summary: every instinct he had—every hardwired response shaped by years of survival—told him to treat this like a threat assessment. to anticipate. to prepare. to expect the worst before it had the chance to happen. but she wasn’t something he could outfight. she wasn’t something he could plan around or contain..
warnings: fluff. no smut. leon pov. unnamed female character referred to as she/her/wife.
words: 3.2k
notes: real talk. leon kennedy = absolute girl dad + best dad = overprotective dad. i've been asked why i don't write more fluff. please know, my happy triad is smut, fluff, angst. so enjoy this teeth rotting montage of leon leaning fatherhood. timeline wise, i'd say this is somewhere after re4:remake.
Leon learned fatherhood in pieces.
Not in chaos, not in blood-slick corridors, or the weight of a gun in his hand, not even in the big moments—the ones people took pictures of, the ones that made it into baby books. He learned it in quieter moments that felt, somehow, more dangerous. Moments where there was nothing to aim at. Nothing to fight. Just a small, fragile life placed into his arms, and the terrifying understanding that this—this mattered more than anything he had ever survived.
He learned fatherhood the way he'd learned survival—instinct first, understanding later.
Leon Scott Kennedy had faced bioweapons, cults, and governments that lied as easily as they breathed. But none of it prepared him for the first time his daughter wrapped her fingers around his thumb and refused to let go.
She was born on a rainy night.
Leon remembered the sound of it more than anything—the steady drum of rain against the hospital windows, constant, like a clock counting down toward something inevitable. It had filled the room, settled into the spaces between each breath, each passing second.
He stood beside the bed, awkward in a way that felt unfamiliar, his shoulders tense in a way no battlefield had ever managed. His hands hovered, uncertain, before settling at his sides, like he wasn't sure where they belonged. His gaze fixed on her—his wife—on the slow rise and fall of her chest, on the exhaustion etched into her features.
He'd been shot before. Stabbed. Thrown through glass hard enough to feel it for days after. He knew pain—how to meet it, how to endure it, how to push through it until it stopped mattering. None of it came close to this.
Standing there, waiting, held in place by something he couldn't force his way through. The helplessness of it settled deep in his bones, unwelcome. This was not a fight he could step into for her. Not something he could take onto himself, no matter how much he wanted to.
When the crying finally came—sharp, furious, alive—it hit him harder than any explosion ever had.
A nurse pressed the tiny bundle into his arms.
And he froze.
"Support her head," someone said, gentle but firm.
Right. Head. Important.
His hands, so steady with a firearm, felt clumsy now. Too big. Too rough for something so small. He adjusted, carefully—so fucking carefully—and then she was there. Her weight settling into his arms, warm and fragile, in a way that felt frighteningly certain. Like something inevitable. Like gravity.
She was small.
God, she was so small.
Her face was scrunched, red, furious at the world she'd just entered. A thin, indignant wail left her, and Leon—Leon, who had talked down infected villagers and negotiated with armed men—panicked.
"Hey—hey, it's okay," he said, his voice gentler than ever. "I've got you. I've got you, kid."
Kid. That word hit like a brick to the chest, lingering long after the blow.
Her crying wavered. Hitched once. Then paused. Slowly—unbelievably slowly—the sound faded into the quiet. Her tiny hand lifted, searching without aim until it brushed his chest. Her fingers closed in the fabric of his shirt, small and stubborn, and held on.
Something shifted in him that day.
Something permanent.
The first moment that broke him open wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't her birth. It wasn't her first cry. It wasn't even the first time he held her.
It was three days later.
He had been sitting on the couch, exhausted in a way that had little to do with lack of sleep. The house was quiet in the fragile way places sometimes were, like any sudden noise might shatter it. She was tucked against his chest, tiny and warm, her breath soft and steady where it brushed the fabric of his shirt.
Leon had been afraid to move.
Afraid to breathe too deeply.
Afraid to exist too loudly.
Then she made a sound—a small, content sigh—and curled her fingers into his shirt.
Not gripping.
Not searching.
Just holding.
He didn't make a sound. He didn't move. He just sat there, staring at the wall, feeling the weight of her—impossibly light, impossibly important—settle into him. And somewhere in that quiet, it became clear.
He would burn the world down before he let anything touch her.
The first time she laughed, he almost missed it.
He'd been sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, exhaustion pulling at him like gravity, settling into his bones like something ancient. She lay on a blanket beside him, kicking her feet and waving her arms in chaotic little bursts that never quite found a rhythm. Restless. Alive.
He wasn't doing anything special—just gently tapping her nose, over and over, because it made her eyes widen. But then she let out a small, startled giggle.
Leon froze.
Then she did it again.
And something inside him—something he hadn't known was still capable of warmth—lit up.
He smiled down at her. He didn't laugh with her. He didn't dare. He only watched, quiet and a little stunned, as if the moment might slip away if he touched it too directly.
It was such a small thing. But after everything he had seen and the horrors he had survived, it felt like a miracle.
He wasn't good at the quiet parts.
He could clear a building in under two minutes. He could field-strip a handgun blindfolded. He could talk down a panicked civilian with a calm that didn't belong to someone who'd seen what he'd seen.
But rocking a baby to sleep?
That was a battlefield he had no map for.
Some nights she slept fine. Others, she wailed like the world was ending. Leon would pace the hallway with her pressed against his shoulder, murmuring nonsense, trying to keep his voice steady.
"You're okay," he'd whisper, even when he wasn't sure he believed it. "I've got you."
Sometimes she'd settle. Sometimes she wouldn't.
But every time, without fail, he stayed.
Leon didn't sleep much.
Not because of missions. Not because of nightmares. But because she breathed. Or rather, sometimes, he was convinced she didn't.
He would sit beside her cot at night, listening, the silence stretching too long between each soft inhale. Waiting. Counting. Until he leaned in just enough to see the faint rise of her chest in the low light, to feel it in himself. Only then would he settle again. Not fully. Never fully.
She caught him once—his wife.
"You're going to burn yourself out," she said, her voice groggy from sleep.
"I'm fine," he replied.
"You've checked on her six times in ten minutes."
"She could've stopped breathing."
"She didn't."
Leon paused. Then softly added, "but she could."
His wife studied him for a moment, something soft and knowing settling in her gaze.
"She's not one of your missions, Leon."
He didn't answer.
Because that was the problem.
Every instinct he had—every hardwired response shaped by years of survival—told him to treat this like a threat assessment. To anticipate. To prepare. To expect the worst before it has the chance to happen. But she wasn't something he could outfight. She wasn't something he could plan around or contain.
She was something he could lose.
And that was so much worse.
She grew, as children do.
But it felt too fast, almost in the blink of an eye.
One day, she fit perfectly into the crook of his arm, small enough that he could hold her without thinking. And then the next, she was on the move—crawling across the floor with a fierce, reckless determination, knocking into anything that stood in her way.
Leon learned quickly that baby-proofing a home wasn't really about safety.
It was about damage control.
"Where did she even learn that?" he'd muttered one afternoon, watching as she somehow managed to pull open a drawer he could have sworn he'd locked. His wife only smiled at him, a quiet curve of her mouth, one brow lifting in a way that said she wasn't surprised.
"She's your daughter."
"I don't break into drawers."
"You broke into a high-security compound in Spain."
"That was. . . different."
And as she grew, so did the fear.
Not the sharp, immediate kind that he was used to. Not the kind that came with gunfire, with the clear snap of a trap understood a moment too late. Not the kind that he could name and meet head-on.
This was slower. Heavier.
A constant hum beneath his ribs.
She waddled toward the corner of a coffee table, and his heart froze.
She stumbled on a rug, and he almost leapt to catch her.
She put something in her mouth, and he felt like he had aged ten years.
"You're wound too tight," his wife told him once, watching as he hovered close while she tried to climb onto the couch.
"She's going to fall."
"She's learning."
"She's going to fall," he repeated, quieter this time.
She softened, her voice gentle as she looked at him. "And you'll be there."
As she grew, there were moments when she clung to him with a kind of desperation that tightened his throat. Like the night a thunderstorm rolled in—loud, sudden, its sound cracking through the walls, rattling the glass windows. She woke with a cry, scrambling out of bed, small feet unsteady as she ran down the hall.
Leon met her halfway, dropping to his knees just in time for her to collide with him, her weight hitting his chest hard for someone so small. She buried her face in his shirt, shaking, crying.
"It's okay," he murmured, lifting her easily. "I've got you."
He carried her to the couch, settling with her curled against his chest. Each thunderclap made her flinch, and with every flash of lightning, she grasped him more tightly. He held her through all of it.
Not because he knew how to soothe her.
But because she believed he could.
And her belief—that blind, absolute trust she placed in him—was something he guarded more fiercely than anything else in his life.
Leon taught her things. Not the way he'd been taught—harsh, unforgiving, survival at any cost. He softened it where he could, filed down the sharper edges, and reshaped it into something softer. Something she could hold without getting cut.
"Okay," he said one evening, kneeling in front of her, holding his hands out. He took her wrist, his fingers curling around it—not tight, just enough to show her. "If someone grabs your wrist, like this," he said, "what do you do?"
She looked up at him, her expression serious and unblinking, like children do when they think they've got the right answer. Her head tilted a little, and a soft wave of blonde curls fell across her forehead as she thought about it.
"Bite them?"
Leon blinked, caught by her answer.
"That's— actually, yeah. That works. But let's try this first."
He guided her through it, slow and patient in a way no one had ever been with him. Showing her how to twist free, how to pull back, how to put space between herself and whatever held her.
And always—how to run.
"Why?" she asked, her small brow furrowing.
"Because getting away is more important than winning," he answered quietly.
She considered that for a moment.
Then nodded and smiled.
"Okay!"
Later that evening, when their daughter was asleep, his wife found him sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at his hands. His gaze was distant. A thousand yards.
"You're teaching her to fight," she said gently.
For a moment, he wasn't there with her. Flashing lights flickered. Police sirens pierced the air. The wet sound of footsteps followed him. The smell of decay, thick and clinging, hung in the air. Shouts and screams echoed around him. It pressed in, close and immediate.
Then he blinked and lifted his head, as if surfacing from beneath the haunt of his memories, almost as if he had just noticed her standing there.
"I'm teaching her to survive."
"She's a child, Leon."
His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking once beneath the strain.
"I know."
The words came out strained, like something pulled too tight.
"I know," he repeated, softer. "That's why I have to."
She called him Dad for the first time on an ordinary Tuesday. There was no build-up. No big moment. He was awake early, as always—before the sun, the house quiet around him. Halfway through making coffee, moving on autopilot more than thought, her small voice carried through the quiet.
"Dad?"
He stilled, then slowly turned.
She stood in the doorway to the kitchen, blonde hair a tangle of knots around her face, rubbing sleep from her eyes, still clutching her stuffed bear in one hand.
"Dad," she said again, reaching up with both hands. "Up."
He looked at her for a moment, as if the gap between them needed to be crossed twice. Then, silently, he moved forward—closing the distance quickly—and lifted her into his arms, holding her close, perhaps a bit too tightly.
"Yeah, baby", he murmured into her hair. "I've got you."
She yawned, small and sleepy. Then she rested her head against his shoulder, the weight of it settling easily. And just like that, it became the most important word he had ever been given.
As she grew older, her curiosity deepened, and she started asking questions. Not dangerous ones, at least at the beginning. Just simple, curious questions that reflected her growing wonder about the world around her.
"Why do you check the doors so much?"
"Why do you wake up before the sun?"
"Why do you look tired even when you sleep?"
He never had good answers. Not ones he could give her anyway.
He didn't want to tell her the truth—that he checked the doors because he had seen what happened when people didn't, that he woke early because nightmares didn't keep to any kind of schedule, that sleep didn't always mean rest.
So he softened it where he could, gave her the gentlest versions instead.
"Because I want to keep you safe."
"Because mornings are quiet."
"Because I'm still learning how to rest."
She accepted every answer without hesitation.
No suspicion. No second glance. She took his words as they were, small hands wrapped around something she trusted without question. There was no weight to it for her. No doubt.
And somehow, that made it harder.
The first time she realised what he did for a living, it didn't go well. He had wanted her to be older than she was—much older. But she had overheard something she shouldn't have and repeated it, as children do, without understanding the consequences.
"You fight. . . monsters?" she asked, whispering it like a secret meant for night alone. She even cupped her small hands around her mouth, as though that might contain the sound.
Leon hesitated.
There it was.
The question he had been trying to avoid.
"Sometimes."
He watched her eyes widen, not with fear, but awe.
And his heart dropped into his stomach.
"That's so cool!"
"No," he said immediately, sharper than he meant to, the panic in it enough to make her flinch. "No, it's not cool."
"But you save people. Like a hero."
His chest tightened at that, something heavy settling behind his ribs. She looked at him and saw a hero. He looked at himself and saw something else entirely—someone who had been broken, worn down in ways that did not show on the surface. Damaged in places no one could fix.
"It's. . . it's complicated, baby."
She tilted her head with that easy innocence children carried, her brow furrowing as she tried to make sense of it. She studied him with the same unnervingly perceptive look her mother wore—the kind that seemed to see more than it should.
"Do you. . . get hurt?"
Leon blinked.
Opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
"Sometimes."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then she reached out, her small hand pressing against his cheek, right over a scar he had long since stopped noticing. He had forgotten where it came from. Spain, maybe. Or before that. Raccoon City. They blurred together after a while—the blood, the injuries, the years between them.
"That's not okay," she said firmly.
He let out a quiet breath, something fragile slipping through the cracks. Part of him wanted to laugh. Another part wanted to cry. Both feelings sat heavily in his chest.
"Yeah, baby," he agreed. "I know."
The worst nights never truly stopped; they only changed shape. Instead of sitting beside a crib counting each breath, he found himself standing in doorways, watching her sleep from a distance. Making sure she was still there. Still safe.
Sometimes she would wake and catch him there.
"Dad?"
"Go back to sleep, baby."
She never did. Not immediately, at least.
"Did you have a bad dream?"
Leon hesitated. He still did not know how to explain it—how to put shape to the fear that lived in his bones. The way his stomach seemed to fall out from under him whenever he imagined her hurt, frightened, taken from him. How every instinct in him demanded he protect her, no matter the cost. He would have burned the world to ash to make certain she never doubted she was safe. Loved.
"Something like that. . ."
And every time, she would shift beneath the blankets, lifting the edge and patting the space beside her like she was sneaking the dog into bed after being told not to.
"C'mere," she'd mumble, voice thick with sleep.
And every time, he would.
He would cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed, and she would curl into him without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because to her, it was.
"You're okay," she murmured one night, already drifting again. "I've got you."
She said it so simply. So certain of it. One small hand curled into his shirt, her cheek warm against his side like she could not imagine a world where he wasn't there.
Or one where she would not reach for him when he hurt.
His throat tightened with tears. He smoothed a hand over her hair and swallowed against the ache rising in his chest.
"Yeah, baby," he whispered after a long moment. "I know."
He still carried scars. He still carried weapons. Still carried the weight of a world that never seemed to tire of breaking him. He still took missions he could not refuse. Still walked into places most people never came back from. Still shouldered burdens simply so no one else would.
But now, when he came home—bruised, exhausted, carrying the scent of smoke and adrenaline—she ran to him with open arms and absolute trust, never hesitating, never questioning whether he would catch her.
Now there was always something pulling him home.
Not duty.
Not obligation.
A small hand gripping his shirt. A small voice calling him Dad. A life that did not care about the man he had been before, only the man who kept showing up.
And now, every time he stepped into the dark, every time the world tried to drag him back toward that place of self-loathing and old wounds, Leon held onto that.
summary: every instinct he had—every hardwired response shaped by years of survival—told him to treat this like a threat assessment. to anticipate. to prepare. to expect the worst before it had the chance to happen. but she wasn’t something he could outfight. she wasn’t something he could plan around or contain..
warnings: fluff. no smut. leon pov. unnamed female character referred to as she/her/wife.
words: 3.2k
notes: real talk. leon kennedy = absolute girl dad + best dad = overprotective dad. i've been asked why i don't write more fluff. please know, my happy triad is smut, fluff, angst. so enjoy this teeth rotting montage of leon leaning fatherhood. timeline wise, i'd say this is somewhere after re4:remake.
Leon learned fatherhood in pieces.
Not in chaos, not in blood-slick corridors, or the weight of a gun in his hand, not even in the big moments—the ones people took pictures of, the ones that made it into baby books. He learned it in quieter moments that felt, somehow, more dangerous. Moments where there was nothing to aim at. Nothing to fight. Just a small, fragile life placed into his arms, and the terrifying understanding that this—this mattered more than anything he had ever survived.
He learned fatherhood the way he'd learned survival—instinct first, understanding later.
Leon Scott Kennedy had faced bioweapons, cults, and governments that lied as easily as they breathed. But none of it prepared him for the first time his daughter wrapped her fingers around his thumb and refused to let go.
She was born on a rainy night.
Leon remembered the sound of it more than anything—the steady drum of rain against the hospital windows, constant, like a clock counting down toward something inevitable. It had filled the room, settled into the spaces between each breath, each passing second.
He stood beside the bed, awkward in a way that felt unfamiliar, his shoulders tense in a way no battlefield had ever managed. His hands hovered, uncertain, before settling at his sides, like he wasn't sure where they belonged. His gaze fixed on her—his wife—on the slow rise and fall of her chest, on the exhaustion etched into her features.
He'd been shot before. Stabbed. Thrown through glass hard enough to feel it for days after. He knew pain—how to meet it, how to endure it, how to push through it until it stopped mattering. None of it came close to this.
Standing there, waiting, held in place by something he couldn't force his way through. The helplessness of it settled deep in his bones, unwelcome. This was not a fight he could step into for her. Not something he could take onto himself, no matter how much he wanted to.
When the crying finally came—sharp, furious, alive—it hit him harder than any explosion ever had.
A nurse pressed the tiny bundle into his arms.
And he froze.
"Support her head," someone said, gentle but firm.
Right. Head. Important.
His hands, so steady with a firearm, felt clumsy now. Too big. Too rough for something so small. He adjusted, carefully—so fucking carefully—and then she was there. Her weight settling into his arms, warm and fragile, in a way that felt frighteningly certain. Like something inevitable. Like gravity.
She was small.
God, she was so small.
Her face was scrunched, red, furious at the world she'd just entered. A thin, indignant wail left her, and Leon—Leon, who had talked down infected villagers and negotiated with armed men—panicked.
"Hey—hey, it's okay," he said, his voice gentler than ever. "I've got you. I've got you, kid."
Kid. That word hit like a brick to the chest, lingering long after the blow.
Her crying wavered. Hitched once. Then paused. Slowly—unbelievably slowly—the sound faded into the quiet. Her tiny hand lifted, searching without aim until it brushed his chest. Her fingers closed in the fabric of his shirt, small and stubborn, and held on.
Something shifted in him that day.
Something permanent.
The first moment that broke him open wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't her birth. It wasn't her first cry. It wasn't even the first time he held her.
It was three days later.
He had been sitting on the couch, exhausted in a way that had little to do with lack of sleep. The house was quiet in the fragile way places sometimes were, like any sudden noise might shatter it. She was tucked against his chest, tiny and warm, her breath soft and steady where it brushed the fabric of his shirt.
Leon had been afraid to move.
Afraid to breathe too deeply.
Afraid to exist too loudly.
Then she made a sound—a small, content sigh—and curled her fingers into his shirt.
Not gripping.
Not searching.
Just holding.
He didn't make a sound. He didn't move. He just sat there, staring at the wall, feeling the weight of her—impossibly light, impossibly important—settle into him. And somewhere in that quiet, it became clear.
He would burn the world down before he let anything touch her.
The first time she laughed, he almost missed it.
He'd been sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, exhaustion pulling at him like gravity, settling into his bones like something ancient. She lay on a blanket beside him, kicking her feet and waving her arms in chaotic little bursts that never quite found a rhythm. Restless. Alive.
He wasn't doing anything special—just gently tapping her nose, over and over, because it made her eyes widen. But then she let out a small, startled giggle.
Leon froze.
Then she did it again.
And something inside him—something he hadn't known was still capable of warmth—lit up.
He smiled down at her. He didn't laugh with her. He didn't dare. He only watched, quiet and a little stunned, as if the moment might slip away if he touched it too directly.
It was such a small thing. But after everything he had seen and the horrors he had survived, it felt like a miracle.
He wasn't good at the quiet parts.
He could clear a building in under two minutes. He could field-strip a handgun blindfolded. He could talk down a panicked civilian with a calm that didn't belong to someone who'd seen what he'd seen.
But rocking a baby to sleep?
That was a battlefield he had no map for.
Some nights she slept fine. Others, she wailed like the world was ending. Leon would pace the hallway with her pressed against his shoulder, murmuring nonsense, trying to keep his voice steady.
"You're okay," he'd whisper, even when he wasn't sure he believed it. "I've got you."
Sometimes she'd settle. Sometimes she wouldn't.
But every time, without fail, he stayed.
Leon didn't sleep much.
Not because of missions. Not because of nightmares. But because she breathed. Or rather, sometimes, he was convinced she didn't.
He would sit beside her cot at night, listening, the silence stretching too long between each soft inhale. Waiting. Counting. Until he leaned in just enough to see the faint rise of her chest in the low light, to feel it in himself. Only then would he settle again. Not fully. Never fully.
She caught him once—his wife.
"You're going to burn yourself out," she said, her voice groggy from sleep.
"I'm fine," he replied.
"You've checked on her six times in ten minutes."
"She could've stopped breathing."
"She didn't."
Leon paused. Then softly added, "but she could."
His wife studied him for a moment, something soft and knowing settling in her gaze.
"She's not one of your missions, Leon."
He didn't answer.
Because that was the problem.
Every instinct he had—every hardwired response shaped by years of survival—told him to treat this like a threat assessment. To anticipate. To prepare. To expect the worst before it has the chance to happen. But she wasn't something he could outfight. She wasn't something he could plan around or contain.
She was something he could lose.
And that was so much worse.
She grew, as children do.
But it felt too fast, almost in the blink of an eye.
One day, she fit perfectly into the crook of his arm, small enough that he could hold her without thinking. And then the next, she was on the move—crawling across the floor with a fierce, reckless determination, knocking into anything that stood in her way.
Leon learned quickly that baby-proofing a home wasn't really about safety.
It was about damage control.
"Where did she even learn that?" he'd muttered one afternoon, watching as she somehow managed to pull open a drawer he could have sworn he'd locked. His wife only smiled at him, a quiet curve of her mouth, one brow lifting in a way that said she wasn't surprised.
"She's your daughter."
"I don't break into drawers."
"You broke into a high-security compound in Spain."
"That was. . . different."
And as she grew, so did the fear.
Not the sharp, immediate kind that he was used to. Not the kind that came with gunfire, with the clear snap of a trap understood a moment too late. Not the kind that he could name and meet head-on.
This was slower. Heavier.
A constant hum beneath his ribs.
She waddled toward the corner of a coffee table, and his heart froze.
She stumbled on a rug, and he almost leapt to catch her.
She put something in her mouth, and he felt like he had aged ten years.
"You're wound too tight," his wife told him once, watching as he hovered close while she tried to climb onto the couch.
"She's going to fall."
"She's learning."
"She's going to fall," he repeated, quieter this time.
She softened, her voice gentle as she looked at him. "And you'll be there."
As she grew, there were moments when she clung to him with a kind of desperation that tightened his throat. Like the night a thunderstorm rolled in—loud, sudden, its sound cracking through the walls, rattling the glass windows. She woke with a cry, scrambling out of bed, small feet unsteady as she ran down the hall.
Leon met her halfway, dropping to his knees just in time for her to collide with him, her weight hitting his chest hard for someone so small. She buried her face in his shirt, shaking, crying.
"It's okay," he murmured, lifting her easily. "I've got you."
He carried her to the couch, settling with her curled against his chest. Each thunderclap made her flinch, and with every flash of lightning, she grasped him more tightly. He held her through all of it.
Not because he knew how to soothe her.
But because she believed he could.
And her belief—that blind, absolute trust she placed in him—was something he guarded more fiercely than anything else in his life.
Leon taught her things. Not the way he'd been taught—harsh, unforgiving, survival at any cost. He softened it where he could, filed down the sharper edges, and reshaped it into something softer. Something she could hold without getting cut.
"Okay," he said one evening, kneeling in front of her, holding his hands out. He took her wrist, his fingers curling around it—not tight, just enough to show her. "If someone grabs your wrist, like this," he said, "what do you do?"
She looked up at him, her expression serious and unblinking, like children do when they think they've got the right answer. Her head tilted a little, and a soft wave of blonde curls fell across her forehead as she thought about it.
"Bite them?"
Leon blinked, caught by her answer.
"That's— actually, yeah. That works. But let's try this first."
He guided her through it, slow and patient in a way no one had ever been with him. Showing her how to twist free, how to pull back, how to put space between herself and whatever held her.
And always—how to run.
"Why?" she asked, her small brow furrowing.
"Because getting away is more important than winning," he answered quietly.
She considered that for a moment.
Then nodded and smiled.
"Okay!"
Later that evening, when their daughter was asleep, his wife found him sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at his hands. His gaze was distant. A thousand yards.
"You're teaching her to fight," she said gently.
For a moment, he wasn't there with her. Flashing lights flickered. Police sirens pierced the air. The wet sound of footsteps followed him. The smell of decay, thick and clinging, hung in the air. Shouts and screams echoed around him. It pressed in, close and immediate.
Then he blinked and lifted his head, as if surfacing from beneath the haunt of his memories, almost as if he had just noticed her standing there.
"I'm teaching her to survive."
"She's a child, Leon."
His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking once beneath the strain.
"I know."
The words came out strained, like something pulled too tight.
"I know," he repeated, softer. "That's why I have to."
She called him Dad for the first time on an ordinary Tuesday. There was no build-up. No big moment. He was awake early, as always—before the sun, the house quiet around him. Halfway through making coffee, moving on autopilot more than thought, her small voice carried through the quiet.
"Dad?"
He stilled, then slowly turned.
She stood in the doorway to the kitchen, blonde hair a tangle of knots around her face, rubbing sleep from her eyes, still clutching her stuffed bear in one hand.
"Dad," she said again, reaching up with both hands. "Up."
He looked at her for a moment, as if the gap between them needed to be crossed twice. Then, silently, he moved forward—closing the distance quickly—and lifted her into his arms, holding her close, perhaps a bit too tightly.
"Yeah, baby", he murmured into her hair. "I've got you."
She yawned, small and sleepy. Then she rested her head against his shoulder, the weight of it settling easily. And just like that, it became the most important word he had ever been given.
As she grew older, her curiosity deepened, and she started asking questions. Not dangerous ones, at least at the beginning. Just simple, curious questions that reflected her growing wonder about the world around her.
"Why do you check the doors so much?"
"Why do you wake up before the sun?"
"Why do you look tired even when you sleep?"
He never had good answers. Not ones he could give her anyway.
He didn't want to tell her the truth—that he checked the doors because he had seen what happened when people didn't, that he woke early because nightmares didn't keep to any kind of schedule, that sleep didn't always mean rest.
So he softened it where he could, gave her the gentlest versions instead.
"Because I want to keep you safe."
"Because mornings are quiet."
"Because I'm still learning how to rest."
She accepted every answer without hesitation.
No suspicion. No second glance. She took his words as they were, small hands wrapped around something she trusted without question. There was no weight to it for her. No doubt.
And somehow, that made it harder.
The first time she realised what he did for a living, it didn't go well. He had wanted her to be older than she was—much older. But she had overheard something she shouldn't have and repeated it, as children do, without understanding the consequences.
"You fight. . . monsters?" she asked, whispering it like a secret meant for night alone. She even cupped her small hands around her mouth, as though that might contain the sound.
Leon hesitated.
There it was.
The question he had been trying to avoid.
"Sometimes."
He watched her eyes widen, not with fear, but awe.
And his heart dropped into his stomach.
"That's so cool!"
"No," he said immediately, sharper than he meant to, the panic in it enough to make her flinch. "No, it's not cool."
"But you save people. Like a hero."
His chest tightened at that, something heavy settling behind his ribs. She looked at him and saw a hero. He looked at himself and saw something else entirely—someone who had been broken, worn down in ways that did not show on the surface. Damaged in places no one could fix.
"It's. . . it's complicated, baby."
She tilted her head with that easy innocence children carried, her brow furrowing as she tried to make sense of it. She studied him with the same unnervingly perceptive look her mother wore—the kind that seemed to see more than it should.
"Do you. . . get hurt?"
Leon blinked.
Opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
"Sometimes."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then she reached out, her small hand pressing against his cheek, right over a scar he had long since stopped noticing. He had forgotten where it came from. Spain, maybe. Or before that. Raccoon City. They blurred together after a while—the blood, the injuries, the years between them.
"That's not okay," she said firmly.
He let out a quiet breath, something fragile slipping through the cracks. Part of him wanted to laugh. Another part wanted to cry. Both feelings sat heavily in his chest.
"Yeah, baby," he agreed. "I know."
The worst nights never truly stopped; they only changed shape. Instead of sitting beside a crib counting each breath, he found himself standing in doorways, watching her sleep from a distance. Making sure she was still there. Still safe.
Sometimes she would wake and catch him there.
"Dad?"
"Go back to sleep, baby."
She never did. Not immediately, at least.
"Did you have a bad dream?"
Leon hesitated. He still did not know how to explain it—how to put shape to the fear that lived in his bones. The way his stomach seemed to fall out from under him whenever he imagined her hurt, frightened, taken from him. How every instinct in him demanded he protect her, no matter the cost. He would have burned the world to ash to make certain she never doubted she was safe. Loved.
"Something like that. . ."
And every time, she would shift beneath the blankets, lifting the edge and patting the space beside her like she was sneaking the dog into bed after being told not to.
"C'mere," she'd mumble, voice thick with sleep.
And every time, he would.
He would cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed, and she would curl into him without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because to her, it was.
"You're okay," she murmured one night, already drifting again. "I've got you."
She said it so simply. So certain of it. One small hand curled into his shirt, her cheek warm against his side like she could not imagine a world where he wasn't there.
Or one where she would not reach for him when he hurt.
His throat tightened with tears. He smoothed a hand over her hair and swallowed against the ache rising in his chest.
"Yeah, baby," he whispered after a long moment. "I know."
He still carried scars. He still carried weapons. Still carried the weight of a world that never seemed to tire of breaking him. He still took missions he could not refuse. Still walked into places most people never came back from. Still shouldered burdens simply so no one else would.
But now, when he came home—bruised, exhausted, carrying the scent of smoke and adrenaline—she ran to him with open arms and absolute trust, never hesitating, never questioning whether he would catch her.
Now there was always something pulling him home.
Not duty.
Not obligation.
A small hand gripping his shirt. A small voice calling him Dad. A life that did not care about the man he had been before, only the man who kept showing up.
And now, every time he stepped into the dark, every time the world tried to drag him back toward that place of self-loathing and old wounds, Leon held onto that.
summary: making out in the car with re2!leon vs re9!leon. a continuation to "reporting back" if you squint
warnings: suggestive, allusions to car sex
re2:
leon was meant to be dropping you off, that was all. you had a girls date planned, and he had a night shift.
but you had kissed him goodbye and he leaned back in immediately after you pulled away. so you entertained his puppy eyes and kissed him again. and again when his lips chased yours. and again when he asked.
now, he’d asked for "one last one" thirteen kisses ago, but neither of you were in any rush to pull apart anymore. the small pecks were now forgotten for messy, half-coordinated, rushed kisses.
leon was leaned over you, his seatbelt half tangled into his torso as he ran his hands feverishly along any part he could. he'd been trying to do this since before you left.
his teeth were clattering into yours as you kissed, followed by immediate muttered apologies and a copious amount of puppy eyes in hopes of keeping you going.
"leon." you muttered into his lips, tugging his head away from yours with the hand tangled in the back of his hair. you'd done that at least four times now, his tongue stuck so far down your mouth you questioned if he was trying to reach your throat. again.
his nose bumped yours, not withdrawing from his kisses as he apologized, "sorry."
he gave you another look with wide eyes. you sighed at the biblical level of greed, kissing him back anyways.
⊱.˚── ⋅ .✧˚❀˚✧. ⋅ ──˚.⊰
re9:
leon was no one if not greedy with his kisses.
a lot of the man you once knew was gone, in differing ways. he learned patience, to take his time, he didn't hesitate, or hold back out of fear anymore. yet, the glimmer of that rookie still shone through his insatiable hunger.
pulled into a dark, secluded parking lot–because you and him both unanimously agreed the worst part of date night was the stretch of road between your reservations and your house–with one hand fixed on the back of your neck, the other cupped around your face. the location was less about fear–the risk of getting caught was part of the thrill–and more about the fact leon wanted zero chance at interruptions today.
his lips moved against yours with purpose rather than blind urgency, the hand previously on your neck now settled on the small of your back, pushing you deeper into him. you shifted into his lap, humming when leon's face winced at the movement.
"do you need help with that?" your hand lingered right atop his belt.
leon grunted in response, "later." he titled his head towards the backseats. "join me maybe?"
note: overtly freaked out on a friday tbh, i kinda wanna write a full part to both now 'cause this was so short
Please allow me to introduce you to this asshole. It’s only recently that a friend realized who he was named after while we’re were playing the resident evil games together!
Meet “Elite Umbrella Operative H.U.N.K” aka Hunky. (Yes, his registration is the full name)
His adopted sister, “Tofu”, has yet to be located.
The dining room in Sherry's home was a world away from the sterile, fluorescent hum of the D.S.O.
The lighting was amber and low, provided by a few mismatched candles that flickered against the wood grain table. The air was heavy and intoxicating, a thick fog of simmering tomatoes and fresh basil.
Victoria sat at the center of it all, her red hair glowing like embers in the candlelight. She had served the pasta al pomodoro, simple, elegant and vibrant red, and the room had fallen into a momentary, reverent silence as the first bites were taken. Leon sat directly across from her and he wasn't eating like a soldier in a mess hall... he was savoring it.
He watched Victoria over the rim of his water glass, his blue eyes tracking the way she slightly fixed her hair. To Jake and Sherry, who were sitting on the flanks, the change in Leon was like watching a statue come to life, he was leaning in. his shoulders relaxed, his gaze anchored to the girl in the apron.
Jake Muller, leaning back with a glass in his hand, caught Sherry's eye. He gave her a slow, devilish smile, the look of a man who had spent a lifetime reading intentions in the heat of battle. He and Sherry had whispered about this earlier. They wanted to see if the legendary agent finally had a pulse that didn't beat for the mission.
"So, Victoria," Jake started, his voice a rough, playful drawl that cut through the quiet. He swirled the contents of his glass, his eyes darting to Leon's face for just a fraction of a second. "The food is world class. Seriously. But it makes me wonder... How does a girl who spends this much time making life taste good for everyone else, have any time for herself? What's the 'Love Life' situation like for our favorite chef?"
The air in the room seemed to thin. Victoria felt the heat rise instantly, a deep rosy flush spreading from her neck to the tip of her ears. She stared down at her plate, the pinkish tint of her makeup now completely overtaken by a genuine, embarrassed bloom.
"I don't really... The words 'love life' don't really exist in my world, Jake."
Leon's fork paused halfway to his mouth. He didn't look away but became deathly still, his ears ringing with a sudden, sharp attentiveness. He felt a strange, tightening thing in his chest, a feeling he hadn't felt since he was a rookie in Raccoon City.
Jake leaned forward, sensing the strike was landing. "Come on. Not even one lucky guy? Some high school sweetheart? a kiss that went sideways?"
Victoria shook her head slowly, her warm brown eyes shimmering with a mix of honesty and vunerability. "None of it," she whispered, her hand playing with her fork. "I've never had a boyfriend. No intimacy. Not even... not even a first kiss. I was always too busy making sure everyone else's light stayed on. i didn't think i was enough at that moment and i only thought about the cons of being in a relationship."
The confession hung in the air, heavier than the scent of the pasta.
Sherry smiled softly, her heart aching for her friend, but her eyes were fixed on Leon. She watched his reaction. Leon didn't scoff. He didn't make a joke. Instead. his hand, resting on the table, curled into a slow, tight fist before relaxing. His jaw set in a hard line, looking at Victoria not with pity, but with a sudden, fierce intesity, as if he were looking at a rare, priceless treasure that the world had somehow been too blind to notice.
Jake noticed the way his gaze darkened with a quiet fire and his grin widened. He had oushed the button, and the golden agent had just reacted.
"Twenty five years and not a single soul smart enough to see what was right in front of them?" Leon's voice finally broke the silence. It wasn't loud, but it was deep, vibratig with a low, protective growl that made Victoria look up in surprise.
He looked at her, his eyes locking onto hers with a gravity that made the room disappear. "That's not a lack of life on your part, Victoria." His voice dropping into that intimate, gavelly register. "That's just a lot of people being too blind to see something real when it's standing in the light".
Victoria's breath hitched. She saw the way Leon was looking at her, not as a 'helper' or a 'tool', not as a 'mission', but as a woman who had saved herself for a world that hadn't earned her yet.
Jake kicked Sherry's foot under the table and winked. The message was clear: He's hooked.
Leon didn't care about the silent conversation between his friends, he was too busy thinking about the fact that the girl across from him, the one with the red hair and warm heart, was a completely untouched map, and for the first time in his life, he wanted to be the one to find the way home.
"Well," Jake said, standing up to clear the plates, his eyes still dancing with mischief. "I think i'll help Sherry with the dishes. Leon... Why don't you take Victoria out to the porch for some air? it's getting a little hot in here, don't you think?"
Leon stood up slowly and looked at Victoria, extending a hand... bare, scarred, and steady. "He's right, it is a bit crowded in here. Lets get some air."
The garden of Sherry's home was a stark contrast to the tactical, high stakes world Leon usually inhabited. It was overgrown in a way that felt intentional. Wild jasmne climbing up he wooden fence, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming lavender. The night was cool, the sky a dark blue, and the only sound was the distant hum of the city and the only sound crunch of gravel beneath their feet.
Leon walked beside Victoria, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets. He had shed the 'Agent Kennedy' persona hours ago. Without the holster, the radio, or the mission, he looked younger, yet more grounded. The silver at his temples caught the moonlight, and the elpis cure had given his movements a fluid, feline grace that made him feel like a man in his prime rather than a veteran on the verge of fifty.
He looked at Victoria, noting how her hair seemed to glow in the moonlight. She looked comfortable on her clothes, yet her eyes were fixed on her white sneakers as the waked.
"You said it back there," Leon began, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to anchor her to her spot. "About not having aboyfriend. about the 'firsts'... You chose not to, why?"
Victoria stopped near a cluster of white hydrangeas, their ghost like petals swaying in the breeze. She let out a long breath.
"it's not that i haven't had the oppotrunity, Leon," she whispered, her voice tinged with a weariness that sounded far older than twenty five. "I have men approach me all the time, but no one actually wants to know me. They want my body, and that's the first thing, they want it like it's a trophy they can display or because they are just thinking with the other 'head'. They see how i act, they see my 'light', they see the way i help, the way i see potential in everything, and they want to use it to fix themselves . Most of the guys that came to me didn't want a partner, they wanted a mirror that make them look better. "
Leon shifted his weight, his gaze darkening. He had spent his life protecting people from physical monsters, but he knew the human ones, the ones who preyed on kindness, were often more insidious.
"I had an argument once," Victoria continued, a bitter laugh escaping her lips as she looked up at the moon. "A man contacted me through an app. He was thirty five, getting bald... not even handsome, honesly. I didn't answer him right away. I was busy, but two days later, i felt this crushing sense of pity. I thought 'he's probably alone', so i replied just to be kind. He got angry. He told me that the problem was me. He said that after twenty five years, if i still haven't found someone, i'm the broken one. He told me that i couldn't expect to be taken seriously unless i 'opened my legs' on the first date. He said that, that was the only way a man would ever value me and told me i sould be grateful for the attention now, because when i get to my thirty, forty, fifty... no one will even want to look at me, and i'll be the one begging for the sex i'm rejecting now."
Leon reaction was immediate and visceral. He didn't explode, he went cold. A dangerous, predatory stillness settled over him, the kind of stillness that usually preceded a gunshot. His jaw tightened so hard a muscle pulsed in is cheek.
"He said all that because you took two days to answer a text?" Leon's voice was a dangerous whisper, vibrating with a protective fury.
"No, it started cause we were talking about our love lifes, he said that he hadn't had a partner for like a year, and then he wanted nudes." she said. "He wanted to make me feel like i was nothing because i politely declined, and tried to make me think that i have, that all women have an expiration date"
Leon stepped closer, until she had to tilt her head back a little to look at him. He reached out, his bare fingers, warm and calloused, gently tilting her chin up so she couldn't look away.
"Listen to me, Victoria." he said, blue eyes burning with an intensity that made her heart stop. "That man wasn't talking about you. He was talking about his own failure. He saw a light he couldn't reach, so he tried to convince you the bulb was broken."
He stepped even closer, the scent of the rain and cedar on his skin enveloping her. "I've lived through almost fifty years of this world. I've seen what beauty looks like when its just skin deep, You? you are the rarest thing i've seen in three decades. A woman who knows her worth enough to keep it safe from the vultures."
His thumb brushed against her lower lip, a touch so light it was almost a suggestion. "He was wrong about the age too. A woman like you... you just get more dangerous to men who aren't man enough to handle you"
Leon looked down at her, his thoughts swirling, about his own age, forty nine, and the fact that he was standing here, feeling like a teenager with his first crush, wanting to shield this girl from every cruel word the world had ever thrown at her. He wanted to be the one to prove that thirty year old coward wrong.
"You waited twenty five years for someone to want to know you truly?" Leon whispered, his face inches from hers. "Well, i'm listening. And i've got all night".
I actually managed to get this chapter finished and posted on time. No more “staring blankly at my laptop” today. I’ve officially defeated the procrastination monster (obviously for now) 😮💨 Writing this was a total rollercoaster of emotions, and honestly, I think I enjoyed writing it a little too much. I really hope you guys enjoy reading it at least half as much as I enjoyed caffeinating my way through these scenes.🌸
summary: your self-esteem issues get in the way of a lot of things. you had agreed to try mirror sex with Leon thinking you could handle it, but your brain decided to ruin it for you.
wc: 1,546
tags: angsty smut to more angst to fluff, extremely sweet and protective bf Leon, mirror sex, p in v, reverse cowgirl, groping, praise, interrupted sex (by yourselves), implied mentally ill reader, self-esteem issues/self-hatred, comfort, lots of reassurance, hugging you, aftercare
a/n: the start could be triggering for people with terrible self-esteem like me, read at your own discretion. this is extremely self-indulgent, and based on my own experience—basically i'm just coping lol. i believe this is FTM friendly, but please correct me if i'm wrong!
available on ao3
Mirror sex is supposed to be fun.
At least, it was when you didn't already struggle to look at yourself in said mirror after waking up. Or after stepping out of the shower. Or when you brushed you teeth. Or—
"Nghh, fuck—" Leon grunted in your ear, hands kneading your breasts as you sat in his lap with his bare chest against your back, and his cock buried deep inside you.
When you were discussing trying out new things and he brought up mirror sex, you accepted without really thinking about it. Thought it couldn't hurt—that it was nothing crazy and that it might even end up being exciting. Lots of people like it, right?
But you're already starting to regret it.
Because self-hatred runs really deep when it comes to you.
You tried at first, but all you managed to do was stare at Leon in his closet's mirror door, ignoring yourself completely like you didn't even deserve to be there. It just served as a reminder that he looked so good, and that you pulled someone way out of your league. And it fucking hurt.
You've always had a problem with overthinking during sex. Wondering if you look good, if you taste good, if you feel good, or if your face looks weird right now or not—but now that you actually get to see what you've been dreading for so long, there's an even bigger pit settling in your stomach.
Your eyes have been closed for a good minute now, but your hips are still grinding against each other's, your hands braced on his forearms. He feels incredible—god, the sex with him is heavenly—but the little voice in the back of your head whispering 'he probably thinks you're hideous' over and over is keeping you from truly enjoying the moment.
One hand slowly drifts from your breast up to your jaw, tilting your head up as his thumb pressed against your cheek. "Open your eyes baby—mmph... look at how pretty you are, come on." He murmured against your throat, placing hot open-mouthed kisses at the junction of your neck and shoulder while his eyes stayed focused on your reflection.
You could feel him twitch inside of you—he's absolutely loving it, and it's making you feel even more guilty.
You swallow thickly, eyes fluttering open obediently but with difficulty. But the moment you see yourself again, every little imperfection, every little complex comes back to mind.
Your eyes close again on instinct, your brain fighting between pleasing your boyfriend and protecting you from your own thoughts. Your grinding is unconsciously starting to slow down, teeth biting onto your lower lip with growing anxiety and nails digging into his skin.
Leon smiled against your skin, amused at first as he assumed you were just being a little shy. His free hand reached down to grab your hip and guide your movement, a sweet encouragement if you weren't currently freaking out.
"Come on, you can do it—uhff. God you're so—" Tight. He wanted to say, but cut himself off abruptly.
"Leon, i can't—"
You're getting tight. A little too tight. I'm-not-so-comfortable-anymore kind of tight.
His grip on you tightened as he switched from guiding your hips to holding you still instead, sensing something was deeply wrong.
"...Baby?" He murmured, voice quieter now as alarms rang in his head. "Hey—hey, baby." His head leaned over your shoulder, checking on you directly instead of through the mirror.
Your little frown, your eyes squeezed shut, the tears threatening to fall. Shit.
He immediately went into panic mode.
"Hey—w—what's wrong? Wait, let me—" He murmured in a hurry, strong arms very carefully lifting you up and off his lap, pulling out of you as gently as possible before he lowered you onto the edge of the bed next to him.
"Oh, sweetheart..." He muttered softly at the sound of your little sniffles. Before asking any questions, he started by gathering his boxers and his t-shirt—covering you up with the latter and making sure not to make any more physical contact than necessary, then pulling his boxers back on.
"Do you need something? Water? I'll get you something to clean yourself with—you can do it yourself if you'd rather i don't touch you right now." He rambled nervously as he reached towards his nightstand for his water bottle and some tissues, movements clumsy as he tried to go too fast.
"I'll fetch your panties too if you want." He added as he put the tissues down and uncapped the bottle for you, almost spilling some over himself in his haste.
All he wanted for you right now was to feel comfortable again, safe enough to explain to him what happened and avoid the possibility that you'd clam up.
You took the bottle as he offered it, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand before taking a sip, while he searched your pile of clothes for your underwear.
"There." He muttered, neatly folding the thin piece of fabric like a habit and placing it down next to the tissues like some absurd peace offering.
Leon forced himself to wait patiently for you to finish, all curled up as you cleaned yourself up with a tissue and blew your nose with another. Once you slipped your panties back on, he finally allowed himself to turn towards you.
"...You wanna talk, or you need more time?" He asked quietly, his eyes searching for yours.
"I... i'm sorry." You blurted out like a reflex, throat tightening again with guilt.
"Hey, no no no, you didn't do anything wrong," He said with a faint shake of his head, voice low and quiet in an attempt to seem non-threatening. "It's not your fault or anything like that. But i need to know what happened."
He can tell you're hesitant. You won't look at him like you're ashamed, and it's tearing his heart apart.
"...It's okay. We can go slow. Do you, uhh... can i—can i hold you?" He couldn't help but ask. "You don't—have to say yes, i'm just... really worried." He reassured, hand fidgetting against the sheets as he internally prayed that he wasn't the reason you were in this state.
He released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when you nodded slowly, scooting closer on the edge of the bed as his arms wrapped around you. One hand settled on the back of your head while the other rubbed your back in hopes it'd comfort you at least a little.
You let out a few quiet sobs against his shoulder, feelings scrambling together in your head. "I couldn't... i couldn't look." You croaked out, voice muffled against his warm skin.
He figured it out the moment you admitted that. Your horrendous self-esteem wasn't exactly a secret to him, but he didn't expect you to just... break down mid-sex.
"Do you think you can tell me why?" His thumb rubbed against your temple soothingly.
"I feel so... so ugly. I don't—i don't understand why you're even with me—" You admitted, voice shaky, head lowering in shame. "I thought i was gonna be okay—i just wanted to make you feel good...!" As soon as you teared up again, his hold on you tightened like he was allowing you to hide into his body if this is what you needed.
"Shhh... that's not important right now, you're my priority. You didn't ruin anything, nor did you hurt my feelings." He reminded you gently. "I still love you. I promise, you're safe."
He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head before resting his chin there. "I think," He started, tone a tad lighter. "You're the most beautiful thing i've ever laid my eyes on."
"But i'm way out of your league—"
"You don't get to decide who i should date and for what reason." He corrected kindly as his hand started to pet the back of your head. "I think you're stunning and you're the one i want to date. My feelings are not up for debate."
You sniffled quietly again, a comfortable silence falling over the two of you as he hugged you, holding you from completely crumbling, but ready to piece you back together if you fell apart.
"Alright," He sighed with a hint of relief as he saw your head lift a little, taking it as a small victory. "You know what we're gonna do?" He smiled as your gaze hesitantly met his, one hand brushing your hair back and out of your puffy eyes. "I'm gonna run us a bath, make sure you relax—even if it means i gotta sit in scalding hot water for an hour because i know you prefer it that way." He chuckled to himself. "Then we'll cuddle in bed together, and watch a bad movie while eating a bunch of unhealthy snacks."
He cupped your cheeks and lifted your head up a little more, giving you that stupidly charming smile of his in an attempt to coax you out of your shell. "Okay?"
You stared at him for a few seconds, always so stunned by how fast his pretty face made your worries melt away.
The reblog chain is one of the things that makes Tumblr unlike anywhere else. All the notes on reblogs are attributed to the original post, no matter which branch people actually liked or reblogged. We want to keep encouraging conversations, and give contributors the recognition they deserve.
Soon, you'll be able to like, reblog, or reply to any part of a reblog chain, and that note will go to that reblog's author. Each reblog will have its own counts, instead of one aggregated number from every version of the post. And yes, you’ll be able to like multiple posts in one chain.
If a reblog doesn't add anything, the love flows up to the last person in the chain who did. Your post doesn't lose notes just because people spread it quietly.
Past notes will stay on the original post — we're only changing what happens from here on out. Retroactively re-attributing all of them would be... a lot.
This is just the beginning. More changes are coming as we keep building this out – stay tuned!
We rolled out a significant change to how notes work on reblogs, and the reaction has been strong. We're not going to pretend otherwise.
First things first: We're reversing the change. Your feedback in comments, emails, and especially reblogs, made clear that the rollout created problems we need to address before moving forward. We also should have communicated this differently from the start, and we didn't.
We still believe there's a better version of how reblogs can work. One that gives every voice in a chain the credit it deserves. But we want to get there with you.
In the coming days we'll share more on how we plan to do that, including ways to work directly with some of you on this and future changes before they ship.
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There is so much more that could be addressed to make Tumblr a more user-friendly and welcoming place. Changing the very thing that makes this place unique, isn't it. Tumblr, at its heart, is a reblogging community. If you change that, you risk losing your audience, both old members like myself who have been here for years, and those considering joining.
