’s not my problem,” you shot back instantly, and the words came out colder than intended. “That is not something you get to decide for me.”

Leon went still. But then something in him cracked too. “No—no, you don’t get it,” he said, voice shaking now, stepping forward again like he couldn’t help it. “I tried so hard. I did everything right. I studied, I worked, I— I just wanted a chance with you. That’s it. That’s all I wanted.”

Your breath caught slightly, but you didn’t move. He was shaking now.

“I didn’t think I was doing something evil,” he whispered, voice getting rougher. “I didn’t think I was… I just didn’t want to lose you before I even had you.”

“You still lied,” you said again, quieter now, but firm. “You still chose to start this with a lie.”

Leon shook his head fast. “I know— I know! — I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I just—“ And then it broke. Completely. His voice went uneven, and he stopped trying to hold it together.

“I didn’t want you to leave,” he choked out. “I didn’t want you to look at me and decide I wasn’t enough. I thought if I just—if I just acted older, if I just was enough in every other way, you’d stay.”

His hands came up to his face, wiping fast like he hated that it was happening.

But it didn’t stop. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said brokenly, voice cracking harder now. “I didn’t mean to— I swear I didn’t— I just didn’t know how to be real and still have you.” And now he was crying.

Standing there trying to breathe through it, shoulders shaking, eyes red and messy and completely unguarded. “I love you,” he said, like it was the only thing he could still say properly. “I love you so much it hurts and I know that doesn’t fix anything but I— I don’t know how to lose you.”

Your body didn’t know what to do with itself. Because there was a version of this where age was just… age. A weird gap, maybe, something to talk through. Something to decide about together.

But that version died the second he lied. And now everything felt tangled. Wrong in a way that didn’t have a clean answer.

He was still on the edge of the couch, not even sitting properly anymore— like his legs had given out somewhere between explaining and breaking down. Hands still half covering his face, breath uneven, shoulders shaking in small, exhausted waves.

“Please…” he said again, quieter now, voice wrecked. “Don’t—don’t do this. I’ll fix it. I’ll do anything, just—please don’t push me away.”

Those words should’ve made it easier. But they didn’t. They made it worse.

Because you could see it so clearly now— how young he actually was under everything he tried to build around himself. How badly he was holding on. How much of this wasn’t manipulation, but panic. Fear. Attachment he didn’t know how to control.

And that was the problem. That was the exact problem. You finally moved, slowly, setting the card down on the table like it weighed too much to hold anymore. Your hands felt distant from your body.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” you said quietly.

Leon looked up immediately, eyes red, desperate. “We don’t have to end it— we can talk about it, I swear, I’ll be honest now, I—”

“Stop,” you said, not loud, but firm enough that it cut through him. He went silent instantly.

You exhaled, shaky, dragging a hand through your hair like you were trying to organize thoughts that refused to stay still. “I don’t even know what would’ve happened if you told me the truth,” you admitted, voice lower now. “Maybe I would’ve walked away. Maybe I wouldn’t have even given you a chance.”

His face twisted at that, like it physically hurt to hear.

“But I’ll never know that,” you continued, looking at him now, really looking at him. “Because you didn’t give me the truth. You gave me… something else.”

Leon’s voice came out broken. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

“That’s not a reason,” you said immediately, and there it was again— no anger now, just exhaustion under it. “That’s not a reason to decide for me.”

He wiped his face quickly, but it didn’t help much. He was still falling apart in small, helpless ways.

And you felt it—that pull. That horrible, conflicting pull. Because he was still here in front of you like this. Still begging. Still looking at you like you were the only stable thing he had ever had.

And for a second, you almost hated how human that made everything feel. You looked away.

Your voice came out softer, but it didn’t lose its edge. “I can’t keep doing this,” you said.

His head snapped up immediately. “No—please, just—”

“I can’t,” you repeated, more steady now, even if it hurt to say it. “Not like this.”

You swallowed, breath uneven now, but you pushed through it anyway. “You need to leave,” you said quietly. “Please. Just… go.”

The room went completely still. Even his breathing seemed to stop for a second.

“What?” he whispered.

And it wasn’t anger now. No, he didn’t have any right to be angry. It was disbelief. Like he hadn’t fully processed that this was actually happening.

You didn’t repeat it louder. You didn’t soften it either. “I need you to leave my apartment,” you said again, voice steadier than you felt. “I can’t do this tonight. I can’t do this like this.”

Leon stared at you like he was trying to find a version of you that would undo it. His lips parted, then closed again. Like there were a hundred things he wanted to say and none of them were strong enough to fix it.

“I…” his voice broke again, quieter. “I don’t want to go.” He turned back.

You were still standing there in the middle of the room, arms crossed loosely now like you were holding yourself together out of habit more than strength.

Leon shook his head, breathing unevenly again. “I can fix this,” he said fast. Too fast. “I can explain everything properly. Not just the age—everything. I swear, I can make you understand.”

“Please,” he added, stepping back inside without fully realizing it. “Just—don’t decide this right now. Don’t decide it like this.”

“I already did,” you said quietly. That should’ve stopped him. It didn’t. Because panic doesn’t listen to logic. It just spills. And something in him snapped right there.

A short, breathless laugh left him. Not humor. It was cracked and sharp and completely wrong for the situation. “Okay—okay, you want honesty?” he said suddenly, voice shaking but louder now. “You want everything? Fine.”

He ran a hand through his hair like he was trying to hold himself together physically. “I didn’t just lie about my age,” he blurted. “I lie all the time. I lie to my instructors when I’m exhausted, I lie when I say I’m fine when I’m not—”

He laughed again, harder this time, like it was spilling out uncontrollably. “And I panic,” he continued, words rushing now. “I panic all the time. I overthink everything you say. I rehearse conversations before I see you because I’m terrified I’m going to say something wrong and you’ll just— leave—”

He took a step forward, then stopped himself like he didn’t even know where to put his body.

“I used to cry after training when I thought I wasn’t good enough,” he admitted suddenly, voice breaking differently. “Like— actual crying. I’d sit in the bathroom and think maybe I’m just not built for this. For anything.”

Another laugh slipped out, but it sounded like it hurt him. “And I don’t have anything stable,” he said, voice rising slightly, more desperate now. “No real place, no real life outside of all of this, and then you showed up and it finally felt like— like I wasn’t just floating around waiting to fail at something—”

His breathing was uneven again.

“I love you,” he said abruptly, like it physically had to come out. “I love you so much it makes me insane and I know that sounds pathetic but it’s true and I don’t know how to stop feeling it.”

And then he went quiet again, chest rising and falling too fast. Like he’d run out of himself.

Something in your face shifted—not anger. Not confusion anymore. Just… deep exhaustion mixed with something softer underneath it. Because it was all there now. Unfiltered. Messy. Too much. And still not enough to erase what happened.

You exhaled slowly. “Leon…” you said quietly.

He looked at you immediately like it was the first real breath he’d taken in minutes.

Your voice shook a little when you continued, but you didn’t look away.

“I care about you,” you said. “So much it’s actually… painful right now.” His expression changed instantly—hope flickering back like a reflex. But you didn’t let it grow.

“That’s why this can’t stay here,” you added softly.

His face fell. “No— please,” he whispered again, stepping forward, voice breaking. “Don’t do that. Don’t say you care and then still—”

“I do care,” you cut in, firmer now, but still controlled. “That’s the problem.” You swallowed, looking at him properly. “You’re not okay,” you said quietly. “And I can’t be the place you fall apart in like this.”

“I’m not falling apart,” he tried weakly.

Your voice softened again, almost breaking at the edges now. “I love you,” you said. That froze him completely.

“I really do,” you repeated, slower. “That’s why I need you to leave.”

He stared at you like the words didn’t match. Like love should’ve meant something else. Something that kept him there.

But this time, you didn’t take it back. You just stood there, steady in a way that hurt more than yelling ever could.

And Leon — still shaking, still wrecked, still not understanding how it all turned so fast — finally realized that it’s his own fault. 

Months passed in a way that didn’t feel clean or linear. Like time didn’t heal anything, it just piled more days on top of the same bruise until it stopped bleeding on the surface but still hurt if you pressed it too hard. Leon didn’t stop thinking about you.

He still showed up at the academy. Still trained. Still passed drills and exams and ran until his lungs burned like it was supposed to make everything inside him quieter. But it didn’t. Because there were those small, annoying moments that kept reminding him of you.

Like walking past a café and instinctively looking for your table. Like hearing a laugh in a crowd that sounded almost like yours and freezing for half a second before reality corrected him. Like sitting in a lecture hall and suddenly remembering how your fingers used to trace idle shapes on his wrist when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

And every time, it hit the same way.

The nights were worse. His dorm room was too small for silence. His roommate was already exhausted of Leon. 

He’d lie on his back staring at the ceiling, arms folded over his chest like he was trying to hold himself together without falling apart again. And it would come back in fragments.

Your voice saying his name softly when you were half-asleep. The way you looked at him when you were trying not to laugh. The way you went quiet when you were thinking. The way your apartment felt like it had warmth in it that didn’t come from the heating.

And then always the last night. “I can’t keep doing this.” That line replayed more than anything else.

Just that calm, final exhaustion in your voice when you chose yourself over him. And he would turn on his side and press a fist against his mouth like it could stop the sound of it sitting in his head. It really didn’t.

He tried to move on in the way people told him to. Focus on work, meet new people, talk more, act normal. But nothing stuck. Because every conversation felt like it had a ghost sitting next to it.

He’d laugh at something and then immediately think — you would’ve laughed differently. He’d meet someone and realize he wasn’t present in the moment, just comparing silence to yours. And that made him feel worse.

Not because he wanted to replace you, but because he couldn’t.

One evening, he found himself back near your old street. He didn’t plan it… That was the lie his brain tried to tell him. Lie, lie, lie— Was he really such a liar?

The air was colder than he remembered. Or maybe he was just noticing it more now. He stopped a block away from your building and didn’t go any closer. Just stood there like an idiot with too much memory in his chest.

For a moment, he thought about walking up. Just to see. Just to check up on you.

And then reality hit him clean and sharp: There was nothing to go back to. Not anymore. Not because you hated him. Not because he stopped caring.

But because you had been serious when you said it. And that was the part that stayed with him the most. You didn’t leave in anger. You left in clarity. You left the city in humiliation— All because he hurt you. He found out about you moving away through social media. He made an anonymous account just to check your socials.

He sat on the edge of a low wall nearby for a long time that night. Phone in his hand. Thumb hovering over your contact that didn’t exist there anymore. And he let out a shaky laugh under his breath.

“Yeah,” he muttered to no one. “Okay.” Like he was talking back to something inside him that refused to accept it.

But even after all of that— Even after months of distance, silence, and routine pretending to be healing— There were still nights where he’d sit on the floor of his dorm room, back against the bed, staring at nothing, and think: “I lost you because I couldn’t tell the truth fast enough.”

And the worst part? He still didn’t know how to stop loving you quietly.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: For all the re2 leon lovers. My babeh;(I’ve been reading lots of fics with Leon, and I’ve noticed that it’s always the big age gaps where Leon is the older one. I wanted to try something else.

(Divider credits: @/cursed-carmine)

[holyurtadamn]

make love

[graysonsshirt]

I don’t blame you, but I can't change you.

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Pairing: re2!leonkennedy x f!reader

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Summary: After miserable experience in relationships, Leon feels himself desperate for someone to have a deep connection with. But was the connection worth lying about Leon’s age to someone he had fallen for?

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Warnings: Angst, age gap (leon is 21, reader is in her 30s), miscommunication, slightly suggestive, lies and more lies, leon is an yearner, a pathetic one too, leon is an ugly crier, i love him hes my baby he’s a little dickhead just for plot.

Just to clarify! I’m not against age gap in a relationship as long as both of the people are legal adults <3 This is simple fanfiction that wouldn’t really match the same situation in reality. The ending my feel a little rushed, so feel free to skip it and keep it simple.

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Song: BLUE by Billie Eilish

⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Word count: 5,7k (5,769 words)

Early mornings, cold showers, bruised knuckles, hours buried in textbooks about criminal law and procedure—

He handled all of it like it was second nature. Becoming a cop wasn’t just a goal — it was the goal. The one thing in his life that made sense, that felt stable, that didn’t slip through his fingers the moment he started to care too much.

Because everything else? Yeah… not so much. Relationships, for example.

He’d had… what, two? Maybe three if he counted that awkward almost-thing in his senior year. The first girl liked him because he was “nice”—which really meant he listened more than he spoke and let her talk about her problems without ever asking for anything in return. She left when she got bored. Said he was “too intense” when he finally tried to open up.

The second one liked the idea of him. The future cop, the dependable guy, the one who’d “take care of things.” But Leon wasn’t there yet — he was still struggling, still figuring himself out. And when she realized he wasn’t some already-formed hero, just a 21-year-old kid trying his best? She drifted. Found someone easier. Someone has already finished. That one hurt more than he’d ever admit out loud.

So yeah. Leon learned. He learned to keep his head down. To focus. To push everything soft and needy and wanting somewhere deep inside his chest where it couldn’t mess with his plans. But wanting doesn’t really disappear. It just… waits.

It always hit him the hardest at the worst times. Like that one evening.

He was in a small café, the kind with warm lighting and too many plants by the window, sitting hunched over his notes in a baggy hoodie that still smelled faintly like rain. His coffee had gone cold — again — because he’d forgotten to drink it while rereading the same paragraph for the fifth time. And then they walked in. A couple.

Nothing movie-like. Just… real. She laughed at something quiet he said, her hand brushing his arm as it belonged there. He pulled her chair out without thinking, fingers lingering at her shoulder for just a second too long. They shared a dessert— one fork, slow bites, eyes meeting like there was some private conversation happening that no one else could hear. It was small, simple, effortless. And it hit Leon like a punch straight to the chest.

He stared a second too long before forcing his eyes back down, but it didn’t help. He could still hear them— soft laughter, the murmur of voices, the kind of closeness that didn’t need to be loud to fill a room.

God, he wanted that. Not the grand stuff. Not fireworks or anything dramatic. Just… someone to sit across from him like that. Someone who’d look at him like he mattered in a way that wasn’t about expectations or potential or what he could become.

Someone who’d just… choose him. His vision blurred slightly, and he blinked fast, jaw tightening.

“Get it together,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

It felt stupid. Overreacting over strangers. Over something so basic.

But it still hurt.

He met you a week later. Not in some dramatic, life-changing way. No music swelling, no perfect timing.

He was rushing out of the subway, late, distracted, backpack half-zipped with papers sticking out, when he collided straight into you.

“Shit—sorry!” he blurted instantly, hands coming up as he could somehow catch the moment before it happened. A few of his papers slipped free, scattering at your feet.

And then— You laughed. Not annoyed. Not irritated. Just amused. 

“It’s okay,” you said, crouching down to help him gather everything like it wasn’t a big deal at all.

Leon froze for half a second. Because you were— God. Not in a flashy way. Not in a trying-too-hard way. But naturally beautiful. The kind that didn’t need effort, that settled into every little expression, every movement. Calm. Confident. Warm.

And when you handed him his papers back, your fingers brushed his — and that was it. Something clicked. Something quiet but real.

“Thanks,” he said, voice just a little too soft. And the moment you smiled, Leon was smitten.

You talked. Casually at first. Then longer. Then somehow it became a habit: running into each other, lingering conversations, small jokes that turned into shared ones.

It felt easy. Like that couple in the café. Like something he wasn’t used to but had always wanted. So yeah, he looked you up.

He wasn’t proud of how long it took him to work up the nerve, scrolling through your social media like it was some kind of treasure map. But when he finally sent that message — awkward, polite, overthought to death — and you said yes? Leon swore his heart almost gave out.

There was just one problem. You were thirty.

And Leon? Leon was twenty-one.

Still in the academy. Still figuring things out. Still… young. Too young, he thought. Too young for you. Too inexperienced. Too unfinished. What if he talked too much? What if he didn’t talk enough? What if you realized halfway through that he wasn’t… enough? So he lied.

Comfortable silence stretched between you for a few seconds, the kind that didn’t feel empty. Then you leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other.

“So how old are you, Leon?” It was casual. Almost an afterthought. Like it didn’t really matter.

But his stomach still dropped just a fraction. He didn’t show it. Didn’t let it reach his face.

“Twenty-seven,” he said smoothly, like he’d said it a hundred times before. There wasn’t even a pause.

You blinked once, then gave a small amused smile. “Twenty-seven, huh? You’ve got a baby face, you know that?”

God, he laughed so easily around you — and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I get that a lot.,” he added quickly, trying to sound relaxed. “I started the academy a bit later than most people. Took me a while to figure things out.”

“That makes sense,” you said, nodding slowly, like you accepted it without resistance. And just like that—

It stayed. No suspicion. No further digging. Just you sipping your drink like the conversation continued naturally from there.

Leon felt something in his chest loosen and tighten at the same time.

Because lying should’ve felt worse.

And just like that… It worked. You didn’t pull away. Didn’t reconsider. Didn’t look at him like he was something temporary.

He tried to justify it. It wasn’t a huge lie, right? Just a few years. It wasn’t like he was pretending to be someone completely different. Everything else was real— his feelings, his effort, the way he looked at you like you were something he’d been waiting for without even realizing it.

But still.

Every time you smiled at him like that— Every time you touched his arm, leaned a little closer, trusted him— There was this tight, aching knot in his chest.

Because he knew. If you found out… He might lose it. Lose you. And Leon wasn’t sure he could handle that. Not after finally, finally finding something that felt like this.

Were relationships supposed to feel like this? Like waking up and immediately thinking of someone before you even fully open your eyes. Like carrying their voice in your head all day. Like doing push-ups at the academy and suddenly remembering the way you laugh, and nearly losing focus because your chest gets too tight with it.

But that’s exactly what it was. You became routine. You became home. And Leon? He became someone completely different around you.

He had a girlfriend now. His girlfriend. It sounded unreal in his head sometimes, like a word he borrowed from someone else’s life. And he loved you— God, he loved you in that quiet, aching way that never really turned off. It was in everything he did. The way he texted you good morning even when he had no time. The way he showed up at your place after exhausting academy days like it was the only place his body remembered how to relax. The way he looked at you when you weren’t paying attention, like he was trying to memorize you in case something ever took you away.

Your dates weren’t extravagant. They didn’t need to be! Sometimes it was cafés again— except now he wasn’t alone, buried in papers. Now he sat across from you, pretending to be normal while secretly watching how your fingers curled around your cup, how your eyes softened when you talked about your day.

Sometimes it was late-night walks, your shoulder brushing his, his jacket half draped over you because you always forgot something and he always “happened” to bring it.

Sometimes it was just your apartment. That became the center of everything.

Because Leon… didn’t have anywhere else. Not really.

The academy dorms were cramped, loud, too exposed. No privacy. No space to breathe. Strict rules. So slowly, without ever saying it out loud, your place became yours, as in both of yours.

Your couch had his hoodie on it. Your kitchen had his coffee mug. Your bathroom had his stupid shampoo that he insisted on bringing because “yours smells too floral.”

And you let it happen so naturally that it terrified him. Because it felt like he was being accepted into your life without you even realizing what kind of weight he was bringing with him.

Leon never left anything from the academy lying around. No papers, no files, no notebooks. If he brought something home by accident, he panicked more than he should’ve, quickly shoving it into his bag like it was dangerous.

His wallet stayed hidden. Always in his pocket. Always turned away from you.

His schedule? “Messy.”

His place? “Not really ready for guests.”

His life outside you? Carefully blurred, carefully incomplete.

And every time you asked about it, he smiled too fast. Changed the subject too smoothly. Kissed you to distract you just a little too eagerly.

“Hey,” you’d say one evening, curled up beside him on your couch, your fingers playing idly with his sleeve, “when am I meeting your friends?”

Leon’s entire body would go still for half a second. Then he’d laugh. Too light and too quick. “They’re… kinda boring,” he said, brushing it off. “Nothing you’d like. Trust me.”

Or—

“Your parents seem nice,” you’d mention once, scrolling on your phone, completely unaware of how his heart dropped at the words. “They ever ask about me?”

And Leon would swallow. Smile. And lie.

“They’re busy. I… haven’t really told them much yet.” Always a reason. Always a delay. Always just out of reach.

And the worst part? He was happy.

Genuinely, stupidly, dangerously happy. He’d come home to you after long days of training, dropping his bag at the door like he was shedding the weight of the world. You’d open your arms without even thinking, and he’d melt into you like it was the only place he made sense.

You’d cook together sometimes—more like you cooking while he hovered behind you, stealing tastes and wrapping his arms around your waist like a habit he couldn’t break.

You’d tease him about how clingy he was. He’d just bury his face in your shoulder and mumble something like, “Don’t complain…” while his hand slowly lowered itself underneath your shorts.

And you wouldn’t. You never really complained.

At nights, everything slowed down and it felt like the world outside your apartment didn’t exist. Leon would lie beside you, staring at the ceiling, listening to your breathing even out as you drifted closer to sleep.

And he’d think— This can’t be real. Because someone like you shouldn’t exist in his life like this: beautiful. Calm. Older. Grounded. Sure of yourself in a way he still wasn’t. And yet you were there, next to him. Choosing him. Touching him like he wasn’t temporary. It made something inside him twist every single time.

He was affectionate. Very. Too much, sometimes. Hands always finding you. Forehead pressed to yours when no one was looking. Kisses that lingered longer than they should have because he couldn’t quite get enough of you.

He wanted you constantly. Not just physically— though that was there too, undeniable and raw in a way he didn’t always know how to handle— but emotionally.

He wanted all of your attention, your approval, your presence. Like if he lost it, he’d lose something essential in himself too.

Because in his mind… he would lose you. He told himself his lie was temporary. Just until he graduated. Just until things settled. Just until he figured out how to fix the gap between who he said he was and who he actually was. But the longer it went on, the heavier it got.

Leon felt like he was living two truths at once: one where he was finally happy, and other one where it could all collapse if you ever looked too closely.

It was one of those nights that didn’t feel like it belonged to real life. Rain tapping softly against the window. Warm light spilling across your apartment like honey. The air is slightly messy in the way only shared spaces become.

Leon was sitting on the edge of your couch, sleeves pushed up, hair still a little damp from the shower. 

You were standing in front of him, barefoot, holding your phone loosely in one hand while talking about something completely random — some story from your day, half-laughing at your own words.

And Leon? He wasn’t even pretending to listen properly. He was just looking at you. Like he always did when he thought you weren’t noticing. Like he was memorizing you.

The way your expression shifted when you got excited. The way you leaned your weight onto one leg when you were relaxed. The way your voice softened when you were around him like this— safe, close, his.

“You should stop staring at me all the time, pretty boy,” you said suddenly, raising an eyebrow.

Leon blinked like he’d been caught doing something illegal. “I’m not,” he lied instantly. 

You smiled. That small, knowing smile that always made something in his chest loosen. “You totally are.” 

He exhaled a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I just like looking at you.” There it was.

You stepped closer, standing between his knees now, and Leon’s hands instinctively found your waist like they already knew where to go.“You’re cheesy,” you murmured, but there was no real complaint in it.

“Yeah?” he said softly. “You still like me though.”That made you laugh under your breath.

“Unfortunately.”

And then you leaned down first. Leon’s hands tightened at your waist as your lips met his, and for a second — just a second — he forgot everything else. The academy. The lies. The fear was sitting quietly at the back of his mind.

Because this was the part that made everything worth it.

The way you kissed him like you meant it. The way your fingers slid into his hair without hesitation. The way he always, always felt like he was finally breathing properly when you were this close.

He stood up without breaking the kiss, pulling you in fully now, and you made a quiet sound against his mouth that sent a sharp pulse through his chest.

“Leon…” you murmured against him, but you didn’t pull away. He didn’t either.

His forehead rested against yours for a moment, breath uneven, hands still holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. “I missed you today,” he admitted quietly.

You tilted your head slightly. “You saw me last night.”

“Still.” That made you soften in a way that always got him. 

“That’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, almost smiling. “For you.” And then you kissed him again. Deeper this time. Slower.

The kind of kiss that made time feel like it was slipping out of your hands without asking permission. Leon guided you back toward the couch without thinking, like his body already knew this rhythm— like you’d done this a thousand times before in a thousand quiet nights just like this.

Your fingers tugged lightly at his shirt, and he let out a breath that sounded too real, too soft. Everything about him softened around you.

All that discipline, all that tension, all that carefully built structure he kept for the outside world — it all melted when you touched him like this. Like he was already yours.

And that’s exactly what made it dangerous.Because the truth doesn’t usually explode. It slips unexpectedly and quietly.

It happened in the middle of everything being too soft to notice danger. You shifted slightly on the couch, reaching for his face again, fingers brushing his jaw like you loved doing when he got too quiet.

And he laughed under his breath, catching your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to your palm.

“You’re distracting,” you whispered.

“Good,” he murmured back. Then he moved slightly — just enough — and some scrunched bills and a card slipped from his pocket onto the floor with a dull sound.

Neither of you paid attention at first. Not until you noticed the Leon’s face on the card. 

And Leon— Leon froze so hard it was like the air left his lungs all at once. “No—wait,” he said instantly, too fast.

But you were already leaning down to pick it. How could you not? You have a gorgeous boyfriend whom you just love to tease. Teasing him over a photo is a natural thing.

But the room didn’t feel warm anymore. Your fingers held it lightly at first, eyes scanning out of habit— And then stopping completely.

Because there it was. Name. Photo. And a date that didn’t make sense with what he told you. Not even close.

Your expression didn’t change right away. That was the worst part. A moment where everything in you seemed to recalibrate.

First, it was just confusion. You were standing there with his document in your hand like it didn’t belong in your reality, like it had been dropped into the wrong story entirely. Your eyes kept flicking between the card and him, back and forth, like repetition could somehow fix what didn’t make sense.

“…No,” you said quietly at first, almost like you were testing the word. “No, that’s not— that’s not right.”

Leon flinched immediately. “Wait— please, just listen,” he rushed out, taking a step forward. “It’s not what it looks like.”

But you didn’t look at him right away. Not yet. You were still stuck there, your brain trying to solve something that refused to solve.

“Twenty-one,” you repeated slowly, like it was a foreign language. “You’re… twenty-one.”

Silence. That silence did it. Because it confirmed everything. And then came denial, sharp and quick. “No, no— this doesn’t make sense,” you shook your head slightly, still staring at the card. “You told me twenty-seven. You told me— you literally said it like it was nothing.”

Leon’s voice cracked instantly. “I know what I said— I know, I know, I just—”

“Why would you lie about that?” you cut in, finally looking up at him. And that’s where it started changing. Because now there was no confusion left.

Just him standing there. Not denying it anymore. And something inside you twisted. First anger — but not at him. At you. A bitter, sharp thing that rose fast.

“Oh my god,” you let out a short laugh that wasn’t humor at all. “Of course. Of course I let this happen.”

Leon froze. “What?”

You looked at him properly now, eyes sharper. “I let this happen,” you repeated, voice rising slightly. “I’m sitting here thinking I’m not stupid, I’m not careless, I’m not — whatever this is — and I’m dating a twenty-one-year-old who lied about his age.”

Leon stepped closer immediately, panic flashing across his face. “That’s not— I didn’t do it to hurt you, I swear—”

“You lied,” you said flatly. “That’s like, the biggest problem here.”

“I was scared!” he snapped suddenly, voice breaking in frustration. “I was scared you’d look at me like I was nothing! Like I was just some kid! You wouldn’t have even talked to me if I said the truth!”

“That’s not my problem,” you shot back instantly, and the words came out colder than intended. “That is not something you get to decide for me.”

Leon went still. But then something in him cracked too. “No—no, you don’t get it,” he said, voice shaking now, stepping forward again like he couldn’t help it. “I tried so hard. I did everything right. I studied, I worked, I— I just wanted a chance with you. That’s it. That’s all I wanted.”

Your breath caught slightly, but you didn’t move. He was shaking now.

“I didn’t think I was doing something evil,” he whispered, voice getting rougher. “I didn’t think I was… I just didn’t want to lose you before I even had you.”

“You still lied,” you said again, quieter now, but firm. “You still chose to start this with a lie.”

Leon shook his head fast. “I know— I know! — I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I just—“ And then it broke. Completely. His voice went uneven, and he stopped trying to hold it together.

“I didn’t want you to leave,” he choked out. “I didn’t want you to look at me and decide I wasn’t enough. I thought if I just—if I just acted older, if I just was enough in every other way, you’d stay.”

His hands came up to his face, wiping fast like he hated that it was happening.

But it didn’t stop. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said brokenly, voice cracking harder now. “I didn’t mean to— I swear I didn’t— I just didn’t know how to be real and still have you.” And now he was crying.

Standing there trying to breathe through it, shoulders shaking, eyes red and messy and completely unguarded. “I love you,” he said, like it was the only thing he could still say properly. “I love you so much it hurts and I know that doesn’t fix anything but I— I don’t know how to lose you.”

Your body didn’t know what to do with itself. Because there was a version of this where age was just… age. A weird gap, maybe, something to talk through. Something to decide about together.

But that version died the second he lied. And now everything felt tangled. Wrong in a way that didn’t have a clean answer.

He was still on the edge of the couch, not even sitting properly anymore— like his legs had given out somewhere between explaining and breaking down. Hands still half covering his face, breath uneven, shoulders shaking in small, exhausted waves.

“Please…” he said again, quieter now, voice wrecked. “Don’t—don’t do this. I’ll fix it. I’ll do anything, just—please don’t push me away.”

Those words should’ve made it easier. But they didn’t. They made it worse.

Because you could see it so clearly now— how young he actually was under everything he tried to build around himself. How badly he was holding on. How much of this wasn’t manipulation, but panic. Fear. Attachment he didn’t know how to control.

And that was the problem. That was the exact problem. You finally moved, slowly, setting the card down on the table like it weighed too much to hold anymore. Your hands felt distant from your body.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” you said quietly.

Leon looked up immediately, eyes red, desperate. “We don’t have to end it— we can talk about it, I swear, I’ll be honest now, I—”

“Stop,” you said, not loud, but firm enough that it cut through him. He went silent instantly.

You exhaled, shaky, dragging a hand through your hair like you were trying to organize thoughts that refused to stay still. “I don’t even know what would’ve happened if you told me the truth,” you admitted, voice lower now. “Maybe I would’ve walked away. Maybe I wouldn’t have even given you a chance.”

His face twisted at that, like it physically hurt to hear.

“But I’ll never know that,” you continued, looking at him now, really looking at him. “Because you didn’t give me the truth. You gave me… something else.”

Leon’s voice came out broken. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

“That’s not a reason,” you said immediately, and there it was again— no anger now, just exhaustion under it. “That’s not a reason to decide for me.”

He wiped his face quickly, but it didn’t help much. He was still falling apart in small, helpless ways.

And you felt it—that pull. That horrible, conflicting pull. Because he was still here in front of you like this. Still begging. Still looking at you like you were the only stable thing he had ever had.

And for a second, you almost hated how human that made everything feel. You looked away.

Your voice came out softer, but it didn’t lose its edge. “I can’t keep doing this,” you said.

His head snapped up immediately. “No—please, just—”

“I can’t,” you repeated, more steady now, even if it hurt to say it. “Not like this.”

You swallowed, breath uneven now, but you pushed through it anyway. “You need to leave,” you said quietly. “Please. Just… go.”

The room went completely still. Even his breathing seemed to stop for a second.

“What?” he whispered.

And it wasn’t anger now. No, he didn’t have any right to be angry. It was disbelief. Like he hadn’t fully processed that this was actually happening.

You didn’t repeat it louder. You didn’t soften it either. “I need you to leave my apartment,” you said again, voice steadier than you felt. “I can’t do this tonight. I can’t do this like this.”

Leon stared at you like he was trying to find a version of you that would undo it. His lips parted, then closed again. Like there were a hundred things he wanted to say and none of them were strong enough to fix it.

“I…” his voice broke again, quieter. “I don’t want to go.” He turned back.

You were still standing there in the middle of the room, arms crossed loosely now like you were holding yourself together out of habit more than strength.

Leon shook his head, breathing unevenly again. “I can fix this,” he said fast. Too fast. “I can explain everything properly. Not just the age—everything. I swear, I can make you understand.”

“Please,” he added, stepping back inside without fully realizing it. “Just—don’t decide this right now. Don’t decide it like this.”

“I already did,” you said quietly. That should’ve stopped him. It didn’t. Because panic doesn’t listen to logic. It just spills. And something in him snapped right there.

A short, breathless laugh left him. Not humor. It was cracked and sharp and completely wrong for the situation. “Okay—okay, you want honesty?” he said suddenly, voice shaking but louder now. “You want everything? Fine.”

He ran a hand through his hair like he was trying to hold himself together physically. “I didn’t just lie about my age,” he blurted. “I lie all the time. I lie to my instructors when I’m exhausted, I lie when I say I’m fine when I’m not—”

He laughed again, harder this time, like it was spilling out uncontrollably. “And I panic,” he continued, words rushing now. “I panic all the time. I overthink everything you say. I rehearse conversations before I see you because I’m terrified I’m going to say something wrong and you’ll just— leave—”

He took a step forward, then stopped himself like he didn’t even know where to put his body.

“I used to cry after training when I thought I wasn’t good enough,” he admitted suddenly, voice breaking differently. “Like— actual crying. I’d sit in the bathroom and think maybe I’m just not built for this. For anything.”

Another laugh slipped out, but it sounded like it hurt him. “And I don’t have anything stable,” he said, voice rising slightly, more desperate now. “No real place, no real life outside of all of this, and then you showed up and it finally felt like— like I wasn’t just floating around waiting to fail at something—”

His breathing was uneven again.

“I love you,” he said abruptly, like it physically had to come out. “I love you so much it makes me insane and I know that sounds pathetic but it’s true and I don’t know how to stop feeling it.”

And then he went quiet again, chest rising and falling too fast. Like he’d run out of himself.

Something in your face shifted—not anger. Not confusion anymore. Just… deep exhaustion mixed with something softer underneath it. Because it was all there now. Unfiltered. Messy. Too much. And still not enough to erase what happened.

You exhaled slowly. “Leon…” you said quietly.

He looked at you immediately like it was the first real breath he’d taken in minutes.

Your voice shook a little when you continued, but you didn’t look away.

“I care about you,” you said. “So much it’s actually… painful right now.” His expression changed instantly—hope flickering back like a reflex. But you didn’t let it grow.

“That’s why this can’t stay here,” you added softly.

His face fell. “No— please,” he whispered again, stepping forward, voice breaking. “Don’t do that. Don’t say you care and then still—”

“I do care,” you cut in, firmer now, but still controlled. “That’s the problem.” You swallowed, looking at him properly. “You’re not okay,” you said quietly. “And I can’t be the place you fall apart in like this.”

“I’m not falling apart,” he tried weakly.

Your voice softened again, almost breaking at the edges now. “I love you,” you said. That froze him completely.

“I really do,” you repeated, slower. “That’s why I need you to leave.”

He stared at you like the words didn’t match. Like love should’ve meant something else. Something that kept him there.

But this time, you didn’t take it back. You just stood there, steady in a way that hurt more than yelling ever could.

And Leon — still shaking, still wrecked, still not understanding how it all turned so fast — finally realized that it’s his own fault. 

Months passed in a way that didn’t feel clean or linear. Like time didn’t heal anything, it just piled more days on top of the same bruise until it stopped bleeding on the surface but still hurt if you pressed it too hard. Leon didn’t stop thinking about you.

He still showed up at the academy. Still trained. Still passed drills and exams and ran until his lungs burned like it was supposed to make everything inside him quieter. But it didn’t. Because there were those small, annoying moments that kept reminding him of you.

Like walking past a café and instinctively looking for your table. Like hearing a laugh in a crowd that sounded almost like yours and freezing for half a second before reality corrected him. Like sitting in a lecture hall and suddenly remembering how your fingers used to trace idle shapes on his wrist when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

And every time, it hit the same way.

The nights were worse. His dorm room was too small for silence. His roommate was already exhausted of Leon. 

He’d lie on his back staring at the ceiling, arms folded over his chest like he was trying to hold himself together without falling apart again. And it would come back in fragments.

Your voice saying his name softly when you were half-asleep. The way you looked at him when you were trying not to laugh. The way you went quiet when you were thinking. The way your apartment felt like it had warmth in it that didn’t come from the heating.

And then always the last night. “I can’t keep doing this.” That line replayed more than anything else.

Just that calm, final exhaustion in your voice when you chose yourself over him. And he would turn on his side and press a fist against his mouth like it could stop the sound of it sitting in his head. It really didn’t.

He tried to move on in the way people told him to. Focus on work, meet new people, talk more, act normal. But nothing stuck. Because every conversation felt like it had a ghost sitting next to it.

He’d laugh at something and then immediately think — you would’ve laughed differently. He’d meet someone and realize he wasn’t present in the moment, just comparing silence to yours. And that made him feel worse.

Not because he wanted to replace you, but because he couldn’t.

One evening, he found himself back near your old street. He didn’t plan it… That was the lie his brain tried to tell him. Lie, lie, lie— Was he really such a liar?

The air was colder than he remembered. Or maybe he was just noticing it more now. He stopped a block away from your building and didn’t go any closer. Just stood there like an idiot with too much memory in his chest.

For a moment, he thought about walking up. Just to see. Just to check up on you.

And then reality hit him clean and sharp: There was nothing to go back to. Not anymore. Not because you hated him. Not because he stopped caring.

But because you had been serious when you said it. And that was the part that stayed with him the most. You didn’t leave in anger. You left in clarity. You left the city in humiliation— All because he hurt you. He found out about you moving away through social media. He made an anonymous account just to check your socials.

He sat on the edge of a low wall nearby for a long time that night. Phone in his hand. Thumb hovering over your contact that didn’t exist there anymore. And he let out a shaky laugh under his breath.

“Yeah,” he muttered to no one. “Okay.” Like he was talking back to something inside him that refused to accept it.

But even after all of that— Even after months of distance, silence, and routine pretending to be healing— There were still nights where he’d sit on the floor of his dorm room, back against the bed, staring at nothing, and think: “I lost you because I couldn’t tell the truth fast enough.”

And the worst part? He still didn’t know how to stop loving you quietly.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: For all the re2 leon lovers. My babeh;(I’ve been reading lots of fics with Leon, and I’ve noticed that it’s always the big age gaps where Leon is the older one. I wanted to try something else.

(Divider credits: @/cursed-carmine)