now that I think about it, omegaverse kinda misogynistic.
Because the omega role is often written like sexist stereotypes about women (emotional, submissive, “made” for breeding/caregiving) it also treats dominance and submission as biological, which is a common sexist idea. A lot of it romanticizes controlling behavior and power imbalances. The consent in heat tropes can get really questionable. Even in mlm stories, the dynamics often copy traditional patriarchal gender roles.
Crazy how normalized misogyny is to the point where we cant even fucking see it anymore.
I've always thought omegaverse IS weird but the more I see it? Its true colors is showing.
Series Masterlist
AO3
Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x reader
Summary: Leon S. Kennedy has a type. He knows it, Hunnigan knows it, and the various biological nightmares he fights probably know it too. He's always drawn to dangerous women with way too many secrets. Finding you in the Amazon while tracking a BOW dealer should have been a red flag. Instead, it’s a breath of fresh air. As the two of you forge an unlikely alliance to survive the jungle, Leon finds himself less worried about the mission and more worried about the fact that he actually likes your brand of crazy.
Content 18+, graphic descriptions of violence, blood and injury, second person POV, no use of Y/N, slow burn, reluctant allies, hurt/comfort, angst, trauma, mutual pining, romantic/sexual tension, original lore and characters mentioned, redemption arc, grief, guilt, Leon is awkward around women, bad flirting, morally grey reader
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The deeper you go into Konstantin’s playground, the more the air feels like it’s being sucked out of the room. You round a corner into a room that isn't a lab—not in the biological sense.
There are no vats here, no dripping fluids. Instead, the walls are lined with sleek, black servers and high-resolution monitors displaying a dizzying array of data.
It’s an archive. But as the screens flicker to life under your touch, you realize they aren't tracking viral loads or mutation rates. They’re tracking people.
"Asset 74-Delta: Psych-evaluation. Disposition: High lethality. Emotional threshold: Minimal."
You freeze, your hand hovering over the keyboard. You know that phrasing. You know that specific, sterile way of grading a human soul as if it were a grade of beef.
Leon steps up beside you, his shadow falling across the glowing screen. He’s silent for a long moment, his eyes scanning the metrics.
"These aren't BOWs," Leon says, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register.
He points to a series of grainy surveillance clips playing on a loop—children, no older than ten, being put through grueling tactical drills in a white-walled room. "They're training kids. Indoctrinating them. Turning them into weapons before they even hit puberty."
He hits the desk with the side of his fist, a sudden burst of repressed anger that makes the monitors rattle. "It’s a factory for sociopaths. Look at this... they track 'empathy' like it’s a glitch in the software. Something to be patched out."
Patch it out. Lock the girl in the dark room. Don't look at the eyes.
The echoes of your own training scream in the back of your mind. You feel a cold, oily slick of sweat break out at the base of your neck.
You’re standing right next to him, pretending to be a horrified observer, while your own 'grading sheet' is probably sitting in a folder three layers deep in this very system.
"Assassins," Leon spits, the word sounding like a curse. "The Connections... they didn't just steal their lives. They erased them. Imagine the kind of person who could do this to a child."
"Yeah," you murmur, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears. "Hard to imagine."
Liars go to hell, the little girl in the dark corner of your mind whispers. And you're a world-class athlete in the lying department.
You find yourself staring at a specific screen. It shows a list of 'decommissioned' assets. Names that aren't names—just numbers and codenames.
One of them is Ghost. The status is listed as 'Unknown/Defected.' You stare at the blinking cursor next to the word Ghost, and for a second, the room seems to tilt.
You can almost feel the weight of the sniper rifle in Prague. You can see the Kaiser’s blood staining your boots.
Leon’s voice saying your name breaks through the fog. You realize you’ve been standing perfectly still for nearly a minute, your eyes fixed on the screen with a thousand-yard stare.
He steps into your line of sight, his brow furrowed with concern. "You’re white as a sheet. You okay? This place is... it’s a lot to take in."
You blink, forcing the little girl back into her room. You offer him a jagged, shaky little smile—the kind that’s mostly teeth and no heart.
"Just having a little flashback to my own career day," you quip, though the sarcasm lacks its usual punch. "I think the guidance counselor forgot to mention 'international assassin' as a viable vocation. Probably would've had better benefits than retail."
Leon doesn't buy it. Not for a second. He doesn't move away; instead, he steps closer, his blue eyes searching yours with a terrifyingly gentle intensity. "You’ve got that look again. The one where you're trying to figure out how much of the world is your fault."
You let out a jagged breath, the weight of the secret in your chest becoming almost unbearable. You’re tired of the mask. You’re tired of the lying.
"I'm just... buried under tons of guilt, Kennedy," you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. You look at your hands, the ones he thinks are so capable. "I'm trying to claw my way out of a very deep hole. Sometimes I think the dirt is just going to keep falling back in."
Leon doesn't say anything for a moment. He doesn't ask what you’ve done. He doesn't ask for a confession. He just reaches out and places a hand on your shoulder. He squeezes, his grip firm and warm, anchoring you to the present.
It’s a simple, human gesture, but in this room full of stolen humanity, it feels like a brand. It feels like he’s claiming you, not as an asset, but as a person.
"We'll claw our way out together," he promises, his voice low and absolute. "I’ve got a shovel, and I’m pretty good at digging. We finish this, we stop Konstantin, and we leave the dirt behind. Both of us."
You look up at him, and for a split second, the cracks in your armor are wide open. You see the sincerity in his eyes, the way he looks at you like you’re something worth saving. It makes you want to scream. It makes you want to run.
He’s promising to help a monster reach the surface, you think bitterly. He’s holding the hand that ended lives.
"You're a real Boy Scout, aren't you, Leon?" you whisper, your voice cracking.
"I try," he says, a hint of a tired, awkward smile appearing. "I think I lost my merit badges somewhere, but I still remember the code."
He lets go of your shoulder, but the warmth remains.
You turn back to the monitors, your fingers flying across the keys with a renewed, desperate energy. You have to find Konstantin. You have to end this. Because the longer you stay in this room with Leon Kennedy, the more you start to believe that his promise might actually be true—and that is the most dangerous lie of them all.
──────•✦•──────
2001, Singapore
The world of the high-stakes underground doesn't run on money; it runs on whispered legends, and you’ve spent the last five years becoming the most terrifying bedtime story the cartel bosses have ever heard.
You are currently perched on a narrow, precarious ledge twenty stories above the humid, neon-soaked streets of Singapore.
Your fingers—miracles of science and steady nerves—don't have prints. The Connections saw to that. They burned them off with acid when you were sixteen, a little "welcome to the team" gift that ensured you’d never leave a trace on a glass or a trigger.
You are a biological blank space. No past to haunt you, no future to plan for.
Your target is a human trafficker named Vane, a man who thinks he’s safe behind three layers of reinforced plexiglass and a small army of guards. He’s currently laughing, pouring a glass of champagne that costs more than a decent car.
"Target in sight," you murmur into your comms. Your voice is a low, melodic silk that betrays absolutely nothing of the girl who once cried over a stolen chocolate in Moscow.
"Take him out, Ghost," Konstantin’s voice crackles in your ear, distant and demanding. "The client is getting impatient."
"Impatience is such an ugly trait, Konstantin," you whisper back, your finger resting lightly on the trigger. "Tell them to have another shrimp cocktail. Quality takes time."
You don't think about Vane as a person. If you did, you might wonder if he has a mother, or a dog, or a favorite color. Instead, you look at him as a mathematical problem to be solved.
Velocity, wind resistance, the rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat. You lock the 'Moscow Girl' in her dark corner, clicking the door shut. She doesn't need to see the way a high-velocity round interacts with a human skull.
You exhale, the world slowing down until you can hear the hum of the neon signs behind you.
Squeeze.
The rifle kicks—a sharp, familiar punch against your shoulder. Through the scope, you watch the plexiglass spiderweb. Vane’s head snaps back, and the champagne glass shatters against the floor, a spray of gold and crimson. He’s dead before he hits the rug.
"Client satisfied," you mutter, already breaking down the rifle with the mechanical speed and precision of a watchmaker. "Send the wire. I’ve got a date with a bathtub and a very long nap."
You earn your nickname—Ghost—because you leave nothing behind. No DNA, no casings, no witnesses.
You’ve killed in the gilded ballrooms of Paris, the sweat-soaked jungles of the Congo, and the sterile labs of Umbrella-adjacent startups.
Your renown grows in the shady corners of the web; people trade stories of the specter who can bypass any biometric lock and vanish into thin air.
But sometimes, when the job is done and you’re sitting in a nameless hotel room staring at your smooth, featureless fingertips, a wave of empathy hits you like a physical blow. You think about the senselessness of it all.
The body count keeps climbing, a mountain of meat you’ve built for the Kaiser, and for what? A bigger bank account you can’t even use under your own name?
You once spent three hours after a hit in London sitting in a park, watching a woman feed pigeons.
You’d just put a bullet through a man’s heart three blocks away, and yet, you found yourself wanting to go over and help her pick up a dropped crust of bread.
The gentle part of you—the part Konstantin tried to patch out of your software—is a stubborn little thing. It refuses to die.
"Ghost, report to safehouse Bravo for debrief," Konstantin’s voice interrupts your thoughts.
"On my way, Papa," you say, the sarcasm a bitter tang on your tongue. "Hope you picked up those books I asked for. I’m starting to think the only thing more boring than killing people is talking about it afterward."
You vanish into the crowd, a beautiful, striking woman that no one actually sees.
You have no fingerprints, no past, no future. Just a price tag that keeps going up, and a soul that is slowly, quietly, starting to rattle the bars of its cage.
──────•✦•──────
2011, Bolivia
The ventilation control room is a cramped, metallic box that smells of stale air and scorched copper. It’s the first time in hours you haven’t had a firearm grafted to your palm, and the silence that follows the mechanical whir of the fans is almost physical. It presses against your eardrums, heavy and suffocating.
Leon is slumped against a bank of monitors, his head tilted back. The blue light from the screens leaches the color from his skin, making the shadows under his eyes look like bruises. He looks human. Dangerously human.
Careful, your brain whispers. If you look at him too long, you might start thinking this is a team-up and not a slow-motion car crash.
You’re sitting on a stack of floor grates, your legs dangling. To fill the void, you find yourself talking.
Not about the mission, not about the gore on your boots, but about a dog.
"Have you ever heard of Laika?" you ask. Your voice sounds strange in the small room—softer than you intended.
Leon cracks one eye open, shifting his weight. "The Soviet space dog? Vaguely. High school history or a trivia night I drank through. Why? You planning a career change to the space program?"
You offer a small, jagged smile, but your eyes stay on your hands—those smooth, fingerprint-less tips. "One of the scientists, Vladimir Yazdovsky... he took her home before the launch. He wanted her to play with his kids. He wanted her to have something good before he put her in a metal tin and shot her into the vacuum to suffocate."
Leon frowns, his brow furrowing in that way that makes him look like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. "That's... grim. Even for you."
"I was just wondering," you continue, leaning back against the wall. "Did the dog think she finally found a home? When she was chasing those kids in the garden, did she think the hunt was over? Or do you think, deep down in those animal instincts, she knew the truth? That the hand giving her the treats was the same one that was going to lock the hatch?"
Leon exhales a long, weary breath. He rubs his face, the stubble rasping against his palm. "It’s just a dog. It was a different time. It was for science. Progress usually requires a sacrifice, even if it’s a shitty one."
The word science hangs in the air like a bad smell.
"Science," you repeat, the word tasting like copper on your tongue.
You look at the monitors—the ones displaying the twisted, gnarled remains of the people in the laboratory below.
"That's probably the same justification the people who make these BOWs use. 'It’s for the future. It’s for progress. It’s just a biological asset.'"
Leon shifts, his eyes fully open now, fixed on you. "That's different. We’re talking about monsters. Not a stray off the street."
"Are we?" You tilt your head, your expression playful but your eyes cold. "The Connections pick up strays all the time. They give them names, they give them 'homes,' and then they send them out to see how long they last before they break. It’s all very scientific."
You feel the weight of the feral animal pressing against your ribs.
You think of the chocolate Konstantin gave you in the snow. You think of the books. You think of the way he called you a good girl after you snapped your first neck.
You’re projecting again, your brain chides. Stop trying to make the government agent feel your feelings. It’s messy.
"The dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn't," you say softly, more to yourself than to him. "It’s still a killer. The tears don't change the body count. They just make the killer feel better about the blood on their fur."
Leon stands up, the leather of his holster creaking. He walks over and stands in front of you, his shadow blotting out the blue light of the monitors. He looks like he wants to say something—something heroic, something very 'Kennedy.'
"You aren't a dog," he says, his voice low and firm.
"Maybe not," you chirp, the sarcasm snapping back into place like a well-oiled bolt. "I’m much more expensive to maintain. And I have better hair."
You hop off the grates, brushing the dust from your trousers. The moment of vulnerability is over, tucked back into the dark corner where it belongs. You grab your rifle, checking the chamber with a satisfying click.
"Come on, Boy Scout," you say, flashing him a razor-sharp smile. "The 'science' isn't going to blow itself up. And I’d hate to keep Konstantin waiting for his performance review."
Leon watches you for a beat longer than necessary, his blue eyes searching yours for the girl who just talked about space dogs.
You don't let him find her.
You turn toward the vent, already calculating the distance to the next junction, the violent animal inside you firmly back in control. But as you crawl into the narrow shaft, the heat of his presence behind you feels a lot like a comfort you aren't allowed to have.
──────•✦•──────
The industrial sector of the complex is a vertical nightmare of rusted iron and churning machinery, steam hissing from burst pipes like the breath of some dying titan. Leon tracks your movement as you ghost along the upper catwalk, his brow furrowing.
He still can’t pin you down. You handle a rifle with the terrifying grace of a professional reaper, yet he’d watched you pause five minutes ago to close the eyes of a failed experiment—a disfigured remains of a man—with a gentleness that felt entirely too real.
Who are you? he wonders, his boots clanging softly on the metal grates. One second you’re a cold-blooded phantom, the next you’re the only person in this hellhole with a pulse that isn't a monster.
The answer is cut short by a structural groan that vibrates through the soles of his boots. From the shadows of the support pillars, a group of Lickers detaches themselves from the ceiling—blind, skinless horrors with tongues like muscular whips.
They don't scream; they just launch.
"Leon, look out!" you shout, and the world turns into a blur of high-velocity lead and screeching metal.
Leon slides into a crouch, his gun barking as he takes the head off a lunging creature, but the weight of the BOWs slamming into the supports is the final straw for the aging catwalk.
With a sound like a gunshot, the rusted bolts shear off. The section beneath your feet gives way, tilting violently toward the darkness of the lower pits—a churning sea of "failed" experiments and reaching, rotted hands.
Leon lunges, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He doesn't think. He doesn't calculate the risk.
He just throws himself across the widening gap, his fingers locking around your wrist with a grip that could crush bone. With a grunt of pure, stubborn effort, he hauls you upward, his boots skidding on the remaining steady ledge as he yanks you hard against his chest to keep you from sliding back into the abyss.
The impact is jarring. You hit him with a thud of tactical gear and soft breath, and for a long, heavy moment, the only sound is the distant hiss of steam and the frantic thrum of two hearts beating in sync.
He’s holding you so tight he can feel the heat of your skin through your shirt, your face tucked into the crook of his neck.
Adrenaline is a hell of a drug. It makes the world sharp, high-contrast, and entirely too small.
Leon’s breath is coming in ragged hitches. He looks down at you, his blue eyes wide and dark with a sudden, localized panic that has nothing to do with the monsters. You’re looking up at him, your lips parted, your hair a mess in the dim red emergency lights.
The proximity is a physical weight, a magnetic pull that he’s too exhausted—and too wired—to fight.
To hell with the mission, the feral animal in his chest whispers. To hell with the static.
He leans in. It’s desperate, a collision of two people trying to prove they’re still alive in a place designed to kill them. When his lips finally crash against yours, he tastes the salt on your skin and the faint, metallic tang of adrenaline, but beneath that, there’s a staggering warmth he wasn’t prepared for.
His hand, still trembling slightly, finds the curve of your jaw, his thumb dragging across your cheek as he tilts your head back to deepen the contact. He groans into the kiss—a low, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated relief—as your tongues tangle in a frantic, messy rhythm that makes his head spin.
For a heartbeat, the jungle, Konstantin, and the DSO don't exist. There is only the scorching pressure of your mouth against his, the soft, broken sound you make against his lips, and the way your fingers curl into the fabric of his tactical vest, pulling him closer as if you’re afraid he’ll turn back into a ghost if you let go.
Then, the "DSO Leon" kicks the "Human Leon" in the shins with the force of a tactical boot.
He pulls back sharply, the sudden absence of your heat feeling like a physical blow. His face flushes a deep, embarrassed crimson that he’s thankful the shadows mostly hide.
He lets out a breath that sounds like a punctured tire, his hands lingering on your shoulders for a second too long—the thumb of his right hand involuntarily stroking your collarbone—before he awkwardly clears his throat and takes a staggering step back.
"Sorry," he blurts out, looking everywhere but at your eyes. "That was... uh... highly unprofessional. Even for a guy who usually spends his Tuesdays being chased by monsters."
He steps back, almost tripping over a discarded pipe, his usual poise replaced by a fumbling, clunky kinetic energy. He checks his gun for the third time in ten seconds, his fingers trembling just a hair.
"Must be the humidity," he mutters, a dry, self-deprecating smirk flickering across his lips. "It does weird things to my head. Or maybe I just really needed a distraction from the pit of doom."
He offers you a hand, his gaze finally meeting yours again—soft, guarded, and undeniably curious. "You okay? Aside from the near-death experience and the... awkward workplace conduct?"
He wants to ask you a thousand questions. He wants to know why a killer kisses like someone who’s been starving for a gentle touch. But instead, he just adjusts his holster, the "static" in his head momentarily silenced by the memory of the heat of your skin.
"We should probably keep moving," he says, his voice regaining some of its steady, mission-ready baritone. "Before the local residents decide to come up here and ask for an encore."
──────•✦•──────
The central lab is a masterpiece of clinical arrogance. It’s all white tiles, humming centrifuges, and that sterile, recycled air that makes your lungs feel like they’re being packed in cotton.
But you aren't focused on the architecture. You’re focused on the fact that your lips still feel tingly, and your heart is currently trying to perform a drum solo against your ribs.
Focus, you absolute idiot, your inner monologue snaps, sounding remarkably like Konstantin on a bad day. You’re in the heart of a bio-weapon factory, and you’re blushing like a schoolgirl because a federal agent with nice hair decided to kiss you. Get it together.
Leon is moving beside you, his gun raised. He’s being very quiet—the kind of quiet that says he’s also replaying those ten seconds of "unprofessional conduct" on a loop. Every time his shoulder brushes yours, you both jerk away like you’ve been shocked.
It’s pathetic. It’s distracting. It’s going to get you killed.
"Looks like the brain of the operation," Leon mutters, gesturing to a massive, multi-screen console at the center of the room. He sounds a little too focused, his voice a pitch higher than usual. "Quiet. Too quiet. I've seen enough movies to know this is the part where the villain explains his evil plan over the speakers."
Right on cue, the PA system crackles to life. The sound is sharp, biting through the hum of the computers.
"I must admit, I’m impressed you made it this far," Konstantin’s voice echoes, rich and smooth, dripping with the kind of paternal condescension that makes your skin crawl. "Though I suppose I shouldn't be. I did raise you to be the best, after all."
Leon’s head whips toward you, his eyes narrowing. "Raise you?" he whispers, the word a question and a demand all at once.
You don't look at him. You can’t. You stare at the speaker on the wall, your fingers tightening around the grip of your rifle. The Ghost is back, locking the girl who just got kissed into the furthest, darkest corner of the cellar.
"Ah, the prodigal daughter returns," Konstantin continues, his laugh a dry, paper-thin sound. "Tell me, little wolf, did you miss the kennel? You look pathetic standing there next to a government lapdog. Is that what you’ve become? A pet?"
The word lapdog hangs in the air, cold and heavy. You feel Leon’s gaze burning into the side of your face—a mix of confusion, betrayal, and a sudden, sharp realization that the puzzle pieces don't fit.
You take a step toward the console, your movements fluid and predatory. You reach out and thumb the "talk-back" button on the desk.
"You always did talk too much, Konstantin," you say, your voice coming out as a low, dangerous purr. The playfulness is gone, replaced by a blunt, jagged edge. "And for the record? Lapdogs are the ones that go for the throat when you least expect it."
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. Then, Konstantin sighs—a sound of mock disappointment.
"Always so temperamental," he muses. "But I suppose I can’t have you interrupting the final phase. Since you're so fond of dogs, why don't you play with my latest litter? Consider this your final exam."
"Konstantin, wait—" you start, but the comms line cuts to static.
Suddenly, the floor beneath you begins to vibrate. At the far end of the lab, four massive, reinforced steel canisters hiss and begin to rise from the floor. The gas inside them vents into the room, obscuring the view of whatever is waking up inside. You hear the sound of glass shattering, followed by a roar that sounds like a choir of the damned.
The compound's apex BOWs. Things that were never human, designed for the sole purpose of ending whatever life they encounter.
"Leon!" you bark, finally looking at him.
He’s standing there, his gun lowered just an inch, his expression a mask of dawning horror. He’s looking at you and for the first time, he doesn't see an angel. He sees the "prodigal daughter" of a monster.
"You knew him," Leon says, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth from the catwalk. "He raised you."
"Later!" you scream as the first creature—a mass of elongated limbs and glistening, black chitin—bursts through the mist. "Shoot now, judge me when we aren't being eaten!"
Leon’s instincts kick in, but there’s a new stiffness to his movements. He raises his gun and fires, the roar of the gun filling the lab, but the bridge between you has just turned into a tightrope over a volcano.
This is it, you think bitterly as you dive behind a lab bench, rounds whistling over your head. The mask is off. The secret is out. And I’m pretty sure 'sorry' isn't going to cover this one.
the one thing that is stopping from writing a fanfic is my vocabulary and grammar. do i have to eat an entire dictionary for me to write AT LEAST 300 words
